This Afternoon In Drama

All We Are Is Dust In The Wind

On St. Patrick's day, Los Angeles's last and only classic rock station, Arrow 93.1 FM (I don't count KLOS, 95.5, which is less classic and more hair-rock) threw in the towel.  Everyone saw it coming, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a melancholy event.  Classic rock has been in peril for awhile now, occupying a strange space between the past and future.  Unlike the adherents of the oldies station, K-Earth 101.1, listeners of 93.1 are fans of artists still producing in this day and age, and have the capacity to embrace music built on the foundations of The Zep and mumbly Jew, Dylan.  101.1 listeners, on the other hand, aren't budging forward.  No one's singing about meeting a guy down at the pop shop or even "dating" anymore, and so K-Earth is its own little cottage, isolated by a nostalgia that maintains its own borders.  One of the moms in my Hebrew school carpool only listened to 101.1, and the memory of her car is forever drenched in the musty odor of the plush red seats of her old sedan, the crumbs that always filled in the creases of those seats, and the imaginary perfume of the songs coming out the radio, which in my child's mind smelled like death. 

The oldies are a well-defined set, and those who listen to them have no reason to expect any playlist invasions, since Chubby Checker isn't busting out the new singles these days.  Classic rock has never received the same reprieve.  The music, so moving and influential to artists emerging past the point of the early eighties, is its own worst enemy: because it always feels incredibly close- because it avoids sounding too dated- it has never established its own sealant as the oldies songs have with their "doo-wops" and naive lyrics.  Still today, the bulk of classic rock songs sound urgently relevant, and so many modern artists have based their sounds (and often "looks") upon those of their Arrow forefathers that the line has become more and more difficult to draw between what's classic and what's "not."

And especially in recent years, classic rock radio has become self conscious about its own definition of a classic era, causing it to tentatively begin reaching an epic toe into more recent offerings.  If Clapton released something in ninety-nine, but it sounded like it could have been recorded in Layla days, Arrow might have given it a spin once every couple of weeks.  Then, becoming even more unsure about its identity, classic rock began dabbling in guitar driven singer/songwriters that evoked the superstar do-it-all model of your James Taylors, your Elton Johns.  Weirdly, this translated into a handful of Dave Matthews and Rob Thomas (featuring classic rock stalwart Santana) offerings, none of which had the capacity to rescue the format.  Not knowing how far to go, and not knowing how obscure to get ("Should we play twenty-minute bootlegs of Yes songs?"), classic rock turned into a shaky notion, an unsustainable relic.

What did Arrow 93.1 turn into on St. Patrick's Day?  93.1, "Jack" radio.  "Jack," which loves, loves, loves using samples of Jack Nicholson, claims to be "like your iPod on shuffle," except the truth is it's still a lot like Arrow, except with some Prince and Madonna.  It's kind of like your mom's iPod-- Nirvana is about as hard as it gets, and Stevie Nicks is about as coked up as it gets.  Even as I mourn the death of Arrow, which holds the dearest place in my teenage heart (while pining for Jonny Jackson, I used to light vanilla candles and listen to a pre-fundamentalist Cat Stevens sing "Oh, baby, baby it's a wild world"), "Jack" radio is still haunted by its ghosts- it's Foreigner, its Boston, its Pink Floyd- and that's somewhat of a consolation.  I imagine those who linger behind at the radio station secretly carrying the classic rock torch, only throwing on the Spin Doctors' Two Princes as an offering to the advertiser gods, killing time until they can go back to spinning Bruce.

I'm Gonna Knock You Out

Ty-Ty may publicly name Oprah as her role model, but I think underneath it all there's probably a lot of Jerry Springer influence there, too. Judging by last week's episode, I think she's much less likely to buy Tiffany a king-sized mattress, bringing forth tears of Winfreyish gratitude, than she is to continually set Tiffany up in situations that might totally undo all of her anger management training, pushing Tiff to the point where she ultimately picks up one of the judge's chairs and smashes it over a sister contestant's head.

