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Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton are participating in a one on one debate RIGHT NOW on CNN. This is an excellent opportunity to contrast and compare these two history making candidates.
I'm sure they will replay it later too, so check it out if you can.
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fMickey may lay claim to The Magic Kingdom, but it is Miami, Florida which holds the title of The Magic City.
And oh, how I desperately wish it holds up to that moniker tonight.
From the comments on the blog, to the articles throughout the entertainment galaxy, to the mail in my inbox – the consensus seems to be: American Idol Audition Rounds, Season 7 – Better than a Xanax drip with a Halcion chaser.
Seriously, take two episodes and fall asleep fast. Hell, even that damned Lunesta butterfly is feeling threatened, and the minds at Pfizer are scrambling to come up with a pill form of Season 7 to treat insomnia.
Surely Miami – home to an eclectic mix of backgrounds, cultures, history, and passion should be able to offer something in the way of the eye opening? The snort worthy? The talented?
I’ve been there – I know there are beautiful people to spare. I know that the music is vibrant and alive. And I also know that a city whose square mileage is 35.68, but which holds over 2.5 million people has to be hiding some Bird Cage worthy auditioners. Give me a Nathan Lane in stockings. A Robin Williams doing Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Martha Graham...
On a separate note, I have to bring up the fact that the great minds at Victoria’s Secret have released their What Is Sexy? list for 2008, and on it, sits Ryan Seacrest.
"What's sexy about (Seacrest) is he doesn't act like he is," Victoria's Secret spokeswoman Monica Mitro said. "We felt that his smile was quite sexy -- in a very subtle and innocent and humble way."
He doesn’t act like he is? And did she use the word "humble"? Oh no she di’ent. Allow me to indulge my inner 14 year old: OMG!
If ever there was a self satisfied, surely-his-home-is-wall-to-wall-mirrors individual, it has to be Seacrest. His preening and cocky demeanor are like an IV full of buckshot.
Methinks Victoria needs to stick to making underwear out of diamonds, and coming up with new ways to inflate my bra.
But back to Miami, home to some truly sexy individuals – let’s hope a few of them actually show up...
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With a cheesy Miami Vice graphic opening the show, shots of the beach, scantily clad women, and the theme song to Don Johnson’s heydey, all we really needed to reach Velveeta critical mass would have been Ryan showing up in a pastel suit, t-shirt, and shoes with no socks.
No such luck. Or maybe ... all sorts of luck?
With over 10,000 turning out in the Miami sunshine, a Gloria Estefan soundtrack blaring in the stadium, and a rhythm that was definitely gonna get someone, we got underway...
The judges arrived – Paula in full Bratz regalia – smuggling a couple kilos of extra hair on her head, an off-the-shoulder leopard dress (shirt? Drirt? Shess? Whatev - It was SHORT), and red FM pumps to match her red FM belt – even Simon commented, "That’s a very short dress, uh, Paula," as she attempted to sit down in her chair without taking us all on a personal tour of ... ahem ... Brazil.
Keep your legs closed, Paula.
First in the audition room, Shannon McGough, 18, a brightly clad young lady – spangled black beret, leggings, a blue dress covered by a green tunic, cinched by a hot pink belt that matched her hot pink shoes (She looked like Wet Seal had exploded happiness all over her.) – we got to take a tour of her parents' meat shop, where she works.
As the screen filled with shots of ground beef being extruded, stew meat being cut, and all manner of blood red flesh – I could almost hear the television sets being switched off across the land. I do believe AI just alienated every vegetarian in the country.
As if the slaughterhouse effect was not enough, we got treated to Shannon’s special talent – belching. You know, I like a good burp now and again myself, but on national TV? I think that’s a predilection, like Paul’s bare feet last season, that’s best kept under wraps.
Shannon is excited to be auditioning and states, "I would definitely not be devastated by not working with bloody meat anymore."
I don’t know, Shannon. Hollywood Week is pretty cutthroat. Think Sweeney Todd without the reclining barber chair...
Loved Simon’s thinly veiled attempt at potty humor as she walked in. Looking at her sheet, he said, "You handle meat?"
Here, give me your hand. I’ll pull you up out of that gutter.
She launched into one of the most screamching auditions in recent memory – Janis Joplin’s Cry Baby. Honestly, it was so bad, so painful, you would have thought she was being extruded through a meat grinder.
Simon cuts her off and states that it was like "the Hungarian Janis Joplin – I couldn’t understand a word of it."
Undaunted – after all she has won all manner of south Florida singing contests – she ignores Simon and begins to sing again.
He again cuts her off and the judges attempt to explain to her just what is wrong:
Simon: "It sounds like you’re eating when you sing." (Yes, eating her own tongue.)
Paula: "There were melody problems." (Like there was none?)
Randy: NO (just NO)
Next, Ryan – all studded up in his black t-shirt emblazoned with a skull and crossbones (the epitome of humble sex appeal) introduces a former boy band wannabe turned rocker, Robbie Carrico, 25.
