My afternoon: Of books, transients, alcohol and homosexual inquiries

So, I walked down to an independent bookstore in the historic part of town this afternoon (about a 90-minute saunter from my home) and picked up a couple reads — one on herbs and spices and another on bartender tips.

I then walked home through a section of Seattle called Belltown. It's where the grunge music scene was born in the early '90s and is now a delightful mix of homeless shelters and public health clinics mingling with art galleries and sushi restaurants. Is that a trendy urbanite taking part in an edgy performance-art piece or just a delusional transient dousing himself in malt liquor? Who's to know, really?

This evening, one such individual asked me to furnish cash for "some more rocks" — and I truly doubt he was talking about the kind I purchase at Ikea to pair with candles on decorative plates for my bathroom, or I would have certainly lent him the funds; I spied another, a crazy-looking 50-something, in the act of changing his clothes. He had stripped down to his boxers at the corner bus stop with no effort at discretion, nor any shame for his impromptu erotic presentation; I passed by quickly — fearful he'd ask me for change in mid-strip act and I'd have to tuck a bill in his undies, which should have been changed days ago by the looks of them.

All of this was too much for a sane and sober individual such as myself to endure, so I decided to head to my favorite bar a few blocks away. As faithful readers of my sodden follies will no doubt remember, this tiki lounge proved my downfall when I stopped by for an innocent cocktail several Sundays ago, ended up staying for more than a half-dozen killer concoctions, blacked out and ended up in bed the next morning with no recollection of the painful injuries I had suffered — including a bloodied hand, a banged-up knee and bruised ribs. Those ribs were painful for more than a week.

I was determined not to make the same error twice — I'd only have two drinks at the bar and then I'd drink myself unconscious when I arrived home, where the likeliness of hurting myself is limited to anything that should occur with a knife while slicing fresh citrus. My bartender wasn't helping the matter — she was the one weeks before who sent me on my collision course with a question regarding my taste for drinks: "Stronger or sweeter?" Of course, as you all know, I like my drinks like my sodomites: Muscle over treacle. Here she was again in her same white trash ensemble — Pamela Anderson hair, camouflage cutoffs and a tank top tiny enough for the innocent customer to be assaulted by both her aging, overflowing bosoms and the tattoos that surrounded them. But this bitch can mix a drink.

My sister once posited her matchless theory on the art of cuisine service — "I never let a skinny bitch make my sandwich."

Indeed, Pamela has high standards for her low funds (I still remember the poor waiter who filled her wine glass less than three-quarters full). And she takes the art of sandwich-making quite seriously. She once berated a teenage sub-maker for putting mayonnaise on the bread incorrectly. Her main strategy in getting a good sandwich at the grocery store and specialty shops is to find the largest employee she can. Her theory is that this person will make the sandwich the way he or she prefers to eat it. An anorexic would skimp on meat, cheese and condiments while filling up on lettuce; with a heftier sandwich-maker, there would be more meat than a gay orgy.

I think the same principle holds true at bars. The more likely your bartender is to be a hopeless lush, the higher the probability is that the alcohol volume of your beverage will render small mammals unconscious. And this chick likes to drink — I can tell you that. I had only two cocktails, and I was still feeling quite the buzz going.

There were a couple of other customers enjoying the early Sunday night service. Luckily, there was no karaoke yet, so I hadn't the option of repeating my D-Archie-inspired version of "Love Me Tender" from weeks before. On one side of me was a black gentleman with a '70s-style afro. He was talking to the white trash bartender about his gig as a question writer for bar trivia nights! Have you ever wondered who comes up with those queries? Well, here he was, talking about how successful "Sex and the City" trivia night was last weekend ("75 women and only 4 men!" ... I kind of wanted to meet those four men, but I don't volunteer that information.) At the end of the month is "Lost" night, and he's looking forward to it. But this week it's "Star Wars," and, like dear Salvador, the brother doesn't know his Padme from his padawan. So he just bought himself the complete guide to the "Star Wars" universe, and he and the white trash bartender are discussing Emperor Palpatine's machinations and how they might be conveyed in a trivia question.

Meanwhile, on my other side is a jockish guy in his '20s — not drool-worthy but I'd certainly not kick him out of my after-hours alleyway. He's wearing a T-shirt with the logo of a college sports team, and he's paying rapt attention to some sporting event taking place on the television. He's drinking a beer and without any of his ball-loving jock friends nearby, he's decided to bond with me over this display of testosterone.

