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.

16-year-old Gabi Carrubbaof Connecticut tells us she’s been dancing since she was a year old in her diapers. Sometimes, that means you’re talented, and sometimes that might just mean that the diaper is about to do its job, you know? She gets some points for hugging Nigel “Dancey Pants” Lythgoe first, making Pimpster make that weird orgasmic duck face he does when he really loves something. She also makes short work of Maroon 5′s “Sunday Morning” and was born to be on a slow jam mix tape. Enya, Sarah Maclachlan and Dido, make her a pot of tea and welcome her to the mellow club.

A long string of talented tinies (Why are they all so young, except for one 28-year-old? Is no one over 20 allowed to have vocal chords anymore?) are seen, meaning that we’re being set up for something hideous. You know it. It’s going to. And you’re gonna want to vomit, or laugh and point and mock. Or perhaps all three.

And…it’s young, sad Jessica Whitely, who claims to sing at a lot of sporting events. Apparently at events that some benevolent cousin organizes and gives her spots in, because girl screams like she’s being strangled with a bullhorn. “You let my horrible cousin sing the anthem again, or I swear to God I’m not telling you where the fuse box is!” She claims to be dehydrated, but water would not make that better. She takes her rejection well, but says “I’ll see you in Texas,” leaving the judges to panic like “Wait, what did she say? Is she coming back? Can we move Texas, or perhaps tell her that the state is closed?”

She’s a clown. And she’s coming to your town. Y’all should move.

Seacrest look-alike Shawn Kraisman wears a coat and tie and looks like a member of a boy band made up of Secret Service agents. If he can’t hack it here, he should maybe start one. Man, they do look alike. This is disturbing. Make it stop. Sing or don’t kid, because I’m starting to believe that there WAS some sort of government conspiracy that took some of Seacrest’s DNA, kept it in a lab and…he’s doing the Chi-Lites. He’s not bad. But in that way that makes you sad because if he had some lessons or resolved a note once in a while, he could have been better. He doesn’t make it, and we’re spared from a whole season of “Mister Mister,” a reverse-race version of “Sister, Sister” about twins who sing and insist on hosting everything.

Shannon Magrane is the tall volleyball playing daughter 1987 World Series pitcher Joe Magrane. Dad’s still hot. Love when that happens. No, Steven did not just say to a huge baseball player that his 15-year-old girl is “hot, humid and happening.” When he’s dressed like, to paraphrase “The Boondocks,” A Pimp Named Talkback. Does he think before he speaks? Of course not, which is part of his weird little charm, I suppose. I imagine it gets him beat up alot. But he’s a charming little innappropriate man. And she’s got a great bluesy voice, which mean Big Daddy doesn’t have to beat Steven up. And the world is as it should be.

I love Savannah – somewhere, right now, Paula Deen is holding a stick of butter at The Lady and Sons and figuring out how to fry it in lard, put it on some greens and call it dinner. (And delicious.)

Clown Town reel. They’re not making me give them more attention than they’ve already gotten. Their parents have done enough.

Someone who could use some support of…somebody….anybody…is Amy Brumfield, who lives in a tent in the woods with her boyfriend because they can’t afford to live anywhere else. Wow, that’s sad. Her voice, however, give me chills. It’s a quiet, strong, soulful, unadorned instrument, and I want to cry. “The spirit of the children of the woods snuck into you,” Steven say encouragingly. Isn’t there a bad horror movie about that? Should we call a priest? Anyway, she’s in. Hope she does well.

Joshua  Chavis has left his nerves out in the lobby with his boyfriend, along with his common sense – he’s yelling and beating up walls and inciting that cat yowl sound they play. His voice is out there, too. Oh Lord. Was this ever funny, this delusional thing when the producers encourage untalented fools to come back three times or something just to be part of a gag reel where the gag is on them? He’s not even remarkably bad, just bad, and I get the weary feeling that they have to have bad singers so bad that no one in a chicken suit showed up the first day and they went “What do we have? Effeminate backwards baseball cap-wearing Southern kid who loves JLo? He’ll do. Until a chicken comes in.”

He’s not the worst singer, but he’s the worst loser, crying into the phone and cussing out the camera. That’s ugly, man. Don’t be ugly.

Carrie Underwood enthusiast Stephanie Renaeis wearing the world’s sparkliest pink shirt and is singing that horrible “Inside Your Heaven” song, one of the worst Idol songs ever recorded. And that’s before Kara showed up! It’s…OK. I hate those nasal baby teen pageant voices, because it’s like they’re not baked yet. Steven says yes, Randy says no, and Jennifer says yet. Meh. Randy thinks she needs lessons, and he’s right. Can we give her lessons before we have to see her again? Because that’s working my last nerve, and Joshua Chavis and his hissy fit are still on it. Someone’s gotta get off it, because otherwise my husband and cat are gonna have a bad spring.

Schyler Dixon, who auditioned with her brother Colton last year, has returned. He made it almost all the way but has decided not to do it this year and let his sister have the spotlight. And the stupid judges reward his chivalry by making her audition all about him. MARCIA MARCIA MARCIA! That was painful. You can almost smell the therapy. She has a beautiful voice, but then they encourage Colton, who has said he doesn’t want to do this, to sing (they didn’t have to push that hard, honestly.) I hope his sister is OK with this. He’s like One RepColton. She looks like she wants to throw darts at him. Her smile is heartbreaking…Oh Geezy is this really happening??? Are they actually giving him a better review at her audition? This is so innappropriate. They let them both through, and Schyler goes off to write a rock opera “Daggone Stupid Brother.”

That was NOT OK.

Shouldn’t someone be really bad about now?

Yes, there they are! But not on my blog! They’re all crying and I feel bad. But it doesn’t mean I want to know them.

Lauren Minkhas an awesome job with folks with intellectual disabilities. She’s 25, and as an old person I really hope she’s good, because the zygotes are winning. It shouldn’t be a competition…wait! It is! I kinda love her. She’s does “Country Strong” better than Gwyneth Paltrow, which only annoys me because it reminds me that “Country Strong,” the movie, exists, and I wish it didn’t. Randy is right that she has a Jennifer Nettles thing about her. Adorable.

We’re here on the second day of Atlanta, and it’s apparently wicked hot, which is just  the right temperature for some fried catfish with hot sauce. Don’t fight the heat. Embrace it and serve it with some hushpuppies, like my grandma would have.