Robbie is scruffy (in a sexy kind of way – take notes, Ryan), has long hair under a knit cap, and is wearing JEANS and a blazer. Nice looking kid.
Oh, he can sing too. Not that Paula heard anything – I’m fairly certain all sound was blocked out by the rushing of blood through her ears and various other body parts. She was clearly in lust.
Simon gave him a "quite good"; Randy called him "kinda cool"; Paula managed to choke out "Yeah". Robbie, watch your back, front, sides, top, bottom in Hollywood. Two words for you: COREY CLARK.
Robbie exited to a shower of poppers and silly string from his entourage of nine people. (Again, keep that in mind when you hear Ryan brag about 10,000 folks turning out in these cities.)
After the first break, we were treated to a string of lousy male singers, highlighted by Pan the Goat Man blowing on his pipes, his lower goat half covered by a serape; a dude who was getting goosed during his audition – how else to explain his ability to hit such a high, long note?; and a guy whose main talent seemed to be playing the harmonica without ... a harmonica.
Next!
Enter Latin sex in the form of Ghaleb Emachan, 27, a musician, with dark, swarthy good looks, curly black hair, a seductive smile, and an accent sure to make Paula slide out of her chair.
Stating, "I do what I do with passion." – he completely backed up the image of the "Latin lover".
Singing You Sang To Me, Paula literally had flames shooting out of her eyes.
He actually has a really nice sound, albeit a tad hard to understand beneath the very present accent.
Paula pointed out said accent, but said he had "a very good voice"; Simon rambled on that he would like him "if I was drunk"; and Randy just gave the guy a YES.
As they debated, Paula began to channel Britney Spears, wandering around going "La la la la la la" and then ambled around the table to dry hump Ghaleb.
I guess Robbie can breathe easier in Hollywood now.
Loved Simon holding up her Coke tumbler and saying, "We need someone to check this cup." Ya think?
Well, all things being equal in Idol Land, it was time for Randy and Simon to get some lovin’ too.
Meet Corliss Smith and Brittany Westcott, two women who can best be described as "tons of fun".
Yes, they were big girls, but they had even bigger personalities. The kind of folks who could turn a trip through a sewer into one of the best times of your life. (That’s a compliment.)
In the audition room (yes, they were breaking the Thou shalt not audition in ark-like fashion – twoeth by twoeth.), they waxed crapsodic about loving Ryan, needing men, and then set their sights on the two behind the table.
Honestly? At this point I had visions of the Titanic sinking. The Hindenburg erupting in flames. The Minnesota bridge collapse. Something bad was about to happen – I just knew it.
And then Corliss began to sing I’m Alive to Randy and completely blew the doors off. What a smooth, rich, WONDERFUL voice. No iceberg! In fact, Hollywood, right ahead!
Then it was Brittany’s turn and she sang to Simon. I was blown away – she was awesome too. Go figure – after bitching about being bored, American Idol actually managed to surprise me tonight!
(Small aside – what in THE hell was Randy wearing on his feet? RED? Patent leather? It made me flash to visions of Long Duk Dong...if Long Duk Dong were a pimp.)
Needless to say, the best friends both got Golden Tickets and then rushed the table to get and give some love to the judges.
I LOVE THEM TOO.
Another break brought us back to the Fantasia Soap Opera of the evening – that of Suzanne Toon (there’s a music industry name for you). Her story? Pregnant at 18, baby at 19, father ditched her and baby, she is now a single mom to an adorable little girl named Madison.
Like the other single moms we have met, she spoke of Idol in terms of being able to provide better for her child. Look, I am not heartless – but enough with the emotional blackmail, ok? I just want to hear them sing.
Suzanne is a pretty girl, with curly blond hair, but a penchant for Paula worthy cleavage. At times it looked like the only thing holding her black top in place was the gaudy gold belt.
Singing I Can’t Make You Love Me, she has a voice that is rich, full of passion, clean – she really sounded great.
Simon said "You become more attractive when you sing." I do believe that’s about the snarkiest he has been this season; Randy warned her to watch the pitchy spots, and all three gave her Yeses. Good for her. But good enough to make it through Holywood? That remains to be seen.
Then came the sloppiest segue – suddenly Jasmine Treas’s face filled the screen, and a voiceover of her "success" - a platinum album in the Phillipines played.
Anyone else get visual whiplash? I was sitting there going, "Huh? Did someone in her family sneak this clip in?"
Then they intro’d Ramiele Malubay, 19, and it made sense – at least around the edges. Ramiele is Filipino too. Ahhhhhhhh....
Ramiele is, to quote all three judges, "adorable", because she is small. You would have thought she was a tiny bunny the way they fawned.
Being vertically challenged myself, I was thrilled when she opened her mouth and blew them away with her HUGE voice. She may have the stature of Thumper, but she has the vocal cords of King Kong.
