Fitness Etiquette: Yes, There is Such a Thing

You may recall a previous blog entry about cell phone etiquette. If not, please refresh your memory, as a similar rant is about to take place.

Nothing is more satisfying than a fantastically sweaty workout at the gym. (Well, a slice of pizza or a jumbo chocolate chunk cookie from Dunkin Donuts could rival that.) After running three miles and doing 500 stomach crunches, you feel like a new person, perhaps a pound or two lighter.

In fact, the hardest thing about the gym is getting there.

But nothing can ruin a good workout more than a lousy sports club experience. People, in general, are rude. This isn’t an epiphany; it’s simply fact. People only care about themselves, and it would behoove anyone to exercise (pun intended) some manners. In fact, recent events have inspired me to compile a list of the top five things (in no particular order) that aggravate me most when going to the gym.

1. Cell Phone Use – I don’t know about your gym, but at mine there are signs posted on the walls that explicitly prohibit cell phone use, specifically on the cardio equipment. But of course there are always those special individuals who choose to ignore these signs and proceed to chat away on their Motorola Razrs on the treadmill next to me. No matter how loud I turn up the volume on my iPod, I can still hear your conversation. It’s distracting when I’m struggling to complete a 3-mile run. I shouldn’t have to deafen myself with my music in the process. I’m fully aware that few individuals can do without talking for more than four or five minutes. But if you’re feeling this unrelenting need to exercise your vocal cords rather than your legs, step off of the treadmill and go outside. You’re bothering me.
   
2. Equipment Hogs – I’ll be the first to admit that I hog the treadmill. I’m usually on the thing for a good 60 minutes, plus a 5-minute cool down. But there are about twenty treadmills; there aren’t twenty bicep curl machines. Usually if one of my preferred machines is in use, I’ll go use another one and return later But I get extremely irritated when I have one more machine left before going home and three meatheads are hogging it for 30 minutes. I spend about three to five minutes on any given weight machine. God forbid they let me cut in. There is also the case of the gym sloth—the guy who sits on the bench for a good 10 minutes before attempting a rep. The clock is ticking a lot faster than you are, buddy.
   
3. Water Fountain Hoverers – Like many people, I choose to bring a bottle of Poland Springs to the gym. And usually after I finish it, I’m still dehydrated after a good run and I need to fill it up. Hardly unusual, no? Apparently the meatheads who prefer tap water are a teensy bit impatient They think that my water bottle will miraculously fill up more quickly if they give me only a foot of breathing room. How about backing it up a few more feet before I dump my water on your fat head. If I must wait a half an hour before you’re done hogging the chest press, you can afford to wait a few extra seconds before I’m done getting my water.
   
4. Locker Room Peep Show – While I’m not a prude, I can honestly do without seeing bare breasts, butts, or any other body parts—no matter how hot one’s body is. Some people have few qualms about strutting around in the nude as if the locker room was their private bedroom. I’m not interested in your hippy views of the beautiful nude body and how we should be proud and all that crap. If you were that proud of your body, you wouldn’t be at the gym. Cover up thy naughty bits with a towel, for goodness sake. I’m not interested in a free peep show.
   
5. Uncleanliness – It’s only common courtesy to wipe down a machine after sweating on it for 30 minutes. Yet most people could care less about their germs mingling with that of other people’s. Grossness. Maybe it’s a bit OCD of me, but I make sure to wipe down every machine before and after use. It’s too often that I see some guy perspiring profusely all over the elliptical for about 45 minutes and then walking away without spraying the machine with some cleaning fluid. Then I cringe when I see some cute teenage girl get on said elliptical—covered in dried-up sweat—about five minutes later. I feel so icky just observing. Yuck. Wipe down the machines, people. It takes not even a minute. You can certainly afford the time.

