Riding the Idol love boat or sinking on the Idol Titanic?

I'll go with the latter

I did not see very much of the Idol Wild card show, but I saw enough to want to: (a) drive nails deep into my ocular sockets to block out the lame stage work from most of them, the scary eyes of a 'killer' in Casey and Ed Zaidan's ridiculously large nostrils/large lips/clown-like appearance; and (b) do a Van Gogh - cut off the (Lisa) lobes and drink a quart of Turps before being committed - just to get away from the TT-FM-esque efforts of Aliqua, Lauren, Tenielle and Toby.

So that leaves us with Lucie, Tim and Hayley as dead certs because they were the three that did not make me want to violate myself in a horrific fashion. And then flip a coin for Casey and Ed - perhaps Casey just to show that you do not need to be a Doona-van to have some serious lung action.

Sigh.

Where have the good times gone?

Standing L to R - Rhys from SYTYCD, some girl overly festooned with red lippy, Wes from Oz Idol 2008, some upherselfbiatch, some cute little Italian girl.
Sitting L to R - Boy who can't stand anymore because he was Johnny Young's favourite singer.

What grinds my gears #7 - family quirks

Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops. Wise words from the great Cary Grant in Arsenic and Old Lace.

Well I can certainly vouch for that. My family is INSANE. In the membrane. In the BRAIN.

OK - perhaps we are a little less insane than this fam.

Leaving my sibling aside (I'm not in the business of dishing out cheap shots), my parents are nuts. They are crazy in the coconut.

First, my mother. She is just a weird egg. She has the capacity to careen wildly from happiness to sadness to sheer madness in two seconds or less. One must carefully navigate her mood by ensuring that she doesn't drift off into the 56th tangent of a story or worse, end stories with 'let's just bomb the entire Middle East' or 'we need a good war to get rid of all the dickheads' or something else horrendously offensive.

It is quite the chore to carefully drive her back into neutral conversational territory again and again. Managing my mother in a public forum is an even more exhausting enterprise that can only be embarked upon... once a week for 30 minutes or you can save it up for a fortnightly or monthly outing, where you've got a few hours before you start to claw at the walls and shout like a hyena.

And it's quite common across her family - all 7 of her siblings suffer from frequent foot in mouth.

My aunty recently visited our house for the first time and said:

"Kid A, I like your house but I prefer to live in mine."

Difficult to take that without laughing too hard. Meanwhile, WSO was noiselessly laughing hysterically in the study at the thought of a house swap with the dear old bird.

My late uncle had a penchant for blending certain petroleum products with his liver - metho and coke being a speciality. And he was ever the salesman, first handbags, then aboriginal art and relics. I'll never forget the Christmas where he brought three didgeridoos along. Two of my cousins and I spent an hour slobbering down them. He then went on to tell us that our technique was wrong, he was of course the expert after spending three weeks in some village in Arnhem Land. While he could produce some sort of a noise, he almost had several cardiac arrests doing so!

Anyway, back to the main game. Mother bear. Here are some peculiarities that are not known to be present in any other living species apart from my mother:

• Mixing two instant coffee varieties together - Nescafe Blend 43 is too strong, whilst International Roast is too weak so voila, a 50:50 mix is the ultimate in instantio caffe.
  
• Having a back up pantry in case of World War III or an outbreak of a raging virus or plague - essentially this means you will always have two of everything. For example, if you finish off the Vegemite jar, Mum will transfer the new jar from the back up pantry and write 'Vegemite' on the shopping list to replace in the back up pantry usually within a 24 hour period.
• Saving money in a 'secret' compartment of her purse - where secret is the second most common area to put notes. In this part of her purse, you will typically find one or two greenies and half a dozen pineapples.
• Not throwing out any old calendars or cards - that get well card I made with macaroni in Grade 2 was still in the drawer the last time I looked. I thought best not tell her, she might put it up on the wall! And don't even get me started about the calendar from 1986... Pope John Paul II's second papal visit was interesting at the time yes, now we've got the Emperor Benedict. Move on!
  
• Speaking of calendars, another one is fixing the weekly culinary calendar - dinner was certainly not like a box of chocolates when I was growing up. Monday = Spaghetti or Lasagne. Tuesday = Dad cooks = something spicy like Sambal, Thai Curry, Spanish Paella. Sometimes Chicken Cacciotore etc. Wednesday = meat portion, three vegie portions. Thursday = casserole/mystery box food/splod. Friday = fish n chips like any good Catholics, sometimes pizza if Mum was not there. Saturday = roast. Sunday = pancake/omelette/the typical 3 minute CBF meal.
  

As for my father, well he has probably what is called 'second order madness' from living with my kooky mother. He is slowly eating his way through the world, one HJ's burger at a time. Big heart. Hopefully not on the verge of a big heart attack.

In his interactions with yours truly, he is like a stuffed toy with a voice box - only capable of three catch phrases - 'yeah, yeah, yeah', 'ask your mother' and 'how much do you want this time?'

But to his credit, he works harder than anyone I've seen and can take nagging like no other.

Sigh. So there you have it. That's the pez. But I do love them, you know.

Every year I try to get out, but it keeps pulling me back in...

Here we are once again in everyone's favourite land at the top of the Faraway Tree - Idol land.

There are some differences - we've lost the Angry Pixie in Kyle Sandilands, for example. The sub from the bench - Mr Watzisname / Jay Dee Springbett - appears to have coped well with a new gig being foisted upon him quicker than you can say 'clause 4.3 gives us the right to terminate your contract Kyle'.

Dicko (Moon Face) and Marcia God (Silky) have come out of the cryogenic deep freezer to join us once more for a turn around the Idol d-floor.

