Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

American Idol Recap, Tuesday, February 28: Girls Gone Mild

Ahhhhh, another week, another set of recaps. How did I survive the off season?

Seriously, how did I manage to breathe without my weekly fix of "people who have no business being in the public eye"?

How did I find the strength to rise from my bed each morn without the promise of truly hideous performers who suck worse than an $800 Dyson?

And how did I drag myself from one day to the next without being able to pass judgment on them all? I swear I don't know how my brain didn't just curdle up and leak out my ears.

Oh wait, that's what happened tonight...

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I would first like to thank everyone who has made the blog their home for American Idol recaps and to savor the warped wonder that is my curdled brain.

This past week you Googled your little hearts out, winding up here through searches for everything from "Brenna Gethers Booty" (stop wasting your time Googling, she is sure to smack that trunk junk around for you on national TV each night she is on) to "Taylor Hicks Levon" (yes, apparently you youngsters have no idea what the lyrics are and have been trying to gain some insight - then again, many of you probably only know Elton John as the man who wrote Circle of Life on your Lion King video) to "Kellie Pickler Nude Pictures" (I'm going out on a limb and guessing that this girl who had never been on a plane before has not exactly "traveled" the Paris Hilton route either).

Then there were queries that were even more disturbing than those who desperately want to see Brenna in the all toGether - gag. Someone out there apparently "really has to pee" and someone also wanted to know the "nutritional value of earwax".

Um...yeah.

With that, let's move onto our recap, shall we?

I would like to start by thanking the producers for not padding the show to 2 hours. It shows real growth that they acknowledged the subtraction of two contestants by trimming our viewing down to 90 minutes.

First out of the gate tonight (and you know that going first is not a good thing on this show - first being synonymous with forgettable) was Katharine McPhee, singing Stevie Wonder's All In Love Is Fair. Snore. Sorry, but it was boring, and being boring when you're also going first is not the way to stick it out on Idol. Dressed in a black maternity top with centipedes on the breasts, she sang effortlessly, her hallmark in this competition, but that's about it. Oh, and her cheekbones were in fine form - seriously, that girl has the most perfect cheekbones on the planet. The judges all thought is was too safe, and Simon, whose chest looked like he either spent a little too much time in the tanning booth, or just had his chest hair waxed off, summed it up with, "America is going to forget that performance."

Uh...forget what?

After the first of ten 3.6 million dollar breaks, Kinnik Sky was up with her favorite sing-into-the-hairbrush-at-home song, Gretchen Wilson's I'm Here For The Party. Taking a page from Vonzelle Solomon's fashion catalog, she worked her inner cowgirl, and it went over just as well as it did for Baby V - as in, it did not. From the brown boots, to the olive drab jacket and cammie capris to the hideous molded breast bustier, it was a distracting mishmash of clothing that did not work well with her constant bouncing back and forth across the stage. She sang fine, and I think that she does have a better voice than 1/3 of the girls, but like Randy, I think her "amazing range was not served by the song". Simon lauded her attempt to stand out, but then segued to a poor Magic Mountain metaphor.  Even Kinnik was confused.

Oh look - another break. Yes, this is how they will make up for the missing 30 minutes tonight. They will suction the profits between each performance. Fine. Two can play at this game. This is when I hit the pause button on the TiVo, fed the dog, gave a spelling test to my daughter, checked my email, tied my shoes, ate a cookie, and returned a phone call.

Coming back to my chair, I was then able to fast forward through every commercial break the rest of the night.

Up next was my girl, Lisa Tucker. I like her smile. I like that she dresses her age. I like that she talked about performing in The Lion King for a year when she was ten, but then being scared to death during Hollywood week. She is talented, but knows how to mix it with a generous serving of humility. Choosing to sing Who's Loving You? by The Jackson 5, she looked pretty and comfortable with her hair pulled back and dressed in my own teenage daughter's favorite uniform of jeans, and two tank tops. She knows her range and sings with as much conviction as confidence - always enjoyable to watch, plus that smile just lights up the stage. It might not have "done it" for Randy, but Simon is on the money that, a helluva lot of people are going to vote for her. Including me.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. this season's Lindsay Cardinale, Melissa McGhee, was up. Lindsay who? Exactly. Every season has someone who is stricken with, Singsprettywellbuthasthecharismaofaficustreeosis. I predict it will prove fatal for her within two weeks, which is sad, because she really did try hard tonight, singing Reba McIntyre's Why Haven't I Heard From You? with sass and energy and a gravelly voice unique to the competition. Hell, she could give Chris Daughtry a run for the money when it comes to gargling pebbles while singing. She jazzed up her outfit tonight: Jeans (duh) and a sheer black top with shredded sleeves and a triangular cutout which reminded me of the UP button on an elevator. Paula and randy loved her performance, and while Simon "loved her voice", he also thought it was the wrong song choice.

It was while trying to complete his critique of Melissa that he finally had enough of constantly having to swat Paula away like the gnat she is, and compared her to a precocious child.

Then she hit him...

...like a precocious child.

She then switched chairs with Randy for the rest of the evening, a seating arrangement I imagine Simon would like to see be permanent.

Another break brought us back to Barbie Cox. I'm sorry, but Heather looks like something out of a pink package that comes with a matching brush and two tiny purses. I would have cringed when she said she was going to sing Hero by Mariah Carey, but I was momentarily paralyzed with fright by the tarantulashes she was wearing. Her video moment of wearing a snake on Hollywood Boulevard cemented for me that, like Barbie, the hair is nice, but there's nothing underneathe. The song was a disaster - and the judges are right - you cannot help but mentally compare when one of these contestants dares to take on a diva like Mariah or Whitney or Donna.

Which brings us to Brenna There, Done-a That Gethers, who sang Last Dance by said disco diva Donna Summer, dressed as a green, sequined sausage with hubcaps on her ears. Seriously, someone pimped that girl's head. The dress, easily three sizes too small, was as much a nightmare as the performance. The irony of her first line, "When I'm bad, I'm soooo bad" was not lost on America. You could almost hear a chorus of "No kidding, Brenna." rise up across the land. Paula said that she did not see Brenna's magic happening (Magic?  COME ON - that girl was only put in the final 24 because she filled the requirement for Contestant We Will Love To Hate, not because there is an ounce of magical fairy dust in anything she sings). Brenna then argued, "I think America loved it and it will reflect in the votes." Yes Brenna, but only because you are the darling of VoteForTheWorst.com - the site that was responsible for getting Scott Savol to the final four.

Let's all just hope that this was truly her "last dance".

(Man, I just know I'm going to have nightmares of dancing, afro'ed, moldy sausages tonight...)

Another multimillion dollar commercial break and we came back to watch Smurfette, decked out in a rhinestone dog collar with matching bracelet, heart earrings (awwww), nasty updo, big starched shirt covered by a too tight bustier, an 80's belt with rhinestone diarrhea, and RED SHOES. There were so many pieces of clothing going on, she looked like a little girl playing dress up in her Mommy's closet. And then she sang Wind Beneathe My Wings which should only ever be sung by Bette Midler, who Paris actually started to dis after the judges critiqued her. Good thing for her, Ryan interrupted. I'm sorry, but again, if the child can open her vocal cords up and emit such a big singing voice, there is no reason she has to sound like she sucks on helium everytime she speaks.

Oh, and I laughed out loud when Paula said "I love your fashion style." Smurfette, before you say thank you, you may want to consider the source.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. Ayla Brown was up to sing I Want You To Need Me by Celine Dion. She looked great in a black cocktail dress with v-neck sequins, and it was actually fun to watch the college athlete's video clip extolling the virtues of not sweating and stinking all the time. That is nice, isn't it, Ayla?  Like last week, I enjoyed her voice - there's no argument that the girl can sing, but she comes across as cold, methodical, detached. Paula thought it was a good song and then wanted to cut off Ayla's legs from the knees down and surgically attach them to her won (Ayla, like Paris, consider the source, and lock your door tonight...). Randy liked it and Simon pegged her perfectionist streak - that she is probably working harder than anyone on the show, but the problem is that she is mechanical. She may go home Thursday night, but then again, Carrie was repeatedly slammed for her Fembot qualities during Season 4 and look where she ended up.

