Mentally Ill Is The New Hilarious, Part II

Tuesday

Welcome to New Orleans, home of crawfish, drag queens, nighttime magic, and breakdowns. Especially those Seacrest-specific: "Let's break it down: first Kelly, then Ruben, then of course Fantasia." Whew, I'm glad he broke it down for us. So what he's wondering is, "Could the American Idol be [in New Orleans]?" Short answer: No, sorry. Long answer: the hour of your life.

In New Orleans you might find trolley cars, Bourbon Street, the French Quarter, and Mardi Gras� Thanks to Ryan for explaining it all to us. (I thought my description of New Orleans, one of the few cities in America I've actually been to, was lame!) Then there is a freaky, freaky slow motion shot of Seacrest throwing beads off a balcony at an unknown, unseen figure. I feel all of a sudden like I'm in Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil and the deeds are unfolding and sins will be visited on the people. There's lots of pointless, boring footage of lots of pointless, boring New Orleans folks. Like, there's a girl eating a hot dog. That's it. Not doing anything weird or cool or loud or interesting. Just hungry, and having a hot dog. WOOO! So yeah, lots of that, and lots of shots of lots of people pronouncing "New Orleans" in lots of different ways.

Gene Simmons will be joining us, unfortunately, and because the 86 billion people apparently watching this season are like 14 years old, we have to talk about who he is exactly. Now, I don't care who Gene Simmons is, because I fucking despise him, so if you really care to find out, that's what Google is for. We then have a collectively weird moment where there's a short video of Gene Simmons and Simon Cowell utterly making out as Seacrest asks in voice-over, "What would happen to our contestants when the rocker with the world's longest tongue and the Brit with the world's sharpest tongue got together?" I don't know, but I'm fairly sure it's a [funny joke goes here]. I'm so bored with the prospect of the judges judging, Gene being there, auditioneers from New Orleans. I can't be bothered. And even by sitting here doing nothing but telling you how I'm opting out of this, I'm still funnier than what they come up with: a superimposed crappy graphic of some KISS makeup over Simon's face. Which is better than, I don't know, them licking each other. But we'll get to that soon enough.

David Brown (19, New Orleans, working the whole Mercutio vibe hardcore) walks in, and Gene is so convinced that he himself is a badass that he totally starts talking out his ass before anyone can even say hi -- he's like somebody's irritating dad who just assumes everybody wants his opinion first and foremost. But then I guess that's what happens when you spend fifty years getting blown every night by groupies. Even if they're KISS groupies, which is shudderiffic, but anyway I imagine it takes away your real reality just as much as any non-stop ass-licking rock and roll ride. Anyhow, David Brown is lovely, he has great manners, and he sings awesomely and naturally. Gene Simmons is still the boss of everybody on earth, in his own mind. David sings Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come" perfectly and beautifully and they all spaz out unanimously, Randy going so far as to say that David is the best person so far to audition for Season Four, and I agree, maybe. I'd know for sure, except we've seen so few of the audition-round winners that I don't really have the necessary information. Because the point of all this is not good singing, it's laughing at people for being something other than what we're used to being sold. More irritating horrible Gene Simmons. Where the eff is Mark McGrath?

Introducing Bobby Barfoot (26, Fayetteville, NC) involves Seacrest debasing himself by signing an autograph for a little boy who throws it on the ground because he thought Ryan was Clay Aiken, and Ryan says it's not the first time that has happened. For shame. Everybody knows that Annette Bening is the new Clay Aiken. But also, for shame anyway, because this is dumb, and the only good thing about it is how it postpones Bobby Barfoot. Who when he does appear looks like a hobbit who does drag shows on the weekends. Honestly, that's the only way to describe it. Well, like a bullfrog too.

