A tale of the Friends of Dorothy
The road to Over the Rainbow is fraught with danger and excitement.
Recently, I had the opportunity to go to Las Vegas to see the “Wizard of Oz” in the Sphere. There were six of us in our little band of Friends of Dorothy going on this excursion. I, being from the homo erectus era, am of great age and decrepitude. Thus, if there is going to be a lot of walking involved, I require an electric mobility scooter, which shall henceforth be referred to as Queerteeny. And we all know that there is a hell of a lot of walking required in Las Vegas.
Initially, I thought that we could load up Queerteeny into Queertanic, my beloved land yacht of a minivan. Yeah, I had to retire the 1975 Buick Electra Queertanic several years ago. After being stranded on the side of the road with countless breakdowns and extremely expensive repairs, it eventually came down to that age-old question of style vs. substance, and in a moment of weakness, substance won. So yes, now I drive a little-old-lady van now.
Foolishly on this epic excursion, I thought that Mr. Pap Smear and I could ride in Queertanic and the four other princesses could ride in a separate car, and we could play phone tag between cars to keep us entertained during the long drive. Well, a couple of my traveling companions thought that the trip would be ever-so-much more fun if we could strap Queerteeny on the outside of Queertanic so that all six of us could ride together in the van, if for no other reason than to be able to point out hunky truck drivers to each other more easily. I reluctantly agreed to this arrangement, provided that everyone severely restricted their packing to the bare minimum. Only ten dresses, three wigs, and seven pairs of shoes each, or we wouldn’t have enough room in Queertanic to even breathe. Heaven help us if someone should bring a spare set of Lee Press-On Nails. One of my enterprising companions produced a luggage rack that could hook onto Queertanic’s trailer hitch, to which we were able to strap Queerteeny safe and secure with enough bungee cords to encircle the earth. She wasn’t going to move even one centimeter.
Our journey began with a pit stop at the Costco gas station. As we rolled up to the pumps with Queertanic full to the brim with queens and luggage and Queerteeny, strapped to the back, we got more than a few curious glances. The attendant was giving Queerteeny a serious look-see as I was pumping gas. “Is that your ride, honey, or are you just happy to see me?” the attendant asked, clearly a friend of Dorothy himself. I responded breathlessly like Marilyn Monroe, “Both! She’s got more horsepower than my last date.”
After a couple of hours driving, my tummy was beginning to rumble. I soon would need to stop for lunch, or I might be forced to eat one of my companions. Therefore, we decided to stop at a greasy spoon in Beaver, Utah, where the waitress mistook our scooter brigade for a senior flash mob. Interestingly, the chef seemed suspiciously invested in Queerteeny’s battery life.
With everyone now safe from being eaten by me, we were back on the road. I thought we could pass the time by playing Name That Toon of TV theme songs. A good time was had by all, remembering the TV songs from our childhoods and the glory days of disco. Oddly, no one in the van was able to identify the theme song from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. We all agreed that we should keep this a secret because what self-respecting queen wouldn’t know that? But in an attempt to be more truthful and transparent in life, I’m sharing our shame with you all.
With our bellies full and spirits high, we rolled into Las Vegas and made our way to the infamous Mardi Gras Hotel, perched in a part of town where the neon lights flickered a little too suspiciously, and the air smelled vaguely of adventure or maybe just ozone and cheap cologne.
Checking in was a theatrical event in itself. One of the queens sashayed to the counter and announced, “We’d like three rooms on the ground floor, please.” The clerk, unfazed but clearly amused, handed over a handful of key cards. We were able to park right in front of our rooms. We cackled, wheeling Queerteeny past the swimming pool festooned with a couple of hunky men sunbathing near a potted plant that looked like it had seen more action than us. Then we proceeded over the threshold into our room with questionable stains on the carpet. The Mardi Gras Hotel promised us both debauchery and delight, and we were ready for whatever surprises the night would bring. More Vegas adventures to come next month.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
• Since the blocks in Vegas are so large and there is so much walking involved, should I organize a charity bingo to purchase scooters for all the street-walking ‘working girls’ in Vegas?
• Since the current Queertanic is a little old lady van, must I dress like a little old lady?
• What would happen if Queertanic and Queerteeny entered a Las Vegas drag race? Would the wigs fly faster than the wheels?
• Is it possible to fit more than six queens, sixty dresses, eighteen wigs, forty-two pairs of shoes, and a coffee maker into Queertanic without violating the laws of physics?
• If Queertanic had a karaoke machine installed, would the cops pull us over or join in for a rendition of “It’s Raining Men”?
• Would a senior flash mob or a scooter parade draw more attention on the Vegas Strip?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
