WILL THE REAL American Idol please stand up? Is it ... uncomfortable-looking A.I. judge Simon Cowell, who for once didn't have anyone to cut to ribbons? (After all, America agrees, it's all good.) J Records chair and CEO Clive Davis, flashing dollar signs where his eyeballs should be? (Wonder what those prize recording contracts look like?) Or Olivia Newton-John, who looked as horrified as we did when the all-American Idol rejects butchered one of her signature songs? (OK, it was "Physical" – but still.) Or maybe it's still Michael Jackson in a Spider-Man mask in the suburbs looking for a Taco Bell.

No, as everyone knows by now, it's Ruben Studdard, unofficially known to viewers as the big black guy, who pulled out a narrow victory of a 1,300 or so, or 130,000, votes (depending on whether you believe host Ryan Seacrest – or everyone else) out of 24 million, over Clay Aiken, unofficially known as the annoying skinny white guy. So therein at least lies a little satisfaction. Because despite Ruben's endearing inability to keep the anxiety off his face and the sweat out of his eyes and maintain the happy, carefree Rembrandt smile, even when he was watching the members of his Rising Star Church in Birmingham, Ala., cheer him on like their lives depended on it, he was still a pretty mediocre singer – unable to invest any grit or emotion into even "Tears of a Clown."

Clay, on the other hand, was just your ideal glee-club, windup-and-sing Ken doll, all cheesy "perfection" – from his relentless twinkle (the man could put a merry spin on a requiem), the overly groomed brows and lashes, the brittle fake laugh, and the irritating perky gestures (what kind of kitschy nutcase points to the sky for emphasis during "Bridge over Troubled Water" anyway?). Clay belongs in the next Christopher Guest opus, after Waiting for Guffman and A Mighty Wind: Star Schmaltz, perhaps? Between that, the consistently weak singing, and the transparent attempts by the producers to puff up the entire ordeal by an additional hour – all while continually puffing up themselves by equating the entire process to a presidential election – you can bet that if Clay had won, something would have had to give. He may have started out a mysterious, brunet nerd and metamorphosed into a highlighted, winking über-entertainment waif – but that rendition of "Grease" was pretty unforgivable.

Essentially in spite of the hype, the viewer numbers, and the confetti and live feeds from the contestants' hometowns, the second season of American Idol wound up being little more than a slightly more dramatic remake of Star Search. I shouldn't be surprised, but it is embarrassing how amateurish the entire enterprise is, how low reality-TV viewers' standards can get. The whole thing looks as cheap and castoff as Ed McMahon's hand-me-down tux. Part sporting competition, beauty pageant, political convention, and high school variety show, the show hit its apex with a mortifying medley in which past and present contestants decked out in denim shirts and khakis (American idols – and Einstein – wore khakis!) massacred songs ranging from Gladys Knight's "Midnight Train to Georgia" to Lionel Richie's "Hello." Maybe that's the point. The would-be idols' idols looked all the better – even celebrity judge Newton-John came off like a musical visionary. Yet isn't the level of musicality 10 times better at down-home karaoke joints like the Mint?

It is no surprise that it really doesn't matter who won. Hey, they both got recording contracts – now they can duke it out on the charts, as Simon says. Still, I was convinced before the faux countdown that Clay couldn't possibly win, because as the straw star he would expose the empty enterprise for what it was. It's comforting to think that Ruben, the man of color who clearly came from a gospel tradition, could win out over a stronger singer who goes through those same motions with little of the sincerity. I slept easier imagining that a little justice was done, before I started thrashing around remembering that this is Joe Television Public's idea of music. Music schmusic, American Idol's all about selling a brand and a concept – the idea that everyone's a star, that even your kid could be a star (see fall's new reality talent show, American Juniors) – more than it is about selling even a song or a performer. That's why everyone has to sing "Somewhere over the Rainbow" and wonder, along with the vocalist, "Why oh why can't I?" Paula Abdul probably said it best: "Just remember, no one grows up wanting to be a critic!" Ouch.

Getting out, moving on It may be the end of another rock era in S.F. Liar bandmates and onetime couple Eric McFadden and Paula O'Rourke are selling the fire-engine red house at Lyon and Grove they once shared, along with, at one time, Pat McDonald of Timbuk 3. They're going their separate ways. McFadden is continuing to travel the world, playing guitar for Parliament-Funkadelic, and O'Rourke is moving to Barcelona, the site of a particularly incredible show with her band, Tiny.

But scenesters from way back will be missing the parties at the O'Rourke-McFadden home. "It's one of those Jefferson Airplane-style houses," says O'Rourke's bandmate Jason Broome. "Bands gravitated there. There was always music played at the house. Musicians would come through and crash."

R.E.M., New York Dolls guitarist Sylvain Sylvain, Widespread Panic bassist David Schools, and most recently P-Funk poo-bah George Clinton stayed over and jammed with local players, O'Rourke recalls. When we spoke, she was set to go out in glory May 25 at Cafe du Nord, a party that was scheduled to include Deadweight and the Broun Fellinis. "San Francisco's changed so much, and the clubs are closing. Rather than sitting around and being bitter about it, it's better to start in a whole new place. Hand it over to the next group, though none of us are ready to stop," she says.