We do another dramatic run through all the amazing things that we're meant to understand happened last night, and as usual it's probably going to be the high point of the night. Whoever puts these things together at the beginning, they don't get paid enough. I mean, probably they get paid enough. But that shouldn't stop us wishing them well.
Ryan: "An amazing number of votes that don't mean anything happened!"
ibid., in a rare moment of gnosis: "...But that doesn't lessen the pain of elimination."
ibid., words fitting awkwardly in his mouth: "We have a sick performance from Rihanna tonight!"
THE TWO PEOPLE LEAST LIKELY IN THE WORLD TO UNDERSTAND WHY THE NAME "LADY ANTEBELLUM" IS A HUGE FUCKING PROBLEM GET TOGETHER AND SING A LADY ANTEBELLUM SONG
I like the music of the band okay, as far as I know, but I don't particularly care for the lead singer -- she seems like a weirdo -- and especially not the name. They are the Cougar Town of contemporary crossover country. But any song as self-hating and simultaneously booty-calling as "Need You Now" shows a bit more insight, or else I just identify with it more, than most. Mostly I just wish they could do a performance without her dressing up like a clockwork ballet creature or a Bigfoot or whatever. An a-hole.
This song Scotty and Lauren are singing, "American Honey," is not one of those songs. However, the squatting dance of Scotty is fun, and the fact that he's just at this point firing those gross sex faces into the crowd at random like a sex-face psycho shooter, and their very pretty harmonies, all of those things are nice. Watching Scotty and Lauren pretend to like each other makes me feel a little nervous, frankly. They are some of the least trustworthy people on TV, and I don't even think they know it.
THE FOREST OF SHAMS & MEAT
Since we've been clamoring for more background information on the weekly Ford Focus commercial, the Idols oblige. Everybody looks totally scary and almost recognizable, dressed like zombies.
Well, almost everybody. Paul McDonald looks strangely healthful.
After we watch the video about the video, we watch the video. It's kind of boring, to the tune of that "Animal" song the Warblers sang, and then the zombies show up and it gets more boring. Then the zombies listen to tunes on a USB drive, and it's 2011 suddenly.
I fucking hate zombie things. Not only is an attraction to the macabre a sign of a culture on the decline, but also what it feeds. Number one, I hate any apocalypse because it implies that you would be relieved if the world ended and you didn't have to answer your cell phone anymore, which is stupid and lazy and you should already have more control over your life than that, and if you honestly don't feel in charge of your technology and responsibilities, that's on you. You are the only person in charge of how awesome things are right now.
Number two, especially I hate zombie apocalypses, because they imply that other people are an obstruction to you getting through your day and would be better off getting shot through the head. The sweet release of just opening fire on a crowd of people because they're not as special and alive as you are: That is disgusting. That is actual misanthropy disguised as entertainment, appealing to the grossest things inside you, and I hate it. Hate it more than slam poetry, more than steampunk, more than pirates.
The zombie thing is both the worst thing about us right now, and an indicator of even worse things about us, and to illustrate this, I will ask you to mentally think about the people you know that love zombies the most. Not the girls who pretend to like zombies and video games so boys will think they've found a unicorn, because those girls are worthless anyway; not the AMC dads or Twilight moms who are trying to be down with the kids these days. They have no effect on culture whatsoever.
I'm talking about your nerdy grumpy jerkoff friend who likes porn and zombies and dark shock-humor and hates women because he's scared of them and loves Tyrion Lannister more than anything and thinks his sarcasm is a defense or that being a cynic opts you out: That asshole. That's who you're being when you play along with the zombie bullshit. Don't do it. It's bad for the part of you that is still alive.
DEBORAH HARRY CAN FLOW LIKE A MOFO
Casey and Haley do their growly grumbly jazzy wiggly shimmy-dance and it's enjoyable to the degree that you can handle any of that kind of thing. I like looking at Casey, and I like Haley's intense makeup and cute dress, and the idea that they just happen to be singing this song together and scatting together and jamming and digging on each other, that's kind of fun to watch. Kind of, for a minute, but then it's just a whole yodeling growling scatting meltdown that sounds kind of like a rumble between Beanie Babies, and we out.
