Current Events Round-up: Crash Into Me(dia)

What a difference a week makes. Just eight days ago, Tiger Woods was still a faithful husband and the White House was still the safest place on Earth. Now, two of the planet's most beloved half-black celebrities are struggling with the fallout of two headline-hogging scandals, so much so that I needn't even summarize them here. Everybody knows what I'm talking about . . . and everybody has an opinion. I've tried not to feel anything other than amusement at these stories, because neither affect my life personally, but hearing others' opinions has inadvertently inspired me to formulate my own. Funny how that happens.

So, based on the initial evidence of Tiger's crash Thanksgiving night, my girlfriend, my best friend, and I pieced together what took most media outlets days to conclude -- that Woods' wife didn't rescue him from a wayward drive in the front yard but instead unwittingly caused it by chasing him with the golf club originally rumored to have saved his life. The information that has been released since that night has cracked Tiger's reclusive resolve as much as his car was, but none of it has surprised me. I understand how cheaters need to retain complete control over their lives, which is what that leaked voice mail to Mistress #2 was all about. Just like superheroes, cheaters lead multiple lives and do their best to keep a fine line drawn between them. That voice mail message was Tiger's eleventh hour contingency plan, like Superman's phone call to his shapeshifting buddy Martian Manhunter to do a Clark Kent impression with him in the same room as Lois Lane. Obviously, ultimately neither plan worked out very well.

I can't judge Tiger Woods for cheating on his wife, nor should anyone in the media, since they're also in show business and undoubtedly understand the pressures of 24-hour worldwide scrutiny coupled with the discreet relief frequent global travel could offer. In this context, nor will I demand the Woods family deserves its privacy; we revere celebrities and athletes and if they don't know the dangers of their lifestyles by now, they're stupid and their wealth is undeserved. (Personally, the only reason I justify celebrities having vocal political opinions is our corresponding right to know where they eat or who they're dating, but that's another story.) No, the biggest issue I have with Tiger, Tiger's burning plight is the demand that his behavior violates his place as a role model.

Again, my best friend put it best: "If Tiger Woods is a role model, what's the role?" If America's perpetually susceptible children should consider Woods a role model, it shouldn't be for marital faithfulness -- but for, I don't know . . . how about golf? Still, since I've spent a third of my life trying as a role model for kids -- for a living -- I always wonder (I did earlier this year, in fact) why actors, musicians, and athletes are role models more than teachers, or plumbers, or (gasp) lawyers. Sure, the former get paid more, but the latter actually went to school for their trades, and all achieve success by striving for excellence. That's the real life lesson offered by anyone that masters their field of work, as Tiger has: be the best at what you love to do (uh, or at what your daddy made you do, if I want to include Andre Agassi in that parable). Nowhere in his training as a golfer did he agree to remain faithful to his wife, so in his role as a golfer (the only role that has made him a household name), he should be absolved of these sins. His corporate sponsors think so . . . until this controversy actually affects his game, they probably couldn't care less.

That's why I don't, either. I'm amused, but ultimately apathetic about the outcome, which is why I'm also grateful that this story has legs. It could go on forever and I'd be endlessly entertained . . . honestly more so than I've ever been by golf.

Crashing into things has been the story of the week, between Tiger and that odd couple that snuck into the White House State Dinner. I'm equally frustrated with the media's judgment of the Salahis, and I can sum up why in one light-shedding sentence: No one has tried to get on television harder than the newscasters and commentators that have criticized the Salahis for trying hard to get on television. This hasty, hypocritical scrutiny is why they've become a laughing stock, scrambling to find some story other than the obvious truth: they just wanted to be on television. Mingle and flirt with celebrity. In a culture that nominates nobodies for stardom through singing and dancing contests, we have no right to judge anyone for jumping in front of a camera when opportunity knocks. Heck, essentially breaking into the White House takes more talent than most American Idol contestants have!

Indeed, the grasp for celebrity has become as integral to the American dream as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, from the number of followers one has on Twitter on up to the airwave-choking trend of reality television. Considering the way we adore them, who can blame us? Or do you think I'm blogging for my health? Now, the Salahis are learning the hard way that our stargazing includes an eagerness to see them fall. Interestingly, in contrast to the Woods, nobody has commented on the Salahis' teamwork in crashing the President's party. They're the model for a marriage with singular purpose! Or is the sanctity of the White House guest list more important than family values? Just what we'd expect from a Democrat, eh?

