Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

CamPAINing

Warning:  Slight political, opinionated content right ahead!  Get to the lifeboats!

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There's a pretty stupid saying people throw around to make excuses for poor behavior.  Don't hate the playa, hate the game.

Kind of an urban offshoot of Ghandi's "Hate the sin, love the sinner" quote.

I don't like it.

According to UrbanDictionary.com, it translates to: Do not fault the successful participant in a flawed system; try instead to discern and rebuke that aspect of its organization which allows or encourages the behavior that has provoked your displeasure.

I see.  So people involved in activities which may be morally bankrupt, suspect, or just plain wrong, are not the problem.  The problem lies within other people, or some mysterious "system" which allows the bad behavior to flourish.

Don't be mad at Eliot for dicking around on you repeatedly with high priced call girls, Mrs. Spitzer.  He's a victim.  Don't you see that it was your lifestyle of trust and faithfulness which allowed this to occur?  (Update:  This past week another call girl came forward corroberating the testimony of Ashley Dupre, and included many tidbits about his predilection for sex toys, props, and his need to keep his socks on at all times.)

And certainly Michael was a VICKtim, too, right?  All that money and privilege and fame!  That's what made it possible for him to mutilate and destroy all those dogs for profit.  It had nothing to do with him being a morally bankrupt, spoiled f*ck-up.

Insert sound of me vomiting on my own shoes.

Sorry, but I don't buy into the whole playa/game approach to life.  I'm more of a personal responsibility kind of gal.  If you spill the milk, say "I spilled the milk" and CLEAN IT UP.  Don't look around for someone else upon which to foist the blame.

Unfortunately, the whole playa/game concept is the foundation of the political campaign process.  Say or do whatever is needed to swing a vote.  Pretend or spin, or flat out lie to embellish a career, or deflect a criticism.  And undercut, connive, and slither, in whatever means necessary to make your opponent into the anti-Christ.

Political posturing is nothing new.  It's been around as long as politics.  In what is truly nothing but a Student Council election on the national level, the candidates make posters, schmooze, talk out both sides of their mouths, and snipe about their rivals.

The hope being that there are enough mindless, lazy lemmings in the voter pool who are easily swayed, or will believe anything they hear.

The Obama / Clinton / McCain race is entering its truly ugly stage.

Personally, I hated it when Barack went bowling.  It was as much a contrived photo op as was Hillary growing testicles, donning a "blue collar" and throwing back a shot and a beer.

I hate the constant taking out of context every word uttered by an opponent and twisting it to make it seem like verbiage from the underworld.  "Cling."  Dear God, I never knew how horrid that word was, and am so thankful Hill came along and enlightened me. 

Puh-leez.  I do believe one of the oldest and most beloved Christian standards goes, "and I shall CLING to the old rugged cross..."

Care to comment, Ms. Clinton?  Condemn the millions who have sung this song, the millions who will be singing it in churches all across the land tomorrow?  Hello? Hel-lo ... Bueller?  Bueller...

Never mind.

It's not her fault.  It's the GAME.

Just like John McCain can't be held responsible for his comments late this week about Obama being the candidate "endorsed" by Hamas.

It's the GAME.  And the game is warp, spin, and win at all costs.

You know, a candidate has ZERO control over who decides to like them, endorse them, back them.  And in the case of Hamas, Obama has repeatedly condemned the statements, and the organization.

What if the National Organization of Donkey F*ckers came forward and endorsed John McCain.  Does that automatically make him a Donkey F*cker?

No, it doesn't.  But you'd better believe there's someone in the political machine on the other side of the aisle who would put together a television ad...

It's 3am.  Open on shots of sleeping, peaceful, beatific children.

Cut to exterior shot of the White House, sound of a ringing phone.

More children.

More ringing.

Voiceover:  When the phone rings in the White House at 3am, who do you want answering it?

Insert sound of donkey copulation as phone continues to go unanswered.

Now, now - don't hate the one who would pay for that ad, hate the process that would allow the ad to happen.

Politicians and wannabes will do whatever it takes to appeal to their base, and suck in those undecided, yet simple minded - and as I said before - LAZY voters.  The ones who aren't too good at connecting the dots, or doing a smidgen of research to see if something is actually true or just a pile of bull sewage.

HRC (Her Royal Clintoness) is now making a huge to do over Obama not debating her again.  Yes, again.  21 debates is not enough. 

Well, yes, actually it is.  It's TOO much.

But because he has not agreed to another, her machine has pounced on this as him avoiding her, him being afraid to talk about the issues, him quivering over the mere thought of having to go another round against Muhammed Hilli.

21 debates, Hillary.  Give it a rest.  Go down another shot or adjust your balls on camera.  Something that reinforces your he-man, bullet-dodging image.

Right now, both sides are simply waiting, hungering, yearning for the opponent to make that one misstep, have that one verbal bobble, find that one skeleton that will be the undoing of their candidacy.

Too bad they aren't running against Tony Zirkle, a US Congresisonal candidate out of Indiana.

He recently spoke at a rally - wait, it was a gathering - um, no, actually we'll call it a party.  After all there was a cake, balloons, someone being honored.

Zirkle was invited, and spoke, to the Nationalist Socialist Workers Party.  Yes, that's right, those lovely swastika worshippers, at a fete celebrating Hitler's birthday last weekend in Chicago.

I'm not kidding.

He defends his actions. 

"I told (Channel 16, WNDU in South Bend) in the beginning that I'd speak to any group that wanted me to speak."

And speak he did, catering to the group's slanted, cockeyed, asshatted, white supremicist beliefs.  He talked about the effect of pornography and prostitution on young, white women and girls.

I see.  Cause we all know that only WHITE women and girls are important.  We need them to breed more white supremicists, after all. 

