If you're in Vegas, and anywhere near the NASCAR Cafe in the Sahara Hotel, it's a fair question.
Debuting on their menu? A food item with a challenge.
The food? A two foot, 6 pound burrito, priced at $19.95.
The challenge? Eat it in one sitting.
The prize? It's free if you finish it, plus you get unlimited rides on their roller coaster. (Yeah, I can think of nothing better than gut bombing a monster fart maker and then getting on a roller coaster...)
If you don't manage to eat this weapon of ass destruction, you not only have to pony up the $19.95, but you also have to have your photo taken in a tiny pink t-shirt emblazoned with the word "Weenie."
Oh, winners also receive a t-shirt - it reads, "Conquered The Bomb."
Yes, they call the giant, overstuffed burrito, The Bomb.
I hate to break it the guys out there, but we women really don't want a man who can "go all night."
Long enough to satisfy us? Sure. But that really has more to do with body parts other than your third leg. If all you're relying on is your custard cannon, that's a pretty sure bet we're eventually going to go into an Oscar worthy performance to just end it based on boredom or chafe factor.
And contrary to all the email you receive, we don't need "it" to be able to "knock down walls" or "gush like Niagra Falls." (I am quoting actual email sales pitches there.) My vagina is not made out of brick and mortar and I hate doing laundry anyway - so "572% more" on my sheets is not the way to my heart.
Sadly, millions of men still garner most of their sexual know-how from the forum section of Penthouse (sorry guys, but co-eds typically do NOT ride around naked in a VW Bus just looking for sex, and I have yet to have a plumber come to my house who illicits a desire to have him snake MY drain.), porn movies (contrary to what you may have seen, we do not want to have sex on copy machines, with aliens, or with aliens on copy machines), and each other (worst possible place to get your "Miss"information).
We're much simpler than that. We like to make-out. We like a slow burn leading up to an inferno. So if you're not investing some time in foreplay? Any spark you perceive is just that - perception, NOT reality.
Sure, we enjoy a quickie every now and then, but make no mistake, those are a gift, from us to you. And there had better be some reciprocity somewhere in the near future. We may not have balls, but we experience that "blue" feeling just like you.
But back to the real reason for the rant - the backass thinking that men have about what being a sexual stud is all about.
I present to you, Exhibit A, 28 year old mechanic Sergey Tuganov, of Russia. He bet two women that he could "go all night" - 12 hours - with both of them.
To help him achieve his goal, make sure he was "up" to the task, as it were, he employed a little medicinal assistance. He "guzzled" an entire bottle of Viagra.
Yeah.
He then proceeded, like some fleshy piston, to pump away for twelve hours. (I do so hope they had a case of KY on hand, or on...well, you know, otherwise, talk about getting a "rug" burn....)
Well, he succeeded in "going the distance". Unfortunately, as soon as he had won the bet, he dropped dead of a heart attack.
Yeah x 2.
One of the women, named Alina, told police, “We called emergency services but it was too late, there was nothing they could do.”
So guys, let this be a cautionary tail tale, ok? Twelve hours nonstop is just plain stupid. About as stupid as downing a bottle of boner meds to make it happen.
Pick your shit up. Tell us we're pretty. And then act like a 15 year old and remember what it was like to make-out. If you do those three things, I promise you, we won't care if you only last two minutes. Just take us along for the ride, ok?
Here we are again, assembled at some middle management banquet, honoring people we basically don’t know, obliged to sit through empty speeches, forced to make small talk with table mates who chew with their mouths open, and perhaps be subjected to a "brief retrospective" on the big screen behind the dais – all the while pretending to enjoy overcooked chicken, a sad pile of mushy vegs, and an even sadder wilted salad.
THIS. IS. AMERICAN. IDOL.
OK, fine – that may be a bit harsh, but come on – at this point in this season’s competition, our attention is seriously waning. When we begin to ... oh hey! Shiny object! Catch it! Catch it!
Sorry, my cat just ran through the room and her collar bell got my attention.
See what I mean?
It has become very apparent, based on comments not just here, but across the internet universe, that the ones watching right now are the die hards. The John McClanes of the world. The ones willing to face down fear (Tatidrama), terror (Normick and his headband), weapons of ass destruction (Paula is a huge pain in mine).
Yes, we are all brave. Yes, we are all committed. Yet somehow, we have been contemplating throwing ourselves off the top of the Nakitomi Building...
Well, I’ll stick with it if you will. Strength in numbers, people. If Bruce Willis can survive four of the best action movies ever with his ass still intact, certainly we can make it through this season.
So, in the spirit of John McClane... Yippee ki-yay, Mother F**ker. Bring it on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With the lights turned low, the music throbbing, and the kids assembled into two rows likes zombies, Ryan walked through them like Rod Serling in some Twilight Zone intro. And the Ryperbole was sweet...
"The foundation of this show has always been the power of the vote. The shape of this program depends on the decisions you make. WHAT. (dramatic pause) DIDYOUDO (squash words together)?"
Well, Ryan, good question. I spent most of the day in abject fear that certain contestants would manage to stick around like some nasty toe fungus that just won’t die. There is no tough actin’ Tinactin for the likes of Norman Gentle.
