"No, all British are born evil," he says coolly. It's a subpar quip, but then his reputation is based less on wit than his cutting honesty in the face of Abdul's unfailing pleasantries.

Warm-up Guy finds another young girl in the audience. This one would rather dance than ask questions. "Thank you," he says after a brief terpsichorean interlude. "Yeah, now go take your Ritalin," the beefy guy behind me grouses.

The stagehands stop yawning and the break ends before the crowd slips into sleep mode. An impish George Huff pops out from behind the big screen to sing "Dancing Cheek to Cheek." "I'm in heaven," he croons. The video screen visuals are more like a vision of hell, with great swoops of what looks like glowing orange lava. The strain of the competition is beginning to show. Huff is smiling too hard and his eyes are popping more desperately than usual. He's crossed that fine line between a winning performance and a parody of a lounge singer.

But the forgiving crowd emits an audible sigh when he announces his next number, from Louis Armstrong's late schmaltz period, "What a Wonderful World." These people love sentimental. The visuals now are of clouds, as if Huff is stretched between the two extremes of heaven and hell.

Pandemonium follows his final note. Randy wasn't wowed. Paula is dreamily enthusiastic but unfortunately inaudible due to a microphone glitch. Simon leaps to the attack. "You could go on any medium cruise liner and you could hear what you heard tonight." Boos and shouts from the crowd. "It's true!" He insists over the drowning din.

Meanwhile, Huff isn't paying Simon much mind. He's popping his eyes at the audience and bouncing on his heels, connecting directly with his multitude of fans. The balance of power seems to have shifted. As part of the final 12 he's guaranteed a tour and already has a cut on the group album.

In that sense, the Final Five are like the skeleton crew left at a downsized corporation. They're stuck doing the work of those let go, exploited and sliced thin, providing Fox this week with three nights of programming -- the previous night having been their opportunity to practice celebrity blather in a talk show format with Seacrest -- while also starring in commercials for the show's sponsors and providing two songs each for big-band night. The under-18-year-olds, Degarmo and Jasmine Trias, have school work on top of that. It's amazing they don't collapse.

Another break. Warm-up Guy takes more childish questions. "What is this show about?" Summer, 10, from Santa Monica, asks Simon. I sincerely hope she means this in the existential sense. A kindly Simon explains that the show is about singing and competition.

Dressed in a sparkly orange cocktail dress appropriate for a Broadway review, La Toya London gets the audience swaying with "Too Close for Comfort." After a high-energy performance, her fatigue shows as she stumbles in the between-song chat, unable to get out Natalie Cole's name. She's back in full force for a second number, "Don't Rain on My Parade."

For African-American women on "American Idol 3" it seems that singing well is the best revenge -- or at least it did until Wednesday night. Everyone save Simon gives her a standing ovation. (Maybe he's just shy about showing how short he is on camera.) After Randy and Paula gush, Simon says, "I'll give you 10 out of 10 for a very fine Broadway performance," managing to make it not sound like a compliment. The audience doesn't care. Their enthusiasm swells and crests as Ryan Seacrest sidles up to announce her voting number.

Cut to break, and Warm-up Guy announces celebrities in the audience: talk-show host Wayne Brady and Henry Simmons of "NYPD Blue."

Next up: Jasmine Trias. Sitting on the edge of the stage in tight jeans, a low-cut top with belly chains and strappy heels, she looks more karaoke than big band as she dives into "The Way You Look Tonight" and "Almost Like Being in Love," from "Brigadoon." She's worn thin and a tad raspy on the last note, and though she keeps smiling, she looks homesick, exhausted, as Randy and Paula fish around for something nice to say. Then Simon the Brutal sneers, "You haven't grown ... Very pleasant isn't good enough!"

The phrase "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" comes to mind.

Break time. A bored Simon looks around at the audience before mocking the contestants' habits of dedicating songs to family values and "the troops."

Back on air, Fantasia Barrino bolts from behind the video screen. She is coltish, a bundle of awkward, barely contained energy, the least plastic and polished of any of the contestants. Singing her first number -- "Crazy Little Thing Called Love," by Queen, not a big-band song in the conventional sense, but she makes it one -- she appears to be woman possessed. Her next song, "What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?," which she dedicates to her daughter, leaves Paula wiping away tears and Randy ecstatic.

Even Simon is weary, grateful. "You and La Toya are just in a different league," he declares.

Show over, lights up. The audience is suddenly quiet, denatured, as we exit in an orderly fashion. Orange wristband wearers get to go through a special door; the rest of us head for the exits.

Outside, we're slapped with the discombobulating light of a still-bright day, a harsh reminder that none among us is an American idol. I make it home in time to watch the West Coast broadcast from the lone comfort of my favorite chair -- and hope I never have to do the wave again.

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