The show must go on

The last time we’d traveled to Vegas to see a nightclub act, Donny Osmond blew out his voice on his very first solo of the night — “A Soldier of Love.”  “Masters of the Show Must Go On,” he and Marie were.  From that moment on, every time his lips moved, soprano lyrics spouted from his mouth.  Marie cupped her hand to her cheek, turned her head sideways to hide her lips from view, and sang his lines.  It was like seeing Terry Fator (the ventriloquist) and hearing Sister Sledge, with the toothy grin of the Osmonds rolled into one.  After arriving home, Couponman worked his wonders and arranged a VIP return visit for free — this past weekend.

Not into gambling and pretty mild mannered for Vegas, I do shows.  Quite possibly because of fond memories with Aunt Piggy.  She’d taken me when I, barely a teenager, to my first show at the Dunes Hotel to hear the Kingston Trio belt out “Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley.”  Louis Nye opened the act with a shower/soap routine that had me in a belly laugh I shall never forget.  The laugh that is, the punch line in long gone from memory. 

Acts of James Darren (Moondoggie), a very young talented Wayne Newton, Danny Thomas, Buddy Hackett, Paul Anka (do you think he remembers the photo?), and Survivor followed.  When I turned twenty-one, my aunt borrowed a full-length mink coat, so I could sit fully frocked at a Black Jack table risking $1 bets, instructed by a kindly dealer, and walking away two and a half hours later with an additional $40 in my pocket.

This past Saturday night, Donny and Marie worked the room at the Flamingo to the crowd’s delight.  An older, but still spry, Donny jumped on top of the tables and balanced the edge of the booths, shaking the hands of enthusiastic fans, me being one of them.  If I’d been younger, I’d have remembered not to wash my hand.

I’m accustomed to mints on my pillow when I’m away from home.  Look what I found adorning my bed that night.  What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.