Well, here we are at the end of another Journey of a Lifetime…and what’s great about this year is that I buy into that statement completely. It actually was, and no matter what happens here will be, for two phenomenally talented, appreciative and hardworking kids.

This Idol season has been fun. Last year…don’t mistake me, I liked Ryan quite a lot, in a bright surface sort of way, and felt he was a deserving winner…but not at all the most interesting candidate. After Tyler, Jenny, Billy left? So did my enthusiasm. (And let us not get me started on Gary ‘Bless you’ Beals.)

This year, the candidates got even more interesting. I fell in love with a couple random voices in the crowded audition eps and spent a whole summer watching them not only live up to the hype but find new ways to fascinate me each week - well, OK, other than the weeks involving Herman’s Hermits and long trains.

It’s been great watching the other eight, too; in the end they all deserved to be there, and in showing it they’ve all in various ways won, if not my overwhelming desire to purchase a CD, at least my great respect.

But…to me both Kalan and Theresa (and, after I’ve been worn down by enough Hallmark cards, Jacob) are, in the truest sense of a way overworked word, special. Too special to end up singing crappy pop-pap while under the iron control of greedy record moguls…but then again I also think they’re all intelligent - and/or have good advice - enough to make something genuine and long-lasting out of whatever opportunities they’re handed…

…Sheez, talking of Gary, listen to me. Go my children and maketh music unto the world. Luckily, the one thing Idol will never, ever be short on is snerkability…

Benedict of Orange is discovered onstage: just him, a rabid crowd and three million viewers. Y’know, it’s at moments like this that a host can truly sparkle, show how vital a connexion he really is. Provide that sense of real urgency, channel it into the audience and reflect it back to even greater heights.

Ben…well, we know he’s more excited than usual, because he stumbles over his words a lot. And he’s pretty damn reflective, too, especially when the spotlight hits the top of his head just so. But otherwise…he’s Ben. This is as good (though thankfully not as orange) as it gets. The man is a highly successful Mulroney, anyhow. I suppose there’s a certain talent in that; heaven knows few would want to take it on.

Top Eight in the audience! Wave to all the nice people that didn’t vote for you, gang, they still might buy a CD! I don’t recall last year’s crew being this enthusiastic. Actually, what I recall is one of them being on bathroom break when the camera panned over, and the rest looking sullen. Oh, and Richie grinning. I think. There are times when I wonder if that whole dealy-bobber with the Muppet singing James Taylor was just a really strange dream.

The judges. Are all here. Dress is uniformly elegant, as befits a reality karaoke competition about to reach its zenith; Zack has even gone to all the trouble of pulling out that tuxedo jacket with the satin piping he wore to a pal’s wedding in 1978. And it looks like Sass’s Auntie Ethel insisted on making her a new dress, how cute. ("Oh, no, it’s no trouble, dear – I have this whole big length of dotted-swiss left over from Susie’s wedding last year, just sitting there fading in the closet…")

Facial expression is "Are we there yet?" These are not people who are in a whole lot of gut-wrenching suspense over the outcome of this competition, here. Quaffing a lot of Pepto-Bismol over it, sure, but not on account of the suspense.

Jake, what do you think of this final two? "Funny you asked that, because…Well, actually, Ben, screw them both. I’m getting so damn tired of smarmy shy smiles and goofy sincerity, y’know? Frankly, I’m still pissed that Adam and Kirk dropped out, but nobody cares what I think anyhow, you sure don’t, you’re an orange Mulroney reading off a stupid electronic glowbox for godsakes, so screw you too…"

Ahem. Sorry. You cover this stuff this long enough, it becomes impossible to prevent. What Jake of course really says is that it’s all good; from aways back at the beginning they thought that Kalan was the Idol…and Theresa was ‘the best singer they’d ever seen’. So basically he’s still bitter, but way more subtle and articulate about it.

Farley, how has Canada done with the voting this year? Well, Farley just has to pat Canada on the head and give it a biscuit, he’s so pleased with the way they’ve learned to heel. Good voters!

