When Eric called me to ask if I wanted to go to the American Idol concert in San Diego, I had to think about it. For about two seconds. The chance to see all my favorite popstar wannabes on one stage in a slickly produced spectacle featuring pyrotechnics, bad fashion and the slightest possibly of Dunkleman had me twitterpated. And a little scared. Actually, very, very scared. But the opportunity was too rich to pass up. I needed to face my Jim Varraros fear head on and conquer it. I'm happy to report I did. But the ejayphobia that has sprung up in its place seems to be much more intense and possibly crippling.

The day started with a two hour drive from L.A. to San Diego. We were meeting a friend, John, there to see the concert at the Cox Arena (heh) on the San Diego State campus. When I discovered that this was actually the first stop on their national tour, I got even more excited. I was actually present at the first concert Tiffany ever gave outside of a mall and this had the potential to be 10 times worse.

As we filed into Cox Arena, a medium sized indoor amphitheatre, we were confronted by a large shimmering curtain and two video screens. We quickly ascertained that I was the oldest person in the crowd not accompanying his own progeny. And, well, let's just say the men in the crowd didn’t seem to be there for Ryan Starr's tatas.

In a move out of character for myself, I decided I needed both a beer and a glow stick. The beer for its sense-deadening properties and the glow stick for, well, it's glowiness. And for the look on my companions' faces when I showed it to them. John bought us a program and we spent the pre-show minutes puzzling over the odd glamour shots and trying to determine exactly what kind of Muppet Ejay most resembled. Eric thought he looked like a felt Lenny Kravitz. John and I agreed. In one picture, he also looked like a particularly angry, fro-sporting badger. We were also enlightened to find out that AJ likes long walks on the beach. That sentiment is so empty, are those even considered words anymore?

On the view screens before the show, we were treated to videos by some up and coming "edgy" pop chick named Amy Studt who seemed to be positioning herself as a Britney for the Betty Finn set. She's an outcast. And a girl. And she may or may not play the piano. She looks very much like Leelee Sobieski, but nothing like Helen Hunt. It's like how both Emilio and Charlie both look like Martin Sheen but look nothing like each other. We also sat through a cavalcade of fashion runway disasters set to Nelly's "It's Hot In Herre." Do not get me started on that second "r". The sponsor of the event was Pop Tarts. Sometimes these jokes just write themselves.

As the house lights dimmed, I passed out lighters to our party and Eric took out his notepad to be used as much as a shield from the Jim heebies as for pithy insight. I tried to figure out the best way to display my glowstick and John just wore an expression of impending horror, reminiscent of the look on my father's face when he accompanied my godsister and me to the aforementioned Tiffany concert. We laid bets on whether Justin would sing "Get Here". Well, no one actually bet against it.

We weren't sure if there was going to be a host. I think we were all secretly hoping for live, unadulterated Dunkleman. I predicted that if anyone it would be Randy because, hell, what's he doing now. After the lame local DJs completed their welcome, Randy's mug did in fact appear on the video screens, welcoming us. The curtains parted to reveal a stage of three large concentric ovals, the center one being another video screen with the American Idol logo. There was a live band consisting of two keyboardists, a bassist, a lead guitar, a drummer and three back-up vocalists. Above the band was a large platform with two staircases leading down to the main area.

As Randy threw it to the first finalist voted off, the center video screen parted to reveal, rigidly posed in Thriller-era posture, in all his Creature Shop glory, Mr. Ejay Day.

What, oh Lord, have I done to deserve this?

Ejay has apparently decided to out-Justin, Justin. The hair is now thumbing its nose at Sir Isaac Newton. He's sporting a long leather trenchcoat, one half of which is covered with patches like he's in the road company of Godspell. Then I see his mug on the screens. Is that? Yep, he's wearing eyeliner. But not just simple, accent the lashes eyeliner. He has cat eyes, big ones. like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra. He looks like a plush New York Doll. He sings what I am informed is "Black Cat" by Janet Jackson. I figured it was one of the Jacksons by the "sexy" bass line. He gyrates and over-extends his arms, striking uncomfortable poses. He is the fall of Rhythm Nation 1814. Then he turns. Well, twirls. It is then that I see the large patch on his back. It's The Clash. Okay, you're at an American Idol concert, singing a Janet song and you decide that British punk band The Clash best represents your personality. I doubt he could even name one of their songs if I spotted him the "Casbah".

