Oh, American Idol. Thank you so much for coming back to me.
Last night season 7 of American Idol kicked off with a bang in Philadelphia, commonly known as the City of Brotherly Love but a place I like to refer to as the Birthplace of Carly Babins. And almost every single audition we got a chance to see was just as unique as Miss Babins herself.
Favorites from the Philadelphia episode? Well, if we’re talking good auditions, the fourteen-year old with the sick baby (Angela Martin), the Carrie Underwood type from Oregon (Kristy Lee Cook), and the oddly colored handsome man with the Bob Marley braids (Christ Watson) stand out. He was like, a shiny gold color. Not black. Golden. I enjoyed them.
Of course, because I’m Jordan Silverman and I thrive on retardation and people who are seriously, seriously fucked up, I look forward to the bad auditions even more than I do the good ones. There is nothing better to me when the doors open and some idiot wearing a cape, a bikini, Princess Leia cinnamon braid buns, or some variation on the “look at me, please!” outfit comes charging in.
Temptress Brown, however, threw me for a loop. I HATE when American Idol makes me feel bad. In my opinion, there should be two categories of emotion I should be feeling when I watch this show: number one, I should be deeply envious of the astounding talented voices, or I should be extremely tickled by the tards and their antics. Unfortunately, every once in a while AI decides to throw in a heartbreaking story along with someone who truly cannot sing, and it just ends badly for everyone, including me, who has to watch the spectacle play out with a sick feeling in my stomach. See: Temptress Brown the high school football player who is trying out to please her morbidly obese mother. Needless to say, she could not sing, and it was so, so painful to watch.
Mostly, though, I’m just glad that American Idol is getting back to its roots. If you’re one of the nine people on earth who haven’t yet been assaulted by the press machine that IS the American Idol Media Relations team, read this – it will tell you all you need to know about Mr. Nigel Lithgow’s solemn promise to not release the Sanjaya Malakars of the world upon us again. And that is really all one can ever ask for, don’t you think?
So Idol is back, and I have a warm fuzzy feeling all throughout my body, probably not unlike the warm fuzzy feeling throughout Paula Abdul’s body as she drinks from the Ever Present Coca Cola Cup That Does Not Contain Coca Cola. Tonight is yet another audition tryout episode, so get ready for another recap. I cannot wait to select my final twelve (a process that involves a lot of scribbled notes on Jordan Silverman stationary and a lot of screaming phone calls to Greene) – rest assured I will let everyone know my predictions. I know you all were worried.
Last night season 7 of American Idol kicked off with a bang in Philadelphia, commonly known as the City of Brotherly Love but a place I like to refer to as the Birthplace of Carly Babins. And almost every single audition we got a chance to see was just as unique as Miss Babins herself.
Favorites from the Philadelphia episode? Well, if we’re talking good auditions, the fourteen-year old with the sick baby (Angela Martin), the Carrie Underwood type from Oregon (Kristy Lee Cook), and the oddly colored handsome man with the Bob Marley braids (Christ Watson) stand out. He was like, a shiny gold color. Not black. Golden. I enjoyed them.
Of course, because I’m Jordan Silverman and I thrive on retardation and people who are seriously, seriously fucked up, I look forward to the bad auditions even more than I do the good ones. There is nothing better to me when the doors open and some idiot wearing a cape, a bikini, Princess Leia cinnamon braid buns, or some variation on the “look at me, please!” outfit comes charging in.
Temptress Brown, however, threw me for a loop. I HATE when American Idol makes me feel bad. In my opinion, there should be two categories of emotion I should be feeling when I watch this show: number one, I should be deeply envious of the astounding talented voices, or I should be extremely tickled by the tards and their antics. Unfortunately, every once in a while AI decides to throw in a heartbreaking story along with someone who truly cannot sing, and it just ends badly for everyone, including me, who has to watch the spectacle play out with a sick feeling in my stomach. See: Temptress Brown the high school football player who is trying out to please her morbidly obese mother. Needless to say, she could not sing, and it was so, so painful to watch.
Mostly, though, I’m just glad that American Idol is getting back to its roots. If you’re one of the nine people on earth who haven’t yet been assaulted by the press machine that IS the American Idol Media Relations team, read this – it will tell you all you need to know about Mr. Nigel Lithgow’s solemn promise to not release the Sanjaya Malakars of the world upon us again. And that is really all one can ever ask for, don’t you think?
So Idol is back, and I have a warm fuzzy feeling all throughout my body, probably not unlike the warm fuzzy feeling throughout Paula Abdul’s body as she drinks from the Ever Present Coca Cola Cup That Does Not Contain Coca Cola. Tonight is yet another audition tryout episode, so get ready for another recap. I cannot wait to select my final twelve (a process that involves a lot of scribbled notes on Jordan Silverman stationary and a lot of screaming phone calls to Greene) – rest assured I will let everyone know my predictions. I know you all were worried.
Happy Wednesday to all! May you have an evening free of Taylor Hickses and full of Katharine McPhees. Yes, I still have the McPheever.
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