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Changing At Nine May. 8th, 2008 @ 02:33 am
“…..and how long have you known you were Transgender?”

“Well….how long have you known you were not?”

It’s really the same thing. There’s a lot about what I am that confuses me, but there’s one thing I know for a fact, it’s not a choice. It’s not something I decided to do because there was nothing on TV that night.

I’ve known it. I’ve always known it. It was never something I pondered or considered or truly questioned. It was a fact of my life. I may have tried to live a lie for the people in my life in order to make them more comfortable, but it was never, ever in question. How can it be? How really questions whether they’re a boy or a girl? You may question your taste. You may question your memory, but rarely do most people have to think whether or not you’re a boy or a girl. That’s usually something that’s pretty much set in stone.

It was the same thing for me. The exact same thing.

In Philadelphia, there’s a 9 year old whose parents have allowed him to begin his transition.



“The Haverford School District consulted experts on transgender children, then sent letters to parents advising them that the guidance counselor would meet with the school's 100 third-grade students to explain why their classmate would now wear girls' clothes and be called by a girl's name.

Some parents objected. Eight called the principal to ask that their child not attend the session, and some posted angry messages on the Haverford Township blog.

"Why is the school introducing this subject to 8- and 9-year-olds?" wrote the parent who started the blog thread, which had been viewed more than 3,000 times as of yesterday. "Why were we not notified sooner. We received the letter today, the discussion at school is tomorrow."

Other parents thought the school should not have called attention to an already delicate situation.

"I did not think that the letter needed to go out," said Valerie Huff, whose daughter is friends with the transgender student. "The kids don't make any big deal about it at all."



I’m not really sure why there was a letter sent out in the first place, but it makes sense to me why some parents are outraged. There’s so much fear and mystery surrounding what I am. People tend to get a bit frightened of things they don’t understand. If it doesn’t make sense, it’s to be avoided. So…let’s not talk about it.

I always gravitated toward the girls when I was 8 or 9. The boys didn’t make much sense to me. I didn’t understand them much at all. What they wanted, how they reacted, and certainly the games they played. Why they wanted to run around the playground chasing each other with a oblong ball in their arms tackling each other and getting far too dirty was a mystery to me. And to be honest….it still is.

When my teacher caught me playing ball, or dolls near the jungle-jim with a gaggle of my girlfriends, she called my mother. I had many stern conversations about why I needed more male friends.

“You need to be with more boys. You’re a boy and you don’t need to be with other girls” my mother said to me.

But I wasn’t. I wasn’t a boy and I didn’t have the language to be able to tell her that. Besides, at that time, there was no such thing as Transgender. There was Milton Berle and Flip Wilson. That’s what there was. We were a punch line. Plain and simple.

My mother even went as far as to write a huge note and pin it to my shirt that said:

“Please do not allow Scott to play with the girls”

….in big red letters. I know she was trying to help. To have the kids accept me. To stop the bullying, the fighting, the name calling, and this was a woman from the 50’s. Donna Reed never had anything like this to deal with. Ever.

I wore the note pinned to my electric green shirt to school, and then when I got to the front door of my class, I took it off, and put it in my pocket. I mean honestly, red letters with a green shirt? What was she thinking? I wasn’t about to go to school looking like a Christmas tree.

I see us all changing. I think my favorite part ofthis particular article was the fact that the kids didn’t seem to have a problem with it at all. It was the older generation. My generation. My age group. Well, maybe it’s more about information really. If they understand it, it won’t seem too scary. That big monster in the closet isn’t real. And now when that little girl grows up and does an interview and some reporter asks her:

“How long have you known your Transgender?”

She can honestly say:

“That’s never even been a question. Just ask my mom.”





“

Steve And Jim In Egypt May. 7th, 2008 @ 10:01 am
This isn’t your mother’s vacation video. The great thing about Steve and Jim (or as Jimmy would say: “Jim and Steve”), is that Steve can literally do anything.

And does.

He sings, he acts, he writes, and his videos are edited like a pro.

The boys have taken a trip around the world many times, and thank God Steve never goes anywhere without his trusty camera. It’s as if he’s making a video map of his life and he’s shot it and re-shot it for the masses. Us. And I feel lucky to not only have him in my life, but to feel like I’m sitting right there in the bus next to these two gorgeous men.

Here's Steve's site. It's a terrific read, all of it.

And by the way, this video is not only informative and super educational (that's right, you learn stuff), but hilarious. Jim has the best timing on planet earth. Shelly Berman/Joan Rivers/ and a dash of The Merm. He's a comic machine. Watch his pyramid bit....it kills.