A quick hello to the judges – Randy who must have slept at the studio, was wearing the exact same clothing from Wednesday night – white T, black sweater, skinny bead necklace made by his daughter, and his bright orange I-do-roadwork watch; Kara and Paula might as well have been naked – they have so much hair you can’t even see their clothing; and Simon, as usual, wore black in honor of the death of dreams about to ensue.
With an hour to fill (kill?), Ryan set to wasting some of it by baiting Simon, but Simon was having none of it. "Can it be a little less about me and a little more about the show, please? (I personally love how he treats Ryan like some obnoxious child in the doctor’s waiting room who keeps trying to get your attention, "I have a dolly and a train and a dog and do you want to see my blister cause, cause, cause I had on a shoe that was too little and it scrapED the back of my feets and do you like Coco Puffs cause cause cause I love Coco Puffs..." said while wiping a booger on the arm of your chair while his mother sits across the room reading a four year old issue of Good Housekeeping.)
Further stuffing this canoli (at this point, I’d take the gun and leave the canoli), was a montage of the journeys of all twelve contestants, a sweet, wonderful piece I like to call FAST FORWARD.
But oh, how cruel that FF button can be, delivering me, bound and gagging, at the evil feet of THE GROUP SONG. This weak’s (no, I did not misspell that) effort, Closer by Neo, the highlights of which were:
Adam and Matt G actually starting on cue and on key.
Kai’s homage to being dressed-up: a tie painted on his t-shirt.
Normick completely muffing the lyrics, "What do you mean we aren’t singing And I’m Telling You?!?!?"
Jeanine dressed up like Pocahontas at a hoedown.
And Megan Corkery literally pulling MishaV out of the way so the camera could better see her fangs.
As for the song itself? It was actually far less painful than last week’s root canal through the ass. But then, this was a better song choice, and we all know by now that song choice can make you or Tanya Harding you right in the kneecap.
After the break we returned to the kids assembled on the couches of carnage, awaiting their fate. A fate that would not come for some time as Ryan had to fill three more minutes with inane banter about how the kids were feeling? Matt B?
"Well, Ryan, you slug on the tomato of humanity, I happen to be feeling every blood cell rushing through my veins at the moment, and hey, I’m a big guy, so if we’re being honest, I am also feeling a trickle of sweat running down between my hairy cheeks, so can we get on with this?"
Of course, but not before we pause a moment to once more reflect on the Eighth Wonder of the World – Jeanine’s legs.
At this point I began feeling badly for the girl. Sure, she pimped them out last night and deserved a tad of the attention they drew, and yes, she did wear short shorts again Thursday night, but really, the way they kept going on about them, I expect to see people hiring sherpas to scale them, or seeing ropes hanging from the top as folks attempt to rappel down.
Ryan finally got to the actual business of the evening (besides stuffing fifty commercials into an hour), and called Allison to center stage.
OK, the red hair is obviously not a color that occurs freely in nature, and I’m cool with that. I color my hair, too. But whoever styled it must have gone to the John Madden School of Hair Design – it looked like a huge red football helmet.
After running through the judges’ comments about Allison, Ryan called Jesse, then Matt B to the stage as well. Both went to stand beside Allison. He threw it to the judges, asking Randy who he thought would make it. "I hope that it’s Allison."
Well, your hopes have been realized, Dawg. Allison, dressed as a paralegal Minnie Mouse in a high waisted black skirt, and a polka dot bustier topped with a black sweater, was granted access to the silver egg carton, but not before reprising her performance of Alone. I suppose an overabundance of happy emotions can wreak just as much havoc as complete emotional devastation because she sounded REALLY SHOUTY and off key quite a few times.
Another break and the lights were again lowered to bring Megan-Stay-The-Hell-Out-Of-My-Camera-Shot and Kris-I-Don't-Even-Know-Who-I-Am to center stage.
Megan looked lovely, her Lady Godiva locks on full Pantene power. And Kris was "really freaking nervous" in his UNTUCKED gray shirt and JEANS.
Matt G, Mount St. Gams, and Jasmine were then called down. Just long enough to dispatch them all back to obscurity, which once again left Kris and Megan.
Paula was asked to share her thoughts, which were terribly enlightening as always, "I don’t know."
Kara lavished praise upon Kris, talking about how he’s "so good", about how stellar he was during Hollywood week – gee, producers, I would have loved to see some of that. Given the way Kara was gushing you would think he rated at least a long range shot – you know, like even in the background of the Tatidrama? But no, nothing. Not a smile, not a note. Nothing about Kris Allen until he sang Wednesday night.
And yet, somehow, despite their best efforts to Black and Decker his ass, Ryan actually announced that it was HE, not Megan who made it through.
SHOCK. Seriously. The look on Kris’s face? Tasered. Finger in a socket. Blow dryer in the bathtub.
Kudos, America. You got one right.
I actually sat through his entire re-performance of Man In The Mirror because his joy, his vibe of I-can’t-effing-believe-this-is-happening-to-me was the stuff this show is supposed to be about. Someone deserving actually getting a shot.
(Dammit, Norman, take a Pirin tablet and stop throwing yourself down the stairs!)
Another break, another five minutes to waste – this time by recycling the What A Wonderful World montage of the best and worst moments in Idol history. I slowed down long enough to enjoy Clay Aiken giving someone a stroke, hit warp drive to avoid Simon and Paula swapping spit, and slowed down at the end to enjoy the emotion of Kelly Clarkson’s, Carrie Underwood’s and David Cook’s wins.
