Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Sometimes There's Only YOURSELF To Blame

With the media on fire the past three days with continued coverage of Lindsay Lohan’s self destructive (and property destructive) behavior, and her subsequent run to rehab, debate has turned to who is really to blame?

Her parents?

As I wrote yesterday, neither Dina, nor estranged papa Michael, are exactly positive role models for the twenty year old, much less her younger siblings, Michael, Ali, and Dakota. Dina parties equally as hard, and is often photographed at Lindsay’s side as they sweep from one bar to the next. And Michael was just released from yet another stint in prison.

Could the blame lie with her manager? Publicist? Agent?

No. If anything, these poor people spend the lion’s share of their time earning their commissions and salaries by constantly covering the girl’s ass in the press. And just like Britney Spears’ handlers – their livelihood depends on not pissing off the cash cow, lest the udders dry up and they get kicked off the farm. So no, I do not hold them personally responsible. They are employees.

What about the bar and club owners who have ignored age laws regarding clientele for years, allowing an endless procession of underage celebs past the velvet ropes that their establishment might make The Buzz in the next issue of US Weekly?

Look, here’s the reality. The girl is rich. The girl is spoiled. The girl is almost 21 years old. And any screw ups she makes are completely hers to own. Just because there is access to cocaine does not mean one is required to roll up a C note and snort it in a bathroom stall. Even if a bar owner is happy to guard a private room in back so that the underage star can party with impunity, does not mean one has to automatically down a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.

PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY.

Yes, that old drum I like to beat is out again.

Just as Paris Hilton will be finding out within a week as she enters prison in California, your actions – good, bad, ugly – all have consequences – good, bad, and yes, sometimes ugly.

Which brings me to the sad drunk driving death of St. Louis Cardinals’ relief pitcher Josh Hancock.

In case you are unfamiliar with the particulars: He spent the evening of April 28 drinking into the wee hours of April 29 at which point he got into his SUV, entered Highway 64 in St. Louis, and killed himself when he ran into the back of a tow truck which was attempting to retrieve a stalled out vehicle.

Oh yeah – he was not wearing a seatbelt. He was talking on his cell phone. He was speeding. And his blood alcohol was nearly twice the legal limit.

Marijuana was also found in his vehicle.

Add to this the fact that on May 1, 2007, it was reported that Hancock had been involved in another minor, likely drunken, accident involving his GMC Denali - three nights before his fatal crash involving a rented Ford Explorer.

Again, while his death is sad, what is more tragic is that his death was stupid. His death was of his making.

PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY for which he paid the ultimate price.

Yet somehow, his family doesn’t see it that way.

They have filed lawsuits against the bar/restaurant where he was drinking prior to the crash, and also against – are you ready? – the towtruck driver, and the owner of the stalled out vehicle.

Fine. There is a certain amount of culpability if a bartender continues to serve a patron long after it becomes evident he/she is impaired. I understand that. But the towtruck driver? Who, I might add, had not been called to the scene, but who was passing and stopped as a Good Samaritan gesture.

And to sue the person whose car stalled? Like, how dare he allow his car to stall when he should have known an inebriated local sports figure was going to come careening through at any moment?

Puh-leez. What’s next? Sue the Geo Prism manufacturers? The state of Missouri for not making the roads wider to accommodate his swerving?

Listen, I realize his family is grief stricken at the loss of a beloved son. I understand the need to place blame when such an emotional injustice is incurred.

But hiring an opportunistic lawyer and trying to throw blame at anyone and everyone in the hopes it will stick anywhere but the guilty party, is simply wrong.

Just as all the drinks he consumed didn’t bring him back home safely, neither will years of litigation.

The man was 29 years old. Well past the age of fraternities and sophomoric irresponsibility.

The cold, hard, brutal truth is that he drank too much, got in a vehicle, and killed himself.

The true blessing is that he did not take any innocent bystanders out of this world with him.

His family needs to mourn their loss and then step forward and offer his behavior up for examination, as a cautionary tale to all the other young people who look at celebrities, sports heroes, and the like, and think they are really cool, hip, role models, despite incessant partying, boorish and diva-ish behaviors.

I’m sure Lindsay’s bank balance and Josh’s triumphs on the mound make them seem untouchable, but in the end, they are human – like you, like me.

And despite piles of money, or deafening cheers, human beings sometimes die, needlessly, stupidly.

PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY.

At least you’re still alive Lindsay. And if Josh could give you one piece of advice, I dare say it would be this: Get your shit together once and for all before you permanently strike out too.

Lindsay LOWhan

It was just last week as I was walking through the family room, that I spied my daughters enjoying their 200 th+ viewing of the remake of The Parent Trap. I stopped to enjoy the estrogen-fest for a few minutes.

Now, even though I’m a purist and therefore believe the original (despite its not quite seamless attempts at doubling its star), with Hayley Mills, hunky dunky Brian Keith, and Maureen O’Hara is far superior to the remake, I do enjoy the 1998 update featuring Lindsay Lohan, Dennis Quaid, and Natasha Richardson.

And while Lindsay’s version certainly does benefit from advances in film technology, digital imagery, and a loosened censorship, I have to give the then 12 year old props.

She was good.

Actually, all things considered, she was pretty great.

As a fresh faced tween, Lindsay Lohan captivated with her freckles, auburn hair, and ear to ear grin. The potential for future success was written all over the child.

As she grew older, she again found big screen success via my wallet with movies like Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, Freaky Friday, and of course, the penultimate girls gone wild movie: Mean Girls.

And again, she was good in all of them. Her quirkiness, ability to deliver a line, and master physical comedy seemed to indicate she was here to stay.

But fast forward less than a decade since The Parent Trap and Lindsay has turned into nothing more than another Hollywood cautionary tale, a la Paris Hilton and Britney Spears – both former party mates of hers.

Having already done a brief stint in rehab earlier this year, Lindsay was apparently unable to keep her Promises, and was to be found this weekend slumped over in her Mercedes, which had been driven up over a curb in the wee hours of the morning.

The current charges? Definitely DUI. But as she left the scene of the accident before police arrived, they could also up the ante with charges related to "fleeing the scene", as well as adding charges for the "usable amount" of cocaine found inside the vehicle.

Police ultimately tracked her down to a local hospital (minor injuries) where she was placed under arrest for driving under the influence.

Fast forward less than 48 hours, and Lilo is reportedly going to do what every celebrity who gets busted in this way does – check herself into rehab. Or in her case, back into rehab.

Look, I hope she gets some help, and that the help she gets sticks, but I really have little sympathy for her situation beyond that.

She, Paris, Nicole, Britney, Mischa – the list goes on and on – are classic examples of young people with too much, too soon, too quickly – who have no one in their lives providing boundaries, expectations, or consequences.  Assistants, publicists, and assorted lackeys draw their paychecks from these messed up kids, so they have little incentive to stop the gravy train, even when it is weaving all over the place.

Lindsay’s own father, whom she is estranged from, was just released from prison again for DUI, and her ever present party companion is her own camera hogging mother, Dina, for God’s sake. (Talk about a Parent Trap) And the most that women does is find the nearest paparazzi and lecture us all about how "misunderstood" her daughter is.

What’s there to misunderstand, Dina? She’s flouted the law with underage drinking for years. Recent pictures show her crammed into a bathroom stall with fellow partiers snorting a white substance which I highly doubt is a crushed up Claritin tablet.

Wake up, Dina - you need to stop basking in the reflected glow of your daughter's fame and be what she so desperately needs:  A strong mother who will not only stand behind her for support as the shit begins to hit the legal fan, but who will also kick her in the ass, and make her face the consequences of her actions.

Her behavior has been so erratic during the past year that the head of a movie studio called her out in an open letter to the media. Her own co-stars, while referring to her as a talented actress, also admit she is "seriously mess up" and "needs someone to take control of her".

No kidding.

Just 24 hours after being released from the hospital, with additional charges still hanging in the air, Lindsay partied till Memorial Day dawn at Teddy’s in the Roosevelt Hotel, whereupon she stumbled out the front door, dropping all her belongings all over the sidewalk, and then had to be helped into her vehicle by the club bouncer. Now granted, she didn’t drive this time, and that’s a good thing, considering the photogs snapped pic after pic of her completely passed out in the front seat of the car before her friend could even pull away from the curb.

And now the word is she will re-enter the hallowed halls of Promises.

I see.

So, I guess the partying-to-the-point-of-passing-out was just one last "hurrah", kind of like demolishing a Sara Lee Cheesecake the day before joining Weight Watchers?

Give me a break.

Like Paris Hilton, the best thing that could happen to Lindsay is for the charges to stick and she be forced into a stint in the cold, hard reality of a jail cell, not the cushy, three gourmet meal a day, 600 thread count sheeted, daily massages, coddled life found behind the doors of Promises.

I’m a parent. And it’s the coddling and ass kissing which have allowed these young people to end up the alcohol soaked, drug addled, irresponsible, devil-may-care individuals they are.

Coke: It's Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

File this under Crock O' Shite.

