Ten the Hard Way

You know I love the gambling. And when you're shooting dice, the number ten can come easy or hard. If it's two fives, that's the hard way, and that's how Idol's roll on songs from birth year came up last night. Five good, five not-so-good.

It was a good thing they chose this "birth year" theme this week, because if it weren't for Michael Johns and David Archuleta, it could've just been another '80s week. And yet, despite the preponderance of tunes from my high school formative years, this week passed by with nary a flashback to prom. Well, other than Paula's once-again drunked-up demeanor and fucked up clothes.


Look closely up there. Not only is she sporting the elegant, elbow-length version of the Billy Idol fingerless gloves, encrusted with Madge's leftover jewels from the "Material Girl" video shoot, she's also showing off her impressive drunkard's lazy eye. Nevertheless, she still tried to rise above and offer pearls of advice, actually being the only judge to change her game this year. Sure, she did fall back on some of her standard cliche "texture" lines, but in her yammerings, there's also the highest level of truth this year. That's my dear Paula. In this crap-game of a show, she's our amiable Stickman, calling the rolls, but without any real power.

The show will stop at nothing to undermine her credibility, so Ryan, playing the Pit Boss, at one point picked up Simon's Coke cup, insinuating there might be something other than Coke in it, and then turned it upside down to show it was drained, and then looked accusingly at Paula.


Good times.

Anyhow, Ramiele was the first to crap out with her shouty version of "Alone." We were then informed that she's sick this week, along with Randy. Randy manifested his sickness by being harder-to-please than usual. Or perhaps Paula drained the happy juice from his cup, too, leaving him cranky. Or maybe someone spiked his cup with a dose of reality as he read the recent Billboard charts and saw that his album isn't exactly burning it up yet. Ramiele, however, manifested sick by just being out of tune. Honestly? I'm a little sick of the sickness on this show. If they're going to keep pushing that excuse, I want to see some sickness man. I wanna see someone hobble onstage, totally afflicted with flesh-eating bacteria or ebola or cholera or something. And since we're so into other people's covers this year, they may as well come out scabby and snot-nosed while singing Richard Cheese's version of "Down with the Sickness."

Chikezie, unfortunately, wasn't able to pull "If For Only One Night" out of the '85 unfunk. Personally? I've grown to really like Chikezie. Like, a lot. And I thought he sounded great. But the tweeny SRO portion of the studio that they've misnamed the "mosh pit" may have claimed its second victim last night as Chikezie unwisely acknowledged the audience and sang to them.


Worse, he then backtalked Simon about it who then scolded him like a dealer catching a bettor past-posting.

David Archuleta gave a really strange Up With People sort of performance on some song called "You're the Voice." If there was any doubt that the producers, contestants, and even judges aren't kept aware of the internet buzz, Simon's not-even-thinly veiled stab about the song choice removes all question. He remarked that he doubted David chose the song himself -- a very obvious reference to stage-daddy Jeff, who's been the subject of Joan Crawford-like comparisons for a couple weeks now. He also said he could picture David doing that song in a theme park with animated creatures around him. Uh. Yeah. I thought the show was shooting for that with this kid?

Kristy has secured the red states' votes with her version of "God Bless the USA."


Simon thought it was clever. I thought it was manipulative and pandering. And I somehow feel I'm going into the RNC files and being tagged as a "dissident" and possible terroristic threat for saying that. Nevertheless, this chick's number had come up at least three weeks ago, and yet the other person in the bottom two with her kept going home every week, and I expect we'll see another replay of that this week, as her patriotism will ensure her safety.

Speaking of Kristy and other people who went home instead of her, here's a brief digression for you. Last week, my pal Don appropriately tagged Kristy's "I can blow your socks off" comment as the quote of the season. I agree. Unless we take into account contestant's off-show comments. Lucky for me, TMZ still has a major hard-on for my Mojito, and because of their persistent ways, they captured the ultimate himbo magic quote. "Are you a pilgrim?" Seriously, I love the kid, but that was some funny shit.

Some more funny shit? Carly singing her heart out to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and being so happy and the judges having none of it. NONE. It's like she was the shooter and she placed her chips and thought she rolled a winning hard way and the dealers had to tell her that house rules mandate that the bet was off for the come-out roll. Again, bitch has a great voice. Again, she can't really sing all that distinctively, and then she went sharp on the last note, and almost as though she was willing it back into tune, she crouched herself lower to bring it down.


She keeps doing this distasteful shit. Making humping motions while she sings, wearing fug clothes, and being one big exposed nerve, needing acceptance. At least she looked less pregnant this week, although I suppose that could be a detriment if you follow that thought to conclusion. But even though she tried and thought she hammered it to the wall, along came Randy and Simon with pliers to pull that nail out.

Now, pardon the cross-show reference here, but her reaction? She looked like Barney, realizing he'd just lost another slap-bet to Marshall.


(For real here. If you've got two minutes to spare, click the link. It's some funny shit. And it'd be perfect for the yet-to-come Neil Diamond week!)

I was a bit shocked by Randy and Simon's reactions, to be honest. I don't like her, so it's not shocking that I thought it was an over-boiled performance with some problems. But clearly, the judges have flipped the script on this lass and are just knocking her down for whatever agenda they have. Nevertheless, as Marshall sings, it was awesome, and I laughed and clapped. Also of note is that Carly obviously read up on the backlash to her taking last week's civil rights anthem "Blackbird" and babbling that she was like a broken bird and how it didn't fly with the audience, so she stood there, verbally slapped and taking it like a mute. Awesome. The only thing did say was to Ryan, that she had gone to the bathroom before coming on stage. Thanks for that info, Carly.

So that brings us to the "winning" five of the dice pair. Brooke did The Police's "Every Breath You Take." Always an interesting song, and I do love The Police, though not as much as this funny lady does. Much like the standard "Night and Day," this isn't really a romantic song as much as it is a bit of a creepy, stalker song. But sweet Brooke went straightline with it. She had a false start, which actually takes balls. And her mistake was letting the band come in. Always a bad idea to have Ricky Minor fucking up your thang. I take notes and I know I logged that they fucked up the arrangement to Chikezie's song, too. And I don't recall which songs it was other than Carly's, but I also know that the backup singers totally sabotaged a couple people tonight. They were more flat than steamrolled paper and someone needs to slap them.

But I agree with Paula that Brooke's major asset is that her voice is distinctive enough that I know it's her. I also think she sounds a bit like Tori Amos, but I can't picture her ever singing "Crucify" so it doesn't really matter.

Syesha did alright. She went shades of Tamyra and sang "If I Was Your Woman" which allowed her to be loud. But I still think she's in danger, because she did that weird baby cry again and she's just sort of smug and when Simon told her that her voice has limits, she reacted to his candor like this.


Michael Johns benefited hugely from the gayness of this year's show. Any card-carrying gay can tell you that older people should avoid backlighting. That is, unless it's so blinding it erases any trace of wrinkle or shadow.


He'd been skating on goodwill, but it was time for him to take the bull by the horns in the competition. Instead, he took the Queen by the balls and did "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions." Obviously, I'm putting him in the "good" for the night, though I can't articulate why.

Birthday boy Jason Castro stayed squarely in his box and did Sting's "Fragile." Again, for reasons I can't really articulate, Nothing Like the Sun has always been one of my favorite albums, though I rarely cop to that admission in public. Jason put a little Spanish spin on it, which I really liked. I'm no soothsayer, but I knew that Simon's comments were soon forthcoming, I just didn't know which week they'd appear. "You have to take this more seriously." When pressed, Jason said that he's taking it seriously.


Seriously. That's what he looked like. That's why people love him. He's like Kermit the Frog with dreads and prettier eyes. He doesn't have the biggest vocal range and he's not the most polished, but there's just a laid back, goofy likeability to him. Or, perhaps I just wanna hang out with him because I have a feeling he's a great hookup with the chronic. Either way, he's now officially at the point in the competition where he'll keep surviving, but it'll get tougher with the judges as they'll play the "box" game with him. They'll like it some weeks and commend him for "knowing who he is and what works for him," and then the next they'll tell him he needs to step out of his box, and then if he does dare to, they'll tell him he was uncomfortable and awkward and to get back in his box and Paula will be happy he's in the box and Simon will be a little frustrated and Randy, who cares what he'll say, but by the time we've done all that dancing and climbing around the fucking boxes, it'll be top four anyhow.

And that leaves us with David Cook, who tonight had a monster roll of the dice. Again, sensitive to internet backlash, when all the pissy-pants people harped that his "Hello" was the Incubus version, this week Ryan was careful enough to mention that he was doing Chris Cornell's version of "Billie Jean." This is almost a sad night for me. Sad because, although I'd liked the fucker before, I still retained enough venom to take a few jabs at him. But he is a smarty, isn't he? (Clearly, all that extra cranium isn't wasted.) He comes right out and addresses his big old fat skull, de-fanging me on that one. He's sticking with his comb-over, and now we know why since we've seen him without hair.

And then he comes out and shows us how nailing it to the wall is really done. Shit, if it were any more nailed, it'd be crucified. He nailed that like Kristen nailing Client Nine -- in every way possible. And the show is so totally behind him now. Perhaps he was the stealth chosen one all along. (atonement for Daughtry?) But now they're even blocking him to minimize the nettlesome skull problem.


I still don't think he looks good on camera, and I'm not quite convinced of his "originality" since he's doing other people's arrangements. But I do think he has good taste, and a great voice. He doesn't have that goat-like vibrato that pissed me off with that other fauxcker dude a couple years who's sold multi-platinum. And he's got a decent X factor, too. Not smug so much as playfully cocky.

It was so good, he even earned himself the inaugural ones of these.


It might come easy, or it might come hard. But it just goes to show you how on this show, with one big gamble, and a good toss of the dice, your luck can change that quick.

Beverly Jackson's Chapbook -- Every Burning Thing

The incredibly talented Beverly Jackson has published her chapbook Every Burning Thing.



I don't have my hands on a copy yet, but I will soon. Bev isn't just talented, she's also a true and generous patron of the arts and I'm so thrilled to see this accomplishment.

Amanda Over.

I really can't believe we sent home Amanda and are keeping Kristy, Ramiele, and Syesha. Leave it to American to flatline the entertainment. Sure, Amanda couldn't sing very well. Shit, the girl could barely speak. But she was a lot more interesting than those other three on stage.