Although the extra-long weave that they gave Tiffany in episode two appears to have sleeked down and tamed her look, I suspect that Ty-Ty ordered the weave to give Tiff more to fight for. We all saw how she reacted when a "bitch poured beer on {her} weave" in that bar during last season, and that weave was just a straggly, ghetto ordeal, touching only a little bit below her shoulders. Now that Tiffany has the black Crystal Gayle weave, she's like a mother (well, she is actually a mother, so now she's like an "extra fierce" mother) who will claw your eyes out to protect her new baby.

I can't even imagine what will befall the girl who dares mess with the weave this season, since the last one almost got her face wrecked. But maybe it will be Tiffany that will be the undoing of her own weave, because when she started puking up those "four glasses" of wine inside of the restaurant, I didn't see her making any effort to hold her hair back. It's interesting to note that Ty-Ty restricts foundation use for heavy-on-the-application contestant Brittany, but doesn't feel a need to put a serving limit on the alcohol the girls consume at lunch, especially the girl with a known anger management problem that becomes drastically exacerbated when she drinks. I'm waiting for Ty-Ty to watch Tiffany get smashed, and then drag out the still-interested ex-girlfriend of Tiff's "baby daddy."

During the first challenge of the episode, Ty-Ty went the obvious route in her attempt to illicit Tiff's emotions: she paired Tiff with an asshole photographer and gave her access to a tennis racket with which she could bash in his head. But Tiff didn't bite! So I think Ty-Ty and Jay Manual, who is useless in all ways other than being catty, had a behind-the-scenes pow-wow, and they decided that the best way to catalyze Tiffany's ratings gold breakdown would be to approach the goal in a more underhanded way-- instead of going for a black and white piss-off session, they would stir a slow brew of humiliation.

At the "astrological sign calendar" shoot, all the girls were assigned individual zodiac characters, and the bulk of the girls were outfitted in interpretations that were very, very abstract. Brandy, the scorpion, wore a pleathery black body suit to express the hard shell of the animal, a red elongated armband to suggest the pinchers, and patterns of angular jewels on her face to give the impression of danger and mystery. Kahlen, as Aries, only had the suggestion of the ram in her teased mane and raising-the-hoof stance, otherwise wearing a tan tank and brief set. Keenyah's version of a bull was sweet and leotard wearing, and she had some little, soft horns that blended into the nighttime sky background. Lluvy's Pisces fish was made up out of a net dress with the addition of some scaly sequins on her face (and here I must say that while Ty-Ty named Lluvy's picture the "worst in the history" of the show, I don't know what the make-up artists expect when they keep dragging down her already heavy features with cloth and plastic. Duh.) In order to suggest a "goat," Capricorn representative Naima just basically pranced in her pose and wore a few cloth streamers hanging from her arms to indicate the animal's coat. As the lion, Noelle got big maney hair and a little tigress dress. Rebecca, the virgin, had on the sweetest white lingerie and donned a pair of wings that every sorority girl wears for Halloween when she inevitably decides to go to the kegger as 1. a fairy 2. an angel or 3. "a pretty girl with wings!" Tatiana portrayed the Gemini twins by looking cute in a white leotard and letting photoshop "twin" her.

Even the girls with interpretations that were only somewhat abstract were given subtle props that didn't obscure their beauty shots. Brittany, the Sagittarius archer, wore a mini-toga dress with sleek, gold leggings. Christina, as the scales of Libra, sported a graphically balanced wrap-around two-piece while holding a delicate, gold scale from each hand. The girl I still totally love, Michelle, had on a cute little Lilac strapless bodice with long, flowy blond hair while she poured water from an urn.

And then there was Tiffany, starring as the Cancer crab.

You get what I'm saying. Yes?

Next week: The preview tries to make it look like Michelle has a flesh-eating disease, but I'm guessing it's just "Cauliflower Ear" that's migrated to her chin.

Slugs, Not Drugs

My house has turned into a slug refugee center.  During the heavy rains, slugs have been dropping down from my kitchen vent on a daily basis, and they've been crawling their way toward my bookcases.  I have some really good books. 