And watch carefully toward the end. I’m certain Steve wrote that song for The Night Crew on the spot. Watching those two guys using a cup and a vacuum to play in Steve’s makeshift garage band is completely joyful. And has Steve written all over it.

Thanks guys. I feel like I was there. And now I have to shake the dust from my burkha, if you don’t mind.

Oprah + Tommy May. 7th, 2008 @ 09:59 am
Well…..I might have missed Tommy’s latest interview with the magnanimous Oprah, but after reading Bossy’s recap, I feel like I was there.

This is the most concise and accurate portrayal I’ve ever read in my life. And I agree with the posters, Tommy and Katie never looked better.

And I mean that in a good way.





(Thanks to Jami at Not That Different)

R Offishul Langwage May. 7th, 2008 @ 09:56 am
A brilliant conclusion by one of my favorite bloggers, C. Monks. I mean, he has a point, it is hard to hold your head up higher than anyone else when people in your own country can’t even use a spell checker-er.

Daddy's Little Girl May. 5th, 2008 @ 01:49 am
I was standing in the Starbucks waiting for my latte-latte-double-dipped-boing-boing, or whatever it is I get every time I’m there….oh, how I yearn for the days of Sanka….and as I had time to spare before my class, I wandered a bit over to the chocolate-y goodness of the enclosed glass case. I worship that case. I would make love to that case if I wasn’t afraid of getting arrested.

As I stood there, transfixed by the shelves of calories and lard beckoning me with their evil claws, a baritone voice from behind me spoke up:

“What do you want, beautiful?”

A smaller, tinier female voice answered back:

“Something with strawberry.”

Immediately I judged them. How can a dad bring his little girl to Starbucks? When I was little, a big day out with my parents meant MacDonalds and a possible Mayor McCheese action figure. Times change. That’s okay.

I then turned a bit to see them out of my soft focus, and Dad spoke up again:

“Okay. Strawberry. That’s a good choice. Remember last week when we were at Bob’s Big Boy and you ordered that strawberry shake and the waitress brought you a curly straw? Remember that?” he began to laugh.

“That was funny. I liked that straw.” She said back to him.

I could see him begin to pull her in tightly. He whispered again to her how beautiful she was, and then stepped up in line. Their conversation wasn’t forced. He wasn’t talking down to her in some odd, baby voice and tickling her under her chin. And she wasn’t swaying back and forth reveling in her father’s ideology of what she should be, or should become, or needs to be for other men. He was simply speaking to her from the truth from where he stood. She was simply the most beautiful, smart, funny girl in the world. And that was a fact of her life. It was that simple.

I started transitioning when I was 19 years old. Back then, it was unheard of, and I really had no idea what the hell I was doing. Or talking about. I still don’t. I don’t know why I am the way I am. I have no idea what makes me, me. But I’ve come to terms with that. It isn’t a big question in my life. It’s a big question in everyone else’s.

My Father and I lost each other for a while.

He disappeared from my life, and I from his. We didn’t speak or see each other for almost 5 or 6 years. By the time we met again, I had transitioned and was living a life that included new friends from a sub culture I’d only read about, cocaine, heroin, and prostitution. On the side, I tried to slip in as many acting lessons as I could afford. My life was a smorgasbord of oddballs.

And I loved every single one of them.

My mom called one Sunday afternoon and told me my Dad was visiting Chicago from California and wanted to see me. I was terrified. I can’t imagine, thinking back on it, how he must have felt. What was it like to raise a son, go through his whole life, plan all kinds of things, and then one day, wake up, an find out that the whole thing was one big, long dream? I would never know that. I could never possibly understand that journey. And in the same instance, he could never possibly understand mine.

I headed down to Schaumburg, a suburb of Chicago which is where my mother and step dad were still living. The day had a hard, deserted feel to it. I drove my boyfriend’s car, rolled down the windows, and tried not to sweat. It was July. July in Chicago is kind of like living in the middle rack of your oven at 350. I had done my hair. I had done my face. I tried to leave off the fake eyelashes and spare sequins, and wore a pair of black pants with a burgundy blouse. I looked fine. Fine, I thought.

But I was meeting my Dad. I wasn’t going back to visit him. He had never met me.

Not…me.

I arrived at my mom’s house, and in the front doorway, framed by the red and white potted chrysanthemums recently planted, my Dad stood in full view. His imposing shape. That round jaw, and those familiar hands. My heart was in my throat. I walked up to him; he smiled, and hugged me.