When intertwined, these tales have a clear moral, just like an Aesop fable: Be careful what you wish for. The more you strive to be on the top, the farther you can fall. If you're going to cheat on your wife or sneak into the White House State Dinner, have an alibi. Even the best laid plans have a way of crashing down around you. What a difference a week makes.

Of Being American: Idle

Unfortunately, like anything else, the further away we get from the tragic events of September 11, 2001, the less palpable our raw emotions from that day feel. A mere eight years later, local Patriot Day celebrations are simply headline fodder now, lost in the shuffle with stories about political bipartisanship, celebrity scandal, and sports scores -- you know, like it's every day we honor a sudden terrorist attack on America's soil. Oh, don't mistake my self-righteous tone with patriotic legitimacy; I barely acknowledged Patriot Day, too. Fortunately, like anything else, sometimes something has to be shoved in your face to remind you how important it is.



Last night, a coworker and I volunteered at a fundraiser in Dana Point, California that raised money for our nonprofit effort, along with the Make-A-Wish Foundation and the Wounded Warriors Project. We were excited because the experience promised little real work and the high chance for a celebrity encounter or two, and it delivered on both fronts, as I giddily met American Idol Bo Bice (and heard Brooke White and Elliot Yamin perform) and my coworker met boxing champ Sugar Ray Leonard, sportscaster Roy Firestone, and Sopranos star (and his presumed look-alike) Steve Schirripa.



Yet, despite these beloved stars taking the stage during the event's more formal ceremonies, I couldn't help but recoil at who really brought the crowd to a standing ovation: a representative from the Wounded Warriors Project, who spoke briefly but succinctly about how the non-profit came to his aid after an unexpected IED encounter blew off his legs, shattered his jaw, and ultimately resulted in some 60 surgeries to have his body repaired. The soldier spoke of the backpack Wounded Warriors initially provided him, with clothes and (most strikingly to me) a deck of cards, all of which, he claimed, mean the world when one is alone in the hospital. For a moment I put myself in his place, having a deck of cards as my only recreational luxury in the world. No comics? No toys? No blogging on the Internet? And I complain when I can't get a strong wireless connection . . .

Oh, and Charlie Duke was there, one of only twenty men who have landed on the moon! He too was warmly received, and while many were obviously enthralled with the American Idols' performances, only the Wounded Warriors Projected and Charlie Duke brought the audience to an absolute hush.



In the face of a roomful of celebrities, and how starstruck any of us can get, I was grateful for the brief wake-up call. Helps put things in perspective. From my meager voluntarism as a fellow non-profit employee, to the corporate financial contributions of an auction, to the inspiring words of real war and space heroes, to musical performance . . . when the various dimensions of everyday American life work together, despite the apparent contrasts in their global significance, something special can happen -- even if that something special is simply reminding one frequently close-minded person like me of that potential's possibility.

Unwrapping the Rhapsody, part 2: This Musical Life

A co-worker is currently graciously sharing his free trial of Rhapsody with me, a program he described as Microsoft's iTunes, which is about as much as I know about tracking down music on-line. At the risk of incriminating myself of cyber-crimes, I'm one of an admitted many that have participating in file sharing to acquire his music, but to my credit I usually only indulge in downloading tracks I've already purchased in the past, on albums I've either lost of damaged. I'm actually pretty narrow-minded when it comes to music; I still like what I've always liked, and I struggle to integrate new material into my daily playlist. So I've wondered what to do with Rhapsody, with this preciously time-sensitive all-access pass to the entire spectrum of music as we know it!

I wholeheartedly embrace my personal eras in musical taste, though some would say distaste, as I proudly pledge allegiance to bands and musicians definitively out of style. For example, I grew up on the Monkees, period. Some still debate their validity as a band, including Micky Dolenz himself, who, in his introduction on CMT's Gone Country, said he played the drummer on a television show, despite their tours as a band and his legitimate talent! While my friends embraced MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice, I transitioned into the likes of Bryan Adams, Sheryl Crow, and the Crash Test Dummies, when they were still dubbed rock 'n roll. Yes, today's adult contemporary was yesterday's rock 'n roll, in those last gasp years before "alternative," "punk," and "emo"* became the rebel genres of choice. A friend introduced me to Face to Face, and their self-righteousness struck a chord with me (heh) that both matched and transcended their thrashing pace -- so they remain my one and only alternative/punk favorite from those wayward early '90s.