You know, it's one thing to be supported by a group like this - again, a candidate has no control over who wants them to win.  But to actually go into the snake pit and suck the venom?

Yep - that's exactly the kind of political misstep the big kids are watching one another for right now.

I'll keep my ear to the ground for you, Hill and Barack.  If I hear anything about Johnny accepting the invite to be the keynote speaker at the Donkey Cotilion, you'll be the first to know.

Becks Sweat Causes "Foul"

It is not uncommon, especially in the arena of professional soccer, for the players to swap jerseys with their opposing counterparts after a game as a gesture of goodwill.

(I personally think it is also a gesture of "Look how hot we are without out shirts on", but that's ok with me.)

On special occasions, players will remove their sweat laden jerseys and hand them to fans in the stands.  Kids are often the recipients - but then, they are also the ones holding handmade signs, wearing replica jerseys with their favorite players name/number, etc.  They are also the ones that make for the best photo op.

Face it, a clip of a half naked Christian Ronaldo benevolently handing his jersey to a worshipful, salivating, awestruck 10 year old boy is more likely to find its way to Fox Sports or the ESPN highlights reels than if he hands it to a zaftig, half drunk, longshoreman with smeared face paint.

But regardless of who the lucky recipient is, the gesture is meant to provide a super special, once in a lifetime, sell it on eBay only if you are threatened with starvation, eviction from your home, and need pricey anal wart surgery, memento. 

I realize Americans still don't get this, late to the soccer party as we area all, but futbol IS the world's most beloved sport. 

Let me put it into terms you may better understand... receiving the stankified jersey of an international soccer god is the equivalent of a swooning housewife receiving a sweat soaked scarf from Elvis during a concert back in the day.

David Beckham makes a fairly regular habit out of bequeathing his sopping wet jersey to a lucky fan.  And we women make a fairly regular habit of enjoying watching the process.  Face it, the guy has some killer abs.

So it was that he picked out a lucky boy after a match at Aloha Stadium in Honolulu on February 20.

The 10 year old son of Eric and Yoshika Ho, was holding a handmade sign and cheering.  Responding to the enthusiasm, Beckham made the reach out and handed his jersey to the boy - who was also standing with his buddy and fellow soccer team mate, the nine year old son of Wilfred and Yoshika Ho.

Immediately a tussle erupted between the kids in the front row.  Like a ball hogging midfielder, they all wanted possession.  A policeman intervened and handed the jersey over to the Ho boy.

The Kerrs wanted it back, maintaining, "(Beckham) pointed out that he wanted our son to have it."

The Hos point to a front page photo from the Honolulu as proof that, "My son got the shirt, their kid started trying to pry it away," according to Papa Ho.

Well, the photo doesn't exactly show that.

   

In it, Ho's son is in a tug-of-war with two other kids, but the Kerr's son is not even in the fray, but standing behind the action, still holding his sign.

Joint custody was initially proposed by the Kerrs, but Wilfred apparently doesn't play well with others saying, "we tried to clarify we were the owner and they proceeded to get upset so we never let them borrow it."

So what's a boy (or his parents) supposed to do?

Get an attorney, that's what!  This is America, dammit!  Sing with me!

Oh-oh, say can you sue!

For a jersey so white.

What so proudly Becks wore

At the Galaxy's beating

And the parents did swear!

The curses filling the air!

Give proof to a judge

That the jersey is theirs.

Oh-oh, say does that law-yer expect to get pay-aid

O'er a jersey so-o rank, and by now, a tad frayed.

Alexi Lalas, general manager of the LA Galaxy, is in "utter disbelief" over the litigious fallout of his player's goodwill gesture.

His answer?

"My suggestion is that the judge get a pair of scissors, cut the thing in half and give half to each."

I'm with you, Alexi, but I'd also include a swift cleat in the ass for both sets of parents.

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooollllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Picture's Worth...My Two Cents?

Just thought these were some of the more - uh - how shall we say? - interesting pics of the past week...

Not ever.  Not even that time when I consumed ALL the wine in my house, have I ever looked that ravishing - wait, I mean ravaging.  Forget "hot mess".  That's, well, to borrow from Randy Jackson - "molten hot lava bomb" mess.

No, no - that's not Captain Kirk being attacked by tribbles again.  That's actually Bhork, sorry, Bjork, wearing an Everlasting Gobstopper on her head, and using the candy's wrapper as a dress, during a concert in London.

Now You Pee It, Now You Don't?

People are a sad, funny lot.

We (meaning the collective) are suspicious, superstititous, we cling to religion and religious iconography (Yes, Hillary, I said CLING), we believe in the Bogey Man, throw salt over our shoulders, avoid stepping on cracks, walking under ladders, and I fully admit to getting a little sphincter surge when a black cat walks in front of me or my car.

It's human nature.  It helps us rationalize, bear, control that which we either don't understand, or that which we have been raised to fear.  (Tell me I'm not the only one who will NOT go in the bathroom, turn off the lights, stare into the mirror and chant 'I don't believe in Mary Worth' repeatedly.)

In the religious arena, comfort is typically why odd, "holy" items routinely pop up in the media.  A cheese doodle, a chicken nugget, an oil stain, a tortilla chip, grilled cheese.  The world is a scary place and people are always searching for some sign of reinforcement from their chosen deity.

Take the most recent example out of New York.  Timed as it was with the Pope's visit to Yankee Stadium to perform a service, well, you can kind of understand the "mass" hysteria surrounding it.

Do you see Him?

Yes, Jesus Christ appeared and was discovered in a water stained drop ceiling tile above a hospital bed by patient Junior Rodriguez.

"I was freaking out," said Rodriguez. "There was Jesus, looking down on me."

The staff have now taken to calling Room 232, the Jesus Room.  And Junior has now taken to calling the tile HIS.

