7 and 10 p.m. Thursdays-Mondays; dark Tuesdays and Wednesdays; $93.50-$150, plus tax and ticket center fee; check Web site for other nights without shows; www.cirquedusoleil.com

I don't think they'll stamp your boarding pass for your flight home unless you can prove you saw one of the five Las Vegas Cirque du Soleil shows.

We chose "Love" because we grew up with Beatles music. The show plays in a steeply raked circular theatre with ramps allowing performers to enter from eight directions, and a stage that raises and lowers, plus the usual Cirque du Soleil ceiling contraptions. No bad seats.

In the Cirque du Soleil way, "Love" has a sketchy story line and some continuing themes — there's this poor waif of a guy who keeps trying to give everybody flowers and being rejected, for example. (Hint: Buy the program beforehand because otherwise you won't understand a thing; I didn't find out until later that the guy was actually four guys, the "Nowhere Men" who represent "the zeitgeist of love." Who knew?)

There's a nod to the Beatles' roots in war-ravaged England, a peek at the hysteria of their mophead days, a romp through the go-go period, some time in let's-go-visit-the-Maharishi mode, a parody of the famous photo of the Beatles walking single-file in that Abbey Road crosswalk.

But mostly it's the Cirque du Soleil: acrobatics, gymnastics, dancing, rollerblading, trampolines, ropes, swings and other stuff.

And mostly, I was bored. After the first time you go "ooh and aah" at the performer's athletic strength and acrobatic skill, what else is there? (I didn't much care for "Stomp" or Pilobolus either; I'm a story line and talking kind of theater-goer.)

Still, it's the usual stunning Cirque production, and you'll definitely walk out humming something.

The show did contain a trio of magic moments and one insight for me, however. I'll leave you to encounter the magic moments by surprise, as you're meant to do. Hint: They are things that happen to YOU in the audience. And they're lovely. Just don't wear delicate silk.

My insight was this: The Beatles' music is still more profound and powerful by far than any show about the music can ever be. When they projected the Beatles' pictures on diaphanous silk hangings during the "All You Need is Love" finale, I teared up.

8 p.m. Mondays-Fridays, Sundays; 9 p.m. Saturdays (but check Web sites for tour dates); $49.95-$65.95 plus tax and ticket center fee; 800-557-7428 or 702-262-4400; www.luxor.com

I chose Carrot Top (real name Scott Thompson) because he was hanging around my door. Well, not the man himself, but an ad for his show, which graces one side of the "Privacy Please" doorknob hangers at the Luxor, where we stayed and where he plays. (The other side is an ad for Fantasy, a girlie show, so, not being into half-naked women with jewelry hanging from their navels, I kept Carrot Top face out.)

And he just looked ... so ... weird. The day-glo hair, of course, but the dyed eyebrows and the, I swear, eyeliner and face makeup and what the heck is a "prop comic," anyway?

So we went. And the opening act, some guy named Mike Reynolds was so bad you wanted to call his family and suggest an intervention; this man should not be allowed to do comedy. He's hurting himself and others.

But then Carrot Top came on and, unwarmed-up though we were, we were soon jack-knifed with laughter, snorting, catching each other's eyes and holding our sides.

Yes, there are props, and they are fun. But they're just a third of his show and not the best third. The best third is the middle during which he bites hard on the hand that feeds him: Las Vegas. How close everything looks and how far it turns out to be when you try to walk it. The way everything is under construction and goes up so fast that even people who go to Vegas five times a year will give you bum instructions. The wanna-be players. The wish-they-weren't drunks.

As a standup, he hits all his marks.

He interacts. Do NOT sit in the front row if you don't want to be spotlighted — even slipping out to the bathroom is a risk.

He makes fun of himself ("Wouldn't I pick a better wig if I were going to wear a wig?" "This lady comes up to me and says, 'You look like Carrot Top. No offense.' ") He's nonstop. He's topical. (I'd love to hear what he's saying about New York's former governor right now.).

When a joke flops, he doesn't pretend it didn't. ("Wow, it's so quiet in here I can hear a career drop. I should probably practice this stuff before I get here.") And he doesn't laugh at his own stuff unless you're laughing, too.

