How Britney Spears went to Vegas and became a feminist role model. No, really.
By Taffy Brodesser-Akner
Illustrations by Geoff J. Kim
A t the top of the steps of Planet Hollywood, on the Las Vegas Strip, an elderly woman dressed in a black wig and a tiara and a fur coat over an evening gown lodged a formal complaint with a woman holding a clipboard.
“She’s fucking up my day,” said the woman loudly. “This is where I work.” This was her turf, it seemed, a place where she allowed tourists to take pictures of her or with her in exchange for a dollar or two. This is a common occupation up and down the Strip, but most practitioners are dressed as familiar characters like Darth Vader or the Minions from Despicable Me. It was harder to discern who this lady was supposed to be. The Queen of England, maybe?
Either way, there would be no pictures today. About an hour before dawn on a windy morning last December, several tired-looking men had rolled out heavy metal equipment and slowly assembled the various components into what seemed to be a stage: high-intensity lights, a long red carpet, an industrial-looking 360-degree rotating platform. Security guards had taken their seats at strategic corners, settling in for what they knew was going to be a long day with a…
