Stine’s Lines: Being a dance show fan is a lonely affair
Much to my family’s dismay, there are now two dancing reality shows on TV this season. Or is that two reality dancing shows? If you ask my politically incorrect 17-year old, they’re simply mom’s gay dancing shows and I watch them merely for the pleasure of torturing the Stine males.
Last week, when I was going to watch the results of “Dancing with the Stars,” my 17-year old pointed out that it was also an audition show for “So You Think You Can Dance.” I was immediately tossed into a quandary: Choose the results show — which not only featured the USC Trojan marching band, but would also reveal which B-list celebrity would get booted — or watch the audition show — which would make me want to continue watching the show every week just to see if the guy with the crazy hip-hop moves could also dance the tango.
I don’t know why I love dancing shows, especially the competitive ones where you see someone’s performance week after week. I used to prefer reading to watching TV, but now I find myself glued to the TV, simply to see if Tom DeLay will dislocate his hips during a salsa or some unknown in Atlanta will make it to Vegas.
Perhaps my brain really is turning into goo as I age, or perhaps I just enjoy the sight of young, muscular males leaping across the stage. Or maybe I don’t have any good reading material and am too lazy to go to the library. Whatever the reason, if there’s a dancing show on TV and I’m home, you can hear me whining about changing the channel from several blocks away should someone prefer a crime drama or a travel channel special.
Of course, the reality shows are best watched in the company of someone else, preferably someone who will also appreciate the smooth moves of the talented or the ridiculous bumblings of the self-deluded. Since my son was willing to watch “So You Think You Can Dance,” but refused to sit there if I so much as flicked to “Dancing with the Stars” during a commercial break, we watched SYTYCD, as it is known in reality blogs. We were both amazed and disgusted by the popper who could seeminly dislocate his shoulders to the beat of the music, but who was also creepily hitting on every female within sight.
My husband, on the other hand, retreated upstairs in disgust, only calling down to ask if it was over at 9 p.m. Geez, you’d think I was watching televised worm dissection or the intimate details of a prostate exam. To be fair, he watched part of the Monday night dancing show in lieu of Monday Night Football, which pretty much filled his quota of chick flick TV viewing for at least a month or two, as far as he was concerned.
Even though the talent on “So You Think You Can Dance” is generally superior to the celebrity dance show — particularly once they’ve gone through the audition phase — one of the SYTYCD judges likes to curdle milk while screaming in appreciation, which doesn’t increase my husband’s appreciation of the show.
We weren’t home to see the New Orleans “So You Think You Can Dance” auditions and we don’t TiVo, so I missed part of the show. The world kept spinning regardless, and when it comes down to it, I still prefer real life to reality TV, even when real life spins aren’t as gracious as those in a televised Viennese Waltz.