An O.C. exercise: The Five Obstructions (Well, three, at least)

Being a choreographer isn’t all that bad, really. It’s being a male choreographer that gets somewhat awkward, at times. I mean, I like to dance, you know? And more significantly, I like to envision grand schemes in which others convey the motion of the human form, the ways in which our bodies can take flight while syncing to a hot, hot beat, or a sweepingly majestic orchestral hook…I’m versatile.
No, that doesn’t mean I’m gay. I get that a lot. Most men in this field are, of course, homosexual. To such an extent, really, that I felt at some point I’d need to hide my attractions for the female gender, just to get ahead. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, right? And sometimes a man’s got to do a man. (I’d use that line a lot more than I do, but, you know, I try to keep this heterosexuality thing quiet.) That was my younger-incarnation line of thinking, at least…Until I began to watch The O.C. every Thursday.
I think it was watching Marissa and Alex share that first lesbian kiss on the beach a few weeks back that really got to me. I mean, yeah, the raging heterosexual in me started getting all lascivious, like, “Hey, you fucking prudish censors, don’t pull away now,” but the part of me that hooks up with guys like Mark Morris in order to get continued work just flat-out cringed. Like, I was disgusted with myself. Was I pulling a Mischa Barton, and making out with the wrong gender just to advance my goddamned career? I’m so above and beyond that.
When I work with my dancers, I try to instill a sense of pride in the art form in the way in which they approach their evening’s endeavors. I try to get them to think about the rich history and tradition of dancing as a mode of expression, to get them to open their eyes to the ways that a graceful, limber body can convey a range of emotions heretofore untapped by the limitations of language. And I think they listen, and understand it, which makes me feel good about my role in propagating this grand pageantry of dance.
In that vein, that commitment to the craft, some of my dancers, though, are hard to get through to…like on this Faith Evans video I worked on yesterday, for instance. The motif? It was a high-school cheerleader-themed video shoot (I think the director was ripping off “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” just between you and me) and there was this one girl who kept complaining about her toes hurting. As you can imagine, this happens a lot with dancers. And while lesser choreographers may readily insist that gout is the classic big-red-toe disease – and I’m not naming any names, there – I myself am prone to thinking sometimes a girl just stubbed her toe. Simple as that.
Necole, that’s her name, is this totally sweet, pretty young babe. Sophisticated and not at all naive. Given her character, I insisted that she handle the distribution of props to the other dancers. Wait, let me explain. So as part of the routine I had drafted, various dancers congregate on the simulated playing field and toss lightsticks and batons to and fro. It may sound asinine, but, I swear, it really works well with the source material. Faith Evans, right?
This other dancer, a guy named Bradford, whom I had put in charge of managing a difficult baton-twirl/hip-flipping manuever, starts freaking out about how heavy and weighty the baton prop is. And, I swear, he was right. The prop department had whipped up some gargantuan lead-based relic. But we were on deadline, so I insisted Bradford work with what we had on-set. And the motherfucker challenged me! Said, “OK, give it a try, and see how difficult it is!” I’d show him.
So I stand up straight. Curl my toes. Bring my elbow perpendicular to my ribcage, and…a problem. I was dismayed to find that I could no longer control the mighty baton between my legs. It was just too heavy, too dominating, too physical…and Necole, Necole was looking at me. And it hit me, just like that, like that moment on the beach between Marissa and Alex, but from a different angle: I’d had enough of the gay-choreographer charade that was my life. I wanted to fuck Necole. Right then and there. I could see she had it in her, as well. Though I’m no semiotic genius, and am just a fabulously gifted choreographer, I could tell it was the whole baton thing that was getting her attention. This girl, this dancer, wanted to get avant-garde, you know? And engage in some very public, though very intimate, frolicking with the dancemaster. I motioned Bradford over…I had fucked him the week prior, I mean, despite my suspicion that he, too, was straight (It’s a sick fucking business, yeah?), so I knew he had no problem with sex, or physicality, or anything of that nature. I clutched Necole’s shoulders, and explained to Bradford that he needed to get the photographer’s light-deflecting umbrella, and hold it to the side, so as to shield the intense round of fucking that was about to ensue from the rest of the crew. Gaffers can’t handle impromptu sex, you know?
Bradford just smiled, and said cryptically, “Farnsworth Bentley is the original personal umbrella holder, that lucky bastard.” And I knew then, I had to put on the show of all shows, even for this audience of one. Biggie would’ve wanted it that way.
Actually, I’ve never seen The O.C.; I’m sure it’s pretty good.
The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.
Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, serving as exercises in hating the player, and not the game.