Yes, so convinced that Jesus was speaking to him through rust colored water and glorified cardboard, he is fighting the hospital for HIS ceiling tile.  (Sorry Junior, but that tile is a part of that hospital, and you just rented the room for a few days.  That would be like me walking out with the toilet after I gave birth.  As it was, I just got to take the sitz bath and donut ring.)

I will cut Junior some slack in one regard.  As opposed to all the dubious snack food items people claim to bear likenesses of JC, Mary, baby Jesus, etc - I can actually see what the fuss is about in this one.  (Then again, it kind of looks like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz, Cat Stevens, every male contestant who has ever made it to the end of Survivor...)

Anyway, there is no harm in people believing they see things like this.  If it provides comfort, reassurance, even guidance - knock yourself out - keep examining every bag of Lay's.

I do have a problem, however, wiith those folks whose ignorance and hand-me-down belief systems infringe upon others.

Today's example is courtesy of a news piece sent to me by Seema.

Africa is a place rife with symbolism, the occult, and arcane, disgusting, reprehensible practices.  In remote areas (and even in some not so remote areas), where modern education is scarce, it is actively believed and practiced - that having sex with an infant will cure AIDS.

Yes, yes it will.  I would gladly kill every one of the people who do this. Dead, VOILA!, Cured!  No more AIDS to worry about.

That aberration is not what I speak of today though.

Rather, this one is actually just pretty damned funny.

In Kinshasa, which is Democratic Republic of Congo's 8 million strong capital, there has been a recent spate of Penis Snatching.

Yes, you read that right.  And men in West Africa are turgid with fear.  Stiff with stress. Erect with indignation.  Woodn't you be?  I mean, I'm not a man, but I wouldn't want my manhood to be a boner - crap - I mean goner. 

The police have not been impotent in the face of this spurt - sorry - spate of black magic attacks, and reprisal lynchings.  With the rumors taking over all talk radio shows, they have sprung into action and have arrested 13 suspected sorcerers so far.

Citizens are warning one another to avoid communal taxis should one of the occupants be wearing gold rings.  Good God!  I wear TWO gold rings!  And I like to grab a penis now and then... 

The thrust of the rumors is thus:  citizens claim that sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear, in what some residents said was an attempt to extort cash with the promise of a cure.

Um, ya think?  (I guess the Nigerian prince emails are drying up?)

But again, people are a funny, scared lot.  To quote Jean-Dieudonne Oleko, Kinshasa's police chief, "You just have to be accused of that, and people come after you. We've had a number of attempted lynchings. ... You see them covered in marks after being beaten."

Well, come on, Jean D!  If someone pointed at Rudy's penis and said AbracaGRABya, I'd be out for a piece of their ass too.

Seriously though?  The police have one valid concern - roughly a decade ago in Ghana, a spate (got it right that time) of penis snatching resulted in 12 suspected weenie burglers being beaten to death by angry mobs.

Poor Jean does try to reason with the frightened, traumatized men. 

"I'm tempted to say it's one huge joke, but when you try to tell the victims that their penises are still there, they tell you that it's become tiny or that they've become impotent. To that I tell them, 'How do you know if you haven't gone home and tried it?'"

Unfortunately men are men - no matter where they reside. 

Just as educated American testosterone bearers keep the Viagra makers in business and give their money to email solicitors who promise to make it "knock down walls", "produce 572% more spunk", and "make her groan all night long" (yes, I would groan about 572% more mess on my sheets), these African men are gullible too.

Take it from 29 year old Alain Kalala who works in Kinshasa, "It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny."

OK, Alain.  We ALL know that ALL men are hung like Seabiscuit and have to tuck it in their socks, riiiiiiight ladies?

What a bunch of wankers.

American Idol Results Recap: Wednesday, April 23: Carly And Her Amazing Technicolor Tattoo Reach The Point of No Return

If you’re like me you enjoying finding out tidbits, trivia, and behind-the-scenes scoops. Like a cat, I’m naturally curious, and while I don’t donate any of my money to the National Enquirer, I DO want to know.

Ran across these nuggets from Tuesday night’s taping...

~ I TOLD you those Children of the Corny have no sense of rhythm. Someone was actually injured with all that out-of-time waving and cranking of elbows last night, necessitating the intervention of on set paramedics.

~ Those young girls who fawned over Puppy Love while he sat with Ryan? Mostly his sisters. OK, Nigel, that’s just gross. No wonder all involved looked skeeved out and uncomfortable.

~ The poorly preserved dude in the crowd whom some of you mistook for Amy Winehouse? That was Paul Stanley of KISS. Paul? I hear Beth calling ... and she wants her Botox, Restylane, and eyebrow pencil back.

Now, many of you took umbrage with how we musical theater buffs took some of the kids to task over poor performances, mangled lyrics, etc.

Look – I said I freely admit that I know these songs well. And I further admit that means I have a higher set of expectations for anyone who attempts them. Kind of like how we all cringe when someone announces they are climbing Mt. Whitney again.

BUT, when it all boils down, this is a show about PERFORMING.

And I have certain expectations for those who have pursued this dream and have come this far. One of them is that they get a tad familiar with the song they have chosen. Another is that they learn the words.

It has nothing to do with certain Broadway tunes being molested last night. I would have the same expectations if they announced a KISS night, with Paul Stanley and his eyebrows as mentors.

I acknowledge the pressure. I "get" the stress, the lack of sleep. I sympathize with them knowing that their every panty hose choice, every closed eye or licked lip, every tie selection, every hula hoop set of earrings is going to be put under the global microscope and dissected.

But again, this is what they signed on for.

Step up, or bow out, kids. That’s All I Ask Of You.

(Like you thought I’d go the whole precap without at least one ALW reference.)

