Suffer the Children

As much as I hate to mention American Idol twice in one day, I just can't resist the opportunity to gloat over being at the tip of the spear in what I hope is a burgeoning movement.

And when I say "tip of the spear" I mean it, given that, yes, I was preaching this gospel two years ago.

This morning in Salon, Mary Kelly recaps Tuesday's Idol showdown and proclaims goofy, talent-deficient heartthrob Tim Urban this year's tween sensation on the show. For the record, I think she's way off base; it's harmless David Archuleta doppelgänger Aaron Kelly -- who seemed to experience his first little orgasm while pressed up against Miley Cyrus during their hug -- that's sure to nail down the obsessive tween vote over the next several weeks.

Regardless, at the end of her piece, Kelly makes the following entreatment at the prospect of the 12-year-old vote determining the future Idol winner:

"God help us all if I'm right. Parents, take your cell phones away from your children until they develop a brain!"

If that sounds vaguely familiar to regular readers of this site, that's because back in 2008, when Idol came down to nothing less than a battle between good and evil -- David Cook vs. David Archuleta -- I said this:

"Tonight, David Cook will face off against Disney/Pixar's latest CGI creation, David Archuleta.

The choice here for anyone who likes even relatively decent music is simple: Cook is already a fucking rock star; Archuleta is the lost Jonas Brother.

The problem, however, is that Archuleta will win and we'll all suffer accordingly as by this time Thursday, his sickly sweet baby face, puppy dog eyes and wispy voice will be all over the goddamned place -- unless parents across this great land of ours take decisive action.

It's simple, really. Tonight at 9PM EST, as the phone lines open and the voting begins, I propose the following: TAKE YOUR CHILD'S CELL PHONE AWAY.

That's right, prove to yourself that you're not completely beholden to your kids; that you haven't abandoned all control and allowed children to dictate the trajectory of our pop culture; that you won't let your fucking kid make a decision that you and your fellow adults will be forced to live with for months. (Think I'm wrong? Just wait until your whining tween begs, no, commands you to keep your hands secured to a life-sized effigy of Archuleta longer than any other suicidal parent in your neighborhood, all in an effort to win tickets to see Little David live -- a concert you'll be forced to attend I might add.) I realize that whether he wins or not, Archuleta will still be the golden calf of America's young, female 'Purity Ball' set, but tonight parents have the power to take a stand that will actually benefit their kids in the long run -- by making it crystal clear to them that life is all about disappointment, and no matter how much they cry or how strongly they've been led to believe that the world revolves around each of them, in the legendary words of Mick Jagger, you can't always get what you want.

Tonight's your chance to get your balls back, parents.

Don't blow it."

So see, I'm the leader of a goddamned revolution -- and I don't even need a blackboard.

Just for the hell of it, here's the extended piece I wrote leading up to the 2008 Idol finals. I'm reprinting it because I have a bad feeling that we'll see a virtual rematch this year, with the hellaciously talented Crystal Bowersox facing off against -- well, probably Aaron Kelly or Tim Urban. Whichever one gets the iCarly panties of the tween girl crowd the wettest.

"Kids Incorporated" (Originally Published, 4.24.08)

David Archuleta's going to win American Idol -- you may as well get that through your head right now.

It doesn't matter that he's a short, somewhat frumpy kid who always looks like he just got his ass kicked for his lunch money at recess, or that his willowy voice conveys all the passion and soul of Muzak, or that he actually admitted on national television -- without even a hint of irony -- that John Farnham is one of his favorite artists, or that Michael Jackson is already trying to figure out a way to get his smooth young body to Neverland. None of it makes any difference, because Archuleta has the one thing that matters -- tragically, the only thing that matters these days: The unwavering worship of every 13-year-old girl in America.

The tweens are legion, they are powerful, and they will see to it that David Archuleta is crowned boy king of the pop culture universe. In a couple of months, they'll have his face plastered everywhere you look -- and only the little girls themselves, and maybe NAMBLA, will have reason to rejoice over it.

But here's the thing: It doesn't have to be like this.

Never has there been a seeming eventuality -- in this case, a cultural zeitgeist -- that was easier to stave off.

All adults have to do, is take back the world from their kids.

Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about, because it's become impossible to ignore: A generation of parents who spoil their children rotten -- hubristically buying into the notion that their specific spawn is somehow special and deserving of society's deference -- combined with the technology that gives every computer or text savvy kid a voice, whether he or she deserves one or not, has conspired to hijack a good portion of what we see and hear. It's a Wiki world, one in which a vocal majority can literally rewrite the rules and twist reality to suit its needs, and right now, the tweens are the most vocal -- and what they need, apparently, are crappy, overproduced, Disneyfied Stepford Teens to scream for and sing along to.

This is why Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers are all but inescapable right now -- and why David Archuleta is next.

Last night on American Idol, that palisade of democratic instant gratification, Carly Smithson got the hook, while utterly forgettable, high-all-the-time retard Jason Castro lived to annoy another day. The reason Smithson was sent packing, particularly as opposed to Castro, is obvious: she had nothing to offer the wild-eyed tween girl demographic. Without at least a portion of this fan base, no one on Idol stands a chance these days. Talent doesn't matter, nor does personality; all that really counts is the innate ability to give America's cell phone armed rugrats something to either fantasize about or aspire to.

