The Nittany Turkey

Primarily about Penn State football, this is a tale told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

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Certifiably Insane

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On a night when televised NBA and NHL playoffs involve teams of great interest to me, I’ll be watching American Idol. Sad, but true! I must be nuts—this Meleagris miscreant has obviously hit been hit by too many fowl balls. Is watching this TV dreck more entertaining that viewing professional sports being played at the very highest level? Hell, no! So, why the hell must I do it?

Obviously, because I’m addicted to this detritus.

Thank God there are only two more weeks of this crap. I’ve spent too much time concocting devious plans that will ensure David Archuleta’s denouement; my birdbrain has a headache from far too much agonizing over this little dork being the presumptive American Idol for 2008 when his singing bores the hell out of me. Have I mentioned that he’s 17 but looks 13? I’m sure I have. After all, I’m crazy, so repeating things is my bailiwick.

Aside from the pipsqueak favorite of the 9-11 year-old female demographic, two normal contestants remain: David Cook and the very sexy Syesha Mercado.

Tuesday’s penultimate performance show will feature those remaining three Idol wannabes singing three songlets each. Thus far, the length of songs sung by the contestants has been a minute-and-a-half. A little simple multiplication yields the actual performance time as 13.5 minutes. The program is listed from 8:00 PM to 9:03 PM (the extra three minutes is there just to piss DVR users off—it prevents them from automatically recording a program that starts at 9 PM on another network), which is 63 minutes. Subtracting the 13.5 minutes from 63 gives us 49.5 minutes of commercials and worthless, dumbass interaction between Ryan Seacrest and the contestants and so-called judges.

This week, the 49.5 minutes of fluff will include visits by the putative idols to their home towns, where if past instances hold any clues, they’ll meet with minor politicians and old schoolteachers. (Will David Archuleta visit his erstwhile nursery school, graduated a mere decade ago?) Some will receive mayoral proclamations and the like. They’ll cavort with normally annoying little sisters and cute but proud grandparents. Cheerleaders will cheer in smelly gymnasium assemblies honoring the visiting hometown heroes. We’ll be subjected to taped vignettes of these unentertaining festivities ad nauseam. The only related fact for which this large forest bird is grateful is that Jason Castro will not be one of the home returnees. (He was eliminated last week—thank you voters!)

Again, drawing upon the last several years’ recollections as a guide but without knowing for sure, this Turkey will put his titanium-studded neck on the block to tell you how the show will go. For their three songs, contestants will choose one themselves, with each the remaining two being chosen by the judges or the folks from back home. [This just in: the third song will be selected by the producers. –Ed.] The judges will offer their irrelevant commentary: Randy will act knowledgeable and critical, Paula will act sweet and forgiving, and Simon will act haughtily brutal (not much of an act, for Simon), following which the American public will vote repeatedly. (Last week, while there were 21.5 million voters, they cast 51 million votes. Busy little phoning and texting fingers, weren’t they?) On Wednesday night, we’ll know who is going to have to be cast in the role of midget killer to go up against the seemingly unbeatable Archuleta in the great, big, fucking over-hyped final next week. (The performance-to-fluff ratio will decrease accordingly.)

Could Archuleta be eliminated this week? Not likely, but stranger things have happened on American Idol in the past. If indeed it does happen, it would bring all the hysterical conspiracy theory nutballs and their black helicopters straight out of the refrigerator, but the explanation will be simple. The American voting public will have finally tired of listening to that same, smarmy voice with the same inflections played through the same squinty-eyed baby face week after week after week. It could happen and this Turkey will be the first to applaud the American voters for their diligence if it does. A Syesha vs. Cook finale might stand a chance of entertaining me.

(At this point, I expect people to chime in and say that it would never happen in a million years, just because the percentages are on their side. That way, if it does happen, they can be suitably shocked and it will automatically validate their conspiracy theories and such; if it doesn’t, they will say “I told you so.” Duh!)

I personally believe that some U.S. Americans don’t have maps… I don’t know where Miss Teen South Carolina and I were going with that line, but how about Archuleta dusting off that great Morris Albert leisure suit classic, “Feelings,” making it his swan song? Whattya think, such as?

