Lunchtime, Wednesday, January 18, 2006: Building on last evening's post, I'm declaring this Rant Week here at Always Write. Every day this week -- which is that week, in case you hadn't noticed -- I will deliver a fresh tirade on an arbitrary topic. At least I'll try; this week (again, that week) I tend to be lazy. Just know that Bitcherella is reporting until Mary Sunshine returns. And don't knock me for being cranky -- at least I'm trying to harness the creative power of my horrormones.
Today's disgust is inspired by the big brains at Fox Broadcasting Company.
I'd like to think that if I had cable TV I would not have succumbed to that wasting disease called "American Idol" last night. Jesus, what a freak show. I couldn't look away.
My favorite characters are those not content to embarrass themselves in a musical fashion, or even in a fashion fashion. There is no such thing as bad publicity here; it takes a tantrum to make damned sure, for better or for worse, that America never forgets the name... uh... you know, they all looked the same to me. One by one they stumble from the audition room, eyes moist and lips trembling, and play to the camera one last time: "But everyone tells me how amazing my voice is!" "You people don't know what talent is." "When I'm famous, y'all ain't invited to my show." And the one I never tire of, "Fuck you, Simon!" And then comes the thrashing. The swearing. The choking, hiccuping tears. It's as if these young hopefuls have just learned a cherished pet was creamed by a speeding bus outside. Only that pet is a dream of stardom. And that bus is reality. Climb on board, kiddies, or be run down.
I blame the mothers. (I know, I always blame the mothers.) Those omnipresent stage moms in their stirrup pants and Bedazzled sweaters, pacing anxiously outside the audition like expectant new fathers in a hospital waiting room. "We done spent all Lurlene's college money to fly out here from Shitsville, but we made it. And now I'm here to watch my baby rise and shine like the star she is. This is it! I can feel it! She's gonna go all the way this time!" We should all be so sure of something at some time in our lives. No wonder Mama looks so shocked when her songbird is spat without ceremony through the doors of the inner sanctum. But come on. She wailed and flailed as if under a voodoo spell and yet you encouraged her to "keep on singin', baby, somebody gonna discover you 'ventually." Shame on you, stage mothers. You pump your talentless children full of false, unflinching confidence and send them careening into televised humiliation like lemmings into the sea. Oh, the humanity!
I will say this, though: It took a few years, but that Seacrest boy is starting to grow on me.