I Like to Watch

Feb. 11, 2007 | We're all born innocent, trusting and full of joy, like little flowers, and then the world slowly but surely tramples all over us with its big, dirty hobnailed boots.

My own happy tadpole, who just arrived on this overheated blue sphere four months ago, gazes at the branches of trees and feels the cold noses of dogs and pronounces them exciting and delightful. "No," I say to her, "these things are mundane and worthless. Pay more attention to the major hassles and irritations and setbacks you're faced with. You have the mobility of a throw pillow, for God's sake. You crap in your pants every few hours. You eat the same thing every day, and what's worse, you're forced to suck it out of a big, filthy breast. How monotonous! How alarmingly inconvenient! Don't you see how utterly impoverished your existence is? And aren't you wondering whether or not I've started saving for your college education yet?"

My little friend, who doesn't seem to mind that she's chubby and illiterate and spends a great deal of time sitting in her own feces, just coos and smiles at me, apparently unconcerned about the burgeoning cost of higher education -- or global warming or North Korea, for that matter.

This is why so many parents of young kids look simultaneously giddy and heartbroken: They share in the raw happiness of little people (an intoxicating experience that's not foreshadowed at all by spending time with other people's messy little monsters) but they're also forced to recognize what blind, embittered, joyless shells they themselves have become over the years, by comparison. When my little sponge stares, rapt, at blades of grass, it makes me wish that I could scrub off 36 years of neurotic tics and self-defeating habits, that I could forget about the burgeoning population of pedophiles uncovered by Dateline's queasy "To Catch a Predator" series, that I could just appreciate the greenness of grass, not to mention the million or so other things that healthy, dry, well-fed middle-class people like myself have to feel thankful for.

But then I remember what people who haven't been beaten down by the world are like, and suddenly I'm grateful that I'm just a cynical, disillusioned, alienated shit-heap of a person after all.

Child-like blunder
In case you haven't run into a street mime or a massage therapist or a child-development specialist or Wavy Gravy lately, you can always tune in to NBC's "Grease: You're The One That I Want" (7 p.m. Sunday) for a closer look at the odd species of idealistic dreamer I'm talking about.

At first glance, this show looks like "American Idol's" unwashed second cousin, a bizarre miscalculation by a network that isn't exactly known for its reality programming. But tune in for a few minutes and you'll realize that the show taps into a scary subculture of wannabe Sandys and Dannys out there, an odd assortment of humans with big saucer eyes and disturbingly earnest looks pasted on their faces. Yes, these strange souls have somehow averted disillusionment and loss over the years, sidestepping the sorts of experiences that might give them a cynical or pessimistic edge. Miraculously, they didn't get beaten to a bloody pulp for carrying a Holly Hobby lunchbox to the eighth grade or for humming "I Feel Pretty" from "West Side Story" to themselves while skipping merrily through the halls of their high schools. They've somehow never had their hearts broken or their favorite sweaters stolen or their kneecaps busted, and therefore look like they're about to burst into song at any minute.

What's worse, they are about to burst into song at any minute. And while they might've enjoyed classics by Stephen Sondheim or Cole Porter when they were younger, they invariably grow up to be the sorts of people who threaten to bellow out the worst kinds of show tunes and pop songs, melodies from crappy musicals like "Starlight Express" or ballads from Disney animated movies like "Pocahontas," or overplayed pop hits like "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion or "Suddenly I See" by KT Tunstall. These are people who just couldn't stop singing and dancing when they were children, people who were encouraged to sing and dance as much as humanly possible, people whose parents told them they were incredibly talented every time they opened up their earnest, happy mouths and broke into song.

That's why watching their dreams getting crushed on live TV is so much fun. When you listen to these inexcusably peppy creatures talk, they patter on relentlessly about how every tap class and voice lesson, every role in their high school's version of "Little Shop of Horrors" or "Guys and Dolls," has led them to this moment, onstage, in front of millions of Americans. To the sorts of people who feel that everything they've ever done is special and perfect, this is more than just a cheesy televised talent show. This is destiny.

When they're dismissed, then, it's not just their fondest hopes that go down the tubes; their most deeply held beliefs go along with them. When you see those faces go from a pure look of awe and joy and wonder to a crumpled, sniffling, wounded visage? You're witnessing a lifetime of fear and anguish, heretofore narrowly averted, rushing into the picture without warning. Mmmm. Delicious, isn't it?

Next page: Do we really want to hurt them?