A Sure Bette!

So this past weekend, Shlomo and I ventured forth on an overnight adventure. On Saturday morning we packed our bags and hopped a plane for Sin City to see the one and only Divine Miss M herself.

You have to understand, I have long had (as I think every gay man has) a huge admiration and affection for Bette Midler. I have seen every movie of hers (with the exception of Jinxed…which even she says to avoid), I have seen her live twice before this weekend, and I have been known to crank her cds with the top down during my convertible-owning days. The latter is not so fun in a Jeep Cherokee.

She inspired me to go green with her campaign to clean up New York. I hope the others she inspired were more successful. I made it about a month. But still…

Anyhoo, Shlomo and I had waited months for this. We purchased our tickets six months ago. Yes, we had to change them once as her performance schedule was adjusted, but we did so happily. Ironically, we wound up with even better seats.

We get to Vegas. I walk in the hotel room and at that moment I realized that—quelle horror—I had my favorite shirt, but no cufflinks. Now, for those of you who know me well and see me everyday, you know that cufflinks are my signature item. I love them. I have probably 30 pairs. I have new ones. I have vintage ones. I have serious ones. I have fun ones. I have expensive ones. I have cheap ones. I love them all for various reasons.

Strangely, Shlomo, who has in the past few months tried to co-opt my signature look, forgot his as well. So what are a couple of broads in this situation to do? Roll up their sleeves and ignore the French (okay Freedom for you Republicans…although I cannot imagine a Republican would read my blog more than once) cuffs? Uh, no. We both ventured into the Forum Shops of Caesar’s Palace and scored us each a pair. He found a great pair at Pink (purple and sparkly…go Shlomo!) and I scored a lovely jade pair that are a fairly famous design made to look like a bean. Shlomo says they look like jade butts.

I felt a bit guilty. It seemed like a splurge. Then, I reminded myself: this is Vegas. What happens here, usually stays here. These will go home with me forever. Then, as fate would have it, I won enough on the slots and those poker machines for Caesar’s Palace to buy me a new shirt to go with them. It was from Banana and not Armani, but still. It was basically free.

I proudly wore my new links that did not really match my favorite shirt, but were okay and went to see the “Peoples’ Diva” as she is now calling herself. I have to say that she has lost none of her charms since I last saw her about four years ago. 90 minutes (the Las Vegas time limit for shows) of song, dance, and non-stop, over-the-top bawdy energy.

Sadly, I must report that there was no Bette doll to join Cher at home on my desk. But fear not, we did not leave without a terrific souvenir...er, souvenirs…Bette T-shirts, Bette playing cards, Bathhouse Betty soap, oh, and a sparkly ukulele signed by Miss M herself. So, got Divine?