Dancing Brave

Don't Shit Where I Live

Not being a pet owner, it's hard for me to know whether I'm interpreting the signs correctly, but I THINK I may have been the victim of a malicious crapping.

Our house has a picket fence out front, with two gates: one at the center that opens onto a path to the front door, and one to the side where the driveway is. There is some grass on the public side of the fence, as with most neighborhoods -- you know, there's the road, the curb, some grass, a sidewalk, and then our property. Nothing unusual, but the fence makes it trickier to get at our lawn.

Which is why I was so surprised to see a massive turd sitting cheerfully on the grass the other week. This was a careful work of turd art. It was layered, it was large, it was sprawling. And it was on my property despite the fact that I don't have a dog.

This had to require some effort. The dog's owner would've had to allow the dog to run a ways up our driveway and then turn right into our yard, or straight up our front path and off to the left -- either way, an awkward angle for the leash, which to me would indicate that said owner wasn't just chatting merrily with somebody and paying no attention to the whereabouts of the animal, because... wouldn't you NOTICE your arm getting stretched and yanked around all weirdly?

I also suspect this happened when I was not home, or else I might have heard or noticed a dog in my yard -- my house has large front windows, which also means that to let your dog take a crap on my lawn, you'd probably want to make sure I wasn't going to walk into my kitchen and see. 

Which can only lead me to conclude that at least some, if not all, of the following are true:

1. The owner knew exactly what was happening
2. The owner did not care, which explains why the owner did not pick up the turd
3. The owner may hate us for some reason, because otherwise, why not just steer your dog toward crapping on the public grass that's IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE and a lot easier to get to than what's on my property?
4. The owner is a lazy bastard who didn't feel like picking up after such an epic turd, and therefore WANTED the dog to shit on my lawn so that there was no city/public property being defiled and so would look like it was just our family dog doing its thing.
5. The owner seriously HAS to have put conscious thought into at least SOME of how this played out.
6. I hate the owner.

Kevin contends that it's too hard to control where a dog wants to unload itself, but I say, that's partly your job as a dog owner -- but even if not (because I don't want to be unfair to ALL dog owners, since, again, I'm not one, so I have no knowledge of the intricacies of pooper-scoopering and leading one around on a leash; I just want to be unfair to THIS dog owner), that it would be impossible not to notice what had happened, and that the person should have somehow remedied this guerrilla turding in a considerate manner. Whether that's coming back later and taking care of it with the proper supplies, or leaving a note, or just NOT LETTING YOUR DOG CRAP ON OUR LAWN, I don't know.

Am I overreacting? People, it SMELLED. There were flies. I think at one point it got up and pointed at me and laughed. No joke.

Aw, Fritzie

Watching The Closer last night, I was so thrilled to see a GOOD Brenda-and-Fritz episode. Last season and in this one's premiere, it had gotten to the point where she almost seemed bitchy and careless with the way she treated him and stepped all over him. Loving someone, foibles and all, and finding them cute even when they're aggravating is great. But it had gotten to the point where I couldn't figure out why Fritz was still sticking with her. It's like they overwrote her neuroses and made her cruel with him. So thank GOD we got to see a bit more of a solid relationship where she actually cares for him and worries about him, and where they have fun and it's not all him rolling his eyes and holding his head in his hands.

I also find it very interesting that, suddenly, we're seeing a lot more of Brenda's body. It's like someone at TNT was like, "Okay, listen. Kyra Sedgwick has boobs and a six-pack. If we can't show them when she's working then we'd damn well better get to see her in her skivvies at home." Two episodes in and we've seen her in a bra and panties, and jumping on the bed in a tiny tank top and hot pants.

Not that I don't understand. Hey, if I had it, I'd flaunt it, too. But I bet Lt. Flynn would pass out if he knew Brenda's Talbots sweaters concealed rock-hard abs that could grate cheese. I wonder when we're supposed to think she does all those situps.

