With Two Hours You Get Eggroll. AI Re-cap 1/16/08

We’re back in Dallas for evening two of the audition episodes and I am still woefully behind in my re-caps. While I’m watching and blogging this episode, the new one is being tivoed. At this point, with two episodes a week, I’ll never catch up. I’m so irrelevant. And on god-damned jury duty this week, so while I could be home catching up on trying to entertain all of you, I’m stuck in a courtroom with people who need instructions on filling out their personal information sppon-fed to them. In Spanish.

Anyway, back to Dallas- home to Kelly Clarkson. Notice how AI is trotting her out as hometown girl made good, yet Clive Davis would rather win a pissing contest and refuse to publicize and promote her latest CD then suck it up and make millions in an industry where sure things are few and far between. If you want to know who is responsible for the failure of “My December,” look no further than the octogenarian with the temperament of a four-year-old.
I gotta tell you, I don’t think I’m going to ever get tired of seeing Taylor Hicks’ head half cut off during the opening credits. But now we’re back in Dallas and look, another drag queen. WTF? And oh yes, this is the town where the dim-bulb mother-to-be went into labor waiting to audition and named her baby “Idol.” Finger crossed it has some birth defects so she can come back next season and exploit it!

Jessica Brown is a stay-at-home mom from Long Beach, Tx. Her two daughters are unfortunately healthy, but thank goodness Jessica has a past drug problem to trot out for America to pass judgment and forgiveness on. Jessica is a former meth-head whose drug picture eerily resembles that of another fucked-up Jessica- Sierra. Jessica found solace during rehab in Carrie Underwood’s anthem to schmaltz, “Jesus, Take the Wheel” (so, natch, we get a shot of Jessica driving her children in the car. I waited for her to let go of the steering wheel and call on the big guy to do some cruise control, but no such luck). Jessica’s mom is there to testify to her daughter’s sobriety, but it seems everyone is keeping hush-hush about that herpes sore on Jess’ lip. Jesus, Take the Wheel. And then stop off at a CVS and pick me up some Valtrex.
Jessica, superior in her sobriety, is singing I’ll Stand by You. She has a pleasant, if unremarkable voice. I dunno, but I’m just so jaded this year by the voices I’m hearing. Jessica has the entire family outside waiting to see her bring out her golden ticket and throw her a party and she does not disappoint. Hey, I’ve never had a problem with drugs or alcohol. I am self-sufficient, pay all my bills on time, don’t break the law, am polite and courteous (except on here) and I even recycle. Where’s my fucking parade?

Some droopy heffalump named Paul Stafford is flailing around in the waiting room, desperately needing attention. Again I ask- where’s my fucking parade? But no, I’ll waste our time on Paul. Paul is a maintenance man at a baseball field and is also a member of the roller-coaster enthusiasts. He’s also either borderline retarded or fully socially retarded. He caterwauls Wait for You by Elliott Yamin. Is this supposed to be funny? What makes this guy unique in the endless parade of doofuses who come here seeking their 30 seconds of fame. Idol producers, if you’re going to make us sit through these bogus auditions, you’re going to have to raise your game with them because they’re really reeking of old hat. The judges are overly kind to Paul, so I’m guessing he must be borderline retarded. On his way out, Paul says he was happy Simon wasn’t down on him because Simon likes to go down on people. No, hon, that’s Ryan.

Beth Maddox is up next and she compares herself to Kelly Clarkson in voice and looks. She certainly has the arm meat. Beth was a singing waitress at a fondue restaurant and will be singing “Beautiful Disaster,” by Kelly. Well, she certainly has a voice that could cool molten cheese. One thing that could heat it back up again is the rack on Beth’s comforting friend and her boobies bounce in sympathy for the three no responses from the judges.

Elena Whittaker has been told she looks like Carrie Underwood, but thinks Carrie looks like her. She sings country, but can sing other styles, as well. She sings a Faith Hill song and actually makes it sound bearable, which is more than I can say for anything Faith has ever sung. The judges don’t fall all over her, but pass her through. I think she deserved it.

By the way, I don’t know what it is about Ryan tonight, but he looks like he’s been caught out without any make-up on. He also has a bit of a pot-belly.

