Most of us hew to the standard English-language definition of "fixation" (as in "I have a sudden fixation with actresss Crystal Chappell"). However, in Cirque du Soleil-speak, "fixation" means "damage repair." To wit: Criss F. Angel vehicle Believe has been in need of fixation since before it opened. (Only Crazy Girls and Steve Wyrick get lower ratings from LVA members.)

It's nigh upon 11 months since Believe was foisted upon an eagerly skeptical Las Vegas and apparently, the "fixation" process still drags on within the catacombs of Luxor. Or not. Whatever the case, Cirque du Stuck on Themselves ain't tellin', not even to the Los Angeles Times.

Two thoughts: If the show's problems are so intractable they take nearly a year to "fixate," why not just bag it? Also, if what Cirque is presenting is a work in progress, ought not Believe to charge consumers a "price in progress"? Like, oh maybe $15/person to see Mr. Angel and his Cirque enablers try to figure out what the hell kind of show they want to do?

While I don't share Richard Abowitz's enthusiasm for Zumanity (for me, it's a show about sex that's staged by eunuchs). Ka is awe-inspiring and Mystere is enjoyable if you have a very high tolerance for whimsy. But it is with masterly understatement that Abowitz writes, "Cirque can be pretentious on stage and in the corporate culture."

Guy Laliberté's cosmic dream, our nightmare

Scarily, he reveals that head Cirque jerque Guy Laliberté is planning to spread coulrophobia to the cosmos. Is no place safe from putty-nosed clowns? Can't they accidentally-on-purpose open the airlock when Pennywise is trying to juggle in zero gravity or whatever Laliberté has in mind? (Given the reports of Laliberté's heterosexual athleticism, I have my suspicions as to what he really wants to experiment upon in zero G's.)

On the subject of ass-clownery, this takes the cake. I guess he believes "If you haven't been bookmarked, re-Tweeted and blogged/You might as well not have existed."

Adios, Charo? Moving further up the Strip, Abowitz speculates that an ankle sprain may provide the excuse for the Riviera to draw the curtain on Charo in Concert. (I accidentally typed "Charon." A Freudian slip?) Even reliably everything-is-better-than-ever Robin Leach concurs. Who'd have thought that, back when I reviewed Charo's show for CityLife, in tandem with Ali Spuck's cabaret act, that two months later, the plucky Ms. Spuck would be the one -- pardon the pun -- still standing?

Since the flamenco-guitar portion of Charo's show was a bit light on content (five songs), the Riv could have turned lemons into lemonade by working in more guitar and less coochi-coochi. But evidently not. But don't despair, guys. The Riv's still got Scarlett, Princess of Magic and her red bikini.

In an unrelated rumor, Tony 'n Tina's Wedding is alleged to be halfway out the door at Planet Hollywood. That always seemed a mismatch of show and venue; it will surely pop up somewhere else (LVA members give it our highest rating), should the rumor turn out to be true.

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Obssessed? Moi?

Yes, Viva Elvis will be the long-awaited, enshrouded-in-secrecy title of the Cirque du Soleil show scheduled to debut this December at CityCenter.* Wow, they must have had to really burn the midnight oil in Montreal to come up with that one ... Speaking of name changes, Scarlett and her Seductive Ladies of Magic (at the Riviera) is now Abra-Ca-Sexy. Well, it's catchier ... The wheels continue to fall off the Riviera train: An Evening with Dean and Friends has closed, as has the dinner buffet (again) ... Lost in the bankruptcy tumult at the Greek Isles was the opening of a new show. Its cumbersome title is Chinaman: A Rock & Roll Comedy Experience. Moving right along ... By the time you read this, Rockstar: The Tribute should have reopened at the Harmon Theater after a disastrously short stint at the Wyrick Entertainment Complex (aka, "the Venue of Death") in Planet Hollywood. However, the Harmon has given it as much advance publicity as an IRS raid on a Vegas nightclub, so that's not a promising start ... In like manner, Beatles tribute Penny Lane tiptoed into the Tropicana without so much as a 'by your leave' ... Back at Planet Ho, Tony 'n Tina's Wedding evidently isn't performing up to expectations. Ticket prices have been reduced 13%-30%, although they're still steep ($63-$143) ... It looks like Deutsche Bank is going to wait a spell and open the Cosmopolitan in Sept.-Oct. 2010. Which, given that the Strip's been strangling on a glut of high-end rooms, is probably the wisest course of action. Wall Street's former Holy Grail, "another wave of megaresort openings," has become a phrase to be dreaded.

