Anguished English Awkward Calendar

There is nothing and yet everything to say about this.

 

83rd Year of Oscar Moments

I think we can all agree: the Oscars were more than a little boggling this year. The hosting team of James Franco and Anne Hathaway was oddly calibrated—to say the least. To say the most, they were awful and Billy Crystal should have just taken over half-way through when he came on stage to do that weird Bob Hope thing (which everyone could have done without, frankly).

Hathaway’s first moments onstage should have included the disclaimer: “I took uppers, he took downers! Isn’t it exciting?!”

Here is my disclaimer: I am not a Hathaway fan to begin with. Let that inform your reading as you will.

The opening montage was entertaining for very few reasons:

1. It probably irritated Leonardo DiCaprio.
2. Alec Bladwin had an Ambien juice-box.
3. OK, the Social Network bit was pretty entertaining. Fine.
4. Morgan Freeman subtly acknowledged that much of the world’s population wishes he would narrate their lives: “Alec likes me to narrate his dreams; says I have a soothing voice.”
5. At the end, Morgan Freeman and Alec Baldwin both wondered who on earth Franco and Hathaway were.

That is five entertaining moments (and a couple horrifying ones such as the True Grit and Black Swan bits) in the part of the show that involves the most prep-work and was taped ahead of time.

You know what I miss? The Gilligan’s Island montage from 1998—the year of Titanic—when Billy Crystal was still hosting. He was entertaining. It starts here with the pre-taped montage and continues here on-stage with the Gilligan theme song parody, and then a When Harry Met Sally musical love moment found in As Good As It Gets sung to “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.” There’s even Hello Dolly redone for The Full Monty.

So good (also you get to see Gloria Stuart all crazy glammed up). That is how it is done.

I digress. Back to the present.

Sigh.

Little moments of note:

• Franco’s grandmother informing the audience that she had just seen Marky-Mark was passable; Hathaway’s mother telling her to stand up straight was not.
• Gone with the Wind tribute helmed by Tom Hanks, bolstered by an explanation of the ultimate Best Picture trifecta of Oscars, not won by a single film since Titanic, won for the first time by Gone with the Wind: Best Picture, Best Art Direction, Best Cinematography. I love Gone with the Wind, so I was on board for hearing some of the score and the Tara backdrop… but maybe it was unnecessary.
• The four hundred hours it took Kirk Douglas to present Best Supporting Actress to Melissa Leo just has to be mentioned. It was arduous, it was a ridiculous and it was creepy. Kirk: please do not ever publicly lust over someone my age ever again. Anne: Do not ever “you-are-the-master”-bow to anyone in public ever again. Melissa Leo: Just because Natalie Portman said “asshole” at the SAG awards doesn’t mean you should drop the f-bomb to one-up her at the Oscars.

• At least Leo’s faux pas created a diversion from the presenter-death that preceded and followed. We all know that Justin Timberlake is hilarious. Those of us who enjoy That 70s Show reruns while everyone else is at work know that Mila Kunis is pretty funny lady. Why was their banter the kiss of death? How was it possible? No one saw that coming.
• Toy Story 3 wins for adapted screenplay? Adapted from what? The two preceding films? Mr. Potato Head? Cowboy make-believe play of the past 150-odd years? Theodore Roosevelt’s original Teddy Bear? What?
• Blah, blah, Aaron Sorkin wouldn’t shut up and kept repeating names.

• The seventy-something screenwriter for The King’s Speech, David Seidler, explained that, “My father always to me, I would be a late bloomer.”
• What in the name of all that is holy was that musical number by Anne Hathaway. Stop talking, stop singing, leave Hugh Jackman alone, stop warbling about Wolverine.
• Russel Brand “translating” Helen Mirren’s French introduction for the Best Foreign Film award, which included the supposed assertion that she played a queen way better than Colin Firth played a king. While Firth’s discomfited face was entertaining, all I could think was: Poor Dame Helen. This is what it has come to. I am sorry.

