Vomiting action figures, highly questionable relationship advice, and the ever feared Blog Thunderdome.
Neither apple, nor jack.
Apple Jacks. They’re not apple. They’re not even jacked (distilled) apples. Applejack is a hard cider. I have no idea how the association with kids cereal was made. I mean, what if Frosted Flakes were instead named Frosted Lager. Or if Cheerios were Whiskey-Os. It. Makes. No. Sense.
Last night, the Idols celebrated “The Rat Pack” by singing songs that had a vague connection to the mid-60’s group of friends and performers in that they were songs those performers might have heard at some point, in passing. Apparently, the Rat Packers were an exclusive little clique, although if they let Norman Fell in, they can’t have been too discriminating. This is American Idol. When are you gonna learn, Edie? You’re in this world, you know. You’re not out of the world.
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A cereal banquet for Cereal Awareness Month
I’ve been lying low this April. It’s Cereal Awareness Month, and I’ve been keeping to the shadows to see how the cause was growing. People, I have to tell you something. We’ve got a steep hill to climb on the road to awareness through the tunnel of hardship in Metaphor Valley.
“For the people who remain on this stage, the intensity of the competition is a constant evolution.” True. We’ve seen Adam evolve from an annoying woman into a moderately tolerable ladyboy. “Tonight, they take on some of the most classic American songs of all time.” We’ll talk. “Who will set the standard?” If we’re talking about standard of douchery? I believe Gokey is standing on his mark. This is American Idol. Jerry likes my corn.
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Last night, the contestants paid homage to the disco era–with the exception of Kris, who sang ’80s pop, but that’s okay because he was awesome. Adam did not suck at all. Danny was a menace. Allison’s one note got played out. Lil still didn’t know what the fuck. Anoop drowned in a pool of indifference. Matt wore a hat. And Donna Summer made a nice dollar in royalties. Two of them are going home tonight. Neither of them is Donna Summer. This is American Idol. You know they can get you in East Hampton for wearing red shoes on a Thursday, and all that sort of thing. I don’t know whether you know that. I mean, do you know that?
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In 1978, I saw Saturday Night Fever. It was my first R-rated movie. My aunt took me to see it, and I think she was a little mortified because half of what went on in that film was not fit for an 11-year-old’s eyes. But I had to see it! All the other kids went months ago! And Vinnie Barbarino was in it! I remember being bored most of the time, though. I just wanted to see some dancing. The point of this tale is that tonight is “Disco Night.” And I was bored most of the time, and just wanted to see some dancing. This is American Idol. You know, Connie, if you’re as good in bed as you are on the dance floor, then you’re one lousy fuck.
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Last night, Quentin Tarantino brought his special brand of clammy yuck to the Idol competition, serving as mentor to the Top 7 as they performed “Music from the Movies.” Specifically, this meant leering at Allison, growling at Anoop, giving Gokey and Kris instructions they did not follow, telling Matt to speak his lyrics and advising Lil to give a shit. It’s probably for the best that Quentin stick with his day job. This is American Idol. Are you going to bring me my lemonade, or do I have to squeeze it from my hat?
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“They’ve dominated the small screen for the past six weeks,” says wee Ryan. Our boy needs to buy a new calendar, because this crap has been going on since January. “Tonight, our Top 7 takes on music from the movies.” To underscore this theme–and to make me lose my dinner all over the coffee table–Quentin Tarantino appears out of the darkness, looking like a clammy, bloated sweat gland. Oh Christ, he’s pointing at me. My eyes!! This is American Idol. I am gonna ask you questions. And every time you don’t give me answers, I’m gonna cut something off. And I promise you they will be things you will miss.
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Last night, the Idols celebrated songs from the year they were born–except for Gokey, who sang a cover of a song from the year he was born. Apparently, it is Gokey’s mission in life to make me throw a brick at my television. Gokey is the new Lambert. And this is American Idol. Put the fucking lotion in the basket!
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Wow. This season is just flying by, isn’t it? Last week, we lost what’s-her-face, with the tattoos and the voice and shimmy-shimmy. Now we’re left with eight individuals with the potential to become stars, but who, in all likelihood, with just be known as “that one who was on that show, I think.” This is American Idol. The problem with your daughter is not her bed. It’s her brain.
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