Phil has been looking forward to this week more than anything, because Tony Bennett is his hero. I'm just quoting, I'm not trying to be mean. He really said that. Of course he did, he dedicates every breath he takes and every move he makes, night and day, to the victims of cerebral palsy or his wife or his grandfather or the cancer of his second cousin once removed or whatever causes fake tears to come squirting out of your Hallmark gland. Gwen Stefani, Diana Ross, J. Lo are probably his heroes too, but I mean, of course he loves Tony Bennett. Who doesn't? Phil will be singing "Night And Day," a "passionate" love song, and he will be singing it super slow and super creepy and in a stupid accent that sounds like Sundance Head after a week of PBS Britcom reruns. The idea of putting Phil Stacey and the word "passionate" in the same hemisphere of our beautiful world makes me want to beat someone soundly with a broomstick. Tony Bennett begs Phil to suck less, but confides in us that Phil's one of the better singers he's heard: not just today, but ever. Firstly, I question Tony Bennett's powers of recall, not to say continence. However, the really offensive thing here is that the reason for this hyperbole, astoundingly enough, is that when Tony Bennett is nearby, Phil sings just like...Tony Bennett. Proving once again that the quickest way to a man's heart is up his ass.
I can buy it better from Phil, because he is not my one true love and thus it does not reflect poorly on me as a person, although the truth remains that looking at him makes my tummy hurt. Is he getting sicker? Is his degrading state causing some kind of glossolalia? The sounds coming out of his hollow ghostly face don't sound like a song, they sound like a snake handler. His eyes are hooded in death as usual. My notes at one point: "Pronounciation is fucking weird of the words." You know what, I'm not even skeeved about the song this time around. He can spend his life making love to you if he wants; he's not long for this world, and deserves to go out happy. Then, right after his cheesy-ass, troubling singing is done, he makes a face that I can only describe as "noble," in the same way that beagles often make a face like this which is similarly honorable in appearance but has no actual honor behind it. I so often make the mistake of anthropomorphizing the contestants on this show.
Randy: "check it out Dawg that was an interesting choice for you," you "sang it good," there were "big notes," it was "cool." No mention by anybody of the fucked up sounding Uta Lemper vocal issues, of course, which means he must still be pulling shit votes, which means he's going to be the Bottom Three But One Of You Is Safe guy AGAIN this week. Watch. Mark my words. Randy does note however a lack of "connection" and "passion" -- which is unfair. The man's barely drawing breath and you're expecting him to waste his precious life force on projecting "passion"? Just be glad he didn't pass out onstage. Or start drinking Ryan's blood, for that matter. The crowd boos of course, as they have been told to do, and Randy laughs nastily: "I know how you feel! I was listening to it too!" Um, Randy? Come here a minute. Closer. No, closer. BOOM. That was snotty and stupid. The only person who can be Simon here is Simon, and even he pulls it off only three-quarters of the time. Not witty in this context, even. He repeats that it was "disconnected a little bit, I don't know," and Paula jumps right up in the crazy and starts rolling around in it, like a ball pit at McDonald's, or a hound dog in a very smelly area of the yard: "Good news! Reminiscent of a young Frank Sinatra!" Simon, Jacob, Ryan, ["Joe R," -- Joe R] Charlie's Angels, the West Memphis Three, Kim Jong-Il, Boris and Natasha, Chevy Chase, Forrest Gump, and everybody down through history screams, "WHAT?"