Oh, now they’re making fun of Mawuena Kodjo, a sweet kid from Togo who has a thick accent and sings country. This is probably gonna be slightly xenophobic and suck. And it sure is!  Yuck. Again, it’s kinda evil that someone encouraged this nice-seeming kid, who appears to be so earnest, to come back eighty times to be made fun of. It’s awful. He’s so tone-deaf that tone deaf is filing a defamation law suit. Oh dear. I love that some people believe this is still the land of opportunity, even in this economy, but unles you daddy can buy you some AutoTune, it can’t give you a singing voice. Seacrest, who I no longer love, takes him out for further humiliation – I love the sweet older man in the trucker cap who helpfully says “Are you a runner?” as if to say “Sweet boy, is there anything else you can do?”

The folks on the sidewalk want him to go to Hollywood, probably because that means he won’t be there in Savannah singing at them. This was ugly, Idol. I don’t love you right now.

Ashlee Altise invented a move called the Joy Hop. This could go either way. This much confidence is usually rewarded with the Clown Reel. Step lightly, Confident One. Wait…she’s amazing, with a soulful “Come Together.” She’s got too much personality for this show. They’ll throw tacks in her way and stop her Joy Hop tires. It’s gonna happen.

And…more badness. Bye! Go home now. Learn a skill. Feed some orphans. Most importantly,  GO HOME.

W. H. Thompson, from Appomattox, is unemployed, having quit his job at the Federal prison to come on “Idol.” His wife is six months pregnant. If he’s not good, I’m gonna be very sad. He’s pretty good, if not completely faithful to a key. Steven thinks he isn’t ready, JLo likes him and Randy…please don’t do this to me on the first day, Jackson. He gets through! Yay! My husband and cat survive another night without having tea thrown at them.

There’s a “Young girls love Steven Tyler” reel and it’s skeeving me out because…STOP. Lawsuits are standing by. Erica Nowak, who says he’s her future ex-husband, gives him a butt squeeze. She has one of those shouty voices that might be mistaken for a singing voice but actually isn’t. It’s not singing. It’s pretending. Like pretending that 16-year-olds think Steven Tyler is hot.

Next up to be ogled is NBA dancer and Blake Lively/Carrie Underwood hybrid Brittany Kerr. She’s got a solid Joss Stone voice, but doesn’t blow me away. She needs more emphasis. To his credit, Tyler refuses to take the gross flirty bait from JLo, and gives her the nod without touching her. JLo wasn’t feeling her, which makes me think they decided when they saw this tall pretty girl that someone had to say no to give drama, or that JLo doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Either are possible.

Let’s round it out with pawn shop scion Phillip Phillips, whose parents must hate him for giving him that name. Wait, that’s his dad’s name too, and apparently he was like “I’m not gonna be alone in this forever. Welcome to your name, boy. Get used to the confused looks now.”

He wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t fill every space with some weird drunk scat. Wait…it got better. Take a breath and slow down. My cat is singing back to him, and that makes me love him. Now, he’s doing acoustic bluesy “Thriller” and I want to adopt him and give him a better name. Please love him, judges, because my cat likes him, and like it or not, she’s stuck in this thing, too, because she can’t afford her own place and she doesn’t have a tent.

And…he’s in. Love it. I haven’t hated life yet! Must be better talent, better editing, or my fast foward button. But my spirit has all year to be broken. You know it’s gonna happen.

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.”

The result is fairly cheesy but earnestly uplifting, just like the original. Parr’s voice doesn’t seem to go as high as it did in 1985, but the arrangement and the emotion are just as shamelessly soaring as when Parr’s song was inspiring athletes of all abilities, and navel-gazing yuppies everywhere. Whether you like it depends largely on whether you liked the original, and whether you like Tim Tebow. And if you require that your pop culture have some sort of hipster ironic twist, look elsewhere. There’s nothing but sweet, unblinking sincerity up in here.

Can you feel it burning?

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.

Sophie’s win last night was an exhiliarating ending to a frustrating season. I think it was marred by two features that I wished they’d get rid of: Returning players, whose experience with playing the game gives them an unfair advantage and also hogs all the camera time; and Redemption Island, which not only removes a player from the game so long often that they have no interaction with the rest of the tribe and can’t be seen as anything but a threat, but gives the longest Redemption dwellers time to just hang out, fish, eat and get strong for challenges.

I adored Sophie – I liked her edginess. She was a little condescending, but so was Coach. So was Albert. So was Ozzy…a lot. So for him to throw that at her was hilarious to me. I loved her answer to Probst, that she’d been encouraged to be confident all of her life, from Girl Scouts onward, and to apologize for that, especially since it just won her a million bucks, was silly. She allowed that her quiet observation sometimes could be interpreted as standoffish, but it was what it was. And I loved that she referred to Coach as the young girl in this situation, as in the person she could align herself with who would likely never vote her out, who felt they needed her for something. It made sense.

Sophie’s win also should shut up the misogynists who think that the only way a woman can win is by flirting (Pavarti) or riding coattails (Natalie). I defend both of those wins, because they got people to write down their names for a million bucks. It worked. Can’t be mad at that. But Sophie didn’t flirt, and while she was in Coach’s alliance, she won three immunity challenges, including the crucial final one, all on her own.

Here’s a couple of observations about this season, before we get ready for the next one. Just can’t quit this show:

- BE CAREFUL ABOUT USING YOUR RELIGION OR HONOR AS YOUR GAME: The basic fact of the lying and scheming you have to do to excel in “Survivor” seemingly precludes seriously trumpeting your honor, integrity or “word as a Christian man” as your bond. Come on. Thinking that honor can exist with strategy that might include lying and dishonor means you’re either naive or a dishonorable liar. And as for the praying and overt Christianity – I pray every day. I consider myself a Christian. And if I were going to take that seriously, as in sticking to the letter of what “Survivor” was, I might not be able to be on this show, unless I was going to stick some of those tenets on the back burner and straighten it out with God later. I guess that’s your choice, between you and whatever God you do or don’t believe in. I am not one of those people who get uncomfortable when players talk about the importance of faith in their lives – Redemption Island Matt, I thought, was moving and genuine. And he never slapped people in the face with his faith as a way to guilt them into pledging on their faith that they wouldn’t screw him over, AND THEN USE THAT SAME HONOR TO SCREW THEM. It’s an insult to both religious people whose faith seems to be used as a parlor trick or a bullying technique, and to the non-religious, who might be bullied by a faith that they do not share. Be whatever you’re gonna be. But don’t abuse it. I don’t believe God cares who wins “Survivor”. But I do believe that he cares if you use him as a blunt instrument in a game show.

- NO MORE HANTZES: Seriously. I don’t care if their grandma is a martial arts specialist and survivalist who says pithy things, or if Stone Cold Steve Austin is a distant cousin. No more with this family. It’s like they couldn’t get Russell back so they throw in the skittish, socially-inept, temptation-obsessed junior version. I feel for Brandon, because he clearly was dealing with a lot of emotional issues that shouldn’t be dealt with on television, or in this sketchy psychological environment. And then we had to deal with that cameo by Brandon’s Annoying Dad and Russell Himself on the reunion. One more time: Russell was the best player who never won, but he never won because he can’t play the social game, people hate him and they’re not gonna give him a million dollars.

