The stars from afar

Can anyone make sense of my complete and unconditional infatuation with the TV program "Dancing with the Stars"?

Because, for the life of me, I can't.

I'm hopelessly addicted. I admit it.

When it comes to television, I'm usually pretty good. Sure, I log a bit time on HGTV and Food Network, and I can get hooked on a good "Masterpiece Theater" with the best of them. But "Dancing with the Stars"? What does it mean?

Perhaps it's who DWTS defines as "stars." Mostly third- and fourth-tier (if that) entertainers, models, sports figures, and other certifiably oddball personalities. Where do they find these people? And why are they there? Do they honestly think a gig on DWTS will stop a career in free fall toward show business oblivion? Two words -- resounding thud.

Or is it the judges: Stuffy old Len? Excitable little Bruno? Sweet Carrie Ann? (Sweet? hah! Foxtrot over that gal's toes during a spin across the ballroom floor. . . how fast can you say "Dancing with a hellcat"?)

No, wait, the professional dancers: Lip-glossed, helmet-haired, klieg light smiles, tight patoots tucked into some of the most amazingly fussy, feathery, effulgent costumes I've ever seen. That goes for the guys, too.

Or maybe it's simply the fact that these people can stay erect wearing high heels.

All in all, some enchanted evening.

And, so help me God, it is. I am completely and unequivocably captivated by DWTS. What have I become?