A product made its way into my house this afternoon, and for a moment, I truly thought it had been bought for one purpose...

To piss me off to the point I would write about it.

But no.

The product is a soft drink.  And as it was attached to my husband - someone for whom "soft drink" is a food group akin to vegetables - I knew it was purchased because he and my daughter actually thought it was a real good thing.

Well, that, and the fact they had been allowed out shopping unsupervised.

The product? Diet Coke Plus.

PLUS - as in "chockful of vitamins and minerals".

I'm not kidding.

Coke itself drives me crazy because it simply is not good for anyone.  That's not exactly news, I realize.  But with over 12 teaspoons of sugar per can, and enough caffeine to perk up a tranquilized elephant, it amazes me how many people still chug this stuff by the gallon every day.

And Diet Coke?  Gee, let's take a bunch of chemicals, make it taste like the Real Thing, but have zero calories!  Woo hoo!  Ever look at the ingredients on the side of a Diet Coke can?  Beginning with the second one, forget being as smart as a fifth grader - you need be as smart as a fifth year medical resident to pronouce the words, let alone understand them.

Water has ZERO calories too.  And you don't need a dictionary to decipher it.

But no - who needs water when you can now get Niacin, Vitamins B6 & B12, Magnesium, and Zinc in a pop top?

Coke PLUS!  It's good for you!  And as the label screams, it's "Refreshing - Uplifting -  Hydrating"

Look, toilet water is hydrating too, but I don't know many people who would chug a "can" of it.

My point is this - having a soda masquerade as a health drink isn't good for a society that considers french fries and Bloomin' Onions to be acceptable vegetable choices or a Cherry Slurpee to be a fruit.

Here's a thought.  Want some Magnesium?  Eat a spinach salad, a banana, or grab a handful of nuts.  Jonesing for some Niacin?  Try some Cheerios - we feed this stuff to our toddlers by the ton, so it must be good, right?

Diet Coke PLUS.

What's next?  Crack cocaine, lite? 

(Footnote:  I am a huge proponent of "everything in moderation".  So if you look forward to your one can a day - good for you.  The problem is that most soft drink consumption is not a "moderate" thing in this country.) 

Hog Heaven?

Here's something to ponder over your morning bacon...

This 1,051 pound, 9 foot 4 inch wild hog was shot and killed by an 11 year old boy in Montgomery, Alabama.

It took three hours of tracking and eight shots fired by the kid to finally bring it down.  He and his father had been out hunting with two guides in the backwoods and were astounded by the size of the animal.

No kidding.

Seriously, imagine yourself walking through the woods and suddenly a Ford Focus with a snout comes rolling by.

Forget bacon strips, I daresay I'd lay a hamhock down in my underwear, before curly tailing it out of there.

The plans for the beast include mounting the head - measurements according to the town taxidermist: 54 inches around the head, 11 inches from the eyes to the tip of the snout, 74 inches around the shoulders.  (Yes, this is a record setting size for a wild hog - I hear the kid squealed with delight.)

The rest will be made into approximately 500-700 pounds of sausage.

The problem now is finding a REALLY big chicken.  It's going to take one hell of large egg to keep up with this Grand Slam breakfast.

Hidden Valley Raunch

We should all be eating healthier. I’ve blogged many times before about the ever expanding waistlines across the United States. I’ve addressed the surveys the government actually funds each year to identify the country’s fattest city. And I’ve lamented the fact that people – young and old - spend too much time chewing and not enough time moving.

The problem is of special concern inside our nation’s schools.

Vending machines line the walls of cafeterias, schools freely admitting that they are a needed revenue stream. A la carte lines – offering every varietal of deep fried carbohydrate – fries, onion rings, wings, nuggets, corndogs, etc – outsell the main line every day.

And I get it. These are kids we’re talking about.

Imagine you are 15 again. Which would YOU choose? Salisbury steak, watery canned vegetables, cornbread, and milk – or onion rings and a 12 ounce can of Coke?

I’m honest - I know where my lunch money would be going.

But what about the students who actually do take control of their eating – be it for sports, a desire to fit into their new jeans, or simply because they are being taught to make better choices?

What is their option?

The salad bar, of course.

These days, nearly every school offers a salad bar option for its students and faculty. Lettuce, croutons, tomatoes, various other fixins – and of course, the large jugs of ranch salad dressing (which are never low fat and completely obliterate the good intentions of the lettuce, drowning it in double digit fat grams and cholesterol – but that’s for another article).

Let’s just concentrate on the salad bar. And those kids and teachers who frequent it at, oh, let’s say, for the sake of argument ... Wheaton North High School outside Chicago.

There they are, loading up on healthy options, tucking some croutons neatly between the lettuce leaves, adding a dash of color with a miniature tomato, grabbing a side of cauliflower (cause it tastes so good with dressing), and then pushing that handle down repeatedly on the Ranch Dressing bottle.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Oh yeah. That’s Sooooo Good. Squish. Splat. Ahhhhh.

Only that’s not the sound of the bottle.

No, that’s the sound made by the senior boy who wacked off into the bottle.

I am not making this up.

A senior, Marco Castro, has received two years probation and $750 fine after being turned in by fellow students for downloading his personal information (ahem) into the salad dressing bottle and then returning it to the salad bar where it was consumed.  In addition he will perform 120 hours of community service (after washing his hands, of course.)

Oh yeah, he has also been expelled – no pun intended. (Oh hell – screw it – full pun intended.)

To the judge he could only offer, "I have no explanation for what I did. I felt bad after I did it."

I’m assuming he means he felt bad after he watched people actually eating it, not after he – well, never mind...

I just feel bad for the salad regulars. Cause if it’s true that you are what you eat – there’s a whole new bunch of idiots now attending Wheaton North.

American Idol Results Recap, Wednesday, May 23: The Season 6 Finale: This Is Our EH?

And now, the end is near;
And so we face the final curtain.
My friends, I'll say it clear,
I'll state my case, my keyboard's hurtin'.

We've lived our lives like fools.
Given Tuesdays and every Wednesday;
And more, much more than this,
We didn't get our way.

Regrets, we've had a few;
Sanjaya's time, Haley's extensions.
We did what we had to do
And kicked them off without exception.

The Ford promos they forced;
Dreadful Group Songs, our time we did pay,
But after enduring all of this,
Did we get our way?

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When Chris bit off more than he could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
We ate it up and then lashed out.
We faced it all; we watched some bawl

But didn't get our way.

We've loved, we've laughed and cried.
We've had our Phil; Melinda losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I blogged all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
I'm tired, so very tired,
Who said, do Project Runway?!?!

Now, what is a man, what has he got?
If not a voice, he can beatbox.
But Jordin can sing and truly feel;
Hit all the notes while wearing heels.
The record will show who takes the vote

But did we truly get ourrrrrrrrr waaaaaaaaaaaaay?

Thank you, thankyouverymuch.

Well, it's here. Our last night together for American Idol 2007. Hard to believe we've dedicated so many hours of our lives, so much space on our DVRs, so much emotion in deep debate, only to get to this point and find that ...

We don't really give a damn who wins the thing.

Sad, but true.

I've spent much of today fielding emails, sharing IMs, and reading boards, and what I've found is this: A Blake vs Jordin showdown just didn't do it for most viewers.

The signs of strain began to show when Sanjaya's 15 minutes grew into sixteen, seventeen, twenty-five... Haley's extended run ruined it for anyone who was looking for more than a receding hemline in their Idol. More discontent surfaced when Phil and Lakisha were shown the door. And the final straw that broke the dromedary's drooping back was that of Melinda being bested by both Jordin and Blake.

Jordin, who can only hope to grow in vocal confidence and strength and someday come close to Mel's power and perfection.

And Blake, who is not vocally fit to carry her mikestand, let alone, take her place in a finale.

Which has left the viewers with a scenario best likened to the episode of South Park in which the school kids are faced with choosing a new school mascot - their choices? A Giant Douche and A Turd Sandwich.

Not too appealing in either direction, nothing that truly inspires one to head to the voting booth. But you gotta have a winner, right?

Ratings are down for AI. Their need to drag out results shows, bloat episodes with so much filler a person needs to drink Metamucil while watching, and then end up with the best singer being outed (yes, I know the onus is supposed to be on voters) - people were leaving in large numbers or simply tuning in for the final minutes for actual results.

In addition to feeling out the viewers in cyberspace, I also rewatched Tuesday night's performances, and I have to say, with the exception of some strong BIG notes from Jordin, and the anticipation of just what My Mom Still Dresses Me combo of clothing Blake would wear - it was a finale where nothing felt at stake.

Even a quick walk around eBay - typically a clearinghouse for all things contestant related reveals the sentiment. In season two, on the day of the results show, queries for Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard revealed more than 1,300 items a piece having to do with their likenesses. Jordin Sparks and Blake Lewis? 57 and 73, respectively. A Bedazzled shirt here, some homemade earrings there, some magazine covers on both. Ouch.

Happy now, Blaker fans?

