Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Calling In Vain

I alluded to this yesterday, and while I knew in my gut that it was happening, I didn't know it until now.

The latest report regarding the authorities who had the grim task of removing the victims from Norris Hall last evening, states that during the entire process, from yesterday when they entered the building to when the removal and transport was done - the cell phones of all of the students and teachers who had been slain were repeatedly ringing and buzzing.

As I said yesterday, my heart breaks for every parent, friend and loved one who tried in vain to receive an answer, but only heard the endless ringing of a phone that would never be answered again.

How Do You Do It? - Revisited

In October of 2006, in the wake of the Amish schoolhouse shootings, my sister had posed the above question to me, "How do you do it?"

She was referring to how I send my children to school each day.

In light of yesterday's rampage on the Virginia Tech campus, and the number of emails I have received from parents around the world in the past 24 hours, I wanted to revisit the article, in the hopes that it may shed light on how we parents love, and how we manage to let go of our children each day.

I would also like to encourage all parents to talk about what happened yesterday with your children.  I know the kneejerk reaction is to protect them from all the bad things that happen in this world, but in wanting to shield them, parents also do a disservice to them.  Kids, even elementary age children, can understand, process, and learn from what takes place in the world around them.

They can handle it.  And the questions they conjure in their heads are always scarier than the actual answers.  If left without answers they will make them up on their own - and they are never going to be accurate - Kids are insanely creative people.   

So as much as it may sicken a parent to accept that times have changed so very much from when we were in school, it is a reality which must be faced head on. Believe me, teaching my daughters to hit the deck and play dead should they ever hear gunshots in their schools is nothing I ever envisioned doing when I first held my oldest daughter. But I remind myself that in those first moments of her life, I wasn't just falling in love, I was also promising to protect her, to the absolute best of my ability, laying down my life if necessary, to insure she grows up and blazes a path through this world. And that means that I prepare her and her sisters, I arm them with tactics, I make them aware of things to look for, strategies to use, and yes, to play dead.

My oldest child will be 15 in less than a month. She is just finishing up her first year of high school. And she will be leaving us for college before we can even blink. I have to know I have not sheltered her so much that her only reaction would be to freeze. I have to know she has been empowered, to the best of my ability to do so, with information, answers, and an honest assessment of the world in which she lives.