The rains started back up again today, and the slugs have returned, seeking my help.  This is the one that showed up at dinner:

Slugs really move me, because I still haven't figured out why they don't get shells.  From what I can tell, they're made of the same genetic material as snails are, except they have to go through harsh days without the convenience of having automatic shelter.  There's some cruel snail god who gives out shells to his favorite creations, and leaves the dregs to fend for themselves.  I've asked a number of people about why this is, and no one can give me an adequate answer.  (I've also been trying to find out why, when my nose runs, it's only one nostril at a time.)  The snails stay outside of my house, safely tucked in their instabeds, and the slugs keeping falling in, never able to stop and sleep.  I find this perpetual struggle touching.

Every night during the rains I've gone into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and there's a slug.  Two nights ago I found a baby.  Unlike the ants who come in during the summer, operating according to the pressures of the group, the slugs go it on their own-- they're true loners, straight from the heart.   I'll walk over to the slug, stand over it and ask, "What's up?"  And its two tentacular eyes will jut out of its head, wobbling, and its doughy face will seem to say to me, "Trying to live, A.  Trying to live."  At which point I'll pick up the slug and take it outside, leaving it in a place where it has the best chance of surviving, and I'll say, "Hang in there."

You might say that I'm making the mistake of humanizing the slugs, except if the slugs were actually human, I wouldn't be so worried about them.   I had a slug drop into my place in college- one morning around sunrise, a drugged out girl wandered into my dorm room because, in her hallucinogenic state, she believed that it was the bathroom.  Pulling down her pants, she squatted over the trashcan next to my bed, getting ready to leave her own wet trail.  I shot awake, taking stock of her.  Her eyes bugged out of her head like tentacles, and her face was, indeed, doughy.  When she saw I was up, she looked at me helplessly, like she wanted my guidance.  "I need to pee," she said.   I grabbed her by the arm, yanked her up off the trashcan, and said, "Zip up your fucking pants."  Had she been a slug, I would have softened, taken her in my palm, and led her to better pastures.  Instead, I kicked her out and called campus security.

Let's Break It Down

Came home today, and my blog wasn't home.  I was like, "Blog.  It's Tuesday.  Blog day.  Where you be?"  At four o'clock, I got a phone call.  It was my blog.

My blog said, "I love you.  I really, really love you."

"Are you drunk?" I asked.

My blog yelled, "Spring break!!!!!  Woo-hooooooo!  Let's get this P-A-R-T-Y started."

Me:  "Shit.  You're drunk."

Blog: "Not drunk, buzzed.  If I was drunk, I wouldn't remember this conversation.  And I'm totally remembering it."

Me: "Where are you right now?"

Blog:  "Leaving this tattoo place.  I just got the best tattoo.  The best."

Me: "Is it a butterfly right above your ass?"

Blog:  "Yeahhh right.   I'm not one of those typical girls, you know?  I'm a {fifteen second pause while Blog tries to chase the rest of her thought} trailblazer."

Me: "Chain of daisies around your ankle?"

Blog: "Nah, suckaaa.  Ring of dolphins."

Me: "Cute.  So you've got to get your ass back here.  It's blogging day."

Blog: "No can do.  I'm in Florida.  And I just met this guy at the hotel pool, and I think he's everything that I've been looking for.  He's got great nipples."

Me: "What's so great about them?"

Blog: "They leak tequila.  You've got to see.  It's amazing."

Me: "So when are you coming back?  Florida's no way to live a life."

Blog: "When I find myself.  Just kidding. {Blog lapses into hysterical, drunken laughter.}  I guess when I run out of clean thongs.  I'm too wasted to do laundry, and I don't want to use wine cooler money for new panties."

Me: "See you in a week."

Compact Models

To survive the rapidly changing whims of Ty-Ty, a model's got to have a good head on her shoulders.  And maybe that's why I'm inexplicably drawn to the look of Michelle, who appears to literally have her head on her shoulders.  Michelle, aka the girl dubbed "the no-neck monster" by the judges, was a working wrestler before she decided to try modeling, and even though she can sometimes look like she's missing part of her vertebrae, I'm into it.  I think the reason her look intrigues me is because I'm never sure what she'll look like in pictures- it's hard to get a clear read on exactly what her face entails- and this makes her photo reveals super interesting.  Maybe this is what Ty-Ty meant when she told Michelle that they were going to make her an icy blond because she's so "ethereal."  At first I was completely baffled by this comment because if we're going by the traditional definition of "ethereal," Michelle is the least likely girl on the show to qualify.  She's built like livestock, and she could totally kick Jay Manuel's ass (wish she would).  But then I realized that I think what they meant by ethereal is that she's got a weird, shape-shifter face, and that she's one of those models who, with make-up and hair, can really surprise.

