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You’re forgiven if you thought for a second that Kip Winger was death-grinning at you from the cover of this week’s Village Voice; in fact, that rictus belongs to American Idol cast-off Constantine Maroulis, who was the inexplicable recipient of a lengthy profile in today’s issue. Part BlackBerry ad (nine mentions!), part rewritten bio, Angela Ashman’s story takes the idea of the puff piece to hilariously depressing levels. Her surprise at Maroulis’ falling from bookers’ graces after he sang his last Idol note–what do you mean no one wanted him to model??–should have been a tipoff for the rough waters ahead, but we weren’t really prepared for the pie-eyed descriptions of free bottle service and Donny Osmond encounters that followed. There may be an interesting story hidden inside someone’s post-Idol career, but this relentlessly straightforward take on Maroulis’ C-list lifestyle was enough to make us wish we were reading another Shakespeare-biting takedown.
This Is Constantine Maroulis. He Wishes You Knew That. [Village Voice]
Wow, the VV has gotten so cutting edge under New Times management. I hope they have a Dancing With the Stars cover next week.
I seriously thought for a second that was Rob Schneider.
What pisses me (and the wife, who got me addicted to Idol) about Maroulis is that he’s not even a good schlock-rock singer. Say what you want about this year’s Chris Daughtry – the sameness of his vocals, his embrace of Fuel and Styx – but he really brought it every week, making me actually half-enjoy songs I normally hate (he did “Wanted Dead or Alive” better than Jon Bon). But Maroulis is just a candy-ass, would-be showtunes singer posing as a “rocker.” That’s not even a rockist criticism – I think he’d be a shitty pop star, too, unfit to carry Justin’s facial-hair groomer.
I think for anyone to be a “rocker” they should have to pass an entrance exam…like do you sleep with hookers? Do you do drugs if so which ones
Wait:when were people taking anything from Idol seriously, ever?
It took me a while to decided which part was the most horrifying/genius. Then it became clear…
He fluffed his chesthair with a hair dryer. Gold.
Thankfully she omitted the bit about the flat iron and his pubes. That may have been a bit much.
Expect a defamation lawsuit any moment from Kip Winger’s legal team.