I’ve missed you. How much? Well, let me just put it this way: after drunk-dialing my mother-in-law one evening, the Venomous Hubby asked, “Don’t you think it’s time you think about blogging again to keep yourself busy?”

Oh, sure, I’ve done plenty of reading in the 4+ months I’ve taken off blogging. (Most enjoyable read of the summer: Of Bees and Mist: A Novel. Least enjoyable: anything in the Anita Blake series after book 9.) I planted a container garden and have been busily watering, harvesting and canning; I’ve cleaned the house countless times; and I’ve even managed to acquire a somewhat decent tan. There’s been some traveling, some serious progress on my novel, and of course my beloved daughter’s 18th birthday (followed by a small bout of depression as I confronted my own mortality).

One thing I haven’t done much of is paying attention to what’s going on in the world (aside from mourning American Idol’s loss of Paula Abdul). So, as you know, that kind of ignorance makes it a bit difficult to blog intelligently. Hence why I shall return… but not just yet. I first need to reacquaint myself with my laptop and then start paying attention to the world beyond my doorstep.

But, hey, this here entry’s a first.

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Meanwhile, since I can’t help but admitting that Potato Head David Cook has improved dramatically these past few weeks, I refuse to call a winner.

Except this: the David (Caradine) Cocktail.

Hey, if we’re going to have a battle of the Davids, why not one which isn’t afraid to acknowledge it bites?

The David Carradine

1 part Creme de Menthe
1 part Canadian Whiskey
1 part Dark Creme de Cacao
1 part Heavy Cream

Directions:
Mix in the order: cacao, menthe, whiskey, milk. Try to keep the layers separate. Float on the back of a spoon, tilt the glass and pour very gently, etc.

(Courtesy of DrinkSwap.com

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Ready?

I thought so.

(Aside: Did you catch that straight-at-the-camera glance from Simon? He was thinking how Paula Abdul’s boobs don’t look nearly as good as mine.)

Carly Smithson: Amazing voice, but I’ve got used tampons with more charisma than she demonstrates on stageand they haven’t had a $2.2 million recording contract that should’ve been sufficient to buy them a personality.

Syesha Mercado: For the record, Me and Mrs. Jones (mp3) is one of my all-time favorite songs. It’s a song of lust, and it’s a song of shame. As much as I like Syesha — and I remember her auditions — she didn’t capture either emotion.

Brooke White: If I had a dime for every time I’ve sat in a bar and heard some chick try to emote her way through You’re So Vain I just might be able to afford the album that Brooke White deserves to record.

Ramiel Malubay: Ordinarily I like this little woman with the big voice, but listening to her sing this song was like looking at a poster of a Rembrandt: you know it’s good, but you don’t feel how good it really is. The bra-hitch thing at the end was kind of cute, though.

(Aside: Is it me, or is the girls’ show ten times longer than the boys’ was last night?)

Kristy Cook: Wow, those legs. That hair. Those hips. That face. But that voice? Ish.

Amanda Overmyer: Unlike Robbie Carrico, I’ve got no problem believing Amanda’s been ridden hard and put away wet. Twenty-eight years old? My 40-year-old ass looks younger than she does. It’s also had better hairstyles..

Alaina Whitaker: Now that I’ve listened to a nationally-syndicated explanation of her eating disorders, I can honestly say that her singing was as nauseating as her song choice of Hopelessly Devoted.

Alexandrea Lushington: On a fashion note… I’m incapable of understanding any rationale that pairs a down vest with shorts and leather high-heel ankle boots. On a musical note… well, it’s nice that one of us was on one.

Kady Malloy: Wow, she sounded SO much better with my “Mute” button on.

Asia’h Epperson: I love Asiah’s voice as well as her song choice, All By Myself, although I’m more partial to the Gregorian Chant version which she didn’t even come close to surpassing. And, as they say, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades… so I’m going to chalk that performance up as a bomb.

All in all? I had more fun listening to the boys last night… including the two boys who really, let’s face it, ought to count as girls. But, hey, at least I got to look at Simon.

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I almost wish I’d just gone to bed early.

Michael Johns: Ordinarily, I’m a big Fleetwood Mac fan but his efforts to sound like Lindsay Buckingham were reminiscent of a goat strangling on a piece of barbed wire. And is it just me, or does his upper lip look more like a bottom lip? Weird.

Jason Castro: The granola-munching Rasta hippie dude is back? Color me surprised. I kind of liked his rendition of that old Bee Gees tune: nice and vapid, just like the original. The only thing missing was someone sparking up a clove cigarette to give the whole performance that Friday night at the coffee house feel. Whatever will he do without that guitar to cover his weak vocals?

