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Much as they did last night, the lights come up from the darkness and the screaming begins, and it is still very, very exciting. I mean, I know it already happened, and I was certainly not fooled this time around, but since the entire travesty is two hours of nothing wrapped around a half-hour of something, you've got to take your thrills where you can get them. And there are thrills to be had.
We begin the first segment with the Antepenultimate Ten, and they are dressed like idiots, and they singing a Beach Boys medley. I came to the Beach Boys late in life. For a long time I just thought it was more of that oldies music that all sounds the same, and it's about stupid crap anyway, surfers and huarache sandals and all that, and, like, I didn't know there was a qualitative difference between the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean, who irritate me no end, and whoever else. The surfer guy groups. Hate them. And then somebody made me listen to Pet Sounds on headphones, like forced me to. This was freshman year of college, if you know what I mean. Like everybody thought they were socialists, these little Klostermans and Zinns just waiting to be discovered. But it turned out that I was pretty much totally predisposed to love Brian Wilson, like we were connected in some kind of new age Vonnegut fashion, and that was how I figured out why. The Idols do not so much pay what I'd call homage, however, so we'll run through this quickly.
It's been a while, so let's run down the names. Mikalah and Jessica, the Banger Sisters of this little tableau, are up in front, dressed insanely. Jessica's wearing a tight little sausage dress over white jeans, and it is a sickly chartreuse color not unlike that of one Mr. Spongebob Squarepants, and it has a halter top, like, that ties at the nape, and it is backless, and she's wearing a bright turquoise brassiere that you can clearly see through the back of the shirt-dress, because the back of it is not there. It gathers horizontally in a way that makes up for a lot of the flaws going on, but regrettably, completely hides her chest. It's pretty much a disaster. Queen of disaster, of course, is Mikalah, wearing a vagina-baring skirt and a midriff jacket with the collar popped, and she considers this "clothed." Both of the things she's wearing are white denim. She looks like she bought a prostitute costume at the Miami Vice yard sale, and is wearing big pink plastic hoops. Her hair looks like those dogs that have dreads. Am I painting you a picture?
They all look ridiculous. It's not even thematic, it's just apparently Look Like Asses Day, onstage. Constantine's wearing a striped Good Humor jacket, they're mostly wearing white jeans -- white jeans -- Nikko's got not one but like five polos with the collars popped, okay, in the flattering hues of Rabid Melon and Aching Lime, under a white sport jacket, which jacket A-Fed is also wearing, with Institutional Blue scrub pants that are aggressively crotchy. They Lift and Separate. Anwar persists with the Bj�rk hair and Kravitz shades, but is now complementing them with a fitted Biological Pink shirt and egregious cameltoe. Lindsey doesn't look too bad, she's wearing white jeans and an orange tank, with a clashing red sash. Scott's wearing a sport jacket in a lovely shade of Elementary School Cafeteria Orange and still looks better than most everyone. Vonzell's wearing a yellow sheath dress and is pretty presentable, except for a huge clot of turquoise at her neck, and Nadia's man-chest is exposed to the world in a sassy Roman Senator number held together by gold chains, hotpants, and a weird plastic belt, and has accessorized with some strange white fan-brush earrings that look like scallops. It's normally a chore to note the clothes, because I don't often notice that stuff and I make an effort to tell you about it each week, but not this week, buddy. This week the clothes are screaming right out the gate.