As Bud Collyer used to say, "The votes are all in; the minds are made up." And it was a landslide. Watch for "Project Runway" reviews here once the new season starts next month. They'll be fierce.
New poll at right . . .
New poll at right . . .
Friday, June 13, 2008
Game Show Redemption
A couple of weeks ago, I posted a review of the new "Million Dollar Password" (click on the title of this entry to read), which has proven to be a pretty substantial hit for CBS this summer (placing third and sixth in the prime-time Nielsens in its first two broadcasts). My two main criticisms were:
> No Betty White. This woman is the only star who has appeared on every version of the show since it first premiered in 1961. Give her her due, and put her on there first. In her place we got Rachael Ray, who given 30 seconds can whip up dinner but not a synonym for it.
> The absence of the original elimination-round format, in which one word is "passed" from team to team until it is guessed. (As my friend Philip pointed out, without that feature, it's not really "Password"; they might as well call it "Guessword.")
The Tony Awards broadcast will pre-empt "Million Dollar Password" next Sunday. So to keep the show's momentum going, CBS scheduled an airing last night, in the plum Thursday timeslot reserved during the regular season for "Survivor."
Having watched the special showing last night, now I understand. And to CBS, Fremantle Media, and the spirits of Goodson and Todman, I say this: I not only forgive you, I salute you.
The celebrity guests were an actress from "Curb Your Enthusiasm" named Susie Essman, and the aforementioned Ms. White. Ahhh -- so CBS saved the Betty White episode for a timeslot that the network has dominated for the last seven years.
At the top of the show, Regis Philbin pointed out that Betty had been a guest on the original "Password" and then proceeded to fall in love with and marry its emcee, Allen Ludden. And Betty White explained: "I slept with the host of this show for a long time. Reege . . . what are you doing?"
Her comic timing, perfected on the Mary Tyler Moore show and "The Golden Girls," is still razor sharp. And she came up with plenty of laughs throughout the hour, as the game's tension mounted: "I'll have a vodka and soda, please." "Regis, I'm too old for this!" And to Regis's comment that she wasn't bad for an old broad: "Well, you're half right."
Better yet, Betty White's legendary gameplaying abilities have only marginally diminished with time. As a receiver of clues, she appears to have a slight hearing problem that slowed her down in a couple of rounds. But as a giver? She's brilliant. Over the two rounds of the show, which required each celebrity to give clues four times, I believe she and her teammate scored the maximum five out of five every time.
In the first half of the show, Susie Essman reached the Million Dollar Round only because she was the last celebrity to have played with the winning contestant; Susie and Betty had both scored an equal number of points for him. Susie proved to be a better player than I expected; she and her teammate reached the $100,000 level, and the contestant decided to go home with that amount rather than risking it for a quarter of a million dollars.
The second Elimination Round ended with a 17-17 tie, and that's where "Million Dollar Password" completed its rehabilitation. Regis said, "As you know, when there's a tie, we play Classic Password as a tiebreaker. Each team will have the same password, and if the first team doesn't guess it on one clue, it will pass to the second team, and so on and so forth until a team guesses the word. That team will go on to play the Million Dollar Round."
Yes! The challenge, the consternation, the comedy that the original game offered are still there! They've been relegated to the tiebreaker, but so what? That almost elevates the importance of the original format, without compromising the fast pace of the modern edition.
If you didn't see the show, I'll let you play along. Susie Essman's team went first. The contestants were giving the clues.
S.E.'s partner: "Container."
S.E.: "Tupperware."
"Tupperware" was not the correct answer, so the action shifted to Betty White's team.
B.W.'s partner: "Hot."
Betty White, somehow, guessed the password. The answer's at the end of this post.
And so Betty found herself in the Million Dollar Round, where her teammate, an "interfaith minister," elected to give the clues. This is not the decision I would have made, given Betty's success at giving and her reduced ability to hear every clue. Nonetheless, they reached the $100,000 level, and where the contestant gave this brilliant succession of clues on the last of the five words:
Contestant: "Butterfly."
B.W.: "Uh, uh . . . bird."
Contestant: "Chrysalis."
B.W.: "Cocoon!"
And with that, the interfaith minister had $100,000 in her collection plate, and Regis asked Betty if she thought she should risk it for the chance to win $250,000. Betty said, "I think she should take the money and run like a thief." Which is exactly what the contestant did. The studio audience cheered, and in at least one house in Riverside, California, so did the home audience.
Yes, it's only a game show, but last night's episode of "Million Dollar Password" was also nostalgic and respectful (at one point, the studio audience was chanting, "Bet-ty! Bet-ty!") and encouraging and uplifting: The old broad's still got it. I hope when I'm her age I do too.
By the way, the password was . . .
Thermos.
(Did you guess it? I wouldn't have gotten it until someone said "insulated." Here's to you, Betty White.)
> No Betty White. This woman is the only star who has appeared on every version of the show since it first premiered in 1961. Give her her due, and put her on there first. In her place we got Rachael Ray, who given 30 seconds can whip up dinner but not a synonym for it.
> The absence of the original elimination-round format, in which one word is "passed" from team to team until it is guessed. (As my friend Philip pointed out, without that feature, it's not really "Password"; they might as well call it "Guessword.")
The Tony Awards broadcast will pre-empt "Million Dollar Password" next Sunday. So to keep the show's momentum going, CBS scheduled an airing last night, in the plum Thursday timeslot reserved during the regular season for "Survivor."
Having watched the special showing last night, now I understand. And to CBS, Fremantle Media, and the spirits of Goodson and Todman, I say this: I not only forgive you, I salute you.
The celebrity guests were an actress from "Curb Your Enthusiasm" named Susie Essman, and the aforementioned Ms. White. Ahhh -- so CBS saved the Betty White episode for a timeslot that the network has dominated for the last seven years.
At the top of the show, Regis Philbin pointed out that Betty had been a guest on the original "Password" and then proceeded to fall in love with and marry its emcee, Allen Ludden. And Betty White explained: "I slept with the host of this show for a long time. Reege . . . what are you doing?"
Her comic timing, perfected on the Mary Tyler Moore show and "The Golden Girls," is still razor sharp. And she came up with plenty of laughs throughout the hour, as the game's tension mounted: "I'll have a vodka and soda, please." "Regis, I'm too old for this!" And to Regis's comment that she wasn't bad for an old broad: "Well, you're half right."
Better yet, Betty White's legendary gameplaying abilities have only marginally diminished with time. As a receiver of clues, she appears to have a slight hearing problem that slowed her down in a couple of rounds. But as a giver? She's brilliant. Over the two rounds of the show, which required each celebrity to give clues four times, I believe she and her teammate scored the maximum five out of five every time.
In the first half of the show, Susie Essman reached the Million Dollar Round only because she was the last celebrity to have played with the winning contestant; Susie and Betty had both scored an equal number of points for him. Susie proved to be a better player than I expected; she and her teammate reached the $100,000 level, and the contestant decided to go home with that amount rather than risking it for a quarter of a million dollars.
The second Elimination Round ended with a 17-17 tie, and that's where "Million Dollar Password" completed its rehabilitation. Regis said, "As you know, when there's a tie, we play Classic Password as a tiebreaker. Each team will have the same password, and if the first team doesn't guess it on one clue, it will pass to the second team, and so on and so forth until a team guesses the word. That team will go on to play the Million Dollar Round."
Yes! The challenge, the consternation, the comedy that the original game offered are still there! They've been relegated to the tiebreaker, but so what? That almost elevates the importance of the original format, without compromising the fast pace of the modern edition.
If you didn't see the show, I'll let you play along. Susie Essman's team went first. The contestants were giving the clues.
S.E.'s partner: "Container."
S.E.: "Tupperware."
"Tupperware" was not the correct answer, so the action shifted to Betty White's team.
B.W.'s partner: "Hot."
Betty White, somehow, guessed the password. The answer's at the end of this post.
And so Betty found herself in the Million Dollar Round, where her teammate, an "interfaith minister," elected to give the clues. This is not the decision I would have made, given Betty's success at giving and her reduced ability to hear every clue. Nonetheless, they reached the $100,000 level, and where the contestant gave this brilliant succession of clues on the last of the five words:
Contestant: "Butterfly."
B.W.: "Uh, uh . . . bird."
Contestant: "Chrysalis."
B.W.: "Cocoon!"
And with that, the interfaith minister had $100,000 in her collection plate, and Regis asked Betty if she thought she should risk it for the chance to win $250,000. Betty said, "I think she should take the money and run like a thief." Which is exactly what the contestant did. The studio audience cheered, and in at least one house in Riverside, California, so did the home audience.
Yes, it's only a game show, but last night's episode of "Million Dollar Password" was also nostalgic and respectful (at one point, the studio audience was chanting, "Bet-ty! Bet-ty!") and encouraging and uplifting: The old broad's still got it. I hope when I'm her age I do too.
By the way, the password was . . .
Thermos.
(Did you guess it? I wouldn't have gotten it until someone said "insulated." Here's to you, Betty White.)
Sing Out, Louise
After years of assaulting the eardrums of my friends, fellow patrons and assorted drunks on Karaoke Night at my local watering hole -- and after realizing how important it is to try to make the world a better place -- I have decided to take singing classes.
I'd thought about this for years. When I retire, I should . . . Sometimes that sentence might end learn Spanish, sometimes go on a trip around the world, sometimes take up origami, but more often than not it was take singing classes.
What prompted me to make the move now, dozens and dozens of years before I'm even eligible to retire, was the encouragement of one of my fellow singers on Karaoke Night at that local watering hole. I'll call him "Noah," because that's his name. Noah is a teacher at a newly opened non-profit performing arts academy in that well known birthplace of the stars, Corona, California.
Now, I realize that when Noah is encouraging me (or anybody else) to sign up for Introduction to Singing, Adult Jazz Dance, or any of the other courses this place offers, he's actually just drumming up business. I am not foolish or vain enough to believe that this will bring me the adoration of millions by the end of the summer. Surely that will take at least six months.
But I do understand that, even though I have been lifting my voice in the brotherhood of song for nearly 20 years now, I have absolutely no training whatsoever. I don't know how to breathe diaphragmatically. I don't know how to sing in my "head voice." I can't harmonize. I am incapable of singing softly; I can only belt. So even if (and this is a big "if") taking a singing class doesn't lead to crooner superstardom, what can it hurt? I might enjoy Karaoke Night at my local watering hole even more. Better yet, the audiences there might enjoy it more, too.
So off I went late yesterday afternoon to Curtain Call Performing Arts Academy to sign up. Noah graciously gave me a tour of the place, which is still under a fair amount of construction but which will, upon completion, incorporate a dance studio, a costume shop, a piano recital room, a children's play area, and a 99-seat theater. I already think of it as the Chip Bowl.
Then he had me fill out the application, which called for me to state my age and put down the month, day and year of my birth. Well, I put down the actual month, day and year of my birth, but as for age, I wrote in "39." If they want to know how old I really am, goddammit, they can do the subtraction themselves.
Shockingly, my application was accepted immediately! And so Noah turned me over to the staff singing instructor, Jessica, to "scale" me or something like that. No, scaling is what you do to fish, isn't it? Maybe it was "do a range" on me. What she wanted to find out was how high I could get (check me out on a Friday night) and how low I could go (I'm blogging about my singing lessons, how much lower could anyone go?).
Like everyone named Jessica since the death of Miss Tandy, this Jessica is young and beautiful, and also six months pregnant. Jessica handed me a piece of sheet music and asked me if I knew what one particular little black hamburger printed on it represented.
"Um, that would be an 'A.'"
"And do you know what kind of a note that is?"
"Um, that's an eighth note."
"Good. You can read music."
Oh, yes, in exactly the same way a functional illiterate can read a stop sign. Just enough to get past the driving test. But it was sufficient to satisfy Jessica.
Then she moved to her Casio keyboard and played a note. She asked me to sing it back to her.
Well, that's not as easy to do as it sounds. When it comes to shopping, I'm a gatherer. When it comes to singing, I'm a hunter. But I tracked down the note she was playing eventually, and then we went up the scale, tone by tone. And none too far, either, let me tell you.
Then we went back to that first note and went down the scale. You won't be surprised to learn that, these days, it's easier for me to go down than it is for me to get up.
Then she played three or four random notes at a time and asked me to sing them back to her. I'd circle around those notes, zero in on them, and then flatten them good. Either it's a short test or she just gave up, because suddenly, boom -- I was done.
She felt the need to discuss me with Noah. This couldn't be good.
"Well, he's a bass-baritone," she started.
A bass and a baritone? You mean, I'm twice as bad as I thought?
"He goes from C to the F above middle C."
Is that my range, or my high school phys-ed grades?
"At first, I was thinking he should take the Introduction to Singing class, but now I'm inclined to believe . . ."
Noah finished Jessica's sentence. "Private lessons?"
Jessica: "Yes."
Noah: "Mmhmm."
It was like standing in the doctors' consultation room as the specialist told my G.P. that, sure enough, my condition was both acute and chronic, and amputation couldn't be avoided.
Private lessons? How will we tell the children?
After a little more discussion, though, along with an accounting of the pricing (lessons just happen to cost more than the class) and a review of the syllabus (and my humble protestations that I really don't know anything about anything), the prescribed course of treatment went back to: "You should take the class."
As an added bonus, by paying for the class in advance, I am also entitled to one free month of tap-dancing lessons! Please, hold your applause.
Needless to say, I not only signed on the dotted line and paid in advance, I immediately went home and cleared a place on the mantle for my Tony Award.
The first class is Monday afternoon at 5:30. The semester ends with a recital (of songs from the 1930s and '40s! right up my antique alley!) on Friday, August 22. Realistically, I should have an agent by Labor Day and be able to start my national tour before Christmas.
And to think I was going to wait until I retired . . .
I'd thought about this for years. When I retire, I should . . . Sometimes that sentence might end learn Spanish, sometimes go on a trip around the world, sometimes take up origami, but more often than not it was take singing classes.
What prompted me to make the move now, dozens and dozens of years before I'm even eligible to retire, was the encouragement of one of my fellow singers on Karaoke Night at that local watering hole. I'll call him "Noah," because that's his name. Noah is a teacher at a newly opened non-profit performing arts academy in that well known birthplace of the stars, Corona, California.
Now, I realize that when Noah is encouraging me (or anybody else) to sign up for Introduction to Singing, Adult Jazz Dance, or any of the other courses this place offers, he's actually just drumming up business. I am not foolish or vain enough to believe that this will bring me the adoration of millions by the end of the summer. Surely that will take at least six months.
But I do understand that, even though I have been lifting my voice in the brotherhood of song for nearly 20 years now, I have absolutely no training whatsoever. I don't know how to breathe diaphragmatically. I don't know how to sing in my "head voice." I can't harmonize. I am incapable of singing softly; I can only belt. So even if (and this is a big "if") taking a singing class doesn't lead to crooner superstardom, what can it hurt? I might enjoy Karaoke Night at my local watering hole even more. Better yet, the audiences there might enjoy it more, too.
So off I went late yesterday afternoon to Curtain Call Performing Arts Academy to sign up. Noah graciously gave me a tour of the place, which is still under a fair amount of construction but which will, upon completion, incorporate a dance studio, a costume shop, a piano recital room, a children's play area, and a 99-seat theater. I already think of it as the Chip Bowl.
Then he had me fill out the application, which called for me to state my age and put down the month, day and year of my birth. Well, I put down the actual month, day and year of my birth, but as for age, I wrote in "39." If they want to know how old I really am, goddammit, they can do the subtraction themselves.
Shockingly, my application was accepted immediately! And so Noah turned me over to the staff singing instructor, Jessica, to "scale" me or something like that. No, scaling is what you do to fish, isn't it? Maybe it was "do a range" on me. What she wanted to find out was how high I could get (check me out on a Friday night) and how low I could go (I'm blogging about my singing lessons, how much lower could anyone go?).
