I was standing in
line at my local supermarket, the West Hollywood
Gelson's, where you can sometimes witness celebrities in
various career stages, all of them buying Pom juice,
from up-and-comers like Sarah Silverman to
old-and-obscurers like the guy who played Joe on
Rhoda--the most famous of which was Reese
Witherspoon and the most unrecognizable was the little
French dude who used to be on Hogan's Heroes
and is super-old now--I was awakened from my shopping
reverie (green tea, Cap'n Crunch, ice cream, Sara Lee
Pound Cake, beer, thoughts of pound cake remorse,
competing thoughts of pound cake entitlement) by
"IDOL SECRETS" screaming at me from the
cover of this week's People magazine. It also
shouts, somewhat less loudly, "LOVE LIVES! FEUDS!
MAKEOVERS!" So I had to buy it. Of the two available
"collector" covers, I chose the one
where Sanjaya is on the front of the fold and Haley is
inside doing a Britney-sans-panties pose. Blake's inside the
fold too, wide-mouthed and bouncy, like he's in the
middle of a photo shoot with his improv comedy group,
who I assume refer to themselves as the Mixed Nuts. As
I recap the performances, I'll spill every Fox-sanctioned
"secret" I find in the issue. Your mind's
going to be blown. Well, not with the
"FEUDS!" part. That was a come-on, amounting
to little more than a rehash of Simon and Seacrest's
constant impugning of one another's heterosexuality.
Tuesday night's
show opens with Seacrest lying about the importance of
Tony Bennett to American pop music history. "Tonight,
we head into the world of a legend," says
Seacrest, upholding the current party line that
rewrites Bennett as equal in stature to Sinatra, when in
fact he's always been a B-teamer who happened to be
likable. He's the triumph of the winning personality
whose greatest career move was the tricky end play of
not dying. Bennett is simply The One Who Lived. At this
early point in the show, before the credits have
played and the Kelly-vator has reached Floor Hicks, my
husband/partner/whatever says, out of the blue, for no
apparent reason, almost wistfully, "Remember
American Juniors?"
I do. I do
indeed. Those were good days.
Seacrest
introduces the judges quickly and the camera scans them left
to right, wardrobe wackiness in full effect this
evening. Randy's got on some kind of long-sleeved,
be-skulled-and-rhinestoned T-shirt and is further
festooned with more man-jewelry; Paula's sending mixed
messages with a pink Dior scarf tied around her neck
and a black and white striped jacket, the effect of
which can only mean that she can't decide if she's Cha
Cha DiGregorio or Beetlejuice; Simon's in a decolletage
mood. So yeah, a shitstorm of fugly outfits.
Time for more
butt-licking of Tony Bennett, a man I honestly have no beef
with but for whose music I have no misguided affection.
Seacrest calls him "The Master."
"Ha," says my husband/partner/whatever.
"Master. That dude was in The Oscar."
Have you ever
seen that movie? It's a 1966-born, booze-bloated,
kookoo-bananas star vehicle masquerading as a
bitter-pill-dispensing "expose" of
ego-driven celebrity. It starred people like Elke Sommer and
Jill St. John. And Tony Bennett as a guy named
"Hymie." It was his first and last film.
In fact, if you put the TiVo on slow motion and freeze it
on the flash of his album that's cleverly titled The
Movie Song Album, you'll see "Song From 'The
Oscar' (Maybe September)" to the right of his face at
approximately age 40. Anyway, Seacrest informs us that
he's earned 15 Grammys, so props to the man for that.
That's 15 more than I've ever won.
Time to move it
along with the singing stuff. Blake's up first. According
to People, Mr. Beatbox is straight. I find this
hard to believe, but I'm also the kind of person who will
take a man at his word, even if those words sound like
jive to me. "I'm sexually frustrated,"
he says in the article. "I broke up with my
girlfriend right before Hollywood week, which was sad.
I have no game... But when [I'm performing], it's
easier for me because then they come talk to me. A tour
could be fun!"
So yeah, not only
is he straight but he wants to tour so he can fuck all
the chicks he can get his lady-loving hands on. Meanwhile,
the People piece also drops a Blake style-bomb: He
makes his own pants. As in designs and executes them. His
own pants. And tonight he makes "Mack the
Knife" into the burger jingle McDonald's once used it
as. Tony's not convinced that he can do it:
"Somehow if he could come around to the meaning
of the song," says Tony, who has suddenly just become
cooler than I've ever given him credit for being, and
that's because he has the ability to shake his head
"no" and communicate the expression
"these kids today" WITH JUST HIS EYES.