(*I just recently heard of the "screamo" genre, the prodigal son of punk and emo that apparently best describes the likes of Dashboard Confessional, whose "Vindicated" from the Spider-man 2 soundtrack has always been my favorite musical companion to Tobey Maguire's pouty Peter Parker.)

While few would still proudly claim Bryan Adams a personal favorite, the late '90s remain my most enduring and universally accepted era, with the Dave Matthews Band and the Barenaked Ladies becoming linchpins in my playlist. Their balance of frivolity, i.e. DMB's sexual hyperbole and BNL's frequent lyrical goofiness, with the seriousness of autobiographical tunes like "Warehouse" and "What a Good Boy," respectively, best reflect the time a boy leaves the nest of home and high school to become a man at college -- which is exactly when I embraced them. David Gray shortly followed with his White Ladder, the album that made hit "Babylon" an overplayed guilty pleasure.

Now, my love for karaoke sckewed my musical development a bit, as I found myself most comfortable singing songs like Billy Joel's "Piano Man" and most recently John Cougar Mellancamp's "The Authority Song," tunes that I didn't consider personal favorites until they won me some acclaim onstage. Hearing those old radio hits coming out of my own mouth gives their otherwise dated lyrics new personal meaning; now, I liken Bon Jovi's Tommy and Gina to a modern day Romeo and Juliet in both romantic clout and lyrical significance! Like when you shake a bedsheet to roll and smooth out across a mattress, karaoke kicked up the wrinkle of those forgettable '80s and '90s jams so I could be comfortable with them in my mp3 player, too.

In recent years, I've embraced the ambient sounds of the Postal Service and Keane, the folksy blends of Farmer Not So John and Eddie from Ohio, and a smattering of odd pop jams like Li'l Mama's "Lipgloss" to round out an ironically eclectic yet still painfully narrow-minded playlist. So, the question remains -- What am I supposed to do with the whole world of music at my fingertips?

Well, firstly, I've collected my favorite artists' latest stuff. Let's face it: everybody hates their favorite bands' new stuff until it becomes just another part of the old stuff. I felt this way about David Gray's White Ladder album; it was so good that I was sure his follow-ups would pale in comparison, and I didn't bother. I mined some of his older material through re-releases and found it inconsistent, an artist trying to find his voice, so I figured White Ladder was appropriately as far as he could climb. Boy, was I wrong! Tracks like "Alibi," "Ain't No Love," and "Slow Motion" from his album Life in Slow Motion have become instant favorites. I've even found some incredible live versions of these tunes on YouTube, and would you believe that "Alibi" actually has a story-driven music video? Whatever happened to those days?

Yes, also, live tracks of old favorites have become a must to download. The Dave Matthews Band and Barenaked Ladies are infamous for their available live material, but live albums from Toad the Wet Sprocket, R.E.M., and Counting Crows have breathed new life into the overplayed radio hits I fondly remember from the '90s. See, this is where the branching out begins. Knowing these bands only from what I've heard on the radio, I actually begin to enjoy their other lesser known tracks. In turn, the band's overall musical identity, not what I had expected, broadens my pallet to other, similar tastes. Ideally, I should experience these past three decades in a way I never have before, as if I'd always owned these albums, saw these bands live, and lived a more comprehensive musical experience. The key word is ideally.

The thing about downloading music on either side of the legal spectrum is the threat that "the album" loses its identity, and by proxy, the band does, too. Imagine if "Money" was the only track you'd ever heard from Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. Does that hit represent the psychedelic context of the album as a whole? Even if the album weren't conceptual like that, consider this: If "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)" from the Robin Hood soundtrack was the only Bryan Adams song you'd ever heard (and for many, it is -- and thanks, last week's episode of Family Guy, for nailing that stake in the coffin), you'd never know of his earlier rip-roarin' tunes like "Summer of '69" or "Kids Wanna Rock." Downloading an artist's work by disjointed track is like trying to appreciate a painting via one piece of a puzzle -- and that's where the music industry is headed.