I still give it to Jordin, but as I said in last night's recap, I'm certainly not waking up devastated, or really even surprised, should Blake's name get pulled out of the hat tonight.

So, Giant Douche or Turd Sandwich? I'm not saying who is who. I'm not actually saying either one is either thing. I'm just saying, I wish we all felt a little more excited about the choice we were left with.

Now, as this is going to be a Bataan Death March of a show - let's get this recap underway. I hope you packed some snacks, are wearing some comfortable shoes, and used the bathroom...

Standing in the center aisle of the Kodak Theater, wearing a tux in honor of the occasion, Ryan spoke: "It's the night we've all been waiting for..." (not so much, Ryan, sorry) "Who will take the title?" (pan to Jordin and Blake on stage) "The Beatboxer from Seattle? Or the Sweetheart From Arizona? The world is watching." (Yes, over the course of the next week, the show does make its way around the globe.)

"THIS. IS. AMERICAN. IDOL."

Then we got one last ride for '07 in the enema-vator, up the neon colon. Sigh... It's not working. I still feel emotionally constipated...

Ryan then took the stage to remind us that there have been "100,000 auditions, 7 cities, 49 hours of television, and we are finally down to 2."

49 hours of television. And while I have not added it up each week, my guess would put that at 14 actual hours of American Idol and 35 hours of commercials. God bless the fast forward button...I nominate my DVR for sainthood.

The judges turned out in fine form this evening - although Randy had to come straight from his gig playing guitar with the hombres at Chi Chis and was still wearing his embellished jacket and matching tie.

Paula, well Paula must hose her head with Miracle Gro - there was even more hair tonight. And no crabgrass. As for the outfit? She summed it up by flashing the international I'm A Loser sign for the crowd.

Simon decided, Why mess with a good thing? and was repeating last evening's winning look of a crisp white dress shirt, black jacket, Monte Carlo worthy cleavage, and his I'm-so-over-this sneer.

Ryan then explained that it has been an exhausting week for the finalists - song selections, interviews, fittings, rehearsals - I give them credit. If they wanted to do nothing more than sleep and wear sweatpants for the next month, I could not hold it against them. God knows, I'm pooped from just writing about the show and that's all I want to do.

He then intro'd J & B who opened the show with the first of many Beatles songs - yes, they finally managed to legally pry open the songbook and get the rights to sing the songs - so they indulged in a Beatlepalooza this evening.

The kids came onto the stage to sing I Saw Her Standing There - fitting, in that Blake - dressed in a gray suit and my husband's old prom shirt (complete with powder blue ruffles on the chest and cuffs) - was able to kick it off with the lyrics "She was just 17..."

Yeah - because there may be some people who are late to the party and have not picked up on that yet.

Jordin looked young (17) and pretty in JEANS and a black sequin/satin/lace tunic. Unfortunately she was also wearing four inch cork heels which did not exactly help her inability to groove on stage.

But move she did, out onto the mini stage with Blake, having a good time. For his part, Blake kept the interpretive leering to a minimum, after all, she IS just 17. They ended the song with a twirl and a kiss from Jordin sweetly planted on Blake's cheek.

Can I get an "Awwwwwww" from the congregation?

Ryan then began "speaking" to Gwen Stefani on the screensaver, telling us all that she was coming to us live from a concert somewhere, out there.

A quick look at GwenStefani.com, and her tour schedule, didn't show a concert for the 23rd, but a little more digging found a late addition show in Massachusetts. Still, it didn't exactly feel "LIVE".

But she did perform for us - her new song 4 In The Morning. True to Gwen's personal style, which is always unpredictable, she appeared to be wearing something Bjork would design.

No, wait - I think she was actually WEARING Bjork.

The song was fine, but it sure did look to be lip synced. Maybe the feed or sound system was just ever so slightly off, but I spent the whole time watching her mouth.

AFTER. THE. BREAK Ryan spoke of a singer with two Grammys, 14+ million in album sales, seven #1's, and then intro'd Alanis Morissette!

No wait - that's just a pissed off Kelly Clarkson singing the words, "Hope when you're in bed with her, you think of me."

Look, I get that she is out there in the media, giving Clive Davis the finger, roughing up her image, and sticking to her guns - which is fine with me. The girl is a vocal dynamo, but I doubt I was the only one to have a "Mom moment" during some of the lyrics. Kind of like Ryan's "bitch" comment last night.

My kids can handle it, but there are some much younger ones out there who tune in with their families based on it being a fairly benign viewing experience.

But I digress - Kelly was obviously responding to the "Mama Cass muumuu" comments about how she looked at the Idol Gives Back show, and was decked out in thigh high boots and a dress so tight it may as well have been electrical tape. She was also wearing the logo for Ovalstock.com in her ears - the lesser known online bargain center.

As the song moved on, I did actually enjoy what I always enjoy about Kelly Clarkson - she is REAL. Whether I thought the song choice was appropriate for the general audience or not, it was one hell of a performance. Take notes, Gina Glockson - this is how you rock.

On the line, "Bet it sucks to see my face everywhere" two things occurred to me - 1. This is going to be the anthem of screwed over love affairs this summer, and 2. Clive Davis had better watch his back.

And then it was over and things quickly slid downhill. Seriously, this part of the finale always makes me feel like we we've waxed our skis with Crisco and are flailing helplessly downward: The Golden Idol Awards.

The beans in this overstuffed burrito of a show.

The first award was for Best Presentation - nominees included Xcentric, the Panther guy and self professed "most exciting entertainer on planet Earth". I would agree with him if we - meaning you, me, and every other living thing on this marble, were all dead..

Isadora Furman, the wacked out urban cowgirl who had an orgasm during her audition was also nominated, as was (color me surprised - that color would be yellow, by the way) Margaret Fowler, The Human Peep.

You remember Margaret - all dressed in yellow and feathers? Sharing not only her trunk junk, but everything crammed into the glovebox, strapped to the luggage rack, and crammed under the seats?

Of course Margaret won, and of course she was on hand - in full feathered regalia - to accept her award, which she did only after molesting Ryan and riding him to the floor while planting on him a kiss big enough to swallow his head.

She went up on stage and it really just got embarrassing, uncomfortable, insulting to the viewers. Her cell phone ringing in her cleavage, the worthless "poem" she was allowed to read. The only thing it did was buy me time to figure out who she looked like. It finally came to me - James Earl Jones in serious drag.

Mercifully she finally took her statue and left the stage so Ryan could intro the Top 6 guys (kind of unfair that the Top 12 get to do the finale, but only 10 get to tour) emerging in matching ivory ensembles for an a capella take on Ooo Baby Baby.

Sanjaya was actually unhideous, Chris forgot to take his Claritin, Chris S held his own, Phil was, as always, strong, and Brandon provided the falsetto as the sole Pip. It was enjoyable, and when Smokey Robinson came out to sing with them? Truly a great moment - Smokey is a legend.

And the man still sounds smooth - sure, he's a tad plastic around his eyes (did anyone actually see him blink?), but three judges - yes, even Simon, were on their feet while he performed - he deserved the props.

As for the guys? Brandon was more than happy to sing back-up for this Motown great. Note on Brandon: His singing reminded me that his leaving so early really was a loss. He has a wonderful voice, too bad he did not connect with the audience in time.

As they moved into Tears of a Clown, I especially loved the Four Tops moves the boys were laying down behind Smokey - although poor Chris S, you could practically see him counting in his head - "1, 2, 3, slide, 1, 2, 3, turn".

Another break brought us back to the weekly pimping of The Band Show - get your tapes in now! No matter your style, your instruments, your experience - hell, look! We even have a guy wearing a washboard vest! So grab your ukeleles, spoons, and tom toms! The producers want you!

Next was Blake's chance to let it all hang out with DJ Barry B and the original beatboxer Doug E Fresh. Doug E was classy in a suit coat, but Blake felt the need to shame white guys everywhere in 14 layers of clothes, hoodies, a RED blazer and that sideways asshat on his head.

Now, before you get your cabooses in a You-Just-Hate-Blake knot, allow me to finish...

The performance was fun and proved to be one of the better segments of the night. I especially enjoyed the part when Doug and Blake went back up on stage to "beat off" against each other in a contest where each tried to get the upper hand.

(OK, fine - I especially enjoyed making up the "beat off" joke - sue me)

Seriously, it was fun, and I enjoyed it. No fast forwarding at all.

But oh, how I wanted to hit that button for the next Golden Idol award - this one for Most Original Vocal featuring Nicholas Zitzman, a young man with an unfortunate surname, and an even more unfortunate inability to sing a single note in tune; Sandie Chavez who had the amazing ability to sing without a single vowel. I think she needs to buy some Hoo Ked On Pa Hon Ics tapes.

The final nominee and ultimate winner was Sholandric Stallworth, who still gets my vote for best contestant name. Sholandric was on hand to accept his award and then be belittled by singing Silent Night without a microphone.

Was this even funny?

I guess the part where he fudged the lyrics with "All is prom..." was kind of a yuk. But it was only marginally more bearable than Margaret FOULer.

