Oh, Paula

The Muse has been watching American Idol some lately. This means, of course, that I have been watching American Idol some lately. I personally haven't watched this before, having been scared away by the idea of rude Englishpeople humiliating deluded attention-seeking Americans. Damn limeys! (And I really like lime. Have you had that natural limeade that they have started selling in grocery stores? As my sister The Force of Nature would say, "Tast-aaay!")

Having started watching the show some, though, I can see some of the charm, especially if you mute the TV when you know Simon is going to start ranting, as The Muse does. Simon and Randy have little appeal to me. Each seems to have basically two modes. Simon say either: (a) "God you suck, I have heard choirs of laughing hyenas and howler monkeys who sound better than you;" or (b) "I quite like your voice, although you need better tone and perhaps more vibrato." Randy says either: (a) "Yo, dawg, you know I liked your totally unjustified confidence that you can sing, but I'm going to have to pass;" or (b) "Wooooo, dawg, 8 million percent yes, you're GOING TO HOLLYWOOD!"

It is Paula, the much-maligned (by me) Paula Abdul, who is the star of the show. The things she says would read as mostly normal on a cold black-and-white transcript of the show. It is her facial expressions and physicality that make the show. I have heard these rumors about her supposedly being intoxicated somewhat and, having watched the show, well, let's say I'm intrigued by them. There are times when, for no good reason, she is wobbling her head around like a well-oiled Stevie Wonder. There are times when she is clipping her words like Donald Rumsfield. (Imagine Rumsfield on American Idol: "Goodness gracious, your voice is like the nails of my fifth-grade teacher Miss Dorothy Gale upon a chalkboard. What is the ultimate level to which you would sink to get on TV? It is unknown, but I believe that it is a known unknown and not an unknown unknown.")

My favorite Paula moments, however, occur when an attractive male gets up and gives a nice performance. Paula starts purring like a cat on a heating blanket. There was one 16-year-old, very good-looking guy who could sing last week. Paula had very complex look on her face as she told him he was going to Hollywood. On the one hand, you could tell that, instead of saying "Your voice has very nice tone and you're going to do very well," she wanted to say something more like "Young man, I would like to lick you." You could also tell, however, that she knew that wouldn't be very appropriate, so she had this slightly embarrassed thing going on. It was very, very entertaining.

The only moment that compared was when the judges asked the hot Long Island girl to bring in her best friend who also was trying out. When the friend came in and she was even hotter, you could tell that Randy wanted to say something like "You two are definitely going to Hollywood . . . WITH ME." Of course, after closing his gaping jaw, he said something much more appropriate. And then the judges sent them both to Hollywood. Shocking.

So good for Paula that she has come back from the celebrity dead. I guess the bad karma flowing from dancing with the cartoon cat in the "Opposites Attract" video finally peetered out.

Who Is Killing The New Celebrities?

We have become a pretty celebrity-obsessed culture. Why was Keith Richards in the coconut tree? Why did Britney divorce K-Fed just to start dating someone who looks (but hopefully doesn't smell) just like him? Is it because Britney's underwear keeps disappearing? Why can't Halle and Jennifer hold on to men? Maybe they need new hair. Where was the sexy and why is Justin the only one who cares about bringing it back?

Given this level of celebrity obsession, it is very mysterious to me how a recent rash of celebrity deaths has gone so underreported. And not just celebrities, but brand-new celebrities, people who haven't had a good public divorce yet, who probably haven't even gotten their well-deserved celebrity party gift bags with $10,000 Rolexes and such. It is such a tragedy and yet so little attention has been given to it.

It seems like since about mid-December, all of these new celebrities just keep dying. There must be a conspiracy. Suddenly, a new star bursts out like a supernova and, two weeks later, he or she is dead. There has been shockingly little coverage of this. I mean, where is the Star? Where is Us? People? We need answers. I mean, just weeks after someone is announced as the world's oldest person, he or she is dead. Someone or something is killing these poor brand-new celebrities just as they enter the prime of their lives. We need to find out what is going on and we need to find out now. Call Fox Mulder or at least Dick Cheney.

Christopher Walken

Christopher Walken rocks. There is absolutely no one like him. Biloxi Blues -- perhaps the greatest comedic portrayal of someone with a steel plate in his head. Pulp Ficton, Weapon of Choice, More Cowbell, Colonel Angus -- genius. Even his lesser known work is brilliant -- the embittered Rainbow Head on SNL. Brilliant. He's so good that multiple people do hilarious impressions of him. All of this and he was the second choice for Han Solo.

But does he have to be in every single movie? Caught the last 45 seconds of Joe Dirt today. You know the world's only David Spade vehicle? Chris was there. Saw some commercials for the apparently horrible remake of Stepford Wives. Chris was there.