Ready for some good news? The most remarkable dancer of the late, lamented Sin City Kitties, Koree Kurkowski, is now part of the ensemble of Bite. The show is kitsch to the nth degree but it's entertaining in its own so-bad-it's-good fashion. The Stratosphere casino floor was pretty dead for a Friday night last weekend, but Bite was definitely packing them in. It's not as good as Sin City Bad Girls (at the Las Vegas Hilton) but way better than forgettable X Burlesque (at the Flamingo).

* -- the Viva Elvis revelation was let slip during last weekend's Michael Jackson festival at The Palms. I learned of it after being invited -- on 75 minutes' notice -- to co-host an episode of Steve Friess' The Strip Podcast, in which I am teased for being "obsessed" with Carmen Electra. I'll link to the edited version once it's available, so you can hear me date myself with a Barbi Benton shout-out.

This isn't Photoshop but an ad clipped from a Michigan newspaper, I kid you not:

The things you can find at the grocery store these days ...

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In a decision that could have wide-ranging implications, Foxwoods Casino Resort and Mohegan Sun have been ordered to count (and pay taxes on) "free play" coupons as though they were revenue. This isn't a sock-it-to-the-players move like the one the Hawaii Legislature just pulled, taxing any money won at a casino (even if it's lost right back and then some). However, the ramifications for consumers if free-play coupons are targeted for taxation are discouraging. Play 'em while you've got 'em.

That stale "sleeping giant" analogy has been dusted off (and I use that verb advisedly) for some pimpery of the Sahara. On the glass half-full side, classy and romantic dinner spot House of Lords has been revived. It used to be a perfect place to take your Special Someone and hopefully will remain so. It's just off the main casino floor -- the most Moorish-themed part of the Sahara and the best "retro" experience to be had in town. (Almost everything else of newer vintage is bland grind-joint crud that needs to go.)

As for the empty half of the glass, that'd be the news that owner Sam Nazarian continues to go downmarket with a vengeance. Because nothing says "classic Vegas" like a tattoo parlor and a biker convention. Worse still, the tramp-stamp place will be in the otherwise elegant main lobby, with extended weekend tattoo-ing times ... since you never know when you want to do something you'll regret the rest of your life.

This "desert jewel rich with history and nostalgia" will continue that tradition with "a wet wife-beater contest, bikini tricycle races, a bourbon paired beef dinner with leatherwear fashion show, and an all-you-can-eat beer fest BBQ with one lucky rider winning a 2009 Harley Davidson Cross Bones bike." It's probably just a matter of time before Nazarian converts the big rear parking lot to a trailer park, too. That's Sam Nazarian for you: "class" with a capital "K."

"Tina Sparkle," flanked by Donny Osmond (evidently still in his pajamas) and Marie, who's looking damn fine from here.

It's old news that Donny Osmond is going to be on the next season of Dancing with the Stars, but I hadn't known he was going to be paired with Aussie Kym Johnson. The latter is known to my Better Half and I as "Tina Sparkle" (it's a Strictly Ballroom thing), which would make for great DWTS levity next season, except ...

... for the soul-crushing news that the gorgeous and talented Cheryl Burke has been twinned with the repulsive (and potentially prison-bound) Tom DeLay, one of "Casino Jack" Abramoff's band of Beltway scoundrels. (Was scum-tastic sleazemeister Rod Blagojevich not available?) Bad luck for Cheryl, good news for DeLay because Ms. Burke could be matched with a tree stump and get aforesaid stump into the final three. If she could carry a woodpile like Cristian de la Fuente to the finale, DeLay should be easy lifting. It looks like he's got the requisite arboreal quality.

Does Criss Angel have compromising photos of high-ranking MGM Mirage executives? The company's "branding" him now, evidently having convinced itself that Believe is beyond wonderful ... and never mind that 11-year-old O regularly outdistances Believe in ticket sales by several country miles. Having sunk $85 million into this Cirque du Soleil turkey, MGM is evidently going to stick with it until the last dancing rabbit is hung.

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... Harrah's Entertainment. We've just returned from the formal opening of Matsuri. The 8 p.m. show started at 8:16, due in no small part to the fact that the Imperial Palace had one usher working the entire showroom. One showroom. One usher. By the time a reinforcement showed up, the damage had been done. (Oh, and the cocktails there are awful. It's enough to give temperance a good name.)

The new Imperial Palace bartender.

Matsuri itself is very good, that rare show which gives real meaning to the baneful phrase, "high energy." It's like all the fun, acrobatic parts of a Cirque du Soleil spectacle minus the fey pretentiousness. Or, as the saying goes, "All killer! No filler!" (Really.) The only regrettable element is Matsuri's playing in a venue that's badly understaffed.

