Mary Bellamy

Tom always says I shouldn't quote myself in my blog. Which lead me to....


My dad is recovering, but slowly. His heart is not repairing itself after that heart attack, so tomorrow the doctors are going in again. They'll do another angiogram, then place two more stents to help repair his hear. Dad is being persnickety, and refuses to let the nurses take any more blood for tests. I can't really blame him, since one arm is completely shot, and the other is covered with bruises and track marks.

But it can't all be hospital time, so Saturday I joined my sister and brother-in-law for a trip to the casino. They had tickets to see Chris Rock, but not me. No, I went to see Charo. If you don't know, Charo is like the Shakira of the Rat Pack. Like if Dolly Parton and Elvis had a Spanish daughter.

She's a big hit with the gay crowd, and it's easy to see why. It's hard to explain the singular joy of a Charo concert. She's loud, Latin and campy. And a little bit of me will always be with her. Because my hair got caught in her costume bodice. How did that happen? Don't ask.

But don't think she's nothing but Vegas. In the second half of the show, she toned things down, pulled out her acoustic guitar and started to play. She's trained with Andres Segovia, and it shows—the woman can play! Yet another free concert that was worth every penny. And I spent most of them in the magic crystal martini mountain after the show.