Was Cook's guitar hooked up? Don't matter, Dog, 'cause he was singing his face off. Redundant Randy can still be cool.
Archie stunk up the joint. That song could be his downfall.
Whoever wins, I'm excited about that "Fringe" show, coming in August on Fox, from Lost's J.J. Abrams. But will the thrill last after we've all seen that promo 3,846 time in the next three months?
How can they never have been in the bottom three, if there are only two left? And is it wrestling or boxing? Isn't supposed to be singing?
You wouldn't mistake David Cook for Bono.
And you wouldn't mistake Paula for anybody anybody pays attention to.
This kind of overblown self-importance, "the biggest showdown in show-biz history," is one of the main things that has been turning people off this season. It's neither the biggest, nor the best.
Can anybody even stand it? Will 8 p.m. never come?
Unless you are a resident of Sarasota, you're probably neither surprised nor upset at last night's results: the dismissal of Syesha Mercado.
In fact, most of America (or at least the portion that didn't tune out during this long, lackluster season) is no doubt scratching its head, wondering how the cabaret queen made it this far. I mean she was no Melinda Doolittle.
Anyway, we got the final we deserved: David vs Goliath, oops, I mean David vs David. Cook vs Archuleta.
Let's talk merit for once, shall we?
Who shone like Patti LuPone last night?
I think the clear winner was David Cook, who nailed two out of three. His range surprised me on the Roberta Flack chestnut "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face". (I was a little freaked by that woman standing in the audience, staring at him raptly until I learned it was his mother. For a while I was thinking "Stalker alert. Call security.")
I'm gonna miss you Syesha. Really.
You came on slow and cute, girl (loved that earthy, natural hair do and demeanor to match) and chased some seemingly brighter lights down the field. But then when they were all vanquished, you turned yourself (or was pushed into becoming) something else. Suddenly, the waif was a flashy, sassy Broadway star. And that was your undoing. The voters don't really like their Idol wannabees all polished to perfection. They prefer diamonds in the rough.
Like David Archuleta, our favorite little robotic teen idol. Yes, he's got the vocal thing down perfectly. He ain't street like Chris Brown, but he can do Billy Joel and Dan Fogelberg (RIP) with warmth and conviction. Then when he opens his mouth to speak - he's tongue tied, flustered, a little kid who can hardly string a sentence together. Just like the youngest fans who love him. And what's with that overly assertive dad, banned from backstage? Is he Papa Joe Jackson revisited, or what? No wonder the kid seems scared of his shadow.
Didn't they look great together last night, our final four? Singing "Reelin' in the Years" with that marching band choreography. This is how I want to remember them. Gee, mommy, can't we keep them all. Pleaaaase?
No, life is cruel. We must shed one of our cherished number. No suprise it was Jason Castro who seemed to see the thumb smudges on the wall. Was he relieved? Seemed like it. More and more he reminded me of Maynard G. Krebs, the beatnik on The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis.
Jason was into Idol when it was fun. But this was turning into WORK! Three songs next week? Let me out of here.