Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Well, I WAS WRONG. I admit it. Shows you what I know.

Steve Wozniak made it to the third round of Dancing With The Once-Were-Household-Names. Somehow it defied all the rules of logic and physics and dance hall protocol, but he squeaked through. He had the lowest score delivered by the judges since Season 2 (we're currently suffering through Season 8) and still the fans iPhoned in their votes and put him over the top. So he shall return, and I, unfortunately, will watch.

I had to look up which season we were in, actually. This poor bastage, Tom Conroy, had to do a whole write-up on last night's show. Do the guy a favor and read it. He's been locked up in Guantanamo for over a year and he's obviously being tortured. Where's the Human Rights Commission when you need them?

Denise Richards and Holly Madison, the two models whose dance moves are rivaled only by unfolding wooden deck chairs, fought it out to the bitter end. And though the judges favored Richards' improvement over Madison's top-heavy cleavage, Richards was the one who got voted off by the fans. Sorry. Sorry.

I know this information is important to you, which is why I'm sharing it. Look, there's just nothing else on Tuesday nights, and I can't argue another show out of my wife anyway. Too tired to go upstairs and commit to bed, I submit to the show. It's moderately entertaining schlock like this that makes things like the heretofore unnoticed tunnel from the river to the White House basement so profound.

I still can't get over the guys prancing around, intently diminishing their masculinity with all-out fervor. The ladies, on the other hand, are nice to look at, but it takes a certain amount of courage for the men to shake their tail feathers. Only Gene Kelly could dance and make it look manly, if you ask me. And he, only barely. (The man was something of a god. Perhaps it was that unapologetic smile of his.)

Also, it should be noted, there's this guy. Not manly, per se, but he's certainly having a heckuva good time.

But who doesn't like dancing? I mean, actually doing it? Okay, don't answer. I admit that since Mrs. Ditchman and I took salsa lessons I have a new appreciation for it. The lessons ended a few weeks ago, and we were honestly just beginning to get the hang of it (well, okay, me. Mrs. Ditchman had it down from Day 1.) I was eager to watch DWTS to see their salsa moves, only to find that whatever it was they were doing, it was nothing like the traditional (and by comparison, bland) salsa that we had learned. Oh well. If we ever end up in Havana, we now know the moves.

I grew up with my mom, who was a dancer, watching every Hollywood musical ever created by man. I appreciate all those classics and their joyful, cheerful, romantic energy. Some of those old movies you come out of with a skip in your step and you find yourself spinning around lampposts all the way to the parking lot. They don't make them like that anymore. They try, as in Chicago and Moulin Rouge, but both those flicks were so thoroughly lacking in the traditional Fred Astair, Gene Kelly, and Julie Andrews elegance and innocence that they missed the point entirely. (My mom loved them too, though.)

Seriously. Fall in love and wave on the cab. Dance home in the rain.

It can't be resisted.