Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Somewhere Over The Randy Rainbow

“Would you consider going to Las Vegas to see Randy Rainbow?”  Well, the only question I could more quickly answer in the affirmative would be if I received an indecent proposal from Bradley Cooper.  So, off I went last week with one of my dearest friends for a little getaway and to pick up some pink glasses magic.

Our trip got off to a good start, primarily because we were flying out of Love Field instead of DFW.  There’s a lot to be said for cutting your travel time to the airport by more than half, being processed through security by a notably more friendly group of TSA staff, and having no risk of a terminal change as there’s only one.

Getting settled in, we discovered our 26th floor room had an impressive view of the city with The Mirage, Caesars Palace, and Treasure Island providing the highlights.  To the right, and at somewhat a remove, could be seen the Trump International Hotel which opened in 2008, but which looks like any of a number of tall gold boxes built around the country thirty years earlier.  A somewhat strange architectural choice considering the “look at me” style of Las Vegas.

We arrived at the Venetian Theatre (their spelling, not mine) in time to buy copies of Playing with Myself, Randy Rainbow’s new book, for him to sign at the meet and greet after the show.  By the way, the book is really good.  His writing made me literally laugh out loud and shed some tears, two emotional responses I never got from reading Ernest Hemingway.  

As showtime approached, my friend—still smarting from an inexcusable and lengthy delay experienced at the hands of Madonna—asked if I thought everything would start on time.  I replied that this was Randy Rainbow, not a drag show, and the show did indeed start at the appointed time.  And what a show it was.

For several years now, many of us have been watching Randy Rainbow videos, particularly looking forward to them during the worst days of the pandemic.  I have such admiration for performers who can own a stage and hold an audience for almost two hours, virtually on their own.  And he did just that.  

The performance over, we were told there would be a fifteen minute break while the theater, excuse me, theatre cleared out for those not staying for the meet and greet.  My friend and I simultaneously turned to each other and said, “I’ve got to go.”  

So we rushed out to the restrooms.  Now at the risk of telling more than anyone might care to know, I don’t believe in men’s rooms versus women’s rooms.  It would so much more simple if there were just standing rooms and sitting rooms.  Considering the direness of the situation, I decided to take the path of least resistance, whatever that might mean.  

I should have guessed that the line to the women’s room would be out the door, so with a hurried “Meet you back here” to my friend, I rushed into what should be the standing room.  Nearly knocking down one gentleman on his way out and drawing the consternation of a couple of others on their way in, I took the first available vacant facility not even checking to see if a stall was empty in which I could refresh my maquillage with some degree of privacy.  Urgent times call for urgent measures.  

The highlight of the trip was right in the middle of the show.  Randy Rainbow was performing “Pink Glasses” and had picked up a couple of boxes containing the magical spectacles in their cat-eyed, rhinestoned splendor.  He threw one out to the audience from stage right and then began to move toward center stage.  And this is when my memory of the next few seconds switches into very slow motion.

We were seated third row center, arguably the best seats in the house.  I just knew he was about to toss the other box my way, and sure enough, he let loose with a low, underhanded pitch right toward me.  Did he see me? I can’t be sure.  But it wasn’t quite low enough, and the pink glasses were in the air and totally in play.

As my right arm went into the air, every triggering memory of every football I ever fumbled and every pop fly I dropped when I was a child flooded into my head.  I could see two depressingly masculine hands, looking as if they had caught every ball that ever came their way, competing with me.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  

I knew exactly what I must do.  With a move out of volleyball—the only team sport I ever played moderately well–I spiked that box with the pink glasses right into my own lap.  With the flick of a limp wrist, I had won the prize.

From now on, I may need to write wearing my Randy Rainbow pink glasses.  As he said, “Y’all know when the Pink Glasses come out, it’s time to cut the sh*t.”