Gratitude or ridicule—got a preference?
Every run-up to Thanksgiving, columnists compile lists of either the year’s laughingstocks—a.k.a. “turkeys”—or blessings. While I wouldn’t quite call what follows “blessings”—more like “benefits”—I’ll opt for gratitude nonetheless.
Before I call dibs on the dark meat and resume sexting with Pocahontas, here’s a humble tip of the Pilgrim’s chapeau to …
• Another year of Shania Twain’s Caesars Palace residency: Whose bed have her boots been under? Technically, every bed in every hotel room above the Colosseum. … No, we didn’t mean it that way, perv.
• Return of Donny Osmond to the Flamingo stage after being sidelined by a torn muscle in his rear compartment. Given how much fun he and sister Marie have sassing each other, his absence left a big sass hole.
• Clean comedy’s triumph at LVH via non-potty-mouth Carlos Oscar: Think you can’t get laughs without profanity? You are so fucking wrong.
• New X Rocks topless revue at the Rio: Creative above and beyond the standard boob-a-rama because these shows need more than just naked breasts. Or so women always tell me.
• Hot honey Claire Sinclair going nearly—and perhaps someday, completely—topless in the Stratosphere’s Pin Up. Anything less is a sinful waste of nature’s bounty. Or so I always tell women.
• Celebrating a decade of Zumanity at New York-New York. Seeing the sexy, soaring circus again recently was so, uh, stimulating, that I made a memo-to-self to repair the trapeze over my bed.
• Upcoming Britney Spears residency at Planet Hollywood: Rejoice, fans of class and decorum—now Miley Cyrus has somewhere to go in Vegas to learn how to act like a lady onstage.
• Impressionist extraordinaire Véronic DiCaire at Bally’s: Beginning by imitating a giant YAAAAAWN, her take on Anita Baker is uncanny. I tried it and developed narcolepsy.
• Don “Methuselah” Rickles: Decades come and go, but Mr. Warmth remains the worst enemy political correctness ever had. Which should make him everybody’s best friend.
• Quick hook of The D* Word—A Musical (*Ditched, Dumped, Divorced and Dating) at LVH. Revised title, should it ever re-emerge here: Kvetch: The Musical.
• Truncated stopover of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert at the Venetian: Yeah, it flopped. That didn’t change the fact that it was faaaaabulous, a feast of fun whether you’re gay, straight, transgendered or engaged to your blowup doll.
• Thriller revamp of Rio’s MJ Live!: With due respect to the overwhelming eye and ear candy of Cirque’s Michael Jackson ONE, this much-lower-rent Jax attack, featuring rotating tribute artists Jalles Franca, Justin Dean and Tony Kouns, is where the King of Pop really pops. So real that you worry that their noses might fall off.
• Renewal of Absinthe at Caesars Palace: Porn stars could learn a few tricks from Penny Pibbets’ sex-obsessed sock puppets. They should make their own porno. Given what “socks” rhymes with, imagine the title possibilities.
• Self-parking at the Cosmopolitan: Green and red lights over the spaces make casino parking almost pleasurable. Forget what I said atop this column: This is a genuine blessing.
Got an entertainment tip? Email Steve.Bornfeld@VegasSeven.com.