Frustrated with the current crop of Republican presidential hopefuls? You’re not alone. But local actor Frank Licari, director of the Atlantic Academy of the Arts and host of televised talent competition “Recreating a Legend,” has taken his angst to song. And like many current “American Idol” contestants, he’s involved Adele.

http://www.youtube.com/embed/bVN6RFis7E8

Behold “Someone Other Than Newt,” in which Frank gets all moody and black and white-musey in front of a body of water, and ponders the possibility that someone besides Mr. Gingrich get the nomination. It’s funny, timely and calls to mind some of Weird Al’s best wordplays. Funny knows no ideology.

And it wasn't even his audition.

“Where were you when it all started?” a sober placard at  the beginning of “American Idol”‘s first episode of 2012 asked? Well, ten years ago, when the then-crazy sounding talent show started, I was in my living room in York, Pa., asking my roommate “Are you watching this?”

Yeah, she was, and 10 years later that crazy talent show has become one of the things people ask me the most about, besides whether I am Macy Gray. Which I still am not.

So now I sit in my living room in Lake Worth, 10 years older, and find that, just like in “Dazed and Confused,” I keep getting older and the contestants stay the same age. Actually, they seem like zygotes. Tiny singing showbiz zygotes. David Leathers, Jr., or as his friends call him “Mr. Steal Your Girl” (?), is the first one we see in Savannah. He’s wearing sunglasses and a tie, and his confidence, and boast to have won against last year’s winner Scotty McCreary in a previous competition, means he’s either the best thing ever or a sad singing shame.

And…he’s fabulous. Good for you, Zygote in a Tie.  In an unrelated note, Steven’s theme for today seems to be Cross Dressing Pimp. It’s an odd choice, but we salute you for your commitment. And I think I have that lipstick.
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We all know that Simon Cowell’s boasts about how the American version of “The X Factor” was gonna eat “American Idol”‘s lunch and then hit it in the head with its own lunchpail didn’t quite come to fruition, ratings-wise, but the show certainly maintained a viewership and, most importantly, a pop culture buzz.

Are you ready for some "Idol?"

So as Cowell’s old show returns to FOX for its season opener, one wonders (well, at least this one does) whether it can keep its own ratings excitement going this year, without some new twists. (I would like to propose Exile Island, where they exile JLo and keep her there until she can stop self-promoting and give a daggone straight criticism after Hollywood Week.) But as far as I know, it’s status quo, with the same judges, same host and same Clown Town auditions – for you newbies to my “Idol” blogs, that’s my name for the early city auditions when idiots show up dressed as kung fu chickens or what have you. I find it awful filler, and I don’t love watching delusional idiots with over-indulgent parents losing their crap on TV. I can see that in the food court in the Boca Mall.

Also, I wonder what the fact of “The Voice” will do to “Idol” – I love the former show because they’ve already narrowed the field to the people who can legitimately sing and those who sing even better. We don’t have to deal with the idiots. I know some people like that because it works for “Idol.” But “The Voice” and its success has shown that some also like just focusing on the excitement of weeding the most talented from the talent pool.

So … what do you guys think? You watching it this year?

As an aging Gen-Xer who as of late has become something of a pop culture curmudgeon — “Stop remaking our movies and songs and get your own, hipstersnappers! And stay off my lawn or I’ll Wang Chung your butt!” — I wa slightly fearful when my editor hipped me to “Tim Tebow’s Fire,” ’80′s singer John Parr’s Tebow-specific update of his own Number 1 hit “St. Elmo’s Fire.”

(Cultural note for those under 35 — St. Elmo’s Fire was a movie starring a bunch of then-young actors dubbed The Brat Pack, including Charlie Sheen’s brother, Ashton Kutcher’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Meredith Grey’s dead stepmother from Grey’s Anatomy and Chris Traeger from Parks and Recreation. It was about the difficulty of being middle-class, gorgeous Georgetown graduates in a Reagan-era world that just didn’t give breaks to people like them. Snerk.)

