Today I visited the Liberace Museum. Why? For the same reason Sir Edmund Hillary climbed Mt. Everest and Bruce Bogtrotters ate Miss Trunchbull’s chocolate cake: because it was there. Proximity determined preferences, applicable in cases of fast food, dating, and Saturday afternoon activities. Plus it was way cheaper than the roller coaster at the New York, New York.
Within the costumes and collectables repository of one of the more flamboyant entertainers of the previous generation I counted six usages of the word “fabulous” : twice referring to wardrobe, one describing a pink Rolls Royce coverer in tiny mirrors and another a piano, one preceding “Las Vegas”, and twice more used as an adjective connected to the man himself. I couldn’t count the number of rhinestones. Only Jesus can.
It actually wasn’t too bad. I’ve never seen so many creative designs for capes. Seriously, no one has ever rocked the cape like Liberace. It belongs to him, the same way the phrase “T-t-t-t-that’s all folks!” belongs to Porky Pig and that little mustache narrowed to just the middle belongs to Hitler.
Demographically, it’s not the best place to meet chicks. Unless you’re into babes with oxygen tanks.
I think if Liberace is in hell, than he’s locked in a trailer in Des Moines wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and Chucks. And that one song by Eiffle 65 is set on repeat.
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