Worse, consider how American Idol operates. The mission: We're going to find the next big pop star by making contestants sing other people's songs. Then judges throw out criticisms like, "We don't know who you are as an artist," and, "That was very karaoke." Listening to some of the top artists and hits that Rhapsody has to offer . . .?

I couldn't have said it better myself. Ever hear that old saying, "Stick with what you know?" Right now, it's music to my ears.

Unwrapping the Rhapsody, part 1: American Idol Killed the Video Star

Blogger's note: I'm updating this post to include commentary on this season of American Idol in general, and to kick-off a series of posts about music.

I heard a piece of David Cook's new single on Good Day L.A. last week, and I was extremely disappointed to think the tune was actually something by Creed or Nickelback before I saw the American Idol's name on the screen. Yes, American Idol has produced another completely unoriginal superstar, much to the dismay of this viewer, one who actually watched last season avidly and excitedly. Releasing this single in the midst of a new season has turned me off to the show now, as I'd rather not invest in another of anything. I want to hear something new, or at least distinguished from something else on the radio. Raise the bar, American Idol, don't just meet it!

Conversely, that night TMZ showed a clip of David Archuleta playing his hit "Crush" in a shopping mall parking lot. At least he's embraced his status as commercial mascot. The punishment fits the crime.

However, these season seven developments pale in comparison to the injustices of season eight, particularly the latest installments featuring the Hollywood week elimination process. Hollywood week, also dubbed "Hell Week" by no one except American Idol itself, is oft forgotten in the shadow of the freak show of the series' now infamous audition episodes and the top 12, viewer vote driven countdown to super-stardom. During Hell Week, contestants are assigned to groups, then allowed to play instruments and sing solo, so the judges can whittle them down to the aforementioned dozen. During these second-tier auditions (lest "going to Hollywood" becomes confused with "becoming Hollywood"), the show openly admits that performers operate on maybe two hours' sleep and spend much of their time in wait for their precious two minutes onstage. When winners and losers are divided into large waiting rooms, they're denied furniture, literally leaning on each other before the judges descend to announce their fate. I haven't seen any catering tables in these rooms, either, which makes me wonder what kinds of conditions these contestants really endure to become the music industry's flavor of the month.

Honestly, I've seen news footage of child sex trade operations with better accommodations.

Last night was the last straw, as Simon and company demanded that contestants "sing for their survival." As the four of them sat in their mansion atop large red thrones, they essentially demanded the royal court bring them monkeys to dance for their amusement. (Aside: I have a problem with the newest judge, as well, as she serves only as a dark reflection of Simon's rampant arrogance and testosterone. She has no problem condemning his preference of the "pretty ones" while instantly dismissing Bikini Girl for her self-induced exploitation, as if that isn't judging the surface, either. I miss the illusion of the judges as a trinity, with Simon the father, Randy the approachable Son, and Paula the consumer of holy spirits.) Contestants that made it through praised and thanked their captors, completely oblivious that they aren't perceived as artists or musicians, but dollar signs. For many, getting dismissed is the best thing that can happen to them.

(Interlude: To "Norman," or whatever your real name is -- You are a good singer, and every time Simon questions your identity, you should insist that Paul McCartney, Garth Brooks, and many other top selling musicians have produced albums as different "characters." Andy Kaufman's Tony Clifton is a great example, as is perhaps Joaquin Phoenix, too, if his latest foray into hip hop is really the publicity stunt many assume. Further, it's not like American Idol isn't already a false-face construction crew; look at how many incarnations Kelly Clarkson, their first and best, has exhibited in her nine year career!)

The sad, ultimate irony of American Idol is that the latest music star is being produced via television, and that's how I'm hearing their winner's hits first. This months' long look at their respective climb to celebrity doesn't hit any hit notes, either. What are these singers aspiring to when their very grasp at the music industry is slowly but surely choking it to death?

The Screening Process: Recent Thoughts About Television and Film, part 1 -- The Boob Tube

A few nagging tidbits about television and film have plagued my thoughts lately, so I've decided to purge them here for your enjoyment!

