Tag Archives: David Archuleta

The most beautiful blockhead in the world

Nobody else is saying it, so I will. Levi Johnston, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin’s stooge son-in-law is cute. Monstrously cute. Almost Osmond cute in many ways, but without the obvious drawbacks of being sweet and sickly or a Mormon.

Cuter than an Osmond?

Cute as a button. But as an Osmond? You decide.

All of this seems to have been forgotten, however, in the current unfolding drama of… whatever he’s talking about.

Because, quite honestly, I have no idea.

Fatherhood. Condoms. Getting a lawyer. Visiting his stooge child. I picked up odd words here and there from his appearance on Larry King this week, but in truth I was so distracted the whole time by his looks – oh my God! – that, despite sitting glued to the screen for a prolonged period of time (allowing for the original broadcast and several rewinds on TiVo), I’m even now unable to fill in the blanks and tell you anything at all that he mumbled.

You do understand, I’m not expressing admiration for the guy when I say this, right? After all, he’s not a bright man, it seems. Nor is he articulate or terribly confident. And there’s a 99% chance he’s a staunch, unyielding, country yokel Republican, which to my mind is far worse than being stupid, and makes a person borderline Neanderthal, politically.

No, actually what I’m feeling is jealousy. I admit it. And a modicum of latent resentment. At the effortlessness of it all – his looks, his rise to prominence with no discernible gifts or talent, the opportunities being thrust his way to grab the limelight, say his piece, and tantalize viewers with that natural, casual, born-to-be-wild, hockey-playing, oil-field-drilling beauty of his. The fact that it’s all so easy for him. 

Damn the superficial media jackals!

That’s the problem with nice-looking guys: they don’t have to try hard to get what they want, the way the rest of us do. It all just comes to them. Girls drool and spread their legs. The cool kids want to hang out with them. Teachers, politicians, journalists, and voters make extraordinary allowances – “Awww, that Levi, he’s so darned cute – he would never just show up to a Republican Convention and promise to marry a girl merely as a publicity stunt or masquerade, when really they’re too young and the relationship is built on shifting sand and heading straight for the rocks.”

Cuteness is everything in this world. That’s just a fact. It’s a passport. It gets you what you want and where you need to be ten times faster than normal. Ask a stripper. Or David Archuleta. It’s also, apparently, a springboard to a slot on Tyra, where Levi looked like a porcelain doll, almost too perfect. It makes you a hit with magazine editors. Paparazzi fawn all over you. Publishers too. There’s a rumor right now that he’s writing a book.

Hear that? Levi Johnston is writing a book!  But of course he is. He’s cute.

And in turn, that level of media attention elevates your specialness still further, into a stratosphere of attraction you never even dreamed of when you were back on Alaska’s North Slope, knocking back six-packs with your hunk blockhead beer buddies.

I mean, this guy seems as dumb as an ox to me. If you believe the press, he’s a hard-cursing, hard-drinking, hard-hunting lug of debatable intellect, the kind of down-to-earth laborer you’d hire to fix your truck and mow your lawn (not because he knows how, necessarily, but because you want to sit at the window for an hour with a box of tissues, watching him try), but absolutely not someone you’d want dating your daughter, or your son, or sitting at your dinner table engaging in enlightened conversation about the futility of fighting in Afghanistan, or same-sex marriage, or the arrogant idiocy of killing animals for sport, or even the lengths shifty, self-serving Republican politicians will go to to lie and deceive and con the public in order to maintain a grasp on power.

Bottom line: in real life I wouldn’t waste even a second of my time chumming up with Levi Johnston. Nor he with me. And I won’t be reading his book. Nor he mine.

Yet, right now I wish I had a womb. I do.

Bristol Palin got it exactly right. You want a kid that looks like Levi. Someone who, when he/she grows up, will be handed all the advantages of life on a plate even if they turn out to have almost zero abilities and a potential single digit IQ, simply by virtue of their looks.