Her rendition of Natural Woman was amazing. And even though Simon tried to act the ape and throw poo on her performance, Paula and Randy called her "phenomenal" and sent her through.
Day Two dawned with the judges back at it – Randy having just gotten out of rehearsal with his mariachi band – come on, what in the hell was that purple, flowered shirt? – Paula wearing a slightly more demure dress – demure meaning it had sleeves, not any more length, but sleeves. Simon rolled in in what he rolled out in the day before – a gray shirt and JEANS.
First up was Syesha Mercado, 21, with another trumped up sob story. Look, I think it’s great that her father has graduated from an addiction program – that takes effort, fortitude, focus, and courage – but is it really germaine to a girl who shines so brightly and admits she is in "the happiest place in my life".
And how uncomfortable was the producer forced "moment" her father was subjected to performing with her for the cameras? Sweet? I guess. In a fake sugar-Splenda kind of way.
In the audition room, she sounded as stunning as she looked. Also taking on Aretha – Think Freedom – her voice soared, was controlled – well, at least till she got the vocal trots there at the end. Talk about the runs...
Randy declared she was "one of the best we have seen in Florida", and all three gave her the golden thumbs up.
Yes, Dad was proud.
No backstory for Natashia Blach, or Ilsy Lorena Pinot (who Simon literally ate with his eyes – Tivo back, I swear you’ll see bite marks on the poor girl), but no matter – they got what they came for and will move on to the next round.
Not so for the next group of rejects:
Ben Hausbach in his leather (pleather?) jacket
Carroy Bethea, who had Don King’s hairstyle – you know the one that always looks like you’re falling off a roof? – and the Wicked Stepsisters’ vocal prowess.
Grant Rhea (middle name Dia?) who got his finger lodged in his ear.
And Fabienne Hyppolite who also crammed her digit in her canal, and sounded like Rosario on Will and Grace.
Richard Valles, 19, attempted to break the losing streak, singing God Bless The Broken Road – or was it God Bless My Broken Nose? Talk about nasal.
And then there was a slight glimmer of hope. Julie Dubela, formerly of American Juniors ( a show I once wrote of as whoring out the preteen set) showed up ready to prove herself as a viable Idol contestant now that she is 16.
Full of confidence, dressed like a fruit salad (yellow crocheted dress over a pink mini, with yellow flip flops), she launched into Me and Bobbie McGee.
She was everywhere – acting out every note, taking every note on a field trip up and down the scale, overselling herself to the judges.
Simon stopped her and asked, "Have you ever been called precocious?" She had no clue what that meant, which made the moment that much more delicious for the viewer who is smarter than a fifth grader.
He then told her to "drop the acting" and said that her performance was "over rehearsed". All three judges told her No, that she wasn’t ready, and that just added fuel to the precocious brat fire.
She started to sing again.
Simon again stopped her and told her to "go to LA and become an actress."
They all told her it simply was "not a good enough audition."
Now, have you ever seen daggers actually fly from someone’s head as it spins around on its axis? It was quite extraordinary.
She became indignant, irate, copped the "you’re all full of shite" ‘tude and stomped out. (One question – I have to ask – was her lip pierced? Was that a wart? Some dried on food? Never mind.)
As she left, the judges could be heard saying, "over indulged" and "no one’s ever said no to her". Given her behavior, I’d say most people in her life are afraid to.
Further endearing her to we viewers, she whined that she had turned down the opportunity to sing at a Red Sox game so she could audition, then she turned her snotty face to the camera and Mean Girled, "Don’t audition for American Idol, don’t watch the show."
SMACK!
Literally, that is what I wrote in my notes. That girl needs a solid one upside the smart mouth.
Oh, and was it just me, or did anyone else think she was better at 12 singing about Rainy Days and Mondays?
Brat.
Finally, it was down to the last "contestant". I put that in parentheses because, like the Angel Pimp before him, he was so obviously a plant. (Truly - I think the ficus tree in my living room could perform better.)
Sliding into the audition room, Brandon Black, 20, spazzed out, yelling something about "7-42! Nobody move!"
He then whipped off his ridiculous wig and threw it to the side, leaving him resplendent (code for: walking wanker) in an oversized white suit, vest, tie, and ball cap – because what looks better with a suit than a ballcap?
That’s cl --- ASS.
He said he was going to sing I’ll Make Love To You for Paula, at which point she actually became offended, "What? Pardon Me?"
I see. A Latin dude warbles for you and your pants slide down your leg, but a misguided youth dedicates some Boyz II Men to you and you’re suddenly a nun? Give me a break. (Remember, we watched Hey Paula! and this dude wasn't behaving any more erratic than you on a normal Monday. I imagine he, too, would simply like yuo to appreciate him for "the gift" he is, Paula.))
He sang a few lines while stripping off his jacket and gyrating his hips. At this point, I was offended. Not by his movements, but by the total theft of my time, and the fact that I felt my brand new contact rip in half in protest.
