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Confessions of a Fifty-Year-Old Phillip Phillips Fan

I admit it, right up front:  I don’t know how many years American Idol has been on t.v.  Until a few months ago I couldn’t have picked Ryan Seacrest out of a police lineup.  Of course I knew about Idol.  I listen to the radio, read the newspaper, am subject to t.v. commercials; it’s just I had never actually watched the show.  It was, I guess, beneath me.  I tried Dancing with the Stars once, when Clyde Drexler was on, and between the judge banter and the ho-hum dancing, it only confirmed my belief of the vapidity of the many contestant and “poorer cousin” reality t.v. shows.

And then in April the Husband and I took a thousand-mile road trip.  Along the way we stayed a couple of nights at the home of old friends.  They watched Idol the two nights we were there.  I don’t know how many singers start the season, but the first time I watched, they were down to about six.  And there he was, Phillip Phillips.  Like the rest of us, apparently, I was hooked.  I caught nearly all of his remaining performances, much to my family’s dismay and embarrassment.  True, I had to use the secondary, smaller t.v, the one in the room without heat.  But I wrapped myself in blankets and watched Phillip not get sent home week after week, willing him to win, but steeling myself for the worst. My infatuation with him embarrasses my twenty-year-old daughter the most, but even she was impressed with Phllip’s tender heart at his tearful win.

Why the confession now?  Simple, I was watching the Olympics and heard that voice.

Excuse me, I have to go download a song.

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