I’m merely validating main assertion of this blog: I’m nuts, I’m addicted, and I really don’t give a shit who wins American Idol, as long as it isn’t the baby-faced, boring Archuleta. Come to think of it, I don’t even care if it is Archuleta. Let’s just get it over with, so I can return to my other addictions.

That said…

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Take all I have written heretofore with a grain of salt. Now I’ll tell you what I really want you to believe. This is my verbal ploy to show you that I have examined all sides of the issue, whether or not I actually have done so, and introduce my real feeling at the tail end, using the obnoxiously vogue and increasingly trite lead-in “that said.”

Class, the subject of my rant today was going to be “that said.” The subject phrase’s overuse has been getting on my nerves for perhaps ten years. Through this poultry platform, I have previously written about vogue phrases such as “it is what it is,” “it is all good,” and “not a problem,” but those were colloquialisms, while “that said” has found its way into stilted journalistic prose and into the annoying inscriptions of those who would emulate the stilted journalists—even bloggers. 🙂

“That said” has been kicking around for some time now, coming from the same clowns who gave us the non-epidemiological meaning (or vague lack of same) of the term “tipping point.” While the latter phrase might be used metaphorically to colorfully illustrate a point, the only use of “that said” is to flag a terminal thought as overridingly valid, essentially negating the verbal vacillation leading up to it. Real words such as “however” and “nevertheless” are being replaced by this abomination and your Turkey doesn’t like it! So, yes, that was what I was going to write about today.

That said, in doing research about “that said,” I came across a New York Times piece written almost six years ago by the great William Safire that covers the subject more thoroughly, more humorously, and more conclusively than this Pretend-O-Turkey could ever hope to. If you are as interested in the evolution of our language as I am and you lament the overuse of these vogue constructs as much as this irascible old Turkey, you must read Safire’s article.

Justice is Served

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This Turkey can watch American Idol sober next week! America voted and this time America agreed with the Foul Fowl. Jason Castro, whose act had deteriorated to badder than bad over the past four or five weeks, was mercifully eliminated from the competition, leaving just three good players and two good weeks of spirited, singing ass off performances.

Jason deserved to go, but the path forward now will be less clear. According to Ryan Seacrest, less than one million of 50 million total votes separated the top three vote getters. That portends well for some real competition. That is great!

As long as the little weenie David Archuleta is surprisingly eliminated next week because his pre-teen fan club finally succumbs to carpal tunnel syndrome after spam-voting him to the top for so many weeks, I’ll be happy. I cannot tell you enough how boring I find the kid. Don’t get me wrong: he has a great voice and excellent control of it. What he doesn’t offer is variety and maturity. Maybe in a couple of years when he starts shaving and singing with his eyes open, he’ll be more entertaining.

I don’t know how Randy Jackson and Simon Cowell can go home and live with themselves week after week after lionizing this 17 year-old boy wonder (who looks 13). Clearly, they have an agenda, which they have unswervingly demonstrated from the auditions right on through the competition. Paula Abdul is irrelevant, so her fawning is expected. She’s in her own world, anyway. (What the hell was that black and white dress she was wearing Wednesday night?)

Aw, what the hell. The “judges” are all irrelevant. They have no power over the contestants at this stage, other than jawboning the American voters, who probably aren’t paying much attention. These are people who boo if the “judges” are brutally honest about their heroes. That’s a product of our sanitized society more than anything else, where children are brought up in forced competition- and criticism-free environments, thereby rendering them incapable of accepting even the most constructive criticism when they ultimately receive it. (Yes, we’re fucking up whole generations with this “outcome based” crap or whatever they’re calling it these days, folks!)

Two weeks hence, I’d love to see a final between Syesha Mercado, who has been coming on strong singing her lovely ass off for the past few weeks, and David Cook, who has been consistently good through it all. Alas, that dream final will probably not come to pass. I will wake from my pipe dream, having to reconcile with the reality that the babyfaced kid is in the final, as I always knew in my heart of hearts he would be. If that is to be the case, I have two words for the survivor between Syesha and David Cook: KICK ASS!