American Idols

Over the weekend, the New York Times reported that singing “My Way” at karaoke bars in the Philippines can get you killed. Not by Frank Sinatra, Jr. or the ghost of Frank senior, but by angry patrons. Or jealous patrons. Or irate, boozed up, gun toting nutty patrons who don’t know what they’re doing. Or some combination of all of those. (And I thought Texas was tough.)

The article never did pin down a definitive reason for this other than karaoke is taken very seriously there. Indeed. I've never been to a karaoke bar, but I once did a horrible off-note rendition of Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” at a party, and another time, I did sing “My Way” in a crowded bar. Amazingly I lived to tell about it. Probably the worst thing that happened was everyone exclaiming, “What a drunken idiot!” Thank God there were no cell phone cameras back then to record the event for all eternity. So . . . no, that never actually happened.

But now I suddenly have the urge to go to a karaoke bar. Certainly not to sing, nor would I pack heat. I’m just curious as to exactly how seriously people take that singing-to-canned-music stuff. Do their friends cry? Is there booing? Do the “performers” think they’re the next Mariah Carey because their inebriated friends gave them a standing ovation? Do people bring weapons?

I’m a homebody, so I won’t be going to a karaoke bar any time soon. But then I thought, what if this were on tv?

And of course it is, in the form of “American Idol.” But imagine the drama if, instead of merely shoo-ing away the untalented, Simon Cowell pulled out a pistol and blew away the losers? Or the judges pressed a button and the stage exploded? In fact, they could do away with the judges altogether and just have one of those James Bond villains from the 60’s sitting with his cat, flipping switches that send doomed contestants to horrific deaths. This would be a ratings bonanza.

St. Pauli Girl finally got around to watching the current season of “American Idol.” She had never seen it before although she loves the idea, loves singing and checking out new talent. She used to ask me what night/time it came on, and I would conveniently forget (if I did happen to know which I rarely did). And on top of that, we have a DVR player. We’ve had it for five years now and have yet to record anything. Why? I don’t know. I guess it always just seemed like a hassle. Plus we didn’t have any 12-year-old kids around to show us how easy it was.

We have managed to watch every episode so far. I’ll even admit it’s not as bad as a root canal. Reality show producers/directors really know how to edit for drama. Nevertheless, it gets a little old hearing someone shriek utter nonsense followed by a couple of good singers including a heartwarming story about someone’s past. But the mix of guest judges certainly has me looking forward to each show. So far they’ve had Posh Spice (or was that Old Spice?), Neal Patrick Harris, Avril Lavigne, and Katy Perry’s breasts.

I couldn’t name a song by either Avril or Katy, but they were certainly memorable with Avril sporting some sort of hooded jacket with ears that made her look like a cat or the devil, and Katy sporting half-visible 36D’s. Then I come to learn that Katy achieved fame with her hit, “I Kissed a Girl.” Brilliant. She is obviously following the patented “Madonna Memorial I Want to be Every Guy’s Wet Dream” career path.

And that’s when I realized that it’s not the untalented, can’t-carry-a-tune wannabe singers who are wasting their time. They’re getting a few minutes of fame, and one of their friends who knows how to work a DVR will record it for posterity. It’s the untalented—and possibly talented--good-looking women that are wasting their time. They just need to focus on a viable career path: roll out the cleavage, write a few songs about girl-on-girl, beer, sex in movie theaters or on airplanes-- and then Hollywood will beckon. A sex video never hurts either.

All I know is that when the American Idol audience gets to vote, until a contestant knockers her from her throne, I’m casting my ballot for Katy Perry’s breasts.