* While I was as compelled by the last season of American Idol as the squeaky teeny-bopper, I'm half-watching this season -- literally, since it airs on the Wednesdays I usually participate in a local poetry open mic. Even if I did reserve Hump Day for the latest round of Idol antics, a moment from season eight's premiere may have turned me off to the hunt for America's next diva altogether. Rocker Randy Madden betrayed his sensitive side when he cried for the camera, and after his ambitious performance of Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer," the judges said that Randy hadn't learned any of the industry's hard lessons, that he wasn't qualified based on a lack of experience and presumably its subsequent disappointments. In the same segment, they let a sixteen-year-old girl through to Hollywood, based on, gasp, her singing voice. The judges sugar-coating their critique with claims that life lessons are necessary for stardom when in the same fifteen minutes they open the door for a middle class teenager with nothing to lose . . . is hypocritical. It cheapens the show, even these first few episodes apparently dedicated to superficial value judgements based on a virtual freak show of wanna-be singers. Randy wasn't "make it to Hollywood" material, but at least guys like him know what they want. Me, I don't know how much entertainment I can derive from watching them fail anymore, especially in the face of judges that don't even know why they're there.

* Prison Break has been cancelled, probably for its own good. I've read the episodes that have been filmed will air in April, but the series finale hasn't been shot yet and maybe never will be. As a fan of the show, of course I'm anxious to see how these four seasons reach their end, and while such an action-packed show would undoubtedly demand a significant budget for a finale, I don't see why Fox wouldn't deem it worthy. First of all, a concise conclusion makes for a great complete Prison Break boxed set; second, a few more episodes might cement syndication sales. I mean, who would watch the reruns knowing that it all just leaves you hanging? Finally, since the show has always been an allegory for overcoming others' perspectives (the whole reason Lincoln was successfully framed and convicted for killing the Vice President's brother was because of his lifestyle as a thug, plain and simple), a series finale makes symbolic sense. We viewers have been chasing after the show's dangling threads for years; now, here we are, face to face with the fugitive that is Prison Break in the proverbial leaky sewer tube, except, unlike Tommy Lee Jones, we do care. Don't leave us hanging here, Fox! Like Michael Scofield, learn that hard lesson: finish what you start, no matter what!

* Sean Hannity recently interviewed Rush Limbaugh about President Barack Obama's economic plans. I didn't watch the interview, and I don't know if I have to, because I can predict how they feel and really can't get past the conversation's very concept. Its logistics. Hannity interviewing Rush is like a person getting interviewed by his own echo. It's like my left testicle high-fiving my right. It's like that verse in the Bible that says the Bible is the inspired word of God because the Bible tells us so! (That's 2 Timothy 3:16, folks.) Of course, the interview wasn't really a chance for Rush to share his thoughts on just-inaugurated President Obama -- he has a nationally syndicated talk show for that. No, sitting down with Sean Hannity was a purely militant move, akin to a platoon beholding its field commander chatting with their staff sergeant. The message is loud and clear: "As the newly elected minority, the more of us in a room, the louder we can be!" Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity: Keeping the can in Republican!

* In the wake of the holiday season, I've realized how important The Late Show with David Letterman is in my life. Long-time friends will remember my "Top 10 Boy" alter ego in high school, but on a much more personal level, unlike other television staples Letterman has adhered to a few traditions on his show that have become integral to my sense of the holiday spirit. For instance, on Thanksgiving night, when Dave began the "guess the pie" segment with his mom from Indiana, I nodded fondly, familiarly. Then again, when Jay Thomas tossed a football to knock down the Christmas tree meatball in December, I smirked knowingly, remembering I had seen the bit some years before. Dave's always been a sensitive guy, but especially since his heart attack, September 11, and the birth of his son, his vulnerability for tradition is apparent now more than ever -- and I'm all the more appreciative of his comedy as a result. When I first moved to California, I thought I should pledge an allegiance with Leno by way of coast, but Dave proves it every year: home is where the heart is. I couldn't deny my own late night nature for too long.

Now, these thoughts aren't in order of importance or anything, but I consciously concluded the diatribe on a high note. Needless to say, when it comes to the boob tube, I usually always have something to get off my chest . . . but the silver screen isn't safe, either! To be continued!

A Head of My Time?