Like everyone named Jessica since the death of Miss Tandy, this Jessica is young and beautiful, and also six months pregnant. Jessica handed me a piece of sheet music and asked me if I knew what one particular little black hamburger printed on it represented.
"Um, that would be an 'A.'"
"And do you know what kind of a note that is?"
"Um, that's an eighth note."
"Good. You can read music."
Oh, yes, in exactly the same way a functional illiterate can read a stop sign. Just enough to get past the driving test. But it was sufficient to satisfy Jessica.
Then she moved to her Casio keyboard and played a note. She asked me to sing it back to her.
Well, that's not as easy to do as it sounds. When it comes to shopping, I'm a gatherer. When it comes to singing, I'm a hunter. But I tracked down the note she was playing eventually, and then we went up the scale, tone by tone. And none too far, either, let me tell you.
Then we went back to that first note and went down the scale. You won't be surprised to learn that, these days, it's easier for me to go down than it is for me to get up.
Then she played three or four random notes at a time and asked me to sing them back to her. I'd circle around those notes, zero in on them, and then flatten them good. Either it's a short test or she just gave up, because suddenly, boom -- I was done.
She felt the need to discuss me with Noah. This couldn't be good.
"Well, he's a bass-baritone," she started.
A bass and a baritone? You mean, I'm twice as bad as I thought?
"He goes from C to the F above middle C."
Is that my range, or my high school phys-ed grades?
"At first, I was thinking he should take the Introduction to Singing class, but now I'm inclined to believe . . ."
Noah finished Jessica's sentence. "Private lessons?"
Jessica: "Yes."
Noah: "Mmhmm."
It was like standing in the doctors' consultation room as the specialist told my G.P. that, sure enough, my condition was both acute and chronic, and amputation couldn't be avoided.
Private lessons? How will we tell the children?
After a little more discussion, though, along with an accounting of the pricing (lessons just happen to cost more than the class) and a review of the syllabus (and my humble protestations that I really don't know anything about anything), the prescribed course of treatment went back to: "You should take the class."
As an added bonus, by paying for the class in advance, I am also entitled to one free month of tap-dancing lessons! Please, hold your applause.
Needless to say, I not only signed on the dotted line and paid in advance, I immediately went home and cleared a place on the mantle for my Tony Award.
The first class is Monday afternoon at 5:30. The semester ends with a recital (of songs from the 1930s and '40s! right up my antique alley!) on Friday, August 22. Realistically, I should have an agent by Labor Day and be able to start my national tour before Christmas.
And to think I was going to wait until I retired . . .
More "Mamma Mia!"
My friend "John M." (not his real name) evidently writes his movie reviews the way Charles Dickens used to publish his novels -- in serial format. Here's Part Two of his preview of Mamma Mia!
Now that we've covered the female leads, let's take a look and see how the males:
Coming up next: "John M."'s assessment of Colin Firth's performance and his overall summary of the film. Hopefully we'll get this before the film actually opens, but you know how these multi-part epics can drag out . . .
Now that we've covered the female leads, let's take a look and see how the males:
- Stellan Skarsgård (Bill): I don't know a lot about Mr. Skarsgård's past work. IMDB lists the multitude of films the actor has been in. Who knows, he may also have a Saab commercial under his belt. As the adventurous world traveler Bill, Stellan gives a middle-of-the-road performance as one of the possible fathers to Donna's illegitimate daughter. He cruises through the movie, acting and singing, without really leaving an impact on the viewer, other than the comedic performance during "Take a Chance on Me."
You know what it is? The viewer never gets to really know Bill. Actually, I, as the viewer, never felt a connection to most of the main characters. There was never a time I felt compelled to root for any of them. In the film's defense, it is hard to feel for a eight characters in a 120-minute movie that depicts the goings-on of a 36-hour period. I felt the part of Bill seemed smaller in the film than in the stage musical.
- Pierce Brosnan (Sam): Let's say you're an ABBA addict, or a Mamma Mia! maven, or maybe a film aficionado. You see that British actor Pierce Brosnan is going to be in the film adaptation of Mamma Mia. Your first thought may be: "PIERCE BROSNAN IS IN MAMMA MIA!!!" Or it may be: "That Bond guy who was in Mrs. Doubtfire is doing Mamma Mia!???" My thought before seeing the film was the former. After seeing the film, it is the latter.
All the ingredients were there: debonair man, distinctive voice, worldly charm. But as I have learned from watching "Top Chef," all the ingredients can be there, and Tom Colicchio will still call the end result bland and unsatisfying. While Mr. Brosnan is a good actor, and easy on the eyes, it was his performance in the musical portions that made me a bit uneasy. It wasn't that the man is a bad singer, it's that there was a lack of connection with the audience. Yes, I know it's a movie. Nevertheless, a celluloid actor has the ability to connect with the audience. When I saw the film adaptation of Chicago, I felt for Roxie and each musical performance intensified it.Here. . . not so much. The best example was when he and Ms. Streep sang "S.O.S." During that number, I felt as uncomfortable watching it as I do during various scenes of "The Office." Unfortunately, a total and unequivocal miscast.
Coming up next: "John M."'s assessment of Colin Firth's performance and his overall summary of the film. Hopefully we'll get this before the film actually opens, but you know how these multi-part epics can drag out . . .
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
"Mamma Mia!" Sneak Preview
My friend "John M." (not his real name), a multi-talented guy who counts freelance writing among his many skills, had the opportunity to attend a sneak preview of the Mamma Mia! movie at the Arclight in Hollywood last night.
ABBA fans, it looks like you're in for a treat. Here's what "John" has to say:
ABBA fans, it looks like you're in for a treat. Here's what "John" has to say:
The movie stays true to the stage musical, except they didn't have the "dream sequence" that bridges Acts I and II. I was disappointed because that's my favorite song of the whole show. The location shots were amazing.
- Meryl Streep (Donna): What a treat! The girl can sing! Of course, La Streep's acting performance is spot on as the neurotic mother. She definitely doesn't look glamorous in this role, wearing denim overalls that seemed to have been fitted for a human-sized pear throughout most of the film. Her dancing leaves a bit to be desired. On the subject of dancing, the overall choreography was good, but there were times [during the production numbers] that the dancers looked more like first-graders at recess.
- Christine Baranski (Tanya): The most enjoyable female character to watch. Any middle-aged actress would give up her collaged-infused lips for this part. Ms. Baranski uses her oft-used high-society, boozing floozy character to play what? A high-society, boozing floozy. She sings, she dances, she lights up the screen whenever she's on. She commands the screen during "Does Your Mother Know?" without looking pompous. Every time the three ladies would perform, my eyes were on Ms. Baranski.
- Julie Walters (Rosie): The lady who played Rosie in the stage musical was brilliant, absolutely stealing the show whenever she was on. While Ms. Walters' rendition of Rosie was not as compelling, she was nevertheless enjoyable to watch. Her British accent threw me every time she opened her mouth. While the six-continent casting of the film is marketing brilliance, I found the idea of one of Donna's old-time best friends to be a Brit a bit confusing. Just must be my small-town thinking.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
New Ralphs Coupon Policy Effective Next Week?
There's an unsubstantiated rumor floating around the blogosphere that Ralphs, the Southern California grocery chain, will be changing its coupon redemption policy next week (presumably on Wednesday, June 18).
Currently, Ralphs doubles coupons with a face value of up to $1.00, and "doubles" the first dollar on coupons with values over that. So a 50-cent coupon is worth $1.00; a 75-cent coupon is worth $1.50; a $1.00 coupon is worth $2.00; a $1.50 coupon is worth $2.50.
Not for long.
If the rumor is true, starting next week, Ralphs will double coupons with a face value up to 50 cents, will "double" the value of coupons worth from 51 to 99 cents up to an even $1.00, and will redeem coupons with values of $1.00 or more at their face values. So a 50-cent coupon will still be worth $1.00, but a 75-cent coupon will be worth $1.00; a $1.00 coupon will be worth $1.00; and a $1.50 coupon will be worth $1.50.
This is a smart marketing move on the part of Ralphs, because it allows the company to recoup some of its lost revenue without increasing shelf prices. The cost of diesel fuel, and the upcoming worldwide shortage of wheat, corn, soybean and rice crops, will continue to force price increases and erode profits in the supermarket industry (which operates on notoriously small margins to begin with).
Unfortunately, this new policy -- which will no doubt be copied by Vons, as the two companies tend to mirror one another's coupon policies in Southern California -- is going to make it even tougher than it already is to afford groceries during this recession.
I believe it can still be done. I believe savvy consumers will still be able to identify pricing trends and buy groceries when they are at low, low prices. It's just going to take more work. More than work, actually. It's going to take advanced, aggressive, extreme couponing.
As someone who regularly saves 55% off the regular retail price of everything in the grocery store, I have some tips to share. And I will share them all here in the coming weeks.
In the meantime, Coupon Clippers of Southern California, to you I say this: Go through your files! Identify those 55-cent- to $1.00-and-more coupons you've got stashed away. It looks like you've got until next Tuesday night to get true "double coupon" value for them.
Shop, my people!
Currently, Ralphs doubles coupons with a face value of up to $1.00, and "doubles" the first dollar on coupons with values over that. So a 50-cent coupon is worth $1.00; a 75-cent coupon is worth $1.50; a $1.00 coupon is worth $2.00; a $1.50 coupon is worth $2.50.
Not for long.
If the rumor is true, starting next week, Ralphs will double coupons with a face value up to 50 cents, will "double" the value of coupons worth from 51 to 99 cents up to an even $1.00, and will redeem coupons with values of $1.00 or more at their face values. So a 50-cent coupon will still be worth $1.00, but a 75-cent coupon will be worth $1.00; a $1.00 coupon will be worth $1.00; and a $1.50 coupon will be worth $1.50.
This is a smart marketing move on the part of Ralphs, because it allows the company to recoup some of its lost revenue without increasing shelf prices. The cost of diesel fuel, and the upcoming worldwide shortage of wheat, corn, soybean and rice crops, will continue to force price increases and erode profits in the supermarket industry (which operates on notoriously small margins to begin with).
Unfortunately, this new policy -- which will no doubt be copied by Vons, as the two companies tend to mirror one another's coupon policies in Southern California -- is going to make it even tougher than it already is to afford groceries during this recession.
I believe it can still be done. I believe savvy consumers will still be able to identify pricing trends and buy groceries when they are at low, low prices. It's just going to take more work. More than work, actually. It's going to take advanced, aggressive, extreme couponing.
As someone who regularly saves 55% off the regular retail price of everything in the grocery store, I have some tips to share. And I will share them all here in the coming weeks.
In the meantime, Coupon Clippers of Southern California, to you I say this: Go through your files! Identify those 55-cent- to $1.00-and-more coupons you've got stashed away. It looks like you've got until next Tuesday night to get true "double coupon" value for them.
Shop, my people!
Monday, June 9, 2008
"A Chorus Line" at the Ahmanson: For Dance: Ten, For Acting: Three
The first time I ever cried while watching a theatrical production was in 1979, at a performance of A Chorus Line on Broadway. After spending two hours hearing the heart-wrenching stories of 17 dancers vying for eight spots in the ensemble of a new musical, and having felt kicked in the gut when I saw which ones had been selected (and which ones hadn't), when the finale began -- presumably showing us the eight successful auditioners in costume in the big number they'd been rehearsing all night -- and all of 17 of them were in the chorus after all -- oh, children, I was a goner.
It hit me like the moment in E.T. when Eliot mourns his friend's death and then the little alien's stomach glows red. He's not dead after all! Gets me every time.
I saw the original Broadway production of Chorus Line one more time in the early 1980s and, other than occasionally playing the cast album, that's been the extent of my exposure to the show over the last 25 years. (After reading the ghastly reviews, I steered clear of the movie version.) So when Mike -- who's never seen the show or the movie -- and I went to see the touring company of the current Broadway revival last night at the Ahmanson, I was ready for us both to shed a few tears.
I got a little choked up at the end, but Mike remained dry-eyed.
Why? How could a show that I thought was a guaranteed two-hankie affair for even the most callous theatergoer leave neither one of us searching for a Kleenex?
The current Broadway production, on which this tour is based, is not so much a revival as it is a faithful re-creation of the original. The book, music and lyrics; the lighting, the sets, the orchestrations; even the costumes are identical. The show remains firmly set in 1975, and for a dramatically legitimate reason. To update the show eight years, to 1983, would have resulted in no updating at all. But to update it to 1984 or any year thereafter would have required confronting the issue of AIDS, which devastated the community of Broadway dancers and which didn't even exist 33 years ago. Sadly, four of the show's creators (Michael Bennett, who conceived, directed and choreographed the show; book writers James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante; and lyricist Edward Kleban) have all died, two of them (Bennett and Dante) from AIDS themselves.
Viewed as a period piece, though, surprisingly little in A Chorus Line seems dated. Sure, there are references to 42nd Street as a seedy neighborhood that probably make little sense to younger audience members who know it only as a family-friendly Disney wonderland. And the presence of only one African-American in such a group of hopefuls would be mighty unlikely in today's post-Gregory-Hines-Savion-Gl0ver-and-hip-hop world.
But the individual stories of the dancers -- their frequently unhappy childhoods, their invariably confusing adolescences, their adult fears and joys -- touch universal and timeless themes. The book and score still develop characters as endearing, entertaining and sometimes heartbreaking in 2008 as they were in 1975.
Marvin Hamlisch's music and Kleban's lyrics still impress. The score may include a ballad that was obviously written to be a hit outside the show ("What I Did for Love") and a production number that's not nearly as melodic as the Jerry Herman showstoppers it's intended to evoke ("One"), but it remains beautifully integrated with the book and counts among its gems two perfectly crafted character songs, "At the Ballet" and "Nothing." Jonathan Tunick's orchestrations are completely fresh, but then, after all, they're Jonathan Tunick orchestrations.
Fortunately, the problem isn't the singing and dancing. Wouldn't that be embarrassing? These people are auditioning for a Broadway musical and they have can't sing and dance! The voices are uniformly strong and Michael Bennett's choreography, re-created by Baayork Lee, is simultaneously contemporary and classic-Broadway.
Ultimately, where this production fails to deliver is in the acting. There's a lot of it in this show, and almost all of it is of the overwrought, handwringing variety. These 17 dancers have been put on the spot; they've been asked by a wacked-out, EST-era director to share their internal lives with him and their competitors for a shot at a job. This is not something that happens to these people every day; their responses should be spontaneous. (Zach, the director, even criticizes a couple of dancers whose answers he deems pre-programmed or false.)
But there's hardly a spontaneous, genuine moment in this Chorus Line. Every monologue is milked for the maximum laughs or the deepest sympathy. The confessions of Paul, the sexually abused Puerto Rican boy who became a performer in drag shows at the age of 16, elicited this response from my partner: "Well, that was over the top. They could have cut a good three minutes out of that."
He was half right. In the hands of the right actor, telling the story for the first time, one would not want one word to be cut. But Kevin Santos's portrayal is over the top.
But that's nothing compared to the final confrontation between director Zach (Michael Gruber) and his ex-paramour Cassie (Nikki Snelson), the former chorus girl who didn't make it as a star and has come back to perform "on the line" again. To call the acting soap-operaish is an insult to soap operas.
Only Emily Fletcher, as the aging and sardonic Sheila, comes across as believable -- which makes sense, considering that her character's persona is a mask that cracks wise but never cracks.
Director Bob Avian can be blamed for all the onstage histrionics. Perhaps in his desire to re-create the original Chorus Line verbatim, he has tried to get his actors to duplicate the exact performances of the first cast. But remember, all of the characters in A Chorus Line are based on real people, and the original cast included eight of them. Their reliving of their lives onstage, however melodramatic, had to ring more truthfully than the imitations I saw onstage last night.