Famewhore-itis: The Epidemic

We’ve all heard of the Hollywood phrase “A-List.” Celebrities belong on the A-List if they’re guaranteed moneymaking stars. Think Tom Hanks, Justin Timberlake, and Madonna. Lest you think this has anything to do with talent, think again. You’ll find Britney Spears and Paris Hilton on this list as well.

Then there are the B-List stars who are famous, but not quite household names. You might find more talent on this list, but nonetheless, you got your Nicole Richies and Mischa Bartons. This list often features the Hollywood “It” Girl—often a fleeting title—á la Lindsay Lohan. These individuals are typically “stars of the moment” who may or may not make it to the A List.

Comedian Kathy Griffith popularized a new list for has-beens with her show, Life on the D-List. This list often includes the likes of Beverly Hills, 90210 and Saved by the Bell alums (e.g., Tori Spelling and Mario Lopez) or anyone who has or will be appearing on ABC’s hit dance show, Dancing With the Stars. (Notice the irony in the show's title.)

I can go even further by naming people to the F-List, which includes former celebrities who still consider themselves celebrities despite not having done anything significant since the ‘80s or ‘90s. In fact, most of these washed-up stars have appeared on VH1’s The Surreal Life. Vanilla Ice anybody?

But it’s not the has-been celebrities that I’m concerned with here. MC Hammer was cool back in the day. Hello, shiny parachute pants? He made a crapload of money from his hip-hop career and pissed it all away until he was bankrupt. He was foolish, but God bless him, he was huge (fame-wise).

It’s the wannabes that are becoming a problem. Throughout Hollywood, a new virus is spreading faster than Paris Hilton’s legs, and it’s not Syphilis. It’s what I like to call “famewhore-itis.” You’re a famewhore if you have no talent, yet you use celebrities, typically A- and B-List, to get your name and face in the tabloids. (Or you appeared on MTV’s Laguna Beach and clearly have nothing else going for you in life aside from boozing it up at high-profile Hollywood clubs.)

The biggest carriers of said disease? Britney’s white trash counterpart, Kevin Federline, and Nick Lachey’s bed-mate of the moment, Vanessa Minnillo of Entertainment Tonight and MTV’s TRL. You may have noticed I’m not exactly a fan of Ms. Minnillo-ho, as evidenced in a previous blog entry. I’m still not a fan.

These people love the attention. While Britney cries to Matt Lauer about being pursued by the paparazzi, K-Fed poses for the paps in his ghetto-fabulous wifebeaters, sideways caps, and denim manpris while toking on a cigarette. While Lachey prefers to remain coy about his personal life, Miss Minnillo-ho desperately makes plays for his affection in public (e.g., chin-stroking, lap dances, etc.)

But who are K-Fed and Minnillo? Since when are they celebrities? Have I been wrong all these years for believing celebrities are individuals who possess talent and are nationally and/or internationally recognized for it? Why are a former backup dancer and a former Miss Teen USA winner all over the tabloids? (And why is MTV hiring former beauty pageant queens and Laguna Beach has-beens as VJ’s? That’s an entirely different blog entry for another day.)

Simply because they’re famous by association. Society has extended the term “celebrity” to encompass friends, family members, and significant others. If you’re publicly seen canoodling with Jessica Simpson, we want to know who you are. Even if you’re a nobody. Because once you’re identified, you instantly become a somebody.

While I was in college, I was fortunate enough to meet and interview Theo and Danny from MTV’s Real World (Chicago and New Orleans seasons, respectively). I asked them how they feel when people treat them as celebrities.

“It just says a lot about the way the term ‘celebrity’ is being viewed in America now,” Danny said. “It's totally changed in the past few years. It's gone from being something that's used to describe people with talent. Celebrity has gotten really cheapened now. It's just about being seen—ultimately about being seen and known. It means nothing and it's cheapened what celebrity is.”

Theo echoed similar sentiments.

