This was an essay I wrote for my English class. It's about an I Love Lucy
pageant.
"How Do You Babalou?"
The small black Sony television was blaring at me. It sounded like a bee, producing a constant din that was definitely not music to my ears. I have, for most of my life, maintained that the television is a devilish device, invented by scientists long ago to torture those of us who are sensitive to everyday noises. The only reason I have a T.V., and cable for that matter, is that I love watching those old, or "classic" movies on channels like Turner Classic Movies and American Movie Classics. Actresses like Audrey Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman, and actors like Cary Grant and Robert Mitchum make almost every movie on those channels enjoyable. I guess I could say that I love any form of entertainment from the twenties to the forties and fifties very much. But when the car commercials and annoying modern kids' shows come on, I feel like destroying that wretched T.V. set, by any way or means possible.
I searched furtively for the remote. I turned up all of the sofa cushions, looked on the bookcase, looked in the kitchen, looked everywhere where that remote might be. As I opened the refrigerator door, I chuckled to myself, thinking that I would be just the person who would leave the remote in the fridge. I looked on all the shelves, behind the ages-old sour cream, behind the salsa, and under and behind the leftover Chinese food cartons, but still no remote. As I slammed the refrigerator door the thought occurred to me that I could just use the power button located on the television itself. I stormed over to the T.V. A familiar tune came from its tiny speakers—the "I Love Lucy" theme. My favorite show of all time. My hopes had risen and I settled on the disheveled sofa, only to have those hopes sink again. It was not "I Love Lucy". It was a freakin' commercial!
"Making its way to Bayonne, New Jersey, is the famous 'How Do You Babalou?' Pageant!" the announcer screamed at me from those little speakers, speakers I now wanted to destroy. Then I paused and continued to listen to the commercial, my interests whetted.
"Grab your guy, Ladies! Dress up as the famous Lucy and Ricky Ricardo and join others in our famous pageant! Participate in competitions to win the grand prize—one thousand dollars as well as crowns and a certificate declaring you and your partner as Mr. and Mrs. I Love Lucy!" The commercial came to a close and I flipped the T.V. off, grateful to relieve myself from more annoying commercials. Now there was something that sounded like fun.
It took me forever to convince my best friend Christopher to be my Ricky. He looked the part with his Hispanic origins. After two weeks of begging, I still hadn't convinced him. Finally, I had to bribe him. I told him I would give him my most prized possession—my record player. It was hard, but to me, the pageant was worth it.
To qualify for the pageant, Chris and I had to take a Polaroid of us in full costume and makeup, as well get ten "I Love Lucy" trivia questions right. I was quite worried that I had gotten all of the questions wrong. My worries were quieted though, when I got a phone call from the director. Chris and I had made it! We were in the pageant!
The day of the pageant finally arrived. I was in my black-and-white circle skirt and matching blouse. I pulled my red hair up into a curly bun at the back of my head. I put on a red lipstick, and was shocked at its results. I suppose it was called "Red Rapture" for a reason.
Chris arrived at my door. He was the spitting image of Ricky Ricardo. He had on a fifties-style suit. His inky black hair was slicked back with hair gel. Slung over his shoulder was a conga drum. "Don't say a word," he said.
We got into my little red corvette (yes, I am a fan of The Artist Formerly Known as Prince). I drove us to Bayonne's Convention Center, where the pageant was to be held. My eyes passed other Lucy and Ricky look- alikes. Butterflies fluttered around in my stomach, tickling its edges until I was almost shaking with nervousness. Chris put a reassuring arm around my shoulder. We walked into the large dome-shaped building.
It seemed years before the first competition got underway. This one was for the Ricky's. The Ricky's got in a line on a large stage. Conga music came from the speakers that were placed on either side. All the Ricky's started to bang on their drums, attempting their best impression of the infamous Ricky Ricardo, bandleader. In spite of myself, I had to admit that my Christopher looked the best. He banged relentlessly on his drum, and his hair started to come loose from its tight arrangement. He really looked like Ricky and I had to admit it. He looked handsome. When that thought came to mind, I stopped, shocked at myself. I had never thought of Christopher in that way. He was, well, my best friend. Trying to find an excuse to this strange attraction, I figured that all the fumes from Christopher's hair gel had gotten to my brain.