That said, when the vamp to "One" began after Zach announced the names of the eight chosen dancers, and when all 17 of them promenaded onstage in those glittering gold tuxedoes, I have to confess, I misted up. They're all in the chorus line after all!
Gets me every time.
It hit me like the moment in E.T. when Eliot mourns his friend's death and then the little alien's stomach glows red. He's not dead after all! Gets me every time.
I saw the original Broadway production of Chorus Line one more time in the early 1980s and, other than occasionally playing the cast album, that's been the extent of my exposure to the show over the last 25 years. (After reading the ghastly reviews, I steered clear of the movie version.) So when Mike -- who's never seen the show or the movie -- and I went to see the touring company of the current Broadway revival last night at the Ahmanson, I was ready for us both to shed a few tears.
I got a little choked up at the end, but Mike remained dry-eyed.
Why? How could a show that I thought was a guaranteed two-hankie affair for even the most callous theatergoer leave neither one of us searching for a Kleenex?
The current Broadway production, on which this tour is based, is not so much a revival as it is a faithful re-creation of the original. The book, music and lyrics; the lighting, the sets, the orchestrations; even the costumes are identical. The show remains firmly set in 1975, and for a dramatically legitimate reason. To update the show eight years, to 1983, would have resulted in no updating at all. But to update it to 1984 or any year thereafter would have required confronting the issue of AIDS, which devastated the community of Broadway dancers and which didn't even exist 33 years ago. Sadly, four of the show's creators (Michael Bennett, who conceived, directed and choreographed the show; book writers James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante; and lyricist Edward Kleban) have all died, two of them (Bennett and Dante) from AIDS themselves.
Viewed as a period piece, though, surprisingly little in A Chorus Line seems dated. Sure, there are references to 42nd Street as a seedy neighborhood that probably make little sense to younger audience members who know it only as a family-friendly Disney wonderland. And the presence of only one African-American in such a group of hopefuls would be mighty unlikely in today's post-Gregory-Hines-Savion-Gl0ver-and-hip-hop world.
But the individual stories of the dancers -- their frequently unhappy childhoods, their invariably confusing adolescences, their adult fears and joys -- touch universal and timeless themes. The book and score still develop characters as endearing, entertaining and sometimes heartbreaking in 2008 as they were in 1975.
Marvin Hamlisch's music and Kleban's lyrics still impress. The score may include a ballad that was obviously written to be a hit outside the show ("What I Did for Love") and a production number that's not nearly as melodic as the Jerry Herman showstoppers it's intended to evoke ("One"), but it remains beautifully integrated with the book and counts among its gems two perfectly crafted character songs, "At the Ballet" and "Nothing." Jonathan Tunick's orchestrations are completely fresh, but then, after all, they're Jonathan Tunick orchestrations.
Fortunately, the problem isn't the singing and dancing. Wouldn't that be embarrassing? These people are auditioning for a Broadway musical and they have can't sing and dance! The voices are uniformly strong and Michael Bennett's choreography, re-created by Baayork Lee, is simultaneously contemporary and classic-Broadway.
Ultimately, where this production fails to deliver is in the acting. There's a lot of it in this show, and almost all of it is of the overwrought, handwringing variety. These 17 dancers have been put on the spot; they've been asked by a wacked-out, EST-era director to share their internal lives with him and their competitors for a shot at a job. This is not something that happens to these people every day; their responses should be spontaneous. (Zach, the director, even criticizes a couple of dancers whose answers he deems pre-programmed or false.)
But there's hardly a spontaneous, genuine moment in this Chorus Line. Every monologue is milked for the maximum laughs or the deepest sympathy. The confessions of Paul, the sexually abused Puerto Rican boy who became a performer in drag shows at the age of 16, elicited this response from my partner: "Well, that was over the top. They could have cut a good three minutes out of that."
He was half right. In the hands of the right actor, telling the story for the first time, one would not want one word to be cut. But Kevin Santos's portrayal is over the top.
But that's nothing compared to the final confrontation between director Zach (Michael Gruber) and his ex-paramour Cassie (Nikki Snelson), the former chorus girl who didn't make it as a star and has come back to perform "on the line" again. To call the acting soap-operaish is an insult to soap operas.
Only Emily Fletcher, as the aging and sardonic Sheila, comes across as believable -- which makes sense, considering that her character's persona is a mask that cracks wise but never cracks.
Director Bob Avian can be blamed for all the onstage histrionics. Perhaps in his desire to re-create the original Chorus Line verbatim, he has tried to get his actors to duplicate the exact performances of the first cast. But remember, all of the characters in A Chorus Line are based on real people, and the original cast included eight of them. Their reliving of their lives onstage, however melodramatic, had to ring more truthfully than the imitations I saw onstage last night.
That said, when the vamp to "One" began after Zach announced the names of the eight chosen dancers, and when all 17 of them promenaded onstage in those glittering gold tuxedoes, I have to confess, I misted up. They're all in the chorus line after all!
Gets me every time.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Rioting in the Streets
My predictions (for who's going to be eliminated from "American Idol," for who would be this year's Democratic and Republican presidential nominees, for the winning lottery numbers) should be legendary for their inaccuracy. But the fact that my crystal ball is forever in need of a good Windexing never stops me from going out on a limb. So here I am, up the tree, and ready to take my next step on the big branch:
Rioting in the streets. This summer.
Add it up:
$4.25-a-gallon gasoline. People can't afford to fill their tanks, or, if they can, they've had to sacrifice something they didn't want to sacrifice in order to do it.
$5.15-a-gallon diesel fuel. Which has caused the price of groceries to skyrocket.
The mortgage meltdown and the collapse of the housing industry. Even creditworthy people carrying traditional loans have seen the equity in their homes evaporate.
The collapse of the auto industry. The big news the other day wasn't that GM is going to shutter four plants or that four fuel-efficient compact sedans outsold the Ford F-Series truck in the month of May. The big news was that, in May, Americans bought new vehicles at an annualized rate of something like 14.1 million vehicles -- the lowest since 1993. Good-bye, sales tax revenue, in cities like Cerritos, California, that are anchored by "auto malls." The plants closings and job losses we heard about earlier this week are just the beginning.
The collapse of the airline industry. Fewer seats at higher prices on the planes that are left on the airlines that are left operated by the staff that are left.
Unemployment at 5.6%. Up a half-point from last month. In Dayton, Ohio, the unemployment rate is 30%.
Republicans voting for Democrats and Democrats voting for Republicans. There are Republicans I know who despise John McCain so much they have already vowed to vote for Barack Obama. There are Hillary Clinton supporters so bitter and devout that they have already vowed to vote for John McCain. There are millions of Americans who won't vote for an old man, and millions who won't vote for a black man, and none of those Americans will say that to the pollsters.
Global warming. Three weekends ago, it reached 102 degrees at my house. Less than a week later, we had snow, hail, rain and tornadoes within a 50-mile radius in Southern California. You think it's going to get better as summer wears on?
This is insanity. I am telling you: by August, after we've been battered by hurricanes and wilted in the oppressive heat, when gasoline is five bucks a gallon and millions more people have lost their jobs, and we're still stuck in Iraq and Osama bin Laden still hasn't been found . . .
Rioting in the streets.
Have a good weekend!
Rioting in the streets. This summer.
Add it up:
$4.25-a-gallon gasoline. People can't afford to fill their tanks, or, if they can, they've had to sacrifice something they didn't want to sacrifice in order to do it.
$5.15-a-gallon diesel fuel. Which has caused the price of groceries to skyrocket.
The mortgage meltdown and the collapse of the housing industry. Even creditworthy people carrying traditional loans have seen the equity in their homes evaporate.
The collapse of the auto industry. The big news the other day wasn't that GM is going to shutter four plants or that four fuel-efficient compact sedans outsold the Ford F-Series truck in the month of May. The big news was that, in May, Americans bought new vehicles at an annualized rate of something like 14.1 million vehicles -- the lowest since 1993. Good-bye, sales tax revenue, in cities like Cerritos, California, that are anchored by "auto malls." The plants closings and job losses we heard about earlier this week are just the beginning.
The collapse of the airline industry. Fewer seats at higher prices on the planes that are left on the airlines that are left operated by the staff that are left.
Unemployment at 5.6%. Up a half-point from last month. In Dayton, Ohio, the unemployment rate is 30%.
Republicans voting for Democrats and Democrats voting for Republicans. There are Republicans I know who despise John McCain so much they have already vowed to vote for Barack Obama. There are Hillary Clinton supporters so bitter and devout that they have already vowed to vote for John McCain. There are millions of Americans who won't vote for an old man, and millions who won't vote for a black man, and none of those Americans will say that to the pollsters.
Global warming. Three weekends ago, it reached 102 degrees at my house. Less than a week later, we had snow, hail, rain and tornadoes within a 50-mile radius in Southern California. You think it's going to get better as summer wears on?
This is insanity. I am telling you: by August, after we've been battered by hurricanes and wilted in the oppressive heat, when gasoline is five bucks a gallon and millions more people have lost their jobs, and we're still stuck in Iraq and Osama bin Laden still hasn't been found . . .
Rioting in the streets.
Have a good weekend!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
I Have the Power!
O, how potent can be the simple e-mail and the mighty blog! I just got this response from Maria De Varenne, editor and vice president/news of the Press-Enterprise.
Thank you Chip for sharing your thoughts with us. Leaving "Blondie" out on Tuesday was a mistake, not a planned change. We added the comic back in today.
A "mistake," eh, Maria? Sure. All right, wink, wink, if you say so.
I must use this power for good, not evil. I think it's time to work it on CBS.
I must use this power for good, not evil. I think it's time to work it on CBS.
Dear Les Moonves:
About "Moonlight" . . .
Bring Back the Bumsteads!
Following is the text of a letter I sent this morning to the editors of my home-town newspaper, the Riverside Press-Enterprise.
Dear Editors:
Congratulations on the successful redesign of The Press-Enterprise. As a long-time Jurupa Valley subscriber, I am pleased to see more local news with no apparent sacrifice in your national and international coverage.
While I was sorry to see that the Food section has been reduced to one page, at least you kept it, which was not the case with your unfortunate previous redesign (the one that put the comics in four different sections of the paper, depending on the day of the week). And if something had to be sacrificed, I think you were wise to spare us the superficial slacker ramblings of "The Daily Dude."
But no "Blondie"? What were you thinking?
Were you thinking that it's too "old" a comic strip, and that you could attract younger readers with something else? In just the last three weeks, "Blondie" has addressed topics like Texas Hold 'Em poker, baggy jeans on teenagers, identity theft, office politics, food contamination in restaurants, carpooling, and cell-phone etiquette. The strip may have been around for 75 years, but that's why it's been around -- it has always remained current. Oh, and funny, too.
No "Blondie"?
I hope when public outcry forces you to restore the Bumsteads to your pages, you'll run all the strips we missed during its absence.
Sincerely, etc., etc.
I could go on and on about the greatness of "Blondie." In addition to referencing fresh topics, it deals as it always has with universal themes like the generation gap, the battle of the sexes, lazy husbands, clever wives, infuriating bosses and all of the foibles of middle-class American life. (If you're not a regular "Blondie"reader, click on the title of this blog entry and you can sample current and past strips to your heart's content.) But the Press-Enterprise has a 200-word letters-to-the-editor max, so for once I kept it short.
I'll let you know if my one-man campaign brings back Dagwood, Blondie, Cookie, Alexander, Herb and Tootsie Woodley, Elmo, Julius and Cora Dithers, the mailman, the carpoolers, the lunch-counter guy and Daisy (the blue dog).
I'll let you know if my one-man campaign brings back Dagwood, Blondie, Cookie, Alexander, Herb and Tootsie Woodley, Elmo, Julius and Cora Dithers, the mailman, the carpoolers, the lunch-counter guy and Daisy (the blue dog).
Monday, June 2, 2008
One Simple Way to Improve Customer Satisfaction
A few weeks ago, I was at the doctor's office, getting an update on my broken toe. (Still broken, but at least it's now pointing in the same direction as all the others.) At one point, the nurse said, "I'll be right back."
How much time does that phrase, "right back," mean to you? A minute? Two minutes? Ten?
Well, after half an hour, I finally hobbled out into the hallway, sockless and bandaged, to try to find my missing nurse. I didn't find her, but I found someone else who eventually corralled her. She was a little miffed, and explained to me what she had been doing, as if finding out after the fact would help me understand that, in this case, "right back" meant "you'll have time to finish the New York Times Sunday crossword."
When I bought my first new home in 1993, I was terribly impressed by something the builder did after my offer had been accepted. The company included a check sheet that explained, step by step, day by day, exactly what would happen next until escrow closed. Undoubtedly the builder developed this simple piece of paper because receptionists and sales agents got tired of phone calls from anxious prospective homeowners, wondering if their flooring had been installed or if their loans had been approved.
But while the device may have been intended to help the seller, its huge benefit was to the buyer, because it took away the uncertainty associated with a major purchase -- and it eased the fear of the unknown.
I was so impressed that, back at the office, I worked with my direct report at the time, along with the creative director at Isuzu's marketing communications partner and a talented freelance writer, to develop this simple device into a closing technique for Isuzu retail salespeople.
We called it the Preview Bridge, and it became a mainstay of Isuzu selling techniques training well into the new century.
I've always thought of the Preview Bridge as a useful tool in the sale of big-ticket items, like houses and SUVs. But I hadn't thought about it in years. It wasn't until I was abandoned by an R.N. with my shoe off and my patience wearing thin that I remembered it's a technique that can alleviate customer dissatisfaction in any field.
If service providers would simply manage their customers' expectations, the world would be a happier place.
Restaurants do this regularly under some circumstances ("The souffle takes 30 minutes to prepare, so I'd recommend you order it now") but, infuriatingly, never under others ("We're a little short-handed in the kitchen tonight, so can I get you another cocktail while you wait?").
The EZ-Lube chain of oil-change shops in Southern California did a masterful job of telling customers what they'd do for them, but never how much it would cost. I think there's a class action lawsuit pending, and the attorney general is involved.
Doctors and nurses? In my experience, if you get one who'll tell you what to expect, it will be with words chosen as if you went to med school too: "You'll want to use the epi pen if the idiopathic anaphylaxis flares up" or "Be sure to void in the morning." Void? Void myself of what?
I guess there are some salespeople and service providers out there who are afraid that telling the customer what's coming next is tantamount to giving the customer control -- that the informed client is somehow the dangerous client. But I truly believe that a simple statement of what to expect -- "This is going to hurt a little," or "I'll be gone for about half an hour, can I get you a magazine?" -- will do more to endear a waiter or a car salesman or a nurse to a diner or customer or patient than it will to send him running.
Tell me what's going to happen next. Manage my expectations. Do that, and guess what will happen?
I'll be (right) back.
How much time does that phrase, "right back," mean to you? A minute? Two minutes? Ten?
Well, after half an hour, I finally hobbled out into the hallway, sockless and bandaged, to try to find my missing nurse. I didn't find her, but I found someone else who eventually corralled her. She was a little miffed, and explained to me what she had been doing, as if finding out after the fact would help me understand that, in this case, "right back" meant "you'll have time to finish the New York Times Sunday crossword."
When I bought my first new home in 1993, I was terribly impressed by something the builder did after my offer had been accepted. The company included a check sheet that explained, step by step, day by day, exactly what would happen next until escrow closed. Undoubtedly the builder developed this simple piece of paper because receptionists and sales agents got tired of phone calls from anxious prospective homeowners, wondering if their flooring had been installed or if their loans had been approved.
But while the device may have been intended to help the seller, its huge benefit was to the buyer, because it took away the uncertainty associated with a major purchase -- and it eased the fear of the unknown.
