Shall we dance?

I hate being a shill for pop groups--if I had wanted that role in life, I might have become a magazine editor after all--but I'll make an exception in the case of "I'm with Stupid," the new release by the Pet Shop Boys.

The video features a sort of bad amateur theatrics review starring David Walliams and Matt Lucas of the TV show, Little Britain, on BBC America. (Click on the link by the three dots in the title of this post to see the video on the PSB's website.) And no, David Walliams' teeth don't normally look that bad. It's called comedy, folks. At least in Britain, it's called comedy.

The video's funny all on its own, and by watching it and listening to the lyrics of the song, you might think, as I did initially, that the tune tells the tale of an unsatisfactory transatlantic love affair between members of the cool-gnoscenti. In other words, a fairly typical Pet Shop Boys song.

But if you happen to stumble across the interview Neil Tennant (the singing member--so to speak--of the PSB) gave to Trust the DJ, you would get a very different picture of the song. Tennant describes the song as being "inspired by the relationship between Tony Blair and George Bush."

So the track becomes even funnier when you digest lyrics like these:

See you on the TV/
Call you every day/
Fly across the ocean/
Just to let you get your way

And

I have to ask myself/
like any lover might/
Have you made a fool of me?/
Are you not Mr. Right?/

And still further

Is stupid really stupid/
or a different kind of smart?/
Do we really have a relationship/
so special in your heart?

Well, during a week of still more tedious and inflammatory debate over constitutional amendments (both nationally and here in Pennsyltucky) against same-sex marriage, the thought of a codependent love relationship between the Adam (Smith) and Steve (aka Saint Stephen) of our times made me chuckle, when little else did.

Significantly, Tennant goes on to say in the interview that

I feel "I’m with Stupid" is more of an effective political song . . . because "I’m with Stupid" is funny . . . and I think laughing at politicians and all the rest of it is quite a good way of neutering them slightly.

So at least I'm not as alone in using the un-heavy, un-deep, and un-real approach to dealing with social and political strife. Given the Murphy's Law version of of reality we're all living in these days ("whatever can go wrong, will"), sometimes you just gotta laugh instead of cry. Or laugh instead of gnash your dental work. Or rend your on-sale-50-percent-off-at-Boscov's garments. Or scream. Or lead a coup d'etat. Which does seem to be an appealing consideration these days.

Now little sets me off more than Europeans sneering at Americans--I've heard it all before, and repeated references to our dim-witted, calf-ropin', bull-ridin' method of handling international matters just aren't that interesting after a while. So we may try to homestead on too many holy sites, or Claudine Longet a few too many civilians, or give too many free--but oh-so-expensive--rides to that oil monkey on our backs. But none of us is perfect, right Europe? I mean, why take your dirty laundry to the drycleaners, when you can just do some ethnic cleansing in your own back yard?

Having said that (rather flippantly, I'll admit), certainly as a nation and a people, we Americans have a lot to answer for, domestically and internationally, currently and in the past. (Oh, and in the future, too, I suspect.) There's nothing particularly liberté, egalité, fraternité, about our current Freedom (no longer French) Revolution. But there sure is plenty of la mort!

Nonetheless, what I like about the lyrics to "I'm with Stupid" is that it makes the point that the BBC News often seems unable to grasp, that both Blair and Bush have taken each other up as partners in this geopolitical dance. Granted, it's not ballet. It's not even jazz, tap, or free-form interpretive. It's as if C-SPAN just starting showing season 3 of Dancing with the Stars: Baghdad Nights. Our Mister President stars as the too-tanned, two-left-footed George Hamilton, while the Honorable Prime Minister gives him a run for his fool-hardiness as the kewpie-doll-cute Drew Lachey (yes, one of those Lacheys), desperately trying to sashay his way out of pop obscurity.

Or is it the other way around? Or maybe one's Lisa Rinna and the other, Kelly Monaco? I'm confused.

Regardless, it takes two to cha-cha-cha, and while Tony does his darnedest to keep the rhythm and chant the rhyme, George steps all over his toes and insists on jitterbugging while Tony's trying to work on his waltz. And in dance as in much of life, you're only as good as your partner.

Of course, it's not like George would suddenly stop dancing if Tony left in a huff and went off to powder his nose. Showboater that our John Travolta of the Global Dancefloor is, he'd be happy to keep on stompin' at the Savoy, solo nolo contendere, while Donnie, Dickie, and Condie keep on clappin' and jivin' to that funky beat.

Meanwhile, the rest of us, the wallflowers of American Bandstand's "Rate-a-Presidential Record," stand around shuffling our feet, staring blankly into the lights . . . camera . . . inaction.

When Dick Clark finally sticks the mic in our faces for some pithy impertinence of Deney "Dubya" Terio's latest number, the best we can do is rate him a 78, no wait, a 45, no wait, a 33-1/3rd. (This rating is of course based on the one-thousand-points-of-lights scale Dubya's daddy perfected.)

He's not got a good beat, we mutter. And he sure ain't easy to dance to.