Okay, that was ridiculously long and overpadded and stupid, so I want to just give you the highlights, but, like, there weren't any? So let's just get through this. First thing is that the final twelve are dressed like idiots, like a hometown Community Center version of Up With People, singing a Beach Boys medley. You've heard of the Beach Boys, right? The ones whose songs all rely on harmony? Which these people have been demonstrating is beyond them since like January? That, plus the fact that apparently none of these people can sing, which I don't think we really knew, makes this part kind of awesome. Lindsey in particular makes the worst sound -- a honking, mooing kind of moan -- but she's not the worst singer. They're all winners there.
Then there's a Video Journey for our own personal selves, with some audition things that make me happy (Adam Pratt, that girl that got cut at the last round and couldn't find her way off the elevator, Leroy) and some things that make me sad (mostly that woman who might die without music but turns out to be kind of an asshole). The overwhelming majority is things that make me bored.
Ryan goes to see Bo Bice in his dressing room. Where he is wearing sunglasses. We check out Alabama, where it's all happening, and everyone in frigging Alabama is also wearing sunglasses, in a concerted effort to piss me off. Then we go see LaToya, crazy in Alabama, not to mention drunk and dressed like a crazy idiot and calling him "Bo Brice." Then it is announced that, from now on, "Every day is Bo Bice Day" in Alabama. Droll. Then Bo Bice sings "Vehicle," and he has more energy than last night, when he had food poisoning. It's awesome. I watched it twice. Twice for Bice.
Matt Rogers and Mikalah Gordon are the exact same thing in every way. I don't have a good reason to hate him, and I'm pretty sure I like him, a lot, but he also makes me so angry I can't see straight, so when he's onscreen there's this, like, grimacing rictus of rage, but also affection. Just like Mikalah! He's wearing the largest watch I've ever seen, is dressed like Tony Soprano, and is still kind of gay even in Checotah, where he's not so much drunk as overcompensating a bomb. He and the First Lady of Oklahoma (The jokes! They come too fast!) talk about Carrie for awhile, and then Carrie sings that awful "Angels Brought Me Here" song. Bo is just a lot better than she is. At singing, I mean.
Ryan hangs out with the three judges in their separate dressing rooms, and the Randy and Paula parts are pretty dumb, and the Simon part is crazy uncomfortable, and then we remember some train wrecks, and Leandra Jackson, the first thing we saw this entire season, comes out and ruins the "America, God shed his grace on thee" song again, and again it's maybe not so funny. Then Bo and Carrie sing "Up Where We Belong," and it's not enjoyable. Then there are credits, again, for no reason, so I guess we're halfway there. Is it like this every year? This is insane! Nothing has happened!
Bo and Carrie gets some new red Mustangs, anticlimactic, and Carrie won't shut up, embarrassing, and then (with an equally embarrassing "Little Bit Country" musical intro) we see more goddamned footage of the two of them than you could ever imagine. Most of which we've seen already tonight, and some of which is from five seconds ago. Then we remember some auditions, and then there's Adam Pratt. What happened? We rewound. How weird. Look! Adam Pratt! And again! For one hour! Then he and Dirk are in the audience, and David Hasselhoff comes out and hugs Dirk, almost making up for the cruelty this show enjoys so much. What does Adam get? Nothing. But seeing Dirk happy is good enough for him, because he is perfect.
Then there is a three-hour parody thing about the Corey Clark deal on ABC, tied in with jokes about everything that made this season so fucking enjoyable and fun to watch, and there are parts that are very funny, surrounded by parts that are not funny at all, and it's kind of like tapioca: something kind of icky in a suspension of boring, and you can never get to the bottom. This goes on almost literally forever.
Carrie sings that song I like, "Bless The Broken Road," with Rascal Flatts. I do not know this Rascal Flatts person, but he cannot sing at all, and also looks like a girls' basketball coach with a hair gel problem. They sound like hell. Then: an apocalypse of gay! Here's a list you might enjoy: A-Fed. Anwar. Kenny G. "I Believe I Can Fly." I could not make that up if I wanted to. It's amazing. Anwar sounds like shit, A-Fed sounds like A-Fed.