Moving on...

It was now time for the Top 6 girls to shimmy out onto the stage, dressed all in white - Oh gee! Look whose dress is shorter than all the others!

As they sang Heard It Through The Grapevine, Haley skittered to the edge of the stage for her solo line, creating a seriously dangerous camera angle (not exactly history making for her, I realize) which almost gave away what she ate for lunch.

We were all rescued from that near miss with the emergence of the always classy Glady Knight, AARP card be damned, she is still gorgeous.

And the lady can still SANG. I don't think she has lost a single note over the years and I bet she still puts on one heck of a show.

When they moved on to Midnight Train To Georgia, things only got better, mainly because the other gals moved into the shadows allowing Kiki and Mel to sing with Gladys - they were tickled.

And no, I don't say that because they are black - I say that because you could see it in their eyes, in their smiles, in their I-am-having-a-life-moment auras. Something that would have been completely lost on Haley.

As they finished, the crowd was on its feet - and look! The Hoff is in da howse again! Cry, Hoff, cry!  I'll give you a hamburgerrrr...

Ryan next began to introduce the man who mentored the kids back in April, but was unfortunately ill and could not perform, resulting in all of us becoming ill at having to watch Michael Bublech stink up the stage for three minutes - TONY BENNETT! (Sadly, lurking in the camera shot during this intro was Constantly Mugging Maroulis and now I feel sick all over again.)

 

But back to Tony.

OK, this was definitely another highlight - the guy has not lost his tone, his range, his interpretation of a lyric. Singing For Once In My Life, this was the "vocal master class" the judges always wax rhapsodic about.

And truth? I simply cannot envision Blake still horking into a microphone when he's 70+. Maybe working behind the scenes and producing a young kid who is horking into a microphone, but I don't see him with the lasting success of someone like Tony.

Actually, let's face it. We, the populace in general, really produce very few artists who will have that type of impact and career length. Our attention spans are short and we like instant gratification.

We then whiplashed from class into crass with another Golden Idol - this one for Best Buddies.

Like we all did not know who was taking this one home.

But I'm thorough, so I'll blog it all:

First nominees were, of course, Jonathan Jayne and Golum - sorry, Kenneth Bragg (Swale, whatever the hell his last name is this week) - the twerps from Seattle who scored bigger sympathy than William Hung, resulting in gigs on Jimmy Kimmel and on the public's central nervous system.

Next - Antonella and Amanda - Legs and Sko. You surely remember Sko - "Together we're hot", "We can have all the boys we want" and "God likes good people". Yes Sko, that would be why you tanked in Hollywood and the closest you have come to continued fame is talking to your local radio station about when you lost your virginity.

Finally, Ryan and Simon were the last nominees. Look guys, just pull 'em out, let's measure them, and then we can get on with life. Your incessant bickering stopped being entertaining back in Season 2.

As I said, the winners were obvious, and on hand - Jonathan (still wearing that same Aloha shirt) and Kenneth, who obviously believes he is now fly with that facial fur.

Ryan gave them their trophies, allowed them to regale the world with their red carpet exploits, and then informed Ken that Idol has sponsored a bush baby at the Milwaukee Zoo in his honor - named Simon.

Look, we all know there is a FCC censor on hand for all shows, isn't there like, oh, I don't know, someone in QUALITY CONTROL that can step in and save us from this kind of septic system backflow?

Well, apparently God felt we had done our penance and rewarded us with Melinda singing front and center with the brother-sister gospel singers she used to back - BeBe and CiCi Winans.

It was uplifting - they all have powerful voices - but Melinda sinned in the choice of her dress - a long, taupe, satiny sausage casing of a gown. Oh and she was wearing the Vatican doorknocker around her neck.

Her hair, however, was lovely - longer than ever. They surely must have trucked all these extensions in for tonight - maybe they got a deal at Costco?

Of course, AFTER. THE. NEXT. BREAK it was time for the final Ford Vommercial! This one was set to Time After Time, and for once, I did not want to ruin my shoes with dinner. The commercial was a collection of outtakes from the tapings of all the previous voms. The genuine smiles made it genuinely fun to watch - no complaints from me.

Of course, this Ford promo provided the perfect segue to Ryan, flanked by Jordin and Blake, and his presentation of the now expected pay off from Ford - this year they each received a new Mustang.

Carrie Underwood was roped in next to reprise her song from Idol Gives Back, I'll Stand By You, one she sings beautifully. Sadly, Carrie's dress was missing in the front - good thing she wore those JEANS. You know, most of us get our dresses caught in the back of our pantyhose...

Carrie was apparently having a follicular showdown with Paula and Haley - her hair looked like it was full of helium.

Vocally, she was stellar, as usual. I've always enjoyed Carrie and it is so great to see the winners come back and be reminded that we have actually gotten it right before.

The night then took a slight detour for a made up award from Clive Davis. He babbled more than the brook in Paula's head about Chris Daughtry being "the music industry's biggest selling music artist of the year." (Um, Clive - we didn't think he was the biggest selling Fuller Brush man of the music industry...) he then praised the judges for discovering such amazing talent, lauded the songwriters who have played such an important role in the careers of the winners (and losers), and then finally got around to making his point:

Presenting a certified award (essentially a blown up CD cover) for 6 million in album sales in the USA alone to Carrie Underwood.

She re-emerged, thanked Clive, her parents, American Idol, you, me, her dog, the cashier at the Piggly Wiggly...

Ryan then took us to another break, but when we came back, we got a gift - the African Children's Choir, which came bursting out onto the stage in their Pebbles and BamBam costumes and sang - well, I don't know what the heck they sang - but they sang, and it was a great few moments. Their smiles, their energy - who needs Josh Grobin - these kids are performers.

They finished up and then a video rolled of "true visionaries - JFK, Martin Luther King, Ghandi..."

And then - SANJAYA?!?! WTF?

Look I am all for being funny, but to belittle true historic greats like that? Shark jumping alert - get out of the water!

The video led up to Malakarpal Tunnel Singdrome blowing out onto stage - my God the wind machines were roaring - all the better to flip his Pantene locks around I guess.

But he was joined by Joe Perry of Aerosmith on the guitar for You Really Got Me.

Joe Perry?

With Sanjaya? (Note: If you could you hear what I type, my voice would be going high enough on his name to break crystal and call dogs). I hope Steven Tyler kicks Joe's ass and strangles him with a scarf for this.

Now this song was NOT one of Sanny's better performances during the season, in fact, it gave new meaning to the words "Suck the air out of a good lung", but they had him re-sing it anyway.

My God it was awful. Martin Luther King may have had a dream, but surely I'm not the only one who was thinking, "I'm going to have a nightmare."

Decked out in ripped JEANS, a long coat, and a tshirt - I could have seriously done without the camera angle which allowed him to thrust his pelvis repeatedly in my face at the beginning of the song.

He moved out into the audience and, of course, there she was, little Ashley Hurl - sorry - Ferl, crying her eyes out again.

Actually she looked frightened.

Then again, considering he was screaming in her face and Big Bird was squawking right behind her, who can blame her. I predict many years of therapy in Ashley's future...

The song moved on and I had to echo the sentiment, Sanjaya, you got me so I can't sleep at night - AGAIN.

Look, I want it on the record - I suffered. I endured. I took notes. I did not touch my fast forward button. And my reward?

THIS.

Sanjaya Malakar with what looks like happy pants on national TV. I'm not kidding.

Talk about getting off on your own fame. Or maybe it was the hot woman painted on Joe's guitar? Or maybe it was the stiff breeze - you know what they say about teenage boys and stiff breezes...

Thankfully he left the stage, to be replaced by Greenday singing the John Lennon song Working Class Hero. Great lyrics, liked that the band sang mostly in the dark - there was some serious bedhead there.

But I'll tell you something - when a band like Greenday sells out to American Idol - ok fine, agrees to appear- either the Apocalypse in nigh or no group is above the draw of 30 million pairs of eyeballs.

ANOTHER. BREAK, ANOTHER. IDOL, this time Taylor Hicks emerged from the Idol graveyard, groovy as ever in JEANS, boots, a black shirt, and a jacquard print blazer to sing Heaven Knows.

He worked it, quirked it, played his harmonica, arched his back like a spawning salmon a few times, pushed himself back into everyone's memory, and it was a solid, solid performance. I enjoy Taylor - I realize, that like Blake, he is an acquired taste, but I like him. I did, however, catch the glare in his eyes as he sang to the camera, "I may not have meant much to you." Ouch - hey Taylor - I have your CD - I did my part.

Obviously I still need to repent though, because then I was forced to sit through Jordin - stunning in a chiffon, shades of pink dress - and Ruben Studdard - pinstripe suit and matching pink tie - suck three minutes of my life away.

Ruben sounded fine, but for those of you who think all I do is worship at the Vocal Cords of Jordin - I didn't think she did so well on this. Her lower register was practically AWOL - plus I just wanted it to be over - no, they did not totally tank, I was just getting impatient.