On to moments that deserve or just require full clips:

Remember that time Harry Potter movies—to the chagrin of the younger generations—do not win Oscars for awesomeness? Well, the ‘young and hip’ 83rd Oscars really hit the right note when they revealed an auto-tuned montage of ‘youthful’ movies with the most hilariously awkward scene in Deathly Hallows, Part I.

In re-reading that paragraph I am chagrined at the lack of a universally accepted sarcasm font for rants. You will just have to figure it out yourself.

And like, really, Twilight, really? Who was paid-off to have that embarrassment to humanity included in an already embarrassing montage. At least Deathly Hallows, Toy Story 2 and Social Network were nominated for things.

It did make me giggle. I will admit that. But it is not something I want to giggle at during the Oscars. On YouTube? Sure. Kodak Theater stage? No thank you. For the millionth time I ask: where is Billy Crystal?

Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law had one of the more lively presenter exchanges. You have to give them banter chemistry. It was laced with some mild ungainliness at the start, but overall one of the better duos. Unfortunately the clip cuts out before Downey informs the audience that Jude Law no longer has a ride to the after parties, in case anyone is interested.

Sandra Bullock was probably the best presenter of the night, calling out each of the nominees for Best Actor with solid pacing, humor and personality, including haranguing Jeff Bridges for having won last year and yet having the gall to be nominated again this year.

She sternly commanded Colin Firth’s attention—”Colin, Colin, right here”—resulting a typical move by Firth, my favorite little moment of the night: a bashful wave up to Bullock. This was soon followed by Firth’s admission that he was experiencing “some stirrings, somewhere in the upper abdominals, which are threatening to form themselves into dance moves, which as joyous as they may be for me, would be extremely problematic if they make it to my legs before I get off stage.”

But it all starts when we got to see Hathaway admit on air that people are definitely making a drinking game out of her hosting, as she introduces Bullock.

Colin Firth, you are fantastic. And I have enjoyed all of your acceptance speeches this season.

Natalie Portman gave her usual list of thank yous from previous appearances in past weeks, emphasizing thanks to her parents for teaching her to be a good person, etc. What I enjoyed about this one was her inclusion of the film people “who no one ever talks about, that are your heart and soul everyday;” she went on to thank her make-up and hair people, costume designers, dressers, camera operators, and first AD all by name. Classy touch.

And now, the moment that many a poorly programmed DVR lost: the “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” New York PS 22 Chorus finale with all the winners, and best of all a way too hyped up Anne Hathaway reflecting on how dreams really do come true, while James Franco is all like, whatever, I have no idea how I got here or why.

My favorite part is when Hathaway goes all cheerleader at the end and start high-fiving all the kids. I tweeted on their behalf:

***

P.S. For more Oscar recap laughs, head to the Tallulah Morehead Huffington Post rant.

P.P.S. For Academy Award fashion reflections, see my post from yesterday.

The Black Keys Were Howlin’ for Shaun White (or something)

Since Words to Bumble has been in a frenzy of obscure winter sports for the past week… well, why not keep it going with something new, ridiculous and only mildly related to winter, compliments of Shaun White—the snowboarder formerly known as the Flying Tomato—and The Black Keys.

The Black Keys’ music video for “Howlin’ for You” is presented like a theatrical trailer for something that pretty much only guys would want to go see.

Fair is fair.

At 0:23 White shows up in a sex scene which ends with his one awkward line: “That was amazing.”

It’s pretty funny.

You are welcome.

This came to me via a newly discovered UniversalSport.com blog that I wish I wrote: Mr. Universe.

Four Continents: Mirai Nagasu & Jeremy Abbott Strike Back

The Four Continents figure skating competition serves as a counterpart to the European Championships, bringing together athletes from the Americas, Asia, Africa and Oceania in a warm-up for the upcoming World Championships in March.

