The mixed feelings I have toward Mia Michaels and her work have been extremely present this season. I haven’t made a big secret of the hot-and-cold I’ve been feeling since last season, when the mix of her somewhat presumptuous critiques and the occasionally indulgent “flower petal” dances began pulling attention away from the high level of such work as the Heidi-Travis “park bench” dance.
Have you ever seen that bumper sticker that says, “Jesus is Coming. and He’s Pissed.”
I always thought that was kind of funny, in an ironic, Jesus-is-about-love-not-anger way.
Well, in the wake of all this Mark/Will, Jet/Shark, Bush/Non-moron controversy, we have all overlooked one tangential detail. Miss Debbie Allen excused herself from the jidges table as long as her protégé (proto-jeté?) was in the competition.
Somebody grab a bucket of water, cuz I have this image of Margaret Hamilton swooping in to seek revenge on whoever’s responsible for derailing her flying monkey.
I have no idea who is on the guest-jidge roster for next week, but my feverish little writer’s mind thinks it would be very amusing if Debbie Allen is Coming, and She’s Pissed.
I am a little astonished by some of the comments I’m reading on other sites, posted by Will fans. It appears that it wasn’t just a talented technician who was voted off; the Salvation of Dance was just crucified, and the world is on its way to becoming Purina Cerberus Chow.
Take, for example, this comment on the L.A. Times blog (written by somebody’s mother, pray-for-us-all):
Randy Pausch died yesterday at age 47. He was the “Last Lecture” guy, whose YouTube video and book have been such a generous contribution to the quality of life. Even though we knew it was coming — his visibility was by virtue of the extraordinary way he was handling his mortality — it’s still saddening. But that’s outweighed, at least for me, by his insatiable, infectious joy.
Let’s all be a little more Tigger-y in honor of Randy.
George Bush may be a moron and a puppet, but John McCain is apparently senile. And a puppet. But the extra-disturbing thing here is that CBS News (they used to be the pinnacle of TV journalism, with Walter Cronkite and everything) re-edited this interview to cover up McCain’s estrangement from reality. McCain is either delusional or lying. But CBS is colluding. And maybe even going further than Fox News in a lack of journalistic ethics.
Okay, I have to confess that I won’t be entering this episode as the hopeful naif I usually am, with my dreams of whether my fave dancers will remain hanging by a perilous thread. My friend Cheryl, of a time zone further east than my laid-back orientation, called me 15 minutes of the way through the thing (according to her clock) and told me two choice tidbits about the bottom four — one which gladdened me and the other which made me perversely pleased (but still keepin’ it REAL). But I won’t give it away yet (even though I guess maybe I sort of did.)
The show just started, and already I’m getting my kvetch on about Will. Did’ja see him point to the “REAL” on his t-shirt during his 5-second opening solo? Here’s the thing: anybody who has to tell you (or send smoke signals to you) that they’re real? Isn’t.
Cat came out in a modest (albeit short) black dress, and had normal hair and understated make-up. Clearly, she’s had a fight with the homosexuals who normally do her; she has been outfitted this week by Spike TV. Or maybe the Christian Vegas channel.
Well, I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a Faustian snafu. This fellow who writes another blog (it’s linked on the side, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of specifying which one, since I’m feeling petulant at the moment) made an entry in which he described how a Very, Very Famous Person had contacted him. This Blogger Who Shall Not Be Named then proceeded to — extremely sadistically — tease the reader about his interactions with VVFP, making it annoyingly clear that he would never reveal VVFP’s n-a-m-e.
On this, the day before the week begins (in So You Think You Can Dance? terms), I’ve decided to do things a little differently, with a first post before the show.
Now that we are down to the top 8, I think it would be thoughtful and/or festive to see who should stay, who should win, and whose hopes and aspirations should be squashed like a bug. I think it’s apt to make these analyses even before tonight’s performances, since it seems clear that America is voting based on more than one evening’s work; if last week’s dances were the only gauge, Mark woulda been outta there.
I guess if I were going to be constructing these gratitude-lists-for-good-writing in official Oprah fashion, I’d continue making lists of five. But today calls for a little singularly focused love.
1968 was a big year, even though I was a little kid. I won’t go into all the historical events, but on the after-school front I had become addicted to Dark Shadows since its premiere. In those days you had to warm the TV up a little bit, and in 1968 a new show started airing in the slot before Dark Shadows. I was no fan of soap operas, but this one had a rich girl who split off into a gum-snapping trollop. I didn’t really understand what trollops did, but I loved the whole . . . Multiple Personality . . . aspect to the story. (Did you see how I did that? Connected my blog title right in there? Was that good?)