His warped mind comes up with the kinds of things Everyman wonders about, too, in idle moments. Like his sketch of a rap-song lyricist at home, just penning a lyric with the h-word and the b-word and all the other initial words in it, and his kid wanders in. "Go out and play and close the door, honey, Daddy's working."

And he's got a great production staff that punctuates the jokes with just the right songs.

The show ends with some Rich Little-worthy impersonations. Michael Jackson comes into it, naturally. Dolly. Britney. But he can't do Leann Rimes anymore, he said, because "her people yelled at my person."

And yes, the show is profane. Very profane. It starts with a slide show of "animal porn" and goes straight to the nether regions from there. So no one under 18 or easily offended, please. But if you need the kind of laugh that makes your abdominals ache, this is the place.

3 p.m. Fridays-Mondays; 3 and 4:30 p.m. Thursdays; dark Tuesdays and Wednesdays; tickets, $35-$49, $15 children, more with lunch or dinner package; 702-932-1818; www.comedypet.com

My sister-in-law, a feline fan like myself, caught the briefest sight of a sign on the back of a taxi advertising a show featuring trained cats and, suddenly, we were on a mission. Having failed to train our own cats to do anything except sit on the keyboard when we're trying to use the computer, this, we had to see. But where was it? The guidebooks were mum. Questioned, a taxi driver who was otherwise informative looked at us like we were nuts. Finally, scouring one of the half-dozen coupon books that had been thrust into my hands on the street, or materialized unbidden in my hotel room, I found that quintessential Las Vegas entré to any delight: a coupon!

So one afternoon, we ventured forth, negotiating a serpentine corridor of shops and finding the theater tucked away at the rear of the Planet Hollywood casino. We bought "VIP" tickets, allowing us front-row seats at a tiny cocktail table for about $50, the cheapest show we saw and worth every penny.

There ensued an hour of such charm and child-like delight that I would recommend this show to anyone but the most cynical animalphobe.

Popo (fourth-generation Russian circus performer Gregory Popovich) transports you back to a time when the circus was a place of magic — before you had to have laser lights and state-of-the-art sound systems to impress people. When all you had was makeup and a bulb for a nose, muscles trained by decades of practice and and the hand-eye coordination of Miyagi.

Popo produces a little, tiny mini-circus on a little, tiny stage. With dogs and cats as the performers instead of trapeze acts and elephants in the ring.

And it's hilarious and oh, so sweet.

Hilarious because the animals — and especially the cats — don't always do what they're supposed to. It's not unknown for a cat to just sit there and give him That Look — the one that says, "We were gods in Egypt, you know." Or to turn their derrieres to the audience. Or to just wander off.

The story line is vaguely autobiographical. Popovich, trained by his father, Alexei, to be a juggler, is an astonishingly good one (he does 21 plates at one point, and 17 cigar boxes). But as a boy, he believed that clowns were the heart of the circus, and secretly longed to be one.

However, when he tries, disaster ensues and he ends up sleeping on a park bench. While a cat (one of a dozen or so in the show) watches disdainfully from a lamp post, a dog (one of nine or so in the show) steals his lunch.

From there, the plot line kind of disappears and it's all about tricks. Dogs and cats play leapfrog. Dogs count by barking. Cats make like apes, swing from ladder rungs paw over paw. Cats walk a red velvet tightrope. Cats jump through hoops (when they feel like it).

By the time the show is over, treats — the motivators for the animals to perform their stunts — litter the stage.

And sweet? Sweet because it's clear Popo loves these animals. And they love him. And not just for the treats; they gravitate toward him, cuddling and nuzzling and being kissed in return.

And, you learn in the end, every one has been rescued from an animal shelter.

It's sweet, too, because a featured performer is the fifth show-biz generation of the Popovich family, Popo's daughter Anastasia, an ethereal Russian beauty who can bend like Gumby and keep so many hula hoops moving you feel dizzy.

Turns out the show isn't so obscure: It's 10 years old and Popovich has been featured on TV and in major media.

Afterward, I spent $5 to have my picture taken with Zuzu the cat, who posed on a shoulder-height perch, leaned into my hand and down to nuzzle my cheek, purring. My heart was lost and that picture — of Zuzu, Anastasia and me — has a prominent place on my bookshelf. All you need is love, you know.

Reach Wanda A. Adams at wadams@honoluluadvertiser.com.