He's wearing a shiny, shiny shirt, which Seacrest points out looks like a Seacrest shirt. How much of a joke do you have to be to make jokes about yourself? And get a laugh? Also from yourself? Poor Ryan. And already I hate Bobby Barfoot (dude, he even has a hobbit name) because he has brought a three-ring binder of all of his AI collector's cards, of which thing I did not previously know, and the existence of which additionally makes me want to punch a baby in the face, to the auditions just in case one of the pictured people was at the auditions, which makes no damn sense except for how there was that girl who fell down that one time and came back the year as the girl Seacrest. Well, girlier Seacrest.

Anyway, Bilbo Barfoot yodels, and it's gross and gender-nonspecific, and just like you think it was. I can barely look at him, like, nice choker, dude. Paula tells him he has a "real good voice," and Simon and I both ask, "Where?" So since Paula is drunk and on a handful of dolls throughout this episode -- and I mean we're getting the full-on Janice Dickinson here -- she goes on her first wobbler of the episode and bitches Simon out for a while. Simon calls the performance (Bilbo's, not Paula's, although he would not be exactly wrong) "a cross between a rodeo and La Cage Aux Folles," and I feel weird about agreeing with Simon all the time. I mean, I know I'm right, but he has this rep for being a dick and I don't think I am also a dick, but who knows? Time for another informal poll, I guess.

So anyway then Paula says, "You're not happy with his image," which is her lemonade-flavored way of saying Bilbo's a fat drag queen, and Simon does not deny this, but adds that he also hates Bilbo's voice. Hee! Then Paula tries to pass the lemonade to Bilbo, saying, "It's yourit's your image," like he doesn't know what that means. As they fight about it and Simon keeps trying to justify it by saying that he hates, like, everything about this kid, not just "image" but also like, what lies behind the image, Bilbo looks bummed to learn that he is in fact a fat hobbit drag queen, because previously he thought he wasI don't know. Patsy Cline. Wait, that's redundant. Dale Evans.

Randy and Gene laugh and laugh and Simon and Paula tell him directly that he is a drag queen hobbit, only Paula thinks it's some kind of apology, like, "You'd be great if not for your outward appearance, which is so creepy that you've confused Simon here as to the quality of your voice," and when Bobby says he can work on being less of this thing he totally is and always will be, Simon sends him behind a wall to prove the point that his voice is horrible, and actually it's a bit better behind the screen, because he's less nervous, but no matter what it's a shit thing to do. "Let's see if I like your voice more if I don't have to look at your face at all."

Drunk Paula yells to Bobby behind the screen, "Bobby, this is Paula, well, obviously, bllearrgh!" because she's crunked up tonight, I don't know if I mentioned that, and she asks him to sing Stevie Wonder or "something else" from "the charts today," so he sings "Lately" by Stevie Wonder. And he sings it just like Britney Spears would, only on pitch, while Gene Simmons openly mocks him, and they all just carry on conversations while he's singing. And he comes out from behind the curtain and Simon's like, "See? You suck!" And then Paula criticizes his song choice -- even though he sang what she told him to -- and then says the following words: "It was very nasally up in your nasal." Ladies and gents, Paula Abdul. Can we confirm there's nothing up in her nasal tonight?

So she tells him that while he does suck, she's not agreeing with Simon, and fails to sell that he's the more important part of that sentence. Gene mocks him some more and talks some shit, and then everybody outside hugs him and Seacrest points out that Bilbo's getting comfort from "complete strangers," which is a heartwrecking thing to say, if you think about it, considering there's nobody else there. After commercials, there will be a pretty girl, a creepy dude, and someone Seacrest describes as "crunked out," and yeah, it's as natural-sounding as you think. Like Ryan calling Simon his "Boo."

Idiotic Seacrestiana about the "darker side of New Orleans," over, like, fucking shrunken heads and bullshit like that. If I'm this irritated by that crap, can you imagine what it's like for people who grew up there? Like, you're trying to get through life and the Goth girl in the cubicle is all, "Did you ever go to Anne Rice's house? Did you ever eat a tarantula?" All of this is in service of our introduction to Daron Beck (28, Denton, TX), who says he wants to "make music less disposable," but actually he means "bluff my way in and make a mockery of American Idol, because it is gay." He also thinks Gene Simmons will like him, and he's crazy lucky that he's wrong.

