Click here to hear Kimberly's music. The player will open in a new window. Email: (More info) Since March 2003 Best Viewed @ 1024x768 resolution Designed by Kristin Photos from Michael Antonio online Bookmark Site	SATURDAY, 3 P.M., Academy of Television Arts & Sciences, North Hollywood "This is the only time, hopefully, you'll see this group happy," scoffs Simon Cowell, standing in front of the competition's 12 finalists. Tonight, none of them will be humiliated - or more importantly, eliminated. It's just one of the countless publicity stops for this not-so-dirty dozen. During a Q & A discussion sponsored by the Academy, the contestants babble on about how much they love each other. Kimberly Caldwell (the blond one) says she'd be just as happy if someone else won. Trenyce (nee Lashundra Cobbins) is just thrilled to have made it this far. The overflowing audience of 1,100 applauds and blows kisses. "All that humbleness, the love, the friendship, the 'we're all winners, no one's a loser' bit. It's bullshit," Simon later gripes. "I've never heard so much crap in my life." If this is crap, it's the most addictive crap that Fox has ever slung. Now the network's highest-rated show, American Idol single-handedly (okay, with a little help from Joe Millionaire) rescued Fox from a horrific fall season (think Girls Club). The show pulls in an average 22 million viewers a week (up 66 percent from last year) and has lifted the ratings of everything around it: 24, That '70s Show, and Bernie Mac are all performing at season highs. Fox, which never met a cow it didn't milk, allowed Idol's producers to choose 12 finalists, instead of 10, so the show would extend well into May sweeps. While last year's favorites came in cute, neatly wrapped front-runner packages (Kelly, Justin, Tamyra), this year - not to get too profound or anything - America is clearly questioning what it values in an Idol. Is it looks (Carmen, Trenyce, Kimberly Caldwell, Julia)? Voice (Kimberly Locke, Clay, Ruben)? Suaveness (Corey)? Personality (Rickey, Charles)? Or, in wartime, will the country rally around its patriot (Marine Josh, whose unit had not been called up at press time)? The only thing we know for sure is that rebelliousness doesn't play well: Pink-haired bigmouth Vanessa was the first finalist to be sent packing. TUESDAY, 10:00 A.M. -- QUIXOTE STUDIOS, L.A. "Daaaawg!" Slang-slinging judge Randy Jackson gets out of his massive white Range Rover to greet me at EW's photo shoot of the judges. I ask him if it would be appropriate for me, a pasty Jewish girl, to use the word "dawg" in conversation. "Yo, you're from New York," he assures me. "You can say dawg." While Simon, Randy, and host Ryan Seacrest are touched up and photographed Brady Bunch-style (Paula Abdul is running late because she insists on having her hair and makeup done at home), I embark on a mission to get invited to "Boys Night Out." You see, Randy told me that he, Simon, and Ryan hang each week after the show for an off-the-record dishfest. "We poke fun at ourselves more than anything else," Simon says. No discussion of how hot the girl contestants are? "Yeah, but they're not. And I've got to be honest with you - they're too young for me. Ryan [Starr] was cute last year, but she was 19 or 20. The mothers are actually cuter." TUESDAY, NOON -- MY RENTAL CAR I call my editor to brag that I've managed to penetrate the testosterone troika. Randy and Ryan are okay with my attending and, well, Simon seems nice enough... TUESDAY, 1:30 P.M. -- BEVERLY HILLS "It's boys night out," Simon scolds me. "You are, simply, not a boy - so you can't come out." I consider asking my editor if I can put a sex change on my expense report. TUESDAY, 1:32 P.M. -- BEVERLY HILLS My consolation prize is an interview at Simon's house. He had wanted to chat at the photo studio but Randy tells him I'm "cool enough to get to see the crib." (Thanks, dawg.) Simon leads the way in his brand-new silver Mercedes SL500 convertible, running a couple of stop signs, while I try to keep up in my rental car that has the pick-up of a small donkey. The "crib" is a rented seven-bedroom mansion - fully