Kellie Pickler, the reincarnation of Three's Company's Chrissy Snow, was up next. I have always acknowledged that she is easy on the eyes, and likable in the way golden retriever puppies are likable, but I have to be honest tonight, she is also dumber than a box of hair. Her video clip about Hollywood, the highlights of which have been "eatin' my first spinach salad..." (and you people are Googling naked pictures of her???) and "all the dogs with more clothes than I have!" have made it impossible for me to even entertain picking up the phone and giving her any votes. I'm sorry. I know you all like her, but the majority of you are male who are attracted to that ideal combo of stupid and pretty (or pretty stupid) in one package. Her song performance, Bonnie Raitt's Let's Give Them Something To Talk About was not much to talk about, especially when she did her "big move" - a violent shake of her head with a difficulty of 8.9. She was unable to stick the landing though, getting lost in her hair with much of it stuck to her lipgloss.

She can sing fine - I don't argue that, although her voice is nothing amazing. And she has a figure that all clothing looks good on - however, the corkboard wedges were big enough to use as bulletin boards - but I'm going to have to leave it to you people to vote for her. I'm not being snobby - I don't need my Idol to be a Mensa member, but I just can't get behind one who's a Densa member.

One more break and my girl, Mandisa, was up to close the show. I love her more each time I see her. She is beautiful, confident and down to earth. And she knows that black is her best friend - in the dim lights, it hides a multitude of sins. Tonight she was decked out in a flowy, sheer, black number with silver paillettes at the top - again, she knows how to keep your eyes UP where the action is, and the action is in that girl's throat. Singing Faith Hill's Cry, incidentally the 4th country western song of the night, her voice boomed - in a good way - and showed little girls like Smurfette the difference between "being" and "wannabeing". Heck, even Taylor Hicks spiked a bit of tourettes while she was singing - and anything that gets Taylor to rocking? It has to be good. Honestly, the only bad thing I can say is that she had "pasty tongue" - you know, that Elmer's Glue that covers a person's tongue when they are nervous and their mouth is dry. Simon was on the money with his assessment that when she's "on it", there's no better female in this competition.

And in a night that was like watered down salsa - MILD - Mandisa brought some much needed heat.

That's it for tonight - so America, do you have it in you to kick Brenna to the curb or will you incur my wrath yet again by keeping her around another week? Will Melissa's blandness trump Barbie's blondeness in the voting? And will Smurfette get a much needed reality check on the davenport of doom?

I'll catch you back here tomorrow night after the guys do their thang, but here's a random thought to ponder till then ...does anyone else think Elliott looks like an Amish buggie driver?

Giddyup.

Let "Les Bon Temps Rouler" On, For God's Sake!

Fat Tuesday is here once again.

And no, by Fat Tuesday I do not mean free donut day at the local Krispy Kreme.

No, this Fat Tuesday is the annually anticipated celebration of life, bare boobs, and too many beverages in New Orleans. And what a celebration it is.

From parade floats to masked and costumed partiers to beads being thrown wildy from the balconies above (for the price of a bare breast or two), Mardi Gras is unrivaled for its fun, frivolity and feckless behavior.

And as the linchpin in its tourism industry, it is as synonymous with New Orleans, Louisiana as is Graceland with Memphis, Tennessee.

So someone please tell me why the news question of the day is "Should they really be holding Mardi Gras this year?"

Yes, we all know that a hurricane named Katrina ravaged the region six months ago. And our attention span is not so short that we have forgotten the images of breached levees, flooded neighborhoods and dead bodies lying in lawn chairs. And yes, we are all aware that no wand has been waved to magically reconstruct, unmold and rejuvenate the thousands of square miles that were affected.

Thousands of square miles that were affected.

That bears repeating because as I have often written, New Orleans was not the only area singled out for devastation by Katrina. Places like Waveland, Biloxi, Pascagoula ring a bell? Probably not, due to a media who continues to cover N.O. as if it were the only city slam dunked by the hurricane.

Point of fact, the streets where Mardi Gras is being celebrated were never actually underwater. The infamous French Quarter stands on the highest ground in N.O. and most of its historical riches were largely unscathed.

But as to the question of whether people should be partying today? I'll answer with that with one of my own. Why the hell shouldn't they be?

Mardi Gras is a centuries old tradition, its French roots having come to the banks of New Orleans in 1699. It represents a uniqueness of culture, and it lives on today to personify the "let the good times roll" spirit which attracts tourists from all corners of the world who come to walk the uneven sidewalks, drinking in both the history and the Hurricanes, which incidentally make those sidewalks even more uneven. (Not that I would know that...)

The people of New Orleans may not be the only ones to have suffered at the hands of Katrina, but this is their ritual and they need to be celebrating Mardi Gras today. They need to connect with something that was not drowned when the levees breached - their pride, their spirit, their love for their city.

The colors of Mardi Gras, chosen back in 1872 by King of Carnival, Rex, are:

Purple: representing justice - which these folks desperately need after the botched rescue in the aftermath.

Green: stands for faith - these people have it and it is what they cling to as they rebuild their lives.

and Gold: which stands for power - in this case, the power of the human spirit to overcome adversity and face down devastating loss.

So to the media and the naysayers: Stop asking if they should be celebrating Fat Tuesday in New Orleans this year. I think it would be a far worse sign were they not celebrating today, and quite frankly, if anyone deserves a party, it's them.

So shut up, toss me some beads, and let "les bon temps rouler".

New Orleans, I raise my shirt to you!

A Fra-gi-lay Goodbye (Why, It Must be Italian!)

The news outlets are busy devoting all their coverage to, and playing up the passing of, everyone's favorite Fife - Don Knotts. And that coverage is well deserved, after all, his comic take on Mayberry's dimbulb deputy still stands up today in the countless reruns playing every second around the world.

He was a gangly, fishlipped, unlikey comedian-turned-star, and deserves his funereal props.

But there was another passing this weekend, another actor who is getting less coverage, but had (and still has) a significant, lasting impact on anyone who has ever withered under the words, "just wait till your father gets home", or has/had a dad who "worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay."

You know who you are and I'm sure you will join me in a moment of fra-gi-lay silence, as we remember actor Darrin McGavin, the word-game-tire-changing-turkey-tasting father from A Christmas Story.

Sure, Mr. McGavin had a career long before he was tapped to play the man locked in an eternal battle with the basement furnace. He starred in the 1950s series Mike Hammer, as well as many films and other television series, but it his curmudgeony father/husband figure who will live on.

When A Christmas Story was originally released in 1983, no one could have predicted the global cult following it would garner. A simple story, about a simple time, and acted to hilarious effect - it's small wonder TBS plays it for 24 hours, over and over, beginning each Christmas Eve.

And while I own the movie on DVD - I tune into TBS to watch it every Christmas Eve, over and over, right into Christmas Day, when it is a constant, comforting background against the mania in my own house.

I love this movie because in the space of 90 minutes, Darrin McGavin encapsulates every frustrating, fabulous, fascinating, frantic foible and every nerve grinding, nutjob nuance of my very own father.

Darrin pertfectly played the father we all feared, yet loved, despised, yet cherished, ignored, yet needed while growing up. From bravado and hubris to innocence and childishness, I see my Dad in every frame.

So much so, that I bought him his very own "leg lamp" for Christmas several years back.

Sure, my Mom hates the "glow of electric sex" it emanates, and has long since tired of being warned that it is "Fra-gi-lay" as she dusts, but even she has to admit, it's a hilariously apt representation of how Dad and Darrin were separated at birth. God knows, if she were to break it, my Dad would come up with some retort that would be eerily similar to the accusation "The Old Man" makes when his wife breaks his leg lamp in the movie, "You. Used. Up. All. The. Glue. ON PURPOSE!"

Yet besides the pure comic performance delivered by McGavin, I will always remember him for something more than the laughs.

You see, growing up with the personality he so perfectly portrayed was not exactly easy. In fact, there were many, many times I wished I could have had a Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock, just so I could have shot my own Dad in the ass.

Butt, in watching A Christmas Story, and seeing him acted out on screen, I now know that what I experienced was not even close to being unique. If someone could write him so perfectly, he had to be out there in someone else's home too.

And he was.

My Dad, and a million others just like him: the products of a generation gone by, when the man ruled the house, when dinner was on the table at 5pm, and when a father's authority, no matter how assinine in the execution, was unquestioned.

And for knowing that, for the catharsis experienced at the hands of a character actor in a stupid movie called A Christmas Story, I am forever grateful.

Rest in peace Gavin - you've earned your "major award".

I'd Hate To Read The Fine Print...

Everyone goes into marriage with high hopes. We have visions of everlasting love, a wonderful bedroom life, companionship in our later years... Sure, we all know there is a back door should things not pan out, but for the most part we go into our marriages not intending to ever have to open it.

