Everybody dance now

I like to dance, but only under certain circumstances. Most of those circumstances involve adult beverages. Many, many adult beverages. I’m not particularly good, but I hope my enthusiasm makes up for my utter lack of coordination or grace. But what I do like is to watch other people dance. It’s all of the sexy and none of the sweaty. Not that sweaty is necessarily bad. Hot. Sweaty. Sticky. Wait, where was I going with this? Right, dancing. As much as I love super sexy dancing (and, I do – see previous sweatiness tangent) I really love dorky dancing. You know, the spontaneous, out-of-context, exuberant kind that isn’t about being in da club (God, I hate the phrase “in da club”) or on a chorus line. It’s just about your body releasing. It’s about joy. Dancing, when done right, is an expression of joy. Our days can sometimes seem an endless series of mundane tasks and rote responsibilities. But, once in a while, we break free and let our limbs follow their own song.

Dorky dancers of the world, I salute you. Now, let’s get down with our bad selves.

Cast, Grey’s Anatomy

This makes me wish I watched this show more. And was friends with Cristina Yang.

Angela Chase, My So-Called Life

Angela’s “Blister in the Sun” dance is exactly how it feels to finally be over a breakup. Exactly.

Dana Fairbanks, The L Word

Dana Fairbanks will forever and always be the queen of dorky dancers. All hail the queen.

Liz Lemon, 30 Rock

But, you’ve got to admit, Liz Lemon is at the very least a princess of dorky dancing.

Angie Harmon, Rizzoli & Isles

There is no better job in Hollywood than behind-the-scenes backup dancer to Angie Harmon. None.

Kat Graham & Candice Accola, The Vampire Diaries

Truth be told, this sort of workout is my total nightmare. I’m the person always jumping left when everyone else is jumping right. But I’m not above observing a class. Ahem.

Callie Torres, Grey’s Anatomy

This isn’t dorky. Just hot. Smoking hot.

So, any favorite dorky dancing TV moments to share? Don’t be shy. Nobody’s watching.

Sorry I am

They say love means never having to say you’re sorry. But that’s an enormous crock of shit. Love means always having to say you’re sorry, and if you’re lucky, being forgiven anew each time. What the fairy tales seldom say is what happens after all that riding off into the sunset. Because after you do win the girl, it’ll be your ability to apologize for everything from life’s little annoyances to life’s colossal fuck-ups that will actually allow you to keep the girl. (Helpful Hint: Crying never hurts.)

I finally got a chance to finish Season 4 of “Skins” over the weekend and, woo doogie, that was big slice of holy hell. (Spoiler Alert: Skip to the next paragraph if you haven’t finished Season 4, or you ever plan to – which should be all of you who haven’t already. Seriously.) OK, first of all, they Chaikened Freddie? It’s just… I don’t… And then… BASEBALL BAT. Also, don’t the British play cricket? I can’t even get into the insane intricacies of how this show about the outrageous slings and arrows of being a teenager in the tenth year of the 21st Century turned into some sort of mad midnight slasher flick. All I can say is, oh my God, they killed Freddie!

Right, but back to what we were talking about, which was saying you’re sorry. Movies and TV tend to be a good job of showing the grand romantic gesture. Cymbals, fireworks, screaming about wankers on the top of a cab. But the raw, oozing innards that make up a really good apology, well, that’s tricky. Yet, when done right that release of one’s pride, that admission of one’s failing, that acceptance of pain caused, that acknowledgment of pain felt, that promise to do right, try harder, be better – all of that can be more beautiful than a moonlit kiss atop the Eiffel Tower. Which is just a very long way of saying that Naomi’s apology to Emily just might be my favorite apology ever committed to screen.

Thinking about “Skins” makes me think about my other favorite show about teenagers, “My So-Called Life.” Which, in turn, had its own rather spectacular apology by way of classroom note and Cyrano de Bergerac.

These sorrys serve as a reminder that the best apologies are, in their own way, grand romantic gestures. But this time, you know how high the stakes are and exactly what could be lost. Which also makes them that much more important.

It hurts to look at you

Somewhere, Angela Chase is sobbing into the sleeve of her flannel shirt. Oh Claire Danes, honey, no. When I heard that you had signed on to shill for that creepy eyelash growing prescription medication, I was appalled. Latisse? The stuff that “may cause increased brown pigmentation of the colored part of the eye, which is most likely permanent?” What’s wrong with mascara? What’s wrong with normal lashes? Anything sounds better than a drug that will make your entire eye turn brow. Are longer lashes really worth “eyelid skin darkening, which may be reversible?” You were already so beautiful it hurt to look at you. Now you want everyone to get weird bushy eyelashes. This is not what you stand for. This is not what Angela would do. STOP RUINING MY CHILDHOOD!