I was so impressed that, back at the office, I worked with my direct report at the time, along with the creative director at Isuzu's marketing communications partner and a talented freelance writer, to develop this simple device into a closing technique for Isuzu retail salespeople.
We called it the Preview Bridge, and it became a mainstay of Isuzu selling techniques training well into the new century.
I've always thought of the Preview Bridge as a useful tool in the sale of big-ticket items, like houses and SUVs. But I hadn't thought about it in years. It wasn't until I was abandoned by an R.N. with my shoe off and my patience wearing thin that I remembered it's a technique that can alleviate customer dissatisfaction in any field.
If service providers would simply manage their customers' expectations, the world would be a happier place.
Restaurants do this regularly under some circumstances ("The souffle takes 30 minutes to prepare, so I'd recommend you order it now") but, infuriatingly, never under others ("We're a little short-handed in the kitchen tonight, so can I get you another cocktail while you wait?").
The EZ-Lube chain of oil-change shops in Southern California did a masterful job of telling customers what they'd do for them, but never how much it would cost. I think there's a class action lawsuit pending, and the attorney general is involved.
Doctors and nurses? In my experience, if you get one who'll tell you what to expect, it will be with words chosen as if you went to med school too: "You'll want to use the epi pen if the idiopathic anaphylaxis flares up" or "Be sure to void in the morning." Void? Void myself of what?
I guess there are some salespeople and service providers out there who are afraid that telling the customer what's coming next is tantamount to giving the customer control -- that the informed client is somehow the dangerous client. But I truly believe that a simple statement of what to expect -- "This is going to hurt a little," or "I'll be gone for about half an hour, can I get you a magazine?" -- will do more to endear a waiter or a car salesman or a nurse to a diner or customer or patient than it will to send him running.
Tell me what's going to happen next. Manage my expectations. Do that, and guess what will happen?
I'll be (right) back.
"Million Dollar Password": For Crying Out Loud, Say Cleveland!
When I was growing up, we lived for one year in White Plains, New York. My dad commuted into the city every day, where he was a general agent for the Manhattan Life Insurance Company. To hear him tell it, among his policyholders were Desi Arnaz and the pioneering game-show producers, Mark Goodson and Bill Todman.
I'm not sure whether he ever met any of those people, but he certainly had Goodson-Todman connections, because for my birthday that year, he got tickets for us to see a taping of "Password," which at the time was videotaped in New York City.
I don't remember who the celebrity guests were the day we saw it (it was 1963 -- I was minus two at the time), but that doesn't matter. "Password" has held a special place in my heart ever since. I've watched it on four networks (CBS, ABC, NBC, GSN) and through at least four different variations (the original, as well as "Password Plus," "Super Password" and "Password All-Stars").
I don't remember who the celebrity guests were the day we saw it (it was 1963 -- I was minus two at the time), but that doesn't matter. "Password" has held a special place in my heart ever since. I've watched it on four networks (CBS, ABC, NBC, GSN) and through at least four different variations (the original, as well as "Password Plus," "Super Password" and "Password All-Stars").
So there was never any doubt that I'd be in front of the TV set last night, when CBS premiered the latest iteration, "Million Dollar Password," with Regis Philbin taking over the hosting duties once performed by Allen Ludden, Tom Kennedy and Bert Convy.
The best game shows can be explained in one sentence -- or even just a few words. I'm sure you can guess which shows I'm talking about from the clues below:
> Three people claim to be the same person, but only one of them is telling the truth.
> Guess the contestant's occupation by asking yes-or-no questions.
> "Hangman" for money.
> "Tic-tac-toe" with stars in the boxes.
> Here's the answer. What's the question?
"Password" (created by Bob Stewart, who also came up with "To Tell the Truth" and later invented the "Pyramid") may be the simplest game-show idea of all: Get your partner to say a word by giving him a one-word clue. On this most basic of premises was built a show that contained, in spades, three of the required elements for a game show to become a classic:
> Humor (sometimes derived from the double meaning of a clue, sometimes from the facial expressions of exasperated or bewildered contestants)
> Suspense (will they get all five words in the allotted time?)
> The ability to play along at home (as in, "I could have given a better clue than that loser!" or, "Cleveland! Say Cleveland!")
"Million Dollar Password," I am delighted to report, has all of these elements as well. The show has been brought into the new millennium with features that reflect the latest trends in game shows, and it's lost a little bit of its charm and challenge along the way, but overall the newest "Password" is as funny, exciting and engaging as any of its predecessors.
Once again, the game begins with two teams, each consisting of a celebrity and a civilian. Last night's guests were Neil Patrick Harris and Rachael Ray, the woman for whom the word "ubiquitous" was coined. They are attractive, endearing and energetic stars who were no doubt chosen for their appeal to a younger audience, but really -- who under the age of 25 has been tuned in to CBS on a Sunday night at 8:00 since the last appearance of the Beatles on "The Ed Sullivan Show"? You don't get teen viewers with "Murder, She Wrote," "Touched by an Angel," or anything that comes on immediately after Andy Rooney.
So in that spirit I would like to say, "Shame on CBS for not having Betty White be one of the first celebrity guests on the new 'Password.'" One of the brightest and most competitive "Password" players ever, Betty White also met her late husband Allen Ludden when she guested on the original series. I know she's going to be on an upcoming episode; the promos have shown her. Come on. Would it have been so demographically destructive to give her the honor of going first? I don't care if she is 86 years old; even in her dotage, she couldn't be worse than Rachael Ray.
In previous versions of the show, what's now called the Elimination Round involved both teams trying to guess the same word (revealed to the audience by the announcer whispering, "The password is . . . "). Celebrity A, going first, might try to get his partner to say the word "penny" by giving the clue "cent." His partner, not realizing his teammate meant "cent" and not "scent," might respond "aroma." Now it's Celebrity B's turn to try to correct his teammate's thinking by saying "coin." His partner, though, thinks the first clue was "sent," and in trying to connect "sent" and "coin" responds "stamp." Now it's back to Celebrity A, who may well be completely flummoxed at this point. Eventually someone says "nickel" or "shiny" and the word is guessed, earning that team points (the fewer clues necessary, the more points won).
The first team to 25 points went on to the Lightning Round, in which the celebrity tried to get his partner to say five passwords, again using only one-word clues, in 60 seconds, to win the grand prize -- a whopping $250, if I recall correctly.
My, how times have changed.
The Elimination Round -- in fact, the whole show -- is now based on the Lightning Round concept. First, Team A's celebrity must try to get his partner to guess as many passwords as possible in 30 seconds (up to five maximum). Then Team B's celebrity must do the same. Then the civilians must give the clues. Then the celebrities switch teams and the process begins again. After each celebrity has given and taken clues from each civilian, the civilian with the greatest number of guessed passwords moves on to the Million Dollar Round, accompanied by the celebrity with whom he earned the most points.
If you think getting someone to say five words in 30 seconds using one-word clues would be easy, think again. It hardly happened at all in last night's premiere. Yet contestants regularly won the Mystery Seven on the "Pyramid," where clue-givers had 30 seconds to get their partners to say seven words or phrases. But on "Pyramid" you could say as many words as you wanted in giving a clue. One-word clues may seem more time-efficient, but they require some general knowledge plus the ability to come up with synonyms, opposites and half-phrases very quickly. All that thinking takes time.
For example, one of last night's passwords was "Ohio." The civilian contestant tried to get Neil Patrick Harris to say that word with the clue "state." Oh, that narrows it down. Then she came up with this stunner: "Indiana." Poor Doogie; all he could do was mumble, "Missouri?" before his unfortunate teammate decided to move on to the next password.
Cleveland! Say Cleveland!
Cleveland! Say Cleveland!
The Elimination Round, in its new incarnation, rates high on the suspense scale, but only mid-range on the laugh-o-meter -- and what laughs it generates are mostly based on the cluelessness of the contestants. (Although NPH's facial expression when his partner, trying to get him to say "chat," said "chit," was priceless. "I thought he was swearing at me!")
While we no longer get to see what happens when two teams try to guess the same word, trying either to build on or dismantle what they've heard from their competitors, the thing I missed most last night was that surreptitious announcer sharing his secret with the viewers at home at the beginning of each round. "Password" without "The password is . . . " is like "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" without "Is that your final answer?" -- or "To Tell the Truth" without "Will the real so-and-so please stand up?" -- or "Survivor" without "The tribe has spoken; it's time for you to go." Every great game show has its catchphrase; "Million Dollar Password" hasn't found one yet.
As the old Lightning Round forms the basis of the new Elimination Round, it also serves as the starting point for the high-stakes endgame. Here, the cluegiver (who can be either the civilian or the celebrity -- civilian's choice) must first get his partner to say five passwords out of a possible ten in 90 seconds, giving a maximum of three one-word clues for each. Having done that successfully earns the contestant $10,000 and the opportunity to try to get his partner to say five passwords out of a possible nine for $25,000. If he completes that level, he gets to keep the $25,000 no matter what. The next rung up the ladder is five passwords out of a possible eight for $50,000. And so on and so forth until the contestant loses, chooses to go home with his winnings, or reaches the million-dollar level, where he must get his partner to say five passwords out of five, always with only three one-word clues allowed.
In last night's episode, both contestants who reached the endgame ended up going home with $25,000, although the second contestant, a hapless bartender named Eric who likes to be called E-Rock, provided some high drama. He reached the $100,000 level, where Regis will actually show the cluegiver the first five passwords so the contestant can choose whether to compete or take his previous winnings and run. If I recall correctly, E-Rock (whose apartment was broken into the week before taping) and Neil Patrick Harris stumbled on the word "corner" (the perfect third clue, after "street" and "crossing," would have been "intersection," but it didn't occur to E-Rock) and then E-Rock ran into a major problem: he didn't recognize the word "fiasco." As a result, he found himself living one.
Meanwhile, at my house, we were screaming, "Disaster! Debacle! Italian!" And that's as sure a sign as any that "Million Dollar Password" can be a hit show -- the format itself thoroughly engages the audience, as much in 2008 as when the original debuted in 1961.
Allen Ludden wouldn't recognize the new set. It bears all the earmarks of modern game shows, the ones that have been around since the advent of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" in 1999, including:
> The audience surrounding the host and contestants, in stadium seating, bathed in an eerie glow (here it's red)
> A theatrical, postmodern black set with dramatic lighting (and, interestingly, no chairs -- everybody's standing up, looking a little rumpled, the entire time)
> Musical underscoring for every round of competition, its tempo accelerating like the contestants' heartbeats
Allen Ludden's contestants sweated it out while seated in an all-beige world, their Lightning Round accompanied only by the tick-tock of an annoying cuckoo clock. Regis Philbin's contestants are racking their brains while trying not to fall over inside the International Space Station, set to the score of Jaws.
Regis, of course, makes a logical successor to Ludden, Kennedy and Convy. He knows that the most important thing a game-show host can do is to relax the contestants and move the proceedings along. In the first episode, Reege didn't seem to have an innate understanding of the show (the rules for the million-dollar round are, after all, a bit complex), but that will come with time. He also didn't try to de-brief the players after a round ("Ah, if you had only said, 'Cleveland,' he probably would have gotten it"), but then he's Regis Philbin, not Alex Trebek. You never got the sense that Regis knew any of the answers on "Millionaire," and he's not pretending to be the reincarnation of Roget here. He's being Reege, moving things along, grumbling (that Rachael Ray has never been on his talk show when Regis has actually been there), going for the occasional laugh (including a pretty funny allusion to Neil Patrick Harris's sexuality) and generally being the type of person you're happy to have in your living room for an hour at a time. In other words, he's perfect.
According to Zap2it.com, "Million Dollar Password" had the highest overnight Nielsens of any show on network TV last night, scoring a 6.8 rating and a 12 share. (Second overall for the night was "60 Minutes" with a 6.6/13; the runner-up in "Password"'s 8:00 time slot was the second half of a "Most Outrageous Moments" special on NBC, which mustered only a 3.7/7.)
I am hoping that what kept the original series going for so many years -- the desire of viewers to see how the next week's celebrities do playing the game -- will entice the healthy premiere audience to tune in again. I know I plan to.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
You Can Catch More Vinegar with Honey than with Flies
One of my favorite pastimes is saving money on groceries. There's the tactile pleasure of clipping coupons (it's as relaxing for me as knitting was for Rosey Grier); there's the thrill of the hunt when I'm in the grocery store, tracking down the hidden bargain; there's the satisfaction of knowing I only spent, say, 62 cents on a box of dishwasher detergent that normally costs $4.99.
For most of my supermarket-savings career, I've concentrated on the coupons you find in the Sunday newspaper. But as the price of groceries has skyrocketed lately, I've started seeking out new sources for cents-off savings, and I think I've come up with a winner.
Now, I have started writing to companies whose products we use and like, simply to compliment them. I don't ask for coupons, and I don't complain. I just tell them that I like their product and I wanted to drop them a line to let them know.
I don't send a letter via snail mail, because at 42 cents a stamp, I'm losing money if I don't get a response. Instead, I go to a company's website and click on the "Contact Us" button. There's always a "Contact Us" button, and there's always a place for a narrative comment.
Since I started doing this a couple of weeks ago, I've heard back from two companies -- Sara Lee (I was complimenting them on Hillshire Farm sausage, which I haven't had a coupon for in a while) and H.J. Heinz.
Sara Lee sent me 75 cents in coupons (50 cents off a frozen Sara Lee product, 25 cents off Hillshire Farm sausage), and today I got this from Heinz:
"We appreciate your kind words. As a way of thanking you for your continued patronage, we are sending coupons to you through the regular postal mail."
How great is that? You say something nice, and you get rewarded. I mean, we've all heard of people who griped about something and got their money back, but that's joyless. It may be hard for some of you to believe, but I'd really rather be nice.
It's true: you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. But it's also true that you can catch more vinegar (the Heinz brand, anyway) by being as sweet as honey than by being as annoying as a fly.
For most of my supermarket-savings career, I've concentrated on the coupons you find in the Sunday newspaper. But as the price of groceries has skyrocketed lately, I've started seeking out new sources for cents-off savings, and I think I've come up with a winner.
Now, I have started writing to companies whose products we use and like, simply to compliment them. I don't ask for coupons, and I don't complain. I just tell them that I like their product and I wanted to drop them a line to let them know.
I don't send a letter via snail mail, because at 42 cents a stamp, I'm losing money if I don't get a response. Instead, I go to a company's website and click on the "Contact Us" button. There's always a "Contact Us" button, and there's always a place for a narrative comment.
Since I started doing this a couple of weeks ago, I've heard back from two companies -- Sara Lee (I was complimenting them on Hillshire Farm sausage, which I haven't had a coupon for in a while) and H.J. Heinz.
Sara Lee sent me 75 cents in coupons (50 cents off a frozen Sara Lee product, 25 cents off Hillshire Farm sausage), and today I got this from Heinz:
"We appreciate your kind words. As a way of thanking you for your continued patronage, we are sending coupons to you through the regular postal mail."
How great is that? You say something nice, and you get rewarded. I mean, we've all heard of people who griped about something and got their money back, but that's joyless. It may be hard for some of you to believe, but I'd really rather be nice.
It's true: you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. But it's also true that you can catch more vinegar (the Heinz brand, anyway) by being as sweet as honey than by being as annoying as a fly.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Funniest Ann Landers Letter Ever
If you didn't read the Annie's Mailbox column in yesterday's paper, click on the title to this entry above. Read the first letter -- the one signed "Please Don't Die Here." A word of advice: Do not have anything in your mouth when you read it. Choking or exploding could result.
Annie's Mailbox is the successor to the Ann Landers advice column, and it is still the best one out there, with more specific and practical guidance than you'll get from Carolyn Hax (wordy and obtuse), Dear Abby (too frequently off the mark) or Ask Amy (who I do like, but doesn't ever come up with a letter as stunning as this one).