Tyler: "You just summed up what I always knew, that's all you guys did tonight."
(Waiting on clarification? Don't bother. Apparently since he always knew it, we are just fucked for not having always known it. I love how Steven Tyler manages to be cryptic and up his own asshole at the same time. We are not necessary for this part. But then, neither is he.)
Tyler: "Thank you for whipping that out on us."
Randy: "Ha! Like a penis!"
The two duets of safe people are summoned to the Seal, and we review:
Casey: Told the useless pervert mentors to fuck themselves, and the Judges pretended it was awesome, and Steven Tyler once again manages to somehow make this about him and his ability to say nonsense words.
Haley: Sang "Call Me" and Steven only paid attention during the chorus, while J. Lo and Randy actually knew what the fuck they were talking about.
Lauren: Moved Steven Tyler "beyond tears" with "The Climb," which was beyond boring.
Scotty: Is not as cute as he thinks he is.
But he is safe, so that's something. One of the three left over is in the Bottom Three, but it is not Lauren, so that means Casey or Haley is B3. Haley's been in the B3 every week, and Casey is magic, so... Haley's not safe and Casey is safe and obviously that's how that was going to go.
SUCH A FUN SUMMER LOOK
Apparently while Elvira was teaching Lauren Alaina's granddaughter how to tease her hair -- "The higher the hair, the closer to ghouls," as they say -- her buddy Rob Reiner was giving the Idols lessons on how to survive in the movie business, on the off chance that they ever have anything to do with the movie business. He also taught them to replace a washer in your toilet tank, in case they ever needed that information too.
Scotty pretends that he has heard of When Harry Met Sally... and James Durbin reminds us that he likes things like Spinal Tap, because he is a huge nerd and into the metal music. Rob Reiner does some kind of bizarre grandpa routine that confuses the children, and then he talks shit about From Justin to Kelly and talks about how one day they might be in a movie or something. Even Rob Reiner never quite figures out why he's there.
Lauren Alaina pretends to be "acting" by "acting" like Kelly Pickler, and as usual it's totally fake and a little creepy. The disingenuous Pickler thing plus the snake-eyed ill-intentions of Lauren add up to a serious creepster moment where she pretends to try to get rid of her accent.
My friend Melissa, in re: the cover of Gwyneth's new cookbook: "I'm just happy she's wearing a favorite boat-necked sailor shirt! Such a fun summer look."
The title of Gwyneth's new cookbook, UK edition: Notes From My Table.
I don't know why that freaks me out, but I do know that it's even harder to hate Gwyneth when you think about how Lauren Alaina, Dakota Fanning and Gwyneth Paltrow are all variations on the same basic theme, which is: How do you "do" authenticity? A question with no answer.
Reiner: "Ask me any question, it doesn't have to be about movies -- there's no reason it should be, really -- but it could be about God, or sex. Anything. I got time to kill."
(Or how about both?)
Casey: "This is dumb, but is it okay that I love Jack Black?"
Jacob: "It is totally okay. He's the only dude even in slight competition with you besides, like, David Petraeus. We are so in sync, Casey!"
Reiner: "You kind of look like Seth Rogan. Not when he lost that weight, but before and after he lost all that weight and gained it back again. Fat people can succeed sometimes."
Casey: "...Thanks, bro."
SPEAKING OF
Kelly Clarkson and some drunk hick take the stage looking gorgeous and homeless, respectively, and sing a song about... I don't know what the song is about because he's wearing his cowboy hat so low that you can't see his eyes. The sign of an insecure, or possibly a drunk or homeless, man. I'm sure he can be trusted -- Kelly is no fool -- but somebody should really tell him about his appearance. There's things you can do, son.