I’m of two minds on the relentless march to the Top Two, myself. On the one hand, at least it avoided any further attempts to convince us that the fate of the free world rests on an Idol vote (slight pause while I entertain myself with what might have been had Theresa been voted off before, say, Josh…). On the other, it left us with not much to do but watch Zack drooling over Jacob and Shane’s endless Pained Smiles. Plus, this biscuit is really gross.

Sass, how do you suggest our remaining hopefuls handle the racheting pressure? I’m sure Sass has all kinds of fun ideas for one of them at least, but all she actually says is something wise-old-mentor-ish about not overthinking it, sing to just the one person,  we’re all on your side. Except the masses of people who hate you because you’re not the other competitor, and the judges who have agendas that may or may not have anything whatsoever to do with your actual performance, and Jon Dore, who keeps showing up at your door and exposing singularly unappealing parts of his anatomy. Oh, and the rapacious record moguls who’re standing by ready and eager to feed you to the Idol Hitmaking Machine, yum yum. But hey, at least we’re not going to make you perform in gold leisurewear for the finale! See, kids, we’re really all just one big happy family!

Benedict informs us that he of course hosts for just one person…oh, great, you mean the rest of us could’ve been happily ignoring you all this time?…Zack. Who doesn’t even bother. Sigh. Right about this time last year he was bringing out the bobblehead doll, remember? Good times.

Anyhow. Zack, advice for the voters? "Stop being morons." OK, so it comes out of his mouth more like "Never mind the regional voting, don’t play established favourites, really listen to the performances tonight and see who you want in your CD player…" but that is so totally not what he’s thinking.

Again with Kalan the ‘Buffalo Soldier’. I didn’t get a chance for a full-bore eye-roll over that particular crumb of Brie earlier in the season, can I just take a moment to do it now? All it ever does for me is conjure up images of Kalan in a Confederate cavalry uniform, complete with drum and little peaked cap. And trust me, the exercise is doing neither of us any favours.

Anyhow, Ashley Wilkes, how are you feeling? "Just so fortunate to be here." Yeah, given that Entertainment Option II was a community-college classroom, I’m guessing you are. By the way, Reader, I hope you’ve been and will be assuming fervent SCREAM!s after every vaguest allusion to the boy anywhere in the building and a few city blocks there around ("Hey, look, a curly fry!" "SCREAMMMM!")

‘Canada’s Sweetheart’ Theresa…whoa, girlfriend has problems. Above and beyond the ones created by apparently letting the stylist’s eight-year-old pick your makeup palette, I mean. These are throat problems, great big ugly mean ones. The kind that even the layperson realises won’t be fixed without Theresa shutting up and shutting down for a month at least…except of course our Idol-in-waiting here quite possibly has a CD to record for November release.

Again with the two minds. I mean, the girl has done everything this week but hold up a huge blinking neon sign announcing "Hey, I’m Good With Second Place! Really!", so I have to believe if she felt like her career was on the line she’d have had no trouble removing herself from competition. On the other hand…well, removing herself from competition. Theresa is clearly one of your old-style Judy-and-Mickey-type troupers. On balance, though, I now have a reason for wanting Kalan to win that has nothing to do with either one’s performances.

So, Suddenly Kim Carnes, how has your life changed? "Oh, life before Idol is totally unrecognisable!" Heh. Among her many media-friendly gifts Theresa Sokyrka is a reporter’s dream: she takes the most banal questions at face value and gives genuinely interesting answers.

Beachfest! Pretty much the show at the EX, as far as I can tell, except maybe fewer ice-cream waffles. Their loss. Kalan looks thoroughly comfortable in front of thousands, Theresa (in still more green, minty lace camisole I-bet-she-scoffed-that-out-of-Elena’s-closet division) looks slightly lost. Extended long-play reprises of the exact same favourite performances both will be singing tonight, for no discernable reason other than just in case they tank onstage they can point to the video evidence, I guess.

Awake in a Dream...Well…um…at least it doesn’t have any messy subject-verb agreement issues this year? …Sigh. It’s an Idol winner’s single. There’s no way around it, short of moving to Seattle and storming a few more WTO meetings. If this is really where Jacob decided to play rat on the Titanic, I am suddenly totally and entirely sympathetic, let’s just leave it at that.

