It’s almost over. In mere weeks there will be only frustrating presidential campaigns, ongoing wars for oil, recession, global warming, and the aftermath of the Myanmar catastrophe to occupy your mind. We'll each have to cope in our own ways. Grand Theft Auto 4 -- or is it 5 -- might be an option.
So I'm in Rowlett, Texas, this week. It usually happens that at least once during an American Idol season that I end up back home in Texas for a week to visit my mom at her nursing home and hang out with my brother and sister-in-law and their three kids.
It’s a whole other experience watching the show with them than with a big pack of gays. First of all, my family actually cares, which is an emotion I've been unfamiliar with since the third season ended, notwithstanding my momentary eagerness to see The Boogie single-handedly implode the entire setup or my unashamed, still-correct affection for Carly Smithson.
These are the family members I've written about who go to the same conservative evangelical church as Jason Castro, who, by the way, begins the show by yawning right into the camera, a move that I can't deny is both a strong and happiness-giving protest statement about … something … plus it’s visually compelling. Look, everyone! I couldn't be less excited to be here! Archuleta can't eat on performance day, but I can't stop nodding off!
Anyway, it's the tangential association between my family and JC that will provide this recap with something a little special: no bad swears. Like none. My family will want to read about themselves and they don't like it when I use the "f" word or the "sh" word or, well, any of those words. You're welcome, non-profanity-using family members. I hope you understand that you're cramping my vibrant literary style. Furthermore, it's also what’s kept me all season long from joining in the chorus of media voices telling the dreaded one to put down the bong and practice his songs. Because guess what? If my sources are correct, he’s not high. He’s just a doofus.
My 12-year-old niece has her favorites (Archie and Cook, of course), my sister-in-law loves the show for its own sake, my brother can barely stand to be in the room when it’s on, pausing in the living room only long enough to wonder aloud why we waste our time watching when there are perfectly good hockey games featuring brutal fights readily available on other channels.
I have to agree with him on the brutal fights. This show would be way more awesome if there were actual blood spilled. Oh, look, it’s Antonella Barba in the audience. Or Jamie-Lynn Sigler. One of them, at least. I think. Maybe if they were both there, they could fight and my brother might stop and watch.
Oh, and there’s Carly sitting right behind the judges. Carly Smithson, I mean. You know, THE BEST SINGER THEY’VE HAD ALL SEASON LONG? REMEMBER HER?
It’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Week (and please note that during the montage-y clip part where they explain what the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame means to the uninitiated, that the music-bed is a Kiss song. Kiss are not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, just so you know). But it might as well be Tribute to Martin Denny Week for as much as rock and roll means to the remaining Idols, since the show usually only allows one "rock" cast member per season. And it means even less to this season's "rock" cast member, David "I [Heart] Our Lady Peace" Cook. No, I won't let it go. I won't. Would it kill him to like some better bands? Wouldn't it be more excellent for everyone who has to come anywhere near him if he didn't become Scott Stapp? Or Chad Kroeger? Or … I don't know… any of those other guys in any of those other awful bands. I mean, maybe those two are both really nice, kind to their old nonfamous friends, maybe bought their moms nice houses and whatnot. A pony for the baby sister. But could their music stop sucking so much that it feels like I'm being screwdriver-surgeried in my skull when I hear it? Could he not become that person? Could he stop being those people now, please?
So here he is, Cook, ready to cover Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf." He’s grown his beard out a little more to provide some visual accompaniment to the song, even though it’s not actually about a wolf. Or even a wild dog. It's about Simon LeBon having a groupie brought to his hotel room by one of the roadies, then chasing her around the hot tub until she passes out from the effects of a speedball. Next day? In a taxi, cash in hand, doesn't remember where it came from or how she got in the car, cabbie's been given a note that reads, "Drop the bird off at Harvey Nichols."
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