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.''

If Time Should Turn Itself Backward (poem)

This is a poem I wrote — one of many — in the wake of my father's death in February 2000. I will continue to post some of my older and newer work occasionally in this blog.

If Time Should Turn Itself Backward

If time should turn itself backward,
and the march toward death could be deterred,
and I could erase everything ere I heard,
this existence to me would seem less absurd.

And I could see this bottle of wine revert to a grape,
and I could watch a grown man evolve into an ape;
to see an old parrot's feathers bright with color again,
and an invalid could shed her withered skin.

And this antique desk could become two stately trees,
and the seven continents could seal the seas.
And the rivers would end where indeed they started,
to see rise from the graves our dearly departed. ...

Until an old man crawls though a vagina into a hole in space,
and an emptiness could replace this human race.
The dusk of a dead day could become its lovely dawn;
for a moment we rejoice, then once again it's gone.

And I could forget every learned word,
if time should turn itself backward.

And I could see again what the years have blurred,
if time should turn itself backward.

And this cancer in my body would one day be cured,
if time should turn itself backward.

Dollywood Week on "Idol"

What is it about Dolly Parton that can bridge the gap between conservative, beer-guzzling country music fans and transvestites in blond wigs and pancake makeup? Is it the big heart or the bigger mammaries in front?

Well, take a look at the songs ... "Coat of Many Colors," "Jolene," "In the Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)," "The Bargain Store," "To Daddy," "Touch Your Woman" (known as a horror song in the gay community).

This woman can write a hell of a tune and then sing it in heavenly fashion (maybe that's why she called a recent album "Halos and Horns"), bring a strong man to tears with a sad song and lift a drag queen's spirits with a joyous ode and tacky dress.

On Tuesday night's "American Idol," the contestants generally did good by her, if not spectacular. Here's a rundown:

David Archuleta: Made me forget he's a Mormon from Utah with his tender, touching "Smoky Mountain Memories." A-

Carly Smithson: A nice twist on "Here You Come Again." And what did she get from the judges? Simon told her to fire her stylist. B+

Michael Johns: If I'm still not blown away, his take on ''It's All Wrong, but It's All Right" is still his best vocal to date. B+

Jason Castro: He picked "Travelin' Thru," the Oscar-nominate song from the trannie-across-America movie "Transamerica." It worked out nicely. Imagine what a drag queen could do with that hair. B

Syesha Mercado: I was fearing Syesha would fall into the "I Will Always Love You" trap and I was half-right. When she stuck to the Dolly arrangement, she came close to her understated take on The Beatles' yesterday. When she switched to the Whitney Houston, she was — as Simon called it — a pale comparison of the original, even if the original was just an overblown facsimile of the true original. B-

Brooke White: Her "Jolene" was oddly underwhelming. It seemed like a song that was a good fit, but the smily demeanor seemed to belie the pain in the lyrics of one of Parton's best songs. At least this one didn't go to David Cook; I was fearing a cover of the White Stripes' version. C+

Kristy Lee Cook: She got the song I consider the most touching in Parton's songbook, "Coat of Many Colors" and proceeded to drain the emotion of it. This is someone who had to give up her show horse to try out for the show. It's not quite the same as a mother who toiled to dress her daughter in quilting scraps. I wish KLC would have gone for "Dumb Blonde" or "Just Because I'm a Woman." At least we could have laughed at the irony. C-

David Cook: He didn't have any emo-rock covers to repurpose this week so he had to create his own — as he proudly announced. An emo-rock version of "Little Sparrow"? Bird-brained, like the others. D+

Ramiele Mulabay: What did she sing again? I can't even remember and I'm not going to go look it up. Dreadful and forgettable. D

I'm hoping Ramiele joins the two Cooks and goes home on Wednesday. As horrible as the Bad Cooks are, there's some joy to be found in their vocal atrocities (at least for another week or two). Ramiele, while perhaps a better singer, is just plain boring, and that's probably the worse sin when the mentor is as colorful as Dolly. I'll leave you with some words of wisdom from the woman herself ...

''When I talk to a man, I can always tell what he's thinkin' by where he's lookin'. See, if he's lookin' at my eyes, he's lookin' for intelligence. If he's lookin' at my mouth, well, he's lookin' for wit and wisdom. If he's lookin' anywhere else except my chest... he's lookin' for another man.''

Obscenely Good Times in San Francisco

"You cock-sucking whore!" the woman shouted at me as I sat on the bench on a warm weekend afternoon.

"Do I know you?" I was about to inquire when the college-age Asian woman turned her attention to a pair of women strolling by on the concrete path and called them "fucking cunt whore bitches! Fucking stupid skank sluts."

A young man with an iPod needed "to a grow a pair of balls and live his motherfuckin' life." Like me, he was also a "cock-sucking whore," which immediately made me want to get to know him better. I had been reading the JT LeRoy novel "Sarah," an absurdist tale of young gay truck-stop prostitutes and other eccentrics in West Virginia. This scene seemed to have leapt from the page.

