Often, when faced with two capable candidates, voters can’t see the fire through the smoke. They don’twant to acknowledge the inevitable winner both for the sake of being contrary and because this recognition would slay the underdog, blowing the whistle on the thrill of competition. They get caught up in the pomp and circumstance, enchanted by the rivalry itself.
Heck, I am guilty of it, too.
Last season in this space, I beat the drum for my nominee, Blake Lewis. Blake was fun. Blake was different. He was exciting; he was unpredictable; he was refreshing. I was a lone voice standing against a steamroller of public opinion, the masses (evidenced by the volume of venomous e-mail calling me anything from misguided to rock stupid) throwing full support behind their fresh-faced, smiling starlet.
And sure enough, I, along with my candidate, was steamrolled.
Was I siding with the long shot for the sake of being different? Was I easily fooled by the gimmicks of a rap riff, nifty dance step or funky attire? Was I truly going with my gut? Who knows. But a year later, Jordin Sparks is off to a commendable if unremarkable young career, and Blake is drifting down the slow river of obscurity.
This year then, history hints that I should tie my horse to Cook’s corral. He’s the cool one. He’s the one whose been worn by the tough road of experience. He’s the one who lacks the sweet smile that makes young girls scream and the aw-shucks innocence that makes corporate heads salivate. He’s the guy who Mainstream USA says should not win this thing.
But you know what? The razzle-dazzle won’tbewitch me this time.
Sure, the spiteful Scott Fuller never understood the kudos bestowed upon reserved rocker Cook week after week. I cringed at every arrogant smirk the schmuck flashed during his early performances. Maybe, as my buddy likes to say, I just hated his face. Or maybe he was already sunk in my eyes even before he wished his mother a half-hearted belated Happy Mother’s Day on national TV days after the actual date.
Or maybe I’ve finally grown up the tiniest bit. Maybe I am casting my vote for David Archuleta because he’s flat-out better.
Elections can be a bit of a popularity contest, we all know. When a candidate of Archuleta’s overwhelming superiority starts building momentum, haters run to the opposite corner, almost of habit. They cite experience: He hasn’t been around long enough to know the ropes. They cite marketability: He’s too unappealing to segments of the general public to achieve lasting success. They cite close relationships: His stage father is too obnoxious for anyone’s comfort. They grasp at any straw they can lay their paws on because, well, no one likes the story when Cinderella’s dreams get crushed.
David Archuleta is the better singer. “American Idol,” so we have been told, is at its heart a singing competition. My voting record may not jibe with this notion, but in this instance, let’s call a spade a spade. When Archuleta is at his best, his voice is magic. When Cook is at his best, he’s pretty OK.
This “Idol” superdelegate needs no further debate. Let’s crown our guy already.