"Man, the Mariners suck this season!"

Excuse me? Oh, sorry, I thought he was talking about our baseball team trying to bump ticket sales for their pitiful athletic showings by offering on-field fellatio, but I do know what he's speaking about. Even though I have no interest in these teams, I work at a paper and find out about their capabilities against my will. But I don't care to let him know this or else we'll be discussing the Seahawks — it's only months away! — and their Super Bowl prospects.

"Oh, really. I don't follow baseball much," I confess. "I'm more into tennis, gymnastics and men's diving."

He gives me an odd, half-drunk look. "Gymnastics — what are you ... gay!" Ha ha ha.

Hmmm, I'm not sure where he got such a notion. I'm positively offended. Sure, my drink is pink-orange and bears an umbrella. The latest copy of Entertainment Weekly is set out in front of me, my attention turned to a profile of Kathy Griffin. And I've just voiced my appreciation of an artistic sport in which men are clad in the most revealing of swimsuits. But why should he think me a homosexual?

"Nah," I respond in all seriousness. "I am as straight as they come! And I should know — I've seen a lot of straight men cum."

He laughs at this. "That's funny, man," and his attention returns to the TV shortly thereafter. My attention returns to reportage of "The D-List" and my Fog Cutter (A classic tiki concoction; I have thought about adapting it into a drink called a Fag Cutter — honoring those masochistic homos who enjoy slicing their skin with razor blades; I'll add a drip of grenadine to the mix to simulate the flowing blood).

As I pay my bill, I realize that we are worlds apart — this gentleman attired in a purple sweatshirt bearing the likeness of a canine athletic mascot and I. And for a second, I imagined this to be untrue, that we had connected and were conversing not about the fate of an imbecilic sporting team, but the finer points of life and art and gay sex.

"You sir, are killing me," he would confess after I speak to him of my theories regarding censorship, commerce and Eastern European gay pornography. "Your wit is so dry that I'm inevitably wet. Has anyone ever told you that you have the wit of a Brit?"

"And you, dear — has anyone ever told you you have the wit of a nit? But that's OK. You have been blessed in other ways, if what I spied on our joint men's room sojourn minutes ago was any indication. Good things come from big packages, I always say!"

Alas, our worlds had intersected for but an awkward moment, and now I was leaving him to his appreciation of sumptuous balls as I gathered my belongings and headed out into the gathering gray of the gloaming, confident this time I would not awake with mystery injuries.

Below the Belt

'Raging Bull' or raging hard-on? One could make a case for either on the season's last performance show for "American Idol" — a David vs. David finale. On the one hand, the producers worked hard to pummel the boxing theme into viewers' heads. On the other, D-Archie was looking cute in his athletic robe, his white blazer and a jacket with an anchor on the back. Alas, what was missing from the sartorial ring was  a peek at the boxers themselves (though I think Archie prefers briefs).

Tuesday's show was a drawn-out fight that involved both song selector Clive Davis and mentor Andrew Lloyd Webber. Talk about playing dirty! This pair looked like an old queer couple ready to abduct the two Davids and take them to to their farmhouse, where they would join a collective of scantily clad prisoners forced to sing show tunes and lick leather boots.

By the end of the night, the lightweight (aka twink division) was proven the champion. But how did we get there? Let's take a look back at the three decisive rounds ...

ROUND 1

Clive's choice

David Cook: The first person to get  a U2 song on the show and it's this bastard? Clive had the good taste to recommend the soaring anthem "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." Though I didn't care for his performance much, the mere presence of the song itself lifted him up. Of course, when U2 sang the song, it was a spiritual answer they hadn't found; with David Cook, it's a decent stylist and vocal coach that remain ever elusive. C

D-Archie: Clive Davis, being a randy old git, draws a comparison that nobody else had yet made on the show: David Archuleta and Elton John — two bottoms who love to shop for fashion. Check out that nautical-theme ensemble he dons for John's "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me." I curse the executive producer who nixed David's inevitable suggestion to wear a sailor cap on the "Idol" stage, his quest for seamen delayed but not deterred. Speaking of which, we won't let the sun go down on you, dear. But we have someone else who'd love to do the honors. His name is Erick, and he's a Mexican. Archie's performance, if you pay attention to the singing instead of masturbating while hitting the mute button, is among his best. A

