I had lunch with
a friend this afternoon. She was one of the surfing
lesbians on the Logo reality series Curl Girls.
Maybe you didn't watch it too. And I asked her if she
was famous because of it. Did people recognize her
around places? She said she always assumes that no one
will know who she is because usually they
don't. But then sometimes they do. "If D-list
used to be the lowest you could go, then I'm
several letters down the alphabet. G-list maybe. Gay
celebrity. From a Logo show."
And so this
statement:
"I'M GOIN' TO HOLLYWOOOOOOD!!
WHOOOOOOO!!"
...the one
that opens Tuesday's show, in which 164 of the people
from the past several weeks who've been given
the gold tickets come to Los Angeles to be whittled
down to 24 semifinalists, is always the thing I dread
hearing the most on American Idol. Most of them
will be wood shavings after this week, swept back home to
wherever it is. But some will stay and seethe as the
final 24 become the final 12 become the top 10 and on
and on. And they'll try to find a shitty
apartment to live in over in Koreatown or Silver Lake or
Tustin. And they'll go on auditions and hate
themselves and do all sorts of fucked-up things to
lose weight and they'll network a lot and go out at
night hoping to run into Brett Ratner or someone
who'll give them any break at all. Because they
came here to be singers, but sooner or later they'll
write a one-man/woman show about their "crazy life in
this wacky City of Angels." And then,
eventually, one of their parents will die and they'll
move back home to help take care of the remaining one and
find someone there to marry. And they'll go to
work at a regular job and buy an enormous flat-screen
TV and talk to their friends about how they waited on
Meg Ryan this one time or went to a party with that one
short guy from Entourage and how they were
really sweet and down-to-earth.
Seacrest looks
sort of weirdly waxy and unwell this week. At least he
looks that way in the opening bit. Ooh, but I don't
care because now there's a montage of past
winners and also-rans, each of them weeping and
gnashing their teeth through Hollywood Week: Daughtry, Corey
Clark, Sanjaya, Antonella Barba's blond pal,
Kiki, then Antonella Barba clutching her own throat,
Gina with the red streak of hair, Sundancehead. Oh,
Sundancehead, what are you doing now? Anybody know?
I'm genuinely curious.
Seacrest talks
about the new Hollywood Week procedure. Everyone sings
again. Some will go sailing through. But some will, of
course, choke. All those fuck-ups are going to get
more than one chance. But if they blow that second
shot, then they're gone. Seacrest says,
"They'll sing for their life. And
it's gonna be...a bloodbath."
I perk up at
this. I LOVE bloodbaths.
Even better? For
the first time this year, a contestant will be allowed
to play instruments if they feel guided by that still small
voice in their soul that says, "You are
Irene Cara and you are going to sit at the
piano and warble "Out Here On My Own"
and you will burn with the fire of 10 million
stars." And you can thank Blake Lewis and his
laptop compositions from last year and Daughtry's
guitar-hero blah from the year before for all of
this.
So here comes the
blond woman from a couple weeks ago whose story hook is
that she's been sheltered from the world in a
human-size veal pen and has never seen an R-rated
movie or done any other naughty thing, ever. She hides
behind a keyboard and it gives her a kind of
singer-songwriter sensitivity, even though her voice
is nothing shocking. Well played, Miss Purity.
Next up is a
montage of people playing their chosen instruments badly. Or
playing them well and singing badly. Or playing them badly
and singing badly.
Next up is some
chick singing that Shania Twain song where one of the
lyrics is "the best thing about being a
woman." She's wearing a too-small black
tank top and a truly weird and bad skirt. It's red
plaid, it's microscopic, it's got a row
of pleats all the way around it, it's got a big
black built-in belt. Her boots rival the ones Julia Roberts
wore that time she wrangled Richard Gere to take her
shopping on Rodeo Drive. She sings the song like this.
"THE. BEST. THING. ABOUT. BEE. ING. A WHOO.
MUHN."
Surely there have
to be better things about being a woman than any of
what I'm looking at here.
Hey, let's
talk about commercials. Here's one for that
piece-of-shit movie where C.Z. Jones is an uptight
chef whose life would be so much better with some of
icky-sensualist Aaron Eckhart's tiramisu shoved down
her throat. No lie, this guy wears Crocs, yammers on about
opera. The kind of "ladies' man"
who'd give anyone of any gender the douche-chills.