It also occurred to me that I might have a soft spot for Michelle because, during this week's judging panel, I noticed (only under bright lights) that she has a big dent in the middle of her forehead.  Wrestling injury, maybe?  Don't know, but she reminds me of one of my high school boyfriends, Lenny, who also had a big dent in the middle of his forehead.  Lenny's was due to the fact that his mom dropped him when he was a baby, and if this seems ridiculous, consider that while I was going out with him, his mom had just finished her time in jail for making speed in her garage.  Anyway, I really liked Lenny's dent, as it seems I am always drawn to physical flaws with a good story behind them.  Maybe Michelle reminds me of Lenny a little bit, of my totally fucked up and bewildering times with him and his mom, when she was asking me if I wanted to go smoke pot and then accompanying us to Best Buy to buy Lenny an electric shaver.

Do I think Michelle will win this competition?  No way.  Do I like watching her and hope she stays around for awhile?  For sure.

The strange thing is that my other favorite has also been criticized by the judges for the compactness of her features.  Whereas Michelle has a squat body, however, Tatiana has a squat face.  Nigel, noting that her eyes, nose, and mouth are all too close together, compared her to a "pug," which I don't think is all that much of an insult.   I like the look.  I think the scrunchiness of her face makes Tatiana an ideal candidate for a wide array of looks, as from certain angles she can look like a wide-eyed Disneyfied infant, and from others a bizarro world version of Kate Moss.  And, out of the two "squat" girls, I think Tatiana is the one who's got a realistic chance at going far.

It's possible that I like these two girls because each has some aspect of her appearance that's crammed into a small space, and that the sheer organization of their traits is relaxing to the eye.  Christina, on the other hand, looks as if her eyes are going to get up and walk off her face, taking vacations in separate ears, and Noelle's pre-blown out Vegas-cheeseball hair is like a follicular diagram of stress.  Brandy is just, physically and otherwise, a total pain in the ass, and you can see it in the wayward, chaotic wandering of her two front teeth.

But who do I think is seriously making it to the end (sorry quirky, personal favorites)?  Sarah- love her look, even though she's apparently proportional- and Kahlen, who might succeed if Carmen Kass doesn't put in a kiboshing phone call to Ty-baby before the finale.

Dr. Feelbad

I'm struck by Tylenol's new television commercials, in which the medication appears to be running a campaign based on passive-aggression.  First I saw the commercial with the company's new voice, Lili Taylor, speaking in the wilting wallflower tones of her character, Lisa, from Six Feet Under.  For those of you who might have missed the 2002-2003 seasons of the series, Lisa, deeply aware that her husband, Nate, had married her because he'd gotten her pregnant, had a habit of reinforcing guilt while, on the surface, martyring herself.  The character was all about "if you want to's" and "I guess that's okays," even though the decisions at hand were never really about choice and were never really okay. 

Harboring vast inner reserves of insecurity, anger, and mistrust, Lisa only stated what was really on her mind when pushed to a breaking point, and even though she was murdered, there was always the sense that the character would be happy with this ending.  Being killed made it possible for her to hold an everlasting power over Nate that she couldn't manage while alive, and ensured that he would have to accomodate her victimhood for the rest of his life, since he always believed he was a primary source of it.

Now "Lisa's" selling Tylenol.  But she's not selling it alone.  Tylenol has also released a second commercial, in which a spokesperson makes the most blatantly passive-aggressive appeal I've maybe ever directly received from the television.  She tells consumers that if "you’re not going to take the recommended dose of our medicine, I’d rather you just didn’t take it.”  Wha-wha?  On the surface- as there is always, by necessity, this level with passive-aggression- we might interpret this message as an indication of Tylenol's mature nervousness about consumer health.  The apparent upside for Tylenol is that by disseminating this scolding, the company might avoid future lawsuits and cases brought by purchasers who can't follow directions.  But, resting further underneath, we can see that Tylenol firmly puts the blame in our hands, encouraging guilt among those of us who can't get in step with the recommended program.  The truth of the matter is, though, that Tylenol is probably one of the foremost medications that consumers overuse, and that Tylenol relies on this overuse to compete with rival over-the-counter painkillers. 