It's kind of amazing. Gwen Stefani's subtlety-defying
mood indicators of last week have nothing on Mr.
Bennett. And what T.B. is getting at here is this: It's a
song about murder. He even goes so far as to call it a
"pre-rap" song about a
"gangsta." I love it when old people use young
words. It's like when a sitcom granny says "big
dick!" or something. Of course, you'd never know
that the song is about any sort of evil deeds from the way
the Human Snickerdoodle lays it down. I'm surprised he
doesn't mash it up over a loping, herbal, reggae
track, that's how "party-time" he is with it,
concerned more with smoove footwork and finger-snapping than
staying on key or communicating the darkness or even
remembering all the words. Kevin Spacey as Bobby
Darin, in that crappy movie where Kevin Spacey was
Bobby Darin, was better than this. Once again we're back in
the land of Ruben Studdard's all-grin-version of the
Carpenters' heartbreaking "Superstar."
He's bobbing up and down like there's a giant puppet master
above the stage and he's a marionette, happily bouncing
along as he sings lyrics about "cement
bags" disposing a body in a river. And watch, every
fuckin' guy tonight will do the finger-snap thing. I hate
that Swingers shit. A lot. Randy calls him
"funky, jazzy, cool," and Paula says the
following: "Well, tonight you personified
pizaa-[hiccup]-aazz. You're a hipcat!"
She meant to say,
"hepcat," but if I have to choose accuracy or
spiritedness from The Abdul, I'll take the latter.
Commercial Time:
The first notable one is about how people who drink Diet
Coke turn into chain-drinkers of Diet Coke and can't
quit. Seriously, the shit is like heroin. My
friend Aaron said at the beginning of the year that he was
going to kick the habit, and to his credit, I think
he's cut way down, but that monkey is still riding
around on his back like he's just a bigger monkey
giving it free taxi service. The next one is about two women
eating salads and one of them dumps a bag of little
meat cubes on hers. When she does this the meat cubes
chant like hip-hop cheerleaders. Naturally, this
startles the salad ladies. But then one of them grabs the
bag of meat cubes and shakes it all over her friend's
salad, dancing in her chair and going,
"Whoo!" Man, do I like that commercial. And
oh, look! It's the all-singing, all-dancing,
please-go-into-life-crushing-debt Visa commercial
again. I like that one too because as long as I'm going to
believe lies I prefer them to be candy-colored and decorated
with spontaneous outbursts of mass choreography.
We're back and
Seacrest is talking about a special Idol Gives Back show
that's coming soon and will feature the following people
with something to promote: Keira Knightley, Hugh
Grant, Helena Bonham Carter, Forest Whitaker, Pink,
Gwen Stefani, Rowan Atkinson, Daniel Radcliffe, and Kelly
Clarkson.
Next up:
Nosferatu, ingratiating himself with T.B., who's so charmed
by the Bald One that he declares him "one of
the better singers that I've heard, not just today but
for a long time." Bennett also encourages Nos
to add a bit of a beat to "Night and Day,"
advice that is soundly ignored, even though not
seconds ago we were informed that Bennett is Nos's
"hero." Way to listen to your hero, man.
Tonight's take on the song is morose and mushy, the
sharpest element being the razor-precise brow trim the
man allows to keep happening to his face. That makes three
times I've bitched about this unfortunate manscaping
ritual, and that means I'm done with it until it gets
worse or better and merits further discussion. Randy
didn't feel any passion from the song, and he rubs his
shirt's sparkly bits to make himself happier. Paula,
however, is ready and willing to lay it on thick:
"You're reminiscent of a young Frank
Sinatra."
This statement
receives a blunt "What?" from Simon. As it
should. The audience, needy for judges to affirm their
affection for whoever's onstage, applauds wildly for
Paula's opinion. This is because most people are
bone-stupid and will compare any male crooner to Bing or
Frank. It can be John Stevens, even. It doesn't
matter. We are a tone-and-talent-deaf society and
everything and everyone weighs exactly the same to us.
Oh, and his People profile reveals a grand
total of zero interesting facts about him beyond the
knowledge that he has Spice Girls on his iPod. I guess in
some dumb way, to People magazine, it must be
amusing that a guy in the Navy likes the Spice Girls,
when the reality of the entire world is that
everyone likes the Spice Girls. It's sort like
saying you enjoy breathing air and drinking water.