Okay, creepy alert. Bruce is a 19-yr old virgin who has never even kissed a girl. Out here in Hollywood, we call that Ryan Seacrest. Bruce’s dad brought him up to wait for that one true woman who was meant to be his mate for life. So much so that he has given Bruce a chain with a key pendant. Bruce’s dad wears the chain with the heart pendant, saving it to give to Bruce’s future wife on their wedding day. No word on whether Bruce’s dad will be joining them on their honeymoon, taking the bride for a test drive or even offering to carry a baby for the happy couple as a surrogate. Like I said- creepy. Bruce’s dad asks if Ryan is going to keep an eye on him if he goes out to Hollywood. Ryan says it better than I ever could- “You don’t want me keeping an eye on your son.”

Bruce tells the story of his purity to the judges, hoping it will score some points, but even Paula seems creeped out. Now Bruce is telling us he isn’t even going to kiss a girl until his wedding day. That will be his first kiss. Bruce, hon, let me tell you something. No one is going to attach themselves to you without having even kissed you. Not even the Princess Leia girl or the chick who lives with her mother in a one room studio is that desperate. Oh yeah, also- Bruce can’t sing. It’s all melisma and no talent. Bruce gets rejected across the board and somewhere in Texas, a postal service staff or college dorm wing shudders in fear and anticipation.

Pia is a model, musician and a back-up singer (and probably a ringer) but she has a good voice and should be put through and does get put through.

Brandon Green saves his fingernail clippings. Clearly, this is why he was let through, in hopes to give Seacrest an “Emmy moment,” which he botches from the get-go:

Ryan- Hey. There. What’s your. Name?

Brandon- Hey, I’m Brandon.

Ryan- Do you have. Any? Hobbies. (Pure Shatner delivery)
Brandon- Well, now that you mention it…

So Brandon takes out a bag of teeny, yellowed fingernail clippings. My first and only thought- Fuck, we’re only 37 minutes in. Another hour and 20 to go. Brandon sings “Rich Girl,” and has a decent voice. Simon doesn’t like him and Brandon almost blows it with Randy by telling him and Paula that Simon is the one who tells the truth. Luckily for Brandon, they take the high road and don’t bounce his ass out of the room without a ticket to Hollywood, nails and all.

Were you sitting there thinking- Gee, it’s been a good twenty minutes or so since I’ve heard a sob story? Well, then I have amazing news for you. Our next contestant, Kayla Hatfield, is a mother of two who was in a horrific accident when she was 18 and lost an eye (but not the irritating baby-voice, nor the desire to make clothing out of macramé projects and remnants from Rhoda Morgenstern’s old pantsuits.) I’m guessing Kayla never had the ability to sing, pre- or post accident, and she’s suitably dreadful performing a Janis Joplin song, but Evil Simon comes out to play and sends her through to Hollywood, then gives Evil Randy a titty-twister until he acquiesces. Paula is having none of it, but it’s 2-1, so poor Kayla is made fun of and will probably lose her job at the Piggly-Wiggly to fly to Hollywood (or worse, go down on the plane over and lose the other eye.) all for naught.

Katie Malloy is the last singer of the day and practically blows it by telling the panel that she can do impressions of singers. After doing a passable Britney Spears, she is asked to do Katie Malloy and then does a flawless Carrie Underwood. The problem is, she’s Katie Malloy. She finally rights it as herself and gets through, though I think Simon is either over-praising her as the best they’ve seen so far or we’re truly in for a dire season.

Heffalump # 2 is Douglas Davidson, whose father hates him, REALLY hates him because he sings so well. Douglas is being very careful with his voice because he once read that Christina Aguilera said if you use your voice improperly, you could ruin it. Too late. Douglas butchers some Bon Jovi after taking a ridiculous amount of time to “warm up.” Douglas is horrendous and will not take no for an answer, nor will he leave the stage, finally being escorted from the building. Ridiculous.

Angela Riley is too fucking perky and I want to slap her. Her new husband is a hot fucking model and is way too good for her, her dreadful voice and her thick tree trunk legs. They actually bring the husband in to watch the humiliation. I expect to hear divorce proceedings were begun by week’s end.

Kyle Ensley is the next dope to be made fun of- a complete geek that actually has a much better voice than I could have ever imagined. I thought his whole thing was a gimmick and a joke, but he seems to be on the level.

