Hot Cookin

Normally I don’t like to admit that I watch American Idol. In fact, when I do watch it I’m usually locked in my bedroom with a blanket over my head. I debated a long time about writing about this, but I figured if I was ever going to blog about American Idol I might as well do it now during the post-AI media storm when my confession can be waved off as another piece of fan-girl blather and not seen as a reliable barometer of my personal taste. Wow. Can I write a run-on sentence or what?

The fact is, I love David Cook. As a friend once put it, I don’t love him like I love peanut butter. I mean, I luuuuuvvvaaaahhh him.

From the first moment Cookie walked in with his faux hawk and argyle sweater I was hooked. It turned out to be a bonus that he could actually sing. And once he sang his emo/rock version of Hello I knew I’d never think about American Idol the same. I guess you could say “He had me at ‘Hello” but I’d like to maintain SOME semblance of dignity here.

But what really gets me? He’s so darn articulate. Every time I see him on a talk show I giggle to myself then sigh in recognition that I will never be that eloquent. I want to use my feminine wiles to trick him into a philosophical conversation that requires a delicate formulation of logic and necessitates explanations of complex ideas. Then I’ll lean back in my chaise lounge and watch him articulate. And yes, you can watch someone articulate. At least I can. I don’t know what your problem is.

Also in my fantasy he’s pacing back and forth in a black tee-shirt and intermittently flashing his crooked half-smile.

Some people would accuse me of rapidly jumping from obsession to obsession, claiming that I’ll be over him in another month. But only idiots with shiny new ‘stangs would actually believe something stupid like that. Unbeknown to most Shia’s likeness still lives on my door, Danny Wallace’s book still lives on my shelf, and Brand New's croonings still live on my ipod. Perhaps the initial intensity wears off a bit, but I never go back on something I truly love. (Good Charlotte I’m still rooting for you! Even if it’s just for old time’s sake.)

So, to sum up: David Cook, I am your Cookie Monster, and I will continue to steal from the Cookie jar, because I know this Cookie will never crumble . . . and various other double entendres Cookie puns.

I have retarded tingles for myself.