I sobbed in his arms.

I hugged him back, and kept sobbing. I couldn’t stop sobbing. His hug seemed to release something in me. Something that had been building up for many, many years. And then he whispered to me:

“Well…..I don’t understand any of it, but I think you look beautiful.”

As I turned to see the little girl, who as I had been told over and over that day in the Starbucks was The Most Beautiful Little Girl In The World, I finally saw her face to face. There she stood. Probably 10 years old at the most, long brown hair, some strands falling into her eyes, a little tiny nose, and some wayward freckles just below her cheeks. She wasn’t extraordinary in any way. She was a normal looking, average 10 year old girl. But to her father, she was something else entirely. He was what he wanted to see, and what he wanted her to believe for the rest of her life.

They walked out, after getting their drinks, arm in arm and into their car.

And I saw my Dad.

My Dad who brought music into my life, and who gave me the one great gift any father can give his daughter: Acceptance. For a moment, and maybe it was only that one brief moment, in my dad’s arms in the doorway of our old house in Chicago, I was, like that little girl in Starbucks: The Most Beautiful Little Girl In The World.

Willam's Idol-ology May. 2nd, 2008 @ 12:39 am
About a year ago I went to an audition for a new pilot that’s still sitting on someone’s shelf at the moment. It was a very important audition and I was terrified. I’ve spoken of my lack of fashion sense before, and when I walk into an audition, I try and look as good as I can. Usually, if it’s for a transgender role, I run into the same three faces:

Calpernia, Kelly, Candis, and Willam.

Yup. That’s right. There’s four of us. In Hollywood. Four. Count ‘em.

So I know when I meet the girls in some random waiting room, they’ll be dressed to the nines, in their Gucci, and their strands of trinkets and bobbles, and fabulous shoes and coifed hair. I’m just trying my best to not wear the same Gap outfit I wore a week ago.

I need help.

At this particular audition, I met for the first time, the woman I’ve been stalking since I got to Hollywood. And Willem’s Blog is one of the funniest around. She was sparkly that day. We sat on a couch and chatted and I felt immediately at ease. In fact, we’ve been attempting to go shopping for the last year. LA is a hard place to make dates with people. You either pencil someone in and cancel at the last minute, or you try your hardest to keep arranging something that your agent won’t scream at you for.

All in all, as we sat together, I felt under-dressed and kind of like her older lesbain softball manager. That’s okay. It was a good talk, and she’s since given me some of her local dress shop secrets. (I recently bought a little cocktail dress at one of them, and I actually matched the shoes. I then marched up and down Sunset and had my own private parade.)

But here, Willem, with a bird’s eye view of all The American Idol contestants, gives us her own special review of the tragedy that was The Night of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Her blurb about Seyesha is hilarious:




“The Syeasha chick was good but miss lady and I need to have a sit-down.

I've tried on that same $975 Herve Leger bandage dress Syeasha wore last week while I was on Melrose. I put heels on so I could see how it really looked once the booty was tooshed up. That was just for the DRESSING ROOM.”




That’s right. Exactly. Gotcha.

Now I’ve got to take this girdle off, it’s killing me.

This Just In: Bush Not Popular, Antelopes Shocked May. 2nd, 2008 @ 12:36 am


Bush is the most unpopular President in recent history.

Anyone surprised?

Anyone still hanging on to this pipe dream of him actually clawing himself out of this hole?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Video Friday (Kristen Chenowith-"Glitter an Be Gay") May. 2nd, 2008 @ 12:33 am


Chenowith is a little bit of a miracle. She can pretty much sing anything. I don’t know how huge her range is, but I’m sure the Guinness Book is still trying to track her down.

Kristen is brilliant here. She knows the line between camp and reality. The world she’s created makes perfect sense to her. She’s not “playing at” anything, she’s absolutely present and completely engulfed in the magic of her own possibilities. As she deals with her hundreds of pieces of Architecture, from her massive strand of pearls to a tiny sequined brooch, she never falters. In fact, they seem to give her more and more information that she simply adds to her already full plate.

And as she reaches that insane climax at the very end of the song, her declaration is heightened by these grand Expressive Gestures that make perfect sense. The last 4 notes and her physical life complete each other. She’s unafraid to hit these notes and land these Gestures and deal with this Architecture and it’s so satisfying it almost hurts. Chenowith is a true Broadway treasure.

Video Friday (Hillary's Takin' Back The White House) May. 2nd, 2008 @ 12:30 am


That’s right. That’s right, ya’ll. You heard it here first.