I snapped out of my reverie to see that the conga song was over, and it was judging time. The points, being that this was the first competition, were on a scale from one to a hundred. I waited with baited breath as the judges went through each contestant. Many of the scores were low, in the twenties to fifties. A man, who had done, in my opinion, as well as Chris, got a point total of ninety. I held my breath as the judges moved to stand in front of Chris. I shut my eyes tightly. One of the judges, an older, bespectacled man, told Chris his score. A ninety-eight!
I could barely contain my excitement while the judges went through the rest of the entrants. The bespectacled old fellow said to the audience, which was mostly Lucy's like myself that all the contestants who got a point total of fewer than forty-five were out of the running. I did quick arithmetic in my head. That meant that there were about twenty couples left.
The next event was for the Lucy's. We were lined up on the same stage where the Ricky's had stood moments before. Our task was to do our best Lucy cry, that "Wwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh" thing. I breathed a sigh of relief. In grade school, no one could do a better Lucy cry than I. One by one, the Lucy's tried their best. As my turn approached, I began to get nervous again. I looked out to the Ricky's, searching out Chris's face. I found him, and he gave me that devilish grin of his. I felt better, and realized it was my turn. I sucked in my breath and scrunched up my face. "Wwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!" came from my lips. As soon as it had come, my turn was over.
The judges approached the stage. The scores for this round were also on the one to a hundred scale. Unlike the Ricky's, the Lucy's scored pretty high. The same old gentleman with the spectacles came to me and gave me a smile. "Ninety-nine!" he said. My tense body relaxed.
I walked off the stage and gave Chris a huge hug. "Great job, Lucy!" he said.
Since the scores made by the Lucy's were considerably higher than the previous round, any Lucy's who scored under seventy were dismissed. That left eleven entrants.
The next competition was based on "The Ricardo's Go to Hollywood" episodes of "I Love Lucy". In those episodes, the Ricardo's and the Mertzes take a vacation to Hollywood while Ricky films a movie. The hotel the Ricardo's and the Mertzes stayed in had a luxurious pool. In turn, this event was a Lucy and Ricky swimsuit runway competition. We were given old-fashioned swimsuits.
Chris said to me as he held up rather short swimsuit trunks, "Now you expect me to wear this thing?"
"Christopher, just put them on!" I pushed him towards the dressing room door.
Chris and I were the first to go down the runway. The fourteen other couples followed after us. The judges only gave ten points for this round, being as it was the last round before the semi-finalists were chosen. We ended up with a total of eleven points. Chris got us an extra point. He was the only one of the Ricky's that didn't try to tug his shorts down so they reached mid-knee.
We were one of the three finalists who had been chosen by highest scores. The last event was taken from one of my favorite episodes. Lucy's crazy antic in this particular episode was to raise chickens under Ricky's nose. Ricky came home early one evening. Lucy's arms were full of eggs, which she stuffed down her shirt. Ricky then prompted her to dance the tango with him. Our task in the final round was to dance the tango, eggs down the Lucy's blouses, and try not to break a single egg. Chris and I thought we had it made. We had been dancing with each other since I was in my training bra. We were not too worried.
"The Tango Song", as I call it, blasted through the scratchy speakers in the ballroom of the Convention center. My shirt was good and stuffed with eggs. I stepped into Chris's arms.
I heard the crunching of those delicate eggshells all around me. No yolk or white spread on my blouse, though. Good thing, I suppose. That blouse was expensive.
The dance ended. No eggshells in my blouse had broken. Chris and I had won! The judges announced us as the winners. I was so happy, I forgot the eggs in my shirt. I jumped into Chris's arms and had given him a peck on the cheek before I realized we were both sticky, sticky with egg.
We were crowned Mr. and Mrs. (well, Ms. in our case) I Love Lucy. We also got the one thousand dollars. With my half, five hundred dollars, I bought a brand new record player, one even better than my previous one.
In case you're wondering which you probably are, if Chris and I ever got together, well, I'll just have to leave you in suspense.