Mercury in Retrograde: What Else Is New?
According to recent reports in Automotive News, The Detroit News and the Los Angeles Times, it’s just a matter of time before Ford Motor Company discontinues the Mercury brand of vehicles it has produced since 1939.
Dealers are concerned; Mercury enthusiasts are mortified; and fans of good old Detroit iron are lamenting the latest in a line of casualties that includes Oldsmobile and Plymouth.
Please.
Ford killed Mercury a long time ago.
Back in the 1950s and ’60s, Mercury offered features—like the Breezeway window, the reverse-slanted power-operated backlight that gave passengers extra ventilation in the days before air conditioning became standard equipment—that you couldn’t get on a comparable Ford.
During the same era, Mercury offered models that were truly different from the Ford-branded products built on the same platform. The first Comet compact, for example, rode on a wheelbase five inches longer than the Ford Falcon on which it was based. The original Cougar had unique styling from and a three-inch-longer wheelbase than the Ford Mustang.
Midway through the ’60s, the styling of full- and mid-sized Mercurys was influenced by Elwood Engel’s iconic 1961-69 Lincoln Continental, and Mercurys were advertised as having been “built in the Lincoln tradition.” This lent the marque some cachet among those aspiring to be upwardly mobile that you couldn't get from a humdrum Ford.
Now? There’s nothing you can get on a Mercury Grand Marquis, Sable, Milan, Mountaineer or Mariner that you can’t get on a Ford Crown Victoria, Taurus, Fusion, Explorer or Escape. The Mercury versions of those vehicles are not longer or wider or more powerful than their Ford counterparts. Their grilles and taillamps and minor trim are unique, but you can’t say they look like Lincolns—largely because Lincoln itself no longer has an identifiable design.
Since 1957 there have been few stand-alone Mercury retailers; most have been Mercury-Edsel-Lincoln or Lincoln-Mercury dealers. Today there are no Mercury-only dealers at all. So officially killing Mercury doesn’t pose the same problems for Ford that discontinuing Oldsmobile, which had a couple thousand single-point dealers, posed for GM. Those Mercury dealers will still have Lincolns to sell, and Lincoln has already begun to creep into the upper-mid-priced market segment that Mercury once occupied, with vehicles like the MKZ sedan and MKX crossover.
It’s a shame, but let’s face it: there hasn’t been a uniquely appealing Mercury in years. What brought the brand to its sales peak of 580,000 units in 1978 is long gone.
The Mercury death notice was most recently expected in April, but Ford officials delayed a meeting about future product with Lincoln Mercury dealers until this coming September. But today, Ford announced that it would be laying off an additional ten to twelve percent of its white-collar workforce by the end of July.
So I expect an obituary any day now—“Mercury Discontinued (Duh!)”—which you can immediately clip and put in your file of non-news news, just behind “Dog Bites Man” and “Generalissimo Francisco Franco Still Dead.”
Dealers are concerned; Mercury enthusiasts are mortified; and fans of good old Detroit iron are lamenting the latest in a line of casualties that includes Oldsmobile and Plymouth.
Please.
Ford killed Mercury a long time ago.
Back in the 1950s and ’60s, Mercury offered features—like the Breezeway window, the reverse-slanted power-operated backlight that gave passengers extra ventilation in the days before air conditioning became standard equipment—that you couldn’t get on a comparable Ford.
During the same era, Mercury offered models that were truly different from the Ford-branded products built on the same platform. The first Comet compact, for example, rode on a wheelbase five inches longer than the Ford Falcon on which it was based. The original Cougar had unique styling from and a three-inch-longer wheelbase than the Ford Mustang.
Midway through the ’60s, the styling of full- and mid-sized Mercurys was influenced by Elwood Engel’s iconic 1961-69 Lincoln Continental, and Mercurys were advertised as having been “built in the Lincoln tradition.” This lent the marque some cachet among those aspiring to be upwardly mobile that you couldn't get from a humdrum Ford.
Now? There’s nothing you can get on a Mercury Grand Marquis, Sable, Milan, Mountaineer or Mariner that you can’t get on a Ford Crown Victoria, Taurus, Fusion, Explorer or Escape. The Mercury versions of those vehicles are not longer or wider or more powerful than their Ford counterparts. Their grilles and taillamps and minor trim are unique, but you can’t say they look like Lincolns—largely because Lincoln itself no longer has an identifiable design.
Since 1957 there have been few stand-alone Mercury retailers; most have been Mercury-Edsel-Lincoln or Lincoln-Mercury dealers. Today there are no Mercury-only dealers at all. So officially killing Mercury doesn’t pose the same problems for Ford that discontinuing Oldsmobile, which had a couple thousand single-point dealers, posed for GM. Those Mercury dealers will still have Lincolns to sell, and Lincoln has already begun to creep into the upper-mid-priced market segment that Mercury once occupied, with vehicles like the MKZ sedan and MKX crossover.
It’s a shame, but let’s face it: there hasn’t been a uniquely appealing Mercury in years. What brought the brand to its sales peak of 580,000 units in 1978 is long gone.
The Mercury death notice was most recently expected in April, but Ford officials delayed a meeting about future product with Lincoln Mercury dealers until this coming September. But today, Ford announced that it would be laying off an additional ten to twelve percent of its white-collar workforce by the end of July.
So I expect an obituary any day now—“Mercury Discontinued (Duh!)”—which you can immediately clip and put in your file of non-news news, just behind “Dog Bites Man” and “Generalissimo Francisco Franco Still Dead.”
Friday, May 23, 2008
Critiquing "American Idol": The Beginning
I met my friend Dave in 1978. I had just graduated from Ohio University, at the age of three, and he was still in school, at the age of 21. Dave was a member of OU’s forensics, or competitive public speaking, team, as I had been for four years. Over the next few years, I coached the forensics teams at Miami University and Morehead State University, and post-graduation Dave coached the team at Ohio State University.
On a forensics team, students compete in various “individual” speaking events (as opposed to debate, which is a team sport): Extemporaneous and Impromptu Speaking; After Dinner, Informative and Persuasive Speaking; Oral Interpretation of Prose, Poetry or Drama. Week after week, students work on their presentations, assisted by their coaches; then they attend tournaments on various college campuses nationwide, competing in multiple speaking events, being judged by grad students and faculty members from other schools, hoping to score highly enough to make the final round, to advance to the national championships, to win it all.
Sound familiar?
It should come as no surprise, then, that on July 3, 2002, my friend Dave sent me an e-mail that included these fateful words:
On a forensics team, students compete in various “individual” speaking events (as opposed to debate, which is a team sport): Extemporaneous and Impromptu Speaking; After Dinner, Informative and Persuasive Speaking; Oral Interpretation of Prose, Poetry or Drama. Week after week, students work on their presentations, assisted by their coaches; then they attend tournaments on various college campuses nationwide, competing in multiple speaking events, being judged by grad students and faculty members from other schools, hoping to score highly enough to make the final round, to advance to the national championships, to win it all.
Sound familiar?
It should come as no surprise, then, that on July 3, 2002, my friend Dave sent me an e-mail that included these fateful words:
One thing I hope you are doing is watching “American Idol” on Fox. It is one of the most entertaining shows I've seen in a long time!
In case you haven't seen it . . . it's a forensics tourney with one event -- singing. It's the talent competition of Miss America, but guys can compete. It's the Gong Show...
The "talent" is a great deal of fun to watch and judge. Each week 10 of the 30 semi-finalists performs and three move on to the finals. This week’s show would have had me awarding a 1-94, 2-90, 3-85. My 4th through 10th would have had a hard time getting rating points above 80. . . .
The bottom line is that the show is a hoot. And the judges don't really get to decide, because they leave it up to the American public to phone in. The results have been unpredictable. At least one horrid performer makes it each week. The best one usually makes it as well, as does a mediocre talent. The judges will get to determine the final contestant to make the top 10. The show is on Fox for 1 hour on Tuesdays at 9 p.m. The winners are announced live on Wednesdays at 9:30.
Well, I was intrigued, but it took me a while to get around to watching the show. Then, on July 23, Dave sent me this, his summary of the previous night’s performances, complete with ranks and ratings, just like a judge would assign at a forensics tournament:
Kelly, “Natural Woman,” 1-97 -- a top-notch, star-quality performance, her best
to date
Tamyra, “Tell Me?,” 2-95 – might have won the round, but lack of musical merit – never never heard of it before, but boy can she work the crowd
Justin, “Sunny,” 3-93 – it was like watching Teresa McElwee – even when he's off he still pulls sweeps points, although he may be taking it a little for granted
R.J., “Under the Boardwalk,” 4-92 – much better than last week, can he be peaking in the elim rounds?
Christina, “When a Man Loves a Woman,” 5-91 – I didn't care for her rendition, a little sharp on some notes
None of the others fit the bill, “American Idol”:
Nikki, “Heartbreaker,” 6-86 – Janis Joplin she ain't. She is nowhere near as good as she was in prelims. Choking?
Ryan, “You Really Got Me,” 7-83 – simply dreadful
A.J., “How Sweet It Is,” 8-82 – He snuck thru last week, it won't happen again (although Ryan could let him stay alive to hurt our eardrums again)
After that—after I had seen Dave put “American Idol” into a form we were both familiar with, the judging ballot with ranks, ratings and comments—I had to start watching the show. By the middle of August, we were swapping e-mails every Wednesday morning, comparing our ranks, ratings and comments on the previous night’s performances.
Here’s the oldest one of mine from my e-mail archive, dated August 14, 2002—the day after Tamyra Gray had blown me away singing “A House is Not a Home” during Burt Bacharach Week:
Another "BB" night -- not Big Bands, but Burt Bacharach. What can they come up
with for next week? Betty Boop?
Once again, we agreed on almost everything.
5-87 NIKKI McKIBBON
I think she was probably right to choose the closest thing to a hard-rocking Bacharach song, "Always Something There to Remind Me." Unfortunately, she was off-key during a lot of the number. And I don't care if you're an opera diva or a grunge rocker, off-key is just not good when it comes to singing. Buh-bye.
4-90 R. J. HELTON
I'll try to come up with some nice things to say about R. J., like Paula would. He has a
nice smile, and very lovely feminine eyelashes, and he remembered the words to
"Arthur's Theme." Okay, I'm done now. Someday, R. J. will be fat. And even then,
he won't be Pavarotti. There's just nothing spectacular or distinctive or even
interesting about his voice.
3-93 JUSTIN GUARINI
Justin does have a way of making love to the camera and to the audience, so I can see how he's gotten as far as he has. Unlike, say, Ricky Martin, I have a hard time
picturing him at 50, though. His "Look of Love" was good, but I thought the ending was flat -- not as in off-key, but just dry. Not a strong finish.
2-95 KELLY CLARKSON
What I most liked about Kelly's performance was that she really made "Walk on By" her own -- I loved the way she growled on lines like "Make believe that you don't see a tear." She was NOT a Dionne Warwick clone, and I think that's terrific.
1-98 TAMYRA GRAY
Tamyra benefitted from singing the closest thing to a melodic ballad (on what was officially called "Love Song" night, not Burt Bacharach night) in the Bacharach oeuvre. She not only has an amazing voice but she also knows how to act a song. The only thing that kept her from getting a 100 from me was the outfit. I kept thinking of another singing performance you and I both saw on television: "I'm just another
Jew in rags!"
The next time I wrote was when they were down to the Final Three (after Tamyra became the show’s first “shocking elimination”):
SINGER'S CHOICE ROUND
====================
3-90 NIKKI McKIBBIN
I thought "Edge of Seventeen" was a good song choice for Nikki. But it doesn't seem like the lyrics matter to her. They could be about anything and she will have the same facial expressions and vocal tone. She's got one or two good "big" notes that she hits pretty well. Her eyes tend to wander (like she's sneaking a glance at the judges while she's performing). I thought she lost her enthusiasm toward the end.
2-95 JUSTIN GUARINI
It occurred to me while watching Justin do his "Let's Stay Together" that the secret to his success is all in his physical performance. The sustained eye contact with an audience member (or the camera) on a phrase. The smile. The little head shakes (that make the hair bounce). He needs all of that as camouflage for the fact that his voice is good -- but JUST good. The performance improved as he went along but it was a weak ending.
1-97 KELLY CLARKSON
Unlike Randy Jackson, I thought "Think Twice" was a good choice for Kelly, because
contemporary country is something we (or at least I) haven't heard on the "AI"
stage, and it demonstrated yet again her enormous versatility. Kelly's voice is
great and she does a lot with it. And her facials are wonderful -- Nikki should
take a lesson.
JUDGES' CHOICE ROUND
====================3-90 NIKKI McKIBBIN
Although "Black Velvet" is done to death on Karaoke Night at my favorite watering hole (and Randy Jackson said it was a very karaoke performance) I thought this was a perfect choice for Nikki. However, she sang it just like she sings everything else. Her ending was good, and her costume choice was better than in Round I, but I got the feeling that Nikki knows it's over.
2-94 JUSTIN GUARINI
The striped suit made him look even younger than he is. It finally hit me while watching him sing "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" what it is that bothers me about Justin. It's all acting. It's all studied. The outstretched hand lowering on "the sun going down on me." The gestures. The facials. And since this was a song the
judges picked -- not a song HE picked -- the technique was more obvious. He is a
flirt, and it's obvious he's flirting. Shallow. All surface. Bleah.
1-96 KELLY CLARKSON
Kelly looked beautiful in the dress, but this was not her best performance. She
had to alter the melody because her low range doesn't quite stretch low enough for the song. I also don't know why she sang the same verse twice ("I can't forget this
evening" twice, instead of that verse once and "I can't forget tomorrow" once).
Still, she is such a great singer and it is such a tough song (and she doesn't
come across as scripted) that she gets the 1 from me.
Nikki finally got her comeuppance, and the following week it was time for the first “AI” showdown:
And with no further ado . . .
JUSTIN -- "BEFORE YOUR LOVE" -- Score: 94
In forensics, I know that we are not supposed to judge a contestant on anything other than his performance -- for example, seeing him smoke pot in the men's room in between rounds or something. But all that contributes to, or detracts from, one's extrinsic ethos, doesn't it? So Justin bothered me from the minute he walked out on stage, with his wide-legged stance and his unwillingness to listen to the scripted blather from the moron hosts (so that he could blow kisses and touch his heart while making eye contact with his fan base of premenstrual girls). Then he comes out to sing this incredibly boring song and he's all gestures, stance and smile again. The heart touching. The legs a mile apart. That smile. All pre-planned, all phony, and all of that made obvious by the snoozer of a song he had to sing. Creepy.
KELLY -- "A MOMENT LIKE THIS" -- Score: 94
Not, by far, Kelly's best performance. I kept asking myself, "Why is she dropping her final consonants?" It's "A Moment Like This," not "A Momen' Li' This." She had to do her trademark growl, of course, but there was nowhere in the lyric to do it appropriately. So she did it where it was inappropriate. You don't growl on the line "something so tender." However, the end of the number was terrific.
JUSTIN -- "GET HERE" -- Score: 96
Justin proved once again that he is best with his own choice of material, and not stuff he's forced to sing by the judges' choice or the category. At least with songs he's chosen he has internalized the thoroughly rehearsed movements and gestures. They were all there, of course. It was like watching American Sign Language. Justin must be terribly popular with the hearing impaired; his gestures spell out the song like a hula dancer's. I was disappointed that the producers required the contestants to sing their original two-minute versions of their chosen songs, and not expanded renditions. But I don't think I could have taken another minute of Justin touching his heart and reaching out for the sunset. The two-minute limit: Mahalo.