Which means he can’t be the best player ever. Maybe he’s the most polarizing ratings-getting player. But not the best player. He never won. Tried three times. Let it go. They may be nice people off-camera, but the Hantzes, as television personalities, are an annoying group of bullies and I hate watching them. If you don’t have faith in your casting folks to find new and compelling characters, get new casting folks. Or just fire Probst and hire Russell so his little beady-eyed arrogance can always be a part of the show. I love when he told Probst  “I brought the game to a level of greatness you can’t comprehend.”

Which part didn’t I comprehend? The part where you lost? Three times?

- NO MORE RETURNING PLAYERS:  What I just said about the Hantzes? It goes ditto for the returnees. Do you notice that there’s always at least one of them in the finale, the last three seasons? That’s because they have so much more experience. The rest of these guys are rookies. Why are you putting them in the ring with a seasoned pro?

- STOP USING THE REUNION TO PROP UP PEOPLE WHO DIDN’T WIN: Ozzy is awesome. We know it. But he didn’t win. Why does Ozzy get a whole segment? I like revisiting people – Cochran’s segment was fun. But Ozzy, and that dang Brandon/Russell combo who collectively are 0 for 4 as a family, got almost as much time as Sophie. Who won.

- I CAN’T WAIT FOR ONE WORLD: Is there gonna be any call back to that NBC Saturday show from the ’90s with the multi-ethnic family of adopted children? No? Can there be?

I love this show. I love the strategy. I love the personalities. And I used to love this show where a bunch of strangers we had never seen before, who all had the same amount of “Survivor” experience, which was none. Att first, glance, we grouped them into categories like jock, grandma, nerd, flirt, and then gauged their chances accordingly. And a lot of times we were wrong, because these people had unknown strengths that we – and maybe not even them – had.

I want that game back.

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.

'X Factor' contestant Rachel Crowe.

So I just watched the clip of 14-year-old singer Rachel Crow sobbing as if she were being sentenced to death or legally barred from ever singing again while voted off of “The X-Factor,” and my initial reaction was that the whole thing smacked of fakery, melodrama, fake melodrama and dumb-dumb sauce.

Because I want to believe that such an amazingly poised, talented little girl, even at her age, would have been coached well enough that even in her disappointment, she wouldn’t crumple to the stage sobbing like a demented rag doll. I want to believe that the entire scene, from Nicole Scherzinger’s award-winning, hand-wringing, eye-dabbing decision over whether to send Rachel or opponent Marcus Canty home, complete with ugly-cry face and shaking like a silent movie damsel, was a ruse. A stupid ruse. But a ruse.

Video: Cowell likens teen singer’s future to that of Jennifer Hudson’s

Because if it was real, and Nicole really reacted to the idea of making a judgement as A JUDGE, and if she truly can’t handle delivering bad news to someone who signed on for this, then she doesn’t need to be a judge. And if little Rachel, even with all of the emotion and pressure and added TV cameras, can’t control herself from acting like her toes were being sheared off by piranhas – at least long enough to get off the stage and then collapse in privacy, then she doesn’t need to be there.

And yeah, yeah…she’s just a kid, and it’s hard and blah blah blah poppycock. Has she never lost anything before? Has she never been told “no” before? Did no one prepare her for the possibility that she would lose, and how to handle it? If not, that’s on her parents, and the show, and her mentors. I expected her to maybe cry, or look disappointed. But to completely lose it like that, to be inconsolable when she, again, was not being taken out to be eaten by wild dogs or made to have a long conversation with Kim Kardashian…yuck.

Do I sound harsh? Maybe. Whatever. The prospect that the whole thing was staged for whatever reason is appalling. But the idea that no one has prepared this very talented little girl for failure, and that the idea that your life is over because you lost a game show is at all being indulged? Grosser.

When she called me today, she reintroduced herself – it had been years – and told me a long, but beautiful story. And she told me who she really is.

Her name is Momma Joy. And in her 14 years as the projectionist at the also-closed Carefree Theatre, she became a surrogate mother, friend, counselor and comrade in the grand cinematic celebration of being different, freaky and proud of it.

And now, she’s moving on. And if you’re one of her kids out there, the ones she came to love while running the show and throwing out lines at Janet, Brad and that sweet transvestite, she wanted me to tell you – “I just wanted them to know,” she says.

Like I said, I didn’t know who she was, so I looked her up. And every message board I saw about the Carefree closing or Rocky Horror, mentioned Momma Joy. Apparently she made quite an impression on those kids. And they, on her.

Joy’s been doing all sorts of things since the Cuillo closed up, but nothing big. She started canning tomatoes, which lead her to make all sorts of delicious things that she’s gonna be selling at a market up in Pennsylvania. She’s bittersweet about it – “So many places I worked are gone. They don’t even exist anymore,” she says, tearing up – and she knows that it’s time to find a new place, and a new life. She’s driving up this weekend, with her sweetie and a bunch of cats – she couldn’t get the kitty tranquilizers on time so they can’t fly.

But she’ll miss West Palm Beach, the memory, and the connection with those kids, who used to come to the Carefree to find a place where someone understood them, where all were united by being lost in the movie, in the glory of celebrating those things that no one else got.

And even though I didn’t know her back then, I wish I had.

We are not these guys. All the time, anyway.

Even before PBPulse.com and its comment pages, we critics here at the Palm Beach Post got critiques – from you. And for the most part, we’re grateful. We want to know when you think we’re not being fair, or that we’re being mean (because sometimes we are. Sometimes deservedly. Sometimes not.)

Your opinion means a lot to us, and we are doing this job for you, to keep you informed and to let you know about things you should either enjoy or avoid.

But…

You knew there was a “but.”

Reviews are opinions. We have them. So do you. “This is a good meal,” or “This is good service” or “This is a sucky concert” are opinions based on our own standards and the facts of those standards. Maybe they aren’t your standards. But it doesn’t mean we’re lying, or stupid, or being paid to hate something (and just who would be paying us to hate something anyway?)

Just because a reporter is not a super fan, or does not always love everything, doesn’t mean that the reporter is biased, paid off or corrupt. Just because a reporter does not agree with you does not mean that they’re wrong. It just means they don’t agree with you, and if you’re a big fan of, say, a restaurant or a pop diva…you’re biased, too. (And the recent suggestion that the reviews on Yelp are never biased is just wrong. You can tell when they’re written by friends and family. Which makes you a great and supportive friend, but a bad source for someone else who just wants a good meal. And that doesn’t help anyone.)