Last night's third season premiere of Survivorman was everything I'd hoped it would be. If you aren't familiar with Survivorman, on the Discovery Channel Friday nights, the show's website sums up its premise most concisely: "No food, no shelter, no fresh water, no tools . . . no camera crew. One man -- alone in the wild for seven days." Sure, several shows mimic this concept, but Les was the first to launch it successfully, first in his native Canada then here in the United States. He often simulates outdoor excursions gone wrong, like in last night's new episode, in which Stroud role-played a lost backpacker in the Sierra Nevadas. By far his most comprehensive exploration of survival, Les not only implemented his usual food-capturing, fire-starting, and shelter-building innovations, but also discussed the psychology of getting lost (which reminded me of Blair Witch, still lingering in the back-brain after Halloween) and the logistics of the local search and rescue office. In a world ruled by cell phones and wireless Internet connections, is it strange to feel reassured by the reminder that one can still get lost, even if the results are fatal? One part entertainer, one part educator, Survivorman does his best to both proudly boast and reassuringly alleviate the thought.

Yet the contents of last night's episode are only part of why Survivorman remains in my thoughts today. I've anticipated few things on television lately. Yes, Fox's Monday nights are still beloved, thanks to Prison Break and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, but if this week's episodes were the series' last, I don't think I'd mourn too much. In fact, both shows are written in such a way that they seem prepared for that inevitability -- that, as much as Michael's quest to unravel Scylla and Sarah's attempt to save her son for the impending apocalypse are respectively multifaceted, they're each just a single revelation from culminating in an explosive finale. Also, I'm moderately excited about next week's premiere of Batman: The Brave and the Bold on Cartoon Network, but I'm equally skeptical of its depth and longevity, as well. Alas, the end of the Presidential election means no more political partisan antagonism for awhile, either; the fight has actually gone inward, at least for the losing Republicans, which strikes me as just a rerun for all of the liberal criticism they received months ago -- in other words, boring. So, Stroud's search for some morsel of food in the Sierra Nevadas is somewhat reminiscent of my flipping through the cable channels these days. His is just more exciting to watch.

When it comes to what entertains me, I was simply born in the wrong decade . . . which is something I've heard plenty of people say, so I claim no originality in that regard. Though, I think I can pinpoint the disconnect; had I been born in 1959 instead of 1979, the original releases of my most favorite acts in entertainment would've corresponded with the age in which I liked them. Never mind that I would've been two years old when Spider-man premiered in Amazing Fantasy #15 (August 1962); the argument for comics can be made in any decade, and in fact had I been more attune to comics culture as a kid, I could've been shaped by the likes of The Dark Knight Returns and The Watchmen in real time rather than retrospectively. No, I'm thinking about the Monkees, whose 1966 debut would've paralleled my love for them when I was six-years-old. (Their 20 year reunion in '86 was great, including my seeing them in concert in Connecticut, but no Nesmith . . .? The first time is always the most memorable.) A genuine love for the Monkees then is like the kids' fanaticism for any American Idol now. Now, when I proclaim myself a Monkees fan, folks cock an eyebrow and ask, "They didn't even play their own instruments, right?" For the record, the Monkees were a multifaceted franchise that began as a television show, transitioned into a failed feature length film, and still continues to be a successful pop rock band, if only when the guys perform separately.

In fact, Davy Jones is performing in Orange County tonight. When I first researched his tour schedule over a year ago, I had just met Peter Tork, which was just on the heels of my meeting Micky Dolenz, so I was stoked to find out when the other two might be around. Unfortunately, tickets to Davy's show range from $30-$60, and since I've seen the Monkees perform three times not including those solo Micky and Peter shows, I'm less interested in the music than I am the meet-and-greet. I've called the venue twice and reps can't confirm if he'll be signed and picture-taking with fans. So, I've opted for this Wednesday's commemorative showing of Head, the Monkees' movie, which will precede a Q & A with Peter and Davy. I don't know if they'll mingle with fans there, either, but the opportunity is too definitively Monkees to miss -- definitely the better of the two upcoming options on a budget. Why must the circumstances of adulthood often restrain the fulfillment of long-standing childhood dreams?

