George Michael doesn't look like this anymore

After the Lady of the House insisted that the man introduced as GM on the American Idol season finale Tuesday night was an impostor, I decided to do some investigating. It took only a few minutes of browsing the photos that popped up via Google Images to prove to her that she was sadly mistaken.

You see, the LOTH is stuck in 1983 and thinks GM couldn't possibly betray the days of Wham and, gasp, change his look. I mean, heck, Simon LeBon and that ghost-faced guy in Duran Duran still don't have a shellacked-hair out of place from the Reflex days, she whined.

Is it really so horrible to go from a crocheted Jacob's Coat-of-Many-Colors-esque sweater to a sharkskin suit? I wouldn't be caught dead on that 70s-era Sears pullover. (Max would love it though, if only to get his mincemeat-making claws in it. It's the only thing I know that would stop him from shredding the tulle skirt of the LOTH's wedding gown.)

Once she realized he has a new album and tour approaching, the LOTH did some googling of her own. (I mean, the song he performed on AI really wasn't that bad if you could forgive the over-emoting.) And she learned that Mr. Michael didn't really blend into oblivion after the 80s. In fact, Wikipedia claims that he is Britain's 10th richest musician. In between perennially falling asleep at the wheel in London traffic and seeking out more than toilet paper in public restrooms, he has produced a respectable amount of decent music (streaming-audio samples of which you can hear here).

The funniest part of this whole affair is that the MOTH was bewildered to learn that GM had this effect on the LOTH. I think it surprised even her. She said, I guess when you've danced to "Wake Me Up Before you Go Go" atop rickety tables in the study lounge at 3 a.m. when you should have been cramming for the all-important college exam, you don't forget easily the architect of that delirium. Could it be that the LOTH is not alone, and that GM is to other 40-something women what Rick Springfield is to grandmotherly generations and Tom Jones to great-grandmotherly generations? I guess we'll find out when the tour hits State-side.

And the winner is ....

Donna Summer!

The erstwhile disco diva trumped all the American Idol performances on tonight's season finale. She would have lost to Gladys Knight's 1973 archival video, but because Ms. Summer appeared in person and proved that her pipes are still as good as or better than they were in the '70s, she takes the prize. (I wasn't alive in the 70s, so the latter assertion is attributable to the Lady of the House. I trust her, for the most part, except when she says something like "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." That's when I know she's on the sauce.)

Oh, yes, where's my head, The Davids. I've digressed (I seem to be doing a lot of that lately). Cook wins the vote, and we are satisfied, if even pleased, with that. America, you got it right. You'll have another chance, in another sphere, in November, and we hope you'll get it right then too.

With your indulgence, I'd like to give out the following supplemental awards from the evening, voted on by all in attendance in our living room.

• Best Trainwreck. Not even the superb vocal stylings of David Cook could lure the boys of ZZ Top from the land of catatonia. Maybe it was just hard for them to sing "Sharp-Dressed Man" with conviction while looking like something the cat dragged in (not a cat such as I though, as I do not drag things in—I have my servants do that). I also think they should replace their drummer with a drum machine. Carla said she believed there was someone missing, as she distinctly recalled the band had three beards.
• Best Candid Shot of a Uterus. Since hers was the only babymaker on display, Carrie Underwood wins this award by default. But we suspect she would have won regardless. (Unless, of course, L'il Kim made an appearance.) Underwood's "I Drank Quervo Then Went Home With a Guy I Met in A Roadhouse" song was a far cry from "Jesus Take the Wheel." We think her next single should be "Jesus Take Your Robes and Drape Them Over My Lady Bits Before American Idol is Forced to Carry a Parental Advisory Warning."
  
• Best Fashion Choice That Worked Despite All Reason. David Cook is just racking 'em up because he really rocked the French cuffs at the end. I kept blinking and blinking. Are those .... French cuffs? Peeking out from his jacket sleeves? I look around me——everyone is nodding, yes. Is it possible they look .... good? More nodding.
  
• Best Crack Heard About Tonight's Show. Carla's father, for saying that when the Idols go on tour, Amanda Overmeyer will carry the luggage. Pa-DUM! And speaking of Miss O, was it just us, or did she look like she had been forced on stage at gunpoint?
• Best Practical Joke. Jordin Sparks announcing Disneyworld's newest E-Ticket ride, The American Idol Experience. April Fool! Oh, that's past. May Fool, perhaps?
• Best Surprise of the Night. George Michael! Or someone they introduced as George Michael. Carla says he was most certainly an impersonator. A bad impersonator. He had Sean Penn's hair, the Unabomber's sunglasses, a decidely un-Wake-Me-Up-Before-You-Go-Go solemnity, and a herky-jerkyness that suggested the work of a puppeteer under the impression that his marionette was William Shatner. Nonetheless, the impersonator sang well, even though he apologized unnecessarily afterward for having a cold. Carla refused to believe it was he, and nothing short of him taking his shoes off would convince her of his true identity. Apparently, George Michael had really awesome feet. As awesome as my dainty paws? I doubt it.