Can we move on? Pleeeeeease?
Rhetorical question. Of course not.
No, let’s welcome back everyone’s favorite barefoot hairdresser, the only contestant to ever ask for a restart during a performance – Brook White! Back on the Idol stage to debut her new single (available on iTunes pimppimppimp), Hold Up My Heart.
Her advice to the contestants? Don’t Google your name. I don’t agree. Without the power of the Goog, how would we ever enjoy visits from people like Mike Perlman?
I have to admit, as overstuffed as these types of performances make the hour feel, I do enjoy watching former talent come back. They are so much more relaxed, can have fun, and sing so much better. Her song was a little on the boring side, but she sounds as sweet as ever. All in all, it was a nice visit from an old friend.
The next break brought us to the final cuts. Down to the stage came MishaV, Kai, Normick, Adam, and Jasmine. Ryan quickly recapped the judges notes on MishaV and Kai, then walked completely past Adam and Normick to Jasmine. Color me WHOA. Like we didn't see that final two set up coming.
Those who he spoke to? Get the hell off the stage. (I’m not too concerned for Jasmine. She’s waaaay too commercial to not be brought back in the Wild Card round.)
That left Adam and Normick, and Simon saying, "I prayed for 5 or 6 hours last night."
Sorry, Simon, but Norman Minnelli did not get there on his own – you people insisted on putting him through.
Of course there had to be ONE MORE BREAK before we got to find out the actual results. And in that long, drawn out, lights flickering, music throbbing moment before Ryan announced the winner, I saw myself – head nearly shaved, white sleeveless t-shirt, my blood and sweat trickling down my cheeks as I crawled through the air ducts in search of escape, reloading my pistol and saying to myself, "Linda, you’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time..."
And then it was over. The fly in the ointment, the monkey in the wrench, the pain in the ass was sent back to the couches and Adam was left to fill the egg crate.
I turned away from the TV to just listen to him perform Satisfaction – try it. The kid has a gift. He’s got that amazing set of vocal cords that remind one of Axl Rose or Sebastian Bach – he may hit the notes hard, maybe even angrily, but he does hit them.
And that’s it for Round 2 Many. Nine more dreams dead. Three more kept alive. Next week, our final twelve take the stage, and don’t even ask me who they are. Thanks to this extended, distended format, I can’t even remember...and worse, don't really care.
But that’s ok. I know one of them is NOT Normick, and that alone earns a hearty, Yippee ki-yay...
Back in 2000, my daughters and I jumped on board the fan train for the first round of MTV’s Making The Band. Sure, we enjoyed it because the entire globe was caught up in the rapture of boy band mania via Nsync and Backstreet Boys, and who were we to pass up the formation of a new quintet of angel faced vocalists?
Personally, as all the boys who made up the "band" O-Town, while certainly cute enough, were also young enough to get me thrown in jail, I tuned in to watch them learn, grow vocally, try to chase their dreams of success in the industry.
Oh, and because there was just something deliciously trainwreck-y about watching Blobba The Hut, Lou Perlman, manage their ascent. The porcine, albino-ish man with sausages for lips was the stuff of Must See TV.
I found myself harking back to that show during Wednesday night’s second round of 12 singers on American Idol. Not because the male singers were particularly fetching, but because Season 8’s answer to an Amtrak Apocalypse was on full, disgusting display – Norman Gentle.
But we’ll talk more about him in a few...
In the meantime, here’s a look back at O-Town. Personally, I loved their first CD. Too bad that by the time they released their second, O-Town had turned into GhOst-town.
With the kids assembled on the stairs like a future Suleman family portrait, Ryan asked, "Where else can you find a welder, a bartender, a font designer, and a comedian, all on the verge of stardom?"
You know, I was ready to answer, "Anywhere, dude." A welder? A bartender? Those are everywhere. And let’s face it, we are all only separated from infamy by the capricious winds of fate. One snap of a mental twig and any one of us could be the next headline on CNN.com.
Austin soccer mom loses her mind, runs naked onto field at halftime and proceeds to bowl with live chicken. Children traumatized. Film at 11.
But then he mentioned "font designer" and I had to admit, Hmmmm, I don’t know any of those. But I guess there are real people behind the words Garamond, Gautomi, Verdana...
And at least one of them is HERE, because T.I.A.I., and we demand variety, dammit!
A quick hello to last week’s survivors, Danny Downey, Jr., Michael-do-you-know-I-work-on-an-oil-rig Sarver, and Alexis-half-my-head-looks-like-I-am-always-falling-out-of-a-building Grace.
Then a howdy-do to the judges: Randy who made some upside down peace sign hand gesture that looked like Little Bunny Foo Foo drunken in the forest; Kara looked fairly normal which only served to highlight the ten extra pounds of strap-on hair on Paula’s head; Simon saved the black sweater for judgment night, instead choosing a fairly optimistic gray. Ryan looked like a guy ready to tap the keg at Kappa house – JEANS and a polo shirt.
Their advice was predictably fortune cookie in nature, especially Kara who said, "It’s all about doing the best you can possibly do."
Ahhhhh, wax on, wax off, grasshoppa.
Paula was too busy fighting with her foot long bangs to make sense, and Simon gave a brash, "It’s too late for advice now."