Further, had I been born in '59, I would've been in my teens in the '70s and experienced the hijinks of Andy Kaufman as he first hatched them, rather than vicariously through the release of Man on the Moon and Bob Zmuda's book. Like this Wednesday's showing of Head, I was lucky enough to attend my generation's definitive Andy Kaufman event, the "Andy Kaufman: Dead or Alive" variety show at the Hollywood House of Blues in 2004 . . . but I wasn't smart enough to stay until the bitter end, which including a Kaufman walking tour and an invitation to the Bunny Ranch. This comes to mind because of a recent ad in the L.A. Weekly featuring Tony Clifton and the website for Two Boots pizzeria, which has a special slice named for Kaufman's lounge act alter ego. Initially, I'd hoped for a real Clifton appearance, but tomorrow's supposed press conference may be better -- fortuitous that I found it searching for the Two Boots connection. Perhaps his is one phenomenon that plays better in retrospect, considering the myth of Andy's resurrection . . .

Such are the thoughts that assure me of my place in history. In the heat of the moment, one never knows if their pop culture passions are fleeting (like, say, any American Idol after season one), but years later, one can benefit from the fellowship that comes with nostalgia. For example, sure, I wish I could've experienced the success of the Monkees in real time, I prefer the older crowd that will attend the Head showing today versus the screaming, teeny-bopper masses from their '60s concerts. Now, Monkees fans, or Kaufman fans, can enjoy developments with the clout of hindsight, with the relief that their beloved personalities are still influential if only through that pre-established work. Of course, this is the "nurture" side of the argument. I wonder, since my parents were born in the '50s and experienced these things in my stead, could it be that their absorption of it all instilled an appreciation of it all in me? Through . . . osmosis? Could it be . . . natural? Yes, I'm just trying to survive in a habitat of my own outdated tastes. Screw the Sierra Nevadas, Les. Trying getting out this one.

I, Dull, Again

Last night’s American Idol expulsions were completely expected, and in fact I’ve determined that this entire season has become entirely and tiredly predicable. The Presidential race is almost more interesting. Early on in this stage of the competition, young David Archuleta was dubbed “the one to beat,” and while I feel like Simon’s input has become trite and self-serving, America embraced this opinion and is obviously willing to see it to completion.

I have enjoyed these contestants’ alternative arrangements to some of America’s pop culture standards, including Archuleta's famous "Imagine," what’s-his-name’s emo spin on Lionel Richie’s "Hello," and Brooke White’s acoustic "Love is a Battlefield," one of my top five favorite ‘80s songs of all time. (I’ll save that list for another entry.) Since her voice couldn’t mimic Pat Benatar’s credence, she essentially took the tune’s lyrics literally and turned the song into a wartime mantra, and, assuming the contestants are solely responsible for their respective arrangements, I was impressed with her creativity. David Noriega’s "Tainted Love" wasn’t unique but I enjoyed it, obviously more so than Simon, who slammed the rendition perhaps in a strategic move to force out the unpredictably "spicy" hothead. I confess, I liked him, though I shuddered when the judges often awkwardly praised him for just being himself. Had he made the top twelve and so on, it would’ve been a matter of time before Randy blurted, "Yo, dog, listen, uhm . . . You’re gay! And, like, it’s all good!" For a trio of supposed industry experts, they sure do struggle with the rich complexities of a potential artist’s multifaceted personality.

So we did the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, yet rumors reveal that next week’s theme is Beatles tracks. No ‘90s? Is Paula afraid of the ramifications? Would the combination of hearing Chakeezy’s rendition of Boys II Men’s "Water Runs Dry" and the chemicals she obviously abuses simply to stay alive propel her into a state of irredeemable dementia? Is she afraid Randy would dub her foamy squeals “too pitchy?”

Bottom line is, if that happened, I’d agree with Simon. Too cabaret. Too predictable.

Supplemental: I googled "Chakeezy" to check its spelling, and the engine asked me if I meant "cheesy." 'Nuff said!

I, Dull

Second impression of American Idol's top 11 male vocalists?

Still the most metrosexual group of guys I've ever seen, and I've sung karaoke at gay bars.

Interestingly, the last singer, to whom Simon has obviously already bequeathed the spoils, was noticeably shunned by his peers during the ending credits. The guys took the stage as a group and did a round of end-of-SNL-like self-congratulations, but if you look carefully, you'll notice heartthrob David Archuleta standing on the fringe, not quite gay or old enough to mesh. I wonder what his days are like, taking promotional pictures with the group, especially now that he's been dubbed the one to beat.