This and That

Thanks for all the nice words about the PCOS, and the knee advice. It's so funny to remember how, when it first got started, everyone thought the Internet was just going to be a creepy place for pervy predators and identity thieves, but it's actually been the best thing that's ever happened to me in terms of the people I've met (or "met"). Still not sure how to work with the knee -- I've given it a week since I tried running on it -- or whether I can just run through the pain and ice it in order to get its strength back, or what. And the fertility stuff... I really am trying to take a relaxed wait-and-see attitude.

It's all about finding silver linings, and with that one, it's the fact that if nothing happens soon, I'll be able to drink really nice wine in September when my parents come out for my Dad's birthday. Take 'em where you can get 'em, right?

Oh, I contacted the Planters people. The woman was like, "So what exactly was missing from your tin?" and I said, "Well... everything, actually." She cracked up and they sent me two coupons, so I get the nuts I wanted AND I got to eat the trail-mix surprise that turned out to be rather tasty. What a happy ending.

Kevin's been working long hours lately, so I'm using the quiet time in the house to do a little spring cleaning. I got out all the old My Little Pony toys to gauge what I had, set some aside, and donated the rest to Goodwill. Chronicling them pony-by-pony got boring so I'm just going to do one or two more big group posts to document which ones I had; the funny thing is, this wasn't even all of them. I don't know what became of the rest. At any rate, it feels good to clear out the clutter, but at the same time, it's all closet clutter -- stuff that nobody could see anyway. Ergo, the cleaning binge-and-purge had no actual VISIBLE effect.

The other thing I'm doing is watching season one of Felicity on Netflix. I picked up that show in season two, so it's been fun going back to the beginning, but it's also making me deeply nostalgic for fall weather. There were about three episodes in a row where she sat in her unrealistically awesome New York dorm room while it poured with rain outside, so it's a total downer that it's 95 degrees and humid and I can't enjoy how snuggly that makes me feel. I live in the wrong damn city. And how does Keri Russell have such perfect skin? Sigh. Not very many things make me feel old, but this is doing a damn good job of it.

Good News/Bad News

The good news: A few weeks ago, my doctor had reason to believe I might have a touch of the polycystic ovary syndrome, thanks in large part to an ultrasound that showed a bunch of cysts on my ovaries. A pretty good clue. Someone close to me has it very severely, so I knew I didn't have all the major symptoms, but I was trying to be cool and calm about it because fertility treatments were successful. However, I was also freaking out slightly because in researching it I discovered that my health insurance -- Kevin's supposedly great editors' guild plan -- does not cover any fertility treatments. So all I could see were bills, bills, bills, thanks to my expensively malfunctioning body. Ergo, it was double the reason to hope was that my blood tests would indicate a minor case, if anything. And sure enough, they did. My levels aren't fully or clearly diagnostic of PCOS, so while I might have a slight touch of it, I don't have to get myself to a fertility doctor with quite such a quickness. We can relax for a few more months before we consider getting help. In the meantime I'm still tweaking my diet a tiny bit, along the lines they recommend; it's all basic common-sense stuff, like trying to eat more fruit than I currently do (almost none) and being better about my veggies. I'm still not convinced my plumbing is consistently working -- all this came about because I totally skipped a month of ovulating -- but now I am a lot more confident about my ability to get things on track, because I know that even if there is some PCOS at work, it's surmountable.

