Keith took me on a surprise birthday outing yesterday, to the Big City by train to see...
...drum roll please...
So You Think You Can Dance Stage Spectacular!
To those who would mock me, I say to you: Take your turn! I've been mocked before, and I remain a proud gaylord. Oh, I love a little terpsichorean virtuosity. Almost as much as I love a ten-dollar word.
Man, it was an exciting outing for me. And for all the thousands of nine-year-olds surrounding us. 'Look how cute,' I pointed out to Keith as another troupe of mini-hipsters sauntered past. 'They're all in little boots and hats! All of them!'
Really, the show was so bad it was hilarious. Keith and I had a fine old time rolling eyes at each other from the back row as cliche tripped over the heels of sappy sentimentality, who was standing on the feet of mawkishness. Not to labour the point or anything.
The cheap bastards running the show (Andrew McManus, your name is on the ticket, and we blame you) must have rubbed their greedy hands in triumph as the dollars flowed their way, going by the cheapness of the set-up and the number of little bums on seats. If only the merch stand had stocked SYTYCD hats and little boots, McManus, you could have paved your house in gold.
No host, just crackly video with poor sound replaying cheeseball packages from the series and the dancers themselves forced to hoot inanities, Oprah style. 'Hey, Sydney, you guys are AWE-Some...thanks for sharing our JOURN-ey! ....Don't forget to spend heaps of cash on PRO-Grammes!'
But Keith and I had a blast. Enjoyed some fabulous dancing. Read the paper on the train. Drank rough red and ate chorizo in a little Spanish bar. Wandered through Chinatown. Held hands in the street.
Happy birthday to me!