As a final dig at
Miss Abdul's ability to distinguish good from bad,
Simon says, "Which Frank Sinatra are you referring
to?" And of course the answer to that question,
even though he's dead right about this one and is
frequently dead right about a lot of things, is "Fuck
you, asshole. You created Il Divo." In fact,
virtually any time Simon Cowell steps to you on
matters of taste, even if he's right, you can always
get the upper hand by invoking the toxic name of Il
Divo, and I'm surprised, frankly, that Chris Sligh is the
only person in public life to do this so far. When
it's Simon's turn to talk to Nosferatu, he harps on
the wrong thing entirely, calling it "really
dark" when he should be calling this guy out
for being a wet bag of nothingness. This is the same
judge who told Jordin that singing "You Don't
Have to Say You Love Me" was also too much of a
bummer. Again, I refer you to Il Divo's operatic cover
of Toni Braxton's "Un-Break My Heart" as
proof that this is a man guilty of serious lapses in
judgment. As a lame attempt to cover his ass, the now
flop-sweat-glistening-skull-shaver brings it all back to his
wife. He was singing this song to her. BECAUSE HE
LOVES HIS WIFE, WHO JUST HAD A BABY! A BABY BORN ON
HIS AUDITION DAY! A BABY HE HAS TO LEAVE SOON TO GO BACK
AND BE IN THE MILITARY! WHY DON'T YOU SUPPORT THE TROOPS?
And now I have to
interrupt writing this recap to go off and see
Disturbia, the new teen remake of Rear Window,
sort of like the way I had to go off and see The
Hills Have Eyes 2 a couple of weeks ago.
Everyone thinks going to advance press screenings and
reviewing movies for a living is so glamorous. What they
don't get about that is the fact that I have to put on
actual pants, leave the comfort of my couch, and go
out in public to do it. See what I mean? Oh, sure, you
feel sorry for me now...
OK, I'm back from
Disturbia, and now it's time for Melinda. I
learn from People that she likes comfortable
clothes and that every time you see her on this show
she's wearing a wig. But I'd kinda figured that last part
out already. Anyway, professionally she sang backup
for Aaron Neville and CeCe Winans and George Huff.
Yes, that George Huff. It's really a wonder to me how
backup singers can keep from strangling the less talented
people they're singing backup for. People like George Huff.
Anyway, she's here to sing "I Got
Rhythm" and T.B. pushes her
"Golly-Gee-ME?" button by telling her
she's the best singer of the bunch. And seriously, Ms.
Doolittle, YOU HAVE GOT TO KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF. I
think we can work out a deal here. I've already held up my
end of the bargain by not goofing on your neck situation,
the one that simply needs a stylist with good sense to
correct. But you, ma'am, you have to stop it stop it
stop it with the aw-shucks-isms. Take ownership of the
fact that you can blow just about everyone else on this show
out of the water. It won't mean you're conceited or
stuck up or not humble or some yucky
"diva." It will just mean that you're not
constantly wallowing in a reflexive humility that gets
more and more irritating with each passing week. I say
this out of love. I am your fan. QUIT IT. And I know
that it's the editors stringing together all the
random backstage moments of you being overwhelmed by your
good fortune to paint a picture of you being this way
all the time. But that's no excuse. Clamp it down. Get
your thing together. We'll still like you.
We will not,
however, like that dress you're wearing tonight. We will not
like it, ever. And I'm using the royal "we"
here. It's an outstanding bit of misguided garmentry.
This dress has a piece of fabric stretching down over
her shoulders and squeezing her directly under the boob
line, like a picture frame for jugs, pushing them out.
And it's got a BUCKLE. The closest thing I've seen to
this is guys wearing ball-stretchers in gay porn.
Everything looks like it's about to explode.
As for the song,
she takes an invisible ax to it and chops it into three
parts: the softy ballad beginning; the frantic
rooty-tooty-fresh-'n'-fruity middle where I half expect Bugs
and Daffy to come out in tuxedos, top hats, and canes
to goose-step behind her; and then a big blues-mama
finish where she finally pulls it out and belts the
way you know she can belt. But dag. That was like watching
terrified puppies leaping through hoops of fire. Randy
loves it. Paula loves it so much she's off on a
blabbing rant about Melinda's future number-1-charting
CD and concert hall SRO performances. Then the camera
cuts to someone who's made a fuzzy sign for Melinda. And by
fuzzy sign I mean it's literally got fuzzy material
all over it. Also some Froot Loops, I think. Simon,
meanwhile, is now laughing openly at Paula's incessant
yammering.
