In Memory of My Sister

Beyond the door,
There's peace I'm sure,
And I know there'll be no more
Tears in heaven.

On September 18, 2003, my only sister, Donna, died unexpectedly. Today would be her 58th birthday.

Donna was larger than life, an overused cliché but it fits literally and figuratively. One day as she walked ahead of him, our father said her derriere looked like two cats in a bag, fighting. And that was when she was a slim teenager! At any size, from the tall, skinny, beautiful child to the big, beautiful woman she became, her body could not contain the vibrant force of her personality. Donna was the kind of person who spilled over everywhere she went. Strangers became instant friends and, in recent years, internet correspondents. The dozens of people on her e-mail list know what I mean. Our brother Bob and I begged her to write at least one personal message for every ten she sent that were forwarded jokes and inspirational stories. But at least her global messages balanced out all the spam about Viagra and anatomy enlargement.

I was blessed with three mother figures: my mother, my maternal grandmother, and my sister. As the classic bossy older sister, Donna dominated my life in a completely unique way that empowered her to say and do things I would never tolerate from anyone else. The friendship that developed from our sibling bond was tested frequently, especially after our parents passed away, but endured, to my eternal gratitude. The ten-year gap in our ages could have been hard to bridge, but Donna decided early to keep her bratty little sister close, despite countless impediments that would have discouraged most older sisters.

She is responsible for my love of rock ’n’ roll, music in general and dancing. She taught me how to do the Twist and then entered me in a dance contest for teenagers, which I won at the age of 4. She convinced Mom and Dad to send me to dance school soon thereafter and later she lobbied for me to have the professional music lessons she would have loved, since she was frustrated flautist. She bought me my first record album (Beatles) and took me to my first concert (Dave Clark Five). She forgave me for giving her boyfriend’s class ring to my Kindergarten sweetheart; for defacing her school yearbooks; for letting our parents find out she had a yellow, fringed, go-go dancer bikini when I dug it out of her dresser drawer and wore it around the house; for warping her favorite 45rpm singles in the summer heat.

In return, she generously included me in many teenage activities, which in Orange County in the mid-1960s usually meant going cruising, to drive-in movies or to the beach. How many boy-crazy 18-year-olds would do that? I remember many weekends together when she would go surfing at the legendary Wedge in Newport Beach, where it was too treacherous for me to even play in the waves, just so she could impress the cute, wild guys. When a co-worker she was dating invited her to attend their company picnic, I tagged along. She was always the best tour guide and delighted in introducing me to new places that I might have missed otherwise.

Such was her influence over me that she shaped who I am, providing an example of what to be and sometimes what not to be. Donna was the family rebel and so I became the family late-bloomer. She was a trailblazer on many of the social issues that were controversial in the 1960s but acceptable and commonplace by the 1970s. She was often too gutsy and daring for her own good, but quintessentially she was a romantic soul who longed to be a wife and a mother. Her shyness and insecurity around the most important men in her life belied her reputation as a boisterous extrovert.

When she moved back to the San Fernando Valley for 12 years, where she married and started her own family, she would borrow me for a few weeks every summer. It sure wasn’t for my housekeeping or baby-sitting abilities. Without her patient devotion throughout my prolonged childhood, our relationship might have been a casualty of the distances and differences between us.

Those were painfully difficult years for Donna because of her husband’s addictions. The house they bought was filled with friends, music and undercurrents of chaos. During their seven years together, which ended horrifically with his murder, she tried to create a family and a stable, traditional home. In search of her soulmate, she dated in her teens, in her twenties, in her thirties, in her forties, and even in her fifties, when she met her last love who was with her at the end. She formed several significant long-term relationships but never remarried.

She loved to travel and took road trips all over North America. She was the most proficient, trustworthy driver I ever knew and at one time was a professional test driver for Volkswagen. I could get carsick even driving myself, but I almost never had a bad ride when she was at the wheel. She used to race against other amateurs at the local drag strip. Boy, that was another era before excessive litigation spoiled our recreational options. At different times, she owned a hot new Corvette, a brand new Camaro convertible (which much later became my high school and college wheels), and a Porsche that spent one day on the road before it went back on wood blocks.

