Joan Rivers

She keeps herself in the public eye for extreme plastic surgery, for red-carpet stalking, for nasty show business feuds counterbalanced by saintly charity work, and for still watching daughter Melissa’s back, because someone’s gotta.

But what about her stand-up?

Oh yeah, that.

At 76, Rivers sustains her celebrity so well you can forget she’s still a working comic. If you do buy a ticket, will her face still be pliable enough for comic expression? Do the routines still play? Or, like Don Rickles, do slurs against the fat, the thin, the blind and the disabled now coast on the wings of sentiment and legend?

Fear not. The lady can still pin your ears back.

Rivers is backstage, not yet visible as she introduces the opening act, when she drops both the first F-bomb and the first Tiger Woods joke.

When you do finally see her, you realize age and more permissive times might have helped Rivers instead of hurt her. Younger comedians she influenced might now be indirectly paying back the debt: Kathy Griffin, pushing the limits of celebrity agitation farther and wider. Lisa Lampanelli, letting her swing the club a little harder when using shock for blunt-force trauma.

River’s full house last weekend at The Venetian — where she’s back again today and Saturday — was lopsided with people in her retirement-age bracket. Hope they were ready for this triple-whammy:

First, the imitation of Dick Clark after the stroke. Then, an enactment of a Dick Clark showdown with Kirk Douglas. And then, Michael J. Fox added as narrator, followed by speculation on how the vibrations of Parkinson’s disease might actually improve sex.

So much for toning it down in her elder stateswoman years. Nothing’s taboo, not even her husband’s suicide.

Rivers stalks the half-circle of the stage like a lioness pacing the rim of a zoo moat, barking out economic one-liners, for the most part seamlessly woven. She steps all over big poster boards bearing hand-written cues taped down to the stage. She’s stooped into a crouch, likely from age but possibly by the weight of the glittery gold wrap she wears over a black shell.

But she can still lie down on the stage — to imitate how she would cope with the affections of a rich man on Viagra — and then get back up on her feet without the help of the young musicians she mocks for playing almost nothing.

There are many who wish Rivers would just go away. The list might or might not include this show’s list of targets: Goldie Hawn, Tom Cruise, Ricky Martin, Cher, Cher’s son/daughter Chaz/Chastity, Barbra Streisand, Rosie O’Donnell, Hillary Clinton, Olivia Newton-John, Julie Andrews, Michael Jackson, Jennifer Aniston, Nicole Kidman, Madonna, Siegfried and yes, poor Roy, too.

But in the reality-TV era that now helps sustain her, we need Rivers more than ever. Of “Dancing with the Stars” contestant Kate Gosselin, aka “the horrible one with all the children,” Rivers quips, “Every time she spins around, I think two more children will fly out of her uterus.”

New lines about Twitter balance references to Amy Carter and Dr. Ruth. There’s even a joke (which, surprisingly, didn’t get a huge laugh) about “a woman whose face is (expletive) not moving,” and one, but only one, “Oh grow up!”

Advice that, we’re happy to report, Rivers has resisted.

Contact reporter Mike Weatherford at mweatherford@ reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0288.