Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

American Idol Audition Recap, Wednesday, January 31, Los Angeles: City of Angels Possessed By Talentless Demons

ru·mor: 'rü-m&r (n) 1 : talk or opinion widely disseminated with no discernible source; 2 : a statement or report current without known authority for its truth; 3 archaic : talk or report of a notable person or event

Rumors. Society thrives on them.

Rumors are a device used by human beings to take the focus off their own crummy lives of carpools, paying bills, and eating Mac 'n Cheese every night, and redirect at it someone else’s crummy life – usually in the public arena.

Whether we like to admit it or not, just a whiff of a new rumor about Britney Spears underwear (or lack thereof), or Paris Hilton’s latest Greek boytoy, or even Jennifer Aniston’s new nose is enough to set tongues wagging and blogs afire.

So it’s not the least bit surprising that there has been a virtual web inferno today at the rumor circulating around two names:

Paula Abdul and Courtney Love.

You know, I don’t think it’s possible to cram more "crazy" into five little words than that…

Apparently, Ms. Love – not exactly the most reliable source of accurate information, in fact, she ranks right up there with weather forecasters and my tax return – is said to be telling folks she has been approached by Fox to replace Ms. Abdul.

US Weekly, quick to jump on anything a celebrity (gag) utters, is giving voice to her ramblings.

Now, while I love a good rumor just as much as the next human being, I have to say, this one made my brain curdle – seriously, picture a cup of cream with lemon juice poured into it. POOF – immediate curdle-ation – like an atomic cloud in a cup.

Courtney Love as an American Idol judge? Fine. I realize that we’d just be trading one type of crazy for another, Froot Loops for Cocoa Puffs, as it were, but at least with Paula, we pretty much know what to expect in our bowl. Courtney Love, to put it kindly, is an acquired taste - like the sushi called uni, which can only be described as licking the inside of a Woodstock port-o-potty.

Sure, Paula may slur her words from time to time, slide out of her chair, clap like a seal on crack, and hit on underage boys, but she’s basically harmless. Fox knows what to expect with her and they keep a big net on hand for when her Coke cup gets a little too full.

But Courtney? Legal philanthropist (come on, God only knows how many lawyers she has kept in business through the years), public exhibitionist (David Letterman still has nightmares of her flashing her crotch at him while dancing on his desk), and rehab frequent flyer (seriously, Promises installed a revolving door with a brass nameplate just for her).

Lest we not forget she fronts a band named Hole. And I promise you, it is not in reference to anything you dig in the ground with a shovel.

Seriously, if Courtney Love is a candidate, why not get K-Fed on there too? Or Paris Hilton? Or Charles Manson? Surely he likes a good tune as much as the next person.

Most counter-rumors that began spinning indicate that if the producers talked to her at all, it was about being a guest judge or mentor. For what? Incoherent Skank Night?

Personally, I really hope these rumors stay just that – RUMORS, never to be quantified or come to fruition. I mean, it’s bad enough that Diana Ross is slated to expose the kids to her personal brand of wackdom sometime this season.

So please, Nigel, Simon and the rest – don’t jump the shark. We may make fun of poor Paula all the time, but if given the choice between two trainwrecks, we’ll take the normal derailed Amtrak that is Paula over the Hindenburg on tracks that is Courtney Love - anyday.

Now, let’s get on with the recrap – wait, I mean recap – no, scratch that. Considering tonight’s offerings, I think recrap is excroidinarily apropos…

Ahhh, Los Angeles, the city that gave us McPheever (curable with over-the-counter meds and time) – we get treated to a snippet of Kat singing one of her 90 floor writhing renditions of Somewhere Over The Rainbow from Season Five, and then move straight in to pans of the thousands who turned out at the Rose Bowl for their shot at fame (also because LA is home to thousands of out of work actors who had nothing better to do that day).

The judges arrive – well, actually Paula’s breasts arrived a couple minutes ahead of her – come on, could she "boost her yeas" anymore than that without cutting off her air supply?

Guest judge Olivia Bayer Sager was on hand as well. Ok, ok – Olivia Newton John, who has obviously engaged the Restylyne/Botox services of the same surgeon as Carol. She looked lovely for her age – in an I-cannot-move-any-part-of-my-face-but-my-lips kind of way.

Yes, Olivia Newton-John, an artist with 4 decades of songs to choose from – and the producers highlight Xanadu and Physical? Listen, I have a soft spot in my heart for each – having made out to one (Xanadu) and danced to the other in a high school talent show, but come on. The woman is synonymous with Grease – Summer Nights, Hopelessly Devoted, We Go Together ring a bell?

(Incidentally, both Grease and Olivia are enjoying a Renaissance of sorts on another channel with You’re The One That I Want – the search for the new Danny & Sandy for the upcoming Broadway revival of the musical. She sits in as a guest judge there as well.)

Up first in the City of Fallen Angels is Martik Manoukian, a big pussy. Wait, sorry – that doesn’t sound right, now does it? Martik is a panther

Or he believes himself to be. He also claims to have the "fire equalling three men". I immediately envision the scene in Anchorman when Brian Fantana douses himself with Sex Panther cologne – "you know it’s good, because it’s made with real panther…"

I do believe that scene ends badly too.

But I digress…

Martik (who incidentally also looks like Kevin Federline circa 2005) lists his many occupations, talents, and aspirations as, "athlete, model, author, actor, rapper, choreographer, producer, composer, geologist, proctologist, astrologist, Slurpee machine operator, Britney Spears impregnator, all on a sesame seed bun…"

OK, fine – I embellished a little, but give me a break. He rattled off everything except his social security number and shoe size.

Martik, thrilled at the camera being aimed at the wonder that is Martik, then demonstrated the three Panther moves he has created:

1. Extension move – or eccentric move? Hard to understand him, but it involved slowly moving towards his victim.

2. The Crawl, which basically involves Martik, well, crawling on the floor.

3. The Flash, in which Martik whips his paw quickly through the air and makes a whooshing sound.

Listen, I don’t know about you, but it was at this point that I began to suspect the LA auditions were not going to yield either style or substance. Just lots of people who believe they have style and abuse any number of substances…

Martik sums up his raison d’etre, "I am auditioning for American Idol because I’m the most exciting entertainer on the planet."

Oh, how I wish Wayne Newton would have materialized and bitchslapped him back to the litter box.

Finally the producers stop the torture (seriously, what in THE hell did the viewing audience do to deserve this guy?) and his audition begins. He enters the room with Panther Move #3 – whooshing the air and throwing his binder across the floor.

He then adopts an Elvis-y wide legged stance, apparently figures out he is facing the wrong way, and turns to face the judges. Another #3 and his glasses go whooshing off screen.

He quickly follows by adding his vest and shirt to the growing pile of discards.

Moving forward via Panther Move #1, he quickly drops to Panther Move #2 and crawls to the judges table. All the while – he has made no sound. You stealthy panther, you.

Standing back up, he turns away from the judges and walks to the back wall where he proceeds to have a full body seizure. Seriously, you hear about them, you use the term in sentences, but you rarely get to witness an honest to God conniption.

Simon finally tells him to "get on with it."

"It" is something called Sweetest Princess which sounds suspiciously like stray cats sittin’ on a fence – no offense to Brian Setzer.

Simon asks "What the hell was that?" then threw in "horrendous" and "horrific" for good measure. Paula, however, chimed in with "not right for this competition, but I loved the roaring."

Ok, now see? This is where Courtney Love would get them all in trouble. If Paula can still get hopped up like a feline on catnip over this kid’s body, Courtney would have been buck naked on the floor by now.

Thankfully, it was over. A full ten minutes wasted pandering to this pathetic panther. Someone call Bob Barker and get this cat neutered, ok?

Surely after enduring all that, we must be in for some vocal redemption, right? Wrong.

Sholandric Stallworth, a man who worships Julio Iglesias and is determined to "bring the romance and the love back into the music" is up next, singing If Ever You’re In My Arms Again.

OK, fine – singing is a generous term. Sholandric actually embraces the screemching method of performance – you remember, screaming + screeching = screemching – he shouted the lyrics, quite a feat when you consider he was singing only one note the whole time. And sadly, love and romance were no where to be found.

Randy told him he hit about "12 keys on the chorus alone", none of which opened the door to a golden ticket.

A break brought us back to a montage of awfulness highlighted by Angela Mo, who was definitely a screeching No; Grace Pugal who sang One Moment In Time while wearing an inflatable bull on her body and what looked like a toilet seat liner on her head; Sophat Peou (yes, pronounced So Fat Pee Eww) who was dressed either as a banana or a Day Glo, large reservoired condom, singing Peanut Butter Jelly Time – with morraccas, no less.

Surely God must be testing us. But doesn’t he know we are a country of "C" students?

Marianna Riccio, a singer since she was four was dangled in front of us as "hope bait". And what’s this? She and Katharine McPhee have the same mother?!?! Seriously, her mother is a dead ringer for Kat’s mom, Peisha.

Wanting to follow in her Mom (a former Dean Martin Gold Digger)'s footsteps, which apparently means wearing far too little clothes for far too much body - I do believe Tyra Banks calls that condition where your belly spills over the top of your jeans, "muffin top"- Marianna entered the audition room.

Wearing a crocheted doilie for a top, her hands were caught in an 80’s timewarp – covered with Madonna fingerless gloves and rubber bracelets.

She then began to sing Should I Stay Or Should I Go – a musical question that seemed immediately rhetorical. She should definitely go.

Even before Simon’s critique, I had jotted down that she had a very "Cher-ish" quality to her delivery. Simon nailed it further with "Cher after she’s been to the dentist."

Obviously, that wasn't what young Marianna wanted to hear so she proceeded to beg, whine, plead, cry, grovel, crawl on her knees, and beg some more before Randy’s "1000% No" finally sent her to the door.

But wait!

Mommy cannot take No for an answer either and crashed the audition doors insisting that her baby could sing beautifully. Um, no, she can’t, please leave. Simon was not impressed with the message, but he did like the messenger, saying that "Mom was foxy."

This audition then opened the door to a procession of contestants for whom "No" obviously meant " a yes that just needs some persuading". People on their knees, crying, pleading, imploring – kind of like me – crying, pleading, imploring the producers to actually produce something decent out of this show.

Enter Alaina Alexander, a beautiful girl who has been a "struggling LA performer for six years". Declaring this audition to be her last before she hangs up her dreams for the scariness of college – seriously, the way she talked about being frightened of going to school was ridiculous. What? Waiting tables and being repeatedly rejected isn’t scary?

College is not exactly a bad back up plan, Alaina.

But, as luck and talent would have it, the Ivy League will have to wait a bit longer. She is not only as cute as a button, with a killer smile, she is a standout vocalist. Strong, smooth, controlled – the judges thought she was "really, really, really great" and gave her a ticket to the next round. I hope she realizes that the upcoming American Idol college classes are strictly Pass/Fail.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. Phuong Pham, who likens herself to be Taylor Hicksinian in her passion for music and performing spoke about her idol, "I have a lot in common with Taylor Hicks." I can only assume she meant a man’s voice. Come on, you thought it too.

In her preaudition footage, she talks about how her Mom was supportive but that she had also told her, "You’re pretty, but not quite TV pretty. You’re no Katharine McPhee."

OK, that may sound a tad harsh, but then, thousands of these contestants could benefit from having at least one person in their lives who is actually honest with them about their talents and attributes. Phuong is by no means a retina burner, but neither will she cause Kat any sleepless nights.

Phuong, dressed in jeans, a brown beret, brown top, and wearing a wok around her neck, began to sing Dancin’ In The Streets and everyone quickly realized that Mom’s honestly did not extend to the fact that her daughter’s dancing and singing abilities are not exactly TV ready either. In fact, I’m pretty sure that in some places, dancin’ in the streets like that will get you arrested.

Her jerks and spasms - I kept thinking she was going to throw up each time she lunged forward – made Taylor look like Baryshnikov.

In next was Brandon Rogers, a background singer for the likes of Anastasia and Xtina the past four years, who was finally ready to take his shot at center stage. Immediately likeable, Brandon is attractive, happy, buff, and humble.

Singing Always On My Mind, I closed my eyes and could absolutely imagine him as a solo act on the radio. Effortless, the kind of voice that makes you wonder why your own vocal cords can’t make sounds like that, the judges were won over in short order. Simon even said, "Out of everyone we’ve seen today, this is by far the best audition." Can’t wait to see him again in Hollywood. Oh wait – he’s already there – you get what I mean.

We get a brief shot of Grandpa Sherman, armed with a petition – 330+ signatures strong – approaching the entry tables outside, asking for a chance to sing. I smell gimmick…and mothballs.

Brian Miller, a handsome enough young man who made it all the way to Hollywood Week last season, is back again for another try. The pressure back then proved too much and he left in tears. He is back now, wiser, stronger, ready to withstand even the Brittenum Twins themselves, if it means another shot at the finals.

Singing Change Is Gonna Come, it is quickly evident why he made it through the first time. The boy is good. The judges decide to give him another shot at the brass ring and send him on his way with a smile on his face and a golden ticket in his hand.

Sherman has made it past the AI Guard, and apparently the producers too, and is ready to share his story with America. OK, I admit, that for one brief moment, I was ready to throw the remote at the TV, but then he began to explain just why his slightly older than 28 year old self was there.

It seems His "lady love" of 20 years had been diagnosed with cancer and had spent the past months at Cedars Sinai Hospital. A fan of the show, she helped him develop a petition to see if he could get an audition for Season Six when AI came to LA. To quote Sherman, "every signature kept her happy". It was motivation, plain and simple. And to anyone who has watched a loved one be slowly extinguished by disease, motivation and smiles sometimes make more of a difference than medication and science.

She died two days before Sherman arrived to audition, but he is convinced that working on the petition and the thought of him making it in to sing for the judges, "smoothed her passing, made it a little softer."

I’m sure he is right.

In the audition room, he explained it to the judges, and even Simon was touched by the story and the composure of the man.

As he began to sing You Belong To Me, Paula and Olivia dissolved, and Randy and Simon were visibly moved by the lyrics in relation to the story of Sherman and his "lady love".

As he left the audition room, with hugs and handshakes from all, he stated, "I won. I’m a winner."

Yes Sherman, you are. Anyone with that much heart and an outlook that positive can never be a loser in life. And I give American Idol props for including him in this episode. While I hate that he is sandwiched between the cluelessness of the Panther, and the Jerry Springer guests that come next, they did redeem themselves a bit by showing something that truly had no joke, no punchline – it was a simple moment that touched millions of hearts.

In all, 21 golden tickets were handed out on Day One – if you’re keeping score, we only got to see THREE.

Day 2 dawned with the talk show guests I referred to above – Cavett "Sparkles" Carr and her bus stop beau, Darold Gray.

Let me just delicately say, they add up to a whole lot of love. And a whole lot of character to spare.

Long minutes were spent listening to Cavett wax rhapsodic about Darold’s grill – his sexy, sexy grill – and watching him deliver "frosty kisses" with it.

OK, I admit it. I am as white and nerdy as anything Weird Al could parody. But I just don’t get the whole "grill" concept. I had braces as a kid and couldn’t wait to get them the hell out of my mouth. I cannot imagine voluntarily encasing my teeth in silver again.

