I know where my "ah" is. And I've never lost my "ha." But on a recent trip to Vegas (a city pickled in ah and ha) I found my old "oh." It was the kind of oh that's worn like an accessory to wide eyes reflecting the gleam of technicolor feathers and rhinestones. Oh.
We saw "Jubilee" at Bally's, a forty-year-old show that can't be described as anything but that, a show. From curtain up, "oh" was all that slipped through the champagne fumes in my mouth. Apart from the doll aisle at Toys R Us, I've never seen so many matched sets of legs, teeth, and tits. Skin and hair color were the only offered variety. No matter her flavor, no matter her hue, each girl was a natural Barbie. No plastic, legs to her ears, a tiny handful up top, and dance chops to match her supernova grin.
There was something like 12 costume changes and the handmade sets took a staff of forty to manage. From the topless Delilah overpowering a go-go boy Samson, to the steam-spewing Titanic, I was dazzled.
The show has its final run in February of this year. The showgirls of Vegas have been obliterated by the red spotlight of burlesque and the platinum cherry bombs thrown by Britney Spears and the like. Comedy, magic, ventriloquism, and plain old strip tease have survived the new appetites of Vegas crowds, but sadly, the showgirl must hang up her chandelier headdress and throw on a bra.
Don't get me wrong, Britney's Vegas show was fantastic and I'm all for the evolution of entertainment, but shows like Jubilee used to be the powder that covered the old girl's cracks. The shows were kind of a metaphor for old Vegas: something sparkly and a little trashy beneath a veil of class.
So raise a glass to all the showgirls. They not only helped me find my oh, but without them, we would never have known the glory that is Jessie Spano's square ass.