So he walks in, and Paula literally starts crying for some drug-related reason. Get some sleep, Paula. She says, before he's even found his mark, "You look tremendously different and unique already, which is a great thing!" Daron replies that "that's kind of what I'm going for." But it's not true, because really it's the opposite of original: It's Goth night bullshit and the Robert Smith concept hair and soul-patch-plus-pencil mustache and the plastic rose in the breast pocket and the natty black ensemble, and the whole thing is A) played and B) calculated to distract you from the fact that he's on the slightly-less-attractive side of the X axis. I mean, it works, he is much better-looking because of it, and it emphasizes his very beautiful eyes, so I'm glad he found the Goth scene, but I just checked my calendar and it turns out it's now 2005.

Meet Lindsey Cardinale (19, Ponchatoula, LA, pronounced "Cardinelli," wearing two lacy chemises, one on top of the other, as though she's going to bed right after this, twice, or lost her real shirt on the way here), who sings so very much like a freaking angel that the judges forget where they are, or to stop her, so entranced are they with the magic spell she is casting upon them. Paula stares and babbles. I grow old, marry, foster children, and die. All while Lindsey is singing. Simon calls her "without question, one of the best," and they kind of don't say anything else. She comes out into the bullpen and everyone claps, claps, claps.

Robert Solomon (26, Macon, GA) tools it up so hardcore, and I'll say it again: he's the true-life geeked-out solution x to the problem (E+S+2F/3)+g+h-m=x, where E = Eugene from Grease, S = Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors, F = Professor Frink from The Simpsons, g = Coke-bottle glasses, h = high-waters, and m = size, because he's your classic pre-"Hero Of The Beach" 98-Pound Weakling, with the sand in the face and that slutty Janet. I don't know what he's trying to accomplish here, but he's darling and would make a good friend for someone, somewhere. I do so hope he finds himself one sometime. He's River Phoenix in Explorers, or Jerry O'Connell in Stand By Me (albeit -m, again). Maybe it's a joke! That would be nice. For me and for him, and for you.

You know, I'd care so much more about him and his life if not for Adam Pratt last week, but they're like puppies: you can't save them all. Robert spends a lot of time alone, as a projectionist, which "allows me to work on my singing, or reading, or" (this is all Robert does, so he can't think of anything else). "I've, you know, bellowed in the projection booth a few times." It sounds kind of dirty. Then he starts singing "Dancing In The Streets," and it's so spastic and weird and cool. He's even dressed like Eugene, okay, with like brown Dickies pants and a classic white t-shirt. He's got like a Blackberry or a giant brick cell phone or a kid in his pocket or something. It's bulgy in his hip area. He calls Paula's motion to stop "interesting," and mimics it. He's weird! What can ya do? I like him.

Back from commercial, Ryan says "Nawlins" again, and I want to slap his little face. He's riding a trolley this time. The people are from Mississippi, and Seacrest notes that only two people total have gotten through so far from "Randy's home state." But we don't get to know necessarily who those people are. I love how they explained to us about how the auditions were going to go on for six months or whatever, and were like, this will help the audience forge a bond and find their favorites earlier in the competition, and it was all just such deception and lies because all we have been focusing on the last two weeks is retards and crazy people, punctuated with people we've never seen before being jubilant about how they're going to Hollywood, and then vanishing. So anyway, here's somebody from Mississippi who didn't make it: Reggie Brown (26, Jackson, MS), who I find overdone and untalented in a particularly uninteresting way, but he has a big old silver cable necklace and a pretty cool industrial-looking black shirt with white stitching, a look I always like. Well, it's oversized and made of very hardy, stiff fabric -- again, very Dickies. Um. This way-too-detailed fashion review courtesy of the boringness of Reggie Brown. He shakes his hands around and his face goes terribly, terribly wrong as he sings, and it's not good. Like John Mayer-level not good, in terms of face actions, and just as interesting as anything else you can compare to John Mayer. Randy laughs aloud.