The bad news: I totally f'ed up my right knee. Usually when I run, if a knee gets aggravated with me, it's my left -- and it's mild, and it goes away immediately, and it's just under the kneecap. But it hasn't bothered me in AGES. For the past few months I've been running 3 or 4 miles a pop, three to four times a week, and it -- and I -- have felt great. No knee pain anywhere in sight, which I think comes from it being less harsh to run on a treadmill than on pavement (which I prefer, anyway, especially with my gym's treadmills, because they have the little fans that you can make blow on your face). But then came July 4. I hit the gym for a good run and then hung out in our friend's pool all afternoon. Sometimes we were horsing around, and other times we were just standing around chatting idly, and I'd sometimes kick or swimg my legs around underwater while making casual conversation with people. Just to enjoy the feeling of being IN water. But when I woke up Saturday and went to the supermarket, my RIGHT knee started really hurting, mostly around the kneecap but a bit on the right side as well. I was limping slightly. Then it dissipated a bit, later in the day; we went to a pitch-and-putt and golfed its nine holes twice, and I was in sneakers, so I think the arch support sort of helped the pain go away a bit. Then it felt fine, even through a span on the elliptical and the bike that Monday, but that Tuesday when I tried to run it hurt immediately. Stupidly, I ran through it, and the adrenalin must have masked the pain because the twinging went away and then came back that evening hardcore. I iced it on Wednesday before strip, and it was fine again; after that, I only tried to run on it again yesterday, and I used one of those patella pressure straps to see if that alleviated the problem, but it didn't help and when it was hurting after 7 minutes, I stopped. It bugged me the rest of the day, walking to dinner with Lauren and then back to my car. Right now it's okay again, but only because I'm not doing much.

I've noticed that stairs are hard for it, too, even when it otherwise feels fine. It's just so frustrating. I don't know what exactly I did to it, or when, and I can't tell if it's just a sprain that will go away or if it's something I should worry about a bit more. And I'm upset because the running was going so well and now I feel like I can't, or shouldn't, do ANYTHING on it at all and I don't know when it's safe to try working it out again. Argh. It's such an annoying setback.

So, one step forward, health-wise, or at least sideways, and now one step back.

Joanna

Everything in life is cyclical, and my love affair with my piano is one of them. I hadn't sat down to it in months -- I was busy, or playing my Wii, or any number of other flimsy excuses -- and then a week or two ago, instead of moving the stool aside to dust underneath it, I actually sat down and didn't get up again for two hours.

I used to be so musical. Aside from my highly useful talents on the recorder -- soprano, treble, tenor, and bass, which you carry in a bag, looks like an oboe, and has to be put together before you can play it -- I started playing the piano when I was six or so, figured out how to play Julie's flute for fun, picked up the guitar briefly in middle school and taught myself the intro to "Wheat Kings" by the Tragically Hip when I was 15, and was into choir and musical theater because I was a strong alto. There was one school concert in seventh grade that gave the audience the giggles at one point because I was bouncing around between every group: I was in the recorder group, served as the band's pianist, and had a choir solo from Les Miserables. They all had to wait for me to get settled before they started the new song.

This is not to try and convince you that I am incredibly gifted just because I did all these things, or to convince you that I even was gifted at those things. Not so. Well, okay, I know you're all jealous that I truly was adept on the recorder. And back in those days I did have a really good, if limited, singing voice. But mostly, these were just passions of mine, things I did because they brought me so much joy. I am good enough at them -- that whole "Jack of all trades, master of none" syndrome -- but I'm never going to be great at any of them. Years of college drinking (and, let's face it, puking) and screaming at football games have made my untrained singing voice weaker and thinner. I went from an alto to a bass, practically. I quit piano lessons when I was 13 because we moved to Miami, and never picked them up again, so my fingering will always be awkward and wrong and I'll always struggle with the pieces that demand quickness and dexterity. The flute was just something fun I did because it was analogous to the recorder; the guitar, well, it was laying around because Alison used to play for a few years and I could noodle around on it in our basement relatively quietly.

So what I'm saying is, the fact that I did all those things doesn't mean I think I'm awesome; just that when I list it out like that, and when I look across the room at my piano, it reminds me of what a huge part of my life music used to be. I really lost that part of myself over the years. The rustier I got on the piano, the more embarrassed I was to play in front of people, so I never practiced at home unless everyone else was out, and even then sometimes I'd be too frustrated with my mistakes to do it for long -- it was like confronting myself with my shortcomings, and the fact that maybe I could've been genuinely good at it if I hadn't done the easy thing and scotched it when we moved. Same with singing. If I'd committed to voice lessons... "if" this, "if" that. I got away from the basic joy it used to be just to surround myself in anything musical, because I got self-conscious that I wasn't better at it.