That's it, kids. See you back here for .... dare I say it? .... Season 8.

DA KO's DC on AI

Much to my surprise, David Archuleta brought it on American Idol last night. He was poised and non-awkward and his vocals were spot on. (Overused idioms and idiotic phrases in italics.) David Cook was a bit bedraggled and pitchy (in a real sense, not in the sense that the music theorially challenged Randy Jackson would say). I agree with Cowell that the bout was a knockout for DA. And that's ALL I'm gonna say about the ungoddessly display of boxing imagery, metaphors and re-enactments. It would be like making fun of a court jester because he's dressed funny. I guess you get what you pay for, so you can't expect a pay-per-view spectacle of heavyweight proportion. For the record, it was 15 minutes into the show before any singing began. Accounting for that and commercials (including the amount of time it took for the judges to say the word "Nokia" a bizillion times), we're looking at 20 minutes of show.

So back to my point. Based just on last night, DA was victorious. But we as voters have to look at each contestant's body of work. It's sort of like America's Next Top Model when one of the girls gets the stomach flu and is not able to pose on the elephant like Danielle did even when she had cholera. Tyra will urge the panel not to eliminate the sicko, because she performed so well at the bullfight and the spider-on-the-face challenges previously. I digress again. Boy, can you tell how much I miss ANTM?

So given the body of work, maturity level and stage presence, I think DC is the one who can represent America best, though I bet this renegade won't wear a flag pin.

Other random notes:

• Thank you, Clive Davis, for being the only person who chose fantastic, appropriate songs for the Davids. "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," a magically delicious concoction by EJ and Bernie T., was perfect, and DA did it justice. "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" was another fabulous pick, and DC pulled it off without doing a Bono impersonation (vocally I mean—there was that jumping up on the ledge part).
• Randy, get a calendar. This is not the battle of 2007.
• Paula said to DC: "You're standing in your truth." All that space on stage and DC couldn't keep his feet out of a puddle of truth. Ewwwww.
• A late comment, but necessary nonetheless: I happened to catch Cowell on Leno, and he said Fantasia's performance last week was atrocious (or some other A word he's fond of). Check this out, dog. Fantasia TORE UP the stage, delivering a performance of a caliber not seen on the show in years. That girl was standing in a puddle of whup-ass. She was so smoking, molten hot, I'm surprised the whole room didn't go up in flames. Thank you, Fantasia, for reminding us of a time when AI was hot, baby, hot!

That's all for now. Sorry this post is late, as there are mere hours before we learn the results. Let's just hope it's not a tie because I'd hate to have to see the superdelegates step in.

This . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is American Idol.

The only remarkable thing about AI last night was that Ryan Seacrest, for the first time ever I think, didn't insert a transatlantic-size pause between "This" and "is American Idol." I've heard that the producers are talking of ways to buoy the show's dismal ratings. So maybe RS, in his own little way, was trying to change it up a bit. Rumor has it that producers are considering bagging Randy and Paula (paper or plastic?). I wouldn't miss Randy one iota. He's awful, but totally predictable in his awfulness. Paula, on the other hand, keeps things fresh—you never know what hallucinations she might be having from week to week.

Now that Idol is down to three capable singers, it has lost its horror factor (although Sayesha's faux-sexy dancing is mildly scary). I miss the Nanny and The Stoner. I even miss Chikezie, who raised the element of surprise to an art form. Ahh, those were ................. the days.

Jason Cats-tro has likely never heard of T.S. Eliot

Some American Idol contestants have gone on to Broadway success, which is the only reason I can think of that dreadlocked Jason Castro would choose to sing "Memory" from Cats on Andrew Lloyd Webber night. He can barely sing, but he would save the guys in hair-and-makeup 50 percent of their time grooming Grizabella. That is if the Broadway show was ever resurrected (and we dearly hope it won't be). It was worth the hour we lost of our lives to see the look on ALW's face when AI's resident stoner announced his song choice. And from the look on Sir Andrew's face as he watched the show from the audience, we think he may have lifted some wacky tobaccy from Castro's purse before their mentoring session was over. Sometimes the pain is too much to bear without self-medicating.

