Slumdog Millionaire – the dance

I’m not posting my Sunday regurgitation today because I changed my mind.

I change my mind a lot.

I can’t help it … my mind has a mind of its own.

I talk myself into stuff, I talk myself out of stuff. I am not the person you want on your jury because I can be swayed to believe just about anything.

Well, just about anything. For instance, you’ll never convince me that Anderson Cooper is not returning my calls because he’s busy playing interior decorator at his house on Brokeback Mountain. Or that Wolf Blitzer possesses one iota of charisma and is not, in fact, dead with a really good makeup artist. And you can talk and talk and talk until the cows come home about how great the Jonas Brothers are but at the first sight of a bovine, I’m going to order it back from whence it came and ask you, albeit politely, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN SMOKING?

But anything else, including the Loch Ness monster and the government stimulus plan, is pretty much up for grabs.

This is why I can’t answer multiple choice questions and thus, the primary reason why I will never appear on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, the secondary being that my knees would scream in protest at the mere thought of adding ten pounds onto my frame.

There is no tertiary reason. And I’m only bringing that up because I like the word tertiary and rarely get to use it. Because really, how often does the word tertiary come into play in everyday conversation? Or for that matter, quaternary? Quinary?

Not enough, if you ask me. But nobody asked me.

Remember when Millionaire was on three times a day, nine days a week? Twenty-seven opportunities for your shoe size to dwarf your IQ.

Nate and I watched Slumdog Millionaire last night and I’m not going to get into how great of a movie it was because, hello? The media onslaught has done a nifty job of that already and unless you’re dead, you’re all BEEN THERE, DONE THAT about Slumdog. And hey, if you are actually dead, say Hi to Wolf Blitzer for me. Tell him to put in a good word for me with Anderson. I’d appreciate it.

The closing credits of Slumdog are done against a backdrop of dance and it is this dance that I wanted to share with you today because it brought me joy and when something brings me joy, I want to share it.

And it will come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog that the only exception to this rule is donuts. Donuts are little round rainbows that make me so ecstatically happy that I will eat them until I fall blissfully unaware into a fat and cholesterol induced stupor. I won’t share them. Everyone has a limit and a fried heart attack dipped in chocolate is mine.

But Slumdog is not a donut so we’re safe.

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There’s just something about celebrating the human condition in dance that makes me simply happy. And I need you to join me because I don’t like being happy alone. Being happy alone makes me sad – it totally negates the happy.

So, help me not negate the happy and enjoy my double negatives and this video. And I’ll see you on Monday with the traditional groan and collective UGH, IT’S MONDAY, CAN I CALL INTO LIFE SICK?