RAT Allow me to be really gay and forward this gem!

[NashGay@aol.com]

 Gotta Dance
 
 by Joel Perry
 
 I am dressed completely in black. Not because it's West Hollywood, or I'm
 into
 goth, or because I have no imagination and I'm incapable of color
 coordinating
 like all the other people who do it, but because I am in mourning. The
 powers
 that be have announced that for this year's Academy Awards presentation
 there
 is
 to be no dance number. How could they do this to us? Every Oscar telecast
 for
 the past decade has allowed millions of homosexuals to howl with hilarity =
 at
 the
 Debbie Allen Dance Number, that cobbled-together orgy of poorly thought =
 out
 dance moves designed to illustrate the connecting theme of the nominated
 pictures. That theme, at least as far as we were concerned, was always =
 "What
 were they thinking?" As bad as you knew it would be, there would always =
 come
 at
 least one jaw-dropping moment of truly transcendently stupid choreography.
 Entire gay ghettos would erupt with screams to spouses in the kitchen, =
 "Get
 in
 here! You gotta see this!" Couples and friends would watch with hands over
 their
 mouths, not daring to move until it was over, and then shriek in gleeful
 horror.
 It was the hoot heard round the world.
 
 The Debbie Allen Dance Number has won a cherished place in the pantheon of
 dependably bad ideas. It was as if every idea Cher rejected as being too
 embarrassing, even for her show, flowed downstream to collect in the =
 cloaca
 maxima that was the Debbie Allen Dance Number. It was staged annually in
 bare
 skin, glitter, G-strings and top hats. It was a train wreck with lasers =
 and
 flying by Foy. It was heterosexual high camp.
 
 The Academy said the dance number was "inappropriate." Well, duh! They =
 just
 figured this out? Of course it was inappropriate! That's what Hollywood is
 about. Maybe in another 72 years they'll figure out giving Adam Sandler =
 $20
 million a picture is inappropriate. The Academy also said the Debbie Allen
 Dance
 Number was "undignified." They were wrong. It was fucking god-awful and =
 that
 was
 its genius. It made us feel superior to an entire auditorium full of
 beautiful,
 rich and glamorous movie stars who, every other day of the year, we wished
 we
 could be. But during that 15-minute dancing debacle we saw the Hollywood
 hotshots for the high-rent trailer trash they are. If the Debbie Allen =
 Dance
 Number was Hollywood's idea of sophistication, doing "Y.M.C.A." at your
 cousin's
 wedding reception at the Ramada didn't look so bad. If this was the best
 choreography Tinseltown could come up with, line dancing at the rodeo
 suddenly
 seemed downright elegant. And if the whole thing became truly unforgivable,=
 
 which is to say dull, we could always go to the kitchen for a microwaved
 burrito. Not even Nicholson can do that.
 
 If I can't get my Debbie Allen Dance Number I don't think I'll even watch
 the
 Oscars this year. I was praying to a celluloid god that the "South Park"
 people
 would have entered some of their other songs into the competition so we
 would
 be
 treated to Celine Dion beating her dangerously sharp collarbone to give =
 just
 the
 right emotional touch to her rendition of "Uncle Fucka." I wanted Barbra =
 to
 be
 stricken by her usual "flu" so at the last minute she would be forced to
 back
 out of singing "It's Easy, MMMKay" to be replaced by Marie Osmond or Amy
 Grant.
 
 Speaking of Babs, didn't she wear that silver outfit for her
 zillion-dollar-a-seat concert? It looked like the same thing she wore at =
 the
 Golden Globes. Does the woman have another dress? She can't snap her =
 fingers
 and
 have James run out for something pink but intimidating? And have we all
 learned
 that giving someone like Barbra a tribute award means 90 minutes none of =
 us
 will
 ever have back again? This year the Academy is giving a special Lifetime
 Achievement Award to Michael Douglas. I can think of only about 20 people
 closer
 to death who deserve it more, but at least the ceremony will end before my
 Medicare kicks in.
 
 I know I'm straying from my subject of the Debbie Allen Dance Number, but
 I'm
 bitter. First they move the Awards to Sunday so you don't even get to =
 ditch
 work, and now this. What's next? No pre-show bitchiness with Joan and her
 forgettable daughter, all because that's "undignified" and "inappropriate"?=
 
 I've
 got news for the Academy: Oscar night is about the industry bending around
 to
 kiss its own ass. They don't save lives, they make movies. Movies that are
 undignified, inappropriate, trashy, gaudy, amazing and wonderful, but
 useless.
 What could possibly exemplify, nay, glorify that better than the Debbie
 Allen
 Dance Number?
 
 If you need to save time, get rid of that Parade of This Year's Dead reel.
 Not
 only does it bring down the room but it reminds us of who we should have
 picked
 in the online Death Pool. Lose the Irving Thal-butt
 Time-to-go-to-the-Bathroom
 Award. Stop hiring presenters who can't dress or read. But don't take away
 our
 Debbie Allen Dance Number. It was the very essence of all the soaring,
 glittering crap that Hollywood squeezes out and we can't get enough of. We
 need
 it! Screw presidential politics, I'm starting a petition for the 73rd =
 Annual
 Academy Awards. If you believe choreography should be overbudgeted,
 overblown,
 underrehearsed and televised globally, sign and mail the form below and
 change
 the world for the worse.
 
 Dear Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences,
 
 Puhleeeeeeeze give us back our Debbie Allen Dance Number!
 
 (Signed) __________________________
 
 The dance disaster you save could be your own.