Apparently Parr, whose other big hit was the inspirationally smutty “Naughty Naughty” (Sample lyrics: “Naughty naughty, cute and horny, t-t-t-tease me”) was inspired by Tebow’s convictions and the way he plays them out on the field and off. So he adapted “St. Elmo’s Fire,” whose original version was inspired by Canadian athlete Rick Hansen, who traveled the world in his wheelchair to bring attention to spinal cord injuries. He swapped out some of the lyrics for more appropriate Tebow-esque phrases, using “All I need is my Broncos team” rather than “All I need is a pair of wheels.”
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Ladies, is this guy worth your dignity?

I believe it was late singer/owner of the world’s most fabulous blow-out Jermaine Stewart who said in his seminal “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off” - ”So come on baby, won’t you show some class? Why you wanna move so fast?”

It is in the memory of Jermaine and his hair that I dedicate this to the toned, tanned datetestants of the new season of “The Bachelor”: “Oh, come on ladies, won’t you show some class? On TV drunk off of your…”

Well, you get it.

Just wish these grown women who come looking for a modeling career, umm.. a future reality show …wait,a story to relate back to the Mothership love got it too. Which is that you have less chance finding true love on a game show stocked with booze, jealousy and crazy wenches as you do finding a parking space at the gym on January 2.

I did some stupid things to find love in my 20s and 30s – it was literally in the papers. Once or twice it certainly involved tipsy declarations of love or attraction while trying to stand up. But the one thing I never did was let somebody tape me being drunk and declarative and put it on TV. That I know of. Certainly no releases were signed saying “Please, record me being a crazy drunken obsessive cow.” Any tapes of me being a drunken obsessive cow were recorded without my permission. And if there are some out there – I swear, there couldn’t be many but it only takes one.

Besides the obvious issues of voluntarily appearing as the most ridiculous, pathetic version of yourself, when you have to go back to your life with your same friends, and your same face and name, with everyone knowing what a jerk you made of yourself, let me give you beautiful, tiny, coiffed young things some advice. (In my day I would say I want to drop some knowledge on you, but then saying that without irony would make me seem even older.)

You cannot, as one of the sad sisters on the show said, plan to come on a TV game show and fall in love with some stranger who only know from watching him on TV being dumped by some other sad sister. I mean, you can plan it all you want. But there is absolutely no guarantee that this will happen, apparently when you’re basically one out of a live mail order bride collection, a zoo where a guy can pick whichever drunken exotic creature happens to fall out of her cage in front of him. As D.L. Hughley once said about bill collectors, you can expect payment any time you want. But that doesn’t mean you’re gonna get it.

I looked for love in all the wrong places, in the right places at the wrong time, and in some places in some circuses with clowns whose existence I disavow all knowledge of, just like in “Mission Impossible” but with cocktails and desperation. And when I found it, all I was looking for was a  drink with a high school classmate I hadn’t seen in 20 years. It just found me, unexpectedly and crazily, at maybe the one moment I wasn’t looking for it.  (Of course, I was in my late 30s, with no interest in applying for a dating game show – and very few of these shows seemed to be looking for not-skinny middle-aged black women, so it wasn’t probably a career option.)

All that I’m saying is that if you’re really looking for love up in there, it’s probably not gonna happen for you. And if you’re looking for a career as a professional reality show contestant, then you’re still competing in a sea of crazy. And to be the next “Bachelorette,” you have to actually get close enough to develop real feelings for the guy and get your heart dented, if not broken when you gets dumped. Is this really why you or your folks paid for grad school? Is this really how your young kids want their mom to be seen? CAN YOU LOOK YOUR GRANDMA IN THE FACE? (Or, in the case of the woman who actually brought her Grandma with her, would she be proud of having been publicly associated with you?)

All in all, you don’t have to take your dignity off to have a good time. Jermaine and his hair told me to tell you.