We're a culture of total wusses.  We take Tylenol PM when we can't sleep, Tylenol Cold when we get a runny nose, Tylenol regular at the first sign of a headache.  There is a Tylenol for everything, just like there was a Rainbow Brite kid for every color of the spectrum.  Tylenol is a success because it is a medication that thrives on overuse, the overuse being its incorporation among the bodily incoveniences of daily life.  And then, of course, there's the benign image that Tylenol has cultivated for itself, so that if the packaging says "take one capsule every 6-8 hours," then consumers know they don't have to think twice about taking two for an annoying sinus problem.  When I was doing research for my novel and trying to figure out how much Tylenol Stella would have to have on her to commit suicide, it was basically a whole bottle.  So I think this commercial is speaking to the twofers and threefers, even though it's these people that keep Tylenol on the shelves with the vitamins.  And, I think that Tylenol doesn't even want to lose these "abusers," since they'd just go to Motrin or Advil.  To wash its hands clean, however, Tylenol makes the viewer feel like a loser for using the medication in the way that it markets itself- as a harmless, self-regulatory health aid- and then doubles over the message by presenting it in the form of a commercial, a commercial asking you to go out and buy it.

So, the question remains: who is Tylenol reaching out to with these ads?  I've decided Catholics and Jews, two groups totally accustomed to the passive-aggressiveness of god in the first instance, and mothers in the second.  We totally respond to this kind of shit. 

A Vision...: Part Deux

The curtain goes up, and (whisper it) Pop Show returns.

- "That's Amore" was 'That's A-Lessy" when Kyle didn't show up for his solo, and the performance became an instrumental dance piece featuring revolving human pizzas and a very animated couple acting as if they were out at a spaghetti dinner.  Those two have a future as soap opera extras, so excellent were they at fake, romantic chatting in an imaginary restaurant set.  The kids on stage carried on like the consummate professionals that they are, but the audience buzzed with the sexiness of scandal.  What happened to Kyle?  Last minute stage fright?  Backstage sabotage?  Acid-reflux?  Someone fill me in.

- Ahhhhhh, Men @ Work.  I could never leave them out of the recap.  For those of you not in the "know," this is the "all-male" song and dance group that always receives a flurry of cat calls and girly "woo-hoo's" from the audience before the lights go on.  (And, I should also mention, the group that was auctioning off "dates" with its members during intermission.  I was tempted, but worried about statutory laws.)  Now, I don't think it's necessarily my place to estimate what percentage of the group is straight, what percentage is gay, and what percentage is decidedly, magnificently on another tip all together, but I will say that Pop Show, like Noah's Ark, has brought along at least two of each.  My favorite number from this year's medley was a cover of The Killers' "Somebody Told Me," which revealed it as the show tune that I always knew it was.  Strip away the guitars and original angsty vocals, and what you have left is the number Andrew Lloyd Webber wants to slit his wrists over not having written.  Add a dance move I can characterize best by describing as the move that I used to watch Donkey Kong make on my old Atari when we passed a level together, and you have pure Broadway.

- After "My Loving' (Never Gonna Get It),' I thought I saw a dad's head drop in disappointment.  Not at the mini skirts, fishnets, and heels with ankle straps, but at exhaustion from the gigantic teasing gap between the outfits and the cruel, hard-hitting message of the song.

- Dustyn, resident human beat-box of Pop Show, made "Ironic" his swan song, keeping the beat true and strong throughout.  I don't even know what those kids are going to do next year without him, since there seems to be no one with the ability in the wings.  And, also, no one with the same puppy dog eyes and floppy (to ponytail or not to ponytail) hair. 