Oh, wait, it’s also suddenly just occurred to me that our little sincere-and-oh-so-honest artista here has been going around all week volunteering what a ‘great song’ it is, what a ‘great job’ the writers did. Right. Theresa, straight up, my CD money on the line: Those original songs of yours…unicorns, yes or no?

I feel better once she starts in, though, because she totally has a little half-resigned "Yes, it’s crap, I know, but I’ve gotta sing and you’re all here so what the hell," smile going on. Except of course the ‘hell’ part. Does Theresa swear? Suddenly I have this whole mildly interesting train of thought to ride for awhile. Theresa swearing like a sailor’s moll…Theresa shoving little old ladies out of lines at Tim Hortons…Theresa…um…scoffing nickel candies from the bin while her mom’s over in the produce aisle…Nahhhhhh.

Ah, well, at least it distracted from that horribly, and unexpectedly, messy first verse. That was close-on the single worst thirty seconds of any contestant this year. Brock Broomcloset is at home going "See, I coulda sang that just fine!"

She eventually recovers – doesn’t she always? – but as with What the World…, her soft smooth tone is just flowing over an immovable rock of smarm. And so, just as then, by the time she’s finished something passably pretty and nice and relaxed has been created, but that’s about it. (She has a lot of time to create it, because among its other myriad deficiencies this song is about two hours long and contains oh, roughly thirty unnecessary verses. Relaxed, nothing. If it’d gone on much longer she and her audience both would’ve been in comas.)

Jake: That song wasn’t written by you, but you totally delivered it as if it had been. Ah, now we know whose ‘brilliant’ idea WtWNN was.

Farley: You need to take ownership of everything that’s put before you at this point, and you did that. Translation: Don’t worry, kid, you won’t have to keep it for long. Theresa grins back at him.

Sass: You’ve got this…thing…something about you…it just draws me in. I shudder at the abrupt realisation that only a single X chromosome stands between us and Sass-Gary II. Meantime Theresa, as always serenely oblivious of subtext, is tearing up again.

Zack: Hate to spoil the party, kids, but the first half of that was dreadful. You need to step up, crystallise who you are, and that wasn’t it. Amen.

Benedict: Y’know, the great thing about this girl is she can still take a compliment like it was her first audition. I think he’s just in serious awe of anybody who can be classy without Teleprompting. "Thank you," Theresa tells him, yes, just like at her first audition. Prairie Princess, indeed. Damn, I hope this girl can make it through the music biz alive…

Speaking of amens…I Can Only Imagine. Ohhhh, dear. OK, so I have to give the kid his props. I don’t share his beliefs, I don’t care for this method of expressing them (I tend to agree with Homer Simpson: "Just substitute ‘baby’ for ‘Jesus’, and you’re all set.") However fair is fair. If Billy’s allowed to sing Scott Weilland, and Jacob’s allowed to…whatever the hell that was, then Kalan’s allowed to show off a prickly-but-vital part of himself, too. Could be worse, after all. Coulda involved pink angora.

But if they are his beliefs, his true innermost convictions that he’s willing to stand up for regardless of fear or favour - and no convictions are ever truer than the ones you hold at eighteen - then shouldn’t they be more interesting than this? Because, seriously, this performance is dull as dishwater. Duller even. At least dishwater has those pretty swirly rainbow thingees where the grease hits the soap. Plus sometimes you can have fun whipping the suds into your sister’s….

Kalan’s voice is notably devoid of swirls this time out. Sincerity, oh yes, even inner peace…but swirls, no. Plus he’s way too stiff physically…except the "Help me out here, Lord!’ pleas to the ceiling, of course, which I don’t think are supposed to look quite that anxious. All I’m really getting out of this whole thing is the deep suspicion that Kalan is one of these people who fervently passes on those ‘God will bless you if you clutter up your friends’ inboxes!’-type emails, and that isn’t entertainment.

Quick shot of oh-so-proud Mrs. Porter flashing a sniffly thumbs-up. Well, yes. What a total rush this scene must be for a maternal parent – the beautiful, mature, hugely gifted firstborn son, so soon to be rich and famous, standing tall in front of millions crooning a spiritual. Kalan just won himself a permanent Mother’s Day gift exemption and can probably blow off a couple dozen Christmasses to boot.