ROUND 2

Original songs (atrocities I shan't even name)

Cook: Original crappy song, lackluster performance. D

D-Archie: Another crappy song, but lovely vocals. B+

ROUND 3

Performers' choice

Cook: I give him credit for picking a song he hadn't performed, even if it's a dumb move. The song — "The World I Know" is mediocre, but it fits the singer. Paula, her own legacy a step below mediocrity — stands to applaud Big David and his "Idol" journey, which moves him to tears. C-

Archie: So he repeated a performance. It's a smart move when you leave voters with "Imagine." John Lennon vs. Collective Soul? Hmmmmm. He definitely wins the battle of musical taste. The song is as good as when he did it the first time. Though I would have preferred to see him tackle a different verse or add his own piano, the song was still genuinely affecting. Yet Paula refused to give a similar standing ovation as she had for Cook. Get off your ass, you lazy bitch. A

As Simon remarked, the night was a KO for that cute knockout, D-Archie. Cook, on the other hand, was rendered the equivalent of Hillary Swank at the end of "Million Dollar Baby." It would be the kind thing to do to pull the plug before he releases an album of Nickelback covers.

Archie, on the other hand, should feel confident that — even if he doesn't get the title  when the results are announced Wednesday night — he joins a list of runners-up more talented than the winner: Katharine McPhee over Taylor Hicks and Blake Lewis over Jordin Sparks in the last two seasons, for example.

Regardless of who ends up with the most hits in this musical match, Archie is the real champion. Keep swinging, baby.

David vs. Goliath

We have our Top 2, though it's clear who the bottom is in this pairing of David and David. D-Archie, though presented as an early front-runner, now must be viewed as the underdog against the "American Idol" producers' newly proclaimed Goliath: David "Bad Hair" Cook.

Mr. Cook should have long been sent packing with his sister in hideous voice, Kristy Lee, but the powers-that-be see dollar signs in his Daughtry-like stylings of mediocre emo rock numbers. On Tuesday, they gifted him with the night's best song, "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" (which Ryan attributed to Chaka Khan instead of Roberta Flack; if anyone on the show had any musical knowledge, they'd have mentioned it was first written and sung by Ewan MacColl) and an orchestra to back him on the bombastic "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing," a hideous yet popular song.

David Archuleta and No. 3-finisher Syesha Mercado, on the other hand, got scraps from Billy Joel and an animated film about penguins. The producers wouldn't even let Little David change the arrangement on the obscure, treacly number "Longer." D-Archie wanted "Longer" harder, bigger and uncut, but they made him settle for the musical equivalent of a diseased vagina. He still managed to bring a beautiful a cappella opening to Joel's "So It Goes" that made it the performance of the night.

A rare misstep for D-Archie was his decision to do a modern R&B song about his beloved "boo"  — dedicated no doubt to his "camping buddy" in the audience. It's actually a really funny story because Archie was telling his sleeping-bag mate a ghost story around the campfire one night when they were out in his dad's backyard. It was a Mormon ghost story, so the only people who suffered gratuitous violence were non-believers and sexual reprobates. David tells his buddy about an abortionist whose soul is captured by Satan — he actually reads it from a LDS pamphlet — and totally freaks his cutie friend out. When he's shivering, David jumps at him and yells "BOO!" really loud. The friend is so scared, Archie has to hold him tight in his sleeping bag all night to calm his nerves. After that, it's their private little in-joke (or an in-and-out joke as the occasion permits) when Archie sings about his boo.

For her part, Syesha came in second for the night — even with her penguin number. If that was decidedly child-centric and her first number, a soundalike take on Alicia Keys' "If I Ain't Got You," was youthful, her sensual take on the Peggy Lee classic "Fever," was certainly the adult number of the night. It wasn't as good as Paris Bennett's more intriguing take from a couple Idol seasons back, but it was better than the cabaret act Simon dismissed it as.

Cook did his usual crap and was hailed the winner of the night — including an execrable number he chose himself for the second round. Unfortunately, it seems  like the producers are firmly in his corner and want him to come out on top, leaving poor D-Archie biting the pillow again. But, let us rally the homosexuals and the tweens and the granmas and the Mormons and the Latinos and fans of socially responsible ballads unite and help Archie show a bit of versatility so that he might stand proud (and erect, let us hope) at center stage and be crowned champion (with a pretty tiara, he hopes).

