I was zipping along a busy Vegas street when I spotted the Liberace Museum out of the corner of my eye.
I did a quick u-turn, pulled into the almost-empty parking lot, then screeched to a halt.
Drats!
The Museum wasn't open yet. To make matters worse - all the windows were decorated with a sort of metal lace (Kinky!) - thus preventing any old hapless peeper from getting a whiff of what was tucked away on display inside.
As I plucked up a bottle of water to quench my thirst at the local convenience store across the street (the temperatures have soared in Vegas and revved up the mercury to a sizzling 107 degrees mid-day) the shopkeeper noted that busloads of tourists descend on the museum every day to take a gaggle at the Liberace memorabilia.
The next day, a gossip columnist in the morning daily, noted that Bette Midler (the chanteuse is in town performing on the strip) floated through the museum recently and raved about the fabulous jewels and luxurious furs.
That bit**!
Just kidding, Bette. Luv 'ya, every since I caught you at "The Palace" back in the seventies in New York City!
Years ago, after I first arrived in Hollywood with suitcase in hand, I was attending a chi-chi soiree in the oh-so-chic Hollywood Hills, when a young stud grabbed me by the arm and trotted me over to the edge of the patio.
"See those trees across the canyon? That's where Liberace lives."
We could only imagine what was going on right then and there in Lib's digs.
Having a cucumber facial, perhaps?
Or savoring an invigorating rub-down at the hands of a scrumptuous boy toy in the buff?
But life for Liberace was not always so open and carefree.
In 1956, when Liberace toured England - and subsequently played at the London Palladium - a reviewer at the Daily Mirror hinted that Liberace was a puff (English term for "fag").
The flashy entertainer was so appalled by the published comments, that he was inclined to sue the daily rag for libel.
Some of the mean-spirited comments the columnist levelled at Liberace sparked a lot of controversy at the time.
"He is the summit of sex - the pinnacle of masculine, feminine, and neuter. Everything that he, she and it can ever want," the journalist snidely accused in one segment of the "attack".
Then, as if to substantiate his claims by consensus, he noted for the record:
"I spoke to sad but kindly men on this newspaper who have met every celebrity coming from America for the past 30 years. They say that this deadly, winking, sniggering, snuggling, chromium-plated, scent-impregnated, luminous, quivering, giggling, fruit-flavored, mincing, ice-covered heap of mother love has had the biggest reception and impact on London since Charlie Chaplin arrived at the same station, Waterloo, on September 12,1921."
At this juncture, he launched ahead full throttle in what amounted to an outright character assassination,
"This appalling man - and I use the word appalling in no other than its true sense of terrifying - has hit this country in a way that is as violent as Churchill receiving the cheers on V-E Day."
"He reeks with emetic language that can only make grown men long for a quiet corner, an aspidistra, a handkerchief, and the old heave-ho. Without doubt, he is the biggest sentimental vomit of all time. Slobbering over his mother, winking at his brother, and counting the cash at every second, this superb piece of calculating candy-floss has an answer for every situation."
"There must be something wrong with us that our teenagers longing for sex and our middle aged matrons fed up with sex alike should fall for such a sugary mountain of jingling claptrap wrapped up in such a preposterous clown."
The man had quite the acid tongue, eh?
Needless to say, the lusty diatribe got his di** caught in a wringer!
Liberace sued. And surprisingly - when the case ended in 1959 - the glittering showbiz King was the victor with $8,000.00 pounds sterling bulging out of the rich lining of his pink velvet purse.
Of course, after winning the court litigation, he was inclined to chirp:
"I'm laughing all the way to the bank."
Although Liberace stated on the witness stand that he was not "homosexual" and noted to the Judge that sexual practices of that nature offended society (him too!) - curiously - he ended up in court a couple of decades later under related issues.
Scott Thorson - Liberace's "secretary-cum-chauffeur" - sued for "palimony" in 1982. In that case, Liberace settled out of court, though. Thorson was rumored to have received a settlement of $95,000 in cash, three motor cars (including a Rolls-Royce) and a couple of dogs.
At the time of his death in 1987, Liberace was living in an elegant home where the master bedroom was painted with a re-creation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, the lawn was centrally heated, and an eye-catching piano-shaped swimming pool beckoned water sports enthusiasts out back.
In his final days, Liberace was known to have lamented,
"No one loves me but the public".
That may have been true.
In spite of a couple of unsavory scandals in his private life - and the whispers about his homosexuality at a time when the gay lifestyle was scorned upon by the public at large - fans adored him anyway.
Do you think the little old blue-haired ladies didn't know he was "queer"?
Impossible. They gracefully looked the other way.
The reason was quite simple.
Liberace not only acted with discretion, but in good taste; likewise, he conducted his affairs in a dignified, classy way.
Arthur Wellesley once said,"Be discreet in all things, and so render it unnecessary to be mysterious."
"Like all glittering showgirls, (MIDLER) may wear sequins like a second skin, but the woman underneath is all flesh and blood, humor and heart," exalted USA today.
And, of course, by playing back-up for Midler not only at concert gigs on the road at whiskey joints around the country, but during her regular sold-out appearances at the trendy Continental Baths (a gay bath house) in downtown Manhattan.