HUGE thanks and props to Don for nursing me through my near-Pauler levels of incoherency.

I am feeling much better now! Why? Because I'm hoping this spoiler ends up being true! I know Danny will win it, too! And I'll be happy. But I'll also dial like mad to try and get my mojito some summer love on tour.

A Hard Night's Daze

My buddy Susan asked me to pinch hit for her this week. Seems she is still in a mojito stupor, prone on her bedroom floor and unable to crawl to her keyboard and bang out her usual insightful, cynical, funny, and scathing American Idol review. So she asked me to fill in. I made her a fresh mojito and sat down at her computer. Now, you may label me an enabler, but what's a friend to do? So Susan has the week off as she works through her David Hernandez-less AI funk. And I have her very big, expensive shoes to fill.

First off, I want to put things in perspective: with the exception of 40 year-old Michael Johns, all of the contestants this season were born after John Lennon died. Feel old? Okay, let's continue.

The Beatles finally opened their songbook to American Idol, hopefully to attract a new generation of fans, and surely with an eye on their catalog becoming available on iTunes in 2008. AI took advantage of this generosity by doing not one, but two Beatles weeks!


Amanda Overmyer was first up and did—what else?—a rocker! "Back in the USSR," a McCartney song, was a perfect choice for her. She strutted around all flat-haired and gravelly-voiced and did her thing. She took some heat from Simon, who said she was predictable and in "danger of becoming boring." Amanda responded, "Ballads are BORING!" Damn straight! It's the seventh season of AI, and most contestants still haven't learned to stay away from the long, slow, boring, sleep-inducing tunes. This chick is growing on me. She knows who she is, and isn't going to stoop to doing some wimp-ass ballad.


A cowboy boots clad Kristy Lee Cook was next, and did the Lennon song "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away." She obviously never heard this song before, because she picked it based on the title alone. Kind of like going to the track and picking a horse because you like its name, then hoping you hit it big. But she didn't pick a winner. The judges used words like "boring," "safe," and "predictable" to describe her performance. Simon said she was the musical equivalent of wallpaper: "You notice it, but don't remember it." Her response? The line of the week, if not the year. "I CAN BLOW YOU OUT OF YOUR SOCKS AND YOU KNOW IT!" I bet she can. And she may very well have to if she wants to make the top ten. Bottom three on Wednesday night. I predict she'll get the boot this week.


Troll doll David Archuleta tried to redeem himself with McCartney's "The Long and Winding Road." He had the little girlies planted in the front row squealing with this performance, and better yet, he even remembered the words! Randy said he brought the hotness back to his game. Paula mumbled something about purity and character, and Simon said it was "Amazing," then clapped. A Simon clap is like a two snaps up from Damon Wayans and David Alan Grier . He's through easily to the next round.

Michael Johns tried to squeeze the Beatles masterpiece "A Day in the Life" into a minute and a half, which is like squeezing War and Peace into a Reader's Digest condensed book: it doesn't work. Simon called it "a mess" and said he needs to sort himself out. I agree. Even Michael knew it wasn't a good performance.

I admit, I'm a Michael Johns fan. I think he's got a very good voice, an appreciation of rock history, and a natural, comfortable stage presence. But he's coasting now. Or maybe he's peaked? We'll see.

After last week's great version of "Let It Be," Brooke White came out and did George Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun," which is one of my all-time favorite songs. It wasn't a very good performance. Granted, it IS a happy song, but Brooke looked like she was on a triple dose of Prozac. I'm a Brooke fan, but her performance could have been straight out of an overly-happy Target commercial. Randy called her "awkward," Paula called her "yellow," and Simon said she was "terrible" with "horrible dancing." She needs to stick with McCartney songs. My predication: now that Paul is a single man again, Brooke will leave her husband to date Paul. He loves blondes. And she's not a bitchy, water chucking gold digger like Heather Mills. You heard it here first.

David Cook. I thought by the time we'd gotten this far into Season 7, someone on the AI styling team would have fixed his hair. Whatever, this guy is really growing on me. With his performance of "Day Tripper," this was his third strong week in a row. With a guitar slug across his body, he ripped through the song, even adding a Peter Frampton-like voice box bit near the end. This led Paula to comment he was ready for a Geico commercial, a joke Simon didn't get. David really got into the whole rock star thing, complete with throwing his guitar pick into the crowd afterward. Simon said he wasn't as good as he thought he was. But he was.

Afterward, David showed Ryan how to use the voice box thingy, but for some reason Ryan didn't want to talk into it, even though the judges clearly wanted him to. What was that all about? Afraid of David's saliva, Ryan?

Carly Smithson, the former professional singer, did McCartney's famous civil rights-inspired "Blackbird." Randy said her performance was "cooliosis." Paula blathered on about tone and song choices. Simon called it indulgent. I usually find myself agreeing with Simon, but in this case I think he was wrong. Carly has done some rockers recently, and I think this was a good chance to show off her amazing voice, and really let it rip. I still think she is the frontrunner in this competition. Oh, and she sported off a new tattoo, the number 7 on her right ring finger. She said it was for Season 7 of AI. But all I could think of was the Seinfeld episode where George wanted to name his future child 7 after Mickey Mantle's uniform number.

Here she is, letting it rip:


Jason Castro. OK, I need to get this off my chest. I CANNOT look at this guy anymore without seeing Susan's comparison of Jason to John Travolta from Battlefield Earth.

That said, the judges weren't too wild about this performance, but I actually think it was one of his best weeks. Not that he was very good, but that the sing-songy style of "Michelle" fits his style perfectly. And yes, Jason, those are French words in the song. BTW, are we still supposed to call French fries "freedom fries"?

Sporting some cleavage, Syesha Mercado crooned out "Yesterday" in what she hoped was a very pained, heartfelt performance. The judges all liked it, with Simon saying it was the song Brooke should have chosen. Personally, I thought it was horrible. Boring. She'll be in the bottom three Wednesday night. She doesn't even rank a picture. Now let's all sing the schoolyard version: "Leprosy, now my skin is falling off of me. I'm not half the man I used to be..."

Let me say this about Chiekezie. The Beatles + Chiekezie = WOW! The judges were a bit mixed, but this guy is quickly becoming my favorite contestant. He has energy, charm, a good voice, and is totally infectious. After last week's great rendition of "She's A Woman," he did "I've Just Seen A Face" this week. Not as good as last week, but he is gaining more confidence, and improving week to week. He even tried his hand on the harmonica—or as it used to be known—the mouth organ (see Kristy Lee Cook's review).


Up last was Ramiele Malubay, who did "I Should Have Known Better." When it comes to Ramiele, I go back and forth (watch your dirty minds). She has a good voice, but there is something seriously lacking with her, and I don't just mean height. Simon summed it up best: "It is what it is." She'll land in the bottom three Wednesday, but will stick around another week.

Susan is beginning to stir. I'll post this review now, then get some fresh coffee into her. Let me leave you with this final thought:

I say in speeches that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. I am then asked if I know of any artists who pulled that off. I reply, "The Beatles did."
—Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake, 1997

Read some

Check out Jordan Rosenfeld's Lorian Hemingway Short Story honorable mention "Shut-Ins".

Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz has a new story up at Static Movement, "An Early Fall". And you can check out this review of her chapbook, Mother Love by Steve Hansen.

Guest Blogger

As much as I'm wishy-washy on The Beatles, another week of AI defiling the Lennon-McCartney songbook is a bit too much for me to take. I'm afraid that halfway through the review, I'd end up looking like this.


Therefore, for this week, I've recruited the help of my good friend and Beatles lover, Don Capone.

Don's a great writer and really funny guy. His debut comic novel Into the Sunset is now available.



And he's also got a great collection of short stories, titled Stories from Sunset Hill.



I'm sure he's going to crack you up. So tomorrow, enjoy the smooth word stylings of Don, while I go lament the absence of Maks from Dancing with the Stars in this manner.

The Perfect Storm of Non-Productivity

This week is pretty funny. Monday was St. Patrick's Day, and now today as everyone is nursing their hangover, they also have to get their NCAA March madness brackets in good order for the tournament this week. Then all the Christians have Good Friday and Easter. Something tells me there's not a lot of actual work being done in offices.

I don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day because, well, does it really need explained? (Please reference Moltisanti, Christopher, when he was shot and then awoke and said, "I had a dream that I died and went to hell. Every day was St. Patrick's Day. Forever." ) But I do have friends who think they're funny and spent the day yesterday prank calling me. I'd answer the phone to have the Dropkick Murphys blaring in my ear. Oh, ha ha. It's funny. Until about 3 PM and call number 58. Then, not so much. Then, when it still doesn't relent, it gets funny again around 8:30 PM. Then, a couple hours later, again, the funny leaves.

But I do celebrate March Madness. Love it. So I'm furiously working on finalizing my bracket and first round picks because amidst all this mayhem, I'm having my office moved today and tomorrow. I wish you all luck and hope you nail down the final four in your office pools.

Last Call

Well, since no one else has a David Hernandez site, here's a collection of my Mojito's post-boot interviews so far. Yeah, he's borderline desperate for a deal of some sort. But he's also such a fuckin' cutie. Naturally, he doesn't blame AI for sticking him with that song, but I do. He picked two other songs and couldn't have them, so he ended up with that one. But he's got more class than I do and takes it in stride.

David's EW exit interview

Mojito at MSN

on the radio with Ryan

on American Idol Extra, compliments of MJ

AI Extra pt. 2

Also, he'll be on Ellen on Monday, and you know she requires dancing. YAY!

Also of note on AI Extra is that Constantine is back and skeevier than ever. And Sanjaya is always lingering around like Connie v. 2.0.

In the "you can have your Cake and eat it too" news, the band Cake, whose song was used in the Ford commercial this week, was miffed about it yesterday and had a message on their website along those lines. Said message is removed as of today; apparently all the suits smoothed it over and paid up for the song. What? They'd given all the cash to Heather Mills for the Lennon/McCartney songs and couldn't afford the rights to a Cake song for the commercial? So even though it's a non-issue now, I thought I'd mention it because I really like Cake and figured I'd give 'em a link.

David Hernandez Pt1
by mjsbigblog

Cheers, David. I hope he does get somewhere, cause he does have a really nice voice. And, in the words of Derek Zoolander, he's really, really, ridiculously good looking. He can stay coy, because coy would work on him. But don't be skittish. Own it, Mojito!