He then went into a song he had composed especially for the audition, I Am The Next American Idol. And since I know you’ll ask, here are the lyrics he got out before being grabbed by the imaginary big hook:
You see, I don’t think (no shit), I know-oh-oh
That I am THE next American Idol-ol-ol
I know that you
Are wondering why well-ell
Sit back and relax...
Sorry, relaxation has left the building, along with patience, interest, indulgence...
Simon said his audition was "verging on desperation" (aka: STOOPID) and then got up and walked away, quickly followed by Randy who either had had enough too, or had another gig to play with the Ay Carambas at Chi Chi's.
Personally, I find it odd that this asshat made it through to my TV, but Bette Mermler did not...
And that was it for Miami – 17 golden tickets given out to 17 talented folk, lots of tears and PO’d auditioners left drowning in their wake.
Like Julie, who we got to see another shot of yanking her mom’s hand off her shoulder in disgust.
Um, Mrs. Dubela? Would you like me to teach you how to break off your foot in your daughter’s ass? No charge. My treat.
Next week, the show heads to Atlanta where we will see if there are ripe peaches to be found in the talent tree, or just moldy fuzz.
Reminder: I will be out of town next week, but fear not, I will recap those episodes as soon as I return. Don’t worry – I WILL think of you all as I sit in my deck chair and enjoy a beverage or four.
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This one will floor you.
It did me.
Litigation is nothing new. Legal finger pointing in our country has been elevated to an artform. Nothing is anyone’s fault. Personal responsibility is nonexistent. No one is ever willing to spill their coffee anymore and just say, "Ouch. I am a ^%&[email protected] klutz. Maybe I shouldn’t try to drink it, drive, and put on mascara at the same time I’m texting."
Last year we saw the epitome of frivolous, delusional lawsuits when attorney Roy Pearson declared his pants had been lost by his dry cleaners and they therefore owed him 67 MILLION DOLLARS. (Even Dr. Evil laughed at that amount.)
Full of self righteous indignation (and a heaping helping of shit) he refused to back down, even when the pants were recovered. The judge in the case finally took him to the cleaners, ruling for the defendants, and requiring Pearson to pay the court costs of the Korean couple.
An added bonus is that Pearson is still the laughingstock of the legal profession, and a social pariah. Wanker.
But he has nothing on a Spanish asshat named Tomas Delgado.
Tomas was suing a couple for damage to his Audi A-8.
Damage sustained back in 2004 when Tomas STRUCK AND KILLED THEIR TEEN SON ON HIS BICYCLE.
Not even making this up.
This fine upstanding man decided that he deserved to be reimbursed for the damage caused by dragging their son’s body for approximately 347 FEET.
The 17 year old had been riding his bicycle back to a campground where his family was vacationing when Tomas struck him from behind. The police reports put him at doing 70 mph in a 55 mph zone, however, an independent investigator estimated it was more likely 107 mph.
Either way, the child died.
Delgado’s insurance company paid the grieving family $48,500. And a judge ruled that he had committed no criminal act. Um. Ok.
Two years later, imagine the shock of the boy's parents to find they were being sued for $29,400 in damages to the asswipe's car.
I mean, seriously, how dare that boy bend the fender and scratch up the paint on his way out of this life. Little ingrate.
Well, it turns out that the Spanish had as little sympathy or tolerance for his arrogance, self centeredness, and complete lack of a soul, as we US citizens had for old Roy and his golden pants.
He was castigated in the media and ridiculed as people rose up to support the boy’s parents.
But the poor man kept insisting he, too, was a victim, even appearing on TV to plead his case. (Gag)
Yesterday, the judge in the case sided with the family of the young man, throwing out the lawsuit against them. King Asshat was not on hand for the hearing - his lawyer explained to the court that poor Delgado felt that "the extensive publicity amounted to a public lynching."
Nah. In a lynching, the victim ends up dead, Tomas. Kind of like Enaitz Iriondo Trinidad. You remember him, don’t you. He’s the child they peeled off your car.
I swear I wish there was an island where we could send people like Pearson and Delgado. Stainage who have proven they are not fit to be among the decent people of this world.
There really Audi be a law.
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Ahh, Omaha. St. Louis may have the Gateway Arch, but it is Omaha which goes by the moniker: "Gateway To The West".
My question is this: Will the talent found there be a gateway to aural bliss or to the seventh circle of Hell?
It’s well known that you can get a great steak in this town, and when it comes to high tech – Newsweek once put it on the Top Ten lists of electronic havens – but come on. Compared to the glittery coasts and well known bustling metroplexes of this country, Omaha doesn’t exactly spring to mind when you think musical talent. Nashville, LA, New York, of course ... but Omaha? Not quite.
Right?
