Where I surrender my dignity once and for all; also, I am old.
Every year I adopt an American Idol contestant. I don't know why; I am far too craven to excavate my psyche to a depth that might expose the reasons for these tendencies to the open air. When I peep cautiously at myself with one eye shut I detect a connection to my situation as mother of a son, as my Idols are almost always young men who set my mommy neurons to firing, but I refuse to investigate further. It is what it is.
This year is upsetting however.
See, I adore Blake Lewis. I love his beat boxing skillz. I love his ROCKIN' wardrobe. I love that he sang Keane. That he made me like Bon Jovi even more than I already did. (Shut up.) I think he's the best thing to happen to Idol since Kelly Clarkson, and I am not even kidding.
What's not to love, right?
Edgy without being too scary:
Argyle + giant tattoo = delicious postmodern dissonance:
And he can sing and make cool electronic noises! Blake is, simply, the shit.
But he's also, like, in his 20s. Oy. Am I that old? Really? I mean, he's adorable, obviously, and if I were younger...and yet the very fact that I just wrote that confirms that I am not. Not younger. Not young. I am in fact so old that I feel MATERNAL toward MEN in their TWENTIES. Do you understand? It's horrible.
Somewhat tangentially, you know what I love even more than Blake Lewis on his own merits? Blake Lewis conflated with Ryan Seacrest:
My god. I want them to marry and adopt children and live next door to me. Is that so wrong?