equipped with staff - that is so ostentatiously over-the-top (huge paintings covering every inch of the walls, garish chandeliers) it looks like a little bit of Vegas in Beverly Hills. As we sit in the backyard overlooking waterfalls, a Jacuzzi, and two pools (one for swimming, one for kids - not that there are any around) Simon handicaps the race for me. "You might as well end the competition now," he says bluntly. "You have to put your money on Clay. I just can't see anyone beating him at this point." (For the record, Randy says, "I think Clay may win the whole thing." And Paula won't name names - shocker! - but she has "five or six" favorites.) Still ignoring his inner editor, Simon spews about everything from Paula ("There are times I could throttle her") to Idol spin-offs ("I haven't a clue why they're making [Saudi Arabian] Idol. I mean, who really cares?") to child musicians ("I would make it a law that in the same way you can't buy cigarettes under the age of 16, you can't make a record, either. Look at Michael Jackson and how it screwed him up"). As for his future, Simon isn't sure he wants to Idol his days away. "It's too early to say [about next year]," he says. (He later told the New York Post he would likely renew his contract.) Regardless, he's got a bunch of other projects going. CBS picked up his first pitch, Cupid, a reality-dating show which will air this summer. "I have three more television ideas which I'll sell in the next six months," he says with unapologetic cockiness. "I have an idea in my mind at the moment that is the best idea I've ever come up with." I try to bribe him to give up any information, and he begrudgingly tells me it's a reality show but refuses to elaborate. "If I took this idea to any network they would buy this idea in 30 seconds. I'm that confident." TUESDAY, 4:00 P.M. - TELEVISION CITY STUDIOS In order to get into the lot where American Idol tapes, one needs to get past four security guards, two manned gates, and metal detectors that put LAX to shame. I take a wrong turn once inside only to end up at the audience line for The Wayne Brady Show. Feeling panicked, I slowly back out of this horrifying situation, trying not to lock into a page's sad-sack gaze. I realize I'm finally in the correct studio when I see prepubescent fans holding up oaktag signs that read "Aiken for Clay" and "I *heart* Ruben." I take my seat next to a grandmother who's here with her grandkids and has never seen the show before. After explaining to her the whole 70,000 auditions down to 32 down to 12 finalists concept, she nods with understanding. "My granddaughter told me to scream out, 'Hey Simon, nice plastic surgery!' Is that okay to do?" she asks me. Though an Idol novice, Grandma quickly embraces her inner Cowell and disses Julia's step-together-step-together moves. "Someone's got to teach that girl how to dance," she sniffs. "Even I could do better up there." On stage, commercial breaks seem to be devoted to discussing Simon's nipples. There are no fewer than five references to his man boobs. "The pants are too high, the shirt is too tights, the nipples are there!" Ryan says. Simon, characteristically aloof, ignores the insults and the booing - which often comes from the producers. WEDNESDAY, 9:00A.M. - QUIXOTE STUDIOS I almost kill Ruben at the contestants' photo shoot. The girls are frantically running around the set like they're preparing for the prom, while most of the guys lounge around on nearby couches. Ruben, on the other hand, is talking trash. "No girl will ever beat me at Ping-Pong," he says my way. Okay, so he ends up beating me 21-19, but the guy is perspiring so much after the match that I think he's headed right for the hospital. While Ruben changes his sweat-soaked shirt, Kimberly Caldwell, Julia, and Trenyce debate the wardrobe options with such intensity you'd think they were discussing the U.N.'s position on Iraq. Rickey and Kimberly Locke work off tension by dirty dancing, Clay shows off his circus-freak-like ability to swing his legs 180 degrees around (which sends me screaming in horror into the next room), and Carmen's omnipresent mother feeds her salad from the craft service table. At 17, Carmen, the baby of the bunch, is tutored on the set for three hours a day, and has a guardian within two paces at all times. "I'm really close to my parents," she tells me later. "But they're always here. 