Well, to those who echoed "Right" (including me before investigating), Omaha actually has a longstanding relationship with the artistic community. The largest urban artists' colony in the world, the Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts, was founded in Omaha in 1981, nurturing performers of all ilk. And the annual Omaha Blues, Jazz, & Gospel Festival celebrates local music along with the Omaha Black Music Hall of Fame.
So is there hope that deep in the heart of this country, far away from the bright lights of Broadway, the flashing bulbs of a paparazzi strewn LA, there might be hiding the next American Idol?
That remains to be seen. Surely we’ll see more auditioners allowed through to the judges simply because they have a good "ridicule factor" – think Angel Pimp. Paula Caulker, er Stalker, the lardish guy who got waxed to be more appealing in his Princess Leia get-up – and probably a few more who have actual industry experience, but who have failed in the past to achieve superstardom.
Look familiar? (Surely you recognize him.) That’s Carla My-VISA-got-me-disqualified Hennessey, who I mentioned last week has had her shot at recording fame via MCA Records.
And according to insiders, the top 24 (who will be revealed next week) include a preponderance of individuals who have already either scored record deals (Maverick Records, J Records, Arista Nashville...one who was nominated for a Grammy for a duet with Alicia Keys smartly dropped out) won televised contests (Star Search, Monique’s Fat Chance, Nashville Star...), or have been on the inside of the industry, only to fail and find themselves back on the outside of the industry.
I honestly do not have a problem with truly talented folks auditioning for this show – the whole idea is to be entertained and launch someone with raw talent into the music stratosphere. But when so many of the finalists come with prior grooming, experience, and savvy – is it really a fair fight for the prize?
Perhaps the producers have loaded the show so as to avoid another Sanjaya debacle? Seriously, we were all entertained, until we all became scared to death he may actually win the damned thing. And I still wake up screaming at night over Kevin Covais and his eerie resemblance to that brainy chicken in the cartoons.
I guess I just fall into the camp of Let’s-Keep-It-Real. Don’t give me regurgitated music industry talent, when I know perfectly well that somewhere in this big country there is another Kelly Clarkson, Clay Aiken, or Carrie Underwood waiting to be discovered and transformed in front of our eyes each week.
That transformation, that finding themselves, that increased confidence which grows week by week is the true key to why we watch this show. It’s a process. One we like to think is in our control.
I’m afraid the producers may have already shot themselves in the foot this season. Or at the very least, have loaded a bullet into the American Idol revolver and are playing a game of Russian Roulette with how this show is received from here on out.
But let’s get to the recap and see just what new ringers – er – contestants advance to Hollywood from Omaha. (And if you’re interested in reading more backstory on many of the possible finalists, CHECK IT OUT.)
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OK, one thing before I get started. My daughters thought you may be interested to know what this recapping process looks like (Please God, tell me you have more interesting things in your life that that...), so here is a picture they took of me tonight.
Thrilling, isn't it?
Recapping involves comfy clothes, a rearranging of my favorite chair, the remote in one hand, a smooth writing pen in the other, and a notebook in my lap. Feel free to now Oooo and Ahhhhh.
Moving on...
Ryan opens the show by talking about the past seven years worth of auditions taking place in the "biggest and busiest cities" - New York, Chicago, Las Vegas, LA...
I suppose this was supposed to be a tactful way of saying, "But tonight, we come to Butt F*ck, in the heartland of these United States."
But to quote Little Miss Sunshine from last week, "Whatev."
Another 10,000+ folks turned out in Omaha, including a rather zaftig young lady (now, I’m being tactful) who sauntered in wearing an "I Beat Anorexia" t-shirt. I laughed. Sue me. No, I don’t think anorexia is funny. I just appreciate a good sight gag. And she certainly gagged my sight. Seriously, I think some dinner dribbled out my tear ducts.
Simon and Randy arrive – Paula’s plane has been delayed – so the proceedings get underway with the two of them. But not before Simon compliments Randy on his latest frames – bright purple – obviously from Prince’s Purple Rain Collection.
First in is Chris Bernheisal, 25, and boy howdy!, he is excited to be here, telling the cameras, "I am so happy, I feel like I could explode and happiness will go flying everywhere."
(Insert muffled sound of my filthy, giggling, gutterbound mind as I think, "Hmmm, I hate it when happiness gets on the sheets...in my hair"...ok, I’ll stop...)
"This is the greatest moment of my life."
At this point, Kendall spoke up, "He’s going to suck, I just know it."
Yes, I agree – get that hind tit ready, please.
Walking into the audition room, Chris has come bearing gifts for the judges – a stuffed dog for the Dawg (how original), a sweatshirt for Simon (because he wears them SO often), and a stuffed cat for Paula (a cat which takes an immediate flying leap courtesy of Simon). Chris also has a mini photo album containing nothing but shots of him and Kelly Clarkson. (I wonder if he exploded happiness all over her?)
Bribery over, he tells them he is there to audition because American Idol is "about giving people a second chance at their dream." (Yes, the final 24 would appear to be bearing out that second chance theory...).
