Titty Smackdown: Crazy Horse v Peepshow

It is true, this show was not for me. Literally. "Crazy Horse Paris" is a burlesque show at MGM Grand that, ostensibly, exists primarily to turn on heterosexual men. And there's nothing wrong with that, exactly. It's what this city was built on, right?

Except that I feel a little sorry for the heterosexual guys out there. You deserve better.

I was primed to like this show, which I finally got out to see last night because of the publicity stunt that is the blink-and-miss-her guest star gig by ex-"Baywatch" jiggler Carmen Electra. The posters look cool, the showroom was intimate and exotic and so much else about MGM Grand these days is all so classy. Plus, R-J columnist Doug Elfman said the other day when we were prepping to begin our semi-regular sparring match on KNPR that he considered CHP to be the best, most artistic stripper show in the city.

Sigh. I suppose that could be so if you ignore the awful choreography, simplistic tableaus, kaleidoscopic lighting, extremely poor lip-synching and comical costumes. There were some geniunely erotic and creative moments -- there's a scene where we see just the bottom half of a woman with a perfectly formed bottom and legs as she removes her stockings -- but more often it's a bunch of women bopping around in wigs, doing something repetitive until the music ran out. All yours for $60 a seat; what's it cost for a pole dance at Olympic Gardens these days?

And Carmen Electra? That was just...sad. Like a couple of years ago when we all got snookered into seeing the atrocious Hans Klok magic show at P-Ho because Pamela Anderson was in it, we all waited and waited and waited for the former Mrs. Rodman-Navarro to appear and she finally did about halfway through. She showed no boobies at that point, just shook her big hair about and rolled around on a lip-shaped couch. Yawn. She returned a good 20 minutes later to dance with some bendy poles, vulgarly grinding her g-stringed crack into one of them and sort of obliterating the patina of high-class CHP pretends to attain. Oh, and she showed one breast at the end of the misery, clad in a pasty which, I'm now told by every straight male reader of this blog, doesn't count.

Carmen, in the show through this weekend, does return in one final scene fully topless -- and her surgically created boobs are quite lovely with a cute flair to the nipples -- so I guess the vaginally inclined boys got what they wanted and seemed forgiving of how brief the satisfaction was. But I kept feeling sorry for Carmen that, at 37, she was reduced to such tawdriness to pay the mortgage. There could be no other explanation for why she's there other than the money; she sure didn't put a whole lot of pride in making the performance much.

There are dissenting opinions, to be sure. The R-J's Norm Clarke Tweeted during the show: "Carmen is writhing on the red velvet couch in the shape of Michelle Pfeifer's lips. Eat you hearts out Baker Boys." A few moments later, he Tweeted this: "Swinging door routine...they might be the 8 --ok who's counting -- most breathtaking performers on stage at one time in Vegas."

But even Norm seemed to lose interest; his next two Tweets, sent during the show, were about the Vegas location of the Travelocity Travel Gnome. I thought maybe someone else was Tweeting that stuff for him, but then he wrote: "But I digress....back to the Land of Merkin...and the Hot Legs routine."

OK, so you're thinking, "You're GAY. What do you know about shows about sexy women?" Fair enough. Except that I love "Peepshow" at Planet Hollywood. That is a show with high production value, a bit of a story, original music sung live and really creative ways of presenting gorgeous topless women. Also, at the moment, it has another It Girl, Holly Madison, who unlike Carmen is actually in her career prime. Holly's also required to do a little actual dancing and acting, however uncomfortable she may appear doing so.

The irony of all this is that Crazy Horse Paris is more akin to Crazy Girls, the struggling Riviera show whose operators insist remains a viable business despite a nightly audience of about 100 -- and God knows how few of those suckers paid full price -- and a cast larger than the now-gone "An Evening at La Cage." The most important difference between the two, besides the fact that CHP admittedly has more beautiful women, is that Crazy Girls doesn't pretend to be high art. CHP does, but it ain't.