He'll Be On Top

I'm still in a bit of a snit today, but figured I might as well get a few more comments out there to get over it and to catalogue the entertainment value we threw away last night.

First, the obvious nasty reaction:
Know how I like to make cracks that some of the AI losers could have lucrative careers in gay porn? Well...

Euphemism-ism:
Not since Ryan declared that Paula is the compassionate judge have we had such an unlikely euphemism. But you bet that "Pizza Bistro" has now entered my vocabulary.

No need to kill the cat, he satisfied the curiosity:
David Mojito Hernandez's last words? "I'll be back on top."
Was this a funny Freudian slip?
Was it just unfortunate wording?
Was it his unconscious little subversive rebellion?
Was he deliberate in those words and trying to turn Ryan on?

In other news last night, Jim Carrey was there. Fuck. People talk about how David H was somewhat offputting because he comes off as desperate. I admit to laughing at plenty of Jim Carrey schtick, but this guy's been defining desperate for nearly ten years now. Comics can fall into that mode. Believe me, I understand the desire to be funny to make people like you. But the desperation hits uncomfortable levels when they need to show their artistry and be dramatic. And when that fails to bring them accolades, they revert back to crazy person, or, worse, go for the soft-touch family thing. Gag.

Also there last night? Kat McPhee. Still gorgeous. Still has a great voice. Still sings pretty meh. Couldn't we have sent her home last night instead of David?

Yeah. Still snitty.

But here's my big question that I keep forgetting about: What's the story with the new director? For like, forever, Bruce Gowers has directed the show. There was a brief kerfuffle about a backstage scandal, and it got immediately and efficiently squashed in the media. But now, John Pritchett is directing the show. It's not quite cloak-and-dagger material, but I bet there's some good shit in all that.

Lastly -- Lennon/McCartney again next week. Madone. What, they're going to let the eleven of them pick from the other 13 songs that didn't get used this week?

Bitter!

I am so mad! I HATE IT ALL!

I find this all terribly unfair to me personally. Last year, they had to rub out AJ Tabaldo. Now, consecutively Danny and David.

The old ladies had their Clay. The old yups had their Taylor and SOULPATROL shit. The straight guys had McPhee and Underwood. Fat folks had Ruben. Diva lovers had all of season three! Tweeners had their stupid Justin and Constantine and Daughtry. WHY IS IT SO FUCKING HARD TO KEEP A HAPPY, HOT GAY GUY AROUND FOR ME? Particularly one that has no problem with nudity! Bitches in this country don't KNOW entertainment!

Oh, I'm so mad. The things I'd have done. I just got the screencaps working 'round here, and I was about to bust out my susanstyle telestrator red pen and point out all the hot minty goodness that was David Mojito Hernandez. But Great Oden's Raven you done all fucked that up, didn't you now?

Well. You know I can't just let shit go. So here's a sample anyhow. (don't you love it when I'm sloshed while watching this show?)



What now? I'm supposed to make do by analyzing Jason Castro's pants? Too late! There's already a site for that.

Aw, fuck it. It's back to vodka for me. But I'm also taking a page from David's auditions. If I can't be with the one I love, I'll love the ones I'm left with. David Cook, Jason Castro, Chikezie, and even Michael Johns -- SING BITCHES! Sing it good!

While My TV Gently Weeps

Yeah, I know. I admitted that the mojito was a tough drink to mix correctly. And last night, David Hernandez poured way too much sugar into the mix and failed to properly shake it up, baby and turned the whole thing into a schmalty, sappy mess. I don't care, I still love him.

My poor Mojito, though. Already, he's the vest guy? This is the stylists' idea to get people to stop thinking pervy about him? I don't think it's gonna work, Dave. Don't try to sublimate it under a vest. Own it. That's your only hope now. He is, clearly, sweet natured, and his voice was still decent but he was so lost on that stage singing "I Saw Her Standing There." Admittedly, I'm not the biggest Beatles fan ever. I enjoy some songs, but the only time I ever really appreciate that one is when Dustin Hoffman finishes brushing his teeth and then quietly sings it to Charlie Babbitt. There will be no enumerated list about his job at the pizza shop and how the lyrics of this song are ironic to David's situation because it's just demoralizing.

But hey, on the upside, Kristy was a country trainwreck and David Archuleta closed it out with a hilarious choke job!

Oh yeah, there was bad last night, and there was plenty of boring, too. But let's start with those who were better. Even after the sylists had a go, David Cook decided to stick it out with the elfin combover, and, in related news, his acrimonious relationship with the camera continues. This week, it acted like he gave it a wedgie in gym class. But he sang "Eleanor Rigby" and had the massive flashing lights and loud band and he really did do pretty good with it. I like his singing out of the side of his mouth and his cocky insouciance toward that bitter camera and the judges just eat him alive.

Fangs O'Flanigan did "Come Together" and the judges salivated. Admittedly, I thought she sounded just fine and was among the best of the girls. But if the camera was petulant about David abusing it in gym class, it makes me think that ole Fangs must've taken the cruelty to even higher levels -- like she gave it a swirly. You know what she looks like to me? She looks like Cher and Bette Midler conspired to create an egg and had Bugs Bunny fertilize it.


One word: Butterface.

Brooke did "Let it Be" while barefoot at the piano and it was okay. Again, she knows what works for her, but in a few more weeks, I can easily see Simon finally getting bored. On the upside, Ryan fetched her shoes and was totally down with them. Also to be noted here, Paula's comment to Brooke was that she "feels her heart." Paula was like a goddamn cardio-thorasic surgeon last night she was feeling so many hearts. Jason Castro got the exact same comment. Not since Dr. Christina Yang have I seen someone so loopy about feeling hearts.

Amanda Overmyer let the stylists put a touch of poof in her hair and she mumbled her way through "You Can't Do That." I still don't think her voice is all that good, and I still don't think she's all that great, but she is different and I definitely want her to stick around for disco and standards night.

The best surprise of the night, though? Chikezie! He was so good Ryan couldn't stop himself from accosting him.


Chikezie did "She's a Woman" and he had the stage presence that my poor Mojito lacked. He just tore it up. Also because of Chikezie, we got another jumbled comment from Paula, who, at the start of the show, had so eloquently orated about taking risks and how the rewards can be great. But after Chikezie sang, she lost command of syntax and told him not once, but twice, that "the reward paid off."

Also of note is that Chikezie, Fangs, and Amanda were the chosen ones to sit down and have a chat with Ryan as extra-special pimpage even before their intro-films rolled.

And that brings us to the boring section of the Beatles tribute. So boring, I don't feel like commenting about most of them. Instead, just a list: Syesha, Remiele, Jason Castro, and Michael Johns. Syesha and Remiele did not take a sad song and make it better. Jason did give us the little tidbit in his interview that he failed music class. On him? Cute. He did "If I Fell" and he strained on some notes but it was overall acceptable and he's still got spark, unlike the two girls who have yet to do anything of note.

Michael Johns, meanwhile, sang "Across the Universe" and managed to, yet again, raise the bar for mediocrity. Fans had flocked to him during the audition rounds and I've a feeling they're ready to flock away from him. Lamentable that he doesn't even have the checkered past to rely on to give him some entertainment value. But like his compatriot Michael Hutchence, he is strangling his own life on this show.

And that brings us right back around to the bad. Kristy Lee Cook tried to do "Eight Days a Week" and I was highly entertained because it made Hernandez's performance seem like a polished and posh production in comparison. She knew she sucked, too. When you make faces like this while performing, it's not a secret to your subconscious that you're coming off so poorly that you won't even get the Edy's ice cream gig when you're mercifully finished.


But, this is Idol, where we save the best for last. Okay, so I was salivating for it. I even had this next picture waiting, fretting that I'd never get a chance to pull it out. But on the most-watched night after the biggest build-up and with the grand finale slot, it happened. David Archuleta choked. BIG!


What? I'm supposed to say that it humanized him? Fuck that noise! Believe me, there's a lot more I could say. I hold back typing plenty because he's only seventeen, y'all! But I'm at least going to call a choke when it happens. And this was. It was a bone in the throat, Chuck Palahniuk novel, Greg Norman in the Masters epic fucking choke!

The kid will be safe, there's no question about that. But still, the magnitude of his choke is undeniable. He benefits immensely from having the final spot, because they don't have time to edit in the live version for the recap portion. Instead, they use the tape from the dress rehearsal, where he came off much better.

But it still happened. Hold on to your garments, kids, because he kept fumbling on the words and going out of tune, and just when he seemed like he was starting to pull it back together, it'd unravel yet again. Randy and Pauler were gentle about it, but Simon prefaced his remarks saying something about in the interest of fairness or whatever, and I knew it was game on. And then, what I was waiting for even more than the tank performance happened -- Archuleta's reaction to anything less than slobbery praise. Certainly, I'll share the moment with you. But first, allow me the indulgence of setting it up.

Three guys took some heavy heat from Simon last night. And the three of them handled it completely differently.

First, my Mojito. He is sweet, but over the past week, I noticed that he's not sweet to the point of stupid. He handled all the media with grace by simply answering the questions about his past with a repeated non-answer of it's a singing competition and I'm here to focus on that. He didn't get snotty or lash out, and he kept his comportment like a pro every time. But in all the tapes -- and yes, I did watch them all because I have no life -- I did notice his tell. When the interviewers would ask the question, he'd grind his back teeth just slightly, but enough that it would register and show in his jawline. And last night, Hernandez had the same reaction not to the judges, but when Ryan said, "It's been a tough week for you." At that second, his jaw tensed as his teeth ground until Ryan moved it in another direction and followed up, saying something about song selection and David relaxed again. But he didn't even register that slight annoyance when Simon said he was "corny and verging on desperate." Here's how he took that comment:


Next was Michael Johns. When Simon told him it was all a bit "monotonous," here's how he reacted:


Understandable that he'd be a little annoyed. But that really was the extent of his reaction to the comment. It was twenty years ago today that Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play, and I have a feeling Michael was in that band and already a longtime performer. So with his advanced age, I assume he's heard worse and he can handle it.

And then there was Archuleta. I'm not fucking with you here. It was like the perfect confluence of stage lighting and candid reaction to culminate in this one, brief moment of bliss. While Simon started talking, the lights behind David A were a deep blue color. The kid's smile dropped as Simon said he was going to treat everyone fairly. Then, Simon said, "It was a mess." I shit you not, the screen behind David went from blue to black, and he looked like this.