Throughout her life, she had special empathy for the less fortunate and could never resist coming to their rescue. Her favorite catchphrase began, “When I’m rich and famous, …” She played the lottery whenever finances allowed and entered every contest and sweepstakes in the western hemisphere in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Her big fairytale jackpot never materialized, but she shared with those she loved her meager winnings, such as the oversized Snapple jacket circa 1993, and her dreams of how much better their lives would be when her elusive ship came in.

Donna inherited our mother’s stubborn strength and Teutonic toughness and our father’s resourceful problem-solving skills and quick wit. Her indestructible will and humor carried her cheerfully through decades of challenges and disappointments. She was always the first to poke fun at herself, as the signs she used for wall decorations confirm: Fat Is Only Deep Skin and I'm Fat but You're Ugly and I Can Diet. Someone gave her a coin bank that looked like a parking meter and of course she put it next to her bed. No hardship, no trauma, no crisis could long quench her appetite for fun. Even motherhood did not diminish the enthusiastic child within; she just had more companions to take on her adventures. Her laugh was the loudest in any room and she was always at the center of conversation and merriment.

Like Dad, she could fix almost anything and was amazingly competent in emergencies, unless her sons Glen and Charlie were at risk. One summer we took them on a vacation through more than thirty states. One of the boys fell face first out of her van as we were trying in vain to find a vacant motel room in Buffalo. When the clerk refused to let us take some ice for his head, Donna was so outraged that she ordered me to drive all night through the darkness and fog until we got to Ohio. Her grudge against upstate New York multiplied with each retelling of the episode.

I will never forget the frantic phone call I got in the middle of the night in the early 1980s. A section of Glen’s sinuses burst open, pushing his eye downward and almost out of its socket. I arrived from my 30-minute drive to find Donna in worse shape than Glen. I got them to the hospital and ultimately all was well, except for Glen’s class picture that year.

One memory I will always cherish dates back to my last day as a single woman. Donna, Glen, Charlie, and our oldest brother Richard were living in Phoenix but came home for the holidays and to attend my first wedding. Donna sprang for expensive suede leather athletic shoes the kids put on their Christmas lists. Somehow a neighborhood weasel who always liked to torment Glen and Charlie had coerced one of the boys to hold his own brother down while the weasel soaked his new shoes with a garden hose. Donna, on a tight budget as always, was furious when she saw the shoes, stiffened beyond redemption. The day before the wedding, while Mom slaved away in the kitchen preparing for the post-nuptial reception, Donna spied the weasel whizzing past our house in what appeared to be brand new roller skates with suede boots. As swiftly as a gazelle or an avenging mother, she pulled me outside and grabbed the little weasel, yelling at me to turn our hose on full blast. Limbs were flailing wildly and the language was not appropriate for repeating in this public forum. Donna ended up in the emergency room with a broken toe, but the weasel, whose Christmas skates were ruined, did not bother the boys ever again. In fact, he and Glen became friends years later.

This last incident notwithstanding, Donna had a genuine connection with and understanding of children. She treated her sons’ male and female friends as if they were her friends, often to the boys' annoyance. She was the coolest aunt, as my son Chris and Bob’s daughter Kellie can attest. She would take Chris and Kellie and their best buddies for long weekends and treks to the desert, laser light shows at the observatory, and other unforgettable experiences.

She served as my Lamaze coach when I was pregnant with Chris after his father expressed doubts about his ability to witness the blood and pain of childbirth. She hosted my baby shower, which was held right around her birthday, where I surprised her and the assembled guests by hiring a male dancer to deliver a very personal singing strip-o-gram to her as he undressed down to his red thermal underwear. Hers was the longest sustained laugh I have ever heard and her ribs were sore for days. When I went into labor, she drove me to the hospital and distracted me by playing Yahtzee, one of her favorite games. After my water broke, there was no distracting me, but she waited nearby with ice chips, washcloths, soothing reassurances and a camera.

