My friend Garret called last week. He was in town from Atlanta and wanted to hang for the night. I was amidst finals and just having a crappy day, so told him it might not be the best timing. “We’ll, here’s the deal, Abbie. I have an extra ticket to the finale of American Idol tonight, so if you wanna meet me at my (Four Seasons Beverly) hotel, be here in an hour. We’ll head to the show and then grab some dinner. I’d love to treat you, but understand if it’s too last minute.” I got ready in about ten minutes and headed downtown. Suffice it to say, it was an insane night. From waiting outside with Ozmans for our limo, to turning down fifth row seats for stage-side, then meeting Simon and dining fine at Spago, it was the Hollywood dream, to say the least.
Funny thing was (well, one of the many funny things about the night was), I’d never even seen American Idol, so had no idea who “the Davids” were, or Simon, for that matter. So from a completely objective, outsiders perspective, I was amazed at the obsession (understatement) with “idols.” The poster-screaming, hope-dreaming shouts of love, lust and fantasy in a blatant, idolatrous fashion. People love to dream—and shoot, if you get the chance to actually live in it for fifty minutes, why not, these people seemed to preach!? The waking-up will surely come, but maybe seconds of the dream suffice to trump the sad wake to reality. For maybe when reality feels hopeless, or loveless, or bored enough, the fantasy can at least fill in a part of the gap. Even if the majority of this Idol audience knew they were loving a lie, at least they could know love—or taste love, for a time. Maybe jaded love is better than none at all—cheap love, fake love, or forced love beats the lacking loves sung by reality.
97 million people voted for this season’s American Idol…and that doesn’t even account for the number who simply who simply watched.
There is no question that this generation is confused by love. The question, I think, is what does it look like for us to sing the Truth?