Now, let me digress to say that I do not pretend to be a music expert. I do not consider myself a music snob, though others may disagree. (Yes, I mock ownership of an A*Teens album. They have an * for crap's sakes.) But I like to think that have some knowledge of music. I can tell The Kinks from LFO and Britney from Berlioz. The Clash are cool. Ejay is not. Later, when he came back out sporting the Rolling Stones lips on his t-shirt, I actually crossed myself. I am not Catholic. Or even religious.

Once Ejay concludes his tribute Captain EO, replete with pyrotechnics because the stage wasn't flaming enough, he introduces a video clip of the next performer. We quickly ascertain that the "Idols" will be appearing in the order they were booted off. Thank God Tamyra was voted off early, I think.

On the video screen, with his puppy-eyes, signing for the deaf parents like Nancy Kerrigan wore white for her blind mother, so afraid of appearing gay that he actually looks incapable of controlling his bowels, is Jim Verraros. Jim Verarros terrifies me. Deeply. It may be because he is so emotionally pandering. It may be the sleeveless shirts which expose his pit pubes. It may simply be that his closeted terror reminds me of myself at a much younger age. Or it could be that he sucks.

And suck he did. And blow. That microphone was sat-is-fied. Jim makes his first appearance ascending from the bottom of the stage. He is reclined suggestively on a park bench, clad in Clorox white and appears to be having a Dear, Diary moment with the microphone. He turns to us and begins to sing. He's easy, apparently. Like Sunday morning. My first thought is how much less horrifying it would be to be watching Dawson and Joey have sex on that stage rather than listen to the kid with the ear cuff. At least Joey has It. Jim has That. That is not good.

He begins asking the audience to sing along. Since most of the audience was born during the Reagan administration, they do not know the words. He then actually asks to see lighters. Because that's what Skynyrd always did during "Freebird". They asked to see lighters. My companions give me a look of warning, but I just drank a $6 Sam Adams. I'm lighting up. There are three lighters going in the entire arena. Jim sees one and acknowledges it. It's mine. I can no longer pretend that Jim Verraros and I exist in two entirely different universes. I envy the version of myself with the goatee.

Once John prods me to let me know that I can stop rocking back and forth muttering "it's not happening," Jim introduces us to number 8, A.J. Gill.

A.J. appears to be costumed for his starring role in the next Johnathan Lipnicki vehicle, "The Lit'lest Pimp". He's wearing a lavender fedora, disco shirt and moccasins. Because platforms would be over the top. His facial hair is as unfortunate as ever. He looks scared of the big lights.

Next is Ryan Starr. Holy crap those things are huge! And her waist. She could fit her entire body in one leg of my pants. From third grade. When I was lithe. She's picked a good song for her three notes and belts and struts. The producers, probably for insurance reasons, seem to have forgone her usual trip through the lion's cage before showtime and have taken to simply cutting some holes in her clothing. Cheap bastards.

Once the erstwhile Tiffany Montgomery has brought the set to climax, the videos of Cristina begin. Thank God. She has an actual voice and is not a complete ho. She sings "Ain't No Sunshine" and does a nice job. I can’t say anything outstanding about her, but nothing mean as well. Besides, I don't want to cause "exhaustion".

Time for R.J., second only to Jim in my pre-show fears. He is not…bad. He has a voice. It works. And he seems to have learned to dance somewhat. Plus, he's kinda hot. Oh, God, now that’s on the internet for the word to see. I found R.J. hot. What it is, is that he's a full-on Monet. On the monitors, I still want to slap him, but from a distance he's kinda cute. I was worried there for a minute. It helps that he's the only one of the guys that doesn't look severely malnourished. But he can sing, so that's a nice surprise. Also, the audience loves him. Wants to have his babies loves him. That I do not understand.

Thankfully, we've reached the home stretch. Four performers I actually like. Tamyra, looking lovely, is apparently every woman. I can’t speak for women, but, okay. Eric comments to the effect that Whitney is probably handing a huntsman a box for her heart at this very moment. Or lying in a pool of her own sick, if you believe the rumors.

Tamyra has the audience in her hands as she concludes. She introduces us to Simon Cowell's answer to Samantha Foxx, Nikki McKibbon. She sings "Memory", from Cats. She rocks it hardcore. Kidding, she sings Janis. We decline the offer of a piece of her heart, but she's pretty good. The vocal coach has helped her to change up some of the phrasing so she sounds less karaoke. Her basooms make their presence known. The audience reacts either with jealousy or scientific interest. Not a lot of need for cleavage in this crowd.

We all know what's coming next. We know every eye-fuck, every sincere glance, every "cross the desert like an Arab man" of it. But Nikki tells us he's going to do something we've never seen him do before. We wonder if this means he will not do "Get Here." That would be like Springsteen not doing "Born in the U.S.A.". Well, if instead of The Boss, he was the most popular act at the Laughlin Harrah's. I suggest he will sing "Get Here", but in G, rather than C.

