BoomerGirl Diary

Talk about unpredictable. Talk about a wonderful surprise. We get so few these days, and this one was huge.

From the very beginning, it seemed like a foregone conclusion, a total no-brainer that 17-year-old David Archuleta would win this year’s “American Idol.” Who could resist his wholesome yummy goodness, his virginal oh-my-gosh-ing, his sugary vocals suitable for ballads only?

Certainly not the zillions of ’tweens who gushed and swayed and cried hysterically and text messaged their votes for Archie till their glitter nail polish chipped off.

I confess that before the creepy stories about his controlling stage daddy started to crank, I fell just a little bit in love with little David. After all, I have a son on the edge of 17; a young man who sings in the shower, at the table, on the sofa, planted at his computer, driving in the car.

This youngest son of mine breaks into song loudly and randomly, the same way he did when he was practicing for his Bar Mitzvah. Only now the verses aren’t in Hebrew and there’s nothing riding on his performance. No cantor to say, “For me, that was a little pitchy, dawg.”

In the early days of Season 7, I couldn’t help but kvell as David A. sang his heart out. Filled with maternal delusions, I thought hey, that could be my Scotty up there. They could use a nice Jewish boy. It’s been two years since Elliot Yamin.

But after it became clear to me, and dare I say, most viewers who kissed puberty goodbye somewhere in the ’70s, that little David could only sing syrupy, inspirational tunes; that anything too contemporary tripped him up; that there was something vaguely cult-like in his gaze, my brief crush gave way to more tingly and mature feelings for the gifted, 25-year-old former bartender named David Cook.

Yes, David Cook became my guy, the one I rooted for and cheered on week after week, and not because he was devastatingly handsome or sexy. That mantle belonged to Aussie Michael Johns. He took the stage and more than once I issued a “woof” or two.

I picked David Cook for his talent and integrity and all-round menschy demeanor. He had the vibe of an artist unafraid to stretch. Nothing intimidated him, not even Andrew Lloyd Webber. He had the cool rocker stance and soulful eyes, without the inflated ego. I liked that the most. There was nothing pretentious or manufactured about the boy. In my eyes, he was the real deal.

To his credit, Cook tried not to repeat himself, which caused the cranky Brit to predict on Tuesday night that he blew it; that a stupid song choice would cost him the A.I. title. Rather than revisit a killer performance like "Billie Jean” in Tuesday night’s final round, he made a gutsier selection. He sang “The World I Know” by Collective Soul, a move that earned him subdued praise from Randy and Paula and that sharp admonishment from Simon.

And on Wednesday night, Simon reversed himself and apologized for being disrespectful to Cook. That shocker almost equaled the one that followed moments later. Even though Tuesday night felt like little David A’s coronation, the winner, by 12 million votes, on Wednesday turned out to be the more deserving Cook.

It’s a relief I’m not a gambling gal, because I’d have staked my Acura on Archuleta winning the prize. My theory (up until Wednesday night), which I expressed repeatedly to anyone who’d listen, was that not winning would make David Cook the underdog. In the long run, the Number 2 spot was better. Not winning would make Cook less mainstream. Not getting caught in the A.I. machinery would give him even more credibility and freedom. Not winning would prove it’s hipper to lose.

For a change, it felt lovely to be wrong. I am relishing Cook’s victory as if the fate of the country depended on it. I couldn’t be happier and happy for me is a good thing. Happy makes me dance around the house. Happy unleashes my very silly inner child. I should do happy more often.

Come to think of it, I’m happy for Baby Face David, too. He needs more time to cook (pun intended). He still needs Stage Daddy Jeff by his side. He wasn’t ready to be Number 1. He can’t make it on his own. Until one day in the future, when he can. And on that day that David A. is ready to spread his wings and fly, he’ll fire his father and take the reins of his own destiny.

I can hardly wait. Of course, I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.