I know all of this because I had the misfortune of having to
see that movie. Anyone who gave me that fuckin'
stale cookie for Valentine's Day would get
stabbed. On the other hand I love the trancey ad where
everyone's on little people-moving tracks. But then
some messy-haired "rebel" has to ruin it
for everyone. Oh, it's for Monster.com. I went
there once. I didn't see Gamera and moved on.
Commercials are
over. Some guy has decided to play drums while singing.
He's whatever the opposite is of this Gene Krupa
record I have where Anita O'Day sings. Much
less good than that. Of course Gene Krupa didn't
sing. He just drummed. So perhaps it's an unfair
comparison. Whatever. This guy sucks it.
"There's a rose in a fisted glove,"
sings the melismatic man up next. We've been
lucky in recent seasons because that sort of oversinging has
kind of been on the outs. It ain't cool, and lots of
people have clued in to that. Until now. But the
judges are loving him. Paula says, "A hundred
trazillion percent yes!" I hope that enthusiasm
includes a trazillion percent push to make the guy
lose the stiff, wet spiky hair.
And speaking of
stylists, I can see myself growing tired of Nursey O.
Williams fairly quickly, but not only because of her growly,
derivative singing style. I'm already feeling
like I want to fix her up in something a little less
local-news in the rock clothes department. Everything she
wears is the female equivalent of Chris Daughtry's
wallet chain. She's going into the top 24 at
least and probably going to move up higher than that.
So, Nurse Chick, I advise losing the overly ornate Dykes on
Bikes look. It's not going to win you any more
fans. And stylists, if she gets far enough along in
this show to receive your services, please begin
introducing her to the kind of high-end Ann Demeulemeester
chic-rocker Patti Smith clothes that'll help me
to quit being annoyed every time I have to look at
her. Jared Gold stuff would look good on her too. Hell,
even Christian from this season's Project
Runway could help her out if he didn't mind the
fact that she's neither nine feet tall nor 19
pounds. Nursey had a car accident before Hollywood
week, which she says reminded her how everything can be over
in a second and how important it is to keep on dyeing
her hair to make her look like a skunk.
Side note:
Randy's shoes. For a while they were fire-engine red
and made just as much noise. Today they're
Klan-robe white. If he doesn't wear blindingly
shiny loafers, does he forget where he put his feet?
Montage of people
forgetting the lyrics. My favorite is the girl who ends
her fucked-up moment with a very prettily trilled,
"Kill me nooooowwww!" I like her.
Next is the
Venezuelan Antonio Banderas who hluvs the ladeees. Hee wants
to kees you! Do joo want to kees heem too? Then he sings.
When he sings he's thinking about how the weird
hair grease must not drip into his mouth while he
seengs or eet weel bee all hover for heem. He's upset
that he got no kees from Paola.
First day over.
Second day begins. Seacrest calls it Idol's
version of "Hell Week." That's a good
one. Everybody knows that there are way more hell weeks on
this show than that.
The Boy Who Lives
in His Car is up next. We see him touch his hotel bed.
Calls down to room service to see if they can install a
steering wheel next to his pillow so he can bonk his
head into it in the middle of the night when the cops
rap on his window. Then he sings "Grace Kelly"
by Mika. They play that song on car radios? Anyway,
not that it's a big accomplishment but
he's already out-cooled an entire season-full of
Blake Lewis.
Gay boy with the
Jane Fonda in Klute hair seems to be doing
well. So does Carly (Hennessey) Smithson. But she's
got a blue tongue. In fact, during the course of this
episode it appears that everyone's got a blue
tongue. There's this restaurant in my part of Los
Angeles called Milk where they serve this thing called a
"Blue Velvet" cake. It's got
blueberries in it. And the cake is blue. Your teeth turn
blue. Your tongue turns blue. And when it exits your body,
you poop blue too. Not making that up. Anyway, either
Milk is catering these auditions or everyone is giving
the same backstage Smurf a blow job for good
luck.
The guy with the
shitty hair -- I know, I know, narrow it down -- and who
also had on the Blake Lewis argyle vest during the auditions
but who fancied himself a somewhat emo-ish rocker man
comes on to sing "Everything I Do I Do It For
You," or whatever that pure evil Bryan Adams
hit from the '90s was. Can anyone make that
piece of shit sound good? I mean besides Hijokaidan.
