So the theme for last week was gay songs — I mean showtunes. Immediately my heart sank — I guess I’m just not that gay.

At this point in the master game, either you were there, riveted to the set, knowing who’s who (as in previous weeks) — or you could care less and have stumbled onto this page after doing a search for some sexy eyecandy. You dawg.

Little Scott was up first last night. I liked his approach to The Impossible Dream. Like Vonzell, he took the traditonal spin and made it work. He looked good out of the circus-tent shirts and in a suit — though I’m still waiting for his debut in a kaftan, nestling a small chihuahua to his side. Scott’s an easy target because he’s overweight and looks like a serial killer (in other words he looks like the average Amerikan), but I’m only tracking his talent — and it’s there, waiting to merge with the right songs. Next to Diana Degarmo, he’s the only Idolette I’ve picked up the phone and called in a vote for. So go figure.

Paula accidentally nailed Jon-Benet Carrie by calling her a “well-oiled machine.” Yes Carrie did a spot-on, phone-in job on Hello, Young Lovers — but the tune is so anachronistic. I’m certain young viewers will think it’s something that bubbled up from the Lawrence Welk Time Machine, and look unfavorably on her talent — and that’s a good thing. Bottom three — there she goes! Here’s where I lose whatever pitance of journalistic integrity I’ve ever fiegned, and declare that I can not stand this robot. I want her unplugged, dismantled and carted off in an old refrigerator box — right now.

Constantine — who is getting a wee bit too high on his own ass-fumes — did a crazy hip-jazz twirl on My Funny Valentine and went pop-eyed and dazed for a few moments when the camera spat back his self-love lube. Vocally, overall, he was kind of lackluster. There’s always been something too Broadway sounding about Consty’s delivery for me — and Randy was right when he called him on his “rocker” persona. He is better suited to showtunes. I do give him big props for consistently taking risks — and keeping me interested in the competition. He’s moved from Sting to the Partridge Family to Bonnie Raitt with an artist’s flair. I dig that about him. (Plus he’s nastee sexy — in a snakey sort of way).

If Anthony isn’t given a ticket home after last night then something is definitely corrupt on Idol Island. I can’t take another week of his drippy singing. He attempted to Climb Every Mountain but immediatley disappeared into the bottom range — for almost a full minute (an eternity in Idol time) — before climbing back out with a Tom Jonesian swivel-hip climax. Simon summed it all up in one very Zen word: "Hedious."

Vonzell: Ab fab up and down and all around. As far as I’m concerned, this week’s show was hers (and so, by the way, was last week’s.) It was the only frisson I registered thoughout the whole night. Yes her People was a carbon-copy of Streisand’s but, as Paula noted (and she must have been Googling during the performance) Vonzell hit that E-flat freak note dead-on — and oozed charisma. Love her!

Niko. Left for the kitchen, debated returning. Did the last bit of dinner dishes. Read a chapter of Proust. Returned as he finished.

Anwar. Not even a mini-scandal can make this (gay?) music teacher from New Jersey interesting.

Oh Bo. Oh no! The Fickle Finger of Fate poked you in the eye last night with your "pick a song at random" experiment. You get flip with the gods of Broadway and they get all mediocre on your ass. I was bracing myself for maybe a Hedwig and the Angry Inch lift-off but all I got was fucking Pippin. John and I think you must have a bit of a belly, and that’s why your shirts are always out, never allowing us to see even a faint tracing of your package. Still, I’m convinced I caught some sort of bulge tonight. Once a favorite of the judges, Bo is turning — and nothing could be worse for a wannabe rock star: predicatable! (This, however, is joyous news for Constantine).

Nadia darling — yes this was a better showing. The hair was fab. The dress was fab. The dangle earrings, fab. The song choice, well… And your slight touch of angry poser mode is beginning to wear thin. That could explain your spot in the Seats of Shame two weeks in a row. I don’t know what the remedy is for you, girl, but — EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! — if only you could sing 10% better.

So, tonight’s bottom three: Carrie, Anwar, and — climbing that final mountain right over the precipice — Anthony.

David K. Peace. Out!