The two are from Kenner, LA: Daniel Durham (25) is big and blond and seems nice. His singing is not nice. Paula blows out her cheeks and stares at him angrily. (Uh oh! Here comes another mood swing!) He realizes in the middle of his singing that he can't sing, says, "Fuck," and disappears, which is awesome. Then comes Larenda Garrett (18), the one dressed like the "tuppence a bag" lady, but it's not fair to leave it at that, because it's flaw-concealing, this gauzy shirt/shawl/cape thing, and it matches her pink fedora (how did I miss this trend last summer?) and a drawstring neckline, butdoes not look sucky! Her singing, however, does, and it sounds it too. The judges make fun of her to her face. Algua Isaac (26, Duncanville, TX) looks like LeVar Burton disguised in an afro wig and paisley shirt to resemble little Michael Jackson before all the things started happening to him. Sadly, the resemblance ends there: he sings like he's doing a bad impression of the amazing lead choir boy from Romeo + Juliet. In the same register. Oof. Which is kind of creepy when it's that little kid, because eunuchs are totally illegal in the here and now, but is way more creepy if you're a grown man.

We meet a coworker of Sundeep Achreja (28, Metairie, LA), a woman named Jeannie who seems like the type who has a lot of funky cute picture frames with doggies and grandchildren and Regis Philbin all over her desk, who says without breathing or stopping, "When we dress up for Halloween Sundeep dresses up for Halloween would you like me to tell you what he was the last time he dressed up? He was a punk." Then she looks away, thinks for a second, and corrects herself: "No that's not it, he was a pimp. Excuse me." It's freaking adorable. Except for the disturbing implication that she's somehow surprised that Sundeep celebrates deeply religious Christian American holidays like Halloween, I think she's awesome.

Sundeep is: good-looking, with spazzy Accounts Payable hair and a really cool pale-yellow necktie under his conservatively-cut but very nice and kind of daring true-black suit, he is sixteen hundred feet tall, and the Very Model of a Middle-Managerial. He tells us he draws a thick line between his professional environment (where he's an accountant) and his performance environment (where, sadly, he isan accountant). Jeannie returns to tell us that Sundeep "sang a couple of times for us yesterday [here she fugues out for a sec and grasps at some lemonade fixins]but I think he was nervous? And a little scared? But he sounded pretty good." And then she ruins it with, "But I don't know anything about singing talent." And the self-satisfied, snarky face with which she says this makes me think she's not so fond of good old Sundeep, but whether that's because he has the job she bitterly wants, or because she is suspicious that he might be one of those Arabs Rumsfeld warned her about, I cannot say. Either would not surprise me. She's kind of red-statey?

I hate that he's a curiosity in his office, but like, it's Metairie, Louisiana, population somewhat less than 150,000, so I'm sure he can weather it. Out in the bullpen, which seems like the lobby of a very nice and relaxing hotel (if you discount the American Idol delusioneers and the camera crews), he does a little shadowboxing. Is that a clue? Yes. Does it mean he's going to sing something by Fiona Apple? (Maybe "Paper Bag," with a little soft-shoe? That would be hot.) No. In fact it's "Eye Of The Tiger." Oh dear. He spends ages preparing himself and dancing weirdly, and then starts singing so very crappily and clearly he's hugely nervous. Gene Simmons is a messed-up amount of identical to Pauly Shore in this part. The judges ask if he's ever seen the show before, and he just mumbles Fantasia's name like it's a magic spell. When asked how he did, he responds that he got the words right, but he means the pitch, but the judges prefer to agree with the letter and not the spirit of what he's saying, since what he's actually saying is a damned untruth. Simon tells him, "Sundeep, the calculator beckons. It's a no," which might be the coolest thing Simon's ever said as a brush-off. "The calculator beckons." Heh. Outside, Sundeep kind of cries outside and says some nonsense.

