I present to you, my five readers, the following math/logic puzzle:
who has an uncanny resemblance to:
which featured this Idol contestant:
therefore, because Paula is:
I am an avid fan of American Idol, often much to the chagrin of the hubby, who probably secretly hopes for the extinction of the show (and the shameless product placement in that show). Yesterday, THR had the following article containing excerpts from the incomparable Simon Cowell.
When asked about the future, Cowell stated:
The idea that for the next five years, I’d be doing exactly what I’ve been doing for the past five years . . . the thought is just too depressing.
I’d go nuts, bored out of my mind. You have to evolve, you have to change. I like the challenge of launching something new.
It made me think about where I could be in five years. Whether I, too, could launch something new. Perhaps, in five years, Tina Fey will have already discovered me, and I will be on my way to accepting a WGA award. Perhaps the change will be less dramatic, and the legal profession will suffice as an outlet for my creative writing. Perhaps, in five years, I will be on day 1,279 of my 10 Days for Tina Fey series.
Many words can be used to adequately summarize my attempts at finding success in television. Given the statistics, coupled with my risk-averse nature, my Hollywood fantasies appear delusional, at best. Thankfully, for my own sanity (and my hubby’s sanity), the very act of creative writing provides unparalleled joy. But there can be so much more. A girl can hope, right? My dream may never materialize, but as eloquently stated by Cowell (made more eloquent by his British accent), I gotta at least go for it:
Being No. 1 is verging on an obsession with me. I don’t like being No. 2. I don’t mind when you start at No. 10 — people don’t always go on as No. 1 — and you’ve got somewhere to go. But if you’re at the point you’ve reached it, of course you want to stay there.
I have not reached No. 1. I’m not even close. But Tina, if you give me a chance, I’ll make it.
I love human interest stories. Even my own.
Discover me, Tina Fey!
Last season, I was obsessed with little David Archuleta. This year, along with my “work for Tina Fey obsession,” I am now transfixed upon Kris Allen. For those who know me, you know that I unapologetically adore pop music. And when I say pop music, I mean music that consists of a simple melody and contains at least one of the following words in the chorus: “love” or “crazy (or if a ballad, “cry,” “tears,” or “without” /s “you”). Even better if it’s a song that begins a capella, with the gradual introduction of a soft-toned drum beat, and finally the introduction of the rest of the band as the singer reaches vocal crescendo. Think Leona Lewis’s Bleeding Love, Mandy Moore’s Cry, or O’Town’s All or Nothing.
So while this year’s field of AI finalists may be, as a whole, the most vocally talented in the show’s history, I have found only a few to be worthy of my pop heart. There’s Danny Gokey and his pull at the heart strings story of true love. There’s Anoop Dawg, whose voice is built for a Boyz II Men revival, and there’s Matt Giraud, who does his best every week to imitate Justin Timberlake at the piano.
But out of them all, my pop heart belongs to Kris Allen. Last night, Kris performed a beautifully gentle rendition of Garth Brooks’ To Make You Feel My Love. What a wonderful choice of song. It was as if Kris looked into the minds of all sappy women in America, realized that they all watched the movie, Hope Floats, and figured out that singing the song from Hope Floats would generate an unprecedented response fueled by sappy memories and overflowing estrogen.
After last night’s performance, I’m feeling like dreams can come true. And that is the real reason why I heart pop music. Pop music is reliable. Whether you’re hopeful, downtrodden, or emotionally extinguished, there’s a song for you. I’m now on day nine in my 10 More Days for Tina Fey series, and I have not heard from the Queen Bee of comedy herself. That’s okay. I’ve got Kris Allen on repeat, and I’ve got my pop. Tina, when you’re ready, my script is waiting for you.
Discover me, Tina Fey!
On this day four of my 10 Days for Tina Fey series, I’d first like to thank GLW for starting a facebook cause to further disseminate my pleas. Should the facebook cause lead to Tina Fey actually reading my script, I will krump in front of GL. Too bad I already krumped (aka epileptic chicken dance) at my wedding, but this krump will be far different because I will put myself into costume and pretend that I’m actually auditioning for SYTYCD. I digress.