KELLY -- "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" -- Score: 97
It was so delightful to see somebody up on stage having fun. Kelly played with the audience and pranced around the stage as if she had been performing in venues like the Kodak Theater all her life. Her growls worked perfectly on this song, too, and fortunately she was limited to two minutes -- one more growl and she would have had laryngitis. She's going to have the same vocal problems that Julie Andrews and Liza Minnelli have encountered, and maybe sooner than them, too. So we should be enjoying her while we can.
JUSTIN -- "A MOMENT LIKE THIS" -- Score: 93
At the beginning, the song seemed to dip too low and reach too high for his range. But the main portion of the song he handled well vocally. However . . . if he leaned down to touch one more little girl's fingertips, I would have hurled. Yuck. Yuck, yuck, yuck.
KELLY -- "BEFORE YOUR LOVE" -- Score: 98
Amazing. I hated this song when Justin sang it, and when Kelly sang it, I actually liked it. Is that my bias? Is that because I was more familiar with it? Or was it because she really sang the lyric and exuded nothing but class? She really knocked it out of the park, in my opinion.
Overall:
KELLY 1-96
JUSTIN 2-94
Can't wait for tonight
Little did I know that by the middle of the following season, I’d be forwarding my e-mails intended for my friend Dave to other people who wanted to know what I thought of the previous night’s goings-on on what by then had become (in every sense of the word) a monstrous television hit. And I never expected that those people would start forwarding those e-mails to others, and an interplanetary phenomenon would be born.
Thanks a lot, Dave.
Thanks a lot, Dave.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
"American Idol," May 21, 2008: The Results
Surprise!
Although I never review the "American Idol" results shows, for some reason this year I feel compelled to. Something I guess I should take up at my next appointment with my therapist, Robert, at the Farmers Market.
Maybe it's because, in the past, the "American Idol" season finale has been such a monumental waste of cathode rays. Remember the year of the running-joke dumb-blonde-at-the-gourmet-restaurant sketches with Wolfgang Puck and Kellie Pickler? Ryan Seacrest trolling the red carpet and then taking us backstage to "spy" on the finalists in their dressing rooms? Paul Anka, dripping formaldehyde, singing custom lyrics to "My Way"? Or, most cringe-worthy of all, the dreaded "Golden Idol" Awards?
This year's closer, on the other hand -- while it had plenty of the filler, shameless cross-promotion and lame gags that characterize every "American Idol" results show -- provided a solid two hours of entertainment that, more than anything else, ended the season in an altogether satisfying way.
How could I not do the same for you, my faithful fellow "Idol" fans?
As always, in order of appearance:
Intro: David Archuleta and David Cook, dressed all in white and bathed in a single spotlight, staring each other down in a most uncomfortable way. Oh, please, God, I thought, not more boxing. Proof again that God cares about reality shows: we were spared. Better yet, the boys' embarassment wearing their Man from Glad-rags was diminished once we got a load of Randy Jackson, dressed as if he'd just been discharged from the British Army, circa 1776. What was he thinking?
The Remotes: Live from the Cook-fan gathering Kansas City, it's . . . Matt Rogers! What, they couldn't get Constantine Maroulis or Justin Guarini or Kimberly Caldwell or someone who placed higher than 11th and actually went on an "AI" tour to report from the scene? Meanwhile, in Murray, Utah -- oh, my God, it's Mikalah Gordon! You must remember Mikalah Gordon, the girl with the soul of Barbra Streisand but the voice of Fran Drescher. Only now, she doesn't look like she's from Flushing. She looks like she's from . . . Siam. What's up with that? Still, it was nice to see that "Idol" takes care of its own, especially those more unfortunate than us.
"Get Ready," performed by the Top Twelve with the "So You Think You Can Dance?" Dancers: Well, everybody's in white, and they're moving all over the stage, and some of them are break-dancing, and some of them are singing, but I couldn't for the life of me tell you who's who, thanks to the non-stop zooming of the cameras and the every-nanosecond editing. Dizzying.
"A Hero Can Save Us," performed by David Archuleta and David Cook: The Top Two harmonized very nicely on this, I thought -- not always the result when a crooner and a rocker get together. (It helps when the rocker can adapt to other musical styles.) The difference between the two as performers was particularly evident here: David Cook is so much more relaxed onstage, and looked ever so much more comfortable relating to his duet partner. He's a generous performer, though, and by the end of the number the two of them had a nice big brother/little brother vibe going on.
The Love Guru sketch, David Archuleta, David Cook and Mike Myers: Oooh -- another big difference between the Daves became apparent here, in a wretched cross-promotional sketch about the two of them visiting the lead character in the upcoming Paramount Pictures blockbuster, The Love Guru. And the difference is: David Cook can act. David Archuleta can't. D.C.'s facial expressions were actually funnier than the forced gags coming out of Mike Myers's mouth. (I have to say, though, that the Guru's greeting to one and all, "Mariskahargitay," is pretty damn funny.)
"Waiting for You," performed by Syesha Mercado and Seal: Syesha's singing partner courtesy of Heidi Klum. Syesha's dress courtesy of Rami Kashou. The whole number was "Project Runway"-licious. And our third-place contestant held her own in the singing department with Seal. Only one word for it: Fierce!
"Hallelujah," performed by Jason Castro: Jason reprised his best number of the season. And he still remembered the words. Another heartfelt rendition from Whoopi Travolta's Love Muppet. Let's move on.
Ford Music Video outtakes: Better than the videos were.
Donna Summer medley, performed by the Top Six women and Donna Summer: Notable for two things: Amanda Overmyer looking somewhere between bored and downright pissed off throughout the entire number, and Donna Summer herself, in fine voice but sporting not so svelte a figure. Somewhere along the line she should have said, "No more beers -- enough is enough!" But she graciously shared her rhinestone-encrusted microphone with Syesha. I wish she'd share it with me -- what a hit I'd be on karaoke night with that thing!
"The Letter," performed by Michael Johns and Carly Smithson: So nice to see them both, to see two early front-runners get another moment in the sun, and to see them so relaxed onstage and with each other. Carly looked great, but I have to say, Michael Johns, in his tux jacket, looked even better. They were terrific.
Jimmy Kimmel's monologue: He tried to skewer Ryan, Paula and Simon, but he left Randy out entirely. Since, in my opinion, Randy is completely expendable (and the British Army wants its red coat back), this didn't bother me. Makes you wonder, though, doesn't it? The entire monologue was lame. Best line: An aside about Simon's parents, "Rosemary and Satan Cowell."
Bryan Adams medley, performed by the Top Six men and Bryan Adams: Not in my wheelhouse. Who is this guy? He kind of looks like Jerry Van Dyke.
"Sharp Dressed Man," performed by David Cook and ZZ Top: At times, especially early on, D.C. looked a little uncomfortable and reserved, but heck -- he's only been trying to grow his facial hair for three months, not 30 years. He loosened up and, better yet, he displayed none of the diction problems that plagued him Tuesday night. By the end of the number, he was having fun, and so was I.
"Teach Your Children Well," performed by Brooke White and Graham Nash: Okay, so she didn't get to sing with Carole King or Carly Simon -- but if she had, we wouldn't have been able to tell their voices apart. Pairing Brooke with a man made that job ever so much easier. Overall, the perfect parting image for the ex-nanny: barefoot, strumming her guitar and singing a 1970s folk-rock song in front of pictures of little children. Woo-hoo!
Guitar Hero commercial with David Cook: D.C. re-creates Tom Cruise's famous "Old Fashioned Rock-and-Roll" number from Risky Business. Hilarious. What I didn't realize at the time was that David Archuleta also filmed his own version of the spot, and I missed it when I went for another slug of whiskey. I have since seen it, and I now recommend that you watch them back-to-back on YouTube. The big difference? David Cook is wearing briefs, and David Archuleta is wearing Magic Mormon Underpants. It's worth seeking out D.A.'s version, just to get a rare look at the Sacred Vestments of Latter-Day Saints, Boxer-Shorts Edition. You've got to hand it to David Archuleta: He gave us something Mitt Romney and Marie Osmond never did.
A performance by a boy band that Ryan said "needs no introduction" so he allowed the screaming girls in the audience to shout out their name, which of course was unintelligible: I came to find out they were The Jonas Brothers. I had come to think of them as The Eunuchs. I like my name for them better.
Bad-audition montage: Better to watch one minute of this than ten entire episodes of it. One wannabe the judges and producers found particularly memorable was one Renaldo Lapuz, who auditioned with a song he wrote himself called "We're Brothers Forever." So just as they trotted out last year's crazed Clay Aiken fan and let him sing with the object of his twisted desire, the producers foisted Renaldo upon us, singing his signature tune, dressed in something he got at Siegfried and Roy's going-out-of-business sale, and coming down the stairs just like Lucy Ricardo did in the famous Hollywood-showgirl episode. Oh, but it got better. Up the aisles to accompany him: the University of Southern California marching band and cheerleaders, and eventually even Paula and Randy.
This show is like the television equivalent of a pizza that fell over in your car on your way home, I thought. All the cheese is smooshed into one place!
Around here, USC is viewed either with envy or contempt as the rich kids' school, the university whose graduates sometimes have just a tiny superiority complex and sense of entitlement. I'm from Ohio, I wouldn't know. But now that their band has accompanied Renaldo Lapuz on "We're Brothers Forever," I would advise any Trojans out there not to mention their alma mater for a while. If there's anything more shameful than losing a football game to UCLA, surely this must be it.
"Apologize," performed by David Archuleta and OneRepublic: Another band I've never heard of. God, I'm such a fossil. The guy at the piano looked like he was passing the same kidney stone that was bothering David A. on Tuesday night. You could tell the competition was over for D.A. at this point. In fact, you could almost hear his thoughts: "Darn what Andrew Lloyd Webber says! He's not around anymore! I'm gonna close my eyes all over the place! In fact, I'm gonna look comatose! GOSH!"
"One Step at a Time," performed by Jordin Sparks: If this were the Miss America Pageant, this would be the spot where last year's winner takes her Final Walk, while Bert Parks sings the salute to the deposed queen, "Miss America, You're Beautiful" ("There She Is" was always reserved for the new title-holder):
Miss America, you're beautiful.
With so many roles to play,
Ev'ry road along the way
Will still be your runway,
Miss America!
Well, actually, this is the Miss America Pageant, or what substitutes for it these days, and this was the outgoing Idol's Final Walk, and God, I wish Bert Parks were still alive. Then we might have been spared Jordin's aggressively off-key (but energetic!) romp through yet another undistinguished and indistinguishable song of the type currently favored by pop princesses and those who download their hits. You know what I mean: mile-a-minute hip-hop-influenced lyrics set to a breakneck beat and what can only charitably be called a melody. It's the same crap we've heard on this show in just the last six weeks from Fantasia Barrino, Mariah Carey and that Natasha woman. What made it special was Jordin's outfit -- a shockingly unflattering gold mylar babydoll dress that made her look like Betsy McCall after that nasty accident at the wrapping-paper factory. I'm sorry, I can't resist: She was a hot tranny mess!
Filler consisting of footage of Gladys Knight from 1972 superimposed onto the Pips she was supposedly auditioning at the time, played only marginally successfully for laughs by Ben Stiller, Jack Black, and someone I thought I wasn't hip enough to recognize but who turned out to be Robert Downey, Jr.: What more could possibly be said about that?
"Last Name," performed by Carrie Underwood: Carrie is getting more comfortable actually moving onstage, her voice is better than it ever was during her tenure on "Idol," and she looked fantastic last night. Well, fantastic as long as you were looking at her face and her figure. Please to ignore the clothes. I swear, Carrie was in costume as a 1968 Western Airlines flight attendant who discovered she had to get married while on the job, and therefore attached a train to the back of her uniform. That flight, when she walked down the aisle, she walked down the aisle.
George Michael medley, performed by the Top Twelve: Shucks. Couldn't they have brought Luke Menard back and sung "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" just for this? No such luck.
"Praying for Time," performed by George Michael: Reportedly George wasn't feeling well last night, but you'd never know it from his restrained but emotional (if somewhat mannered -- the fluttery gestures were a bit distracting) interpretation of this song. Nice to see GM out of the slammer, out of the courtroom, out of the men's room, out of the closet and back on the stage.
Judges' final remarks: Randy's remarks were dismissible, but Paula and Simon each had a moment. I wish I had written down Paula's comments verbatim, but they were something along the lines of this: "This is the finale, but it's really not the final, because it's just the beginning of the destiny of your career." Why don't they have Paula write the winner's song every year? That lyric is certainly no worse than Tuesday night's "How can a window encompass perfection?"
Simon, meanwhile, did something to David Cook I don't remember him doing to any contestant since he did the same to Katharine McPhee on April 26, 2006 -- he apologized! Evidently in watching the show on TV (or in finding out the results in advance, depending on how much of a conspiracy theorist you are) he realized that Tuesday night's competition hadn't been the David Archuleta "knockout" he called it at the time. (And it wasn't: David A.'s first song was the best of the night, but David C.'s second song was far better than D.A.'s, and D.C. did attempt a new song in Round Three while D.A. safely and lazily trotted out his old warhorse, "Imagine"). David C. was as gracious accepting Simon's apology as he was weathering his criticism. What a feelgood moment! Can't we just call it a tie and hug each other and go home?
The Results: But we knew it wasn't a tie -- Ryan had announced at the top of the show that, of 97.5 million votes cast, one David had won an astonishing 56% of them. And of course as the world now knows, that David was not the contestant repeatedly called "The Chosen One" by the Los Angeles Times or the "Presumptive 'American Idol' Winner" by Zap2it.com. It was David Cook!
The rest of the show would have been wonderful just because Jeff Archuleta did not storm the stage to throttle his second-place offspring. What raised it to the level of greatness was the genuine emotion displayed by both David A. (who looked truly happy that his big-brother-figure had won) and David C., who was overwhelmed.
And what made it a lesson for every future "Idol" contestant was David C.'s acceptance speech, in which he reminded us all that he had branded himself early on as "a word nerd." How many times do aspiring Idols have to be told that it's not just the music, it's the music and the words that make a song a song? Maybe future contestants will look at David Cook and realize that paying attention to the words was what made him able to reinvent "Hello" and "Billie Jean" in a way that made sense . . . that paying attention to the words was what enabled D.C. not only to learn three new songs for competition this week (to D.A.'s two), but to learn six more songs for the finale . . . and that not paying attention to the words was what undid Brooke White, Jason Castro and even David Archuleta.
I admit I was late to the David Cook party. Back on March 12, my friend John Mihelich wrote to me after I had blasted D.C. for some performance or other:
Although I never review the "American Idol" results shows, for some reason this year I feel compelled to. Something I guess I should take up at my next appointment with my therapist, Robert, at the Farmers Market.
Maybe it's because, in the past, the "American Idol" season finale has been such a monumental waste of cathode rays. Remember the year of the running-joke dumb-blonde-at-the-gourmet-restaurant sketches with Wolfgang Puck and Kellie Pickler? Ryan Seacrest trolling the red carpet and then taking us backstage to "spy" on the finalists in their dressing rooms? Paul Anka, dripping formaldehyde, singing custom lyrics to "My Way"? Or, most cringe-worthy of all, the dreaded "Golden Idol" Awards?
This year's closer, on the other hand -- while it had plenty of the filler, shameless cross-promotion and lame gags that characterize every "American Idol" results show -- provided a solid two hours of entertainment that, more than anything else, ended the season in an altogether satisfying way.
How could I not do the same for you, my faithful fellow "Idol" fans?
As always, in order of appearance:
Intro: David Archuleta and David Cook, dressed all in white and bathed in a single spotlight, staring each other down in a most uncomfortable way. Oh, please, God, I thought, not more boxing. Proof again that God cares about reality shows: we were spared. Better yet, the boys' embarassment wearing their Man from Glad-rags was diminished once we got a load of Randy Jackson, dressed as if he'd just been discharged from the British Army, circa 1776. What was he thinking?