Then the formal intro, as the kids passed through the arch of destiny one by one. And I cannot possibly be the only person to have watched and said, "Who is he? Who is she? Who is he? And him? And her?"
Sue Ellen, who are all these people? (bonus points – name that 80’s movie)
OK, seeing as I am the hub of your communications network (hint, hint) for this show, let’s continue...
Up first was Jasmine Murray, which I found interesting considering this is the most forgettable spot on the show. Really, Elvis could rise from the dead and sing Hound Dog buck nekked, but if he sang first out of 12, no one would remember by the end of this two hour bloat-a-thon. (Come on, like the hour long results night, this show is more stretched out than Nadya’s uterus.)
Clips of Jasmine during Hollywood Week were like a bad LSD flashback as Katrini Girl filled the screen. Talk about dodging a bullet...
Jasmine came on stage to sing Love Song dressed in JEANS, heels, a sequined tank, and a metallic lavender jacket – something only a teenager could pull off. She looked beautiful, young, fresh, and as she started to sing, I thought, this one has that whole straight to Disney vibe. There’s always one sugardipped teen each season who could be plopped into his/her own sitcom immediately. Rihanna Montana, anyone?
Her singing was fine, certainly not as good as I remember though, and the choice of song was not exactly a showstopper. Well, unless the show stopped because we all fell asleep. Honestly, her hair flipping had more oompf than her vocals.
Randy said there were "good moments and bad moments," that she was "pitchy throughout," and that it was "not the right song"; Kara lamented that she was "all over the place" and that her "lower register kind of lost it," which made her sad because Jasmine is "very commercial"; Paula said that while Jasmine "gave it your all" her all was "off pitch"; and Simon? Well, Simon can always be counted on to rip the bandaid off, can’t he? He was "disappointed" and that she’s probably "a couple years too early for this."
And then, lo and behold, it appeared the producers must be lurking the online boards because parents were persona non grata in the red room tonight. No, how do you feel your baby did? Or, doyou want to slap Simon? Just a quick smiling shot of them in the audience. Thank you, AI.
Up next was Matt Giraud, our resident dueling pianist, which is kind of like dueling pistols, but with less bloodshed. When he announced his choice of Viva la Vida by Coldplay, I wished someone had shot me.
COME ON– how hard is it for these kids to understand that you simply do not touch a song so completely stylized by, and associated with, the original artist? That song should never escape the lips of anyone but Chris Martin who has the intellectual rock cool to pull off lyrics like "Roman calvary choirs are singing."
But sing he did. Decked out in the uniform of the twenty-something male: JEANS, an UNTUCKED (yes, UNTUCKED has officially ridden the Last Nerve Express to the head of the irritation line and has earned all CAPS)shirt, and a black leather jacket.
OK, yes, I admit I cringed at first, then found I relaxed a bit as he did not seem to be slaughtering it like some backdrop in a Sarah Palin news piece, but then he hit that falsetto and all bets were off. My Cringometer went off the charts.
Chris Martin can rest easy.
Kara (ahh, we’re playing round robin judges tonight!) was "just not blown away"; Paula, wearing a crystal crusted cockroach on her index finger - seemed to be trying to locate her cheeks - called it a "risky song to pick" touch face touch face "better than rehearsal" touchy touchy feely feely "I heard you go for it and did bring what you brought to it." Touch, feel, where’s my nose??
We pause for word from our sponsors, the makers of Vicodalium, Paula Abdul’s favorite relaxant...
Simon said it was "verging on a horrible performance" and called Matt a "wannabe popstar"; Randy said Matt still had "mad talent" but to stay away from "simple songs."
I guess, like sad songs, they say so much about who sings them?
I did give Matt two bonus points for NOT using finger origami.
Another break and we returned to Jeanine Vailes. Feel free to ask, Who? I have no idea who she is either and was again irked by this show wasting so much screentime on the likes of Bikini Hurl and Tatidrama. If this girl is good enough to be this far? We should know who she is by now. That we don’t? Well, it only serves to provide further stench to the something smells fishy way they pimp certain contestants.
Choosing This Love by Maroon 5, Jeanine’s legs took the stage and started singing. Seriously, did she have a head? Oh wait, there it is, waaaaaay up there. This girl has a pair of finely formed stilts which she chose to give the Haley Scarnato treatment in short shorts and high high heels.
Too bad, but her legs did prove to sing better than her vocal cords. Or at least you would think so by the judges reactions:
Paula "great legs" and then "It’s season 8 .... Simon?"
OK, someone get Nigel and the net. She’s going to start bowling with a live chicken at any moment...
Simon thought "it was terrible," but that she does have "very good legs"; Randy said "I agree with Simon, legs are definitely hot"; and Kara went for a different approach with "nice lips."
If you would like to vote for any of Jeanine’s body parts, dial 1-866-IDOLS03.
Another break brought us back to the gory (no, I did not forget the "L") that is Nick Mitchell. Apologies to his obviously growing fan club, but he has no business being on this show, and especially not in the final 36.
When I think about all the truly good singers who should have been given a shot, this guy just boils my blood. The sight of him and I want to change my name to Sandy Vagina.
Actually, it’s the producers and judges who do that to me, too. He wouldn’t be here without their consent.
