A tale of this side of the rainbow

The road to over the rainbow is fraught with danger and excitement.

Continuing last month’s story about my trip to Las Vegas. This adventure proved that nothing is ever simple in the world of Petunia Pap Smear. The day had finally come to attend the “Wizard of Oz” at The Sphere, and excitement was bubbling over faster than a glitter bomb at Pride. We decided to take the Hogwarts Express, er, I mean the Las Vegas Monorail, because what could possibly be more fabulous than zooming above the Strip in a sleek, air-conditioned tube filled with tourists and neon lights?

The monorail adventure quickly proved to be an odyssey fit for Dorothy and her loyal companions. While the rest of my entourage simply strolled up the stairs, I was faced with a far more complicated quest. Mounted on Queerteeny, my trusty scooter, I had to conquer not one, not two, but four, count them, four separate elevators before I could even reach the platform. Each elevator posed its own unique challenge: the first was discreetly tucked behind a decorative palm tree. The second elevator seemed to demand some kind of secret handshake — suspiciously similar to one from the Mormon temple ceremony — before it would open its doors. The third elevator only traveled part of the way, leaving me stranded and searching for another lift to finish the journey, and to add insult to injury, my left breasticle got pinched in the closing door. Finally, the fourth elevator was overseen by a security guard who acted as if he were ushering me into the celestial room of the temple. By the time I arrived at the monorail platform, I felt less like a tourist on vacation and more like a queen in “Untucked” — sweaty, slightly traumatized, and ready to lip-sync for my life in a backstage challenge called “Elevator Madness.”

Before boarding, we strutted along the platform like it was the runway at RuPaul’s Drag Race, fanning ourselves with our Sphere tickets as if they were secret votes for Miss Congeniality. Of course, I had to fix my lashes one last time, just in case a paparazzi — or a nosy bachelorette party — spotted us gliding by.

When we finally arrived at the turnstile, another round of challenges awaited us. All our rail passes were conveniently loaded onto a single phone, which meant we had to coordinate our entry like runners at the start of a race. Each time the code was entered for a ticket, one member of our group would dash through the gate before it closed, creating a scene that was equal parts frantic and comical, like Harry Potter and Ron Weasley trying to get onto Platform 9¾. I surprised myself when my turn came. I pulled the throttle on Queerteeny so hard that the tires squealed, and I’m pretty sure I left a bit of rubber behind. Who knew a scooter could be so powerful? In the midst of all the excitement, I ended up rear-ending Michael Aaron — oops! He squealed! I couldn’t tell if it was from pain or delight.

The ride itself was a blast — if you ignore the fact that we never quite knew which direction we were going and ended up in the wrong station twice. Then, as if the universe wanted to keep the joke going, getting off the monorail required another four elevators. I swear, we did more vertical traveling than horizontal. By the end, Queerteeny was dizzy, and yours truly was convinced I’d burned off at least two slices of cheesecake just from elevator anxiety alone.

As we approached The Sphere, we couldn’t believe the visions projected on the exterior of the building. It shimmered more than my closet full of breasticles. It was like stepping into a technicolor fever dream — think drag queen bingo, but with fewer sequins and way more LED panels.

Naturally, it was rather unclear what entrance we would need to use with Queerteeny in the mix — after all, not every venue is ready for the arrival of a scooter with the sequins, breasticles, beehive hair, and moi. While most guests could simply breeze through the main doors, my situation called for a bit more finesse. I had to scout for accessible entrances, scanning for that elusive ramp or elevator that would welcome both me and my dazzling set of wheels. I felt that Queerteeny herself deserved a red carpet rolled out in her honor, but instead, we got a scavenger hunt for ADA signs and the occasional side-eye from security. Each moment was a reminder that traveling in style sometimes means taking the scenic — and circuitous — route, especially when your ride is as fabulous as mine.

We finally found the correct entrance for scooters near some gigantic ruby slippers, an homage so fabulous that even Dorothy would have stopped mid-tornado for a photo op. Of course, we had to channel our inner Dorothy Gale and pose with the slippers. Just as we finished, a group of tourists asked if we were part of a drag troupe performing at The Sphere. I replied, “Baby, I don’t just drive into a venue — I glide in like I own the whole damn yellow brick road… and yes, the shoes are absolutely in my size: XXX.” To be continued…

Of course, this story leaves us with several essential questions:

• If you need eight elevators for one monorail ride, does that mean you’re officially traveling in 3D?
• If I wore some ruby slippers and clicked them three times, could I have skipped the elevators entirely?
• Is it possible to do a death drop in a moving elevator, or is that strictly a ground-level stunt?
• Would navigating the elevators on the return trip have been easier if I had left a trail of breasticles as beacons to mark the path?

These, and other eternal questions, will be explored in the next thrilling installment of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.