Tell me you weren't up wandering around your house at this point? Cleaning, grabbing a snack, chasing after the dog - anything to make the time go faster.

But NO! Let's slow it down, in fact, let's see if we can make it feel like the clock is moving backwards! It's Bette Midler who is taking over for Celine Dion in Vegas when Celine's two year contract is up later this year!

(And may I pause to ask why Brad Garrett was in Simon's chair? Seat filling while Simon peed? Get back here Simon - if I have to hold my water to the end, so do you.)

Look, I have always liked Bette Midler - her music, her sass, her verve - but this song was a briar patch from beginning to end. And I kept begging, Please don't throw me in!

(Ten points if you can nail that movie reference)

Her voice was rough from the first word, her notes slid all over the place and the only thing beneath her wings was wind shear - resulting in a crash.

And what was with the melodrama? It was like she was doing interpretive dance - first she's flying, then floating, then hailing a cab...

And the crowd? Jerry Springer was actually crying for God's sake - surely this man has seen enough human trainwrecks in his time to not be affected by this!?! Seriously, the man made a career out of avoiding flying chairs hurled by mothers who are their daughter's sister's cousin who happens to be sleeping with their brother's preacher's milkman, all the while pregnant by the entire trailer park board of deerectoors.

OK, I'm rambling - sorry...

Ryan then introduced Kelly Clarkson kicking off a tribute to the Sgt Pepper album ( I told you they were psyched to get into the Beatles book).

Muffin Top and Joe Perry began to jam together - don't roll your eyes, you thought the same thing - what in THE hell was she wearing? Talk about a bad outfit choice - she was spilling worse than the Exxon Valdez. I realize she is a young person, but wearing the right size top and bottom would have gone a long way towards looking hot, instead of NOT.

Her songlet led quickly into Taylor being saddled with A Day In The Life - you know, "I read the news today, oh boy..." Yeah, so did I Taylor, but I did not know you were going to get effed in the A. He looked miserable.

Carrie Underwood then reappeared wearing a black dress from the Haley Scarnato Collection - so short the camera just about had a clear shot up to her bra. Five inch heels and two evening bags hanging from her ears completed the look while she sang She's Leaving Home (foreshadowing for Mama and Papa Sparks??). The girls, all dressed in black joined her to sing back up, which led into...

Ruben being screwed almost as bad as Taylor with Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds (look, I realize saying one does not LOVE every single Beatles song is akin to blasphemy, but I just don't dig them all. Besides, I'm surely not going to Hell - I watched this entire show, remember - that's some serious points right there.).

He sang under a kaleidoscope of lights, then the boys climbed the smaller stage and sang backup. They were all dressed in various black ensembles, but did anyone else think Blake looked like a human xylophone?

The song then switched to A Little Help From My Friends, with Chris earning the laughable line, "What would you think if I sang out of tune?" I'd think you got by with a lottle (that's not a typo) help from your friends, Chris.

Gina scored the line "I get high with a little help from my friends" and seemed pretty happy about it. I'm just sayin'...

The song ended with a camera shot straight up Haley's dress - perfect advertisement for her line "I just want somebody to love."  Yep , forget eHarmony or Match.com - true love is just an indiscreet camera angle away

ONE. MORE. BREAK and we FINALLY returned to see four people on the stage: Ryan; Jordin dressed in a gorgeous rust colored evening gown which screamed This Is MY Now, not yours, Blake; Blakey in 4 layers - a shirt, a shirt, a vest, a jacket; and Edward Bottington from the independent auditor Telescope, holding the envelope.

Ryan informed us that this season we have cast over 609 million votes - with over 74 million being phoned in last night alone.

Ryan then asked the judges for their final thoughts:

Randy: "Jordin, baby."

Paula: "Just proud of the two of you. You're both winners." (She needs to pursue a career in politics. Drunken rambling never got in Teddy Kennedy's way.)

Simon: "Congratulations, Jordin."

Boy, Blake must have felt like a hundred dollar bill, huh? Like a hundred dollar bill squished into a pile of dog poo...

The lights went down, Blake whispered something in Jordin's ear (I voted for you?), Ryan opened the envelope, and after the world's longest, unnecessary pause, declared Jordin the new American Idol.

I heard from many people that their DVRs and Tivos stopped recording, or that their local station stopped broadcasting at the two hour mark. Unfortunately, the show did run long, so if you missed the final moments, here they are for you.

Blake's smile was totally genuine - he was truly happy for her, sure, because he knows he can now pursue music "his" way, but you could also tell it was like watching a little sister be crowned Prom Queen for him. He got the first hug in as she began to cry, even lifted her off the ground for a moment - a move his back may regret in the morning. For once I will be the one to say it - she IS only 17, and regardless of how you feel about her, this was a huge moment for one so young.

Blake moved off the stage, she managed to croak out some thank you's, and then Ryan handed her the microphone to sing the song that was never meant for a hipster like Mr. Lewis - This Is My Now.

Yes, her voice was shaky with emotion. Yes, the need to cry must have felt like a bowling ball hanging from her uvula. Yes, she made Paula practically dissolve on national TV. But she managed to make it through - and I was completely impressed when she nailed that big note at the end.

Listen, when I need to cry, I can hardly croak out my name, let alone hit and hold a note of that grandeur.

It was a sweet, albeit rather expected ending to this season. Her parents were crying, the Kodak was ablaze with stage sparklers and confetti falling like dandruff gone wild in a Head and Shoulders commercial.

When she made it to the end, the Idols all rushed the stage for a group hug, at which point, although we could not see inside the huddle, I feel safe in saying, Jordin's dam burst.

And that's good. At least there was some emotion from someone at the end of this long, often awkward, sometimes unfair season.

Now the true test comes as the summer unfolds, CDs are created, and sales begin to be charted.

Will Jordin find Carrie Underwood sized success? Will Blake find a producer who can coax more than spit and sweater vests out of him? Will Kelly Clarkson ever smile again?

I'd like to thank all of you who made the blog your home for American Idol this season. Whether you received the link from a friend, stumbled upon it by accident, or happened to be a regular reader anyway - this season has been amazing on my end. Your comments, emails, IMs, and commitment to making sure I always had the latest info on AI have been wonderful. I know you all came here looking for laughs each week, and I hope I delivered, but know that you had me laughing on this end every single day too.

I do hope you will stick around for more as I've committed to taking on Project Runway and will hopefully "Make it work" for everyone, and I will definitely be here daily, continuing to mine the underbelly of the world for stories that need dragged into the light for a good public thrashing.

Oh, and as far as the whole Giant Douche and Turd Sandwich thing? I'm still not going to say who was who, just know that YOU were neither.

Linda S.

P.S. It's 2am now - can I go to bed, please?

Keep Your Pants On...

Or don't.

It's late and some of you surely sleep in your underwear or less.

Just wanted to check in and let you know I am hard at work getting the recap banged out.  I am up to Carrie Underwood's performance in her half missing dress...

So fear not.  It's all coming, but this is a long one, so be prepared...

American Idol Recap, Tuesday, May 22: OK, Corral Your Talent – It’s The Blake vs Jordin Showdown

Belly on up to the bar, folks. What be your poison?

A half pint sized entertainer? Or a singer with magnum sized vocal cords?

As has been reported in the press, even Simon won’t call it going into tonight’s final performances.

Blake The Entertainer (no offense intended, Cedric – you spew spittle when you get going on stage too) has his legions of Blaker Girls and other fans who delight in hearing him switch up every song he encounters. (My own ten year old adores him – she is still in The Will at this writing, but that may change depending on her enthusiasm during the show)

But Jordin The Singer managed to best Melinda Doo-it-all and emerge as the singer to beat(box).

Even Rolling Stone executive Joe Levy thinks she casts a long shadow over Mr. Lewis – and not because he is practically leprechuanian standing next to her. "Jordin brings more to the table and she has all season," he told The Associated Press. "Blake is a limited singer and his presentation is limited as well. ... He hasn't shown himself to be versatile or as winning as Jordan. So, on talent alone, I would give it to Jordin."

And young Master Beatbox seems to be angling to not win in interviews. "She's 17 and she's already a woman. She performs, she's good-looking, she's got a fantastic personality and it reads really well on camera. And so I love Jordin Sparks. ... Regardless of the finale, I think she already won it in my mind and she was my pick in the beginning."

Subtle, but there is definitely an angle he could be working there.

And honestly? Who can blame him? With the exception of Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, the also rans have demonstrated the major successes – Clay Aiken, Chris Daughtry ring a bell? Even Josh Gracin has had a strong showing on the country charts.

Indeed Blake may be backing away from the finish line based on one name: Taylor Hicks.

Taylor had the Soul Patrol. Taylor had massive numbers of voters who worked the phones long into the night. Heck, Taylor even had me at hello, or hi y’all, as was the case with Tay. But Taylor’s uniqueness seems to have been his undoing in the mass market. I still think he is one of the better concerts currently out there, but he certainly is not selling out stadiums.

However, if Blake is truly hoping to throw this thing, he may be up against more than he can handle.