I think this is what the kids call: "Getting down with her bad self."

Diva Pod Cast Apr. 30th, 2008 @ 01:20 am
Here’s the latest pod cast with myself and the delicious Amy Matheny. Unfortunately our Skype-ing skills were tested that night, so I ended up on my cell phone and I sound like I’m speaking through a dirty trombone. We talked about Joan Crawford, Liza, old TV shows, and American Idol. It’s nice that I’m stretching myself.



(NSFW, Language-ish)

Drama Desk Awards Apr. 30th, 2008 @ 01:16 am
Tracey Letts is nominated for Best Author of a play for his masterpiece “Osage County”. Deanna Dunnigan is up for Best Actress, and the best thing of all, my three pals Amy Morton, Rhondi Reed, and one of the coolest friends I have on the face of the earth: Jeff Perry, are all up for Drama Desk Awards as well.

Here is the full list of nominations.

I’m so happy for all of them. They deserve this. The play is masterful. And all of their performances are magnificent. I take no credit whatsoever, but may I just say, their Viewpoint work in this is brilliant. Rhondi does stuff with her personal Talisman that is extraordinary and so telling and nuanced. Amy is the Topography Queen, matching her mother’s traffic patterns on the floor like a sleepy lizard. And then there gorgeous Jeff Perry, who will literally use any stray piece of Architecture there is in the room to propel him even more forward than he already is. A banister is an entire world for Jeff.

These are not only friends of mine, they are my heroes.

Love you guys. And do me a favor…wear something FABULOUS!!

Madonna Quote Apr. 30th, 2008 @ 01:15 am


"I don’t know what our government does except put us into debt and blow up other countries."

My Final Answer Apr. 29th, 2008 @ 12:05 am
I always knew I had a temper. I’ve been told that since I can remember. I’ve been known to throw things, kick things, toss things, ruin things, and create havoc whenever possible. This isn’t something I’m particularly proud of; it’s simply one of the facts of my life.

Well…my past.

I don’t act like that anymore. I have to really think about it though. It’s never the first thing that comes to mind when I’m in a heated argument, but I do actually have to think about it. It does run through me at times, I’ll admit it. My therapist would be so proud of me right now. I should win something.

I also know, in having dealt with that temper for many, many years that it stems from fear. Fear and loss of control. I can’t control something, or I’m terrified of something hitting to close to home so I lash out. That may not be true of everyone else who’s broken their mail box when the dishwasher konks out, but it was true for me. And with most people who’ve come through the clouds of torrential tempers, I’ve noticed it’s mostly true for them as well. It may be a guess, an uneducated guess, but I’ve found it to be mostly true.

I’ve been wrestling with Obama.

Well, not literally, that apparently has already happened on the WB, but figuratively. I have issues. And when I have issues and I want to figure something out I go to people I trust. I go to my wife, I go to my best friend, and then I go to people in my circle. Yes, I have a circle. Albeit, a small circle, but a circle nonetheless.

In the interim, I’ve been told a sentence I used was “Stupid”, one pal told me he thought I was “Politically comatose”, and then I was called a “Racist”. These were all friends of mine.

And I think having spoken to them, and mulled it around for a couple of weeks, the point I was trying to erase from my heart and trying to push to the back of whatever I thought the real issue was about him, came screaming forward. My friend’s attitude (and their anger) had only proved my point.

And my point is my own. It’s not something I wish to debate anymore, or talk about, or get pummeled for. It’s my point, and I get it now. In fact, having spoken and listened to many supporters of Barrack, I am now not only convinced I was right in the first place, but I’m even now more sure of who needs to win this particular election.

Knowing where the anger is coming from and some of the relationships I thought were friendships I now know to be something else has strangely freed me. That’s okay. I know things change. That’s all right. And I’m not one to let go of a friendship when it comes to political grievances. But, I know this temper. I’ve fought with it, and I get where it’s coming from.

So I guess I’m saying thank you to the people I’ve spoken with. And thanks to the supporters that rifle through the streets, and protest and scream and yell. I say, sometimes it’s right to do just that. I love it. I love it all. Thanks everyone. I know exactly what to do. I feel so much better, I can’t even tell you.

Wow. My therapist would be convulsing right now.

Seriously. I want a prize.

And Speaking Of Sheila... Apr. 29th, 2008 @ 12:02 am
Sheila has posted an amazing, unparalleled review of one of Marilyn Monroe’s greatest film roles. An underrated actress at best, Monroe leaves behind a string of unforgettable performances on film.