Super fans are biased not to believe any opinions that do not support their fandom and your love of whatever is being reviewed. And hey, we get it. We’re fans too. And sometimes when reviewing something that we really love, we have to be even more careful not to just write “We love it because we love it and it’s awesome.”

So when people write, as someone once did to me about a Goo Goo Dolls show, that only fans should review things, we disagree. It is a reviewer’s job to research the music, have some background, give each performance a fair shake, and to not go into them with preconceived notions – I once sat at a Mariah Carey show where the reviewer from another paper had literally written most of her review before the show ever started. It was a hatchet job that was mean and not reflective of what had happened at the show, and I was embarrassed for her and my profession.

If a professional reviewer must review something they absolutely normally hate, the readers should know (I am not a fan of jam bands or Rush, but when I was full-time reviewing concerts, and it was my job to give the fans of stuff I didn’t like the same consideration as everyone else, I had to review both. So I said “This isn’t usually my thing,” listened to a lot of jam bands and Rush to prepare, and then focused on the good stuff, like the tight musicianship and the crowd reaction.)

But if we hate a show on its own merits, we aren’t doing anybody any favors by lying about it. And we’re gonna say it. So if you expect that every critic in the world is only good because they like what you like, then you’re being unrealistic. If you want to ensure that everything you read will be positive, avoid newspapers and just read fan blogs. Now if, as with a recent review that I didn’t write, it does seem like the writer is just being crabby from the get-go, then you have a point. Otherwise, everyone’s entitled to their opinion. And nobody should lose their job simply because they don’t agree with yours.

A review is supposed to consider the experience of the movie, concert, pizza… whatever… and say “We have been as fair as we can, and we’re telling you what we would want to know if we were considering attending this concert, or buying this pizza. We  would want to know if it’s worth our money and our time, and we think you would, too.” I am in the habit of informing readers if I’m a huge, huge fan of something, like I will when Bryan Adams comes to the Kravis (love, love, love, love). But if he’s late, or if he misses all of his notes, you’ll hear about it. It’ll kill me, but you’ll hear about it.

We want your feedback, and will encourage all of it provided that it’s not obscene or abusive. But before you fire off the very serious charge that a reviewer is being paid off, or biased, or just plain evil, think about it. Think about the meals you have not liked, the concerts that disappointed, the movies that didn’t seem to have a point. Think of the honest reviews that you gave your friends, your co-workers, the people on your blog. Now think about the people who loved those things. Don’t you want them to give you the benefit of the doubt without yelling at you? Being yelled at is part of my job and I can take it. But before you write, think — am I being fair? Is there any proof that this reviewer is lying? Am I just trying to protect this singer, this restaurant, this movie I love? And just because we don’t agree, does that mean I can curse them out?

Well, of course you can. But should you?

Pretty people in love. Yay!

SPOILER ALERT: Plot details about a 9-year-old movie.

One of the best things about being home sick, besides all that attractive hacking and coughing, is getting to enjoy my pay cable channels in the middle of the day, when they play random movies I’d forgotten about. And between NyQuil naps, I like to reacquaint myself with them over a bowl of soup and a box of tissues. And also my cat, who gets anxious that my presence is wrecking whatever dastardly things she does when I’m not around. I’m onto you, furry beast.

Today’s movie was 2002′s “Brown Sugar,” a cute, if sorta light, rom-com that I saw when I first came to the Palm Beach Post. It had all of my requirements – romance, Taye Diggs, a great soundtrack and Taye Diggs. You might remember this from the Sanaa Lathan era, when black people got to star in romantic comedies without sassy grandmas in drag and such, but with plenty of middle class folks with nice homes and good jobs, and it wasn’t about gangsters or violence or hos. (Not preaching. Just saying.)

It’s pretty obvious from the time the credits roll that Sid (Lathan) and Dre (Taye), two lifelong friends in love with hip-hop and, secretly, each other, are gonna wind up together. That’s what happens in these movies. But I liked that it was about something besides goofy single women and the hot men they’re obviously into – the shared love of hip-hop. It celebrated the poetry and the art of the words and their marriage with the beat, the memories of standing on a street corner watching guys that looked just like you create a symphony with just their minds and their mouths. And it was openly disdainful of ‘ho and gun music. Gotta love that.

Also, I love any movie where TAYE DIGGS, one of the prettiest pretties that ever prettied, is presented as the ordinary, sensible choice. Then again, he’s being put up against Boris Kodjoe, who’s so stunning he makes you just shake your head and go “What happened there? How did this even happen? HOW DOES SOMEONE GET TO LOOK THAT GOOD?” But we all know that Boris’ dazzling shaved head and soulful eyes won’t hold a candle to Tre in the end because:

1) Dre and Sid are obviously meant for each other;

2) Because Taye Diggs doesn’t do second banana in these sorts of movies.

I love “Brown Sugar” for a lot of the same reasons I like all rom-coms: It makes me feel good, the people are pretty, and for two hours I get to imagine living in a Brooklyn brownstone with exposed brick and professionally decorated rooms inhabited by people with personal stylists on speed dial. It’s sick day CRACK people, because the only decorator up in this piece today is the cat when she moves the tissue around.

Last night’s tour opener for Def Leppard and Heart at Cruzan Amphitheatre was decidedly NOT one of those shows. Arms were raised, feet were stomped, heads were banged and air guitars were enthusiastically strummed. And it’s not just that the audience went rogue — it was by command.

“It’s like, for the next eight minutes, you’re part of the band!” explained Def Leppard lead singer Joe Elliott, during a well-received acoustic set done on a wee stage extended into the crowd. Both his band and Heart, fronted as always by power sisters Ann and Nancy Wilson, have the distinction of never having to have staged a reunion tour, because they never broke up, never stopped rocking.

There are some that will label such acts as guilty pleasures. Believe this — there was no guilt at this show. There was no one looking around their expensive beer sheepishly regretting being there. It was all a proud, loud celebration of the hair or the car you used to have, the things you used to do or the people you knew when “Never” or “Photograph” or “Barracuda” or “Pour Some Sugar On Me” came out. It’s not high art, whatever that means. But it’s solidly and enthusiastically played by people who’ve been mastering the craft of cultivating and keeping an audience, there on the edge of their seats. Or, more appropriately, on the soles of their feet.

Heart went first, with an initially awkward mix in the speakers, but a fiery vocal from Ann Wilson that started amazing and ended somewhere way up into superlatives that don’t exist. Her voice is effortless. Soaring. Strong. Gorgeous. Powerful. Cutting. Sublime. I have seen the Fergies and the Carries of the world attempt to copy what she does, and while they give it a good try, they don’t have her electricity. From “Never” to the blistering “Crazy on You” and the insane “Barracuda,” she proved why she possesses the best rock vocal instrument that isn’t Robert Plant’s. Yes. I’m stating that. Sister Nancy, known more for her guitar work than her singing, took the lead on the lovely, lovely acoustic hug of “These Dreams.” Fantastic.