“I'm sure some [celebrities] who might take it as a slap in the face would say, ‘You mean this kid can just do this show and he's now automatically a celebrity? I've worked my butt off for these many years and they're calling him a celebrity and me a celebrity?’” he said. “I don't consider myself one. I never will, unless something really big happens. Until then, I'm just a kid who did a show. You people watched it. That's it.” (Source: Binghamton University’s Pipe Dream)

If only Miss Minnillo would heed those thoughts. Instead, she is loving the limelight. When she's not interviewing the real stars for MTV or ET, she's attending movie premieres and Hollywood parties and enjoying all the celebrity perks (e.g., free gifts, designer clothing, VIP access, etc.). She didn’t get the notoriety or the public affection from New York Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter, so she’s using Nick Lachey to work her way up the list. She doesn’t pout, but rather poses for the paparazzi. Jessica made Nick famous. Now Nick is making Vanessa famous. What’s there not to be happy about?

What’s worse is when wannabe celebrities attempt to parlay their celeb relationships into actual careers. Take Federline, for instance. His wife, Britney Spears, is one of the biggest pop stars in the world. What better way to launch a rap career since everyone knows who you are by association? But who’s going to take this man seriously as a rapper? He’s Mr. Britney Spears. He looks like Vanilla Ice. Oh yeah, and he’s awful, too.

It’s utter madness, people. We, as citizens and media consumers, need to take action. If you see them on the street, tell them to get a real job! No more reality TV programs! No more tabloids! Stop giving these famewhores the attention they crave!

Photo of the Moment

Now I'm not one to poke fun at the overweight folks out there.



But being overweight is no excuse to not dress yourself properly and cover yo'self up! Aretha, honey, you should know better. You're the Queen of effin' Soul! But your breasts seem to have eaten your soul!

At this moment, Stevie Wonder is thankful for being blind.

(Source: Young, Black, and Fabulous)

Stupid Headlines of the Week

I'm not sure which headline is more shocking (or stupid).

• Paris is on a Sex Ban (The Sun)
  
  Everyone's favorite hotel heiress-turned sex video star-turned newfound pop "singer" has placed herself on a one-year sex ban. Apparently she feels the need to "rediscover" herself while the rest of us wishes she'd discover that she needs to take a swan dive off the balcony of the nearest Hilton hotel. Paris. Pavement. Paris falls. Paris lands on pavement. Paris a pancake. Yum.
  
  The "stars are blind," but the ears wish they were deaf.
  
• Man who resembles Jordan sues MJ, Nike for $832M (Kgw.com)
  
  

Is this man serious? I thought I've seen it all.

This bus driver from Portland, Ore. is suing the greatest basketball player of all time. Not for negligence. Not for physical harm or trauma. Not for copyright infringement.

This genius is suing Michael Jordan because people mistake him for the basketball star. He's "accused" of looking like Jordan and it makes him "uncomfortable." According to the story, the gentleman is suing Jordan for "defamation and permanent injury and emotional pain and suffering." Yeah, I bet he's suffering. How does being mistaken for a celebrity translate to a lawsuit worth over $800 million? Dude, are you crazy or just a gold digger?

The judge is going to have a good laugh with this one.

Chewing Fighting the Fat

You don’t realize how fat your country is until you actually leave the country.

About a month ago I vacationed in Europe for a couple of weeks. As soon as I arrived in Milan, Italy two things struck me—the language barrier (naturally) and the absence of fat folks.

But Italy is the birthplace of pasta—everything carbohydrates. How on earth are there NO FAT PEOPLE?

I’ll tell you why. Europeans, including Italians, don’t do nearly as much eating as Americans. In the U.S. we live for giant portions at behemoth restaurants like the Cheesecake Factory. You'll be served a cheeseburger the size of your head, enough French fries to feed an African tribe, and unlimited refills of soda. Then there are about thirty kinds of cheesecake (cookie dough, Oreo, Godiva chocolate—I’m salivating). But that’s not enough because you’ll make a trip to Coldstone Creamery for a waffle bowl of Birthday Cake Remix—cake batter ice cream with fudge brownie, sprinkles, and chocolate syrup.