Now that Chris
Sligh is gone it seems sort of useless to refer to the
other Chris as Not Sligh. I suppose I could just call him
Chris now since he's the only one. My
husband/partner/whatever suggests "TimberFake"
and I sort of like that. Chris TimberFake. I'll try it
out.
Seacrest is here
with the carefully-chosen-for-maximum-nothingness viewer
question. "What do you consider most when you're
choosing a song?" asks Someone From Somewhere.
TimberFake's response: "I think first and
foremost you gotta do something you're comfortable with and
then see if you think it's gonna be something that the
audience would like and then ultimately ending up
[unintelligible tossed-off remark about the judges,
though not an insulting or dismissive one, because his thing
is to be super-nice and boring]." And by this
statement what he's really trying to say is "I
make sure I have a jaunty cap that matches whatever song I
pick."
This prompts
Seacrest to ask more questions about the judges, like does
TimberFake enjoy singing directly to a judge? Like, say,
Paula? While C.T. is chuckling, the camera cuts back
to the judges twice, and neither time do any of them
appear to be paying any attention whatsoever to
anything that's happening onstage. People,
however, pays lots of attention to C.T. and uncovers a lot
of stuff that you'll think is fascinating. Like, for
your information, did you know he worked at Hooters?
That he met the for-real Timberlake once? That when he
came to Los Angeles the first time he was told by record
industry people that he was too fat? That he may be
dating Alaina Alexander? And who is Alaina Alexander,
you ask? The answer is that I can't remember either. If
I had to guess, I'd say she was the Idol
contestant who looked like a Pussycat Doll, but I'm too lazy
to go back to my old recaps and look it up, and I know
most of you don't give a shit.
C.T.'s time with
Tony involves C.T. not having memorized the lyrics to
the song yet, I assume because he was very busy selecting
this week's hat. It's the evolution of young male
"style" at work, because just a few
seasons back you didn't see any of the guys wearing hats and
now they all do--an endless series of stupid,
ironic novelty hats that 10 years from now will cause
them all to cringe and shrink from the video and
photographic evidence. By then they'll have moved on to
other awful fashions. But let's get back to the song
and how C.T.'s lack of time spent on learning the damn
thing makes Tony say, "I want you to really
memorize the song" and in return makes C.T. shoot
Tony a pretty funny, "STFU, old man,"
glare. It's a quick one--again, TiVo helps--but
it's there.
Performance time.
Because I couldn't care less about his vocals, I've
decided to count the finger-snaps. They're here, even if
he's somewhat listless about them and seems to fall
back on them the way a nervous public speaker makes
use of the word "uh," and the ones that
officially make contact with a camera lens add up to
about 39, give or take a few that he seems to actually
miss. How in the fuck do you miss when you're snapping
your own fingers? This, for me, is a move on par with last
season's moment when Taylor Hicks pulled an imaginary gun
from an imaginary holster, pointed the finger-gun at
the audience, fired, then attempted to reholster his
pretend pistol and missed. Then tried it again and
succeeded. I know you think I'm probably making that up, but
I remember it way more vividly than I remember Alaina
Alexander. Song over, the judges give him lots of
praise for...I don't know. Something. Randy calls
his performance "very cool and young and hip."
Paula, the copier says, "You made it so hip and
so cool" and then she saves the earlier bit by
commenting on eye contact they had during the song.
Cut to a child in
the audience holding a sign that reads "CHRI$ IS RICH
WITH R+B." This prompts me to ask the members of my
household what they consider themselves to be rich
with. My husband/partner/whatever says,
"Contempt." Friend Aaron's response:
"Self-doubt." Me: "Butterfat."
Jordin's up next,
practicing "On a Clear Day," one she's chosen
because "it's a really cute song." Tony
likes her. You like her. She's even growing on me,
even if she did go on tour once with Christian Adult
Contempo dullard Michael W. Smith (that's from
People). She finishes her performance with a
superlong note. It's nice. But my favorite version of that
song is from San Francisco-based
hangover/miserablist/saddo band American Music Club.