Just when I was about to look for the Jerry Springer camera crew, the obscene howler declaimed to the park-goers that "I have Tourette's, motherfuckers! Look it up in a goddamn medical journal, bitches!" Perhaps, she did suffer from the neurological disorder that sometimes forces the sufferer to compulsively utter profanities, but the whole thing seemed like a bit of manufactured outrage, a street show of oddity.

I was in San Francisco this weekend, after all. If there was one town guaranteed to provide more liberal crazies (and I use that term lovingly) than Seattle, it's the City by the Bay. The lunacy started as soon as I got to my Hilton — not the one near the Union Square shopping Mecca, but the one in close proximity to the porn stores of North Beach and the sleaze outfits of Chinatown (A sign down the block offered Thai "massage").

In front of the hotel, a group of protestors had assembled in various outfits — animal costumes and masks that looked they were stolen from the dressing room of a WWF wrestler. What they were protesting was a bit unclear. At first, they were condemning the Scientologists. But why in front of my Hilton? Was Tom Cruise staying here? They then started telling passersby to free their minds with knowledge while the sounds of "Sweet Home Alabama" blared. Finally, they shamed onlookers who refuse to show parental affection. "When's the last time you hugged your dad?" one of them asked. 

My guess is their show continued long after I left with my friend to search out cocktails and Italian food in North Beach. I had a lovely weekend in the Bay Area, even if I did return to Seattle with a sunburned face — forgetting that there's sun in California. On Easter Sunday, I had a delightful walk around, shopping and drinking and copulating — as any good tourist should.

While the good Christian citizens spent their day hiding eggs and remembering how their dear departed Jesus arose from the dead, I was on my knees with a dick shoved down my throat as my object of devotion did its own rising act. Keep your resurrection; just give me a fresh erection. I would wager that a good number of men in this most gay of cities prefers to spend the day in cock worship. I was doing my part to spread the faith (if not a Bible's worth of communicable diseases); the man standing above me was also playing his part — at least when it wasn't firmly in my mouth.

I guess the crazy shouting woman was right, after all. I am a cock-sucking whore.

Age Inappropriate

In an effort to ensure the performers continue performing old and stale songs, Tuesday night's "American Idol" focused on songs from the contestants' year of birth — which gave us only one song written within the last two decades. And what the fuck was 17-year-old David singing again, anyway?  John Farnham's ''You're the Voice''?

I had never heard of it, and it didn't inspire me to search out the original. It was just one of the night's disappointments. I'm already looking forward to next week's Dolly Parton night (though not the inevitable Whitney Houstonized version of the Parton classic "I Will Always Love You")

Here's a quick recap:

Michael Johns: If you told me he'd score the best performance of the night on a medley of "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions," I would have told you the sexy Aussie must have reinvigorated the original meanings of the sly Queen songs — homosexual anthems claimed for the revelry of the hetero football stadium — by doing a few Stripper David moves on the "Idol" stage. The fact that he did it with his voice speaks more to the rest of the evening than any particular vocal triumph here. B

Brooke White: "Every Breath You Take." The judges got it right: The first half was great, the second half not so much. B-

David Archuleta: "You're the Voice." His voice was OK, but Chosen David needs to choose better songs. B-

Syesha Mercado: "If I Were Your Woman." Yawn. C+

Jason Castro: "Fragile." Yawn again. C+

Carly Smithson: "Total Eclipse of the Heart." I prefer the Jessica Sierra version from "Idol" a few years back. Like many songs on Tuesday, it wasn't horrible but it was instantly forgettable. C+

Ramiele Mulabay: "Alone." She doesn't come near the Carrie Underwood version, much less the Heart original. C

Kristy Lee Cook: "God Bless the U.S.A." Simon was right with her smart song choice. This hackneyed patriotism will play well in the residents of the Land of Wal-Mart. It doesn't play so well with my ears. C-

Chikezie: "If Only For One Night." I certainly wouldn't encourage a return engagement. C-

David Cook: "Billy Jean." He once again shows there's no odd cover version of a pop hit he won't plunder for his own gain while trying to persuade the audience and judges he's an artist of startling originality and vision. He's just a hack. Who wants to bet he does the White Stripes' take on "Jolene" next week? D+

Past Disasters, Volume 2

The war on the Lennon-McCartney songbook dragged on for a second week, ensnaring the two remaining members of the band Tuesday night on "American Idol" — not that the top 11 were clamoring to cover Ringo's "Octopus's Garden." Brooke White did take on George Harrison's warmer side with "Here Comes the Sun," but nobody had the good judgment to cover "Taxman," an excellent song that resonates more loudly the closer mid-April gets. Most of the contestants settled for taxing my nerves, instead.

The good news was that David Archuleta remembered his words, which made it that much easier to forget everyone else. He leads this week's performance recap.