It was split-second eerie, which is what made it hilarious!

And with that, I think I'll end now and, like John and Paul said, let it be.

Idol Odds

Oh. My. God. Wanna catch up with season six's Melinda Doolittle and Chris Timberfake Richardson are up to? Edy's Slow Churned. Don't miss clicking on the different flavors to hear songs about them. Too fucking funny! Are these the bright careers Paula babbles to them about? Then again, I guess if I had my choice of making fat coin from singing about ice cream or sitting my fat ass at a desk all day where the only for amusement is checking out Edy's sites, it's not so funny. And yet, it is! It is that funny!

Also, for those who adore Jason Castro, I found this fansite for him already: Castrocopia. Enjoy!

And if you're still missing Danny, here's his exit interview.

Also? Tonight, for that expansive Lennon-McCartney songbook they've opened up for the kids? 25 songs. That's right. There are 25 songs for 12 of them to pick from. Actually, probably 24 songs for 11 of them, since you know they'll give David Archuleta his top pick. The other ones? They'll probably be assigned and the kids will have to eat shit when the judges rag on their song choice. Not cool, AI. Not cool.

I DRINK IT UP!

I'm so happy! I'm so sad.

So we just had to give Danny Noriega the boot last night, huh? He was fierce and he was flaming and ultimately, he was just tmth. To be honest, though, I really do think he failed to make the cut simply because Chikezie had the advantage of the pimp spot and though Danny was terrific in his interviews and had a great voice, he squandered some of his performances. I'd have loved to have seen what he could do, and the top 12 will be more boring without him, but someone has to hire this kid as a host of a show or something. But, on the upside, at least we kept the stripper around!

Yes, we kept hot Hernandez in the race, and I really couldn't be happier. We also kept cagefighting Kristy over Asia'h the lackluster diva'h. Therefore, I guess we can say that America accepted sex and violence, but still rejects anything served blatantly flambe.

So anyhow, back to David Hernandez.

David, he's not getting a lot of love out there in cyber-Idol land, so I've decided to take it upon myself to rectify this gross oversight and claim him as my pet this year. Yes, there will be embarrassingly long and reader-tedious, indulgent paragraphs devoted to him here. They will be filled with poor metaphors and fangirly, steadfast praise. Kinda like the following:

I know I waffled. I was smitten in Hollywood and then wrote it off to a different, strange fixation, but I'm back to it. I adore him. He really does remind me a bit of my cute cupcake Elliott. They both have great soulful voices and sometimes make poor facial expressions while crooning. More importantly, they've both been scripted as underdogs with a propensity for sweet, humble dispositions and somewhat leaky tear ducts.

But there are also noticeable differences. David has nicer hair, more photogenic choppers, a rockin' body, better fashion sense, a much more flamboyant past, and that Latin chic working for him.

I cannot have another cupcake. It's not fair to Elliott, and it'd be even more unfair to David. So let me tell you what David is.

If you're an occasional reader here, you may have noticed that I have unflagging love for Pauler. If you're a frequent reader here, or happen to know me, like, at all, then you know that this devotion is a kindred spirit type of thing. In other words, I'm an unrepentant boozehound. If you're here reading this now, you can look in the upper left corner and see my common drink of choice -- the vodka martini.

However, David Full Monty Hernandez is not common. And as spring approaches, I find myself changing menus and gravitating toward things that remind me of sun and warmth and fun. And my exotic, intoxicating beverage of choice becomes the mojito.

This isn't an easy thirst to quench, the taste for the mojito. The recipe can be risky and risque, a little too much here or there and you go over the top. You've got to take your time and carefully strip the mint leaves from the stems. Then you add just the right amount of sugar to sweeten it up and muddle them together. Add a dash of lime for tart kick. Then, instead of vodka, they're made with warmer, sweeter rum, and topped off with a spritz of soda water to give it all that fun little fizz. And they're best when they're served not completely straight up; you gotta have a couple cubes in there to keep 'em cool. (was it too much with the italics? you can tell me if it was.)

Oh, they're labor-intensive, that's for sure. But if you put a little love into 'em, by the time you're done, they're a totally mouth-watering mix of perfectly balanced complements: Warm rum and refreshingly cool mint, syrupy sweet balanced with a feisty kick. And man, do they sneak up on you and get you giddy crushed!

So there it is. David Hernandez is my Mojito of AI 7. David, baby, good luck. Simon, Nigel, and all -- gracias, you mixed this season well.

I drink your mojito! I drink it up!

This one time, at band camp...

First, let me apologize for the crap quality of the pics this week. It's really cold here and I didn't want to go run an errand to pick up new dvds and I only had one so I recorded at slow speed and the result are these grainy, low-grade captures like we're examing home videos for proof of UFOs. But you'll get the idea.

Basically, I don't have much to say about the girls anyhow. Unlike the boys, they mostly bore me. I wanted to like Asia'h because she has that smoky voice but instead of going with it, the arrogant twat thinks she can sing all these big, money-note numbers that totally don't suit her while she immaturely bounces around like someone shoved one of Michael Johns's kangaroos up her ass. And when Paula told her last night that she nailed the song, Asia'h breathlessly unleashed the idiotic riposte of "I know!" Such a wannabe diva'h.

Also, I would prefer if I would at least like Syesha, because now I feel like a total racist for not liking any of the black people this year. But I don't like her, and I thought them giving her the final slot was an act of desperation to make sure that at least a couple of black people get through to the final twelve so that they don't get slammed with the Elton John outrage, racist smears again. (Because, you know, he certainly isn't going to accuse them of being anti-gay this year.) What was entertaining, however, was how she totally got screwed with judges' comments because they'd acted like such jackasses the rest of the show. But instead of coming across as controlling themselves when Syesha finished, they came off as twice as assholey and somewhat rude to her when she wasn't deserving of it.

Brooke continued in her Colbie Caillat coffeehouse vein with a stripped down version of "Love is a Battlefield." That's fine. She knows what she can do, and what she can't (unlike Asia'h) but I do wish she'd get a sense of humor and be able to unleash the monster coffeehouse hit "Smelly Cat" by Phoebe Buffay.

Simon kissed Amanda's ass for her Joan Jett number, while she stood there, surly and unresponsive to his over-the-top praise. Even asshole Daughtry took more joy than she does. But she did at least look better. Generally, she's packing more pancake than IHOP on her face, and without it, she looks twenty years younger. Again, I wanna like her because she's different, but she got a big boost from the backup singers who were shockingly in tune for a change and sang over her.

Kristy did Journey, but that song just doesn't work for me anymore unless Amy Adams is crawling over a table toward Will Ferrell and they're getting ready to make animal noises. I do recall Kristy saying her most embarrassing moment was when she was seven, she thought she was a dog. Drank out of a dog bowl and moved about on hands and knees for a whole year and barked at people. Clearly, she's trying to curry Simon's favor and court the doggie-style lovin' male viewer's votes with that ploy. And that leaves everyone else, who were all so boring I don't remember much. But, because of her Journey choice, Kristy also marks the portion of the evening when things started to unravel with the judges.

Sure, it started earlier, when Randy informed us that he recorded the Whitney Houston song "I Wanna Dance With Somebody." Paula, for some reason, found this information tedious and barely held her intoxicated shit together through it all.


But then, later in the show, big scoop emerged here, people! I did not know this, but Randy dropped a bomb about his past. Get ready. Are you ready for it? Randy worked with Journey! I did not know that! Crazy cool, huh?? Like, WOW! As Danny would say, that's just TMTH!

And, at that point of the program, it all fell apart. Pauler's had enough of Randy's band camp routine, so she did her best David Hernandez impression as she climbed into Simon's lap and they cuddled their way through the horror of Randy talking about Journey, almost as if he does this sort of thing all the time.


The funniest part about all this? Paula had kicked the show off by babbling about the hair and makeup of the '80s and then taking credit for singlehandedly popularizing the poof-ball hairdo popular in the '80s. (I'm so sure Madge now feels her stylistic influences are inferior.) Then, after Brooke sang, she had to stand in the middle of the battlefield as Randy tossed the first grenade about how Paula choreographed that video, but then Paula let loose with her moron artillery and said she didn't, and then we got into a while name drop-bombing thing and Simon didn't care, and it was all so trying for Paula she ended up saying this:
"I don't understand what's going on here."

And as she said it, she looked like this:


Which yeah, that's pretty much par. We all know that Paula is so fucking lost that OnStar would tell her to piss off. But it just goes to show that Paula IS more lucid this year, because she can't usually articulate how lost she is, so this is actually progress, people.

Anyhow, another contestant later and two more slurps from her "Coke" cup, she was still lost. And she looked like this.


Then there was a commercial break. And when they came back, Paula had Simon laughing. Just laughing and giggling away, he was, and she said it was because he was telling her to talk about moths and mellonballs.


Now, I know it's a running joke to make fun of what Paula says by inserting nonsense words the way she does. Like, "Golden light! Colors of the rainbow! Texture!" But I'm not making up the moths and mellonballs quote. Ryan seemed lost now, she she got demonstrable about it. Moths and mellonballs!


Then, when it all got a little too much to handle, she went cannibal on Cowell.


So that was the show. Believe me. If you missed it, it wasn't half as entertaining as these pictures lead you to believe.

So we didn't find evidence of UFOs. But if you were scouring the tapes for proof of Paula's rumored sobriety, you'd have also come up with zero documentation.

Donna & Don

Two of my favorite writers and people, yo! Donna George Storey interviews Donald Capone about his novel, Into the Sunset. Clever, funny! Moths and Mellonballs!

The Full Monty

Last night in Idol, the contestants had to bare their souls and speak about their most embarrassing moment.

Between Danny and David (and David), just when you thought things couldn't get any gayer on Idol, out flounced Luke Menard with his "embarrassing" tutu picture and he then falsettoed his way through "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." Wait. Was that a falsetto? Or is that just his voice? I don't even care. It's now official. Allow me to docent you through this mini-gallery of things that are less gay than American Idol 7.






Then precious David Archuleta sang that Phil Collins song and Simon called upon him to stop being so gloomy, which I thought was a pretty mild warning. But, for me, it's already happening. He's so precious and yet he's so scripted and yes it's already wearing a bit thin. He's good. Right now, everyone else knows they're vying for second place on this show. And yet... So full of naked ambition, this kid and his team.