Luke Menard: Nice piece of college musical theatre performance, but there was only one Freddie Mercury and you aren’t him. So next time you want to show off your range try to at least ensure that all the notes in the song are actually in your range. Oh, and stop mugging for the home viewers you camera whore.

Robbie Carrico: Sure, he’s got the hair and wears his bandanna like Brett Michaels, but watching this guy move reminds me more of Justin Timberlake. Authentic rocker? I don’t think so. That was quite possibly the most lukewarm version of “Hot Blooded” I’ve ever heard.

Danny Noriega: The photos confirm he’s been a girl longer than he’s been a boy. (As if the song choice didn’t?) I’d feel bad about being so snarky but….Zzzzzzzz. Oh, sorry, I fell asleep. Ish.

David Hernandez: Somehow, I’m not terribly surprised to learn he wore leotards as a child. I like him anyway, and I really liked his rendition of “Papa Was a Rolling Stone”. Sssssmokin’!

Jason Yeager: Someone needs to advise this young man to firm up those pecs or get a man-bra. As to the song, I couldn’t decide if I was listening to a karaoke performance or watching a toothpaste commercial. And what the heck was that odd little flappy move at the end? (Could it have been a pec workout?)

Chikezie: I believe… I believe… I believe I’ve always loved Donnie Hathaway and that was one fine performance of one of his great songs. It looked fun, too. I hadn’t remembered much of him from previous performances (except the infamous red suit) but I really enjoyed this one even with the cheap shot at Simon.

David Cook: I’m supposed to root for this guy as our local contestant, what with him coming from a town just an hour away. He’s a word nerd, too, which one might think would make me like him. But I don’t. He’s smug, he sings down his nose and his voice is utterly unremarkable. Also, he needs to wash his hair.

David Archuleta: This little guy is just so adorable he makes me want to pick him up… for my daughter. Such a pure, wonderful and expressive voice. And yet as much as I like the guy, it really shocked me to hear someone his age sing John Lennon’s anthem, Imagine. It shocked me even more to love it as much as I did. And I absolutely 100% did love it!

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The real pisser? At the beginning of Day 2 the judges said there would be no second chances… then gave a second chance to Josiah, the 17-year-old kid living in his car. I wasn’t all that impressed with the song he did for his first performance, but then again I didn’t even recognize the tune so I wouldn’t know if he was singing it well.

I’d already had my hate on for him the moment they began airing footage of Josiah crying in the hall, Josiah crying in his chair, Josiah crying backstage. Then came the time he cried because after he’d spent an hour “working out the arrangements for the band” (of professional, experienced musicians, I might add) so they could accompany him on his second song, he got frustrated when they didn’t play the way he wanted them to. So he walked out of the practice session and refused to return, even when the vocal coach asked him to come back.

Cue footage of Josiah crying again, then fast-forward to when Josiah (after drying his tears) took to the stage… and asked the band to leave so he could sing Stand by Me “as he hears it in his head”. As he proceeded to assault everyone’s ears with one of the most horrific, tuneless and appalling renditions of the classic song it struck me that perhaps Josiah needs medications to shut up whatever it is he “hears in his head”.

And… they gave him a second chance anyway. This, despite all three judges agreeing that it was abominable.

But on a positive note: Abstinence Amy is off the show. Can’t say I’m going to miss the vapid blinking of her big blue eyes accompanied by a lip-glossed pout that pretty much advertises Amy won’t be all about abstinence for too much longer. (And why, btw, did she seek the assistance of a “vocal coach” who was a Season 4 reject, much less let that “coach” select her song for them… a song Amy had never even heard and thus proceeded to massacre???)

Oh, and a word to Idol producers: we’ve all pretty much figured out that if you’re doing an in-depth “montage” about a contestant it’s a rather sure bet that person’s getting cut. Knock it off.

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Otherwise, to be perfectly honest, I’d probably tune into Idol and skip the Super Tuesday coverage the other networks will be airing, analyzing, predicting, rehashing and otherwise milking for hours.

How about you: what will you be watching?

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First up, Ryan with yet another witty yet scripted exchange with Simon:

Ryan: “Simon, you already look bored.”

Simon: “That’s because I’m listening to you.”

Segue to a pagent-y performance from Jordin and Blake singing “I Saw Her Standing There,” complete with plenty of butt-grabbing, shoulder shrugging and feigned sultry glances. Oh, how I hate these contrived performances.