The Remotes: Live from the Cook-fan gathering Kansas City, it's . . . Matt Rogers! What, they couldn't get Constantine Maroulis or Justin Guarini or Kimberly Caldwell or someone who placed higher than 11th and actually went on an "AI" tour to report from the scene? Meanwhile, in Murray, Utah -- oh, my God, it's Mikalah Gordon! You must remember Mikalah Gordon, the girl with the soul of Barbra Streisand but the voice of Fran Drescher. Only now, she doesn't look like she's from Flushing. She looks like she's from . . . Siam. What's up with that? Still, it was nice to see that "Idol" takes care of its own, especially those more unfortunate than us.
"Get Ready," performed by the Top Twelve with the "So You Think You Can Dance?" Dancers: Well, everybody's in white, and they're moving all over the stage, and some of them are break-dancing, and some of them are singing, but I couldn't for the life of me tell you who's who, thanks to the non-stop zooming of the cameras and the every-nanosecond editing. Dizzying.
"A Hero Can Save Us," performed by David Archuleta and David Cook: The Top Two harmonized very nicely on this, I thought -- not always the result when a crooner and a rocker get together. (It helps when the rocker can adapt to other musical styles.) The difference between the two as performers was particularly evident here: David Cook is so much more relaxed onstage, and looked ever so much more comfortable relating to his duet partner. He's a generous performer, though, and by the end of the number the two of them had a nice big brother/little brother vibe going on.
The Love Guru sketch, David Archuleta, David Cook and Mike Myers: Oooh -- another big difference between the Daves became apparent here, in a wretched cross-promotional sketch about the two of them visiting the lead character in the upcoming Paramount Pictures blockbuster, The Love Guru. And the difference is: David Cook can act. David Archuleta can't. D.C.'s facial expressions were actually funnier than the forced gags coming out of Mike Myers's mouth. (I have to say, though, that the Guru's greeting to one and all, "Mariskahargitay," is pretty damn funny.)
"Waiting for You," performed by Syesha Mercado and Seal: Syesha's singing partner courtesy of Heidi Klum. Syesha's dress courtesy of Rami Kashou. The whole number was "Project Runway"-licious. And our third-place contestant held her own in the singing department with Seal. Only one word for it: Fierce!
"Hallelujah," performed by Jason Castro: Jason reprised his best number of the season. And he still remembered the words. Another heartfelt rendition from Whoopi Travolta's Love Muppet. Let's move on.
Ford Music Video outtakes: Better than the videos were.
Donna Summer medley, performed by the Top Six women and Donna Summer: Notable for two things: Amanda Overmyer looking somewhere between bored and downright pissed off throughout the entire number, and Donna Summer herself, in fine voice but sporting not so svelte a figure. Somewhere along the line she should have said, "No more beers -- enough is enough!" But she graciously shared her rhinestone-encrusted microphone with Syesha. I wish she'd share it with me -- what a hit I'd be on karaoke night with that thing!
"The Letter," performed by Michael Johns and Carly Smithson: So nice to see them both, to see two early front-runners get another moment in the sun, and to see them so relaxed onstage and with each other. Carly looked great, but I have to say, Michael Johns, in his tux jacket, looked even better. They were terrific.
Jimmy Kimmel's monologue: He tried to skewer Ryan, Paula and Simon, but he left Randy out entirely. Since, in my opinion, Randy is completely expendable (and the British Army wants its red coat back), this didn't bother me. Makes you wonder, though, doesn't it? The entire monologue was lame. Best line: An aside about Simon's parents, "Rosemary and Satan Cowell."
Bryan Adams medley, performed by the Top Six men and Bryan Adams: Not in my wheelhouse. Who is this guy? He kind of looks like Jerry Van Dyke.
"Sharp Dressed Man," performed by David Cook and ZZ Top: At times, especially early on, D.C. looked a little uncomfortable and reserved, but heck -- he's only been trying to grow his facial hair for three months, not 30 years. He loosened up and, better yet, he displayed none of the diction problems that plagued him Tuesday night. By the end of the number, he was having fun, and so was I.
"Teach Your Children Well," performed by Brooke White and Graham Nash: Okay, so she didn't get to sing with Carole King or Carly Simon -- but if she had, we wouldn't have been able to tell their voices apart. Pairing Brooke with a man made that job ever so much easier. Overall, the perfect parting image for the ex-nanny: barefoot, strumming her guitar and singing a 1970s folk-rock song in front of pictures of little children. Woo-hoo!
Guitar Hero commercial with David Cook: D.C. re-creates Tom Cruise's famous "Old Fashioned Rock-and-Roll" number from Risky Business. Hilarious. What I didn't realize at the time was that David Archuleta also filmed his own version of the spot, and I missed it when I went for another slug of whiskey. I have since seen it, and I now recommend that you watch them back-to-back on YouTube. The big difference? David Cook is wearing briefs, and David Archuleta is wearing Magic Mormon Underpants. It's worth seeking out D.A.'s version, just to get a rare look at the Sacred Vestments of Latter-Day Saints, Boxer-Shorts Edition. You've got to hand it to David Archuleta: He gave us something Mitt Romney and Marie Osmond never did.
A performance by a boy band that Ryan said "needs no introduction" so he allowed the screaming girls in the audience to shout out their name, which of course was unintelligible: I came to find out they were The Jonas Brothers. I had come to think of them as The Eunuchs. I like my name for them better.
Bad-audition montage: Better to watch one minute of this than ten entire episodes of it. One wannabe the judges and producers found particularly memorable was one Renaldo Lapuz, who auditioned with a song he wrote himself called "We're Brothers Forever." So just as they trotted out last year's crazed Clay Aiken fan and let him sing with the object of his twisted desire, the producers foisted Renaldo upon us, singing his signature tune, dressed in something he got at Siegfried and Roy's going-out-of-business sale, and coming down the stairs just like Lucy Ricardo did in the famous Hollywood-showgirl episode. Oh, but it got better. Up the aisles to accompany him: the University of Southern California marching band and cheerleaders, and eventually even Paula and Randy.
This show is like the television equivalent of a pizza that fell over in your car on your way home, I thought. All the cheese is smooshed into one place!
Around here, USC is viewed either with envy or contempt as the rich kids' school, the university whose graduates sometimes have just a tiny superiority complex and sense of entitlement. I'm from Ohio, I wouldn't know. But now that their band has accompanied Renaldo Lapuz on "We're Brothers Forever," I would advise any Trojans out there not to mention their alma mater for a while. If there's anything more shameful than losing a football game to UCLA, surely this must be it.
"Apologize," performed by David Archuleta and OneRepublic: Another band I've never heard of. God, I'm such a fossil. The guy at the piano looked like he was passing the same kidney stone that was bothering David A. on Tuesday night. You could tell the competition was over for D.A. at this point. In fact, you could almost hear his thoughts: "Darn what Andrew Lloyd Webber says! He's not around anymore! I'm gonna close my eyes all over the place! In fact, I'm gonna look comatose! GOSH!"
"One Step at a Time," performed by Jordin Sparks: If this were the Miss America Pageant, this would be the spot where last year's winner takes her Final Walk, while Bert Parks sings the salute to the deposed queen, "Miss America, You're Beautiful" ("There She Is" was always reserved for the new title-holder):
Miss America, you're beautiful.
With so many roles to play,
Ev'ry road along the way
Will still be your runway,
Miss America!
Well, actually, this is the Miss America Pageant, or what substitutes for it these days, and this was the outgoing Idol's Final Walk, and God, I wish Bert Parks were still alive. Then we might have been spared Jordin's aggressively off-key (but energetic!) romp through yet another undistinguished and indistinguishable song of the type currently favored by pop princesses and those who download their hits. You know what I mean: mile-a-minute hip-hop-influenced lyrics set to a breakneck beat and what can only charitably be called a melody. It's the same crap we've heard on this show in just the last six weeks from Fantasia Barrino, Mariah Carey and that Natasha woman. What made it special was Jordin's outfit -- a shockingly unflattering gold mylar babydoll dress that made her look like Betsy McCall after that nasty accident at the wrapping-paper factory. I'm sorry, I can't resist: She was a hot tranny mess!
Filler consisting of footage of Gladys Knight from 1972 superimposed onto the Pips she was supposedly auditioning at the time, played only marginally successfully for laughs by Ben Stiller, Jack Black, and someone I thought I wasn't hip enough to recognize but who turned out to be Robert Downey, Jr.: What more could possibly be said about that?
"Last Name," performed by Carrie Underwood: Carrie is getting more comfortable actually moving onstage, her voice is better than it ever was during her tenure on "Idol," and she looked fantastic last night. Well, fantastic as long as you were looking at her face and her figure. Please to ignore the clothes. I swear, Carrie was in costume as a 1968 Western Airlines flight attendant who discovered she had to get married while on the job, and therefore attached a train to the back of her uniform. That flight, when she walked down the aisle, she walked down the aisle.
George Michael medley, performed by the Top Twelve: Shucks. Couldn't they have brought Luke Menard back and sung "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" just for this? No such luck.
"Praying for Time," performed by George Michael: Reportedly George wasn't feeling well last night, but you'd never know it from his restrained but emotional (if somewhat mannered -- the fluttery gestures were a bit distracting) interpretation of this song. Nice to see GM out of the slammer, out of the courtroom, out of the men's room, out of the closet and back on the stage.
Judges' final remarks: Randy's remarks were dismissible, but Paula and Simon each had a moment. I wish I had written down Paula's comments verbatim, but they were something along the lines of this: "This is the finale, but it's really not the final, because it's just the beginning of the destiny of your career." Why don't they have Paula write the winner's song every year? That lyric is certainly no worse than Tuesday night's "How can a window encompass perfection?"
Simon, meanwhile, did something to David Cook I don't remember him doing to any contestant since he did the same to Katharine McPhee on April 26, 2006 -- he apologized! Evidently in watching the show on TV (or in finding out the results in advance, depending on how much of a conspiracy theorist you are) he realized that Tuesday night's competition hadn't been the David Archuleta "knockout" he called it at the time. (And it wasn't: David A.'s first song was the best of the night, but David C.'s second song was far better than D.A.'s, and D.C. did attempt a new song in Round Three while D.A. safely and lazily trotted out his old warhorse, "Imagine"). David C. was as gracious accepting Simon's apology as he was weathering his criticism. What a feelgood moment! Can't we just call it a tie and hug each other and go home?
The Results: But we knew it wasn't a tie -- Ryan had announced at the top of the show that, of 97.5 million votes cast, one David had won an astonishing 56% of them. And of course as the world now knows, that David was not the contestant repeatedly called "The Chosen One" by the Los Angeles Times or the "Presumptive 'American Idol' Winner" by Zap2it.com. It was David Cook!
The rest of the show would have been wonderful just because Jeff Archuleta did not storm the stage to throttle his second-place offspring. What raised it to the level of greatness was the genuine emotion displayed by both David A. (who looked truly happy that his big-brother-figure had won) and David C., who was overwhelmed.
And what made it a lesson for every future "Idol" contestant was David C.'s acceptance speech, in which he reminded us all that he had branded himself early on as "a word nerd." How many times do aspiring Idols have to be told that it's not just the music, it's the music and the words that make a song a song? Maybe future contestants will look at David Cook and realize that paying attention to the words was what made him able to reinvent "Hello" and "Billie Jean" in a way that made sense . . . that paying attention to the words was what enabled D.C. not only to learn three new songs for competition this week (to D.A.'s two), but to learn six more songs for the finale . . . and that not paying attention to the words was what undid Brooke White, Jason Castro and even David Archuleta.
I admit I was late to the David Cook party. Back on March 12, my friend John Mihelich wrote to me after I had blasted D.C. for some performance or other:
C'mon, drink the David Cook Kool Aid! It's so yummy! Here, have a sip. Mmmm.
Now I buy the stuff by the gallon.
And who wouldn't? After his coronation, willingly sharing the stage with his family and his competitor and all the rest of the Top Twelve, David still had to sing the 2008 "American Idol" equivalent to "There She Is, Miss America," the first-place votegetter in the dreaded "AI" Original Song Contest. The title will tell you almost everything you need to know, and I'll tell you the rest. The title is "The Time of My Life," and the rest is: it even included a lyric about rainbows.
D.C. sang the hell out of this shlock, amid tears and smiles and hugs and strobe lights and confetti -- everything but a sash and a tiara, and I could arrange for that if they asked me -- and he didn't drop a word or miss a note of it. How much more of an idol could anybody want than that?
Yes, "American Idol" is part beauty pageant, and that's part of its appeal. When I was -- oh, let's say when I was minus 10 -- watching the Miss America pageant wasn't something we just did in my family every year; it was a national event. So was sitting around the television set on Saturday nights watching Jackie Gleason and, later, Carol Burnett, and on Sunday nights watching Ed Sullivan. At my house, every afternoon after school you could find my grandmother caught up in her "stories" -- "The Edge of Night" and "The Secret Storm." Sunday afternoons at 5:30? Time for "Ted Mack and the Original Amateur Hour."
Beauty pageants are out of style now; so are variety shows. Soap operas went into decline when the press started reporting which actors' contracts were renewed and whose weren't -- letting you know in advance what characters were likely to meet an untimely end. Talent contests faded after "Star Search" celebrated Ed McMahan's 104th birthday on the air.
"American Idol," in its maddening way, brings back what made all of those indigenous American art forms popular. The chance for an unknown to become a star because of popular acclaim, a la Ted Mack and his wheel of fortune ("Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows") and the postcards people sent in to vote for their favorites. The succession of musical acts and burlesque sketches (now they're called Ford Music Videos) that ensured variety show viewers there'd be something for everyone in the family to enjoy. The suspense of not knowing who's going to be killed off next. The pomp and circumstance of crowning royalty.
For those of us who grew up watching variety shows, soaps, talent contests and beauty pageants, "American Idol" (and, to a lesser extent, "Dancing with the Stars") taps into our collective memory. For the kids who don't even know what those relics are (variety shows might as well be vaudeville), "American Idol" proves that their elements are just as compelling now as they were 40, 50 or even 60 years ago. That's why -- despite all the complaints, including mine, about its structure, its judges, its conspiracies, its scandals, its contestants, its songs, its value -- it will be around next year.
And so I guess I will be too. See you then.
And who wouldn't? After his coronation, willingly sharing the stage with his family and his competitor and all the rest of the Top Twelve, David still had to sing the 2008 "American Idol" equivalent to "There She Is, Miss America," the first-place votegetter in the dreaded "AI" Original Song Contest. The title will tell you almost everything you need to know, and I'll tell you the rest. The title is "The Time of My Life," and the rest is: it even included a lyric about rainbows.
D.C. sang the hell out of this shlock, amid tears and smiles and hugs and strobe lights and confetti -- everything but a sash and a tiara, and I could arrange for that if they asked me -- and he didn't drop a word or miss a note of it. How much more of an idol could anybody want than that?
Yes, "American Idol" is part beauty pageant, and that's part of its appeal. When I was -- oh, let's say when I was minus 10 -- watching the Miss America pageant wasn't something we just did in my family every year; it was a national event. So was sitting around the television set on Saturday nights watching Jackie Gleason and, later, Carol Burnett, and on Sunday nights watching Ed Sullivan. At my house, every afternoon after school you could find my grandmother caught up in her "stories" -- "The Edge of Night" and "The Secret Storm." Sunday afternoons at 5:30? Time for "Ted Mack and the Original Amateur Hour."
Beauty pageants are out of style now; so are variety shows. Soap operas went into decline when the press started reporting which actors' contracts were renewed and whose weren't -- letting you know in advance what characters were likely to meet an untimely end. Talent contests faded after "Star Search" celebrated Ed McMahan's 104th birthday on the air.