And then out came Danny.


He's still full of elan and sass and though I love "Tainted Love" he's just not coming up with the goods in his performances yet. He sounds good, but somehow dull. Simon recently admitted to using Botox, while rejecting Viagra. Yet his face did betray expression while watching Danny kick and wiggle.


Can you imagine what his face would've looked like if he didn't have his nerves deadened?

They then doubled down and had David Hernandez perform next. It was a completely regrettable segment from start to finish. For his "most embarrassing" reveal he talked about boogers which certainly didn't endear him to anyone, and then he came out and came out as he sang a Celine Dion song titled "It's All Coming Back To Me Now." Do we really need to enumerate the ways in which this song coincided with the stripper news? Well, I'm an obvious fuck, so I think we do.
1) It certainly all DID come back to him yesterday, didn't it?
2) The lyrics?

When I touch you like this

And I hold you like that

It's so hard to believe but

It's all coming back to me

Are you fucking kidding me, David? I can't even boldface the dirty parts because it's all so strippery. Chrissakes! Why not just add a line saying something like, "When I touch you like this, and you put a five in my g-string like that..."

Oh, he put on his brave camera-fucking face and tried to smolder his way though it. And the camera DOES love him.


He doesn't quite have the skeeve factor Constantine had when he'd filth his looks into the camera, but David gives it a winning shot, alright.

But when it was all over, they had Simon's mic live before they should've and if you were paying attention you could see him lean into Paula and make his crack, telling her to comment on how "he stripped that down."

But getting Pauler to actually make a comment like that? Shit. She has actually said a few coherent things this season. But I shit you not, here is a verbatim quote from her last night:
"I, you know, there's something, first of all, let's get back."

I replayed it and wrote that down to make sure. Now, I don't recall who she was critiquing when she said that, but it just doesn't really matter, does it?

Anyhow. Back to the man-candy. Ah well. I know I won't be the only one terribly distraught if he gets the boot tonight. I've a feeling Ryan is also hoping he sticks around so that it can all come back to him at some point. He's probably steam-ironing bills as we speak.

Then we had the kangaroo-fucker on, first talking about how he got beat up while dressed as a kangaroo. You know how he reminds me of Tim Daly. Well, for a couple weeks, I've been thinking about what great television it would be if Michael Imperioli would run across stage in the middle of one of Mike's songs and just slap him across the face and then run offstage. So when he told the beating story, I pictured Michael Imperioli as the one beating him up, with his little Dalyish face poking out of the kangaroo body. It was good.

Not so good was his performance. This guy is taking mediocre to rocketing heights, and I've also finally figured out why, although he is, admittedly, passably attractive, he does nothing for me. He's fucking old. I know, I know we all thought Taylor was old. But Michael Johns has that laid-back vibe because he's old. And he's bordering on frumpy most of the time. He can't even get me to feeling pervy, because he's basically age appropriate for me! Who the fuck needs that?

Also? Can someone please tell me if INXS really sang "Don't You Forget About Me?" Because, frankly, I thought it was Simple Minds, and I know Billy Idol covered it. But was Randy off his rocker or am I just ignorant?

Anyhow, then we moved on to David Cook. Cook is not like Hernandez, in that the camera does not like him. In fact, the camera fucking hates him.


But as Randy said, Cook emo'd out to Lionel Richie's "Hello" and I have to admit that I really liked it. I have to admit that I really like this fucker. I can't help it. I tried to hate him. And I will continue to make fun of him. But I'm kind of rooting for him. He's got long eyelashes and actually has a sense of self and just doesn't seem like a prick. Even though the camera acts like David stole its lunch money, he doesn't glare into it in defiance.

That said, seriously. I REALLY like this group of guys a hell of a lot better than last year's. But if they kick the Dancing Queen off tonight along with Luke? We'll be rapidly hurtling to levels of homeliness on the boys' side not seen since, well, last year.

Managing to bring the fugly-pretty all the way was once again Jason Castro. He sang "Hallelujah." Know what's smart about Castro? He takes the fucking band out of the equation. He either minimizes their arrangement or, like last night, just used a single guitar behind him. When you eliminate the horrible sounds that band produces, you're already ahead of the game, you know? Beyond that, he chose the best song by a mile and he walks the line of exploiting his stoner vibe while still seeming to pass for decent enough for middle America.

He did talk about losing a dread of his while on a date, though, and I will give him this snippet of advice. Keep it groomed, Castro. Keep it groomed. Right now, in the face, he actually looks a bit like a young John Travolta with that big nose and those cool blue eyes that pop against his dark pupils and in contrast to his eyebrows. But it's only a hop-skip-and missed shave away from ending up looking like a disaster like this, man:


And then Chikezie performed some Whitney Houston song which I used to think was either a carelessly worded Christian song about praising God, or a blatantly pornographic song about a guy with a big dick, considering it goes "he fills me up, he gives me all the love that I need."

Which, again, brings filthy me back to thinking of David Hernandez, because if he was nude stripping, that takes cojones, and I do mean that literally, you know?

I don't know. Luke will definitely get bounced tonight, but Chikezie went last, so he'll probably survive, which means America will have sent the stripper packing. It makes me sad.

But if he does survive, I have one piece of advice for him. Don't be bashful about it David. You're having trouble with song choices. Listen to me. Stop talking about your gymnast clothes and to Randy about your shoes. And here's what you should sing next: "You Can Leave Your Hat On."

Don't Frenchie David!

So, it took longer than usual, but the required "scandals" are finally breaking into the mainstream press about the Idol contestants this year. Drunkards and strippers and skanks, oh my! It's pretty funny when the hotly contested contestants with previous big buck record deals are suddenly backseat news.

All I care about is this: Don't fucking Frenchie David H! I love him! Please, isn't this worth keeping around?


I don't want "Hernando's in Rent" be the new catchphrase at Sucks next year, okay?

Have You Met Miss Jones?

Last night was girl's night on Idol, which was fitting, because it kept reminding me of the rock star poster child of single girls. Bridget Jones.

Back before Renee Zellwegger got affixed with her permanent sour lemon face, she stumbled across the screen like a hot mess and charmed most everyone watching her. She suffered through poor fashion choices (Alaina), hair disasters (Amanda), and even had a charming poof of a best friend (Seacrest). Not to mention her poorly executed karaoke session atop her desk (nearly everyone else.) There were two songs performed from the film's soundtrack, and we even had a touch of Brit with Simon's accent. But for all her embarrassments, Bridget did, however, make the very wise choice of simply lip-synching the classic "All By Myself." If only everyone had her smarts.

Carly O'Pimpedone started off the show with Heart's "Crazy On You" and it was really quite alright. Good, in fact. She sounded good, but, as Simon likes to point out, but didn't in this case, not nearly as good as Ann does on the song. But at least she left her maternity robe at home this time and looked less puffy than Ann.

I'm still not comprehending the judges's reactions to Syesha's take on "Me and Misses (MIster) Jones." I loved that she didn't yell and worked the soft and powerful parts of the song and thought she sounded great. But, across the board, the judges told her that what she does well is shout and that she should definitely continue to shout in the future. Bad, bad advice, and I had to wonder if they aren't intentionally punking her with those comments.

Amanda Overmyer murdered a Kansas song while looking like a reject from a Whitesnake video. Alaina did alright with the Grease song, "Hopelessly Devoted To You," but someone really needs to send out a memo that blue satin dresses are never okay. And her package made her look like a flake. If the most interesting thing this girl has going for her is that she likes to keep her food apart, we've just discovered heretofore unfathomable levels of vapidity. And yet, she comes out on stage and does have a personality, so I can't really judge. In stark contrast is Kady, who also chose to sing Heart, and who actually does have a richer and more unique voice than the clover kid, even if she keeps it mostly hidden onstage. She also comes off great in her films, but then does her best Anna Nicole Simpson dumb floozy/stagestruck bit when she's live.

The one bright light of the night was Brooke, who sang the Carly Simon classic "You're so Vain" while glancing over at Simon. She sounded great and I'm not sure Simon was just putting on when he kept saying that he did think the song was about him.

I'm having trouble remembering the other girls, which probably doesn't bode well for them. Oh yeah. Kristy "Crouching Farmgirl, Hidden Talent" Lee Cook sang. She crouched and had a pretty face but was all so much blah. Ramiele can sing very well. But if anyone was in need of a makeover, it's this girl. The sideswiped hair, the belted cami, the pegged pants. She's gonna be a tiny little piece of gorgeous when the stylists get their hands on her, but until then she's a lot more suited for "American Pimp" than "American Idol." And though Alexandrea Lushington has, by a mile, the best name in the competition, she was just so boring.

So that left Asia'h to close the show. She came out dressed like she should've been serving coffee to Miranda Priestley, or maybe dating Patrick Bateman. Appropriate, because she butchered "All By Myself." At least she remembered to use all the consonants at her disposal, but she couldn't find the right notes and it just made me long for Bridget's interpretation.

So that was that, really. But as the hour and a half ended, I realized I could've actually spent that same time watching "Bridget Jones's Diary." And I sorta wished I had.

Full House: Three Queens over Two Jack(asses)

Look. There were more flames popping out on last night's Idol than during a late '80s Motley Crue stadium show when they'd bust out "Home Sweet Home." And, I love it.

Ugly Betty's nephew is all grown up and he's Danny Noriega. Why do I love Danny? Because I barely ever see 30 year-olds as comfortable in their own skins as this kid is in his. And he's already given us the head snap, and this week, when talking to Simon, he gave us "ish". He must stay. Simply, he makes the show more watchable.

Not quite rushing out of the closet, David Hernandez did at least discuss fashion choices in his clip where he talked about being a child gymnast. He then belted the shit out of "Papa Was a Rolling Stone" with some energy while still trying to walk the line without being too flamboyant. (You know, not as flamboyant as say, a go-go dancer would be.) I still like him and I still think he's a lot cuter than dimwit Luke Menard. Again, Menard with those vacant, closely-set eyes and that nasally voice. This dude defined irony for the evening because he's definitely NOT in the evening's Queen club, even though he tried to sing "Killer Queen."

