"Notice how he said that," I informed my father, who was sacked out on the couch opposite me. Ryan Seacrest was supposed to be indicating that after the break we'd see film from Melinda's trip back to her hometown, where she would be greeted by legions of fans, where she would sign t-shirts, where she would get her name emblazoned on a road sign at her former school. But there was something sneaky in Seacrest's eyes. I narrowed my own at the television. I could tell something was up.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," my father said. "I noticed that, too. But they would never do that. Never. They wouldn't dare."
"We'll see," I said. I could feel revolution in the air. It was just that type of night. Things in the universe were moving in strange circles.
I felt a little strange myself. I was torn in my thinking about who should go home. Melinda or Blake? Blake or Melinda?
It was a choice I took very seriously because I am a devoted American Idol fan, a girl who counts the days from one season's end to the next season's start, a girl who parks herself in front of the television every Tuesday and Wednesday night so she can say catty things about the people she dislikes (think: Sangina) and loving things about the people she worships (think: Chris Daughtry).
This year all my love has been Blake Lewis, Blake Lewis, Blake Lewis. I announced it during Hollywood week. He sang something particularly brilliant, something that made me stuff a hunk of chocolate into my mouth, and after it was done I sat back up and said, "That's my boy. I'm backing him. I'm voting him through to the end."
There was just something about Blake. I couldn't quite put my finger on it back then--mainly because I hadn't had enough exposure yet, hadn't had enough weeks to obsess over his performances, both good and bad--but I know what it is now.
I'm crazy about his stubble, crazy about the tone of his voice, crazy about his pronunciation, crazy about the way he holds his head when he sings.
When he sings, Blake tips his head back like he's trying to force his voice out from the pit of his stomach. It makes me want to kiss his throat. It makes me want to bite his stomach. It makes me want to curl up in his tonsils and listen to the wind of his voice rush up and over me.
When he sings, Blake doesn't necessarily finish his words. This is something our chorale director would've beat us for back in high school, but on Blake the quality is endearing. When he gets to the end of the word he sort of just lets it hang there, lets the sound fade off or melt into the next. It drives me crazy yet makes me want to gnaw on his jaw like it's a delicious pulled pork sandwich.
When he's not singing, Blake seems like a real stand-up guy. First, he loves his father. He calls him Daddy. And while I'm sure that's a quality that irritates every manly-man in America, I happen to think it's adorable. I'm completely willing to let this man be my father-in-law:
Also, it appears as though Blake gets along with everyone. For example, he and Chris Richardson were BFF as soon as they both landed on the show. Some hateful people might say this is just evidence that he is gayer than the day is long (and if that's true, fine. Instead of moving in with me so we can have sweet musically-inclined babies, Blake can move in and read He's Just Not That Into You out loud as I massage his shoulders and murmur That's so true, isn't it, Blake?--this scenario is equally as appealing) but I really like boys who aren't afraid to love their friends in an open way. For example, when Ex-Keith was drinking beer, he often liked to comment on his boundless affection for his best friend Greg by saying, Man, I love that tubby bitch. It was touching. I think Blake and Chris's relationship was touching in a similar way. And in a way that had me picking up the phone to call Amy and say, "You know, I think I'd pay a lot of money to see the two of them make out."
My love for Blake was cemented on Bon Jovi night when he did the beat-box version of "You Give Love a Bad Name." After that performance was over, my father shrugged and turned to me. "Well?" he asked. "What did you think of that?"
I tried to play it off all cool. "Oh," I said. "Well. Uhm. It was sort of weird, so I don't think the judges will like it." But what I really wanted to say was, WHY WON'T HE TAKE OFF HIS CLOTHES ALREADY?!
Of course, I can want Blake to take his clothes off for two reasons. The first is that he has done something well--sung brilliantly, did a cute little dance move, or beat-boxed with Sir Mix-a-Lot, for example--and the second is because the clothes the stylist has put him in are stupid. That tuxedo shirt on one of the results shows? Please. I thought we--as a nation, as a united front--were over the tuxedo t-shirt. Sometimes I have the distinct feeling that the show's stylist hates Blake. He often comes out onto stage in clothes that make him look a little thick, a little chunky. I also think they put eyeliner on him last week. And whose idea was it to dye his hair? If I were in charge of the show, I would tell that stylist to stop ruining Blake and keep concentrating on making Melinda look so much better than she did when she first came on the show, looking a little like a she-troll that had lived under a bridge for twenty years of her life.
But now, of course, Melinda is gone. And here's where I will say something shocking: I think that was a mistake. I think this week was Blake's week to go. Absolutely Melinda is a better singer. Absolutely she did a better job on Tuesday night. And if those are the merits we're supposed to be judging on, then Blake should've done his goodbye and gone back to Washington. Still, here's the thing: I think it's time for AI to launch a male pop sensation. The closest we've come is Clay Aiken, who we haven't heard from in a long, long time.
And I also think AI would ruin Melinda. I think they would make her do a record she wouldn't really want to do. The two people the show could do good by is Blake and Jordin. And Jordin, who is the better singer, should win. And probably will, unless Blake pulls out something miraculous and beautiful next Tuesday, which, if it happens, I will totally support. Almost as much as I support him making out with me or him making out with Jordin.
So I was happy last night when Seacrest and the producers pulled their trickiness and it was in fact Melinda who went home just as they'd hinted earlier in the show. I was happy that I called it and happy that Blake got to go over and stand next to Jordin and get transported into the final two, the final show, the Big Daddy of All Nights of TV. I'm excited to see what happens and how it all shakes out. And I'm interested to see just how many pieces of chocolate I will have to shove in my mouth to keep myself from announcing in front of my father that I want Blake Lewis to come live in my bed and wake me up in the morning by singing or--on weekends and big events--beat-boxing into my ear.
Oh, if only.
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