He likes it long, I hear: Chosen David worked it out this week. He regained any lost ground from those fumbled lyrics on the first Beatles night with a classy, indelible take on "The Long and Winding Road." If he keeps this up, nobody will be able to catch up as he travels the last 10 weeks of twists and turns. Has anyone else noticed at this point that David has a tendency to lick his lips in between lines? I'm not sure if he just likes the flavor of some lip gloss he's wearing or he's offering a salacious come-on to any attractive male audience members. All I know is I do the same maneuver before I'm about to go down on a guy. Of course, the judges were ready to offer a sloppy blowjob of praise to make up for the harsh words of last week. A

'Yesterday' once more: Syesha Mercado hasn't made much of an impact so far. For my money, she's either oversung the hell out of a song (shouting it vs. singing it) or just been plain forgettable. That changed tonight with a lovely, folksy rendition of "Yesterday." True, it's the most-covered song in history and she didn't necessarily bring anything new to it, but there was some genuine emotion and subtlety there amid the occasional pitch problem. Simon was right when he called it her best performance ever, but then hedged his praise by saying it wasn't amazing. That's good enough for second place tonight, though. B+

Well, she captured the red states: What are some of the signs that a song — however awesome in its day — has become dated? Perhaps it mentions pop culture figures and events that have long since passed or it will talk about a 10-cent soda. One thing I always look for is a title reference to nation-states that no longer exist. Take "Back in the U.S.S.R.," for instance. I happen to love this clever song (as much Lenin as Lennon in it) and enjoy listening to it on the White Album. But its time as a live song passed even before the country's dissolution back in 1991. I can see why Amanda Overmyer chose it, but it doesn't help complaints that she's just a nostalgia act. As far as the actual performance, it started off shaky but she brought some vigor to it half-way through. Not her best, but still one of the better performances of the night. B 

Swan or ugly duckling? Carly Smithson offered up an affecting take on "Blackbird," but it was the speech afterward that made the biggest impression. It seems there's more of a concerted effort by the producers (Ryan, at the least) to get contestants to argue back with the judges and rationalize their choices. Hearing Carly whine about the pressures of the music industry (yes, it's a tough industry) and feeling like a broken bird revealed a desperation to her stint on the show that had previously been simmering just below the surface. Simon was offering solid criticism, as always — even if I didn't necessarily agree with his attack on the song choice — and we end up hearing a long-winded defense by the singer. It's best to let the song and performance speak for themselves. B-

Here comes the shun: Brooke White knew it was inevitable that she'd mess a song up and the judges would turn on her after weeks of effusive praise. So the perpetually cheery folksy took it in stride and actually told the judges it was all right for them to hate on her performance of "Here Comes the Sun" (a song covered with perfection by Nina Simone). With her blond hair, warm demeanor and yellow dress, the whole thing came off as a cliché before the first note was sung, and the judges let her know it. "It's OK," she told them repeatedly. The same was true of the performance itself. C+

A day in the strife: This is an ambitious, complex song — too much so for the "Idol" stage. As Simon told Michael Johns, the 90 second time frame does the song no justice, nor the singer — not even if said hunk pulls out the desperation card (a dedication to a dead friend or relative who loved it). He nearly pulled off a similar feat with "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the Hollywood rounds, but has yet to really nail a song. This one, while an admirable attempt, was still all over the map. I still think he's good enough to avoid the bottom 3 this week, but the voting public may disagree. C

French disconnection: Jason Castro was previously unaware that "ma belle" was French. There's something about "Idol" interview segments that encourages contestants to share their ignorance with America (my theory is that it helps bond them with the viewing public, with its own share of ignorance). Anyway, he picks a love song and it's a bit of a snooze. With the right song, he has a charm that will carry any weakness in his voice. But when he doesn't connect — like tonight — it's all rather forgettable. C

Well, she should have: With all the songs in the Beatles' discography, "I Should Have Known Better" isn't the one that would leap to mind as an opportunity to shine. Simon was targeting contestants' choices all night by calling them bad songs (most of them were actually quite good but not right for the singer or the show); this pick by Ramiele Mulabay was the most forgettable of the bunch. Maybe that's why they gave her the last spot. It's usually reserved for a highlight of the evening, but perhaps producers feared voters wouldn't remember her past another commercial break and Kristy Lee Cook (who gets votes for attributes other than her singing) would be back in her stead. C 

You've got to hide your voice away, girl: Speaking of KLC, I'm thinking it's a bottom 2 death match between her and Ramiele since Syesha will get some votes this week (perhaps enough to push Michael Johns into the bottom 3). This week was an improvement over last week's country-tinged fiasco, but that's probably due to the quality of the song and not the quality of the vocals (or lack thereof). "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" is one of my favorite Beatles compositions. But KLC didn't leave me with the feeling she understood the nuances of the lyrics when she bragged that she picked the song because it had a cool title and had never heard it before. C-

I just saw a disgrace: I don't get Chikezie, his attitude of false superiority, his horrid fashion, his throw-everything-out-and-see-what-sticks musical bag of tricks. He took "I Just Saw a Face," an absolutely lovely song, and did all sorts of horrific things with it: He started it out as a ballot (fine), added some harmonica (which he bragged that he just learned to play. Ha!) and then took it off to country music land (apparently because it worked so well for KLC last week). It was a mess. C-