Unfortunately, the judges aren’t related to him. Farley: Took awhile to get into it, but once you did, not bad, not bad. This would be a whole lot more convincing if he’d quit nodding encouragingly.

Sass: Once you got into the upper register there, I liked that, but the lower not so much. Translation: The song has temporarily sobered me up, at least a little.

Zack: Ugh. Not to quibble with you expressing your faith , but that was tedious. C’mon, it’s the finale, could somebody please start stepping it up, here?

Jake: I can’t help but agree with Zack. (Hilariously, he still says this as though he expects us to be shocked or something.) Boring, very.

Kalan nods to all this with about three-quarters of his total lower lip area between his teeth, looking more purely miserable than anytime since boot-camp. The poor guy is obviously trapped in two very personal and particular hells: that of the perfectionist who’s fallen way short of his own standards, and the young idealist who’s just had them tossed back in his face. My brain is duly registering the fact that he is earning votes by the cartload here, probably more than Jasmine’s tears ever bought, but my heart isn’t co-operating. All it wants, desperately, is to give him a hug and tell him it’s going to be OK. Shut up, heart, I’m on deadline here. Besides, Theresa’s probably waiting in the wings to take care of all that in spades.

Benedict rushes over - and I do mean rushes, fairly bristling with righteous indignation on the kid’s behalf. Whoa, hey, Benny-boy has a spine? It’s more startling and involving than anything musical thus far. "Not that I wanna tell the judges how to judge, but…All this talk about getting real, showing who you are…well, if anybody can’t tell that’s who you are…" Um, Ben? We covered this. They think who he is, is reallyreally boring. You’re not helping, please go away.

Creepy Ashley McIsaac in the audience. Looking creepily intent. Y’know, it’s hard to concentrate on an Idol final when you keep being terrified afresh for the winner.

Theresa. Come Away With Me. Sometimes this girl really does have an alarming lack of imagination re: song selection. Talk of Kalan not taking risks. Anybody who believes Theresa’s not going to at least impress with this song, raise your hands. Great, now read this prospectus re: Florida real estate I’ve prepared, here’s a pen.

"Oh, just end, already!"
"Mom…it’s like two lines in."
"I hate this song," Shoemom mutters. And continues to mutter throughout.

Out of the clear blue sky Theresa has somehow begun driving her straight up a wall. "She’s so…nicey-nice! I can’t stand it!" (This, coming from a woman who routinely rents Douglas Sirk movies because she ‘needs a good cry.’)

I don’t hate the song, exactly…boredboredboredboredboredboredboredbored with a side order of bored by it, that works OK. Whether that’s my entire difficulty I don’t know, but when you spend an entire performance mentally trying and failing to come up with a way the song could possibly be made interesting ever again, there’s a problem. Also, even worse in re: me and Theresa, I’m not buying it on some basic emotional level. Although she’s clearly enjoying herself, unlike Kalan is comfy enough to mess around with tune and tempo despite the throat…well, I’m impressed, yeah, but I’m also as totally disconnected from this performance as I ever was to any of Jacob’s. And the scatting again feels less organic and more "Hey, looky Billie Holiday Lite!"

Also, there’s the little matter of the magenta satin gown over blue jeans. Let me just repeat that, so you can get the full mental picture: Magenta satin - magenta being one of those colours that should never have been translated to satin in the first place, inasmuch as under spotlights that sucker could blind a poor innocent cameraperson at twenty paces. Evening gown. Over very ordinary blue jeans. Evidently somebody’s been reading Teen People, and they should stop now. Not to sound like a prematurely cranky old coot here, but if Kalan shows up in a pair of those clown-crotch pants, I’m leaving.

Ah well. What the whole feels like, really, is that that second-place neon sign just acquired a running-light outline. Theresa’s gotten what she wants, and she just doesn’t see the need of risking it all for the gravy. It’s disappointing, but I can respect it.

Audience is impressed, though. Among the people applauding her are Kim Stockwood and Dhamnait Doyle, aka totally anonymous attractive blond people that the producers just liked their names. Or of course they could be multiple Gemini Award winners on their way to Hollywood. Clue? Me? No. CTV is severely overestimating the name recognition value of it’s talent, here. On the other hand, at least it’s not Simon Fuller again.