Mirai Nagasu/ UniversalSports.com/ Wally Santana/ Associated Press

Mirai Nagasu and Jeremy Abbott of the U.S. both suffered disappointment at Nationals this past January, where neither delivered a strong enough free skate (after Nagasu led and Abbott stood in second coming out of the short program competitions) to represent the U.S. at Worlds in Tokyo next month.

Nagasu was swept back by Alissa Czisny, despite a solid long program that still garnered her a bronze finish; Abbott suffered a couple falls and could not stand up to the positive energy behind Ryan Bradley, coming in just off the podium in 4th place.

Of course, bronze and one step off the podium—in the great scheme of things—are not to be sneezed at, but Abbott was the defending champion (and fourth place is always rough city in medal sports) and Nagasu has serious demons to battle whenever she leads in the short.

So basically, this Four Continents competition took the place of Worlds for Nagasu and Abbott this season.

They made the most of it.

After a strong short program that landed her in fourth position, Nagasu finally hit the perfect Memoirs of a Geisha free skate that has eluded her all season, winning her the bronze behind Miki Ando and Mao Asada (World Champion) of Japan, leading the American women at Four Continents.

The aerial view of a spin element around 1:45 is a neat vantage point not generally shown. The whole program was delightful and the expression on Nagasu’s face at the end because she knows it, is priceless.

Mao Asada & Miki Ando/ UniversalSports.com/ Reuters

Yay, podium!

Also the announcer accidentally proclaimed that she was representing Japan before a hasty correction was made. Hello awkward.

Abbott came out of the men’s short program in second position and delivered his season’s best in the free skate (148.98, 225.71 total), likewise landing himself on the podium with a bronze medal, the leading American man.

I love that Life is Beautiful free skate. Love it.

Sandra Bezic agrees, calling it “one of the most beautiful programs I’ve ever seen.”

Like Nagasu, Abbott prevented a Japanese podium sweep, standing behind Daisuke Takahashi and newcomer Yuzuru Hanyu.

Hanyu, Takahashi, Abbott/ UniversalSports.com

So, dear Mirai Nagasu and Jeremy Abbott: Way to strike back. Words to Bumble ❤ you.

Halfsies Are Sartorially Unacceptable

Kanako Murakami/Skate America/UniversalSports.com/Getty

Jeremy Abbott/UniversalSports.com/Junji Kurokawa/Associated Press

This should not be allowed to happen. Someone needs to talk to people like Jeremy Abbott and Kanako Murakami, who think that wearing half of one costume and half of another stitched together is OK.

It’s not a real thing.

It’s not a thing.

I am not even going to make jokes about ‘oh hey did you run out of black velvet halfway through?’ (like those Universal Sports fashion slide show folk). I am just going to say that you are hurting my soul.

Really. Stop it. Pick one.

You both look ridiculous. And I like you both, but I cannot condone these eyesores.

Stop the madness.

Stop it.

Kanako Murakami/UniversalSports.com/Toru Yamanaka/AFP Getty Images

Sidenote: Murakami obviously got some feedback about her Mask of Zorro costume, because she changed it from red to lavender… why, why, why did she not change the whole thing instead of just half?

I am boggled.

And Jeremy, wearing half a sports jacket cannot be comfortable.

Boggled.

Word of the Week: Incongruous

Incongruous.

Because it sounds mathy, sciencey and pretentious even though it just means “not in harmony or keeping with the surrounding or other aspects of something,” AKA just a way of being awkward. Like lots of figure skating costumes and dressing up to go out in extremely cold or wet weather.

Incongruous.

Use it.

Happy Easter: I Hate People, Especially in the Subway

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After a heady night of live-tweeting the annual television broadcast of that cinematic masterpiece The Ten Commandments, it was time to head uptown for some church-going followed by Easter brunch and fun. The sun was shining, the breeze was warm, the F train behaved itself beautifully and I even made a delightfully timed transfer to the B/D, which is where all the trouble began.

