If you are one of those who still has any doubt about my exclusive revelations from the set of American Idol, surely, after the exit of the crushed, cravated Michael Johns, you cannot suggest that I am dreaming on.
Of course, in order to avoid the legal and physical attentions of Idol henchpersons, some of whom make inbreds look like fashion models, I am forced to write in a code that I know many of you have already picked up on.
For those who only choose to take me literally, you will remember that last week I predicted that Michael Johns would be singing “Nowhere Man.”
The hint was in the title. For Mr. Johns was, as the Eagles might have put it, already gone.
It is not for me to suggest that those who sit on high predetermine the departure of certain performers slightly before miserable women in their forties pick up their phones and try to remember how to text IDOL 04.
However, there has, for those with a commercial eye, been something of a symmetry in the names chosen for Ryan Seacrest’s sensitive guillotine.
If you ran a show that never actually revealed any of the voting numbers, you too would feel that you had the freedom to announce whatever you wished.
It is called, in television land, the Robert Mugabe Principle.
And the purpose behind the show, which might loosely be described as infinite lucre, needs certain outcomes to guarantee a certain outcome.
(Please think of Taylor Hicks as an unrepeateable hiccup.)
Over the years, the controllers have actually made mistakes. But only in their judgement of what will or won’t sell.
Now, they have embraced the alacrity of being able to use iTunes to see what is immediately flying off the screens of bored office workers.
And though you might have thought that Michael Johns was selling a lot last week, this was far too late for someone who had simply no defined, saleable personality. At least in the Clap of the Gods.
So now we are left with an Angel, a Daughtry, a sub-Whitney (but not a Whitney sub), a Carole King revivalist, a squeaky clean Mindy McCready, a pretty boy folky singer and an Irish loud girl with an inside track.
Each has, as they say of the prettiest faces, definition.
I am, indeed, happily familiar with the next stage of the grand survidol plan (have you seen those ratings performing a pretty impersonation of the Thunder Mountain Railway?).
And I will, should you wish me to, be revealing my evocation of the Mariah Carey song choices shortly.
Hey, Chris Sligh. Meet Michael. Michael Johns. Michael, meet Chris. He’s just released a new album. Yeah. Have you heard it?
The Pond thanks shygantic for his visual rigger.