Harrah's Entertainment: Where the customer almost matters.

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As we were driving to LVA HQ this morning, we spotted a disoriented-looking little cat running through the Flamingo Rd./I-15 interchange, across from Caesars Palace. We were in a quandary about what to do until it turned and started ambling down the I-15 "on" ramp, heading straight for certain death. I ran down the ramp after it (the kitty's a fast little bugger), scooped it up in one hand and ...

Well, what to do? I am now the custodian of a small, tuxedo-patterned kitten who may be carrying God knows what infections. It's too docile to be a feral cat but it's definitely going to need a new residence. So if anybody reading this can lend a helping hand to a homeless kitty, contact me at dmckee@huntingtonpress.com. I could just plop the wee bairn out in the LVA parking lot, along with our resident strays, but they're all massive and it would be a very Darwinian situation, I fear.

Cheesparing at Station: The formidable Jean Scott has news of some recent and untoward developments at Station Casinos, as the bankrupt company resorts to new "economy" measures. While the Fertitta clan sinks approximately $90 million into Orange County mansions, they're recouping the cost of their poor business decisions out of their customers' hides.

Random observations: Last night, we celebrated my Better Half's birthday, partly at Cadillac Ranch, which seems to have an identity crisis. Its menu is slightly countrified (in a C&W sense), its walls are covered with photos of Baby Boomer rock stars (think Steven Tyler) and the video feed is heavy on hip-hop. Go figure. The root beer float is very good, though. At 10:30, as though by prearranged signal, an incoming tide of douchebags flooded the joint and we split ...

... the classy southern façade of Mandarin Oriental has now been marred by a building wrap, high up on one corner. It's small by building-wrap standards, managing to both spoil the view and look like a timid half-measure ...

... speaking of building wraps, Criss F. Angel has long since been evicted from the eastern façade of Luxor. A new wrap was placed on the northeast corner of Luxor's ancillary hotel, but it's also smallish and -- due to way the hotel's buttresses jut forward -- hard to see if you're driving into Vegas from the south. Then again, if I were MGM Mirage, I'd probably want to downplay with association with the widely ridiculed Mr. Angel, too.

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Two resignations made the news today. First, the publicist for Criss F. Angel took a hike. Given the choice between the much-reviled Angel and unlikely rising star (and reportedly much, much nicer person) Holly Madison, Fantasy flack John Flynn left the sinking Angel ship.

With Guy Laliberté literally fleeing to outer space, defenders of Angel and his Believe debacle are growing fewer and fewer. (Hey, Cirque du Soleil, keep the title and redo the show as a Cher tribute. It can only be an improvement.)

"Would the last person to leave my office please turn out the lights?"

In an unrelated but symbolically parallel development, yet another high-ranking staffer has joined the exodus from the office of Gov. Jim Gibbons. Departing exec Mindy Elliott managed to drag Midnight Jim into yet another scandal when she persuaded the Gibber to exert influence on behalf of Boyd Gaming in a dispute with state OSHA. Unfortunately, the state's burgeoning jobless population will now have to deal with Elliott in her new role as head of the Dept. of Employment, Training & Rehabilitation. Is this a case of "failing upward"? "Sideways"?

Luxor? Sexy?!? It seems that the answer is, "Yes," judging by this creative marketing ploy: "Singles in Sin City." People come to Vegas to hook up, however briefly, so why not A) organize a promotion around it and B) class things up a bit? The four packages are, in ascending order of sexytime, "Get a Room," "Get Lucky," "PDA" and "The Player."

Well, it sure beats "First Base," "Second Base," etc., no? (If the funky vocal stylings of Robin Thicke don't make you want to get busy, nothing will.) And with the Strip currently floundering in disgrace -- and deservedly so -- Luxor's promotion is high heavens above, for instance, the cattle call that is Rehab at the Hard Rock Hotel. When they (foolishly, IMO) bought the place, Morgans Hotel Group claimed they were going to go upscale. Instead, by all accounts, they dove headfirst into the deep end of the cesspool.

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Hot off the wire from Harrah's Entertainment: "The visionary force behind Club Fuego, ND, has opted to close the nightclub in order to pursue future projects in other formats. The closure is effective today [June 15]."

Durr: Friends don't let friends become Europoseurs

This mouthful of fulsome flattery requires a bit of translation. "ND" is the pretentious moniker chosen by Nicole Durr. The German impresario garnered a small but fawning following during her latest Vegas stint. She also was credited with conception, creation, writing, direction, producing, musical conception, co-composition, costume design, co-choreography, co-program design and photography for Raw Talent Live.

