Edyta, Say It Ain't So: DWTS Preview
By way of disclaimer, it's only fair to note that my wife and I have been taking ballroom dance lessons for over ten years, and we're both old enough to realize that Arthur Murray was an actual person. One of our coaches had even known Murray Teichman back in the days before she'd traded in her six inch stilletos and slit skirts for sensible shoes and cardigans. (And when I say she'd "known" him, I suspect it may have been in the biblical sense.)
So for once in our otherwise mundane middle-class lives, we were on the cutting edge of a societal trend before it went viral. I like to think I know a thing or two about ballroom dancing. I also like to think that my foxtrot resembles Fred Astaire's. At least it does in my mind...then I take a glance in the studio mirrors and catch sight of Groucho Marx hobbling on a bum knee. This is why dance clubs employ darkness and strobe lights, and provide copious volumes of adult beverages.
Still, the Mrs. and I doused ourselves with a little prophylactic betadine and tuned into the last fifteen minutes of ABC's Bachelor Pad, eagerly awaiting the long-anticipated announcement of the cast for the upcoming season of Dancing With The Stars, an event that can only be compared in gravitas to the Oscar nominations or this month's Oprah's book club selection.
First off, just let me say that the producers definitely understand the viewer demographics. This cast is unusually heavily weighted toward the baby-boomer audience. You've got Michael Bolton at 57, Jennifer Grey at 50, David Hasselhoff at 58, Florence Henderson at 76, and a couple of 40-somethings. So break out the Ben-Gay and ace wraps and let the games begin. As a 57-year old dancer myself, I can tell you there is no way you can cha-cha six hours a day for ten weeks without something swelling up and turning purple (and that doesn't even count the normal reaction to close body contact with Cheryl Burke).
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