After a lengthy intermission, the boys of Def Leppard made their entrance. One of the things I’ve always loved about them, besides proudly not being able to resist a pun or goofy-fun metaphor (“Armageddon It,” “Pour Some Sugar On Me”), is their embrace of a band history that could politely be described as sometimes troublesome — among the flashing images behind them was a headline pondering whether they were the “unluckiest band” in the world. There’s the accident in which drummer Rick Allen lost his arm, or the alcohol abuse-related death of guitarist Steve Clark. They don’t run from it. They’ve come out the other side older, wiser, and in the case of guitarist Phil Collen, better-looking than ever. Elliott noted that although the eternally shirtless Collen “looks great,” he was very ill (he could be seen coughing between licks and then continuing the rocking out).

Highlights included the sing-along of “Foolin’” or, in its proper pronunciation, “F-f-foolin’!;” the aforementioned acoustic set of “Two Steps Behind” and “Bringin’ On The Heartbreak,” the glam rock name-checking “Rocket,” and the giddily-yelled “Photograph,” “Pour Some Sugar On Me” and the encore of “Rock Of Ages.” It was just so much fun, with the hits you knew played the way you know them, but with as much enthusiasm as they got when they were written. Nothing to feel guilty about here!

But I think Lauren’s going to take it, if only because of the blatant Jedi mind tricking of the judges and the producers, as well as Lauren’s scary but conveniently pimped vocal crisis. I think he earned it. But the show obviously has other plans.

EW.com’s Kate Ward referred to her inner critic Hulk being incited into shirt-bursting anger by the blatant Lauren pushing – the choreographed “moment” with her mom, the not-so-subtle blessing of previous “Idol” country juggernaut Carrie Underwood, and that original song “Like My Mother Does.” Corny. It’s much better than some of the previous “Idol” singles – just the mention of “This Is My Now” makes my skin instantly develop scales, turn blue and want to start slapping people with my feet like Mystique in “X-Men.”

It’s not that I don’t like Lauren – I keep saying over and over that she’s got a powerful instrument, a sweet smile and, when she turns it on, some natural moxie. But I don’t think it compared to Scotty’s charm. He took it easy on the smug tics and weird mic carry, and just let his confidence do the talking…er, singing. I thought he left the cheese largely at home, and during his second song, hand-picked by George Strait, I turned to my husband and said “That kid is a star.”

And that was based purely on his performance and vocals, not on any cues from the judges. I think Lauren has a great talent that will be perfect one day. Not yet. Not that she won’t win, if the show has anything to do with it.

We’ll see.

They voted out James Durbin. And I almost don’t care who wins at this point. That’s purely an emotional response – Of course I care, professionally, because at the core of this show it’s always interesting to see how in a few short months a kid can go from a nervous hopeful to America’s Favorite. And whoever that happens to, whether it’s Lauren, Scotty or Haley, it’s going to be a talented, deserving kid.

But it won’t be my favorite. It won’t be the person that, to me, most flourished on the “Idol” stage, who connected to the music and the audience, and who made every performance thrilling. Yeah, he wasn’t always note perfect. Neither are a lot of rock stars. But he felt every note, in every song, even the cheesy ones. He was the singer that most elicited that “Wow, what’s HE gonna do?” response in me, because whatever it was it wasn’t going to be boring. And I’m gonna miss him.

I’d like to see Haley win, but the judges are doing an excellent job of thwarting her by, well, judging her in a way that they don’t judge the other singers. It’s almost like what was done to Elliott Yamin years ago, where at every turn the judges seemed to say “Wait! You’re still here?” Both Lauren and Scotty are talented and have the potential to be great. But I just don’t feel that excitement with them that I feel with James, that beautiful, present, emotional flash that bonds a singer to a song, and a song to the audience.

Whoever the viewers pick is going to be deserving. But it won’t be my favorite. It won’t be James. And that makes me sad.

….Jacob Lusk. You know it was time.

I’m happy to say that Jacob went out on a half-high note (a mid-note?) “No Air,” his first song on “Then and Now” night was a hot griddled mess, but his shockingly understated turn on Nazareth’s “Love Hurts” was lovely. I hope that Jacob learns to listen to good, constructive criticism about control and restraint and knowing the right way and time to let that glorious range run free. And he hopefully has learned, in the aftermath of his “If you don’t vote for me, it’s about your stank-butt prejudice and not about me possibly sucking” moment, that sometimes you don’t need to say every fool thing that comes into your mind.

Also, alienating people is bad.

As we come into the home stretch, we still have to lose two more singers before the finale, and I’ve figured out the order I think they’re gonna go in:

4) Lauren

3) Scotty

2) Haley

1) James

Yeah that’s right. I’m calling it. Do your worst!

This is not a good model for reality show judges.

It took the saltiness of mentor Jimmy Iovine in a video to trigger something that I haven’t felt all season on “American Idol”: Pining for Simon Cowell.

More succinctly, pining for the no-nonsense critical eye of Simon Cowell, as I don’t miss the cheeky Brit’s mean streak or his tendency, when bored, or cranky, to spend more time verbally sparring with Seacrest or trying to amuse the other judges with how clever he could be in his putdowns.

But every time Jennifer Lopez, Steven Tyler and Randy Jackson fudge on their criticisms in favor of a barrage of syrupy compliments and “You go boy!” I wish that someone could wheel Simon in for a few seconds so he could say “That was flat” and not pad it with a bunch of fluff that the kid can’t see through. While he could be unnecessarily cruel just because that seemed to be his role, he at least understood that the singers were never going to get any better if everyone was too afraid to tell them the truth.

I initially liked the new judges panel because, at least initially, they were good at balancing positive and negative criticism in a mostly respectful and clear way. And the fact that all three are performers, unlike Cowell, and are able to identify personally with what that rejection feels like. But at some point, they lost their nerve, and started with the “Oh, you’re awesome” at times when the singers in question clearly were not. At all. Awesome. It’s maddening.

This reminds me of this “O” magazine story I read years ago about doting helicopter parents and the thin-skinned delusional special snowflakes that they’ve raised. There was a college admissions counselor whose young volunteers balked at being criticized for ignoring the potential students and their parents on a tour. They said that they’ rather be addressed by the “sandwich” method, where you give two compliments with the criticism sandwiched in between to make it easier to take.

“But what if I don’t have two good things to say?” the admissions counselor asked.