As for the Jackass section last night, I actually thought Chikezie sang pretty well and his joking with Simon about rewearing of clothing was kinda funny, not jackassy. He still needs help with that damn neckfurter, though. But Robbie Karaoke was jackass incarnate. You know, I'd wondered last week why he always had the damn bandana on. Then, last night, when it came off, I knew why. But, it then leapt a step higher this morning when I learned that it's not just ugly-ass ratnest Brett Michaels hair. TMZ has provided the full dirt that really makes sense. And this rug fucker dares wonder why he has "authenticity" problems? He even broke out the wallet chain, but he still can't hide his boy band hand movements onstage and then he prances around with a bad attitude and mediocre voice and gets owned by the much uglier but much better singer David Cook.

Speaking of Cook, I disagree with Simon about his intro package. A word nerd. Okay, I can go with that. Then he did alright on "All Right Now." And then he couldn't keep his Mr. Peanut-head mouth shut and spouted off a little petulantly to Simon. Seriously. Give this dude a monocle, cane and top hat and he could have a career in famous legume impersonation. He's got a voice that really is suitable for the radio. But so's his face. And unlike Robbie who can blame the wig maker, he's got no excuse for that hair. So he ends up as jackass number two of the night.

How quickly did the koala love disappear last night? Johns sang "Go Your Own Way" and I couldn't believe it that Randy didn't even break out "pitchy" on his ass. But he couldn't go so far as to overpraise him, either, because this was one of the worst performances from the guys this season. Excellent. Excellent stuff.

Poor Jason Castro also suffered a let down. I have to say, I really liked his promo package, though, because he essentially refused to say a single thing about himself but did in a cute and sly way so that he didn't come off as a prima donna. Then he sang an Andy Gibb song, which Simon rightly criticized as being schmaltzy. But, I do also think they kicked him a little too hard. If I'm being honest, I don't think his voice is all that good. But he's chill and he kind of has a Jack Johnson-Ben Harper thing working for him musically that could actually be successful outside this show.

So that leaves us with little David Archuleta. He did "Imagine" and I imagine that Nigel nearly creamed himself just thinking about the profits he's going to pocket from this kid. I admitted before that despite it all, I like him, and I still do. And yet my nasty side is now salivating to see how he's going to react when he eventually has a less-than-stellar performance and Simon tells him so. He's all bashful appreciation right now, but his opening clip didn't do him any favors by making it abundantly apparent to us that everyone around this show has been aware of -- and waiting for -- this kid to be on the show since season one. Somewhere, behind the curtain, there's a stage mother pulling the marionette strings and she'd probably rival Joan Crawford. And over the long weeks, David A will eventually stumble slightly, and it'll be frame-by-frame inspection/dissection of his every single reaction to it that'll give his haters much glee. In the meantime, though, even those who like him, like me, can take glee in how positively spastic-denial bonkers his hardcore fans get when someone mentions his, uh, proclivities. (shades of Claymates already.) You think they hate that? Just wait until someone points out that he also bears a passing resemblance to Chris Kattan's Mr. Peepers. Or, Kattan's Mango. (Kind of a double-whammy with that one, huh?)

And, I realize I've forgotten someone. I guess that says it all, then. So, until next week, flame on, triple Ds. Flame on.

Forever My Girl

Some of the chum got consumed on last night's Idol. No really big surprises on who went. But the show did have an outlandish highlight as they debuted the new video for Paula Abdul's comeback song, "Dance Like There's No Tomorrow."

YAY!! Pauler! I haven't been this excited since Keanu rush rushed into that James Dean jacket for one of her vids. You probably saw her "live" performance of the song for the Super Bowl, but here's the video.


All in all, not too terribly embarrassing. And as trainwrecks come and go, dear sweet Pauler's already had her share. Remember the egg suit? I don't really think this comeback song is going to be on par with Cher's "Believe," and the song is a throwaway piece of shit, but it's a piece of shit I can easily see myself getting trashed and dancing to while hanging out at some grossly overpriced and trendy club like Tryst.

But she does have all the earmarks for a mild comeback here. The flagrantly synthesized voice, the wind, and great lighting to make her look, well, good. Please note how Randy insists on inserting himself into the video to pluck on an irrelevant bass when there's no bass to be heard. Also please note that for the Liza-esque pantsless tuxedo costume, she went so far as to stick a napkin in her hair to pay homage to the madcap '80s style that spawned her. (It makes me yearn for her to reconcile with Emilio, you know?) To bring things up to date, she actually has a wallet chain on another costume. (no, not the red gown one, keep looking.)

I was starting to get concerned about her this year. There haven't been any excuses tossed out for her behavior, and, worse, her behavior has slipped. Much like a drunk winding down to pass out. For a few years she'd been the bubbly, exuberant and sillytipsy girl. Then, the slurring got more pronounced and her moves more erratic. This year, it seemed as though she was in the final stages before blackout, with the heavy-lidded eyes and listless demeanor, only sparking to life to pick fights with Simon before unleashing an incoherent mess of babble about colors. I feared she'd be sleeping it off for the entire top six. But I think this video may just inject some more life into her, like drinking your next vodka with Red Bull, you know?

Dance, Paula darling, dance like there's no tomorrow! Because for drunks like us, susceptible to two-day long blackouts and week-long hangovers, sometimes there is no tomorrow.

Sham-Rock Divas

The most interesting thing about girls' night on Idol last night was watching the boys' reactions. I haven't yet started with the screencapping, but I really should to get evidence. Maybe later tonight I'll do it and put it up here. But you had to see it. You had to notice David Cook and his ugly mug sitting there, not even pretending to be enjoying the majority of the performances. He sat there, slouched in his seat with his arms crossed most of the time. It may not have been classy, but it was definitely an "authentic" reaction to the evening.

The battle of the blondes began, and the much hyped Kristy Lee Cook babbled about selling her favorite horse. As though that would somehow upstage Asia'h's dead dad sob story. Bitch, please. This is the modelicious blonde who can sing "Amazing Grace" and apparently nothing else. She sang it for her audition and then after she bombed in Hollywood, she sang it again and got through. Last night, she didn't sing it and again she bombed out. I'm not shocked. I'm of the opinion that most people have that one song that they can actually sing, even if they can't carry a tune on anything else. Some people just never find that one song. (I, for instance, can't sing worth a damn. But for some reason I can sing "One for the Road".)

Beyond that, most of the other girls all smushed together into a boring-to-bad compilation of trite '60s covers. That one blonde who looks like Carrie did alright, though. Best, drunken Pauler actually said that they had Diana Ross sing the same song on the show last year and it was "dreadful." You can bet your ass she's gonna get strongly-worded letters from Miz Ross's people about that one!

And the one non-blonde, the rock chick Amanda, I enjoyed her performance a little because at the end of it, Randy commented on her "trousers." Randy, the one who has the smallest vocabulary and least relevant remarks actually said "trousers." I liked that. As for Amanda's performance? I'm having a hard time swallowing that she's twenty-three. Anthony Bourdain would have a hard time swallowing that shit, okay? I thought she was fucking horrendous, but I really hope she sticks around, because she is different, and it'll be a laugh riot to see her be forced to perform some dreary-ass Barry Manilow shit if she advances. I'd love to see a rocker chick do well, and I don't really think she's a sham, but I also don't think she's so hot. Her voice is distinctive, but not really great. Kind of like Rockstar's Dilana but without the chops.

Little Ramiele can sing, and so can Syesha, and I still like Asia'h's smoky voice, but I got sick of her shit enunciation as she sang "Piece o' my 'art."

So that leaves the one they're cramming down our throats. Let me be clear. I don't hate Carly because she's a ringer and a plant. Pete's sake, this year, the competition has more plants than FTD central offices. Full on, I don't even hate Carly. Yet. But I also really don't like her. I got sick of seeing her bug-eyed shock on that promo that they aired over and over from her audition when Cowell told her that she wasn't as good as two years ago. I don't like her nibbly little rat face and I despise her pointy rat-teeth. And her? I do think she's a sham. After Nigel got confronted by the press about her, they wrote her a nice little script for her intro last night to explain that she's had a record deal. Even that was embellished, though, as she made it sound like the company went kablooey and that's why she failed.

Wrong. They spend millions of bucks to promote the broguey bitch and she sold 500 records. And yeah, Randy was involved. So of course he's going to give her a big old silver-tongue bath that'd make Gene Simmons' oral apparatus seem average in comparison. But again, I don't hold the record contract against her.

What I hold against her is that she's a consistent under-achiever, and she did it again last night. Like Luke Menard, who thinks that passable good looks can substitute for substance, Carly thinks that her natural voice should be enough. She says she's not there to be a diva, but that bug-eyed reaction told it all. Her voice is good, I won't lie about that. But she has abso-fucking-lutely nothing else going on. There's no actual talent, and that's not something that can be taught. She's polished and groomed, but she's destined to keep failing because she lacks the ability to sing, which is different from having a voice. I think you could lock her in a room with Sinatra records until there's peace in the mid-east and she still wouldn't get it, either. She's a fucking sham.

She has her kohl-lined eyes and stringy hair and tattoo sleeve and then she sings sappy pop songs. I'm not saying that a book can't have a different cover, but what exactly does she like? You'd think she'd be a rocker chick, but instead she goes for the songs to showcase her big tone. Does she really enjoy singing that crappy shit? If not, she's twice the sham. If she does enjoy it, why does it always come across like she's doing it for acceptance instead of enjoyment? Other than her wanting success and her second chance, I have no clue what this girl is on about. That's why she's a diva. She wants her second chance. But what she obviously just doesn't get is that to have it, she has to entertain US.

It was a recurring theme among the guys last night. They thought they were hot shit because they were going to "show themselves on TV." That's the epitome of vapid, self-loving fame-whoring, to think that simply showing yourself is what makes a star. No, fuckheads. If you're hoping to be in the ENTERTAINMENT business, it's not all about you. It's about the AUDIENCE. You show yourself, and your talent, and do it in a way that connects with the audience. Otherwise, you're just more of the cannon fodder that keeps this show running extra weeks for more commercial time.

Carly at least understands that she has to show off her voice to entertain the audience. The problem is, she's just so shallow about it that I doubt she'll ever connect. She doesn't want to entertain, she wants acceptance. Well, good luck, hon. I hope she makes it far. But I have a feeling she's never going to rise above being flat. The girl with all the potential who just can't fabricate an actual personality.

