If you felt the ground shift beneath you last night, it wasn't an earthquake or the testing of some terrible new HAARP technology. No, it was the collective sound of millions of Americans settling into their couches, pulling snacks and drinks and emergency cellphones close and bracing themselves for another long five months of American Idol. Yes, last night America groaned and leaned into the wind as another Idol storm beset the nation. This is the show's twelfth season, so we should be used to this by now, but every year it shocks us anew. "More of this? Until May??" But we just can't seem to quit this show, and suspect some of you are in the same sad boat. So, let's talk about this thing, shall we?
The premiere began much like any Downton Abbey episode, with Ryan Seacrest bustling about, taking sheets off of furniture, dusting tables and chairs, fluffing flowers in vases. There was much to do! Randy crawled out of his koopa hole, stretching and yawning after a half-year spent dreaming of Princess Peach. Jennifer Lopez rolled over and hit the snooze button because that lady didn't have to be at work. Steven Tyler cackled as he flew across the moon, because that witch didn't have to work either. You see, J.Lo and the Tyler witch are no longer on the show. We've instead got three new judges to sit beside Randruh, and boy are they a lotta work. Well, OK, one of them, Australian country singer Keith Urban, is a complete nonentity, sitting there with his Little Darlings hairdo and occasionally clucking like an ostrich but doing little else. But the other two! Oh, the other two. One is Mariah Carey, the sometimes sorta addled-seeming diva of yesteryear who is a lot smarter than people give her credit for. The other is one Nicki Minaj, that sorta rapper sorta singer sorta jerk who sings about pink starships and whatnot. Carey and Minaj are very much on the show to be shade-throwing divas, and they deliver as is contractually obliged.