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With the six kids assembled on the stage, Ryan spoke of last night being one of the most "dramatic shows yet, and for one of them, it’s the end of the road."

As the camera panned, I admit, more than most of the past seasons’ final six, these all have very distinct styles, very targeted demographics, very real reasons for still remaining. Yes, some will obviously sell better than others, but whether it’s a Disney sitcom for Puppy, a folksy, Carole Kingy type CD for Brooke, or an indie deal for Castro, they all can look forward to some measure of success in the future.

Plus, they all have great smiles. Notice that? There has been some serious Zoom whitening going down from week to week.  Mr Tidy Bowl doesn't get my toilet porcelain that white.

WOW – over 38 million votes last night. Talk about burning up the phone lines. I swear, if we all end up with cell phone tumors hanging off our heads a couple years down the road, I think we have a strong class action against Nigel, don’t you?

A quick hello to the judges: Randy Bedazzled Jacketson; Paula with an off the shoulder black dress, which was definitely heading further south on the right. You just know Ryan got a bird’s eye view of the Grand Tetons (Titons?) as he walked behind them; as he passed Simon, who was *GASP!* dressed in black, he kissed him on the wittle head. Simon looked like he was going to smack Ryan in the wittle wee wee.

He then intro’d the GROUP SONG, the kids singing All I Ask Of You from Phantom, accompanied by ALW on piano.

I must say, for a song never intended to be a choir number, the kids did a nice job of it. I know it helps to be backed by an entire string section, but they all did their best to pay homage to one of Phantom’s best loved tunes. Even ALW seemed pleased, although when it was over, he stood and went to hug Carly, but was apparently scared off by The Mystery Lady of the Bicep glaring at him.

(Someone, anyone, squash the mosh, please. Those insipid kids waving their gangly arms is distracting, ridiculous, and looks like a bunch of swamp cattails waving in the stagnant air.)

After the first break, Ryan reminded everyone that the AI Summer Tour kicks off in Glendale, Arizona on July 1, and will visit 48 cities this summer. Head to AmericanIdol.com for ticket information, or to ebay to sell your soul for a couple front row seats to see Puppy lick his lips up close. If you go, don’t throw panties, please throw Chapstick or a barrel of Carmex.

Ryan then rolled the video recap of last night’s performances, and since I already rewatched them earlier today, I felt absolutely no guilt in hitting that FF button and damn near spraining my thumb.

He then was joined by ALW on stage to chat about the kids' performances, calling Jason’s selection of Memory as "the most curious song choice I’ve ever seen in my career" and defending Brooke (a little) by saying starting and stopping "happened a few times on the panel last night."

Loved the shot of Paula pouting as Simon pointed to her.

ALW answered Ryan’s query about what he would call a love song for Simon and Paula with, "Time to Say Goodbye, I Can’t Miss You If You Won’t Go Away, or Bleeding Love."

Go, Andrew.

The next break brought us back to the Ford Vommercial, and this time, I swear I saw Satan lurking in the background. These poor kids truly are forced to sell their souls ...

This week’s genius work borrowed from A-ha’s iconic 80’s video for Take On Me - they sang Tainted Love - with little Webkinz David A playing the part of the artist whose drawings come to life. (Although I don’t recall anyone in the 80’s video having atomic hair like Brooke’s. And the 80's had some serious stHAIRoids.  I swear, Brooke was playing Follicula, Queen of the Planet Polyesthair.)

Cars raced around, Syesha vamped, David C consented to having red hair extensions strapped to his forehead, and at one point Puppy tried to channel a Pit Bull while they all danced angrily, but face it, the boy is all Pomeranian.

For those of you who need a little mental Clorox to remove the stain this Vommercial left behind on your retinas, here’s A-ha’s video.

After selling more Idol stamps – this week: Fantasia - we got to endure a really awkward couple minutes as Ryan rolled a video of Dubya and Laura (dressed in a shawl like Whistler’s mother) talking about American Idol and Idol Gives Back. Laura is a fine speaker (reader of cue cards), but I couldn’t stop staring at GW’s doofusy grin and posture while she talked.  You could just imagine Cheney off to the side with a remote control.

Finally it was time for some results. With only six kids left, there will only be two silver stools from now on. He called out the Davids, and while I know they wasted time with banter, let’s be honest, them both being announced SAFE was about the most anticlimactic moment EVER on American Idol. It was as predictable as my dog’s morning bowel movement.

Ryan then talked about the four remaining kids waiting backstage to find out their fate. Priceless! The camera caught Jason full on yawning in boredom.  Come on, Dreads.  At least fake a tad of tension, huh?

After another break (I don’t mind them so much now that I know we will all be suing Nigel in five years for cauliflower sized tumors hanging off our ear lobes...fill that bank account, Nigel!), it was time to ... waste some more time by rolling a package about all the former Idols who have been embraced by The Great White Way.

Diana DeGarmo has been in Hairspray; Fantasia got rave reviews as Celie in The Color Purple, the show in which Lakisha also found a home this past December as the Church soloist who opens the show; Tamyra Gray, AI’s first official shock elimination, is currently starring in Rent; and Clay Aiken joined the hilarious cast of Spamalot several months back, polishing his performance skills, and developing a new appreciation for just how many muscles it takes to dance on one's knees. From the looks of the clip, he’s doing well with both.  (Although that bowl of hair needs rethought.)

Next up, Simon’s chance to shine as his newest protege’, Leona Lewis, took the stage. As she emerged in a short Marilyn Monroesque dress, the spotlight from backstage shown right through, making it possible to see all the way up to her ... um ... monthly Bleeding Love area.

Seriously, could no one close the stage doors faster than that?