One of the hawkeyes in the living room recognized Miss Betty Buckley in the house, which prompted her to share an anecdote from when she saw Cats on Broadway. Buckley's rendition of "Memory" was the high point of the overpriced affair, and during a moment of boredom, our ticket-holder stepped outside for a Salem Slim Light and was mistaken for a prostitute. At that point, she began to feel that wearing a pair of leopard-print spandex leggings to the event was a bad idea. Yet, she got a strange satisfaction out of being gawked at by a New Yorker. She felt she'd arrived.

All that said, Jason's performance outshone the other weakest singer in the final six, Nanny Brooke, who would never be mistaken for a lady of the night. She still proudly waves her "I've never seen an R-rated movie" flag (which is at least a tad more palatable than the erstwhile contestant Kristy Lee's Stars and Bars fixation).

We like Sayesha for the best performance. The red dress, the twins and her lively choreography may have saved her. We think Jason or Brooke will get the axe. Stay tuned.

Paula Abdul suffocates chihuahuas!

American Idol was barely under way Tuesday before the Madame and I started wagering on what Paula Abdul was concealing beneath her torturous bodice. Following Michael Johns' ear-shattering "glory notes" at the end of Aerosmith's "Dream On," Abdul announced: "I think my chihuahuas are going to come join you on stage." Yet, they never materialized! During the commercial break, the truth was discovered: the chihuahuas expired before they could be wrested free from the amalgam of boobs and taffeta. In order to preserve the integrity of Adbul's "cleavage," the dogs remained in situ until after the show, our sources confirmed.

The chihuahuas' next-of-kin could not be reached for comment. Charges are pending.

"Celebrate Me Home" causes spontaneous hemorrhaging in cats

I can remain silent no longer. That "Celebrate Me Home" song by Ruben Studdard — the one they play whenever an American Idol contestant gets canned — is MAKING MY BRAIN BLEED. It lacks any redeeming value, musical or otherwise. I guarantee you that if any Idol contestant in the history of the show had performed that song, including RS himself, he or she would be seared by the judges afterward for making "the wrong song choice."

The other reason I hate it is because it makes absolutely no sense. You can't celebrate anyone home. You can celebrate an accomplishment, as in "Japanese scientists are celebrating their recent success at training rats to use rakes."* But you can't transport a person from point A (i.e., the set of American Idol) to point B (i.e., a room ablaze with the harsh light of reality) by "celebrating" him there.

If it were possible to celebrate someone somewhere, I would temporarily waive my personal policy of non-celebration to celebrate the new cat, Max, back to the cluster-fracked** universe from which he came. I would put a crown of daisies on my head, don a sequined skirt and propel myself 'round the maypole if it would make him disappear.

*They hope to one day celebrate success at teaching ferrets to drive snow plows.

**Battlestar is back on Friday, so hold onto your fracking hats!

"If you can't say something nice ...

... say nothing at all."

I will pledge to do this as I assess tonight's American Idol. Why? Because Maxim was mean to Sarah Jessica Parker, and I got to thinking that maybe my words have unduly hurt the feelings of some of the AI hopefuls. This doesn't mean I am going to just lie down and take everything they unleash on us without retribution (I promise I'll be back next week with my fully intact claws at the ready). Think of this as a temporary ceasefire—a free pass to the kids, so to speak—from a temporarily kinder, gentler me.

1. Brooke White. I like the name "Jolene," which was the name of the song you sang.
2. Jason Castro. I think you graduated from college dorm room caliber performance to coffee house caliber performance.
   
3. David Cook. It's a love-in. I love your new hairdo. The plastered-down Liza Minelli look was really ill-advised. I loved your song. I also loved that even though you sang higher up in the roster than normal (number 3 , I believe) I still loved your performance best by the end of the show.
4. Carly Smithson. You sang so sweetly. You didn't scream. And I thought you looked soft and pretty somehow, in spite of the tattoos and dark clothing and eyeliner. It reminded me of the time Amanda Overmyer gave her makeup artist the night off.
   
5. Ramiele Malubay. "If you can't say something nice, proceed to number 6."
   
6. Sayesha Mercado. You demonstrated that it is possible, though difficult, to really work the color yellow.
7. Kristy Lee Cook. It was pleasant. Just like Simon said. You sang the Lady of the House's favorite Dolly Parton song and didn't ruin it.
8. David Archuleta. I can't remember what you sang. But I do remember all three judges saying they liked it. They couldn't all three be wrong, could they? So, well done. I guess.
9. Michael Johns. This is the first time you have performed as well as you did at your audition. I remembered why I liked you at first. I want to say something about the ascot. I really do. But I can't. I promised.
   