He then choked up because he’s been "waiting for this my whole life."
You’re 25, kid, the show has been on for six years – do the math. I think the product equals SAD.
Breaking two of the larger commandments, If thou hast testicles, thou shalt not singeth a song originally sungeth by someone witheth ovaries, and Thou shalt not singeth a song made incredibly famouseth by another Idol unlesseth thou can singeth the pants off saideth Idol..
He launched into Kelly’s Since U Been Gone, and Kendall could only manage to speak in IM – "OMG" – that’s how bad it was.
It was so bad, so flat, crepes were offended.
And then, he suddenly flung himself at the floor and attempted a handstand while still singing.
I joined Kendall in her IMspeak, adding "WTF?!?" Seriously, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Thankfully, Simon interrupted him, told him, "I like you, love the bribes, but the singing wasn’t good enough."
Oh, ok. Dreams crushed, life shattered, happiness backing up and turning blue. What does he do? Cry? Rant? Beg? Plead?
Um, no. He "auditions" to do the Red Carpet for the finale. And Simon tells him to tell the local Fox affiliate he said YES.
Chris then exploded – happiness drenching everyone in the room. He continued to ejaculate his bliss in the confessional – in fact, it wasn’t a melt down, it was a melt up - he was the happiest reject I have ever seen in seven seasons.
Next up, Jason Rich (careful not to slip in the residual happiness there, Jason), 21, a part-time farmer from Stout, Iowa, population 500. Jason is a good looking kid in a laid back, humble, five o’clock shadow kind of way.
Choosing to sing When You Say Nothing At All (one of my favorite songs off the Knotting Hill soundtrack), he manages to get out the first line, and then ... silence.
Nerves. You can practically hear his blood rushing through his veins and his inner monologue screaming "WTF are the words, you idiot?!?"
He restarted, nailing the first line, and then ... black out.
Deep breath. (Inner monologue: "You big hillbilly cootie, WTF are the words?!?")
He started again, this time managing to make it through the first line, and most of the second before his mental John Deere tipped.over.
Refusing to give in to nerves the size of hay bales, he launched into it again, and somehow managed to keep things on course. And even though he sounded a bit screamchy in parts, he actually has a great voice. He just has a greater case of performance anxiety (he should talk to Chris about curing that)
Randy and Simon both gave him Yeses, but Simon warned him that he would never get a second chance like that again. Either come ready to explode happiness, or keep your vocal impotence at home.
After a break, Paula finally arrived in a casual aqua tunic which matched perfectly the large golden seahorse strung around her neck. You snazzy little sea monkey, you.
I have to ask, was anyone else a little skeeved out by Simon saying, "Paula, come to Simey." when she walked into the room? Oh wait – never mind – I forgot the general consensus was that we are all still waiting our turn for the Simon-goes-down-hard-on-everyone ride.
What followed next was Twinkie filling of the fluffiest order – a crapapalooza called You Forgot The Lyrics! – misfits all, culminating in a cowboy who had OD’d on Prozac. I don’t so much think he had forgotten the lyrics, as he was ready to fall asleep.
Moving on...
Rachael Wicker is a pretty girl, in a buff, don’t-eff-with-me kind of way. And she goes around the holding room challenging all comers to arm wrestling bouts – she has won six championships, you know. She finally takes on Ryan, who I think only agreed so as to show off his big, manly bicep on national TV. Nice, Ryan – we know you work out.
In the audition room, she asks to wrestle Simon, but he declines. Simon obviously works out too, but Simon also has the wisdom to not go near a possible female smackdown in front of the cameras. That just wouldn’t do.
Rachael settles for singing Don’t Tell Me To Stop Loving You, and it turns out her vocal cords are as strong as her arm muscles. She had gorgeous control as she rode the note elevator up and down. I was impressed (and NO, not because she could kick my ass).
Simon actually gave her a No, but he was overthrown by two Yeses from Randy and Paula. Paula, all 100 pounds of her (yes, I know, I should talk) then tried to arm wrestle Rachael, who just about put Paula through the top of the glass table.
Another break and we come back to a shot of a young man who has apparently just sat down on a railroad spike outside the convention center. He is flailing about, thrashing at his guitar, and screaming, "Wooow, ow, ow, ow ,owwwww. Wow, ow, ow, ow, owwwww, Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!" (and not in a good-happiness spewing way)
Well, apparently we have not had enough brazen lady buffness, so we are now treated to Sarah Whitaker, a former professional wrestler who went by the name Lady Morgue. And yes, if you were not watching, I assure you her name fit her appearance.
I’m sorry, but Sara, Lady Morgue, whatever the hell you want to call yourself – you personified the word "fugly". Seriously, you brought it to life, beat it to death, and then skinned it and wore its hide.
Dressed all goth, black head to toe, with a slight bus stop at her cranberry wrapped belly, she had scraggly black hair, and eyebrows the shape of Boomerangs which only served to highlight how Fastey (Pasty Face) she was.
