The Nittany Turkey

Primarily about Penn State football, this is a tale told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

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Idol’s Last Stand

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Tonight, they have to get it all in, squeezing the last dollar out of each of their sponsors while somehow making us think we’re being entertained by two hours of commercials punctuated by the occasional live performance and finally, an announcement of the winning wannabe at 10:02 (just to piss off the DVR folks). Then, mercifully, we’ll be done until January 2009.

The entertainment charade will involve the Jonas Brothers and Carrie Underwood (thankfully not Miley Cyrus, as I originally reported—my bad for picking up on a blogosphere rumor), along with cameos by Idols past and plenty of forgettable banter by Seacrest and the judges. We’ll probably see a performance by the aggregated top eight Idol contestants, as a preview and promo for their forthcoming Idol Tour. Perhaps there will be a sprinkling of out-takes and funny auditions. There will be “surprises.” But mostly there will be commercials.

Archuleta and Cook will be placed on public display like zoo animals and will occasionally asked, in so many words, just how brown their shorts are. The sadistic rite of making them wait to find out will be played out as painfully as it has been for each of the past six seasons. When, in the waning buy ativan 2mg online seconds of the show, the idol of the universe is announced, there’ll be just enough time to say goodbye.

Most people expect David Archuleta to be this year’s American Idol but anything can happen, as we’ve seen in prior years. I have never, ever been able to rationalize Taylor Hicks’ win over Katharine McPhee and it seemed that Bo Bice had a strong lead over Carrie Underwood, yet Carrie won. But that was then and this is now. Last year, we all knew that Jordin Sparks would triumph over Blake Lewis. (Seriously, can you remember anything that either of them sang?) This year, we all sorta know that David Archuleta will wind up on top.

If David Cook somehow pulls out the win, justice will be served. Anyway you slice it, Cook will have greater potential as a recording artist than PeeWee. It doesn’t matter anymore who wins and who doesn’t. They’re all winners at this level. Doors will open for them now.

It Ain’t Over ’til It’s Over

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Despite the optimistic headline, which I purloined from Yogi Berra, David Cook better be hoping that a veritable shitload of 9-13 year-old voters suddenly develop osteoarthritis of the dialing fingers. Otherwise, he’ll be subjected to yet another of my purloined vapid aphorisms: If you ain’t first, you’re last. (Attribution to Ricky Bobby for that one.)

Yea, verily, any glimmer of hope David Cook might have stubbornly clung to is fading rapidly to black. To remain consistent with the silly boxing metaphor that formed the framework for Tuesday night’s American Idol sing-off, Cook needed to score a knockout in the final round, but could not. Baby Archuleta was consistently good, albeit sappy, as usual. The audience ate him up. It was Archuleta, not Cook, who had the eye of the tiger, although you wouldn’t know that because his eyes were closed a lot.

The corny boxing theme was a stretch, even for American Idol. They couldn’t afford Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed, so they got Michael Buffer, the venerable boxing announcer whose signature line is “Lllllet’s get ready to rrrrrumbbblllllllle!” and they got Jim Lampley, longtime ringside TV announcer on HBO’s Saturday night boxing, who gave us taped boxing-style analyses but spared us the Tale of the Tape and Punchstat. Cute, but inane. I’m bored, so I’ll employ the metaphor here as well, no doubt confounding those of you who know nothing about the sweet science.

The night started out very much favoring Cook, who appeared confident and relaxed in the opening interview, whereas Archuleta seemed overwhelmed by it all. Once they got around to singing, however, the tables quickly turned. The conspiracy theorists might suggest that the fix was in, that songs were chosen for the pipsqueak that would shed a good light on him whereas Cook’s songs were duds.

Well, be that as it may, the final song of the evening was the performer’s choice, and Cook blew it with a number that would be better reserved for his forthcoming album. As Simon Cowell said, he needed to generate the kind of excitement that he had generated with “Billie Jean” earlier in the competition. He needed to sing the number that would leave the audience wanting more instead of singing the one reserved for the encore, the one designed to take the edge off the crowd and prevent accidents on the way home. Cook floated like a butterfly, but he did not sting like a bee.

“¡No más!” intoned Cook, seated on his stool in his corner as he failed to come out for the third round.