Let Goliath go back to singing at bars and bar mitzvahs.

The roundup of grades:

D-Archie

So It Goes: A-

With You: C+

Longer: B-

Syesha Mercado

If I Ain't Got You: B

Fever: B

Hit Me Up: C-

David Cook

First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: C+

Dare You To Move: D-

I Don't Want To Miss a Thing: D+

Love Him Tender ...

... love him sweet, never let him go.

We certainly won't — not if our leather restraints have anything to do with it!

Love him tender, love him true,

all his holes are filled.

OK, maybe he didn't say it quite like that, but David Archuleta definitely played the sensual card tonight on American Idol's Top 4 show, ensuring a return for the Top 3, the audience on pins and needles to see if he'll touch himself inappropriately to ensure a place in the finals.

Granted, he pulled off his eroticism with classic rock staples and not Justin Timberlake's "Rock Your Body," but following a week in which he sang "Sweet Caroline" after vetting Neil Diamond's supposedly debauched catalogue (we're using Mormon standards here) for songs about drinking and staying out late with women (oh my!), he ended the night with Elvis Presley's eternally beautiful and suggestive "Love Me Tender." Unlike those other "Idol" fags in the top 24 opener, Danny Noriega and Colton Berry, David picked an Elvis song that played to his sensitive side.

David started the night with "Stand by Me," and though it's no "Lie Beside Me," the opening lyric "when the night has come" surely prompted the homosexual-at-home response, "who hasn't?" There wasn't a dry crotch in the house after that performance. David was wearing black pants (not leather, unfortunately) and a black V-neck shirt with birds on it — because he likes to soar like an eagle or something. Paula liked that he opened his eyes and made a connection to the audience, though there was evidence of heavy lids later in the night for "Tender." Personally, I don't care if the eyes are opened or closed — he can wear a blindfold if he wants (and I know he wants to), as long as he sings like that. He can get rid of that "for the beautiful girls" stage banter though — let's just say Clay's giving a better performance on Broadway than that attempt at seriously wooing the ladies.

Ryan, for his part, is more worried about little David passing out from shock and lack of oxygen after the judges' appraisal of his performance of "Stand by Me." He asks Davey why he's short of breath like it's a private joke and he had initiated a little asphyxiation fun before the show started (I half-expect a coy, giggly, "You know why, Ryan — you made me wear that plastic bag around my head while you sodomized me!"). Anyway, Ryan uses the moment to put his arm around David to keep him steady — as if thematically echoing the theme of David's song choice and feeling him up at the same time. When the second song is concluded and Simon announces that David didn't just beat the competition, he "crushed the competition," Ryan gets touchy-feely again and calls him crusher ... which is probably too much information. Who would have thought Ryan would still be the bottom even with D-Archie?

The night opened with the less appealing David, Monsieur Cook, who chose song "Hungry Like the Wolf" — which had me searching on the Net when Ryan said the night's theme was the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Are Duran Duran really in the Hall? They aren't but the song (by far, their best — and that's saying something, though that something isn't particularly positive) is on the list of 500 songs that influenced rock. Um, 500 songs and he chose "Hungry Like the Wolf"? OK. At least, that ass clown won't butcher a good song. It's horrible as expected, though the real surprise is that he's not the worst of the night.

That honor belongs to Jason Castro — who seemed either high or apathetic, but quite possibly both. First, he confesses that he knows a "few songs" on the list of some of music's best tunes. He should know at least 400 of these songs, but he choses "I Shot the Sheriff" by Bob Marley (because they have the same hair!) and Bob Dylan's "Mr. Tambourine Man." I like both these artists immensely, but why those songs? It's beyond bad karaoke — at least in karaoke he would have had a screen to remind him of the words. He wasn't so lucky with "Mr. Tambourine Man." Simon rightfully told him to pack his bags.

I have a feeling he'll hang around to make it an all-male threesome in the end — something I'm usually very much in favor of (though I really do what D-Archie to be the top in this configuration).

Jason will get enough sympathy votes to dislodge perennial bottom 2 Syesha Mercado. When Ryan mentioned at the beginning of the show that three of the four finalists had at one time received the week's top voting total, one had to feel for Syesha and her imminent demise. That said, she's escaped death more times than David Crosby. Her shrieky take on "Proud Mary" and overblown cover of "A Change is Gonna Come" — two immensely gorgeous songs — shows she's a wildly uneven artist. Even though I agreed with Randy's assessment on the latter performance, there was something touching to Syesha's emotional reaction to the performance.

