Hello, "American Idol":
I see you coming, just over the horizon. The recent release of albums by Jordin Sparks and Blake Lewis means that the circle for your last season is complete, and the commercials for your seventh season have started airing.
The cycle is about to begin anew, and there is, as always, no way to stop it. And I, like many faithful viewers, don't know how I feel about that.
It goes without saying that you're a guilty pleasure, "Idol." And there's quite a bit to be guilty about. You're a TV juggernaut that overtakes every aspect of entertainment, from the networks that clear their schedule so that they suffer as little collateral damage as possible, to the news outlets that use you to fill every hole they can.
But for me, you're more than just a guilty pleasure, you're a frustrating one. I'm not a reluctant fan, but as every season gears up, I still feel a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach and think: It starts. And I know you're going to take over my life (and not just mine: At one point last year, my mother, who to the best of my knowledge has never seen an episode, asked me what I thought of Sanjaya) until you finally end in a finale of such spectacle that it could bring P. T. Barnum to tears.
I know all this, "Idol," but it wouldn't be so maddening if it weren't for the simple fact that you are, to put it simply, not a very good show. Sure, the whole “look at the freaks!” vibe that you throw off (especially during the initial audition rounds), either speaks to a bullying, dismissive attitude toward anyone different or portends the downfall of Western civilization, depending on who you ask.
She was an ideal person to follow through the process, cocky as hell but providing strong evidence that she could back it up. But you lost interest in her. Clearly, she never made it past Hollywood, but everything after her audition remains a mystery. Did she crumble under the pressure? Was she simply a one-audition wonder? Did the judges' enthusiasm for her wane?
But in this and plenty of other cases, "Idol," you've started telling a story that you had no intention of finishing. That's not just sending American culture down the toilet, that's bad television.
I'm even more disappointed in you when you reach the performance stage, at which point you shift from bad to incompetent. You're a show built on music, yet the sound quality is appalling. The band routinely overpowers the singers, the judges are, by many accounts, so overwhelmed by noise that sometimes they can barely hear what's happening on the stage, and cues are dropped.
Speaking of dropped cues, can we talk about your director, Bruce Gowers? I know you are fond of him and your loyalty is admirable, but he's not doing you any good. His persistent inability to edit a live broadcast results in crucial shots being completely missed. Last year, when Ryan Seacrest walked onstage wearing a wig resembling Sanjaya’s astonishing ponyhawk, I desperately wanted to see Sanjaya's reaction.
I could go on, of course; your flaws are legion. But I will simply say that you are lazy and produced by people who are making so much money off of being lazy that putting in more of an effort simply isn't cost-effective at this point.
So why can't I quit you, "Idol"? Why do I faithfully tune in again and again, only to be frustrated anew? Well, there's the cynical answer, of course, which is to make fun of you. The Internet has made it easy to find other like-minded people, all with a grudge against you and your manipulations (real or imagined). We get online to mock the contestants, the judges, the show as soon as it ends, and God, how we laugh.
There's also the slightly less cynical answer, which is that your media dominance means that I either have to get on board or risk being left out of the national conversation until you go back into hibernation in May. In much the same way that knowing even the bare bones about the local sports team can come in handy for the purposes of small talk, having you in my pocket has proven useful on plenty of occasions with people ranging from jaded indie rockers to my friends' pre-teen children.
But there's another reason that shocks me just as much as I'm sure it shocks you: I think I actually believe in you, "Idol." Not as much as you do, clearly, but the dream you sell is a compelling one straight out of American myth — that of the unknown who gets a big chance and becomes a star.
In fact, it's possible that your many faults have helped you in this regard. Whenever there's somebody interesting, you always give the impression that they managed to slip through, as opposed to being found by design. It's much the same reason that I prefer to scour garage sales instead searching for what I want online: Finding something worthwhile is much more thrilling when I have to sort through garbage to get it.
I wouldn't bother if I didn't think that, deep down, you had nothing to offer me. But you obviously do, and even though it's a horrible waste of your potential that the Melinda Doolittles are surprises rather than the norm, I think that your heart is ultimately in the right place.
You could do what you do so much better, "Idol," but even after everything, I'm still watching.
Your (frustrated) fan,
Marc