This is American Idol

It’s six o’clock.

Everyone in the house leaves all chores unfinished. The living room is packed. All eyes are set on the tv screen. One each face is an invisible warning, “Do not disturb.”

“This is American Idol,” Ryan Seacrest says, and my friends sigh in anticipation. Then comes the familiar rhythm, together with shades of blue and white dancing about, like comets following the path where they’ve been to before. This culminates in the American Idol logo—something we see spoofed and imitated by org t-shirts in campus. Yes, that’s how popular this show is, not just in this country, but, well, even in Bhutan.

The real show begins.

Beside me is my brother who’s rooting for David Archuleta, the little boy who licks his lips when he sings. Kuya John, not really a rock fan, wants Michael Johns to win. Michael, living in the house next block, doesn’t seem to wonder how Jason Castro shampoos his hair but cheers for him anyway. Kuya Imay is a fan of David Cook, predictable at his being a rocker but unpredictable at how he rocks the stage. Kuya Pido may be a Brook White follower but is silent about it, like he always is in all things. Well, as for me, I’m for Kristy Lee Cook because nobody likes her here.

It’s past seven, and we’re still talking about why Michael Johns was kicked out. I should eat dinner now.