Maybe she will as the season goes on. Maybe if she'd step up and be the diva instead of worrying about playing nice to gain widespread acceptance, something honest and moving and diva-esque would come out in her performance which would actually be interesting. Until then? She can kiss my blarney-stone, cause I'm not buying it.

Kids, Kangaroo Fuckers, and Kinky Attractions

Last night Idol gave the top 12 guys their first chance to perform. Last night, I realized that I'm an old lady. I'm an old lady because I can't help it, I think David Archuleta is adorable. There. I said it. I'm out with it, and unless he really fucks up, I'll probably be sticking to that for quite a long portion of the season because I imagine he's going to sweep the grandma vote.

There won't be much suspense from the boys as we move into the top 12, because, barring some unforeseen calamity/curiosity such as stigmatic bleeding onstage, I think it's safe to say that Michael Johns, David A, Robbie Carrico and Jason Castro will be moving on.

As for the other two slots, I'd like to see Danny Noriega squish his hot little, head wagging self through. He will absolutely infuriate Simon. Though I did feel a little bad for him having to stand there and take the "grotesque" comment repeatedly. He seemed to hold his comportment when Simon slammed him with that critique. He seemed shocked, as was I, when Seacrest just kept on fucking repeating the word. Ryan was like one of Skinner's pigeons, pressing the food pellet lever, unable to stop himself with his nearly tourettish repetion. "Grotesque. Grotesque! How do you feel about being called grotesque?" The fuck?

And I know I'd previously mentioned David Hernandez, but I've come to realize I had an instant affinity for him because somewhere in my own lustful lizard-brain I was primarily happy to be taking another trip to Oz and was thrilled to see Alvarez out of solitary.

Anyhow, Hernandez may squeak through, because I really don't think that Luke Menard will. Speaking of Oz and lookalikes, is this guy the lovechild of Luke Perry and Orlando Bloom or what? He's cute and he seems to not be flaunty about it, but he knows he is. He was stunned to find out that he's boring. And it was that dimwitted, milquetoasty-pretty reaction, too. Like he wasn't defiant about it. Just in his worldview, he's unable to compute the idea that attractive doesn't automatically equate to interesting. But, boring he is. (Funny thing though, as boring as he was, at least I recall enough about him to write this. Boring leapt to somnifacient lows with everyone I'm not talking about.) And poor Luke, he's also not really pretty enough to bother propelling him forward.

Pretty with personality is Jason Castro. What can I say? He works the dreads. There's a bit of a Shannon Hoon vibe about him, and I've run across about 500 guys just like him fifteen years back at Dead shows. But, you know, I enjoyed my youth and those were good times and I like to reminisce, so that actually makes me like his neo-stoner vibe. The familiarity, for him, is working for me. Maybe for disco night he'll bust out some vintage Dead and do "Shakedown Street" and get himself a whole slew of patchouli-scented votes.

Robbie C will get through, though I don't really have any comment on him yet. Simon isn't sold on his "authenticity." In other words, Simon doesn't want him to really steal any thunder from the man from down under. So let's talk about that guy.

Michael Johns. Since everyone looks like someone else to me today, this guy is Tim Daly with Guy Pearce's mouth. Fitting, because in Guy's second-best role in Memento (his best being, of course, Ed Exley) he kept repeating the same shit over and over. Michael Johns is here on AI, vying for a recording contract. He's been there before, when he went by the name of Michael Lee, and he landed the contract with Maverick and then apparently crapped out.

It's a whole sordid story, but I don't even hold those allegations against him, as it seems his former band doesn't, and I completely understand how with youth and the offer of fame and fortune, it's easy to make a few moves that can come across as douchey to an outsider if you don't cut some slack. Nevertheless, you know when he starts to truly irritate me, I'll be bringing up that spotty past and crucifying him with it, so that even if we don't have stigmatic bleeding onstage, I can draw blood on my blog.

I know. Truly, I know. Right now, everyone's in love with him. He's hot. He can sing. He doesn't have "authenticity" problems. There's nothing obvious right now to peg him as an asshole. There's the slightly affected Morrison-esque slither to him. The thing that always cracks me up about that act is this. Jim Morrison, whom I do adore, moved the way he moved because he was fucked up, man. He wasn't being sexy. He was stone-ass wasted and staggering as he was trying to be sexy. And I'm reasonably certain that Mr. Johns wasn't dropping five hits of windowpane while polishing off a fifth of Bushmills before he took the stage for American Idol. If anyone has the capacity to go that route, I'd put my money on Jason Castro, not Johns. (Or, perhaps, if his fanbase goes all fantard Claymatish, after about five more years and some rollicking success followed by chart-bottoming crass Christmas CDs, David Archuleta may have some mild-to-severe prescription dependencies.) And, of course, last night already had Pauler on display in this wasted mode, to the point that when things got too heavy, she had to rest her head on the table and even Simon slapping her leg couldn't revive her. Now that's a pop-star, baby.

But I digress. My point is this. Michael's assholery is not yet blatantly evident. But I think I see glimmers of it. Between his toothy smile and carefully messed hair and douchey hipster scarf and calculated hip shimmies, it's there. Dormant, but festering. And for fuck's sake, they already gave him the pimp spot and the Burger King flames.

It's written all over this show. They're hoping he'll be their lucky number seven, the male winner they've always wanted to crown. Most likely, like Daughtry, he'll crap out at number two or three, because as Guy taught us, history has a way of repeating if we aren't paying close enough attention.

But I also have a feeling that no matter what, as long as he's around, I'll be loving this season. Luke Menard, meet "not boring," and his name is Michael Johns. Michael Johns, welcome to AI 7. I wish you a long and lusty run.

Nic Doubles Down

I love Nicolas Cage. Don't try to give me shit about it, either. He had my heart with Valley Girl, and then he cemented the deal with Moonstruck. But leave it to him, my ultimate movie star boyfriend, to stake his claim as The King of the Strip with his one-two knockout punch Vegas movies.

In 1992's Honeymoon in Vegas, as loveable lug Jack Singer, Nic goes against his mother's dying wish and hesitantly decides to whisk his girlfriend Betsy off to Vegas to get hitched. Betsy, played by the gorgeous Sarah Jessica Parker, however, becomes the ultimate chip in a poker game gone bad when Jack loses, while holding a straight flush, to gangster Tommy Corman, played by James Caan.


In his sharkskin suits, Caan once again capitalizes on his Sonny Corleone legend as the tough guy mobster who negotiates payment of Jack's debt by having Jack lend him Betsy for the weekend. What the fuck more do you want from a Vegas movie? Bad beats, pimping out of girlfriends, mobsters, a side-trip to Hawaii, SJP in showgirl getup, and desperate, zany Nic as a skydiving Elvis.


Cage is at his best when he's in desperate-manic mode. (see also Vampire's Kiss) And this movie keeps the momentum going from start to finish. It's set in Bally's, which is a rather middle-of-the-road joint, but there are shots of Sarah poolside (back when she had a banging bod before getting too skinny) and Caan with orange hair and a still-young Nic racing around the joint to reclaim his bride-to-be to up the eye-candy quotient.

I can't say this is the funniest movie. In fact, it strikes me as though it should be funnier with the gags writer/director Andrew Bergman sets up. Most of them don't exactly fall flat, but they aren't hit with the right buttons to make them pop for full effect, either. And yet, it's still an enjoyable film with enough comedy capers to highlight the whirlwind and jubilant side of a Vegas love affair.

In stark contrast, just three years later in 1995, comes the profoundly depressing tragic love affair of Leaving Las Vegas, where alcoholic Ben meets a hooker who loves him. If Honeymoon was the quintessential "starting a new life" and Vegas wedding pic, Leaving is the death throes of a life gone wrong, where even true, unconditional love can't stop the inexorable decay into doom.


To say that this movie is the underbelly of Vegas is an overwhelming understatement, but Vegas really is just a metaphor here for the overarching loss and despair, despite the hope and opportunity that floats amongst the alcohol-soaked protagonist, of Ben Sanderson.

Written by John O'Brien, who took his own life as filming on this movie began, it's often seen as the pinnacle, tour-de-force performance of Nic's career, and it deservingly won him the Oscar. However, though often difficult to stomach with its intense depressing nature, O'Brien really does deserve credit for creating not just such a riveting love story, but also a carefully nuanced theme within a very simple plot that buoys this movie beyond the sometimes shocking and unsettling subject matter. This is saying a lot, because Julian Sands gets an above the title credit here, and you know that most any movie he stars in is an automatic B-movie. And at it's heart, this is a B-movie, but done well enough, largely thanks to the two leads, that it manages to outshine itself.

The hooker Ben meets, played by Elisabeth Shue in an astonishingly sweet and sorrowful performance, is named Sera, which is very fitting, because she turns out to be his guardian angel. And though she's a hooker, or probably because she is, Sera and Ben never sexually consummate their relationship until the eerie denouement. Instead, their connection is something much more needy, a connection based upon two lost souls finding a home in each other.


As their scenes on the strip together play out, the lights shimmer around them, and it's hard to imagine any couple ever giving off more sparks. Shue, here, is the perfect mix of slinky clothes and aching bravery in a delicate shell. And then there's Cage. Already, he was showing signs of bearing a passing resemblance to Andy Kaufman, and yet his sleepy eyes and crooked smile capture every calibration between cocky and lovesick. When he grabs her suddenly and inappropriately in the Gold Coast casino and backs her into a slot machine to make out with her, there's more passion in that one, brief kiss than in a hundred sex scenes from modern cinema.

Director Mike Figgis follows the stark and spare theme by making the most of what he's got. Not just Shue and Cage, but also the repeating refrains of the haunting soundtrack. Don Henley's version of the Johnny Mercer's "Come Rain or Come Shine" is a song that encapsulates the unconditional love that Sera shovels Ben's way and it repeats appropriately. Meanwhile, Sting enters two other classics, "Angel Eyes" and "My One and Only Love" -- the combination of which, we would hope, would be enough to pull Ben from his quicksand, drinking death trip. But they aren't.

Early in the film, Ben tells Sera that he moved to Vegas because the bars are always open, so much the easier to kill himself that way. And though it's known and loved as a party town, an elopement paradise, and a wild free-for-all, Vegas does have its price. There is a wicked and lonely feel to the city when off the strip and down on your luck, a nearly depraved and debasing indulgence that doesn't just permit, but encourages self-destruction, much like that alcohol that Ben chooses as his suicide weapon.