As parents, we cannot hope for our children to make a difference in this world, if they do not know what is going on in it.  I promise you, my daughters (14, 13 & 10) have never been frightened by our conversations (9/11, the tsunami, Iraq), but rather they are empowered.  Knowledge is power, even when the person is only 10.

~~~~~~~~~

How Do You Do It?

"How do you do it?"

The question was posed to me by my sister after seeing yet another school shooting reported on CNN.

"How do you do it? How do you send your kids to school each day?"

It’s a fair question especially given the recent spate of shootings taking place around the country. No place is safe, no area too remote. Internal angst and bullets are equal opportunity terrorizers.

Aug. 24, 2006 Essex, Vermont. Christopher Williams, 27, looking for his ex-girlfriend at Essex Elementary School, shot two teachers, killing one and wounding another. Before going to the school, he had killed the ex-girlfriend's mother.

Sept. 13, 2006 Montreal, Canada. Kimveer Gill, 25, opened fire with a semiautomatic weapon at Dawson College. Anastasia De Sousa, 18, died and more than a dozen students and faculty were wounded before Gill killed himself.

Sept. 26, 2006 Bailey, Colo. Adult male held six students hostage at Platte Canyon High School, sexually assaulted them and then shot and killed Emily Keyes, 16, and himself.

Sept. 29, 2006 Cazenovia, Wis. A 15-year-old student shot and killed Weston School principal John Klang.

Oct. 3, 2006 Nickel Mines, Pa. 32-year-old Carl Charles Roberts IV entered the one-room West Nickel Mines Amish School and shot 10 schoolgirls, ranging in age from 6 to 13 years old, and then himself. Five of the girls and Roberts died.

October 9, 2006 Joplin, Missouri 13 year old male student, obsessed with Columbine, walks into his own school carrying an assault rifle, fires it into the ceiling and then thankfully the gun jams. He runs out of the school but is caught by authorities.

And those are just the ones that have been carried out in the past two months. What of the number of vicious plans that have been thwarted? The following only cover March and April of this year (2006). There have been just as many since.

March 1, 2006: Muscatine, Iowa A 17-year-old male former high school student was arrested in connection with a plot of a Columbine-type school massacre, which he allegedly shared online with a 19-year-old female. Police reportedly found crude explosives at his home.

March 2, 2006: Greenwood, Ind. (Incidentally, the high school from which I graduated) Four high school students were arrested for allegedly plotting to harm or hold hostage the high school's principal. Students who overheard the suspects talking about bringing guns into the school notified school administrators, and police were called to investigate.

March 20, 2006: Rochester Hills, Mich. An 18-year-old male high school student was arrested and charged with writing a threat on a bathroom wall to bring a gun to school and start a massacre he called "Columbine Part Two."

March 24, 2006: Foley, Ala. Two male high school students, ages 15 and 16, were arrested and charged with planning to carry out a shooting plot at their high school on the seventh anniversary of the Columbine High School attack on April 20.

April 5, 2006: Atco, N.J. Four teenagers, ages 14 to 16, were arrested and charged in connection with a plot to kill 25 people in their high school lunchroom on the anniversary of the Columbine attack. Students reported the information to school administrators, who notified police.

April 7, 2006: Pierce County, Wash. Three male middle school students, ages 12, 13 and 14, were arrested in connection with a plot where they allegedly planned to steal guns, force their school into a lockdown, set fire to the school, and kill an administrator, group of teachers, and "preppy" students. They then allegedly planned to blend in with the other students to escape the building and avoid police, with a backup plan involving stealing a teacher's car to get away. Police are seeking a 14-year-old female who may also have been involved in the plot.

April 17, 2006: Platte City, Mo. Two male students, both 18, were arrested in connection with a school shooting plot targeting an assistant principal, students, and other faculty members. The principal reported the incident after the suspects allegedly told other students about their plan, which included planting explosives and bringing weapons to the school on the seventh anniversary of the Columbine shootings.

April 20, 2006: Riverton, Kan. Five male high school students, ages 16 to 18, were arrested in connection with a plot to disable the school's camera system and commit a shooting rampage between noon and 1 p.m. on April 20, the seventh anniversary of Columbine. A threat related to the alleged plot was discovered on Myspace.com, and a North Carolina woman who chatted with a suspect online notified police in her state, who contacted the sheriff in the suspects' county. Police reportedly found guns, ammunition, knives and coded messages in the bedroom of one suspect, and papers about firearms and Armageddon in two students' lockers.

April 22, 2006: North Pole, Alaska Six students were arrested in connection with an alleged plot by a group of seventh-graders to shut off power and phone service at their school, and kill students and faculty members with guns and knives before escaping their small town of about 1,600 people. A parent reportedly notified police of the planned attack.

Columbine. A school shooting that has gone on to warpedly inspire other seriously misguided, jilted, misfit youths. They scour the internet for information on Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. They download instructions for homemade bombs. They secretly obtain weapons, make hit lists, and plan their own day of bloody reckoning.

So again, given the mucked up state of the world, the uptick in recent shootings, and the fact that not even an Amish one room schoolhouse in the middle of nowhere is safe, my sister has every right to ask me such a pointed question.

My answer?

I don’t know.

That’s right. I don’t know.

Believe me, it is not that I don’t think about it. And anyone who reads me regularly knows I certainly do not live in a dreamworld of denial. Rather, I think about it every single day that I drop my daughters off in front of their schools and ask God for one thing: That I see them again at the end of the day.

Anyone who has a child will understand what I’m about to say. For those who do not have children, allow me to enlighten you. With rare exception, we parents are good, loving, caring, nurturing people, and we would all gladly jump in front of a train to protect our offspring. I have often been quoted as saying I am capable of killing someone with a spoon if they touch my children.

That is how strong the love is, that is how powerful the rage would be if someone tried to harm them.

So depositing them at school is not an act of detachment, in fact, in this day and age, it is an act of bravery. An act of hope. And more than anything, an act of faith.

Faith that the administrators follow their highly touted child protection rules when allowing adults past the main office. Faith that, in the event of a security breach, lockdown procedures are implemented immediately inside the building. And faith that all the other parents are on top of their game, knowing exactly what their children are feeling, facing, experiencing, up to.

I have often said that I don’t know how you take the next breath if something fatal befalls your child. How a parent draws the next breath that slams home to them that they are still alive and their child is not. That their life is moving forward, while their baby’s is now stationary.

I pray for those who must face that next breath. And I pray equally hard that I am never face to face with that oxygen which means I am in this world without one of my children.

Many parents turn to homeschooling as an answer. They figure if their children are never out of their sight, then nothing bad can happen. Perhaps they are right. But the big bad world is still going to be there when their children grow up. And I personally believe that by sequestering my children from it, they would miss out on much of what they need to grow into aware, experienced adults.

My opinion. My belief. My choice.  Not a blanket condemnation of anyone who chooses to homeschool their children.

So, how do I do it everyday?

I wake them, feed them, make sure they brush their teeth, and pack their lunches. And then I head out in the minivan, soaking in every giggle, every homework complaint, every sound they make.

And then I hold my breath until I see them again.

Schooled In Tragedy

As you all know, I am an admitted newshound – CNN playing in the background of my day, regardless of which room I enter in my home. The TVs all on for company, all on so I may keep up with the deteriorating condition of the world around us.

So yes, I have been watching the unimaginable horror unfold today at Virginia Tech University.

The current count – 33 dead (including the shooter), 29 injured. (number updated again 420pm CST, 4/16)

I pray that the number holds, however, the campus is a sprawling 2,600 acres, the number of students 26,000, and the situation still fluid, as law enforcement attempt to secure and "sanitize" (lingo for insuring an area is clear of danger or victims) the entire area.

As the news stations continue to report – this is the largest mass casualty campus shooting (actually now estimated to be the largest mass shooting in US history, period) since 1966 when Charles Joseph Whitman, a 25-year-old ex-Marine, climbed a bell tower and killed 13 people on the University of Texas campus. He was killed by police.

Of course, much closer in memory is Columbine High School. And while 1966 harks back far too many years for any of the students at VT to recall, they are all intimately aware of the gruesome details that played out in 1999 in that high school in Colorado.

But like every other person who ever finds themselves staring into the camera lens after a tragedy, the words still echo the same, "I never thought it would happen here."

No one ever does.

The problem is that "Here" is a moving target. "Here" is an equal opportunity destroyer. "Here" shows no allegiance to a single location. And "Here" likes nothing better than to sneak up and surprise an entire community.

At this writing, the details are far from complete. What they do know is that a 911 call came in regarding a dorm shooting at 715am. Then two hours later, shots began to ring out in a completely different location on campus – a building in which classes were taking place.

Police have confirmed a dead shooter, although the investigation continues as to who he was, and if the fatal shot was self inflicted or from a law enforcement officer.

In the end, that makes no difference.

Whoever this animal was, he came, saw, deliberately unloaded his weapon(s) (and one has to assume reloaded it several times to amass such a number of victims), and then exited forever, leaving only trauma, taking with him any answers.

Not that any answer could ever justify the bloodshed and loss of innocent life seen today.

Like you, my heart goes out to the students who have lived through an escaped convict shooting on their campus this past August, two bomb threats last week, and now this horrific scene still playing out. I physically ache for the parents of all 26,000 students – as they desperately attempt to reach their children, verify their safety. And I cannot begin to imagine the anguish of those parents who hear only an endless ringing and no answer.

What I also feel is anger. Anger that better systems do not exist to protect college campuses, yes, but mostly anger that yet another waste of oxygen has decided to play God and end the lives of so many innocent people.

My message to people like him? If you are hellbent on leaving? Just leave. Find your balls and stick that gun in your own mouth and pull the goddamn trigger and leave the rest of us out of your miserable equation.

We don’t need you.

I don’t care if your childhood was pure shit. I don’t give a rat’s ass if your girlfriend dumped you or if you just lost your job. I don’t care if you have chronic acne and never got laid. I don’t give two shits in a whirlwind that you believe you have been slighted, maligned, misunderstood, or marginalized by someone or something in this life.

We all go through shit. We all get treated in ways we don’t appreciate at some point in our lives. We all experience disappointments, let-downs, slights, heartbreaks, dashed hopes, crushed dreams, bad people, and life’s general ability to make us feel small.