Kenny Wayne Shepard plays guitar as Constantine, Jessica, and Nadia sing "Walk This Way," and Jessica is pretty much the only worthwhile thing there. For three hours I expect a little return, in the form of Nadia Turner, but no such luck, just a humping bad time for everyone, and Constantine embarrassing himself as usual. George Benson backs up Nikko and Scott for "On Broadway," and it's unending and crappy, and -- I'm still freaked out by how they all sound horrible. Did they rehearse this at any point? Eventually George just takes over, because it's so embarrassing. How many fucking people were in the Top Twelve, anyway?
Vonzell and Billy Preston sing the most boring song in the world, and they don't worry about hurrying that shit up either. I don't even know what to say about it. I don't remember if it was pretty. I think it probably was. I mean, it's playing on my TV screen right now and I can't remember what's happening. Like while it's happening.
Then the biggest nightmare of all -- Lindsey and Mikalah singing with Babyface, and he can't even look at them because of the awful noises -- followed by a most beautiful dream: Bo Bice, singing with Lynyrd Skynyrd "Sweet Home Alabama," which song I've been dreading, and now I don't even know why, because it is fantastic. He's glowing with joy the entire time, and everybody in the house started crying because of the immense joy on his face, and it was one of the best things I've ever seen.
And for some reason, that's when I realized he would lose. Which is rough, because I've been assuming he'd win for a couple of weeks, even though I knew it was dumb to think that, and I came up with a million reasons why he wouldn't, but it turns out there were closer to five million. Randy talks a whole pile of nothing, Paula talks a small mess of crazy, and Simon approves this Final Two. A very tall Brit with a good accent brings out the results, and everyone looks very, very nice, and Bo about starts crying right now. Seacrest takes his sweet-ass time opening the envelope, and the screaming starts, and she cries without tears. But come on, she's clearly crying. I think it's a baby pageant facial situation, where maybe she's just trained not to cry when she's got makeup on. Anyway: Carrie wins.
Then she sings "Inside Your Heaven," and the only thing that makes it worthwhile is the breaking in her voice that makes you happy because she's finally learned to have an emotion. And that emotion? Victory. It's not overwhelming to watch, like with Kelly, which coronation made me think I might lose my mind like an audience member on Oprah, but it's pretty sweet. There's a huge shower of unending sparks that fills the room with smoke, and the glitter and confetti I enjoy so much, so at least there's stuff to look at while she sings this boring, boring, dirty, boring song. The she screams, and smiles, and she's happy. I'm glad somebody is.
Much as they did last night, the lights come up from the darkness and the screaming begins, and it is still very, very exciting. I mean, I know it already happened, and I was certainly not fooled this time around, but since the entire travesty is two hours of nothing wrapped around a half-hour of something, you've got to take your thrills where you can get them. And there are thrills to be had.
We begin the first segment with the Antepenultimate Ten, and they are dressed like idiots, and they singing a Beach Boys medley. I came to the Beach Boys late in life. For a long time I just thought it was more of that oldies music that all sounds the same, and it's about stupid crap anyway, surfers and huarache sandals and all that, and, like, I didn't know there was a qualitative difference between the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean, who irritate me no end, and whoever else. The surfer guy groups. Hate them. And then somebody made me listen to Pet Sounds on headphones, like forced me to. This was freshman year of college, if you know what I mean. Like everybody thought they were socialists, these little Klostermans and Zinns just waiting to be discovered. But it turned out that I was pretty much totally predisposed to love Brian Wilson, like we were connected in some kind of new age Vonnegut fashion, and that was how I figured out why. The Idols do not so much pay what I'd call homage, however, so we'll run through this quickly.
It's been a while, so let's run down the names. Mikalah and Jessica, the Banger Sisters of this little tableau, are up in front, dressed insanely. Jessica's wearing a tight little sausage dress over white jeans, and it is a sickly chartreuse color not unlike that of one Mr. Spongebob Squarepants, and it has a halter top, like, that ties at the nape, and it is backless, and she's wearing a bright turquoise brassiere that you can clearly see through the back of the shirt-dress, because the back of it is not there. It gathers horizontally in a way that makes up for a lot of the flaws going on, but regrettably, completely hides her chest. It's pretty much a disaster. Queen of disaster, of course, is Mikalah, wearing a vagina-baring skirt and a midriff jacket with the collar popped, and she considers this "clothed." Both of the things she's wearing are white denim. She looks like she bought a prostitute costume at the Miami Vice yard sale, and is wearing big pink plastic hoops. Her hair looks like those dogs that have dreads. Am I painting you a picture?