'Do this, do that.' They have advice about everything - what to wear, how to do my hair, how short my skirt is, what songs to pick." Carmen turns 18 in one week and then, she beams, "they have to be kicked out." WEDNESDAY, NOON - MY RENTAL CAR I've thought about nothing else for 12 hours: I'm guessing Charles or Julia will get the boot tonight. WEDNESDAY, 2:00P.M. - TELEVISION CITY STUDIOS The taping doesn't begin for three more hours, but the entrance to the studio looks like a Grateful Dead concert. A couple hundred rabid fans are already lined up playing cards, singing songs, and making posters. Jeanene Christensen flew in from Texas this morning for a 50th-birthday celebration with her three daughters, but was whisked right off to wait on line. "This is a great birthday present," she assures her daughters as she rests on a thin blanket covering the filthy Beverly Boulevard sidewalk. I'm almost positive she's telling the truth. Maybe moms are nicer in Texas. Inside, the contestants are frantically getting last-minute touch-ups. Kimberly Caldwell wants the same glitter on her eyes that Carmen is getting. Julia needs a different lipstick color. Clay's flat-ironed 'do needs tweaking from Dean (a hairstylist who has, literally, trademarked his catchphrase, "Changing lives one head at a time"). Randy, just back from visiting a Mariah Carey video shoot, is laughing at the minidivas. "People get confused. It's not about beauty. It's about charisma," he says. "If you went to the charts today, dude, half those people are butt ugly." WEDNESDAY, 3:15 P.M. - AI PRODUCTION OFFICE Ryan is gearing up for the show by maniacally munching trail mix in his broom-closet-like office. "It's how they keep me humble," he says of the digs. "I get off on calling for a break," he says of the live-show experience. "You could get a God complex because you're controlling the network. I'd have it for one show and then I'd get fired." Not likely; it's the other guy (Hi, Brian Dunkleman!) who got sent to the unemployment line. Ryan is all giddy (if not irritatingly coy) about an announcement he's about to make. "I've sold a show to a major studio that we all know and love. It's a daily show. I'll executive-produce and host it." I try the Connie Chung "just between us" thing, but he's not talking. "I'm scared to death of it all going away," he says. WEDNESDAY, 4:30 P.M. - TELEVISION CITY STUDIOS I'd heard that Paula had a preshow meditation ritual, but I arrive at her dressing room only to find a sound guy running mic wire down her cleavage. Considering she mad me wait outside for 20 minutes before allowing me in, I thought there would be an orgy going on in there. Instead, it's just her assistant and a producer hanging out on the nondescript tan couch. "You've heard of Ghostbusters? This place is like Zenbusters," she says. I pretend to understand. "There's no way I could be in the Om moment with everything that goes on here." Though Paula is the most pampered of all the judges, she's always running late and stressing over something. Lately, she's been developing two TV shows, as yet unsold, about "cheerleading, music, and dance," while also writing songs for other artists to record. Perhaps she'll write the song for the American Idol winner to record? Says Paula, "Simon would never let that happen." WEDNESDAY, 5:15 P.M. - MY RENTAL CAR Maybe it'll be Carmen. Definitely Carmen. If it's Kimberly Locke, I'm boycotting this show. WEDNESDAY, 6:00 P.M. - TELEVISION CITY STUDIOS Vanessa, whom Simon had dubbed "Bette Midler," is the first casualty, much to everyone's surprise. Much to my humiliation, I weep like a baby. "I was shocked," Paula tells me afterward. "I think she got a raw deal there. I am really, really upset that she's gone." Later, the kids tell me they all went out to dinner but Vanessa stayed back to have some alone time. FRIDAY, 7:00 P.M. - HOLLYWOOD HILLS