From beneath the stage rises Justin "Sideshow Barry White" Guarini. He's at a piano. Because not enough of these contestants thought they were Alicia Keys to begin with. Except it's not a piano, it's a keyboard, but with a rounded back so it has the essence of the grand piano. Had me fooled for a second, you sneaky bastards. Justin croons for a while, then proves just how necessary his piano playing was by standing up mid-chorus and asking us to sing along. You just can’t keep that guy down. There are so many things to climb on and plead earnestly from. He's Al Green as a hyper-active toddler.

As Justin finishes, the crowd gets antsy for the star. Get those palm fronds, Kelly is coming. Now, I love Kelly. I think she's great, with spunk and presence and a good voice. She appears on the platform looking at ease. She wants our Respect, of course. We give it to her.

It would be easy (though not as easy, apparently, as Sunday morning) to say that Kelly proves why she won. She deserves it. Tamyra would have been a decent choice, but Kelly was the right one. She wraps up with intensity then announces a twenty minute intermission. I need a cigarette.

During intermission, I watch the concert-goers mill about. A lot of girls. A few moms. Three thirteen-year-olds walk by me wearing identical American Idol baby-doll shirts. A mom walks by holding a sign reading "Future Idol." Lady, aim higher. A couple people ask me for a light. Then a spiky-haired college kid walks up to me and asks if I'm willing to be interviewed for a radio station. I say sure. He tells me that I'll have to talk into his cell phone since he couldn’t bring in any recording devices. So, I'll be leaving my comments on his voice mail. He asks me my name and where I'm from. When I tell him L.A. he marvels that I drove to this. I was a passenger, okay, but I explain that a friend goes to school here. I tell him that the first two acts (Ejay and Jim) chilled me to my very core. I say nice things about Kelly, Tamyra and RJ. He then asks me about Nikki and inquires if I think she's hot. I let him know that I'm gay, but that she did well. He then asks me about the appeal of American Idol to the gay audience. I love being the designated spokesperson for my people. I give some non-answer about pop music and the somewhat gay sensibility of the show. I think I may have also made a crack about Dunkleman because, hey, it's Dunkleman.

I return to my seat and await the beginning of the second act. I will cease with the blow-by-blow and just mention some highlights.

Act Two begins with the five guys in full-on boy band mode. They sing "Dirty Pop" by NSync and apparently replicate the choreography. There are no words. The women follow with a cover of En Vogue's "Free Your Mind". They are much more successful than the boys. At many times the feedback becomes so bad that no one can hear A.J. sing. Thank you, sound guy. Thank you.

There are a couple of solos, followed by a Motown number, natch. Once that concludes, a wardrober throws a long black robe on Nikki and she announces that she will be performing a song by her American Idol, Stevie Nicks, from her Rumours album. Her Rumours album. Nikki, Nikki, Nikki. It's "Rhiannon", she does a nice job. But, between the fog machine, the heavy green light, her robes and the red hair she resembles a sort of proto-punk Disney villainess.

There are more medleys, including a trip to Boogie Wonderland. I never want to go to Boogie Wonderland. Kelly sings "Before Your Love" then the group joins her for "That's What Friends Are For" and "I'll Be There." They say their goodnights. There is no encore. Apparently a moment like this did not need to be paid tribute in song.

We file out and debrief. It was not a wall to wall crap-fest, which is great. The people we liked beforehand we still like. Kelly's a star. Ejay needs to be put down. The others seemed to notice some sort of "heat" between RJ and Cristina, including some grinding. I'm not sad I missed it.

You will be glad, also, to know that the screen savers behind the performers are still present, lending that special air of credibility only After Dark 4.0 can provide. The excerpts from Jonathan Livingston Seagull during Kelly's finale were especially apropos.

So, I now add American Idol Live to my concert repertoire. It was certainly better than Tiffany, but it was no Paul Simon. It was basically the most slickly-produced talent show I've ever seen, which is fitting. Watching Kelly, I was smiling. She deserves this. She deserves better, actually, but she seems to be enjoying it. I'm glad.

I'm also glad, really, that I went to this concert. I laughed, I cried, I learned a lot about myself. But, that's another entry. It was, for the most part, a lot of fun. Occasionally horrifying, yes, but at least the adrenaline was pumping. And now, when I sleep at night, at least I won't be faced with horrifying dreams of Jim.

Ejay's there now. Da Vinci only slept 15 minutes a day, right? I can do that.