Man, I’m looking forward to the end of “American Idol.” I don’t know how much more false empathy I can muster. Although the show has its entirely unexpected pleasures — Priscilla Presley being this week’s. I notice they never showed her in anything tighter than a long-medium shot, and that was a wise choice. She really is frightful-looking.
And what a tragedy. That woman was a rare beauty, and now…this. I’ve always thought being born beautiful was like being born rich — something over which you have no control, but unquestionably a real born-on-third-base deal. I know both situations have their downside, but ultimately, if you ask yourself, “Would I trade the set of problems attached to being rich/beautiful for the set of problems attached to being poor/ugly?” — the answer is obvious. Looks, like money, fade with time. Priscilla Presley’s 60 years old, a grandmother, financially fixed for this and five more lifetimes, has no discernible “career” to maintain, so, you know, come to terms with a few wrinkles. If you choose to turn yourself into The Joker, well, too bad.
And I can’t believe Chris went home last night. I had him at 5-2 to win the whole thing. Now it’s an Elliott/Taylor finale, IF THERE’S A JUST GOD IN THE HEAVENS, and we can all stop yakking about this in two weeks.
Someone else asked what I thought of “Big Love,” now that it’s in the homestretch. Verily, it hath grown on me. As a lifelong Midwesterner, where there are so few Mormons they’re probably outnumbered by Hare Krishnas, I find the look at that culture interesting. (Oh, I know that polygamy isn’t LDS-approved, not anymore; I’m talking about the general vibe.) I love the outfits, especially at the Compound. I’m queered by how barnyard-y the whole polygamous-in-the-suburbs scene is. But I like how the show, which I feared would ultimately sell polygamy as an alternative lifestyle, is pretty honest about how much it really sucks, along with whatever pleasures it might hold. Three squabbling women trying desperately to get the attention of the grumpy sperm fountain who lives among, but not with, any of them — it’s not my idea of family, but then, I’m no fundamentalist latter-day saint.
My favorite question about LDS was from the daffy wife in “Angels in America.” Paraphrasing, “If our divine angel was named Moroni, why are we Mormons? Why aren’t we Morons?”