Having my piano here, I'm reminding myself, is a blessing. I'm still too nervous to play for people, although I'm getting better about playing when Kevin is home (usually I need him to be in his office, or he'll be sitting outside reading with a window cracked so he can hear), because I always feel like they expect me to be able to play a piece perfectly, and I can't. Or I think they will find the pieces I play stupid, or get bored that I tend to rotate the same seven with only occasional forays into new music (on which I often give up too quickly). I can still get transported to auto-pilot by a piece I know well, but I also still space out and lose my place and smack the keys in frustration. Even the songs I know, I will hit wrong keys in random places and have to take a breath, and I hate that. I want to be the best, and I'm not, by any stretch.

What I'm learning is how to be okay with that. How to accept that, yes, I am what I am; my skills are what they are, and although I might be able to teach myself all of "Bohemian Rhapsody," I may never play it flawlessly. Plowing messily through some basic Bach is worth it, I remind myself, because of how it makes me feel to play. It's like how when you go to the gym more often, you slowly start to feel stronger and healthier and better about yourself even if you can't see instant results; with my piano, when I've been playing regularly, it lights a little extra spark inside me. I look at my piano sometimes and get choked up because I love her so much. I can't remember if I've ever written that her name is Joanna, because it's cockney rhyming slang for "piano," so when my parents decided to stop renting and buy her for me for my birthday one year when I was about 12 or 13, Dad wrote a little cryptic riddle about the gift that referred to it as Joanna, and it stuck. I love that, and I'm so proud to have her. I'm proud of what she represents, of the era in my life where I embraced music the most, and proud of the fact that I can still sit down and make a pretty noise come out, even if it's only for a short time. Today, it really calms me down to sit down and run my fingers over the keys.

I think it's because, in some weird way, the adult me knows exactly who I am there. I know exactly what I can do. And equally strangely, she knows me. She's heard me try and fail, and all she hopes from me is that I'll start over and over again. She doesn't care. It's comforting. I'll be challenged in my life to be a better writer, a better creative mind, a better wife, a better person, and a better mother (I hope) than I ever imagined I could be. I will want to be a master of those trades, and my family and livelihood will depend on me rising to those challenges. I'm game for it; I welcome those tests. But one of my lifelong neuroses has been that I am forever doomed to start off strong at lots of things -- journalism, producing, storytelling, anything -- and reach a plateau of adequacy later. But my piano, my Joanna, is the place I've realized I can go where it doesn't matter. She doesn't need me to achieve any new heights. I don't have to master her. I just have to show up. It's just me and her, and the journey is the destination.

Aw, Nuts

So, I opened up my brand-new can of Planters nuts figuring I'd see a mix of almonds, cashews, and macadamias. This expectation was created largely because of the label, which reads, "Almonds, Cashews, and Macadamias," along with photos of each nut and a list of ingredients that consists solely of those three things, a little oil, and salt.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I pulled off the safety seal and saw a can full of granola clusters, dried cranberries, raisins, shelled pistachios, and almonds.

Okay, so it turned out to be a DELICIOUS surprise -- and hey, one out of three ain't bad, I guess -- but still. The packaging warns me that this product was manufactured at a plant that handles peanuts and other tree nuts; it does not mention that the plant also apparently handles trail mix. I could pour milk in this thing and it'd make an awesome bowl of cereal. What sounds better than cereal in a can? Nothing.

Well, except for a mix of almonds, cashews, and macadamias. I miss them.

Hype and Hyperbole

Undeniably, the men's tennis final this weekend at Wimbledon was incredible, but all the talk that it was the finest match in the history of tennis is a bit of hyperbole to me.

For one thing, most of this buzz started from the mouth of Bud Collins, who, yes, has covered Wimbledon for 41 years, but it's not like that guy typically is prone to understatement and broke out of his unexcitable box in order to make this proclamation. Same with John McEnroe, who acted almost fanboyish in his post-match interviews with the Federer and Nadal -- he's hardly a paragon of mild-mannered level-headedness.

