No, I’m not writing about UCLA, Florida, Ohio State, and who da hell was the fourth? Kansas? Anyhow, no, I’m writing about American Idol. Dear, dear mindless American Idol—the perfect vacuous escape from our accumulated angst associated with the great Paris Hilton sentencing debacle.
With that said, is anything I write here consequential to anybody or anything? Hell no! But it feels good just to vomit out this bile through my keyboard. It is at once purgative and just plain biliously pleasing. I love my bile. You see, I have no gall bladder to store it in, so it must be regurgitated through my computer in order not to accumulate internally. Get it? I thought you would! Read on for more incoherent ranting.
Where are we with American Idol, already? Well, with the two booted off last week, namely Phil and Chris, we’re now stuck with Blake, Jordin, Lakisha, and Melinda. The Turkey’s friend Susie would like to see a Blake vs. Jordin final. At first I scoffed, as this Turkey does when faced with any simple statement that makes sense. Why, hell no—I don’t want Blake hanging around! He’s clearly inferior to the broads in this competition (and, yeah, the remaining ones are what we refer to as substantial women—and you know that this Turkey fancies big butts, but I digress). So, wait a second here, I’m thinking. You know how it is when I’m thinking. It doesn’t happen that often and you can smell the gear oil burning and all. But I’m thinking—Hey, why the hell NOT? Lakisha’s gospel screeching is getting on my nerves and Melinda’s professional perfection is somehow mechanical and boring to me, albeit pleasing. But Jordin is out there, a 17 year-old with a 30 year-old body and an equally mature voice, yet the fresh approach of a highly confident teenager who KNOWS she can win this thing. So, yeah, Jordin in the finals would be great. And regardless of what I think of Blake, that particular Pillsbury Bake-Off tandem is the only duo that really makes sense in the context of decent entertainment with a potential for originality and variety. I damn well like this idea.
We’ll know in two weeks who the finalists are. The finals are always fun. You had yer Clarkson/Guarini, yer Studdard/Aiken, yer Fantasia/DeGarmo, yer Bo/Carrie, and yer Hicks/McPhee. This year, the best sing-off, the best chance for a highly polarized viewing audience is indeed with the matchup proposed by good old Susie.
If you read back through my bullshit on this inane stuff, you’ll see how I’ve vacillated. I originally said that if the finals weren’t Melinda and Lakisha, I’d kiss your ass in Burdines’ window. (Pretty safe, because the Burdines name has disappeared in favor of Macy*s.) Now, I think of that as a boring, if not annoying, final matchup. The prospect of fresh faces, fresh voices, and fresh ideas makes me want to root for Jordin and Blake.
(Of course, if THAT doesn’t work out, I’ll be back here pimping for someone else next week.)
Tonight should be interesting. Barry Gibb is the Geriatric Guest Guru of the Week. You know, the Barry Gibb of BeeGees fame? The guy who stutters musically. The rat-a-tat-tat machine gun vibrato guy? The remaing Gibb brother? You know? The guy who once sang a duo with Barbra Streisand about not bringing her flowers? “Losin’ ya now-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow, ‘ow can I see tomorrow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow…?” You know that guy, right? WHAT THE HELL IS HE GOING TO TEACH THESE PEOPLE????? Will he have them all stuttering out period pieces from 1977 in enraptured falsetto? “Night fever, night fev-ahhhhhh, you know how ta DO IT (oh yeah)…”
I can hardly wait for the fun to begin. See ya later!