The infinitely fratty-and-likeable Michael Luizza (22, New Orleans) teaches us a little bit of what Seacrest tries to sell as "New Orleans history," so pay attention: once there was this lady singing at a now-pink bar on the corner of Les Rues Bourbon et Toulouse, and she got into a fight with her band and quit, and then she ran across the street to another bar (which today is orange), because it's Bourbon Street and that's all there is, bars, and there was a piano player there, and they fell in love, and her hair was GIGANTIC, and 22 years ago, they gave up their musical careers and had a boynamed Michael. Not so much history as some story his parents tell when they're drinking.

His parents are nice, I like them. I love that he was raised in a musical environment; I think it's important to expose children to the gift of music early and often. (Well, good music.) So Michael comes into the audition room (and again -- ooh, the suspense, considering we had to jump in a Wayback Machine with Seacrest and meet this kid's parents and play "Johnny B. Goode" on the guitar so they could fall in love and conceive Michael before we could see the audition) and he's just great. I like him. He is easily four feet across, with a fullback build, and a huge, honest smile. I think he will make a good dad one day, or like a camp counselor or something. He comforts me with his very presence. He says nonsense things about how the "world is an evil place" and he would like to "give some good love around." Is he speaking Cajun? NOPE! Paula totally gets what he means, all, "I hear ya!" Which is hilarious. They're on that Brigitte/Flavor Flav wavelength of shared crazy-talk. "I'm Nonsensical! Who are you? / Are you -- Nonsensical -- too?"

He sings "Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans?" (a song written before the advent of weird parenthetical titles), which was taught to him by his grandmother. He sings in the style of a Muppet, itself singing in the style of a white Billie Holiday, singing in the style of Louis Armstrong. It's a heady gumbo. They are so into it. Randy smiles wordlessly and blankly like he's in a CGI movie looking at something they haven't drawn yet. Gene Simmons -- who now only looks to me like Pauly Shore with his hair dyed black -- says, and they all agree, that he is "reminiscent of the female singers from the early '50s," like Rosemary Clooney. Huh?

Then everybody except Randy talks crazy. Gene: "I really like you. I have to say 'No.'" Paula of course leads the pack of crazy: "You need to work on your image. You need to pack up some clothes and have fun." And then she attacks Simon drunkenly. And Simon talks crazy about how Paula is acting like she's on Antiques Roadshow, must-see viewing for all the straight dudes, even Brits, because she's going on and on about this and that, and he knows all Michael cares about is, "How much is it worth?" It's a pretty good analogy, except that the blah blah blah on that show is about teaching us about the history of objects, while the blah blah blah of Paula is about teaching us that sometimes grownups take leave of their senses altogether. "You need to pack up some clothes and have fun," is what she said to this kid. Then they confront him and ask if he'd rather hear about how Paula has been made "joyful" or about how he's going to Hollywood or not. And because he's cool, Michael's like, "I appreciate the honesty of all of your viewpoints equally." Well, maybe not the Gene Simmons viewpoint that he is a woman from the '50s, but whatever. Simon sends him to Hollywood and Paula freaks out on Simon some more while Michael runs screaming straight out into the street. He screams and screams and wiggles all around. I am so happy.

Back from commercial, there's the terrible "Incomprehensibles" montage, where a bunch of people sing in English poorly. It's so funny! There's even a subtitled guy, where they spell out the words that he singing phonetically, even though it's obvious what he's actually singing. But the most mirthful part of this, besides whacked-out, jacked-up Leroy, whom we'll meet in a second, is when they make the fresh and exciting point that people who are raised surrounded primarily by one or more of the literal thousands of East Asian dialects sometimes switch the /r/ and the /l/ phonemes in speech, because the hardwiring for certain sound pairs happens in infancy and is one of the first steps toward learning a language, so that the distinction between that particular sound pair, for instance, becomes vestigial and is literally erased in the brain's speech center during language acquisition in a person's first few years of life, and can only rarely be fully retrained! Isn't that "hirarious?" Oh, simple fucking neurobiology. You give us racism. Thanks!