But Cavett loves her man’s metal mouth, and that’s all that matters.

In the confessional booth, Cavett attempts to alert America that they will be the first, no wait, the next, ah hell, the only?, well, crap – something about the two of them getting married.

Seriously, someone get Jerry on the phone.

She went in to see the judges first, a vision in a big screen TV test patterned shirt and red pants. She then began to sing about Going Down and emphasized the lyrics by ending up on the floor. It was one of those empathetic embarrassment moments – I could feel it wash over me. I just wanted to make her stop before she made it any worse.

Well, if wishing could make it so, I could have saved her, but as it was, she proceeded to wink and waggle her tongue at Simon. Listen, Darold obviously likes all the junk in her trunk, her front seat, her back seat, and her Uhaul, but Simon seems to prefer "sleek compact cars" to "SUVs" when it comes to romance.

Darold got his shot next. Clad in cammie Garanimals, a dollar sign ball cap, and a tablecloth at his waist, he launched into I Wish It Would Rain – actually it sounded more like one of those Books-on-tape than actual singing. Thank God Cavett loves his grill because the judges pretty much fried his dreams.

With an obvious 30 seconds to kill, the producers treated us to a snippet of Anthony Adams scalding cats. OK, ok – he was singing You Light Up My Life and Pierce My Eardrums. Somehow I don’t think his posse is going to let him live down singing Debbie Boone on national TV.

Last, and certainly hyped as least, was Eric Mueller. Bland as a bowl of tapioca pudding, he boasted how he has not done anything for two years but "train for American Idol". He even cut out his social life.

Insert sound of crickets chirping.

He has "studied Robert Plant" and "Michael Jackson’s featherweight vocals" and just wants "to take what other people have done and raise it to higher heights." He wants to "fluctuate it, reverberate it, and … stand out from the contrasts."

What?

Claiming to have been practicing 4 or 5 hours every day, Eric stated, "People are going to hear my voice and go ‘I haven’t heard anything like that in a long time.’"

Someone untie him from the tracks. Please?

I began to hear the highpitched whistle from the oncoming, soon-to-be-wrecked train…wait…that’s not a train whistle. That’s Eric.

I honestly could not make out a word he was singing – partly because it was sung in such a high pitch my dog ran to the front door and began scratching to get out. Apparently it was Hilary Duff’s Fly.

Simon asked him to sing lower. Twice. But lower was obviously a foreign concept because he kept straying back into the stratosphere. It was pathetic – and I’m being generous here.

I guess the good news is that he can get back to his social life?

He began to leave the room, but then Simon noticed something on Eric’s audition sheet. There, listed under Training, was Simon’s Christmas, Easter, Halloween and birthday present all rolled into one: Eric proudly listed Randy and Paula’s DVD, Learn To Sing Like A Star.

I thought Simon was going to piss himself with glee. That, or give Eric a golden ticket just to embarrass his fellow judges.

And they were embarrassed. As Simon followed Eric out the door, Randy and Paula ambushed Simon in an attempt to keep him quiet.

Poor Eric was just confused. Don’t worry though, as with McPheever, time is a great healer.

So, that’s it for Los Angeles – 19 tickets were given out on day two – we saw NONE - bringing the grand total to 40.

Forty tickets given out and we only got to see THREE PEOPLE? Come on.

