Convincing my wife to watch “Dancing with the Stars” with me the other evening caused her to look at me as though I’d finally started taking hallucinogenic drugs. Of course, I don’t use drugs. That still remains years and blocks down the path of my bumpy life. She was surprised, because I’d never made such a suggestion. Late at night, it’s usually Seinfeld or Jaws putting us to sleep.
For years, my mother and one of my brothers have watched this dazzling show and find it entertaining, so I thought we’d give it a shot. It was entertaining. You put a pair of dancing boots on Geraldo Riviera, and it guarantees entertainment, in the most sinister of ways. Not that I can dance, but if Geraldo’s partner just brought a carry on cardboard cutout through customs of him on stage, you wouldn’t have known the difference. I don’t mind making fun of Geraldo. I felt he owed me after making me suffer through three hours of mindless television regarding an Al Capone vault not providing any substance or resolution as to why we paid for television.
Years ago, when this delightful program began to air, my mother immediately took interest. So, living in another city and speaking to her only once a week, I always wished to take interest in her leisurely activities. Watching “Dancing with the Stars” and “Little House on the Prairie” was one of her activities.
Not giving a Yankee dime about the outcome of the dancers’ demise, I loved my mother’s commentary. Similar to rooting for a baseball, football or basketball team you don’t give a crap about, you wish to support the ones you love, even if it involves dancing or soccer. I wanted to root for her horse in this race.
“Who are you pulling for, mom?”
“I’m rooting for the girl with the wooden leg.”
With my sister laughing in the background, I replied with some distraction and incredulousness. “What? Is this dancing with the stars, or dancing with the pirates? Does she dance with an eye patch, and is the parrot on her shoulder taking lessons as well?”
Turns out, Paul McCartney’s ex wife was participating in the event, and I had no clue she had a wooden leg, or “prosthetic” now used in times following ancient Greece. Loving my mother, unconditionally, I had to root for the lady with the wooden leg.