Well, in Iowa, the wife of today's trophy for "Worthless Piece of Excrement", recently found out that she not only needed that back door, but an ejection seat and double parachute as well. (But considering what she endured, I feel fairly safe in saying she would have jumped without the parachute in order to escape.  Luckily she did manage to get out and to the police.)

Allow me to introduce you to the Svengalli of Council Bluffs, Iowa, Travis Frey.

Travis, it seems, in addition to being a walking piece of shit, is a rather high maintenance hubby. So much so, that he now stands charged with kidnapping his own wife and first degree sexual assault - oh, and there is also a pesky little charge having to do with child pornography.

You see, Travis, is a control freak. (He is also a wackjob, as much literally as figuratively, as those child porn charges stem from some one handed downloading on the Internet.)

In order to indulge his inner perv and Hooters mentality, Travis confined his wife to their home and drew up a Contract Of Wifely Expectations she was forced to follow. The document is four pages long and details everything from how often she must shave her nether regions, to the type of panties she is allowed to wear, and sexual favors she must perform on a regular basis.

I will comment here on some of the more choice nuggets in the contract, but in truth, the entire document is a goldmine, so I will also provide a link for your reading pleasure. (My thanks to the folks at The Smoking Gun - you guys rock.)

The first area that jumped out at me pertained to the specific guidelines for Hygiene & Self Care, especially in terms of her private region. Shaving of all areas: legs, underarms, chest?, and pubic hair must be done every three days. I can get behind the legs and underarms part, after all, I like to look more feminine than Yetimine, and I personally have no chest hair to speak of, but his guidelines for pruning the bush are almost topiary in nature. They allude to patches being perfectly centered, give specifics not only for dimension, but for length of hair, and (no, I'm not making this up) equilateral triangles.

Equilateral triangles?!? Listen, the day my husband tweezes the hair from his testicles, is the day I pull out a protractor to do geometry on my crotch.

The next area to draw my attention was: Sleepwear & Sleeping. Sleep attire would be left under her pillow each night - if there was none, then she was to don her birthday suit. Regardless of the items left, she was to be in them, and in bed waiting for Travis, within 20 minutes of the children being tucked into bed. (Yes, God help them, there are children in this household.) And while there are specifics in another section which detail the boudoir activities, Travis notes: When we are in bed together, I can cuddle, spoon, hold or touch you in any way, as long as it does not excessively disrupt your sleep.

I don't know about you, but after a long day of kids and work, should my husband disrupt my sleep, excessively or otherwise, I'm likely to disrupt his freshly tweezed testicles with my foot.

Moving on...

My favorite part of the contract (favorite being defined as: the portion which would earn Travis an iron pan upside his lazy, disrespectful, chauvenististic, worthless head) details "MY TIME". This was the time in the evening from when she was naked to midnight (or for three hours, whichever was later) and essentially being his sex slave, "doing anything and everything I want". During MY TIME, she was not allowed to "whine, sulk, brood, sigh, cry, pout or moan", forbid (as if she was allowed to do this at other times) to argue, complain, ask for anything, or be condescending to him, and was expected to be completely subservient, cheerful, submissive and totally obedient.

It was at this point that I turned to my husband, who was reading the contract over my shoulder, and said, "We must not have one of these agreements, huh?"

His response? "Uhhhh. NO."

You see, I am the farthest thing from subservient - he has two good arms and legs and is expected to use them to help himself. Submissive? Get real. He did not marry a doormat, and I certainly do not ask for permission around here. As for doing "anything and everything" he wants? Stay on my good side and most things are possible, as long as pleasure is a two way sheet.

I loved the part having to do with GBD's, or Good Behavior Days, which she could earn by being compliant and performing well. GBD's could be accrued and redeemed like coupons for "days off", however, GBD's must be redeemed prior to noon on that day in order for them to be honored. In Travis' Copulation Corporation, GBD's were accrued quarterly and could not be rolled over into the next quarter.

Now, just as GBD's could be accumulated for good performance and correct pubic hair measurements, they could also be taken away due to noncompliance - compliance was a big issue with Travis, as was total control over this woman, leading me to believe he is the product of a severely dominating mother who probably measured his pubic hair, made him bathe excessively and probably belittled his genitals.

Five GBD's would be subtracted whenever his wife failed to adequately perform a sexual task, regardless of whether it was causing her pain or discomfort, and should she not have enough GBD's to cover the penalty, she would be tied to the bed and he would do whatever his warped mind (or Internet research) came up with. This would be repeated each night until such time that she agreed to be compliant, apologize and explain "how you are ready to be my sex slave again".

It was at this point that visions of Lorena Bobbitt and large knives entered my mind. Along with visions of supergluing all his orifices shut, including the ones he uses to breathe...

Again, the actual contract is long and detailed, and quite an entertaining read. Entertaining, of course being defined as: The quickest way for a man to have all his orifices superglued shut, including the ones he uses to breathe...

But read it for yourself: CONTRACT OF WIFELY EXPECTATIONS

Travis currrently faces possible life in prison without parole, and I can only hope that, like NBC's Earl, who believes a life of bad karma is out to get him, Travis' future cellmate, Bull, is drawing up a similar contract just for him...

He looks suspiciously Scott Petersony, wouldn't you agree?

American Idol Results Recap, Thursday, February 23: Oh No You Di'ent!

Today, the blog saw unprecedented traffic. Even more than the night after Carrie Underwood mouthed the words "I love you" to Anthony Federov as he got kicked to the curb by America. Even more than the day I blogged about the nursing home enema prank, and that's saying something.

Yes, today people Googled and arrived by the busloads, driven by the promise of one thing: "Naked O'Donahue Twins" - I guess that would actually be two things, or four, depending on what you're actually counting as "things"...

Last night, I told you all about the suggestive (I'm being kind) photo spread of the O'Doublemint twins to be found at Maxim Magazine online. I even provided a link. Well, my pornographic philanthropy was paid back in kind by the thousands of people who visited today. I'd say it was a good business decision, but seeing as I don't charge admission here, I'll just say that the knowledge I gained was more valuable than any amount of cash. For what I learned is this:

You people are all a bunch of filthy perverts. 

But I still love you.  (Seriously, the way those pics were sought out today, you would think the world has never seen scantily clad women before.)

And since I do love you, I will be more merciful than American Idol and try to make this blog as short as the results show should have been. I mean, they dragged out this execution worse than that guy's on death row in California.

As the show opened, the lights dramatically flashed on the faces of the final 24 collected on the stage. As the camera panned from left to right, I was fine, until Brenna Gethers entered the picture and my dinner threatened to make a reappearance on my shoes. There she was, looking as trashy as a Hefty bag on garbage day.

Don't even try to defend her - I love you people, but I'm also mad as hell at you -- keep reading...

Ryan looked suitably suited, even stuffing a white hanky in his pocket so as to be able to make the gallant gesture of sweeping it from his jacket should the tears flow later in the program - and you know they will.

Addressing the judges, I know he was asking them questions, and I know they were saying something back to him, but I couldn't hear them over the screaming of Paula's bondaged breasts. Those bad boys were Wonder Bra'd and taped together so tight, it looked like she had a naked toddler upside down in her lap. Her breasts had everything but an "ACE LOOK HERE" neon sign above them.

Now obviously, with an hour to kill ("kill" being defined as: drain our sponsors' bank accounts dry), we had to endure the requisite "Group Song" - tonight's highlighted the boys as they sang "Take It Easy". Seriously, the girls sat around as weak backup vocals and eye candy, although the way Mandisa posed at center stage at the end, you would have thought she had just won the finale.

I'd like to thank TiVo for being able to zoom through the next five minutes of recaps of the recaps of the performances we already saw.

The girls were first on the Couches of Doom:

Back row: Mandisa, Kellie, Paris, Ayla, Lisa and Katherine (like that row is going home...)

Bottom row: Heather, Stevie (who had Green Mile written all over her all night), Kinnik, Becky (who had Google-Goddess written all over her), and Brenna (who extoled the virtues of "being like a duck" - plump and loud? - and just has deluded, loudmouth written all over her)

Some flashing lights, some dramatic Who-Wants-To-Be-A-Millionaire music and the back row was SAFE. Collective Duh from the congregation, please.

