By Mike Pizzalatto
If you think the “Dance Moms” show is crazy, over-the-top madness think again. The real drama is all on set. Blowouts between Assistant Directors and Producers, reminiscent of a German beer-hall brawl (“I am ze showrunnah!”); poor, unfortunate animals accidently locked in cars; late nights, early mornings; coffee, copious cups of glorious coffee; car accidents; forgotten costumes; competitions cancelling; scrambling; don’t know up from down, or left from right; this way, that way, now we’re off to Texas; bouncing from hotel to hotel, city to city; out of hairspray; more coffee; more travel; new hires, new fires; broken limbs; ADs, DPs, PCs, EPs, too many letters; walkie talk, Copy?!?!; bus rides; car-sick; nap-time, no time; heat, sleet, snow and rain; and mountains and mountains of paperwork.
Thirteen weeks down; thirteen to go. I think I smell a brand new show.