Don't cross her. She has a Twitter account.

I am almost loathe to write about this, because the feedback could be brutal. But I must.

Apparently, some Dutch fashion magazine called Jackie thought it would be nifty and funny to do a fashion spread about how to dress just like Rihanna. I know lots of people who would love to dress like Rihanna. But they might not want to if they knew that dressing that way makes them look like a – and I was not aware that this was a thing- a “n—ab—h”. Yes. That happened. And Rihanna is apparently “the ultimate n—ab—-h”.

The red-headed wonder was shockingly not thrilled about this achievement, and rather than asking that this be placed on a plaque, sent a profane Tweet to the editors of Jackie. While I might not have sent a profane Tweet while trying to prove that I was not low-class or profane or whatever that horrible word is supposed to be, I can’t blame the girl for being mad. Because they called her a … y’all, I’m not even gonna type that anymore, because it’s hard to type and because it’s stupid. How do you not know that’s offensive? Ack!

The best part of this is the response of the magazine. The editor responsible for the story quit, saying that she was sorry that she hadn’t realized that it was OK to call somebody that, and that it was a joke. Ha Ha. And then the publishers wrote a statement saying that, essentially, they were sorry that their now former editor had apologized, because they aren’t racist, and they didn’t do anything wrong and “they will not be silenced.”

Oh, lighten up, Jackie. No one’s burning down your office or stealing your printing press. They just said that they reserved their right to be offended by something offensive you said. Funny how that happens. And your editor quit because she made a joke whose blowback she couldn’t handle. You have every right to say offensive things. And we have every right not to like it. Funny how that works.

And as for the blog commentors who have said “Well, rappers say that all that time”:

- That doesn’t mean you have to.

- It’s ignorant no matter who says it, no matter what race they are. Or what gender. I have never even heard that phrase written that way, although those two unfortunate words are found all through hip-hop. And they’re ugly. No matter who says them. So stop. I don’t care if you’re a rapper, a rocker, a blogger or just someone who likes pushing people’s buttons. You say that, someone is likely to fight back. This is how it works.

- Stop hiding behind other people’s ignorance. I am not thin-skinned for being offended by something that anyone with sense might know was offensive.

So one more time. That’s a bad word. If you didn’t know that , it is. Don’t call anybody that, OK? You don’t have to ask anyone else. I don’t speak for black people, or women, or black women, or the easily offended, very often. But on this I feel confident about saying definitively. DON’T EVER SAY THAT TO ANYONE.

You’re welcome!

Enda didn’t do a whole heck of a lot during her season on “Survivor,” other than stick close to Coach and try not to get voted off. But her brief speech during Final Tribal Council, as seen on last night’s finale, might as well be bronzed on a plaque above every future tribe’s camp, along with the head of whoever decided “Redemption Island” was a good idea.

Basically, she said this: Why are you sitting around mortally offended by people who outwitted, outplayed and outlasted you, through the use of secrets, obsfucation and sometimes out and out lies, when you signed up for a game when those are the unwritten rules? If you were a better liar, you might be up there about to win a million dollars, too, so being mad at them is dumb. You WISH you were that good at lying - I believe the kinder word she used was “duping” – so taking this so personally makes you look like a boxer who stepped into the ring and wondered why that mean man was hitting him.

In other words: Don’t hate the “Survivor” players. Hate the “Survivor” game. And if you do, don’t play it.

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Bryan Callen’s set at The Palm Beach Improv on Saturday night was a reminder that physical comedy is about much more than falling funny. It’s about turning ones entire body into a prop, telling your story in the way you contort your face, the direction of your arms, a deliberate but exaggerated crouch. When done sloppily, it’s an ill-defined party trick, either a distraction from the joke or the signal that there wasn’t much of a joke to begin with.

