The Way Things Are






He felt it, and he made me feel it.
2006-03-22, 4:14 p.m.

Ha HA! I scared you all, didnít I? Iím not really stockpiling for Armageddon or the Chicken Flu.

(Grocery list: 4 months dog food, canned chicken, 8 jars peanut butter, all the bottled water I can carry, tampons, crackers. On order: dog cookbook, ďThe Whole Nuther White MeatĒ.)

Well, whatever it is that eventually brings about the collapse of our economy and polite society, I hope it happens AFTER our nationís 12-year-olds pick our next American Idol. (And Iím taking bids from those of you who want to come live with my on my free-love, hand-pumped well water compound when it DOES happen. Bring your pets.)

Shall we recap?

Bucky: is boring. Cute smile, but I donít want to listen to him sing ever again. However, I might want to sit around a keg with him and watch him try to grasp the just-over-his-head jokes I make.

Pickler: is boring. I donít want to look at her or see her ever again. What was she on last night? Did she get into Paulaís purse?

Chicken Little: sounded like he wanted to be featured on Sirius Musicís Coffee House Acoustic channel. Think Michael Boobie, or whoever he is. This is the station I make everyone listen to at home in order to motivate homework; it provides no distraction whatsoever. I think he came close to pulling that off, but still, I never want to see or listen to him ever again. Please do NOT

Mandiva: is really good. Iím glad her shoes didnít hurt her feet this time.

Elliott: is looking better, but Iím just not feeling it, dawg. Itís as if spit-shining his appearance is taking something away from his singing. The better he looks, the worse he sounds.

Paris: I neither remember what she sang or what she was wearing. Eh. Oh yeah! ďWalkiní After MidnightĒ. Sheís good, but I donít feel like sheís really VESTED in the music sheís singing. Sheís never gone out walkiní after midnight, is what Iím saying. Sheís not allowed out after midnight.

***DIGRESSION: CAN YOU BELIEVE BARRY MANILOW DID NOT KNOW ďTHAT WALKINí AFTER MIDNIGHT SONGĒ? The man is in the music BIDNESS Ė how could he not at least have a cursory acquaintance with music other than pop and show tunes? What a tool. I hate it when I know more than the professionals do. It disillusions me.***

Taylor Hicks: HAS GOT TO GO NOW. You can only get so far with gray hair and goofy dance moves. This I know first-hand.

That dark-haired white girl whoís really good: Oh! Katharine! Since I had to go online to remember her name, I guess you would say I find her rather bland. Sheís good, but I am not going to go out and buy her CD.

Lisa: good voice, but still. Eh. Maybe sheís a bit young to know who she is yet, and that is reflected in her singing.

Ace: I do not remember what he sang. He needs to go back to modeling or cleaning pools or whatever he was doing. Iím sorry Ė that was really dismissive. Modeling and cleaning pools are perfectly good professions.

CHRIS: When Drunky made a coherent statement, and told him that she doesnít understand why heís not already famous, out on tour, and weíre not all standing in line to buy tickets to his show, that was a moment of crystal-clear clarity for her that astounded me, both for the cohesive sentence structure AND the accuracy and sincerity of the content.

His version of ďI Walk the LineĒ made me want to run out and buy his record and go to the concert AND buy an over-priced concert t-shirt and show him my tits. Now, I donít know if somebody else already covered that tune and Chris was just redoing a redo. But this is what it tells us: he is not a karaoke singer.

He is either arranging songs himself to suit his style, or heís at least researching the songs heís interested in and finding previously-recorded arrangements that suit him. That sounds like an awful lot of work, compared to taking whatever arrangement Barry Manilow hands to you and running with it.

The killer part of it is, he didnít even sound that good until the key changed from too-low-for-Chris up into his range. And he still kicked all the other contestants in the pants. Because he felt it, and he made me feel it. (Speaking of which, I had, well WE, meaning DW and I, had sex again last night. Score!)

Oh, and did you see that creepy Constantine in the audience? Bwuh. I always expect a forked tongue to flick out of his mouth. He is scarily reptilian, isnít he? Iím pretty sure he has ď666Ē programmed into his cellphone, if you know what I mean.

Here are the ones that I am reasonably certain do not have a future singing to a widespread audience: Bucky, Ace, Taylor, and Chicken. The rest, Iím sure, have bright futures ahead of them, but the only one I would vote for if I could be bothered to pick up the phone, is Chris.


Oh Lord, here we go with the topic changes again.


Iím wearing way too much eyeliner today, and I like it. I fancy myself a little punk rock. See? Oh wait, you canít see it because my phone wonít send pictures to my email anymore.


This is all I have for you again today. Iím sorry. I really am. Iím covered up in work, much like one would be covered in pustules, fleas or boils. Iím not enjoying it all that much, but itís something I have to deal with until itís done. Iím not exactly lying back and enjoying its inevitability, but I can live through anything if I know when itís going to end.

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