My Guilty Pleasure

I watch American Idol. I was a casual user up until the season with Carrie Underwood. Then, I became a full fledged junkie. I'm not a big fan of country music because it all sounds like just one continuous whine to me but you could actually track her metamorphosis from awkward Okie karaoke singer to diva superstar. Fascinating stuff.

I've got mixed feelings about this season so far, though.

I love the new judge. She's real and I believe her presence on the panel has by some mysterious means (osmosis?), caused Paula to learn how to form complete, coherent sentences. Kara is a breath of fresh air.

I love the fact that contestant Nick Mitchell a.k.a. "Norman Gentle" has made it through to this point.

He is hysterical, self-deprecating and thoroughly entertaining. He can sing, for sure, but better yet, he can perform. I hope he sticks around because waiting for him to chew through the scenery stops me from throwing furniture at my television when contestants like bikini girl are on. What the heck was up with her jerky neck movements and freaky eyes? Watching her was like witnessing a bobble head singing.

I love the fact that the tryout shows dabbled in the bizarre but didn't linger there for days because really, some of those people are obviously unstable. In past seasons, entire segments were devoted to those who were unhinged and watching, I felt sad, embarrassed and just a touch frightened for them. I guess events like the woman who committed suicide in front of Paula Abdul's home, have caused the producers to rethink the ratings strategy. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful that we just caught glimpses instead of full blown portraits of those who live in a psychiatric vacuum.

Except, of course, for Tatiana Del Toro, the affected nutjob from Puerto Rico.
(photo from American Idol website, courtesy of Fox)

I despise this contestant. She is nails on a chalkboard irritating. And she is more of a drama queen than a Cher impersonator in a San Francisco drag show. At the beginning, she appeared giggly but charming until the camera stayed with her for more than a minute. By the end of the top 36 show, I wished her bodily harm. Her giggles had turned into high pitched hysterics that screamed, "CUCKOO". She is relentless and my reaction to her is visceral. Violently so. I suppose that is why she was picked to stay and even though each season includes one or two of these no talent wonders, I am really hoping that she and her ridiculously inflated sense of self are sent packing relatively soon. Whoever gets her as a room mate should be given handicap points or immunity or something like that.

So last Thursday, with Wednesday's results fresh in my mind, I flew to Florida on business. Guess who was on the same flight?


Jason Castro.
And because I do not possess the man parts to walk up to quasi-famous people and strike up a conversation, I was taking pics with my phone and trying not to be seen doing so. I might as well have had "Groupie" tattooed on my forehead because his handler gave me a withered glance that said, "do you realize you are middle aged?" I do. Meow.


On the way back from Florida, I landed in Dallas and waited there for hours while American Airlines delayed every flight to my neck of the woods. Finally, they announced that the plane that would be taking us home had arrived from Burbank, California. And guess who walked off?


His name is Alex Wagner-Trugman. He made it to this season's top 36. Now, I feel like I have to root him on and perhaps, even cast a vote for him because he didn't have a handler and because he had the most God-awful checkered shirt on and will obviously need all the help he can get. Dude, I'm there for you.

Coincidence? Two Idols in two days?

Sure, but I think the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I should quit my job and write lyrics instead. Perhaps, I'm destined to author a hit song for my new friend, Alex. Maybe Jason and I are supposed to pen the next great folk album together.

Naw, it's probably just a reminder to count my blessings. You see, after being delayed in Dallas for FIVE hours with swollen feet, crappy airport food in my belly and an exhaustion that comes from too many chocolate martinis the night before, it could have been much worse. Tatiana Del Toro could have disembarked from Burbank in all of her delusional glory and I'd be sitting in a pink padded room, in a straight jacket, sedated right now, with my fifteen minutes of fame plastered on the cover of USA Today.

"IDOL HOPEFUL SILENCED BY CRAZED FAN IN DALLAS AIRPORT"