Sass: I hope the voters are taking into account performances tonight, not just favourites. Loved the phrasing on that. Somewhere out there, there’s a seventh-grade class rolling its collective glitter-shadowed eyes.

Zack: Glad to see you’ve worked out the jitters, that you showed who you are. Out of the two of you, I know who’s gonna be in my CD player over and over again. Translation: It’s disappointing, but I can respect it. Oh, and here’s my card.

Theresa throws him a smile of perfect mutual understanding and affection – We’ve come a long way, you and I, haven’t we? She so totally has his number, and it’s absolutely wonderful to watch. Theresa on American Idol would’ve been wonderful to watch, come to think of it. I have this lovely mental image of Simon slowly melting away under a constant flood of gentle sincerity, like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Jake: Someday, Norah Jones will be covering your songs. Theresa goes into quite genuine shock. So do I, although it’s not unmixed with a sneaking suspicion he’s right. "Oh, come ON," Shoemom yelps.

Farley: It all comes down to the right shoulder for me……nonono, straight up, really. I can tell whether you liked the song or not, and I’m happy to say you liked that one. Translation: I’m disappointed, but not as much as Zack, so I can really, totally respect that.

Benedict: Yeah, see, there’s the crystallising moment. He’s so anxious to prove he’s been paying attention you’d think somebody told him it was on the final. Theresa is totally – albeit tactfully - ignoring him in favour of blowing kisses to the crowd. Shoemom grimaces mightily. "The thing is, it’s all real, y’know," I explain. To no avail. "Oh, c’mon, you don’t mind Kalan being angelic!" "That’s different." Suuuuuure, woman who makes butter tarts with raisins in for family gatherings even though your three daughters loathe raisins, just because your doofus son-in-law loves them, not that I am bitter or anything, I totally understand. Also have mentally resolved to pay way more attention to all those "Back when I was 21…" stories.

L’Oreal pimpmercial. Thank-you stylists week! And thank you, contestants, for allowing us to indulge our eye-makeup fetishes! I suppose it’s too much to ask that we could interrupt the self-congrat-fest here to get some actual insight into the physical evolution of two of the most aesthetically interesting contestants in the top ten, eh? (Like, for instance, how does Kalan feel about being trapped under poodle curls for the rest of his professional life? I’ve been wondering that since Day One.)

Right, sorry, what was I thinking. Watching the suddenly forty-five-year-old-veteran duo collectedly discussing ‘quiet time before the show’ and the management of their ‘images’ is at least way more entertaining than the Gary-loves-moisturizer incident.

Time once again for Audience Bingo. Under the G, Row Ten: Ryan Smith, a big broken-nosed husky labeled ‘Generic Hockey Pl… erm, ‘World Hockey Champion’. Like he did it all himself...…Uh, never mind. Wearing a ‘Damn you, Bettman! I’ll take the cap, just lemme outta here!’ smile.

Round Two. Supposed to be audition songs, now as noted above just a generic favourite-performance a la AI3. We interrupt here to offer a fervent Thank You, Kalan’s God, for preventing a third reprise of House of the Rising Sun. Instead boyo has been inspired to revisit …Born to be Wild? He really does work in mysterious ways, I guess. "First the gospel, now…Ah, no, you can’t be both, sweetie," Shoemom is meanwhile telling the TV set. "Pick one and stick with it."

Heh. I’d forgotten how much fun teenage angst can be. Never mind that as a novelty gimmick it wore thin about sixty-five dozen CTV promos ago; this performance is a stand-alone, as subtext-laden as ever was Shane’s venture into The Darkness and as outre as Jacob in blue spandex. This is Kalan finally pushed over the ledge U2 left him dangling on.You want me to get dirty? Right. Hang on…

Technically, it’s a complete horror show, not that he cares. Pitch is for violin-playing sissies! He’s banging around the stage in a tee-shirt and jeans, eyes wide, curls a-flying, perfect mouth twisting - we should probably be very, very grateful there’s no eyeliner involved - wailing the glory notes and rasping the downbeat. My tone-deaf ears have no intrinsic idea how this detracts or not from the performance; they think it’s fairly cool, all told, and the in-house audience sure doesn’t seem to mind either. We all already know he can hold a note anytime he wants, so what the hell, he gets the grace.

