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By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff Writer
For years, my wife resisted the temptation.
She had resisted for so long – but the other night, she finally caved.
Friends told her how much fun it was. They regaled her with details about things and people of which she’d never heard. She listened as they became caught up in the addiction, neglecting their families and other responsibilities to spend more time on it.
Then I got home early from work and discovered my wife’s dark secret.
Like many addicts, she was defiant. She sees nothing wrong with it. If I don’t like it, fine.
Yes, my beloved is another victim of the temptation that is American Idol.
I think sometimes that I am the only person in America who does not care who wins, loses, dresses funny, or has a voice similar to that of a frightened guinea fowl on drugs. People I know, love and respect get a certain glazed look to their eyes whenever American Idol is mentioned.
Just saying the words American Idol – even as a part of a sentence such as “I consider American Idol to be a waste of time and brain cells” – is enough to elicit gushing commentary about what Simon said, what Paula did, and did that person really, truly think they could sing?
I suppose my wife’s addiction is actually my fault, since I accidentally hit the TV antenna one evening and we magically had the ability to pick up three channels instead of just one. Miss Rhonda adjusted it, and I suddenly heard the theme music which is now ingrained in my psyche.
I have never been a big fan of reality shows, but I’ll tell you plain: I’d rather see a bunch of self-centered wannabe models eating fermented duck eggs than see another poor sucker be insulted by that British pretty boy.
I am afraid that if I were more self-centered, I might be tempted to try out for the program. A long-haired bearded man in a Brooks Brothers suit? Why not? Maybe a low-rent combination of ZZ Top and Frank Sinatra, with a little Marty Robbins and Charlie Daniels thrown in for good measure.
Hypnotized by my own dreams of stardom, I would drive hours to some large city, wait for more hours amidst a bunch of similarly-star-hungry strangers, then be arrested after punching Simon in the nose for hurting some little girl’s feelings.
Not a great way to start a career in entertainment, I don’t think.
Now, I’m sure Simon is a nice enough person, but as I have mentioned before, I was raised to be polite. Most of the folks I’ve met from his country are also polite (moreso than many Yankees, but not quite as much so as Southerners).
Whilst I admire a ripping riposte of a retort as much as anyone, belittling people just because you are (a) in a position of authority and (b) English – well, that’s just rude.
But folks, I have to admit, many of those contestants ask for it.
If your mama and daddy love you, your singing voice will be beautiful to them. If your significant other thinks you’re nice to look at, they’ll swear you can dance.
Why, pray tell, does everyone dream of being a celebrity? There are those who will jokingly call me that, since my rat-scaring picture appears above these words every week, and a few very kind people seem to enjoy my words. For their flattery, I thank them.
But these poor folks who want to become big and famous – why? A simple glance at that poor, sad, Anna Nicole Smith – not to mention a thousand others like her – shows that stardom ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.
It can’t be the money, because the odds of getting wealthy as a singer/actor/whatever are about like those of striking it rich in the lottery. Do these folks so crave attention that they are willing to be humiliated in front of millions of people on national television? That’s not being star-struck, in my opinion – it’s being masochistic.
I know these shows are popular, supposedly clean, and basically harmless, but I ask you to think in terms of what example they set for children. I wonder how many of those contestants who saw their dreams ripped apart like a sheep in a wolf pack took the failure as a reality check – and how many others will never recover from their dashed dreams.
I also wonder what I’ll have to do to break my beloved wife’s addiction to The Simon Show, as I like to call it.
I know I shouldn’t be so hard on Simon, Paula and the fellow who says “Dog” all the time. Nor should I be so hard on those folks with stars in their eyes and big dreams in their hearts. I wish them the best of luck, since Simon would help Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm develop a tough skin.
Of course, unlike many of those people Simon rips, cuts, and basically treats worse than I’d treat an unloved relative who wants money, there is hope for my wife’s Idol addiction.
All I have to do is break that TV antenna when Miss Rhonda isn’t looking.
I have to wonder how many mommas and daddies wish they’d done the same thing years ago.
That’s probably something Simon and I could agree on.
Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter. He may be reached via telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227, or via email at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.
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