Tammy Tzinski’s personality is about as flat as her limp hair, a fact that the producers are willing to pull out all the stops to exploit. Tammy thinks she has an R&B style, yet chooses a Celine Dion song as her audition piece. The wrong Celine Dion song, since she claims she will be singing “The Power of Love,” yet bleats out a wobbly, tuneless “If You Asked Me To.” Next.

Colton Swon has a name like a porn star, eyebrows the size of killer earthworms and orders his clothes straight from the Hot Topic website. He also says things like “GIT-tar.” In short, I want him. For a couple of hours, at least. He doesn’t have a terrible voice, but is very untrained and doesn’t have a lot of potential. But there’s something the judges like about Colton and it’s his pre-fab look. And I concur. He’s in.

I’ve already forgotten about Colton after I’m introduced to our next contestant, Drew Poppelreiter, a down-homey, hayseedy farm boy who’s just too aw-shucks to be true. In 10 years, he’ll be the kind of man they write bad chick-lit about, but right now, he’s dazzling us on the stages of Idol. I’m barely listening to his ho-hum version of a George Strait song I’m grateful I don’t know because I’m so dazzled by his eyes and his accent. Me likey. However, Drew talk-sings more than he dazzles, vocally. Simon sees it, Randy doesn’t care and Paula pushes him through just for spite. I’m not complaining.

Kyle Renick is very gay, but I don’t know if he’s aware of it. He’s a dorky teacher with “guyliner” and of course he’s singing Kelly Clarkson. Guh-ay. And he can’t sing. Of course, the judges blame it on his “scary eyes,” which only makes Kyle try and sing again at no one’s invitation.

We’re coming into the home stretch, which means it’s time for the montage. “Since You’ve Been Gone,” makes the walk of shame tonight, with reactions from the judges that don’t even begin to match the folks auditioning. It almost makes me pine for the heady days of Brokenote Mountain.

Nina Shaw is from Kelly Clarkson’s hometown of Burleson, TX. She’s singing a Whitney Houston song. Strike One. Her voice is strike two through six hundred. Her second song is “Feelin’ Good,” and she was markedly better. I’d put her through and Randy and Paula do, to the chagrin of Simon.

Well, they’ve waited five seasons, but the producers have finally ensnared themselves a new William Hung. I don’t think any show has roasted the Asians (outside of The Simpsons) as cruelly as Idol has. The thing is- if you saw this guy, what more is there to say? If you didn’t see it, then you dodged a bullet. But I have good news, children- Idol is only an hour next episode. See, sometimes when God skewers an Asian, He also opens a window. Or something.

Seagulls out.

Yes I Can-Can AI Re-cap 1/15/08

Gosh, is it January already? This has always been the most depressing month to me. Besides the bleak weather, there’s always been the precipitous drop back down to reality and obligations after the heady, irresponsible time between Thanksgiving and New Years. No one really seems to take anything too seriously during those six weeks and the air is ripe with anticipation, overspending of money and thoughts about how I’ll get my life back on track, just as soon as these next few weeks are over.
So, how was your year? Mine wasn’t so hot. After spending much of 2007 prepping my second feature film as a writer-director, funding was yanked three weeks before the start of pre-production. Silly, when you think about it- the budget was around a half-million dollars, we had some name actors and producers attached. It should have been a smart investment, a no-brainer; so close, I could touch it, and now everything is in limbo and I, like several hundred other people in this industry, am out of work and pondering my future. And then, like a cracked streetlight with a rapidly fading bulb, strong enough only to attract the moths- American Idol appears on the horizon. Do I return to blog and recap for another ultimately pointless and disappointing season? Is there anything left in this trampled upon, jaded, cracked and bleeding heart of mine? You bet your asses. A friend of mine suggested I get out the virtual tin cup and solicit for PayPal donations to keep the blog running, something to help keep me solvent until I find another means of employment, but I find that somewhat distasteful and smacking of charity. Plus, I think there’s nary a dozen of you who come to visit. I’d be homeless in a week. And then where would I plug in my laptop? If I had, say, millions of readers, I might do something like implore you all to send in one dollar each to help finance the film. Wouldn’t that make for a fun Sundance story? But ultimately I’d not reach my goal and I’d have to wind up returning the $7.12 cents I raised, and well, I’ve had enough humiliation for one year. So I return to you and remain blissfully free of charge. So let’s get our Idol on.

