OK. I’ll admit it. I love American Idol. This is without question the best TV show to nap through — ever. To paraphrase Lee Iacocca, who stood tall during the previous Chrysler meltdown — “If you can find a better cure for insomnia, watch it.” Last night, like most when the show is broadcast, I slept fairly soundly from beginning fanfare to ending credits.
And I had some sweet dreams. For instance, I dreamed that:
- America — and American workers — still made and sold products that mattered. You know: steel, cars, tires and so on. And thinking about the good old USA still meant Mom, and Chevy and apple pie — not toxic bond derivatives.
- All of our elected officials were like Mr. Smith — the idealistic, naive do-gooder who goes to Washington and can’t be bought — or sold.
- I was sitting in the left field bleachers at Forbes Field (now defunct) watching the Pirates play on a hot summer afternoon at a time when sports heroes abused only two drugs: alcohol and tobacco. Gee, compared to the today’s Monsters of the Midway, Roberto Clemente, Willie Mays, Duke Snider and so on kind of resemble ordinary kids playing ball. Guess their asses weren’t dotted with needle marks. I digress.
Then I went to bed at 10 and woke up as usual at 3 a.m. (another thyroid test on tap this Friday) and checked the daily journals online before hitting the concrete for my daily five-miler at 5 a.m. And say what?
- “GM, Chrysler Seek Billions More in Aid“
- “Buy-Buy Mr. Burris“
- “Rodriguez Details His Use of Steroids“
Oh well. Back to reality.
And speaking of reality, aren’t you kind of getting weary of Randy Jackson’s routine. Full disclosure: the constant twittering sound from my computer startles me awake often enough that I manage to catch glimpses of the show. OK, back to Jackson. He opines to every singer: “Yo, dog. That didn’t make it for me. It was a little pitchy. And the wrong song for you. It’s Aretha’s song. And you’re not Aretha.” (Note: Other judges aren’t any better. And yo. What’s up with the new one?)
Well clearly the performer — he/she — is not Aretha. Otherwise he/she would be wearing a hat that could eclipe the Lincoln Memorial.