Maybe next week will be better. The show heads to San Antonio, Texas – only 100 miles from where I live. I warn you – everything IS bigger in Texas – that includes the hats, the hair, the buckles, and yes, the deluded. But maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll get a glance at some of the BIG talent that is hiding down here too. Stay tuned, pardner…

~~~

P.S.  I regret to inform you all that as I am joining Mickey Mouse on a cruise to the Bahamas next week, I will unable to recap the shows until I return.  I know, I know – how will you survive?  I promise to get them up and running for you by Friday the 9 th, so mark your calendars and bookmark the site.  And look on the bright side – this way, you’ll have something to tide you over the weekend as you anxiously await the next week’s shows.  OK, fine, I’ll bring you back a souvenir too.  My God, you people are spoiled. 

American Idol Audition Recap, Tuesday, January 30, Birmingham: The South Doesn't Rise Again

Warning: I had gas earlier today.

No, not as in: dear-God-in-heaven-why-did-I-eat-that-three-day-old-burrito-because-now-I-am-seeing-visions kind of way. Rather, I had a trip to the oral surgeon and a pleasant "trip" on some nitrous – breathe deeeeeeeeeep – so if this recap starts to stray, bear with me. In addition to feeling like I was dipped in 300 pounds of chocolate and rolled in marshamallows, I swear I was seeing purple giraffes with orange Mohawks and udders while I was tripping in the chair…then again, this is another audition round - people are bound to show up dressed just like that at some point…

CBS sadly announced the cancellation of yet another series today. Armed and Famous – the riducality (ridiculous + reality – catch up, people) show featuring Z list celebrities (Erik Estrada, LaToya Jackson, Jack Osbourne, et al) as reserve police officers in the Midwest berg of Muncie, Indiana.

What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? Come on. It’s been on Wednesday nights this month. What the hell else have you been doing?

Oh wait – probably what 40 million other people have been doing. Watching American Idol.

It truly boggles my mind that any honcho at any other network would even contemplate putting a new series in a timeslot up against the behemoth that is AI. Rerun a Hallmark movie of the Week from the 80’s, maybe. God knows Danielle Steele’s entire library has been made into soapy celluloid. Or maybe an E! True Hollywood Story on Menudo. Hell, run that burning Yule log for two hours straight. But to expect a new show to pull decent numbers in that timeslot?

"It came down to ratings," CBS spokesman Chris Ender said Monday. "Going up against `American Idol' was a tall task for the show."

Ya think?

That’s like asking Jonathan Jayne and Kenneth Swale to challenge Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant to hoops – and win.

Still, it saddens my teenaged heart to know that the great Ponch, a man whose posters decorated my walls – clad in his painted-on, polyester police pants - was undone by the juggernaut that is American Idol.

I tell you, it’s a crime. (Actually – I think the bigger crime was in allowing La Toya Jackson to carry a gun.)

But, since I am the judge, jury and executioner in this blog, I’ll let AI go with a slap on the wrist…this time. But I caution them – should a new ridicuality series come along starring the other throbs of my teenaged heart: Davy Jones, Ralph Macchio, or (swoon) Shaun Cassidy? – I won’t be so forgiving. You’ve been warned.

Now, onto the recap…

With three bona fide Idols emerging from Alabama, it was time to finally take the show to the city that produced Ruben, Bo, and Taylor – Birmingham – motto? The DiverseCity.

I contemplated this as the cyborg rode the Idol suppository to the top of the neon colon, and all I can say is, with diversity defined as covering a very wide spectrum, God help us all…and can I get some more of that nitrous?

The show kicked off with a welcome from Mayor Bernard Kinkaid. I know he is the mayor because he is wearing a hat that says so. He is, however, also wearing a red jogging suit, so perhaps the hat is not a bad idea.

First up, young Erica Skye (pronounced Skahhh – at least if you are from the south), a Biological Science student at Auburn University. Erica is a lovely girl, with lots of hair, and a winning smile, unfortunately her rendition of Unchained Melody was flatter than biscuits without baking powder.

Seriously, it was painful. Even more so was watching her family gathered outside the audition room door. Her Mom said that she got "chills" when she hit those notes. Yeah – me too. The hairs on my arms stood up like they do when I hear nails on a chalkboard.

Simon called it "never ending torture" and said she was a "hopeless singer". Erica then did what so many auditioners have done before her – refused to stop singing. Which never works, people. If you were bad the first time, being bad and belligerent on top of it certainly has never swayed the judges to change their minds.

Paula was so unnerved (read: hyper. The woman moved more in this episode than my bowels after that 3 day old burrito) that she suddenly disappeared from her chair. Poof. Gone.

The camera finally caught her on the sidelines, holding her head, apparently stymied as to why the girl would not stop. Either that, or Erica was interfering with the voices in Paula’s head.

Speaking of Paula’s head – it was noticeably lighter tonight. Did the airlines lose the suitcase containing her mountain of fake hair?

The producers followed up with a Boo Hoo parade as one by one, contestants emerged from their auditions in tears. Sad, but obviously no one was hideous enough to showcase, so we will never be able to feel fully bad on their behalf.

Chucky from Rugrats was up next. Actually it was Katie Bernard, a sweet young lady who sounded – if this is possible – even more grating than Smurfette (aka Paris Bennett) of Season Five fame. Seriously, if Paris was more irritating than a sandpaper thong, this girl was the aural equivalent of poison oak boxer shorts.

Squeaky, and sounding like she had a perma-wad of phlegm lodged in her throat, I just knew what was coming. And I was right. She sang A House Is Not A Home, and although she was working really hard to build that house, her efforts were not in vain. The girl can sing. She has a powerful set of pipes – and I will say it again, as I said all last season about Paris – if you can sing that way, you can speak that way.

Randy was up for giving her a second chance in Hollywood, Simon, not so much, and Paula was the swing vote – asking to meet her new husband, who came in and honestly didn’t offer much in the swaying department. I guess the idea of his new bride potentially taking off for three months didn’t excite him?

Well, he’ll have to deal with the empty bed for a while because Paual decided, if only to bug Simon, to allow Katie to move on to Hollywood – providing she doesn’t "talk like a little girl". And then, did you catch it? Katie’s voice suddenly changed to a grown up’s – only for a moment, but it did. So, HA. I’m right.

I love being right.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. Tatiana McConnico, a 17 year old wearing white Froot Loops on her ears and blue ones on her wrists had her shot. A "huge fan of the show", she was "born to do this".

And apparently, not that this happens often in the audition process (think Liza Minnelli Benardo and his chinchilla from last week), she was telling the truth.

Her voice was big, and full of soul, and yes – had the sound of someone for whom this comes naturally. And she was very down to earth. An easy Yes from all the judges, including a compliment from Randy that she "might be the best voice" he hears in Birmingham followed.

Up next, Diana Walker, the female version of Ruben’s Velvet Teddy Bear. A big girl with an even bigger personality, she delighted in telling Ryan how she used to be a cheerleader in high school. My first thought was – "not the flyer, I hope". And Diana confirmed that, no, she was not on top of the pyramid, but at its base.

Decked out in a black tube dress, topped by a hot pink sausage casing, pink heels, and a spangled ACE bandage on her wrist, she declared, "American Idol, here I come."

I give Simon credit – the girl was enough to make even Stevie Wonder do a doubletake – and he did not make any snide cracks.

Until she started singing Saving All My Love – well, actually, it was Saving All My Lu-huh-huh-huh-huuuuuuve.

Hideous. Utter mess. Pick your favorite Simonism. They all equal NO.

Another milking of the cash cow advertising udders and we were introduced to Bernard Williams II, a handsome young man who wants "to carry the torch" for Birmingham and be the next American Idol to emerge from this fair city.

As with all great auditions, his was short. Singing Rock With You, he was effortless, although Paula thought he was completely off-key. Hell, what do I know? I spent my day sniffing more gas than Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet, for God’s sake.

But then, maybe Paula did too because both Simon and Randy gave Brian a "100% YES" and a golden ticket to Hollywood.

It was at this point that I began to wonder if the orange mohawked, purple giraffe was going to make a reappearance in front of my eyes because I swear I saw an enormous Easter Peep come to life on the screen.

Surely I must still be under the influence?

But no, there was Margaret Fowler (come on – that has to be a joke, right?) dressed like the cousin Big Bird hopes never visits him on Sesame Street. Strutting her fringed, feathered, egg yolked self around the holding room, she pulled up her shirt to display a coordinating jog bra, leggings, and abundance of belly spilling forth like a flesh colored Niagra over the top of her waistband.

Add to that the feathered yellow halo in her hair and she could have passed for the official Peep mascot in the next Macy’s Day parade.

She stated, in addition to claiming she was only 26 (in dog years?), "When I go in to see the judges, I really hope to overwhel them, especially Simon."

And no, Vanna, I do not need to buy an "M" – she pronounced it "overwhel". I would like to guess the puzzle. SHE IS A WACKJOB?

Simon shot her down with, "Your singing is atrocious" and then asked her to own up to how old she really is?

33.

Try again.

OK, ok, 50.

Listen, stale Peeps are usually my favorite, but not when they have been left open for 50 years…

Moving on.

A quick string of Yeses – none of which we get to meet until Hollywood – and then Jamie Lynn Pickler – sorry – Ward, (admit it, you were ALL thinking the same thing) filled the screen.

Heavily accented, cute as a button, she described how if she wins, she wants to buy her grandma a house without steps. Awww. It gets better.

When asked by the judges what makes her interesting, she replied, "I live with my grandma."

Whoa.

Seriously?

That’s … interesting.

She then proceeded to write a country song: I live with my grandma. My Daddy is paralyzed. He shot himself in the Adam’s apple. My step momma was cheatin’. He walked in. Shot step momma, shot himself.

"But it’s ok."

Listen, I am all for people being positive, but this pushes the limits of "glass half full". No 17 year old should have this kind of trauma in her short life.

She then began to sing Reflection and while she was certainly not the best singer so far, her voice was very sweet. The judges gave her a YES, but I have to admit, as truly Pickleresque as she is, I was just waiting for Simon to call her a Minx and invite her out for sal-mon and calamari.

One note to Jamie: When the holes in your jeans are that big, it is time to call them shorts. Or call Goodwill to come pick them up. I realize that worn and faded are hip, but I honestly don’t think I have ever seen jeans where "hip" means you can actually see them through the ripped side seams.

Chris Sligh, one of the more unlikely looking contestants came next. Unlikely unless you think back to Scott Savol, then again, Chris kind of looks like Scott Savol with a rag mop on his head…

Regardless of his less-than-Brad-Pitt looks, Chris immediately won me over, and I daresay millions of viewers as well, with his self deprecating sense of humor. I especially loved his crack that most people think he looks like Jack Osbourne, but when he looks in the mirror he sees Christina Aguilera.

Ahhhh, a true smartass. I’m in love.

Hoping to "make David Hassellhoff cry" – again, stellar smartass line – he launched into Kiss From A Rose. That alone could make David cry, because, well, despite what all the tone deaf Germans may think, David can’t sing that well.

Chris, "the more I get of you, the stranger it feels", but I like it. And so did the judges, in fact, I thought Paula was about to have a stroke. Another reason to like him. See you in Hollywood, Chris.

In all, 15 made it through to Hollywood on Day 1. We saw five. At this point, I understood why tonight’s episode was only one hour. When you highlight a 50 year old stale Peep and a Hot pink and black sausage, over showing the people who actually made it through, the interesting pickings must be slim indeed.

Day Two was not much more intriguing and made even less so by the absence of Paula who had to return to Hollywood for a "family obligation". Allow me to translate from the Tinseltown Dictionary:

Family Obligation (n); 1. Standing appointment with Ken Paves to have fifty pounds of hair woven back onto head. 2. Botox party at Carol Bayer Sager’s house 3. Sit down with Fox legal eagles who warn her against anymore twisting of Simon’s nipples, lest he brings a harassment lawsuit against her.

If, in fact, Paula was off following definition 1, she could have saved herself the hairfare and borrowed some from the next contestant, Rapunzel.

OK, ok – her name was actually Victoria Watson, but a boy could easily scale her hair to the top of the castle. With tresses reaching down past her feet - she has been growing it her entire life – it was rivaled only by her mother’s, which she has been cultivating since she was 29.

Randy and Simon were kind enough, although it was evident someone had put the bug in Simon’s ear about Mom’s massive mane. He invited her in with Victoria and she stayed while her daughter sang You Raise Me Up.

Her voice was small and sweet, certainly not hard to listen to, but definitely nothing that would make it past the Group rounds in Hollywood. A voice like Tatiana’s would eat her alive. And to be honest, what I’m guessing has been a Pentacostal upbringing, would chafe terribly against the harsh realities and demands of the American Idol machine.

She was told No, and while she was very disappointed, she was also lovely and gracious, thanking them for their time.

Again, only suspecting the Pentacostal thing here, I don’t think Mom really appreciated Randy repeatedly shouting "Hot hair!" as they exited.

Next came further proof that this session of auditions was about as bland as unflavored grits – Lakia Hill. Convinced she has "the whole package – the look, the voice, everything", she then began to sing. Her whole package must have gotten lost in the mail because none of it was evident.

She was cute, but not compelling. And her voice on How Did You Get Here had all the power of a AAA battery. The audition was bad – not even gimmicky, laugh-out-loud bad – just bad, as in boring and painful to watch.

Simon remarked, "What the hell was that?" and Randy just laughed.

Lakia said, "People say I can sing." to which my oldest daughter (remember, the smartass apple does not fall far from the irreverent tree) replied, "Do these people like you?"

Lakia, anybody can sing. Just not well.

What followed was an homage to southern hospitality and manners – an endless stream of people getting shot down, but still managing to thank the judges for their time and for the opportunity. Good for them. Future auditioners take note: Dignity and class might not merit you the most camera time, but they never go out of style.

Another break brought us back to perky 17 year old, Nichole Gatzman, eager to out her Mom on national TV as having once said, "You have no talent." Did you catch Mom hiding her head in the background of the interview? Uh, Nichole, I’d say you just lost your allowance.

In the audition room, Nichole sang Something To Talk About and I actually liked her voice. It was a tad throaty and grown up for such a young girl, but it was also pretty good. Unfortunately for Nichole and her team of pink shirted supporters, the judges thought she was "old fashioned" and "sang through her nose." But the beauty of being 17 means she has plenty of years to try this again.

Finally, the last in a long line of lame auditions. Honestly, Birmingham was certainly not living up to its DiverseCity claim. MediocreCity, maybe. FehCity, for sure.

Brandy Patterson, 28, was ready for her shot and proclaimed, "I have an excroidinary voice."

Excroidinary?

Ooooo. Kaaaaaaay. Not familiar with that one.

I was about to get enlightened.

As she started to sing Madonna’s Like A Virgin, I quickly realized that excroidinary is obviously the noise you make when you’re pooping.

(I’ll pause while you decipher that…ready? Good.)

It was bad. I mean awful, like she had eaten the 3 day old burrito. And the dance moves looked more like someone in need of a restroom than a microphone.

Of course, she was not going to take Simon’s "absolutely rotten audition" critique and leave quietly. In what has to be the most original excuse for bad singing in an audition, she blamed…the floor.

"Maybe it’s the floor or something?"

The floor’s fault? How? Because it did not open up and swallow you?

Yes, that damned parquet, puzzle piece, banquet hall floor. That must be it. So Brandy kicked off her shoes and moved onto the carpet where she attempted Proud Mary and was … even more excroidinary than before.

Simon and Randy tried to be good natured about getting rid of her, but like moldy burritos, Brandy was not going to go gently into that good night. Rather, she got irritable, flared, spasmed and spewed for all to see.

What an excroidinary mess.

In all 20 people managed to make it out of Birmingham and into the Hollywood rounds. I wish I knew who they were.

As it is, all that will join Shaun Cassidy and that purple giraffe in my Vicodin laced dreams tonight is a Big, Big Bird named Margaret. Man, that makes a case for insomnia, doesn’t it?

Tune in Wednesday night as American Idol heads home to California. Will the City of Angels turn out some heavenly talent, or just condemn us to another excroidinary round of Hell on earth?

Tyra Banks Takes A Bite Out Of Fat Critics

Supermodels.

Their faces stare back at us from the check out lines. Their tight, taut, perfectly lithe bodies mock us with their long limbs, and impossibly tiny waists.

Their hair is lustrous, their teeth the color of toilet porcelain, and their lifestyle is nothing short of glamorous.

And their fame is so all encompassing, they need only one name in order to convey their dominance on the runway…

Gisele. Alessandra. Naomi. Kate. Heidi. And of course, Tyra.

Tyra Banks, the first African American woman to be featured on the covers of both GQ and Sports Illustrated. Tyra Banks, one of the original Victoria’s Secret Angels. Tyra Banks, whose modeling credits include stints with Cover Girl, Swatch, Pepsi, Nike, Inc., XOXO, LensCrafters, Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren, Dolce & Gabbana, Yves Saint-Laurent, Chanel, Escada, Anna Sui, Michael Kors, Liz Claiborne, and Richard Tyler - just to name a few.

And yes, Tyra Banks, the savvy, hard driving, dramatic, blunt-as-a-spoon modeling mentor of America’s Next Top Model.

Few would argue that Tyra’s meteoric rise in the modeling strata was undeserved. The girl has always been gorgeous, with challenging eyes, and a body that could reduce grown men to tears – crying mostly because they knew in their beer gutted, sweaty little hearts that the closest they would ever get was the increasingly dog eared pages of their SI Swimsuit issues.