Cook needed to know that unless you’re already the champ, you have to claw your way to the top. You can’t sit on your laurels. You cannot back off for a second.

Alas, he wasn’t hungry enough. He bobbed and weaved his way through three rounds, leaving the bout to the scorecards. The judges were not favorably disposed. The scorecards declared Archuleta the winner and it was not a split decision.

I wonder how Harold Lederman scored it on his card.

Of course, we’ll have to await the voters’ verdict, but it appears to this Turkey that Wednesday’s two-hour extrava-hype-o-rama-ganza will culminate with Archuleta being awarded the flyweight title belt, much to my chagrin, and—who knows?—perhaps Larry Merchant will stuff a microphone in his face as his handlers hoist him on their shoulders, high above the ring.

Rumor has it that we’ll be seeing Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers sometime during the two hours to break the monotony of the commercials. I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen a lot of 15 year-olds who are hotter than Hanna Montana. She’s got a lot of gum exposure going on there. She seems to be a media product. Just thought I’d get my two cents in about that.

I ought to Tivo the damn thing and fast-forward it all the way through the hype to the final verdict, which in my less than humble opinion, is anticlimactic. Long live King David.

The Voice vs. The Edge

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American Idol has boiled down to leave two men standing, and one stretches the masculinity point, as he has not yet started to shave, but with //www.groenerekenkamer.com you don’t need to worry about your body hair anymore. It will be pop versus rock, “The Voice” versus “The Edge,” David Archuleta versus David Cook. Chief Justice Simon Cowell predicts that the final competition this week will be “a humdinger.”

The majority voting demographic, aged 9-13, upon hearing the word “humdinger,” told their parents and teachers that Simon said a bad word. But I digress.

Last week, the expected finally happened. Syesha Mercado could have sung perfectly and passionately but she still would have been out. As it were, she screwed up in song choice and faltered in her performance, all duly noted by the vapid judges who seemed to want to push her out in favor of a David vs. David finish. The voters complied with the judges’ wishes.

This will be the first all-male final since Season Two’s Ruben Studdard vs. Clay Aiken showdown, if you consider Clay Aiken male. Studdard won that one, but Aiken wound up with arguably the better career to date.

Mark Perigard of The Boston Herald thinks that being runner-up would suit the little shaver Archuleta better, in that the little pipsqueak isn’t yet ready for the grueling demands of Idoldom, especially if his meddling stage father keeps his finger in the pie. Perigard astutely posits that the more mature Cook, a 25 year-old former bartender, is fully cognizant of the onerous path ahead and has already resigned himself to the Faustian bargain he will have to make as an American Idol.

Cook’s performing style better suits this Turkey’s preferences—much better. That in itself might doom him to runnerupitude. Chris Daughtry (now calling himself just Daughtry), with a similar, albeit more expansive and harder-edged rock style, was the Turkey’s favorite a few years ago for the same reason, which undoubtedly gave him the Turkey Kiss of Death, at least with respect to the Idol competition. I hope I don’t doom Cook similarly.

Archuleta, with the smarmy voice, the closed eyes, the look of a small town, junior high talent night performer trying to please his dad. That characterization is more fact than folly. Although he has been the judges’ favorite from the start, his potential is limited to being the next Perry Como.

“Whodat?” saith the teeny weenies.

Well, maybe every generation needs a Perry Como. Or a Josh Groban, maybe.

Cook and Archuleta will each sing three songs during the show: one to be selected by industry legend Clive Davis, one by viewers of the show via an online poll, and, finally, one will be chosen by the contestants, either a new song or one previously sung in the competition.

The voters, of course, get to decide who wins this thing, but Idol’s producers seem to be subtly steering things Archuleta’s way. It has been leaked out in a veiled manner by Nigel Lythgoe to Ryan Seacrest, on the latter’s morning radio show, that the guest stars on Tuesday night will be “some young brothers” and “the biggest star in the world.” On-line pundits seem to be speculating that these references are to the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus, respectively. If this is to be the case, it will satisfy a younger, more Archuleta sympathetic crowd.

Will this year’s idol be a true star, as former Idols Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood turned out to be? Or will he be a dud, like Taylor Hicks or last year’s winner, Jordin Sparks? No one can say. The only thing predictable is the music industry’s unpredictability.

And with that, let the overhyped battle begin.