The “Idol” judges are sandwiching those kids to death. This generation has enough problems with being coddled and babied and not being made to face realities like the young adults they are. What they don’t need is for professionals in one of the toughest, most brutal businesses in the land to blow sunshine up their butts while not doing anything to prepare them for the very real rejection coming their way. Winning this show doesn’t secure super stardom – just ask Taylor Hicks – but it does, at least, probably make you better off career-wise than if you’d never gone on the show. So this can be an important step for them, and the judges are helping them waste it if they don’t help them grow.

I can’t imagine that it’s easy to look at the sweet face of a kid you’ve known for months and say “You suck.” But if you don’t do it, who else is? All of the family and friends who have protected them from anything harsh their whole lives. Listen, kids – love does not mean pretending that you will never fail. Love means preparing you for that inevitability. And if the judges love you – or even value their jobs – they’ve got to stop worrying about looking mean and just TELL THE TRUTH.

And if they can’t, they don’t need to be there.

I enjoyed this year’s SunFest. Was it my favorite of the eight I’ve attended? No. Was it the worst? Not even close. All in all, it’s still an amazing value for the money – there is nowhere else where I could’ve seen Earth Wind and Fire and Jeff Beck down the street from each other for under 40 bucks. I probably couldn’t have seen even one of those acts for that price. And yeah, so the parking and the food is expensive. Where isn’t it? Park and walk, y’all. Eat first. Get hand-stamped, go outside to eat and come back. No one is tying you to the gyro stand with a bungee cord and a hot poker.

I also don’t get people who say “It’s a scam.” It’s costly, depending on how you do it. But a scam is when you pay money for something and get bait and switched. You paid for a bunch of shows that you had the schedule for, so it couldn’t have been a surprise to you. You went to those shows or you didn’t. You didn’t pay for Jeff Beck and get his cousin Joe Beck.  You weren’t scammed. You had a good time or a disappointing one. But I don’t get how anyone was scammed.

Anyway, I’ve broken down my SunFest experience into a few categories, with a letter grade for each:

— Music: Grade B This year’s line-up seemed to either get raves for its diversity of genres and attention on up-and-coming or of-the-moment artists (Avett Brothers, OAR, Cee-Lo Green), or drubbing for too many acts that the mainstream hadn’t heard of. I’ll admit that Friday was the first in a long time at SunFest that I was only excited about one band (Cherry Poppin’ Daddies), and was, as a day, pretty weak. (Understand that I am talking about Friday being weak, not the whole festival). But what brings the score up is that the bands who were strong were REALLY, REALLY STRONG. Every single day, besides Friday, I had at least one out-of-body musical experience where I just gave into the transformative power of the sounds and feelings coming from the stage. My favorites were Jason Mraz and his Latin-jazz jam, the Avett Brothers’ happy dance, Ziggy Marley’s ethereal, hard-charging set, Earth Wind and Fire’s nostalgic soul party and how Toad the Wet Sprocket reminded me of that guy I dated that time in 1992 that reminded me of “All I Want.” Also, the representation of local bands was, as usual, excellent: Pee Wee Lewis and the Hues and the Kinected were two of my favorites. Check ‘em out, y’all.

— Art: Grade B- There was a samey-same, monochromatic sense to the art this year. I enjoyed some of the displays, especially the realistic paintings of rock icons like Jerry Garcia, and a lot of the pretty gemstone jewelry. But there was so, so much jewelry, and not as much photography as there usually is. For the first time ever, I wasn’t moved to buy a thing. Nothing against the people who were there. I just wish there had been more.

— Food: Grade B- I put this one into two mental categories, quality and selection. The food I sampled was fantastic. Truly. My favorites included the veggie muffaletta, the fried seafood platter with the crabs and the beignets with the powdered sugar. And don’t get me started on the chocolate dipped key lime pie. That dude is an evil genius and I want more of his food voodoo. My problem was with the glaring lack of vegetarian choices. And I’m not even a complete vegetarian, but what you’d call a pescatarian, who eats seafood but not red meat, pork or poultry, so I had some choices like the above seafood situation. But if you ate no meat at all, then I hope you like pizza, veggie sandwiches and side dishes. They didn’t even have one Asian booth with fried rice or egg rolls this year. At the food court behind the Bank of America stage, the only main dish without any meat was pizza. And if you didn’t like the looks of the pizza…well, hope you packed your walking shoes. And I believe this is completely fair to say, since it’s 2011 and it can not be a surprise that there are a lot of people who don’t choose to or can’t eat meat. Step it up.

— Timeliness: Grade A- SunFest wasn’t messing around this year. Most bands started on time, to the minute, or in a few cases, a few minutes early. Festivals don’t work if there’s a domino effect of lateness that tumble down into a puddle of late start times and waiting audiences. But with a few exceptions (Prince Royce, for instance) the bands kept it moving.

— Staff, courtesy and overall friendliness: Grade A I can honestly say that I have never had a better experience with the volunteers who make SunFest possible. All questions were answered. There wasn’t one surly person power-tripping just because someone gave them a walkie-talkie, at least that I encountered. And even though there were a few obnoxious guests, there was a lot more “Please,” “Thank you” and “Excuse me” than usual. Pat yourself on the back, America.

— Overall experience: Grade B Again, this is not my favorite SunFest year musically, but I gotta say that I had a better time than usual because it seemed to run so well, with schedules and actual logistics (Yay, wider sidewalks!) My most basic suggestion would be to really consider everybody that’s coming in terms of food – I know you can’t address every single dietary concern that everyone has. But “no meat” is not exotic anymore. I’m still grooving off of EWF from last night, so maybe I’m on a happy cloud. But I’ll take it.

See you next year! Going to go nap now!

This has been the warmest day here at SunFest, but at least it hasn’t threatened rain yet. Of course it will the moment that I post this blog. And if that happens…sorry about that. It’s the Florida of it all.

Here’s just a few of my thoughts so far:

— I give the Preservation Hall Jazz Band credit not only for bringing some New Orleans heritage and history to the Tire Kingdom stage, but for doing it in black suits. Such, such fun! That, my friends, was a family show.

— Not a family show? Sick Puppies. The Australian band was plenty fun and blistering with the guitar riffs, but kept those F-bombs flying like beach balls at a Buffett show. They bring up one of my biggest SunFest conundrums – what to do about middle of the day shows where there are kids about when there are bands playing  who have a reputation for salty language and content? You hope that they don’t go overboard with it just because, but then again, you booked them knowing who they were, and what they did. And if parents hang around a show of a band they have never heard of and then get offended…it’s probably good to do research. I enjoyed Sick Puppies’ version of Cee-Lo’s “F… You” (yes, the non-radio version) but not so much the part right before it where the lead singer suggested kids swear extra loud.

— Speaking of Cee-Lo: Parents who were offended that he cursed a lot but didn’t know that his big radio hit is actually called “F— You” when it’s not on the radio? Come on. You should know that, and if you don’t? Not his fault. He’s not on the Disney Channel stage. And there isn’t one.