First of all, I cannot even tell you whether I was on a B or a D train because on the weekends such minutiae  are immaterial to the MTA, which prides itself on ever-changing weekend routes and schedule, an utterly inaudible public address system and a malevolent sense of whimsy regarding the fate of its passengers.

This is a rant.

So there I am–listening to some Bishop Allen on my iPod, fully reflective sunglasses still propped on my nose despite the undergroundness, brunch supplies safely stowed in a large tote– just minding my own business. At Columbus Circle the long and foreboding announcements make their appearance. I pause the music and attempt to decipher the message, which indeed did sound a lot like a recent New York Magazine reconstruction:

“”Ladies and ____lemen the ___ stop will be ______erhorn. To repeat, the ___ stop will be Broad____ . If you are traveling to ____lin Street _____ now and ____for the ______ train on the ____bound track.”

The train continued to idle as the driver repeated his instructions a few times and I slowly came to what I thought was a sense of clarity regarding my transport destiny. My understanding was that my train would run express to 96th Street and then switch to local service. My destination being 103rd, I thought to myself, “Perfection.”

Mind you, the train is still idling inexplicably and the announcements are droning on and on as more passengers enter the subway car. Also keep in mind that according to New York Magazine, the D train is one of the top three worst lines for announcement clarity and that overall 55% of subway announcements are unintelligible. Note it.

An older man boards my car, looks right at me (you remember, the girl listening to her ipod, reading a magazine and wearing sunglasses so as not to be disturbed) and asks, “Is this training going to 96th?”

At first I ignored him since clearly I was not to be interacted with, but once I realized that for some reason he had chosen to discuss the matter with me, I confirmed.

Downhill, downhill, downhill.

The train did not stop at 96th. It did not stop at 103rd. It did not stop at 110th. It did not stop until 125th Street. As the B/D zoomed through 96th the old man got up, walked over to my seat where I was thinking, “Oh crap, good thing I was running early because this is mucho unfortunate,” and started to scream at me about subway direction etiquette.

In case you are wondering, subway direction etiquette involves not lying to people whose days you are clearly trying to sabotage. Clearly. Nevermind that it was an honest mistake, nevermind that he had chosen to ask an unapproachable person for information, nevermind that the MTA is notoriously useless on the weekends and unintelligible in general, and lastly: nevermind that I too had obviously missed my stop and would have to backtrack (along with half the passengers on the train based on what happened once we pulled into 125th Street and all crossed platforms together).

Screaming.

Might I add that I did in fact apologize, even though clearly one asks strangers for weekend subway advice at your risk.

The topper?

A lady sitting across the way turns to him in the middle of his rant and says, “Oh yes, we’re going to 125th Street, you’ll have to go up the stairs and cross over to the other track.”

She had been sitting there through the entire slurry of announcements, had clearly noted that not only was I mistaken but that I was accidentally misleading this crazy old man and had not said a word, until the opportunity to be uppity about it came along.

I hate people.

On the upside, a C Train showed up almost immediately and I made it to my destination on time. On the downside, my Easter morning was no longer idyllic, but just an average angry New York weekend-subway-riding fiasco.

Then in my attempt to be a good person, I went to church and almost passed out due to the horrendous over-use of incense. Thanks.

Cyborg, the Full Story: A Blind Date Gone Wrong

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A tale by guest blogger Brigitte, of Shaun White look-a-like fame.

There are certain things that one assumes to be common sense rules when it comes to dating: wearing something nice on a first date, being polite, attempting to get to know the person, and not telling your date with complete and utter sincerity that you’re a cyborg spring to mind.  You know, simple things.  Friends, the old cliché “common sense is not so common,” is unfortunately true.  Apparently, I went on a date with a cyborg.

dark.pozadia.org

As a single twenty-something woman in New York City, I inevitably attempted the online dating thing.  My date, let’s call him Brian, looked good on (electronic) paper: he could form cohesive sentences and string together intelligent thoughts, he seemed to have a good sense of humor, we had a number of things in common, and the pictures of him weren’t entirely unattractive.  Worth a shot, I thought.