So, of course, as she strutted the runways of the world, amassed cover after cover on international magazines, and created her own television empire, it was only inevitable that people would be sniffing around for the opportunity to knock her out of the superstar orbit.

That opportunity surfaced last month when paparazzi in Australia snapped pics of Tyra enjoying the surf.

There she was, happy, smiling, and chubby.

Or as the tabloids began to scream, "FAT!", "Tyra Porkchop!", and "America’s Next Top Waddle".

Puh-leez.

Does she weigh more now than at the height of her runway career? Absolutely, a fact she does not deny.

But in truth, Tyra has never been at the Kate Moss end of the modeling spectrum. She has always embraced her curves and fought her way up in an industry replete with waifish, heroin-chic figures. She is voluptuous, always has been. She likes to eat, always has.

But is she fat?

Line her up next to the 25% of Americans who tip the obese scales, and the other 50% who are overweight for their height, not to mention seriously sedentary and out of shape, and Tyra is still pretty damned hot.

But while I find it a tad disturbing that the candid snapshots are being touted as "fat", I also don’t find the derision unexpected.

The woman made a career out of her face and body. She was, for years, one of the many images we normal women saw and turned away from, depressed that we had not won the genetic lottery too. And she was, for years, the goddess image so many men turned to for her fantasy heightening powers.

And we here in the unwashed masses like nothing better than a good comeuppance.

Personally, I applaud Tyra for coming forward and striking back. She appears on the cover of this week’s People in a bathing suit and the accompanying story will speak to untold millions who struggle with their weight daily.

She admits she weighs at least 30 pounds more than in her modeling heyday, and like most of us, has a range of sizes in her closet for the many fluctuations that occur. And those fluctuations stop her just like they stop you or I.

"I don't want to sit in front of you and be soap-boxy and fake and say, 'I love myself, I'm beautiful, it's great,' " Banks says. "I still feel hot, but every day is different. It's when I put on the jeans that used to fit a year ago and don't fit now and give me the muffin top, that's when I say, 'Damn!' "

What?!?! You mean she’s human?!?

Like all of us, she admits, "I feel more comfortable when I'm lighter – I sleep better, I snore less, I have more endurance when I work out, my arms look better, but I don't have the desire to really keep it up. When I was modeling, I remember one year in Milan, Veronica Webb and Karen Alexander would be going to the gym every single day during the collections. I was like, 'Wow, I want that.' I wish I had that discipline."

A supermodel without superhuman discipline? Say it ain’t so!

Actually – say it IS so.

It is a great message to send out to the untold number of young girls desperately struggling with their own body images, those teens who look at the pages of Vogue and Glamour and hate their curvier bodies.

They need to hear that a body like that only comes with abnormal restraints and unrealistic discipline, or, as I stated earlier, the winning ticket in the Genetic Lottery of Life.

They need to aim for healthy. They need to aim for balance. They need to aim for happy.

As to the critics who now claim a fuller Tyra has no business critiquing the aspiring girls on her modeling show? Tyra, who knows the business from the inside out, scoffs, ""You have to be thin to be a model – I don't have to live up to that model standard anymore."

Listen, I am barely 5’2" and tip the scales at 100 pounds. I am naturally short, not naturally thin. I work at it everyday. I discipline myself in ways the majority of 40 year old women on this planet do not. I am proud of how I look. But it is hard work and I sometimes wonder how long I am going to be willing to keep at this. When I am going to let up a little and allow my ass to grow sideways a tad? To accept myself, even when there is more of myself to accept?

I take heart in Tyra’s frankness, her openness, her honesty. Because if a supermodel can embrace her larger self and turn into a super-role-model, then maybe there is hope for a fanatic like me.

Screw the treadmill. I’m taking the day off. Thanks, Tyra.

An Inconvenient Truth: Too Many People Live Life With Their Heads Up Their Asses

Anyone who reads me regularly knows I believe something very simple about human beings.

Whether it is shoving a lit firecracker up their caboose, engaging in animal acts with , well, a dead animal, or disciplining their child with a BB gun (no, I am not making that up), there is always some member of the human race ready to reinforce my basic premise:

People are stupid.

I don't care how many Space Stations we build, how many faces we transplant, how many 80 year olds are able to achieve erections through pharmaceuticals, or how effectively we can harness the restorative powers of stem cells, we are inherently stupid.

We are also fearful, biased, geographically ignorant, pompous, self righteous, holier than thou, two faced, and mean.

And while there are, at any given moment, millions of people doing millions of stupid things from which I can pick and choose to bestow honors, today’s recipient of the I’m-More-Limber-Than-Nadia-Comaneci-Because-I-Can-Stick-My-Head-Up-My-Own-Ass-Not-Just-Near-It award goes to Frosty Hardison of Federal Way, Washington.

I would like to pause for a moment to point out that no Nobel winner has ever been named Frosty, Tripper, Bubba, or Scooter.

Why is Frosty in my crosshairs, you ask?

Well, it seems his daughter’s high school class was going to be shown Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth – the compelling, Oscar nominated documentary on global warming. (If you haven’t seen it, you should. I realize it is not as gripping as a fiftieth viewing of, say, Dodgeball, but give Vince Vaughn’s balls a break and add it to your NetFlix cue.)

For those who live in a cave and are not familiar with the basics of the film, allow me to enlighten you…

Whether you like him, hate him, or believe he is more boring than watching cheese mold, Al Gore sets forth the facts and data, supported by the scientific community, on the issue of global warming, and brings home to the viewer just what a swiss-cheesed-ozoned planet we are allowing our children to inherit.

Eye opening nuggets, hard to see through the tinted windows of our Humvees and Escalades, include:

~ At least 279 species of plants and animals are already responding to global warming, moving closer to the poles.

~ The flow of ice from glaciers in Greenland has more than doubled over the past decade.

~ The number of Category 4 and 5 hurricanes has almost doubled in the last 30 years.

Those are easy to shrug off, I understand. After all, how many of us could even name 279 species of plants and animals, let alone give a rip whether they decide to pack up the U-Hauls and move? To the layperson, as long as they continue to see dogs pooping on their front lawns everyday, and Kris Kringle’s Christmas Tree Tent on the empty corner lot every yuletide, then all must be right with the world.

But what about this ominous warning from the World Health Organization? Deaths from global warming will double in just 25 years -- to 300,000 people a year.

Or this one from the Arctic Climate Impact Assessment: Impacts of a Warming Arctic, from Cambridge University? The Arctic Ocean could be ice free in summer by 2050.

Naturally occurring phenomenon? Sure, partially.

Obviously, the planet is always in a state of flux, we know that. Planet Earth has had more alternations to her physical appearance than Cher, for God’s sake. (although research does show them to be roughly the same age).

But natural changes like earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic activity, and glacial shifts have been given a huge boost by we overachieving little occupants since the Industrial Age.

Our fluorocarbons had eaten a discernable hole in the atmosphere by the 70’s (You didn’t think those Farrah Fawcett laquered hairstyles could be worn without impunity, did you?). And our love for all things fossil fuel have so increased the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, that global temperatures continue to rise yearly. (Yes, your 12 mpg Show-Off-Mobile comes with ABS, a moon roof, heated seats, DVD player, and the ability to kill your great grandchildren.)

According to the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), this era of global warming "is unlikely to be entirely natural in origin" and "the balance of evidence suggests a discernible human influence of the global climate."

And this data is supported by scientists from all corners: the American Meteorological Society, the American Geophysical Union, the American Association for the Advancement of Science and the National Academy of Sciences.

I don’t know about you, but I am humble enough to admit that these people, while probably not near as stylish, are smarter than me.

Not so, Frosty Hardison.

His vehement objection to the school’s proposed showing of An Inconvenient Truth is this: "Condoms don't belong in school, and neither does Al Gore. He's not a schoolteacher. The information that's being presented is a very cockeyed view of what the truth is. ... The Bible says that in the end times everything will burn up, but that perspective isn't in the DVD."

Ahhhhhhh, I see. Screw scientific data. Ignore the millions of cars spewing exhaust into the air every rush hour. Neglect to mention the tribe-mobile you use to drive your seven children from A to B each day, Frosty. This is all God’s doing.

I tell you, poor God takes it up the dirt road for everything these days, doesn’t He?

He flooded New Orleans with Hurricane Katrina because He was pissed about abortion. He started the war in Iraq because He hates homosexuals. He sent the tsunami because Thailand didn’t believe in His majesty. (All of these views have been extensively spoken by Christian leaders and published in national and international media.)

And according to Frosty, the end of times is near because each summer is hotter than the last.

I see. So God, who according to everything I have ever read in the Bible, could wipe us all out with one pass of his Almighty eraser over the white board of humanity, is actually an eight year old boy who likes to fry ants with his magnifying glass? Watching us slowly heat up, legs kicking, till all that remains is a puff of smoke and a crispy carcass?

(Frosty also believes the earth, despite all accepted scientific dating processes, is only 14,000 years old, not 4.5 billion years old. Hmmm, Earth must be a woman – we always lie about our ages.)

This is why I don’t go to church. Because it churns out people like this.

I believe in God. But I also believe in personal responsibility. He gave us free will and we have used it to selfishly poison the air, the water, the food – but we look good doing it in our SUV’s, private jets, ocean liners, and McMansions.

But Frosty bitched to the school board, and school boards, being made up of some of the most stupid, and balless, people on the planet, suffered Costanza-esque shrinkage and gave in, placing a moratorium on the showing of the movie, unless, are you ready?, the teachers could present "opposing views".

That’s fine, but according to one of the teachers affected by this brilliance, "I can’t find anyone to say the planet is getting colder."

Laurie David, a co-producer of the movie, was taken aback, "I am shocked that a school district would come to this decision. There is no opposing view to science, which is fact, and the facts are clear that global warming is here, now."

But wait, Frosty’s wife, proud American, Gayla, has her own problems with the movie. "From what my husband has expressed to me, if (the movie) is going to take the approach of 'bad America, bad America,' I don't think it should be shown at all. If you're going to come in and just say America is creating the rotten ruin of the world, I don't think the video should be shown."

Let’s just start with that first sentence, shall we? "From what my husband has expressed to me…"

I see, so Frosty the No-man informs all your personal opinions, does he? Here’s a thought, how about you actually see the movie for yourself and then attempt to formulate your own thoughts? We woman have been free for many years now, Gayla. Did you know we can even vote? Drive a car? Tell our husbands they are complete idiots?

Yes, the movie does take America to task, but rightfully so. With about 5% of the world’s population, we emit roughly 25% of the global-warming gases.

I love this country too, Gayla, but we are a selfish, gluttonous, overweight, short sighted group of people.

We are delivering deficits, a Social Security program that is projected to be as dry as the Sahara, and an ozone with more holes than my husband’s underwear drawer, to our children.

We need to do two things: 1. Acknowledge the problem and apologize for being such pigs, and 2. Get off our collective asses and begin changing what we can.

In addition, we have to stop treating our kids like they can’t handle the truth. That they are just as stupid as we are. They’re not.

They can handle reading a Harry Potter novel and not convert to Wicca. They can receive honest sex education that teaches more than just "Don’t do it!" and still choose to "not do it." And they can see a documentary about global warming and draw their own conclusions.

Kenna Patrick, a senior at Jefferson High School in Federal Way, sums it up, ""Watching a movie doesn't mean that you have to believe everything you see in it."

(Tell that to the millions of adults who still refuse to enter the water because they saw Jaws in the 70’s.)

She continues, "I think that a movie like that (An Inconvenient Truth) is a really great way to open people's eyes up about what you can do and what you are doing to the planet and how that's going to affect the human race."

Out of the mouths of the babes who will ultimately have to pay for our sins.

Listen, I understand requiring a nod to creationism to balance out evolutionary Darwinism in the classroom - the majority of people on this planet believe in something more divine that a simple Big Bang and a slow crawl to an upright position. But to keep the very real issue of global warming out of the classroom simply because a man named Frosty wants to blame it all on God?

You know, Frosty, even if you believe that "the end of days" is nigh, you’re still mortal and have no freaking clue when the last day actually is, right? So it seems to me, you might, for the sake of your seven children, want to do what you can to keep this planet habitable until God peels back the entire ozone and says, "Game Over".

But then, that would require rational thought, and God knows, the biggest inconvenient truth these days is, we human beings have solidly put that on the endangered species list too.

American Idol Audition Recap, Wednesday, January 24, New York City: The Big Crapple

There was an unusual news blurb today out of Beijing.

It seems a young boy, age 4, was frightened by the sound of a barking dog. He, in turn, began screaming.

Not so unusual, you say? Big whoop, you snort.

Well, I’m with you in terms of that basic information. Hell, depending on the size and breed of the dog – a rabid Rottweiler with anger management issues, for instance - , I’d probably start screaming like a, well, a 4 year old Chinese boy. After I finished pissing myself, of course.

But wait – what makes this story newsworthy is that the child decided to have his prolonged fright fit next to a farmer’s henhouse window.

Killing 443 chickens inside.

I’m not kidding.

And according to court papers – you didn’t think we Americans were the only idiots that sue over everything, did you? – "the only unexpected abnormal sound" was that of the child, and that "the 443 chickens trampled each other to death in fear."

Apparently, screaming at a henhouse is the barnyard equivalent of shouting "Fire!" in a crowded auditorium.

The child’s father has been ordered to pay the poultry, wait, sorry, paltry sum of $230 in compensation to the owner of the fatally frightened feathered friends.

Now, as to your obvious next question, "What the hell could this possibly have to do with American Idol?"

Not a damned thing.

No, wait – that’s not true. It actually got me to thinking that human beings must have a much better tolerance for aural assault than livestock. I would have thought that we’re not that different from chickens. Look at Kevin Covais for God’s sake.

Seriously, chickens, like human beings, consider eating to be the main activity of their lives. The word buffet mean anything to you? They like to gather in groups and cackle – karaoke ring a bell? Chickens observe social stratas – where do you think the term "pecking order" comes from? And as far as sound - I would have thought that noise is noise - have you ever heard the racket a bunch of chickens create when the farmer is a tad late with the feed bucket? Kind of like a gaggle of slobbering humans when the Krispy Kreme machine is running behind.

But given the horrendous auditions we have been subjected to for six straight seasons now, I guess we humans have a much higher threshold for eardrum abuse than does a bucket of KFC. Either that, or human eardrums, like leather, get toughened by time.

That must be it. For if a small child can, just by virtue of his disturbing vocals, drive a bunch of chickens to homicidal insanity, you would think that The Hotness, Apollo Creeds 1 & 2, Trista I-Am-The-Cowardly-Lion Giese, and the screamching of Brenna Kyner in Minneapolis would have caused a similar incident in someone’s living room by now.

Yes, we humans are a sturdy lot. We can take an awful lot of crap before we resort to mental bungee jumping and panic. But just in case someone in your home should snap during a particularly painful rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow, resulting in a stampede in your foyer, know that the legal precedent has been set today in Beijing…and those AI producers are only on the hook for $230.

Now, onto the recap…

The show opened on infamous Times Square, having not visited NYC since Season 3. And the home of Ellis Island was ready with an audition melting pot – The hot, the not, the fat, the phat, the freaks, the geeks, the bad, and the BAD, the pierced, and the piercing.

The judges arrived to start the proceedings and - WAIT! Who’s that? Joan Collins is guest judging American Idol? No, wait – it’s legendary singer/songwriter Carol Bayer Sager, who looks like she has had a legendary amount of plastic surgery. Seriously, I was waiting for Linda Evans to show up and start a Dynasty style catfight over who has the biggest shoulder pads…

(You kids born in the 80's: Don't let the joke be lost on you.  That's what Google is for.  Go type in Joan Collins - we'll wait here for you.)

Well, despite the frozen nature of her facial muscles, Carol Bayer Sager still knows how to flex her musical pecs – having been a force in the business for 40+ years. As far as truly talented guest judges go, she’ll make Jewel look like…well…Jewel.

Up first in Ian Benardo – I know this because he vainly has his name emblazoned on his t-shirt. Decked out in jeans, a chinchilla stole (which looked more like faux hamster), a cape, and what looks like a surgical headband (fresh from his lobotomy possibly?), Ian is a reality TV audition veteran, having made a complete ass of himself on So You Think You Can Dance already. So now he thinks he can sing.

This child needs someone to throw a net over him. Prancing, gesturing wildly, badgering every person he passes on the streets, he proclaims, "I will not stop till I am a household name."

You mean like Preparation H?  I could use some because you are already causing a pain my ...