Before the show has even started, the controversies are swirling. Accusations of the producers bringing in ringers to help boost what has to be the slew of diminishing returns in terms of hopeful contestants have been flying fast and furious around the internet. It’s been rumored that several contenders that have been passed on to the Hollywood round have had major label deals, one of whom was even nominated for a Grammy award in a duet with Alicia Keys. Distasteful, to say the least, but knowing we’ve pretty much drained the Earth of its untapped natural singing resources, wouldn’t you rather have a handful of Grammy nominee nobodies than 12 Sanjayas and Haleys? Or even one Sanjaya and Haley.

Speaking of nobodies, I’m happy to report that both Taylor Hicks and Katharine McPhee were dropped by J Records and Clive Davis. Taylor had hugely inflated sales reports, claiming to go platinum, but in reality, selling less than 700,000 units of his debut CD. McPhee fared even worse, selling roughly 365,000, and I would say a good portion of both of those sales are moldering somewhere in the basement of 19 Entertainment. Their dismissals are extra sweet for me, considering that Elliott Yamin, the person I fervently backed during Season 5 as the best singer in the competition, possibly of the entire show ever (honestly, only Kelly Clarkson, Tamyra Gray and LaToya London could be considered as good, if not better) tapped out in third place in favor of non-starters Hicks and McPhee.

Daughtry and Carrie’s huge sales aside, the bloom is certainly off the Idol rose, and stinking up the joint most recently were Jordin Sparks and especially Blake Lewis. Blake’s CD, “Audio Day-Dream,” is off the Top 100 Album chart after a scant five weeks. Jordin’s CD is hanging in there in the mid-40s, based on the strength of her Top 10 single, “Tattoo,” but neither singer is going to make you forget the heady sales figures of, say, Mandisa. These are who were chosen in favor of Melinda Doolittle last year, based on their potential to connect with the public and sell records. Not that Melinda would have done any better, sales-wise, but who would you rather listen to for an entire CD? I rest my case.

This week’s recaps are coming a bit late to you all due to the fact that I came down with a horrible fever and virus last week and could barely sit upright, let alone be witty. Then again, if this show is as bad as I was told, I might wish I had the excuse. Here we go…

Seven cities, tens of thousands of goobers, more drag queens than absolutely necessary and a handful of ringers to get to Hollywood. Ryan Seacrest says that someone in the crowd is on the verge of becoming a superstar. Is that claim at all valid after the quadruple debacles of Hicks-McPhee and Sparks-Lewis? Damn Daughtry had to ruin it for all us sourpusses. Seacrest looks very hoe-down at the auditorium, with an Okie haircut and a gingham checked western shirt. You know they helicoptered him in to record that 10 second intro bit, then ushered his ass the hell out of there. They probably had an emergency facialist waiting on the tarmac for him.

By the way, did anyone notice Taylor lost his solo slot in the opening credits? He winds up sharing a screen with Fantasia and Carrie, both of whom got their own solo photos earlier in the sequence, AND the top half of his head was cut off. Now that is cold.

Tonight, we kick off in Philadelphia. How long before we get to hear “Philadelphia Freedom” butchered by someone? My guess is it’s gonna be done in the montage by all the bad singers. The judges are introduced and if anyone enjoyed the delicious awfulness that was “Hey, Paula,” on Bravo over the summer, you know that everything myself and everyone else has been saying about Paula is 100% true. Simon is wearing another man-boobilicious t-shirt and Seacrest is wearing a shirt that has “Monarchy” printed across it; perfect for a queen. And Randy gained back even more weight.

Someone who lost weight, 200 lbs of it, is our first contestant Joey Catalano. It’s most certainly impressive and you hope this will be an inspiring story with a happy ending, but one look at Joey geeking it up in the private room and trying to do kickstands, we know it’s not gonna end well. Plus, he’s wearing cuff links. Shockingly, Joey has a pleasant, if derivative voice, aping Adam Levine just a little too closely on Maroon 5’s “Sunday Morning.” He gets through with three yeses, so perhaps we’ll get to see how sharpeish his folds are. I don’t see him moving past the Hollywood rounds, but you know- at least we didn’t start with a joke, so I’m grateful.