"How Do You Babalou?"
The small black Sony television was blaring at me. It sounded like a bee, producing a constant din that was definitely not music to my ears. I have, for most of my life, maintained that the television is a devilish device, invented by scientists long ago to torture those of us who are sensitive to everyday noises. The only reason I have a T.V., and cable for that matter, is that I love watching those old, or "classic" movies on channels like Turner Classic Movies and American Movie Classics. Actresses like Audrey Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman, and actors like Cary Grant and Robert Mitchum make almost every movie on those channels enjoyable. I guess I could say that I love any form of entertainment from the twenties to the forties and fifties very much. But when the car commercials and annoying modern kids' shows come on, I feel like destroying that wretched T.V. set, by any way or means possible.
I searched furtively for the remote. I turned up all of the sofa cushions, looked on the bookcase, looked in the kitchen, looked everywhere where that remote might be. As I opened the refrigerator door, I chuckled to myself, thinking that I would be just the person who would leave the remote in the fridge. I looked on all the shelves, behind the ages-old sour cream, behind the salsa, and under and behind the leftover Chinese food cartons, but still no remote. As I slammed the refrigerator door the thought occurred to me that I could just use the power button located on the television itself. I stormed over to the T.V. A familiar tune came from its tiny speakers—the "I Love Lucy" theme. My favorite show of all time. My hopes had risen and I settled on the disheveled sofa, only to have those hopes sink again. It was not "I Love Lucy". It was a freakin' commercial!
"Making its way to Bayonne, New Jersey, is the famous 'How Do You Babalou?' Pageant!" the announcer screamed at me from those little speakers, speakers I now wanted to destroy. Then I paused and continued to listen to the commercial, my interests whetted.
"Grab your guy, Ladies! Dress up as the famous Lucy and Ricky Ricardo and join others in our famous pageant! Participate in competitions to win the grand prize—one thousand dollars as well as crowns and a certificate declaring you and your partner as Mr. and Mrs. I Love Lucy!" The commercial came to a close and I flipped the T.V. off, grateful to relieve myself from more annoying commercials. Now there was something that sounded like fun.
It took me forever to convince my best friend Christopher to be my Ricky. He looked the part with his Hispanic origins. After two weeks of begging, I still hadn't convinced him. Finally, I had to bribe him. I told him I would give him my most prized possession—my record player. It was hard, but to me, the pageant was worth it.
To qualify for the pageant, Chris and I had to take a Polaroid of us in full costume and makeup, as well get ten "I Love Lucy" trivia questions right. I was quite worried that I had gotten all of the questions wrong. My worries were quieted though, when I got a phone call from the director. Chris and I had made it! We were in the pageant!
The day of the pageant finally arrived. I was in my black-and-white circle skirt and matching blouse. I pulled my red hair up into a curly bun at the back of my head. I put on a red lipstick, and was shocked at its results. I suppose it was called "Red Rapture" for a reason.
Chris arrived at my door. He was the spitting image of Ricky Ricardo. He had on a fifties-style suit. His inky black hair was slicked back with hair gel. Slung over his shoulder was a conga drum. "Don't say a word," he said.
We got into my little red corvette (yes, I am a fan of The Artist Formerly Known as Prince). I drove us to Bayonne's Convention Center, where the pageant was to be held. My eyes passed other Lucy and Ricky look- alikes. Butterflies fluttered around in my stomach, tickling its edges until I was almost shaking with nervousness. Chris put a reassuring arm around my shoulder. We walked into the large dome-shaped building.
It seemed years before the first competition got underway. This one was for the Ricky's. The Ricky's got in a line on a large stage. Conga music came from the speakers that were placed on either side. All the Ricky's started to bang on their drums, attempting their best impression of the infamous Ricky Ricardo, bandleader. In spite of myself, I had to admit that my Christopher looked the best. He banged relentlessly on his drum, and his hair started to come loose from its tight arrangement. He really looked like Ricky and I had to admit it. He looked handsome. When that thought came to mind, I stopped, shocked at myself. I had never thought of Christopher in that way. He was, well, my best friend. Trying to find an excuse to this strange attraction, I figured that all the fumes from Christopher's hair gel had gotten to my brain.
