We’ve waited breathlessly for this moment. Well, maybe we weren’t breathless. And maybe we weren’t really waiting, so much as dreading. But Hollywood Week is upon us, along with a new permanent fourth judge to replace the dearly, departed, deranged, and daffy Miss Paula Abdul. Don’t know who the newbie is? Read a magazine, for crying out loud! I have a friend who doesn’t know who Lady Gaga is. There is no excuse for pop culture illiteracy. I don’t mind if you can’t read, but if you’ve never heard (or heard of) “Poker Face,” we’re gonna have a problem. This is American Idol. “Me fail English? That’s unpossible.”
This episode, like Ryan, is short and sweet.
Our new judge is Ellen DeGeneres. She’s known for such things as that failed sitcom she was on, being a lesbian, dating that crazy bitch, and dancing on her talk show. Some might say she’s famous for being funny. I am not that some.
All of the Golden Ticket people show up to this big-ass auditorium. We’ve seen a few, but most are strangers. Cute Nerd. Eyebrow Boy. Grumpy Mug. Big Purse. Stroke Face. Ugly Guy. Other Ugly Guy. And others of this nature.
Right off the bat, Ellen is like, “Fuck you if you don’t think I’m qualified to judge. I perform in front of bitches all the time, bitches. So suck it hard and on videotape. Word to your grandmother, ho’s!” And in fairness, I think she’s absolutely qualified to judge this crap. If you (a) like pop music and/or (b) watch this show and/or (c) have an opinion, you can do the job. I can certainly do it, so let the letter-writing campaign begin. I just don’t want Ellen to bring humor. Her humor: stanky.
For tonight’s round, the contestants take the stage in small groups. They sing. And the when the group is done, Idol rocks it Chorus Line-style. This lot to the front, that lot to the back. One lot moves forward. You’re allowed to play an instrument — as long as that instrument is not your penis, making this episode 98% duller than it could be.
Katie Stevens from Boston, who has the Alzheimers Grandma, sings a breathy version of “For Once In My Life” and is aiight. Skiiboski Wheeler, from the Planet of Slickster Tools, skeeves his way through “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.” He’s okay, but generally gross. Skiiboski goes to the front line, which is dismissed for catching syphilis from him. Katie moves forward.
Vanessa Wolfe, whose hobbies include jumping off bridges, shopping for dresses at the dollar store, and being dirt poor, and Andrew Garcia, whose parents shockingly raised him to not be in a gang, are up next. Andrew Garcia sings Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up” as an acoustic ballad. It is a piece of genius. He should put it on iTunes right now. If you can find it on YouTube (when those dicks at Fox aren’t blocking Idol videos), go watch it. Awesome. Vanessa, unfortunately, warbles like an epileptic parakeet as her nerves get the best of her. Andrew is in the front line. Front line stays. Vanessa is in the back line. Back line leaves. And Vanessa is off to Mayberry once again.
Failures include that Cornelius dude who only got to Hollywood because he split his stupid pants, and Maegan Wright, who brought her kid brother to her audition and proved that children ruin everything. Amedeo DiRocco, with the big Italian family which includes, I think, at least one Big Gay Cousin, belts some horror then begs for a second chance. Simon is like, “There are no second chances, asshole.” Gone.
Janell Wheeler, 24, is new to me, but there’s always a chance that I recapped her and deleted her from my mind. Because what’s she gonna do for me, really? She performs Estelle’s dance-pop track “American Boy” as an acoustic ballad, and it’s also quite catchy. Acoustic ballads are the new plaid. She’s moving forward.
Haeley Vaughn, who wants to be the black Tammy Wynette or whatever, brought her own guitar and sings an okay version of a song I don’t know, but she’s so bubbly and likable in a Paris Bennett sort of way, that “okay” is fine by me. The judges like her, so we’ll see how far she makes it.
Mary Powers, Rocker Mom, must still be getting a two-for-one deal on eyeliner, because that shit is all over her face and possibly in her hair. But Mary’s voice is strong and she’s “edgy,” which means she’ll be around a bit longer.
Haeley and Mary are both moving ahead. If they make it to finals, I predict Haeley will coast by, and then get blamed for, being cute. Mary will be put in the Rocker box, then make the mistake of singing a country song on Country Night and will be chastised for not knowing who she is. That is how this fickle show operates.
Ellen tries to be funny by having some people step to the front line, then to the back, in various combinations, but they’re all safe! Ha!! Couldn’t you die from the comedy?! I just peed down my leg from the outrageous joking of Ellen!
Remember Jay Stone, the adult beatboxer? Tonight, he continues to delude himself, this time on stage at the Kodak Theatre, and is quickly dispatched by the judging panel. “That was ridiculous,” Simon says of Jay’s “wooka-voot-doodie!” Jay, look in the mirror. You’re white. And you’re 40.
Lilly Scott, 20, is a sandwich-maker from Colorado. She has never been seen before. Lilly has white hair, but it’s a shitty shade of white with a bad cut. Bangs. Split ends. (I’ve been watching Shear Genius.) With her pasty skin, Lilly looks like a ghost. Nothing a stylist (or sunshine) can’t fix, but still, looking at her, you’d think, “How did this get here?” But she sings an acoustic cover (see!?!) of an Ella Fitzgerald song and it. Is. Amazing. Lilly is staying.
