Marriage is about compromise, and compromise is about occasionally sitting back and accepting things that you would otherwise never allow. Living single, my wife wouldn’t have an AT-AT in the living room, and it is highly unlikely that the bookcase by her front door would have a year’s worth of comic books piled high on one of the shelves. She has never complained about any of this, mentioned any of this, or maybe even thought about it, which is why I say (almost) nothing when what seems like 9 months out of each year are devoted to American Idol in my living room. When I look at the glorious 60″ HDTV I worked so hard to get being used to trasmit Ryan Seacrest’s gay jokes about Simon Cowell, I do not cry out in anguish, no matter how much my heart yearns for me to do so. It makes her happy, and that makes me happy. Simple as that.

In principle, I’m glad American Idol is out there. It’s a harmless show. Nobody’s out there trying to stab anyone in the back. You don’t win by crawling over the bodies of your former friends. Democracy is involved, and viewers vote for singers they like rather than against the ones they hate, which is a crucial distinction. Theoretically, talent is rewarded. If it’s cheesy and homogenized, well, I’m sorry there’s an hour of television that doesn’t involve dick jokes or cheerleaders getting their skulls sliced off, but my mom needs something to watch too. There’s room for all of us on the dial.

In practice, American Idol to me is like a Jim-specific dog whistle being blown by the dying screams of a rabbit. I can’t stand to be in its presence. I can’t really explain why. Something about amateurs who think they’re Maria Callas and then get shot down with arrogance that matches their own makes me uncomfortable in two distinct and powerful ways.

Is it just that these kids have been surrounded by people their whole lives who tell them they’re the best them they can be, and no one’s ever said, “Honey, I love you, but you’re no Mariah Carey; you sound like a malfunctioning foghorn”?

Or even, “Honey, stop looking up to Mariah Carey; Mariah Carey’s life is not desirable, and she’s not actually a good singer”?

Never mind “Honey, how many albums by 300-pound, 5′1″ pug-nosed women do you have?”

You see these people trying to get to Hollywood and think, “Where are the people who are supposed to be looking out for you? Someone saw you leave the house dressed like a melted crayon box, and I’ll bet that person knows you can’t sing.” You occasionally find yourself actually in the position of thinking, “Wow, you obviously feel very good about yourself, miss… why is that?”

And of course, if you’ve ever heard about how much weeding out the producers do before contestants get to stand in front of the judges, it quickly becomes nakedly apparent that they do look for a certain number of Christians for the lion pit. “Oh, this guy is atrocious. Simon Cowell is going to ruin this guy so bad he’ll have to take all the mirrors out of his house. Right this way, sir, quickly! To the cameras!” That’s pretty rough, but as a country we eat it up. I know a guy who only watches that stage of the competition; once only the talented people are left, he stops watching. What’s that about?

But who cares about all that? What’s a little weekly discomfort for the woman carrying my child? She’s certainly spending more time uncomfortable on my behalf than I am on hers. I’ll watch a DVD on my laptop. (Trying to read, or do anything that doesn’t actively involve precious, precious headphones while Idol is on, is quite impossible for me. It’s paralyzing.)

Obviously, I do pick up some Idol by osmosis anyway from time to time, and this week I caught a little of the finale. They have elevated this event to the level of a ’70s awards show, complete with the made-for-TV celebrities that have nothing to do with anything but have gotten their hands on this hot ticket, and between songs the show would often cut to shots of, say, Jeff Foxworthy or David Hasselhoff cheering for the little beatbox dimwit’s utterly tuneless rendition of the Maroon Five song or whatever.

This is the part that is on my mind days later.

At one point, they pan the audience for celebs, and right there on the aisle, applauding enthusiastically for the vocal performance, is actress Marlee Matlin. Who you might know as The Only Deaf Person I Ever See In Anything, The Most Famously Deaf Person In America.

Huh?

Puzzle that out for me. If I had no sense of taste, I wouldn’t spend a lot of time at the buffet.

I hope she broke up with whatever date made that pick for the evening’s festivities.