Bore Me

I left my thing in Texas -- that thing that Fox sent me that was a giant magnetic board for your refrigerator that had all the faces of the top 12 Idols on stickers that you’d affix to 12 boxes and then 12 more red letter X’s that you’d put on their faces as they one by one got swallowed up into a Not-Fame Hole. That. I left it on my sister-in-law’s refrigerator before coming back to Los Angeles. Oh, well. They like both the Davids quite a bit in that house, so it’s not like it won’t be loved and used, although I still think I could get some money for it on eBay from some obsessive Archie fan.

So the show starts, and Seacrest, I believe, just insulted David Cook by calling him a bartender. I don’t think any bartender wants to be called a bartender. All the ones I know are actors or porn stars or real estate agents. And didn’t Cook have a record out already? I haven’t really been paying attention to his backstory besides the whole brother-with-cancer thing.

OK, I just checked. He did. He released a solo record in 2006. So yeah, he was a musician already who’d already seen his high school band get on the loop of those awful AMC Movie Tunes that you’re forced to listen to before movies. But, you know, whatever it takes.

So then Seacrest talks about how the final three are “at your mercy” and blahblahblah and “This… is Ah-MER-ican Idol!” before he spins around in a sort of “Ole!” kind of way that I’ve never seen him do outside of close contact with Chikezie. The credits roll and the camera hunts for celebrities to fixate on. There’s Marilu Henner.

Again.

Is she in some kind of contest with Denise Richards and Constantine? Why do the same famous people keep coming back to the show? I’m genuinely baffled by their need to be in the audience. The camera catches Marilu looking down at her hands, examining them for some reason. Maybe she saw the shots of Sarah Jessica Parker’s hands thrown up all over the Internet on that slow news day earlier this week and is suddenly obsessed with making sure her own are still youthful and fresh-looking.

Also in the audience: that guy who got kicked off early in season 6, I forget his name; and that guy who’s gay and Asian and on some TV show. I forget who he is too. I know, I should try to figure out his name. Sorry about that, Gay Actor Guy. But they’re here. It’s pretty exciting.

It’s the week where the top three return to their hometowns for some Fox affiliate brand-reinforcement. It’s also the week that the singers will each perform three 90-second renditions of dumb songs chosen by the judges, by the producers, and by themselves.

The hometown clips start with Archuleta returning to Utah, where the mayor of whatever town we’re in, a guy with a wild American flag shirt and big cowboy belt buckle and one of those wacky handlebar mustaches that you have to wax, reads a note from Paula. She’s chosen a Billy Joel song for him to sing. And why? What was her “‘thought process’ in choosing this song for David?” asks Seacrest.

“Well, showcasing the amazing vocals that you have, it’s a beautiful song that shows the level of difficulty … in the melodies … that of which I know you can handle, and it will totally exploit the beautiful timbre in your voice.”

Dang.

She makes such excellent sentences. Really, the best sentences on TV. Of anyone. That “Iraq and such as” girl from that teen beauty pageant? An amateur. No one can do this like Paula Abdul. It would take a team of writers to come up with this shit. But Paula just spins it straight out of her head. And that’s why the show can never get rid of her. I mean, yeah, Randy’s useless. But Paula has a place here always, even when she’s not stepping up her game and critiquing songs that have yet to be sung.

OK, time for the boy to sing. Oh, wait, no, Seacrest has to ask him how he feels about the song he’s about to sing. This’ll be great. Because, see, you’d think that maybe the one smart thing Papachuleta did for that kid before getting himself banned from backstage was to make him watch baseball players in postgame locker-room interviews, where they give the reporters nothing but make it sound like almost something. There’s an entire scene in Bull Durham about it. Because up to this point he’s shown zero discernible personality over the course of the season outside of an intense, naked need to please. So he needs to be fed canned speeches. But he’s not a pro at it yet. He will be someday. Y’ever hear Ricky Martin talk? It’s like the smoothest thing ever. He makes glass when he talks. And he says nothing. Archuleta’s not there yet. So his answers to questions for the past five months have all resembled each other in quality, word choice, and excitement, a sort of lost, grasping, interrogation-style forced response: “Um. I was excited. It’s a really pretty song. So.”

It’s a sort-of ballad. Very old-fashioned. He might as well be singing “Shenandoah.” In fact, I’d like that more. That’s a great song.

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