Continuing with their theme of over-indulgent mediocrity, which has been raised to a level heretofor unprecedented in Idol history, American Idol decided to “treat” we the viewers to boxing comparisons.  Yaawwnn!  The good Farmacist, Dr. P. Haze, and I put on our best duds, spiffed up the Progeny and trecked over to the Nokia for the first part of the big finale.  The people were beautiful, the Nokia gussied up beyond good taste and, well, reality was no where to be found.

Following previous seasons, the first round number was chosen by Clive Davis.  Now, Mr. Davis may have the “golden ear”, of that I have no doubt.  But he’s old and his song selection reflected his antiquity.  Both Davids performed their numbers with gusto, but, if I’m being honest (and we know I always am), David Cook ended his portion of the competition last week.  Heck, he pretty much said so himself.   That’s not to say he sucked, because he didn’t.  He was just outsung by little eflin boy David Archuleta.

In fact, all three rounds were dominated by little David…Archuleta.  And, can I just say, that this idea of letting people “write” songs for the finale and then have the contestants sing them is something the producers should reconsider.  Every year these songs have sucked, sucked, sucked!  Tonight was absolutely no different.  These were not songs I, or any other music loving person, would enjoy hearing on the regular!

Round three allowed the boys to choose their own song.  Like Simon, I was hoping the hear Billie Jean from Cook.  Contestants have done this in the past, reprising their best performances from the season.  However, I’m glad he didn’t.  He showed, to me anyway, that he’s an evolving artist that doesn’t need to rely on a “greatest hits” album to win the show.  While it would have been nice to have heard one of these numbers,  he did a brilliant job with the one he performed. 

Little David, of course, went the opposite way reprising his performance of Imagine.  Once again, he left out parts of the number and, while performing beautifully, ruined the song for me.  You know, I’m tired of the comparison of little David and the phone book.  It’s not a good comparison.

Unlike Simon, I can’t say that eflin boy David landed any knock-out punches.  Maybe it was the lushness that is the Nokia.  Maybe it’s because I’m trying to whack this out in the back of a lovely towncar with the Progeny’s head resting gently on my shoulder as he slumbers.  Maybe it’s because my chat earlier in the evening with D.C. Vodkalips reminded me of just how much I don’t care.  Whatever the reason, tonight just didn’t ring bells for me.  Which is too bad!

I can’t pick a winner.  They were both capable in their own way.  The rumble at the Nokia was much more like a tiptoe through the tulips;  Pretty, capable, sickeningly sweet.  The boxing comparison, the choosing of Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber, showed once again just how out of touch to reality this “reality” show has become.  The winner is irrelevant because “they’re both already winners!”  Which makes all of the hoopla just a bunch of hot air. 

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