When Chris’s dad decided he wanted to see the delivery after all, Donna refused to surrender her role and told the nurses he was drunk, which may not have been her first or last fib. Despite this, she maintained a better relationship with my ex-husband than I did. When I went back to work full-time after Chris was born, she was Auntie Daycare, which made the difficult mother-son separation bearable. When I decided Chris and I deserved a better fate, she picked us up, packed us up, and moved us in with our parents. She remained a steadfast cornerstone in Chris’s life. When he was a toddler, he would sit entranced on her lap as she read to him. Oh, how she loved to read aloud, almost as much as she liked to tell stories or give advice. During one reading, he told her that she was as comfortable and fluffy as a cloud. Thereafter, her nickname became Auntie Cloud.

She never got to meet her first grandchild, who was born earlier the month she died, or nibble on his "baby ribs," her trademark tickling game. But she had been planning a return trip from her home in Florida just to see him. Donna must have been so weakened and broken at the end because I am certain she was kicking and clawing to hold on for her grandson’s sake. She would have been the most endearingly obnoxious, boastful, e-mail sending grandmother ever.

As the years exacted their toll, it hurt to see how her failing body humbled her and how her restless spirit was bound by her declining mobility. Despite numerous obstacles, she and Richard made what would be her final visit alive to California last summer. Unencumbered by the conflicts of the past, we spent several memorable mellow days enjoying our rare togetherness, including the Fourth of July and her 57th birthday. I realized how sick she was when we went to a restaurant for all-you-can-eat whole Maine lobster, her absolute favorite food, and she struggled to finish one tail and a pair of claws. Still, she seemed more concerned about my diagnosis of breast cancer, recent surgery and impending chemotherapy. In a private moment with my son, she helped him admit to her and later to me how emotionally distraught he was about my cancer, which he had tried to stifle so as not to add to my burden.

The last conversation we had occurred six weeks after our summer visit ended and six days before her death. Her tone was urgent as she spoke at length about my husband, Luis, whom she adored and respected. Luis and I could be considered an unlikely couple due to differences in age, experience, culture, and socio-economic background. Donna directed me to ask Luis what compelled him, a good-looking young man with a surplus of positive attributes and potential, to choose me, a middle-aged single mom, over all the other women he could have courted. Donna insisted emphatically that she believed God sent Luis to Chris and me in our time of greatest need.

I told Donna that I must be the luckiest woman ever. My ex-husband suffered a catastrophic breakdown when Chris was 10 years old. He became delusional and imagined he was the son of God, from which lofty perspective he foresaw the imminent demise of the world and offered me sanctuary if Chris and I would come back to him. So I joked that my first husband thought he was the son of God and my second husband might be a gift from God! But she was unusually grave, emotional and intense, which haunts me still.

For nearly 25 years, Donna served as caregiver for our brother Richard, who due to a difficult forceps delivery was left deaf at birth with learning disabilities. Richard and I have always been close, but living on opposite coasts for seven years made our goodbyes so hard for me that I would sob inconsolably. After Donna’s death, I was in chemotherapy, so Luis flew to Florida (he dislikes flying) to move Richard (Luis could not speak sign language) back to California with his service dog, a Doberman (Luis is terrified of large dogs), and drove 3,000 miles in three days (Luis is lousy with maps and directions) in a U-Haul truck (Luis had never driven a truck before). You see, I am the luckiest woman! At my time of greatest need, Richard has also been a constant source of help and comfort. I believe Richard is a gift from Donna.

The driving force in my sister’s life was love. She loved passionately and defiantly, and she yearned to be loved and accepted for who she really was, flawed as we all are. I am not going to pretend that Donna was an angel. If angels exist, I have never met one. Had I the power to change just one thing about Donna, I would have healed the gnawing hole in her heart that kept her from the true, complete happiness she deserved. At her innermost vulnerable core, Donna seemed afraid to simply be herself. If Donna is watching over us, I hope she can feel the love of those who knew her best, who loved her unconditionally, and who will miss her on birthdays, holidays, and everyday days.