I snapped out of my reverie to see that the conga song was over, and it was judging time. The points, being that this was the first competition, were on a scale from one to a hundred. I waited with baited breath as the judges went through each contestant. Many of the scores were low, in the twenties to fifties. A man, who had done, in my opinion, as well as Chris, got a point total of ninety. I held my breath as the judges moved to stand in front of Chris. I shut my eyes tightly. One of the judges, an older, bespectacled man, told Chris his score. A ninety-eight!
I could barely contain my excitement while the judges went through the rest of the entrants. The bespectacled old fellow said to the audience, which was mostly Lucy's like myself that all the contestants who got a point total of fewer than forty-five were out of the running. I did quick arithmetic in my head. That meant that there were about twenty couples left.
The next event was for the Lucy's. We were lined up on the same stage where the Ricky's had stood moments before. Our task was to do our best Lucy cry, that "Wwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh" thing. I breathed a sigh of relief. In grade school, no one could do a better Lucy cry than I. One by one, the Lucy's tried their best. As my turn approached, I began to get nervous again. I looked out to the Ricky's, searching out Chris's face. I found him, and he gave me that devilish grin of his. I felt better, and realized it was my turn. I sucked in my breath and scrunched up my face. "Wwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!" came from my lips. As soon as it had come, my turn was over.
The judges approached the stage. The scores for this round were also on the one to a hundred scale. Unlike the Ricky's, the Lucy's scored pretty high. The same old gentleman with the spectacles came to me and gave me a smile. "Ninety-nine!" he said. My tense body relaxed.
I walked off the stage and gave Chris a huge hug. "Great job, Lucy!" he said.
Since the scores made by the Lucy's were considerably higher than the previous round, any Lucy's who scored under seventy were dismissed. That left eleven entrants.
The next competition was based on "The Ricardo's Go to Hollywood" episodes of "I Love Lucy". In those episodes, the Ricardo's and the Mertzes take a vacation to Hollywood while Ricky films a movie. The hotel the Ricardo's and the Mertzes stayed in had a luxurious pool. In turn, this event was a Lucy and Ricky swimsuit runway competition. We were given old-fashioned swimsuits.
Chris said to me as he held up rather short swimsuit trunks, "Now you expect me to wear this thing?"
"Christopher, just put them on!" I pushed him towards the dressing room door.
Chris and I were the first to go down the runway. The fourteen other couples followed after us. The judges only gave ten points for this round, being as it was the last round before the semi-finalists were chosen. We ended up with a total of eleven points. Chris got us an extra point. He was the only one of the Ricky's that didn't try to tug his shorts down so they reached mid-knee.
We were one of the three finalists who had been chosen by highest scores. The last event was taken from one of my favorite episodes. Lucy's crazy antic in this particular episode was to raise chickens under Ricky's nose. Ricky came home early one evening. Lucy's arms were full of eggs, which she stuffed down her shirt. Ricky then prompted her to dance the tango with him. Our task in the final round was to dance the tango, eggs down the Lucy's blouses, and try not to break a single egg. Chris and I thought we had it made. We had been dancing with each other since I was in my training bra. We were not too worried.
"The Tango Song", as I call it, blasted through the scratchy speakers in the ballroom of the Convention center. My shirt was good and stuffed with eggs. I stepped into Chris's arms.
I heard the crunching of those delicate eggshells all around me. No yolk or white spread on my blouse, though. Good thing, I suppose. That blouse was expensive.
The dance ended. No eggshells in my blouse had broken. Chris and I had won! The judges announced us as the winners. I was so happy, I forgot the eggs in my shirt. I jumped into Chris's arms and had given him a peck on the cheek before I realized we were both sticky, sticky with egg.
We were crowned Mr. and Mrs. (well, Ms. in our case) I Love Lucy. We also got the one thousand dollars. With my half, five hundred dollars, I bought a brand new record player, one even better than my previous one.
In case you're wondering which you probably are, if Chris and I ever got together, well, I'll just have to leave you in suspense.