Pointing to his face, he continued, "When America sees this, they’re going to forget about Taylor-who?, Carrie Under-where?, Fantasia-when?"

Yes, Ian – short term memory loss is a common symptom of post traumatic stress.

In the audition room, he explains to the judges that American Idol would be a nice addition to his resume of "superstar, dancer, singer…", therapy frequent flyer…

He launches into Gloria, complete with New Yawk accent and New Yawk bravado, and as he’s "cawling, cawling, cawling Gloriaaaaaaaaaa", I am hoping that someone on security is cawling the men in white coats.

Obviously the judges wanted him gone, but in retaliation, Ian played his I’m-an-American-taxpayer card (I would love to know what he does for a living besides make my ass hurt.) and demanded to see Simon’s working Visa.

Escorted out by security, Ms. Minnelli kept ranting, "This is the most ridiculous thing ever." Which was the first thing he got right.

Finishing up with a threat to call National Geographic and alert them that the Do-do bird is alive and well (Simon), I was left thinking that the Don’t-Don’t bird is an all too common species at these auditions.

Thankfully, Liza huffed and fluffed out of the building.

Up next was Sarah Briggs, 19, a weepy young lady who had lied to her parents in Ohio and skipped town to head to New York to audition. She teared up as she talked about how she just wants her dad to be proud of her, but how she doesn’t live up to his expectations.

Listen, I’m not defending your closed minded father, Sarah, but speaking as a parent, going three states over and lying about it is certainly not a trust builder in that area.

But Sarah has a dream and is old enough to pursue it, so here she is in New York City. A beautiful girl with blue Hula Loops hanging from her ears.

Singing Call Me, she helped erase the mental bruising caused by Ian and his chinchilla. She was really very good. Simon liked her, Randy said she had a "different kind of voice", Carol just wanted Daddy to eat crow, and Paula was "proud of her.

Ryan did the dialing honors as Sarah weeped, then listened as she said, "Please don’t be mad at me, Dad."

Priceless response. "Who is this?"

Sarah brought him up to speed, Dad is proud, more tears, hugs from Ryan. Happy ending – though I would stress to young people everywhere – lying and running off to the big city is not usually a formula for fabulous things to happen.

Coming back from the break, I am dismayed to see Constantine Maroulis smearing up my screen. Great. Do you know how hard it is to clean his greasy smarm off a plasma?

The next contestant is Fania Tsakalakos, starring in My Big Fat Greek Wackjob. A singer and dancer (um- yeah), she is wearing a housedress, leggings, and flip flops (I didn't know Capezio made flip flops), but what she really needs is some Windex to spray on that big chimple (chin + pimple) (it clears up everything, remember?).

Her attempt at Africa by Toto is only half as bad as her dancing, which is abysmal – or as Simon called it all – appalling. No’s abound and she attempts to leave with dignity which is robbed from her courtesy of the evil locked left door.

Back for another try at stardom, Ashanti Johnson has tread the Idol road before, with no great measure of success. But she is 28 now and knows this is her last shot to sell her soul to the devil and appear in weekly Ford ads.

Ashanti is a beautiful girl, with great attitude, and her rendition of Loving You was good (until they let her go all the way to that all time hideous screeching note – I swear I heard chickens begin to panic)

The judges were very apologetic, but firm in their No’s, even when she began begging, "I know that you know…you know… you know, you know…" and "I believe in the depths of my soul you don’t have this right."

Ahh, if they had a dime for every contestant who thought that, Ashanti. Wait, they do. Bad example.

Simon finally had to cut her off, and down, with "Get over it." before she would leave. Ouch.

Listen, sometimes you just have to rip the band-aid off. It’s the easiest way. Otherwise you spend a half an hour pulling your arm hairs out one at a time.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. I momentarily thought my satellite had switched over to the Maxim Channel because there were two bikini clad girls frolicking in the Long Island surf.

But no, it’s just best friends Amanda Coluccio and Antonella Barba, "You’re great! No you’re great! Oh my gawwwwwd!"

These two rocket scientits – wait, sorry – scientists believe that this year, "American Idol should be, like, two people this year!"

Oh my gawwwwwwd, just shut up and sing, please.

They both ended up in the audition room at the same time, gave Simon an immediate woody (they are beautiful girls), and then attempted a duet, which was a bit of a mess, not that Simon noticed, because, well, he had a woody.

Amanda then sang Crazy solo, and while she is not Patsy Cline, who cares, because she’s hot. Actually she’s a pretty darned good singer too.

Grabbing her golden ticket, she bolted from the room to show her family, leaving Antonella to face the judges alone. A gorgeous girl, with an even more gorgeous voice, I was impressed. She was told Yes as well, and it will be, like, very interesting to see how these best friends, like, fare in Hollywood.

Clifton Biddle was next, a self described "average Joe" who just likes to "make people scream". I don’t see that – in fact, he had a definite Rainman-esque quality about him. Something. About. The. Way. He. Talked.

His version of ZZ Top’s Tush (I always thought you pronounced it toosh, not tuhsh) was painful and when asked to sing something else, he played the harmonica?

Moving on…

A string of No’s was highlighted by: Phillip Burton’s mouth which was easily the size of the Lincoln Tunnel; Neil Armstrong; Jose Vadell – a Hispanic Leprechaun; and William Van Stoned – er, Stone butchering the first Selena song of the night.

Obviously, having done penance by sitting through all of those, it was time for a reward. It came in the form of Kia Thornton, understated in her black top and jeans skirt, which made it easy for her voice to take center stage on Ain’t No Way. I was impressed – taking on an Aretha song is a huge gamble, but it paid off for Kia – she has a solid voice which made even jaded Simon remark, "Wow – this girl can sing."

Day two dawned with the arrival of Joan Bayer Collins again – I’m sorry, people, but the only portion of her face that moved were her lips – I’m not sure she can even blink. Simon, however, was AWOL for the morning round.

First up was the immediately likeable Henry Bejarano, age 16. A handsome looking young man with chiseled features and a Calvin Klein-underwear-model body, he was composed, mature, and confident.

Singing I’d Give Anything To Fall In Love – it’s not hard to see that that is exactly what millions of young girls will do when he hits Hollywood. The only oogy part of his audition was Paula. When he finished singing, she was practically licking the table – steady Paula, he’s illegal in most states, and besides, I daresay his no nonsense Bolivian mother would kick your ass if you touched him.

We were treated next to the bouncy energy of Nakia "Little Shirley" Clairbone – a bundle of "guts and gusto".  She jumped into Dancin’ In The Streets and the judges said she was "infectious" (The kind that's good to spread around). I liked her and really thought she sounded aiight, but then they asked her to sing something slower and she went on to carve up Selena’s Dreamin’ Of You.

Where did her voice go? It was truly awful. And we all were reminded that charisma and attitude can mask a shaky set of vocal cords – Brenna Gethers ring a bell?

Sarah Goldberg, an urban assault cowgirl was in next. Dressed in a red cowboy hat, army green vest and pants, an olive tank and boots, she continued the Selena massacre (I’m sure Mr. Quintanilla was questioning releasing the songbook to AI at this point) with Dreamin’ of You.

Carol gently asked the girl, "Do you, in your heart, really think you can sing?"

"No."

Well, at least she’s honest. They then asked her the obvious, "Why are you here?" and it all went downhill faster than freshly waxed snowboard.

"I’m not a singer" (Um, yes, we have established that.) "I really love to sing. Friends make fun of me because I’m tone deaf." (Friends should be honest.) "You can teach me how to sing. You don’t have to sing to be an American Idol." (That’s true. You can excel at turning left on a NASCAR track, or save your platoon in Iraq, but on this show, you do have to sing. But when we begin to produce I Just Want To Be Famous!, we’ll definitely give you – and Ian - a call.)

Unfortunately, Sarah did not take the rejection, or the locked left door, very well, and began a tirade which included "Bill the security guard" and tales of "these people" (the judges) being out drinking till 3 in the morning – something they’ll probably repeat to dull the memory of your audition, Sarah.

Simon shows up just in time for Dapper Dan, aka Antonio Torres, Jr, 47, to get past the age censors and serenade them with that old classic, New Yor, New Yor. What th hel?

Jory Steinberg, a pretty girl from Ottawa, showed up wearing a Roman shield – to protect her from possible rejection? She didn’t need it, as she slayed the judges with her version of Chains. It was truly an amazing vocal and I can’t wait to hear her again in a few weeks. She made it through, but being a normal person, only rated about one minute worth of footage.

Not so, American Idol soldier Porcelana Patino – a young girl who has spent the past year running, working out, practicing, losing weight – everything except learning how to dress – to get ready to audition.

Her name might be Porcelana, but when she walked into the audition room, two other names came to mind: Shakira and Britney Spears – and she was a mangled mess of both.

Shakitney was dressed in jeans from the Whitney Houston Crack Is Whack collection, a teensy tank top, and dog tags. Her hair looked like it had been on a three day Las Vegas bender with Paris Hilton.

And then, dammit, she started to sing...and she was good.

Fine. Come to Hollywood, but please, dear God, don’t bend over – my kids are watching.

Another break brought us back to some more filler in this bloated burrito of a show – this time in the form of unpronounceable, mispronounced, and just plain strange names. And wait – back up! Carol must have had even more surgery because she morphed into Olivia Newton-John!

While the producers review their really bad editing (Ms Newton-John doesn’t guest judge till next week), we move on to Christopher Henry, who looks as much like Simon Cowell as I do.

Singing Before Your Love, I was shocked. Kelly Clarkson sounds more like a man than Christopher does. Seriously, close your eyes and rerun his audition, you would bet money you are listening to a woman.

Of course, Simon could not resist telling him he "should be singing in a dress and stilettos", which set Paula off (ok, more off than usual). Christopher completely acknowledges he sounds like a girl, however, so no big hurt feelings this time. Maybe he can get an act together with the guy from last season who sounds like he ate Cher?

Young Rachel Zevita, an opera student, came next. Decked out in shades, an LSD headband, complete with an Indian dream catcher woven into her hair, and tons of attitude, she reeked of Mikayla Gordon, with one difference.

Rachel can sing.

Anything according to her. And I believe her. She can sound like Janis Joplin one moment and move straight into operatic diva territory the next. We’ll see how she does in Hollywood where she is determined "to break the south’s hold on American Idol."

Needing to milk the advertising udders for more cash, the two hours are further inflated with a medley of contestants offending Lionel Ritchie with All Night Long. He should really think about suing a few of them – the screaming guy with the big yellow "A", which obviously stands for a**; Ian Minnelli who showed up again; Dorothy in drag. (And people think the flying monkeys give kids nightmares…)

Christopher Richardson, 22, and no different that any other generically handsome young guy you’d find working at Abercrombie & Fitch or Dave & Buster’s, certainly sets himself apart when he opens his mouth. Singing Song For You, Randy compared him to Justin Timberlake and Simon believes Chris is "somebody who could surprise us." We’ll see…

Another break brings us back to Nicholas Pedro, a familiar face from Season 5. He had made it all the way to Hollywood last year, but the pressure of having to sing that intricate love ballad "Buttercup" proved too much for him and he withdrew from the competition.

But the judges were feeling Trumpish and decided they believed in second chances, so they are giving American another opportunity to Vote For Pedro. See you in Hollywood – again.

Only one audition left and from the way they have hyped it all through the show, you know it is going to be a doozy.

Isadora Furman, is a real life Phoebe Buffet. She marches to her own drummer, sings to her own guitar, dances to her own hallucinations. Shown in video playing her guitar on the street, she is decked out in a silver cowboy hat, black skirt, white socks, and sandals – I fully expect to hear her belt out Smelly Cat anytime.

Maybe she should have, because this self described clairvoyant obviously didn’t predict that singing Lady Marmalade was going to stink worse than a dead feline.

Dressed in pumpkin pants, yellow socks and clogs, and carrying her own percussion section, she went into a trance of sorts – moaning, groaning, writhing – spreading that marmalade all over an audition that was clearly toast. (I just know another henhouse tragedy occurred tonight.)

Simon was generous when he called it "fantastically terrible" and I apologize to Lisa Kudrow for comparing Isadora to Phoebe, a musical savant next to this mess.

Talk about The Big Crapple. Two hours filled with more worms than a bushel of moldy Granny Smiths. According to Ryan, 35 people made it through to Hollywood, but we’ll have to wait till they get there to actually meet them.

Tune in next week when Birmingham, the city responsible for Ruben, Bo, and Taylor, takes center stage. Will the south rise again? Who knows. But one thing’s for certain from the previews – the woman dressed as big bird proves that the south may have an abundance of talent, but the north certainly doesn’t have a lock on wackjobs.

American Idol Audition Recap, Tuesday, January 23: Memphis Celebrating 50 Years of Soul (obviously without help from most of these contestants)

I’m not a fan of politicians. I make no secret about that in my writings.

Democrats, Republicans, Liberals, Conservatives, Independents, Green, Red, Blue – makes no difference to me – I practice "equal opportunity" when it comes to outing their bad behaviors, questionable stances, and tendency to talk down to the American public.

But tonight, and I stress this is a one night stand only, I love me some Dubya.

Because tonight, as George Bush nauseated the Democrats, butchered the English language, and spoke as if he were talking to a group of three year olds in his State of the Union address, and despite his bottom dwelling job approval rating, he also did something for which my tired body is eternally grateful…

He squished American Idol down to one hour.

Which means I may well finish this recap and get to bed before the clock strikes midnight.

Hmmm…write this down in your diaries, people. Linda Sharp thinking of her bed and George Bush at the same time, and feeling excited.

In terms of rarity, that’s right up there with Hailey’s Comet, getting bitten by a shark, or winning the lottery.

Speaking of which…

After spending the past four days defending my hardline stance on the sweethearts from Seattle – Kenneth Briggs-Swale (decide on a name, Golum, would ya?) and Jonathan "I Bought That Hawaiian Shirt In Every Color" Jayne – and defending the judging as being no more or less harsh than past seasons, I have to add just a few final thoughts…

No matter how we all like to think American Idol is different, has a higher purpose, or is a wholesome family show – it is, at its core, reality TV, people. Sibling to the sand encrusted Survivor, cousin of the rectum munching Fear Factor, nephew of Wife Swap and Trading Places.

And reality TV is not kept alive by normal, boring human beings.

I can attest to this because I have a casting agent friend in New York City who has been trying for years to drag me and/or my family on to one series or another. And despite the numerous producers’ interviews, extensive videotapes, multiple questionnaires and lengthy essay questions I have endured, you have yet to see me pop up on one, have you?

Wanna know why?

I’m too normal.

I don’t dress in spandex. I don’t thump a Bible at the breakfast table. I’m not a racist, a bigot, or a prude. I adapt to new situations with ease. My children are not animals. My animals are not children. My husband and I love one another. I don’t weigh 400 pounds. And my view of the world is far too open – as in I don’t hate gay people, I welcome differences, and I love meeting new people from all over the world.

National Geographic’s show where they send a family to some remote village on the other side of the planet? My family was too ready to embrace pooping in a hole in the ground.

Trading Spouses? I am too much fun, and any family that would get me wouldn’t want to give me back.

Wife Swap? Same deal – only the husband would change the locks and not let me leave.

Nanny 911? My kids are well behaved, polite, and already know for damn sure that they are not in charge around here.

The Dog Whisperer? My Pomeranian already has rules just like my kids, and besides, I am a much bigger Alpha than Caesar. I’d have him humping my leg in no time.

But I digress… My point is, that people like Jayne, Brale-Swiggs (whatever), The Hotness, Red with the 1 ½ teeth, Rhonetta Johnson and her aluminum foil tube top, and Urban Amishite Troy Benham are chosen specifically because they make reality TV.

They know exactly what they are getting in to when they are allowed past the producers of AI. And before anyone gets in front of the judges, they are all warned that it could be "brutal", and if they do not want to run the risk of being seen in a less than flattering light on national TV, that they should leave the holding area "Now".

And you know how many leave? NONE.

That’s right. Zero people give up their chance to bask in the klieg lights, no matter how harshly they may illuminate their many flaws and failings.

So please stop defending Jonathan and Kenneth. They were on The Today Show and Jimmy Kimmel, for God’s sake. In fact, they are now guest correspondents for Kimmel, having already hung out at the Bob Hope Classic interviewing Clint Eastwood and George Lopez, and are scheduled to work a NASCAR event this weekend.

Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson invited them to a party. They each have agents now. They won the PR lottery, people. They are not hurting.

(Hmm, considering Bush’s popularity is at an all time low of 28%, you would think Carl Rove would have put him in the AI audition rooms by now.)

Oh, one last thing - if watching these audition shows truly upsets you, makes you uneasy, or causes such intense empathetic embarrassment for your fellow human beings that you have to leave the room?

Watch something else. I realize American Idol is an addiction akin to crack, but it really is that easy to stop. Just say NO and change the channel. (I’m sure you’ll run into Jonathan and Kenneth on any number of other programs.)

That concludes the ranting portion of this recap…now, let’s groove on down to Memphis, shall we?

With a population of 650,000, Ryan opens by wondering where everyone is at? Empty streets, lonesome highways…have all the Elvises left the building?

Nah – they’re all (well, 16,000 of them) crammed into the stadium waiting for their shot at superstardom. (Or Stupidstardom, as is the case of my favorite boys from Seattle – and Paris Hilton)