What the fuck are you tripping on? The tortured artist David Cook wins worst performance of the week for three consecutive weeks (not to mention worst hair since the week that Garrett was voted off in the semifinals) with his version of "Day Tripper." Not content to "make it his own" — meaning make it a wretched emo rock number — he makes it another band's crappy cover. He found a version of the song by White Snake that he emulates. One of the greatest bands in the history of popular music and he has to go search out a cover by an 80s hair band. How tedious and pompous and plain cacophonous. Simon called it a smug performance, and that's the perfect adjective to describe Bad Hair David's tenure on the show. The voters need to do the right thing and leave only one David and one Cook in the Top 10. D

One of the major problems with the run of "Idol" this season is the choice to start out with theme nights — and then pick themes that haven't allowed thus far a song past 1989 to be used. Imagine if Blake Lewis hadn't been able to sing "Somewhere Only We Know" by this point last season. I'm all for classic rock, but let's hear something a bit more current. Not to mention that half of these contestants don't know the Beatles' discography, as crazy as that sounds. I feel like I'm in some karaoke classroom where those who don't know their musical history are forced to repeat it (in off-key fashion).

I have a bad feeling next week's show is going to be the solo catalogues of the four Beatles members. What do you think? "Band on the Run"? "Working Class Hero"? "My Sweet Lord"? Something by Ringo? Maybe Chosen David can sing the other verses he left out of "Imagine." After this week's show, I surely wouldn't complain.

Pretty in Pink (How to Save the Cosmos)

DRINK OF THE WEEK: COSMOPOLITAN

I was in a club some months back, and I heard a bartender talking about the negative effect of "Sex and the City" on the cosmopolitan — a venerable cocktail whose popularity was re-energized in the past decade by its recurring presence on the HBO hit, which lives on for faggots and shopaholics everywhere on DVD, in syndication and very soon in movie theaters.

The bartender had some customers earlier in the day who complained about the color of their cosmo. Apparently, the show's version of the drink was a deeper red than the pale pink the bartender had prepared. Of course, a bottom-line bar owner would have appreciated this concern — as the red version has more cranberry and less alcohol — but not the devoted mixologist. He and I know the drink isn't supposed to be fruit punch.

A classic cosmo shouldn't mask the taste of alcohol. This is a case where you want to go for premium ingredients since there is not much mixer. Absolut Mandarin and Stoli Ohranj are good for most mixed drinks calling for orange vodka, but I go for Grey Goose l'Orange when making a cosmo. You can use regular or citrus vodka, but I like how orange vodka mixes with the cranberry, lime and orange liqueur. This is also a case where you should opt for Cointreau over plain triple sec. This is an easy cocktail to whip up when you have a lot of guests, and it's quite forgiving for an experienced mixer.

According to "Cocktail: The Drink Bible for the 21st Century," an excellent guide to classic mixed drinks by Paul Harrington and Laura Moorhead, the credit for the first cosmo most likely goes to the "gay community in Provincetown, Massachusetts" (hmmm, as opposed to the Provincetown straight community?) This makes sense since the drink itself is a direct descendant of the Cape Cod, which is served on the rocks.

 

To those who dismiss it as a girlie drink (and mention "Sex and the City"), you can point out that TV tough guy MacGyver also apparently enjoyed this beverage, as did late LSD aficionado and gun enthusiast Hunter S. Thompson. And I would guess their versions didn't end up looking like a plasma bag at the blood bank.

So, no matter how red those cosmos are when "Sex and the City: The Movie" comes out in May, you must honor your gay alcoholic forefathers and instead think pink.

Recipe
2 1/2 oz. parts Grey Goose l'Orange vodka (citrus and regular vodka will work, too)
1/2 oz. Cointreau
1/2 oz. lime (about half a life)

splash or two of cranberry juice

Serve in: Chilled cocktail glass

To assemble: Pour all the ingredients into a cocktail shaker half filled with ice. Shake vigorously until the shaker becomes too cold to hold. Strain the contents into a cocktail glass.

Garnish: lime wheel or lemon twist

Cheers!

A Clothes-Minded Public

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What Would You Do If He Sang Out of Tune?

... Would you stand up and walk out on David Archuleta? I doubt you would. Left silent is what place and act you would be standing up from. Pervert.

Well, to keep this train of thought going, what if David — aka Chosen David — also forgot the lyrics 10 seconds into "We Can Work It Out" on Beatles Night of "American Idol"? He could certainly have used a little help from his friends at that point (you know they were silently celebrating backstage), but I'm not ready to concede front-runner status from Chosen David just yet. It does seem more like a contest and less like a 12-week march to victory now. Of course, Wednesday night's group performance will no doubt highlight the aforementioned spirit of camraderie with "A Little Help From My Friends." 

Let's also hope that he then dances over to his other namesake — Stripper David — for a duet on "Come Together," plus a medley of "A Taste of Honey," "Long Long Long" and, if it is indeed long (as a job in the adult erotic dancing industry would suggest), "Fixing a Hole."

That's tomorrow. We didn't have any "Yesterday," thank the musical gods. As far as tonight ... To quote another Beatles' song title: Oh! Darling.

