If you had any doubt that last night’s American Idol was the absolute worst in the show’s history, I’m here to remind you of those 15 seconds of bellowing badness from bald “rocker” Chris Daughtry during his all-too-faithful performance of Creed‘s What If.

To fully appreciate these very special 15 seconds, I want you to remember the band Creed and how much you loathe them. (Forgive me for making you do this.) Now, bring to mind the strained, droning sounds of the band’s lead vocalist Scott Stapp. Got it? OK, meld that horrible memory into the contorted visage of Chris Daughtry that appeared on your TV last night.

Take a breath. Think back to Daughtry’s demon-screeching assault on the lyrics “what if, what if, what if.” How he drilled those words — during that 15 second close-up — over and over again into your cranium while Idol‘s camera man — complicit in the act of damaging your brain — struggled to maintain his crouched posture on the stage, angling his lens upward towards Doughtery’s yowling pie hole. (read the full article)

Last night on Larry King Live, a female viewer phoned in to ask the vivacious but wheezing 60 year-old Liza Minnelli one very important question: “Are you a Christian?” Liza smiled, flicked her four inch-long lashes and said simply “Why yes! I’m Episcopalian.” And that was that.

A dead silence followed. Larry became tight, frowned — like he was trying to pinch one off. And Liza, well, some chemical seemed to have peaked — so she sat there and beamed at the camera. Even more silence. Tick. Tock. I imagined the head of the woman caller exploding.

Poor thing, she couldn’t merge the crazy contradictions: Liza (with a Z), daughter of a homosexual father and substance-abusing mega-Star mom. Liza, married (at different times) to several homosexuals herself — abusing drugs and alcohol like Mama — and making decadent movies like Cabaret and The Sterile Cuckoo. A Christian? Too much, simply too much to imagine.

On the surface we are a Christian tribe. Or at the very least we advertise One Nation Under Godâ„¢. But admit it, in our heart of heart’s we’re lusty pagans. Our real spiritual center is Hollywood, with its Academy of Oscar. We quote prophecies from Box Office Mojo.com and contemplate the mysteries of the Trinity: Jennifer, Brad and Angelina. We have many idols before us — some true (read: gifted and talented performers), some false: (hookers, hustlers and Anna Nicole.)

But which witch is which? (read the full article)

Would anyone know Bo Bice’s name if Mario Vazquez hadn’t dropped out of the American Idol competition last March? Oh, how we wailed when he left. Mario Interruptus we called it.

When the 27-year-old Vazquez began making explanations — profoundly unbelievable — that he wanted to fly off to be by his mother’s side during "a family crisis" (his bewildered mother told the first reporters on the scene that if there were a crisis, it was news to her) and hoped the fans would respect his "privacy," (this, after years of trying to crack into show business), Mario’s midnight departure became the object of major — non-stop — Laci-Petersen level speculation for the next two weeks, much of which was marinated in the most delicious homo-innuendo.

The New York Daily News published an account of his "close friendship" with a male hairdresser. The National Enquirer chimed in that this same hairdresser (always unnamed) was beside himself because Mario was now publicly denying that there was "anyone special" in his life. (read the full article)

“I’ve never watched it…The word ‘mainstream’ comes to mind.”
       — Courtney Love outside the Kodak Theater with her small daughter,
             who wanted to see the American Idol finale.

Last night the 12-year-old girl that lives inside me was murdered. Like Sally Field in Sybil, I always knew the inevitable moment would arrive when I would need to split from that naive little personality. That moment came last night. (read the full article)

"It’s more than magnificent. It’s mediocre."
                                                                        – Samuel Goldwyn

With Scott Savol’s exit from American Idol last week, fans are left to the mercy of the banal, the branded and the boring. Things are so bad that Anthony Fedorov now stands out — though not in a good way. With one of the most brazenly schmaltzy, Euro-pop voices to ever reach the top-five Idol slots, Fedorov never fails to deal me a freakishly uncomfortable aural experience. When I hear Anthony go off in song I envision a troupe of moon-eyed Keane urchins straggling across the field of my inner eye. It’s truly soul killing. (read the full article)

I go willing down the Bread and Circus-like path that is all things American Idol. I watch for the same reasons you do. The high kitsch. The thrill of competion. The drunken shouts at the telelvison. (read the full article)

The oddsmakers in Vegas are flummoxed this morning.

The sure thing that was Constantine Maroulis, the 20-to-1 Boy Most Likely, was sent home last night in the most violent upheaval to hit the fans of American Idol since Mario Vasquez vanished in the night “for family reasons” and went racing to the bedside of his perfectly healthy, totally mystified mother. Watching it all from behind flat, dead eyes was Scott Savol, the unsmiling and overweight contestant who has for the last several weeks stood at the brink of dismissal with the bottom three vote-getters and somehow walked away, as he did last night, to everyone’s amazement. (read the full article)

American Idol‘s only equal within the carnival of culture is JK Rowlings’ Harry Potter. Both are juggernauts that have spellbound the public and created a mini-religion. What’s the secret? As a motif, both work within the realm of corporeal magic.

I disagree with folks who claim American Idol is popular because it traffics in humiliation. In fact, that’s the opposite of what the tribunal is about. Thirty four million people vote for their favorite Idolette each Tuesday night. There’s some sort of hormonal impulse that makes us respond with a devout fervor to the beauty, showmanship and glamour. Set these qualities within the magical realm of music — and well, it’s better than Jesus! (read the full article)

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. (read the full article)

Ben Brantley of the New York Times really nailed it this morning when he explained why all the pop voices on Broadway sound like the American Idol contestants, and why that’s totally fucked up:

"Close your eyes and listen as their larynxes stretch and vibrate with the pain of being an underdog and the joy of being really loud. Bet you can’t tell them apart. … When it’s time for a big ballad on Broadway these days, theatergoers can pretend they are still in their living rooms, basking in the synthetic adrenaline glow of their favorite TV show.. (read the full article)