— O.A.R. was a breath of fresh, hamming air. It’s hard to feel cool and comfortable when it’s sweaty and gross and there’s no stage, but they achieved it somehow.

— Elements of Jazz are shaking the walls of the media truck. And it’s awesome.

I’m looking forward to Earth Wind and Fire and to Jeff Beck. And then to a very long nap! How about y’all?

— Pee Wee Lewis and the Hues, formed back in 1986 in Palm Beach Gardens when, they admit, Huey Lewis and the News “were on the cutting edge,”   were maybe the band having the most fun. Christening the far, far FPL Stage at 12:45 p.m., they breezed through songs from their favorite era (Morris Day and the Time’s “Jungle Love,” anyone?) some more recent jams (OutKast’s “Hey Ya!”), some Elton (“Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting”) and even a John Mayer song.  They play locally – where have they been all my life?

— Toad The Wet Sprocket’s Glen Phillips has not aged since 1992. How is that possible? And neither, by the way, has “All I Want.”

— Ziggy Marley hasn’t aged, either, and there’s an intense desire to honor his music and to put on a fantastic, energetic show that almost shines off his skin. More on the show later…but rest assured, it was a good one.

— I know every Saturday at SunFest is crowded, but I would not be surprised to find that this one was particularly well-attended. Observational evidence and the number of times I almost got knocked down would seem proof. Or maybe people just like messing with me.

— There is an evil genius who figured out to coat a piece of key lime pie, coat it in chocolate and put it on a stick. WHO DOES THIS? Fiiiiie! (It was delicious.)

More later!

SPOILERS! SPOILERS1 LA LA LA!

Before we begin, let’s give one last silent clap to Stephanie, who did her best to win the duel against Matt, but just couldn’t pull it off. I resent that Probst let her talk so much at the end, allowing her to do that last-minute head game play. Maybe it’s because she’s the last link to Russell, or maybe it’s because she’s so polarizing on her own. I admired her hustle. But I’m not gonna miss her.

Speaking of people I won’t miss when they’re gone – Phillip. Secret Agent Cray-Cray can’t be voted off this week, because Omatepe won reward and immunity and he’s safe to go ranting about not getting the good crispy rice for another week. His intensity is scary, and if I were on his tribe I’d be sleeping with one eye open. And my good rice clasped tightly in my hand. That’s my rice, fool.

That win was largely due to Grant, the new challenge monster. Is there nothing he can’t do? I wonder if he’s like Yul Kwon, my sister’s favorite Survivor winner of all time, with both that ace cerebral and physical game. We know he can do the physical. Let’s see if there are brains there in that pretty head. Loving him.

I am also not loving Probst’s meddling. Let Krista and Stephanie go. They’re gone. Stop interrupting people at Tribal so you can get David to call them stupid to stir the pot. Stop trying to run the game. Your pets are gone. Deal with it and let the tribes either tear themselves apart or don’t. The producers’ inability to control that part of the game must be killing them, so more and more, Probst is trying to play mind games. Gah.

The vote game down to whether the tribe values cohesiveness or strength more. Ralph didn’t know what “cohesive” meant, but even when it was explained to him, he said he preferred people who hate each other because they won’t be sitting around yapping on company time. Um…Ralph…noooo.

In the end, I agree with the decision to keep David over Sarita, because she fumbled challenges and they badly need to win one. Still not a fan, though. Apparently next week is the merge, and the winner of the duel gets to re-enter the game. Bad time to have a foot issue there, Matt.

Kathy Griffin performs at the Kravis Center. (Thomas Cordy / Palm Beach Post)

There’s no reason that, a month or so after the bizarre Charlie Sheen interview that introduced it to the world, that it should still be the least bit funny when a comedian randomly says “WINNING!”

But in the perkily twisted delivery of Kathy Griffin, it was surprisingly hilarious.

Griffin’s nearly two-hour set, which seemed in spots just a little long, zinged over the usual suspects – Sheen, the Palins, Oprah Winfrey, Michele Bachmann and her own boxed wine-loving mother. While she’s known for her — let’s call it “sharp” — take on celebrities, politicians and the like, the 50-year-old comedienne kept it flowing conversationally and arch, like a marathon gab session with your snarkiest girlfriend.

Griffin’s popular persona, exemplified by her Bravo show My Life On The D-List, is of a goofy pop culture lover who’s close enough to the scene to get a bird’s eye view of celebrities without actually being one. That’s not true, of course — no ordinary Joe could get a disparately funny group of famous faces from Paris Hilton to Melissa Etheridge to Betty White introduce her on video. But that seems to be her contract with her fans — she gets to rub elbows with the swells, but still watches all the same dumb TV shows we do. And, of course, she’s gonna talk about ‘em.

More: Photos of Kathy Griffin’s performance | More stand-up comedy coverage

“Everyone goes down tonight!” she promised at the beginning of her set. Among the targets:

• Soft-spoken Style network reality star Ruby Gettinger, who, Griffin gently noted, is on a show about weight loss but “never seems to lose any weight;”

• her obsession with Oprah’s OWN network (Griffin’s imitation of Oprah’s exaggerated excited voice was, as usual, one of the highlights);

• her other obsession with TLC’s My Strange Addiction,

• her mother’s confused introduction to the cast of Glee, asking star Lea Michelle if she sang;

• Whether her gay audience was over Charlie Sheen by this point, which still didn’t stop her from yelling “Winning!”

If you weren’t a fan in the beginning, you probably weren’t by the end. But if you’re one of the faithful, or the Katheters, as she says her fans want to be called, it was just another evening with your favorite girlfriend. And that, yes, is winning.

Pia did her usual strong job vocally, while Stefano hit exactly the right notes.

Of course, the preferred demographic for this show is somewhere between 15 and whatever age it is when you have to pay for your own texting plan, and that demographic is probably not at all disturbed by the annual “Sing a Song From Your Birth Year” show. But when you’re older than, like, 30, you’re thinking “Am I that old that I could legally date someone who was a baby the year I graduated high school?”

But enough about the crushing realizations of aging. Let’s sing some stuff!

Naima: Born in 1984, our exotic flower is singing Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got To Do With It?” Dunno. But vocal range should have something to do with it, and this song is out of Naima’s. She’s giving it her all, but it’s not great. JLo is right – if you’re consistently pitchy, maybe you have a problem with pitch, which is something that singers sorta need. She has a really gorgeous family, though. Hope that’s enough to sustain her, because in this strong a field, you can’t mess up like that.

Paul: Why am I not surprised that he was the center of attention as a kid? Performers are often their parents’ special little snowflakes. I know – I was an identical twin who got double the attention, and my sister and I, respectively, went into acting and self-indulgent entertainment column writing. So, there’s your science. Paul was also born in 1984, the year that Elton John released “I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues.” As always, I’m impressed that Paul seems to understand and interpret the words that he’s singing and isn’t just doing Idoloke. He’s got a weird little soulful voice, and even with his cold, he’s working it.