And after the kid’s born, I wouldn’t mind what happened. Levi could be a deadbeat dad, for all I care. That’s fine. In fact, from the little I know of him, I’d welcome it. Leave, go. Forget all this “I’m getting a lawyer and fighting for custody to stay in the limelight” stuff I’m hearing but not paying attention to. Just the knowledge that my child would be an exquisite specimen of humanity, combining Levi’s looks, his coy, gorgeous smile, his chunky physique, his unwholesome jock-attitude and roughneck backwoods style, with my…er….

Legs.

I have very nice legs.

….would be enough.

My world could end at that point. I would have done something good and useful and righteous, I feel. And also got a decent night of roughneck, backwoods dumb-as-an-ox sex into the bargain.

Make no mistake, my friends, that is what life is all about.

 

TV Swami – he say YES, YES, OH GOD YESSSS!!! 

www.cashpeters.com

Naked in Dangerous Places

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Aren’t you glad a Moron didn’t win?

 

What a crazy, unforeseen turnaround.

Only a few weeks ago, I was declaring that the final of American Idol would be nothing without Lil Rounds, and everyone else, except for Adam Lambert, was a loser who’d go nowhere and wouldn’t be missed. Well, I was wrong.

All too soon, Lil is no more. Voted off. Outclassed and outlasted by lesser talents: the guy who’s cute but in a sinister way; the sixteen year old with her hair on the wrong way around; and even that guy with the miserable mouth and the mole on his forehead that you wish he’d either pick off or allow someone else to.

The reason for Lil’s expulsion? Inauthenticity. Week after week she was trying to be something she wasn’t. Relevant, cool, a star, a diva – nobody was sure, not even her, I suspect. All she had to be was the pre- Idol Lil – down to earth, raunchy, forceful, real, and belting out songs like she’s hailing a cab at an airport. But someone got to her, and she blew it.

Of course, last year I thought David Archuleta was the best thing ever, and look what happened there. In 08, he was the Mormon golden boy with the smoky voice (not naturally; he had an operation) and the magical green eyes who could do no wrong. 

Then he went and did wrong. He had one hit – Crush – during the post-Idol euphoria when he was flying high, then followed this up with an album that was so blah, so inadvisably anemic, so nothing by contemporary music standards, that he left thousands of fans dangling, and the rest of us in utter despair, as one of the most promising careers ever on that show sputtered, fizzled and dived nose-first into a hedge.

Mind you, once it was revealed that the Mormons, to their eternal shame, were the chief sponsors of the Proposition 8 anti-gay marriage movement in California, anyone tarred with the Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints brush was doomed and cursed in my eyes. A church that sponsors and actively campaigns for division, hate, inequality, and bigotry? The very things Jesus himself was against? Wow, time to remove someone’s tax exempt status, it strikes me – and fast. Or drop the m and let’s refer to them as Morons from now on.

Archuleta was on the show last night too, back from obscurity for one last burst, breezing in to let us know why his mainstream career had gone nowhere by singing one of the blah songs from his blah album. He’s going on tour to the UK this week. Good luck, Britain! Remember, he’s a Moron. And the Morons promote hate and division and bigotry. Don’t let the cuteness and the nice teeth fool you.  

Actually, aren’t we all relieved now that he didn’t win? Cute as he is, goofy and daffy as he seems, and even with the Mormon albatross hanging around his neck – when you put that feeble dimbo on the same stage as the towering commercial giant that will be Adam Lambert after he wins this thing (or even if he doesn’t, frankly), it frames everything in a new perspective. At that point, the relative insignificance of an Archuleta or a Lil Rounds or an Anoop Desai, or whoever else you can name (and soon won’t be able to), becomes truly apparent.

I promised faithfully that I would not – not – watch another season of American Idol, and this may yet be my last, but I’m so glad I got sucked in. I wouldn’t have missed Lambert’s performances this year for the world.

Already I have money set aside to buy his album, money I’d planned to spend on something important, like food. Because I don’t need it. His talent alone is nourishing enough. There is protein in every note; he exudes carbohydrates of magic from every pore. Quite honestly, Adam Lambert could do next to nothing on his album – hum, groan, make noises, bang saucepans with a spoon – and I’d still buy it. He is utter magic.

