The day I learned that everything is fixed I was drunk. I used to get drunk for a living. Well, I got drunk enough to make the all-knowing celebriates around me imbibe till the truth spilled out.
April 2, 2004 was one of those nights. I had just walked in through the back door of the Beverly Hills Hotel and passed thru basement hallways to emerge, thru the kitchen doors, in the grand ballroom where music mogul Clive Davis was hosting a shindig.
Clad in my tuxedo, I was ushered to a table by a young British man who probably invited any smartly dressed bloke into any unused space. So was the Bacchinalian reverie of the evening.
The wine flowed but most of us walked the 16 feet to the bar to refill our troughs of Vodka. A chatty Limey on my left just kept telling stories.
So I listened . . . . .
“Blah Blah Self aggrendizing shit Blah Blah ..Idol.. pussy grabber..blah blah Fantasia .”
Fantasia? I know that name! She was the hot as the sun new contestant on the reality show American Idol. I, amongst others, believed her reality would become a Fantasy and Fantasia would win, thru hard work and singing and wardrobe changes the coveted American Idol scholarship to stardom.
“She’s gonna win,” the Limey sputtered on my tux.
“Yeah I think she is great. But we have a long way to go in four months of voting,” i quipped.
“She’s gonna win.”
That man was Nigel Lythgoe, executive producer of American Idol, telling me emphatically that a vote, an election would result in one winner: Fantasia.
If they can fix American Idol, where 7 million people vote nightly via text message, we are doomed.