I don’t have Clue One what she attempted to sing, but Simon summed it all up with "You’re just really strange, Sarah."
So it was No from him, No from Randy, and it sounded like Paula squeaked Yes – hard to tell – she was facedown on the table.
Sarah exited, then Ryan stuck his head in to cause trouble. Poor Sarah wasn’t thrilled. Well, neither was I, Ryan, and I would like to know who to see to get those two minutes of my life back.
At Simon’s urging, Smarty Pants Seacrest swaps places with Paula, taking her place behind the table and pondering, "How do I pretend to be overpaid for doing no work."
It’s ok, Ryan. I have every confidence you are well schooled in this area.
Walking into the middle of this round of Dysfunctional Family Feud is Samantha Sidley, 22, who nervously began singing I Don’t Know Why.
She sounded smooth, velvety, albeit in a totally Norah Jones mimic kind of way, but she definitely had control over her vocals.
Of course, Ryan aka Judge Extraordinaire (sorry, but he chaps my ass like a flame three feet high), tells her to work on her self confidence, at which point Paula bursts in and kicks his whiney caboose to the curb.
Paula thinks she can sing just fine, tells her to work on her showmanship, and gives her a Yes which is echoed by Simon and Randy.
Poor Samantha – she should have been excited, but she just seemed completely confused by their antics and wanted out of there.
She took her Golden Ticket and ran.
But her win seemed to turn on the golden faucet as Elizabeth Erkert sang Heard It Through The Grapevine (I was not about to lose my mind, but she did sound fine) and took her ticket home, despite Simon’s misgivings about her performance.
She will be followed to Hollywood by Denise Jackson who sang One Night Only from Dreamgirls; and Michael Sanfilippo who won his ticket on the power of the Stevie Wonder tune, If You Really Love Me. (That remains to be seen Michael – I didn’t see enough of you to decide.)
The cameras then cut to one of the few funny moments of the evening as Elizabeth made her way down the escalator telling everyone, "I can’t wait to get to Hollywood and prove Simon wrong, that I AM America’s next Top Model..."
(Insert sound of crickets chirping)
Actually, insert sound of hysterical laughter as she realized what she said. Hmmm, perhaps a new commandment is in the offing? Thou shalt know which damned reality show thou is auditioningeth for.
Another break and then it was time for the telenovela of the evening. Tonight it’s Angelica Puenta, 19, starring in "I Ran Away From Home Cause My Father Is An Asshat But I Still Love Him Cause He’s A Well Intentioned Asshat Plus My Story Will Get Me More Facetime On American Idol."
Long novela, short: Left home after continually head butting with father, issues with both parents, now lives with Grandma, but still misses overly strict Dad.
Dressed in a simple black top and gray skirt, she started to sing The Power of Love (Celine’s version) and while it wasn’t one to keep Ms. Dion up at night with worry, Angelica does have the power of vocal cords.
Randy and Simon gave her Yeses, but warned her to stop listening to records and work on discovering who SHE is, Paula warned her about her lack of performance skills, but also gave her a Yes.
Ryan, ever ready to intrude, called up Dad on the cell phone and all of America got to hear his pride as he told Angelica that her winning a golden ticket was "bad ass".
My God, that was a Hallmark moment if I ever saw one. Anyone have a Kleenex? Two if you have them – I just found another blop of happiness left over from Chris.
After another break, in which we see that House is again confronting THE. BIGGEST. CASE. OF. THE. SEASON! (Donna from The West Wing has red eyes! Visine, stat!), we return to salute Chris Daughtry, "one of Idol’s biggest success stories".
Look, if ever there was a case to be made for NOT winning this damned show, Chris is it. Much beloved, completely admired during his season, and kicked off way too early, he went on to record his music, his way, and can be heard around the clock across the radio dial. I love his album, it is on every iPod in our house.
But yes, like Bo Bice, he inspired a whole collection of wannabe Rockols (Rocker Idols) who show up each season now – long hair, soul patches, tattoos, tongue rings, ready to molest Matilda the Mikestand if they are just given the chance.
Tonight, it is David Cook, with his red bangs, faux hawk, requisite soul patch, and Blake Lewis argyle vest, who is ready to rock the Idol World.
He begins singing Bon Jovi’s Livin’ On A Prayer and I have to say, Go, David. He sounded great – not too gravelly – more like he had swallowed a handful of sand, not pebbles – and he had good control.
The judges all loved him so look for his red bangs and Cliff Huxtable wardrobe in Hollywood.
Of course, by giving us two good performances in a row, the producers must now make us suffer.
Enter Johnny Escamilla who admits he is "pretty much the weirdest guy you’ll ever meet."
Um, psst, Johnny – I don’t think anyone’s going to disagree with you on that one, what with you bogarting not only Liza Minelli's hairstyle, but her wardrobe, too.
That was some disco ball of a jacket, was it not?