Leona is beautiful, has a stunning set of vocal cords, and I do love her single, but the way it is being played twice an hour on every radio station, it is quickly being beaten to death. I so dn't want to hate it, but we're about one more week away from Bleeding Ears.

As she danced and sang, there was one awkward moment when she appeared to do a Michael Jackson crotch grab – ugh. No problem – we were quickly distracted by the stage exploding – TWICE.

Yes, fire canisters erupted as she hit her two biggest notes, as if we wouldn’t notice without the help of the stage being detonated.

Back to the results, anyone?

Ryan called out Syesha, who had actual tire swings hanging from her ears, and Brooke, who just looked sad and tired.

A few moments of meaningless banter and he then announced that it was Brooke who would be heading to the Couches of Comfort, and Syesha to the Stools of Stool (think about that one).

Brooke actually looked broadsided., but Syesha, Mayor of the Bottom Dwellers, took it in stride, keeping her smile in place.

Another break and Carly & Dreads were summoned. Carly offered that she chose Jesus Christ Superstar because it was "more fun, more me." Jason just stated, "I really don’t want to sing right now."

And for a moment, the smartass in me loved him.

For a moment.

That moment quickly vaporized as he was announced SAFE and Carly was put in the bottom two.

To keep things interesting (read: waste more time), both girls got to reprise their songs from last night. I think that’s actually better – no one likes the whole, "America thinks you suck donkey teabags, go home, but first, sing, circus monkey, SING!"

Carly had a good time with JCS, sounding better than last night, and then Syesha resang One Rock ‘n Roll Too Many, although the effect was seriously diminished by the JEANS, t-shirt, and yellow sweater.

One last break and Ryan asked the judges what they thought about the bottom two. Randy said he was "shocked" and felt like it was "a bit of a popularity vote this week."

Um, ya think, dawg?

Personally, I think all of America needs to wash their hair tonight. It’s quite obvious where our collective heads have been shoved the past 24 hours.

Paula warbled on about having "never seen this much relaxation and joy at this stage" than on the faces of Carly and Syesha. Yeah, THEY. SEEMED. THRILLED.

When it was all said and done, Carly was given the boot, and Syesha was given the reprieve.

And I sat here thinking how completely unfair this outcome was.

I know Carly did not ever have the fanbase of the Davids, and that Syesha has been called out for coming off as a wannadiva, but they were so much better than the majority of their competitors last night. Certainly neither one was going to win this thing, but they absolutely deserved at least one more week to say Hello, Again and tear up a Neil Diamond tune. Can’t you just hear Carly ripping into Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show?

As they rolled Carly’s "journey" tape, I must say, if anyone has undergone a transformation, it would be her. She started as a rough looking, yellow eyed-blue tongued caterpillar and has emerged from the AI stylists’ cocoon a polished, sleek haired, smokily made up performer.

The show ended with Simon apologizing to her for giving her the compliment last night, calling it "the kiss of death", and added that "you can leave with your head held high."

As opposed to Puppy Love, Dreads, and Brooke who should hang theirs tonight. I think all three of them are decent enough people to know that they dodged a bullet and did not earn their way through to next week based on last night’s show.

But that’s it for this week. That’s what makes this show still marginally interesting. Tune in next week as Neil Diamond does indeed drop by – what’s this?!? He has a new CD dropping on May 6?!? What a coincidence!

I have only one request. Someone needs, nay! – should be required - to sing Forever In Blue JEANS.

Reefer Madness or Just Blunt Honesty?

OK, here's one I'd like to throw out to you.

I'm all for talking with our kids.  I have always enjoyed, and continue to nurture, a very open dialogue with my girls about everything.  They know that if they are brave enough to ask a question, I will be brave enough to answer.

It can be about sex, drugs, politics, boys, the world, you name it.

I know many parents are not like that.  They figure if they actively discuss something, then their child will be drawn to it. 

I don't agree.

Answers are powerful.  Answers empower them to make informed decisions.  Answers are far less scary, and far more accurate than anything they make up in their own minds or hear on the playground.

So here's my question...

There is a book out there - a children's book - about marijuana.  Called It's Just A Plant, by Ricardo Tores, it follows a little girl from opening her parents' door after bedtime and discovering them mid-puff, to how her parents handle her questions.

It is obviously geared towards the Sesame Street - Dora demographic.  So, I'm curious.  Take a look - you can actually read through the entire thing (it won't take long), and then let me know if you would be willing to share this with your young one, or if you feel it takes picture books to whole 'nother level they should never visit.  (Personally, I still prefer the one on one approach.)

It's Just A Plant

And 'fess up - who has enjoyed the company of Mary Jane?  (No judging here.) And who has been honest about that fact with your kids?

I'll start - YES, and YES.  I was 15, and the girls all know I tried it, didn't "get" it, and never tried it again.  I wasn't exactly a threat to the Cheech and Chong dynasty...

DOH!

OK, here's another one that is as instantly addictive as crack... or will cause your sanity to crack ... or make you wish a crack would open in the Earth and swallow Jeanne whole.

Yes, thank you Jeanne for introducing Doeo's.  Whatever the $%$#! hell they are.  Between you and Seema, my afternoon has officially entered the metaphorical toilet.

Catch them if you can... muuuwaaahhhaaaahhaaaa

DOEO'S  (promounced DOH-EE-OHS)

Oh Hell!icopter

OK, it's been a while since we've indulged in some good old fashioned multi-slacking, and thanks to Seema, I have the perfect one to distract you from your work, and drive you TO distraction by the difficulty involved.

How Far Can You Fly The Helicopter?

My personal best so far is 190.  Loose translation?  Think BLACKHAWK DOWN.

American Idol Recap, Tuesday, April 22: Andrew Lloyd Webber Brings The Music of the Night, But Can The Kids Deliver The Songs?

ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Huh? Wuh? Oh scuse me. I must have dozed off again. Sorry.

I don’t know about you, but on the whole, this season has just been incredibly snooze inducing for me. Kind of like a Lunesta butterfly on steroids. Nothing has truly perked me up, made me feel like I have to vote or stay awake.

Sure, Dolly Parton was her typical overdone, glammed up, caricature-of-herself self. And Paula has babbled more than a mountain brook. We’ve even had a little drama and pathos thrown in with David Cook and his brother’s cancer.

But over all? Zzzzzzzzzzzzz....

Maybe that’s why it’s so odd to me that I am most excited about tonight’s theme.

Screw disco. To heck with Maria Carey. And Songs From The Year They Were Born just make me feel old.

Nope – it’s Andrew Lloyd Webber who steams my clams.

I am a theater person from way, way back. And his songbook is magical. From Cats (which I had the honor of sleeping through on Broadway – sue me, it had been a long day) to Tell Me On A Sunday, to Evita, to the Phantom of the Opera, Andrew Lloyd Webber is a musical theater genius.

His songs are big, his songs tell stories, his songs must be interpreted, felt, before they can be UPSed to an audience.

Which is why I think tonight will be interesting. It’s not enough to sing the notes – even hitting the glory ones isn’t enough – these kids must become these songs if they hope to deliver the goods.

Personally, I hope no one touches Memory, Music of the Night, or Gethsemane. They are just too iconic, too big – the Broadway equivalent of taking on a Whitney.

Then again...

Gethsemane is probably perfect for one of the people on this show. Allow me to paraphrase a tad here...

"I only want to say, if there is a way, don’t take this cup away from me, for I still want to taste its fun juice..."

Put your head back down and go to sleep, Paula. That’s a good girl.

Meh. My guess is that we’ll probably just get Brook singing I Don’t Know How To Love Him and Puppy Love preaching Love Changes Everything.

Then again, David C is always good for the unexpected... Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat, perhaps? Or Don’t Cry For Me Argentina? The rock version?