That said, the episode did nothing to dissuade the opinion that an all-David finale is inevitable. And while it's a bit like serving an effervescently tasty red wine with a can of expired tuna fish, the reality is that both will have recording contracts and we can follow the David of our choice. Though I'd rather follow D-Archie into desperate male pornographic films instead, I'm ready to buy his albums — or at least always download them for free. ...

I'll be yours through all the years

until the end of time.

Here's the grade recap

David A. (appropriate last initial)

Stand By Me: A-

Love Me Tender: A

Syesha

Proud Mary: C

A Change is Gonna Come: C+

David C. (a hopeful last initial)

Hungry Like the Wolf: D

Baba O'Reilly: D+

Jason

I Shot the Sheriff: D

Mr. Tambourine Man: D-

Diamond in the Rough

I know it's a popular song, but I've never cared much for "Sweet Caroline." Hell, it's not even the best song with "Caroline" in the title (that honor goes to "Caroline, No" from the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds," though The Go-Betweens' gem "Caroline and I" is a close second). For me, "Sweet Caroline" is a middle-of-the-road bore — and emblematic of singer-songwriter Neil Diamond's entire catalogue. In other words, perfect for a night of "American Idol" performances.

And you knew they'd get "Caroline" in there somewhere, though I was hoping it wouldn't be my dear David Archuleta. But there he was taking on the favorite of drunk straight male karaoke singers everywhere. I guess his handlers decided this would be a better route of appealing to his young female audience than tackling "Solitary Man," for example. Of course, it was just a warm-up to his take on "America," which is a quintessential D-Archie song, with its undertones of social justice. Simon, however, accused David of pulling a Kristy Lee Cook to appeal to the mainstream "God Bless America" crowd and "ticking the boxes" (though tickling the boxers might be more up his alley).

The only Neil Diamond song I can tolerate is the Urge Overkill version of "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon" used on the "Pulp Fiction" soundtrack. It didn't make the lineup, and while I was happy not to that other David steal that arrangement for his performance (they should call him David Crook for all the musical theft he's perpetrated this season), it would have been a hoot to see our favorite singing queer twink take on this tune with an self-referential wink.

By the way, what is it with all the crappy mentors they've had this year? Bless Dolly Parton and her infinite brilliance, because the other three were a crap bonanza: Diamond, Mariah Carey, Andrew Lloyd Webber. I might as well submit my pointless fantasy list of mentors for next season: Chrissie Hynde for Pretenders week; Win Butler of Arcade Fire for an indie rocker week; Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits (how many awesome songs do they have between them?). Or if they insist on a Neil, bring on Neil Young for a little "Needle and the Damage Done" or "After the Gold Rush." My mother once confused Mr. Young with Mr. Diamond and bought a collection of his greatest hits — luckily it was at a garage sale and on cassette, but it was quite confusing for her to find out they were, in fact, two separate people.

There was plenty of confusion on the "Idol" stage Tuesday, as well. The fact the contestants were singing two songs and the judges were withholding comments until everyone had performed their first tune threw Paula for a loop. Actually, let's not blame the format. I think it's whatever was in her Coke cup before the show started that led to her fab flub: While critiquing Jason's first performance, she actually gave feedback on both songs — including the one he had yet to sing. Ryan suggested Paula is a soothsayer, but the more likely explanation is that she took notes from a dress rehearsal and all space and time has melded together after her first bottle of gin.

I wish I had been that drunk when I watched this parade of mediocrity. One mai tai, alas, was not enough to blur shelter my ear drums and eyes from a double dose of David Crook . Anyway, here's the roundup, with the overall grade first and a breakdown of the two performances underneath:

David: B (He was the most consistent, if not amazing; Neil Diamond, I blame you and your horrid songs.)

Sweet Caroline: B

America: B

Brooke: B- (First was cheesy, the second was the best performance of the night — though that's not saying a whole lot)
I'm a Believer: C (Yes, it was that Monkees' song)
I Am, I Said: B+

Syesha: B- (It was solid, but not great — and even with the show's closing pimp spot she's probably out of luck this week unless voters turn on Jason's apathy.)