AI 7

It aired. I dozed. Nuff said.

Cooleosis? Cooliosis? How does Randy Jackson spell that?

I was on my favorite fleece blanket at the edge of the recliner, in thrall to the Sandman, when my ears pricked to yet another invented word slipping off Randy Jackson's tongue. He said it in praise of someone's performance. I'm not sure whose it was, because American Idol's Beatlemania Part II proved the perfect soporific for me. I can only suppose that one of the contestants had a groovy case of scoliosis. Then I dozed off again, happening to open my eyes in time to see Sayesha Mercado step on stage. Just in case the performance wouldn't dazzle, she put the twins on display to shore it up. But beware, Sayeesha. Even a great rack couldn't save Kady Malloy.

Speaking of using everything in your arsenal .... is it just me, or has Carly Smithson started really slathering on the brogue? Seems like in auditions, there were only subtle hints of Ireland. Maybe next week, she'll whip out the Bono shades. Or maybe Bono will appear and whip the contestants. That I'd wake up for.

Would someone please put Kristy Lee Cook* out of her misery?

I'm sure she would do the same for her horse if she came upon it behaving the way she did on American Idol tonight. Not a fan of her anyway, but this time was particularly abominable, abysmal, appalling, atrocious .... (must I continue with the alphabet of shame?). We never thought we'd prefer listening to Elmer Fudd in a blender full of jackhammers.

Two enthusiastic paws up for:

• Chikezie**, this is the second time I have heard the lady of the house scream "Chikezie!" "Woo-hoo!!!!" The first time was when you did Stevie's "I Believe." Even if we learn on the Internet tomorrow that you lifted the arrangement, execution is execution, and you, Chikezie, are the grim, if a bit dorky, reaper.
• Here's something I never thought I'd hear the lady of the house yell: "Amanda O., you totally smoked it! That almost makes up for all the other times we prayed for a merciful god to end your suffering!" I mean, it sounded like maybe she even hit a non-screamed note somewhere in the vicinity of where it should be.***

We'd anticipated tonight's sing-off with the certainty of this equation: Lennon-McCartney + David Archuleta = Dream Team. But alas, the sum was Nightmare. Poor kid. It stinks when people say you're great only 4,999 out of 5,000 times.

And Carly, who we hearted, we now only half-heart. Predictable, we thought.

All in all, a ruinous meeting between the Beatles and people who are old enough to be their great-great-grandchildren. Sony, puh-leeeeeeeeeze, put the LM Songbook back under lock and key.

*I resent that I had to Google the spelling of her name, because that is yet another minute of my precious time I could have spent napping and getting paid for it.
**Had to Google that spelling too, but with much less resentment.
***The man of the house, watching it on TiVo under duress, panned it summarily.

Suck it up, number four

Brett Favre calls it quits, saying "I'm tired. I'm just tired." He's 38 years old. In human years, I am 56. I'm tired too, but you don't see me whining about my heart not being in it anymore. People count on me. Not only in this house but, I'm told, in the blogosphere at large. It seems like pundits have exhausted their vocabulary. "Superdelegates," "pitchy" "in it to win it." On American Idol, the adjective-challenged Randy Jackson has resorted to making up words, most recently "prowness." And so it's left to me to scour the ether and find something fresh to say. But I do it. I do it for my family. I do it for the world. When I could just take a nap.

This fall, when everyone is craving the wonky pass play that manages to hit the mark, leaving us to exclaim "Sweet Nelly on a tricked-out teeter totter!" When cheeseheads are dreaming wistfully of the unintelligible, pre-snap, gruffly shouted melange of numbers (is it three-nineteeeeeeeeeeeeeen?), what will I be doing? Probably slaving away at the keyboard, pouncing on the nauseating political process and finding fault with fashion everywhere. And what will Brett Favre be doing? Taking a nap.

Disgusting.

Paula Abdul: Talent-show judge or crazy Gilligan's Island-esque witch doctor?

I'm not sure if Paula Abdul thinks David Archuleta is a plush toy, a zit, or an air freshener. Her response to David's exceedingly respectable performance of "Imagine" on Tuesday night's American Idol was:

"I want to squish you, squeeze your head off and dangle you from my rear view mirror."

I think "You sang real pretty" would have sufficed. And it would've sounded way less creepy.

Oz, according to Paula

"It's so beautiful. I wish you could see it. Dumbledore was there. And Dennis Kucinich. I had these really big hands though. They were sort of melty looking. I brought back some shoes for Randy."