The latter was a mercifully short-lived Cirque du Soleil wannabe that ran at the Sahara and looked like what you'd get if you let Franco Dragone run riot with a budget of $17.95. Centering upon "The Laptop of Life" (don't ask), this incomprehensible mishmash -- I believe the operative German word is Scheisse -- featured among its dramatis personae one "Miss Conscience Guilt," who presumably was dropping in from The Land of Babelfish.

Not only did Raw Talent Live have the miniscule distinction of being the single worst Vegas show I have ever seen, it was memorable in another respect: It used prerecorded applause. Either that or the theater was full of invisible people the night I saw Raw Talent, because there were probably fewer spectators than cast members.

In an effort to keep this Esperanto-flavored flub afloat, it was renamed Fuego Raw Talent Live, then just Fuego. But adding or subtracting words from the marquee provided no solution to an addle-pated concept.

That lesson went unlearnt when Ms. Durr set up shop over at The Rio. Posters on the property gaseously proclaimed: "ND's Fuego • The Club • Evolution of Nightlife." Now, if Steve Wynn were to announce that henceforth he was to be addressed and mentioned exclusively as "SW," and marketed his new property as "SW's Encore • The Resort • Evolution of Las Vegas" ... well, we'd all think El Steve had jumped the shark, to put it politely.

Before long, "Fuego" was doused and the Rio room became "ND's The Club." (Judging by its use of "Club Fuego," Harrah's Entertainment was as confused by the name-of-the-week as anyone.) All of which presumes that there's some brand equity in those two initials. Honestly, does anyone not on the Las Vegas Weekly's nightclub beat lie awake nights, tormented by the question, "What, oh what will ND do next?"

Durr earned herself a place in the Vegas history books when she helped spirit 50 Cuban artists to freedom. But of late she's drunk rather too deeply of her own bathwater. The ensuing cult of personality will not be missed.

OK, Durr is "develop[ing] the various elements of the brand." Guy Laliberté is being sent into outer space (meaning he's got 10 weeks to kick his nicotine addiction). So when will Christian Audigier take the hint?

Farewell to a legend. Europeans -- as opposed to transplanted Europoseurs -- remembered and revered saxophonist Sam Butera even after many in Vegas had forgotten him. Amidst the ongoing fuss over the demise of Danny Gans, the departure of Louis Prima's legendary sideman might have gone unnoticed were it not largely for the dedicated reportage of Cult Vegas author Mike Weatherford. Opportunties to hear Butera in Vegas were, in the past decade, few and fleeting ... but I wish I hadn't passed them up. That'll be something I regret.

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No, Guy Laliberté is not prancing around our offices in cap and bells, reducing staffers to helpless laughter with declarations of, "Criss Angel is not a magician ... he is an artist!"

Instead, cyber-gremblins have rendered our Web operations FUBAR -- as you have undoubtedly discovered already. This necessitates a temporary suspension of S&G operations. Among the items trapped momentarily in Limbo is an explanation of why it looks more and more like MGM Mirage will have to evacuate Macao ... plus early dispatches from the front lines of The Lion King.

However ... a few S&G tweaks have been performed, including a direct link to the article that inspired "Inside the Mind of Trump." It's a wild ride inside the Trumpian psyche.

I'll catch you on the flip.

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"Peepshow" prime donne Kelly Monaco & Mel. B

By now it's old news that Planet Hollywood's new resident spectacle, Peepshow, has gone topless for real. Though some question the move, to me it always seemed retrogressive and counter-intuitive to present a T&A show in contemporary Las Vegas that had scarcely a nipple in sight. That's so 1956.

What's newsworthy is the co-producer's rationalization for not daring to bare: "All of the other shows in this genre play to a smaller house. What we didn't want to do is alienate what could be 50 percent of our audience. We wanted to do a show both men and women are comfortable seeing."

In this context, "smaller" is anything less than 1,400 seats. By that Double-D measurement, Cirque du Soleil's nudity-friendly Zumanity plays to a "smaller" (i.e., 1,256-seat) house, but we're hardly talking Crazy Girls-cozy there, now are we? Jubilee! over at Bally's, seats 1,040. The sight of literally scores of bare breasts hasn't kept that show from racking up a quarter-century run.

If Jubilee! "alienate[s] ... 50 percent of [its] audience" -- which is very unlikely -- it's done no evident harm at the ticket window. (For that matter, I know some women who wouldn't mind seeing Peepshow's Mel B. in her knickers ... )

So you have to ask, "What were the Peepshow peeps thinking?" They evidently came in not knowing the market and seem only now to be getting up to speed. Fig-leaf prudishness and the Las Vegas Strip just don't mix.

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