I'm Blaming the PMS

Last night was an oddly touching night for an American Idol audition show. I cried real tears, y'all, and for someone who hates on pretty much everything, that's saying a lot.

Let's talk about Phuong Pham. My eyes filled with tears when she said her mother told her she wasn't pretty enough for TV, and that she was "no Katharine McPhee." I mean, what mother says that to a child? I don't have kids, but I can tell you that if I did, and one was a hunchback with bad skin and a hairlip, I'd still tell her she was the most beautiful girl in the world. When she got up to sing, I said aloud to the television, "Please let her be good. Oh God, please." Sadly, she wasn't.

Then there was Sherman Pore, a 64-year-old man who had lost his wife to cancer two days prior and just wanted the chance to audition and dedicate a song to her. And he had a lovely voice. I was sobbing, and even typing it now, I'm getting misty. Christ, when did I become such a sap?

Brandon Rogers, the hottie with the five-head who Paula Abdul and Olivia Newton-John wanted to simultaneously fellate, was probably the first person I've seen that I can actually see in the finals. The rest of the show is a blur -- losers begging for chances to butcher a second song, tears, things that made my brain hurt. Mostly forgettable, but the sweet moments actually got me a little more interested in watching the auditions again. But just a little.