A Small Aside: I find it so interesting that a lot of fans complain that the judges are too easy on the kids this year. I don’t agree. The difference between this year and the previous Simon years is that Simon’s criticism was like “You’re horrible. You’re terrible,” without a lot of specificness about the horribleness. He was often right, but as a non-musician, he couldn’t really address pitch and key, and at that point Randy was trying to be desperately wacky and conjugate the word “dog” and couldn’t be all that helpful. But now that Big Bro Simon is gone, Randy can be confident in his knowledge, and he and his musician buddies can give actual constructive criticism based on music. Of course, if what you’re looking for is “You’re horrible,” you’re gonna think they’re soft.

Thia: This was born in 1995, the year I moved into my first real apartment that had more than one room. This means that she is the same age, roughly, as Ross Geller’s son Ben from “Friends.” I made a “Friends” reference, which means I am extra old. Anyway, she’s doing Vanessa Williams’ “Colors of the Wind,” from “Pocahontas” in an appropriately earth-toned dress. It’s all very pretty and mellow and boring, and Randy nails it – it’s oh so pageant. She loves those slow songs, doesn’t she? It’s pitch perfect and not exciting. Pick it up, girl.

James: And this one was born five months before I graduated from high school in 1989. I could have given birth to him, and find him cute, which I find disturbing. Jimmy Iovine is disturbed by the fact that James and all the kids seem to be sick, and he doesn’t want their cooties to spread. I really love Jimmy, by the way, because he’s able to give advice and seem friendly while still asserting that he’s, you know, someone you should really be listening to. James is doing Bon Jovi’s “I’ll Be There For You,” a song that manages to lyrically name-check birthday candles, breathing and suitcases. On second listen, it’s pitchy. But he’s having so much fun up there that he’s rocking it out confidently. Tyler advises him not to get too poppy, which is sorta what the rest of Aerosmith thought he was doing by going on this show. Irony.

Hayley: Her parents are musicians in the same band, and she’s been humming since before she could talk. That’s really cute. She was born in 1990, and her mother had awesome 80s rocker hair when Hayley was a baby. I really love Hayley’s parents – they seem to be so comfortable with themselves and with their music. Comfortable is attractive. Hayley is singing “I’m Your Baby Tonight.” She sounds really cool and bluesy on this, which makes it OK to do Whitney, because she’s not trying to be Whitney. The growl really, really works here! Suddenly, I am understanding Hayley. She must have been not picking the right songs, because this one was AWESOME.

Stefano: Another kid of musicians, Stefano was born in 1989. His dad is incredibly handsome, and seems so moved that his son acknowledges him in his choice of profession. Respect. That’s beautiful. Jimmy wants him to respect the song, “If You Don’t Know Me By Now,” and to get the words right under all the melisma. And Jimmy is the king. It’s pretty good. Stefano is one of the best this year at vocal control – I never get nervous that he’s gonna approach a high run he can’t climb down from. He’s a talented kid and he seems so nice!

Pia: Born in 1990, Pia has been a diva since she was little. She was also the most adorable little Punky Brewster baby, and she was a granddaddy’s girl. WHY ARE THESE KIDS SO SWEET AND ADORABLE THIS YEAR? THEY’RE A HALLMARK MOVIE MADE FOR LIFETIME AND RERELEASED ON THE OWN NETWORK! Pia is disco-ing up Whitney’s “Where Do Broken Hearts Go,” and it’s instantly better and less plodding. Pia is totally gonna cut a dance album of Whitney, Celine and Mariah songs. And I would buy that and skate to it. In rainbow-laced skates.

Scotty: He was born the year I graduated college and was, his mama says, a chunky monkey. He also wanted to be Elvis, which is adorable. That kid is an old soul. Can you feel it? He’s doing “Can I Trust You With My Heart” by Travis Tritt. Aww, I was hoping he’d do “Queen of My Double Wide Trailer” by Sammy Kershaw of “Chattahootchee” by Alan Jackson. But he does a great job with it. He’s so solid.

Karen: She’s dressed like a ’50s waitress in space. Even before her birth in 1989, her mom would put her radio on her belly to get the baby to sleep. Her mother is apparently the star of that Lifetime movie I was talking about – “She is the Oscar of my life,” she says of her daughter. If someone else had said that it would sound like she was a creepy mom living through her kid, but here it just sounds like heartfelt devotion. Karen is doing Taylor Dayne’s “Love Will Lead You Back,” one of my personal favorites and also a pretty song about denial. She busts out some Spanish at the last verse, and it works. It was awesome, but eventually she’s gonna have to quit it with the ballads.

Casey: He’s doing Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” born in 1991 like he was. His parents were in their 40s when he was born, and this might explain why he’s so mature. They’re nice and warm and funny. What a cool family. Jimmy makes me laugh when he is afraid that Idol viewers won’t get Nirvana. Jimmy … the song is 20 years old now. I think people have managed to wrap their heads around it by now. It is a little screamy, but it’s supposed to be. JLo’s all “Nirvana’s was more pleasant” and I wanted to ask “Have you ever heard a Nirvana song?” It wasn’t about pleasantries with Kurt. It was about pain and naked emotion and uncomfortable truths and self-loathing. Oh, J.Lo. I adored it. It was real.

Lauren: First off, why is her mom dressed like a pre-teen? Her folks seem like nice people, but when Lauren talked about how cute it was that she was throwing the “Talk to the hand”  move at four, it makes me wonder how cute it was for everyone else. Have you met those kids whose ever attitude is indulged as the cutest thing that ever cutest? They are not cute if you don’t know and love them and are, perhaps, in the grocery line behind them, or in an elevator with them. She’s hoarse through 1994′s “I’m The Only One,” but it’s Melissa Etheridge, who’s hoarse and raspy on her own. So it works. She gets the words wrong a little, but she keeps it moving. The rawness helps her.

Jacob: Here’s another one with an adorable mother. You can tell how close they are. She can’t sing but she loves her boy. He’s doing 1987′s “Alone” by Heart, which Carrie Underwood owned on this show. OWNED. Has the receipt in a safe that she’ll hold with golden tongs and let you look at if you promise not to breath on it. But apparently Jacob got close enough to borrow it for a few minutes, because he kills it. Kills it. Like Carrie, he got out of his genre-based comfort zone. There are some screamy moments, but he pulls it all together at the end with a soft coda. He leaves it all on the stage, and while that’s going to personally exhaust him, it makes him fascinating to watch.

Well, that was fun! Anyone think Naima’s in trouble? I do!!!