I've always had an issue with parents who allow their children to take over their lives, turning them into frazzled, Nickelodeon-watching, Wiggles-vs.-Zach & Cody-debating, shadows of their former selves -- the kind of people who once listened to The Clash and now have no issue with mortgaging the home to buy Mylie Cyrus tickets. It's one thing to let parenthood change you -- to rightly make your kids a priority; it's another thing to completely forfeit your identity and become nothing more than an extension of your child's tastes. In years past, this kind of sloughing off of the various predilections that make someone an adult didn't have the far-reaching effect that it does today; before the age of viral transmission, YouTubed kingmaking and iRule, prepubescents didn't really have the ability to inflict their will on the rest of us. But all that's changed now that text messaging and the internet have allowed for the creation of a hive mind -- and what's worse, one that's turned Generation-Y into one big conduit/amplifier for whatever's been cleverly marketed in its direction. It's no longer a kid grabbing Mommy's sleeve and screaming, "I want that!" It's a kid hooking into the Borg and joining with every other kid in the country, then voting and calling and posting and commenting and asserting power in every way possible until his or her request is no longer a request but a demand, and one that's been handily brought to fruition. In the chaos theory of popular culture, all it takes anymore is a few butterflies flapping their wings to start a tempest that becomes a juggernaut. The tweens decide what they want, the parents follow, the lapdog media that are always on the lookout for the Next Big Thing trumpet it, and before you know it, it's unavoidable -- on every TV and radio and in every magazine and department store across the nation.

The easiest way to change this would be to simply stop allowing them to have such a deafening voice. Believe it or not, adults are still in charge; they can say "no" once in awhile, or take away the cell phones attached to their children's ears, or pry their hands away from the computer keyboards. The bottom line is that what a bunch of little Veruca Salts want, particularly when it comes to entertainment, is what the rest of us are getting stuck with -- and I didn't grow older, endure bad relationships, a drug addiction and various harsh disappointments, and now pay an exorbitant rent and $4.15-a-gallon for gas so that I can have David Fucking Archuleta rammed down my throat by some lovestruck 12-year-old.

To twist a lyric from The Doors -- they've got the numbers, but we've got the guns.

Or in this case, the plugs.

Pull 'em.

American Idiot

I didn't even bother getting into American Idol last year because I couldn't have cared less about any of the contestants -- and yes, that includes the closeted all-American gay guy and the flamboyant queen-on-fire gay guy the whole competition came down to.

But this year I have to admit that I've been tuning in -- not religiously, mind you, but enough to have taken a very minor interest in the outcome.

That's why I kind of did a spit-take when I learned that Miley Cyrus will be appearing on the show tomorrow night as -- oh, this is rich -- a mentor to the remaining contestants. This of course begs the question: What do you do when three-quarters of the people being mentored to are infinitely more talented -- and a few years older -- than the one doling out the advice? It's always entertaining when Idol turns over the stage to an already established singer who you just know wouldn't even make it into the top 24 if he or she were actually competing on the show. (See last week's performance by pop music's current reigning waste of space, Ke$ha.) But the idea of a completely prepackaged star actually playing guru to and interacting with the contestants -- that's virgin territory.

The only thing I can think of is that Miley will basically tell the kids to become a Disney character and therefore a tween obsession, leak a few slutty cellphone pics to the internet, blow a Jonas Brother or two, and learn to accept that the whole singing thing doesn't matter because there's always auto-tune. Oh yeah, and it helps to have a father who's the world's biggest douchebag.

I can only hope these poor folks won't be forced to choose their songs for the night's performances from Miley's extensive musical catalog otherwise it's gonna be a really boring show. The little shit only has about four songs and she'll be performing two of them herself.

Oh well, it'll be fun to watch Crystal Bowersox try not to hit her over the head with a guitar.

Detroit Cock City

You know, all I could think about while Adam Lambert performed with Kiss last night was this.

By the way, am I the only one who kind of chuckled when he sang "me and the boys are playing" during Beth? Indeed, Adam -- indeed.

Flame Out

So, in a shocking upset, the incredibly gay kid didn't win on American Idol.

The contrived controversy and endless media debate over whether his sexuality cost him the title begins in 3... 2... 1...

iDull

I've gotten more than a few e-mails over the past couple of months wondering why I haven't expressed any interest in this year's American Idol competition -- particularly since I've admitted to getting wrapped up in the show in years past.

The honest answer: I never cared one bit about this season's crop of future pre-packaged stars. Still don't, in fact.

Last year was when American Idol sort of came to a head for me because last season's "final showdown" was more than just a couple of guys vying to win a singing competition -- it was a battle between good and evil, light and dark, serious talent and a frumpy kid who made pre-teen girls wet between their legs for the first time. When David Cook faced off against David Archuleta, I felt like he took the hopes and dreams of everyone above the age of 14 with him -- the millions of us who'd been forced to surrender the entertainment universe to the 'tween hive mind and had seen real artists drowned out and driven underground by the likes of Miley Cyrus.

David Archuleta had to go down -- if for no other reason than as an object lesson to an entire generation of overly entitled 'tweens that, in the words of a band from that lengthy period before they were born: No, kid -- you can't always get what you want.

This year, though?

What has Idol, that pop cultural juggernaut, really given to us?