While I believe Jordin’s number of supporters easily rivals his, I fear there is a distinct disadvantage for her in the demographics – yes, yes, yes – as so many people have loved pointing out, Jordin has a sizeable contingent of we old, farty, AARP carders on her side. And while we do vote, we don’t stay up for hours burning out the redial buttons on our phones. And while I can do it – remember, I have three daughters to keep up with – you are not going to find me texting my votes.

OMG, you say? Aren’t you a true fan?

LMAO, I reply. Yes, I’m a fan, but I also have some perspective.

My world will not end if Blake manages to slide into the title on a trail of his own spit. And I daresay my Special K will taste no more special on Thursday morning if Jordin claims the confetti as her own.

Both will walk away with recording contracts and straight into a summer long tour of the United States. I’m interested to see the results, but I certainly don’t feel the emotional investment of season’s past. And let’s face it, pity is not a necessary component for either of these kids at this point.

I’d much rather talk about someone who truly does engender a hanging of the head, a deep sigh, a slap of the brow, and a WTF?!? response on a daily basis – dear, sweet, cHAIRismatic Paula.

As many of you know, this weekend saw her take a tumble – and no, not the one in her commercial. Although it is ironic that her tripping and almost face planting in the street promos her new reality show – rather I am speaking of the fall she took to avoid smashing her Chihuahua, Tulip.

In attempting to avoid turning him into tile grout, she managed to lose her balance, thus – as late afternoon reports state – breaking her nose and bruising herself from top to bottom.

Now, that’s not really so bad, Paula...

Look, I have a small dog too. Not as small as Paula’s – hers is basically a dog fart – but small enough I can attest that if I so much as mention the word MILKBONE and begin walking to the kitchen, I had better keep both eyes on the floor lest I turn her into a carpet stain. She climbs my legs, she runs between them, she darts to and fro – caught up in a dehydrated processed meat frenzy.

And I have tripped to avoid crushing my Oreo in to the carpet on many an occasion.

That being said, this is Paula, and I am seriously looking forward to seeing how the make-up department handles the troweling of the coverstick this evening. Broken noses typically equal black eyes....

And I don’t wish them on anyone – not even Paula. Although pain meds and a satellite dish dog cone around her neck would be pretty damn funny...

Now, let’s get this finale underway, shall we?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rod Serling, ominously backlit, opened the show with, "Two contestants, trapped in a place between hope and despair. Trapped in between..."

Wait – sorry – this is not The Twilight Zone, and that is actually Ryan Seacrest with our word problem of the night:

"100,000 contestants down. 2 to go. 1 guy, 1 girl, 1 last chance to win your vote."

THIS. IS. THE. NIGHT. (A Clay Aiken song by the by.)

THIS. IS. THE. AUDIENCE. (Impressive pull back, lights up, to show the sardine tinned Kodak Theater)

THIS. IS AMERICAN. IDOL. (Twinge of sadness that we will only hear that one more time till next year. Small twinge, mind you...)

The doors opened to reveal Ryan (no dandelion head tonight) in a dark pinstripe suit, dress shirt, and amber tie – completely fitting for the venue. Although, I must say, I kind of miss the ironic Tshirts and JEANS of past seasons – at least in the early stages of the competition. In prior seasons he looked hip, fresh from work at Google - this season he always looked like he just came from a job interview at IBM.

He introduced the evening as "another battle of the sexes" a la Justin & Kelly, Bo & Carrie, and Taylor & Kat.

Ahhhh, Justin Guarini. A cautionary tale if ever there was one. Remember way back when the earth was new and people actually chanted his name? His hair was famous long before Sanjaya worked his follicules into a frenzy. But the bottom line was this – the kid couldn’t really sing, especially not next to Kelly Clarkson. So it will be interesting to see how many Blaker Girls actually remain loyal if their boy doesn’t bring home the title. (Quite frankly – even if he does.)

But I digress, and it is way too early in this recap for that...

Ryan intro’d the judges – Randy, tonight dressed as the lead singer for Sargeant Pepper’s Lonely Dawg Pound Band – seriously, what in the hell was he wearing? Chains? Epaulets? Shiny military brass?

Paula was dressed as either a French Maid or a Bulldog in her frilly white collar. And while there was some extra make-up in attendance, the nose did not look too bad at all. Then again, I was thrown off by the insane amount of hair with which she was groomed and festooned. I do believe she won Best In Show.

Simon dressed for the Kodak in a black jacket, dress shirt, and enough chest hair to carpet my living room. Not that I would carpet my living room with chest hair. I mean, come on. That is so, like, 70’s-porn-movie.

Ryan opened up some banter with Paula about the fall, her dog, and the subsequent nose injury, but it was only so he could drop the line, "So, the bitch is OK?"

The crowd booed.

Look, there are bad jokes as in oh-that-stinks-it-was-so-easy-I-can’t-believe-I-fell-for-it. And then there are jokes that are just bad, as in that-really-crossed-the-line-and-all-so-he-could-throw-a-double-entendre-with-the-word-bitch.

I’m not a prude, but that was so totally low rent on Ryan’s part it must live under the freeway in a cardboard box.

He then gave a brief mention of the winners of the Songwriting Contest being from Seattle, which segued perfectly into a video montage of the auditions from the Emerald City – the place our two finalists first showed America what they had.

Blake "had" a really bad green shirt, three inch spiked hair, and a white How-many-pounds-of-rump-roast-would-you-like-today-Mrs.-Johnson?-We-have-a special-on-chicken breasts too jacket. Oh, and he could beatbox. Whoa. Loved Randy’s voice over that Blake "Beat the odds by stepping out of the box."  Tricky wordplay Deputy Dawg.

For her part, Jordin had the judges from the first step she took into the audition room. They all loved her and lauded in a voiceover her, "infectious smile and consistent performances".

AFTER. THE. FIRST. BREAK. we got to see a replay of the coin toss which took place last week after the show. A coin with Blake’s face on one side, Jordin’s on the other – the one whose face was up when it landed got to pick singing order for tonight.

Blake won the toss, and asked Jordin if she wanted to go first. Now, Blake has admitted to never really having watched the show, much less a finale, but Jordin has majored in Advanced American Idol: Strategies To Success. She did not want to sing first, so Blake took the "honors" for himself.

Ryan explained that they would be performing three songs a piece: Their personal favorite, one they have not sung before on the show, and the new song, This Is My Now.

Their favorite.

Crap.

Yes, "crap" was my reaction because I knew it meant they would be pulling something out they had already had success with on the show. "Crap" because, as I said about Jordin re-singing I (Who Have Nothing) last week, you simply cannot catch lightning in a bottle. We viewers remember the good performances, the ones that made our hair stand up, the ones that made us YouTube them to death the next day. They don’t need regurgitated.  It just cheapens the initial magic.

But Blake felt the need to hork, so we got to watch him spit up Bon Jovi’s You Give Love A Bad Name – the performance which truly polarized the viewers weeks back – you either got swayed into his camp by the unique take on the song, or you were an old school purist and watching him dick with the song to such a degree turned you completely off to anything he would do in the future.

He and his plaid pants took the stage, pretended to be a jukebox, and then, I swear to you, if anyone out there was really playing the Blake Drinking Game, they were drunk by the end of the first minute. You would have consumed 9 shots – the number of times he looked back over his shoulder in 60 seconds alone.

The song moved on and it really was anticlimactic – he had his moment with this song. And it worked for him back then because it was such a surprise, such a risk. No, I did not like it then, or now, but I gave him credit for having some mighty large teabags in those grandpa pants of his.

Tonight his voice sounded strained, far away, overshadowed by the drums, the backup singers, everything. The only time he sounded strong was when he wasn’t singing, but beatboxing.

The only true singing that sounded good was the very last line when he calmed down and just looked into the camera.

Colonel Yo said "Here’s the deal. A 10 out of 10 on beatboxing, but the singing was just aiight."; Fifi LaFrouFrou yapped endlessly that Blake "outdid" himself, that he was "far superior" than when they were performing back at the CBS studio, and then said, "I wish I could give you more than a 10. So, 10+, 10+, 10+!"; Simon stated that Blake is "not the best singer in the competition" but is "the best performer." He said Blake’s "energy was amazing" but that the "singing was a bit flat".

That didn’t sit well with Curious George and Joan Crawford.

Jordin then took the stage with a total surprise – Christina Aguilera’s Fighter – a ramped up, hard edged, unexpected performance. Admit it, like me you were expecting another prom dress, another ballad...

Instead what we got was Jordin strutting down the ramp with Matlida, dressed in dark pants, heels, and a black fading to green tunic, her hair straightened from its usual angry curls.

She landed at center stage and chose to stay there the entire song, which was probably the right choice for her, but not so much for the song. Jordin has not been comfortable moving around too much on stage in the past, but this song cried out for full romp time.

No matter, her singing was the focus. And she totally blew the whole "Don’t sing a Whitney. Don’t sing a Celine or Mariah, or Xtina" thing out of the water. She has the pipes to do justice to the original and plant a flag firmly in her version.