That does not give us the right to strike out and demand some gory retribution.

So whoever you were? I’m glad you’re dead. Call it un-Christian. Call it callous. I don’t care.

Because I believe in God and I can tell you, whatever you thought your problems were here on Earth? They’ve only just begun.

I’ll save my prayers for the victims, and especially for all those who now have to learn how to take the next breath in this life, knowing that their child, their spouse, their loved one, their friend, is not taking it with them.

It is a lesson I pray you, my reader, and I never have to learn.

In memory of all those who have died today at Virginia Tech University.

(Update: 420pm, 4/16: Per press conference at VT - the shooter did, in fact, take his own life. Initial shooting in dorm facility was thought to be domestic in nature - two dead.  31 others dead in Norris Hall - classroom building)

My Own Hypocrisy Or Is Hip Hop Crassy? Where Is The Line?

Like you, I have been waiting for the Don Imus inferno to die down to mere embers, eventually snuffing itself from lack of fuel to burn.

And yes, I know I promised I would stop beating this dead horse in the hopes that it would run another couple laps.

But this Sunday morning, as I found myself once again filled with anticipation for the evening’s cable viewing ahead, I had to stop and ask myself, Am I being a total hypocrite?

That’s a scary question. Those of you who read me regularly know I champion the underdog, cannot stand bigotry or prejudice, and like many people who cannot digest milk, I have an intolerance to bullshit. Exposure to it gives me IBS – Irritable Brain Syndrome.

So when I suspect I smell the sickly sweet stench emanating from myself, it is more than a little disturbing.

All last week I asked the question, Why is it ok for comedians to call me a cracker, and rap artists to demean and objectify women, while Don Imus’ foot-in-mouth-disease induced "nappy headed hoes" created such a national panty wad?

The week ended with his radio show being canceled and Imus meeting for over two hours with the team he had so carelessly insulted.

I do think the whole "the healing has begun" drama spouted by C. Vivian Angelou – sorry, Stringer, the head coach for Rutgers, was a tad melodramatic. After all, the man apologized repeatedly, then in person, and is, for all intents, a big dick when it comes to anything he says on air.  And those girls are a lot stronger than that - you don't get that far in a highly competitive, demanding sport without a hell of a lot of internal fortitude, grace, and grit.

"Nappy headed hoes" was certainly not the first time he had insulted a group, race, institution, individual, or religion.

But it was the first time he had really been forced to pay the piper for his ramblings.

And I do agree that, being broadcast on the public airways, he should be held to a certain standard.

The problem is, why is the standard doled out on an obvious case-by-case basis? And aren’t we all slightly hypocritical in the fallout of this one?

He loses his job. He is publicly tarred and feathered.

50 Cent calls women bitches and hoes in every other songs he sings, and he is a rap god. Chris Rock has done precious little of late besides turn every stand-up show, interview, and sound byte into a platform for his own prejudice against white people. Yet he is one of the hottest comics going today.

And this is where I begin to smell Eau de la Bullshit wafting off my skin and up to my nostrils.

I may not purchase rap music, but I certainly tune in or Tivo every Chris Rock performance. Friday nights have me glued to Bill Maher, fully aware that every show pulls no punches in terms of profanity, racial tirades, and humor derived by belittling someone or some group.  (But like Lewis Black, there is substance and intelligence at the heart of the jokes.  There was no intelligence or higher purpose in the use of "nappy headed hoes".)

And tonight? I will be riveted to the TV set for my weekly fix of The Sopranos – a show in which biases, ignorance, offense, bigotry, delusion, blood, and bullets co-mingle into a big stew of seemingly unpalatable, yet highly addictive entertainment.  I like it so much, I'll be back for seconds and possibly thirds during the upcoming week as they rerun tonight's episode.

Look, I’m a thinking person. I’m educated, intelligent, open minded, and respectful.

But damn, do I look forward to Tony and the crew mowing down (literally and figuratively) every person they meet with every ethnic slur in their limited vocabularies.

And I laugh at Chris Rock. I think Carlos Mencia is one of the funniest comics on TV these days. Dave Chappelle, for all his nervous breakdown jitters, had been providing some of the smartest, albeit racist, comedy seen since Richard Pryor held the mike and stormed the stages in the 70s. And God help me - I'm a HUGE fan of George Carlin, a man who has made a career out of spouting every offensive, racial, ethnic, religious, and political joke possible.  A man who thrives on making his audience squirm with his bold faced aversion to being politically correct about anything.

So what does that make me? I keep asking the question and I hate that I keep coming back to the word hypocrite.

For if damning hip hop for its complete lack of morals (and proper grammar), and then tuning in to laugh as Chris Rock writes me off as a "Saltine", isn’t hypocrisy, I’m not sure what to call it.

Think of it this way - let's say, for the sake of argument, 1,000 people run a red light every day.  And two people are caught and held to account for their actions, while the other 998 broke the same law, but didn't get pulled over.  Are they any less guilty?  No.  But are they going to hold themselves to the higher, legal standard and turn thmselves in, or stop running red lights?  Puh-leez.  And it's these same people who utter the words, "Where's a cop when you need one?" as someone clearly speeds down the road when we are not in a hurry, but oh how we are hoping there is no cop within ten miles when we are burning the rubber because we are running late.

I fully admit I am guilty of all of the above.  But I'm a nice person and I know I am not out to hurt anyone.  So doesn't that make it, ok?

Um...No.

I guess what I’m getting at it this: The whole issue brought up by the Imus fallout is not black and white, not able to be assigned labels, or compartmentalized into neat boxes of Offensive and OK.

Yes, I subscribe to HBO. So essentially I am paying for the privilege of being entertained and often insulted. But in the same way that I can turn off the TV, can’t people just turn off the radio if some shock jock is running his mouth like a toilet with a broken chain?

Can I justify my tolerance for The Sopranos' weekly offenses or my Deadwood DVD addiction by saying, well, they’re fictitious characters? They’re not real? And in the proper hands, F*ck is one hell of a funny word? That Chris and his cronies are just trying to be comedic for my benefit? That 50 Cent and Snoop Dogg are just offering commentary on real world issues in areas of town I never visit?

And that Don Imus is just a redneck bigot with a buckle who needed off’d long ago?

I’d like to think that hypocrisy is not at the root of what I’m feeling. That maybe because I am a thinking person, I am able to filter what is intentionally offensive from what is entertainmentally offensive.

I don’t know the answer. I do know, however, that from now on when I watch TV and laugh at a racist joke, whether it is aimed at me or some other ethnicity, the question is going to be hanging over every giggle I gurgle.

Livin’ Las Vegas Loca

Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire...

~~ Elvis Presley, Viva Las Vegas

Yes, yes, I know I promised a recount of my trip to Vegas, and I must say that I am flattered at the number of emails which have flooded my inbox like a winning slot machine this week, asking when I would spill the dirt.

Dirt being a relative term, mind you. As Vegas is a city filled to the brim with every entertainment option imaginable, one person’s mud may well be just a smudge to another.

So if you’re hoping for tales of drunken debauchery, partying with KFed at Pure, or gambling my mortgage payment away at the craps table – I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you.

I’m a grown up.

Sure I drank – a killer Chardonnay (Chelone Vineyards – treat yourself) at Michael Mina.

KFed was, in fact, in town, at Pure, while I was in Vegas, but since I have a severe allergy to all things skank, I kept my distance.

And yes, I like nothing better than the ding ding ding of the slot machines, the smack of the dice against the back of the craps table, and the quick intakes of shocked breath when I dare to split my Kings at the Blackjack table (yes, I do this, and NO, I have never lost a single hand when I split them), my mortgage company need not fear – I know my limits.

Having been a Vegas regular since I was 21, I have watched the city grow, implode, morph, rise up, fall down, experiment, and reconfigure itself over and over for twenty years.

I have seen the rise of the great Bellagio and Venetian, watched the MGM decide that The Wizard of Oz was a really crappy theme upon entering their casino, lived through the "Vegas As A Family Destination" nightmare – talk about crapping out – and enjoyed the migration of every great chef on this planet, thus making it possible to completely bypass the All-You-Can-Eat-For-$2.99 Troughs.

That last one is important. You see, with age comes a distinct appreciation for finer cuisine and digestion not impeded, or in many cases, speeded, by buffet food that has languished for hours beneath an ineffective sneezeguard at room temperature. (Do you hear me Circus, Circus?)

So, with that preamble about my constitution, here is what I enjoyed, observed, and laughed my ass off at this time around.

Michael Mina – this celebrated chef extraordinaire has opened an eponymous restaurant outpost in the Bellagio. In addition to that Chardonnay, I enjoyed probably the best meal I have ever eaten. And believe me, I am a serious food snore (snob/whore) when it comes to fine dining.

Now, it didn’t hurt that my sister and I were dressed to the nines, easy on the eyes (allow me a tad of ego here – I live my life with my ass strapped into a minivan – getting dressed up and turning MOM upside down into WOW is a rarity), and our waitstaff doted on us thoroughly. (I love a good ass kissing, don’t you?)

Dinner lasted hours, the food was art, and was layer upon layer, course upon course of palate pleasing titillation. Seriously, it was like Tantric sex with a chocolate souffle orgasm.

Treat yourself next time you’re in Vegas – you won’t regret investing the time or the dollars here instead of the Keno Lounge.

Speaking of which – where have all the Keno Lounges gone?

I remember the days when you couldn’t sit down in a restaurant without a scantily clad Keno Runner stopping by your table to collect your paper and dollar bills, place your bet for you, and return your winnings if there were any. And the lounges were always a great place to kick back and drink a free cocktail. Keno has never been my favorite game of chance, mind you, but it was always one hell of a nice way to s-l-o-w down. Do you know how long it takes to lose $20 at Keno?

Alas, Keno is going the way of the Do-do. I guess as more and more people figured out that they only get a piece of paper and a crayon, and the casino has a computer, they took their money elsewhere.

Like the slot machines.

This was one of my most interesting observations about the changes taking place in LV. It used to be that nickel machines were few, and what few there were, were confined to a small space in the corner of a casino. And they were always occupied by the same old women. And penny machines could only be found downtown at the few dive casinos which remain in business and are held together mainly by the thick layer of smoke residue on the walls.

No more.

The marketing geniuses have defined the largest demographic coming to Vegas – they are not the whales (or big spenders), they are the everyman – the lower and middle middle class citizens who come for the bright lights and $2.99 lobster.

To that end, it is now harder to find a quarter machine than it is a penny or nickel one. There are rows upon rows, entire sections, every incarnation from Wheel of Fortune to Bonanza to Monopoly. And the machines are always occupied.

But surely, you say, there has to be something in it for the casinos, right?

Um, yeah. Philanthropy is not exactly the ethos upon which the mob founded Las Vegas.