But then in Italy, you go to a restaurant and you’re served a plate of food that’s simply satisfying. You get the complimentary basket of bread. You drink a glass of wine or mineral water. And your entrée is a normal portion of chicken and spaghetti—not an amount that would feed a Sumo wrestler. You’ll probably have enough room in your stomach to share a dessert with your dining companion. In the end, you’re not so full that you can’t get out of your chair.

Europeans also walk more than they drive. The Italians walk. The French walk. The Swiss walk. I don’t think I saw any gyms or exercise facilities because they’re unnecessary—everyone walks! But if you take a stroll through Manhattan, there’s a New York Sports Club or Crunch gym on every corner. As obsessed and health-conscious we Americans are, we’re still so damn fat.

We’re a nation on the go. We prefer drive-thrus to dining inside of restaurants. We rather microwave a cheap TV dinner in two minutes than spend some time cooking a gourmet meal from scratch. We can’t be bothered. We want quick fixes. We have no time (or money) to waste.

Unsurprisingly, our country is the origin of fast food—McDonalds, Burger King, Pizza Hut, KFC, etc. It’s quick, inexpensive, and convenient. And of course we try to spread these ideals (and obesity) throughout the world. “Hey Europeans! Hey Japanese! Fatten up your people! It’s a moneymaker!” While I saw plenty of McDonalds restaurants in Paris and London, the individuals entering and exiting these stores with large bags of deliciously fattening food were still only the size of my thigh.

The American way of eating has ironically become a dangerous culture. While we’re more health-conscious than ever, we have trouble altering our way of life. If you go to any grocery store and inspect any box or can of food, you’ll notice its nutrition information and long list of ingredients. (Who cares how much fructose syrup is in my Kellogg’s Pop Tarts?) We're obsessed with knowing what we're putting into our bodies, yet we're not ingesting any less of it.

The United States is fat. Everyone knows it. Even Americans know it. But what are we doing to actually “fix” the problem?

Since no one really has any good ideas, everyone is just scrambling for temporary solutions to this serious ongoing problem. New diet fads (e.g., Atkins, South Beach, etc.). Low-fat (or low-sodium, low-calorie) alternatives. Banning the sale of junk food and sodas in public schools. Prohibiting the construction of fast food restaurants near public schools.

But what are we really accomplishing here? Is hiding the “bad” food going to make us eat less of it? Is providing low-fat/sodium/calorie alternatives going to make us skinny even if we’re consuming just as much food as we were before? If there’s any positive result, we’ll gain weight at a slower rate. “Instead of being 300 pounds when I’m 25, I’ll be 300 pounds when I’m 28. Yay!”

No matter where you travel, whether it’s Farmersville, USA or the French Riviera, the “bad” food is out there. The only difference is where we set our limits (i.e., portion control). There’s no harm in trying different foods. After all, what fun is it to eat sugar-free ice cream and cheese-less pizza?

As much as we hate the French, we could learn a thing or two from them. We need to learn to enjoy our food more and eat more slowly. We shouldn’t gorge ourselves at places like the Cheesecake Factory. The goal of eating isn’t to consume ‘til the oxygen can’t circulate throughout the body. Being satisfied doesn’t have to mean being full.

The first thing morbidly obese people do when they decide to lose the weight is they eat substantially less. Once enough pounds disappear from the body and they can move around more easily, they learn to exercise.

But while fitness is wonderful and everyone should be physically active, committing oneself to bland diets and going to the gym six days a week isn’t ideal. The Europeans don’t need to do that and neither do Americans.

We just need to eat less and not gorge. Eat two Oreos instead of half the package. Have one slice of pizza and a side salad instead of four sausage slices with extra cheese. If you cut down on the portions, you’ll allow yourself room to try new foods without worrying about the calories or weight gain.

And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a Burger King meal once in a while. It ain’t gonna make your heart explode. Just don’t make it a habit.