For nearly fifteen years, I have been writing and rewriting the same endless novel, which probably is autobiographical unless it ever gets published, in which case it is a work of fiction and is not based on any real persons past or present. Anyway, it chronicles doomed romance, the devastating loss of loved ones, squandered opportunities and a crisis of faith. I call it “Goodbye Happens.” Distilled to its essence, it tells the story of the complicated relationship between two sisters, but it’s the younger sister who faces a life-threatening illness and the older sister becomes her improbable hero. On this of all days, I don’t aspire to second-guess God. But I can’t help it. I like my ending better.

Big Changes for American Idol (Parody)

A major shakeup is in the works for the fourth season of American Idol, this reporter has learned. A Setside Source close to people whose people know AI producer Simon Fuller’s people sat down for an exclusive interview over double-doubles protein-style at Hollywood’s trendy In-N-Out Burger on Sunset Boulevard.

“They spent a week watching tapes from the whole season,” A.S.S. revealed. “You know, reviewing what worked, what didn’t work. Basically, the only thing that worked in season three was Fantasia Barrino lying on the floor in front of the judges. The head honchos liked that so much they had her do it twice.”

A.S.S. said the new format will feature singers on the floor, in cages, and maybe even on leashes. However, the judges who have been stalwart staples since the show debuted two years ago are out and three new judges have been signed.

“Many viewers were repelled by Simon Cowell drooling over a 19-year-old single mother,” A.S.S. whispered knowingly. “Comments from the test audience include ‘too icky,’‘dirty old Brit,’ and ‘hasn't Fantasia suffered enough.’”

Slated to fill Simon Cowell’s leather chair is Howard Stern, who technically is Cowell’s elder. “But Howard did much better with the test audience,” said A.S.S. “He was rated ‘not as creepy’ and did especially well with males 18 to 35," a new demographic that the Idol crew is excited to draw.

Filling the Big Dawg collar of Randy Jackson is Snoop Dogg, who will bring his authentic brand of doggedness, as well as undeniable credibility with younger viewers that has been missing from the panel. According to A.S.S., Snoop is already putting his own stamp on the Idol formula. “Forget all those tired, old audition episodes,” cautioned A.S.S. “The first six weeks will feature Snoop and Howard doing Idol Girls Gone Wild.”

As has been rumored, the new minimum age for contestants will be 18, A.S.S. confirmed, but not for the obvious artistic reasons. “Jail bait,” A.S.S. said with a wink and a nod.

“Seacrest out” wasn’t just an annoying tag line; it was a harbinger of changes to come. To appeal to the teenage girls that the show cannot afford to lose, avuncular host Ryan Seacrest will be replaced by “that kid from Punk’d,” said A.S.S. Not Ashton Kutcher, but his underage sidekick from season one.

Filling the booster seat vacated by Paula Abdul is recently described suck-up Dorothy Lucey, seen weekdays on the nationally syndicated Good Day Live. This reporter found the notoriously nice Ms. Lucey with her son Nash at Chuck E. Cheese, where I shared my exclusive news. “You mean, I won’t be sitting next to my Simon?” she screeched. “I thought Paula was leaving because of the whole thumb nail thing.”

Howard Stern hailed the liberty judges enjoy to say and do as they please with no apparent consequences from the producers or the FCC. "American Idol is the last bastion of freedom on the airwaves in this era of repressive political correctness," said Robin Quivers, who confided that she is negotiating with Good Day Live to replace Cowell's girlfriend Terri Seymour as their feature reporter.

Simon Cowell issued a terse response. “The golden days of American Idol are over,” his spokesperson read from a press release. “When I left, Idol was merely a train wreck. Mark my words, this is going to be the Hindenburg.”