So goodbye Lil Rounds. It’s over. You didn’t stand a chance. Please put David Archuleta in your backpack and leave, then sit back and watch how the professionals do it.  

 

American Idol still, infuriatingly, gets five magic carpets out of five.

TV Swami – he say YES.

www.cashpeters.com.

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American, idle. An addict reaches out.

I’m furious at myself for getting hooked again.

After Season 7 of American Idol I was an emotional husk – ask my friends, they’ll tell you – having invested waaaaay too much time and energy in performers who, a few weeks later – actually, minutes in some cases – and removed from the ethereal glow of the spotlight, seemed pretty rubbish. Aside from the occasional Jennifer Hudson or Kelly Clarkson, the only time we hear about these guys again is a couple of years later when their house is being repossessed or they’re dropped suddenly by their management company and are releasing songs through a MySpace page.

So last year, especially when the right David didn’t win, I quit cold turkey. That was it. Finished. No more American Idol for Sir.  It was like a New Year’s resolution, only in May.

But oh, how soon we forget.

January. More out of curiosity than anything else. Just to check out the level of talent on offer. And also because I report on these things for the BBC – I mean, I have to stay in touch. I stopped by one of the Hollywood shows. A casual glance one evening when nothing else was on TV. And goddamnit, I got hooked all over again! 

You have no idea how angry I am at myself right now.

Tonight it’s the wild card round. They’re about to give three more people I won’t remember in a year’s time the chance to be forgotten by millions of others as well, by joining the twelve-step program that the show becomes from now until the finale, when the dozen will be whittled down to one, the wrong contestant will be crowned the winner, and we can all thankfully resume our normal lives once again.

The favorites are already obvious. There’s…

The guy with the Danny Wallace glasses who lost his wife and is never done milking it, hoping, I guess, to secure the granny vote, but alienating everyone else. Unfortunately, he blows you away when he sings, so he’s staying; 

The tall guy with the ridiculous black manga hairstyle and the screeching voice that will cause your  fillings to drop out. Very talented, but he’s way too theatrical and screechy, and dental work is costly; 

Lil Rounds. Slick, talented, and will probably win, mainly because her name is so catchy, though I doubt she’s distinctive enough to succeed big-time in the real world later on. In the cold light of day, even the most gifted performer on American Idol can seem like a washed-up hooker singing karaoke between tricks. But the judges are swooning. So, of the girls, Lil’s in with the best chance. And if her career takes off too afterwards, wonderful;

The blind guy. He’s absolutely hopeless in dance routines and has to be led everywhere by his brother. Good voice, though, and excellent when you direct him to where the piano is and place  his hands on the keys – it’s just that he’s excruciating to watch. I find myself on edge the whole time, yelling, “Don’t leave your stool!” One week he’s going to drop off the stage, and I don’t want to see that. He’ll get the pity vote for being a tryer, but I so hope he doesn’t win;   

And my favorite right now, Jorge – pronounced Horhay – from Puerto Rico, who has a lazy eyelid that’s going to require surgery at some point, and who sobs in Spanish every time something good happens. But he has a lovely voice, he’s tricky when he dances, and he keeps smiling at me – at me, mind, not you – every time he’s on screen. I love this guy and I’m going to vote for him ’til my fingers bleed.

One note to God, if he’s listening: during tonight’s wild card vote, please remove Tatiana del Toro and send her packing. She’s the coquettish little drama queen they’re setting up to be this season’s Sanjaya. She has a hideous tittery laugh, a tendency to sob more than Horhay does (and that’s a lot of sobbing), and is far more interested, it seems, in how she looks on the studio monitors than how she sounds in my ears. If this little screamer makes it to the top twelve this year…..God, I know you move in mysterious ways, but that would be almost too strange and you need to rethink it.

In fact, if Tatiana’s not booted off tonight, I almost think it could be the last straw. The one shock event I need to snap me out of my American Idol addiction once and for all. I am not watching this show if she’s in it. That’s it. Finished. No more American Idol for Sir

Well, y’know – until next week.

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