And halfway through, I found myself going Blake who? This was a great challenge to him, essentially calling out his inability to keep up vocally.

Corporal Aiight said that while she was not "the greatest entertainer", her "voice was stellar, amazing."; Paula simply echoed her commanding officer with "stellar"; Simon chose to work the vote, and went harder on her with "great you chose a younger song cause you’re only 17."

What!?? Hold up there! She’s only HOW old?!? Nooooooooo waaaaaaaaaay.

Sorry, but can we beat this factoid to death any further? Simon ultimately handed Round 1 to Blake. Paula babbled it was an "amazing tie"; Randy gave "performance" to Blake, "singing" to Jordin.

Coming back from the break, Blake was up singing Maroon 5’s best known hit, She Will Be Loved. The intro featured Blake in home video as a little boy – all very sweet – he has always been a cute kid (current skunk stripes not withstanding) – and the voiceover indicated that he always wanted, but never got, a drum set. No matter, he taught himself to beatbox when he was in high school, and the rest, as they say, is HIStory.

Long Duk Dong was sitting on the stage steps, dressed again in a matching sweater and tennis shoes – this time green, rather than red. On his sweater were some buttons – I think one read, "The Donger Need Food" and the other "Oh Sexy Girlfriend".

Sorry, obscure 80’s movie reference again.

Blake’s beginning was actually solid and I thought he had a shot with this song. Then he skidded into the chorus and repeatedly wiped out when he hit the falsetto on the word "will". It was so strained, so offkey, and completely unable to compete with the far too recent memory of the original.

Towards the end, he again hit "WiIiiIIilLlL", slid completely off the vocal tracks – and you could clearly see it register on his face.

The problem is that the crowd adores Blake as do his many, many television land fans. Vocals be damned. And that is fine. This finale really comes down to one thing – what flavor ice cream do you like?

Tutti fruitti being Blake with all his quirks, horks, boyish charm, and clicks, or Jordin – straight up vanilla – ok, ok – she’s better than that – French Vanilla with sprinkles. This is not a finale about vocals – it is a finale about personal taste.

General Da Bomb decreed it was a "great song" and a "very nice vocal"; Paula spoke of him getting into "the ease of the song" – um, ok; Simon said "It was good. It was safe" but that the song didn’t "make that much of an impact" in the finale.

Jordin got her chance to spit up a song from weeks past with the Martina McBride hit A Broken Wing. Now, I know people still rave about this one, but it doesn’t stand out in memory nearly so clear as her first run at I (Who Have Nothing) so I was ready to give it another try.

Sitting on a stool on the darkened stage, Jordin had apparently run out of time while backstage and had to come out wearing the hairdresser’s smock over her JEANS. (Yes, I realize it was a kimono style tunic, complete with satin cranes and broken wings under her armpit, but it looked like what gets strapped around my neck when I get a trim.) Completing her "look" was a belt from the Pirates of the Caribbean Golden Seaweed Collection – nice product placement guys!

I did enjoy the song, although her voice did seem a tad strained in the middle. But then who can really remember the middle when the finish is such a homerun?

Private Pitchy said he’s loved her "since Day 1 in Seattle" and that he still believes she is "the most talented 17 year old singer" he’s "ever seen".

Whoa. You mean SHE’S. ONLY. 17?!?

He finished with "you can blow – that was flawless, unbelievable" and (look out Martina) "better than the original"; Paula, who must certainly have been on pain meds, cobbled together, "You look adorable, but you are in great vocal voice tonight."

No one stare at the impaired lady – it’s not polite. Just look down at your shoes and maybe she’ll go away...

Simon kept it simple with "Now THAT was good."

I have to give Jordin credit for something here – she began doing the whole sign language hand origami thing when Ryan gave her phone numbers, but caught herself and put her hands behind her back.

Another break brought us back to Ryan and a quick introduction to the winning writers of the song contest, Scott Krippayne and Jeff Peabody of Seattle. (Just an FYI – the twenty finalists in the contest were actually comprised of serious songwriters, musicians, singers, performers, and composers – not 13 year olds with keyboards as some had worried.)

As the music started, Blake was sitting in the screensaver, decked out in another outfit from the Grown Up Garanimals line – this time a shiny teal short sleeved shirt, sweater vest, more of his homemade britches, and gold and black tennis shoes – seriously these were so far out there, even Turtle on Entourage – a tennis shoe freak - wouldn’t touch them.

He sang the words, which is about all I can say for him. He was so not into it, obviously resented being made to warble such saccharine pap, and halfway through decided he needed to do something, so he started bouncing up and down a lot.

Sorry Blake, it was a ballad – bouncing does not apply.

On the bridge, he was completely drowned out by the backup singers and then towards the end he slid right off into the ditch again on the words "ready for more" - don’t believe me? Rewind it or catch it on YouTube in the morning. He looks so uncomfortable that the title should have been This Is My OW.

If Blake’s intention was to come in second and avoid the albatross of the title, all I can add to his "This is my now" is "Yeah and your NOW sucked".

Lieutenant Listenup said "I’m sure this is not your kind of song ... but you did a pretty good job. It wasn’t great. It was just aiight."; Paula blathered "You were in great voice. You did a great job."

Come on. Is she playing the drinking game too?

Simon said it "was all a bit odd" and that Blake "looked a bit frustrated" He added that it "was not a bad song, but not the type of song" Blake would normally sing. He then completely lost my respect with "I think we have to judge you primarily on your first and second performances."

WHY?

Why give him a "bye" because he blew it? Gina had to sing country. Melinda tackled rock. And reaching back into the annals of AI history, Clay Aiken got completely screwed with the producer’s song choice of Vincent – Vincent - the ode to the ear chopping artist – and he was expected to sing it with all his heart and talent. And Taylor? Good lord, does anyone really believe he was thrilled to be saddled with the treacly Do I Make You Proud? But he gave it his all - delivering, not just phoning in a performance. Why then is Blake suddenly granted leniency based on the song not being his personal taste?

One last break brought us back to Ryan reminding us one last time that Jordin is ONLY 17. (I still don’t know how or why or to what this information was ever supposed to be germane.)

Standing at center stage in a black dress with a chiffon halter overlay, heels, and more gold earrings from the P.O.C. collection, Jordin began singing, and let’s all be honest here – the song was chosen for HER, not for Blake.

She embraced the lyrics in a way he could never hope to, in fact, it was so painfully obvious that this is what we should hear on the radio in a month, that it struck me, momentarily, as unfair to young Blake.

But then she kept singing and I couldn’t have cared less – it was beautiful, and when she hit the "money note"? That’s the note that deserves a confetti shower and stage flares Wednesday night. Not to mention that she actually was moved by what she was singing, as opposed to Blake who was visibly annoyed.

She began to tear up at the end and while I know it was like sand in a nether orifice to some of you, I thought it was sweet.

Lance Corporal Uworkeditout (Scandahoovian) went for the hyperbole, calling American Idol "the best singing competition in the history of television" and stating that Jordin "was the best singer tonight", she "deserves it all" and "that was FIRE!"

The cameraman then totally screwed the wonder of the moment by allowing Smarmoulis to grease up my screen.

Paula was reduced to "sunshine, kittens, butterflies, you make me proud, marshmallows, down comforters, you are an angel, cashmere."

While Simon said that "Last week, I didn’t think you were good enough to make the finals. I want to say to you publicly now – I was wrong. Because this IS a singing competition and you just wiped the floor with Blake.

Blake who?

If singing is truly the object, truly the barometer by which we choose an Idol each year, Blake did not even come close. And not just compared to Jordin. Line him up against Carrie, Fantasia, Kelly – heck, even second placer Clay – he simply cannot hold a vocal candle to the power they bring to the microphone.

But then someone out there has to be buying all the Tutti Fruiti or they would have stopped making it ages ago, right?

The show wound down with a special appearance of Chris and his band, Daughtry, singing what has been the elimination song this season, Home. They sounded great, Chris was even better than I remember, and it was cool watching him play the guitar too, but what was with the Rocky Horror Picture Show eye make-up?

Someone smack the make-up crew – that was just embarrassing.

And that’s it for our final showdown. While I have been typing, I have been trying to call in and vote, but every line is busy, even three hours in. Oops, wait – just got one through.

So tell me, did you vote? Did you text? Did you burn out your redial button? Or do you just accept that they both will walk away with the same recording contracts and don’t need any help from the masses until the CDs drop?

Make your predictions – will Jordin be covered in confetti or will Blake, despite his less-than-stellar showing manage to rally the Blaker Girls and stage a coup?

Commenting On The Comments

Last evening, after watching the comment section blaze like a California wildfire all day over Iraq, politics, etc, I made the decision to temporarily turn off the commenting feature.

I also took the extra step of blocking someone’s ability to comment anymore.

This morning I woke to many emails questioning why I had taken the step, and even some from people hoping they, and their words, had not been the impetus for the action.

To those who emailed me privately, I have explained the situation and assured you that your comments did not spur the action.