The front row was safe, save for Kinnik, Becky and Brenna who got called to the center stage guillotine. Kinnik was quickly sent back to the couch, as was Brenna (this is when I started to get a little P.O.d at you people). Becky stood there in her jeans and a purple/green tablecloth, was told by the judges that she had a career as a successful model ahead of her (Puh-leez.  Let's be honest here.  Her 15 minutes have now expired like milk left out in the sun, and as America has the attention span of a gnat, she is well on her way back to obscurity.  She and her sister are attractive, there's no argument there, but they are hardly the next Heidi Klum or Naomi Watts.), then she thanked AI for the doors they have opened (I don't think she was including the one marked EXIT) and then sang again, really fast - I love TiVo.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. the guys were assembled on the couches, and since I am tired and nothing astounding transpired, I'll just condense this portion to: Bobby Bennett got sent back to the Copa Cabana. Like everyone, even Bobby wasn't surprised. I mean, he is a nice guy, but what THE hell was he ever doing there to begin with, other than making it easy to throw someone under the bus? When he began to sing Copa redux, I was overcome again with that sensation you get when you are thoroughly embarrassed for another human being - I had to fast forward. I had to.

Another break brought us back to the women having reassumed the position on the couches. DUH x 2, the back row was all safe again. Like any row with Mandisa, Smurfette and Katharine would be unsafe. Ryan quickly ran through the bottom couch, starting with BRENNA BEING SAFE. (This is when I went from mildly P.O.d at you to PISSED OFF TO THE POINT I HAD ACTUAL FLAMES LEAPING OUT MY EARS). Another bile-inducing week of Miss Bling Thing? God help me, I am going to have a bleeding ulcer by the time she gets kicked off.

Kinnik was quickly deemed SAFE, then Heather and Stevie were asked to step to the center, only just as they took the first step, Ryan basically said "Psyche!" and told Heather to sit back down. Stevie was out. Sadly, when she reprised her song from two nights ago, she sang it with an amount of voice and gusto that just might have saved her Tuesday night.

One last note on Stevie: Her baby girl speaking voice is worse than Smurfette's. I simply refuse to believe that someone who has been trained in opera since the age of five has the natural speaking voice of Cindy Lou Who.

One more break and the guys have come back to the Davenports of Death. This time, the FRONT row was all safe! Oh - they tricked us! Then Ryan had them perform some synchronized swim moves without the benefit of water: Back row to center stage, form two single file lines, flank either side of me, raise your arms, kick your feet...

Seriously, you know some beat on intern has the job of choreographing all these dramatic moves and fake outs.

First in the flank lines were Bucky and Patrick who immediately got shunted to the sides of the stage. Then my man Taylor and Fred Savage moved forward and were sent back to safety. That left Gedeon and David who pirouetted forward and then back to the couches. That's when Bucky and Patrick figured out they had been snaked and that standing on the sides was not where a man wanted to be standing. Ryan quickly dispatched Bucky to the couches, and as I predicted last evening, the two ailments Noexposureinauditionphaseosis and Havingtoperformfirstandbeforgottenitus, combined with having broken the commandment, Thou shalt not sing any song originally sung by a female if thou hast testicles in thou trousers, proved fatal.

He took his demise gracefully, but when he sang Come To My Window, the final line cut to the bone: "I'm comin' home."

Yes you are, Patrick, but not because you don't have talent. It's mostly because you don't have a chin.

Anyone else notice that?

Anyway, one big group hug - did you catch how much little Kevin was loving that? Those girls are so tall, he comes right up to their hug pillows - and we are done till next Tuesday when the girls once again struggle to keep up the pressure in the face of some seriously talented guys, and I once again struggle to keep down the bile in the face of a seriously hoochified Brenna Gethers.

Now, I'm still mad at you - so go to your rooms and think about what you did.  You can come out on Tuesday.

American Idol Recap, Wednesday, February 22nd: Men: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Have A Top 24 Without 'Em

Does anyone know if it's possible to develop carpel tunnel syndrome overnight? I swear my hand is sore - and since I'm not a guy doing one handed surfing for "Naked Brenna Gethers Boobs" (seriously, whoever Googled that should be flogged) - I must attribute the pain to being out of "redial" practice. Staying up to write the recap allows me pretty much unfettered access to the AI Voter Lines, no busy signals, no frustration - just me, my cordless in one hand, my cellphone in the other. It's a thing of beauty.

Well, hopefully my muscle tone will improve with each passing night of voting and by the end of Season 5, I will be able to once again bend steel rods with my index finger...

Before we get into tonight's Festival of Testosterone, I have a few more AI trivia bits to throw your way:

1. Stop wasting your time Googling for pics of the O'Donahue Doublemint twins and just follow this link. Yes, it seems the girls are currently featured in Maxim Magazine's, Girls of Maxim Online. And Maxim, being the intellectual literature it is, offers you much to "think" about in these pictures. The twins are shown in a variety of poses, wearing baseball attire - well, if you play baseball in satin hot pants with your boobs hanging out, that is. I guess it's ok considering Becky is going to strike out on AI soon enough - a girl has to have a back up plan, right?

2. Today's hotly Googled words that brought people to the blog are: "Clay's peanuts balls" - if you weren't aware, young Master Aiken is allergic, but as for the 'balls' part? No clue.; "Ace Young Hot Hairy" - I don't even want to decipher that one; and "I HATE PARIS BENNETT" - and NO, I did not Google that. I might not care for Smurfette, but I don't hate the poor thing. That would be like hating a bunny rabbit.

Now, onto the recap...

Tonight the swirling lights around the Idolvator reminded me of bacteria in a petri dish. I guess I'm still a bit sickened by the vocal tomaine that is Brenna Gethers...

Ryan opened the show with a video recap of the girls' performances from last night. And yes, having seen her vamping again in instant replay, Brenna is sleezy and skanky, and if she were a germ, it would be called ecolay.

After introducing the guys, Ryan asked the judges for their feelings about the group. Simon insisted that "There's potential. A mixed bunch." (Like nuts in a can? I suppose Ace is the cashew?) Paula's response when asked "What is America looking for?": "Unique, different, a tight ass..." Wait, sorry, I inferred that last part and it's not really fair to do that until she actually drools over Mr. Young later on. Randy simply clung to cliche with, "Tonight the boys gotta bring it." Thanks Randy - that's enlightening, as always.

But before the boys can bring whatever it is they brought with them, we had to tolerate the male version of pure filler crap - their journey to the Idol stage. Have I mentioned before how much I love my TiVo? Fast forward, baby.

After the first $4.2 million commerical break, Patrick Hall was first to perform. Patrick now suffers from two almost incurable Idol ailments: Noexposureinauditionphaseosis and Havingtoperformfirstandbeforgottenitus. Damn! Then he went and broke one of Linda's Commandments For Idol Contestants: Thou shalt not sing any song originally sung by a female if thou hast testicles in thou trousers, by singing "Come To My Window" by Melissa Etheridge, who is, quite frankly, more man vocally than anyone with testicles. He did fine, sounding eerily like Clay Aiken (don't believe me? close your eyes and listen), but I was more interested in the lovely shade of blue his hair took on under the lights. Randy offered up the "You did your thang" cliche, Paula babbled something about "that's your niche" without ever defining what the hell that "niche" is, and Simon called it average. It was. And I'm afraid the Triple threat of ailments I mentioned above may prove terminal come tomorrow night.

Taking the stage next was 17 year old heir to the John Stevens dynasty, crooner David Radsford. I like him, think he's a good looking kid, but my sphincters tightened when he announced his song choice of "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" Poor, poor Freddie Mercury...  Dressed as the Manboy In Black, he did everything from spike a case of tourrettes, to play some serious airdrums, to show off his Anwar Robinson School of Dance moves. And then somewhere in the middle of his twitching, he took on a decidely Mike Meyers-Austin Powers quality. Randy thought it was terrible, and Simon said he came over as a bit of a joke, but felt the audience at home would spare his life. But Paula liked it and even got the newly christened Kitty Pound (be honest, how close did she come to saying Pussy Pound?) to meow in agreement. Somehow though, I think tomorrow night he may be doing a "crazy little thing called packing his suitcase".

Bucky Covington went the Mandisa route and dropped a name, his first, opting to ditch William for the downhome Bucky. Dressed in jeans and a drab olive shirt (and wedding ring?), singing "Simple Man" by Lynryd Skynryd, he simply came across as a poor man's Bo Bice. He growled most of the song like he was constantly clearing phlegm from his throat, and while he wasn't awful, he lacks Bo's charisma and, let's be honest, Pantene shiny locks. Randy thought he "did the south proud" and told him not to "sing so hard" (seriously, there were a couple times I thought he was having a bowel movement), Paula praised his song choice, and Simon said he was "raw" (wait, I thought that was Garet?), but that the bars of this great land are full of Buckys. Look for him back in one soon - I don't see him lasting.