“Don’t Bother to Knock” is a strange, unsettling little film. When it was released, it didn’t do well and people who saw Monroe weren’t impressed by the gigantic steps she was taking as an actor. The movie is at once disturbing and challenging (especially for the time) but it does tend to slip into a strange melodrama. It really didn’t need to do that. I’ve always had the feeling the director (Roy Baker) chose that so as to detour us from the real and bizarre antics of the films leading lady.

Monroe plays a psychotic babysitter on the edge of her last hurrah. There’s a magnificent performance by Richard Widmark, and a beautiful cameo by a young Anne Bancroft (her very first film role).

But it’s Monroe that rocks the rafters in this one.

Sheila writes:

“…she plays a resolutely unglamorous part. It's not made into a big deal, like, "Oooh, look at the pretty movie star being plain-ed down" ... It's appropriate for the part. She wears a simple cotton dress, low heels, a little black beret - and when she gets on the elevator for the first time and we see her from behind, her dress is a little bit wrinkled. Like it would be for any woman who had just taken a long subway ride. It's touching. Alex told me last night (she read it in some Photoplay magazine she owns. The woman is insane) that Marilyn had bought the dress herself at a five and dime for the movie. She had seen it, and known that it was Nell's dress. I love the intelligence of that, the intelligence of her choice for the character. It's perfect.”



Exactly.

It’s not that Monroe was attempting to try something different it’s that she became that woman. It wasn’t about less make up, or no extra sequins, it was about what was inside this character that drew her inward. This is the kind of performance all young actresses should be forced to study. It’s nuanced, fascinating and filled with life. She is absolutely unrecognizable.

Here’s the rest of Sheila’s brilliant tribute. This is really something and is a helluva read. Here’s a short clip from her smorgasbord:


Sheila and The Phone Apr. 27th, 2008 @ 11:09 pm
When you haven't spoken to your pal and your pal lives across the United States you and your pal can yack for hours on the phone about everything and feel like they're right in the next room.

Sheila and I had a conversation last night that included politics, books, dating, men, women, Marilyn Monroe, Strasberg, acting in general, Ann Bancroft and her lip synching skills, Barrack and Hillary, and odds and ends about our lives ad our careers. There's nothing better than chatting with an old friend.

And then, out of the blue, in the middle of a heated political point, Sheila said something about having "One Legged Inuit Day..."

...and the half donut I was putting in my mouth spit across the room and landed on the floor next to the cat.

It was the best time I've had on the phone that I can remember. Sheila needs to live closer. Period.

Cheryl's Song Apr. 25th, 2008 @ 02:45 am
“I don’t have it” she said to me confidently.

I believed her, because there was no such thing as women who got it. They simply didn’t exist. It was only gay men, and they were all the dregs of society. But women? That was almost absurd. Like saying:

“Well, we’re here for dinner. Exactly where DO you keep your pet ostrich?”

It was 1984, and the AIDS virus was brand spanking new. As a matter of fact, the diet candy called “Ayds” was still on the shelf, and the virus that was infecting everyone n the U.S. at an alarming rate, was called GRID. Even the scientists assumed it had something to do with male homosexual sex.

So, we were safe.

And Cheryl was safe.

Cheryl was one of the swiftest people I knew. She could do anything and she could do it faster and better than anyone I knew. Blonde hair freckles surrounding only one half of her nose, and a body like a super model. I didn’t see her often, but when we’d bump into each other at a club, or on the street, we’d hug and giggle as if we went to school together. She was 2 years older than I was, we and almost slept with the same guy. Twice.

We laughed about that for months.

Cheryl was a street hooker and made more money than I do right now. She lived like a movie star in a high rise on the tip of Lake Michigan. Her living room window stared at out at the water and at night, the moon hung over one corner as if it were painted there. She had exquisite taste in clothes, furniture, and most of all, people. Not to blow my horn really, because at that time I was one big, brown ball of Mess. I was out of control with my drugs, and my temper flared at any given moment. Cheryl though, used to tell me:

“Sing the National Anthem. You can’t get that pissed off if you’re singing The National Anthem.”

It’s something I actually still try and do.

And she died. She died alone in her fantastic condo overlooking the skyline of Chicago. A neighbor of hers found her after 2 or 3 days.

Later that month, a girlfriend of mine told me her family was there pawing through her stuff, selling things, and going through phone books and diaries. We decided to invite ourselves over and salvage what we could.

