As some of us start to take So You Think You Can Dance? a little too seriously (yes, Marquis shouldn’t have been eliminated, but there wasn’t a grassy knoll involved), here is a video whose choreography is really quite lame. Just all over the place. Sloppy. Unfocused.
And I love it.
From the Rosa Cha men’s fashion show in Brazil
In the exceedingly hilarious screwball comedy Bringing Up Baby (1938), Cary Grant — when asked why he’s wearing a woman’s dressing gown — jumps in the air and shouts, “Because I just went GAY all of a sudden!”
A belated congratulations to California, which just suddenly went gay last week.
The reverent and irreverent Terry Cole-Whittaker once wrote a book called, What You Think of Me is None of My Business. Events of the recent past make me want to pick up a copy.
There is a Brilliant Songwriter whose work I have been enamored of for quite some time. This Brilliant Songwriter created a new set of songs not too long ago, and I was so taken with it that I sent him an email that said, “I want to marry your talent and honeymoon with it in Brazil.” BS responded, unexpectedly, with an email asking how I knew that his talent wanted to go to Brazil. A very minor correspondence ensued, and when I found I was going to be spending some time in his city he agreed, to my delight, to meet me for coffee.
Last night were the Daytime Emmys. No, I’m not going to critique the show — that’s like kicking a dog that already has self-esteem issues. But I am going to focus on the highlight of the evening: the love given to One Life to Live.
I just finished watching a DVD of The Golden Compass. I didn’t know what to expect, except I’d heard it was good. Interestingly, it was wrapped around a resonant little metaphor: everyone in that world wore their souls outside of themselves, as animal spirits. And the central heroine, a little girl, was bestowed with the golden compass of the title — which provided her the instincts to go on her journey. So in that world, everyone’s souls were outside of themselves and their instincts were hard to come by. Kinda sounds like a world I’m familiar with, but let’s not go there right now.
The first impression from tonight’s show is that Shane Sparks gives good opening number. It was hot, and it curiously showcased Comfort way better than her krump dance last night. The first couple announced to the bottom three were Chelsea and Thayne. I scowl at this revoltin’ development (but was there a t-shirt in the audience that said “No Payne, No Gayne”? If so, that was cute). The other couples were Susie and Marquis (no surprise) and Comfort and Chris (to which I became hopeful that this hapless boy might finally be eliminated). Note to the director of this show: there is only so much fascination to be had watching the audience reactions to the couples learning they are safe or eliminated; the interest is up on the stage, so please keep yer freakin’ camera there.
This was a really weird night. It seemed as though the theme through most of the evening was When Bad Choreography Happens to Good Dancers. There were a few moments of reprieve, but we’ll get to that later. First off, though, let’s point out that Scary Mia Michaels has shocking platinum hair now, and the dye must have somehow turned her into Sophia from Golden Girls (you know who I mean — the one who has lost the capacity to filter her thoughts and says whatever dumbass or offensive thing comes into her mind). I’ve never had a big case against her before — in fact, I’ve frequently admired her artistry and honesty — but wait for it cuz I am on her case tonight.
There was no one else on screen like Cyd Charisse, who died yesterday at 86 of an apparent heart attack.
Her legs went on for days, and her talent went on infinitely, it seemed. She was an impeccably trained ballerina who could dance everything else improbably well.
As an actress she held her own with the other MGM stars; as a dancer her acting was something to behold.
My most indelible dance memories of Cyd Charisse are from Singin’ in the Rain — a movie she didn’t even have a role in. But her two sequences in the dream section are exquisite, as she plays both a slut and an angel with equal passion. Here’s a link to the slut part, which is the more famous. Below is the other clip, which somehow seems more resonant on this bittersweet occasion.
Certainly, no President in history can be expected to abuse the English language the way Howdy W. Doody has. But John W. McCain (I don’t think his middle initial is “W,” only his political platform) has some impressively fractious vocabularianism himself.
This clip is priceless (and NSFW, due to The Word that’s repeated over and over). Feel free to show it to your friends and acquaintances (particularly the ones who think the old guy might be a viable President); as the man in the grey suit said in What’s Up Doc, “The people have a right to know!”
I watched the Tonys this year with some friends who weren’t Broadway cognoscenti. Toward the end, they wondered why Patti LuPone’s acceptance speech had to be cut short so we could watch Biceps Lopez and a hundred nightmare Whoopis “dance” to A Chorus Line. I couldn’t answer them; it stupefied me beyond the ability to be verbal. (But don’t think I didn’t notice, in my numbed state, that these “Whoopi specialties” had also taken precedence over allowing the proper presentation of Best Choreographer. The bastards!)
Unfortunately, those weren’t the only moments of jaw-dropping horror. 
With the exception of a tasteful medley of clips for the Best Play nominees and the live performances from In The Heights and Xanadu, everything else monstrously, majestically SUCKED at this year’s Tony Awards except the acceptance speeches.
Either a real Liza or a drag-queen Liza. Not sure.
