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[or, "An Open Letter to American Idol"]
Noodling around with the new streaming audio widget on YM, I hear something that sounds like Glenn Fry playing guitar in Karo syrup, followed by Don Henley with a pair of Vice Grips attached to some of the more sensitve parts of his anatomy, and pull up the window, wondering "What kind of awful, lame, live version of Hotel California is -this-?" when I'm confronted with the horrible reality. . . it's not a bad recording, it's a perfectly faithful transmission of William fucking Hung caterwauling like a Sunday night karaoke savant after a pitcher of grasshoppers and half a double-anchovy pie.
Those of you who've been afflicted with the "She Bangs" video will understand my vitriol when I say that it's bad enough when the no-talent pretty people getting rich and famous is bad enough, but when your only claim to fame is being shamelessly awful, yeah, I think you don't deserve fifteen seconds, much less a record deal.
Where's the mouldering corpse of Chuck Barris when you need him to drum some sense into people who suck?
Karaoke is palatable when you're drunk, with friends, in a bar where nobody will remember you in two hours. It is a ghastly excuse for television drama, and the notion that people are bored and stupid enough to watch it because everything else on offer is -worse- is no excuse for no-talent hacks to garner wealth and fame.
. . . expecially because so many of us, myself included, sing, dance, -and- look better, and make what Joe Millionaire supposedly did moonlighting as a construction worker.
Noodling around with the new streaming audio widget on YM, I hear something that sounds like Glenn Fry playing guitar in Karo syrup, followed by Don Henley with a pair of Vice Grips attached to some of the more sensitve parts of his anatomy, and pull up the window, wondering "What kind of awful, lame, live version of Hotel California is -this-?" when I'm confronted with the horrible reality. . . it's not a bad recording, it's a perfectly faithful transmission of William fucking Hung caterwauling like a Sunday night karaoke savant after a pitcher of grasshoppers and half a double-anchovy pie.
Those of you who've been afflicted with the "She Bangs" video will understand my vitriol when I say that it's bad enough when the no-talent pretty people getting rich and famous is bad enough, but when your only claim to fame is being shamelessly awful, yeah, I think you don't deserve fifteen seconds, much less a record deal.
Where's the mouldering corpse of Chuck Barris when you need him to drum some sense into people who suck?
Karaoke is palatable when you're drunk, with friends, in a bar where nobody will remember you in two hours. It is a ghastly excuse for television drama, and the notion that people are bored and stupid enough to watch it because everything else on offer is -worse- is no excuse for no-talent hacks to garner wealth and fame.
. . . expecially because so many of us, myself included, sing, dance, -and- look better, and make what Joe Millionaire supposedly did moonlighting as a construction worker.
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