Speaking of reality television competitions, the hubby and I were watching a DVR’d episode of American Idol this morning, and it got me thinking. I’ve always found it strange that a contestant will “sing” to the point of blood actually dripping out my ears, and when they are unequivocally informed that singing is not a career that should ever be pursued, the usual response is to sing again, and even louder.
So I thought to myself . . . what if Tina Fey actually reads my script and tells me something along the lines of, “Oh hell no. Bitch, you really should stick with the legal profession.” What would I do? Would I try, try, and try again until Tina Fey became so fed up with me that she allowed me be a runner for the entire cast? Would I hang my head in defeat and attempt to find a silver lining by asking if Tina Fey needed any legal assistance? Would I become confused as to my ultimate goals and respond like an Idol contestant by doing my best version of “Vision of Love,” with a staccato wave of my right pointer finger in the air and shoving my left finger in my ear as if I had a faux-earpiece?
Upon reflection, I now cannot mock the aforementioned Idol contestants, because I too would utterly embarrass myself and my entire family for one more chance at impressing Tina Fey. Like a broken record, I would break out every joke in my repertoire, hoping that something would stick and change Tina Fey’s mind. I would moonwalk, do the funky chicken, and make shadow puppets, praying that one of these otherwise useless “talents,” would induce a laugh. I would not care if the induced laugh was one of discomfort, of Tina Fey feeling pity for the shameless woman baring her comedic soul. Like Meatloaf circa 1993, I’d Do Anything For Tina Fey (sans the But I Won’t Do That, because I will — believe me, I will).
Savor my devotion. Discover me, Tina Fey!
The Chosen One was robbed of the title last night. Despite receiving unanimous praise from the judges, the Chosen One came out with 44% of the vote, compared to Cook’s 56% (side note, don’t you hate it when people write 44% percent? The “%” means percent, you jerk). I don’t understand. I mean, I dialed multiple times and received a busy tone, which only tells me that the Chosen One was robbed of the title. Which made me remember one of the funniest YouTube videos I have ever seen:
This is a Japanese exercise/language video in which the viewer is encouraged to engage in some light aerobic exercise, while learning simple English phrases which, presumably, are useful for travel situations. After vacationing in Japan, I understand this video. There is no crime in Japan. Like zero as in you can leave your bling in a bathroom and someone will drop it off at Lost & Found. I mean, if I came from a country with zero crime, I’d probably want to learn this phrase too.
Just like the first time, the Chosen One’s rendition of “Imagine” gave me chills. Side note. Paula was again scripted last night. Bitch ain’t that eloquent.
Message to the Chosen One. My offer still stands. If you need a new mommy and daddy, we’re here for you kiddo. We will encourage you, mold you into a superstar, manage your schedule . . . and in return, you can buy us houses all over the world. I mean, with all the traveling we’ll have to do, we need some semblance of normality.
Jeff Archuleta, father of the Chosen One, has been banned from the backstage of American Idol. Apparently, Archuleta senior is the stage-dad from hell, and the final straw came when he, against the wishes of AI producers, had the Chosen One change the lyrics to “Stand by Me,” costing AI a crapload of money for publishing rights to Sean Kingston’s “Beautiful Girls.”
So it looks like the Chosen One could use new parents. Last I checked, the hubby and I have a spare bedroom, a spare bathroom, and a spare space in our hearts to welcome the Chosen One to our family. I will pinch his cheeks and follow his travels around the world. I will help him cater to his growing legion of fans and teach him how to fend off trashy groupie whores. And the Chosen One will allow his new-found parents to retire within the next 5 years. You can call me Joe Jackson. Except I’m not a dude. I’m not abusive. And I would not allow my little Chosen One to take his shirt off and expose his pasty skin to the world in a video in which he makes out with Lisa Marie Presley, causing recurring episodes of vomiting all across the globe.
Speaking of AI, did anyone notice that Paula was remarkably coherent and articulate on Tuesday? After last week’s gaffe, something tells me that Paula’s comments were scripted . . .