Their singer, Mark Eitzel, creaky-whispers the song in a
"the T.B. is killing me" way that I find
very appealing. I know that I could be alone on that
one but no less correct for it. Randy gets crazy-excited for
Jordin, going "BLAH BLAH YOU'RE ONLY 17 AND YOU'RE SO
AMAZING ETC." and finishes his praise-a-thon
with a Fred Schneider/"Love Shack,"
high-pitched "Wha-a-at?" that just set off
several car alarms in my neighborhood. Even Jordin is
taken aback by it. Paula calls her a "magnet of
joy," which makes Simon laugh. Then Paula falls back
on her favorite adjectives of the night,
"hip" and "cool." Simon is less
enthusiastic, prompting boos, as usual, from the crowd
and the statement "It's like they're watching
two different shows" from Seacrest.
I know what that
feeling is like. Every week.
Seacrest then
compares Jordin's performance to a "core
workout," which is, I hear from people who have
gym memberships and personal trainers, something to do
with abs. So that figures. Then Seacrest, adding asshole
icing to douche-bag cake, says, "When we come back,
Gina Glocksen aaaaaaannnnd... [sarcastic
inhalation pause] ...Sanjaya Malakar." The name
of the latter contestant is delivered with a failed
attempt at withering disdain I've only witnessed in my
adult years at jerk-wad Hollywood parties I've been
forced to attend and at this one Sunset Boulevard
breakfast joint I know of that is super-popular with young
L.A. industry creeps. I won't say the name of the
place because their food is delicious and it's not
really their fault that their clientele are the collective
Devil. But yeah, it's a kind of condescension that you used
to only see among high school jocks and cheerleaders
but that's now made its way into the general adult
population. It's based not in any sort of informed
expertise on a subject but on a general sense of superiority
and entitlement. And I can't believe this show is
going to hate on Sanjaya so much that it's going to
force me to join Team Malakar. But that's where it's
headed, I can tell.
Commercial Time:
Charlotte's Web is out on DVD. That movie
made me cry like a little bitch. No joke. I dare you to
watch that shit and not weep your face off. Also I just
realized that I probably threw away a new bike or a
million dollars or something when I tossed my Coke cap
into the trash four days ago. I had no idea the little
code-y numbers inside the cap meant something.
But according to their Web site, it does. I'm such a fucking
loser.
Back to the show.
Gina the Red, according to People, knows Antonella
Barba's pain. "I always think, 'That could be
me,'" referring to Meadow's boobie-shots. This has
to mean that somewhere down the road, the cute boyfriend
snapped some boudoir photographs he can use to
blackmail her with should their relationship ever go
south. Anyway, G is going to sing "Smile."
Tony Bennett gets choked up and says that when he
sings the song, with its lyrics, "Smile though
your heart is aching, smile though it feels like
breaking," that he thinks of 9/11 and the soldiers in
Iraq. And if you think I'm going to mock him for that,
then you're thinking I'm as much of an asshole as
Seacrest just was. But not me. No, sir. What I will mock
right now, though, is Gina's hair game. Two cornrows taking
up residence in the quadrant closest to her forehead.
Why is that? What's up, girl? Are they for good luck
like that pickle? Are they meant to draw attention
away from the Mrs. Freeze icy-silver eye shadow? You're a
beautiful girl. Stop mucking up the presentation!
Sanjaya's here,
and the most interesting thing he said to People was
that every time he goes onstage he has to pee. He's
going to sing "Cheek to Cheek." He wears a
white suit--wouldn't it be great if he peed in
this outfit?--and black shirt, his hair
slicked back and flat. He snaps his fingers. He dances
with Paula, who's been pushed, literally shoved, out
of her chair by Simon to do so. He sings badly. He hulas a
little. Cut to my favorite sign of the week,
which reads SANJAYA IS MY PAPAYA. I can live with
that. Taylor Hicks was The Boogie, after all. Sanjaya can
be The Papaya. Oh. and here's another great sign: HAIR PRO
SANJAYA. And that's about all I have to say about
Sanjaya. If you'd like more. you can go to just about
any newspaper, Web site, or magazine. They're all over
this kid, but I'm getting bored with it. How many different
ways can you come up with to say that somebody sucks?
At this point I hope he wins the whole thing.
Haley's turn.
She's a Martina McBride fan, did you know that?
