The tale of a Vegas journey somewhere over the rainbow

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! The road to Over the Rainbow is fraught with danger and excitement.

Part three of my trip to Oz in Vegas

After navigating the monorail and a torturous maze of elevators to get there, we entered the Sphere. Navigating the entrance with Queerteeny, my trusty mobility scooter, was its own adventure as I searched for the right door and, yes, encountered yet another elevator to reach the soaring upper levels of the venue. Once inside, I had to park Queerteeny and continue on foot, relying on a cane for support. Thank goodness for sensible shoes! Of course, when I arrived at my seat, my usual lack of luck prevailed: the cane slipped from my grip and tumbled under the row in front of me, setting the tone for the rest of the evening.

The “Wizard of Oz” show was nothing short of spectacular.

During the tornado scene, powerful fans blasted wind around us, nearly toppling my beehive wig. It felt as though I was truly in the middle of the twister, right alongside Dorothy. A few of the leaves released from the ceiling became trapped in the copious amount of hairspray that maintained the structural integrity of my wig, so naturally, they became instant souvenirs. Later, when the trees hurled apples at Dorothy and the Scarecrow, foam apples tumbled from above and landed among the audience, making us feel as though we had wandered straight into the Haunted Forest. They even sent flying animatronic monkeys swooping overhead, flapping their wings and making the illusion feel all the more real.

The scenery was breathtaking, and the immersive technology opened up Oz in ways the classic film never could. Munchkin Land surrounded us in vibrant color and whimsical detail, as if we had stepped directly into the story. Tiny Munchkins waved from the rooftops of cheerful storefronts lining the yellow brick road, and rolling hills stretched beyond the town square. It felt as though we had arrived in Munchkin Land right along with Dorothy.

Lights swirled, music soared, and the Emerald City glowed like a disco ball on steroids. Toto barked in surround sound, and at one point, we were certain the flying monkeys were coming for our wigs. It was a magical, Technicolor spectacle that left our jaws dropped, our spirits lifted, and our shoes ready to click three times for a return trip.

When the show ended, we left breathless with excitement. As I rode Queerteeny through the foyer, I passed a large crystal ball where Elmira Gulch appeared, pedaling her bicycle through Kansas. For reasons I can’t fully explain, I felt oddly drawn to her and began to wonder whether some latent witchy DNA might be buried deep in my soul.

On the way back to the hotel, Queerteeny’s battery died right in the middle of an intersection. Honey, talk about a dramatic exit. There I was, stranded like the last queen in a RuPaul’s Drag Race lip-sync, waiting for my pit crew to swoop in and rescue me. My friend and travel companion Scott became my own flying monkey, pushing Queerteeny the remaining blocks back to the hotel. Our impromptu parade featured me waving to imaginary fans, clutching my purse for dear life, and praying my lashes would not slide off from stress. The whole journey felt like a slow-motion march through a haunted forest, with every pothole threatening to snatch my wig. The moment we made it back, I plugged Queerteeny into the charger faster than a drag queen grabbing glitter on sale, because darling, you never know when you may need to scoot away from drama or race for the last slice of pizza at the after-party.

My companions headed out to enjoy the Vegas nightlife, but I was exhausted and chose to stay at the hotel. Later, hunger got the better of me, so I took the partially recharged Queerteeny down the block to the local 7-Eleven in search of snacks. This little trip was not without drama. A group of “gentlemen” had stationed themselves on the sidewalk with a boombox blasting some threatening gangsta rap music, blocking my path. I gave Queerteeny’s horn a firm honk, which prompted them to shift just enough for me to squeeze by. Even so, I thought it wise to keep moving as fast as Queerteeny could go. I could not help thinking that if I lingered too long, they might try to stop me, and who knows what mischief might follow? Perhaps they would go for my wig or, worse, my purse. Still, I did receive a few catcalls, which admittedly lifted my spirits.

With snacks in hand and my “virtue” still technically “intact,” clinging to life like a discount wig in a wind tunnel, barely hanging on by a single bobby pin, I made it back to the hotel and fell asleep to reruns of “The Golden Girls,” dreaming of witches, wigs, and dead batteries. Oh my!

Of course, this story leaves us with several essential questions:

1. Might it be prudent for me to start using a large candy cane as a walking aid, so that in a snack emergency I could simply eat the cane?
2. If the flying monkeys had stolen my wig, would I still have been allowed back on the monorail?
3. Does the Sphere count as a Petunia-approved tornado, or is it just a very expensive snow globe?
4. If Queerteeny earned frequent-scooter miles, would stalling in an intersection count as a layover?
5. If Toto had seen my snack run to Seven Eleven, would he have followed me home for emotional support chips?
6. Since my wig survived the tornado, the flying monkeys, and the intersection, should it get its own star on the Vegas Walk of Fame?

These, and other fabulous mysteries of the cosmos, will be explored in the next installment of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear —assuming Queerteeny is fully charged and I survive whatever fresh Vegas witchcraft awaits.