Chocolate Cake and American Idol
Put three women and a recipe together in a kitchen and you inevitably get a cake. Which is exactly what happened last night. A cake is all well and good of course. It’s the process of baking that’s a pain. And, as if three bashing, mixing and cleaning females weren’t enough, my sister had to go accost the only unfortunate guy present, me, to stir some stuff “till creamy”. Preposterous. Severe retaliation was in order and there would be hell to pay before I would be caught with a big mixing bowl in my lap. Hence, I stuck out my lower lip… and mixed. And I’d like to think I did a damn good job of mixing “till creamy”. At least I was watching manly stuff on TV like the Mosconi Cup.
After the menial work, thinking the worst was over, I flicked on the PS2 not knowing that it was American Idol night. Again. This is one of those shows whose popularity boggles me. Ok, so the first few episodes are entertaining. You get more than your fair share of screechy, fat, ugly, tone deaf, can’t sing-can’t dance-and-proud-of-it buffoons slugging it out in front of three less-than-receptive judges. But even this sole saving grace wears thin after 2 or 3 episodes. There comes a point when you’ve simply had enough of bad singers and hopeless dancers and screaming Dions and you start wondering why people like that have been allowed to live this long instead of being aborted upon conception. As if watching Americans embarrass themselves wasn’t bad enough, next month will see the debut of (shock shock horror horror) Singapore Idol… I wonder how many Malay rappers will try their luck. Maybe we’ll be treated to a few pock-faced 5566/F4 wannabe ah bengs. Or the ah pek selling rojak downstairs may decide that Elvis hasn’t yet left the building. The possibilities terrify me.
Anyway, my mom demanded that I let them watch the accursed program in the living room since it was the final and all, even though there’s a TV in my sis’s room. Needless to say, I grunted my disapproval. After all, they already knew who the winner would be. To this, I was subtly informed that I was a grouch (“You’re such a grouch”). The purpose of watching the show now was not to find out who the winner would be, but to observe the “reactions” all round. Yes, the unabashed joy of a fame hungry person fulfilling her fame hungry desires and the congratulatory die-you-bitch hug from the unfortunate runner-up. We love this stuff, don’t we?
After the menial work, thinking the worst was over, I flicked on the PS2 not knowing that it was American Idol night. Again. This is one of those shows whose popularity boggles me. Ok, so the first few episodes are entertaining. You get more than your fair share of screechy, fat, ugly, tone deaf, can’t sing-can’t dance-and-proud-of-it buffoons slugging it out in front of three less-than-receptive judges. But even this sole saving grace wears thin after 2 or 3 episodes. There comes a point when you’ve simply had enough of bad singers and hopeless dancers and screaming Dions and you start wondering why people like that have been allowed to live this long instead of being aborted upon conception. As if watching Americans embarrass themselves wasn’t bad enough, next month will see the debut of (shock shock horror horror) Singapore Idol… I wonder how many Malay rappers will try their luck. Maybe we’ll be treated to a few pock-faced 5566/F4 wannabe ah bengs. Or the ah pek selling rojak downstairs may decide that Elvis hasn’t yet left the building. The possibilities terrify me.
Anyway, my mom demanded that I let them watch the accursed program in the living room since it was the final and all, even though there’s a TV in my sis’s room. Needless to say, I grunted my disapproval. After all, they already knew who the winner would be. To this, I was subtly informed that I was a grouch (“You’re such a grouch”). The purpose of watching the show now was not to find out who the winner would be, but to observe the “reactions” all round. Yes, the unabashed joy of a fame hungry person fulfilling her fame hungry desires and the congratulatory die-you-bitch hug from the unfortunate runner-up. We love this stuff, don’t we?
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