I'm sure these guys have plenty of Coca-Cola at their disposal. How 'bout a counselor?

Fox TV Round-up

Fox, Monday night.

If Prison Break never aired another episode, I’d be completely happy with that.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike the series. In fact, I liked this past season the best. Each season has had its distinguishing characteristics, from the first’s planned escape, to the second’s fugitive treasure hunt, but the third season, dropping Michael and company in the no holds barred, perpetually sweaty Panama, truly tested each enduring character’s real mettle. Watching Lincoln strong arm his way through his brother’s master plan was an exciting exercise in the timeless brains over brawn dilemma, and beholding Bellick’s and Mahone’s “badge syndrome” disintegrate into pure bestial self-preservation was a justified delight two years in the making. Of course, Wentworth’s Scoffield remains the world around which these tough guys orbit, and his emotional stability in the face of frustration and death is admirable -- the most unbelievable element in a world of aligning coincidence and conspiracies. This Panama prison brought out his best and worst, and sans tattooed pre-planning, put his intelligence and integrity to the utmost test. He passed.

So, the season finale, and we have Michael pursuing the conspiracy that framed his brother and killed his beloved. Though many questions are still unanswered, again, I’d be satisfied with this as a resolution, if only to affirm that Scoffield is the kind of guy that always needs a cause. If he, Lincoln, LJ, and Sara rode off into the sunset, I don’t think he’d be happy for long. Come on, this is the guy that tattooed a cryptic blueprint on the better part of his body and help up a bank at gunpoint to save his brother. Can anyone walk away from such a righteous, complicated project and not suffer some post-traumatic stress? Further, Lincoln, LJ, and Sofia look like a nice happy family now, and though Sucrae is back in jail, he wasn’t exactly innocent in the first place. That T-Bag has become the self-proclaimed king of said prison, well, talk about a pig in . . . you know.

If Prison Break fails to pull anything off successfully, it’s increasing tourism for Panama. Based on this season, Panama is one half naïve tourist trap, one half corrupted justice system. I’d hate to short change the guy from whom I’m buying that snow globe -- I’d end up holding T-Bag’s pocket.

Fox, Tuesday night.

American Idol. Last night’s offering of male performers was the worst selection of “top 12” candidates I’ve seen since this show began. First of all, ranging in age from 17 to 29, all of them struck me as incredibly metrosexual, if not blatantly gay. I don’t have a problem with that, but when Simon insists that the purpose of the series is to find a contemporary pop star, he must realize that a homosexual singer couldn’t appeal to widespread mainstream audience. Remember what happened to Clay Aiken when just the rumor of homosexuality clouded his career? He certainly wasn’t invisible, or invincible, or whatever his hit song was . . . and he’s proven the critics wrong by becoming a Broadway star.

Further, is assigning the first night’s performances a ‘60s theme the best way to find a contemporary singer? I’m sick of Simon criticizing singers as “too karaoke” to make it big. Yes, Simon, your whole show is the very definition of karaoke -- vocalists performing to pre-recorded songs performed by a canned studio band. The inclusion of a few guitar players doesn’t elevate Idol to real Hollywood audition status. When it comes to music, I idolize artists that are capable of capturing their emotions via originally written material. By the time Idol gets to its top five contestants, the kids should have to write their own stuff. I guarantee you’ll end up with at least one better than “Since U Been Gone.” At least they’ll take the time to spell the whole word.

I do often agree with Simon’s other critiques, particularly his oft eye rolls toward Paula Abdul. Last night, she praised a singer for his many colors. Listen, Pocahontas, you’re making me wonder if there’s more than Coke in that big red cup of yours, if you’re “seeing” the music. Randy was on Letterman last night praising your new song -- Why don’t you try to become a real idol before judging others’ capabilities? When you sang “Opposites Attract,” were you talking about you and, uhm, talent?

The contestants are obviously over the judges anyway. They got everything they needed from America’s favorite pop culture trinity -- it’s up to us, the voting public, now. Good thing we’re already in a voting mood, what with Obama and McCain whetting our appetite for grander schemes. Now, there’s a couple of men’s men.