Anyone? You in the back? All right, so I admit it's a tad pathetic that I was so moved by a singing competition, but I won't sit around denying it. On the one hand, there were witnesses and, also, it actually pales in comparison to some of the other things I've cried at on television (hint: reality shows on Bravo; you wish I were joking). The thing is, I enjoy television. Not just watching it but becoming involved in it. (Same with movies and music and books and blogs.) I like anything that evokes feelings in me even if those feelings teeter on obsessive and strange.
This season American Idol received a lot of flack—for Carly Smithson having a previous record deal, for the judges apparently setting it up (although only on-air, strangely enough) for a shoo-in win for David Archuleta, for Andrew Lloyd Webber night. I'm not blind or stupid: I know that what goes on behind the scenes would probably dishearten me and it would taint a guilty pleasure millions of us enjoy.
(Aside: have I ever told you how much I hate the phrase guilty pleasure? The way I see it, a pleasure is a pleasure. The only reason you should feel guilty about something you enjoy is if it's immoral, illegal or if it involves abusing animals or voting for George W. Bush. [And a few other things that are too oogey to type.] I don't feel guilty that I listened to the first Ashlee Simpson CD on repeat for months or that I DVR The Hills or that I sometimes Google old pictures of Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt. I'm not hurting anyone by enjoying these things—except for Mike, he'd argue he's consistently tortured by the things I derive pleasure from. We can't always be the best versions of ourselves—reading the smartest books, enjoying the indiest music, only frequenting the artsy theater in town. Sometimes we want a plate of nachos, a good chick flick, an US Weekly, and I'm here to say, not a one of us should feel guilty about it.)
(Wow, look at that diatribe hanging out in the middle of what was supposed to be a gushy David Cook post? Sorry about that.)
But what I was getting at is that I totally disagree that this was one of the worst seasons of American Idol. I thought there was a lot of talent this season. I remember watching Ruben's season—and wanting Clay to win, although why? HE IS THE SCARIEST MAN ALIVE—but knowing, full well, I'd never buy a single piece of music either of them put out. I loved Elliot Yamin and Katherine McPhee, also, but, again, only as contestants. I never purchased a single song of theirs. I do think I'd be all about Chris Richardson's music (voting for him one week caused our phone bill to triple; it was a fun day in our house when that particular bill showed up, let me tell you). But most of the people on that show are good because they're on stage and they're done up and they are critiqued after each performance. It's not so much the music you fall in love with but the format the music is offered to us. But David Cook? OH MY LORD. I can't tell you how many times I've watched his Billie Jean rendition on YouTube. (No, really, I literally can't. It's been that many.) His tone! His control! His choices! My sister thought he was a bit arrogant and pompous although I think she was just upset because he didn't more closely resemble Bryan Adams because OH MY GOSH my sister has a secret crush on Bryan Adams, a crush I just found out about last night and it is KILLING me with its hilarity.
(She claimed she wasn't the only one; she said, "Poll your blog! There are plenty of us who appreciate his talent!" So, friends, do you carry a secret torch for the guy who sang that one song on the Robin Hood soundtrack? And if so, please tell us, for Rachel's sake, so I'll stop calling her and managing through entire-body laughs: "Bryan Adams! Seriously, BRYAN ADAMS? Oh hold on, Rachel. I can't breathe again.")
But even Rachel came around on David. As did Mike. This is the true testament to his coolness, I have to say: my husband liked an American Idol contestant. Now, I can't believe I'm going to say this, I'm going to regret it, I'm sure, but Mike's taste in television shows—although similar to paint drying—are of a higher intellectual level than mine are. (Not all of them! I loved The West Wing! And I stand by Veronica Mars' snarky smartness!) But he likes shows that teach him something, that show him the world a little bit. Granted they do all of that without soundtracks or soapy love triangles, so really what's the point, but if he offered his DVR queue and I offered mine, you'd think he was a fairly smart and interesting person. And you'd think I was thirteen. But Mike loved David Cook. It helped that he didn't remind either of us of a really awful Disney Channel reject who made it impossible for us to keep our dinners down when he was on stage. His win last night—by TWELVE MILLION VOTES which has got to be quite the bruise to a certain seventeen-year-old's ego, even more so than being four feet tall—was kind of awesome. So, yes, I cried. It doesn't make me cool, this is true. And neither did the hours of frantic online browsing I did on what David has planned next—any North Texas stops, David? Personal in-house appearances, by chance? No, not cool, but also not embarrassing either. It was a pleasure, David. And I'm not feeling a twinge of guilt about it.
Three big cheers for David Cook and only two swift kicks for David Archuleta! I still want to punt the kid, don't get me wrong, but he did lose, and even I'm not that cruel, to kick someone more than twice when they're down.
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(Bryan Adams, Rachel. SERIOUSLY?)