I watched the performances and then the results one after the other.
So You Thigh You Can Dance had its first truly difficult moment.
A case of shoulder prejudice.
That nice, tall, blonde girl should never have been in the bottom three.
She had a face like Uma Thurman and was significantly better proportioned.
(I once stood next to Uma in the bar at the Baltazar and her torso was as long as the Mississippi. While her legs were shorter than a coke-addict’s attention span.)
Kourtni Lind was, I think, her name.
And she was rather broad across the clavicles.
Apparently America was not fond of this.
Hell’s Teeth was clearly not happy, as he would have preferred to deport the rather dull Comfort, whose solo resembled a Thursday Tourette’s Night in an Indiana bar.
Yet he was overruled by Napoleon and Josephine, expressing solidarity with a fellow hop-hipper.
Maria sided with them.
May I say, as an insanely late arrival to these mesmerizing proceedings, that I am finding Maria’s voice slightly less soothing than a power drill being slipped into my right nostril.
Her high-pitched, maximum-decibeled screech would not only break the panes of Notre Dame Cathedral.
It is also powerful enough to sever the heads of small animals.
I am sure that Toyota could design a car powered by this polluting energy source.
However, I am dwelling in the wrong wigwam by even mentioning things negative.
The dancers again provided more inspiration in this one week than all of the American Idol contestants in the last seven years.
There was that Chelsie (why must they all spell their names like, well, masseuses?) girl, a ballroom dancer allegedly, inspiring the most exalted emotions while performing a routine entirely removed from her own metier.
To think that Sanjaya Malakar, as metierless as any supposed artist on the Idol show, managed to take Stevie Wonder and create an algae pudding out of his music.
He still made the Top Ten.
His equivalent in So You Thigh You Can Dance would be scratched from the auditions like a wayward zit on the bottom of a supermodel.
If you consider that Comfort and Thane, the least inspiring of the remaining dancers, still have more talent than any Idoler other than Jennifer Hudson, then you might ask yourself why you have allowed yourself to watch the Idol Torment in such numbers.
But rubbernecking is not theater.
Twitch, Mark, Courtney Shortney, Gev, Kherington, Will, Katee and Joshua all managed, in one show, to do something that lifted both the spirits and, albeit temporarily, the quality of something that masquerades as art on the flat screen.
I remain fascinated by how these temporary marriages the producers have created will develop.
How is it that dancers can instinctively give to each other, often making each other better in the process, while singers in the supposedly equivalent show contrive to surround each other with nothing more than the sad niff of mediocrity?
The world is not a fair place.
If it were, America’s iPods would be full of Joshua, Will and Kherington, rather than the beige bilge provided by the Whites and Archuletas that fog our ears and just very slightly disturb our digestive systems.
The Pond thanks kalandrakas for reminding us of the power of harmony.