The contestants moved into their multilevel mansion today. And just two hours later, it's already starting to look and sound like The Real World. Corey is alone in his room burning incense, Julia is unpacking her cigarettes, Josh has sequestered himself in the bathroom to call his wife, and Kimberly Caldwell is curled up alone in the den. Ruben, Carmen, Trenyce, Kimberley Locke, Clay, Rickey, and Charles are inhaling burgers, fish, salads, and corn on the cob prepared by the house chef. The table talk, invariably led by Clay, the most outgoing of the bunch, goes from food (Clay: "We have pork barbecues back home. You take a pig, cut it in half, and open it wide on the pig cooker and just pick out of it") to religion (Rickey: "I don't eat the swine. Clay: "Are you Jewish?") to domestic violence (Ruben: "Clay's my dawg." Clay: "Ruben hits me.") to interfinalist sex ("There won't be any in our room," Clay says. "Not on those hospital cots we sleep on.") FRIDAY, 7:45 P.M. - HOLLYWOOD HILLS Most of the remaining finalists tell me they never thought Vanessa would be the first to go home. Julia, who was the first runner-up in loser land, is still visibly shaken. "I'm kind of glad that I know now what to expect, and I think if I'm in that situation again at least I'll know what's going to happen," she says. Julia is not the only one expecting to be voted out of Hollywood. Each finalist punctuates sentences with "...if I'm here next week." "Everyone knows they're basically expendable," Josh says. Even audience favorites like Ruben and Clay, who currently seem untouchable, aren't getting too comfy. "I'm not going to unpack," Clay says. "I'm just going to live out of my suitcase. I don't want to get too used to being here." FRIDAY, 8:30 P.M. - HOLLYWOOD HILLS Later I get the full house tour from Ruben and Clay. There's the den (or "gizame room" as Ruben calls it) with a fake banana tree, a requisite box of Twister, and, of course, a pool table. Keep going and you hit the gym ("This is the last time I'll be in here," Clay says, though Simon may have something to say about that.) Down some stairs there's the long, narrow pool with breathtaking views of the city. Corey is ebullient about the gang's new neighbor, Drew Barrymore. ("I'm going to be like, 'Put us in Charlie's Angels 3!'") Roommates were chosen earlier in the day by drawing straws -- well, actually Red Vine licorice. Ruben, Corey, and Charles got the carpeted room, while Clay, Josh, and Rickey are upstairs. Carmen, at 17 the baby of the bunch, shares a suite with her guardians, and the rest of the girls occupy a palatial room with a deluxe bathroom. Last week's goodwill seems to have dissipated. It's abundantly clear that the girls' room is days away from becoming a nuclear war zone. "I had three roommates and none of them worked out," Trenyce says. "It wasn't me. It was always them." When Rickey, the sweetest of the group, giggles at her comment, she shoots back, "Okay, nevermind. Cut the cameras." (The weird part is that for once, there are none around -- but Trenyce doesn't seem to notice.) Indeed, she soon takes to her bed and cranks up the heat, which doesn't make roomie Kimberly Caldwell very happy. "I can't sleep in a room this hot," she gripes. "You have your window!" Trenyce shoots back. Corey, for one, is prepared for the meltdowns. "Those girls are four in a room. Meeeeee-ow!" Before any of the catfights can get truly scary, toothy former beauty-pageant contestant/American Idol loser Kristin Holt (who will serve as a correspondent from inside the house) storms in and grabs my tape recorder. "You wrote a story about me last year that I'm snobby and I'm a bitch, and I've never even talked to you in my life," she sniffs. (Actually, I called her my "least favorite human being on television." Potato, potahto.) "Just be careful what you say around her, guys. Just letting you know. It might get a little twisted." And then she storms off to eye rolls from the contestants, who don't seem to understand why she's living with them to begin with. "You can write I'm a bitch," Kimberley Locke offers. "Just write I'm a bitch who can sing." [back]