He droned on that he couldn’t really think of a performer to compare himself to, but then hit on James Brown.
That thunderous noise coming from the earth’s crust is the sound of James spinning in his grave...
He enters the audition room and as he begins to talk to the judges, Paula lets out one huge, and hugely amplified, URP. Hiccups. Yes, Paula, drink some more Coke – I always find that carbonated beverages help when my tummy is already horking up air.
Johnny begins to sing Shout! and for a moment – just the first note, mind you – I actually thought the kid was going to sing well. That note was strong, in tune, powerful...
But then he began to sing the rest while flailing about like someone who had just had their genitals hooked up to a car battery on Moment of Truth. I’m not kidding. It looked like someone was tasing a Blues Brother.
No big surprise that Simon, Paula, and Randy declined his kind offer to come to Hollywood.
As they did with the collection of vocal rapists (seriously, my ears felt molested after this) who made up the montage of "Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right – here you and I are, stuck in the middle with them"
I swear, they must just ask people who didn’t make it past the producers, "Hey, you suck, but are you willing to grab ankle for a chance to be on American Idol?"
After the horned Heippies (Heidis + Hippies), Tex who finally got some lyrics right, and a dude in a teal shower cap, bathrobe, and what looked like my Swiffer Duster, I had to echo the song: PLEE-EE-EE-EE-EEESE, STOP!
One last break brought us back to the final contestant of the day, Leo Marlowe who comes from, and I quote, "the smallest town in the history of life" – population 200.
He explained to the judges how his "Mom raised the perfect Homecoming queen, too bad it wasn’t one of her daughters" and I immediately loved him. He is funny, self deprecating, humble, not over-the-top.
Singing A Song For You, I was really surprised at the depth of his singing voice vs his speaking voice. He had excellent tone, control, an easy quality about it all.
Simon said he was "very good, very open" and "I like you."; Randy called him a "nice guy"; and Paula, obviously excited about her video debuting before the Superbowl, jumped up and exclaimed "Touchdown!"
So, in all, 19 people found their way out of the obscurity of Omaha and will be showing up to face down Baby, Baby, My Girl, and some yet-to-be-revealed Bee Gees song in Hollywood.
I personally thought Omaha yielded more ground round than it did top dollar Kobe beef, and that this episode fell seriously short.
I have never said this during auditions before, but I am completely bored. The good is predictable. The bad isn’t nearly bad enough. And it all seems, more than ever, handpicked by a very nervous group of producers.
One more city to go – Miami, Florida – I am holding out serious hope for an uptick in the freak factor. It’s what I love about Miami most – the collection of people with personalities as bright as the art deco buildings which line the beach.
Because right now, I can only echo what that girl leaving the auditions screeched – "Holy crap!"
And then some, honey.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your thoughts? Are you as bored as I am? Are you just ready to get to Hollywood and get this group hacked down to 24? Are you bothered by the fact that so many of the finalists have prior industry experience? And most important, don’t I look cute in my comfy recapping clothes?
(Feel free to vomit now...)
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While there are many, many details to be investigated, identity to be sought, and persons to be tracked down, one fact is in place:
Someone killed a baby boy and left him on a road in Galveston. His carseat was found roughly 20 feet away.
The infant, estimated to be between 3 and 6 months, was discovered by a couple who were out sightseeing. They spied what they initially thought to be a doll. The man got out of their vehicle to look closer and discovered it was not a doll, but a child.
He said he became ill, cried and nearly collapsed before telling his wife about the shocking find.
They called 911 on their cell phone and authorities have taken the baby's body to be examined - reports are he suffered head trauma.
As I said, details are few, facts fewer. But the only one that matters is this: a tiny blond boy was killed and dumped like garbage.
Even if this turns out to be one of those tragic, baby-left-on-top-of-car-by-accident cases, NO ONE HAS COME FORWARD.
I only hope the police can track this baby's identity through hospital footprint records, find the worthless people who so casually, carelessly, callously left him.
I say tie them up and leave their asses in the middle of the road like some flipped over turtle. Then, I'll provide the maps to Galveston. Convoy, anyone?
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I just received an email forward from Toni regarding a little girl who has been missing since 2006.
While the internet is full of scam emails, propaganda (a la the bogus Barack email), and fake pleas for help - this one is none of the above.
I know how many people come here daily, and I am asking every person to take a moment to follow this link and read the information contained there.
It will take far less time than reading an American Idol recap.
Here is her picture. And someone, somewhere surely must have seen her or her abductor (prior to his suicide) in the past couple years.
Reachelle Marie Smith - help find me.
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The wait was long. The labor was grueling (2 failed epidurals and finally a C-section). But she's finally here, and DGMS regular Missy, & baby, are doing great!
I'd like to officially welcome Kayla Michelle Robinson to the DGMS family!
Congratulations to Missy and her husband, the very proud (and tired) parents!
How gorgeous are those eyes?
I'm pooped. This being born stuff is hard work.
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