Just like Fraulein Sally Bowles, trying way too hard with her green nails and her spider eyelashes, Idol tried tonight to convince us that SOMETHING BIG was going on. Jordin was there with Chris Brown to sing their insipid Top 10 hit "No Air." The presidential candidates sent messages of hope. Forest Whitaker and his wife were back again. (Okay, maybe the last one's not big. I got nothing.) And I suppose if I ever cared at all about Michael Johns, I'd have been shocked and outraged that he exited stage left, cravat in hand, before the likes of Syesha Mercado or Kristy Lee Cook. Heaven forfend! Only glitch is, I didn't care. At all.
Truth is, Michael Johns was never gonna win this thing anyway. He was practically a senior citizen among this crowd, putting in time at Dolly Parton concerts when David A. was still a fetus. And he was wildly uneven, delivering one solid performance and then a string of so-so to "What the hell?" weeks before knocking another one out of the park (dating all the way back to Hollywood week where he killed with Bohemian Rhapsody and then skated into the Top 12 with shaky week after shaky week before finally rebounding with some more solid Queen and a soulful, bluesy Dolly week). And despite what the show was trying to sell, not all that hot.
So the trend continues of one guy out, one girl out with two throw away boots left before things get ugly. Surprisingly, those boots seem to be Syesha and Carly. Our Irish lassie had better get her Spanxx clad behind in gear and deliver one powerhouse performance if she wants to unseat Kristy Lee from the top 5.
Sadly, I think I've discovered my threshhold for AI episodes in one week (and previously I would've sworn there was no upper limit!). I spent half the evening watching Survivor (which was excellent!) and half the evening wondering how long it's going to take before Carly and D'Archie totally break. (They look bad, y'all!) Are we ever going down to a half hour long results show? Because I need it, really really a lot.
Maybe next week, we'll be lucky? Sing it, Ms. Bowles.
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