We Watch . . . So You Don't Have To
Shocking night on "American Idol."
Andrea Bocelli, Tenor Muzak Man, was supposed to be the guest coach, only his "Amore" album producer, musician and songwriter David Foster, took over, seen at the top of the show saying things like "Are these the finalists?" -- and not in a good way.
Katharine McPhee wasted no time sucking up to Foster, saying this week she'd picked "I Have Nothing," written by someone named David Foster.
Oh, are you David Foster?
Not the David Foster!
Then she just burst into opera like you or I would start humming the "Friends" theme song, and totally charmed the pants off Bocelli. It's sickening.
"I think Katharine has a great future," Foster simpered.
McPhee, who suffers from performance dyslexia, finally figured out how to distract viewers from this crippling inability to move naturally onstage -- cleavage.
Lots and lots of cleavage.
"Great moves in that dress," oozed Ryan Seacrest, who has completed his transformation from T-shirt-wearing pop-culture-phenomenon-show host to banker, in a bespoke suit, pink striped shirt and blue silk tie.
As if it knew some great evil was about to befall, Paula Abdul's microphone shut itself off; she could be heard only faintly telling McPhee something about "know what your money is" and "back pocket."
Like that first little tremble of the ground you felt in your bed in L.A. on the morning of Jan. 17, 1994, right before the Northridge earthquake hit.