They'd know what to do to it. But otherwise,
can we dump that slice of freeze-dried audio barfness
into the toxic waste compost pile of history?
Probably not.
It's going to hate my ears forever.
Oh, good, here
comes supernerdtronicbot boy with the glasses. The one who
always wears the tie. You know the producers are like,
"Wear more of those. The uglier the better. We
want you to stand out. We love you and we love your
look. Keep doing that." He's being groomed to
be the next Sanjaya, mark my words. He sings what may
be one of my all-time favorite songs, "Love
Grows Where My Rosemary Goes," performed originally
by Edison Lighthouse. I had that 45 rpm record when I
was 6 years old and played it until my oldest brother,
Tim, used it as a Frisbee and broke it. My brothers --
there were four of us, my poor mother -- were always
doing shit like that. I did it too, though, so it's
not like I'm all scarred by it. My little
brother, Matt, had a copy of Lynn Anderson's
"I Never Promised You a Rose Garden"
that he played even more than I played "Love
Grows Where My Rosemary Goes," and I distinctly
remember my older brother, Mark, snapping it in half.
My little brother cried and threw a conniption fit and my
mom went out and bought him another copy. Then my dad
would come home and put in a Buck Owens 8-track and
that would be the end of all arguments. But anyway,
back to the glasses nerd. The judges don't dig it.
Simon actually gets up and walks out.
Day Two
Anyone who sucked
on Day 1 gets a second chance. Today they get to sing a
cappella for a few seconds for one final shot.
They'll be cut on the spot if they fail.
Here are people
who were spotlighted during the audition rounds who get
cut:
1. The single dad
with the long hair. I don't remember much more about
him.
2. Abstinence
Cheerleader, who happens to be wearing kind of flashy
slut-top at the moment. She'll be back when she fucks
off some of that baby fat.
3. The near-fatal
car accident woman from Texas.
4. The girl who
auditioned to earn her father's love.
5. The giant
African-American queen's sister. Apparently he
didn't bother helping her sing better like
Simon admonished during the audition.
6. The single mom
with the disabled daughter. Even worse? Her father died
right after the audition. She says he "was
killed." No explanation. AND THEY
FUCKIN' DUMP HER. And this girl can sing too. So who
knows what's up with that. Now she gets to go
back to Philadelphia and watch as her daughter remains
a victim of the American health care system's lack of
single-payer universal coverage.
Day Three
A hundred or so
cuts later, about 50-something remain. They all sing
again. This time with the band and some background singers.
Some are getting cut immediately if they truly fuck it
up. The rest will be cut or retained on
Wednesday's show where the Top 24 are selected.
Clearly going on
through:
1. The kid who
won Star Search Junior or whatever it was.
He's got that poised Zac Efron Jr. quality,
minus the occasional Efron-ish lapse into bitch-face.
This kid is kind of adorable. And I don't mean that
in a NAMBLA way. I like my men mannish, for the
record. But he's cute and not gross (yet) and
he totally knows what he's doing. He even makes
another shit-sandwich-of-a-Bryan-Adams-song sound
good.
2. Nerd boy is
back. This time he makes them goose-bumpy with a (will it
never end?) Josh Groban song. It's the tie. The tie
is his Batman Utility Belt.
3. Syesha. I only
know her name because she's sick with a cold and
can't speak. But she does that thing where she
pulls it out of who-knows-where and just does it.
4. The
good-looking Australian guy. The one Simon said was
"like a white soul singer." I
don't need to rehash that bit of dumb.
5. Carly
(Hennessey) Smithson. I really need to go back and listen to
her failed album so I can hear what she's
capable of. I mean, she's fine here. But I need
more proof. And also, it's not that I'm trying
to be all Woodward and Bernstein about her.