"American Idol," in its maddening way, brings back what made all of those indigenous American art forms popular. The chance for an unknown to become a star because of popular acclaim, a la Ted Mack and his wheel of fortune ("Round and round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows") and the postcards people sent in to vote for their favorites. The succession of musical acts and burlesque sketches (now they're called Ford Music Videos) that ensured variety show viewers there'd be something for everyone in the family to enjoy. The suspense of not knowing who's going to be killed off next. The pomp and circumstance of crowning royalty.
For those of us who grew up watching variety shows, soaps, talent contests and beauty pageants, "American Idol" (and, to a lesser extent, "Dancing with the Stars") taps into our collective memory. For the kids who don't even know what those relics are (variety shows might as well be vaudeville), "American Idol" proves that their elements are just as compelling now as they were 40, 50 or even 60 years ago. That's why -- despite all the complaints, including mine, about its structure, its judges, its conspiracies, its scandals, its contestants, its songs, its value -- it will be around next year.
And so I guess I will be too. See you then.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Restaurant Review: Philly's Best
The first Philly’s Best restaurant I went to was in Fountain Valley, in 1998. It had been recommended to me by a former boss of mine who was originally from the East Coast, and knew my parents were also from the Greater Philadelphia area. I took them there, and sure enough, not only did they serve pretty authentic Philly cheesesteaks, but they were augmented by Wise potato chips and—best of all—Tastykakes!
As it turns out, that Fountain Valley shop was the first of what is now a chain. Last Monday, I happened upon its latest outpost, in one of the new shopping centers that have sprung up like weeds in the former dairy town of Mira Loma, where Limonite Avenue intersects Interstate 15, just south of the 60 Freeway.
Like the original, this Philly’s Best is an unassuming little restaurant, with a mural of the Philadelphia skyline dominating one wall. There are other geographically appropriate touches, but I didn’t see copies of the Philadelphia Daily News or enough other artifacts to make me feel like I was stepping into the Reading Terminal Market.
I ordered the Philly Pepper Steak, which is a twelve-inch steak sandwich with grilled sweet peppers and white American cheese. (White American cheese is a genuine Philly touch—the stuff is the standard in that part of the country; it’s only elsewhere that you find the dyed-orange slices.) If I’d read the menu more closely, I’d’ve seen I could have had provolone or what you’d find on a real Philly cheesesteak, Cheez Whiz.
Grilled onions were $0.95 extra. With two small bags of Wise potato chips and a medium Diet Coke, my bill came to nearly $12.00—exorbitant, in my opinion.
Other sandwiches are available—hoagies (which are served cold and with lettuce and tomato) and chicken sandwiches (cheesesteaks with poultry instead of beef), but I didn’t see smaller portion sizes. The twelve-inch cheesesteak would easily have been enough to share.
The cheese melted beautifully into the steak, which was appropriately tender and juicy (or greasy, depending on your point of view). The sweet peppers were genuinely sweet—delicious, in fact. I added some chopped jalapenos from the condiment bar, but was sorry I did. They were so roughly chopped that I actually had to remove two stems from the sandwich. The onions were nicely grilled, but were chopped, not diced—the pieces were much larger than you’d find on a similar sandwich in Philadelphia itself. The accompanying potato chips were typical Wise—prized because they are rare here, not because they’re significantly better than other brands.
Because of the size of the sandwich, I was too full to try a Tastykake, but they had many of the brand’s most popular offerings, including Jelly Krimpets and Chocolate Kandy Kakes. I can assure you I’d’ve made room if they’d had my all-time favorite—Tastykake Lemon Pies, the snack food that made me the man I am today.
If you are hankering for a taste of Philadelphia, Philly’s Best may not be the same as going to Pat’s or Geno’s, but it may be as good as you’ll get out here on the West Coast.
Ambience: 2 (out of 5). Not much more than a typical Fatburger would have. They need to pump up the Philly connection.
Service: 3 (out of 5). Order at the counter and they’ll call your name when your order is ready. I got lucky; someone who appeared to be one of the franchise owners was on duty and he brought my sandwich to my table.
Food: 7 (out of 10). Smaller portion sizes and a less lazy approach to vegetable chopping would be appreciated.
Value: 2 (out of 5). Overpriced.
Total: 14 (out of 25)—that’s about a C+.
Philly’s Best, 6237 Pat's Ranch Road, Mira Loma, CA 91752. (951) 279-5400.
As it turns out, that Fountain Valley shop was the first of what is now a chain. Last Monday, I happened upon its latest outpost, in one of the new shopping centers that have sprung up like weeds in the former dairy town of Mira Loma, where Limonite Avenue intersects Interstate 15, just south of the 60 Freeway.
Like the original, this Philly’s Best is an unassuming little restaurant, with a mural of the Philadelphia skyline dominating one wall. There are other geographically appropriate touches, but I didn’t see copies of the Philadelphia Daily News or enough other artifacts to make me feel like I was stepping into the Reading Terminal Market.
I ordered the Philly Pepper Steak, which is a twelve-inch steak sandwich with grilled sweet peppers and white American cheese. (White American cheese is a genuine Philly touch—the stuff is the standard in that part of the country; it’s only elsewhere that you find the dyed-orange slices.) If I’d read the menu more closely, I’d’ve seen I could have had provolone or what you’d find on a real Philly cheesesteak, Cheez Whiz.
Grilled onions were $0.95 extra. With two small bags of Wise potato chips and a medium Diet Coke, my bill came to nearly $12.00—exorbitant, in my opinion.
Other sandwiches are available—hoagies (which are served cold and with lettuce and tomato) and chicken sandwiches (cheesesteaks with poultry instead of beef), but I didn’t see smaller portion sizes. The twelve-inch cheesesteak would easily have been enough to share.
The cheese melted beautifully into the steak, which was appropriately tender and juicy (or greasy, depending on your point of view). The sweet peppers were genuinely sweet—delicious, in fact. I added some chopped jalapenos from the condiment bar, but was sorry I did. They were so roughly chopped that I actually had to remove two stems from the sandwich. The onions were nicely grilled, but were chopped, not diced—the pieces were much larger than you’d find on a similar sandwich in Philadelphia itself. The accompanying potato chips were typical Wise—prized because they are rare here, not because they’re significantly better than other brands.
Because of the size of the sandwich, I was too full to try a Tastykake, but they had many of the brand’s most popular offerings, including Jelly Krimpets and Chocolate Kandy Kakes. I can assure you I’d’ve made room if they’d had my all-time favorite—Tastykake Lemon Pies, the snack food that made me the man I am today.
If you are hankering for a taste of Philadelphia, Philly’s Best may not be the same as going to Pat’s or Geno’s, but it may be as good as you’ll get out here on the West Coast.
Ambience: 2 (out of 5). Not much more than a typical Fatburger would have. They need to pump up the Philly connection.
Service: 3 (out of 5). Order at the counter and they’ll call your name when your order is ready. I got lucky; someone who appeared to be one of the franchise owners was on duty and he brought my sandwich to my table.
Food: 7 (out of 10). Smaller portion sizes and a less lazy approach to vegetable chopping would be appreciated.
Value: 2 (out of 5). Overpriced.
Total: 14 (out of 25)—that’s about a C+.
Philly’s Best, 6237 Pat's Ranch Road, Mira Loma, CA 91752. (951) 279-5400.
The Argument Against Gay Marriage
Last week, the California Supreme Court struck down the law banning marriage between members of the same gender here in the Golden State. According to Chief Justice Ron George, “Our state now recognizes that an individual's capacity to establish a loving and long-term committed relationship with another person and responsibly to care for and raise children does not depend upon the individual's sexual orientation.”
To no one’s surprise, the only thing louder than the whoops of happiness from West Hollywood and the Castro District have been the cries of outrage from the religious and political right. Part of their argument is that this decision “subverts the will of the people of California,” 61 percent of whom voted in favor of Prop 22, which stated “only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California,” back in 2000.
Having forgotten that “majority rules” only counts when the rights of the minority are protected, they are pinning their hopes on an amendment to the state constitution decreeing marriage a one-man/one-woman institution—an amendment that would, if passed, overturn the Supreme Court’s decision.
I want to talk to these people for a few minutes. Not the talk-radio blowhards and the Bible-thumping zealots, but the average, even-tempered people who also want to deny homosexuals the right to marry.
And I want to say to these people: I understand. I understand why you’re against gay marriage. And I want you to listen to me, with an open mind, just for a few minutes.
No one wants his or her child to be gay. A gay child is subject to isolation, or name-calling, or ridicule, or bullying, or far, far worse. No parent wants that for his son or daughter.
And no one aspires to be the parent of a gay son or daughter.
We don’t know whether homosexuality is a result of genetics or chemistry or upbringing or some combination thereof, or if it’s just some cosmic accident. But because, unlike eye or hair color, it’s a trait that’s not obvious at birth, parents frequently consider themselves responsible for it.
“He loves baseball—just like his father.”
“She’s stubborn—she gets that from me.”
“She loves horses. I did too when I was her age.”
“He’s gay—where did I go wrong?”
People do care what others think of them. And as a result, some parents don’t want a child to be gay because of what they think it says about them.
So how do these concerned parents think they can stop homosexuality from happening, so that they can ensure that their children and their children’s children will be heterosexual and the neighbors won’t talk?
By denying its existence.
If there are no books in the school library that feature gay characters—
If we boycott the products of sponsors of television shows that feature gay people—
If the only role models our children see are heterosexual people in traditional marriages—
If we make sure that our children don’t even know there is such a thing as homosexuality—
Then how can they become what doesn’t exist?
That, I believe, is at the very core of the argument against gay marriage: a belief that if there is no gay marriage, fewer children will grow up to be gay—and vice versa.
But it doesn’t work that way.
Gay just happens.
Whether society accepts it or denies it or decries it, gay just happens. It’s happened throughout recorded history. It’s happened in cultures that embraced homosexuality and it’s happened in cultures that demonized it. In the absence of positive role models and in the presence of punishment, gay just happens. It happens to the children of conservatives who espouse family values just as it happens to the children of left-wing free-love advocates. Like being left-handed, there are children—about ten percent of all children—who just turn out that way.
And as no parent wishes for his or her child to be gay, believe me: no child wishes to be gay either. They just turn out that way. Anyone who thinks homosexuality is a choice is naïve at best. The only choices homosexuals have are whether to admit their preference to themselves and others, and whether to act on their desires. Their sexual orientation itself? That’s not a choice; it’s a fact of their lives.
In a world that tells children—from before they are even aware of their sexual feelings—that being gay is unnatural and wrong, that being gay means you can’t grow up and get married to the person you love, how do you think these children feel?
They feel guilty. Ashamed. Afraid. Alone.
Parents who think they’ll prevent their children from becoming homosexual by denying them the opportunity to see happy, productive gay people in long-term committed relationships are not preventing any such thing. Their straight children will still be straight; but their gay children will not only still be gay, they’ll also feel marginalized and inferior and without hope.
This is the environment that produces people like Jim McGreevey and Ted Haggard and Larry Craig, men who are willing to build lives of elaborate lies (hurting many others in the bargain) to hide their sexual orientation—desires that they can then only indulge in pathetic places like turnpike exits, motel rooms and airport toilets.
So I understand the argument against gay marriage. It’s a well intentioned hedge against a child’s unhappiness. But that hedge can create its own unhappiness, a much deeper and more damaging unhappiness.
Gay marriage won’t turn heterosexuals gay any more than allowing marriage only between a man and a woman has turned homosexuals straight. What it will do is allow some boy or some girl, somewhere, to feel that he or she can grow up and live a normal, healthy life with the partner of their choosing.
In the end, what parent wouldn’t want that?
To no one’s surprise, the only thing louder than the whoops of happiness from West Hollywood and the Castro District have been the cries of outrage from the religious and political right. Part of their argument is that this decision “subverts the will of the people of California,” 61 percent of whom voted in favor of Prop 22, which stated “only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California,” back in 2000.
Having forgotten that “majority rules” only counts when the rights of the minority are protected, they are pinning their hopes on an amendment to the state constitution decreeing marriage a one-man/one-woman institution—an amendment that would, if passed, overturn the Supreme Court’s decision.
I want to talk to these people for a few minutes. Not the talk-radio blowhards and the Bible-thumping zealots, but the average, even-tempered people who also want to deny homosexuals the right to marry.
And I want to say to these people: I understand. I understand why you’re against gay marriage. And I want you to listen to me, with an open mind, just for a few minutes.
No one wants his or her child to be gay. A gay child is subject to isolation, or name-calling, or ridicule, or bullying, or far, far worse. No parent wants that for his son or daughter.
And no one aspires to be the parent of a gay son or daughter.
We don’t know whether homosexuality is a result of genetics or chemistry or upbringing or some combination thereof, or if it’s just some cosmic accident. But because, unlike eye or hair color, it’s a trait that’s not obvious at birth, parents frequently consider themselves responsible for it.
“He loves baseball—just like his father.”
“She’s stubborn—she gets that from me.”
“She loves horses. I did too when I was her age.”
“He’s gay—where did I go wrong?”
People do care what others think of them. And as a result, some parents don’t want a child to be gay because of what they think it says about them.
So how do these concerned parents think they can stop homosexuality from happening, so that they can ensure that their children and their children’s children will be heterosexual and the neighbors won’t talk?
By denying its existence.
If there are no books in the school library that feature gay characters—
If we boycott the products of sponsors of television shows that feature gay people—
If the only role models our children see are heterosexual people in traditional marriages—
If we make sure that our children don’t even know there is such a thing as homosexuality—
Then how can they become what doesn’t exist?
That, I believe, is at the very core of the argument against gay marriage: a belief that if there is no gay marriage, fewer children will grow up to be gay—and vice versa.
But it doesn’t work that way.
Gay just happens.
Whether society accepts it or denies it or decries it, gay just happens. It’s happened throughout recorded history. It’s happened in cultures that embraced homosexuality and it’s happened in cultures that demonized it. In the absence of positive role models and in the presence of punishment, gay just happens. It happens to the children of conservatives who espouse family values just as it happens to the children of left-wing free-love advocates. Like being left-handed, there are children—about ten percent of all children—who just turn out that way.
And as no parent wishes for his or her child to be gay, believe me: no child wishes to be gay either. They just turn out that way. Anyone who thinks homosexuality is a choice is naïve at best. The only choices homosexuals have are whether to admit their preference to themselves and others, and whether to act on their desires. Their sexual orientation itself? That’s not a choice; it’s a fact of their lives.
In a world that tells children—from before they are even aware of their sexual feelings—that being gay is unnatural and wrong, that being gay means you can’t grow up and get married to the person you love, how do you think these children feel?
They feel guilty. Ashamed. Afraid. Alone.
Parents who think they’ll prevent their children from becoming homosexual by denying them the opportunity to see happy, productive gay people in long-term committed relationships are not preventing any such thing. Their straight children will still be straight; but their gay children will not only still be gay, they’ll also feel marginalized and inferior and without hope.
This is the environment that produces people like Jim McGreevey and Ted Haggard and Larry Craig, men who are willing to build lives of elaborate lies (hurting many others in the bargain) to hide their sexual orientation—desires that they can then only indulge in pathetic places like turnpike exits, motel rooms and airport toilets.
So I understand the argument against gay marriage. It’s a well intentioned hedge against a child’s unhappiness. But that hedge can create its own unhappiness, a much deeper and more damaging unhappiness.
Gay marriage won’t turn heterosexuals gay any more than allowing marriage only between a man and a woman has turned homosexuals straight. What it will do is allow some boy or some girl, somewhere, to feel that he or she can grow up and live a normal, healthy life with the partner of their choosing.
In the end, what parent wouldn’t want that?
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