Uka is our next contestant. He’s originally from Egypt. Apparently, all the dentists over there are busy building another set of pyramids, because Uka’s teeth have parted like the Red Sea, with a wide center gap. Uka will be singing The “Mr. Bee Gees,” because they make him feel special. Uka says he loves American girls and that his friend, who is a girl, tells him “Uka, you have sexy face.” Ok, so we’re going for the Borat jokes. That’s our Idol, cutting edge til it hurts. A black woman in line asks Uka if he loves women, to which he shyly answers yes. She then asks if he has kids. He pauses and says he’s not married. I guess he’s still new to the country, as the woman points out- “You ain’t have to be married to gots kids. That’s all that’s goin’ on up in here.” That last sentence just blew apart my spell and grammar check, so I hope it was worth it.

Uka is a virgin and he wants to wait until he can love a girl from “the hair to the navel.” Or nipple. I couldn’t understand him, even though he punctuated it with a round circle made by his fingers. Could be either one. In any case, if that’s as far as he wants to go, he’s never gonna pop his cherry. But I suppose with a tooth gap that big, there are other ways to please a woman. Poor Uka is going down for a hard fall. Make no mistake, Uka is not good and he malaprops the lyrics of “How Deep is Your Love” (by Mr. Bee Gees) worse than Sam Goldwyn, but he’s not half as terrible as I expected and if he spoke English better, he’d be borderline. Paula squirms her way through a delicate rejection, egged on by Simon, and Uka takes it all in stride, back to Hoboken and a blissful, antiperspirant-free existence.

Melanie Nyema is up next and her claim to infamy is that she was a back-up singer for Taylor Hicks on his most recent tour. So she’s seen the ravages and disappointment of the competition up close. Melanie is no Melinda Doolittle when it comes to back-up singers wanting to step into the limelight. She barely wrestles “Unwritten” to the ground before cutting it short. Paula likes her, Simon could care less and Randy says yes. Somewhere in a trailer in Memphis, Taylor Hicks is spilling grape Nehi down his undershirt, getting potato chip crumbs in his boxers and muttering, “You’ll see, girlie,” under his breath.

James Lewis is a tour guide in downtown Philadelphia, which means he puts on a frilly shirt and a tri-cornered hat and is pitied by local Philadelphians. James also has a bad lisp and wears a mustard colored suit that he bought at Arsenio Hall’s last yard sale and which is at least one size too big for him. He says he feels the judges will think he has a very unique voice, a cross between Paul Robeson and Eddie Vedder, which means he’ll be stuck hustling tourists for a little while longer. James sings “Go Down, Moses.” Or he’s imitating Kirk Douglas, post-stroke. I wasn’t sure. Paula and Randy are howling with laughter; Simon is speechless; James is shocked at their reaction. Once the judges get ahold of themselves, James begins singing again. Or he’s imitating Rosie O’Donnell in “Riding the Bus with My Sister.” Again, I wasn’t sure. Outside the venue, James vows to return next year and sing something more contemporary. If that isn’t enough to keep you passing the open windows, I don’t know what is.

We return with a handful of rejected wannabes, my favorite being ZhingZhong Yu, if for no other reason than that name. Junot Joyner is up next, singing “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues,” by Elton John, giving it that overly melisma-ed treatment that I hate so much. I think anyone who makes a monosyllabic word sound like the first line of a tone poem should be automatically disqualified. He gets through, anyway, but he seems sweet and unassuming and he’s likely doomed, anyway, so who am I to step on someone’s dream? Oh, right.

Jose Candelaria from Bayonne, NJ, is up next and sings “Un-break my Heart,” in full Spanish. I predict this one is going to go somewhat far into the competition, milking this gimmick until we’re all sick of it. I vote for “already over it.”
Lastly is some bland boy named Jonathan Baines, who has nothing dynamic about him, whatsoever, and is also chewing gum. He gets through.