This wasn't how the Top 12 was supposed to open. David's pimp spot on Lenin-McCartney night was meant to sell him like a irresistible little whore to the American people. Well, the whore was suffering from a touch of VD, but it's nothing a good dose of penicillin won't clear up by next week, the whore a bit wiser. I hope it will be a lesson to David that he can't coast. What I found shocking was his seeming unfamiliarity with The Beatles. Is this the same singer who shined on John Lennon's "Imagine" just two weeks ago? I was hoping for something of similar tone — "In My Life," maybe even "Here, There and Everywhere." But he seemed lost and decided to make it Stevie Wonder night instead by selecting to cover the hit soul version of "We Can Work It Out." At least he copped to this performance. Syesha seemed agitated when Randy pointed out that her decidedly average performance of "Gotta Get You Into My Life" was based on the Earth, Wind and Fire version.

There's something odd about covering another cover of a song. It seems like one should take the tack of the original and sing it well or do something truly inspired with it. Thus, the performances broke down three ways:

1. Contestants who covered other covers, such as Chosen David and Syesha.

2. Contestants who took a relatively faithful approach to the song.

3. Contestants who tried to "make it their own," in Paula parlance.

Success in the second category depends on the song, the purity of the singer and the amount of feeling he or she invests in the song. Brooke's take on "Let It Be" worked beautifully, her emotionally pure voice and classy turn at the piano complementing the wholesomeness and optimism of the song.

In contrast, Ramiele's take on "In My Life," which is my favorite Beatles song, seemed technically competent but lacking in emotion. She actually dedicated it to the "Idol" contestants who have been lost along the way (Who's the dead one? Is it Colton Berry?). If this rote rendition were offered late at night in a cocktail bar, with a drink in hand, I would have enjoyed it. But with the focus on her voice it was boring — as the judges mentioned 10 or 12 times. Sorry, Ramiele, I was only sleeping.

I do have to take issue with a suggestion by Simon, aka Mean Mr. Mustard, that it was the song itself that was boring and a dreary selection. Yes, "In My Life" is a rueful, meditative song, but it's also one of the most beautiful in the songwriting canon (Mojo picked it as No. 1 in its recent list of the greatest songs of all time and Rolling Stone thought highly enough to rank it No. 23 on its list).

The other contestants who took a relatively faithful approach — Michael Johns with "Across the Universe," Jason Castro with "If I Fell" and Carly Smithson with "Come Together" — did solid, if unspectacular work on the "Idol" stage.

The biggest risks came with those contestants who decided to infuse their own flavor (for better or worse) into the classic compositions — by way of country, Southern blues, emo rock, some sort of folk-soul mishmash. Talks about twists and shouting.

The problem is that you can't just take a song and translate it to another genre without first examining its lyrical message and tone. Kristy Lee Cook, darling, just because the judges told you last week they liked your voice with a country inflection does not give you the creative license to transport the literate, British class act of Lenin-McCartney to a Wal-Mart parking-lot honky tonk in Alabama. "Eight Days a Week" is still not copious time in the calendar to endure to such ear poison.

Similarly, Stripper David needed to peel off some of the layers he bundled onto the usual melodic gem "I Saw Her Standing There." And the feminine pronoun isn't fooling anyone, dude. Speaking of females, Chikezie (just one name — like he's already Madonna, or at least Mandisa) fared slightly better on a bizarre "She's a Woman." The song started off with a flash of banjo-laced Americana and moved into soul-rock territory. It almost worked for me until I had to witness Chikezie's pompous victory dance with an overeager Ryan. It reminded me of what I've always thought about Chikezie: His unjustified arrogance.

The only reinvention of the night that thoroughly worked for me was Amanda Overmyer's boozy Southern rock-blues assault on "You Can't Do That." It's not one of the greatest Beatles songs, and so the spin doesn't it hurt it much. Furthermore, the lyrics of the song complement the attitude Amanda brings to it. Simon was right when he declared her a "breath of fresh air" — albeit the breath of a righteously angry two-packs-a-day smoker. In the interviews, her measured, unassuming demeanor, too, is a wonderful contrast to the self-congratulatory posturing of Chikezie and Bad Hair David.

Speaking of that horrid head of hair and the ego beneath, Bad Hair David gave the worst performance of the night — one whose hideousness was seemingly commensurate with the amount of praise heaped on it by the judges. Again, it comes down to the lyrics. "Eleanor Rigby" is indeed a song about loneliness, but it's not the loneliness of a petulant, angst-ridden youth. It's obvious why Bad Hair David might think the refrain "Ah, all the lonely people" would make this the song to transmute into one of his wretched emo rock anthems. But the loneliness is decidedly middle age and beyond — "darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there." Does Bad Hair David enjoy a bit of knitting after his Scrabble games? It's a song of maturity and restraint, not whiny screeching.

I'm sorry, BH David, but I doubt I'll love you when you're 64, either. Unfortunately, the judges' insane praise will no doubt have him coming back for weeks to mope until he's finally able to sing an emo-lite version of "The Saddest Song I've Got" by Annie Lennox. As far as who will go home, I'm thinking it will be Kristy Lee Cook unless all the mentions of the word boring doomed poor Ramiele. Tomorrow will know.