OK, sorry, I had a moment. Actress is not the character. Actress is not the character. Actress is not the character. But still, when an actress you identify so deeply with something meaningful in your life (and, oh my fucking God, “My So-Called Life” was meaningful, even if it only unjustly ran that one season), it hurts your soul when years later that person’s actions seem in diametric opposition to everything that you once held dear. But hey, everyone’s got to eat – right?

“Sometimes it seems like we’re all living in some kind of prison. And the crime is how much we hate ourselves. It’s good to get really dressed up once in a while. And admit the truth – that when you really look closely, people are so strange and so complicated that they’re actually... beautiful. Possibly even me.”

That’s with or without long eyelashes, Angela. With or without.

Can't they just cheer to themselves

So last night I was only joking about not posting today. But then I ran into some major technical difficulties. And now I think we can all learn from the collected wisdom on Angela Chase. Oy. Technology. Angela never worried about internet outages.

My Weekend Crush

I think a part of me will always be in love with Claire Danes. From the moment Angela Chase lifted her head with those doe eyes and that Manic Panic hair, I knew. On “My So-Called Life,” Claire's achingly-real portrayal of everyteen awkwardness puts all of today's glossy, fast-talking, over-sexed TV teen pretenders to shame. And in case people whose name rhymes with bacon (cough, Chaiken, cough) want to see what a perfect (albeit unintentional) open-ended finale looks like, go back to that moment in front of the Chase house. Go back to that moment when Angela realizes Brian is the Cyrano to Jordan's Christian. Go back to that moment when anything seems possible, only to have her ride off into the darkness. Wow, that's an ending. Rewatching those episodes now, even all these years later, sometimes Claire is so beautiful it hurts to look at her. To see her blossom from the fumbling wallflower of a girl to an elegant woman of angles has been a treat. It's a bit like getting to see Angela actually grow up. Of course, part of my eternal love for Claire might also be that Angela reminds me of my first girlfriend (hi, honey), who I will always think is pretty. Happy weekend, all.

It’s a So-Called Life

So last night instead of playing with any of my new toys (damn Photoshop is, like, complicated), I popped in one of my birthday presents from last month -- the “My So-Called Life” box set. Naturally, I clicked over to the show’s Christmas episode, titled “So-Called Angels.” I’ve waxed eloquent (or at least tried to) elsewhere about the show and its star Claire Danes before. I’ve even been known to judge a person’s character on whether she watched, adored and can recite lines verbatim from the show. (Hey, I’m not saying it’s the right thing to do, I’m just saying it happens sometimes.)

The Christmas episode, while it tiptoes into very-special-episode territory, is a perfect example of what made this series great. To be more precise, the story of Rickie being thrown out of his home over the holidays is a perfect example of what made this series great. Rickie Vasquez was, and remains, the most realistically drawn gay teen characters on television. His story is so many of our stories. It’s a boy fully aware of his otherness, yet still trying to understand what it means. Wilson Cruz’s portrayal of him is nothing short of perfect. I’ll admit, this episode puts the old lump in the old throat even today. God, I’m a softie. Wait, I never said that. Oh, who am I kidding? Does anyone have a tissue?

p.s. If you’ve never seen the episode, please enjoy a very-special recap complete with snark and sniffles courtesy those mad geniuses at Television Without Pity.

Where for art thou Jordan Catalano?

So, what the fuck happened to Jared Leto? Remember when he was all dreamy and broody with those pretty eyes on My So-Called Life? I do. I wasn't sure who I thought was cuter, him or Claire Danes. Yeah, it's not much of a contest these days. I mean, he's not the first actor to try his hand at rock stardom (hell, he's not even the only one to try with 30 in his band name). And he's not the first man to wear too much eyeliner (but Bob wore it well, dammit). He's not even the first guy to think he looks awesome with an emo haricut (with ridiculous results). So, why the concern? Because he used to look like this. Sigh.

p.s. Oh, I almost forgot to add that he thinks that "the blog is yesterday’s parachute pants. It’s here now but it’s gone tomorrow." Sure, buddy, but that frosty blue eyeshadow is clearly the wave of the future...