I'm slowly familiarising myself with the singing landscape through the semi-final series. Unfortunately, I missed a few of the earlier episodes when we went around the cities. But that's OK, the same tired recipe continues to be dished up year after year. Key ingredients include:

• Snippets of fat people/ugly people/transvestites/people with three teeth/people who have literally just stepped out of Revolver after a large Sunday sesh - building them up to be Idol hopefuls. Then of course, their delusions of grandeur become suddenly apparent and it turns out they've never sung in their lives except in front of their 15 cats and/or mother who has a monobrow and a hearing aid and they sound like a screeching parakeet being hit by a B-double truck.
• Candidates that come with a 5 to 10 minute back story, where the prospect of suspense is completely eliminated (I mean, are they really going to send a camera man out to film some sheila in Tatura cutting up a pig with her bare hands if she didn't get in the bloody top 100? We are not stupid Channel 10!)
• Sob stories aplenty from the tuneful types - "I'm doing this for (Mum/Aunt Jess/the lady from the tram who smiled at me nicely) because they have helped me believe in myself and regain confidence after I suffered from extreme (depression/anorexia/pain from my ingrown toenail leading to a wedge resection that I even had a general anaesthetic for) and now they are (dead/in hospital/in jail/at home watching this TV show) so I'm doing it for them", complete with the use of three tissues to wipe away that runny mascara. Where the sob story is particularly painful or a 5 out of 5 on the sob-alicious scale - it will be topped off with a there-there, pat-pat hug from the Marcia God.
  
• Minimum or no camera time for the eventual top 12. (At least, Channel 10 realise we'll be watching those initial auditions circa 85 times, so best keep them in the backpocket until at least next week.)
  

Given the above, I was reluctant to rouse from my state of slumber and ennui to once again pay homage to the Idol juggernaut, or at the very least, reach for the remote and change the channel to Channel 10. I guess the prospect of sipping on another year of proverbial dregs was too much to bear. I mean how many times do we hear from Andrew G: This top 100/top 24/top 12/group of singers/talent is better than all previous years.

If it looks like Kyle Sandilands, and it walks like Kyle Sandilands, it's probably not George Clooney, you know what I'm sayin' sista darlin' girlfriend/boyfriend?

After last night though, I have returned to the fruity lexi-licious beveraaaage that is Idol. Too sweet, too cheap and totally overconsumed. But I love it anyway.

And what a semi! Talent check. Tuneless twangs check. Working the stage check. Dancing like a brick check. Self-aggrandising behaviour check. Ridiculous attire check. Marcia not making sense check. Subdued Dicko check. Other guy having no personality to speak of check.

Oh Idol, how I love thee. Now I know that from August to November, you will show me and my friends a good time. Our hearts will go pitter patter, we will go weak at the knees, our palms will get sweaty and we will constantly be thinking about you ravishing us. Take us away on your loveboat Idol!

I shall arrange the performances on a spectrum of meh to hell yeah. There are four groupings:

Toby Moulton + Kate Cook

Toby is a nice guy but, you know, he warbled over the words at times. He barely went for the high notes. O-R-D-I-N-A-R-Y. Sorry - you are nice but you are just soooooo damn ORDINARY. Remember the days of the old school yard? Well don't worry, you'll be going back there soon enough.

I choo-choo-choose you to leave Tobs.

Kate's Mum 'offed' herself when she was a young teen. That is truly sad. However, there can no excuse for that denim disaster that was adorning her thickset thighs. And the hat and the dancing. WTF? Please. I'm sorry. Get off my TV. Go directly back to the farm. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.

Kate in 40 years time

A LARGE ENOUGH GAP TO 'MIND'

Seth Drury + Jamila Ioane

Sethy poos is back for another shot at the Idol title. Not bad. Not great. But not bad. Is it just me or does Seth look like BJ from SYTYCD Australia II? He was also a second time lucky kinda guy. And maybe if you drink three bottles of red, tilt your head to one side and squint ever so slightly, Seth looks like Seth from the OC? No? OK then. It is just me.

3 Seths.

Jamila 'Ultramonster' Ioane. Sista girlfriend worked that stage and belted like a 32inch, extra studded belt. But I just find her vibe done, done, done like a piece of steak that has been cooking for the entire length of The Passion of the Christ. Jamila = Paulini = Jessica Mauboy = Emily Williams = Lavina Williams = Serena Williams... the list goes on as long as Gee-.

Raaaaaah

BIGGER GAP WHERE A BRIDGE MAY NEED TO BE BUILT

Stan Walker

Star quality. Even if he does love Jesus and Jesus loves him, I am of the firm opinion that Stan rocks. And let's face it, Christian rock is where all the money is these days anyway. Ching ching. (On that note, if I hear one more rendition of the Kings of Zion, I mean Leon, I will bite the head off a small kitten. You have been warned.)

A CHASM THE SIZE OF TEXAS

Hayley Warner

Hello top 5. Here you come my pretty.

Of the semi, at least.

Let's just see how my predictions play out tonight. I am hopeful.

As for tonight, I can't wait to smoke, I mean watch, sweet Marijana roll up a few grams of her sweetest song.

Tasty.

Loveable lookalikes II.

Show us your red Mitsubishi blanky

G-rated insults for Kyle Sandilands

1. He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to a dictionary.
2. He never opens his mouth without subtracting from the knowledge pool of the universe.
3. He is a self-made man and worships his creator.
4. He has delusions of adequacy.
5. He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.

Shot through the heart – and you’re to blame!

You even give the term 'stupid fuckwit' a bad name.

UGHHHHHHH.