GRADING THE CONTESTANTS

A- Brooke White, "Let It Be"

B+ Amanda Overmyer, "You Can't Do That"

B+ Carly Smithson, "Come Together"

B Jason Castro, "If I Fell"

B- Michael Johns, "All Across the Universe"

B- Chikezie, "She's a Woman"

C+ David Archuleta, "We Can Work It Out"

C Ramiele Mulabay, "In My Life"

C Syesha Mercado, "Gotta Get You Into My Life"

C- David Hernandez, "I Saw Her Standing There"

D Kristy Lee Cook, "Eight Days a Week"

D- David Cook, "Eleanor Rigby"

Run For Your Life

It's Beatles night on "Idol" and chances are some enduring classics of rock will be ruined for viewers forever. Or will these gems of songwriting allow the singers to shine when they have no Whitney or Journey to hide behind? We'll see tonight, but The Beatles don't have a good record at being covered by other artists. Perhaps because the songs were done so well in the first place, you don't get the same kind of genius reinvention you see with songwriters such as Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen (though I do love Nina Simone's wistful take on "Here Comes the Sun" and Stevie Wonder's soulful 'We Can Work It Out.")

I hope Chosen David goes for "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" in honor of all the closet cases in the entertainment industry who have to disguise who they are to win the approval of mainstream America (he dedicated last week's song to homeless families, so why not do something both noble and knowing?) Speaking of concealment, everybody's got something to hide except Stripper David and his apparently very popular monkey. Why not go for "A Hard Day's Night"? Does he work like a dog? Only he and his male strip club clients know for sure.

My favorite Beatles era ("Help!"-"Rubber Soul"-"Revolver") should be a good place to look for folkies Jason Castro and Brooke White. "In My Life" or "Yesterday" play well with subtlety and feeling over vocal fireworks. Carly Smithson, Amanda Overmyer and Michael Johns will probably go for something more on the rock side like "Helter Skelter" or "Revolution." I'm guessing that "Happiness is a Warm Gun" for Michael. If he really works out the climax to that song (and maybe learns a few moves from Stripper David), the same will be true for me. Sometimes a concealed weapon isn't the best policy, I say. This is why we really need "Idol: The XTube Files" this season.

Here are my picks for the Top 25 Beatles songs. Feel free to add your own favorites in the comments section!

1. In My Life ("Rubber Soul")
2. Here, There and Everywhere ("Revolver")
3. Let It Be ("Let It Be")
4. Hey Jude (single)
5. Revolution (single)/Revolution 1 and 9 (White Album)
6. A Day in the Life ("SPLHCB")
7. Taxman ("Revolver")
8. Help! ("Help!")
9. I Saw Her Standing There ("Please Please Me")
10. Girl ("Rubber Soul")
11. With a Little Help from My Friends ("SPLHCB")
12. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away ("Help!")
13. Love Me Do ("Please Please Me")
14. Nowhere Man ("Rubber Soul")
15. Strawberry Fields Forever ("Magical Mystery Tour")
16. Tomorrow Never Knows ("Revolver")
17. I 've Just Seen a Face ("Help!")
18. Julia (White Album)
19. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds ("SPLHCB")
20. I'm Looking Through You ("Rubber Soul")
21. Baby It's You ("Please Please Me")
22. Back in the USSR (White Album)
23. Wait ("Rubber Soul")
24. Across the Universe ("Let It Be")
25. Yesterday ("Help!")

The Devil Wears Prada, Indeed

[EDITOR'S NOTE: I wrote this last year, but thought I'd repost some of my work here to gather it in one place]

"Moscow mayor Yuri Luzhkov branded Gay Pride parades a "satanic act" today and vowed to stop any attempt by homosexuals to march through Russia's capital this year, Russian news agencies reported." — Reuters

Alexei painted 666 on the rainbow flag and then donned his red thong with the fiery design. But the flames had nothing to do with being a flamer and everything to do with being a satanist. You see, Alexei and the other gays weren't here to celebrate diversity and proclaim pride in their sexual orientation. They were here to herald the great Lucifer's return to earth and his inexorable dominion over Moscow, then Mother Russia and, finally, the entire world.

Eugeny had already disemboweled three hogs and had used their blood to paint the Trannie Disco float. During the actual parade, they would also sacrifice a goat, a doberman and five rabbits (which a female impersonator would then fashion into a fabulous stole). As a parade finale they would all share some fresh infant flesh, just as they would share communicable diseases at the St. Petersburg bathhouse. It was sordid business, of course, and dining on babies in front of the media can be poor publicity, but it must be done to summon the demons from their comfy underworld home up to the earth on this chill Moscow day. Only then can the forces of darkness envelop humanity. If this isn't done and the parade is stopped, fine Christian men and women will continue to wed under the sacred institution of marriage and procreate as part of God's will.

Oleg and his boyfriend Yakov traded some tongue then called everyone forth. "Today, we beckon the Dark Lord to return and assert his rightful rule of the land — and we're going to have a hot time doing it, girlfriends," Oleg told the fags and dykes. "I want to see personality, I want to see sexy dancing, I want to see hedonistic man-on-man action on this fucking parade route. I personally don't want to see any girl-on-girl action, but I think we all know Satan is omnisexual, so I guess anything goes, ho's!"

