American Idolatry
Unable to hold back any longer, I am thankful that I can count on the blogging world at large upon which to unload my bipolar distress over the American Idol Disaster of 2006. Because it hurts. And the more it hurts, the more I love it, and really, whether you’re in the closet or openly preaching your love of AI to anyone who will listen (can I get a witness?), there is great comfort knowing I am not alone in this.
* Judas Priest, what is Paula on this week? It’s a game! Fun for the whole family! Spot the symptoms, place your bets and name your drug. Glassy eyes? Check. Slurred speech? Check. Unabashed love for all living and inanimate objects, including Simon? Could be Tina. Wait, she keeps waving an imaginary lasso above her head. Looks like it’s a hallucinogenic. My money’s on a bottle of Ritalin with a rubber cement chaser. Also, it appears her left bang swoop may be strategically hiding a lazy eye? Or is her left eye is a lightweigt? We’ll never know.
* Why is Randy always a broken record? When the show first started, all we heard about was how he played bass on Journey records back in the day. Dawg was constantly reliving his glory days. Now he just picks a couple choice phrases and repeats them ad nauseum. Last night’s victims: “Out the box” and “You worked it OUT, man.”
* Mandisa is a class act, yo. (Damn you, Randy!)
* Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. So yucky.
Looks of a truck driver. Voice of a lawn mower.
* Paris. If I have to hear Paris say “tink you” to the judges one more time… I mean, clearly the girl is extremely talented, but her über-cutsie 5 year old speaking voice and mannerisms make me feel like I am watching some sort of creepy human/Cabbage Patch hybrid.
* Chris. Do yourself a favor and stay as far away from Paula as you can. She a cold hearted snake. Look into her (glassy) eyes, oh oh oh.
* Katharine. I can’t help but like her although I think she would take Idolship to a very cabaret type place.
* Taylor. I just can’t.
* Lisa. Dawg, you are really getting on my nerves. This is not your high school production of Carousel! I get the feeling she’s the kind of girl I probably hated in high school, and is so precious that she thinks pierced ears are trampy, gets ill from one cigarette and wears a virginal white dressing gown with matching headband to bed. In short, she needs to get her hands dirty. I suggest a scandalous affair with Paris. Again, stay away from Paula.
* Kevin. I have a theory that under that fully buttoned polo shirt lies a full flokati rug of chest hair.
Kevin charitably donates his chest hair to needy children of the world.
* Ellllleeeeeeooooottttt. Brilliantly compared to Alf and Miranda’s favorite. I like him a whole lot, but want to feed him Sudafed. Boy is stuffed up!
* Kellie Pickler. FTLOC, she is MILKING that southern-fried hick/vacant blonde act for all she can get. Can anyone really be that stupid? She is like a caricature of herself, dumbfounded by the most common objects and foods. She’s still harping on her introduction to calamari. It irritates me to no end and makes me want to sit and try to convince her to eat inedible things. “Shellac? I’ve nayver hayad a shellayac sandwich before. Fried Q-tips? I’ve nayver even heard of a Q-tip before.” You get the picture.
Ace. I would like to hear him sing an entire Barry White album in falsetto.
T-minus 4 hours and counting
“I’ve always been impressed with a girl who can sing for her supper and get breakfast as well. That’s the way I am, heaven help me.”
Yes, that’s right folks. The countdown is on.* In approximately 4+ hours I will be under the same roof as my Socialist Rocker Boyfriend Forever, Billy Bragg. I can’t tell you how exciting this is for me. I have loved him since I was sixteen, and have never missed a Chicago show of his. I also have never come so jawdroppingly close to missing one of his shows, either! Because, um, WE SOLD OUT THE SHOW. We bought the last 3 tickets. Had we gone to the box office one hour later, my Heart may still be on the floor of the Double Door to be kicked around by any number of better-than-thou roadies and aloof nightclub lackeys.
So yeah, I realize for many people he’s a hard man to love. Some people find his voice grating, his unintelligible cockney accent irritating, and his often leeennggtthy political rants patronizing. I know he’s not perfect, and that his ideology and reality may be hard to reconcile. But in spite of his contradictions here and there, the man is just here to help make the world a better place, one Union song at a time. He’s about equality and is always waiting in the wings with his guitar to help people without a voice be heard. How can you not love that? There may be tears, but as I am feeling in unusual command of my emotions today, we’ll see if I can spare myself the public embarrassment. But seeing that I often well up when his songs come on the car radio, I think I’m done-fer. Sorry in advance to Miranda and Karen.
*Did you know there is a countdown clock web site that helps you Count Down Your Most Anticipated Events™? I seriously want to know what OCDemon thought of this site. You can choose just about any occasion or create your own. I mean, I guess some of them are positive and fun, like a count down to your wedding or birthday. Then there are those that are clearly designed to induce a panic attack with each (visibly) passing minute. Who wants to obsessively track the time left until their work deadline? Or moving? Shouldn’t you be shoving something in a box instead? The only way this site could make that more anxiety provoking is if each second was accompanied by a forboding “bloop” sound, like the timer in the hatch on Lost. Really, I think I prefer my method of denial, procrastination, casual glance at watch, hard stare at watch, audible gasp, swearing and then working like a madwoman in fast forward.