But for anyone else who is curious, I’d like to go on the record as to why I finally stepped in.

First and foremost, I value everyone’s opinions. I don’t write with an eye to having everyone agree with me. In fact, I am most pleased when something I write opens a dialogue, a debate. 

I like watching readers "talk" to one another. I enjoy chiming in. I like hearing what life experiences have formed the views people have about the world around them.

What I most appreciate is that the people who comment here are articulate, thoughtful, civil, and respectful of one another. As opposed to the majority of boards which exist in cyberspace, this one tends to stay on topic, posters use complete sentences, and the board does not devolve into name calling, excess profanity, or disrespect.

Whether the topic du jour is Blake vs Jordin, Will It Blend? (Blake more easily than Jordin, I think), or the world stage, I really take pride in having such thoughtful dialogue between readers. And that, 99.9% of the time, even those who disagree, can agree to disagree, knowing that their stand is not threatened by someone who views the world differently.

But there is that .1% of the time that someone decides everyone else is a "moron" and the comments become derisive, abusive, off topic, and personal.

As was the case last evening.

I do not take blocking people lightly. But I also own this blog and do not intend to stand by and allow individuals to bash other readers.

(And NO, my decision has nothing to do with the subject matter being the Iraq war - people NEED to discuss, intelligently debate, and share their views on this - we all have so very much at stake.)

To anyone who was personally attacked yesterday, who came away offended, I offer my apologies for not stepping in sooner than I did.

To anyone who disagrees with my decision, that is your prerogative. And if your choice is to not come back, I respect your decision. Just understand, I made mine based on the thousands of readers who come here daily for fun, some quirky news, a bit of ranting, and a place where they can respectfully share their views with others around the globe.

The keyword being respectfully.

And as I have written so many times before, you cannot expect someone to respect your opinion if you are not prepared to offer them the same courtesy in return.

So, to the person I have blocked? If my having that outlook makes me a "hypocritical, shallow, spoiled bitch", then so be it.

I’ll wear the title proudly. And encourage you to find your entertainment elsewhere.

Postscript:  I have deleted all the comments from everyone on The Stone Age.  Please don't take it personally.  I would be happy to see a dialogue started again, without the interrruption of a certain person.

Fat Chance

I am often asked how I decide what it is I am going to write about in this blog on any given day.

Is it based on reader suggestions?  Most popular topic on the front pages?

While I certainly cannot write on every topic that I receive via my inbox (but keep them coming anyway), and I tend to shy away from topics that just seem overly exposed in the media, topics in Don’t Get Me Started sometimes do have their genesis in email or the NYTimes.

But regardless of where the subject matter originates, it has to do one important thing before I can write about it. It has to push what my family knows as my “don’t get me started” button (yes, that’s where the blog title comes from), thus triggering a rant in which, at this point in their lives, they often just walk out of the room, leaving me to finish my tirade by lecturing the toaster or microwave.

You see, writing the blog pieces are actually easier for me than assignment work. I imagine most writers would tell you that.  Sure, I am happy to wax rhapsodic about American Idol (I’m a fan) or write 1,000 words for a cooking magazine on the renewed popularity of meatloaf (I’m not kidding – I’m a word whore – I’ll write about anything and happily cash the check).

But the blog represents freedom – freedom to rant, freedom to explore, freedom to indulge my Don’t Get Me Started jones.

Which brings me to the topic du jour. Fat.

Fat children specifically.

The news thundered across the televisions and websites last week that a recent study was laying the rise in childhood obesity at the high heeled feet of today’s working mothers.

The paper, "Maternal Employment and Childhood Obesity," makes a strong case: The rise in childhood obesity has directly coincided with a rise in maternal employment, with data suggesting that the number of hours a mother works per week directly impacts the likelihood that her child/ren will be overweight.

OK, so yes, that study did catch my eye.  And as my poor husband can attest, it triggered the DGMS response, thus ruining his enjoyment of his Saturday morning coffee and newspaper.

As I told him, it would seem to me that when women began working outside the home, something far more telling took place that could be to blame equally as much as Mom not being there to swab the meatloaf with ketchup (still the best part of any meatloafian experience, mind you): Fathers didn’t step up and take on some of the responsibility for the kids, rather choosing to continue their Ward Cleavering in the Barca Lounger leaving an exhausted June to iron Ward's pants, de-skidmarkify Wally and Beav’s Fruit of the Looms, and bake three dozen cookies for the school fundraiser.

In all seriousness, I disregard the study on several fronts – the one I just mentioned, because men all too often do NOT step up to the plate where the kids are concerned (and no, I do not need an inbox full of “You are a man basher” emails – I know not ALL men are like this – some are unfortunate enough to be married to a woman like me who would burn them out of the La-z-boy were they to dare to languish, and who would break off her foot in their ass if they did not share the duties equally.).

And I write it off because the most basic reason kids are getting fat is because they sit on their ever widening asses for too many hours a day.  The advent of the video game, 24 hour cartoon networks, IMing, MySpacing, etc – non of which elevate the heartrate.  (I take that back – if you ever see your teen type the letters POS – Parent Over Shoulder - in an IM box as you enter the room, know that their pulse just racheted up a tad.)

There is less physical education in the schools – sad commentary on the situation is the Florida bill signed into law last week requiring kids get PE daily – wasn’t that a given when you and I were in school?  We did sit-ups, ran around the gym, played Dodgeball, Kickball, attempted to climb that damned rope hanging from the ceiling and do a single pull up.

But now our kids are so overweight that we need a law insuring they get some activity daily.

Seems like the parents need to step up, cut the cords that connect their kid to the rectangular nanny, and get the entire family moving. I say entire family because those chubby little apples don’t fall far from the big round tree trunks.

But back to the study blaming working moms – interestingly, there was a study done in Australia that completely reverses the blame, laying it all at the feet of the lazy boy in the La-Z-boy – the fathers.

A study of almost 5,000 youngsters revealed that fathers who are not truly involved in the parenting and who do not set clear limits for their kids are more likely to have heavier children, according to the Australian Associated Press.

And with childhood obesity growing in Australia, with more than 20 percent of preschool children either overweight or obese, they are studying the data just as much as are we Americans.

The thing is - all the studies in the world, and all the grant money laid out to fund these surveys won’t change one simple fact – regardless of who the data wishes to blame, we all just need to get off our lazy asses, stay out of the drive thrus and EAT LESS & CHEW MORE!

Now – interestingly – all of this concern over chubby children is in direct contrast to the mindset of the people of Mauritania, who purposefully fatten up their female children, and who revere adult obesity.

That’s right.  Fat – rolls of it, globs of it – is prized in this place where a full quarter of the 1.5 million women are obese and where they force feed daughters in an effort to increase their trunk junk and make them more appealing.

I’m not making this up – although in a country where we prize the teensy circumference of Paris Hilton’s thighs, you would think that there is a punchline coming.

Much like the process of force feeding geese to obtain quality fois gras, parents turn to abusive behaviors if their child refuses to eat more or vomits up the gross amounts they have been forced to ingest.

Take the example of Mey Mint, who is now 50, and wheezes from the exertion of simply climbing a few steps.  When she was 4 years old, her family began to force her to drink upwards of 14 gallons of camel milk daily.  When she vomited, as was often the case, she would be beaten, or her fingers bent back until they touched the back of her hand. She says she used to pray that all the animals would die so that there would be no more milk.

While Mint is now an adult, the practice and mindset that fat is beautiful continues today with children still routinely being force fed, and women, who believe themselves to be too thin (200 pounds +) paying for pills which increase their appetites.

As I said, a full quarter of the woman are classified as obese, which is less than the United States average of 40% of women, but factor in that Mauritania (twice the size of Texas) has not a single fast food establishment. Just think how fat and happy they could be were McDonald’s and Arby’s to set up shop.

My point is this – fat is in the eye of the beholder. Here in the States, we revere stick thin, waiflike images, commissioning study after study to explain why we, and our children, are overweight. Yet in other parts of the world, all this extra poundage would make us good marriage material, treated better by our families, hell, to hear men tell it in Mauritania – sexier.

Do I personally think fat is phat? No, I do not.

Overweight people, regardless of age, face an endless list of medical concerns, diminished life expectancy, hell, diminished life quality.  An overweight child cannot participate with their peers in physical activities, and don’t tell me that the people I see waddling through the Walmart with a cart full of Cheese Nips, Hungry Man meals, and Ding Dongs are happy. They look miserable.

Working moms, SAHMs, dads, caretakers.  It all comes down to personal choice. 

Is it easier to unwrap the Hostess than to walk a couple miles after dinner? Of course it is.  Would you rather lift a spoonful of Chunky Munky than a free weight?  Who wouldn’t? But we should all do it. The pay off is worth the effort.

You will be happier.  You will be healthier.  And by extension and example, so will your children.

Unless, of course, you like the idea of fat being phat and think moving to Mauritania sounds like a pretty sweet deal - in which case ... oh hell ... Don't Get Me Started.