I was all set to kick off my Idol blogging season with a report about Idol fashion. I've long been mesmerized by watching the contestants' transformations, from the awkward (but in a folsky, organic kind of way) mall-clad hopefuls we see during the auditions to the awkward (but in a overly stylized, totally unnatural kind of way) creatures we see during the competition. What exactly is the Idol stylists' aesthetic? I've never quite been able to pin it down.
But just my luck, last night was actually a major disappointment in that regard. Most of the contestants looked -- dare I say -- almost normal? Nice, even? Until we got to Siobhan, that is. During the Miley Cyrus segment, she looked like something out of a teen movie. You know the one I'm talking about. The painfully geeky misfit with a heart of gold (oversized glasses, circa 1983? Check!) gets invited to the movies with the alpha girl cheerleaders. Thrilled beyond words, she puts on the coolest outfit she can think of (My pink jacket! My big necklace! My acid washed jeans!), only to discover that the whole thing was a set up: they only invited her as a goof, to ridicule her. But of course, she then turns out to be telekinetic and douses them all with pigs' blood or something.
"Is she on drugs?" my husband asked, completely seriously, while watching Siobhan be "mentored" by Miley Cyrus. (For the record, he also asked "Who is she?" when Miley got out of her car. And then, "Why isn't she wearing pants?")
And then, because we never do know what to expect, either vocally or fashion-wise, from our friendly neighborhood glass blower, Siobhan channeled what appeared to be...a mid-80s Sheena Easton during her performance. What exactly was going on with the hair, pray tell?
OK, so now that that's out of the way, I have a terrible confession.
All these seasons of Idol watching have left me impatient. I've suddenly lost my taste for watching the heretofore fascinating winnowing process by which our field of 12 is narrowed to a handful of serious contenders and then, finally, to one winner, be it one of the Kelly Clarkson/Carrie Underwood variety or one of the Ruben Studdard/Taylor Hicks variety. I have...Idol fatigue. I just want to get on with it. Meaning right now I have no patience for watching even one more week of the contestants we already know have absolutely zero chance of winning. I just don't have it in me. That means you, Tim "Totally Out of My League" Urban. And you, Andrew "Peaked Too Soon" Garcia. And you, Katie "Give it Four Years" Stevens. And you, Paige "There's Nothing Really Noteworthy About Paige Except Her Very Beautiful Eyes, Which Is Exactly Her Problem" Miles. Oh, and speaking of the 80s? It is my duty to mention how badly Paige stunk up the joint last night, with a Phil Collins song with which I never miss an opportunity to torment my friend Steven, who was a -- how shall we say? -- big fan of it when we were in 11th grade. I even requested it at his wedding. But alas, the band didn't know it.
I mean, can we just stop the charade already? It's very clear already who the serious talents are here: Crystal Bowersox. Michael Lynche. And, of course, Crazy Eyes Killah Siobhan, although interestingly, Dial Idol seems to indicate she doesn't have much of a fan base. It's also clear who the almosts and nearlies will be: Scruffy McMuffin Lee DeWyze and Didi "Brooke White 2.0" Benami. (Who's a Sabra! Who knew?!) And then there are those who seem certain to secure a solid place in the pantheon that includes luminaries like Kevin Covais and Anwar Robinson: Aaron Kelly, who my friend Amy and I have just taken to calling "that creepy 16 year old boy." And Casey James, who, given the thousands of fantastic songs that have graced the top of the Hot 100 chart, went with...a 1985 Huey Lewis song. Need we say more? (Husband's comment: "Nobody will be talking about that at work tomorrow.")
He's absolutely right. Just wake me in six weeks, will you?