I am a pyrite god!

I'll get back to talking about opera shortly, but first: I was a little surprised the other day to receive an e-mail from Craig Cantin of American Idol Bloggers, inviting your humbly Reverberating Hills to become an Official American Idol Blog. ("Our intent is to bring American Idol bloggers closer together, and make a positive contribution to the Internet community. Would you be interested in joining American Idol Bloggers ?")

Although making a positive contribution to the Internet community is the fondest desire of my heart, I wasn't really sure why they were asking me. It's not as if I've written lots of posts saying "OMG OMG OMG Simon was so mean to those ugly untalented freaks!!!!" or "What was Paula on? Bitch, please!!!" Was it my incisive comments on Schlingensief's Parsifal? or my love of Ligeti and Elliott Carter? Then I remembered that very early on I wrote a brief entry that mentioned AI, grandly proclaiming that it wasn't really my kind of music. Craig Cantin is one thorough researcher! Although it still isn't really my kind of music, I have a confession: I did end up watching it last year, if not faithfully then as regularly as I watch any TV show that isn't the Simpsons. This was partly because every Wednesday at V's house I was drawn into her sordid, degraded world of reality television (don't deny it, you know it's true) and partly because I was extremely sick with the flu one Tuesday and AI was the only thing I could follow on TV and I discovered that once you figure out the names and personalities you don't need anything else.

Also, I was intensely amused by V's Iago-like hatred (described by Coleridge as "motiveless malignancy") of Ace Young, last year's resident pretty boy. Normally she conveys a calm, rational view of the world's irrationality, as if she knows that, the Good Lord willing and with some hard work, she'll get those crops in on time and save the farm, once she's finished fixing the thresher. (If you're wondering where I am, figure that this charming Quaker farm in the Midwest is equipped with a drafty garret, in which you see a useless underemployed aesthete, shivering slightly and moaning softly as in a fog, having squandered everything on absinthe and Aubrey Beardsley prints.) That's why it was so funny to see her face darken as with a great cloud of locusts when he and his hair would come on screen, waiting for the right moment to unleash his high voice. And I'd say, "I see Ace is now wearing sleeveless shirts 24/7. Work those guns, babe!" She would bitterly say, "That because he should have been voted off weeks ago -- and he knows it! What is wrong with America?" I just don't know. I voted for John Kerry myself.

I also enjoyed the variations on a theme each judge worked on his or her individual trope: Randy's many ways of saying, "Dawg, you did your thing." Paula's many ways of saying, "I love you and whatever it was you did." And Simon's many ways of being "the mean one." He's clearly the only judge anyone really listens to or respects. Yet his advice wasn't really consistent enough to be helpful. For example, last year he kept applauding Chris Daughtrey for doing everything in his own style, until he started criticizing him for doing everything in his own style. Sometimes it all just seemed like filler between the commercials for Coca-Cola and Chevrolet.

I haven't actually checked out the American Idol Bloggers link. A further confession: there was a little sadness here, since about a month ago I had received a different e-mail, urging me to Make My Hollywood Dreams Come True!!!! by auditioning for AI. Clearly, with the tact and delicate insight for which network TV is renowned, they had realized that I really am more of an observer of life than a participant. It was sweet of them to try to keep me involved. But I had already thought about my audition. I had a song and everything.

I would sing "He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss)." Randy would say, "Dawg, you went up there, and you did your thing." Paula would pause, her eyes would fill with tears, possibly even induced by my performance, and say, "I just love who you are. I love it." There would be another pause, this time with a little more tension, and we would all turn to Simon. He would grudgingly praise me, and though he would add that "it seemed a little cabaret" I wouldn't mind, because I would mistake that for a compliment. And I would be America's Sweetheart.