Michael Lynche, a.k.a. Man Mountain, is here in Hollywood while his wife goes into labor back home. “My water just broke,” she calmly says on the phone. Then Michael chills out and listens to his iPod, because if he goes home without being famous, his wife will take off her belt and give him the rest. He sings an acoustic something-or-other. “Waiting on the World to Change,” maybe. Is that a song? I believe so. Judges heart him.
Who the hell is Tim Urban and why is he not in my house right now?! Seriously, I’m sure this recap is six degrees of him (in all seriousness, I once figured out that I’m only four degrees from Kevin Bacon). So make this happen. Get me Tim Urban. Can he sing? What the fuck do I care? He doesn’t have to open his mouth. Well, maybe…sometimes. I digress. Tim is the dreamiest boy since Keith Partridge, and he doesn’t even drive a bus. He performs a David Cook song, “Come Back to Me.” I think David Cook was on this program at some point in time. Tim and his blue eyes and his fluffy hair and kinda off key and fucking up this part and then really good and with a nice, masculine voice and being delicious and then will you marry me and then no, but we can live together and okay, but only if he can walk around naked all day and Tim, that will not be a problem, I promise you. Huh? Wazzat? What was I talking about…?
Justin Williams is playing keyboards. On Secret Acoustic Night? Uh oh. He sounds okay, as he croons and wails in a Bublé kind of way. Yeah…pretty good. The judges are confused by him. Randy: “Definitely interesting. Interesting.” Dude should’ve brought his guitar.
Justin, front line, dismissed. Tim Urban, back line, moving forward and into my house where I will clone him and put one in every room we will watch iCarly together and laugh at how it’s kinda funny but kinda sucks and he’ll do that thing where he sings that song he wrote just for me, but there are no lyrics, so it’s just a lot of “La, la, la, Frankie…” and then Ryan Seacrest will come over, and I won’t let him in because that bitch is just jealous, so stay out, and…huh? Did I do it again? Sorry. Sigh…
Booted Forever, Party of You. Gone is that chick who showed up dressed like a dominatrix. Gone is the girl with all the Down’s Syndrome brothers. Gone are the Jersey Girls, Amanda and Bernadette, taking with them their hair and their chewing gum.
Staying is Casey James, the new Ace Young. At his audition, Casey was forced to strip shirtless by Mistresses Posh and Kara in the Idol House of Pain. Casey and his guitar (no keyboard — see, Justin?!) sings some song about lotion, and hey, is Tim Urban still around?
Last group of the day…
Didi Benami sings a Kara DioGuardi song and sounds like a tampon commercial, which isn’t bad if you like Kara’s music, tampon commercials, or tampons, in general. Didi has the blessing of good looks. She would make a nice appearance at the VMA’s, getting award-jacked by Kanye West. Simon sees dollars signs.
Crystal Bowersox is a single mom whose baby boy looks like an old man. I love Benjamin Button babies! Crystal gets her son’s name tattooed on her back, in case she forgets it and then grows eyes in the back of her head. She tells us she’s going to be the next American Idol, of course (and unlikely), and sings a healthy cover of “Natural Woman,” playing her acoustic guitar.
Front line: Didi, Crystal, some chicks and a fat guy. Back line: ain’t nuthin’ but suckas. Front line is moving forward.
Tomorrow night, it’s another round of the Hollywood round, so buy me a round, will ya? This crap makes my head hurt.
Boop!
-Frank
Your #1 source for vomiting robot dinosaurs. Since 2005.
“I have a friend who doesn’t know who Lady Gaga is.”
For the record, that’s not me. I swear.
I can’t believe they let some of the folks like ‘girl with Down syndrome brothers’ go. I thought they were gonna milk that like it was the only cow in the stable.
Great recap, Frankie. But when you speak of Ellen’s humor, please use quotes. As in, Ellen’s “humor.” That would be appropriate.
I think a got an STD just watching Skiiboski.
At least Vanessa Wolfe got to ride that air-o-plane. In my mind, I nicknamed her “Po’ Dunk.” Oh, I remember Po’ Dunk. Is Po’ Dunk on yet? Oh, Po’ Dunk is going home.
As I predicted in my Idol crystal ball, Big Italian Dude was included for “fun, folksy TV,” and summarily rejected because of his sing-shout style. 90% shout with 10% real sing.
Mary PowerRock (as I call her) is so hard-edged, and not in a music way. She might have been born with testes and she scares me. And looks like she’s aged in dog years.
Also, the downside of all these weepy-sob-sister-stories? Hollywood Week becomes Dream Crushing Week. As Jerri Blank and/or Homer Simpson once said, “And the lesson is, never try.”
Somewhere, Tim Urban is drafting that retraining order…..
You had me laughing with your little erotic tangents on Tim Urban. I’ve done this in my head soooooooooooo many times – it was nice to see it in print.
Great recap (again), and it looks like Lilly Scott is pulling a Susan Boyle 😉