Hello Again: B

Thank the Lord for the Night Time: B-

Jason Castro: C (Mellow ... or boring? You decide)

Forever in Blue Jeans: C

September Morn: C

David Cook: D (As faithful readers know, I hate his ass face and everything that comes out of it. This week was no exception.)

I'm Alive: D

All I Really Need is You: D

Cats and Dawgs

I missed last week's "American Idol" recap because of a toothache, and no, I didn't get it because David Archuleta is so sweet — though his sartorial choice of leather pants on Mariah Carey week left me with an acute case of blue balls.

Otherwise, last week's show was rather forgettable, which in a way was a tribute to its mentor. Now, we're onto Andrew Lloyd Webber week  and — I hate to admit this since it seems like faggot heresy — but I'm not a big musical theater fan, and I actually knew fewer of the songs than I did on Mariah Week. The show frames his contribution to music as the composer of the most important musicals in Broadway history (granted, I'm no show tune show-off, but isn't it Stephen Sondheim who all the Great White Way fanboys drool over?).

Sir Lloyd Webber, of course, is the architect of "Cats" and "Phantom of the Opera." He encourages the contestants to really feel the meaning behind the words (as opposed to Mariah's method of ignoring the meaning of the lyrics and using words for the pure vocal gymnastics they represent). Keep in mind that Sir Lloyd Webber's most famous song is sung by an elderly woman in a cat suit. "I didn't know a cat was singing it," Jason confessed before tackling "Memory," and though it sounded better than a pack of strays mewling in an alleyway at midnight, it was close.

For dear D-Archie, it's less about connecting with the music for Sir Lloyd Webber than keeping his pupils pried open. The nobleman, like many others, wishes to stare rapt in the Mexi-Mormon's beautiful eyes, and who can blame him? He also tells David that the song he chose was "written for a diva! Written for a girl. ... I simply couldn't imagine how a boy could sing it." Ahem, Andy, there's something you should know about David. He's not like other boys ...

The producers get that. Why else would they parade a horde of teenage girls onstage to awkwardly hug David before his clip with Lord Lloyd Webber ran? As for the performance itself, David failed to honor the composer's wishes, with his eyes consistently shutting during the song. My eyes were open, though my ears were on cruise control. It was all right, but — as Simon noted — hardly anything to shout about.

Here's the grade rundown for the week...

Syesha: It was her night to shine. She comes off much better doing this kind of performance than the pale Whitney Houston imitation. Simon and Randy think she may have a future in the theater. They mean it as part compliment, part insult. B+

David: Not enough lip-licking tonight. B

Carly: She does a robust, if occasionally shouty, take on "Jesus Christ Superstar." B

Jason: He's doing a song from "Cats," for christsake. C

Brooke: She forgot the lyrics and restart the song — a move that Simon trumpets as brave, even if only to piss off Paula (who leveled some unusually good criticism about the nature of live television). She'll probably go home. C-

David Cook: I hate him, his eternal smugness and his faux sensitivity on "Music of the Night" from "Phantom of the Opera." D-

Noose Like a Necklace (poem)

Noose like a Necklace

He laid out the noose like a necklace;
it sat on the table as a gift.
He cut the rope from an old tire swing;
Neil valued himself a man of thrift.
After all, the child who played with it
long ago had died,
and so it, too, was true of Neil —
but his demise came on the inside.
Still he kept his weary flesh, a silly heart
that continued in its beating,
and a mind a flood of torment —
that day vivid and repeating.

Now, evocative once more is the morning
he learned of a son-to-be,
the thrill afterward of fastening that rope
to a branch high up in the tree.
Never was a father more excited
to have a baby on the way,
and he spoiled his expectant wife
on every step to delivery day.
And after the birth, Neil held her sweetly
and dreamed aloud of a life untold,
and around her lovely throat he draped
a necklace of silver and gold.

She never wears that necklace now
though others take its place.
She still dresses in silk to go to town;
there's always makeup on her face.
On her way, she'd pass that old tire swing
and never did he see her cry.
And he'd ask her if she missed Joey,
and not once did she reply.
How can a woman smile at the market
when her only child is gone?
When it was her remissness that doomed him,
how does she dare to live on?

