Last night's "American Idol" finale was like a drug trip gone south (not that I've ever, um, inhaled, but I've read about it). It starts out fun, gets progressively weird, then you start gobbling up everything because you just can't stop (and you know you're going to feel sick later). Finally, it's over and you feel exhausted and not sure whether it was the best thing for you. But it was kind of interesting in a Life Experience sort of way. Random grabs from the trip:

Meatloaf and Katherine McPhee in a duet?!: Meatloaf appears, backlit, dressed in a black suit, a red hankie clutched in his hand. He looks like a Bizarro World version of Luciano Pavoratti, if Pavoratti had been a rock star on Benzedrine for most his adult life. Meat does great, and McPhee looks great (as usual) and plays along. It's like they're two characters in a twisted Broadway musical. Then, at the end, because she always has to show, 'Hey, it's me, adorable Kat, I'm still your Idol paramour...' she giggles and drops the pose. The entire effect is lost, even as Meatloaf remains in his dissolute sour rockgod mode. This is why McPhee lost the contest. She doesn't have the gravitas of a star, only the looks and pipes. Stars are always characters!

Imitation Clay Aiken Meets Real Clay Aiken: This was actually cool. The scary, skinny kid whose failed, "I have to pee" audition as a Clay Aiken-rip-off spooked Simon Cowell, is invited on to the stage to sing. The backstage parts and -- 'omigod! omigod! omigod!' - the real Clay Aiken appears. It was actually kind of sweet to see this impossibly untalented kid experience what was likely to be the Highlight of His Entire Life, in front of a worldwide TV audience. But the evening weirdness quotient shot up a notch to see Aiken, who appeared with a way hip styled hairdo and dressed in a natty Ratpack suit. You have to recall that Aiken got to the finals a couple years ago based on his boyish "Robert of Sunnybrook Farm," apple-polished cheeks. (Look at him here-- he could be a Mormon Boys Choir soloist). His new incarnation was both dashing and a little creepy. Where's my boy, Clay? The 'Idol' Starmaker Machinery Behind the Popular Song had inhaled him and spit out this simulacrum of Clay. Maybe as strange, in its own way, as imitation Clay across the stage.

Wolfgang Puck Meets Kelly Pickler: In the end, Top 12 finalist Kelly Pickler may find her 'Idol' fame-claim ends up being her calamari cluelessness. Mining the sadism that always lies right beneath the surface of "Idol," (which likes to make fun -- often cruel fun -- of people as much as it likes to make them famous), they pair Pickler with celeb-chef Wolfgang Puck. He tries to get her to eat a rather appetizing looking cooked snail. She turns, spits it into a napkin and puts it on the floor. Then, she freaks as live lobsters are brought to the table. It's fun at first, then it gets sad. They're making fun of her provincialism, which itself is kind of provincial and low. But she really is a provincial hick. Geez, girl, buck it up and just eat the damn snail.

Not so a-Blige-ing: Seeing the Top 12-ers this one final time, I came to realize the person among them who was perhaps the sweetest, realest finalist, one with a heart and voice of gold, was Elliot Yasmin. So it was all the more annoying when he is paired with Mary J. Blige, who proceeds to overemote and over-sing Yasmin's every attempt to get a word in songwise. Blige gets to be a star 24/7, 365. This was supposed to be a duet and even more, Yasmin's last moment in the 'Idol' spotlight. Mary J., like Spinal Tap, your volume control goes to 11. Crank back the ego, you spotlight hog.

Okay, Who Cloned Chris Daughtry?: The weirdness level went up yet again as Chris Daughtry appeared on stage for his duet. He's there with the entire band Live, whose lead singer has a shaved head, attitude, sound and look just like Chris to a spooky degree. They could be the Doublemint twins of alt-rock. Even Ryan Seacrest comments upon it afterwards. Early on, I'd wished Daughtry would win 'Idol' this year -- the show desperately needs a little more edge to one of its winners. But seeing the Doublemint boys was a reminder that nothing much is new under the sun in pop music, especially on 'Idol.' As forceful as Daughtry sang, he was channeling a pose and a look. Look! There's another of me across the stage! Bring on a hip-hop genius next year -- 'Idol' needs some new flavors.

Is Taylor Hicks Real or Is He Memorex?: I like Taylor Hicks. His gravely voice when he does his 'Soul Patrol' vocal lunges is like gargling George Dickel. I love his genuine smile and spirit ("I'm livin' the American dream, America!" he cried into the mic as the confetti rained down on his concluding 'Idol' trot around the bases song). I'd pay up to $40 to see him in concert. I am glad America had the sense to pick him over McPhee. But I harbor doubts. Soul music, real soul, real rhythm and blues, came from the dives, backwaters and dangerous backsides of town. There is soul in his voice, but no real danger. He may be the latest incarnation of serving up black music in easy-to-digest white packaging. This may just be the 'Idol' way. Still, while some have trouble with his quasi-Joe Cocker jerkiness (he toned it down, didn't he, as the finals approached?), the spirit does move in him, some kind of powerful spirit. That's why he won. The spirit was easier to see moving forcefully through him than through the lovely shape of Kat McPhee.