It saddens me to see overweight kids with their overweight parents. It pains me to see them eating their Big Macs and "supersizing" their fries and soft drinks. I see where the bad habits begin and where they’ll continue.

But we can’t hide unhealthy food and we shouldn’t avoid it either. Banning junk food in high school cafeterias isn’t going to fix the problem. By making desperate attempts to curb poor eating habits, we’re not identifying the true source of the problem—ourselves.

The only real way to reduce rates of obesity is to slow down and enjoy food. Stay fit, but don’t hibernate at the gym. Eat less, but eat well.

Together we can fight the fat!

Home With Britney: The White Trash Years

Raise your hand if you feel bad for Britney Spears.

No hands? Aw, what a shame.

I weep for Mrs. Federline. It’s sad when millions of dollars don’t seem to buy you enough security and high enough fences. It’s scary to be chased through high-end shopping malls by those terrifying paparazzi carrying those oh-so-very lethal instruments we call cameras. It especially sucks when every time you’re photographed, you’re caught mishandling your 9-month old baby boy.

So maybe I don’t really pity Ms. Spears after watching The Today Show’s Matt Lauer make her cry on Dateline last night. It’s hard to feel bad for a person who has all the success and money in the world and lives in a gorgeous Malibu mansion with more bodyguards than the U.S. President.

As a celebrity, you can’t just decide one day that you want to take a break from pop stardom to get married and have a family and just assume that the paparazzi will leave you alone. As long as you’re a celebrity, you’ll be photographed. Britney wants her cake and she wants to eat it, too—just look at her. Does she need any more?

The unfortunate (and I say that word loosely) side of being a celebrity is that you’re often photographed doing normal, humdrum, every day kinds of things—eating, food shopping, walking down the street, grabbing some Starbucks coffee, etc. These are the same kinds of things that ordinary people like you and me take for granted. Believe me, I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about being photographed buying a grande non-fat vanilla latte (unless Derek Jeter decides to give me a call).

The “unfortunate” part of this is that celebrities get caught on camera doing stupid things—e.g., picking a wedgie, making a stupid face, and (now infamously) driving with one’s baby in her lap. I’m sure that plenty of moms make mistakes with their children. There will always be accidents. Children fall and hurt themselves all the time. But if you’re Britney Spears and it’s reported that your son fell from his highchair, the entire world assumes you’re a lousy mother.

But then you’re videotaped as you hold a glass in one hand and your son in the other and—BAM—you trip on a New York City sidewalk, almost dropping the poor child. And how about that time you were driving along the highway in your convertible and your son was sleeping in the backseat in a front-facing car seat, his head drooping to the side as the sun beamed down on his pale little face. Now you’re a terrible mother.

I’m not going to harp on whether she’s a good mom. I’m sure she loves her son and I’m sure she’ll love her second child just as much. I don’t really have the right to comment on that as I don’t really know what kind of mother she is, save for a few photos that give me some inkling.

But as for her marriage to Kevin Federline, that’s wholly open to public scrutiny. I don’t buy that her marriage is “awesome.” Maybe it’s too easy to call K-Fed a freeloading wannabe Vanilla Ice. But isn’t that what it looks like? After all, his wife is the breadwinner who has earned millions as a world famous pop star and he’s a backup dancer who’s using his newfound celebrity status to be a rap star. Just where would he get his money from? Dancing sure don’t pay the bills, home slice.

I just can’t weep with you, Britney. You’re 24 years old—most would consider you an adult by now. You’re a wife. You’re a mom. You’re responsible for the decisions you make. Own up to your mistakes. Stop blaming the paparazzi for your problems.

“But I wouldn’t be in danger if I didn’t have like this impactful thing around me all the time,” says Ms. Spears in her interview with Lauer. “I just feel like the editors, they don’t realize that there’s not just one magazine—there’s other magazines and they’re all paying to get a story. And I think that's where the energy from the people is coming from. It’s kind of scary. I can’t really leave my home right now.”

