It was one of those ultra supreme American Idol moments last night. So cruel, so surprising, so whacked out — Paula’s face buried in her hands. Simon’s anger clamping his sphincter as tight as a vise. You could almost call it Greek-mythic. “America voted,” and Ryan Seacrest delivered the result in a nonchalant trice: The fatal pronouncement, like a trapdoor deathblow, melted Chris Daugherty’s face right on the spot — so much so my heart actually sank for him.

But then I felt great.

Buh-bye Chris — pictured here with Morticia Addams Priscilla Presley as she welcomes the one-note Creed knockoff to her Hall of Irrelevance. Cue the haunted house sonics. Especially that effect of a large door slamming shut.

When my boyfriend mentioned that Chris shouldn’t have talked about his underwear on Elvis night, I thought he was joking. On second thought, he’s probably right.

I mean, Tuesday night was the first time in a while I was starting to warm to Chris — his performance of Suspicious Minds was understated and believable. Almost charming. But who’da thunk some boxer-brief chitchat would freak out his straight-guy fanbase to such a degree? Was it too “gay” for them? Or maybe it was too vulgar a confession for his Christ-O-Rama constituents? Not to worry. I’m sure Chris will be announced as the new lead singer for Fuel next week. (more…)

Why am I not surprised? We are, after all, still living in the reign of George II, King of the Second-Rates. American Idol’s two best vocalists — Elliott Yamin and Paris Bennett — hit the bottom two last night. So let’s see, that leaves the show’s next best vocalist Katharine McPhee lodged in the number three slot with the Monotone Maven (Chris Daughtery) and Gray Charles (Taylor Hicks) in the top two.

Let’s skip the psychics and decode Idol’s new “official” photo (right) which was released this morning. The tableau tells us exactly how the next four weeks will play out. Photo’s often reveal more than we dare hope for, and this one … well, this one’s got me crying in my beer.

Elliott, smushed to the edge and with the lowest height, will be the next Idolette to follow little Paris down the chute.

Nerves did him in during Tuesday’s opener, a notoriously bad placement on the show. There’s a reason long-time viewers of Idol call it the Death Spot. (more…)

I watch American Idol for those magic moments when a transformation takes place, the crossroads moment, the moment when the kid on stage becomes a budding star in command of that stage.

And last night’s Idol offered up so many moments — both ill and golden — it was like watching one of those Cum-Shots-Only porn reels. I felt giddy and spent and wanted a cigarette afterwards. I was so tweaked I needed to clean myself up. The entire hour was one long clarifying moment when the gods and goddesses of Fame parted the veils and we saw right straight into the soul of each contestant. Fakers were exposed; true-blues glorified. (more…)

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. (more…)

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 God™. 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? (more…)

My heart sank. Not when Brokeback lost the big one — I was prepared for that. It was the audience’s response to Jack Nicholson’s announcement — that exhalation of relief, that thunderous applause — now that’s what chilled me.

Unruly and wry, Nicholson — who, as he told Oprah’s Gayle King, voted for Brokeback — had telegraphed his opinion even as he was announcing the winner. I love how critic Troy Patterson from Slate described it:

“Crash … provided presenter Jack Nicholson with a good opportunity to present Jack Nicholson. He pronounced the syllable with just the right note of surprise, combining incredulity with reassurance and saying warmly, with his eyebrows, ‘That’s Hollywood.’”

Right. Hollywood.

After the ceremony, Brokeback screenwriter Larry McMurtry told reporters that Crash took the top honor because most of the 6,000 members of the Academy live in Los Angeles, where the film was set. “Americans don’t want cowboys to be gay,” McMurtry explained.

Actually Larry, America doesn’t want actors to be gay. (more…)

If you scan this picture of Whitney Houston you can see that only a smudge of a person occupies those fluffy designer furs. Yes, drugs have left her skeletal and recessed into her white costume, and a lengthy absence from the stage gives her expression during last week’s performance in Turin a frightened and confused patina. But to anyone familiar with drug abuse or drug abusers it’s her absence of soul, her brittle zombiness, that defines the photo.

In 2001, when she failed to appear at the second of Michael Jackson’s 30th anniversary celebrations, her record label was forced to issue a formal statement denying that Houston was dead. That was true — corporeally. (more…)

In the immortal words of Susan Powter: Stop The Insanity. We know it’s only an ad campaign, but who wouldn’t run for a copy of Zolar’s Dream Dictionary to make sense of Dolce & Gabbana’s latest excursion into Consumer Mind-Fuck?

Not even Freud could decipher this hallucination. (more…)