[There were six short paragraphs here of meta-blogging. I was probably wise to cut them; I'll probably be foolish enough to post them in the future anyway.]
Well, fooey. All I want is to rap about American Idol.
Two seasons ago I never gave it a passing thought. I don't remember how I got hooked in the first place, but now I unabashedly am, and for the same reasons as most viewers: reasons that have zero to do with the songs or the quality of the singing.
Idol makes me laugh; it makes me gape in horror; it rouses my incurably sappy side; it gets me thinking along the lines of inquiry I trod way-back-when, in pursuit of an American Studies degree (armchair theorizing almost makes TV time feel useful, don't it?); it makes me see aspects of my teaching self in Ms. Abdul (yikes). And I like looking at the outfits. Then there's the ecstasy-agony of smug little Seacrest's "........after the break" foreplay. They're simply making plain old shameless, good TV, those savvy bastids.
Anyway.
Last year I was drawn to Mr. Hicks, despite myself. I enjoyed the man. I did not root, but if I had rooted, it would've been for him.
Now I picture: our old living room with its big bay windows, faux fireplace, piles of New Yorkers slipping and sliding totally out of control, drifts of cat fur, early spring light waning. Myself and Todd on the couch with plates of Home Run Inn sausage pizza and glasses of red from the Rico. And Taylor Hicks on the boob tube. You are fucking charming me, I think, watching him holler and grin. I should maybe be worried.
And I picture: sheer white words, like ripped plastic in bare branches, floating above our heads: In eight months you'll be living in this dude's hometown, and an Idol-proud town it is. You have no idea. . .
We started watching Idol again last Wednesday: same couch, same tube, different view out the window.
Simon calls some scrawny big-eyed kid a bush baby, and the bush baby's obese, lisping friend comes in all hopeful and says I've got a great personality, and when the disaster's over you get a parting shot of the two walking away together, and I just want to cry for humanity, and it hurts real good, just like they want it to, and what I know is: I feel like an addict.
What I don't know is: What are the words above my head spelling out now?
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4 comments:
When Taylor did his "homecoming" thing for the show, there were, I believe, 12,000 people at the Galleria. It was something outrageous like that.
And B'ham being B'ham, everyone knows someone who knows Taylor, Ruben, or Bo personally.
I rarely watch the show, but I'll definitely tune in next week to see the B'ham auditions! Some of the taping for that was on that weekend you and Todd came to visit. I remember that was the night we saw Randy Jackson and Ryan Seacrest at the Blue Monkey.
What I don't know is: what are the words above my head spelling out now?
"Change the channel."
"Coca-Cola"
Oh come on, boys. Just try it. It feels reallll good, just try it. . .
minutes ago: "The South has had a lockdown on American Idol!" -- cute young opera singer & budding rock star in wild rainbow garb, ready to take on the muthafkn' world...
See, doesn't that feel good?
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