I’m more than a little depressed and disappointed that the only thing that can animate this blog from dormancy is American Idol. Seriously, at the end of last season I didn’t even like this show and I didn’t really like myself for ever having watched it. Any chance of retaining me as a viewer was obliterated when Fox announced Steven Tyler and J-Lo would be replacing Simon and the other non-Randy judges.
That’s it. The show’s over. I figured it would get canceled out of general hilarious outrage. Then I could finally go back to hitting you with the occasional anecdote about my kids or thoughts on baked goods and whatever.
Then came the commercials. Randy Jackson. Steven Tyler. And J-Lo. I realized that a) they really are going through with this and b) I like looking at J-Lo. I don’t mean that in a Steven-Tyler-likes-looking-at-slender-young-girls kind of way, I just don’t object to the sight of Jennifer Lopez, okay? Shut up.
Suddenly it dawned on me that my American Idol viewing had done a Brett Favre. I mean come back from retirement. My American Idol viewing doesn’t take pictures of its junk. It doesn’t limp off the field after interceptions. It doesn’t . . . you know what, this metaphor isn’t helping. I realized I wouldn’t be able to stop watching AI just yet, okay? Shut up.
So there it is. Back on my TV. There are people who look like Oompa Loompas and who want to be Miley Cyrus and who sound like jake breaks. I don’t care. There’s still the occasional emotionally manipulative story and three or four people who can sing. And J-Lo. I’m watching it.