Is it just me or is the obsession with American Idol strangling our nation, feeding on any remaining mental capacity found in the general public, growing bloated, self-important, as we wither away, slaves to its perplexingly inescapable draw?
Every radio station I heard this morning - from hip hop to classic rock -dissected last night's episode with the concern of a neurosurgeon, the DJs impassioned to the point of lunacy. I panicked: was I the last Mohican? Frantically I sought solace from those around me. I stood in the weight room of the gym this morning, surrounded by middle-aged men grunting their disapproval of the song choices for, apparently, the last female contestant and lamenting the fact that she was covering her fabulous body in sacks (this latter, at least, was of some comfort. If men were to abandon this complaint altogether, and focus solely on her song choice, it would be indisputable proof of the power of this inane show to turn us into pod people). I realized with sad resignation and a heavy heart that I am the only person within a 175-mile radius of myself to have not watched this show.
I will give you a moment to process this lamentable fact.
Do not pity me. Don't mourn my loss, don't bemoan the fact that I am missing out on the country's most critical television event. Because, really, I'm OK with it.
Forced to go through my day, quietly left out of office conversations about American Idol, bets on the winners, blogs about predictions, radio shows with critiques, I must turn to other, less-important tasks. I do laundry. I clean. I cook. I chat when the conversation drifts to other topics. Somehow, someway, I survive, intact - barely - and ready to face another American-Idol-free day. It's tough, truly, to lack knowledge of what this week's theme will be, or who wears the best outfits, or whose voice is oh-so-bluesy. Sometimes I cry about it. Sometimes I just feel hurt and alone, excluded from the chatter, the excitement, the unbelievable preoccupation. Sometimes I get angry at myself, angry at my resistance, my inability to just give in, tune in, shut down and be swept away in the mindlessness. Mostly, though, I am perfectly fine.
Why do I have the unshakable feeling that one's house could burn down around them tonight as they watch, mesmerized, captivated, dumbfounded, by the announcement of the results? Why in the name of all that's good and sane in this world does it matter who wins? OK, ok, I suppose I see the excitement - like the Olympics, everyone has their favorite and wants to see him or her win. But the obsession, the sheer numbers of concerned viewers, the time people spend on their phones texting votes, the hours on the web reading predictions? The complete and utter despondency, the incredulity, the cries of injustice when a favorite doesn't win? I freely admit this: I don't get it.
Whatever will we do when this show ends? Could such a dark day happen? Will there be a national day of mourning?
And if so, do I get off from work?
Original post date 5-10-06
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