Can We Get to Hollywood Already? Dawg?

Here's the thing – I've come to grips with the fact that I love American Idol. And not ironically. It's sort of like the Olympics. I used to think that I only watched for the goofy sports like Biathlon (skiing with guns!) and to laugh knowingly at the personal interest stories, all the while thinking that I was far better than this.

Turns out I'm not.

When the first season of Idol became a phenomenon, I tuned in toward the end of it just to see the spectacle. Or so I thought. Because when a Dunkleman-free Season 2 rolled around, I was with it start to finish. Sure, I'll fast-forward thru a results show here and there, but otherwise I've lost my illusions of calling it a guilty pleasure. I now watch guilt-free.

But I'm tired of the auditions. What started as an interesting assembly of fresh faces sparked by the occasional oddball has turned into a two-hour parade of freaks. That's two hours a night, twice a week. America's fascination with the William Hungs of the world seems to have finally faded – can we please focus on the search for the next Katharine McPhee? (Don't start with Taylor Hicks, I'm no fan of The Soul Patrol.)

There's a week to go before we hit Hollywood to separate the hopefuls from the has-beens. Only four more hours, and then we can get to the real meat of the show – Randy Jackson saying "Dawg," Paula Abdul choking back tears and Simon Cowell crushing the misguided dreams of marginally talented people. I say bring it.