alking a bit farther down the rows, I encountered a slot machine with the jackpot readout: $225.00. I took a flash photograph and giggled. Looking to my left...oh my God, it was the Celebrity Cafe, where, according to 's brochure, performers hang out after their shows. It looked like a dreadful place-- people slumped unhappily over brunch, the usual photographs of old-time movie stars lining the walls.

Again, this eerie feeling pervaded: What the hell were we doing here? We weren't supposed to be here. People seemed to be eating their eggs Benedict hurriedly, as if Reynolds and her fab celebrity would suddenly show up, blind them with her technicolor charisma and render them obsolete.

I went to the gift store and scanned the merch. Here we had not just the Deb memorabilia, Singin In The Rain 8 x 10's and so on, not just photographs of 's long-running rival Elizabeth Taylor (who had an affair with married Eddie Fisher, Deb's husband, Carrie's dad, while Deb and Eddie were still married, le scandale of the day) but tacky shit like little porcelain rabbits and cows. All right, I'll give Deb the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it's not necessarily her taste. Maybe it's just that she knows the taste of her audience; okay??

(She was selling life size standups of characters from Star Wars: Luke Skywalker, Han Solo and R2D2 were available, but Princess Leia was nowhere in sight. Was she sold out, or was Deb protesting Carrie's depiction of her as an alcoholic-pushy-mom-basket-case in Postcards?)

Buying the ticket: I'm standing behind two blue-hairs, looking up at a sign saying that Deb performs in the Deb Reynolds theatre six days a week. Whew! That's a rigorous schedule. Good thing she recently did a workout tape for senior citizens, otherwise we'd feel sorry for her. The blue-hairs left and it was my turn to step up to the ticket master. I looked into the friendly, blank face of a long-haired blonde, probably Bible Belt.