Temptress Brown is a 16 year old football player with Nubian-colored skin, a blonde, Motormouth Maybelle wig and an outfit straight out of the Della Reese collection by way of Carvel. Ryan can’t believe she’s a middle linebacker and actually gets down on the floor to approximate some football moves that you know he paid some teamster $50 to demonstrate for him right before the cameras rolled. And he still looks like he’s doing a cheerleader move straight out of a Toni Basil video. Temptress could break his dainty ass in half and braid her weave with his crumbs. Temptress is auditioning for both herself and her mother, who is very sick. Actually what she is is about 600 lbs, so I don’t have much sympathy for her. They wheel Momma Brown into the waiting room, replete with oxygen tank (or it could just be filled with Arby’s scent until she can get out for her next snack). Momma doesn’t have a camel toe so much as a mooseknuckle and if she could throw her voice and make that thing sing, I’d send her to Hollywood in a hot minute. It’s sweet that Temptress loves her mother so much, but I’d feel a little more magnanimous if I didn’t suspect the Brown family hired the forklift in order to curry favor with the judges and get a little extra face time. Temptress should worry less about singing for her mother and more about keeping her mouth shut so she doesn’t wind up the same size as her.

Temptress is singing “’I Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere’, by Jennifer Hudson,” and from the sound of it, she’s still wearing her athletic cup. Painful. Now I know lard-ass rolled Momma down here for sympathy. The judges were very sweet to her, more than she deserves, but she cries, anyway. Even her tears are fat. And smell like butterscotch sauce.

Mark Hayes fashions himself something of a comedian. All his audition did was waste money on a royalty for “White Christmas,” just to make a stupid cricket joke.

Udi is a joke and wants a way to get on television for no reason. He is so obviously a rehearsed plant, even the judges reactions look thought out. This guy is such a fake douchebag, let me not give him any more publicity.

Oh goody, time for my least favorite part of the show- the montage. Instead of Philadelphia Freedom, the song chosen is “I Love Rock n Roll.” Not quite sure what that has to do with Philly, but it gives us an opportunity to see a bunch of idiots and freaks who got through to the room in favor of some people who could probably sing.

Next up, some skank looking for her fifteen minutes by the name of Alexis Cohen. Alexis is 23, looks 17, sounds 50 and acts like an infant. She’s from Allentown, PA, and makes an effort to tell us the town was the subject of a rock song by Bon Jovi (Billy Joel, actually). Now, if you did not watch tonight’s episode, you may be wondering just what Alexis looks like. Well, if Ace Frehley from Kiss mated with both Connie Stevens AND an open sore, you’d probably wind up with Alexis Cohen. Alexis lives in a one room studio apartment with her mother, two cats and a dog. Mom has the bed. Alexis sleeps on some square lump in the corner, probably a compost heap with an IKEA sham thrown over it. She’s studying to be a vet. She wants to knock the judges “on their feet.” Sam Goldwyn strikes again.
Alexis compares herself vocally to Janis Joplin, Grace Slick and Pat Benatar. She sings “Somebody to Love,” by Jefferson Airplane, though she basically does a full on Grace Slick impersonation, bringing nothing of herself to it, nor any artistry. She’s not bad, and if she knew how to sing, knew how to use her instrument, she maybe could develop into something. Right now, she’s just a one trick pony, and not one suited for this show. The judges are fairly decent to her in their rejection, but she seems stunned, which is either an act or she’s honestly never watched the show before. She walks out and the “tirade” begins, bolstered by having a free camera within inches of her face. Alexis begins cursing Simon, but her delivery is pure cue-card reading, so either she’s memorized this or someone’s breaking the writer’s strike. Alexis decides she’s going to go for “actressing,” but if this tirade is any indication, she should stick with veterinary medicine. If she can find an animal brave enough to let her touch them.

Oh my god, only one hour down. I’m exhausted. And hour number 2 begins with a sob story.

Angela Martin is 26. She got pregnant in her senior year, which is bad news for her but good news for the personnel department at Denny’s. Angela’s daughter was born with something called Retts Syndrome, which somewhat resembles Cerebral Palsy. Already I hate this woman who would exploit her helpless, innocent, handicapped daughter in order to advance in a singing competition. Angela excruciatingly details for us the laundry list of complications for her daughter in dealing with this disease. I’m just about to pick up the phone and pledge a twenty when I remember I’m not watching a telethon, but American Idol.

