Of Klumps and K. Lo.

I'm almost relieved to admit that I'm not watching next week's American Idol finale. I couldn't care less about Ruben or Clay (i.e. Sherman Klump and Bilbo of the Shire). Ruben has zero stage presence, and the sweaty, cringe-inducing stupefied look on his face after he performs becomes less and less tolerable. Clay, who seems to be channeling an odd combination of Pat Benatar and Liberace, has about as much pop star machismo as Pia Zadora. And I must admit that over the course of the past few weeks, I had grown to love Kimberley Locke. She's sassy, talented, humble, and has a sensuality far classier than Kimberly Caldwell's or Trenyce's. Of the 12, she was my favorite.

On a completely unrelated note, I went out with Melinda and our future roommate, Liz, last night. Liz lives in Laguna Beach and has promised us a life replete with celebrities and opened doors into the industry. While I remain exceedingly skeptical, I'm quite enthralled by the idea of lunches with Heather Locklear and club-hopping with Renee Zellweger. Although after lingering at the trashy and horrific Club Rodeo until 2 a.m., I realized that I'm going to be quite tired should I live with those two party animals. I'm also realizing that I hate club-hopping. And anything resembling a rodeo.