I'll leave that to the overly excited YouTube
conspiracy theorists. Because, at least now anyway,
it's clearly not against the rules to have
failed in the music industry before coming on this
show, even if RANDY JACKSON was the head of A&R at the
label you used to have a deal with. And now I suppose
that ringers aren't against the rules either. I
seriously don't care. Fantasia Barrino finally
having a moment of clarity, lifting her preggers belly up
and out of the lawn chair in front of her housing
project and stubbing out that menthol before dragging
herself off to the audition at the last minute is a
wonderful story. It's the populist promise of
Idol. But sometimes, like they say on
Rankin-Bass Christmas specials, "even a miracle needs
a hand." So if the producers went and sought
out the former Ms. Hennessey, so fuggin' what,
I say. She can sing. Let her sing. I want her husband to
come onstage and tattoo something on her tongue while
she does it, though. No real reason why. I just think
that would be kind of cool to watch. Also cool is the
way they keep showing the picture of her giving Simon the
laser-beam death stare from the audition rounds, like
she's about to rip up a picture of the pope (or
maybe Paula) and scream "Fight the real
enemy!"
6. The girl whose
father died two days before her original audition.
Thankfully, this week the show doesn't trip over
itself to wrench tears out of the whole world.
7. Living-in-Car
Boy. Gets cocky. Dismisses the band. Sings a cappella.
Tells them that he's got a lot of guts to do what he
just did. They cut him down. He cries. In fact,
he's cried quite a bit lately, risking becoming
the Ricky* of this show.
(*Oh,
you're not reading the Project Runway
recaps on this site, also written by me? You got something
more important to do? I mean, it's pretty clear
that you don't. You're reading a
blow-by-blow of an audition round for
American-fucking-Idol, for crying out loud.
But don't sweat it. They're archived.
You can catch up.)
Not Going
Through:
The annoying
pageant girl. Best thing about this? PAULA ABDUL IS THE
DECIDING NO. SHE AND RANDY SIDED AGAINST SIMON. This may be
a first in the show's history. What I like most
about this moment is the look of irritation on
Paula's face as the girl tries to browbeat
"the nice one" into giving her another
chance. Oh, wait, I'm sorry, did I say that's
what I liked best? I meant that what I liked best was seeing
the girl cry afterward. "I just wish I was
given a fair chance," she says. Hey, Miss
Florida Cream Cheese, that's what that WAS.
OK, the next
night is all about people riding in elevators and walking
across long rooms. The only things of note in the entire
episode are:
*The craft
services table, on which there is a Crock-Pot. I like to
think that it's full of those Swedish meatballs
you get when you take a break from shopping at Ikea. I
love those meatballs.
*The
soul-crushing Jumper tie-ins. I just saw that
movie earlier this week, and it's as good as a film
that stars Hayden Christensen can be.
Notable
Ejections:
1. The yellow hat
guy who says, "Now I don't know what
I'm going to do with my life."
2. Insanely hot
farmer boy. On the way out he asks Simon, "Hey, some
ol' boy named Bruce Weber's
waitin' down in the lobby for me. Y'all know
who that is? Says he wants me to take some pitchers of
me on a trampoline with a dog and a few other guys in
their drawers. Whadda y'all thank a'
that?"
3. The woman
whose infant is waiting for her at the bottom floor of the
doom elevator. "At least I get to go home to
this," she says. Yes, a money-sucking
shit-and-puke factory is my idea of a consolation prize
too. Seacrest says, "The important things,
right?" I LOVE IT WHEN SEACREST IS PHONY! I
think it may be edging out his gay-baiting antics with
Simon in terms of pure entertainment for me.
4. Car Boy.
Wearing a shitty hat. Dang, he IS the Ricky of this show
now. I think Idol should give him a promotional
Ford Focus to live in now. Or Cowell could give him at least
first and last month's rent on a little studio
with kitchenette in Alhambra. That'd be lunch
money for him.
5. Nerd Boy.
Guess they didn't want a Sanjaya this year. They
chose some little blond gayish kid who sang -- badly,
I want to add -- "Can You Feel the Love
Tonight?" Isn't that a great song? All about
restless warriors, kings, and vagabonds. Makes me wish
Elton John weren't playing for our team every
time I hear it.
6. It comes down
to the final two, a skinny girl and the plus-size model
from last week. You just know that Thin Mints thought she
was going to beat out Miss BBW. But the Crock-Pot of
Ikea meatballs was on the side of goodness. I
guarantee you that skinny girl didn't eat any. A
fatal error. They were lucky meatballs. That'll
teach you to be svelte and leggy.