Let’s find out...

~~~~~~~~~~~

In another dark suit and tie, Dapper ryDan looked solemnly into the camera and warned that tonight the finalists "face the toughest test yet", one which will "push them further than ever before."

(At this point I rolled some serious Give Me A Freaking Break eyeballs. It’s not like these kids are being asked to cure cancer in 60 minutes – they only have to sing a freaking show tune, for God’s sake.)

He finished with "Who will rise to the challenge, who will sink like a big, fat stone?"

OK, fine – BFS is MY contribution, but still. These songs are classics, but surely, for "the most talented group of contestants yet", they should not represent some musical Kilimanjaro.

But – T.I.A.I.- where hyperbole reigns supreme.

With the band expanded to the stage, and Ricky Minor in a suit, waving a conductor’s wand, the tone was set for an "elegant" evening of butchery. Sorry, but in my gut, I felt a seriously Sweeny Todd foreboding of lyrical blood being spilled by more than a few of the remaining six.

A quick hello to Randy – blah and boring (bloring?) in a gray shirt; Paula working a spangled tank top and a fairly cute hairstyle – although her lips looked suspiciously pontoon-like tonight; Simon phoned it in again in a black sweater.

The final six briefly walked out to thunderous applause, and Ryan then rolled the Andrew Lloyd Webber video package – wait, scuse me – LORD Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Ryan’s voiceover that Lord Andrew has "transformed the theater as we know it" was NOT hyperbole. He is responsible for some of the all-time biggest Broadway smashes ever. And face it, it is damn near impossible to get in an elevator and not hear one of his tunes Muzacked to death.

He began composing at the age of 7, published his first piece at 9, and began a partnership with Tim Rice at the age of 17 – said partnership bringing forth every well known musical in the past thirty years.  (Yes, together, as well as their individual efforts.)

Idol flew the kids to Las Vegas to meet with Lord Andrew (hereby reduced for the sake of my fingernails to: ALW) in the gorgeous theater constructed in the Venetian for ongoing performances of The Phantom of the Opera. (I peeked in when I was last there – SIMPLY STUNNING.)

His promise to the group was to "try to make the songs work for you", but also cautioned that they are "story driven" songs. You have to understand them to sing them properly.

Randy then chimed in with this being the "toughest night of the season"; Paula fortune cookied about there being a "few who still stand out, but that this won’t work for those who don’t"; and Simon warned they needed to "make themselves memorable, but sound contemporary."

Up first with ALW was Syesha, who chose One Rock and Roll Too Many from Starlight Express.

ALW urged her to go the stage route and be more animated, and thought she "could well bring down the house."

With the lights dim, and her back to the audience, Ms Thang stood on top of the piano in a skin tight red cocktail dress, which actually looked enviable, not slutty. Her hair was back and sleek, her feet bare. (You don’t think Ricky wants Manolo marks on his Steinway, do you?)

I have to give it to her – it was a smart choice – a song not many people would readily recognize, thereby making it a fun romp to everyone watching. Both Culley and Kendall are huge theater buffs and did not know it – they simply enjoyed the performance.

Syesha sang with spunk, sass, power, and attitude. It was, by far, the most memorable performance (for me) she has given.

Randy said "not only is this your element, you could be a huge Broadway star" and echoed my notes that it was her "best performance to date"; Paula offered "this is your happy place" – um, ok, moving on; Simon started with "that was very sexy" and congratulated her on finally showing "masses of personality."

(Note:  Downside to this solid showing?  Drawing the short stick and singing first.  Thank you to DGMS regular, Denise, who sent me a link yesterday.  Apparently USA Today joined with WhatNotToSing.com and actually compiled the data, created bar graphs, etc, all to prove what we all already know - Singing first is no good.  Out of 69 finals episodes, 20 contestants who sang first were eliminated the following night, while no one who has gone last has ever been eliminated the following night.  Again, I realize this falls into the category of DUH, but if you are interested, you can check out the full data breakdown HERE.)

Back from the first break, Ryan was joined on the Chat Chairs by Dreads, who admitted that he was embarrassed at having never seen any of ALW’s musicals. Said he was "kind of uuuuuuhhhhhhh up to now" about performing one of his songs.

Uuuuuuuhhhhhh? Is that code for F'd in the A?  (I mean that in the musical note sense, of course.)

As he met with ALW to rehearse Memory, from Cats, the collective "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" in my house surely could be heard at the Space Station. God knows every cat within a ten mile radius felt its tail go all bottle brush.

ALW said it was a "brave choice in taking this song" and that he wouldn’t "be surprised if he ignores every single thing I told him, and he’s better."

My thought? Uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh...

Sitting on his BFF, THE STOOL (all the better to not move an inch, my dear), dressed in a cream colored linen suit, Dreads began very restrained, and I hoped he would eventually open up, stand up, after all, Memory turns into a soaring, emotional piece as it moves along.

No such luck. He was whiney, breathy, bad, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he has not a single glory note in his whole body. My Cats would have done it more justice. (Hell, Jason tied inside a bag of angry cats would have done a better job – at least there may have been some emotion and raising of his voice.)

Oh, and the Children of the Corny waving their arms in front of him was just creepy, Nigel. They are never waving in time to the music and look like a bunch of disembodied limbs.

Randy stumbled in with, "Um...wow..." then added that "vocally, for me, it was a bit of a trainwreck – not your thing"; Paula stammered about "everyone so used to hearing this sung by a female balladeer" (wouldn’t that be balladonna?) "wise choice for you to do this song, it identifies your unique being as an artist" (I swear, get the net.); Simon said it "felt, to me, and I’m sure to you, the longest 2 minutes of your life" and that Jason looked "miserable throughout."

Another break and we got to see Brooke meeting with ALW to attempt You Must Love Me (from Evita, the movie). LOVED his remark that, "I don’t believe that girl had a clue what she was singing about."

He then explained to her the backstory of the song, the pathos, the fact that Eva is dying, and she seemed to do better. (Yes, it’s amazing what understanding the lyric can do for one’s delivery. It would be like me singing She’s A Brick House and thinking it’s about female masonry workers.)

Sitting on a stool (again, she and Jason have proved that stationary works for them), she looked lovely in a long white gown covered with black butterflies and cinched with a purple ribbon at the waist. Her hair flowed. Unfortunately, the lyrics did not.

For the first time in the history of this show, a contestant actually stopped the music and asked to start over.  (Yes, Brooke restarted on her own when she was at the piano a few weeks back, but it was only by a few notes.)

Yes, Brooke’s mental train so badly jumped the tracks that she asked for a do-over, which was granted by Ricky and the band. (According to Rudy, who gets the delayed version in Seattle, the verbal portion of her request to start over was edited out.)

Sadly for Brooke, although she managed to remember the lyrics, she could not recall where she left her confidence. The result was a little messy, a lot desperate. And knowing how this song swells and recedes in intensity, I kept screaming at her to "STAND UP" and really take control. She finally did stand, but only so she could cornily reach out a shaky hand on the line "You must love me" which was delivered as more of a plea for mercy from the voters, than an actual line from the song.

Randy went easy on her with "for me it wasn’t great"; lo and behold, it was Paula the Human Cotton Swab who brought down the hammer (ok, ok – it was a padded hammer) with, "You must never start and stop. This is the biggest show, biggest platform.."; Simon called it "very dramatic at the beginning" and said she would be "very disappointed when you watch this back."

Ryan then asked her what happened, and she left it at, "I lost the lyric."