There were so many things that should have made me immediately run for the hills, before the cyborg conversation even began, but being a nice person with an unhealthy sense of Jewish guilt, I felt obligated to at least sit through the entirety of our dinner.  Yet within seconds of meeting him, I knew this was not going to work out.

For starters, this 30-year old male who went to an Ivy League School (as he reminded me no less than seven times during the course of our date), did not even live in an apartment.  Oh no.  He was staying in a hostel on the Upper West Side, and apparently had been for longer than, well, anyone who considers himself an actual inhabitant of a city ought to stay in a hostel.

Brian immediately brought up his new friend Tim, an Australian with a drinking problem, who might be joining us for dinner.  Tim didn’t speak French (Brian and I both did), but was trying to get laid by some random French woman he had met the night before, so Brian had offered our services as both wing-people and translators.  Generous of him, no? I know that on a first date with an Internet stranger, all I really want to do is help get his mildly-alcoholic friend laid.  Tim did not wind up joining us for dinner, which, as I look back on the experience, is actually unfortunate, because I would imagine that watching Tim the Trainwreck would have been infinitely more entertaining than what I had to endure instead.

Brian chose a decent-looking Mexican-infused restaurant near his hostel, and I was thrilled when they brought out thin-sliced banana chips and some fresh tomato salsa, but I committed a horrifying faux-pas when I (gasp!) used my fork to scoop some of the salsa onto my chip.

“Don’t put metal into the salsa!” Brian admonished, “Metal causes a chemical reaction with tomato, and it will spoil it much sooner! Use your finger, we’re family here.”

Ok, first of all, maybe I don’t want to get tomato and onion all over my fingers. Maybe I think it’s not polite to dip your fingers into food shared with other people at the table. Maybe I like using utensils. Also, we are not family, we have not known each other for more than twenty minutes. And even if we were, I don’t want my family’s gross fingers all over my food—it’s still flu season, and I don’t want nasty germs all over my salsa, thank you very much.  Also, I don’t think that my metal fork is going to so rapidly deteriorate the quality of the salsa that we won’t even be able to finish all of the chips.  I’m not a scientist, and I didn’t go to Brown, but I would imagine that the salsa could easily last for the next half hour.

After the incredibly informative science lesson, I was next subject to a Mandarin lesson. His ex-girlfriend was Chinese (more perfect first date conversation), and he had me pronounce over and over and over some completely stupid and inane phrase in Mandarin, making sure that I got it perfect because intonation is key. A) I don’t care, and B) f*ck you (emphasis on the “uck” and “ou”—those are very important consonants in this, my favorite English language phrase).

But oh, if this does not sound bad enough, it still was going to get so much worse. Not to mention they messed up my food order, but I was so miserable that I didn’t want to prolong the evening any more by waiting for a new dish, so I ate it without saying anything.

The sort of funny thing about Brian is that not only did he go to Brown, but he also graduated from the hospital, after falling off of a stage.  He did some serious injury to himself (obviously…) and lost hearing in his right ear, as well as his sense of smell.  Now, I get it: traumatizing, life-changing accident.  Makes you rethink values, what’s important in your life, how to be grateful for the moment, et cetera et cetera.  If he had talked about anything remotely related to those sorts of things, he would probably have been an interesting dinner companion.  But no: I got to hear about which foods he could no longer taste, due to the lack of smell.  Multiple times.  Thanks, buddy, but you only mentioned your inability to taste mint 5 minutes ago—I still remember that you can’t taste mint anymore.  Oh, yeah, mojitos have mint in them, but you can’t taste the mint anymore. Yep. Yep. Yep.