I'm not even saying it wasn't awesome. It was. Federer DID rally from behind to win the two tiebreak sets, he did fight off a championship point in the fourth set, and they did go at it in the fifth until Federer finally cracked around 9:15 p.m. The match was long. There were rain delays. The match was another in a string of truly great clashes between Federer and Nadal, and for some points I felt incredibly lucky to be watching them duke it out, because there was some incredible shot-making and athleticism on display.

That's just it, though. Most of their clashes are exhilarating in one way or another -- they're both artists on the court -- and this one didn't stand out as much in any way except its running time. I'm curious whether either of those two men would call it one of their best matches ever; I am too lazy to Google to see if one of them already has, but I certainly can't imagine Federer would, and even with Nadal coming out ahead, I feel like he has to be kicking himself for being up two sets and losing two tiebreaks in a row thanks to some key mistakes. My guess is he'd cite his drubbing of Federer in this year's French Open final as his best match, so thoroughly did he dominate.

And yet Wimbledon's 2008 final it's being talked about like every point was the stuff of legend, when really, watching the match, it was like any other: moments of incredible genius surrounded by a lot of big serves and botched volleys or netted groundstrokes. For drama, for length, and for history (at stake: Federer being the first man to win six Wimbledons in a row since last century; for Nadal, being the first man since Bjorn Borg to win the French Open and Wimbledon consecutively, in addition to being his first Wimbledon title ever), I guess it had everything. Truly, all the pieces were there. But when I put them together in my mind's eye, I don't get a whole that equals all-time greatness. When I look back, I see Roger Federer -- whom I was rooting for, although I also like Nadal -- playing tentatively and battling valiantly to delay the inevitable. Federer didn't seem like himself. He looked tentative whenever he had break points on Nadal's serve (and failed to convert most of them). He second-guessed himself a lot. And there were a lot of weirdly missed opportunities and unforced errors. Which isn't unusual in tennis, at ALL, and doesn't detract from the excitement of even just one beautifully played point, but for some reason the level of praise being heaped upon this match doesn't quite equate with what I saw. It wasn't so much two warriors who each deserved to win, as much as a question of whether Nadal would trip up and let Federer, who played more poorly overall, steal it from him. That's why I think all this talk of Best Match Ever is a little overblown: to me, after the first set, the outcome was never in doubt.

Maybe I'm being too hard on the media coverage, though -- I mean, at least it's getting people talking about tennis, which is a sport I love that too often falls by the wayside. It needs titans, and if there ever were any question that Federer-Nadal is a legendary rivalry, encompassing all their matches and all their epic clashes, then I think we have our answer. People say that the viewing audience can't rally around a sport if there aren't heroes and villains, or even just heroes and other heroes, so hopefully all this coverage hooks fans and keeps them there. The U.S. Open ought to be a blast.

Happy Monday

Is anyone else watching The Middleman on ABC Family? The show is sort of a cross between Men In Black and Ghostbusters and... I'm not sure what else. We picked it up because Kevin knows some people who worked on it, and I can't decide if I think it's endearingly quirky or trying too hard. Actually, it might be a combination of both. Case in point: Every second line seems like it's trying to be a hip, snarky laugh, but some of them are just campy or funny or oddball enough to work.

Like when Wendy (the main character, and the assistant to the Middleman who saves the planet from unsettling phenomena like a Terra Cotta Warrior come to life, or a giant ape) is listening confusedly while the Middleman and his consultant on the Occult are discussing whether he can go alone through the Underworld, and he says he needs Wendy with him so she can carry the vial of demon-killing fluid, and the consultant sighs resignedly, "Oh, that's RIGHT, your hands will be full with the scythe." Okay, maybe that's a you-had-to-be-there thing that's not so funny out of context, but in the moment it was a satisfying, underplayed laugh. But then Wendy has to drip with sarcasm every time she opens her mouth, so it undercuts some of the better jokes.

