Special Guest Blogger: Liberace

Ah, darling. You’ve caught me mid-practise. I was just rehearsing a delicate rendition of Fly Me to the Moon on a spectral grand piano I conjured from moonbeams and vintage sequins, but I saw your curious little mouse hovering over my entry and thought, oh, bless their hearts. They clearly need a bit of sparkle in their life. So here I am, Liberace, still fabulous and still flamboyant.
I passed away on January 31st, 1987 from an AIDS related complication. It was a Tuesday, if memory serves and i was mourned in tasteful black (boring, darling), but mostly they argued over who should inherit my rhinestone-studded candelabra.
In the mid 80's AIDS was a misunderstood disease, on my demise my staff burnt all my bathrobes like they were cursed because then saying you had AIDS was like telling people you’d personally spat in Mother Teresa's face so we called it an 'immune deficiency' which was much more dignified.
Now, don’t get me wrong, dying was not my best performance. No curtain call, no encore, no standing ovation but at least I did it with panache. I left behind 22 Rolls-Royce's, 69 candelabras, and a foundation to teach children piano.
I played the Piano with passion and drama and enough wrist flourishes to qualify as interpretive dance. Critics said I was over-the-top and too flamboyant and likened to a walking disco ball and why not?
I had a piano custom-made with a mirror top. Why? Because even in the middle of Rhapsody in Blue, I wanted to check my hair. Vanity? Perhaps. Practical? Absolutely.
And the fans, oh, the fans! Women threw their girdles at me. Girdles! Not flowers, not chocolates, foundation garments. I had a closet full of them backstage but I knew exactly what  I was doing. While other pianists wore tuxedos and stared wistfully at the ceiling like they’d lost their train of thought, I wore capes lined with actual peacock feathers and descended from the ceiling on a golden elevator.
After i died i heard they turned my house into a Liberace museum, wonder if they left my rhinestone toilet seat?
I proved you could be a classically trained musician, a showman, a fashion disaster (in the best way), and still sell out Madison Square Garden doing a medley of pop tunes and Flight of the Bumblebee all while wearing gloves made of actual mink.
Now some say I wasn’t taken seriously. That I was all show and no substance but I've cultivated a certain image and I don’t regret it one sequin of it because I lived loud, I loved fiercely (with a backup dancer named Tony) and I never let fear of judgment or poorly matched cufflinks silence me.