These same machines, so innocuous in their one and five centednesses, are outfitted to relieve you of your money faster than the most streamlined dollar slot. You see, they all give you the option of playing up to 15 lines, and up to 10 coins per line. Do the math, Archimedes.

So, these same gamblers who would not be caught dead pulling the handle at $1 a jerk, happily wager between $3 - $7.50 at a time. But they don’t realize it because middle America can’t do math in its head all that well.

Plus with that many lines, you never know why the hell you win, much less why you lose.

Why, for instance, does a dog, two ponies, a flower, an eel, a lightbulb, and a fork net you 350 coins, but a dog, one pony, a spider, two kitchen sinks, a rake, and a porkchop lose you your entire wager?

The best change in slot machinery is that the damned things no longer accept or spit out coins. Now, I admit, at first, I felt that being issued a ticket, instead of watching 400 quarters clank into the tub, robbed the Vegas experience of some romance, but I quickly came to realize what a great thing that is.

Sure, the casinos save a ton of money in labor by no longer having employees sort, count and roll coinage all the live long day, but for we players? We no longer walk around with filthy hands. You know what I mean. Scoop up one tub’s worth of quarters and you suddenly look like you wiped your ass without toilet paper.

Money is dirty.

But gambling and dining did not occupy my entire trip. I am far too much of a hedonist to limit myself to two pleasures.

That’s where the spa comes in. Nothing beats being stark naked and rubbed with hot oily stones.

Yes, hot, oily stones. (If THAT doesn’t sound like an item on a Vegas callgirl menu, I don’t know what does.)

If you are a spa virgin, or even a regular massagee, believe me when I say that a Hot Rock Massage is truly the only way to go. This time around we indulged at the Qua Spa in Caesar’s – a hedonistic get-a-way tucked upstairs in the original building. Not only were the robes terry and silk, and the lounge area had an honest-to-God tea sommelier, Qua is home to the only Arctic Ice Room in existence.

Arctic Ice Room? Yes – imagine sweating it out on the planks in a sauna so hot you can hear your hair sizzle, and then entering a chilly darkened room, where once the door closes, it – I SWEAR TO SANTA CLAUS – snows.

Yes, snows. And if you have never been naked, burning hot, and then snowed upon, you, my friend, have never truly lived, and I weep for you.

Write it down – and go next time you are in LV – Qua, at Caesar’s Palace. Sure you may sprain an eyeball by sharing a hot tub with some naked women from Argentina or Arkansas, but you get snowed on, so it’s worth it.

Which brings me to my favorite Vegas activity – people watching. If you think my recapping of Phil’s Blue Man Group head on American Idol is funny, imagine the recapping being done live as the people parade past. I swear, I’m surprised the smartass gear in my head doesn’t break down from overuse. And my sister practically has to strap on a Depends from laughing so hard.

Yes, I’m bragging. But when it comes to the sport of people watching, I’m the Howard Cosell of commentary.

I am happy to report that the herd is thinning itself out. I have found them all and am now able to corroberate the figure of 25% of Americans being obese. And helping the evolutionary process along is the fact that 80% of them are smoking. So it’s really a race to see if their arteries fill up with plaque first, or their lungs glue themselves shut with smoke.

And if that doesn’t do them in, they will surely be beaten to death with a penny loafer by the Queer Eye guys.

The fashion (I use that term so loosely) on display is a unique combination of animal print, spandex, and high heels. Seriously, why do so many women look like Hormel prostitutes? The mirror blight in this country is serious. We should really hold a telethon or something to raise money to provide every American with a reflective surface.

And men? Socks with sandals is not a legacy which needs handed down from one generation to the next. I’ll cut the 80 year old geezers some slack – they’re senile. But when you’re 30 and pairing black dress socks with Jesus sandals, plumber’s crack shorts and an aloha shirt? And wondering why you’re not getting laid? There’s just no excuse.

But then again, you are really entertaining as you strut by in a pack (the number of groups of young men who have obviously watched too much Entourage was laughable), so damned giddy that it’s ok to carry an open container down the street at 9am? I guess when you’re terminally drunk you can’t be held accountable for the fashion choices you make...or how you smell.

Speaking of entertainment...

We arrived on opening night of a special four night Wayne Brady engagement at the Venetian (our hotel – don’t stay anywhere else – it doesn’t just look good, it smells good in that place – other hotels reek of a strange perfume of greasy food, Marlboro, puke, and B.O).

Ahhh. Wayne Brady. The man proved he has some pretty big improvisational balls during his stint on Whose Line Is It Anyway, making up skit after skit, composing song after song with comic genius and ease.

His Vegas act was largely modeled on WLIIA and relied heavily on audience participation including suggesting song titles like My Uterus Is Achy (done a la Tina Turner). And I defy any comedian to pull a person from the audience, ask their occupation – binder operator (binds magazines) – and make up a hilarious, well rhymed song on the spot like Wayne.

The only drawback? The last fifteen minutes went completely self indulgent as he took advantage of a captive audience and his desire to be taken seriously as a singer. Sorry Wayne, I love to hear you warble, but about bodily functions and the joys of being a CPA. If I want another beating to death of House Is Not A Home, I’ll download some Luther at iTunes or turn on American Idol – God knows, some contestant always eats that song at least once per season.

Overall? Laughs galore, great first night, and Wayne needs to stick to singing about colon cleansing in the style of Mick Jagger. But he is a suave, charming dude.

Which brings me to the true highlight of my trip. Being molcosted (molested/accosted) by an Italian man in the Venetian casino.

My sister was playing blackjack.  I decided to graze the slots like a cow with twenty dollar bills.

I had just removed my ticket winnings from one and was moving towards another row, when a dark, swarthy, middle aged man stopped my progress and oozed the words, "My God, you are beautiful" (add Italian accent).

OK, I admit it. Big sucker for an accent. Even bigger sucker for a total stranger telling me I’m beautiful. Had he been wearing a UPS uniform? Well, combined with the accent and the compliment? I would not have been responsible for what happened.

As it was, he was wearing dress pants, a tweed blazer, too much cologne, and a cigarette. So I simply smiled, and thanked him.

He continued.  "You must come back to my place with me.  The Bell-a-shjeeooo."  (He was now holding my arm at this point).

I again thanked him, smiled, said I was on my way out with my sister.

"No! you must come here.  Seet with me."

  OK, fine.  I wasn't afraid, he seemed harmless enough, second hand smoke danger aside, plus I knew security was one well curdled scream away.  So I sat down at a slot machine with him. 

"Your hair!  You leave your room and look like thees!  Beautiful!"

  (This f**king hair - scuse my French.  I swear it's a testosterone magnet for Latin men - I get stopped in Walmart here in Texas by more horny Hispanics than I can count. I even got stopped by an old man on one of those Scooter Store scooters just this past Tuesday. He said I reminded him of Sophia Loren. Great. I am hoping he was harking back to her heydey, not now.)

I continued to humor him, said thank you, again.  "Are you married.  Say you are not married."  Yes, I am married.  "Well, tell your husband when you deevorce, we marry." 

Smile.  Then, caressing my arm... "I love your arms, your legs ... your teets..."

Did he just say teets?!?

OK, time out.  When my "teets" enter the conversation, there’s a flag down on the field.

My smile froze like snow in an Arctic Ice Room, my teets and I thanked him through gritted teeth, I quickly untangled myself, and began to walk away. 

Two steps later I feel a tug on my shirt.  Noooooooo....  now my teets were getting pissed off.  I turned, ready to annihilate, unwilling to be the object of his teetillation any longer - it was my sister.  She had seen the end portion of the encounter and died laughing when I explained the entire surreal episode.

My teets.  It is kind of funny.

And on that note we left for the airport. A little richer, a whole lot tireder, and my teets burned into the memory of a swarthy Italian.

And that’s it. You asked. I’d love to be able to tell you a tale about KFed doing Jello shots out of my belly button at The Palms, or drinking my breakfast from a bong a yard long, but these days my Vegas is a grown up Vegas.

I leave it to the young ‘uns to puke on the pavement, hook up on the dance floors, and actually share their teets with strangers.

Viva, baby.

Sannie Ray Cyrus?

Since there is such rampant speculation in the comments about what country flair Sanjaya might bust out on next week's Idol, I thought I'd offer up my sincerest hope we don't see this...

Don't Tell My Ears (or eyes), My Achy, Breaky, Ears...

or this...

You've Got To Know When To Fold 'Em, Sanny...

or THIS...

Solly Malakarton?

Urban Malakowboy?

GROUP SONG!!!  GO COWBOY!

Senny Malachesney

Faith Just Threw Up In Her Mouth A Little...

A Puff Of "Fresh" Air

Considering the pervasive seriousness of the past couple days as the Don Imus situation has played out, I thought maybe a slight moment of levity was due.

They say, "Out of the mouths of babes..", butt in this case, maybe a slight alteration in that saying is called for. 

Laughter. Rinse. Repeat. (You'll feel refreshed.)

American Idol Results Recap, Wednesday, April 11: Adios Señorita Scarnato

“I don't know what happens to me on stage. Something else seems to take over.” ~ Maria Callas, American Soprano

“I don’t know what happens when Sanjaya’s on that stage, but too many something elses seem to be taking over the voting.” ~ Linda Sharp, Professional Smartass & Bathroom Alto

I’ve watched and rewatched last night’s Sanjayo Iglesias performance and I keep coming back to one conclusion...(well, two actually.  The first being, Thank God in heaven he did not sing To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before)

The second:  Smarmy, eyeball licking, I-wanna-be-a-real-man facial fuzz aside – he was the only one to grab the night’s theme by the cojones and actually pay homage to the heat by singing in Spanish.  And while the performance was only worthy of 1000 Scoville units vocally (think Poblano, not Habenero), I do have to give him props for trying.  Maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal if he were Hispanic and had grown up in a bilingual household, but the kid is from Federal Way, Washington, of Indian descent, and no senior in high school is that fluent from conjugating verbs one hour a day.

So Sanjaya, in honor of your effort, I offer you what little Spanish I know:  Bueno!  Dos cervezas, por favor.  Donde esta el baño?   

And I really mean that, dude.

From today’s stream of comments and emails, it seems we are collectively eating a big ass piece of humble Frito pie today.  Across the board, even the seriously-want-to-throw-a-net-over-him-and-shave-him-bald folks are acknowledging that Sanny surprised us last night.  Now, granted, most of us are also saying we had to look away from the TV set while he was singing, lest we puke on our shoes, but people are giving him credit where credit is, in fact, due.

That being said:  HE. MUST. BE. $%$#@!!@##@!@!!. STOPPED.

Ahem.  I do apologize.  We Irish are just as passionate as Latinos, we’re just usually drunk when we get going...and no, I have not had dos cervezas.  I have not even had una cerveze.

Now, where was I?  Ahh yes, Sanjaya and his singing.  I ran across some auditions from some of the various incarnations of Idol around the world this morning, and after watching them, I must say, maybe we don’t have it that bad...

Makes our little boy seem like Andrea Bocelli, huh?

Now, let’s get on with these results, which tonight come stuffed to the gills in a one hour Burrito-Grande-Gordita-Enchilada, no lettuce off the hook early, and lots of extra cheese...God, I feel queasy already.  Donde esta el baño?   