Angela’s family surrounds her, all wearing t-shirts with her image emblazoned upon them. We hear from Angela’s sister, Latrina. Yeah, that’s right, Latrina. I have no idea what Latrina said, I’m so delighted by her horrific name. She doesn’t hold the title for long, as Samotta Acklin, a friend of Angela’s speaks next. Yeah, that’s right, Samotta. I’m thinking no one in this neighborhood went home with a mini license plate when they visited Disneyland. The whole family sheds copious tears and we’re treated to loving close-ups of Angela’s poor, slack-jawed daughter, who probably has no idea what’s going on around her. All to get on Idol. Shame on this entire family.

Angela has a decent voice, if- as Simon pointed out- some irritating vocal habits, but the fact is, she would have gone through without all the daughter-exploitation. And we might have liked her better. At this point, I’m rooting for her to fail.

Alyse Wojichiechowski is up next. She’s already making a fool of herself in the waiting room before even stepping in to audition, so it stands to follow she sings like a sack of potatoes. As does Teresa Anello, Brandi Park and some dumb old fuck named Milo Turk, who is taking the big-bird lady slot from last year. Ryan pretends to look stunned when Milo tells him he has a very important message to deliver, a song called “No Sex Allowed.” I don’t think Seacrest should try out for “actressing” either. Nor should Randy, Paula or Simon, as they try and act like they didn’t know Milo was coming in three days ago. I’m fast forwarding.

Kristy Lee Cook is up next, a generic blonde hick, sans the accent. Kristy had to sell her best barrelhorse in order to come to Philly to compete. Kristy looks a little like Kyra Sedgwick and spreads the melisma thick as molasses on an unendurable “Amazing Grace.” Look for her to be this year’s McPhee. Simon tells her she looks like someone who would be singing in the 60s. No idea where that came from.

Some schmuck named Ben Haar has come dressed in a sort of Princess Leia/Return of the Jedi outfit covered by a cloak. Somehow, Randy and Paula convince him that if he waxes his very hairy chest, they may be able to concentrate better on his audition. Ben goes off in search of some Nair and further humiliation while we listen to Pedro Riviera, Shekhinah Bathyudah (who really needs to join Angela Martin’s group of friends and family) and Paul Mauterano waste more of our precious time. Paul sings a really gross, stalkery song he composed for Paula and I’m already over this season, though I have to appreciate his Wilona Woods reference.

Beth Stalker is up next. She’s 28 and a stay-at-home mom and when she was a mere tot, recorded an album of Jesus songs under the name Little Liz. I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume her parents forced her at gunpoint. Beth sings “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” and sounds very promising. Simon says he doesn’t believe she’d stand out in the competition, but I would have to say that of all the people we’ve heard tonight that did make it through, hers is the only voice I remember. Thankfully, Randy and Paula send her through to Hollywood.

Ben is back and freshly waxed and gets out two words of “Don’tcha” before the plug is pulled by Simon- and good for him. As Ben trots off, Simon mutters, “All because that fat lump wants to be on TV.” Well, if you guys would stop letting all the other fat lumps be on TV, then perhaps you could have prevented this one.

Chris Watson is next and though he’s cute and can sing, his voice is completely sound-alike and unmemorable. But he’s exactly what the show is looking for, so of course, he’s through.

Christina Tellisano is dressed up like Princess Leia and Mary Catherine Gallagher. I hope she gets nervous and sticks her fingers under her buns and smells them. She can’t sing, and is borderline psychotic, but the judges actually let her down easily. She actually bursts out of the room, crying as her humiliated grandparents try and comfort her. One of her press-on buns comes loose and she curses a blue streak while Grandpa stands by and flaccidly fondles the hairpiece.

Brooke White is last to audition. She’s a nanny to twins in Van Nuys and says that not having her own children at the moment (did she pawn them to fly to Philly?) it’s wonderful and rewarding for her to be with them. Brooke has never seen an R rated movie and is too pure to be Pink. Brooke is not terribly impressive. It’s more of a “singing in the shower” voice, but the gimmick of purity gets her through.

Christina Tellisano is still bitching and moaning about diversity while we see Idol’s version of diverse choices spill across the screen. Hey, I have jury duty tomorrow, so I’m headed to bed. Thinking back over the past 3 ½ hours of watching and blogging, I find that my prediction has come true; the only person I have any memory of from this evening is the girl Simon said would be unmemorable.

Until I catch up to the next post- Seagulls out.