UPDATE: Gwen Stefani reappears on Idol, this time looking slightly more alive than last. But, seriously, how does the girl open her eyes under the weight of all that thick, black eyeliner and the double set of false eyelashes? Now, for a real age revealer — my age, as well as hers — I remember when Gwen was punk and swore she’d never go mainstream. Obviously, being a brunette does have its mental advantages, because she clearly forgot her very own words. Just as she forgot to look in the mirror before donning the dress that makes her look like one of those dolls whose fuzzy skirts are used to hide a roll of toilet paper in the homes of people with very bad taste. Interestingly, Gwen’s performance seemed cut-off midway… just like that hideous skirt.

UPDATE TWO: I’m eating a cold artichoke sans butter. Yum!

UPDATE THREE: Kelly Clarkson is back on Idol! Unlike last month’s mu-mu clad performance during “Idol Gives Back,” Kelly is looking slim and chic… and pissed. My, my. Has she been studying Melinda Doolittle for tips on how to look well and truly pissed? How odd to hear Kelly Clarkson sound as edgy and hard core as Gwen Stefani once did… despite giving up the carrot stick on peroxide look.

UPDATE FOUR: Great. The thunderstorm the weatherman said wasn’t going to happen is, in fact, happening. At least my TV is in the basement, right next to our tornado supplies.

UPDATE FIVE: Idol shares a montage of overweight folks who tried out for the show, which would be forgivable but for the camera focusing in on Margaret Fowler’s wobbling wobbly parts. Oh. My. Eyes. But, wait, it doesn’t stop there! Margaret is actually at the Idol finale — wearing the same Big Bird costume-like thing — and having been invited to the stage plants a big wet one on Ryan. I never thought I’d pity Ryan Seacrest before, but Dear Lord I do. Oh, and did I mention that they gave her the stage to read a “poem”? Nothing like s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g a 30 minute show to fit 2 hours. Then again, give the woman props: she said she’d make it to American Idol’s finale, and she was right.

UPDATE SIX: And now we are “treated” (and I use that word loosely) to an ensemble performance of “Oooh, Baby, Baby” and “Tears of a Clown” by the Top Six guys. Look, we voted all of them off. Why on earth inflict them on us yet AGAIN? Oh, wait, that’s why: so Smokey Robinson could come onstage looking like the Poster Boy for Botox and clarify just how off-key they actually were.

UPDATE SEVEN: Have I said lately how much I despise the way Paula claps with her fingers splayed back so that just her palms meet? Reminds me of when both of my kids learned, at the ripe ol’ age of 1, how to clap. I taught them not to look like dorks. Why didn’t Paula’s folks? And don’t get me started wondering how much cortisone and coke they’ve got shoved up her broken nose just to get her through tonight. Can you say “Small Fortune”? I knew you could.

UPDATE EIGHT: Ryan said something about folks complaining that Beat Box Boy didn’t get to Beat Box last night. So now they’ve brought on a Beat Boxer (Doug E. Fresh?) to Beat Box with him. Thank God for the Mute Button. I *heart* TiVo.

UPDATE NINE: Moving on from artichokes to carrot sticks. I blame Gwen Stefani.

UPDATE TEN: I think what I love more than watching the Idol finalists perform is watching their parents watch them.

UPDATE ELEVEN: The “Most Original Vocal Award.” And ‘original’ here is a bad, bad thing. Again, I’ve yet to understand the producer’s ‘logic’ of making the world endure the same crappy performances that the judges themselves found painful. So, because I care about your ears (and mine have already been assaulted beyond belief), the winner is Sholandric Stallworth. Who? Precisely.

UPDATE THE TWELFTH: I just typed it that way because I thought it made me sound smart.

UPDATE THIRTEEN: The Top 6 Girls are performing “(I Heard It Through) The Grapevine.” The only memorable thing, until Gladys Knight’s appearance? Gina’s hair was looking gooooood. But, look, once Gladys is on stage, there’s just no point in the rest of them being there. Maybe that’s why the producers wisely put the girls in the role of backup singers… which is where at least 5 of them deserve to be.

UPDATE FOURTEEN: Gladys Knight sings “Midnight Train To Georgia.” If nothing else remarkable happens on this show tonight, I’ll feel grateful for having heard this song. But, wait, there’s more! That’s right: Melinda Doolittle and LaKisha get to step up and sing with The Diva, and they do her — and themselves — proud. This is when I think American Idol truly gives back: what a grand, wonderful experience for those two women to sing with the woman who inspired them to sing. And, by the way, Gladys is still perfect after all these years.

UPDATE FIFTEEN: Oooh, look. There’s Paulie from “Rocky” looking over Ryan’s shoulder? Oh, wait a minute. No, it’s not. It’s Constantine Margolis. Who knew?