~~~~~~~~

With the kids assembled under the low-so-flattering lights, Ryan walked past somberly reminding us that, “Last night these 8 contestants brought flair, passion, and power to our Latin special.”

(He was also somberly lying through his teeth.  My intestines, after a trip to Taco Bell, have more flair, passion, and power...)

Asking “Who is going home?”, he looked right at Sanjaya, who I swear was still leaking grease from last night.  But we have plenty of time to get to him, after all, tonight we have one hour and THIS. IS. AMERICAN. IDOL.

Ryan avoided the human sparkler effect by entering stage right again in his power suit and tie.  I don’t know about you, but I am actually starting to long for the days of the ironic tshirt and JEANS.  This corporate America thing every night is getting a bit staid.

Well, since we have an hour, I hope you brought a snack to the keyboard, because there are lots of little details to notice, like the audience littered with celebrity debris – tonight most noteably in the form of Eva Longoria and Sharon Osborne.

Ryan then began talking r-e-a-l-l-y  s-l-o-w-l-y as he explained the menu for the evening:

Start with an appetizer of 100K worth of extortion via the American Idol Challenge, move onto a main course of steamy JLo with a side order of Idol Gives Back, a bowl of congealed cheesiness called the Ford Vommercial, and of course, dessert, as we watch someone’s dreams melt like so much undercooked flan.

Since we have time to waste, let’s ask the judges some pointless questions, shall we? 

Randy, nice to see you gave Lisa Loeb her glasses back.  And I love that shirt emblazoned with flying larvae.  How do you think the kids did last night?

“Well, yo, dawg, aiight, ya know, yo factor, down wit it, yee-ah.”

Paula, who apparently bought out Frederick’s of Hollywood – was wearing the latest in shiny green leopard prints – niiiiice.  Nothing says sexy like a moldy leopard.  Did you see new sides to the kids last night with the Latin theme?

“Um, well, ahh, you know, ha ha ha, hee, hee, blabber, blubber, sure, well, ha, ha, ha...”

Simon reconfirmed that his feedback to Sanny last night was, in fact, a compliment (if you can’t beat them to death, join them, right Simon?).  He also assured everyone he did not lose any sleep over it.

Now I knew it was coming AFTER. THE. BREAK.  With 60 minutes to slaughter, there was no way around it.  Still, when it started, I felt every fiber in my being recoil at THE. GROUP. SONG: Bailamos (Tonight We Dance).  Watching it unfold, however, I felt it was more like Vomimos (Tonight We Hurl).

Chris got started by proving once again he cannot sing and looks perpetually stoned when he tries.  Melinda then jumped in and sang from what sounded like the crawl space of her vocal cords.

Sanjaya – looking even worse with 24 additional hours of dirt on his face – sang a few lines with Haley, who cannot get the lyrics to any song right to save her life.  She botched them again.  And unfortunately her legs were not there to save her, covered as they were in tight black pants.

Phil warbled under yet another off center hat, one ear managing to sneak out into the spotlight.

The only true "Sparks” came when Jordin took over for a line here and there.  She looked amazing and infused the lyrics with power and emotion.

Blake (who was apparently torn between dressing up and dressing down tonight, was decked out in a black dress shirt, tie, and tshirt) and Lakisha (who corraled the boys into the stable this evening), matchy, matchy in their passionate red tops, couldn’t decide whether to “reach for the stars” or “reach through” them, so they each picked one and went with it.

The choreography?  Well, to use the Scoville Unit scale – it was about as hot as a baby gherkin.

The song ended with the kids' backs turned towards the audience.  Quite frankly, they should have been hanging their heads in shame as well.  It was the worst GROUP. SONG. EVER.

There is a special place in hell for you, Nigel Lythgoe.

Coming back from the break, it was time to reach into the pockets of the viewers and lift some spare change with the AI Challenge question.  Tonight’s trivia doozy?

Which American Idol finalist was molested by Meatloaf during the Season 5 finale?  (Fine.  I added the molested part, but you watched it, you know exactly what I’m talking about.)

A. Elliott-I-Was-Vocally-Bitch-Slapped-By-Mary-J-Blige-Yamin

B. Kat-I’m-Still-Wiping-Gravy-Off-Of-My-Body-McPhee

C. Taylor-I-Was-Dry-Humped-By-Toni-Braxton-Hicks

Man, that was quite a finale show, wasn’t it?  Good times.  Good times...

Next – over 5000 songs have been submitted for the songwriting contest, which means that the other 22,995,000 of we viewers don’t give a rat’s caboose, so let’s move on to the most painful filler yet – a worthless segment of Ryan Seacrest at the deserted Farmer’s Market trying to convince people to talk to him about last night’s show.

The highlights were a little girl who didn’t like anybody, a man with a lisp who liked everybody, and the Rubber Band Man who pushes the office supplies around in those commercials..  OK, fine – I know he’s moved on to Ed and is now known as Crab Man, not Rubber Band Man, but that dude was totally working his hair.

Can we pleeeeeease move on?

Oh goodie!  I guess the producers felt bad that he didn’t get to do more than make some background noise with Gwen Stefani two weeks ago because it’s Akon-Woo-Hoo-Hey-Hey-Oh-Oh singing Don’t Matter!  That’s right, Akon.  It really don’t matter that you’re here.  Although I was totally grooving on your DJ wearing a toilet brush on top of his head. 

ANOTHER. BREAK. brought us back to the Ford Vommercial, this one set to Happy Together.  Upshot?  The computer gurus bogarted Michael Jackson’s Black and White video and basically had the kids and cars morph into one another.  Sorry guys, that is so 1991.

With the kids assembled on the Couches of Crushed Dreams, Ryan then launched into a whole speech about Idol Gives Back, the corporations who have ponied up still unspecified amounts of money, and then actually quoted a figure – News Corporation, parent company of FOX has donated – I’ll say it like Ryan – FIVE.  MILL.  ION.  DOL.  LARS.

This led into some video of Simon in Africa explaining the concept of a School-In-A-Box.  Essentially, for $183, they can provide a shiny silver box filled with enough school supplies, lessons, etc for eight children.  Look, I have three kids and I easily spend that much on school supplies for them each September.  I’m loving the School-In-A-Box idea and wish my school district would pay attention. 

Do my children really need fourteen folders, in different colors, with pockets and brads (do you know how hard it is to find that many with pockets and brads?!?!  If you have never been neck deep in the school supply aisle wrestling another mom for the last pack of wide ruled paper and being beaten to a pulp over those brads, you have no appreciation for a School-In-A-Box.)

My favorite part of this segment was the little girl, Caroline, who drew a picture of Simon, complete with man boobs.  Go, Caroline.  (Simon, you are not fat, and I suspect you have some admirable pecs under those tshirts, but you also have some mighty aggressive nipples that demand attention even when you wear sweaters.  So, for $20 million you won’t sing, but maybe for $5 you could invest in some Posies to cover them up.)

Extra Cheese Alert!  Tony Bennett spliced into audition footage making it appear that the judges think he sucks the air out of a Goodyear tire.  Ha. Ha. Ha.  That. Was. So. Funny.

Next.

AFTER. YET. MORE. COMMERCIALS, the kids were assembled for  - wait – what are we actually here for tonight?  Oh yeah!  To kick someone off!  Now I remember.

But let’s talk to them all first.

Melinda was happy Simon got to diss her last night.  I was happy to see her finally wearing a shirt which gave her the illusion of a neck, and she needs to keep the young, sleek hair.  No more June Cleaver styles, please.

Haley, were you offended by Simon’s remark about your lack of clothing?  “It hurts a little bit.  But I was having fun.  It was Latin Week.”  O-K.  So what did the hot pants have to do with the last three weeks’ themes?

We got to find out that Blake uses his body as a cheat sheet and writes lyrics on his wrist.  Write this down, Blake:  NO MORE HATS.

Phil was asked, “Feeling safe?” to which he replied, “Feeling blessed.” To which Ryan responded “Stand up.” You suck, bottom three, get down here.

Talk about ripping off the bandaid.  There was skin hanging off that thing.

Lakisha – stand up – sit down – SAFE

Jordin – stand up – don’t even act like you’re worried – sit down – SAFE

Sanjaya – stand up – no, wait – sit down for a moment.

Melinda – stand up – Duh – SAFE

Haley – stand up if you can with that 50 pounds of hair slung over your shoulder – BOTTOM 3.

Sanjaya – stand back up – sit back down – Psyche!

Blake – sit down, lay down, go to sleep, whatever – SAFE

Chris and Sanjaya – stand up – Chris, like you could ever hope to beat the he-man that is Sanjaya – you are in the Bottom Three.

So it was Phil, Haley and Chris – which, considering that none of them truly possesses the Kryptonian power to kill Sanny's superhumaness – is the best we could hope for.