False Idols

The American Idol season is over and the votes have been counted. I could scarcely disagree more with the judges’ opinions, the show’s tactics or the election results. But I give full credit and genuine congratulations to Fantasia Barrino. Her victory is more impressive than the math would indicate. The votes Fantasia received were from people who really wanted her to win.

Some of the votes cast for Diana DeGarmo were anti-Fantasia, anti-judges, and anti-American Idol. I know that firsthand because my family and I spent four hours dialing to protest two years' worth of folly as much as to support the 16-year-old dynamo whose expert technique and professionalism won our admiration. After last season's finale, I dialed for Clay Aiken constantly throughout the entire voting period and was able to cast only two votes. Because of this year's expanded calling time and extra phone numbers, my family and I cast more than 75 votes. By my calculations, that makes this season's results much less impressive overall. So let's put those inflated, overrated, manipulated "record-setting" totals in perspective.

Truthfully, we would have voted just as faithfully for any one of the other Top 8 finalists against Fantasia, who is a convenient symbol of everything that went wrong this year. The idiots-in-charge wanted Fantasia to win in the worst way and that’s pretty much how it happened. Fantasia and, arguably, John Stevens have been the most polarizing contestants in Season Three. She’s a lot like peanuts. Some people love them, but many are so deathly allergic that the government requires warning labels.

Technically, Fantasia is one of the most limited singers in the Top 8. She is not versatile, which is why she fared so dismally on theme nights. She has a narrow range, which is why her song selections were melodically repetitive and simple. When she performed "What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life," which begins with a run up a minor scale, she skipped over most of the notes because the melody was too complex and she lacks a musician's natural ear, which Diana, Clay, Ruben Studdard and Kelly Clarkson are blessed to have (best Idol ever, indeed!). She relies on gospel gimmicks to compensate for her vocal deficiencies.

The host and judges exhorted the audience to vote for talent, not personality. Ironically, it is Fantasia's non-singing attributes they cite when gushing over her: her attitude, her emotion, her sass. Like her singing, Fantasia’s personality can make people itchy. Apparently, there must be something in her live performance that is scrambled between the camera’s eye and my 53” TV screen. If I were in a Kansas basement with Clive Davis watching Fantasia perform, I wouldn't stay five minutes unless there was a tornado outside.

The good news for Fantasia and the Idol coffers is that enough viewers really like her and will buy her CDs. Of course, enough is a relative term, as is success. Thus far viewers have been spend-happy in their loyalty, remarkably so in the era of illegal downloads. But the American Idol audience is much more diverse in age and musical preferences than the show’s contestants and its new winner reflect. There is ample evidence all around us that a sizable chunk of the audience has become disenfranchised and believes the contest was manipulated, if not rigged outright, to achieve this very conclusion.

This time there is no Clay Aiken to save the idiots-in-charge from the consequences of their idiocy. Diana does not command his authority to soothe the fury of millions. Did you hear the interview with Clay’s mother during which she voiced her support for Diana, noting publicly the parallels between the judges’ unjust treatment of Diana and her son? Thank you, Miss Faye! Apparently, the Idol crew did not get the memo from Fox about being fair and balanced.

A rebellious brew of frustration and outrage has been simmering for two seasons and spilling over onto message boards, fan sites and web logs. I know about that firsthand, too. Hey, for the past month I’ve been the Queen of Pissed Off. But the contest is done and decided. We all need to accept that and do some clear, rational thinking.

If you are a diehard Diana devotee, take pleasure in her vocal gifts, radiance and character. Her sterling performance during the final results show, as well as all-too-brief appearances by George Huff and John Stevens, serve as hopeful reminders of talent that will endure far beyond this tawdry controversy.

If Fantasia gives you hives, just tune her out, change the channel, take some Benadryl or an Aveeno bath. Try to remember that she is only one symptom of the American Idol dysfunction. She is a very young woman who is living her dream and, ultimately for me, now merely another recording artist whom I will forget about.