Yeah, I know. Don't even start about how this year's stable of young talent was the most impressive since Satan first evacuated Simon, the drunk to his right, and the black guy from Journey onto the stage and into our lives. The reality is that this season, from what I've seen of it, has been really, really tedious.

Sure, it was kind of a shock that Danny Gokey -- who looks like Patton Oswalt after a Maury show makeover -- got the hook last night. But he was always kind of interchangeable with at least three of his fellow runners-up -- his only real distinguishing characteristic being the sob story about losing his wife just a few weeks before he decided to become a singing sensation on national television. (I guess trying out for American Idol is the appropriately tawdry Baptist version of sitting shivah.)

So who does Gokey's departure leave us with?

Adam the Flaming Banshee and, well, Kris Allen -- whose name is as boring as he is.

For the record, Adam, while certainly talented, makes me wish I'd been born deaf. The kid's got chops, but it's tough to get past the fact that Idol is supposed to be a pop music competition and you can just see the little hearts bursting over his head at the idea of opening on Broadway as the Emcee in Cabaret. Kris, meawhile is, well -- Kris. (Did I mention, boring?)

The fact is, though, that whatever my opinions are of either of these guys, it won't matter at all -- even less than my opinions of last year's finalists, since I actually bothered to vote for Cook. It won't matter because, once again, the final vote will likely have little to do with actual ability -- particularly since both kids are decent vocalists, so they'll likely cancel each other out in that department. No, it will come down to what it always seems to these days: who's cutest. Just like last year, and the year before that, the one who gets ahead will be the guy who best stokes the budding loins of the 'tween and teen fangirl demographic. Cook managed to pull an end-run around this seeming inevitability last year because his own looks and charm roused a lot of older women -- generally in places like Tampa, Florida -- from their pre-pre-menopausal slumber long enough to pick up the phone and beat back the Disney-addicted hordes. (It didn't hurt that Cook did, in fact, have a lot of talent behind the smouldering eyes and hair wax.)

So with that in mind, who wins next week?

Sure, the judges are practically lining up to run an oral train on Adam Lambert. But make no mistake: Lambert likely doesn't have a lock on the audience that he needs if he wants to win.

And that means that dreamy, boring Kris will probably pull off the upset.

(A few disclaimers: A) Do yourself a favor and don't bet based on my picks; I was sure that twerp Archuleta was gonna win last year, B ) If Lambert does win, it'll cement the ascendancy of gay culture in the United States better than Iowa approving same-sex marriage, C) I actually really liked Allison and was sorry to see her go, and D) Please, try not to go the obvious route in the comment section and say that Adam Lambert will pull off a "come from behind" victory. This site has standards, you know?)

Drama 'Tweens

Tonight, the season premiere of American Idol began with a shortened version of this clip. It features a group of frenzied 'tween girls reacting as David Cook's name is announced as the winner of last year's Idol.

Obviously, they were obsessively pulling for Disney character David Archuleta -- which means that, obviously, their response to hearing that he just lost is an exercise in Zen-like calm and self-control.

This is, quite possibly, the greatest thing I've ever seen.

Seriously -- I can watch it over and over and over.



Related:

DXM: That Stupid Year: The Ten Most Ridiculous, Shameful, or Generally Unfortunate People and Events of 2008/1.5.09

DXM: Kids Incorporated/4.24.08

The World I Knew

Like a lot of Americans, I've never considered Al Gore to be a particularly dynamic speaker. Even taking into account the recent and somewhat involuntary injection of pathos he's received via some very favorable conventional wisdom, he's still a bit of a dud. Honestly, when you think of the most inspirational, stirring addresses you've heard in your lifetime -- the kinds of thunderous calls-to-arms that leave audiences weak-kneed and fully prepared to mobilize for that potentially suicidal offensive into the depths of hell -- the guy who used to joke that his version of the Macarena involved standing completely still and who once called Joe Lieberman "passionate" just doesn't immediately come to mind.

That said, I do remember a series of speeches, delivered by then Vice Presidential Candidate Gore and culminating at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, which seemed to hit all the right notes and make for a bold and powerful statement against what at that time were the beginnings of a political dynasty -- one that had clearly lost touch not only with the American people but, quite possibly, with reality. Gore's familiar refrain during the '92 campaign -- those who were ready and willing to usher in a new revolution in U.S. politics will remember it as a sort of battle cry -- was only seven words long, yet spoke volumes: "It is time for them to go."

Ironically, 16 years ago, Al Gore's dismissive declaration -- the reckoning for which he was calling -- was aimed at a Bush administation. And ironically, 16 years ago, the logical cure for such a political and cultural cancer, at least in the opinion of Gore, was a Clinton presidency.

I was only 22 at the time, just starting out in the world, and yet my memories of the Clinton campaign -- the way it made me feel not just about the potentially bright future for my country but about my own importance in the electoral process -- are as vivid as if they were only a few days old. Put simply, Bill Clinton made me believe that I mattered; that the course the nation would take depended on me and those my age; that I indeed had a voice and a responsibility to use it; that there was -- dare I say it now -- hope.

It was time for my generation to stand up, be counted and help take charge. It was time for them to go.

And a Clinton would lead the way.