But look!  It’s a bird! it’s a plane!  It’s a nasally poseur!  Chris you are SAFE – unclinch your sphincters and go back to the security of the couch cushions.

Of course that left Haley and Phil to sweat it out a while longer while Ryan intro’d a video of Jennifer Lopez videos, and footage of her singing for the kids, asking to “cop a squat” with them to chat (we already saw that), urging them to “commit” and “soar” and continually banging the passion, passion, passion drum harder than Mel Gibson on the side of a California highway during a traffic stop.

Loved the snippet of smooth operator Sanjaya joking about pushing up on JLo and getting her digits.  Look, Marc Antony is a small man, but he’s scrappy one and he’ll cut you, Sanjaya.  He’ll cut you to the bone.

Then, with smoke leaking from every possible crevice on the stage, J Lo came out, looking gorgeous as ever.  She also was dressed like Stevie Nicks.

Drapey, diaphonous black and white fabric flowed all around her and over her black leggings and thigh high black leather boots.  She’s must be a strong woman too.  Even though her arm was encased in steel, she managed to lift that microphone to her lips with ease.

As she sang, she was surrounded by what looked like Infierno’s Angels or Victoria’s Secret Police Officers.  Nice to see Jenny has her own Fly Girls these days.

The stage briefly burst into flames and the camera caught her in a Ryan Seacrest Dandelion Head moment. 

You know, I did not understand a word she sang, but it was, by far, the most entertaining, engaging, and yes – I’ll say it – passionate performance by a guest star on that stage...ever.  And she deserved the stand “O” when it was over.  Even Simon, whose ass is usually super glued to his chair, was up and clapping.

For her part, Jennifer told Ryan she was very “impressed with the kids”, “did not agree with all the judges’ feedback” and that she comes from the “Paula School of Criticism” where “rightness brings more rightness."

Yep – that sounds like something a Paula school would teach.

ONE. FINAL. BREAK and Legs & Blue Man were back at center stage.  The lights went down, Ryan indicated that with over 35 million votes – the highest yet this season – America likes Phil’s Bette Davis eyes more than Haley’s half naked body (there is hope for us yet, America).

I must pause a moment to say, I know Simon told Kenneth Briggs he looked like a bush baby, but I’m thinking Phil is definitely capable of swinging from  the trees too...

But I digress...

No, Haley won’t get to wear that rhinestone thong and cowgirl hat for country night next week.  And she will find out tonight after the show that her hair is being repossessed.

Watching her video journey, the whole dress-in-less thing didn’t just happen recently.  If you recall, she even referred to herself as a “hootchie” when she originally auditioned in her tight polyester jumpsuit.  And her first pair of hot pants actually appeared when she took the long walk to the bad chair to find out she made the top 24.

Bless her heart, she was really tearing up as she watched her history of hoochiness on the big screen.  But them, would she have made it this far had she not taken the road less tailored?

The music then started and she gave Turn The Beat Around her best shot, and did ok considering her whole world just got turned upside down.  Our sympathies really don't need to go too far though.  The girl is stunning, she is not totally without talent, and I daresay Carnival Cruise Lines just found their new Kathie Lee Gifford.

That’s it for Latin week, kids.  I don't know about you, but after all this grease and cheese, I need some Pepto Abysmal.

Buenas noches, amigos!

American Idol Recap, Tuesday April 10 : Latin Night Lacks Spice, Yet Still Gives Heartburn

Another week, another chance to marvel at the unequalled glory that is American Idol. It is a thing of beauty, is it not?

Is it not??

Here we stand, almost halfway to the true finals, and in our midst still lurks – hell, lurks is not the word I’m looking for...hmmm...what is? Grandstands? Parades? Taunts? Paris Hiltons?

Paris Hiltons. That one’s good. It sums up a person so full of their own hubris and so believing in their own press that they are truly convinced they can do no wrong, ergo, they constantly assault the public retina with their talent for having no talent, their seriously questionable fashion statements, and their roachlike ability to survive everything from Raidesque sprays of media pest repellent to nuclear tabloid blasts.

So – here we stand, almost halfway to the true finals, and in our midst still Paris Hiltons the unlikeliest of American Idols - Sanjaya Malakarma. Seriously, Ed, how much good stuff must this kid have floating around in the universe to keep seeing him through week after week? What did he do before coming on this show? Build an entire village in Africa, adopt ten Vietnamese children, go vegetarian – hell, fruititarian? – give a couple gallons to the Red Cross, kiss the Pope’s ring, send Pamela Anderson posters to the troops in Iraq, turn in that dollar bill he found on the floor at school, and smack Don Imus on behalf of the girls’ basketball team at Rutgers?

I’m a firm believer in karma, both good and bad. So what has he done to be reaping such a windfall of "Special K", and while I’m asking questions, what in the hell did we do to be on the receiving end of such a pile of festering cosmic poo?

Well, I know what I did. I just got back from Vegas. But what about you? Did you kick your dog? Not tip your waiter? Did you cross the street without looking both ways? And YOU – I know about YOU – YOU removed the tag from your mattress, didn’t you? That’s it. That’s what knocked the Earth off its axis and set this whole Sanjayapalooza in motion.

Whatever the reason – S&M is definitely upsetting the season. Viewership is actually down – not by much, but enough for it to make the news.

According to Newsweek, "through last Tuesday, an average of 28.8 million young adults watched the show this season, down 4 percent from the year earlier."

Don’t worry, AI will still retain its title as the most watched television show since the invention of the boob tube, but something telling is happening this season. And one need only surf the web a tad to discover the unrest, disgust, and growing disinterest.

Much of the attention has been directed Sanji’s way – he is hanging around like toilet paper stuck to a shoe with bubble gum, while stronger vocalists are shown the door. This, in itself, is a major insult to the hardcore, dyed-in-the-wool AI viewer. But dig a tad deeper and you’ll discover the other reason:

People are just plain bored, on the whole, with the contestant pool this season.

Sure, we can all agree that Melinda Doolittle should just be handed the crown and then we can get on with our lives. Her perfection has even begun to be a tad snore-inducing. Perfection – boring? Say it ain’t so! And we can all tell that Jordin Sparks has the most marketable presence and pop talent in the bunch. And yes, Blake (teeny, baby sized mouth opening aside) is adorable – in an I-really-get-hot-watching-guys-moonwalk-in-my-grandpa’s-plaid-pants kind of way.

But the rest? Will you really buy Phil Stacy’s CD? (Tip for him: they are holding open casting calls in Vegas next week for new Blue Man Group members!) What about Chris Richardson? I’d rather buy the original JT, thankyouverymuch. And Halitosis Scarnato? She leaves a bad taste in my eyes.

Simon has stated he will quit if Sanjaya wins this season. Now, while I still don’t think that’s a danger, he seems to be a big enough juggernaut of voting power (both those voting for him, and those who are against him voting for him), to jeopardize the advancement of Lakisha, Jordin, and definitely Blake.

The kid’s name is a household word. "Sanjaya" has been turned into a noun: You twit, you are such a Sanjaya! – a verb – Dude, you Sanjaya-ed my chance with Stacy! What were you thinking? – an adjective: My hair is SO Sanjaya-y today. I cannot get it to lay down – an exclamation: Holy Sanjaya, Batman!

He’s become such a pop culture icon that Kentucky Fried Chicken has jumped on his bandwagon. In an open letter to Sanny they offer him not only a lifetime supply of their famous cram-all-our-leftover-crap-in-a plastic-bowl Bowls, but also $5000 (whoa – deep pockets there, KFC), and a spot in an upcoming commercial (he’ll have plenty of experience what with all these Velveeta heavy Ford vommercials). All he has to do is wear his hair in a bowl haircut during an upcoming performance.

How "original". I would hope he would pass on the offer – not because he’s chicken (I know – that’s SO bad), but because when it comes to stupid, well, that idea is just extra crispy..

The point is, everyone knows who he is and is chomping at the bit to make him their star. So while Antonella Barba may have slid off the scandal radar when she was voted off, don’t look for Sanjaya to be leaving your TV sets anytime soon.

Personally, I think the perfect endorsement deal would be for Malka Seltzer. We can all drink it while we watch him sing. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz...