Neil picks up the rope and envisions the day,
as his mind won't let him rest.
What he didn't witness with his own eyes,
the police reports do attest:
It was a sunny Friday afternoon
in the first full month of spring,
the young boy was playing outside,
his favorite toy an old tire swing.
his mother had been watching him —
he was too young to be alone —
but she went off to refresh her drink,
and then she heard the phone.

When Neil came home from work that day
he saw the body lying in the dirt —
his boy's head crushed upon the rock,
blood soaked through his tiny shirt.
And he found his wife with her vodka blush,
the telephone in her hand.
He screamed at her to call the hospital,
the morgue visit yet unplanned.
But it was there they would end the day,
Joey on the table, only halfway to 10.
His wife clutched her silver and gold;
she never wore that necklace again.

Neil holds that chain now in his left hand,
imagining everything he had to give.
In his right, he holds the handmade noose —
eight years later, his only chance to live.
He'd greet her as she came home tonight;
he would help her write a note.
Then he'd tell her that he loved her
as he slowly gripped her throat.
It would be the truth, but she has to pay
for a heart so cruel and reckless.
Neil will give his wife a gift tonight,
and he knows she'll wear the necklace.

1% Inspiration, 99% Masturbation

Was Paula giving David Archuleta a sign tonight on "American Idol" when she said he needed to sleep and punctuated her suggestion by creating a symbolic pillow with her hands? If so, she wasn't the only one in the audience (in the studio or, it's safe to assume, at home) who wanted to get him in bed. Shortly after Paula made her plea for a bit of "rest," a girl who looked like a preteen prostitute gave him a literal sign — beaming at the camera while holding her homemade plea entreating Chosen David to "Lick Those Lips." Alas, David's performance was more aural than oral this week.

It was all an odd to conclude David's performance on a night of inspirational songs. Of course, it was a bit of an odd beginning, too, as Ryan Seacrest kicked off his introduction of David's song by talking about money from Wednesday night's "Idol Gives Back" program going to HIV/AIDS research and then sending the camera over to David as if to say to the audience: "You don't want cute little David to die a horrible, lesion-plagued death after he contracts a fatal disease partaking in receptive bareback gay sex in a dirty bathhouse, do you?" I wouldn't have been surprised if Ryan had pulled out a condom and tried to give a safe sex lecture while David held a cucumber — though we all know Mr. Seacrest would rather be handling the fruit and not the vegetable.

As for the actual performance, it was excellent as usual. He was covering Robbie Williams' "Angels," which is a sly recognition of David's fan base, the Arch Angels, who will see themselves in the song — and see themselves in David, literally — with lyrics such as "I'm Loving Angels Instead." Everyone wants a piece of David, but does David find some inspiration — and perspiration — in the song's originator? After all, Robbie Williams is an attractive, masculine man who can easily be seen nude on the Internet.

Did David Google those images and use them as inspiration for a one-man show? Only his neighbors know for sure — he gets loud when he "practices" late at night. No wonder Paula thinks he looks like a coked-up trucker on an all-night multi-state haul. She wants him to lay his body down and so do some of his loyal fans. "Idol Gives Back," but does David give head? One hopes Bono and the do-gooders will get to the bottom of the question tomorrow night.

For tonight, David earns his A. Here's how the rest of the show broke down (sometimes quite literally) ...

Jason Castro: He picked the best song of the night with "Over the Rainbow." He's not a friend of Dorothy, per se, but he is a friend of  Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, the late Hawaiian singer who reinvented the song quite beautifully as a ukulele medley with "What a Wonderful World." Jason keeps the haunting tone of that performance and gives his best performance since "Hallelujah" week. Those performances show what's lacking in the bombast and bluster of most "Idol" performances — a good song sung with feeling, even if it's sung with subtlety. A

Brooke White: It's a big drop-off in quality from David and Jason to the rest of the field. Brooke keeps things simple with a Carole King standard, which is predictable and right up her alley and quite pleasant, as Simon pointed out. Pleasant is enough, though. B-

Michael Johns: Dream on, Mr. Johns. You're not a rock star. I guess I should be happy he went with this Aerosmith standard and not that eternally horrid "Armageddon" song. Paula's remark that he sounded as good as he looked is hardly a resounding compliment of his looks this week, but — along with the David Archuleta tease — I give Paula slut points this week. C+