It's almost incomprehensible to me, 16 years later, that the name which was once so closely associated with faith in the future of this country and in the power of those who haven't yet been thoroughly contaminated by the astringency of the process has now become synonymous with the worst kind of Machiavellian, win-at-all-costs cynicism. To put a finer point on it, I may have wisened over the years and accepted the reality that the Clintons, like most politicians, are opportunists above all else -- but I never thought I'd see the day that Hillary Clinton so absolutely obliterated every last vestige of waning decency attributed to the Clinton name and legacy by invoking an event as horrific as the assassination of Bobby Kennedy in an effort to win an election. Over the past several months, it's true that we've occasionally seen the worst the Clintons have to offer the political landscape. We've witnessed innuendo atop gossip atop baseless accusation atop outright lie atop sickening bedfellow atop jaw-dropping proclamation atop unadulterated bullshit. We've watched Hillary Clinton straddle the sometimes razor-thin line separating admirable tenacity from self-obsessed, destructive folly. By this time, we thought we'd seen it all -- that at the very least her expanding army of skeptics would be deprived of any sort of final Hollywood-esque surprise twist.

Then, through either blatant underhandedness or negligent stupidity, she actually insinuated that her opponent for the Democratic nomination, Barack Obama, just might be felled by an assassin's bullet in the coming month. "Hey, you know, anything can happen -- just sayin'," she seemed to be offering up, during last week's interview with a newspaper in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. She's since gone on to "apologize" for the galactically ill-advised comment -- something I feel the need to clarify because Clinton didn't, in fact, say she was sorry for even bringing the word "assassination" into the current political discourse as much as she argued semantics, attempting to justify the meaning behind her statement while tossing out an anemically half-assed mea culpa to anyone who may have misconstrued her point. In other words, Hillary Clinton doesn't seem to understand that raising, even for a moment, the specter of that most grisly and epochal of possibilities has zero place within a political campaign, any campaign -- no matter the rationale.

Which is why Hillary Clinton should not be president.

Which is why it is time for her to go.

I've never believed that Clinton should heed the calls of those attempting to hector her into dropping out of the race. True, I haven't been an outspoken fan of Clinton during this campaign, but at no point have I thought that she should simply step aside and let Barack Obama and his supporters roll over her and the historic feat she hopes to accomplish. At no point have I honestly succumbed to the notion that Hillary Clinton would make a bad president.

Until now.

I now believe that Hillary Clinton should withdraw from the race for the White House not because she stands defiantly, some say futilely, in the way of the Obama phenomenon which so many think represents the most noble way forward for the Democratic party. I believe that she should withdraw because no one who even offhandedly implies that the last, best hope for his or her candidacy might involve the ultimate snuffing-out not only of an opponent but of the dream that he represents has no place being the leader of the free world. Not now, especially. Not after all this country has been through over the past eight years. Anyone dumb enough to not understand how invoking the assassination of Bobby Kennedy would be interpreted during this particular campaign -- or barbaric enough to, in fact, understand exactly how it would be interpreted -- is not fit to become the President of the United States.

And so, once again -- it is time for her to go.

The sad irony that in my eyes -- the eyes of someone for whom the Clintons once represented a stand against politics-as-usual -- Hillary Clinton has become the very thing she purported to stand against so many years ago certainly isn't lost on me. The fact that the Clintons' notorious narcissism and sense of entitlement has reached such a level of insurmountability that Mrs. Clinton can assail not simply her opponent but the Kennedy-esque legacy of hope she believes he represents is repugnant in ways I'm not sure I can properly express. I knew Hillary Clinton could be a political monster when she deemed it necessary; I had no idea she could allow herself to become Grendel -- forfeiting her principles so handily that those of us who once believed in her and her husband's future for the country are now left to wonder whether there were ever principles there at all.

It is time for her to go.

Last Tuesday night, during the final showdown on American Idol, David Cook -- a 25-year-old bartender from just outside Kansas City -- sang a stunning version of a song that was released in 1995, coincidentally when I was 25: Collective Soul's The World I Know. As I watched, I was reminded of that time when I had faith in the Clintons and their vision for America. I listened to Cook sing, "Has our conscience shown? Has the sweet breeze blown? Has all kindness gone? Hope still lingers on," and I just shook my head, feeling more than a painful twinge of nostalgia -- remembering the world I used to know, and would very much like to know again.

I honestly can't say whether Barack Obama is the best hope for this country, even though he inspires the new generation the way the Clintons once inspired me. Regardless, I know this: Hillary Clinton absolutely is not. She doesn't even believe in hope anymore.

It is time for her to go.

Cook Wins!

That's it -- I'm turning my life over to Christ.

Seriously, thank you America.

And congratulations David -- you rule man.

The Cynicist Manifesto: American Idol Edition

It's been awhile since I've done one of these, so I figured maybe it was time to once again run down a few random thoughts that don't merit a full post. The specific topic today: American Idol. For the most part, I've managed to avoid bringing up Fox's adamantium-hulled cultural juggernaut -- the one exception being last year's extended piece on the whole Sanjaya thing (One Little Indian/5.5.07). But like everyone else in the contiguous 48 right now, I can't help but be drawn in as this year's crop of innocent and fresh-faced gay strippers, internet porn stars, ex-professional singers and high school mattress-backs are molded, right before our eyes, into the ex-professional singers of tomorrow. And so now, some thoughts on this year's competition (a wholly owned subsidiary of Coca-Cola and Ford Motors).

