My weakness for televised pageantry is not a remnant of an unfulfilled girlhood dream. Statistics and odds are boring; veneered beauty does nothing for me. Still, almost every year I'm driven by the primal urge to park it in front of the telly and space out on Miss America.
Getting to see the pageant live was a dream I never knew I had come true. I sat a mere 13 rows from the center of the stage-much, much closer than fans and friends and parents, who all had to sit about a mile away, an ocean of empty seats in front of them.
Immediately in front of the stage were the judges, a panel most notably containing Chris Matthews from Hardball and Nigel Barker from America's Next Top Model. There, a mere 20 feet away from me, was the man I might hate only a teensy bit less than George Bush-last time I got this close to that blowhard, he was screening his show in Bryant Park in New York City during the Republican National Convention, and I was arrested along with several hundred others and thrown in jail for more than two days. And then there was the man who adds the only sprinkle of class (and that's stretching it) to one of two TV shows I ever watch, the man with the sparkling beady eyes and hulky frame, the one all the budding models shiver over.
All night long it was a conundrum: Do I direct burning vibes of hatred toward the newborn-hamster pink, pink scalp of one Chris Matthews, relishing images that kept bursting forth of smashing his already flat head even flatter with a baseball bat? Or do I watch like a hawk Nigel Barker's every single move, every tiny flash in his eyes, every time he leaned back to get a peek up a lady's skirt, every time his jaw clenched in embarrassment or lust, just so I could perhaps work on some sort of theory based on inside personal knowledge as to how he scrutinizes women? Or maybe I should just watch the sometimes pretty young twentysomethings as they poured their hearts into toothy smiles, crinkling their eyebrows just so in order to appear touched and moved and humbled?
I chose the latter, and snuck glances at Nigel Barker when I was bored, which happened quite often. Though it contained several insufferable curdled operatic programs and a couple of awkward dance routines that you could tell hadn't evolved much since the ladies had choreographed them in living-room performances for their parents, the talent show usurped the swimsuit competition (they have such tiny asses!).
The highlight of the evening was Miss Wyoming in a pink rhinestone-encrusted unitard in a not particularly graceful aerial dance on the silks. As some soul-lifting Christian song about flying and freedom blasted through the theater, she tangled and detangled herself, struggling not to fall. Nigel Barker had his hand over his mouth-stifling laughter? Horrified? I'll never know-the whole time.
Other than this minor train wreck, it seems all the drama happens during editing, where a set of commentators present each woman as a story. In general, real life is so much more interesting than television. But not in this case.