AFTER. THE. BREAK we came back to William-who-will-now-be-known-as-Fred-Savage-in-this-blog Makkar, the little ray of sunshine from outside Houston. Dressed in jeans (dear God, how many denims have to give their lives for these contestants??), a brown t-shirt/striped shirt combo, and a brown jacket, he sang "I Want You Back" by The Jackson 5. Confident, against his floating jelly bean screen saver background, he even tried to a few dance moves. All I can say is Tiger Beat has a new cover boy. My nine year old thinks "he's hot AND a good singer" and will get all her votes. Randy dissed his dancing, but blessed him with the 2nd "You did your thang" of the night, Paula compared him to Bobby Brady and then used the word vintage, which I don't think has ever been used to describe a human being, and Simon muttered a weak, "It was OK." Let's be honest, he won't win this contest, but I think his teachers had better send his homework to LA for the time being - he isn't going home any time soon.

Coming in with the biggest groaner of the night, Ryan segued from Fred to Jose with, "Where there's a Will, there's a Sway". And how. Jose' Penala looked every inch the pimp in white pants, shoes, shirt, purple VELVET blazer and white hat - I swear all that was missing was a feather, gold front tooth and platform shoes with live goldfish in the heels. Singing "Reason" by Earth, Wind & Fire - a song his parents sang to get him to sleep as a baby - I just could not get behind him. The falsetto, the smarm, the PURPLE VELVET BLAZER. Randy, however, thought "That was hot!", Paula thought it "was truly amazing" and offered up clich #147, "You know who you are" (a short bald pimp), and Simon read right from my notes, calling the performance "pimpy". I know he'll stick around, but not on the strength of my redial button.

Another commercial break brought us back to our second purposely bald contestant, Chris Daughtry. Slammed in his initial audition by Simon for having a charisma deficit, Chris gained some ground in the Hollywood auditions and I was really looking forward to seeing what he would do tonight. I wasn't disappointed. Taking the stage in jeans (I swear denim is going to be on the endangered species list by the end of this season) and a black shirt against the background of Mandisa's hellfire screensaver, he wowed with a version of "Wanted Dead or Alive" that would make Bon Jovi proud. And while he stole Bo's classic mikestand move, it looked natural enough, and the mikestand didn't seem to mind, although should he make it a regular dancing partner, I shall have to name it as I did with Bo's Mikestand Mistress, Matilda.  All three judges loved his song choice and agreed he has a great recording voice. I just think he's a down to earth guy, with his own look, and a big, fat surplus of charisma.

Up next was 16 year old Kevin Covais, who looks like he was made from leftover Clay Aiken parts. He's a sweet kid, but there's just something about him that just looks like he's not cooked all the way yet. The youngest contestant, I give him credit for taking on "One Last Cry" by Brian McKnight without peeing his pants. He did fine, but if he survives tomorrow night's cuts, it's only because the people of this great land were overcome with the need to hug him via the phone lines. Seriously, he was scared to death, and a brief shot of his Dad was enough to make the paramedics worry he was going to stroke out before his son finished singing. Randy told him, "Dat was da bomb." (liar), Paula lauded his "lack of arrogance" (what could that kid possibly be arrogant about?), but Simon didn't hold back, calling it "utterly excruciating" and that most of his votes would come from deaf 90 year olds. Let's hope for Kevin's sake that the nursing home set took their Geritol today.

Gift from God (his words, not mine) Gedeon McKinney, who looks like the love child of Richard Pryor and Steve Harvey, sang the 50's classic, "Shout" against a 60's classic LSD flashback screensaver. Conservatively dressed in black pants and a blue dress shirt, he tried hard to work up the crowd, but for all his wiggling and crotch dancing, it was just kind of Blah. Randy "enjoyed it", Paula was "thrown for a loop" (what doesn't throw her for a loop?), and Simon compared him to a warm-up act for the Chippendales strippers. Gedeon needs a real gift from God if he expects to stick around.

Elliott Yamin, who looks like Chris Daughtry with hair, sang Stevie Wonder's "If You Really Love Me" and the answer is Yes, we really do. Dressed in the requisite ripped jeans and blazer, he effortlessly took on Stevie and won over the crowd. He may not be the juiciest grape in this bunch of guys, but he has a smooth sound and effortless delivery. Randy said he "sounded brilliant", Paula called him "infectious" (you know, from any other judge that would be a compliment, but Paula??), and Simon tagged him as "potentially the best male vocalist we have ever had". After a compliment like that from a git like Simon, I could forgive Elliott for the sweaty mess he was.

Up next was our most unlikely contestant of all - big boy Bobby Bennett - who I finally decided looks like a cross between Lou Costello and John Candy. Have you ever watched someone commit career suicide? It's not pretty and looks just like Bobby singing Barry Manilow's "Copa Cabana", a song that was only cool when Barry sang it in concerts wearing skintight polyester pants and an abundance of silver ruffles on his arms. It doesn't matter what the other judges said, Simon nailed it with, "That was a complete nightmare." Actually Simon, the nightmare will be complete when Bobby gets sent packing tomorrow night.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. we finally get to lay eyes on Brett Young - tell me those producers aren't savvy in how they line these kids up to perform. Brett has also taken a page from the Mandisa handbook and dropped his first name, opting for Ace, as in "In the hole". Seriously, he has it made on this show. Broad shouldered, unassuming, chiseled pecs and features, and the boy can sing. He pushed the Idol envelope tonight with a steamy rendition of George Michael's already steamy "Father Figure" - when he sang the line "warm and naked" while undressing the camera with his eyes. I daresay all comparisons to Constantine Mar"oily"us will be gone after tonight because where Conny practically licked the camera with his eyes, Ace stares into it and melts the circuits. I can only imagine what happens to a female viewer with high def. The performance was awesome, with one exception. His final gaze into the camera at the end of the song? He took on the look of a decidely "cute deer in headlights" or someone who has just shit their drawers on national TV. Whatever it was, it was a moment of nerves which only served to draw him closer to the bosom of America. The judges called him a star, Simon cited his "X" factor, and Paula? Well, Paula was so aroused she practically slid off her chair. Like Kellie Pickler, I hope he packed a big suitcase cause he isn't going home for months.

One more multimillion dollar break and we come back to truly the best having been saved for last: silver fox Taylor Hicks. Seriously, his name is being Googled full speed ahead, even more so than Ace. Singing Elton John's "Levon", he had the crowd at hello. Dressed in jeans, a burgundy shirt and brown blazer, he must have taken his Thorazine, because he was surprisingly tick and palsy free for most of the song, although his predominent movement was akin to someone having to pee really bad, and there was one serious knee jerk that about took out his own eye. He finished to loud applause, Randy said "I have loved you since Day One", Paula cited his "powerful passion" (whatever the hell that is) and Simon, who has been against Taylor since the first audition, stated simply, "I was wrong."

Yes, yes you were, Simon. America loves this guy, grey hair, jerky moves and all. And I'll tell you why: He makes us smile and feel so freaking good. Look out Simon, America has joined the "Soul Patrol" and we just might take this guy all the way.

Download the MP3 of Taylor singing “Levon”   and smile.

Well, I need to hit the phone lines and pledge my devotion to Taylor and rack up the 50 votes for Fred Savage that I promised my nine year old.

Who will America throw under the bus tomorrow night? Whoever the four are, I pray they include Brenna and that the proverbial Goodyears squash her ego into the asphalt....then we can all "bling, bling and shine on".

American Idol Recap, Tuesday, February 21: Oh Yes, It's Ladies' Night, But Is The Feelin' Right?

Well, we finally made it. After weeks of eardrum abuse and having our retinas burned out the backs of our heads by the Rhonetta Johnsons of this country, the reins of this AI horse are being turned over to we viewers. (Cowboy reference in memory of green Garet Johnson who is back home singing to his turkey and pondering the meaning of life...)

Let's saddle up, shall we?

Before we get to the performances, this past week has brought a few interesting tidbits to light...

1. Taylor "gRay Charles" Hicks, he of the palsy-tourettes dance moves and soulful pipes, has a CD available. No, nothing that violates the iron clad chastity belt that is the American Idol contract, so stop hyperventilating that your favorite silver stud is a goner. Rather the CD was self produced and is very much worth listening to. If you're a Taylor fan, stop by this NPR Radio link for three free song downloads and an interview with our gray haired bluesman.