- The child that's not quite inside me, but much, much closer to the surface nearly cried tears of gratitude when the Pop Show kids briefly recreated Disneyland's Electric Light Parade, complete with official soundtrack, multi-colored body lights, and a makeshift float with a stiffly waving prince and princess.   This piece was fascinating on another level in that it featured tech crew member, Brandon R., who is seemingly the major object of lust at John Burroughs High.  When introduced during intermission, the ladies went nuts for him as he mussed with his stoner hair (I'm not making an accusation here, just trying to better get at the style for you) and gave off his "Forget all this musical theater.  I'll write you a song on my guitar and play it for you in my basement" vibe.  The mom handling intros on the mic had to announce to the crowd that sorry, but Brandon "is taken" before the auditorium could erupt in a massive display of tech groupie love.

- Danz Ensemble is too magical to be translated into words.   It needs to be left as dance.

- I'm always impressed with Powerhouse's impressive quick-changing abilities.  This year, the girls' costume switch between their "Only In New York" outfits (white sparkly halter dresses) and "Jump"- yes, the David Lee Roth "Jump"- (strapless magenta mini-dresses) was blinktastic.  I have to figure out that they had the pink dresses on under the white dresses, but that simply impresses me more, that they they're able to perform while layered.  And seriously, Powerhouse is really a powerhouse, the name well-deserved, because when together, that group of kids is like a humongous spark plug breathing life into all of our dead shells.  I guess I can put it more simply by saying that they brought me to the verge of wanting to "jump."

Then there's Caitlin Ary, far and away my personal VIP of Pop Show.  This year I finally figured out that her allure comes from an intriguing balance of feminine and masculine qualities, and she emerges like this super hybrid of everything that's admirable in each gender.  Sure, she's beautiful and she's got a terrific mane of blond hair, but she's also got those amazing, heavy, dark eyebrows to anchor her down.  I'm generally not a fan of natural blonds, since their features usually look as if they could flit away, but Caitlin's face has a definite strength to it, and it's the kind of face that only a girl with a deep reserve of inner confidence can own.  And when Caitlin performs, she performs hard, especially in her front row dazzle during the Danz Ensemble piece.  She pounded on the floor; she whipped her hair around, refusing to tie it back; she danced with the unapologetic ferocity usually associated with "the masculine."  She also roams freely into another traditional province of masculinity, "humor," and her comfort in her own skin reads so bright and clear that she dominates in any group.  I think this is the kind of girl that the producers were looking for when casting (Friends spin-off) Joey's next door neighbor, except the problem is, they had to go with someone else since the right girl's still in high school and tied up with Pop Show.  But I have this strong hunch that should she choose to follow that path, Caitlin is the breakout sitcom star of 2010, although I think it's an equally good bet that she'll end up starring in Zach Braff-directed films first.

A Vision To Behold And Behear

What apt lyrics to open this year's Pop Show, entitled "My Vision":  J.D., rising from the middle of the besequinned cast, sang, "I have a secret/I want you to know," and I contend it is that driving impulse to spill secrets that makes Pop Show so raw and compelling.  Because the individual performances are chosen by the kids, and because, when out of their dictated (and universally unflattering) performance costumes, the Forever 21ish outfits are self-selected, too, each number feels like an act of confession.  And although, as I discussed last year, it appears as though many of those confessions have something to do with burgeoning sexual (mis)identity, I am always exhilirated to have been a witness to this need to bear the musical soul.  Now, without further ado, my recap of this year's highlights.  Again, if you live anywhere near L.A., you should mark your calendar for next February ASAP because trust me, you can't even begin to imagine what you've been missing.

-  One of the reigning themes of this year's show was "confidence in one's own masculinity," demonstrated by the two apparently heterosexual hearthrobs of the Vocal Association, J.D. and John.  Because both of these guys have strong falsettos, they dueted on the A-ha classic "Take On Me," chosen specifically for the soaring "Eeeeeeee's" at the tip of each chorus.  As they hit the high notes with abandon, pumping their pointer fingers skyward while smiling, they reveled in conquering the presumed femininity of the soprano voice by making their performances into deliberate camp, showing that they believed themselves men enough to brazenly sing unlike men.  And, as proven by audience reaction, the longstanding one-sidedness of gender assumption swapping remains firmly in place:  Boys acting like girls: considered funny.  Girls acting like boys: considered lesbians.