At that point Simon, SIMON, actually swooped in and saved her with, "I would have done exactly what she did if she forgot the words. Very brave thing to do."

Sorry, Simon, but in seven seasons, no one has pulled that kind of stunt before. She choked, plain and simple, and needs held accountable, not coddled along to the finals.

Another break and we came back to find Puppy Love getting some love from a group of poorly dressed tweens and teens. Sorry, but those dresses were not exactly the latest from Limited Too. Limited Ewww, maybe.  And the girls all seemed as uncomfortable with the whole fawn-over-David thing, as david was with being fawned over.

Little David chose to sing Think of Me from Phantom, a truly gorgeous song when handled by the right vocal cords – a woman’s. Even ALW was surprised at his choice. His biggest critiques, however, was for David to "open your eyes" and "OPEN YOUR EYES."

OK, I admit, I am seriously biased about these songs. I know them all by heart, they are on every iPod owned by the Sharp family, we all love musical theater in this house – so hearing Think of Me opened with a guitar caused my southern orifice to pucker in a way that brought to mind (or to sphincter) sugar-free jelly beans and orange juice.

(If you don’t get that reference, ask a regular...or go sifting through the DGMS Archives.)

Dressed in khaki pants, and David Cook’s cast offs of an untucked white shirt and loosened black tie, topped with a pea green coat, Puppy did manage to keep his eyes open, but in doing so, apparently lost his ability to concentrate on the words.

He muffed them not once, not twice (Imagine me nuh nuhhhh umm nuh put you from my mind), but THREE times, and after the third, actually MADE SOME UP (Whatever you choose to do.) You could see the panic behind his eyes.  (Lucky for him, his prepube fan base has no idea what the words were to begin with.)

As he finished and the Children of the Corny shrieked, the camera cut to a shot of ALW in the audience – NOT CLAPPING, NOT SMILING, with a look of "What did that little bastard just do to MY song?"

Randy went with his new catchphrase "if you can sing, you can sing anything", then added the bull turd that "it was the bomb! This boy is the one to beat."

Yeah, beat with a stick for abusing the words so badly. I swear that song needs a rape counselor right now.

Paula called it "absolutely perfect." This is the point where I lost all respect for this show – not that I had a ton to begin with – because the pimping of David Archuleta reached a new high (or would it be LOW?) tonight.

It is absolutely apparent that they are all convinced they need him in the final two so as to carry the tweens and teens through to the end. If it were to come down to two adults, they’d lose over half their viewers.

Simon called it "pleasant, one of your weakest performances", like that will actually matter. The kid will undeservedly sail through again. Although not on the strength of any cell phones in this house.

Kendall, who had put him on probation when he muffed the lyrics on Beatles night, said he needs to "go play in traffic – he is dead to me." Yep – screw my favorite things once (The Beatles), shame on you. Screw my favorite things twice (The Beatles AND musicals) shame on you for still breathing.

Sorry, Puppy, but in this house, you’re Dead Man Singin’ from now on. (As soon as the show was over, the girls ran to stick an iPod in the stereo tower and began cranking Phantom tunes so as to "clear the stench" left by Archuleta.)

Carly was up next and attempted All I Ask Of You, also from Phantom. She got out two lines when ALW asked her what her second choice was. OUCH.

She replied, Jesus Christ Superstar, at which point he grabbed her and said, "A girl with THIS on her arm has to sing Jesus Christ Superstar."

Wise words, my lord.

As the lights danced and the music cranked, Carly bounced out in a sparkly paisley minidress and boots. And she rocked the house. For the first time, I actually felt a "You go, girl" kinship with her.

Her voice was big (although a tad drowned out by the backup singers on the chorus), she was confident, and she owned the stage. (And yes, she took a slight liberty - read: muffed - with the lyrics, but at least she didn't stumble - she rocked on.)

Randy called it "definitely good" and said he "liked the outfit"; Paula called it "so unexpected"; Simon said it was "a little shaky in the middle", but that it was "actually one of my favorite performances of the night."

Loved Carly then celebrating by holding up a Simon Loves Me (This Week) t-shirt.

One more break and David C. met with ALW to work out Music of the Night. OK, I admit I inwardly cringed. Again, cut me some slack – I have heard Michael Crawford sing it fifty feet from my actual ears, and he OWNS it. I am even still highly critical of the movie version.

ALW encouraged him to bring "raw passion, sophisticated passion" so that "maybe it will work."

Ringing endorsement, huh?

On stage, dressed in a black jacket, dark Henley, JEANS, and what looked like a tangle of toilet paper stuck to, and trailing from, his belt, David started slow and low. He tried to emotionally connect, but it fell flat for me. And then HE botched the words – it is not "falling, floating", it is "floating, falling".

I know I’m splitting hairs here, but these are well known songs – get them right, dammit.

He kept things restrained throughout the song, but I admit, that last note was pretty nice – unexpected – but nice.

Randy called it an "amazing vocal performance" and "another molten hot lava bomb" – um, not really, Randy. Lukewarm, lava lamp maybe...; Paula called it "fantastic"; Simon said David "made the most of the song" but added, "this is not the side of you I like, I prefer the grittier, more raw side."

Yes, yes, I think I know what you mean, Simon. He’s more of a rare T-bone dropped in the sand, not a platter of froo frooey Salmon carpaccio.

As the video recap of the performances rolled, I sighed because Syesha will surely end up in the bottom – not because she deserves to be there, but because she went first. I could not rewatch Dreads, I wanted only to put the Memory from my mind, so I hit the FF button. Same with Puppy and Brooke.

My prediction for bottom three is Syesha, Brooke, and Dreads – and methinks Brooke may be getting the Go, Go, Go (Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat for you non-theater types).

So what do you think? For whom do you believe The Moments of Happiness (Cats) are over? Who has reached The Point of No Return (Phantom)? Chime in!

Later Gator? Gatoraid?

911 operators are a serious, stoic group of people.  Well trained, able to keep calm in the face (er, ear) of screaming, crying, panicky folk on the other end who desperately need immediate help.

I admire them.

Daily, they help scared children lead authorities to their homes, advise fathers on unexpected home deliveries of babies, and talk to frightened, injured, or threatened individuals until help can arrive.

Sure, they get their share of wackjobs, false alarms, and crank calls - but that's all in a day's work for them - and I'm sure it serves to lighten the load of the serious calls which flow in constantly.  (Admit it, if you were on the phone with heart attack victims, folks out of their mind over a house fire, and murder attempts all day, you'd look forward to receiving the "man with a gerbil stuck in his rectum" call, wouldn't you?  True story...)

Well, one "lucky" 911 operator got an out-of-the-norm call Monday evening...

Sandra Frosti, 69, of Florida, heard a noise in her kitchen and went to investigate.  Here is what greeted her:

AN EIGHT FOOT ALLIGATOR.

(I can tell you what the next thing to greet my underwear would have been...)

Her next move was to the nearest phone to dial 911 and scream, "There's an alligator in my kitchen!"  (I'm just guessing, but one would assume that gets you more sympathy, and quicker aid, than the gerbil-rectum scenario - after all, there's all that laughter that needs to die down...)

The 911 operator kept calm, although she was slightly dubious about Sandra's claim, asking if perhaps it was just an iguana.

Sandra assured her she had seen about three feet of it before bolting, and that NO, it was not a mere lizard.

Authorities arrived, and with the help of a trapper, managed to remove it from the home.

Sandra reckons it came in by nosing open a screen door, then in through an open sliding glass door, down the hall, and into the kitchen.  Authorities believe it may have been after the family cat.

Hmmm, after that CAT DIARY posting this morning, I'd say lured is more likely.

Sneaky felines...What a croc!