Cheryl’s family consisted of Cheetos eating, toothless slobs from some backwards town in various trailers with dirty finger nails and bad breath. When Daphne and I arrived the sun had just set and the moon was getting ready to get in place. Her sister, a tall woman with flaming red hair (I knew that blonde came from a bottle) almost ran me over diving head first into Cheryl’s jewelry box.

And there, over in the corner, shadowed by a small stack of half packed boxes, was a woman in her late 40’s. Sitting slumped in a deep purple chair holding on to a coffee cup and staring mindlessly at the moon.

I walked over to her amongst the noise and confusion.

“I’m Alex.” I said quietly.

She looked over at me.

“I’m Sandra’s mother.”

I finally learned Cheryl’s original name. She never did know mine.

“Were you a friend of Sandy’s?” she asked.

I wasn’t really. We only got together to either get high, exchange hot guys’ phone numbers, or watch TV.

“Yes.” I lied.

“How did she die? Did she have It?”

I stopped. My heart leaped up into my throat. I didn’t know what to tell her. I didn’t know how to say this to her mother, knowing it would be the last thing she ever heard about her daughter, and who knows how many other secrets she’s already been privy to.

So……I lied.

“No. She didn’t. She didn’t have It.”

I lied, and she knew I lied. But it seemed all right.

Sandra’s mom walked to the kitchen, barely able to lift herself off the chair, dumped out the small amount of coffee still sitting at the bottom and handed me the cup.

“Here. Will you take this? I gave this to her when she moved out of the house. It was the first thing I gave her.”

It sits in my kitchen and right now it’s sitting in my hand. I’m looking out my window watching the stars come out over the mountains and there’s a sound a far away train going by. I thought of Cheryl and although I lied to her mother, and Cheryl lied to me, I know I’m not sitting here by mistake. There’s no such thing.

Cheryl was 25 years old. She was important to her mom, and she touched my life. I’m telling her story, drinking a small cup of coffee and thanking God although I do have It, I’m still around to talk about it. And I don’t have to lie. And even though it’s completely unfair, and criminal her life was taken away suddenly and without warning, I commend her. And I talk about her.

I’m looking at the moon, and I’m thinking about you, Cheryl.

Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…..

Video Friday (Elaine Paige-"Memory") Apr. 25th, 2008 @ 01:09 am


Dear Jason Castro,

Here's how you sing this song.

With love

Alex


PS
This is the original Grizabella, the great, great Elaine Paige. Please take notes. Thanks.

Video Friday (Eydie Gormet-"What Did I Have") Apr. 25th, 2008 @ 12:56 am


There's something tremendous about Eydie Gormet's voice. It's a freight train. There's no question it's coming at you. But it's not just the power of it, although that's enough for me, Gormet has a clarity and a fluidness in her instrument. And she understands what she's singing. Her entire Shape changes as the song builds. Even the last grand Gesture she makes is completely believable because of what's come before it.

I've always loved this trumpet sound of hers. And for me, it can call me out of a dead sleep. This is an amazing performance.

Video Friday (Japaneese "We Are The World") Apr. 25th, 2008 @ 12:51 am

Japanese We Are The World - Watch more free videos

I can't decide if this is the coolest thing I've ever seen, or the most revolting. I have to say, I actually love the Cindy Lauper.

But....it really ends there.

A.I. Roundup Apr. 24th, 2008 @ 01:31 am
This makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. I honestly don’t get it. But then again, every year, something happens and I immediately turn the show off and don’t watch for a couple of weeks, because I know most of the votes are coming from 12 year olds.

The year Jennifer Hudson was voted off, I stopped watching for the rest of the season.

But honestly, after Jason’s bloody massacre of “Memory”, and Brooke White’s bad Madonna impersonation, I assumed America would get it right. But really?

Really?

Archuletta’s got a beautiful voice, you can’t take that away from him, but to be honest, it was David’s dead on, stirring rendition of Music of The Night that stole the show. He was the only performer that understood in order to sing a show tune you have to actually act. You’ve got to have tools. You’ve got to go deep into the song and at least try and understand what the heck you’re conveying. It’s about the text as well as the vocal. And with that, come natural and progressive Gestures, Shapes and a forward Tempo everyone can feel.

But her? I didn’t think she was that bad.

And this was my favorite quote of the night from Abdul:

"You must never start and stop," (Referring to Brooke starting the song over when she flubbed a lyric).

How the heck would YOU know that, Paula? They’ve never started and stopped the CD you lip synch to, have they?
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