-  It is so incredibly difficult to depict sizzling romantic tension on the stage, but major kudos to performance group "The Sound Waves," who sent forward the most fucking adorable boy and girl I've ever seen to act out the roles of the tentative couple in "Kiss The Girl."  Suddenly a dead-in-the-water song from The Little Mermaid became a touching comment on the excitement and hope barely contained by burgeoning love, as Boy and Girl (I don't have their names because they're not seniors, and only seniors are pictured at the beginning of the program) sat down next to each other on stage, stealing shy glances and moving incrementally closer to each other as the song proceeded.  The girl looked like a little doll, and the boy was a dead ringer for a cherub, and they were so achingly cute that every cold, shriveled heart in the audience bloomed again, and everyone unapologetically started squealing.

- Knowing that the audience was left frustrated from "Kiss The Girl" (it closed with a conservative kiss on the cheek), the Pop Showers finished us off with the sizzling "El Choclo," in which Max sang the tango while Nicole and Eddie showed us what that kind of hokey pokey is all about.  Holding their faces an inch apart, as if about to make out at any second, the underclassmen put J. Lo and Richard Gere to shame, making them look like the tired, unsexy has-beens that they actually are.  If Miramax hadn't sold itself to Disney this week, I'd say Harvey, here's a freebie- Shall We Dance 2: El Choclo Boogaloo. 

- J.D. was back with his showboaty falsetto on "Groove Is In the Heart," making a musical skit out of hitting a note that the girl in front of him couldn't.  He's got a secret, and it's that he's got a cheerleader inside of him that's dying to get out.

- During "It's Raining Men," the skinniest Asian boy I've ever seen paraded the stage topless, with a sign over his nipples (if he even has nipples- I can't confirm this.  I never officially saw them) that read "Censored."  I think his waist was like a 21.  Then some sexually agressive girls came and attacked the various boys parading the stage, pouncing on them while wearing blue plastic rain ponchos.  These girls literally pinned the boys down to the stage floor, mounting them from the backside.  It was all unexpectedly violent.

- I guarantee that Corey, who sang "Mack The Knife," is one of those kids who wishes he'd been born fifty years earlier.  Only three songs later, he was back on "Tuxedo Junction." 

- 'Defying Gravity," sung by Katy-Beth and Caitlin (more on her later) was an undisputable Friday night showstopper, with billows of smoke, you-can't-go-wrong green sparkles, and vocal pyrotechnics, giving the audience a secret of our own- which was that we secretly ended up liking a song from a Broadway musical.

-  Katie and Adam dueted on The Phantom Of The Opera's "All I Ask Of You," this year's performance (and seriously, there's one every year) in which the girl made sweet stage love to her flawless voice by bouncing it off the boy's forehead, and the boy wooed the opposite wing with bedroom- and by bedroom I mean "half asleep"- eyes.  Adam, wearing a black cape, leaned on a cane, and at first I thought this was a creative interpretation of The Phantom's facial deformity, since there's no time for messing with latex cranial prosethetics during Pop Show.   Later I saw that Adam was on crutches during another number, meaning that he had an actual injury, and I wondered if the earlier song was chosen to reflect his state of mind post-handicap, if he started feeling a sudden affinity with the somewhat gimpy Phantom, or if it was just all serendipity.

- During Honey Suckle Rose, Casey sang about a guy putting "sugar" in her "cup," and I kept watching the dad's neck in front of me, as it was rigid with the kind of stillness that indicates intense, embarrassed, possibly inappropriate interest.

- And we're at the end of Act I.  I don't know the name of the Sound Sensations soloist, as I think she's just a freshman, but I fell in love with her.  Wearing a bathrobe with frogs on it, a curly ponytail extension, and her own glasses, this little, magical girl belted out Queen's "Find Me Somebody to Love" with such unexpected depth and power that she turned the entire audience into insta yenta matchmakers, and I felt it- that suddenly, we all badly wanted to find her someone to love.  As soon as I heard her voice, I knew that writing would fail it, since when was the last time blogging produced goosebumps on anyone's arms?   

And that only brings me to Intermission, so I'm making this a two-part post.  More on Friday, as I bring you Act II analysis and my thoughts on the incomparable Caitlin Ary.