Bet on Black

I'm going to get something out of the way right off the top and save the easily offended the trouble of reading any further: Are there any black girls who can't sing? That sound you hear is probably my inbox being flooded with hate mail; but really, aside from the shockingly self-confident 600-pound street trash the show invariably plays for laughs during the early "weeding out" stages of the competition, the black girls who make it to the final 24 are never just good -- they're spectacular. While I really hate to generalize, it almost seems unfair that these girls are somehow so damn talented; if you go strictly by vocal virtuosity, the only reason not to just hand a young black woman the prize right now would be the sudden decision to bring in one of Mitt Romney's kids to sing Our God is an Awesome God.

By the way, the fact that everyone pretty much expects a black girl to kick ass -- and admit it, you do -- is why her career will tank two days after winning. (See: Fantasia, Jordin Sparks)

Judge Dreads

Speaking of racially insensitive comments, would someone please tell the Jason Castro kid that he's white? It takes a hell of a lot of self-control on my part to keep any conversation about the White Dreadlocks phenomenon from turning into a fusillade of obscenities, but there's honestly nothing more ridiculous. Nothing. Look man, I get that you're rebelling against the corporate oppression of daily showers, but do you have any idea what those damn things smell like? Sprinkling patchouli all over your head doesn't make the stench go away, it just means you now smell like both a sewer rat's nest and patchouli. A good rule of thumb: When something works for Marley, it'll probably look really stupid on a white guy from Texas.

Oh yeah, and don't cover Cohen/Buckley again -- ever.

Straight Up and Dirty

Now it can be told: When Paula Abdul stopped by American Morning last year, chaos ensued. It wasn't because her legion of fans clamored for a chance to meet their favorite American Idol judge or because there were technical difficulties at CNN -- it was because Paula Abdul is fucking insane. Just before she was scheduled to be interviewed live on the air, Paula had one of her now-legendary freak-outs. She locked herself in a bathroom, where she could be heard crying and ranting, and had to be coaxed out at the very last minute by a team of handlers that may as well have been armed with a net and a tranq rifle. While Paula's (allegedly) drunken and (allegedly) drugged-up exploits are by now the stuff of legend, there's really no substitute for seeing her in her natural habitat -- live, on-air. It really is a magnificent sight. Every episode of Idol sends me reaching for my Retard-to-English dictionary, in an effort to translate Paula's cryptic gibberish. And that, my friends, is what the show is all about.

The Foreigner Belt

Correct me if I'm wrong, but the two big words written in neon above the stage are American Idol, right? There's already an Australian Idol competition and I'm sure there's an Irish Idol that involves a bunch of guys trying to see who can drink the most Guinness and still stand up after taking a barstool to the side of the head. So why is there a contestant from each of these two countries vying for the coveted Idol title here on U.S. soil? Is this what our brave men and women are fighting for on the other side of the world? Do they put their lives on the line so that foreigners can come over here, sing Heart's Crazy on You and be granted an audience with music legend Randy Jackson? Have we not learned the lessons of September the 11th, 2001?

I for one am disgusted.

Flame Out

What do you suppose the chances are that Danny Noriega will have turned David Archuleta by the end of the competition?

Spell Check

There's a great line in the movie Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang that has Robert Downey Jr. rightly deriding the tendency of women in Los Angeles to spell even the most common names in unusual ways. He says that if a woman's name is Jill, she'll spell it J-Y-L-L-E. Thankfully, the parents of this year's crop of female Idol meat apparently had the forethought to bestow upon their kids sufficiently unusual names long before feeding them to Hollywood. Over the past couple of weeks there's been Kady and Alexandréa and Syesha and Alaina and As'ia'a'h''' and Ramiele (who bears more than a passing resemblance, unfortunately, to Tila Tequila). On the guys' side meanwhile, there's of course the singularly named Chikezie (who bears more than a passing resemblance, unfortunately, to Gary Coleman).

Yeah I know, I'm one to talk about names -- but I don't live in L.A. anymore, so suck it.

The Cook is Rocking

Last year I wrote this:

"I've never been a fan of the way Simon, the drunk to his immediate right and the black guy from Journey tend to Breakfast Club the contestants -- sizing each one up in an instant and branding him or her with one of a handful of generic and recyclable designations. ('The Soulful One,' 'The Little One with the Big Voice,' 'The Modern One,' 'Justin Timberlake,' etc.)"

And no label is more irritating than "The Rocker." Every year, one contestant from each gender group is invariably pegged as that season's "Real Rocker." Last year it was Gina Glocksen -- who was admittedly bounced prematurely. The year before it was that preening idiot Chris Daughtry, who went on to prove that high school football fans in Texas and gas station attendants in Ocala, Florida hold a lot of sway over the playlists of Clear Channel America. This year, the state-sanctioned rock gods are David Cook and Amanda Overmyer. As it turns out, regardless of what you call them, they're two of the best contestants on the show. Somehow, each manages to ride the razor-thin line where having a healthy dose of musical integrity and being on a show like American Idol meet. Cook took a God-awful song like Lionel Richie's Hello and did astonishing things with it and also happens to look like his future after the show won't just involve offers to sing for Fuel; Overmyer moves like she's constipated, but she can sing like a motherfucker and it's obvious that she's uncomfortable with the whole Idol thing in the first place. They don't stand a chance of winning, but they represent the kind of musical soul that's usually sorely lacking on the show.