And with that, they picked up their colorful flags, their banners, their balloons, their black-flame dildos. Those with floats got into position (sometimes that meant bent over a couch cushion as a fellow parade participant mounted him). And they started to march and chant.

"We're here, we're queer, the end is near. Don't get too used to it 'cause you all be dead soon. Hail Satan! And Madonna!"
.
Meanwhile, similar marches were being held in San Francisco, Buenos Aires, Toronto and Sydney by fellow gay Satanists bent on bringing ruin on the nuclear family. In Amsterdam, a drug-addicted 7-foot transvestite wandered the streets in a she-devil mask, tossing out syringes to passers-by and quoting from "The Satanic Bible."

Of course, the gays weren't the only ones taking part in this day of diabolatry. In women's clinics in London, Tokyo and New York, abortionists and pornographers were joining forces for a very special project: "Unborn Porn" — hundreds of fetuses were vacuumed out and then molested by homeless sex offenders all the while being broadcast on the Internet at sick666porn.com. And in nursing homes from Pittsburgh to Paris the infirm and terminally unattractive were being given lethal doses of morphine in a Satanic sister celebration: Assisted Suicide Pride.

Back in Moscow, Oleg and Yakov led the marchers down the route, wearing their "Aleister Crowley made us do it" T-shirts and blasting their boom box with memorable tunes such as "Sympathy for the Devil" and "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" (In this case, it was meant to refer to the former Soviet republic and not the U.S. state). Some marchers carried pictures of Harry Potter that were altered to show him being sodomized by his own broom stick. Some of the men had their hair cut like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby and wore pillows under their shirts to symbolize the baby they would sacrifice for Satan if only they could have children.

On the sidewalks, some spectators were enjoying the festivities, whether cheering, sucking demon seed from a neighbor's cock or casting a Satanic spell on their straight crushes. But others were protesting. Moscow mayor Yuri Luzhkov and several Russian orthodox clergy were telling the homosexuals they were going to hell. The homosexuals did not disagree; they only smiled. They were embracing their fiery fate and invoking Lucifer's good name and that of his disciples.

"Hail Satan! Hail Rosie O'Donnell! Hail Elton John! Hail LaVey! Everyone is gay!"

At that point a cloud of steam arose from the sewers and before them the sanctity of the manhole was violated (for a record 14th time that parade route) and rising from that opening was a vision of hell on earth — great phallic horns, a suit of red vinyl and a whip-like tail, in his hand a lubed pitchfork. Was it Satan? No, it was Vanya, being quite the drama queen and making a late appearance in full demonic costume. That was like Vanya.

Of course, the parade route had two more blocks to go and it was all of the sodomites' deepest desire that Satan would still make an appearance. After all, pride is one of the seven deadly sins.

Vodka: From Russia, With Love

I've decided to offer a weekly blog post on the finer arts of alcoholism ... um, I mean the finer arts of mixology and tending bar. Drink responsibly, but often. I'm going to start off this feature with a look at the most versatile of spirits (and versatility is a virtue, as any homosexual knows) ...

VODKA

So Fyodor Dostoevsky, Garry Kasparov and Boris Yeltsin walk into a bar...

Well, technically Dostoevsky's been dead for more than a century and even if Yeltsin were still alive, he busted his hip so he may actually limp in. But I am trying to make a point here. 

Psychological novels, chess and alcohol are a few things that Russia does very well. At the bar, the trio meets Mikhail Baryshnikov, who briséd in before them, proving that dance is another one of those things (somewhere, Svetlana Khorkina curses the fact that gymnastics may no longer be in the mix).

And what does this group order at the bar, you ask? Why, anything other than vodka would be an outrage — so culturally intertwined are spirit and nation. There is some contention over where vodka originated centuries ago (Poland? Ukraine?) but Russia is the country most people think of when reaching for their bottle of Stolichnaya. Mr. Yeltsin, once a president, had done his share to help that. Legend has it that Boris was so buzzed one night he called then-President Clinton during the Kosovo conflict and suggested they meet on a submarine to talk (a yellow one, I presume).

The world's No. 1-selling spirit, vodka can be made from any starch- or sugar-rich plant matter from grains such as rye and wheat to potatoes. While a vodka by definition is supposed to be without flavor, there are subtleties in ingredients and processes that can distinguish a good vodka from a great one. Yes, sometimes it's without flavor, but never is it tasteless.

Below, I'm offering five of my favorites, though some like Chopin and Belvedere I have hardly had the chance to become acquainted with. I hope to get to know them better in the future. But try any of these in your favorite cocktail or on the rocks next time you're out at the bar. It's doubtful you'll run into a ballet legend or a chess grandmaster, but a few shots of vodka and even strangers will become your closest comrades.

Favorite vodkas
1. Grey Goose: Russia doesn't have a monopoly on great vodka. As sad as it makes me to give the gold to the French over the Russians, this is the smoothest vodka I've tasted. It's pricey though so best reserved for sipping or vodka martinis.
2. Stoli: This Russian standard is the best value for your money. Their flavored line is excellent, but plain Stoli is the go-to brand for most cocktails.
3. Absolut: This Swedish import is a good mid-range vodka that sits better in a cocktail shaker than a shot glass.
4. Ketel One: This premium vodka from the Netherlands has always had a unique aftertaste, which makes it an interesting if underused addition to my liquor cabinet.
5. Skyy: The last slot goes to the California home team. This vodka from San Francisco is smooth and inexpensive, making it perfect for parties.