Then Kelly attacks Ryan about misrepresenting her tweets, calls Casey "delicious," and then -- on the way to adorably realizing she is ruining the live show, which is the one thing Ryan can't handle -- makes a nearly off-color joke about Ryan trying to get to the endpoint as quickly as possible "just like a man," which causes Ryan to blush and run around and flip his dress up over his head and spaz generally.
COWBOYS & ALIENS: A STORY OF ARIZONA
Ryan: "Still there's just Haley over there on the stools, but so much things are happening all the time at all times so why not sing a song? Here to sing a medley of songs from The Graduate, Durbin, Stefano and Paul. AKA, the three people most likely to get themselves in an actual The Graduate situation with Paula Abdul if she were still here."
will.i.am: "Girl, no you didn't! Mazel tov! What-what!? Yeah! Ohhhh Shiiiiit!"
Stefano: "Just please keep him away from me."
Ryan: "You're in a safe place."
The thing about Paul, Durbin, Jacob -- oh, Jacob's there in the back -- and Stefano is that they will not be able to harmonize in any way. The Death Eater sounds that come out of Paul are not going to mesh with the banshee wailing of Durbin; Stefano yelling is impressive only so long as stupid Lusk isn't there to yell louder and harder than him. Also, they are a bunch of drama queens.
Durbin: (Thinks Simon & Garfunkel are British, apparently.)
Paul: (Sings like he gargled the entire contents of Rod Stewart's stomach.)
Lusk: (Has never heard of Simon & Garfunkel despite singing their song last night.)
Stefano: (Lost, as usual, in the crunch.)
Ryan: "Lusk, you are a soupy mess of a person. Paul, you make white teeth look like a bad thing. Durbin, you're one weird little nugget. Stefano, you should have taken your shirt off somehow and then you'd maybe be safe."
James: Safe! Awesome. I guess having that famous guitarist -- as one insightful reader called it, "finale-level guest accompaniment" -- and the intensely fake fight with the mentors did the job.
Stefano: Is in the Bottom Three. Was born in the Bottom Three. Will eventually shuffle off this mortal coil via the Bottom Three. Top Three of Bottom Three People.
Lusk & Paul: I hate that one of them is safe. I wish I could say that Paul going to the B3 again made me happy and joyful, but honestly I'm just mixed up because I wish Lusk would leave too, and I know he never will, so I can't even get my hopes up.
Paul, Stefano & Haley: (Just ever so much bitchface.)
ROBERT PATTINSON V. CHRISTOPH WALTZ: DISCUSS.
Chaka Khan and Anita Baker are in the audience, with Ryan begging them to get slapped and getting kissed instead, it's odd, but so like: Why are they not singing? Anita Baker is the best!
Rihanna is pretty great too. She is singing a song about a bed, so of course there's a bed onstage from which she sings. It's all very dramatic and evocative, and in terms of how this show usually stages things pretty impressive. I mean, the song is not good -- it's that same exact Fergie song about how the big girls don't cry, without the nasty infantilizing part -- and she's still rocking the Bozo wig, but there's like ten ballerinas dancing around on the stage and there's sheets hanging down that are also curtains, and it's all really quite beautiful. The kind of thing usually art-directed by your Florence + The Machine type bands. I just wish the song were better.
It's not that she doesn't have a pretty voice, obviously she has a great voice, but: Do you really go to Rihanna for pretty singing? I thought the whole point of Rihanna was the insane music and the bleeps and bops and the noises she makes. Just singing a ballad like this, is that something she's always done? I'm not like fully engaged with her oeuvre.
Ryan: "You're blowing up, as usual. Like there's been a single week in the last like eight years where people weren't constantly talking about you. Like there's been a month where you didn't have an album dropping, in the last two decades. Anything interesting going on with your tour or collaboration with Britney Spears or your five different number-one singles currently topping the charts or your skincare or your luggage or your line of luxury vacation packages?"
Rihanna: (No idea. I always thought she spoke English.)
WAKE UP AMERICA I THINK I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU AND THAT THING IS THAT YOU ARE AWESOME
Ryan: "Is it going to be another girl, just like every week for the last like five weeks?"