But when physical comedy is in the hands, arms and admirably elastic face of Bryan Callen, it’s exciting, like a master class in pairing goofiness with what must be incredibly practiced and choreographed movements. There’s a bit at the very end, where he does a slow-motion recreation of a fantasy beheading, on horseback, of carolers set to music. Don’t ask. You’d have to see it. As absurd as the premise is, even when you know what’s coming, it’s fun watching Callen actually enact it, from a magnificently over-the-top whack to his own butt as he rides his imaginary steed toward caroler-slaying glory, to the exaltation, in a bizarro-world Antonia Banderas way, of his task.

And it makes it all look fun and natural, because you never see the bones. You only see the fun.

Callen is known for the “Hangover” movies and “MADtv,” among other things, seems like a genial sort – he told a fun story at the end about how “Sexiest Man Alive” Bradley Cooper cheerfully photographed him with “MADtv” fans in an airport when Callen was the one recognized. And his very likable spirit infuses some of his most absurdist bits, like a stretch on sex noises that never quite seemed as disgusting as it should have, with an “Oh, you scamp!” flavor. He’s a naughty kid, but a smart naughty kid. And he’s super fun to watch.

Chewbacca would have told these children the meaning of "Do They Know It's Christmas" if they'd just asked. So sad.

OK, “Glee.” Enjoying the holiday special, and especially the Linus-esque touch of having the Irish kid read the Biblical Nativity story … but this cranky Gen-Xer asks that if the bright shiny little girls sing The Waitresses’ “Christmas Wrapping,” you can’t just sing the first verse about the girl not ever meeting the guy. The end where she meets him again in the store is the point. Don’t steal our stuff if you can’t get it right.

And another thing … you CANNOT smile during the most guilt-inducing parts of “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” That song is all about Western privilege and guilt. Grinning while singing “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime” makes it appear that you aren’t paying attention to the words you’re singing, and that’s just silly. So leave my generational toys in the box if you don’t know how to treat them.

On an upbeat note…LOVED the festive holiday sweaters. But just be more careful. And stay off my lawn.

Love,

A Bitter Aging Former Hip Person

I know the world in its current economic state is a leaner, meaner, less stardusty place, but is that any reason to be materialistic, ungrateful, present-grubbing brats? And to take  that out on Santa Claus? He’s a jolly old elf, dagnabit!

Remember in the beginning of the recession, when commercials  were all about celebrating sacrifice, and hard-working, typically American values and the hidden joys of tightening our belts? Well, forget that! Maybe we’re in some sort of recovery, but we’ve gone straight from sacrifice to soul-sucking obnoxiously. On Ebay ads, one young girl sings a carol telling her family where they can shove their homemade gifts and that they can save the sentiment and buy her  good stuff, while another condescendingly disses her mom’s sweet offer of admittedly dowdy jeans while she buys another hipper pair. Just say you don’t like them. Don’t make someone offering you a gift look like an idiot. And as for Christmas carol girl…how about I just save money and don’t get your ungrateful butt anything? Who is the desired demographic they’re marketing to? Jerks?

And over in Best Buy land, two seperate ladies are enjoying the freedom of the megastore’s selection so much that they’re making it into a competition…with Santa, delivering Yuletide yo mama’s to the jolly old elf. Not that he ever did anything to them besides bring wrapped gifts to their home. But rather than, say, slipping him a Best Buy coupon or trying to write him in advance to gently refuse his services, they’re waiting up for him like suburban ninjas. They’re throwing out  verbal trash-talking ninja stars. And they’re so smug about it. It’s…ugly. Again…this is the customer  you want? Moms who take their “Toddlers and Tiaras”-style  agression out on an ancient international holiday icon?

I ranted about this on my Facebook page today, and most everyone agreed that these ads are crazy mean-spirited, although a few people indentified with the parents who are able to now take the credit for their gift-buying savvy rather than give the credit to Santa. I get that. But…don’t be a jerk about it.

After all – he can get into your house without a key. And sees you when you’re sleeping. This is not a man you can afford to make mad with your pettiness. Just buy the gift and move on.