Of course the editors realize there are other magazines. It’s called “competition.” They’re all competing for the best pictures and the best stories—that’s what sells magazines. Us Weekly versus In Touch Magazine versus Star Magazine—it’s tabloid war.

The tabloids certainly feasted upon Britney’s 55-hour marriage to hometown friend, Jason Alexander.

“I was on the road for awhile and again I was doing a lot of what I was told instead of what I wanted to really do,” she tells Lauer. “And I didn’t know how to break out of that. So in my young mind I’m like, ‘I’m gonna just get married to someone of my home friends.’ You know what I mean. It was just like something. But I have no regrets with anything I’ve ever done.”

I know the feeling—sick of people telling me what to do. But you know what would get them crazy? I’ll just up and get married. There! That’ll put ‘em over the edge. That’ll show them who’s really the boss of me now!

Was she kidding with that “young mind” talk? Wasn’t this like two years ago? She can’t be more of adult now than she was then. Again she scapegoats. It’s the “it’s everyone else’s fault, they made me do it” mentality. And yet, she doesn’t regret it. Tell me why it’s OK for a pop star to get married for fun and have it annulled the next day, but the U.S. government is trying to prohibit gays from marrying the ones they truly love. That’s a whole ‘nother blog posting.

And of course the whole driving-with-baby-in-lap incident.

“I went to Starbucks and I see a bunch of photographers and I’m scared and I want to get out of the situation and my baby’s crying,” Spears laments. “They’re coming up on the sides of the car, which is a scary situation for me. And they’re banging on the windows and that’s not something I want my baby to. . .you know. . .so I get my baby [in] the car and I go home. I mean, I just feel like that they’re taking cheap shots.”

Again it’s the paparazzi’s fault, not hers. Is it that hard for you to just admit you did something stupid? You put your son’s life in danger. No parent in his/her right mind would drive with a baby in his/her lap. We’re not taking cheap shots. I’d be just as mortified if I saw any ordinary non-celebrity doing the same thing.

Her explanation is a load of bullshit. Not long after the incident, I read that one witness—a photographer, I believe—claimed that the situation was quite calm and that no one was harassing Britney. Perhaps she sensed something was about to happen and she panicked. But there is no excuse. Unless someone is holding a gun to your head, you’ll always have enough time to strap your child into a car seat.

But then Britney goes on to say, “That driving incident, I did it with my dad. I’d sit on his lap and I drive. We’re country.”

Wow, you really give “country” folk a bad reputation. I’m really sure you thought Sean Preston would have a great time getting an early driving lesson at 6 months of age. “Look, Ma! I can’t talk, but I can drive! Wee!”

So it should come as no surprise that—once again—Spears blames, not herself, but NYC for its “cobblestone” sidewalk (and of course the paparazzi) for her nearly dropping baby Sean Preston.

“Actually, I didn’t trip on anything.”

Sure you didn’t.

“It was a New York street, and just cobblestones.”

Since when does NYC have cobblestone streets?

“And I was walking and I don’t think we were prepared with one security, ‘cause I’ve never had that much paparazzi ever on me in New York. So we didn’t even know there was gonna be that many people.”

Those poor paparazzi just can’t catch a break, can they?

“So I think it was a mixture of so many paparazzi and how the road was all messed up, me just trying to get in the car.”

Or you’re just stupid. After all, you were holding a glass in one hand and your baby in the other and you then tripped on your designer jeans in your designer heels.

“Accidents happen.”

Of course they do. You seem to be good at making them happen. And on camera, no less.

Here’s an idea. Buy yourself an island—as Johnny Depp did—and sequester you and your baby until you’re ready again to unleash your career (along with an image reboot) upon the world.

Oh yeah, and leave Kevin at home and get back together with Justin. You were cute then.

(Source: MSNBC.com)

American Idol Showdown: It's On Bitches!
Will Hicks put out McPhee-ver?


I suck.

