Patti's Las Vegas Spectacular

The Doors are doing it--the three whose hearts didn't explode in a bathtub in Paris in 1971. If their justification is Jim’s vanishing point (in the kitchen in the glare of an early July afternoon, I stood gliding the point of the ancient steam iron into the tiny gathers that feed shirt sleeves into cuffs, savoring the precision of it and the smell and the sweat trance of LA Woman on the AM station I put on when Mom was working, when the DJ broke the wire report: the trance lolled useless like a neck snapped), why shouldn't Patti exploit him too?

He's hot, sexy and dead either way. And wouldn't we love to see her gray mane tossing the stage lights at the Mirage: a one-woman Cirque de Soleil?