If you care about American Idol and want to give it one last chance before dusting off those Tuesday night movie discounts, harness your anger. Sharpen your focus. Write letters. Organize petitions. Remain respectful and disciplined. Look to the example set by the Claymates, who were able to elevate Their Man Clay to the sweetest victory of all.

American Idol is just a television program and a fatally flawed one at that. If it was a relationship, I would have issued an ultimatum already. If it was a car, I would have donated it to the demolition derby.

Next season will be a referendum on the legitimacy of the Idol franchise and the audience will be voting with their remote controls. Before this week's finale, ratings had fallen and viewers were tuning out. Surely the idiots-in-charge understand that and hear the unified message we are sending. Soon enough we will know if they value our viewership and purchasing power. Maybe I'll see you at the movies.

Idol Finale: A Choice or an Echo?

Here we are again at the conclusion of another American Idol season
and I've been shedding tears for opportunities wasted and performers neglected. Seriously, I cry when I listen to certain tracks on the American Idol Greatest Soul Classics CD, especially the ensemble showcase "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," which is really well produced and performed. American Idol can be so good at times that it carries you through its rough patches. Unfortunately, there have been too few delightful surprises for me this year and most of the singers who supplied them will be in the audience this week instead of on the stage.

One year ago, I was in the throes of two personal crises, one quite grave and the other a ridiculous waste of time. In selective hindsight, I can only remember the wonderful people who supported me and a TV show that provided the perfect escape. Although I am still thankful for Season Two of American Idol, I often wonder how much better Season Three would have been if Ruben Studdard or Clay Aiken had waited one year. To enjoy them both in the same season with their unforgettable talent, chemistry and affection was a greedy pleasure and arguably the show's creative zenith.

In many ways this grand finale seems like a pale ghost of last season. Tuesday evening will invite an obvious comparison. After all the hoopla and hysteria, the hyperbole and hubris, for three years out of three the showdown always comes down to singers representative of two basic vocal styles: one warm and soulful, the other a powerhouse. Like last year, the warm and soulful vocalist is the judges' favorite who has been consistent without any audible growth. Once again the powerhouse was underestimated but exhibited so much progress that the judges finally, grudgingly, took notice.

Fantasia Barrino is undeniably talented, but she is not the singer that Ruben Studdard is. Ruben has command of every note and chord in his impressive range and wraps the melody around them. Fantasia lacks Ruben's flexibility, natural musician's ear, and gift for melody. From the standpoint of ratings and audience buzz, the current matchup is much closer to Season One after Tamyra Gray was eliminated than Season Two. With many fan favorites watching from the sidelines, there is a palpable "so what" factor.

Last week powerhouse Diana DeGarmo sang Randy Jackson's selection,
"Because You Loved Me." She did well despite an arrangement that tried to outpace "The Minute Waltz." I thought of Clay singing "Vincent" at the same point in the competition. That song was particularly complex lyrically and he struggled, forgetting some of the words for the first time in the competition. In both instances, the song choices were bordering on the sadistic.

I hope the powers-that-be will give Diana a magnum opus that she can hitch her star to, like "A House Is Not a Home." It's emotionally and melodically challenging and even Tamyra Gray could not do it justice. If they are determined to repackage Fantasia as an early Aretha Franklin or Tina Turner, let her perform "River Deep, Mountain High," Tina's most majestic song.

Assuming a level playing field, which is a leap of faith, I think Diana enters the finale with some advantages and clear momentum. Her vocal style is more versatile than Fantasia's and lends itself to chills-inducing dynamics. Think of the glory note at the end of "Don't Cry Out Loud." We know Fantasia better than most governing officials we elect. Vocally, Fantasia and John Stevens were the two most divisive contestants; either you liked them right away or they rubbed your nerves raw. But much of the audience is still discovering Diana and therefore she retains the power to dazzle.

American Idol has several problems and one of them might be solved if
the finalists are allowed to sing to their strengths and the audience
can be convinced that the contest ended fairly. Even more essential
than who wins is how she wins. That is what will determine the ultimate legitimacy of this year's competition.