I tried to make the best of it for a while, but then, f*ck it, I was getting out of this situation as fast as I possibly could.  I briefly recalled a high school classmate who could make himself vomit at will, and wished I had the same talent.  Instead, I faked a coughing fit.  Multiple coughing fits. Meryl Streep didn’t have shit on me and my Oscar-worthy performance as “a woman with a bad cough.”  I was coughing up not one, but both of my lungs– and oh boy– I was just so darn sick, I needed to go home and rest!

While I was coughing, he decided to continue to ramble on about completely absurd topics, since I was unable to talk.  I got to hear all about the many kinds of karate he can do, and the fact that he could “break me” (was I supposed to swoon? Because really, I wanted to run away very fast). During one lull, he gazed deeply into my eyes and with complete and total sincerity, uttered the six words every woman dreams of hearing from the perfect date: “You know I’m a cyborg, right?”

I kid you not.

To be fair, even though he doesn’t deserve it, he was referencing the titanium mesh netting in his skull. But really: he didn’t have to call himself a cyborg, and he also didn’t need to go on an on about why the titanium in his head didn’t set off medal detectors. I had enough metal science lessons what with the fork incident, thank you very much.

And finally, finally, we were finished with our meal.  I threw in another epic coughing fit for good measure, but this backfired when he came over to my side of the table and put his arm around me to comfort me.  I cringed in horror, which he took as a cue to touch my hair lovingly.  I frantically searched for our waiter, but he seemed to have disappeared.  More coughing.  Copious amounts of coughing.  Tears streamed down my face, and my lungs got angrier and angrier, but I was determined to avoid even talking or listening to this dude anymore—I just wanted to cough.  After what seemed like an eternity, the waiter finally reappeared and I managed to pause the coughing long enough to gasp a request for the check.

Brian didn’t even pretend like he was going to pay for the whole meal.  In fact, despite the fact that he had ordered something more expensive than me, and we both put in a twenty, when the change for the check came, he grabbed the ten-dollar bill and handed me the five, triumphantly declaring that I was going to get screwed over on this bill.  What a gentleman.  Though, he was kind enough to insist that I take both of the after dinner mints, but– of course– only because he couldn’t taste mint.

I walked outside of the restaurant and said “Okay, well, I’m going to the subway now, good night.”

Ever the gentleman, Brian insisted on walking me to the subway.  After all, he, being a prime thirty-year-old male, said, “If I’m going to go on a date with a twenty-three-year-old, I am at least getting a good night kiss out of it.”

I was too shocked to even respond to this, but fury ran through me.  First of all, did he not see me literally cringing in repulsion when he came within my safety zone of personal space?! Did he seriously think that this date had gone so well that he was going to at least get a kiss?! Had he actually expected me to be so overcome with attraction to him with his cyborg line that I would rip my tights off, jump across the table and tackle him in a fury of lust?

And second, buddy, I may only be twenty-three, but I have a full-time job and an actual apartment.  I don’t live in a hostel. I don’t think I’m a cyborg. And I get a real sense of joy from sticking my fork in a fresh plate of salsa. I win.

We reached the subway, and after my final coughing fit I blathered something incoherent about him only getting a cheek kiss.  I bumped one side of my cheek against one of his, and dashed down the subway steps, triumphantly–finally–escaping from the worst date of my entire life.  In all, I have lost about an hour and a half of my life, but I gained two after dinner mints and a really good story to entertain my friends with.

Money Poor with Kathleen

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One of these days, Kathleen‘s blog will get up and running. Until then, it is my responsibility to bring these little nuggets of joy into your life.

Imagine that you are in the New York City subway heading to the Upper West Side on the delightful 1 train. And upon my feet, what do you see?

A roll of Whole Foods 365 brand paper towels just lying there– fully wrapped, fully abandoned.

If you are Kathleen you turn to me with a raised eyebrow and ask, “Is it too gross to take these? Is it too sad?”

I reply, “Actually, if you hadn’t said something, I probably would have.”

