simon

“You are the Simon,” she says.

“The Simon?”

“Yes.”

“You know - I consider that a compliment.”

“Of course - you would.”

She is comparing the three of us to American Idol judges, and explaining to me that I am too honest - that if I don’t dumb it down, I’m gonna be on ballet patrol all season. The fact that I am honest, does not seem to have much bearing on the situation. The fact that my integrity is stake, as well as the integrity of the convention - also, does not seem to be a factor.

“Look," she says, "judging ballet is actually a step up. It garners a lot of respect - and you are good at it.”

“Yes, but jazz is what I do - it s who I am. Ballet is tedious. And wait a SECOND . . . if I am the Simon, who is the Paula?”

“Alyx.”

“Alyx?” It’s true - she can’t see a single constructive thing unless it’s upbeat - which means even the kids who cannot clap their hands in-sync win gold medals. “So then Bart is the Randy Jackson? Why is he the Randy?”

“Bart’s a Good-Time-Charlie. Face it honey - the kids love you, you are really supportive when you watch them, but you are consistently the low scoring judge. And people just want to hear nice things.”

“No - they want to hear how to get better.”

“Not necessarily - they want to hear how good they already are.”

Even if they are living a lie? And while we are on the subject of Bart . . . . . let’s talk about Mr. Good-Time-Charlie. This man lived my dream life - with a mother who choreographed Broadway shows, he was choreographing videos for Janet Jackson and the real Paula Abdul when I was 13. I studied this guy, learned from him . . . and here he sits - telling these dancers “great job” and then walks in the judges room rolling his eyes at how pathetic they are. How the hell does he get to stay in the jazz section?

“Ballet,” I tell her.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes - at least I can do my job.”

”I know it’s frustrating.”

She doesn’t really know the half of it.