Right about mid-wail, in fact, I realise I am not only totally buying into this performance…but honestly liking this kid for the first time in this whole comp. Not affectionately bemused, not gently amazed; genuinely thinking of him as a person I’d’ve liked to hang out with, back when I was eighteen. Which throws several things out of whack, because I had my mental furniture comfortably arranged around a central theme of Love Theresa as a person, love Kalan for his talent, and now it’s all just clotted right up and I’m in for a really angsty Thursday.

Zack: That sorta speaks for itself, doesn’t it? Pitchy, but hey, for the first time ya took some risks…you showed us the man you’re gonna be……and you are gonna be a fine rock specimen. Kalan is not quite out of the moment enough to look entirely thrilled at being a teenager who’s just spilled his guts on national television and is still being told he’ll make a fine man ‘someday’.

Jake: I’ve never believed you were born to be wild, until now. That was the most rockin’ thing you’ve ever done. Translation: Damn, now who am I going to be upset at when Theresa loses? Kalan smiles in what appears to be total and utter relief. I think I read somewhere last year that for all Zack’s noise, Jake is the judge the contestants really worry about impressing.

Farley. Not surprised at all. You’re the smartest contestant we’ve ever seen (he’s actually probably thinking of AI3) and you’re showing us what you can do, good for you. Translation: You’re my horse, kid, and I’m backing you win or lose. For which he gets a skeptically pleased smile and a distinct "Thanks, Farley." Hey, in some cultures they’d practically be engaged.

Sass: Angelic boy rocks out…mmmmm…Translation: Wait, he was singing, too? Seriously, she doesn’t even bother to hide it here. Kalan looks tolerant; clearly, he and Jacob have been exchanging gossip. ("I think last year was worse," Shoemom says reflectively, "because Gary actually believed her." Then she shudders.)  

Benedict: Ah, the hits just keep coming with Kalan. He glances down to see if Kalan appreciates the support, and finds him enthusiastically appreciating the support from the crowd instead. You guys are still gonna vote for me, right? Okay then, point made.  Farley has a point, too; for all his borderline-autistic tendencies in private life, this kid is probably one of the most naturally shrewd Idol contestants I’ve ever seen.

Zany – who has, eek, stolen Kalan’s brown velvet jacket from the Summertime show. Die, stupid jacket! Die! Die!  - and, ahem, the very attractive cast of Instant Star. Which looks extremely realistic, when you think about all those fifteen-year-old punkettes played by thirty-year-old actresses who’ve been crowned Idol by gorgeous record execs in real life. This thing basically has ‘Future Special Guest Star Ryan Malcolm’ written all over it.

Theresa in a demure pantsuit complete with scarf…ooh, Cruisin’. Me likey this one. It’s one of the most unique and flat-out fun things she’s done. As a way of getting her point across without sacrificing her vocal chords, it’s a fantastic choice.

Miss the flowered mic, though. Hell, I miss that whole zany! outfit. I think I even miss the magenta satin. But never mind, there’s still enough of that sly, soulful edge in the vocal to make me believe she’s in a convertible, not a minivan…OK, maybe a minivan with a sunroof.

Yes, I’m babbling. I honestly don’t know what else to say about Theresa’s performances at this point. They’re musically intelligent and hugely affecting when she’s got material she can work with; she’s a relaxed and engaging performer, very easy to listen to (as distinct from easy-listening); never quite technically perfect but that never quite seems to matter…endlessly likeable, unless you’re Shoemom, and frankly I’m kind of hoping you’re not because if you are and you’re reading this you’re about to kill me.

Somehow, though, when you get right down to the purely visceral…I’d just always rather be watching Kalan - or Jacob, or even Kaleb - stumble around noisily trying for the moon and sometimes falling just as spectacularly, than listen to much more of Theresa’s sweet calm perfection. I’d like to pretend this is all very meaningful and unique of me; but, to paraphrase my esteemed colleague, it’s more likely I just don’t have the right set of genes.

Shot of Mom’n’Pop Sokyrka plus big sis in the audience, wearing enormous proud smiles. Please, somebody, give these people their own sitcom. Unbearably cute and down-homey. The more I see them, the more I understand Theresa. Especially the waterlogged thing. I sure hope Mom brought the jumbo economy-sized box of Kleenex, let’s put it that way.