In his taped package he was his "normal" self, no headband, yukking it up and self deprecatingly asking, "Let’s be real, do you really see me as the next Justin Timberlake?"
No, Nick, I don’t. I don’t even see you as the next Sanjaya or Justin Guarini. Gong Show contestant? Absolutely.
The spotlight found Norman, not Nick, lounging on the staircase, decked out in khaki shorts, tennis shoes, a shirt by Reynolds Wrap, and a white tux coat – with tails, no less. He began writhing around and reworking the lyrics of his signature song, And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going. (Sadly Normick, if VFTW has anything to do with it, you’re not.)
Did anyone else catch the shot of his parents? His mother beamed, but his father had a look on his face that read, "WTF did my loins bring forth?" As his song moved on, he stripped off the tails, fondled the AI logo, writhed on the floor, made love to the camera, and intoned, "I’m not waking up tomorrow morning and finding that there’s no Idol there!!!!"
I swear to you, I started looking for Charles Nelson Riley and the effing Gong.
Things did not improve when Simon began to speak, saying, "I pray you do not go through to the next round" and calling it "one of the most atrocious performances" and "horrific comedy."
Norman replied with a pithy, "Takes one to know one, sassypants." Then he proceeded to go all Karate Kid, kicking his leg in the air and assuming a fighting pose. Someone get Mr. Miyagi on the phone to kick this guy's ass.
AGAIN – his whole presence makes a mockery of every effort of every serious contestant. Those of you who like him? Start a petition and send it to some Mississippi Riverboat casino. I’m sure he’d fill a 50 seat room twice a night, no problem.
Look, I’m sure he’s a very nice guy, but this is not what this show is about. And if it is? Then open the doors wide because next season I want to see jugglers, people eating fire, and someone who can sniff their own buttcrack while riding a unicycle and playing the piccolo.
Randy called him the "most entertaining performer ever on this show" but that "the vocals were definitely not happening"; Kara said "at least we remember you" (yes, and if this piece of work makes it through, Clive Davis will remember YOU four. Sleep with one eye open, Kara. Something tells me that Clive has shanked a man or two in his day); Paula just babbled about Olivia Newton John and Jerry Lewis while trying to outmaneuver her bangs and be able to actually see.
Of course, no ep of AI is complete without the requisite homophobic moment (homophoment?), so Simon asked Ryan, "Did you like him?" Ryan answered, "In a different way than YOU probably did."
Insert uncomfortable moment for audience.
AFTER THE BREAK we returned to find Ryan sitting on the big red couch with some big red hair in the form of Allison Iraheta. He tried to ask her about doing schoolwork while doing Idol and the most riveting detail she managed to get out was "you know, you’re in a roooom."
WHOA. I hope this singing thing pans out for you, Allison. Public speaking doesn’t seem to be your gig. Then again, Bobby Jindal’s the governor of a whole freaking state...
Taking the stage in the best from Wet Seal’s Prom collection – a short, puffy, black lace dress and heels, her red hair on full flame, and a pinky ring which rained an entire constellation of stars down her hand, she looked like she should – like a teenaged girl.
Then she opened her mouth and began singing Heart’s Alone. I said WHOA again, only this time in a good way.
This young lady has pipes. And she totally has a Kelly-Clarkson’s-little-sister vibe about her. Sweet, unassuming, and loaded with talent. Norman Gentle isn’t even worthy of polishing her pinky ring. I want to see more of her.
Randy yelled that she "blew it out da box!" (whatever the hell that means); Kara said "you don’t even know how good you are"; Paula pulled out the old "you can sing the telephone book" cliche’; and Simon said she was "the best tonight by a clear margin."
Ooops. Did anyone else hear that? I think Norman just ate a wristband and threw himself down a flight of stairs.
Next up the elevator of pure obscurity was another unknown face. In his tape he said, "My name is Kris Allen, I’m 23, from Conway, Arkansas and America has no freaking clue who I am."
Hmmmm... handsome young guy, must not have a sick dog, split personality, live in his car, or auditioned in a thong. No backstory, no face time.
His choosing Man In The Mirror as his nationwide debut did not exactly help his situation. Again, stylized song which should only be sung by Michael Jackson.
Dressed in JEANS, a graphic T-shirt, and a leather Members Only jacket, he did have a decent voice, but it just was not well served by this song. The highlight was one glory note towards the end which told us that, at the very least, he can hold his breath.
Kara said "the back half was better than the front" (I disagre. I thin k his front half looks pretty good.) and that it was the "wrong song"; Paula, who seems to have taken on the role of Grand High Pimper of Those Who AI Has Ignored or She Who Shall Be Shameless said, "I disagree completely" and "you nailed it"; Simon said he "showed some confidence, some personality" and that he was "quite proud" of Kris; and Randy gave him "nice jump off, baby."
What? Randy, they’re not doing triple somersaults off the high board at the Olympics, they’re singing.
The next break returned us to Jeana’s daughter from Real Housewives, Kara, or as we will call her on AI, Megan Corkery, who chose a song I completely despise (maybe Antonella Barba’s butchery of it has something to do with it?), Put Your Records On..
As the music started, she was standing at the microphone looking like a precocious little orphan Annie auditioner – ballet shoes, sweet white dress accented by two snowballs right in the middle of her chest – her hands on her hips, she shook them back and forth to the music.
