The Daughtry That Won

I’m thinking about what I’m going to do for the next couple of months with all the freed-up time I’m going to have, precious moments that I normally spend watching and rewatching this show and writing these recaps. The kitchen needs painting. The shower needs to be recaulked. There are records to buy. I just got long-dead metal band Hellhammer’s Demon Entrails and it’s pretty sick. I think I’ll be playing that a lot in the next week to sort of cleanse my listen-holes of all American Idol music-barf. I was also planning on making that fancy apple-and-pear-chutney turkey burger I saw being made on Oprah last week. That looked pretty tasty for a turkey burger. And I hate turkey burgers. Or I could volunteer my time at some charity and, you know, “give back.”

Who knows what I’ll do? Whatever it is, I believe that it’s going to feel like flying without wings.

One thing I won’t do is think about the images that Fox is trying to molest my mind with right now, the grotesque scenario of a boxing match between the Davids. Tuesday night’s show begins with music from Rocky and a boxing-ring microphone being lowered while that guy who says “Let’s get ready to rumbuhhhhhhhl!” yells about how this is the match “of the century” and blah blah blah. And then Rumble Guy shouts “Let’s get ready to rumbuhhhhhhhl!” and out come the top two singers. Cook is described as being 180 pounds and “the real deal.” Then Rumble Guy yells that this singer’s name is “DAVID ‘SUGARFOOT’ COOOOOOOK!”

The hyperbole is matched by Cook himself, who, wearing a red satin robe, bounces and jabs and uppercuts and pounds his boxing gloves together. This is how rock-and-roll credibility is earned today, by behaving like an eager, pliable, trained career-monkey for The Man. “Sure, you want me in a robe? It’s all good. Should I dress up like a taco? Because I will. Dance all gay to ‘Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now?’ No problem. Sing Lion King songs but like in the manner of Chris Cornell? Yes, absolutely.”

It’s kind of like that time the Velvet Underground went on The Dinah Shore Show with special guest Sandy Duncan and -- oh, wait, I’m sorry, THAT SHIT NEVER HAPPENED.

And in the other corner, “weighing around 100 pounds, soaking wet,” says the Rumble Guy, as the first of many emasculating moments for Archuleta gets under way, is “DAVID ‘BABYFAAAAAAACE’ ARCHULETA!”

Seriously. This is actually happening.

Then Rumble Guy yells “This is American Idol!” and Seacrest does not. There’s no Seacrest in sight. Instead the camera flashes to the audience, where all of the season’s discards -- Syesha, Castro, Brooke, CARLY, Kristy Lee, the Aussie, Ramiele, Chikezie, and in the back row is gay stripper guy and Amanda, who’s leaning to the side of her seat, clapping like she has to. Body language = Over. It.

Camera cuts to Luke Perry. He’s been makin’ babies. I have no idea with whom. They just show him draped with tots. OK, now here’s Seacrest. He asks for Cook fans to cheer. Then Archuleta fans. Roaring crowds in the massively large Nokia Theater -- which is downtown, as opposed to the much smaller, former-home-to-the-Idol-finale Kodak Theater, which is where the Oscars happen and is in pissing range of my apartment and usually a tangle of awful traffic and buzzing helicopters -- indicate that no one is going to win and it will be an atomic blast of frustrated tie-ness, a death orgy of screams and teeth-gnashing and a Scanners-style head explosion courtesy of Papchuleta.

I mean, I hope.

Seacrest introduces a clip reel that will explain “how the contestants stack up against each other.” Cut to longtime sports anchor Jim Lampley, who’s being billed as simply a “boxing analyst” to mouth obviousnesses like “there’s only one winner.” Then Seacrest continues to talk about how one of them will win and become a superstar like Kelly, Daughtry, and Carrie. Except Daughtry didn’t win. Ruben and Fantasia and The Boogie and Ariel from The Little Mermaid won. But these days, The Boogie doesn’t exist in the Idol universe. And after last week’s live performance, you can bet that Fantasia isn’t going to be asked back to sing anytime soon. But that’s what happens when you come on and GET TOO AWESOME and show up the finalists.

Seacrest compares the two Davids and their origins. Little David is from Utah, represented on-screen by a booby-shaped mountain range. Big David is from Kansas City, represented on-screen by a big, ejaculating fountain.

Not making that up.

The spiel continues and Clive Davis and Andrew Lloyd Webber are reintroduced into the picture. Because the audience can’t get enough of either of those guys. I personally thrill to each moment their kissable faces dance across my television screen. Then we’re back to Jim Lampley, who says, “Winning is about being able to trust your instincts.” Seriously, that’s some Dalai Lama shit right there, wisdom straight from the mouth of a nonunion screenwriter and handed to a talking head who’s been there, sorta kinda. And you just had it presented to you in your living room. Hope you appreciate it. Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this.

Seacrest introduces the Davids to the audience, live and in person, in front of a huge, floaty Coca-Cola screen the color of Fantasia’s new hair. Suddenly the Coca-Cola logo appears in the bottom left-hand side of my TV screen. Now I want a Coke. But not that high-fructose corn syrup kind. I want one of those Mexican ones that they make with actual sugar. Had one of those lately? They fuckin’ BITE going down. There may still be actual cocaine in those like back in the olden times. Wild guess, there. Don’t come suing me, Coca-Cola. I love and am addicted to your product. It keeps me all gay inside. That and this show.

More stalling. Seacrest has to ask them how they feel. Cook defers to the audience, “How do you feel?” he asks the crowd, all Framptonish. Archuleta whispers something about dreams, naturally. Seacrest asks for advice from the judges. Randy and Paula say a lot of not much. Simon says, “You’ve got to have a desire to win and you’ve got to hate your opponent.” I like how he probably truly means that.

First round of songs has been chosen by Clive Davis. Clip of him talking to the Davids while Narnia battle music plays in the background. For Cook he’s chosen U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” and that’s pretty appropriate because Cook’s debt to Bono and all the pompous Bono-wannabes who’ve come after Bono is a mammoth, unpayable one. You can draw a direct line from him to Stone Temple Pilots to Daughtry-crush Live to Collective Soul to Cook favorites Our Lady Peace and Switchfoot to Nickelback to Creed to Seven Mary Three to even more humiliatingly lame bands like Vertical Horizon and 3 Doors Down. This is the genre that Cook will enter after this week. May he find a consistent income base there for as long as it takes him to realize that it all sucks.

So tonight I should mention that I’m watching the show with the husband/partner/whatever (who, thanks to the California supreme court, will soon become my legal husband for as long as it takes for the wacko asshole nutcases on the religious right to come up with some new law making it a crime for me to breathe the same air they do), housemate Xtreem Aaron, and his current best friend/ex-boyfriend, Gary.

“I will only like this if The Edge comes up through a trap door,” says Gary, as Cook begins his earnest replica. Too many epaulets on his jacket for me. I don’t trust a word he sings. Randy says that they’re “boys at this point, right?” Yes, Randy, you’re boys with David Cook now. You can go off and krump somewhere together. Paula goes blahblahblah. Simon calls it “phenomenal.”

“Thank you,” says Cook, and he looks up at the rafters with a weird expression. I can’t read if it’s self-satisfaction or incredulity. Either one, it’s still boring. Xtreem Aaron, who works at a big record store here in Los Angeles, offers, “Phil Stacey was in our clearance bin a week after his CD came out.”