Up first? Frank Byers, who certainly traveled with the largest posse on record. A cheerleader from Southern Arkansas University, the entire cheerleading squad and a small sampling of the marching band road tripped with him – now that’s what I call support.

Singing Heard It Through The Grapevine, he was happy, confident, and personally, I thought he sounded pretty good. But apparently, that’s why I write instead of work A&R for Clive Davis – I don’t have good ears. All the judges thought he was "over the top" , even "caberet" – so it was a unanimous No for Frank.

I have to give it up for him though. I don’t think I have ever seen a contestant handle rejection with such a positive attitude and such grace. No tears. No rants. No need for the AI Logo Profanity Cap – he was happy and rejoined his crew outside and they began to cheer for him anyway.

Of course, Simon had to ruin the fun and came to the door to tell everyone to "Shut up.", at which point Ryan earned the first use of the AI Logo by telling Simon, "Someone’s a BLEEP today."

Boys, boys…

Up next was the dazed and confused Timika Sim – 16, practically incoherent, with what looked like Vaseline smeared under her eyes. Seriously, she was so subdued, I thought she might fall asleep while Ryan was talking to her.

Inside the audition room, things did not exactly perk up. And like Simon, I guess I am tragically uphip, because I had no freaking clue what a "maya" is. Randy, however, uber dawg that he is, translated it as a "singer". O. K.

Timika began singing Rock With You, at least that’s what she said it was. She didn’t have the energy to enunciate. Her audition was so nasally, I wished someone would lean in and hand her a Breathe Rite strip.

When Simon cut her off and told her No, she asked, "Wan me sin agi?"

Huh?

My apologies to Ashanti for being blasphemed so badly.

Chris Rivera came next, a combination surfer, cowboy, hip hopster with gold bling, puka shells, shaggy hair, and even shaggier jeans. Seriously, they looked like they were from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre collection. He wiped out on a rendition of Superstition and was quickly washed away from the audition process.

Alexis Partee was dressed more subtly – jeans, rugby shirt, tennis shoes – however, she did have her own accompaniment – earrings which rivaled any windchime hanging on my mother in law’s porch, and enough bangles on her arms to be her own percussion section. Yet, despite how hard she tried to get the "partee" started, her audition was a unanimous No. (And to anyone who thinks I am going to make fun of her smile? Forget it. The girl has braces and is obviously working to correct the situation.)

At first glance, our next contestant wouldn’t rate a second glance, but wait. Sundance Head (forgive me, but that is a stripper’s name if there ever was one), a stocky young man with a ZZ Top Starter Kit on his chin, was ready to make us all look again. Singing the blues throwback, Stormy Monday, I would wager that living rooms all across America went as silent as did mine – this boy has chops. Clear, controlled, powerful, and dripping with soul, I have to agree with Simon who said he has, "one of the best voices this year" and that he would be amazed if Sundance didn’t make the finals.  Robert Redford would be so proud.

I must, however, pause here to warn Simon against any more Taylor Hicks cheap shots – The Soul Patrol is a powerful force, my dear man. So pissing off The Grits Mafia with a comment like "blew Taylor apart" isn’t really advised.

Coming back from a break, we briefly met Wandera Hitchye, owner of a hair color that is typically only found on rusting automobiles. She sang Change Gonna Come, and although the judges didn’t like it, I didn’t think she was bad – until she stormed out and the AI Logo had to be used to obliterate her entire tirade.

A string of No’s, highlighted by someone with a Rainbow Care Bear on their head, and Paula telling someone else, "It’s too desperate" followed. Huh? Talk about the pot calling the kettle crazy…

Travis McKinney, a well dressed, well spoken young man was up next, talking about his girlfriend and their recent problems. His audition song was going to be an ode to her, and warned viewers that it was going to be "more emotional than anything ever on American Idol".

He obviously doesn’t remember the Brittenum twins from season five…

I honestly was hopeful – he seemed like such an normal guy, not the trainwreck type at all – but he launched into his song like he was the Karate Kid – the Karate Kid on acid, that is. What was that? Jushitsu? Tae Kwon Don't? To quote Simon, "No, no, no, and bye, bye, bye."

Danielle McCullogh had one goal: to make them smile. Pretty and young, with a blond Rachel-Green-Caught-In-A-Weed-Wacker hairstyle, she dove into Aretha Franklin’s Baby, I Love You – and was good. Her voice was throaty, soulful and controlled. See you in Hollywood, Danielle.

Day Two dawned with a Paulapalooza Hugfest. I have to give it to her, Ms Abdul was very gracious and hugged them all on the way in to the hotel. Old men, young men, women – she could have just walked past, but No, she took the time to acknowledge them all.

I have to ask though – What the hell was she wearing around her neck? A Whitman’s sampler? Valentine’s Day came early, I guess.

The first contestant had nothing but love for Paula as well. Big and Tall shopper Christopher McCain, 28, thinks "Paula is hot" - and since we all were treated to the backstory of his wife cheating on him, being forgiven, but apparently not really wanting to be forgiven, evidenced by her repeated cheating - it’s OK for him to get sprung over Ms. Abdul on national TV.

As he continued to speak – I began to hear Johnny Cash in my head – "I hear the train a comin’…"

This was not going to end well…

He rambled on about how "when I’m big and famous, she’ll (his ex-wife) come back, and I’m not gonna have it." Well, Christopher, I would hope her penchant for sleeping with other men would have more to do with your decision than her possibly wanting to share your fame.

In the audition room he spoke of his "drive, determination, talent, and moves".  Moves.  I swear I heard chugga chugga choo choo getting closer…

He started dancing and singing to Footloose and it was then that I heard the conductor squeal the brakes and honk the horn, but to no avail. The train wrecked with full force. And when it was over, all that was left was "Topher", and his shattered dreams.

(And yes, I did catch Paula twisting Simon’s right nipple off. But he probably liked it, so I’m not going to go there.)

What filled the screen next was the first woman I believe could challenge Rhonetta Johnson to a good old fashioned "Ho Down" – Janita Burks. She was so bad, I will let her speak for herself and simply provide a transcript:

"My style is very important. It works in with my confidentiality. It boostes my confidence many, many ways."

What she needed was to boostes her boobses – they were practically falling out of her too-tight halter dress, held in place by what I kept hoping was the lord of all rings – please God, let it be strong enough to restrain those bad boys.

I loved her next remarks, "I believes in dressing sexy, but not over-the-top." Obviously out-of-the-top is ok, though.

"The judges will think I’m innocent, conservative, and sexy."

Yes, Janita, everything about you just whispers, Marian the Librarian.

As she began to sing Disco Inferno, my husband shouted, "Burn, baby, burn!" When she got to the part that goes, "it’s getting loose in here", I assumed she had to be singing about her breasts. That ring was losing the battle and they were threatening to jump out and turn that ballroom into Studio 54.

Heck, even Paula was caught trying to telegraph to Janika that the boys were attempting to jump ship. At one point, I swear it looked like Janita had a naked toddler dancing upside down in her dress.

True to her lyrics, the audition went up in flames.

One of the more unlikely looking contestants I have ever seen (and that’s saying something) was next. Looking like a cross between Fidel Castro and the Pantened loveliness that is Bo Bice, Sean Michel (pronounced Mee-shell according to his MySpace page) does not exactly scream, "Superstar!!!!" And his Ghandiesque remarks that "all of us are homeless…poor inside" did not really set the stage for what richness was to come when he started to sing Johnny Cash’s God’s Gonna Cut You Down. He was fabulous – and I can just hear the AI stylists sharpening their scissors and razor blades now…

AFTER. THE. BREAK Macy Gray look-a-like, Melinda Doolittle, got her chance to come out of the shadows. A professional background vocalist, Melinda has made a career out of standing behind other singers, but then so did Sheryl Crow and Barry Manilow (sue me – they’re the two that came immediately to mind and I'm too tired to Google for some hipper examples of background singers turned superstars.)

Nervous, timid and shaking, Melinda tore into For Once In My Life – and I believe that for once in her life, she was right where she should be – front and center. An amazing voice, so much control, and packaged in such a sweet unassuming character. I think I have found my early favorite.

The judges all thought she was brilliant and Randy said it was "one of the best auditions ever." No argument here.

Cut to stock footage from last season’s trip to Graceland and then we are introduced to Robert Lee Holmes, 21, and as green as the shirt he is wearing with his black suit. Seriously, when he spoke, he reminded me of Bubba from Forrest Gump – all innocence, naivete, and shreemp.

But Robert thinks he sounds just like Elvis Presley.

Crap. And we just got the last trainwreck cleared off the tracks…

Explaining to Ryan that he wasn’t going to dance during his audition, but "do a movement", I saw the warning lights begin to flash and the crossing guards come down.

In the audition room, Simon engaged him in a discussion about what he does. "I sing, dance, and write stories."

What kind?

"I write stories about the music of Robert."

Lord, it’s never good when a person speaks of themself in the third person. Get those cars off the tracks!!!!

Simon, ever brave, asked, "How does the current part end?"

"With a period."

Whoo! Whoo! Chugga chugga chugga…

Robert then launched into Burning Love, his favorite Elvis song. Well, launched is rather generous. It was more of a paper airplane than a space shuttle. It was truly awful, but the judges let him sing, even keeping the beat for him.

But then something awful happened. Someone must have switched the track direction because the perpetual trainwreck that is Paula crashed. She was grooving along, doing her signature spastic-seal clap and suddenly she hurt herself. 

Paula apparently got hung up on all her bling and the cameras caught her (or rather the producers generously shared the moment with the audience) writhing in pain over her claptastrophe.

I guess Earl is right. Karma is a bitch, Paula. That’ll teach you to leave Simon’s nipples alone.

Needless to say, Robert was told No and slinked off to Heartbreak Hotel.

What followed was a montage of train cars piling up in the form of contestants singing and dancing to Burning Love. All they accomplished was to burn my retinas out the back of my head – seriously, I’m still seeing spots. Spots with massive cleavage.

It was hideous. From a girl with hair the color of Barney who "forgot my medication", to contestant 57401 who, God love her, really needs to audition for The Biggest Loser, not American Idol, to the guy wearing a lampshade on his head looking like he was singing about an STD – digging around in his drawers the way he was – talk about a hunk, a hunk of burning love. Then, as if that wasn’t disturbing enough, he pulled a Zoolander and whipped his underwear out through his zipper, flinging them into the air.

All right Jimmy Kimmel – you philanthrophic soul, you – let’s see you take pity on this guy. I say you send him on the red carpet as your Oscar correspondent. None of the stars wear underwear these days either – he’ll fit right in.

One more break (thank God) and we came back to Phil Stacy, who was in Memphis to audition when he received the call from his wife that she had just delivered their second daughter in Jacksonville, Florida.

He joked that he was going to sing Let’s Get It On in her honor, since that’s the last thing she’d be wanting to hear from him right then. Fine – cheap joke, but I liked him immediately. He has a very Chris Daughtryness to him, and it’s not just the preference for a low maintenance hairstyle.

Inside the audition room he sang My Girl for his three ladies in Florida and while I agreed that he started out a tad sketchy, I thought that the full picture ended up pretty well drawn. His voice is different and with some coaching could be great. And with that, the proud Daddy is headed to Hollywood.

I love that the cameras followed him back to Jacksonville, closing out the show with the feel good moment of him holding his new baby girl, Mykala. See, all you cynics? American Idol is not just about humiliating people after all.

Well, that wraps it up for the Home of the Blues. Or in Phil Stacy’s case, the pinks. In all, 22 people (most of whom we will not see until Hollywood) made it to the next round. Tune in Wednesday night as American Idol heads to New York City. Is the big apple bursting with juicy talent or is it just riddled with worms? You bite first.

And They Called It Pappy Love

…or Old Folks Get Orgyggy (however, I didn't think you'd be able to pronounce that correctly: or-ji-gee)

It’s a universal truth that every single one of us gets squeamish at the mere thought of our parents, or grandparents, getting jiggy.

In kids’ minds, parents and grandparents are asexual disciplinarians, first. Human beings, second. Sure, they have genitals, but only to pee out of, and when not used for that purpose, are firmly hidden behind Sansabelts and housecoats. And as for breasts? Most of us envision our matriarchal figures’ to resemble something you could more likely make balloon animals out of, not something that incites lust.

Oh, and in our minds, the number of times they have had sex is exactly the number of children they raised.

So the thought that they might still get all hopped up on each other is just plain gross. All that untoned, weathered flesh. Your father, hair mussed up, breathing heavy, decked out in a plether thong. That same woman who constantly intoned "Eat your vegetables", eating, well…your Dad’s vegetable.

My God, the mental image alone is enough to take the sight out of my mind’s eye.

So imagine walking in on it in real life.

That’s what happened recently to a couple orderlies at the Edith Scarborough Nursing Home in England.

It seems that a group of senior residents wanted to celebrate the 90th birthday of one of their female friends.

Nice thought, right?

And 90 is a huge milestone – one most of us won’t come close to hitting.

So, how to commemorate just such an occasion?

A cake? Nah, too ordinary.

Margaritas? Been there, drank that sixty years ago.

How about a new walker with bright yellow tennis balls on the bottom? Hell, no – too pedestrian, and besides, she got one for Christmas from her great-grandkids.

I know!

Let’s have an orgy!

And so they did.

I’m not kidding.

Taking place after midnight on October 28th of 2006, three low hanging Lotharios and six pruny but promiscuous enchantresses, assembled in the facility’s recreation room, and left all their worries, and clothes, behind.

According to one of the staffers who discovered the party, "They really set the scene. They’d got their hands on candles, which they lit, and even put on music to create a sexy mood."

Rumba music.

Oh, it gets better.

When the codger coterie was discovered, they were all slathered with oil.

Forget heart healthy canola. This was a full blown (well, not really – according to staffers, the men were having difficulties starting their engines, as it were.) Mazola Party.

So, imagine. Nine Geritolites, slicked up like otters after the Exxon Valdez, grooving to rumba music, trying to "get the party started."

They’re lucky someone didn’t slip and break a hip.

The staffer went on to say, "They were all naked. Believe me, it was the scariest thing I’ve seen in my life."

Surreal, maybe. I’ll even give you downright disturbing. But scary?

Hell, it gives me hope!

Unfortunately for the Nasty Nine, the nursing home took a very puritanical stance against their birthday suit party, and kicked them all out of the residence.

Personally, I think that’s a little extreme. Ask them to confine their activities to their own bedrooms, maybe. Ground them from Wheel of Fortune for a week. Even withhold their tapioca, but kick them out?

Quite frankly, I’m impressed with them. Sure, it may make me squirm to think of a bunch of 90 year olds staging the toga party scene from Animal House, and I certainly don’t want to insert my own grandparents into this mental picture, but come on.

At an age when most people have difficulty with their own names, these nine not only remembered, but were attempting one of life’s great pleasures – the liberated libido.

I say, more power to them, and that I hope to still be grossing out my own kids when I’m 90 years old. God knows my husband and I oog them out already and we’re only in our 40s and reasonably toned.

Ahhhh, 90. That gives me 50 years to figure out: What kind of balloon animals do go best with a plether thong?

Don't Cry For Me, Rosie O'Donnell

The words sung by Eva Peron in the emotionally charged balcony scene of Evita have been looping through my head since Wednesday night’s American Idol audition showcase of wannabes from Seattle.

If you think I’m speaking of the line "Don’t cry for me, Argentina…", you’re only half right.

In terms of the thousands of "contestants", and I use the term loosely to describe the majority of people who turn out for the auditions, there is no need to feel sorry for them.

But here we are, only two shows in, and as has happened in every single season before, the public is up in armchairs about the treatment of the people who actually make it onto the screen.

What a pathetic bunch of hypocrites are we.

Yes, we.

Every season we tune in to these auditions shows by the tens of millions, and I’m sorry, but six seasons in, if we’re being totally honest, we all know why we do it. 

To laugh our collective asses off at the deluded, the tone deaf, the poorly dressed, and the flag carrying citizens of the land of Freak.

We know exactly what we’re in for, every bit as much as do the contestants who show up with stars in their eyes.

Yet every season articles abound decrying the "treatment of the singers", the "cruelness" of the judges’ remarks, and the obvious "ridiculing" of those with a less than pleasing personal aesthetic.

This season is no different, with the lion’s share of controversy now swirling around the two misfits from Washington state, neither a winner in the beauty pageant of life, and both obviously missing from line when God handed out performance talent:

Kenneth Briggs (real name is Michael Swale), who could have saved Peter Jackson millions of dollars in CGI effects by playing the role of Golum in Lord of the Rings, was not only lambasted for his total lack of dancing and singing prowess, but was also told by Simon that he resembled a "bush baby".

And Jonathan Jayne, the reincarnation of Chris Farley, right down to the XXL britches and the sniveling voice, was sent packing with a cutting remark about his obvious girth and inability to sing a note.

Both young men, and they are men – Briggs/Swale is 23, Jayne is 21 – have been loudly defended by not only the folks in the blogosphere and in editorial pieces across the country, but now by Donald Trump’s best friend, Rosie "My Mouth Doesn't Have An Off Switch" O’Donnell.

