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May 14, 2007

Fugovision Song Contest 2007

It's that time of year again: time to wonder with a hefty dose of bitterness, and more than a trace of righteous rage, why we are missing out on all the fun just because we live in America.

I am referring, of course, to the Eurovision Song Contest. Just because we're not invited to the party -- just because we're cursed with geographic undesirability -- doesn't mean we shouldn't be allowed to press our flushed, thrilled faces against the window and gawk at the delicious theatrical, colorful, cross-dressing antics happening inside. Why, this year alone, the semi-finals featured sword-wielding backup dancers, male nudity, a rock opera called "Vampires are Alive," and a man who started chucking his own underpants around the stage. And while many of us simply call that "Tuesday," there are still loads of people for whom this is a glorious, intriguing novelty.

In my heart, it's impossible to top the brilliance of last year's winner, Lordi, a man disguised as a monster whose battleaxe conveniently shoots off fireworks. Indeed, this year's winner -- some short-haired balladeer who resembles nothing so much as an androgynous Winnie Cooper-- neglected to give good photo. Blessedly, the second-place finisher, transvestite singer Verka Serduchka (a.k.a. a man named Andriy), stepped up to the plate in honor of his/her native Ukraine.

I desperately hope our Ukrainian readers are sitting up tall in their seats going, "Yes! If I ever have to explain the essence of Ukraine to American bitches, THIS is the way!" Were Elton John to perform in Oz, these hybrids between the Tin Man and the Village People would be his entourage. No. 18 up there looks in serious danger of splitting his mylar pants. But who would notice? There's a gold-dipped man in knee-socks playing a sparkly accordion and a human disco-ball with a star hat singing lead vocals. Who's even paying attention to No. 18's trousers?

Danish delight Drama Queen, also a cross-dresser, went with a more understated approach.

That is, if by "understated" you mean, "I cannot state enough things about how much I covet that headdress for daily use." Seriously, this magical diva is teaching me new things about how I can add "feather boas" to the list of things for which size does matter. Why am I not wrapped in that right now? I mean, sure, I would be deathly allergic to it, but at least I would look fatally fantastic on my deathbed. Joan Collins is furious right now that her big musical number on Dynasty was at a country-and-western bar and not a European disco.

Especially because these dudes would be her opening act.

And who doesn't love a naked, greased-up cellist? And please, if that is in fact a double bass or some other breed of gargantuan violin, please don't e-mail me to decry my ignorance of the almighty string instrument. I'm close enough, and I just really like the word "cello" -- especially if you put "limon" in front of it.

And let's not forget this lady. Marija Sesnic, apparently surrounded by the cast of Bosnia and Herzegovina's popular stage extravaganza Fern Gully: Forest of Mystery,  represented the former Yugoslavia dressed as a plastic luau-themed centerpiece I just saw on sale at Party City for $10.95.

Clearly, we are missing out on this batshit marvel. CLEARLY, I need to be tireless with my campaign to bring Eurovision to our cable airwaves. It's a giant, boozy orgy of camp -- not to be confused with Orgy Camp, which is an entirely different kind of mischief -- and I feel deprived that I can't do more than view pictures or study grainy, stilted Internet video on my laptop.

So join me in my crusade, which so far consists entirely of wishing really, really hard that somebody in a position to make this dream come true would read either my blog or my mind.

I would be this elated.

Posted by Heather at 10:29 AM | Permalink


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