The girl is beautiful, with wads of hair cascading down her back, but the virginal white sack dress, little girl shoes, and flailing of her arms that made her look like she was two and was just told she couldn’t have another cookie, clashed with the arm length tattoo that says her tricycle has seen a lot of the world, sotospeak.
All that aside, she has a unique voice – pretty effortless.
Paula said she "picked the right song" and that the camera is "in love" with her; Simon said she "started off well but oversang the second part" and that he "wishes America votes for you"; Randy admitted he is a "big fan" of Megan’s and that she did a "nice, nice job"; Kara said she is "a package artist" who "stands out."
Top three tonight? Methinks so.
Matt-I-am-a-welder-Breitzke surely must room with Michael-I-work-on-an-oilrig Sarver, bonded as the show has them in blue collardom.
Like Michael, Matt is a big boy, only unlike Michael – who looks like an overgrown puppy dog – Matt looks like someone from the cast of Oz, and I don’t mean the one with Dorothy.
Choosing If You Could Only See, Matt took the stage in JEANS, and an UNTUCKED black shirt festooned with large white centipedes. I admit, as he stood at the mikestand, grabbing it around the neck, I began to fear a little for poor Matilda. This early in the season and already the abuse begins?
Thankfully, he backed off, and I found I actually liked the guy – a lot. He’s got a gravelly tone to his voice, sings on key, and has a killer smile (no prison reference intended). Was the performance exciting? Not really, but there was something about him that made me suspect he may slide through on the same blue carpet as Michael.
Simon said, "I really like you, but I absolutely hated that song"; Randy said the "performance did not show you as the great Matt who sang in Hollywood"; Kara said it "fell really flat"; And She Who Shall Be Shameless lamented that the "song did not celebrate who we fell in love with."
Matt disagreed with all of them and then proceeded to lose ten points from me for manipulating his sausages into the number 8.
Jesse Langseth, a survivor from one of those pathetic "sing-offs" on the final judgment day was up next. Yet another single mom (just an observation, not a condemnation at all), I liked the quick snippet of her with her 8 year old daughter. She said she chose to sing Bette Davis Eyes because it is one of the "greatest songs ever written."
Bette Davis Eyes?
These things?
Now, Marty Feldman Eyes, maybe...
Dressed down in JEANS and a deep blue, one shouldered sweater, I found I wanted her to do well, and she does have an interesting voice. But the audience just wasn’t digging any of it. No shovels. Certainly not a backhoe. I didn’t even see a kid with a sand pail. And if the audience isn’t with you, it’s pretty certain neither are the viewers at home.
Randy called it "ok", but that she only showed a "five note range"; Kara said there were "some issues with a few notes"; SWSBS called her "captivating" and said she was "cool," "identifiable"; Simon slapped Paula the seal down and said "I think you’re forgettable."
You should really apply some Chapstick before you move in for that kiss of death, Simon.
Another break and we came back to Kai Kalama, everyone’s favorite mamma’s boy, singing What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted.
Out he walked, dressed in JEANS, an UNTUCKED black shirt covered with icicles from my Christmas tree (they’re like Easter grass - I am still finding the damn things all over the house and it’s almost March!), his hair a bedhead showpiece.
The singing was fine. But that’s all it was. A nice guy, sure to get applause at the local karaoke bar, and as a wedding singer, I’m sure he’d have his pick of the bridesmaids, but he’s not "it." His one glory note was so oversold, it was like a Girl Scout coming to your house, kicking down the door and screaming, "Buy my &*(%$# cookies, bitches!"
Kara cited his "pitch issues"; Paula, still fighting to see from under her helmet of hair, said he is "quite the performer"; Simon called him "very old fashioned, corny" and said "you’d be a good back-up singer"; Randy bid him farewell with "not what I’m looking for."
The last girl to take the stage was Mishavonna Henson, our 18 year old who made it as far as Hollywood in Season 7, but got sent back home. I’ve told you people, Build Me Up Buttercup has flushed more than a few dreams into the turd trench.
Dressed in an age appropriate outfit of heels, capri stretch pants, and a blue, tunic length bubble top wrapped in duct tape, MishaV (I hereby drop the remainder of her name for the remainder of her time with us) looked the part of a young pop princess, but her choice of Drops of Jupiter – yet another highly stylized song – hey-ey-ey-ey? – was just off the mark.
Good voice, seemed confident, and if held up to her competition? Well, she was decent by comparison, but that is like saying she was the juiciest prune in the box – kind of faint praise, don’t you think?
Paula said that although MishaV "sang it well, it just didn’t excite me"; Simon said "something left me cold" and then said she "acts like a 50 year old" (she does NOT act like Paula Abdul, Simon! How rude!); Randy was disappointed she "didn’t show your voice off"; and Kara said she needs to "shake it out," that MishaV’s a "very good singer."
Finally, Adam Lambert went last – whoa – seriously glad I was sitting down for that shock. Yes, our prepackaged rocker pulled the pimp spot of the evening. Hollywood and Vine, baby. No smart pimp wastes his best product on some sidestreet 7-11, you know.
Dressed in JEANS tucked into army boots, a black T, black blazer, black nail polish, and the full Mr T collection of I Pity The Fool’s Gold from QVC, Adam took on Satisfaction – yes, that one – by the Rolling Stones.
