Last night, Zoot asked me who went home this week on SYTYCD. I had to shamefully admit that I had not seen this week’s show or results. Because I haven’t had time. BECAUSE MY PRIORITIES ARE NOT RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.

So, of course, this morning, I plopped Binja down where he could dance, and I had to share this with you. Mia Michaels, whom I think had truly blossomed over the four seasons of this show, choreographed the official dance that I like to call, “Crazy Brunette Mating Call”.

Enjoy.

Loyal readers know that I’m a bit obsessed with So You Think You Can Dance. (SYTYCD from here on out.  That’s a freakin’ long title.) I am not, in fact, a dancer.  I know, I know.  Pick your jaws up off the floor.  Try and suppress your shock at that confession.  But much like Paula Abdul cannot sing but yet is a judge, I am also quite the armchair prima donna of SYTYCD.

I was going to try and insert the pic here which is a gratuitous reminder of just how important that show is to me, which is to say it was the pic of my encounter with the Emmy-award winning Wade Robson. My husband loved me just enough to give me the opportunity to drag my very pregnant carcass to a dancer’s workshop he put on, and can I just tell you that I now know what heaven smells like? It smells like a very sweaty Wade Robson.

Pic is here. I also have a family pic of myself, the Wade, The Boy, and Bryan (and, actually, fetal Binja), but it is not electronic. Because it is locked in our fireproof safe.

Anyway, my absolutely favorite thing to do is to TiVo SYTYCD and then watch it afterwards. Then, I like to pause it before the judges begin their critiques of the routines and see how much I can predict. And you know what? Nigel and I channel eachother.

Sidenote: I COMPLETELY MISSED THAT SYD CHERISE PASSED AWAY. Between her and George Carlin, it’s been a sad, sad week. Which one of my idols are you gonna take away next, huh? Jim Henson?

Wait, WHA?!

So I wanted to share this with you because I literally watched this routine, like, eight times. I was just SO moved by it. These new choreographers, Napoleon and Tabitha, do such AH-MAY-ZING things with hip hop. Like, listen to the words of the song they’re using and then.. I dunno, those wacky kids.. they CHOREOGRAPH. To THE LYRICS. Which, I think, makes the routine so powerful.

So my clip this week is Napoleon & Tabitha’s choreography to Leona Lewis’s Bleeding Love, as performed by Chelsie & Mark. Enjoy.

Okay, CLEARLY I seriously enjoy my time out as an adult, because I want to find Mr. Spielberg’s house, rap lightly on his chamber door, and demand my money back AND retroactive babysitting for the monstrosity that was Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

Because, DAMN.

The child stayed with my parents for an afternoon/evening, so we decided to visit the overly-hyped cinema over towards them.  I know a lot of people go starry-eyed over this damn theatre, but seriously?  Every time we go, we are SERIOUSLY disappointed.  It’s dirty.  It’s overcrowded.  They don’t put the names of the movie outside of the theatres. (Is it really THAT tacky to post?  Does it seriously detract from the whole movie-going experience to put that on the theatre?) And my favorite part: they have assigned seating.  Which, from the start, is, like, suspect.. you have to tell me where to sit?  In a movie theatre?  But you rationalize it, like I did, and think, well, cool, no more fighting for those coveted “middle” seats.

AH HA!  They sucked you in, too!  Because, guess what?  IT STINKS.

First of all, the theatre does not believe lighting is cool.  They believe that dim (think “nightlight” and then squint.. THAT dim) equals “sophisticated” and “more expensive”, so they don’t give you enough light in the theatre to read the damn seat numbers.  So they put an usher in the theatre.  I suppose a prequalification for the usher’s position is night vision, because I was all, don’t you have a flashlight?, and he was all, no, I didn’t go get one.  So after opening BOTH of our cell phones (while carrying cherry cokes.. mmmm.. and popcorn and Sour Patch Kids)(BUT NOT A DIAPER BAG.. WOO HOO), and basking in the warm glow of AT&T Wireless, we finally found our seat.  Where the movie sucked ass.

Seriously.. George, Steven, and Harrison.. I blame you.  George, this was clearly all for you.  This movie reeks of “I haven’t had my name in lights in years, but don’t have anything original to go on”, alternately titled “Attack of the Clones”.  Steven, WHAT IN THE HELL POSESSED YOU TO APPROVE THAT SCRIPT?  I grew up on Spielberg (who in my generation didn’t?), and of all the things I always ADORED about his work.. this went staunchly against it.  And for someone who came out and said they were going to avoid CGI and over-the-top crashes/effects/battles.. SERIOUSLY?!  NEED I MENTION THE FRIGGIN MONKEY SCENE?!

I am trying not to include any spoilers here, because Lord knows one of you might be slightly more lame than I and come out from under your rock to go view it.  And I would hate for you to walk into it KNOWING what to hate when there’s a good two hours of open opportunity for your disdain in there.

Oooh, to prove how lame the movie was?  For an entire ten minute dialogue scene, I watched the extras in the background.  I wrote a story for them.  Two guys, fighting over one girl, but not really fighting.  See?  That one boy did something phallic with his french fry when she wasn’t looking.  His buddy’s clearly the wingman.  And she’s kinda acting cold about the whole thing and eyeing the door like her real boyfriend might walk in any second.  And.. oh, there’s a movie going on?  Really?  Cause I WOULD RATHER BE WATCHING PAINT DRY.

Cate Blanchett’s accent was horriblé.  And yes, it was French-bad.

The ending was so incredibly lame and UN-Spielbergy that I was literally saying to the screen, “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.” 

And not a crystal skull.  A Party City plexiglass Halloween skull filled with mushed up plastic wrap.

As you can see, I hated all things about that movie, save one saving grace:

Shia Le-Freaking-Bouf.  I could slurp him up with a spoon.

Maybe we should make an effort to get out more often so I don’t feel so betrayed when a movie this crappy comes along.  Then again, I didn’t think the masters of cinema I grew up with would’ve ever let something like Kingdom of the Craptastic Skull ever happen.