Movers & Shakers

The Last Showgirl Can even a tall, topless blonde withstand the Cirque juggernaut? Kristina Freedlund was destined to be a showgirl. An impressive percentage of her six-foot stature is devoted to perfect legs, and the day the dance-crazy Bloomington, Indiana native turned 18, she joined Bally’s venerable song-and-dance revue, “Jubilee!” “The other showgirls brought a cake to my dressing room,” she recalls of that momentous 1998 birthday. “I was so excited because I was finally able to dance onstage in Las Vegas.” Ironically, Freedlund’s dream came true the same year Cirque du Soleil unveiled its second circus-on-acid Vegas show at the Bellagio. Soon there will be six. Indeed, Cirque’s acrobats have eclipsed showgirls as the dominant icon of Vegas entertainment. “It is kind of scary to see how Cirque has taken over,” Freedlund admits, “but I think showgirls will survive.” The pre-curtain backstage bustle, with dozens of half-naked dancers powdering themselves, certainly makes an observer hopeful. Still, an audience’s tepid response to cheesy routines that haven’t changed for 27 years can make a gal pine for the glory days when Rat Packers dipped into the showgirl dating pool. “Now it’s more corporate,” Freedlund says. “We can’t drink and mingle, but at least we get health benefits.” There are other benefits, too. “When I’m out on the town with some of the other showgirls, we never wait to get into clubs. It’s a strange feeling of power,” she says. “What’s funny is when we hang out at a topless pool. Guys chat us up, but since they’re usually shorter, they can’t figure out where to aim their eyes.” Freedlund credits that seminaked confidence to strutting her stuff up and down three flights of stairs, wearing a 30-pound headdress, two shows a night, six nights a week. “When I was 18, it was embarrassing. Now that I’m more cultured in the dance world, I feel like nudity is a natural part of the show. We’ve been given gorgeous bodies—why not show them off onstage?” After dancing professionally for 10 years, Freedlund is by no means ready to retire. But she has considered the eventual post-stage chapter. “I’m thinking of going to UNLV for a master’s in public relations,” she says. “This town runs on PR.”

3:15 A.M.
BLACKJACK BELLES
The Hard Rock Hotel & Casino must think we aren’t losing enough money on blackjack already. How else to explain hiring model-hot female dealers and outfitting them in “uniforms” that expose plenty more than their cards? Sheesh, we just forgot to split a pair of eights—rookie mistake. Just deal us a new hand, missy. Whoa, now three of these “Hell’s Belles” (blonde, brunette, redhead—nice touch) are enthusiastically pole-dancing on an elevated stage so close we can identify their perfumes! And, Lord, now we just asked for a hit while holding a hard 19. Would somebody please alert the Nevada Gaming Commission?

4:45 A.M.
Granted, the crappy economy has hit Vegas pretty hard, which means you can score a lot of bargains at hotels and even poker tables around town. However, it does not mean that cute lady cop will blow you for $20. Fifty bucks, maybe.

7:00 A.M.
KAYAK THE COLORADO
Thirty miles from the Strip, as your kayak first slides into the Colorado River under the shadow of Hoover Dam and the watchful eyes of terrorist-hunting patrol boats, you’re reminded again of Vegas’ artificial imprint on the desert landscape. But follow your Red Rock Adventure Spa guide around the bend and you’re smack-dab in the middle of some major nature, complete with towering canyon walls, soaring eagles, and—huff—a bit of a headwind. The tranquil current is 51 degrees and feels damn good after you’ve stopped to climb into the 120-degree Sauna Cave. Paddle another leg of the 11-mile journey and you’ll begin to take the scenery for granted—until you catch a herd of 30 bighorn sheep drinking their fill. When you finish, one thing is for certain: You’ve earned whatever giant slab of red meat you eat tonight. ($150, redrock lasvegas.com/adventure_spa)

3:30 P.M.
You haven’t gambled in hours. Fortunately, your cab driver is willing to go double or nothing that he can get you back to the Strip in 15 minutes.

4:00 P.M.
SCREW GRAVITY
The Stratosphere offers a glorified bungee ride, but this is Vegas, where there’s a high-roller version of everything. True weightlessness is the only way to fly, and for $4,147, the Zero Gravity Corporation will shoot you into space—or as close as you can get and still be back at the craps table a few hours later. Dressed in NASA-style jumpsuits, thrill-seekers board G-Force One, a hollowed-out Boeing 727. The jet climbs to 34,000 feet and, before you can say “astronaut diaper,” executes a parabolic climb-and-dive that pins you to the floor, then levitates you with the sensation of swimming without water. After a minute of clumsy floating, gravity sets you down. Luckily, the arc is repeated 15 times, and soon you’re flipping and gulping water globs out of the air like Tom Hanks in Apollo 13. You wish it would never end. It does, but again, this is Vegas—everyone comes back down to Earth at some point.

8:00 P.M.
Your skinny jeans won’t appreciate Bellagio Buffets’ gourmet venison, king crab legs, sushi, and 400 pounds of Kobe beef. Your skinny jeans can suck it.

10:00 P.M.
WASTED SPACE
“Everything in Vegas is either a megaclub or an ultralounge,” says motocross superstar and Vegas native Carey Hart. “It’s too much of the silver-shirt crowd.” His solution? Build a hangout safe for Motörhead tats and denim. Welcome to Wasted Space, a new bar/club created inside the Hard Rock. Sure, Wasted Space offers pricey bottle service, but it also slings $4 PBRs. “I wanted to do something that’s high-end but still has a dark, dirty, comfortable feel,” Hart says. The venue, dominated by a punk-concert-poster mural, boasts DJs spinning actual rock music and a stage for live performances—Good Charlotte’s Benji and Joel Madden have already wowed the crowd. “I love places where I don’t have to worry about photographers taking some wack picture of me drunk off my ass,” Hart says, settling into a distressed-leather booth. “And this is that place.”

11:30 P.M.
DOWNTOWN DRINKING
A stroll through seedy downtown Vegas uncovers not only a few entrepreneurs openly peddling hard narcotics and even harder sex, but also a budding local bar scene. Welcome to the freshly coined Fremont East district, a patch of almost-safe streets next to the neon-canopied, casino-laden blocks that have long been downtown’s hub. “It’s pretty much a secret among locals,” says townie Tori Johnson, cradling a PBR draft in the district’s premier suds slinger, the Griffin. Want to meet local lovelies who can be impressed by a drink purchase other than Cristal? Here’s your pub crawl: (1) the Griffin, a bohemian-feeling speakeasy with a killer jukebox; (2) Beauty Bar, an N.Y.C. transplant themed to look like an old-fashioned beauty salon; (3) Sidebar, a shining shrine to mixology; and (4) Downtown Cocktail Room, a pulsing, dimly lit hipster lounge. The city recently spent $5.5 million cleaning up the surrounding streets and adding retro neon, so the time to enjoy the scene is now, before damn tourists like us ruin it.

12:30 A.M.
OK, better at least make an appearance at the convention so the boss doesn’t realize you’re MIA. Hey, those ventriloquist dummies won’t sell themselves.