I momentarily shuddered. I like the kid. I like his theater background (remember, David Cook was once a theater nerd, too). I like his range. But Satisfaction?!?
As he started to sing, I got a tad oogy by his tongue channeling lizard king, Jim Morrison, but as he settled into it, I actually enjoyed the rest quite a bit. His vocal cords are like industrial strength rubber bands – they stretch from one end of the scale to the other with ease.
One note for Adam: If you are going to invite me to tour your uvula, sweep the welcome mat first. Scrub your tongue or suck a cherry Lifesaver...
It’s surely not going to be a surprise when he makes it through tonight, and I am interested to see what he does as we get past this Bataan Death March of finalists and into the weeks that really count. Can he handle disco?
Paula finally fought her way free from her web of hair and gave him a standing O (I’ve tried that before – really hard to keep your balance...). She then went all Mama Seal, clapping and barking, "I’m watching an Adam Lambert concert!"; Simon said "some parts were excruciatingly bad, some parts were brilliant" but that he thinks Adam will get through; Randy flat out "loved it" calling him "Stephen Tyler meets Fall Out Boy meets Robert Pattison from Twilight"; Kara said his "vocal technique and ability is outrageous," and "that’s some crazy stuff you’re singing!"
They then rolled the recap of the night’s performances and I went to sleep.
OK, ok, I didn’t go to sleep, but come on. The night was a snoozefest. If I had to call it, I’m predicting Aduhm, Allison, and Megan. If anything screwy happens, it will involve Matt-The-Welder or Norman-The-Douchebag.
And if America votes through a giant douche? Well then, South Park was right. A Turd Sandwich can’t be far behind. Get ready for the return of Tatidrama....
(Now, excuse me, I'm going to go dig out that O-Town CD.)
Can't be helped. Daughters have to come first around here, and Carson will be out soccering (no, that's not a word. well, it is now...) till roughly 10pm tonight, which means I will be out soccering till roughly 10pm.
I will be up bright and early to watch the show and will hit the keyboard as soon as possible in the AM.
Also, tomorrow night's recap will follow on Friday morning as well. I have a meeting till 9pm Thursday night and my husband is flying in as well, soooooo...... :O)
You're right, Nadya, we can't. But I suspect it's kind of like YOU pondering, I can't comprehend why people aren't falling all over themselves to give me money.
This is the second RadarOnline installment from their video of Pez-puss, Nadya, and her beleaguered mother.
Apparently lying comes easily to Nadya. She told her mother she wasn't pregnant, but that she had a tumor.
Um, yeah. I think your mother is the one with the tumor and she needs to have all 150 pounds of it removed ASAP.
The bitchslap line forms HERE.
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On the baby side: The hospital has inspected the home and has indicated many changes that need made in terms of childproofing before they release any of the octuplets. Three may be released in ten days. But wait! Those outlets may not need covered as Nadya has been looking at eight bedroom homes! SO nice that while hard WORKING families are losing their homes everyday, government teat sucker Nadya can contemplate a mortgage on an eight bedroom home in California.
Lavish spa trips, corporate jets made out of (as Bill Maher so aptly put it) rubies and veal, millions in bonuses - all the hallmarks of the banks who have begged to be bailed out, while continuing their fooli$h ways.
The latest? Northern Trust, which received $1.6 billion in bailout money.
How have they spent it? Have they loosened the credit noose around their customers' necks? Reworked mortgages so more people can stay in their homes? Used it to help pay employees thus avoiding lay-offs?
Oh, hell to the No. That would make way too much sense.
They spent millions of dollars sponsoring a professional golf tournament, filling fancy hotel rooms, paying Sheryl Crow and Earth, Wind & Fire to perform, ponying up for flashy client events, and gift bags for all attendees from Tiffany & Co.
Well, let's start with something simple - folks like Sheryl Crow ought to do a little look-see into the financial workings of the companies to which they sell their services. Because taking THEIR money, is actually taking OUR money, Sheryl.
Doug Holt, senior vice president of communication for Northern Trust defends the events.
"This is the second year Northern Trust is sponsoring the Open as part of a five-year contract. The contract was signed in 2007, before the government's Capital Purchase Program to aid banks came into existence."
I. DON'T. CARE.
You see, Dougie, out here in the real world, we common folk have to adapt our plans to our realities. My family, for example, has taken a Disney cruise every year for the last three. It has become a wonderful, memory making, look-forward-to trip by all of us.
We didn't go this year. Because it wouldn't make fiscal sense.
Of course, Douglas made sure to include the fact that no money from the bailout was used in the millions involved in the sponsorship, events, concerts, and gift bags.
I see.
So, tell me again why you needed bailout money?
Maybe I should ask the 450 Northern Trust employees who were pink slipped in December? I'm sure they didn't receive anything from Tiffany as a parting gift.
The whole thing sickens me. Jobs continue to be lost, companies bailed out by our tax dollars continue to turn around and raise our credit card interest rates, and execs continue to ride the gravy train with impunity.
Honestly, at this point, I would love to see the people rise up and flip the bird to even one of these companies. Like Citibank. Everyone should close their accounts en masse, and then skip the next month's payment.
That would be huge.
After all, they feel no need to play by the rules, so why should we?
