So yes, I went to go see male strippers again and while I’m definitely not the target audience for this kind of relentlessly female-centric kind of entertainment I’ve at least managed to find some amusement value out of the other two examples in town, Chippendales and Thunder From Down Under. Both of those shows do exactly what the ladies want and turn the whole experience into estrogen fueled theater of the absurd for the men who happen to tag along. American Storm now playing at The Riviera, however, seemed to fail on just about all of those levels.

The men in this production were winners of a reality television show designed to find the hottest guys in America and then put them on parade for the ogling masses. I didn’t watch the show but most of the audience seemed to be familiar with the cast so that gives them an edge the other “himbo” acts don’t have.

But that’s more or less where the edge stopped. You see, for a male strip show there was a distinct lack of actual stripping. There were a series of numbers that started with the six guys wearing a variety of fantasy-fulfillment gear – from cowboys to military men with a bizarre stop along the way in the hippie ‘60s counterculture. I’m not sure that’s what most women in America immediately associate with “hot” but again, not the target audience.

So they get out there and dance and at most take off their shirts (and a couple of times not even that). Then five of the guys leave and one stays behind to finish the strip routine, parading in front of and through the audience, often bringing an unsuspecting (and preferably soused) participant up to the stage to titillate. The numbers were long on tease and short on skin, leading more than one frustrated woman in the audience to turn the “take it off” catcall into an annoyed demand.

Of course the guys themselves are fine specimens of the species, toned to within an inch of their lives and a little something for every taste. The dancing and production values were fine although there were some questionable moments of taste. I know trying to find taste in a male strip show is like trying to find a cheap hotel room on The Strip, but when they declared the military themed section a tribute to men in combat all I could do is write “no, no, no, no, no” on my notepad.

But in the end, it’s all about the beef and while I refuse to use the catchphrase from a certain fast food commercial from the ‘80s, there seemed to be a bit of consternation in attempting to actually find it at American Storm.