Chris, take a break. Have a beer. Don't turn into Michael Caine.

iPod Nation

The iPod is a great product. That's no great insight, of course. How cool is it that you rip the songs you like off of your CD's or download individual songs and mix them up into playlists of whatever theme or order you like. No more buying PYT to get Beat It and Billie Jean. No more buying Bullet the Blue Sky to get Where the Streets Have No Name, I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For and With or Without You (the greatest three-song opening of an album ever, by the way). It's revolutionary.

Not only that, not only that, but the iPod is this tiny little thing into which you stuff a 1,000 songs. No more dragging a pack full of CD's on trips. I haven't yet set it up to run in my car, but that should rock. Plus the iPod is just elegant. Run your finger on the little circle to scroll down a menu or adjust the volume. It's just a beautiful product.

And it scares me a little.

Go to the gym now. Essentially, every single person in the building has wires coming out of their ears. The teenagers, the 20-somethings, the working professionals, the retirees. I think that the only person I now see at the gym without an iPod tether is Lenore, the older woman who talks to everyone. Everyone. And it's not just the gym. It's everywhere. On the street - iPod ears. Grocery store - iPod ears. Haven't seen it in court yet, but I'm sure there will come a day (although judges will fine you if your cell phone goes off in court, so the iPod's day in court may be a ways off).

What the iPod has done is encourage and allow people to basically develop their own worlds. You don't have to listen to other people's music. You don't have to listen to other people, really. You can download podcasts, so you don't really have to listen to other people's opinions much if you don't want to. If you have iPod's little friend TiVo, then you don't have to watch TV shows when THEY want you to watch them and you for damn sure don't have to watch commercials. And, hell, we've had the Internet for years, so we all can read pretty much what we want.

Basically, what the iPod represents in some way is our increasing ability to edit the world to our liking. Computer storage technology has become so potent that you basically can have whatever information you like come in through some digital pipe or another and just select the stuff that you want.

It's a good and a bad thing. I quite love the iPod and TiVo. I quite like having five different 80s playlists that I mixed myself. I love being able to rewind a sports game to see the disputed call or The Office to catch what hilarious thing someone muttered under their breath.

But, if everyone is doing this -- and they are, I think, in some form -- then I think we're losing something. We don't have a lot of common experiences. And then we have something like an election and we just can't understand for the life of us how anyone could be on the other side. That's probably not ideal.

Of course, I'm guessing that hip guys like Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton probably would have loved a nice Nano. Washington and Lincoln are a little harder to picture with ear buds.

Golf and The Gym

My grandfather -- Papa -- taught me how to golf when I was a kid. At least as important to him was that I learn the etiquette of golf. Don't stand in other people's lines when they're putting. Don't get so mad that you bug the people with whom you're playing. Shake hands with the guys with whom you are playing when you're done. Most importantly, don't hold other people up. If the people behind you are playing faster than you, let them through. You are not a pro and there aren't a million bucks riding on your putt, so don't spend 15 minutes lining it up Golf is a game, it should be fun.

Going to the gym reminds me of all of this, but not in a good way. Basically, as best I can tell, there is no etiquette at the gym. A lot of people apparently view entering the gym as a magical experience that transforms them into the only important person in the world. I have seen a man yell at a woman, calling her a bitch, because the woman turned the TV volume up enough to listen to the football game that was on TV. People open the gym doors when it's close to freezing outside without asking anyone else and while wearing long-sleeve shirts and long pants. At our gym, people messing with the stereo speakers apparently was such a problem that each of the speakers now has a sign that says something like, "Don't touch the speakers. If you do, your gym membership will be immediately revoked."

The difference between golf and the gym strikes as one of rules. There are rules in golf. The formal rules of golf are lengthy and, when you're playing seriously, you are expected to enforce them on yourself. For example, in serious golf, you are expected to keep your playing partner's score accurately and your playing partner then checks his or her scorecard. If you screwed up keeping my score and I don't catch it before signing my scorecard, tough noogies, I lose. In 1967, at the Masters, Roberto DeVincezo's playing partner wrote down a 4 on a hole when DeVincezo made a 3. DeVincezo signed the screwed-up scorecard and lost the Masters -- one of the two or three most important golf tournaments in the world -- by that one shot. The rules that Papa taught weren't that rigid, but you are supposed to follow them. Do unto others as you have them do unto you.

The gym has no established rules. Power abhors a vaccuum, so people apparently view the lack of structure at the gym as an opportunity to behave in ways that they would never behave in their professional lives. People do what they want without a lot of regard for others. It isn't pretty sometimes. Papa would not be pleased.

Good News

Watching The Blues Brothers on cable TV here tonight -- "Illnois Nazis, I hate Illnois Nazis" -- I got some good news. A commercial for some kind of pet collar or something, I noticed that Betty White was in it. Betty White apparently is still alive. That's cool. Who knew? I always liked Betty White, especially on the Password game show she used to be on a lot.