People told me. But first another viewer
question. "Are you more nervous singing before the
crowd or waiting to hear the judges' comments?"
asks Someone From Somewhere. Again, the judges aren't
paying attention to this bit. And if it weren't my job to
write about it, I wouldn't be either. Haley's answer is
designed to flatter Simon, as though it might make a
difference. What Haley still fails to realize,
however, is that nothing short of a lap dance is going
to work on him at this point. She tries, though, in a
cooch-short sparkly green dress cut down to her belly
button. She's going to sing "Ain't
Misbehavin'" and when she practices with Tony B. she
vamps the shit out of it, increasing fourfold the
number of men she's in love with, lyrically speaking
that is, to more than the strict "one" the
song actually calls for, cooing, "I'm saving my
love for you, and you, and you-oh-and
you." Tony doesn't like this.
"The premise of the song," he scolds,
"is there's only one person she's in love
with," adding, "if you say 'you and you and
you,' it doesn't make sense." It's his nice way of
telling her to stop hooring it up. She knows better,
though, giving her glittery rack an emphatic
forward-thrusting BOMP! at the end of the number.
She's using what she's got to get what she wants. Some might
call this third-wave feminism. I mean, not me, of
course, but some. The judges, weirdly enough, are sort
of on board for this. Randy's got something
not-opinionated to say. Paula tells her that green is a good
color for her but refuses to discuss the singing. Simon's
sole initial comment is, "I think you've got
great legs." Well played, Cowell.
Commercial break,
then back to a shot of Seacrest being love-mauled by
Sanjaya's dad and trying desperately not to give the man a
full on "Eww" face as he peels the guy
off of him. Anyway, it's time for LaKisha. According
to People, LaK loves to cook and knows how to
make oxtails, collard greens, gravy and crab salad. Hey
Kiki, I'm a big fan, did I mention that? Can I come over for
dinner? Because I will clean my plate. Twice even.
She's singing "Stormy Weather" and Tony
tells her she should end it on a big note instead of a
little "ain't no sunshine when he's
gone" addendum. She ignores him and does it
anyway, and, much like "Last Dance," assumes a
series of battle stances to pummel the song into the
ground. Watching her sing, I get the feeling that she
wins lots of arguments. Randy loves it, Paula loves it,
Simon tells her she's "sassy." Now,
correct me if I'm wrong here, African-American lady
readers, but I was under the impression that
"sassy" is to black chicks what
"flamboyant" is to fags, a word that does
little more than irritate the person it's being used to
describe. I know I read Wanda Sykes say once that she
was tired of hearing it and that woman practically
invented the demeanor as a default life-position, so if
she's fed up with it then I assume other folks must be too.
On to elimination
night...
They've got 30
minutes to pad. I'm not going to. Time to number it down
like last week:
1. Someone in
audience holding sign that reads simply
"Paula." Some hearts around the name.
Appropriately enough, the sign is upside down.
2. Paula in white
lace blouse over black bra. Yeah!
3. Fourth Ford
commercial. This one brings Kermit the Frog back to speak
for the Hybrid. And I'm just bummed now. Not because of
Kermit. I love Kermit. It's just that this season's
Ford commercials have been so lackluster and
uninspired. Last season they seemed meatier, weirder, more
fraught with Bizarro-Meaning. I feel cheated.
4. Contestants
are divided into three groups: top three, middle three,
and bottom three. Jordin, Melinda, and LaKisha are in one
group, and I'm immediately nervous. I know I'm nervous
because this is the first time this season I've had an
actual feeling about anything on this show. I
remember, back in season 3, when Fantasia ended up in the
bottom two one week and narrowly escaped being
chopped. So I wonder if something weird like that is
about to happen to one of the three best singers tonight.
5. Nope, they're
safe. So is the other group of TimberFake,
Snickerdoodle, and Sanjaya. That leaves Haley, Gina, and
Nosferatu.
6. Tony Bennett
has the flu. He won't be here to sing. Bring on drunk
Michael Buble! Watch him weird out, mumble and slur the
words, sing off-key, and grin strangely, like
"Holy zhit I'm sho-o-o wasted and I'm on TV!
HA! I washn't even spozed to be on til later this month.
Been doin' shots with Emily Blunt..." My
husband/partner/whatever thinks M.B. is hot. I don't
see it, but whatever. Now he's telling me, "Make sure
you mention I hate his singing. I just want to bang
him."
7. Nosferatu is
safe.
8. Gina's going
home. Well, that makes perfect sense. Of the three, the
two worst get to stay, and the best of them is chopped. The
Daughtry song plays, the "You're Dead"
reel spins, Gina cries, holds the "lucky"
pickle and resings "Smile."
9. Next week?
Jennifer "If I Want to Floss I Got My Own"
Lopez. I know someone whose latest album is probably
tanking...