In other news, I am terribly sad that I Survived A Japanese Game Show didn't do better when it premiered, because I found it really amusing. It was all the crazy-awesome earnestness of insane Japanese shows plus the bonus of some very confused and uncoordinated Americans. I hope they do a Human Tetris segment, because when FOX's version airs, it's probably not going to be nearly as funny. If you haven't enjoyed Human Tetris before, I invite you to feast upon this clip. It's merely one of many on You Tube, but I never get sick of them, and this one includes a giant older dude who is more flexible than I could ever hope to be. Ouch.

He's Just Too Funky For Me

Andrew Ridgeley has a lot of apologizing to do. To ME.

Okay, so maybe that's not fair. In all honesty, I don't know why George Michael didn't sing "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" on Wednesday night at The Forum, but I'm guessing it has to do with Ridgeley getting it in the divorce (which is also clearly the only explanation for the absence of "Wham Rap," and I'm sure custody of that gem was hotly contested). It makes sense to me, in a way, that he wouldn't want George Michael to own and profit from performing ALL of Wham's old hits and certainly not its most iconic; it's the only reason I can think of for the song's absence from an otherwise pretty awesome set.

Like a lot of kids, I wanted to marry George Michael when I was little. I railed against "Last Christmas" and the idiot heroine who left him for Andrew Ridgeley the very next day after he gave her his heart -- because, seriously, lady, WHO LEAVES GEORGE MICHAEL? Nobody. Not even if he's gay (which at the time was on the down-low, or at least, to a kid my age it was). "Careless Whisper" was the greatest song of all time to me because it was romantic, irrespective of the fact that the lyrics explain that he's the cad. I would daydream myself into the video, the beautiful wronged party who shed a perfectly gorgeous tear at his deception and whom he begged for forgiveness. Never mind that this required him to cheat on me in my own fantasy. I was way too caught up in the romance of having a guy plead with me to love him because he just can't live another day, and won't dance again because his guilty feet have got no rhythm. To my second-grade mind, there was something divine in having the power to screw with his pedi-mojo.

Ergo, given our triumphant trip to see the Spice Girls, Catherine, Carol, and I decided that George Michael's 25-Live Tour was the ideal way to strive for a 2-for-2 record of Awesome Concerts Seen From Great Seats. We were only a few rows up from the floor, right about at eye level with him and with a perfect close view of him when we walked down the runway that extended the stage into the crowd. Our vantage point was ideal -- full marks to Catherine for this -- especially because in the second half of the show, he pulled out a stool and sat right at the end of that runway to croon "Kissing a Fool" and a cover of "Roxanne" by The Police.

The most amusing thing was our celebrity sighting: Aside from Loretta Devine from Eli Stone, which used George and his music in multiple episodes and based its pilot entirely on "Freedom '90," we saw... Dr. Phil. I dearly wanted to see Michael Cera -- a.k.a. Arrested Development's George Michael -- just because of how dorkily fun it would be to say, "Hey, there's George Michael, and George Michael!" But no. Instead, Dr. Phil, standing near the front: a million feet tall, shiny bald pate, bright white button-down shirt. George Michael kind of made fun of him for not appearing to have as awesome a time as his wife was, and the crowd totally booed at Dr. Phil's apparent reticence. "Maybe you should see someone for that," George said. Hee. I feel bad when people get booed, but dude, you're at George Michael. DANCE. Or do you have guilty feet, sir?

He then told a story about how he thought Jonny Lee Miller from Eli Stone was there, and that when he shot his episodes, he would try to chitchat between takes ("That's a GREAT fucking suit!"). But Jonny Lee Miller would have none of it and ignored him completely. And GM said that he was thinking, "This guy is really NOT FRIENDLY," and then realized as he was in the limo headed to the airport that Jonny was probably trying to stay in character. So he apologized to Jonny in the arena. Everyone laughed. George seemed fine with it all, and amused at his apparent misunderstanding, but here is my take: Jonny Lee Miller, you are not playing Thomas Jefferson, or a kangaroo, or a serial killer. You are just playing Eli Stone, and while I am sure that's not a piece of cake all the time, I also think you are totally nutso for not taking three seconds to make conversation with George f'ing Michael. If it were me, I'd be all, "Will you whisper 'Happy Christmas' to me? And then tell me again the story of what happened when you gave that girl your heart? Do you want me to cut her?"