Or, if you’d rather bring on a full blown depression, start a count down to your retirement or military duty. I am, however, mildly entertained that you can count down to your divorce.
Seeyasucka
Why is the universe against me having a lovely new pair of seersucker pants for spring?
Sure, there are many pairs seemingly readily available. Believe me, my annual springtime seersucker hunt has evolved my eyes into hairline stripe detecting machines. I can sense their perfectly puckered fabric within 100 yards. 
I am. A monster.
The problem is, all the pairs I keep finding either show butt cleavage, are capris (let the record show that there is nothing wrong with capris, and that while others look good in them, the combination of the capris and my legs resembles an extended tire gauge), are maternity pants, have an elastic waistband or flare out so much that they completely cover your shoes for an unflattering look reminiscent of an elephant leg.
From Dior’s new Babar line.
Or they look like this.
Shoes not included? Forget it.
Anyway, this wouldn’t be such a frustration if it didn’t happen every year. I mean, is it really too much to ask for a smart, sensible pair of pants crafted from a classic, breathable fabric that helps one endure the summer heat, and keeps one comfortable whilst playing croquet or drinking sweet tea on the porch? Why should us northerners be punished on the basis of geography? It’s borderline ungodly.
If you have any leads as to where I can get such a pair of pants, please contact us here at the Seersucker hotline, day or night.
Georgia and my lacking wardrobe thank you.
Move over Kelly Clarkson
The results of the Lincoln Square Idol competition are in:
Due to being extremely cool, hot and talented, One Flight Up has won a spot in the Lincoln Square Summer Concert Series! Can I get a wha wha?
Really, they r*o*c*k*e*d the Dank Haus and put on an unbelievable show, for what can only be a sign of amazing things to come.
So mark your calendar and save the date for August 10th, in Giddings Square!
OFU we lub ewe. Congratulations!
Side effect from the evening: have a fantasy of hanging out with the Golden Girls for an evening of sausage and beer at the Dank Haus ballroom and bar.
“How close upon the diamond come diapers and dishes”
Okay, so Collene’s mention of the “How to Fix Everything” course in an earlier post (sadly, despite being 1/3 of Wordsmifs.org, I am still catching up on my co-smifs beats) dragged me to the extra bedroom (aka Arts & Crafts room, aka Carla’s closet, aka kitty powder room) to dig out my loverly book entitled How to Clean Everything. Yes, everything. At first I was skeptical as well, but after randomly opening to page 68 today, where it matter-of-factly explains how to wash your electric bulbs (the copyright on this book is 1952), I began to open myself up to the idea that 219 pages really might be sufficient. So, after reading up on how to properly clean my vinegar cruet (finally! I swear man, that was like the nastiest cruet in 7 counties!), I further perused this book—a book which dear Alma Chestnut Moore wrote for “women who dislike housework but like nice homes.” I really felt that she was speaking directly to me in the introduction:
“Though [the book] will obviously give brides and enviable head start (Amen!), it was not written especially for them, but for those of us with growing families, who have to make every stroke tell or go under. (Yay, I love old people slang!)
“Cleaning is just one aspect of the role we play, and we want to finish it fast. We get more of a bang out of playing tutor, umpire, psychologist, interior decorator, gardener or companion to equally harried husband. (finally, I thought, someone who understands my dilemma of balancing my 9 children, house chores and demanding umpire duties…)
“It is true, as charged by one authority (Mr. Clean? we all ask in unison), that we have attempted to boil our own linseed oil, to clean oil paintings with sliced potatoes and cut onions, (painting stew was big even after the Depression I guess) and to give sparkle to platinum by soaking it in Javelle water. This advice, however, came through on a radio program and how are we to know? (I must admit, this paragraph made me shutter whilst thinking of the rising cost of Javelle water at the local gym, and, of course, the great linseed fire of ’98).
The other thing that I love about this book is that it is making me come up with all sorts of dares for my friends: “If you are fussy about the fit of your ‘bra’ don’t iron it. Replace tired elastic and broken fastners with ‘refreshers,’ available at notion counters.” I’m soooo daring someone to go to the local notion counter. I bet they have all sorts of interesting ideas about things at the notion counter…
One last thing I love, love, love about older books is how the authors are so incredibly OPINIONATED. Grab an old dictionary when you’re bored and look up some common enough words and I swear, you’ll feel like you should move to Pottersville just for thinking to look the word up in the first place. Here is a lovely example of Alma’s feelings about the household centipede:
“The thing has altogether too many legs, its antennae are longer than would seem necessary and it goes too fast. to see it scooting along, its legs rippling in fantastic locomotion, gives a fellow creepy sensations along the spine. the same goes for the millipede, a varmint with a trimmer figure but many more legs.” -All this just to ultimately say ‘use DDT on the bastards.’
My lord, I wish I could have written under the pseudonym “Chacha McMinty” and put out a zillion descriptive and opinionated texts on seemingly straight-forward material. But I guess that’s why I’m now a wordsmif.
