Caterwauling

I know, I promised to ban watching “American Idol” after Constantine was unceremoniously exiled last week. But I got home just after 8 p.m., and curiosity killed the cat for a reason — it’s like biting a wire with a live electric current, watching the carnage.

But it’s neat to watch for the sheer entertainment value and nothing else. I mean, I watched every week, hoping for all the contestants to do well. I wanted them to shine — they’re living out their dreams onstage, and good for them. We should all be so fortunate, to do exactly what we want in the exact way we want to do it.

Now, though, I am barely pulling for my remaining favorites (although, truth be told, I’d like to see Bo win this thing and have Carrie be the first runner-up). Dan had turned me on to a site that seems to be down now, but it was “Vote for the Worst,” and it encouraged everyone to vote for Scott Savol, just to screw with the results. And while I was mildly appalled at first, I get it now.

Someone had commented last week that we shouldn’t want the best to win — the winners (with the exception of Kelly) haven’t exactly been rockin’ the pop charts.

I was watching Scott closely tonight — he’s so out of his league. And when he was interviewed, he said he has a “fashion coordinator” to make him look appealing onstage. Um, yeah, he or she had better hang him or herself after that — I would hardly nominate him as my claim to career fame. *twitch*

OK, and Vonzell? She’s damn good vocally, but something about her irritates me. I know what it is because I do it too — it’s that chipmunk-y, icky-sweet voice she pulls out of nowhere. I use that voice when I know I’m in trouble or when I’m trying to soften a blow I know I have to deliver. She’s classier than last season’s Ghetto Fabulous winner and all, but personality is just as important as a rockin’ set of pipes.

Bo — I swear, he’s wearing the same jacket I had in high school, with the fringe and all. I like him because he reminds me of someone I used to be hot for. He doesn’t have the mass appeal that Constantine did, though, but the boy has raw talent, and that makes up for maybe having a bit less finesse. And hell, he’s still there. Let’s hope it stays that way.

I’m not voting tonight. That will be my boycott from now on. I will allow myself to vote in the finals, if it comes down to someone good against someone tragic. But, I assure you — while I “get” the “Vote for the Worst” concept, I will not spend my money (even if it’s just a dime) on supporting a candidate I don’t believe in — we already have one slack-jawed imbecile in the nation’s highest office, and we don’t need one winning the nation’s favorite television competition, either. Isn’t this nation sick of getting screwed?!?!

OK, so this sinner doesn’t go to church (although sitting in Pentagon traffic usually invokes variants on the names of higher beings), but I do go to meetings once in awhile. And I get the equivalent of church giggles, because I usually make remarks to myself that I think are quite hilarious, and then I look around the room to see if anybody could hear my brilliant thoughts and if they were, in fact, laughing at my brilliance. And I am stunned that nobody seems to be as entertained by me as I am, although I do hope I haven’t emitted any unconscious mutterings.

I guess I am ahead of my time, thinking we are in the era of mind-reading just because we want to. And that scared me for a minute — I like having my thoughts private. I mean, sure, you might hear me quacking back at the angry geese in our parking garage (I swear one of those little bastards was following me and blowing raspberries at me the other day!). After I quit quacking at him, I ran into the stairwell (because he couldn’t follow me into it — that, and I needed to, like, get to work and all) and said, “And don’t shit on my car!”

What I forgot to count on was the gaggle of not geese but smokers who are perpetually at the foot of the stairs (who usually hear me grumbling to myself about something or other). And I realized that while, thankfully, mind-reading is lightyears away, the good old-fashioned overhearing of a woman who has just survived another fun-filled commute is alive and well for years to come.

And when I did come out to poop on my roof (what the hell is going on? Between my cats and feathered creatures, I am up to my ears in ca-ca!), I exclaimed something my mom used to say when the ducks at the local pond would shit — “Ducka gucka!”

And, yes, I am grateful that nobody but the birds heard that one.

The thing is, I called my mom to tell her about the poop on the roof. And, without any prompting from me, she exclaimed, “Ducka gucka!”

And now, we see where I get it from.

So, I will continue in my struggle to not emit ridiculous statements in public, but the public needs to promise to not even try to tap into my mind … ’cause they will, in fact, step in the mental equivalent of ducka gucka.

Weep for me. 😉

On iTunes: Fiona Apple, “Shadowboxer”

You know it’ll be a good day when you remembered to take the shower toys out of the shower before you sprayed Tilex. 😉

Yesterday morning wasn’t so fortunate. Don’t worry — no toys were harmed during the recording of this message — but I awakened with a mouthful of vomit. Why? Because apparently the cats thought it would be cute to SHIT in EVERY ROOM.

I fed them “Good” food the night before — usually they get the cheap, dry Cat Chow crap. Which they will be getting from now until the end of time, thanks to the Sunday Night Shitfest. I mean, it was bloody shit, too — like they popped a blood vessel, trying to push out all that wet, stinky goodness.

Seriously, next time I open up the balcony and let the cats play outside, I am shutting the door behind them.

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE
The bitches? SHIT IN MY WHITE SHIRT that I was planning to wear today. ARGH! I found some vomit in a couple of my socks, too. There went a laundry basket full of clean whites. Kill. …

On iTunes: Rick Springfield, “Jessie’s Girl”