Eurovision

I guess I put this on myself when I decided to go expat in Europe.  The Atlantic Ocean is a giant barrier, possibly built to protect other continents from its cancer-like spread--though the monster has somehow found ways to penetrate parts of Asia and Northern Africa, despite its name.  There are even those upon North America that have fallen for Eurovision fever (Celine Dion was once a contestant).  Thankfully it mostly exists in forms of rumors, jokes in British sitcoms, or just hearing "Waterloo" on oldies radio.

I'd been well aware of the Eurovision Song Contest for years; our exchange students would give us accounts of funny men, hopping around in shiny, sequined suits, wind machines blowing their Fabio-hair; or that time when Finland won with a group of Gwar-wannabees.  Manda and I had even threatened having Eurovision parties, but the actuality was too frightening.

To those who don't know, Eurovision is an international song contest between the nations of Europe (Azerbaijan, Israel, even Morocco though are somehow eligible) that was started in 1956 to help everyone be friends.  It was a predecessor to the European Union (citation needed).  Every nation has their own contest to help find their country's champion entrant; meaning, no matter how horrible the song, it had managed to beat out a bunch of other terrible songs in order to go to the grand finals.

I had no intentions of watching it this year, or any year.  I knew nothing about the date, except it was in May sometime.  But, one night after I returned from a walk with the wife and the dogs, a group of hipsters in multi-colored suits, playing some not-Hot Chip song with all kinds of bright swirling lights (oh so many lights!) and suddenly I slipped into a psilocybin mushroom flashback; and when I regained lucidity again, it was an hour later; there was in front of me: a bowl of potato chips, a half drank bottle of beer, and an Austrian transvestite with a beard singing a power ballad.  There were Greeks on trampolines, Frenchmen rapping about mustaches, Polish women with double-D's churning butter, scrubbing clothes.  I don't remember the song, but the bouncing flesh sticks with me.  Nearly all the songs were terrible attempts to emulate pop styles from the recent past, though few had any melody strong enough to linger though until the next song.  The sole highlight was a lovely country duet by a Dutch couple.  It was a beautiful, heart-felt performance that had the crowd on their feet.  I leaned over to my wife and said, "Well, there's the clear winner."  She shook her head and said the song was too normal to possible do well.  She was right.  The bearded transvestite won by ridiculous margins.