Remember kids, underachieving beatboxer Blake Lewis performs tonight on Idol!

Can't wait!


And now, just for the hell of it, a compendium of past Cynicist Manifesto entries.

This is Just a Tribute

I believe that there's little more unintentionally hilarious or deserving of public ridicule than the act of memorializing dead friends or relatives by going down to the mall and having t-shirts made with their high-school pictures emblazoned on the front. Just as funny are rear window decals proclaiming Chuchito 1988-2006, R.I.P. It was stupid when you did it for Tupac, it's just as stupid when you do it for Chuchito.

Keillorpalooza

I believe that A Prairie Home Companion provides a form of entertainment which harkens back to a simpler time in America -- when Tom Joad was forced to sell his family for food and Central Park was known as "Hooverville."

There's a reason this kind of crap went the way of the Edsel -- and it's not just because the sound of Garrison Keillor's voice alone makes me wish I'd been born deaf.

I Fold

I believe that the only thing more mind-numbingly boring than Garrison Keillor is watching people play poker on television; whether they're B-list celebrities or guys who look like Skynyrd's road crew. This fucking fad can't end fast enough.

Where Intelligence Goes to Die

I believe that it's somewhat ironic that the state of Kansas itself manages to disprove both evolution and intelligent design at the same time.

There Can Be Only One

I believe that while it's human nature to seek out a group with which to belong, the rarest commodity is always the most precious and should therefore be held in the highest regard. The individual is that rarest of commodities.

You can call yourself a man, a woman, a Catholic, a Jew, an African-American, an Asian, a frat brother, whatever -- just remember that by lumping yourself in with any group and choosing to unquestioningly adhere to its accepted standards, you're tacitly relinquishing your respect for the most invaluable object in the world: you.

Once You Go Black...

I believe that MTV should've kept the promise it made back in the early-80s -- that it would never play Soul or R&B. If it had stuck to this pledge, it would've never made the leap to playing Hip-Hop which would probably mean that right now, millions of kids -- black and white -- across this great land of ours wouldn't be illiterate idiots who refer to their teeth as a "grill" and dream of one day living the American dream: dropping out of school in the 5th-grade and getting a record contract, 83-inch spinning rims and a yacht because they can rhyme two words.

Basically, (this) would never have happened.

I look at Hip-Hop the way my parents used to look at Rock n' Roll: it peaked early and for the most part hasn't been good since.

By the way, I also believe that if you think I'm a racist because I say any of this -- you're probably an ass.

Dylan McDermott Mulroney

I believe that it's easy to confuse Dylan McDermott with Dermot Mulroney, and that neither should ever be cast in another movie again regardless.

Fuck You Atari

I believe that Magnavox's Odyssey and Odyssey-2 game systems were far superior to the infinitely more popular Atari. My loyalty to the Odyssey without a doubt set the tone for my lifelong tendency to always back the underdog.

Why Be Normal?

Because your life is easier. Despite all of my individualistic bluster, it's always in the back of my mind that it would be nice to have been able to turn all this insanity off a long time ago. I believe this wholeheartedly.

Bird-Brained

I believe that somebody should be shot for making not one, but several sequels to The Crow. Hell, Brandon Lee was, and that's more than likely why such a sad and cynical money-grab was launched in the first place.

In Her Web

I believe that there has never been a more perfect woman than Charlotte A. Cavatica, of the original animated version of Charlotte's Web. She has been and always will be my dream girl.

The Pop Culture Babysitter

I believe that it's asinine to put the blame for school shootings and the breakdown of America's youth on people like Marilyn Manson and Eminem, but it's equally asinine -- and wholly irresponsible -- to think that pop culture's constant onslaught can be stemmed by even the most attentive of parents. Denying the invasive, round-the-clock influence of movies, music, television and advertising on kids makes you nothing short of delusional.

Life Isn't Fair... and Neither is Death

Jeff Buckley and John Coltrane die prematurely. Celine Dion does not. I believe there is no justice in the universe.

Live and Let Die

I believe I have a question that I want answered: if Randall Terry, George Bush and his dimwitted brother Jeb, and every other Evangelical Christian believe in a glorious life after death at the card table of the Almighty -- then why the hell would they possibly be so cruel as to want to keep Terri Schiavo's soul locked in the prison of her own broken body? Why fight so hard to save a life that was painfully tragic, when they believe the alternative is so fucking dandy?

Missing Inc.

I believe that there's something disconcerting about Mark Klaas and John Walsh turning up all over television news shows everytime a child goes missing in this country. I realize they can speak from experience, but something about it seems and has always seemed nothing less than exploitative.

Liberty Mutual Masturbation

I believe that the scariest and most disturbing movie ever made is The Firm, simply because it features Wilford Brimley talking about sex -- in particular delivering the line, "intimate acts -- oral and such."

KMEX

I believe that Carlos Mencia should be the most popular morning DJ in El Paso, Texas -- and nothing more.

War is Hell

I believe that the term "War on Terror" alone ensures that we don't stand a fucking chance of winning -- because it proves that those fighting it haven't got a clue what kind of enemy they're up against. Terrorism doesn't have an army, it's simply a methodology -- and what's more, it works; just ask former Spanish Prime Minister Jose Maria Aznar, who was run out of office for supporting the war in Iraq not long after a series of devastating train bombings in Madrid.