Oops! I Voted Again

As I write this, we do not yet know the results of this week’s American Idol vote. I have my suspicions about who may or may not be eliminated, though.

All season long American Idol has made me twitchy with frustration as if I were on a really dreadful, neverending date with Simon Cowell and I just wanted to get back home, but he kept driving. Did you ever have the feeling that you and the judges were watching different shows? The show I’ve been watching desperately needs a laugh track and some flashback sequences.

Tuesday night was like a masochist’s lottery. Everything I have come to dislike about American Idol was distilled into this one episode: the lack of consistency, humor and fair play times four. Clive Davis, who is not content to be the Donald Trump of the music industry but apparently wants to be Simon Cowell, was called in to give an already heavy-handed panel added weight, like a suitcase full of WMDs. I think they did their favorite, Fantasia Barrino, no favors. Her song selections were repetitive and delivered in her familiar gospel-influenced style, but it doesn’t matter to the suits. I think they decided early that Fantasia is their best candidate for the radio airplay and sales that will give the American Idol franchise the legitimacy it needs to survive.

I began Season Two as a Ruben Studdard fan, although the show’s machinations on his behalf and Clay Aiken’s charming transformation changed my allegiance. But one season later I find that I miss Ruben even more than Clay, perhaps because Clay is not "invisible" or easy to miss. Maybe a year from now when I stop twitching, I can enjoy Fantasia’s CD on its own merits without the radioactive Idol baggage. Or maybe not. But either way she will be signed to a contract, as Mr. Davis assured us, and I expect she will receive RCA’s best star making treatment even if she is not the contest winner, which she may not be due in part to the LaToya Effect. This was a pre-emptive coronation of Fantasia in case she doesn't last another week, but it may have been a self-fulfilling act by the judges. If Fantasia’s fans thought she already won a larger prize, maybe they lost their incentive to vote.

During most of Tuesday’s show, I strongly considered voting for Jasmine Trias, just to saddle the RCA and Idol teams with the remaining performer for whom they display the most blatant contempt. But I like Jasmine personally and think she deserves better than that Faustian bargain.

Then I thought about sending the powers-that-be a message by voting for Diana DeGarmo. More than anyone else in the Top Three, Diana would have the clearest mandate as winner due to her consistent standings and performances from week to week. I have always respected her professionalism through illness and the judges’ negligence even if she seemed too Star Search for my taste. Ultimately, though, I decided I would abstain and leave the voting to the fans who really feel strongly for Fantasia, Jasmine and Diana. Being a negative reactionary, pissing in everybody’s Tuesday night jello over a TV show just gets tiresome.

But something unexpected happened as I watched plucky Diana DeGarmo come out swinging for her final performance. Here was a 16-year-old girl whose talents were disregarded all season and who was told earlier by the man who could command her musical destiny that she was unoriginal and not good enough. For the first time since Jennifer Hudson sang Imagine months ago, I got caught up in the moment and forgot about all the petty annoyances.

The modern proverb tells us that character is defined by what you do when no one is looking. I think you can also define character by how you behave when someone powerful has tried to crush your hopes and everyone is looking. Whatever it is, character, conviction or just awe-inspiring poise beyond her years, Diana DeGarmo has it, plus a voice with as much power, control and flexibility as anyone in this year’s competition. And when she poured her soul into that Clay Aiken glory note and held it for all she was worth, I started cheering. Yes!

And so I voted again for the first time in nearly a year. And again. And again. I almost voted for George Huff and Jennifer Hudson many times and I regret that I did not. But I kept dialing for Diana and then handed the phone to my son so I could write into the wee hours.

I know that Diana might be eliminated and my votes will count for little. I have a feeling that Jasmine may live to sing another week. She is sweet and pretty and this season’s Justin Guarini, I reckon.

If Fantasia is eliminated, watch for the viewers and voters to be branded as racist and the victory to be as tainted as American Idol’s prospects for longevity. And then we will have another fine mess to thank the idiots-in-charge for. But tonight I celebrate Diana DeGarmo.