I predicted Chris Daughtry would be crowned American Idol of Season 5 yet he only made it as far as the final four. I’m smacking my head as we speak.

But a wrench may have been thrown in, thus ruining my prophecy!

Insiders claim Daughtry didn’t really have the lowest number of votes and that the real reason for his premature exit was because of a lucrative offer, presumably from the band Fuel, who is searching for a new lead singer. This reeks of Mario Vasquez.* But unlike Vasquez, I expect big things from Daughtry.

Apparently American Idol owns its contestants until either the show ends, they’re eliminated, or for an entire year. As a contestant on the show, you’re contractually obligated to be the producers’ bitch. You attend various signings, make appearances at events, film cheesy Ford commercials, and—oh yeah—that American Idol summer tour thing. On the flip side, you’re prohibited from accepting album deals from record companies or any other offers that have zero relation to the show. If you accept an offer, you simply get the boot, which may have happened to Daughtry.

However, I’m not so sure of this. I believe American Idol is rigged to a point, but the viewers do vote and they know who they like. The votes are so close that it’s sometimes hardly shocking when a supposed favorite must pack his/her bags early.

But today I am feeling extra sad because my second favorite, Elliot Yamin, has been eliminated from the competition as well. This young man has a brilliant singing voice and it’s a shame to see him go. However, he lasted way longer than I had expected. Weeks ago I predicted Kellie Pickler might squeeze her orange-ness and fake hair into the final four. But either viewers rid themselves of Pickler-itis (AKA stupidity) or the girl sabotaged herself. For the first time in five seasons of American Idol, we got to enjoy a solid final five—Daughtry, Yamin, Taylor Hicks, Katherine McPhee, and Paris Bennett. I was thrilled. I decided that no matter who won, the show was a success.

Now we are left with Hicks and McPhee—two contestants for whom I predicted magnificent things. But it’s become increasingly clear that Hicks may take the crown. And rightly so.

Hicks is a born entertainer. He loves the stage. He loves the people. He eat, sleeps, and breathes music. He has anointed himself the president of the “Soul Patrol,” a musical movement of sorts. There’s no air of arrogance about this guy. When Hicks performs, you feel like you’re a part of an experience. He dances like he has Turrets and he sings with the kind of raw energy you wish you had every morning after eating a bowl of Wheaties. American Idol is not a competition to him. It’s entertainment, and he genuinely loves it.

Now before I rant on Miss McPhee, let me preface my point by affirming that I most definitely would purchase a Katherine McPhee album. She has a fantastic voice. She deserves a record deal. Her mom is a vocal coach. Blah blah blah. However, here lies the rub: McPhee is inconsistent. She sings the up-tempo numbers with glee and proficiency, but when it’s ballad time, she overreaches. Instead of just singing the damn song, she tries to impress us with her vocal prowess—the runs, the ooohs, her fondness for moving up and down musical scales. While it may be impressive to some, it’s oftentimes a mess. There is a reason for lyrics to a song. At times I like to hear those lyrics. Messy, overly ambitious singing often distracts from a great song.

And while American Idol is a singing competition, people do unfortunately vote on personality. McPhee has been a snarky brat as of late. “You guys have been hard on me the past couple of weeks”—this being her response to the judges’ criticisms. Well, Randy, Paula, and Simon are judges, therefore they must judge you. If you suck, they’re going to tell you that you suck (well, maybe not Paula). Just because you were taught by Mommy the Professional Singer doesn’t mean you’re immune to criticism. You ain’t perfect, sweet cheeks. And lose the phony smiles. We all know that deep down inside you’re a diva and that you think you’re too good for the show.

Americans like to be entertained and prefer humility. Therefore, Taylor Hicks will be our next American Idol.

*Mario Vasquez was a contestant and early favorite on last year’s season of American Idol, but he quit the competition without explanation after making it to the final 12. Rumors swirled that Diddy offered him a deal with Bad Boy Records, but no one has heard from Vasquez since. Sounds like a bad career move!