Oh, what tangled webs

Or, the first few weeks of a new American Idol season

I watch only one television show religiously.

I turn on the news when I get in early enough to catch the 6 o'clock broadcast, and "The Bachelor" when there are girlfriends around to watch it with. I always try to stay up late enough for "Saturday Night Live," but I confess I'm usually asleep by the end of the monologue.

But I never miss "American Idol" during the first few weeks of a new season. Alas, I've already ceased to be excited and begun wondering once again why I pay so much for cable when I watch between one and two hours of TV a week as my favorite part of "Idol" is already over.

Now I'll admit to finding a guilty pleasure in watching people making fools of themselves — but that's not what makes me hurry out of the gym in order to make it home by 8 p.m. for "American Idol." What I find truly intriguing are the Moments of Truth.

You can see it in the truly terrible contestants' dropping jaws and widening eyes as the epiphany breaks over their expressions and their thoughts are written across their faces: You mean I can't sing? Even before the judges confirm it, they realize, fully and absolutely, for the first time in their lives, that their dreams of becoming a singing superstar were unfounded.

Their reactions range from denial to anger to sadness, but the ones who really captivate me are those who are left in a state of pure shock.

These same rejected individuals who will not make it to the next round are armed with a litany of people who've told them what great singers they are; namely, their family and friends.

And there lies the true crime — not the butchering of a beloved song with a voice bad enough to be booed off a karaoke stage — but all those people who let that person get so far on such a huge misconception.

It seems there is a popular attitude in our current culture that regards not hurting someone's feelings as more valuable than honesty. Many of us go to such great lengths to anesthetize our words to lessen their impact that we end up leaving someone with a false impression — and that's detrimental to both sides, whether or not our hearts were in the right place.

Somewhere in between gross manipulations of truth ("You have an incredible voice! It's very unique. Of course I think you could be the next 'American Idol!'") and Simon Cowell-esque rudeness ("You are quite possibly the worst singer I've ever heard.") lies something called tact ("It's great that you're so passionate about singing, but I'm not sure it's your true calling. I think you should stick with dancing.")

It's easier, certainly, to tell someone what they want to hear. But that doesn't mean it's the right thing to do.

And isn't it our duty as family, as true friends, to give our loved ones the truth? Sugar-coat it if need be, but if your child or buddy can't hit a single note, you have to say something before they make a fool of themselves on national television.

I'd imagine after the initial Moment of Truth, all those tuneless folk experience a second one: Everyone I know has been lying to me. I'd guess that feeling would be even worse.

We should communicate with each other in a way that is both honest and graceful. Even a "little white lie" can somersault into an ugly result.

Erin Stuber is the managing editor of the Columbia Basin Herald, who proudly admits she, too, cannot sing.