When you are money poor you learn that beggars can’t be choosers.

Sure, it was a little embarrassing. Sure, I contemplated how to look as though I wasn’t really with her– that I had no connection to this crazy woman picking household goods off the floor of a subway station in midtown.

Afterwards we crammed onto the uptown 1, paper towels stowed under Kathleen’s arm. We decided that since every penny saved is an extra penny towards our new life dream of learning how to speed skate (based on Kathleen’s family being in Ballston Spa & our strong thighs, plus a little residual Olympic fever) that we had made the right choice. As I get out the one liner that was much better in person, a woman standing nearby turned to us with a questioning face, turned away and then turned back to us and said, “Wait what?”

So then we had to explain the paper towels, explain my love of short track, how I am job hunting, our speed skating pact (glad I’m publicizing that here… ) et cetera, et cetera. Then I ended up noting that I would probably write about it in my blog and let me tell you, I have never been sorrier that I have yet to have personal business cards made up. I bet I could have had one more reader after that exchange.

Oh sigh.

At any rate: Kathleen was really happy about the paper towels, a New York subway experience of bizarreté was had and we got a few great pictures too. Plus, our destination was her new apartment sans furniture or napkins for the celebratory pizza and beer.

So you see, Kathleen knew what she was doing when she sacrificed her dignity and took paper towels out of the subway.

And this is just how life is when you are a poor twenty-something trying to live the life in Manhattan. Some people go on food stamps, some people sell their eggs, others walk to and from work and when a monsoon forces them to indulge in a metro card payment they pillage the offerings of subway stations.

It happens.

Incriminating Ice Dancing: Costumes, Costumes, Ouch!

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If missed the Ice Dancing original dance programs from last night you are either very lucky because your senses have not been scarred by terrifying costumes and musical choices, or you are very sad because you missed out on the chance to judge.

Here we go.

brisbanetimes.com/ Reuters

The most atrocious broadcasted incident of the evening was not unexpected for those of us familiar with recent ice dance competitions, but appalling just the same in both the sartorial and cultural sensitivity departments: I bring you the first-ranked-in-the-world Russians, Oksana Domnina and Maxim Shabalin dancing to Australian aboriginal music wearing… Well, that. Something you can’t see? Faux foliage stuck into their skates.

As the couple entered on to the ice Tom Hammond queried, “Looking ridiculous, does it affect the judges?” “Yes Tom, it does come into play, it is a subjective sport.” They were rewarded with “a lukewarm response at best.”

They of course claim no ill will, but it’s pretty ridiculous. I think most can agree with The View’s Joy Behar who posed, “It’s like skating porn, isn’t it?” Meanwhile, Barbara was just generally appalled at the state of the ice dancing world. Including the fact that many of the pairs are siblings: “there has to be a little sex there [in the tango compulsory dance from Friday]” so that’s awkward for everyone, really. Although in all fairness, that was a general statement neither aimed nor applicable to the Russians.

What else? Well, there were about a hundred cowboy/cowgirl couples which I found entirely horrifying. I was even heard to exclaim, “I’ve died and I’ve gone to hell.”

gawker.com

Frenchwoman Nathalie Pechalat sported a whip at her hip and cowboy boot skates, whilst her partner Fabian Bourza kept company with a host of other competitors by indulging in a hideous pair of chaps. Ga-ross.

The problem with the whole situation is that, much like the case of galactic duo of the pairs competition, these travesties of taste distract from the technical skill, artistry and general athletic prowess of the ice dancers, which after all is what the Olympic competition is about. The original dance became a heinous spectacle– and it is a shame.

There is one dance that I’m just sad I missed thanks to NBC:  It seems that German team William and Christinia Beier danced the hula. Alas, I’ll have to get my internet to cooperate for that viewing delight. For more on the costumes, the music and the mayhem, check out Gawker’s recap… my rant must end before it doesn’t.