Paul: "Two out of three it will be."
Ryan: "Haley, you're still safe. Paul and Stefano, it's down to you."
Oh, damn it.
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But the fact that Paul's been in the B3 before makes me feel like this is a trend. Maybe he'll continue to dilute his Undead Jack Johnson brand with lame shit like last night to the point that people will forget just how he fooled them, and then forget he was ever here at all, and the only time you'll think of Paul McDonald is like cold nights on the moors when he's scrabbling at your windowpane like Cathy Earnshaw, if Cathy Earnshaw smelled equally like feet and like feet medication.
The first guy to leave the stage will be StefaPAUL! HOLY SHIT!
I talked myself down and talked myself down and totally didn't believe it, and now Paul is going home! America! How fabulous you are!
"It's been a good ride... It's gonna be fine... I'm road-worn... I've paid some dues, you know... I hope they dig it... You like my jacket? I define 'cool dude in a loose mood' and I define 'perfect imperfect boy' and I pretend everything is a concert starring me that never happened, never quite begins... Fake stoner laughter, ho-ho-ho."
J. Lo: "For your song, will you sing 'Maggie May'?"
Paul: "As the least objectionable thing I've ever done on this stage, I'd be happy to."
And then... Let's just say that disappointment and the death of all his dreams does not really impact the tenor of his performance. What, like he's going to sing the song as if he were dying? As if he were riddled with caterpillars inside his body? What would that look like, one wonders. One wonders and one moves on and one forgets there ever was a Paul McDonald, knock-kneed and shivering as his tainted soul slowly burned the cuteness out of the body decaying all around him.
WHAT THE MAN IN BLACK SAID TO RANDY
It's midnight before they come for him; Jennifer promised to stay awake, with a candle, but she's fallen asleep against the doorframe and Randy covered her with a blanket that says "Coca-Cola," so she's going to miss it. As Steven would relate later, and to which I can personally attest, that's probably for the best.
They pull up in a black carriage, outside the Kodak Theatre, its windows hung with black and ragged cloth, drawn by six fine horses with fire in their eyes, draft-horses, huge, breath steaming under the bright and sour night sky. The door creaks open and one pointed boot clashes on the paving-stones, giving Steven a start and nearly waking Jennifer from her slumber.
The man, if you can call him that, is nearly six and a half feet tall, with a tall black top hat and a golden watch-chain at his waistcoat. He is clothed in black satin, attended by five short footmen all in shrouds; they are decorated with silk roses. His teeth are very white.
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They load their countryman up with a practiced precision, into his accustomed sleeping-place. He told Jacob Lusk it was for his guitar, but a man should fit inside. He does, now, blossoms painted on the sides, and the small men bend down, to gain a better purchase and get their fallen son inside. He watches, without speaking; he does not issue orders nor does he bend to aid them.
The horses are anxious tonight; they chip at the paving and send up sparks. A chill wind caresses Randy's scalp and he shudders from somewhere deep within himself. The leader swings his head up, and around, to look them in the eyes.
"Who pays this one's passage?"
Randy fights through his pockets -- sticky toffees, a button -- looking for the coins Paul made him promise to offer, when they came. He holds them out, not daring to look into those fiery eyes, and the man beckons him closer. Closer, still. From the carriage issues a sound, like a final exhalation; like the last chord in a symphony finally coming to rest. The man's breath on Randy's ear feels like the chill fingertips of an oncoming fog. One bent hand wraps itself around his shoulder, leaning ever closer, to deliver his final message.
What the man in black said to Randy, I cannot relate and he refuses to share. We watched them make their way down the boulevard, around a corner, taking their fallen son home; we took Randy inside, gave him his hot chocolate and his Doritos and left him alone only a few minutes, to get his bearings. We slept, all of us, fitfully that night, and greeted one another in the morning with the hooded eyes of those visited by spirits and phenomena. We did not speak of it again. And what the man said to Randy, I do not wish to ever learn.
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