I am sitting in my living room on my couch yet I am strangely in motion. It's not so much a physical motion as it is a psychic one. You see, I am currently on the fast track down a shame spiral and there's no getting off. The reason for my wild ride is that I am sitting in front of what may be the most craptastic reality show ever - "So You Think you can Dance" in rapt attention waiting for (gulp) Katie Holmes to do her song and dance act.
Now mind you, I am not watching because I am a fan of hers or of dance or even of reality TV. I am watching because I am hoping for her deeply unstable husband to do something so uncomfortable and cringe inducing that I can get a little dose of schadenfreude before I go to bed. Like many Americans with at least one or two neurons popping in the attic, I often wonder what in the name of Zeus this lovely young woman is doing with ole TC.
Long before his I probably should be in a hockey helmet couch jump with Oprah, or his morning crap on Matt Lauer's head about the psychoceuticals (Yeah, I made that up. But it kinda works.) he was still a weird duck. I always found him wooden and awkward in interviews and his forced and dorky laugh made me feel uncomfortable for him and stupid for watching long enough to witness it.
OK, so she's on. Just a sec, I'm watching. Watching. That's it? No crowd shots of a crazy Tom laughing inappropriately or dancing and singing along awkwardly? No footage of a nervous TC pacing the greenroom with Suri tucked under his arm like a football? No backstage cam of Mr. Cruise greeting the missus with a stiff and awkwardly platonic hug and kiss? Damn, do I feel cheated!
Jeez, I think I want to sue Fox to get that hour of my life back. I could have done something infinitely more productive, like oh, I don't know, made change of a dollar, loomed a pot holder, anything. This utter lack of delivery on the part of SYTYCD has magnified my shame and added a healthy dose of self-loathing. Thanks crappy reality TV. Now I feel like I have to do a coolness penance, like watch a Clockwork Orange and Pulp Fiction loop until the image of KH moving (I would not call it dancing) to the music is scrubbed from my memory. Now where is that Pulp Fiction DVD? Oh, here it is, buried under a copy of Top Gun. Ok universe, very funny. The score is 2-0, yours.