Papa’s Basement 1-9-10-Why I’ll Die Alone
This show is an hour-long dogpile on me where it’s confirmed by my two co-hosts that: 1. I’m as smooth as Chris Farley interviewing Paul McCartney when it comes to […]
American Idol. My secret shame.
I can still recall American Idol‘s debut season. I perceived the show as beneath me, designed to entertain the unwashed masses. My television tastes at the time were of a far more sophisticated bent (featuring the likes of the X-Men cartoon that aired every Saturday morning), and I couldn’t be bothered by such pablum. AI concluded its run and I thought the series was done for good, the chastity of my mental integrity intact. But I was naive to believe a ratings juggernaut like AI would be restricted to one season. And, as anyone that’s opened a box of pizza in front of me can attest to, my willpower was built for sprints, not marathons.
I got sucked into season two of AI for the same reason I took yoga classes and learned how to chew with my mouth closed: t & a. One of my college roomies was watching the opening episode of the season in our suite as I was preparing myself a delightful dinner of Cocoa Pebbles and Diet Pepsi. As I was putting the finishing touches on my culinary masterpiece, silently judging him for watching such trash, he screamed out, “John, come here! You gotta take a look at this piece of ass!” And that’s all it took.
The “piece of ass” in question turned out to be some blonde 16 year old, and I never did look at my roomie quite the same, but the damage was done: AI had its hooks in me. No one had ever told me that the first month’s worth of episodes featured nothing but people getting their dreams smashed by a prick with a British accent. If there’s one thing I love more than t & a, it’s haters, among whose ranks I proudly count myself a member. And, in Simon Cowell, I had found my Obi-Wan. Sure, season two was a bit of a farce, with the judges barely stopping short of allowing Ruben Studdard to perform with his member down their throats on their away to anointing him the year’s winner (click here for comedian Ronnie Jordan’s fantastic Ruben impression, starting at 2:26 in the clip), but I was able to forgive and forget enough that I’ve watched every subsequent season. I mean, who could stay mad at the leathery Persian cougar and Simon, with that mentally-challenged flattop hair of his? Certainly not I!
At this point, there’s very little I apologize for when it comes to my AI fandom, but spreading my disease to my mom ranks up there. As I recall, it started with me flipping on the show after her daily dose of Access Hollywood (nothing but intellectually stimulating tv fare for the Papageorgiou household!), which lead to her catching a few of season five’s male contestants performing (Ace Young and Chris Daughtry, chiefly). At first, I innocently thought she came to enjoy the show for the lads’ singing talent, but, as the season wore on, she was more and more open about wanting to, in the parlance of our times, “jump their bones,” which disturbed me to no end. It got to the point where I was worried to knock at the door to my mom’s for “American Idol Night.” (Yes, I’d visit my mom twice a week just so we could watch Idol together. When are Elton John and Lance Bass going to shoot me full of tranquilizers, ship me to Fire Island and get it over with?) I was fearful I’d walk in to the mechanical buzzing of a “personal massager,” Daughtry’s bald mug paused on the television screen, my mom smiling on the couch with a blanket over her lap. I’d scream “Mom, tell me that’s just the sound of cake batter mixing in the blender!” as my eyes melted like I’d just opened the Ark of the Covenant. But I digress.
I don’t know how much longer I’ll stay with AI: Simon leaves at the end of this year, and, with him, the requisite level of meanness I need out of my judges. I’m convinced Randy Jackson is at least mildly mentally retarded and Kara DioGuardio, though I’d put the cheese in her manicotti any day (like you wouldn’t), isn’t someone I’d ever tune in to see. (Well, maybe topless. Think you can work some areola into prime time, FOX?) On the other hand, as long as it keeps providing human train wrecks, who am I to look away? Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the ground!
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