You seemed a little pitchy, Dawg...

There are some things you just don't want to see, moments where you want to go back and undo whats been done, like Superman circling the earth at hyper speed turning back time. I'm having one of those moments right now. But first a confession; I'm watching American Idol, yeah I know. Hey don't judge, if it weren't for my Pavlovian channel flipping, you might not be aware of the insidious sacrilege taking place right under your upturned nose. I'm no fan of AI, in fact I think 99 percent of the crap they gak up is just barely better than Karaoke night at the state school for deaf mutes. Which is why I tend to watch it sporadically, for the train wreck, and not the "talent". ( No offense to deaf mutes. Did I just pull an Obama?)

They have theme nights on American Idol. One week it might be Barry Manilow, the next Neil Diamond, and so on, through a wide array of geriatric pop gawds, who I never listened to 30 years ago when they were in their heydays. So I don't care one way or the other, it's just some pasty white kids in strategically tousled hair, singing syrupy shit like Cracklin Rosie or Oh Manny. If I happen to stumble upon it, Ill watch it to make myself feel better. Within 10 minutes I'll feel like Dean Martin in a room full of Jerry Lewis's. Watching people make fools of themselves will do that.

Tonight I am sad to report is Motown night. Motown for God's sake. They had Smokey and Barry Gordy schmoozing it up with these two legged muzak machines that pass for Americas best. If L A wasn't so far away I'd run to Hollywood , pull that tight ass T shirt over that British pricks head, and shove him up Randy Jackson's fat ass. Hear me DAWG ? Some things you just don't mess with. I peeled more than my fair share of hippy girl panties during my formative years, with Smokey as my wing man, or Marvin. In a sea of Foghat and Kansas devotees, I stood alone amongst my friends. While they were cramming matchbooks in their 8 tracks so that REO live tape wouldn't drag, I was listening to Stevie Wonder, sign, seal and deliver. So when I see Smokey leaning against a piano, wearing more rouge than a New Orleans hooker, pretending these kids had some relevance, I got a little sad. Then I got a little indignant, and here we are. That's how shit works around here. Indignation is a hell of a drug.

Some things need to be left alone, not tampered with, unmolested. I'd have been far happier watching them do a Garth Brooks night, or a some other marginally talented popular singer night. I could have eased back in my chair, chortled, mocked and ridiculed the television screen. Instead I watched in horror, the train wreck I didn't want to see, unfolding before my eyes. It was painful, as painful as watching the music awards where Stevie Wonder sang with those 3 kids who wear promise rings for Chastity Bono, or whatever. Smokey's voice evokes memories of when I had a full head of hair, weed was 15 bucks an ounce, Boones Farm tasted like fine wine, and the cops daughter down the street threw me a piece just to get back at her parents. Good times. But all of that has changed now, and I cant go back. Instead of those memories, every time I hear Tracks of My Tears, I'll think of some kid with blue in his hair, wearing skinny jeans, and sporting button ear rings in both ears, sounding like his nuts are caught in a vice. Where's Superman when you need him?