Yes, Rosie has once again abused her proximity to microphones and cameras, and has gone on the offensive, attacking American Idol, "Isn't that what America thinks is entertainment? To make fun of someone's physical appearance and then when they leave the room laugh hysterically at them – three millionaires, one probably intoxicated…it's terribly sad to me."

Yes, Rosie – but that has never stopped you from watching every single episode, has it?

Ahh, the sickeningly sweet stench of hypocrisy – sniff, sniff – smells a lot like my dog’s rear end after a good squat in the backyard.

Rosie and the rest of us really just need to sit back and enjoy the spectacle. We truly do not need to be attacking American Idol or defending those who it selects it highlight.

Kenneth and Jonathan are prime examples of why.

Both young men are getting exactly what they wanted out of their William Hungness – in the past 48 hours, they have both received a barrage of phone calls, interview requests, media opportunities, and in the case of the portly Jayne, an agent.

Yes, an agent.

This proves two things to me.

1. We do not need to cry tears for, or waste our moral outrage on the behalf of, any American Idol contestant.

2. There is no God.

I have stated before, and I will continue to remind every viewer, these people know exactly what they are doing. You don’t show up at an AI audition dressed as Apollo Creed, a cow, or sporting a hot pink sausage casing on your body, without serious motive and intent.

The motive? Facetime on national TV. Intent? Be as bad/freaky/mouthy/ignorant as inhumanly possible in order to make the final episode cut. These people sign releases, they have the process explained to them, they know exactly what they are doing.

And for Kenneth – I must pause here a moment to re-emphasize the fact that this is NOT his real name. Seriously, when you go on AI under an alias, your PR savvy is working overtime – and Jonathan, what they were doing has paid off.

Last night they appeared on Jimmy Kimmel. A Florida radio station and its listeners are paying for them to come down for a vacation and to sing at an event, and don’t count out a CD or three – need I remind you that William Hung is still a household name, still cranking out killer karaoke and still getting national facetime.

Still don’t believe you can stop wasting your umbrage towards the AI producers on their behalf? Well, take it from the boys themselves.

Briggs/Swale, "I knew he (Simon) would be cruel about my singing, but I didn't know he would be cruel about my personality and cruel about my appearance." But wait! Hold your cyberhugs, because he then added, "I enjoyed doing it. Would I change a thing and go back and not do it? No, I would do it again."

Jayne, taking a break from answering the phone and referring people to his agent (gag), "I think it was absolutely wonderful. I was just having a blast, and this is what you get for having a blast." And make no mistake, his intent is clear, "If you're going to make it in TV, the first time you're going to fail, the second time you're going to fail ...and the sixth time you're going to be a star."

Given his career dream is to be either a DJ (um- yeah - maybe on Radio Disney where his squeaky voice might fit in with Minnie’s) or a talk show host (Look at Rosie O’Donnell – anything can happen), his calculated appearance on American Idol just might have been the only possible path.

Maximum exposure, baby. That’s what it’s about for these people.  That, and to get as many people talking about them as possible.  For these two misfits prove out the axiom, "There is no such thing as bad publicity."

So, don’t cry for them, Argentina, or Arkansas, or any other area beginning with a letter of the alphabet. Don’t get drawn in to the thinking that they have been unwittingly exploited or used for others’ personal gain.

Because as I said in the beginning of this piece, the other words from that balcony scene are even more apropos than those:

And as for fortune, and as for fame
I never invited them in (yeah, right)
Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired(Ya think? Or should I direct all questions to your agent?)

Yes, Jonathan and Kenneth (or whatever the hell you call yourself this week), like Eva Peron – while thou dost protests a little too much methinks, the clock is ticking on your fame and fortunate break. 

But for we viewers, hypocrisy has no expiration date, no matter how much it starts to stink.

American Idol Audition Recap, Wednesday, January 17, Seattle: Contestants, Not Caffeine, Give Viewers The Jitters

Welcome back to night two of The Deluded and The Delightful. And if the hyped up commercials are to be believed, Seattle will weigh in heavy on the deluded side.

Seattle – home to the Space Needle, Starbucks original coffee house, the beginnings of grunge, God – er, I mean, Bill Gates, Pike Place Market, and more bad weather than you can shake a well used umbrella at.

With not one, but two city mottos: The City of Goodwill (take that, Salvation Army,)and The City of Flowers (I would hope all that rain serves some purpose), American Idol rolled into town with results that even Paula Abdul has called "beyond wacky".

I’ll pause while you give that one some thought. Seriously, how truly warped does an experience have to be for it to even register on Paula Abdul’s perpetually compromised radar, let alone have her interpret it as "beyond wacky"?

Yes, I know, I know – I’m whipping on the little lady again, but I’m far from the only person to have noticed her near slumbering on top of the audition table in last night’s episode. And the slurring? Not to mention the fidgeting? The woman has issues, period.

Whether they include A.) narcotics, B.) emotional demons, C.) health issues, or D.) all of the above, I just have this one thing to say…

Damn, she makes good TV.

And don’t the producers know it.

Every season there is a constant stream of conjecture about Paula being replaced, which will never happen in a million years, or a billion dollars. Admit it. When you tune in each week, you zero in on Miss(ing) her Abdula Oblongata and analyze every move she makes.

And since we are all so obsessed with the, well, obsessed, you’ll be happy to know that in a move which is truly "beyond wacky", the powers-that-be at Bravo-TV have given the greenlight to a docu-series, which will follow her professional and personal life.

Personally, I think the perfect title (in keeping with Bravo’s other programs) would be Project Runaway Trainwreck, but it is tentatively titled, Hey, Paula! (something I’m sure the producers kept hollering at her in Minneapolis to keep her awake.)

Well, this being Seattle, maybe she’ll OD on the espresso and that won’t be a problem.

Let’s get this recap brewing and see what pours forth…

Well, the only thing pouring in Seattle was the rain on Day 1 of the auditions. But that did not keep 9,000 people from lining up for their shot at superstardom.

First up? Apollo Creed – wait – I thought he was in Minneapolis? Actually, I still think he died in that Rocky movie, but here he is again.

Actually it was Brandon Groves from season five – you remember him – he shot the sheriff about fifty times during his last audition? Well, since murder didn’t pan out for him, he decided to give patriotism a spin, singing God Bless America. But what God really needed to bless were the eardrums of this nation. His rendition got a cool reception from the judges, but that’s ok because "The Hotness" was just waiting to warm them back up.

Jennifer Chapton, who looked like two automobile airbags had deployed on her face, strutted her stuff (there was a lot to strut) and declared "I believe I have my own unique sound."

Note to new viewers: "Unique" is code for "I can split an atom with my voice, so reach for the earplugs immediately". Buy a set before next week’s round of auditions.

She went on to brag that, "I’m gonna deliver the hotness and it’s gonna be good."

Personally I think that should be Domino’s new slogan.

After removing the wad of gum from between her airbags, she launched into I Want Your Love by Tenderoni, but she looked and sounded like she had gotten a hold of some rancid Rice a Roni – holding her stomach and rolling her eyes into the back of her head. I began to get nauseous too.

Of course Simon told her she was awful (she was), to which she responded by copping some seriously deluded attituded and started singing again. She. Would. Not. Stop.

I kept waiting for the big vaudeville hook to come in from the corner of my screen – surely they have one on hand for when Paula really gets going?

Thankfully she finally left, telling the cameras that she was just "too hot for them".

Yes, yes, you’re right Jennifer. But so is molten lava – and both of you can burn my retinas right out the back of my head.

Moving on through a string of No’s, we landed on Amy Salgado, a sweet SAHM with an unsupportive hubby. Amy thought it was because he was threatened by the idea of her leaving for Hollywood – did anyone else begin to hear the theme music to Jaws? This wasn’t going to be good if the producers were chumming the waters with that info…

Amy tried to sing Christina Aguilera’s Reflection, but failed miserably, blaming a cold. She begged some water, tried again, but only succeeded in drowning the notes. Like Jennifer before her, she refused to let the dream die easily and began singing even after being told NO. Someone call Dr. Kevorkian – they really need his machine to assist in these vocal suicides. It would be much more humane.

Another string of awfulness featured some of Seattle’s worst – including someone screaming "Die! Die! Die!" (maybe they could use him instead of Kevorkian?), and then I swear I saw Greg Allman in a white fur coat.

I thought I was hallucinating, but then I was certain because the screen filled with a 300 pound vision of Courtney Love and her photo negative.

Actually it was the bleached blonde bob of zaftig Darwin Reedy, who described her image to Ryan as "Sexy." Um, sure – if "Sexy" is defined as having junk not only in the trunk, but in the front seat, glove box, and stacked on the luggage rack. Plus she looked like she had eaten a tube of red lipstick for lunch.

Seriously, this was almost cruel.

Almost.

Because just as I was getting angry at the producers for highlighting the not highly evolved Darwin and her Elvira-haired, cankled mother just for cheap laughs, I reminded myself that these people all sign a piece of paper accepting that their audition might be broadcast.

So when Darwin announced she was going to sing Doncha by the Pussycat Dolls, I sat back and thought, "You deserve what’s coming."

In answer to her monotoned questioning, "Doncha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?" I could hear the nation screaming, "NOoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" in unison.

It was a trainwreck of Abdulesque proportions. And I could easily see how even Paula, dear medicated, loopy, looney Paula, could describe this one as "beyond wacky".

Thankfully there was a ten minute commercial break in which my eyes and ears could heal.

AFTER. THE. BREAK. We were treated to a montage of tears raining down inside every bit as hard as the skies were doing outside.

But then there was a small ray of sunshine in the form of Tommy Daniels, auditioning for Idol for the third time. He spoke of sleeping behind some trashcans while waiting in line for this season’s shot, and it appeared he had found his pants inside them. Seriously, those were some religious jeans he was wearing – they were holier than the Vatican on Easter Sunday.

But I liked him. I liked that he was laid back. I liked that he was polite. Heck, I even liked his 70’s style afro –you could have slapped a polyester tie dye jumpsuit on him and he could have headlined a Commodores tribute band.

His rendition of Arms of a Woman was smooth and controlled and I can’t wait to see more of him in LA.

We then got treated to Paula snuggling with Tommy’s Chihuahua and delivering the PSA of the night: "If Simon and I ever had a baby this is what it would look like." See, kids?!? This is why you don’t do drugs!!!!

Another contestant, Melissa Stavros had her doggie, Tika, with her at the auditions, and Tika was a far sight cuter than her owner who proved my point that there is a mirror blight in America. Surely that is the only reason Melissa showed up looking like an uncooked sausage in a hot pink bodysuit and stuffed into a gray casing?

Well, at least she embraces her size – happily dancing it around for Randy as she sang "I like big butts and I cannot lie…" But Melissa, "fluffy" is a word better suited to describing Tika, not you.

For her audition she sang I Turn To You which had the judges turning away from her. It was a unanimous No. But that’s ok – she was fairly unflappable, and besides she had quite the posse to support her, including some equally fluffy friends and a boyfriend with a Crayola colored Mohawk.

Yes, Seattle’s people pallette is certainly all encompassing.

Another break brought us back to beatbox champ Blake Lewis. His singing wasn’t bad at all, but I would recommend he update his wardrobe before heading to Hollywood – that Members Only jacket is about 20 years out of style and the Wizard of Oz called – he wants his dress shirt back.

I swear it must be the obscene amount of caffeine these people drink because the next montage of spasticity could only be attributed to a double shot – or three.

It kicked off with Speedy Gonzales, moved into what appeared to be a girl trying to throw up on the floor, segued into the purple shirted majesty of Michael Bustamonte channeling Michael Jackson, but sadly his "lonely days" are not going to be gone anytime soon after the women of Seattle see his dance moves, and then there was David Mills intoning everyone to "Lean On Me" – please God, "it won’t be long till I’m going to need" something miraculous in exchange for this aural penance we are doing.

My prayers were soon answered by the sister/brother pairing of Shymali and Sanjaya Malakar. I loved them immediately – they are both adorable, funny, are obviously close siblings, and THEY CAN BOTH SING.

Shyamali’s rendition of Summertime, while not a threat in any way to Fantasia’s hold on that crown, was smooth and effortless. And when Sanjaya busted out some Stevie Wonder, no one was surprised that his golden ticket was signed, sealed and delivered by the three judges.

As day one was drawing to a close, 27 year old Nick Zitzman, a "self taught musician" and a man with a truly unfortunate last name, explained that he was going to sing Unchained Melody because "it has notes up here, down here, and a bunch of notes in between".

As he stated that his coworkers encouraged him to audition, I wanted to shout, "Yes, because your coworkers hate you!", but instead, what came out was, "Oh, the humanity!"

This was surely a human Hindenburg in the making.

And then, when he was asked, "What makes you the next American Idol?", to which he responded "I’m a leader" – my own ten year quickly added, "Yeah. Of the chess club."

My little girl – a true smartass. It was one of those moments when a parent knows they are doing a good job. I felt warm all over – then again it could have just been the heat radiating from Nick’s imminent explosion.

He finished answering their questions – a process which looked quite painful, as he continually squinted his eyes, much the way I did when I was having contractions during labor – and then he began to sing.

And sing.

And sing.

Honestly, I think the real Hindenburg took less time to completely incinerate.

I was bathed in empathetic embarrassment – you know, when you die a thousand deaths for someone who has no idea they should be embarrassed? It was so thoroughly awful, those notes up there, down there, and all those notes in between, that he made William Hung sound like Clay Aiken.

More No’s led up to Rudy Cardenas, a hot Venezualan who elicited the type of response from Paula that we saw last night from Simon when Perla bounced in. Doing a few bars of Journey, Paula made sure he would be welcomed with Open Arms in Hollywood.

Seattle, now the official home of Wacky and Tacky, offered up more during a Bad Day montage highlighted by the appearance of Britney Spears at the end of another make-up smearing all-nighter. Hmmm. I had wondered what her strategy was going to be to get back in the business…

Day 2 dawned bright, but would the prospects be as sunny as the weather?

Um. No.

At least not for Kenneth Briggs and Johnathon Jayne, two misfits who found one another while waiting in line. Again, I had to remind myself that these people all agree to open themselves up for public humiliation in exchange for a shot at celebrity.

Kenneth, who Simon compared to a bush baby and a lemur, but who I think looks more like Golum from Lord of the Rings, went first, declaring that he can "dance, sing, do everything."

Oh, and that his friends compare him to Justin Timberlake.

Kenneth, your friends hate you too.

He proceeded to channel Justin Timberfake, singing Tearin’ Up My Heart, complete with the moves from the original Nsync video from 10 years ago. Again, I began to smell burning hydrogen…

Johnathon, who looks like the reincarnation of Chris Farley, complete with tacky Aloha shirt, went next with God Bless America. God bless his little heart, but it was awful. Well, at least he and Golum can console one another as embark on a quest to figure out what went wrong.

I must pause here to comment on the producers careening a tad over the line with these two. I guarantee you that the mocking of these kids, both sweet, but obviously never picked first for kickball, had more Americans squirming uncomfortably in their Barcaloungers than laughing out loud at the TV.

Give us ten full minutes of someone like The Hotness, with an ego to match the size of her helium filled lips - she deserves what she gets. Anyone who struts around in clothing three sizes too small, mouths off in such a way that the producers have to logo cap their entire tirade, or who dresses like a circus freak (think girl-in-cow-costume from last season) needs outed on national TV - it's quite possibly the only way they will ever "see" how truly deluded they are.

But abusing Golum and Chris Farley just reeks of middle-school-jocks-giving-special-ed-kids-wedgies humiliation.

OK, I'm done lecturing - back to the show...

AFTER. THE. BREAK. We continued the Bataan Death March of tortuous auditions. Next victim? Eric Chapman who broke another of my Golden Rules for auditions: Thou shalt not audition as a past contestant. Eric, convinced he is the second coming of Taylor Hicks thanks to some prematurely gray streaks in his hair, coined the phrase The Twist Train and attempted to sing and spasm like Mr. Soul Patrol.

I daresay that somewhere in America tonight, Taylor Hicks pissed himself from laughing so hard.

Obviously given the boot, Eric, a hairdresser, attempted to put some styling product in Simon’s hair on the way out, but the way security swooped down on him you would have thought he was trying to apply the "gel" from Something About Mary.

The next contestant was Anna Kearns, a lovely young lady who just happens to be 15 feet tall. OK, ok, she is only 6’4", but what does it matter to someone like me who barely breaks the 5 foot mark? She might as well be 15 feet.

Singing Aretha Franklin’s RESPECT, she sounded fine, but I was really distracted by the flailing of her limbs as she danced. Honestly, I bet you her arm is as long, or longer, than my leg.

Simon offered the funniest line of the evening, "You just put through a giraffe." when Randy and Paula gave her a golden ticket. I sure hope they include a first class seat for her, otherwise it’s going to be a long plane ride to LA with her knees in her ears.

Another break brought us back to Jordan Sparks, the season six answer to Lisa Tucker. An adorable 16 year old with self confidence and a stellar smile, Jordan gave an admirable rendition of Because You Loved Me. It was a great vocal, although Simon mucked it up with the Paulaesque comment that it "was like too much sugar in my coffee, but that’s a compliment."

Huh?