Now, onto the recap...

~~~~~~~~

Backstage with Lakisha’s cleavage ... oh, and the other contestants were there somewhere too ... Ryan asks, "How’s the energy?" to which Blake responded, "Owwwwwwww!!!"

I guess that means he either checked the energy by sticking his finger in a light socket, or that he’s just really excited. He’s also wearing yet another unforgivable hat on his head.

But no matter, because THIS. IS. AMERICAN. IDOL.  Which means WE. CAN. WEAR. ALL. THE. STUPID. HATS. THE. BUDGET. WILL . ALLOW!

As the doors parted, kudos to Ryan for once again avoiding dandelion head by ducking the bright lights. He looked positively dapper in his dark suit, crisp white dress shirt and tie. His head exploding into flames would have detracted from the GQness of his look.

A quick howdy-do to the judges – Randy, who has once again stolen Lisa Loeb’s glasses; Paula, wearing a bolero and too much hairo in honor of tonight’s Latino theme; and Simon, hair freshly squared, in a blah gray shirt. I swear he’s as boring as a plate of refried beans.

As Ryan begins to intro Jennifer Lopez’s video footage, what’s this?!?! Hey, hey it’s a Monkee! Mickey Dolenz is in da house! Five extra points to anyone else out there who recognized him besides me.

But back to JLo, whom Ryan used words like "prolific" in describing. Um. Yeah. Look, I think she is beautiful, and I’m a closet lover of the Selena movie, but Jennifer Lopez is the Haley Scarnato of the music industry. Her voice is not hideous, but certainly not the strongest in the world. And one has to acknowledge that she owes much of her success to how little she has worn. Green Grammy dress, anyone?

That her current Spanish language album is #1 on the Billboard Latin charts does not surprise me. She had superior production skills and coaching through her husband, international superstar Marc Antony – I am a huge fan of his.

That being said, once she started talking, I did warm up to her more. She is a huge star, but she is also an admitted AI-aholic like the rest of us. Hi, my name is Jenny, and I love Sanjaya...

Her biggest words of wisdom to the kids who sat Kindergarten style on the floor around her feet? (Seriously, I thought she was going to start reading Green Huevos and Jamon.) "The key to Latin themed music: Passion."

Melinda drew the short straw tonight – not so much of a bad thing for someone as strong as she – and went first. Jennifer’s advice? Be "the sultriest, sexiest singer you ever saw."

I heard the alarm bells begin to ring. Melinda is neither. And one needs confidence in one’s self to properly sex across a stage in front of millions of people.

But she gave it her best shot. Coming down the ramp, Mel was dressed in a black asymmetrically cut dress, heels, Lakisha’s hand-me-down bling, and Diana Ross’s old hairstyle from The Supremes.

She looked mature. Not sexy. Melinda, Melinda, Melinda. What are we going to do with you?

My sister actually called after Mel sang – my sister who doesn’t watch the show, but who decided to tune in tonight to better "get" the recaps – and she was shocked when I told her Mel is only 27 years old. She said that if I had told her Melinda was 45, she would not have blinked.

So you see, everyone. It’s not just us.

But back to her performance. The black dress suited her, as it masked her body in all the right places, but regardless of how hard she tried to work it, she may as well have been phoning it in. The "moves" were stiff, the "sexiness" unnatural, uncomfortable. You could see behind her eyes that she was completely aware of herself tonight and it took away from her usual focus on the song.

Vocally, I cannot take a thing away from her, but overall, the performance was a snooze to me. Sway should be fun, sassy, seductive – it was none of those.

Randy said that while it was not her "best", it was "solid." Great, Randy. That sounds like you are critiquing a bowel movement. Paula, who happened to be wearing a silver sperm around her neck, called it "very, very sultry, very smooth"; Simon said, "It had to happen. I didn’t like it." Saying she "appeared much, much older" than she is, that it was "lounge-caberet", "lazy" and "a bit wooden", he truly relished finally being able to dress her down a bit.

But the thing is – it was warranted – although I wish he would stay out of my notes and stop reading over my shoulder. She is fabulous, but cannot afford to coast.

Next up was Lakisha sitting on the Chat Chairs with Ryan to answer the viewer question, "What made you try out for American Idol?" As anyone who keeps up with this show already knows, the answer is her 4 year old Bri, and the hopes for a better life for them both. Good answer, good answer... survey SAYS...

Jennifer’s advice for Kiki, who chose to sing Conga (pronounce it right, people – Coun – gah – that’s better) was to move with the rhythm. They practiced dance moves together and while JLo may look better doing them, Keeks certainly has the attitude to pull them off.

She started out on the bridge behind the judges, shaking her coun-gas full speed ahead. As my brother-in-law observed, "She had too much meat hanging out."

Dressed in a seriously, dangerously, darn near pornographically low cut red dress, which had accidentally been caught under someone’s tires, her hair was sleek and her lips painted to match the dress (red – not the tire tracks).

She worked the little stage then moved to the big one and that was a slight problem. From the front, the dress was daring and fit to a "T" (and A), but unfortunately, baby got back, and those rear camera angles caught it all hanging out of that dress. It was very unflattering. But for what it’s worth Kiki? Backfat is of the devil, and we are all possessed to some degree.

As the song moved on and she moved around, she sounded out of breath. Thankfully she decided to stay put and her voice immediately got stronger. She exuded attitude and strut, and while it certainly wasn’t the best she’s ever done, it was more exciting than Melinda’s Sway.

Randy thought it "was hot, baby"; Paula started out with a compliment, "You look lovely", which loosely translates to, "Marshamallows, cotton balls, bunny ears - you sucked - daisies, candy canes, jelly beans."; Simon agreed with Paula – that Lakisha might have been "having fun", but he wasn’t sure "how much everyone at home was having."

Is her kidding?  I was having a ball taking bets on whether her left boob or her right was going to make a run for the border first! 

AFTER. THE. BREAK. Ryan informed us that Idol Gives Back is continuing to grow and will now take up forty nonstop hours. OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a tad, but the roster of acts keeps getting longer and I fear I shall have to lay in a case of Red Bull and an extra spiral or three to document it all. New additions? Rascal Flatts, Earth, Wind & Fire, and Il Divo (gosh, I wonder how they got them?)

Next up to sing for Jenny From The Block? Chris, with Smooth, the song which burned up the airwaves courtesy of Rob Thomas and Carlos Santana in 1999, staying at number 1 for twelve weeks.

Jenny’s advice? Take it up a step – keywise – don’t sing it so low.

Flanked by a bongo player and a guitarist, Chris was wearing a pixelated red tshirt, black pants, a black jacket, and an I’m-a-bad-ass pocket chain. Sorry Chris – leave the pocket jewelry to the Chris Daughtrys of the world.

He started singing and it was so bad, I actually had to hit the pause button to regroup. Too low, completely boring, whiny, nasally – I could just imagine Rob Thomas smashing his big screen with Carlos Santana’s guitar.

I don’t get what is up with all the praise from the judges. Chris sings through his nose, and I swear, he always looks like he is high when he performs. Open your eyes, dammit!

There was nothing about this performance to erase the twelve weeks the original spent at the top of the charts.

Randy is an idiot, however, and said it was "a really good performance" and "very cool"; Paula – no surprise here, after all, she is wearing a sperm – called it a "hot, hot performance" and that he is "sexy"; the best Simon could give it is that he "actually preferred it to the first two".

Look, I know he’s not going away anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Another break and we returned to Haley being coached by J Lo to "bite all the words" to Turn The Beat Around – one of the hardest songs to sing, but also the one someone invariably attempts during Latin night – think Diana DeGarmo, Amanda Avila, Carmen Rasmussen...- she decided they needed a beat to practice with so she called Blake in to beatbox for them. Oh, how he loved his chance to spit for JLo.

With the lights flashing, Haley galloped down the ramp like a zebra in hot pants. I swear, if she makes it through one more week, she will be performing with fans or feathers.

She started singing – I think – I could hardly hear her over the background singers. But then, vocals are not her strong suit. Her legs were really loud though.

And in honor of Latin night, she was Mystic Tanned, all bronzed up, and wearing an entire tube of red lipstick. She was still sporting Kat’s old weave, and earrings so big they continually tried to escape through her hair to freedom.

She came out onto the small stage, screamed a bit, shook her booty – yes, the girl has a great body – but the whole show-it-off strategy has become overly obvious. It’s time to reign the bad boys in, drop the hemlines a few inches and attempt something that doesn’t reek of Pretty Woman Gone Wild At Porky's.

Even Antonella Barba covered it up every now and then. But then again, I guess if Haley leaves the body to the imagination, that will free us all to concentrate on her underdeveloped vocals.

Randy called it what it was, "karaoke"; Paula could only muster, "you had fun up there"; Simon went ahead and vocalized what everyone has been thinking, "Very good tactic right now – wear the least amount of clothes possible." Harsh? Maybe. But again, we have ALL been thinking the same exact thing.