Favorite flavored vodkas
1. Absolut mandarin: Orange seems to blend better with vodka than any other flavoring. Mix it with cranberry juice or soda water, or turn a lemon drop into an orange drop. This is pretty interchangeable with Grey Goose l'Orange and Stoli Ohranj. For something slightly exotic, try a blood orange vodka made by Charbay.
2. Stoli Strasberi: This strawberry vodka is great for mixing (try it straight up after shaking it with peach schnapps, amaretto and an orange wedge) but sometimes harder to find than the somewhat cloying Smirnoff variety.
3. Ketel One Citroen: Perfect for a lemon drop (use meyer lemons and a decent Italian limoncello), though Absolut Citron works well, too.
4. Stoli Vanil: Add a twist to the classic White Russian with this vanilla-flavored vodka.
5. Skyy melon: A refreshing blend of honeydew, cantaloupe and watermelon — and 80 proof, too. Make a Mellonball by adding orange juice and Midori liqueur. Or add to fresh melon to give that summer fruit salad an unexpected kick.

RECIPES
The (White) Russians are coming. So break out the balalaikas and Yakov Smirnoff recordings, and mix yourself a Moscow Mule. The following recipes are culled from www.drinksmixer.com. ...

Moscow Mule (drink till you make an ass of yourself)
2 oz vodka

2 oz lime juice

8 oz ginger ale
Mix ingredients in a highball glass with ice

White Russian (for the KKK enthusiast who also enjoy a fine coffee liqueur)
2 oz. vodka
1 oz. Kahlua or other coffee liqueur
light cream
Mix vodka and Kahlua over ice in an old fashioned glass; top with cream

Pink Lenin-ade (When you're sweating into your camouflage fatigues on a hot summer day, try this pinko thirst-quencher)
2 oz vodka

1 oz triple sec

2 oz pineapple juice 

2 oz cranberry juice
Shake all ingredients with ice. Pour into an old fashioned glass; garnish with a lemon wedge and a maraschino cherry.

Ballet Russe Cocktail
2 oz vodka


1/2 oz creme de cassis


4 dashes lime juice
Shake with ice and strain into a cocktail glass.

Muscovy Martini
1 oz Stoli Zinamon vodka


1 oz Stoli Ohranj vodka

1/2 oz triple sec


1/2 oz orange juice
Pour the vodka, triple sec and orange juice into a mixing glass half-filled with cracked ice. Stir well. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist of orange peel, first squeezing it over the drink then dropping it on top. Sprinkle a bit of ground cinnamon over the top.

Leon Trotsky (Thankfully, no ice pick is needed in the creation of this recipe.)

1/2 oz vodka

1/4 oz tequila

1 1/2 oz raspberry liqueur
Stir ingredients together in a large shot glass, and serve.

Razzsputin 
1 1/2 oz Stoli Razberi vodka

3 oz cranberry juice

2 oz grapefruit juice
Mix or blend with ice and serve in a chilled collins glass. Garnish with a lime slice.    

From Russia With Love (or at least lust)
1 1/2 oz Stoli Razberi vodka

fill with 7-Up

1 splash cranberry juice
Pour over ice in Collins glass.

Soviet (It's time may have past, but a sip of this and the Cold War will be hot again)
1 1/2 oz vodka

1/2 oz dry sherry

1/2 oz dry vermouth

1 twist lemon peel
Shake all ingredients (except lemon peel) with ice and strain into an old fashioned glass over ice. Add the twist.

Siberian Slider (Ice is the key)
1 oz white creme de menthe
1 oz vodka
1 oz white rum
Combine in a tumbler filled with cracked ice. Stir liberally and sip slowly.

Russian Iceberg
1 oz white creme de menthe

1 oz Rumple Minze peppermint liqueur

1 oz vodka
Lean an ice-filled tumbler to a 45 degree angle and pour creme de menthe down the side of the glass to fill bottom. Repeat with rumple minze and vodka, as to layer the liquors like an iceberg. Do not stir. Place a straw through the middle of the drink and serve immediately.

Russian Sunset recipe
2 oz vodka
2 oz triple sec

4 oz sweet and sour mix

1 dash grenadine syrup
Mix vodka, triple sec, and sour mix in a shaker with ice. Strain into a chilled collins glass, add a dash of grenadine to the top, and swirl slightly. Garnish with a cherry and an orange slice if desired, and serve.

Midori Green Russian (For those special Chernobyl moments)
1 1/2 oz Midori melon liqueur

1 1/2 oz vodka
cream
Pour midori and vodka over ice in a highball glass. Top with cream, to taste.

Moscow Bobsled
1 1/2 oz vodka

3 oz chocolate milk
Stir ingredients together in a mixing glass half-filled with cracked ice. Strain into a cocktail glass, and serve.