2. American Idol has had its lawyers tighten the lasso around the contestants who did not make it this far, but who may still want to ride their 15 minutes of audition fame. The updated exclusivity clause states they may not pursue, "...any talent management agreement, talent agency agreement, recording contract, songwriting contract, acting contract, modeling contract, sponsorship contract, or any merchandising contract ....until three months following the date of the first broadcast of the final episode announcing the winner of the competition." This is, of course, all in an effort to head off any potential William Hungs who may steal the thunder of the actual winner of season 5. So don't be looking for Rhonetta's CD, Freakin' In Da Bubbly Water, anytime soon.

3. I've told you people in past seasons - I can see exactly what you Google to get to this blog. It's rather god-like, and I enjoy it. So judging from the past week's keywords, I can tell you that Kellie Pickler and Brett 'Ace' Young are definitely front runners. They'd be even moreso, if they'd pony up what you're all really Googling for: "Kelly Pickler nude sexy pictures" and "Brett Ace Young naked chaps". Naked chaps? Whatever. I'll keep you updated each week as to what the hot keywords are that bring you people in.

(Crap - I just typed "Naked chaps" - I can only imagine the number of hits the blog is going to get now. Probably like the time I wrote about massage parlors...I think I need more bandwidth...)

But, we are here tonight to pass judgment on the twelve ladies, so let's get "rollin, rollin, rollin..."

The excitement in my living room was palpable as the CyberIdol emerged from the Idolvator and walked through the neon colon...

Ryan Seacrest welcomed America, punctuating the seriousness of the evening by eschewing his collection of ironic t-shirts and wearing, in a further nod to Garet, a red plaid shirt and jeans with his suit coat. He explained the elimination process for the next three weeks, but since we are all fans here, I'll just condense it to "yada, yada, yada" and move on. We all know that we will thrash, squash and kill the dreams of half of these people by mid-April.

God, that's exciting.

Before the actual singing starts, in order to milk this two hour cash cow till her udders fall off, we are forced to watch a montage of all the girl finalists. Pure filler crap highlighted by pure filler crap Brenna Gethers-No-Votes-From-Me slapping her ass.

Commercial break #1 nets the producers 3 million dollars, so I guess we already know who the real winners are around here...

Up first to sing on the neon Cheerio stage was Lane Bryant's dream spokeswoman, Mandisa, who hasn't lost any weight since the audition phase, but has dropped her last name. Singing Heart's "Never", she took the stage, backlit by the fires of hell. Clad in a red satin cami and flowing black robe, styling newly straightened locks, I hope big girls across this country were paying attention: It's all in the attitude, baby. Mandisa rocked the house and looked hot while she did it. Let's keep this powerhouse around for a while, ok?

Next was everyone's favorite Carrie Underwood clone, Kellie Pickler. After a quick video recap of why we should all feel sorry for her, she took the stage singing "How Far", made famous by Martina McBride. Quite frankly, I don't think it will matter much what this girl sings for the next month or so - she is, quite simply, a pleasure to look at. Glorious Barbie doll hair, a teenage figure not marred by the fast food she serves up at Sonic, and a great smile, and what's this? Yes, she CAN sing. I was impressed with the vocals, but not so much as I was with the fact that she did not wear something skin tight. The brown tunic with jeans was flattering but not slutty. I'm sure she'll save the "big reveal" for the final four, when cleavage can make all the difference.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. we returned to Becky O'Donahue singing "Because The Night" because it was the first CD she ever received. Honestly? The whole thing was too skanky, too forced, too much hair in her face, and too much reliance on the background singers. The ripped jeans and sexy doilie top did not save her from the fact that her vocals just don't hold up as well as her hair. Randy loved the performance, and got the dawg pound to bark in agreement, but let's be honest, given the Victoria's Secret line-up of females they have been watching, their judgment is a bit clouded by the surging hormones in their nether regions.

Another break netted the producers 3.6 million dollars and netted the crew time to find an apple crate for Ryan to stand on when he interviewed basketball beauty Ayla Brown. After a video clip of Ayla waxing rhapsodic about Mulan and boys' football, she effortlessly performed "Reflection" from the movie, dressed in a tasteful black, strapless jumpsuit. The judges were happy with her performance and Paula uttered the first, "You made it your own" of the season. Let the cliche parade begin...

Next up was Paris Bennett, who will be hereby be referred to as Smurfette for the remainder of this season. That child's speaking voice is like a waiter in an Italian restaurant - GRATING. Her song choice was a good one though, "Midnight Train To Georgia" by Gladys Knight, as it showcased the incredible transformation that takes place in her throat when she sings. But the 70's Dorothy Hamill hair and overly tight denim jumpsuit? Didn't do it for me. She got the crowd behind her and, if anything, was overly confident on the stage. I pity the camera man who had to keep up with her incessant bouncing. Yes, I know she'll be around for a very long time, but not because of my votes. I just can't stand the sugary syrup she oozes.

Next was Stevie Scott, and I was really excited to see her perform because we got so little glimpse of her during auditions. Trained in opera since the age of 5, the 19 year old has got incredible control, range and talent, and I loved that she was going to sing Josh Grobin's "To Where You Are". Then she came out, skinny as a rail in her jeans and sparkly red top and I went to sleep. Seriously, it was the most boring, safe, forgettable rendition she could have possibly presented. My nine year old could have sung that well...while asleep. I agree with Simon, she "utterly messed that up". I predict she will be going "to where you are" come Thursday night - home.

I'm glad there was a commercial break at this point because I was able to hit the medicine cabinet and down some Pepto Bismal before having to endure the walking botulism that is Brenna Gethers. And we all thought Mikhala was bad... Stating that she "wants America to know I have a softer side" and rambling something about too little food and her middle name being MeMa, she dedicated her song choice, "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" to her mother. Awwww. Pardon me while I puke - the Pepto just isn't working. Her performance was rancid - the vocal equivalent of potato salad at an all day picnic - and the nicest thing I can say is that she didn't dress like a whore, surprising me with a ponytail, jean gauchos and a polo shirt. A rolling Brenna gethers no moss, so roll on girlfriend, I just cannot stomach your attitude another week.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. we get to see more of Heather Cox, who we never got to see at all during the audition phase. Like Kellie, she is easy on the eyes, a Barbie doll come to life, but that's about it. She sang the saccharine "When You Tell Me That You Love Me" from AI Season 4, and all I could think was that if she lasts another week, it is only because she did her "big cleavage reveal" tonight. The vocal was weak, uninspiring, forgettable. But then, I don't have a penis, so what do I know? She'll probably stay around for a while.

Beauty pageant contestant Melissa McGhee was up next to sing Faith Hill's "When The Lights Go Down", dressed in - what else? - ripped JEANS, a tunic top decorated with coasters, and brooms hanging from her ears. I love this song, know it by heart even, but I could not understand a word she warbled. Randy chimed in with the first "You worked it out" of season five, and Paula babbled the second, "you made it your own". Someone please get these guys a new cliche book. Simon stated she was being overshadowed, but she shot back that she is aware she has not been seen in the audition shows at all. For that, I shall give her 10 votes and a high five.

Finally, my favorite, Lisa Tucker was up. I have loved her since her first audition, and jumped for joy when she said she would be singing "I Am Changing" from Dreamgirls. That is one of my all time favorite tunes, having seen Jennifer Holiday belt it out in the original production on Broadway when I was 19. It would be one hell of an ambitious song for Whitney Houston to sing, let alone a 16 year old girl. Looking refined, polished and elegant in a just-sexy-enough black dress with plunging neckline and a gold embellished waist, Lisa commanded attention from the second she stepped onto the Cheerio. Now, knowing the original song and Holiday's bombastic, unequalled pipes, I now know the limitations of Lisa's voice, BUT, they are far beyond the limits of her fellow contestants. She sang the song with aplomb, never trying to go where only diva Broadway stars dare to tread, and she held her last note to perfection. I shall burn out my redial this evening on number 10.

Kinnik Sky, who incidentally has the most marketable name in this competition, chose to sing "Get There" made famous by another big voiced diva, Oleta Adams. Dressed in the only long gown (if you can call sparkly denim, a gown) of the evening, she looked amazing, although I was a bit distracted by the diamond crotch marker... Bad accessory placement. I thought the 28 year old gave a show stopping performance, although her final note just about ripped the seams of her painted on dress. The judges weren't overly wowed and Simon basically called her an old crone next to all those prepubes she is up against. Personally, I hope she sticks around and represents we AARP members.