Today I stumbled upon Taking Chance on HBO. It touched me just as deeply as the first time I watched it nearly five years ago. I decided to pull this piece forward from February 2009. HBO has the movie on rotation right now. If you have never seen it, try to catch it. If you saw it years ago, watch it again. It is a quiet reminder of what we tend to forget as we go about our lives.
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Like any new series or in-house made movie, HBO devoted much time to promoting their latest effort, Taking Chance.
It surely must present as a deceptively simple story on paper - a Marine officer escorting the remains of a fallen soldier back home. In fact, the tagline on the HBO page for the movie reads simply, When one falls, another brings him home.
In the hands of the production team, however, it is a quiet, powerful piece of filmmaking, based on a heartbreaking true story.
Starring Kevin Bacon as Lieutenant Colonel Michael Strobl, the film follows the journey of a fallen soldier from the battlefield where he took his last breath to his final resting place, surrounded by those who loved him.
Lieutenant Colonel Strobl volunteered for the duty of escorting PFC Chance Phelps, 19 years way too young, back home after running across his name in a casualty database and seeing they were both from the same hometown.
The movie grew out of the report Strobl wrote along the way, out of the unexpected encounters he had, and the across-the-board recognition and outpouring of support he witnessed as he travelled with Phelps's remains.
I had seen the promos for the movie nearly fifty times by the time it debuted Sunday night. I admit I was intrigued and figured I would catch it at some point. But I did not watch it Sunday night. Life, as I often say, has its own plans and gets in the way.
I managed to catch it yesterday. Sure, there were other, happier movies I could have chosen, but I decided to take a chance.
And I am still haunted by it today, and I know I will be long into the future.
This movie touched me in a way I find difficult to explain. Partly, I suspect, because there is a bit of shame attached to what I am feeling. Because it made me realize that I have become as inured to casualty numbers as has everyone else.
Numbers. That's what they are. And numbers are clean, tidy, devoid of emotion. Numbers don't feel, and they certainly don't bleed.
But behind those numbers are flesh and blood human beings - whose flesh has been torn asunder, and whose blood has been fatally spilled.
On Monday, three US soldiers were killed in Iraq -Corporal Michael L. Mayne, Specialist Micheal B. Alleman, and Private 1st Class Zachary R. Nordmeyer. (Four gave their lives in Afghanistan - their names have not yet been released.)
After watching Taking Chance (PFC Phelps was killed in Iraq in 2004), I know now the journey their bodies will take, and the absolute honor and care with which their remains will be treated along the way.
HBO was meticulous in their care of details, which is, truly, what this story is about.
These escorts take place every day in this country.
From the somber, yet dignified transfer of their bodies from the field of battle to Germany to Dover AFB, to those charged with the duties of sending their fellow soldiers home - it is clear - these soldiers are heroes and due all the honor and care they receive. I lost count of the number of times a salute was directed towards the coffin.
In the mortuary, the care they receive is gentle, reverent. Lovingly washed, attended to, their personal effects (often still wet with their blood) are cleaned, carefully documented.
Morticians work diligently to make them presentable, but often the wounds are simply beyond any aesthetic repair, as was the case of PFC Phelps. Even so, with the full knowledge that a closed casket will follow, extreme attention is paid to every detail of the soldier's uniform. Every piece of brass polished, every button shined, crisp pleats, no wrinkles.
Upon leaving Dover with their escort, they receive yet another salute from those seeing them off. In the case of Phelps, Strobl noted that even nearby landscapers stopped, removed their hats, and held their hands over their hearts.
It was his first indication that those in the military do not grieve alone. That one does not need to wear stripes or ribbons or be married to someone who does, in order to care about their sacrifice.
All along his journey, which included two flights, and an ovenight layover (in which Strobl chose to sleep in the cargo area near Chance's coffin), Strobl was struck at the emotion displayed by the civilians he encountered.
Again, this movie, on the surface, is deceptively simple. But to tell you I was on the verge of tears the entire time, is not an exaggeration. Like I said, my eyes were being opened to a scenario which is sadly played out daily.
Those who escort these soldiers home are not emotionless in their duties. In truth, they are deeply touched, profoundly honored to be the one to take their "brother" or "sister" home.
Strobl was forever changed. Although he had served during Desert Storm, he was an admitted "numbers cruncher" when the Iraq war began anew. He, too, had become inured to the reality of the casualty numbers he worked with daily.
He escorted Chance all the way to his final resting place, staying for the funeral, even though that is not required of the escort. He met with Chance's family, delivering the personal effects (a wooden cross necklace, the St. Christopher medal, dog tags, and watch Chance was wearing when he died), and his heartfelt gratitude for Chance's service.
When one falls, another brings him home.
The journeys of Corporal Michael L. Mayne, Specialist Micheal B. Alleman, and Private 1st Class Zachary R. Nordmeyer have begun. And I, for one, am both humbled and grateful to know how much care and honor they will receive along the way.
They are not just numbers. At least not anymore...to me.
"Accept and let go"? Is that what you said, Nadya? Well, I, for one, have accepted that you are a freakshow, self involved, pontoon lipped, nutbag. And if Grandma had "let go" when she should have, you and your brood would have been living under a bridge a very long time ago.
(Oh, and Nadya ... it's "You can't go back and UNRING a bell." If you're going to preach to the masses, get your sermon right.)
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