Friday, October 7, 2011

Dance Moms

I know we're all obsessed with car accident style reality shows. It makes us feel superior and safe.

It's human nature to listen for the sensual skid of rubber on asphalt and anticipate that boss bang of steel. And it's human nature to slow down and look for pieces of hair and brain in the windshield, and then hope to see the twisted and broken bodies through the flames and smoke.

It's normal.

Morose, but normal.

Last night I turned on the TV. Dance Moms. In some ways it's a show about desperate horrible mothers and their super sexy seven year old daughters. And in other ways... Actually, no. That IS what it's about.

And some giant she-beast who yells at them.

I'm all about pushing the envelope on these reality shows - short of Hunger Games. Hell, we've SEEN the dead on Deadliest Catch with the bodies floating face down in the icy water. But here's the problem with Dance Moms; there are kids' lives in the viewfinder.

Yes, I understand we NEED child dancers to entertain us in life. I totally get that. Just like we need little dogs wearing pants and balancing on balls. Or cats in tiny hats that can play the piano.

Totally. Get. That.

If this show were just about the moms, I could give a f*ck. It would be like the Housewives or Kardashian shows where they've given their consent that their likeness may appear as an asshole across the universe in perpetuity. That's totally fine. They're adults. They can lie, cry, scream, fight, drink, gossip, backstab and call each other names. Don't care.

But to see a little seven year old girl in full harlot makeup and sexy bare midriff shaking her moneymaker is shameful. It just is. Even I know that.

Oh, won't someone think of the children?!

Maybe like a lot of reality shows, this is fake. Perhaps the venomous she-beast screaming at the kids is an actress. And perhaps when the little girl cries and ponders suicide because she may not make it as a dancer - she's just acting.

I don't know. It seems exploitative, in poor taste, and sad.

I can't watch it. I won't watch it.




Monday, October 3, 2011

Weeds

Dear Weeds,

You suck. Sorry, dude. But you like totally suck.

When we first started hanging out, you were like awesome, man. You were like funny and cool. You were clever and fun. You were like totally smart and witty. I like got a contact high. It was awesome.

And you were fast, dude. Like 28 minutes an episode or something. I was always bummed our time was so short.

Remember that song? Little boxes, little boxes... Remember? Man, I dug how there was always a different version.

And I dug how I had to figure out the suburban sameness stuff of the opening title sequence. That was cool, man. It was like Where's Waldo or something.

And dude, I totally dug that you were all about a mom drug dealer who lived in the suburbs. That was hilariously awesome! I like totally cared about her. And even Celia who was her frenemy. I cared about everyone. I liked them, man. I totally liked hanging with everyone.

But now everyone either sucks or they're a douche bag.

Dude, Nancy sucks douche bags.

What happened, man? What's that thing you do up front with Jenji's name? What IS that? It's embarrassing, man. Seriously. It's like you're texting it in.

You know where it went downhill? When the Botwins went traveling around the country. What was that? The 6th season? That was like the longest episode ever. The very last episode was good - the one at the airport. That was like old times, man. Clever, cool. But that 6th season was skunk, man.

And this last season was the same thing. Only it was worse. It was ditch, man. Just one long ass episode until the very end when Nancy gets shot - if that's what really happened.

I don't know, man. It feels like you're just collecting a check. It's lame. Not cool, dude.

You suck.