Saying you're fighting a "War on Terror" speaks volumes about the futility of such an endeavour; it's like saying you're fighting a "War on Tragedy," or a "War on Chagrin."

Duck and Cover

I believe that I'll eat foie gras whenever I damn well please, regardless of what the nut-balls at PETA or the City of Chicago has to say about it.

Rx Are for Kids?

I believe that America is overmedicated and that all you have to do is turn on the TV to grasp this. Pharmaceutical companies create phony diseases for which they then offer unnecessary cures.

F.S.A.D. (Female Sexual Arousal Disorder) is not a disease, nor does it become one just because you've slapped the word "disorder" in its name. If you suffer from this, you don't deserve to be given the protection of the Americans with Disabilities Act or be mentioned in the same breath with real diseases -- you should be called what you have been since the dawn of time: frigid.

Irritable Bowel Syndrome? Stomach-ache.

Acid Reflux Disease? Heartburn.

Restless Legs Syndrome? Oh fucking come on.

I also believe that American pharmaceutical companies delight in drugging the hell out of kids, which is ironic because I firmly believe that kids shouldn't take drugs because they haven't earned them.

Get a mortgage, a job you can't stand and an ex-wife who hates you; then you can do drugs.

Jesus Saves (Just Not Your Career)

I believe that no interviewer should ever ask Stephen Baldwin the laughable question, "Aren't you afraid that your Christian beliefs will get you ostracized from Hollywood?"

No you fuckwit -- Biodome got him ostracized from Hollywood. If he wasn't spouting off about Christ, there isn't a chance in hell you'd be talking to him on the Today show -- unless he accidentally got blown up in a suicide bombing at the Jack in the Box where he happened to work.

Fuck Pandas

I believe that says it all.

Word Play

I believe that the funniest two-word phrase in the English language is "Assless Chaps." I challenge you to even think it without laughing.


K-Rap?

Like you, I could care less whether or not Kevin Federline lives to see tomorrow morning. Still, of all the vitriolic ridicule slung at K-Fed over the past year, at least one criticism has always left me a little confused: the notion that his music sucks. Don't get me wrong -- as anyone with ears would likely tell you, Federline's ego-fueled bluster laid overtop of the same monotonous, unimaginative beats displays not a single drop of noteworthy talent. Here's the thing though, the exact same thing can be said -- but strangely isn't -- about 90.7% of the illiterate troglodytes currently assaulting the masses on Urban Radio, MTV2's Sucker Free Sunday, and from the booming speakers of every idiot in a low-rider from here to the corner of Florence & Normandie.

I'm not talking about Mos Def, or Common, or Nas, or producers like Danger Mouse; I'm talking about dime-a-dozen self-parodies like Lil Boosie, Yung Joc and Chamillionaire -- guys whose names alone tell you everything you need to know about their complete lack of any discernable contribution to decent music.

Yet there are millions of supposed rap connoisseurs who draw some sort of distinction between the simplistic, bombastic buffoonery of Juvenile and the equally clownish verbal and visual molestation perpetrated by Federline. These people will invariably drag out impressive-sounding words like "flow," "cypher," and "technique" in their beat-down of K-Fed, as if most of what passes for hip-hop these days is a fine wine, whose intricate subtleties are to be gently pulled apart -- layer by precious layer -- and appreciated with the utmost respect for, and admiration of, craftsmanship.

Sure thing.

It doesn't take talent to be a borderline retard with a gold chain and the ability to rhyme two words. Say what you will about K-Fed -- he knows that.

Stop hatin'.


The Life of Your Child: Priceless

Mono-monickered singer Brandy gets into a car accident. Brandy kills a girl. Police aren't even done working out the potential charges to be filed against Brandy -- but guess where the family of the dead girl turns up almost immediately?

If you said, "Why, they're in civil court hoping to turn the death of their loved one into a fortuitous windfall by suing Brandy to the tune of fifty-million-dollars," hey, give yourself a gold star.

The real tragedy is that these people weren't in the car with their kid.


Another Fine Meth

It's no secret that America is basically one giant elementary school class where the teacher is always willing to punish everyone for the antics of one or two class clowns. Our society is expected to be politically correct, child-proofed, family-protected, health-conscious and sin-free -- usually at the imposition of government; always at the expense of anyone with a thimble-full of common sense.

You've already found yourself victimized by the lowest-common-denominator when it comes to fast-foods -- and you've probably noticed the same kind of chilling effect moving to the cold care aisle of your local drug store. The FDA now requires pharmacies to keep Sudafed and other pseudoephedrine-based decongestants behind the counter. That means that it can't be purchased after hours at all, and can't be purchased during business hours without identification, a signature, an authentication code, one of two security keys, the staff of Ra, the eyeball of a dead scientist at the end of a pen-knife to fool the retinal scanner, and Jack Bauer pointing a loaded gun at the clerk, screaming, "GIVE ME THE COLD MEDICATION!" If Drugstore Cowboy ever gets re-made, the Matt Dillon character is going to by-pass the Dilaudid and go right for the Claritin.

