Today I turned forty-six, or as I now think of it, forty-sick. Screw the forties, I’m already wondering how I will spend the big 5 Oh God. Maybe I’ll get some friends together and do a Sonoma weekend, or if I have the bucks, we’ll go to France and drink actual champagne in the actual champagne region. My luck, I’ll be snowed in at some airport in the Midwest reading the latest issue of People.
Whatever I’m doing, I won’t be going to the Phantom of the Opera in Las Vegas, which is what we did tonight. First of all, Phantom is at the Venetian, and it just so happens that there is a porn convention at the Venetian this weekend. Seriously. I had forgotten this and I spent my first five minutes in the casino wondering how the hobags in Vegas could have actually gotten even more slutty. I saw several woman wearing just their bras (granted, patent leather bras) and tight skirts slit up to their hidden treasures, with go-go style boots. Then I saw some other women wearing a tight, cropped shirt and THEIR UNDERWEAR, with the ubiquitous go-go boots. I was despairing that not only was I forty-six, but I had also turned into Lawrence Welk, when I remembered that it wasn’t just that all women but me were getting more slutty, they were just porn stars.
I also saw a really, really, really fat porn star wearing nearly nothing. People were taking photos of her and they seemed impressed. She looked like Divine, but I think she was an actual woman. Plus, Divine is dead.
Then there was the Phantom. I never saw the Broadway production, but I did see the movie. That’s the kind of thing people in Vegas say with pride, by the way. Broadway is too high-brow for us, plus it’s in NYC. Still, this production did the concept of Cheesy Even for Vegas wrong. From the set that wobbled, to the plastic-doll mannequins in the “boxed seats,” to the lead actress who looked like Celion Dion on a bad day (which is really bad), this show was just a mess. Worst of all, the actor playing the Phantom got his roles crossed and channeled a combination of the Rain Man and Benjy Compson from Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury.” He spazzed-out during the finale, but it’s okay because it was his idea of acting. All I could do was laugh. My jaw dropped, however, when the two rows ahead of me stood and gave him an ovation. That’s Vegas for you. We’re the town that loves you even when you are awful bad. Hence, Celion’s run at Caesers.
As if to punctuate my feelings about turning forty-sick, I mean forty-six, it snowed in Vegas today. If you know me, you know that the one thing I hate more than snakes, a Bush in office, or weight gain is cold weather. Snow on my birthday is like, I don’t know, a spasmodic Phantom of the Opera.
No blog on Vegas would be complete without a mention of Sinatra, so as my b-day winds down, I’ve been thinking of some of my favorite lyrics that he sung. In particular, I’m reminded of “It was a Very Good Year,” which Sinatra made into a hit:
“But now the days grow short
I’m in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as a vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs
And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year
It was a mess of good years.”
Two things about these lyrics strike me. One, I like the use of starting sentences with And or But, and two, the idea of wine pouring sweet and clear makes me think it’s a Riesling, and I hate Riesling. Otherwise, I like the sentiment.
It was a mess of a day, but all in all, it has been some messy good years.
As Sinatra would say, “May you live 100 years, and the last face you see be mine.”
