Bigger Isn't Better

Dancing with the Stars kicked off last night with an engorged cast of celebrity dancers, very few of whom I recognized either by name or face. However, one is known for her "fabulous ass," which I recognized by far too much publicity given to it, as well as her name, and her celebrity stepfather, who was sitting in the crowd. I didn't see that her performance on the dance floor was improved either by having a big ass or by being one.

In addition to needlessly swelling the number of dance contestants, there are 2 (gasp) dances this week, 3 nights of kick-off (groan), and 2 eliminations (thank god). What begins with far too much hype may -- and I emphasize the may -- settle into another decent season of dancing with people you may/may not know, but what the heck? It's the only response to Idol we could come up with in a limited time frame! Bloody well borrowed from the British, what?

The scores were the lowest I've seen in several seasons, meant to allow somewhere to go during the endless stream of weeks to come, but were I one of the non-professional dancers, it would have discouraged me to barely break 10 out of 30 points! And the criticism were scathing: you would have thought a poorly-danced cha-cha-cha was a catastrophy to rival the collapse of our economy.

If I were a professional dancer, I'd be pissed to be paired with some of the highly-touted contestants brought in for what could only be termed "comic relief." Cloris Leachman confirms that there is a birthday that demarcates daring to live a little becoming just plain daffy decision-making. The heavy guy with the scruffy facial hair, pot belly, polyester pants and two left feet confirmed that there are men who are much better kept at home clicking the remote control than going out into the public eye. Susan Lucci has aged well, but obviously not gracefully! For as tiny as she is, she should have floated above the dance floor, rather than stumbling across it.

Some of the younger, more lithe and/or athletic contestants made the hours bearable, but I guffawed when the huge footbal player, who is more graceful swathed in sweat while doing a touchdown dance in the end zone, was praised for his dancing ability, as well as his lightness on his feet. He claimed prior to his performance that he's the first one onto the floor of the clubs and the envy of his dancing peers, but perhaps those judges' performance eval is clouded by far too many hours of wearing beer glasses.

Perhaps it's the tragic tone of the economy that has jaded me into melodrama so I can no longer appreciate airy lightness, barely-there dancing costumes, and faked enthusiasm for people who are willing to make fools of themselves for a little face time on the boob tube, but I wasn't with the dancing or the stars last night.

I imagine that if I make it through this week's marathon opening, I may have maxed out my dancing fix for this season and wait for the dramatic final week of the program to reveal who endured and holds aloft the mirror ball trophy.

And there are people who say I don't have a life!