Imagine a locomotive a mere mile from the station, just ready to pull in at the close of a long journey. Now imagine that locomotive plowing into three dozen cars at the final crossing with flaming human wreckage everywhere. This is how we know we're watching the late stages of American Idol.
St. Katharine of the Mammary proves some Whitney songs need more intravenous crack than others. Smurf-hobbit hybrid, Elliot Yamin, sings with enough vibrato to imperil the Brooklyn Bridge. Kellie Pickler threatens a broken high-note that, if rendered in a barn, would have the pickled trailer whore vanishing in the resulting stampede. Chris sings a song that reminded us of that wretched film where a ten ton Marlon Brando rolled around in bed with Faye Dunaway. No. Never. Some memories need never be dredged.
None of this stopped a moist, stomping Paula from whinnying for more and breaking down under the onslaught. She claps, she sobs, she looks for the oat bucket. It's always the god awful shows we savor most.
[Watch video – 9:51, WMV format, high bandwidth]
[Watch video – 9:51, WMV format, low bandwidth]
Oh no! After seeing the picture of Paula, the "sensitive boy" in me almost feels bad about my comments regarding the previous posting. Almost! No...there's that pang again. Aaggghhhh! Sensitive Boy and Boy Satirist enage in inner battle.
Posted by: Kevin | April 26, 2006 at 01:16 PM
so so true, kevin. sure i squeal with delight whenever paula explodes all over my tv screen but really, all the poor girl is doing is feeling all of this deep deep down in her prescription-drug-and-alcohol-addled soul and i feel like a cheap cynic who can't or won't share in her joys and pains ... and a single tear runs down my cheek as i bow my head in shame.
Posted by: el polacko | April 26, 2006 at 03:08 PM