UPDATE SIXTEEN: Although Tony Bennett had a falling out with Simon earlier this season, the Maestro stands and delivers… and reminds us all why he is a true American Idol.

UPDATE SEVENTEEN: If you’re impressed with odd friendships and those who make fun of them, check someone else’s blog for feedback on this “award” category. Me? I’ve got to find a celery stick… preferably with a Bloody Mary wrapped around it.

UPDATE TO UPDATE SEVENTEEN: Remember the “bush baby” comment? The guy just won the “Best Buddy” award. But at least he has the guts to tell Simon — as he accepts his award on American Idol — that after doing the Super Bowl, the Oscar’s Red Carpet, AI’s Red Carpet, etc., that he wouldn’t be where he was if it weren’t for Simon. Oh, and American Idol sponsored a ‘bush baby’ at some zoo in the guy’s name… but they named it Simon.

UPDATE EIGHTEEN: Melinda Doolittle gets to perform with BeBe and CeCe Winans, for whom she used to sing backup. And for some reason, tonight is the night she decided to show more personality than my used tea bags. Go figure.

UPDATE NINETEEN: My, those Bloody Marys (Maries?) go fast. Unfortunately, the commercial breaks do not.

UPDATE TWENTY: Oh, did I fast-forward through a Ford ad? Oh, my. So I did. Pity I can’t fast forward through Carrie Underwood’s destruction of a beautiful song by The Pretenders. At least I still have my Mute Button. Not that it helps blind me to the fact that Carrie’s head is beginning to resemble a light bulb, or that with enough chemical peels anyone can, apparently, resemble a fetus.

UPDATE TWENTY-ONE: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Is Carrie done yet? No? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

UPDATE TWENTY-TWO: Clive Davis has to be helped on stage by some PYT. (If you aren’t old enough to know, don’t ask.) The amazing thing is that Clive Davis did not need a respirator throughout the entire six, perhaps seven paragraphs he read off the teleprompter. Blah, blah, blah, Daughtry. Blah, blah, blah Jennifer Hudson. Blah, blah, blah, Fantasia. Blah. Blah. Blah. Dear God, someone pull this man’s life support plug so he’ll shut up. Oh, wait… now we have to hear more from Carrie Underwood. Yeah, sounds like the perfect time for a smoke break.

UPDATE TWENTY-THREE: The African Children’s Choir performs… and yet I can’t help thinking that the show would have better spent the money on feeding kids in Africa, instead of flying and housing a well-paid choir to perform onstage. But that’s the Republican in me: we like it when money gets used for practical, honest purposes rather than making token gestures contrived to show what “good” we do.

UPDATE TWENTY-FOUR: Repent, because the end is near! Sanjaya and Joe Perry take the stage. The end times are nigh. (Hint: in case you’re tone deaf, you can tell by Joe Perry’s hair-tossing each and every time Sanjaya misses the note.) Oh, and they brought back the crying girl.

UPDATE TWENTY-FIVE: Greenday. At last, a reason for my ears to have endured everything since Gladys.

UPDATE TWENTY-FOUR: Taylor who? Yeah, Ryan didn’t even bother introducing him… and it’s not because he doesn’t need an introduction. After all, this is quite a big change from the stages at casinos and county fairs he’s been playing since winning AI last year.

UPDATE TWENTY-FIVE: Jordin and Ruben Studdard take the stage to sing “You’re All I Need To Get By.” I’d heard Reuben had slimmed down. Just how big had he grown? Not that I care. He’s got a voice like chocolate… sweet, silky and satisfying… but a guilty pleasure for having enjoyed.

UPDATE TWENTY-SIX: Bette Midler performs “Wind Beneath Your Wings,” sounding just as tired of singing it as I am of hearing it. At last count, I’ve endured this song over 732 times. I’ve done my penance, God. I’m stepping outside for another cigarette.

UPDATE TWENTY-SEVEN: WTF was I thinking, deciding to stick through and liveblog this whole show? Nobody — NOBODY — deserves this kind of misery. I want combat pay. I want damages for my pain and suffering. I want another Bloody Freakin’ Mary.

UPDATE TWENTY-EIGHT: American Idol clearly has something against The Beatles. First Kelly Clarkson does Sgt. Pepper’s, accompanied by Joe Perry. Then Taylor Hicks comes on to destroy John Lennon’s “Day in the Life.” But — in case the latter weren’t enough — Carrie Underwood performs an almost unrecognizable “She’s Leaving Home.” Ruben redeems it with a mostly decent performance of “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.” Then the Idol rejects all join in an ensemble performance of “With A Little Help From My Friends.” That inability to find a proper mentor so they could’ve done Beatles Week this season? Evidently, they still didn’t find one.