Truly, the best was saved for last. Katharine McPhee, who has glided effortlessly to this point, and deservedly so, sang "Since I Fell For You", originally made famous by Barbra Streisand. Tasteful in a simple, black, off-the-shoulder blouse and jeans (ok, enough of the ripped denim ladies, you have a clothing allowance, take some hints from Lisa and Kinnik), she started slowly, quickly ramping up the energy, and singing with attitude and emotion. Watching and listening to her, I experienced that swift rush of shit to the heart we human beings get when faced with someone who can do something extraordinarily well, that we cannot. The whole performance was a joy, save for the last portion when she seemed to be struck down with TaylorHicksitus while attempting to dance. Randy lauded her "natural talent", she made Paula love her job, and Simon simply said, "You were the best."

I have always liked her, but her apology to the portion of the crowd who "had to stare at my butt the whole time", made me laugh out loud - that's worth 30 extra votes from me Katharine.

And so ends Ladies' Night here at the American Idol Bar & Grill. Tomorrow night, it'll be raining men as the guys compete to see who stays and who gets sent packing with Brenna and Stevie.

Now, you'll have to excuse me, I have some phone lines to burn up. God, I feel so alive!

Cartoon Fracas Turned Farce

I'm all for expressing one's discontent with an issue. I believe the desire to protest that which we don't like, or feel wronged by, is coded deep within our DNA. I also support each person's right to believe, or not believe, in any deity, prophet or god they so choose.

What I don't believe in is getting your ass in a big sailor's knot over an issue you don't even fully understand, and violently expressing your misplaced discontent.

Exhibit A: The current sheepshank that is the collective ass of the Islamic protesters and their continuing violence over the cartoons depicting Mohammed in a less than flattering light.

In what is a perfect example of oxygen feeding and growing a fire, this violence has been feeding on itself for over two weeks, nurtured by a level of ignorance so strong, it obliterates the facts and any reasonable measure of rationale.

Exhibit B: Yesterday's announcement in Pakistan, by cleric Mohammed Yousaf Qureshi, of a bounty for killing the cartoonist: "Whoever has done this despicable and shameful act, he has challenged the honor of Muslims. Whoever will kill this cursed man, he will get $1 million dollars from the association of the jewelers bazaar, one million rupees ($16,700) from Masjid Mohabat Khan and 500,000 rupees ($8,350) and a car from Jamia Ashrafia as a reward."

Psst...psst...Mr. Quershi? The cartoons were actually drawn by twelve different cartoonists.

(Thought that might be important to know, after all, these extremists of yours are going to want their million+ EACH when they present you the heads of these artists, and judging by their behavior, if you don't pony up the cheese, they may just present your head as an offering to Mohammed.)

My point here is that if the leaders these people look up to don't even know the facts, there is no way in hell that their followers do.

They are pissed off via a poorly played game of "Telephone" - you know, the one we played in grade school where we would whisper something in a chain through each classmate and see how warped and distorted it would come out on the other end?

These cartoons have existed since September of last year, so why the hoohaa now and not then? I mean this was not the first time they were published, but for some reason, Denmark is taking it up the "A" for republishing them last month. And while it was a single editorial decision by a single Dane, I say DENMARK because the entire country is now in the crosshairs (or gasoline jugs) of the nation of Islam.

I have news for these ignorant militants who believe they are somehow defending the honor of the prophet by torching consulates, cars, flags, McDonald's... He is YOUR prophet. Not mine. Not the prophet of a billion other people either. We do not have to revere him, his likeness, or his teachings.

You believe the way you believe because someone taught you to believe it, because someone taught them to believe it, because someone taught them to believe it, and on and on. That's the same way people believe in every other religion. We all believe in the invisible, unseeable, following rules and laws and commandments because we have been taught to. Not because the Supreme Being we worship ever rang our personal doorbells and went over the manual with us.

And while you're busy torching buildings and piling up dead bodies over this ridiculous issue, has it ever dawned on you that you don't exactly show any respect for the gods of other religions? You people would be the first to draw a marker mustache on a poster of Jesus - right before pouring gas on it and setting it aflame.

I'm serious about what I wrote last week: If the non-Islam folks of this world were to ever mimic your behaviors, you'd all be dead in a day. Seriously, have you ever seen a really pissed off Catholic before? Not a pretty sight.

Lucky for you though, in addition to praying, we also practice tolerance. We tolerate the fact that you worship differently. We tolerate the fact that, like every other religion in this world, you have some wackjobs among your ranks. We even tolerate the fact that you make no bones about wanting us all dead. And if I'm being honest, we have also feared you to a certain degree - kind of the way we fear our weird, drunken uncle with the gropey hands at Thanksgiving.

But even tolerance and fear have their limits. And as every additional day passes with your ridiculous images on our TVs burning things up, rioting outside consulates, and offering rewards to kill people, you move closer and closer to getting kicked in the balls like Uncle Gropey.

And as for Bill Clinton, the biggest Uncle Gropey around, and his comments while in Islamabad this week? He said, "I can tell you, most people in the United States deeply respect Islam...and most people in Europe do."

No Bill, that's not even close to being right. Tolerating other beliefs and having a deep respect for them are far different behaviors. I, for one, do not deeply respect a religion that calls for my demise, and I deeply suspect I am not alone.

I am not an infidel. I am not a trespasser. I am not a cursed individual.

I am a human being who has simply had enough. It was a cartoon. Plain and simple. And until you are ready to riot on behalf of George Bush, or the Pope, or the God I worship - all who routinely take it up the ass in the funny papers - sit down, shut the hell up and find something productive to do with your lives.

Because right now? You're the biggest cartoons of all.

American Idol Update: The Brittenums are Gettin' Some (aka There Is No God)

I may very well ruin my computer via projectile vomiting as I type this...

It seems that the "flawless angels", felons both, Terrell & Derrell Brittenum (urp - oh God, I feel it coming up my esophagus...) have been signed to a record deal by Jermaine Dupri's So So Def label.

gurgle, gurgle, uuuuuuuuuugggggggggggg, SPLAT.

This only serves to highlight for me that the Apocolypse is nigh and that I need to get my affairs in order.  Even as I type, the skies are darkening, the wind is picking up, and I swear a frog just hit my roof...

I daresay a special place has been reserved in hell for Jermaine, and I fervently pray that his record label name is a prophetic description of our ears when the Thangs hit the airwaves:  So SO DEAF.

(Now, does anyone know how to clean vomit from the keyboard?)

American Idol Recap, February 15: And Then There Were 24 (FINALLY)

Well kids, it's the last night of the audition phase and I am so excited!

Really?, you ask.

Because we get to meet the final 24?, you inquire.

Or perhaps because you are itching to begin dialing those golden numbers?, you suppose.

Nooooooooooooooo. Not even close. This evening I am overcome with the thrill of finally watching the Brittenum twins get their asses handed to them to wear as hats.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...let's savor the upcoming national demise, shall we?

As the virtual idolvator rises like bile in my throat when I see Thang 1 & Thang 2, tonight's episode gets underway...

We see the 44 semi-sort-of-finalists gathered in the Pasadena Civic Center, awaiting their ride in the real elevator that will take them to Idol Heaven or back to Obscurity Hell. They talk little, preferring to concentrate on their breathing, apply copious layers of lip gloss, and trim their nails with their teeth. In other words, nerves rule this day.

In short order, 44 is trimmed to 37, as seven people have their dreams crushed. There are tears, a light smattering of profanity, even some indignation on the part of Katherine McPhee when Crystal Stark (who incidentally sounded great, but we never got to see perform until tonight) was told NO. Her rant ended one bus stop short of Sincerity Lane, however, when she said, "Well, I'm not, like, SO angry."

Obviously the mathematics of the situation finally occurred to her.  One less competitor.

She was the next one to ride the elevator, the first one to receive a pass to the final 24, and I do believe she made Idol history by being the first female to not only kiss all three judges, but to plant one right on Paula's mouth.

Ewwwww.....where's Doctor Phil when we need him?

Up next was Brett "Ace" Young - who may share the same hairstylist as Constantine Maroulis, but where Constantine had three chins and oozed smarm like deep cuts ooze pus, Brett just drips heartthrob all over the place. As long as he doesn't waggle his tongue at the cameras a la Constantly Mugging Maroulis, he is going to be carried an awful long way on looks alone.  Couple that with the fact he can sing, and he may go all the way.

