...Don't You Hate It When Your Spouse Is Right?

She tried to warn me.





My wife, who seems to be on the cutting edge of all that is popular on t-v, told me night after night to skip "American Idol" and instead join her on the couch to catch "Dancing With The Stars".





Truth be told, I'd rather have nails driven into my eyes than watch either--my show of choice would be the Brewers, or anything NHL--but the job requires that I know enough about reality television to be, what shall we say, dangerous?





"Idol" was the show that got the early buzz. It earned the nickname "death star" from rival networks because it destroyed everything in it's path. The others purposely scheduled away from "Idol's" weekly slots, knowing that anything sent up against Ryan, Randy, Paula and Simon would turn to Nielsen flotsam and jetsam.





"Dancing", on the other hand, was the bastard stepchild--they had a hard time finding stars, settling for the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus. What it sorely lacked to me, though, was sex appeal, in the person of Stacey Keibler.

Sorry, when you come back after a season of Stacey with the likes of a John Ratzenberger or even Clyde Drexler, well, sorry, that just ain't going to cut it.


And, when one has only so much time and stomach to devote to shows one doesn't even like, a choice had to be made and I went with what appeared to be the ratings sow.

So, off to my man-cave I'd trot every Tuesday and Wednesday night to watch America whittle away at "Idol's" pile of Carrie Underwood wannabe's, while my wife stayed upstairs, watching "Dancing" and lusting after some guy named "Maxim". Sounds like a brand of condom.

I was supremely confident I'd made the right choice, based on the early ratings.

Until this week.

This is the headline that greeted America in this morning's Drudge Report:

http://www.nationalledger.com/artman/publish/article_272613566.shtml

It's the mouse that roared.

"Idol" numbers reportedly started tumbling as the show progressed--lots of us want to see people who sing worse than we do, but when it came down to watching talented folks go for the brass ring, many went elsewhere.

Sanjaya flamed out, so that little bit of intrigue was gone--remember people debating "Idol's" cred as if they had just seen Walter Cronkite doing an Oxy Clean ad? "Idol" lost a lot of it's sex appeal when both Faux Hawk and Haley got sent home, leaving behind a crop of talented but admittedly plain singers who had a lot of chops but little in the way of flash.

Having never watched "Idol", I expected more of a Roone Arledge touch to the production--the up-close-and-personal portraits of the remaining contestants so I'd have an emotional attachment to each and maybe one that was stronger than the rest...a tie so binding that I'd actually pick up a phone and vote, thus putting some skin on the game, as gamblers are wont to say.

Never happened.

Blake seemed like Chris who seemed like the bald guy who could sing well when loud but crappy when trying to eek out a ballad. The women--though skilled--didn't peg my interest meter, either.

Then there's the reality Paula Abdul--yes, Paul Abdul made a cogent point--kept alluding to toward the end of the Tuesday night show: they're all winners, because copping the "Idol" crown really doesn't mean much any more. This is one of the rare American competitions where the fans DO CARE who came in second, or third, or ninth. Contestants get weeks to develop fan bases which get stoked during the post-Idol tours and that can also produce recording contracts, fast tracks to radio play and thus, stardom. Yes, one can become famous (Chris Doughtry) without winning and one can also fade into oblivion (Ruben Studdard) even after posing for holy pictures with the judges once the final votes are in.

Hats off to my wife, who in the past has yanked off my blinders long enough to turn me onto such gal-friendly fare as "Gilmore Girls", "Seventh Heaven" and "Grey's Anatomy." She taught me the difference between Rachel Ray and the Barefoot Contessa, and also even turned me onto the original incarnations of "The Iron Chef."


Perhaps it's time to venture out of the man-cave more often and see what she's watching in her den.

Or, maybe it's time for me to master the wonders of picture in picture--I'll use the small screen for sports, and the big one for a possible Stacey Keibler comeback special.