American Idol: Proof Of The Musical Apocalypse or Proof That Drinking While Writing Does Not Always Increase Your Productivity

First off, let me begin by offering a sincere apology to my many, many loyal readers who have had to suspend their lives for months awaiting the newest blog entry. You may now safely resume your normal activities. Recently, I have been engulfed in a seemingly endless period of creative bankruptcy, moral decline and a highly disturbing, newfound work ethic.

I also decided I hadn't inflicted nearly enough emotional distress upon myself and initiated a self-imposed Great American Smoke-Out or as I like to call it "How I Made Each Day More Miserable Than The Last." After suffering through weeks of literal hell on the goddamned patch and surviving 3 near heart attacks (The good people at Nicoderm aren't kidding when they advise you not to smoke while wearing the patch), I am finally feeling more like my old self and have resumed my normal state of sarcasm and disdain for the world.

The idea for a piece regarding American Idol came as the result of its mention in an email from one of my loyal followers, Maddie, who lives on in California despite the fact that we Southerners know for sure that the entire state will someday fall into the ocean. Maddie, I just hope you and Joel can get out in time.

As any good writer would do who's approaching an unfamiliar subject, I have, in fact, done an extensive amount of research into American Idol (which will hereby only be referred to as AI, not to be confused with that shitty Spielberg movie, but solely because I'm way too lazy to retype that many letters 50 fucking times). My research is a culmination of the following elaborate scientific methods, which I will detail for my readers in chronological order. I have entitled it, "The Research Process."

The Research Process

1. I sat on the couch with the TV turned off and devoted at least 9 seconds to wondering what day, time and channel AI was broadcast. Most people might have been tempted to actually suffer through watching an entire episode, but I'm far too smart to have to actually watch or listen to something in order to give my opinion about it. If I wanted to be that bored I'd hang out with MM and his friends and listen to them debate the merits of Linux vs. Windows. (The very fact that I even know what Linux is only shows how he has managed to dorkify me over time, but I digress.) I've got better things to do than watching AI, like making macramé purses or watching paint dry.

2. After deciding that watching AI was unimportant, I arose from the couch and made my way to the kitchen to refresh my drink and realized, with utter horror, I was out of Seagram's 7 and was also running dangerously low on Diet Pepsi.

3. I drove to the liquor store and heard Kelly Clarkson on the radio which reminded me that I was supposed to be at home writing about AI. I felt a momentary pang of guilt for not actually writing which quickly passed when I nearly ran over some stupid teenager in the parking lot. After determining (much to my displeasure) he was unhurt and breaking the news to him that I would not contribute to his delinquency by buying him booze I made my purchase and gleefully waived it in his face as I left. If you're going to drink underage then do what any self-respecting future drunk would do: get one of your older friends to buy it or steal it from your parents' liquor cabinet.

4. I returned from the liquor store and commenced to pour another drink when I realized I was hungry. My hunger reminded me of that fat guy from Alabama that won some season of AI and thanked the world by inflicting that unforgivably horrible "I'm Sorry for 2004" song on us. Just thinking about that song made me lose my appetite.

5. I sat down at the computer to write a serious dissertation regarding AI's cultural impact upon the music industry when I had a startling realization that I had left my neon green twisty straw in the kitchen.

6. I returned from the kitchen, and with my very fetching straw securely ensconced in my glass, I sat down with a sincere resolve to do some serious writing. I was going to write the blog piece to end all blog pieces. I laughed maniacally and thought, "After this hits the web and the producers of AI have gotten wind of it they will feel shame and remorse for what they have done to the musical industry. (I have been secretly convinced for some time that the producers are, in fact, closeted readers and use my material as a reference point for good musical taste. They know that people with taste as good as mine are in the small minority and if they want to appeal to the average moron they should embrace all that I hate musically.)

7. I decided to take a break and go smoke a cigarette. I remembered that I don't fucking smoke anymore. I poured another drink- a really, really strong drink and sulked on the back porch for roughly 15 minutes and thought about how much being an ex-smoker sucked ass.

8. With my glass again nearly empty, I noticed one of the ice cubes kind of resembled that tool, Simon Cowell. I started singing, "Simon Cowbell, Simon Cowbell" which for some reason struck me as particularly funny and sent me into a fit of hysterics.

9. Somewhere around this time I must have passed out because I woke up about 2 hours later under the Dining Room table with a Miller High Life (The Champagne of Beers) bottle cap embedded in my forehead. I decided my writing session was over and went to bed.