During the last American Idol season, a nerd who didn't make the final round was brought back as what the ratings obsessed producers called the Wild Card. And after their urges for a make-over, Mr. Clay Aiken went from geeky southern boy to gay-looking southern belle. After that, the rest was history, in that he still didn't win. But his story follows the classic path of an underdog--overcoming great adversities like disease, oppression, and a telephony voting system.

American viewers ate this up, and the post season media coverage supplied this Aiken diet. Fans, who refer to themselves as Claymates, adore his punnible name. Aching for Aiken, they Claymor at his public appearances, wanting to touch his silky hands, crushing the front row and possibly breaking someone's clayvicle.

Mothers I'd Like to Flee From
Although his story is slightly more interesting than the guy who came from the hood or the girl who came from a van, making it a little more refreshing than sleeping your way up, Mr. Aiken's music is still generic. Why is he number one? Because his fans are mostly composed of mothers. Mothers who transposed their Furby/Beanie Baby/Tickle Me Elmo crazed obsessions into record sales. Mothers who transposed their American Idol voting skills into TRL requests for a #1 Clay Aiken.

I didn't discover my own mother's Aiken addiction until I was in the room she watches the Idol in. Phone numbers that voted for Clay were written on paper scraps which littered the floor, as if someone threw a vote for Clay party and themed confetti was involved. I had no idea her growing obsession over this kid was going to make me jealous. That "mother's touch" that a mama's boy hopes for in home cooked meals, folded laundry, and a fully washed and waxed car played second fiddle to Clay Aiken's musical prowess.

My mother would play his music on loop. She would revisit his television moments she collected in VHS tapes. This winter, screw family photo albums. Her heart wraps in warm sentiments from recorded Clay interviews and performances framed by poor VCR editing glitches. Mr. Aiken soon turned into her Clay, as in "I hate Conan. And that Triumph dog. Boy, he'd better not make jokes about my Clay!" The only good thing that comes out of this is that it makes Christmas shopping easier, as long as you get her something Clay related. One of her daughters is getting her a signed print of his picture. I'm getting her Play-Doh.

The Power of Love
And yes, my mother has a life. She has friends and family who, for years, have urged her to take advantage of the internet for communicative ease. The problem was that my mother had the technological know how of an infant Luddite. Learning how to use the computer was something she put on the bottom of her never-do list. Post-Clay? She now casually surfs the web, reading up on Aiken fan sites on a daily basis.

It made me wonder if I would be able to get her to crawl under the house if I said he was performing there in fifteen minutes. If Mr. Aiken lived on a cliff, would my mother be able to scale mountains later? It only proves the power of love and that love makes you want to be a better person. But I'm sure Clay would have loved my mom anyway. For her laundry skills if anything.