For reasons known only to myself, the other night, I downloaded a copy of Clay Aiken's holiday album from the iTunes music store. (The iTunes store is great for shame purchases: I also owe my copy of Justified to their anonymous services.) Aiken's album doesn't really stand up to repeat listenings—this ain't Abbey Road—but for Christmas schmaltz, it's pretty good.

My fascination with Clay Aiken, as I tried to explain to a friend recently, stems from the fact that he seems to have taken the shortest road in history from superstar to laughingstock, with nary a stop at legitimacy in between. I plan to be among the first on the Clay Aiken ironic bandwagon. Anyone care to join me?