The reason for all this hysteria of course is that pseudoephedrine -- in astonishingly high quantities -- can be used to make meth, which as we know from government and media reports is the deadliest substance known to man and the force behind an epidemic which threatens the life of every man, woman and child in America. Your kid is on meth. Your mother is on meth. The lesbian lover your mother met during a psychotic meth binge is on meth. You may be on meth right now and not even know it -- it's that wily.

In an effort to make sure that the anti-meth paranoia doesn't hurt what's really important -- the bottom line -- pharmaceutical companies have begun replacing the pseudoephedrine in many decongestants with phenylephrine. It can't be used to make meth. It also doesn't work.

The end result is that -- as usual -- to stop one drug addict living in a trailer in the middle of Riverside, California, you'll be made to suffer through cold and flu season without a remedy that actually helps you to feel better.

But at least you'll be safe from that terrifying meth epidemic.

I'd say "Fuck you, FDA and drug companies," but I'm so goddamned congested it'll come out sounding like, "Fubk ou, FD (cough) ed dug cubpaddies (cough)."


Burn, Hollywood, Burn

It's one of the universe's most puzzling conundrums: HBO's Entourage bills itself as a comedy, and yet is never funny. Never. Like, not even once in awhile.

I'm not entirely sure who the core audience is for this show, but after much internal debate I think I can safely say that America's collective IQ could be raised substantially in a very short amount of time if these people were forced to register with the government for immediate relocation to offshore internment camps. It's simple conditional science really: if you watch Entourage because you think it's funny, you're either hopelessly deluded or just incredibly dumb -- since it's not -- and are therefore a prime candidate for the camps; if you watch Entourage because you're truly fascinated by the day-to-day triumphs and tragedies of four vapid, over-indulged and underworked assholes whose lives revolve around bedding girls you can't have, making money you'll never see, living a life you'll never live and buying $300 t-shirts at Fred Segal then discussing how they look in them -- once again, you're perfect material for the camps; if you watch because you'd like to in some way emulate the aforementioned assholes -- off to the camps; if you watch because you work in Hollywood and either hope you might see yourself on TV, or simply think that the life you lead is so goddamned amazing that, well, everybody wishes they could be a part of it, right? -- fuck the camps, you get a beating at the hands of ten Brooklyn teamsters who've been told that you're a gay athiest who raped a ten-year-old boy from the neighborhood.

Given that America is inundated with the idiotic real-life antics of young, spoiled Hollywood every day from every conceivable media outlet -- why the hell would anyone possibly choose to suffer through an unfunny TV comedy about said same?

Hug this out, bitch.

Busted Moves

Can Hollywood please declare a moratorium on dance movies?

Between Dirty Dancing and the Forbidden Dance and Saving the Last Dance and Stomping the Goddamned Yard and Breakin' and Taking the Lead and being on Center Stage and Your Getting Served -- there's nothing more ridiculous than an entire movie focusing on bunch of dreamers who adhere to the moronic assumption that music is only worthwhile if you can shake your ass to it.

Seriously -- go listen to Black Flag and set something on fire, okay?

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

A note to all managers -- no matter your particular profession: please refrain from ever attempting to correct an employee's work by looking at him or her in a condescending manner and uttering the words, "Well, don't you think it would work better if..." The only proper response to this -- besides a vicious beating in the face with a boot -- is to say, "No you fucking idiot -- if I thought it worked better that way, I obviously would've done that from the beginning."

Pissed-Off

There is no clearer or more insulting proof of management's complete lack of faith in you as an employee than the presence of self-flushing toilets in your office bathroom.

Pull the Plug

There is no worse idea in the long, sad history of bad ideas than the following two words: "Korn: Unplugged."

Nom de Douche

Never trust anyone with three first names. Ever.

Hey, Denny's Actually IS Racist

I miss Sambo's restaurants. The place got a bad rap because of the name. I'd knock a few years off my life just for one more bite of their kick-ass French Toast.

Sixx Sixx Sixx

Mitt Romey is the Anti-Christ. Tell me he doesn't look like Damien Thorn in The Final Conflict. Plus, he has a son named Tagg -- which leaves me wondering if he didn't name his other kids Hitt, Buntt, Runn and Free-Agentt.

Save the Date

Match.com is now offering six free months of service to any subscriber who hasn't found a compatible partner within an allotted time period. This is worthless; they should pay for someone to come to your house and perform oral sex on you.

Smelling Assaults

"Secret" anti-perspirant/deodorant is advertising a "clinical strength formula" version of its product. If you feel that you require this level of wetness and odor protection, please do the world a favor and don't ever leave your fucking house.

Fortune Favors the Fool

Supposedly, one of the most popular shows on Iraqi TV right now features a fortune teller who claims to be able to predict the future of those who call in. Exactly how hard can this be? "Tomorrow, you're gonna be blown to pieces -- thanks for calling."

Maternity War

Does every woman in America have a long-running dysfunctional relationship with her mother? If not, for Christ's sake, why do all chick-flicks not falling into the "implausibly fairy-taleish romantic comedy" category seem to deal with adult women coming to terms with the latent resentment of their mothers for the lifetime of insecurity the elders instilled in the younger? There are millions of men out there still nursing physical and mental scars inflicted upon them by their fathers -- you don't see them bitching about it and longing to revisit the trauma while curled up on the couch with a box of Kleenex.

Buck up ladies.