No matter, she’s through to the next round along with only six others from day 2, and seven from day 1 – yes the Seattle pickings were slim.

But wait! There’s more!

More time to waste! More ad dollars to extort! So ensued a video of the worst of the worst singing and grooving (I’m being generous here) to Doncha by the Pussycat Dolls. I would describe it all to you, but my eyes began to bleed and chunks of my brain began to fall from my ears and I had to leave the room to get some Kleenex and a bucket.

More commercials, and what’s this? One more audition? Whatever. Did. We. Do. To. Deserve. Such. A Thoughtful. Gift?

Steven Thoen, "Red" to you and me, a man with 1 ½ teeth, and who surely is the lovechild of Carrot Top and Axel Rose stepped in to audition. Not a fan of the show, having only seen it a couple times, Red does, however, "do a little krokey"

I had to pause my Tivo for a moment to pick up another chunk of my cerebellum that tumbled out my left ear.

They asked Red who he compares himself to and he replied that he thinks he’s "as good as Freddy Mercury".

Yes, considering Freddy is the equivalent of peat moss at this stage, I bet Red can sing as well as him.

He began to sing Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody and two things happened…

1. I felt my frontal lobe implode.

2. I realized that, even dead, Freddy Mercury has nothing to worry about.

Thankfully, the show was over. I am hopeful that with six days to recover, I shall regain some of my hearing, my retinas will begin to heal, my depression will begin to lift, and that the corks in my ears will keep the rest of my brain from sliding out of my head.

I am begging you Memphis – you gave us Elvis Presley, you are the birthplace of rock ‘n roll – please bring the talent heat next week. Because Seattle just stole your title as the home of the blues.

American Idol Audition Recap, Tuesday, January 16: Minneapolis, The Land of 10,000 Fakes

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here to bid farewell to the past eight months.  Minutes which seemed to tick backwards on the clock.  Hours that moved forward as slowly as cognitive thought in Kellie Pickler’s brain.  Days that stretched out like a Rhonetta Johnson tube top.  And months in which Tuesday and Wednesday came and went, came and went, came and went, mocking us with their emptiness, forcing us to watch reruns of Project Runway and The Mary Tyler Moore Show on Nick At Night.

Yet even in the darkness, dear children, we clung to the small shreds of light…

Kelly Clarkson accepting not one, but two Grammy awards.

Carrie Underwood collecting enough CMA awards to start her own juggling act.

Diana DeGarmo starring on Broadway in Hairspray (give me a break – I said small shreds of light)

Paula Abdul being signed on to produce and star in the upcoming live action Bratz movie

Which is the real Paula?  I can’t tell either…

And just when we thought we could take the darkness no more, just when we thought that life could get no bleaker, the Idol gods smiled and bestowed upon us the vision of Jennifer Hudson, the contestant from season 4 who got screwed worse than a 2 x 4 at a Saturday morning Home Depot demonstration, stepping up to accept a Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress.

It was only fitting.

It was only right.

It also made the perfect segue into the brand new season of The Deluded and the Delightful, or as it is more commonly known:  YOUR. AMERICAN. IDOL.

Welcome back kids!  How any of us managed to survive the past eight months is truly beyond me.  I honestly think that having the AI supply cut off in May has to be worse than a heroin junkie going cold turkey.  Seriously.  The Tuesday night after the final show?  I walked aimlessly around my house.  I bumped into the walls.  I fondled the Tivo remote…

After five months of emotional investment, passion, parties, arguments over contestants’ worthiness to stay - like Egghead Covais who not only had his 15^th minute of fame, but his 16^th, 17^th, and 18^th to boot – it is hard to go back to the reality of our drab little lives in which we have no control over other human beings. 

Think about it.  Wouldn’t it be great if we could dial in and vote off that smartass checker at the grocery store?  I’ll teach you to never throw three cans of Hormel chili in the same bag with my loaf of bread, you &*^^[email protected]

Ahem.  Sorry.  I’m just excited to be back, ready to wield my power over the hopes, dreams, and delusions of a new crop of wannabes.

So with that said, let’s get this recap underway!

Opening by playing the final seconds before Taylor Hicks was crowned last season’s Idol, Ryan could be heard intoning, “Together.  Blah blah blah.  Together.  Blah, blah blah, blah.  TOGETHER.  Blah, blah, blahdedy, blah.”

Yes, yes, yes, Ryan.  We KNOW we are responsible for this phenomenon, this juggernaut, this zeitgeist.  We KNOW there have been over 100 #1 CDs – we bought them all.

Can you please finish tooting the American-Idol-Is-Responsible-For-Every-Great-Thing-Including-Flush-Toilets-And-Sliced-Bread and get on with the show?

Thank you.

Fast forward to Minneapolis, Minnesota – land of 10,000 lakes and temperatures that can freeze a man’s testicles to his underwear in less than three seconds.  Thankfully though, the auditions took place during the fall, when testicles walk the streets freely, no fear of frostbite.

With the screen full of flip flops, previews of the infamous AI logo profanity cap over people’s mouths, and a cowgirl (contestant #6417) apparently having an orgasm during her audition, the show got underway.

How I have missed those colored noodles, that suppository shaped elevator, and that neon colon it rises through!  I have to say that I admire their restraint in not changing this part of the show from year to year.  Seriously, how can you beat a neon suppository?

Rhetorical question.  Don’t answer.

Of course, what trip to Minneapolis would be complete without a total bastardization of one of Prince’s songs, compliments of the throngs assembled to audition?  Sadly, the fact that they could not clap in rhythm did not bode well for what was to come…

But wait!  Before we can get to the first audition, it’s Jewel, the first of the much lambasted guest judges.  Honestly, in every interview I have read with Randy, Simon or Paula in the run up to this season, they have each dissed the guest judge inclusion.  Not needed.  Ruins their rhythm.  Etc.

But Jewel has sold 20 million CDs and is here, happily so for first contestant Jessica Rhode – a die hard Jewel fan.  Now, typically when they treat us to a video backstory complete with a trip to the place of business of the contestant, it means they are through to Hollywood, right?  So here we are, visiting with Jessica, a make-up artist (at Glamour Shots across from Hat World in the Mall of America – ooooooo), as she gives a young customer a total makeover, and we're thinking, “Wow, this girl is a tad heavyset, not too stylish, but we followed her to work, so she must be able to sing!”

Psyche!

Even before she sings she is in tears speaking about Jewel and “wanting to inspire people”.  Honey, the only jewels that would bring me to tears would have be at least 10 carats and set in prongs attached to a platinum band (or frozen to Brad Pitt's underwear). 

Her audition began with her wiping her nose on the palm of her hand and oozed downhill from there as she butchered a Jewel song right in front of her idol. When she was told no, she then assumed a Crouching Jessica, Hidden Talent stance on the floor.  Sorry grashoppa, but it’s back to the mall for you.

One note:  Did you catch the look on her friend’s face when Jessica finally emerged crying and wept, “They said I’m not even a good singer.”?  It totally read, “Well, duh.”  Listen, friends don’t let friends drive drunk, and they shouldn’t let friends audition for American Idol when they know damn well that the person cannot sing a note.

Moving on…

Well, look what the horse and buggy dragged in!  Troy Benham, self proclaimed “urban Amish”, complete with floppy hat, polyester suit, and chin pubes in serious need of a Brazilian waxing. 

Admitting he has never seen American Idol (not hard when you have no TV), he launched into a song containing the lyrics “trip me as I carry liquid”, “spit drips into my face”, and “catalog that sells roaches by the pound”.  For a minute I thought Kurt Cobain had been reborn and was singing in a band called Nirvamish.  Needless to say, the judges sent him back to Wisconsin.

Next ensued a compilation of rejects:  a girl begging “Jesus Take The Wheel” because her voice was careening all over the place and leaving skidmarks on my eardrums; a blond who was more likely to be found singing under the highway instead of “Over The Rainbow”; and what’s this?  The Love child of Constantine Maroulis and Bo Bice?

Next misfit to merit face time?  Jesse Holloway, wearing a Blue Tooth on the side of his head, who described his “unique vocal range” and talents in the longest run-on sentence which amazingly contained no vowels.  I did, however, make out that he “can hit notes Mariah Carey can hit”.

He then began singing My Heart Will Go On and ran his vocal ship right into an iceberg.  I just know Celine Dion was swearing in French and trashing her dressing room in Vegas.

He then asked if he could get some water and walked out of the room – just walked out.  Poof. Gone.

Listen, I know these kids are nervous, and I give them all the credit in the world for being brave enough to not only go before the judges, but the millions of people they know will be watching, but come on!  To just walk out?  And then waltz back in?  Listen Jesse, your vocals were already sinking like the Titanic – adding more water didn’t help keep it afloat.  When he attempted Michael Jackson’s Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough, I actually heard a cat outside screeching that it had, in fact, had enough.

Note:  The locked left door began to get old fast. 

AFTER.  THE. BREAK.  To what should my wondering eyes should appear, but a resurrected Apollo Creed decked out in flag gear!  I honestly thought he died in Rocky 2, but no, he was there to “knock out this audition!”

Charles Monroe, Apollo’s real name, chose to sing an “ario in Italian”.  Of course he meant aria, but for a brief moment I thought he was going to bust out some Speedwagon in a different language, and that just didn’t make any sense at all.  But then, this is a man dressed like the missing member of The Village People, so nothing would have really surprised me.

He began to sing his opera and I was shocked.  He wasn’t Pavarotten afterall.  I actually enjoyed him.  The judges, however, were collectively turned off, and Paula, who was fishing in her shirt and slurring her speech the entire episode, had her first moment of clarity when she mumbled, “I guess I’m a little confused.” 

Good for you Paula.  They say admitting your problem is the first step in recovery.

Goodbye Apollo – and use the right door.  No, not that one.  The other one….

Next up, 16 year old Denise Jackson, complete with her hard life story – druggy mom, crack baby, raised by grandmother.  Normally, these gratuitous stories put me off, but there was something about her demeanor that I warmed to.  She was very composed, soft spoken, and not really looking for sympathy – just stating the facts.  I liked her immediately, aside from the weed growing out the side of her head, and I’m glad because she tore up the Dreamgirls tune, And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going – a big song for a full grown woman, let alone a 16 year old girl.  See you in Hollywood, Denise (just get that weed wacked first).

Boy, Minneapolis must have been lean on even the really bad auditions because the producers, in an attempt to fill two hours, now injected a PSA for the condition known as “Forgetting Your Words”.   It wasn’t even that funny.  Well, until they got to Tashawn Moore, who was there dressed to impress in a pink shirt and green gingham tie. 

Yep, nothing says “impressive” better than green gingham. Except maybe purple paisley …  or the ability to sing.  Sadly, in describing Tashawn’s audition, words escape me, much like what happened to her, so I’ll move on.

Cut to Ryan flirting it up with Shakira, no wait, it’s Perla Meneses from Columbia.  A lovely girl with a stellar smile, enticing accent, and boobs big enough to make “Seemon” get “seebone” when she walked in – seriously, did you see him perk up?  Perla’s take on Blondie was OK, but her snippet of Hips Don’t Lie sealed the deal.  Simon needs something pretty to look at during Hell Week in Hollywood, so she is through to the next round.

Hour two kicked off with Matt “I’ve Got Pizazz” Volna, the most boring cowboy to ever wear a hat.  And it wasn’t even a good hat.  Word of advice, Matt?  Forget 10 - it was barely 3 gallons, and there’s nothing even remotely macho about wearing the hat straps around your face.  And the folks at Folsom Prison are holding a cell open for you – you are now wanted for song slaughter.

The feel good highlight of the night was next.  The fighting men and women of the USS Ronald Reagan spent weeks holding Reagan Idol to select one of their own to be sent to audition for season six.  Jarrod Fowler, a Navy specialist, earned the top honor and with good reason – the young man is not only extremely likeable, but he can sing.  His take on Bless The Broken Road was effortless and I can’t wait to see how far he can go.  He is one of those underdog types that America embraces immediately.

Of course, this being American Idol, the good and uplifting must be tempered by the seriously deluded and scary, which brought us to Trista Giese who broke two of my Golden Rules for auditioning:  1.  Thou shalt not bring stupid props with ye, and 2. Thou shalt not sing like an animal being neutered.

Stating, “I’m unique” and “I have something no one can bring”, at least she wasn’t a liar.  A devotee of not just the Wizard of Oz, but of the cowardly lion specifically, she launched into his song, in his voice.

It’s the other door, Trista.  (Seriously producers.  It was funny the first two times – just unlock the damned door, will you?)

Stephen Horst, a vocal coach, stepped in to sing Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing, but he ended up missing everything as far as the judges were concerned.  And while I did not think he tanked, Randy (who had worse PMS than Simon) was brutal saying the guy “shouldn’t even be a vocal teacher” and “it sucked”.  Simon, in one of the bigger pot-calling-the-kettle-black moments in recorded history, was “amazed at Randy’s rudeness”.

Well, Stephen may not be heading to Hollywood, but at least he headed out the right door.

We got to briefly meet 19 year old Michelle Steingas, a blond, perky young lady with a clear, strong voice.  While there was nothing really compelling about her brief audition, she can clearly sing and as Simon put it, was “confident without being irritatingly precocious.”  Pack your bags Michelle.

A brief Reject Montage was highlighted by a guy wearing the hat from Cat in The Hat, if, in fact, the Cat In The Hat was tripping on crack.  Take that, Sam I Am.

Dayna Dooley, destined for the reject pile, refused to take her first No (in Pasadena) for an answer and her boss flew her (and her sister) to the audition in Minneapolis.  She seemed like a really nice girl, aside from forgetting to wear any pants with her white shirt, but her decision to screech in the middle of Tell Me Something Good, left the judges without a good thing to tell her at all.  I believe the phrases were “she can’t sing” and “she was terrible”.

That’s ok, she can still sing for her boss – but I would really recommend wearing pants in the workplace.

The next teenager up was a 16 year old pimple named Matt Santo.  Give me a break – like you all didn’t notice the unfortunate satellite dish on the end of his nose.  He made it through – nice voice – but Matt, get yourself some Clearasil and some coverstick for the trip to Hollywood, ok?  I have a high def plasma and that thing looked like it was ready to jump off my screen and eat my dog.

Another member of the military was up next.  Rachel Jenkins, Army Reserve, whose husband is stationed in Bagdad, sang His Eye Is On The Sparrow.  Though she was a little nervous, she has a beautiful voice, and, like Navy man Jarrod, something immediately likeable about her.  She’s through to Hollywood and exited through the correct door.

Sarah Krueger merited little screen time, but with her big hair and effortless big voice on Somewhere Over The Rainbow, she’s through to the next round.

I must pause here to ask if anyone else was taking note of Paula’s behavior?  Throughout the entire process, everytime the camera caught her, she was wobbling in her chair, fishing in her shirt for her bra straps, or mumbling.  Drunk?  Stoned?  Strunk?  Droned?  I hope they bought a reinforced net for season six – they’re gonna need it.

But I digress…

Jason Anderson, whose Indian name is “Sings With Feather Sticks” performed next.  And not very well.  While he was told by Simon that his “future involved not singing”, I would say he has a fair shot at a career in stand up comedy – the profanities poured forth at such a rate that his entire rant was obliterated by the AI Logo profanity cap.  Until he dissolved into tears, that is.  His Mom, part of the problem, continued to feed his delusions with “You’ll be famous.”

Um yeah, Mom.  For juggling feather sticks and swearing on national TV.  I know I’d be proud of my kid.

Idol’s biggest fan, Brenna Kyner, got her shot at the fame she has watched for years on her TV set.  Unfortunately, that fame will be for her audition, not in the form of a confetti downpour and a recording contract.  Deluded, to the point of  referring to she and AI as BFFs, she also launched into a tale of meeting Ace Young and him drawing a tattoo for her. Whoa.  I didn’t know he was such an artiste!  It was…a heart!  Double whoa.

Brenna’s comment that “nobody in any season of Idol is like me” was spot on.  When she launched into a David Bowie song, the only things Under Pressure were my eardrums.  Screemching (scream + screech) the intro, I found myself screemching “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?????????????” right back at her.

Of course they showed her the door (the correct one) whereupon she informed us that she not only has 10 years of vocal training, but a diploma in vocal performance.  I guess it goes to show you can get a degree in anything online.

Another break – and I must comment on Coke’s new “Give a little love and it all comes back to you” commercial.  I like the sentiment, but the virtual reality Sims character walking through the urban landscape looks like the only thing that came back to him was a load in his britches.  It freaked me out.

Filling more time, aka extorting more ad dollars, the producers followed with an homage to Prince.  Well, considering it was a collection of the worst contestants singing his song, Kiss, it was more of a barrage, than an homage – the highlight of which was a guy who sounded like someone was ripping his colon out through his mouth while he sang.

The last contestant was Josh Flom, a self described rocker, spurred on by the success Chris Daughtry found through Idol.  He began to sing Bad Day by Chris’s favorite band Fuel, and it sounded like he was horking up some of his last name.  Simon challenged him to come back in 15 minutes singing something from ABBA, which he did, complete with a heaping horking of more “flom”.  He finished with a snot filled version of Copa Cabana – still not getting that they just wanted to hear him SING, not gargle gravel.

So that’s it for tonight’s Many Hapless in Minneapolis recap.  In all, only 17 hopefuls made it through to Hollywood.

Next up: Seattle.  So tune in Wednesday night when we discover whether the city that gave us the addiction known as Starbucks serves up some Venti sized vocals or just a Grande’, nonphat decaf, hold the talent.