UPDATE TWENTY-NINE… The winner is…

Jordin Sparks

Congratulations, girl. And, might I add what a truly class act Blake Lewis is?

[tags]American Idol, American-Idol, Melinda Doolittle, Blake Lewis, Jordin Sparks, Carrie Underwood[/tags]

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At least last night was a bit more fun than usual, thanks to the distraction of Paula’s hallucinogenic-inspired French Maid uniform and the fact that, at least this time she couldn’t deny being on drugs.

Unfortunately, the only surprise of the evening involved just how appallingly awful the winning song from the “Songwriting Contest” – “This is My Now” — was. As one wag asks:

Why not just drop the last ”w” in the song title and call it ”This Is My No”?

Can I get an Amen?

What’s that — I’ve skipped over Blake and Jordin’s first two songs just to focus on that one, final, awful song at the end? That’s right. I didn’t find anything in either of their first two performances to be worth mentioning. But, ok, for those of you who didn’t catch Idol last night, it went like this:

Blake outdid himself by rehashing his earlier rendition of Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name,” complete with the exact same robot-juke box choreography and beat boxing. This time it was a bit more energetic, which might explain why his later cover of Maroon 5′s “She Will Be Loved” was the audio equivalent of Excedrin PM with a warm milk chaser.

Jordin’s rendition of Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” demonstrated that the girl with the megawatt smile can, indeed, rock. If you consider Christina Aguilera a “rocker.” Which I don’t. And, like Blake, it sounded as if Jordin had put it all out there on her first tune because her second, “Broken Wing,” damn near finished Blake’s work at putting me to sleep.

As Simon pointed out, the competition has come down to one who is a great performer and one who is a great singer. And the difference between them is vast as demonstrated when each took their turn singing that awful, awful “Now” song.

Refraining from beat boxing, Blake didn’t do anything to improve upon a crappy tune and, judging by his manic jumping up and down midway through the song, even he couldn’t wait for it to be over.

And then Jordin sang. The mark of someone with truly gifted vocals: being able to turn even that hideous tune into something moving and, although not memorable, at least a bit less excruciating.

My prediction: Jordin.

And now, in other Idol news…

Kellie Pickler’s father was arrested. Again. Poor girl — her acorn has fallen a long way from the tree. Pity she can’t use some of her earnings to put her father in a nice, padded luxury apartment where he can cease being an embarrassment to her as well as himself.

Did anyone else catch the “if-looks-could-kill” glare that Melinda Doolittle gave Jordin during her final performance last night? I never did by the “aw, shucks I’m so humble” crap.

Daughtry predicts tonight’s winner is…. his band.

John Mayer doesn’t think much of Carrie Underwood. I always did like him.

And finally, last year’s winner, Taylor Hicks (yeah, Taylor who?), is touring… and playing in pretty much the same kind of venues he played before winning American Idol. County fair, anyone?

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My recollection of last night’s performances:

Melinda Doolittle: Once again, her neck disappeared. Once again, she delivered technically good performances but somehow lacking in actual personality. The whole Tina Turner “Nutbush City Limits” rendition sounded great… but felt much like watching someone trying to be Tina Turner. (Without the same degree of physical comfort, I might add.) And her re-run of an earlier performance — complete with a little bad acting involving her jacket — was so much less engaging than the first time around. I think the repeat was a bad choice: it reminded me of the first time she’d sung “I’m a Woman,” and yet failed to impress.

Blake: His version of “Roxanne” sounded off to my ears. Flatter than Sting’s and lacking in that split-second-before-the-beat timing that stands out in anything by the Police. Loved the Maroon 5 song, though, and I wholly agree with Randy that Blake’s album needs to have that vibe. The Robin Thicke song? Didn’t like it. No, not at all. Then again, I don’t like it when Robin Thicke does it, either.

Jordin: I agree with Simon that the first song’s jazz arrangement marred the performance, but Jordin herself sang quite well. Her Donna Summers tune was uncannily well-done… for a kid who wasn’t even alive when the original blared nightly at the disco. As for her choice to reprise an earlier performance with “I (Who Have Nothing)”… unlike Melinda’s repeat, this one delivered. Pisses me off that a 17 year-old can sing with such power and emotion, but that’s precisely why I’ll be buying her album.

My prediction: Blake will go home. The Zomby thinks the teen vote will keep him there.

What’s your say?

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But, apparently, even Paula was in a giving kind of mood.

Now, wait… why is Simon smiling? Look again:

Apparently, Simon likes what he sees… even if it’s Paula.

Note to Paula: You ain’t no Janet Jackson.

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