Jake: This time next summer, we’re all going to be cruisin’ along to your CD. Heh. Like I said, subtle, only not. In case anyone had any lingering doubts about whether Theresa cares about winning…well, no.

Farley: I want to repeat my last comment…but I can’t remember what it was. Pretty sure it involved you enjoying it, and me enjoying it, and we’re all enjoying this, right? Theresa agrees enthusiastically.

Sass: Girl, when you do what you do – whoa! We freak. Uh-huh. Because this is Sass, I don’t have any empirical evidence that she doesn’t, but... Theresa meanwhile looks like she’s suddenly starting to gain deep insight into what the guys have been talking about all this time, back at the mansion.

Zack: I dunno…I myself woulda taken no prisoners, gone all out, but…You’re showing us what you can do, what kind of records you’d put out, now you have to hope Canada chooses light over…um…whatever. Translation: Damnit, woman, I was hoping for an excuse to out-gush Cowell over Fantasia, and you’re not co-operating!

Benedict, as she swings against him in pure relief: Uh, Theresa? You can breathe now. She exhales noisily. Unexpectedly big into the bodily functions, our prairie princess. It’s is cuter than the pit-sniffing, I’ll give her that.

Kalan heads out for his crack at Please, Let Me Awake and Find This Song Was All a Bad Dream…uh, the new single. Wearing the ubiquitous jeans and…a magenta satin evening gown.

Kidding! What he actually has on is some ludicrous disheveled shirt-school-tie-and-baroque-formal-jacket getup. No, I can’t describe it any better. He looks like the Kalan from the first song got mugged backstage by the Kalan from the second. Either that or Sass finally caught up to him during the commercial break and…Oh, God …bleach, where’d I put the bleach?

"Why doesn’t his mom just take him shopping?" Shoemom meanwhile enquires with real concern.

Faint drumrolls please, or maybe the theme from Rocky; the alchemy thingee is about to face its ultimate test. Herein we learn for sure and certain whether the kid’s future is Michael Stipe or Bolton.

As it turns out…a little of each. The thing about turning straw into gold is still only a legend, primarily because in this case nobody bothered to clean off the manure first. But by his God if the boy hasn’t found a way to wrestle some meaning out of the stupid thing. Love to praise Him he surely does, but on all evidence, right at the moment he wants Idol more. I have no idea whether to admire him or fear for his mental health. Maybe if they assign him rhythm lessons as therapy. Lunge forward, pause, lunge back, wave hand, lunge forward, glory note…have I mentioned this song is endless? It’s like he’s trying to recreate his entire Idol experience in interpretive dance.

Oh, hey…the curl-clutch can stay. Yeeeeessss it can. Pause for valuable insight into the feminine psyche, bewildered male viewers: a gorgeous guy being disdainful of his gorgeousness is insanely sexy. Yes, even if he’s otherwise a Kewpie doll wearing an embroidered jacket. ("Look," Shoemom notes by way of something to do during the fortieth verse, "it’s on the back, too.") Now shut up and prepare to surrender custody of the rewind button.

Farley: You took ownership of it. Translation: Yes, the song is bad enough that that’s my ultimate praise.

Sass: I love it when you take it into that Kalan Killer Zone. Translation: Kid, you are damn lucky you’re attractive enough to keep looking at through fifty verses of this goop. You might just need another curl-clutch, at that.

Zack: While I do think in some ways the title would sit better on another's shoulders…I can still see the headline: "Little Prince Crowned Canadian Idol".  If Kalan ever does become one of those troubled ex-child stars, Zack just so earned an entire chapter in the memoir with that one sentence. I mean, I love the man, but I can just hear him at World Idol: "Yeah, but you shoulda seen the ones we left at home!"

Jake: When you put out CDs, I think you’ll be more likely to put out rock songs, ‘cause that’s what you do. Translation: Whoa…major retroactive guilt trip over this whole process happening here. Run for the hills while you still can, Kalan!

Benedict gives the yada yada votecakes. Both contestants look slightly dizzy. Let the non-suspense begin!