George was in great voice, although he admitted to struggling with a few high notes, which is where it came in handy to have some backup singers and an entire crowd full of people that willingly sang them for him. His second song was "I'm Your Man," and his fourth was "Everything She Wants," so we freaked out but good. I prayed he'd sing some Wham classics but was still thrilled and a little surprised that he did. He also used his backup singers well, especially during a stirring, minimalist, gospel-style rendition of "One More Try." Hearing "Father Figure" live gave me chills. Snippets of the "Too Funky" video played while he performed it; he opened the second half -- there was a 20-minute Intermission -- with "Faith," then turned it into a danceathon to finish. The encores were "Praying For Time" and, just as I was running out of hope, "Careless Whisper." I actually screamed, I was so happy. Then Bo Derek brought out a faux-cake to honor George's 45th birthday, which was that day -- Carol and I agreed that it seems impossible he's only 45, just because it feels like he's been around so much longer, with practically all the iconic heft of Elton John yet in twenty fewer years -- and he shouted up to us, "So, there's one song left. What do you want it to be?"

"Freedom!" we screamed.

"What's that?" he asked.

"FREEDOM!"

"I can't hear you..."

"FREEEEEEDOOOOOOM!"

And so it went: The band struck up the intro, and everyone lost their shit, especially when bits of that awesome video played on the screens. I am such a fangirl; I can't help it.

We had a stellar time, rife with amusing characters in the audience that Catherine will blog about when she had time to recreate the post that Typepad ate. She has photographs. Alarming ones. There was one dude whom we called Flight Suit, who merely did laps around the floor dressed in a khaki cotton jumpsuit with a "Nine Inch Nails" patch on the sleeve, green glittery letters that spelled out "FAITH" on his back, and no shirt underneath (we know this because he had it open down to his sternum). There were women in dresses that I'm pretty sure were meant to be shirts. And as with every concert, there was the 250-lb guy in a button-down shirt who was rocking out hard to every single note like he'd never experienced a more life-affirming moment. I LOVE that guy. Sometimes Carol and I would watch him instead of George Michael.

But not the whole time. For a guy who is essentially a solo artist -- even with the trappings of a backup band -- he really held the crowd, even if he does only know one dance move. (Well, two, but he didn't sing "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," so we were denied that weird ape-arm-swinging spectacle that he did.) My second-grade self would be proud, and of course thrilled that his guilty feet totally turned out to have a lot more rhythm left in them after all.

Sometimes The World IS A Nice Place

It turns out I am a giant ball of mush. Oprah comes on for me right after my ABC stories end, and I left the TV on that channel, and in this rerun she showed the early-2007 clip of portly cell-phone salesman Paul Potts singing "Nessun Dorma" on Britain's Got Talent. And I know there was some kerfuffle about whether he'd had singing experience (I guess he did some amateur opera but that's allegedly it), but I don't care. You can see the chemistry of the entire room change once he opens his mouth: the point where Piers Morgan and Simon Cowell realize they're watching something truly special; where the audience starts to cry and the female judge is wiping her eyes; where Potts finishes and seems so humbled that it's like he climbed a mountain he never thought he'd ascend and even HE gets choked up, and is the picture of a man who defied his own dreams and expectations... The whole thing was just so lovely that I almost cried.

Maybe it's because, for me, "Nessun Dorma" is one of those songs that gives me goosebumps and makes me want to close my eyes and lift off with the music. But in that moment I didn't care if it turned out he was a jerk or a felon or what; he sang the hell out of it and it changed his life and it makes you realize that in a world of Heidis and Spencers there IS still a place for real talent. So THERE. Are you happy, Oprah? You got me.