I spent most of Saturday watching Eurovision, the European song contest. I watch Eurovision for the same reason I read old pulps and watch low-budget horror: I can get a similar form of entertainment here and now and from Hollywood, but not at that level of crazy. It’s the difference between Snakes on a Plane and Sharktopus; the gap between albino-assassin-lineage-of-Christ ludicrous and let’s-bring-a-mummy-back-from-the-dead* ludicrous.

Eurovision is Sharktopus crazy.

I twittered madly throughout the concert. Many of the songs were great; I bought the official album, I’ve been listening to it constantly. But the songs are second in my mind to the promise of spectacle.

Estonia did a magic trick.

The Ukraine had sand painting.

Moldova–blessed Moldova–wore gnome hats and had an angel trumpeter on a unicycle.

That’s Eurovision.

*Let’s bring King Solomon back from the dead. Oh no, we raised the wrong guy! Now we have to chase him all over New York City and then Egypt! Good thing we brought our pet pig.

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