There is nothing subtle about Nic's performance here, though it is sly and Cagey. Between embarrassing DTs and wobbling black outs, he swings moodily from captivating and soulful to painfully cavalier and sometimes cruel. Even his hands here are hauntingly expressive, his long fingers moving with an almost dreamlike quality.

Vegas is manic. And Nicolas Cage has captured both the absurdly funny and absurdly tragic in the bright lights and dark corners of the city, which makes him my reigning movie star of the Strip. Here's some lights for you, Nic.

Chevy Chases the Dream, Bugsy shoots for the stars

Mmkay. Before I unleash my very top picks for Vegas flicks, I wanna do a round up of the rest out there.

In 1997, the Bellagio was still a year from opening its doors, and that meant that The Mirage was still the crown jewel in the Wynn empire, and Vegas was at the zenith of the family-friendly madness. In other words, it was the perfect setting for the Griswold family and their hijinks.


Vegas Vacation has pretty much every cliche, and that's what makes it so funny. Chevy Chase is the affable dad who gets the fever and goes off the rails and gambles away his family's savings, while his wife canoodles with Wayne Newton and his daughter becomes an exotic dancer and his son experiences the life of a high roller. It's some of the smaller touches that make this movie so funny, like when the family is having a relaxed breakfast and Chevy has to sneak away for a few minutes to secretly gamble, or, best, when he's huddled at the ATM, crazy-eyed, and the money starts pouring out as "All Along the Watchtower" thumps as the soundtrack. This movie captures the Mirage beautifully, the only detail missing is the unmistakable smell of pina colada as you enter the casino. But they even have Siegfried and Roy and their tigers prominently fixed into the plot. Ahh, better days.

When it comes to gambling fever, no one got a more fatal case than Julie Hagerty in Albert Brooks' hilarious Lost in America. It's 1985 and after Albert quits/gets fired, he decides to take his wife on the road a la Easy Rider, only in a Winnebago. But they make a hilarious and costly stop at the once brilliant Desert Inn where his wife gambles away all their money. Best? He then asks the casino for it back!

Barry Levinson took his second trip to Vegas in 1991 for the bio pic Bugsy. Unquestionably, Ben "Bugsy" Siegel was one of the most important architects of modern Las Vegas. Contrary to popular belief, he did not build the first hotel or casino in the desert. But what he did do with the Flamingo was bring it to levels previously unheard of which was the blueprint for what would come. He didn't see Vegas as a place for dusty gambling halls. His love for glamour made him want to make Vegas a sort of Hollywood-East, and his Flamingo would be the epicenter of luxury.


So if 40's Hollywood glamour is your game, Bugsy is your picture. Warren Beatty and Annette Bening look like they were created for this wardrobe and movie. And yet, like Vegas, all the glitz was covering some truly ugly aspects. Violent and nasty, both Bugsy and Virginia Hill were an awful lot to take, and this movie doesn't gloss over their despicable traits.

Levinson is a master filmmaker, and this picture is no exception -- character and plot twine together to make this movie riveting, and it's stamped with his classy touches even while the blood flows. And yet, Levinson has always had a touch of romantic and melancholy in his work, which is generally something I really like. But I guess maybe there's a gentleness about his films in general that puts this one at odds and somehow the pieces don't fit exactly right. It's hard to describe, really. But it's kind of like he and Scorsese crossed movies in this period. Scorsese was making the lovingly detailed "Age of Innocence" while Levinson was doing this period piece. And it was refreshing to see both men step outside their box, and the different perspectives brought something different to each film. And yet, it just doesn't feel exactly right. Kind of like fake tits. They're eye catching and you appreciate the effort, but they'll still never be authentic.

Top Twenty-Four

So the top twenty-four have been picked for this year's American Idol. I had to stop watching the audition rounds because the repetition got to me. But I picked it up again for Hollywood week and was surprised at how much I liked it, and how much I liked so many of the people. It already seemed a lot better than last year's crop. Favorites so far? Asia'h! Loved her. Of course Michael Johns is hot, and of course he's a ringer, along with the Irish girl. I think both of them have had record deals already. But we'll see. I loved both the Davids -- Archuletta and Hernandez. And that curly haired blonde girl, Brooke, I think is her name? I liked her a lot. So I'm all in for it next week!

Mammoth Happy

This year's edition of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica (vol. 7) is now available. Again, it's edited by the great Maxim Jakubowski, and, again, he shows his wonderful taste. I was lucky enough to have one of my stories placed in it this year, along with some wonderful work by the always great Donna George Storey, Tara Alton, Gwen Masters, Susannah Indigo, and MANY stars of the erotica field.

Yo Eleven!

Vegas is a town of gambling, and if you're at a rockin' craps table, or even just passing through the casino when a hot roller is on the tables, it's inevitable that you'll hear "Yo Eleven" at least a few times. The Yo! is a one-roll wager that the next toss of the dice will result in an eleven. It pays high, at fourteen-for-one, but that's because it carries a huge house edge of, appropriately, 11%. Yo or, the redundant Yo-eleven, is also what the stickman calls when the eleven is rolled, and, even if no Yo bets are placed, an eleven still wins even money for players on the pass line for come out rolls. So if you happen to hit on a hot table, there's gonna be plenty of YOs being shouted, and plenty of chips flying.

Which is all to say that, in gambling, eleven is a good number. Long odds, but high payouts.

Talk about long odds, the original Ocean's Eleven script was written by a fellow named Jack Golden Russell who was a gas station attendant in Vegas. He managed to hand off the script to Frank Sinatra while he was filling up his tank. From there, the payouts skyrocketed. The quintessential Rat Pack movie, Ocean's Eleven gave Frank, Dean, and Sammy, along with Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford, the perfect excuse to cat around Vegas while performing nightly shows and then having the Hollywood studio pay the tab for all the rest.


It's a solid heist premise, with much of the banter between Sintara's Danny Ocean and the rest of the gang being ad-libbed. Hot Angie Dickinson drifts in and out between the buddy banter, and even Shirley MacLaine gets to steal the spotlight for a moment with her deanish drunken quip. As for Deano, it could be considered a real drawback to the flick that he's the only one who sings, but lucky for us both his numbers are the same one, and it's his highly tolerable "Ain't That a Kick in the Head."

The Vegas captured in this film is now so long gone that this movie still reigns supreme as the hallmark of the Rat Pack halcyon days, and it has plenty of inside jokes. It was 1960 and in the final shot, as you see the would-be thieves walking down the strip at the end of the movie, the grand marquee of the Sands behind them lists Frank, Sammy, Dean, Joey and Peter as the entertainment. The slot machines all pay out in coin, and everyone looked dapper. It's not the best movie ever made, but it is a breezy and boozy throwback bit of fun with the biggest stars to ever shine in Vegas.

If you're a timid gambler, or a sober one, or even a smart one, once you place your Yo! bet, if it actually hits, you're probably going to shout and then take your money and go. Because it takes an awful lot of balls to turn around and place that winning cash back on that same longshot bet. So forty years later, the biggest star in Hollywood decides he's going to press his luck and parlay his stardom with a caper movie. He gathers together a new gang with box-office clout and they throw their chips on the table. And oh man, do they ever come up winners.


In 2000, the Bellagio was truly one of the most beautiful hotel-casinos in the world. Lovingly detailed and crafted by Steve Wynn for his wife as a remembrance of their honeymoon in Bellagio, Italy, it's an embarrassment of riches. With its flowers and fountains and creamy colors and gold lighting, it's a virtual paradise for taking already preternaturally beautiful people and making them look like timeless icons. And that's exactly what happens. Clooney, Pitt, Damon, Garcia and Roberts light up the screen and Vegas with their soft-peddled shenanigans.

The script gets an updated overhaul which truly improves it. Not just the techno-flash of the caper to match our new age, but the better structuring of interlocking romance-heist angle, along with characters who are better defined this go-round, too. They manage to keep the breezy tone, so breezy, in fact, that the plot holes just don't even seem to register until a second or third viewing. Mostly, this is because the original Ocean's was a good time for the cast. But this remake is a good time for the viewers. It's obvious they had a ball making it, and no one brings that across more than the villainous Andy Garcia. Oh yeah, he's the bad guy, but you can see it in his angry, arrogant swagger and calm-yet-festering looks -- he's also having the time of his life.

Of the male leads, Matt Damon is the only one already with an Oscar in his pocket, but he's third banana and yet he manages to create a believable innocent thief. Brad Pitt, never one of my favorites, fills the Deano gap and is also highly tolerable as he eats his way through the movie in loud shirts. Julia looks still-stunning in the Bellagio, wearing that beaded dress with all casual class. The only nitpick is that this is the type of movie that should've cemented her as an elegant vision, and yet, when she walks, she's not. She rolls and lolls, and although she's a skinny girl, she rather looks like a fucking cow, and she's forced to be the Debbie Downer instead of showcasing her showstopping smile.

But all that barely matters, because she is there, and under her character's cold exterior, she's still Julia. But even her beauty gets eclipsed by Clooney's. Before this movie, I thought he'd hit the zenith with his looks back in 1996 in From Dusk Till Dawn. (Seriously Clooney-philes, it's must-see.) But oh holy shit does he manage to sizzle in those tailored suits. And the tux? The DVD is worth it alone for that. I swear, when he and Garcia are onscreen together, it's almost as though handsomeness is about approach critical mass and make the screen (or something) explode. It's pornographic.

It's also one of the best glimpses of the then-remarkable Bellagio. Like movie stars, Vegas properties tend to have a lifespan, and Bellagio has now passed its prime. Steven Soderbergh has always been a director who's acutely attuned to colors in his films, and he knows how to use them to accentuate character and mood. Here, the blue of the lake is almost dreamlike, and the golden tones throughout can make you want to remark, "They just don't make pictures like that anymore."

But they do make them. They made one, and then they remade it. And just like parlaying a Yo bet, or stacking star on top of star, that second one came up an even bigger winner.

The Erotic Woman

The Erotic Woman has posted an excerpt from my book, 24/7. It's a really steamy one, and the picture they found to go with it is perfect. So if you're curious, do check it out, and do surf the rest of their funky site, you might enjoy it. The best? It's so nsfw.

Don & Donna

Donna George Storey has posted a wonderfully thoughtful review of Donald Capone's wonderfully funny debut novel Into the Sunset on her blog.