Syesha Mercado: "Idol" rule No. 1 — and it should be posted on stage behind the contestants — is that a one should never perform a song originated by a former contestant. Rule No. 2 should be that if one does undertake such idiocy, he or she should not have the gall to recoil at comparisons to the original performance as Syesha did tonight on the Fantasia anthem "I Believe." If it was a horrible song when Fantasia, who's a better singer, did it, it's safe to say it fared no better here. C

Carly Smithson: If this whole "Idol" thing doesn't work out, perhaps Carly and Michael Johns can start a Queen tribute band with all the covers trotted out this season on "Idol." But this one isn't nearly as good as Michael's "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions" medley, which at least had some stamina and an undercurrent of homoeroticism to it. This is, in fact, Carly's worst performance. The show might not go on for this Irish songbird come Thursday's result show, though I'd much rather see one of the Cooks go, as usual. C

Kristy Lee Cook: More country pandering with Martina McBride so I'm afraid she'll be safe (especially after the judges' inexplicable praise). Her song selection has been shrewd the past few weeks to keep her in the contest, but her talent has always been in short supply. C-

David Cook: Once again, Bad-Hair David takes the last spot for his take on "Innocent" by Our Lady of Peace, which he calls his favorite band and which explains so much. Even the judges hated this pompous ear poison, which means it must have sucked more ass than usual — and not in that lovely David Archuleta rim-job way. It was the bad kind of masturbation, in fact. "Innocent"? No, no, guilty as charged — off with his head come. Sentence should be carried out this Thursday. D-

Only You Could Save Me (Poem)

ONLY YOU COULD SAVE ME

Jesus Christ, won't you look at me
and deign to leave your cross?
Come down to this apartment house
and show this bitch who's boss.
Take her hands right off of me
and place them on a gun.
Advise she press it to her head
and watch her lifeblood run.
Then tell my dad I'm not a queer;
I sucked one cock, it's true —
but it was his half-hard piece of meat,
the only father figure I knew.

And Lord, I've felt this Bible belt
and the pages filled with wrath —
One man and one woman
the only lessons learned of math.
One night, I stole an OxyContin pill
and Morpheus brought a dream.
You were there, a pillow in hand,
to mute my final scream.
It wasn't nightmare I suffered through
of a life that could never be —
Just a lovely thought of nothing more,
each morn a mourning reverie.

But I have anger living in this blood
even death cannot abscond with,
And so your love and grace and mercy —
they all remain just a fond myth.
Jesus Christ, I give up on you,
but I'll still cry your name in vain,
in hopes that a drug or some delusion
might just take away my pain.
It was my mother who in her drink
cursed the good name she gave me,
and cast me out unto the world
and said only you could save me.

Ramiele Mula-bye

As I hoped in my last "American Idol" blog, diminutive Ramiele Mulabay has been sent packing. So much had been made about her elfin size and the comparative scope of her vocal ability that most of the comments seemed to miss the complete lack of originality in her arrangements and vocals.

Ramiele took songs that had been done by past "Idol" contestants and somehow found a way to do them worse. While the evil Cook twins may have committed greater musical atrocities — in Beatles week alone — their horrid interpretations of "Eleanor Rigby" and "Eight Days Week" at least were horridly original. I was quite happy to see Ramiele go, even if I did wish it were David Cook and not Brooke White joining the oh-so-small singer in the bottom three.

Elsewhere, Dolly Parton showed why she's the greatest "Idol" guest of all time. Her personality is so vast and disarming that she can sing a song about Jesus and charm the pants off an atheist, not to mention Simon. Speaking of losing clothing, didn't the producers miss an opportunity with tonight's Ford faux commercial to strip the guys of their shirts? Instead, it was the opposing team that went skins as the Idol contenders took them on in a game of pickup basketball. Michael Johns was in a tank top, but it still seemed a failed moment.

Then there was Chosen David. Even in a faked sporting event, they had that faggot playing the referee. I was half-expecting him to call a timeout so players could paint each other's nails and bake cupcakes with pink frosting. It wouldn't surprise me if David, who gave Tuesday's most heartfelt performance, ends up becoming the biggest Dolly Parton fan of them all, bless him. After all, the queers love that drama queen — and wigs. Let's remember what Dolly once said about being called a dumb blonde (also the title of one of her earliest songs, and my song suggestion for KLC, which she dumbly ignored, natch) ...

''I'm not offended at all because I know I'm not a dumb blonde. I also know I'm not a blonde.''