Phil got his chance to slobber over La Lopez – seriously, he was completely freaked out to sing in front of her – but in the end, he managed to give her "goosepimples" and "you can’t buy those."

No, but you can buy really ugly hats, and Phil was wearing another one tonight. This one, an off center newsboy cap.

Sitting on a stool at center stage, he began singing, "Oh Maria, Maria...take this hat off my heada..."

OK fine, I sang that last part.

His outfit consisted of the hat, a peach shirt, JEANS, and a distressed blazer with grommets from the HeDazzler Collection. No shiny crystals for real men like Phil. Me punch holes in clothes!

As always, Phil’s big notes were huge, and overall, I thought he sounded more committed to what he was singing than anyone else who had gone before him tonight. There was emotion (albeit Peter Brady-When-It’s-Time-To-Change emotion) and he seemed to feel the song.

Randy said he had "great upper range" but that he "didn’t quite connect with the passion"; Paula said "it was a really good vocal"; Simon said Phil is a "nice guy" and that he chose "a good song", but that there was "no originality, it was a bit lifeless, a bit flat."

Love how each week Phil manages to sneak in something about his wife or kids – this week: his daughter has a stuffed bovine she calls Simon Cow.

Plane ticket to see Daddy: $250

Stuffed cow: $12.50

Simon being publicly milked for laughs: PRICELESS

Coming back from another emptying of the sponsors udders, we find Jordin sharing the Small Talk Stools with Ryan, viewer question: If you were in charge of choosing next week’s theme, what would it be?"

Love her answer: 80’s music. Go Jordin. I’d give anything to see Sanjaya rock some Guns n Roses or Motley Crue...

Choosing to sing The Rhythm Is Gonna Get You, J Lo said Jordin reminded her of Michael Jackson (?).

Dressed in black pants and a tan jacket/top with a wide collar, her hair slicked back into a low ponytail, Jordin looked great and, as usual, sounded equally as fabulous, although when she got going I was momentarily afraid she was going to take one of her eyes out with those earrings..

She worked the stage, never faltered vocally, and had her big finish. Like Melinda, I cannot take anything away from her vocals, but I felt that she could have had a bit more fun with the song tonight. Still and all, I love Jordin Sparks, her megawatt smile, and her infectious attitude.

Randy said she had "the yo factor on blast"; Paula just babbled something about her being "so authentic", "so you"; Simon, however, expressed his disappointment in all the performances, saying there had been "nothing stunning" thusfar.

Pull your shorts out of your crack, Simon. You’ll feel much happier.

Blakebox was up next to rehearse I Need To Know for Jennifer. Dicey affair considering her husband sang that song. She stressed to Blake that "these songs have to mean something", that he "has to get into the passion of the song".

That was actually spot-on advice for young Blake because, as was evidenced in last week’s butchering of Mack The Knife, Blake tends to play around a lot, but totally misses the point of the song he is singing.

Coming down the ramp, he was sporting more floppy pants (did you know he doesn’t like JEANS and makes his own pants – yes, even those plaid nightmares), Garanimaled red shirt and matching tennis shoes, and another F***ing fedora on his head.

His singing sounded great, but he looked like he was fresh from running for condo president of Del Boca Vista in that hat and Sansabelts.

(I’ll wait for you to nail down that Seinfeld reference.)

Ready? OK – moving on...

Blake actually connected with the song tonight, infused it with the necessary emotion and yearning, even making "baby girl" sound horny, not hokey. I just wish that damned hat was not blocking half his face the whole time. Come on Blake. You’re not in the Rat Pack and even Frank Sinatra took the hat off to sing.

Randy called it a "hot performance"; Paula called it "very smart" and that it "captured the essence" of who Blake is; Simon simply called it the "best performance so far."

But wait – he hasn’t seen Sanjaya perform yet!

J Lo stated that Sanny, who chose to sing the Spanish language song, Besame Mucho, "really, really impressed me" and that "I love Sanjaya!"

Sitting on a stool, Sanjaya was dressed in Converse, JEANS, a splotched t-shirt, blazer, and Marc Antony’s facial fur. My daughter said it looked drawn on. Then she likened him to Captain Morgan without the hat. He actually looked more like the lovechild of Jack Sparrow and DeBarge. And the mother in me just wanted to wipe off the chocolate milk moustache.

Whatever it was, he looked horrid. The hair shimmering with Jeri-Curl, and the Jon Waters pencil stache completely detracted from what was actually a pretty decent vocal from Sanjy From The Block.

He sang the Spanish portion perfectly (from what I could tell – then again, I don’t speak Spanish), sounded smooth throughout, and aside from the smarmy eye love (I didn’t know eyeballs could lick until tonight), it was not half bad. And I dare say he picked up a new legion of Spanish speaking young prepubes by singing to them in their native tongue.

Randy called him "one of the smartest contestants I have ever met" and said "that was really good"; Paula said he had "good pitch", that it was "smooth" and "very, very nice."; Simon stated that while he "couldn’t understand a word of it" and that Sanjaya "sang it like a 14 year old", "I’m gonna hate myself for this ... it wasn’t horrible."

I’m not sure who was more surprised by the admission – Simon or Sanjaya. But I can tell you for sure who was most excited – that cockatoo who was hanging all over Sanjaya’s sister. Come on, dude. That ponyhawk is, like, so three weeks ago.

And so ends Latin Night here at the American Idol Hacienda. No real flavor, not much heat, and certainly lacking in passion. But that’s ok. J Lo will be on hand Wednesday night to sing a song from her new CD - completely in Spanish – and whether you understand the words or not, I guarantee you her spicy moves will arouse more than just passion in the male viewers across the land.

Can you say, caliente? Adios till then...

Addition to Minus Imus

I was very interested to watch the press conference from Rutger's this morning.  Not because i wondered what would be said - I think that given the Imus slur which was carelessly used in regard to the team - it was a given that the statement would acknowledge the grievous choice of words and that the team was, understandably, upset by them.

Watching the team take the dais, I was impressed at how tall they stood (no, I do not mean their literal basketballian height), how unbowed they seemed.

The school officials spoke for a few moments, pledging their unwavering support for the girls and lambasting Don Imus for his hurtful, unfunny comments.

Then their coach took the podium.  C. Vivian Stringer, a women who turned a losing team into a winning team in one season, a woman who has faced her own personal trials and travails in life, and who now apparently likens herself to Maya Angelou. 

I'm not kidding.

She rambled on for an eternity. I'm sorry - that might sound harsh, but her unscripted rantrade (rant + tirade) wandered so far afield of the actual offense, was so self indulgent, so meandering, so self important, she needed to consult Mapquest to find her way back.

Yes, the use of the words "nappie headed hos" was wrong.  It was thoughtless.  It was careless.  It was hurtful to a group of girls, none older than 20, who had just played their hearts out and looked forward to returning to their university and being appreciated for their talents.  Instead they returned to a campus in uproar on their behalf, but not because they had played well, but because they had been well played by the media.

Coach Stringer did not help the cause.  I don't need to hear what the pedigree is of each of the players.  I don't need to know their GPA's, their musical talents, what their majors are.  I certainly don't need to hear a longwinded story about her own struggle with discrimination - some tale about being the best girl cheerleader at tryouts but the school never having had a black cheerleader before.

It's not germaine.

And I certainly don't need to hear her castigate Imus, but not call on the carpet the same celebrity figures who surely populate the Playlists on some of her own players Ipods. Where's the call to 50 Cent?  Surely his classic Surrounded By Hoes is worth a verbal spank or two, isn't it? 

Stringer swam so far into the murk they needed a rod and reel to pull her back in. 

What really mattered were the girls who got up, one at a time, and introduced themselves.  Speaking on their behalf was team captain Essence Carson who stated simply that the team was hurt and angry.

``We are students first,'' she said. ``We did not do anything to deserve his controversy.''

No girls, you did not.  And Imus has apologized.  He has also asked, and the girls have agreed, to meet him for an in person apology.

Look, racism exists.  So does stupidity, thoughtlessness, loose lips, verbal diarhhea, and foot in mouth disease.  But it all exists in every segment of society.  Not just in white society.  And every time a person of any color denegrates a person of another color, culture, religion, or belief, they perpetuate it all.

As a white person, I could take every single word Chris Rock says to heart, allow it to eat at me, demean me, but I don't.  He spends most of his time these days calling me a "cracker" and worse.  Carlos Mencia makes a living making fun of me too.  And George Lopez?  I just caught his latest HBO standup and I certainly was not put on a pedastal.

My point is this.  If you know in your heart who you are, what you stand for, what kind of person you are, then nothing anyone else says about you, especially someone who doesn't know you, can take that away.  None of these Rutgers' girls are going to shrivel up and not become what they were on the path to becoming - they will still be musicians, doctors, lawyers, etc.  They are stronger than three stupid words spoken by an old fart with airtime.

Let them get back to it.