Oh, and look for Paula to be highlighted in another scandal soon. She practically goes into heat everytime that boy walks in the room.

With two Yes's in a row, that meant we needed some people to be thrown into the volcano. Antonio Bridges and Eugenia Littlejohn were the sacrificial virgins - well, metaphorically speaking. Eugenia does have a six year old son. But then, she was all ready to jump into the lava unaided, as she declared, "I am 26 and my life is over."

Life over? Someone pick up a six pack of perspective for her at the store, she's fresh out.

Robert Bennett, Jr. made his way across the hardwood floor, and while I cannot say I remember having seen him, I'll get my chances in the upcoming weeks, as he is waved on through to the finals. An unlikely looking fellow, he joins other atypical Idol contestant alumni like Ruben Studdard, Scott Savol and Nikki McKibbon. Judges cite his likability factor, so we'll see how much America likes him very soon.

I will say, it was a toss up as to who was more shocked by his finalist status when he lumbered back into the room and faced the waiting contestants - him or them.

Mandisa Hundley - and let's just get this out in the open right now - she is a BIG girl with a BIG voice - was up next. But before the judges could announce their verdict, she took Simon to task for his earlier audition comment about her, "We need a bigger stage." She began her sermon with "Yes, you hurt me and yes, I cried. But I forgive you..." and ended it with many references to Jesus and Grace.

She made it through with an Amen from the congregation, but her proselytizing seemed out of place when she followed it up with "I know you're watching my bottom" as she walked away.

To fill time, the producers then show us a montage of each contestant sitting on the long bench...alone...with their thoughts. Actually, I would wager they are alone with ONE of two thoughts: Either, "Please dear God, let me make it through." or "Please, dear God, let the elevator cables snap and crush the person who just went in, decreasing the competition by one more..."

Melissa McGhee's one thought (the former, not the latter) pays off as she gets a quick and dirty Yes. No preamble. No tension. No suspense. Just "Yes, you're through."

What a gyp.

But then Mark Adam Locklear gets a No in pretty much the same fashion, so it balances the universe back out. Seriously, he was under the bus and ground into the Goodyears before he knew what hit him.

Finally, my personal favorite, young Lisa Tucker, the teen with the wonderful smile and killer vocals, rode up the elevator and into the final 12 girls. I can sleep well tonight.

David Radford said during his ride up, "I have no idea what I did right so far." That makes 30 million of us David - we haven't seen you so far. I guess we will though - he makes it through and collapses on the floor of the elevator.

Just a thought: With all that tension, 44 different perfumes, deodorants, lack of deodorants, and flopsweat, you gotta know that elevator smells pretty rank by about noon...

Next to savor the olfactory pleasures of the metal box is Jose "Sway" Penala, who received the birthday present of his life when the judges waved him through to the finals. However, there is controversy swirling around Jose already - apparently he may have been signed to a contract with E-Real Records at the time he auditioned. Stay tuned...

Elliott Yamin - whom I christened "Corncob Teeth" last evening - needs to find a dentist quick. He's through and if he expects me to tolerate looking in his mouth as he sings for weeks on end, he needs to cap off his victory tonight with some real caps on his kernals.

Oh. My. God. Brenna Gethers, the reincarnation of Mikahla Gordon, has made it through - despite making an incredible spectacle of herself last evening with her grandstanding, ass slapping and bling blinging, AND being called a "nightmare" by Simon. Oh well, I guess the bright side is that we all know who we vote off in week one. Her last comment was, "Some people don't like me, but it's up to America now." Yes Brenna, it is, and you should be afraid...be very afraid.

Sadly, Brenna's groupmate from last evening, Marcy Smith, gets told No. That's ok - she gets my vote for Most Class when given the opportunity to trash the skankified Brenna. She simply calls her "special", which from what we have all seen, is code for "stark raving, egotistical, arrogant, full of shit ho". Good luck in your career as a diplomat, Marcy, you will do well.

After four No's in quick succession, Gideon McKinney takes ego to new heights by telling the judges, "I am ready for America to see what God has done" - reference to his stellar self. Ahhh, poor Gideon, these are the moments that come back to bite you in the ass when they bid you farewell from the show...we'll be watching for that clip in the very near future.

We have not seen much of classically trained Stevie Scott, but we will. She has a stellar voice, with range, passion, and delivery in spades. I predict she will make it at least into the final 5.

Ayla Brown, the basketball playing beauty gets told Yes and then damn near has a conniption fit in the elevator. That's ok - the excitement is genuine and that's what we want to see.

Unfortunately for Chris Daughtry, her shaking, rattling and rolling of the elevator broke it and he gets stuck inside for six minutes while they wait for the Rent-a-cop to come push a button and open it for him. It was well worth the wait, however, Chris is through to the next round. I like him - not only can he sing, he just seems like a decent guy - in a bald-Bo-Bice-rocker kind of way.

Rebecca O'Donahue - remember her? Half of the Doublemint Twins - her sister crouched by the wall during her audition and performed sign language? She makes it through too. Season five's girls are looking to not only be the hottest batch yet, but the tallest by far.

Don't believe me? Next to make it through was blonde bombshell, Heather Cox, tall and obscenely gorgeous. I don't know if she can sing, but the male 18-45 year old demographic just hit the Season Pass button on their TiVo remotes.

On the literal short end of the stick - stubby April Walsh, she of the hideous flower curtain audition dress, gets sent home to grow some legs and try again next year.

In next was William "Bucky" Covington, who needs to look into a twofer deal on toofers with Corncob Teeth. He had a mouthful of them, didn't he? I swear, I have NEVER seen this man before and suddenly, here he is, in my final 24, looking for all the world like a stoner cowboy.

Two more yes's follow - Patrick Hall who admits, "I'm not as pretty as Ace, but who is?" and Kevin Covais, who can only look at Ace and hope that when he hits puberty, good things will happen for him too. I like Kevin - he looks like the kid who delivers my newspapers. I predict the grandmothers of this great nation will keep him around for at least six weeks.

Paris Bennett, the 17 year old I originally liked and affectionately likened to Cindy Lou Who, is up. I'm sorry, but what I said last night stands - I don't like her anymore. There is a fake sweetness about her that curls my teeth. She may be able to sing, but she is not going to win the hearts of the voting public for long.

Oh sweet deliverance! Is it really time? Yes! Yes, it is!

Thang 1 and Thang 2 are seen waiting their turn and in typical Thang fashion, T1 begins to spurt verbal diarrhea, "My behavior this past four days has been nothing but exemplary. I've been an American Idol in this asituation (he said it like that, "asituation"). We've been angels."

Quick shot of Thang 2, staring at Thang 1. Even the look on his face seemed to read, "Say what?"

But then they both spoke in sync, "Our behavior has been flawless."

Cut to prison bar graphic and news report from their hometown, detailing their prison records and current charges of forgery, theft by deception and identity fraud. And just as quick as you can say Dr. Seuss, Thang 1 and Thang 2 were gobbled up by the penal system, never to soil our TV screens again.

I ask you, has a nationally televised comeuppance ever been as sweet?

Methinks not.

Moving on, Kelly Pickler receives her Yes and my Duh. Come on, as if we all didn't know she had to make it.

Then in comes silver fox Taylor Hicks, contorting and playing his harmonica as he walked The Green Mile to the eclectic chair. I like him so much. There is just something so damned underdog about him. And his Ray Charles dance moves are going to be something I look forward to each week.

Finally, we are down to two vacant spots and four hopeful contestants. I won't drag this out - the losers have been through enough...the ones to make it through are Kinnik Sky for the girls and Fred Savage Makar for the boys.

In typical Idol tradition, they all danced as they were formally introduced to America as "YOUR 24 FINALISTS" And I could not help but notice that this batch of finalists contains the best looking and also the youngest set of hopefuls yet.

Seriously, it looks like America's Next Top Model combined with the one season wonder, American Idol Juniors.

But then, I guess after subjecting us to Scott Savol for all of last season, the producers felt they owed our eyeballs some candy.

I, for one, am grateful. (And my retinas are no longer burning.)

So what do YOU think?  Who looks like they need to pack for a long stay in California and who only needs one piece of carry-on luggage?  Does "Ace" melt your butter?  Does Kelly look too much like Carrie Underwood to really have a shot?  Does Taylor's silver hair tarnish his image as an Idol?  Chime in below and get your dialing fingers ready, kids.  The fun starts in one week!