Doing The After Math

So, fokles, if you were paying attention you know that our jolly ride on the AI Magic Machine is too soon over. The dark cloud of instantaneous fame has passed and it is day again. Immediately after being called a "good girl" by the British, tight-lipped, snake eyed producer I was told - along with the three other people standing with me - that we were "not what we're looking for this season." Which is just her way of saying, "Next!" So, they cut off our armbands and I sprinted down the football field in a victory pose and yelled 'touchdown!' when I entered the end zone. It was all I could do. Vicki, a very sweet girl, mother of two, who'd sat next to [honest+popular] and I in the stands and became our friend (along with her younger sister), had also been with me in the audition line up. We went outside and sat in the blazing Louisiana sun. "Will you go on to another city?" she asked. "Hell, no!" I responded and then felt sorry because she seemed like such a sweet and kindly person. "You?" I asked as the sweat began trekking down my back. "No. I wanna go home to see my babies," she smiled hugely and I could tell she was really missing them and would no doubt be welcomed back into their lives with genuine child-approval. I was slightly jealous. The sun was hot and punishing. I felt like being punished.
When we were reunited with the rest of our peeps here we drove into town for muffulettas. Muffulettas are a sandwich combining only the strangest and tangiest ingredients for your tasting pleasure. Included among it's fixins are: Italian salami, prosciutto, olives, pickled carrots and cauliflower, provolone, mozerella, asiago cheeses, herbs and olive oil all on a ciabatta bread the size of a small pizza. This sandwich means business. And when you order it, there are no “flavors” no “variations” no “specials.” If you order a muffuletta, you’re getting a muffuletta.

All this talk of muffulettas made me hungry and I had to go eat the last quarter of it. Damn, that’s tasty!

And then we drove down to the bayou…

Let me back up a bit before I leave the AI world forever behind me in the gentle wake that is my life and tell you some things I saw in the superdome the day of the first round of auditions. My sis and I arrived at 5:45am (per the producers request. Actually they said “between 4 and 6.”) with the sky still dark and the air cool. She took a couple of photos of me against the superdome. All you can really see are a pair of red pants. And well, I guess that’s really all that matters. I mean, if you’re wearing red pants, what else is there to look at? Right? So we get inside and she does her duty by the concession stand and buys some bottled water and a Polish hot dog. Breakfast of champions. I’m too nervous to eat and besides the crowd is having fun inciting themselves into a sing-a-long. One section starts with Lean On Me. Then someone behind me starts in on the theme song from the Jeffersons and after we’re done “movin’ on up” we kick in with we will We Will Rock You just to tease the other section. The rivalry continued all morning, each section forming its own identity and ragging the other sections. Song wars and dance-offs and harassment ensued during the wave, etc. Then a guy with a microphone dismissed the media and things got serious. We were all supposed to shout things for a high-angled tracking camera. Things like, “Welcome to Nawleans!” and “I’m the next American Idol!” Stupid stuff. The producer barking orders sounded tired and, frankly, disinterested. Always a good sign. Then “Charlie” was introduced. He had a heavy British accent. He was the first, but by no means the last. I forgot the Brits own this show. Simon Cowell is not an oddity. Paula and Randy are the oddity. After singing “Dancing in the streets” four times too many, something strange happened. Something that sent up little red flags in my head. A group of young, polished people were brought up from the field and seated in the first row. Were they producers? No, too young and not quite confident enough. Were they contestants? They all had a paper which, I assumed was the release form. So they were contestants. They had no other belongings with them. They were immaculately dressed and styled. These were the chosen. I tried to memorize their faces. I’m sure they’ll be seen again.
After a lot of nothing (mostly singing and yelling things for the camera) the auditions began. The first section of contestants were brought down to the cattle chute on the field and divided in fours and sent to a judging station. Suddenly a hush fell over the crowd. A murmur rose up as row after row of contestant auditioned. No one was getting through. And I mean no one. Almost the entire first section had auditioned before a cheer arose from the stands. Someone on the field was waving a yellow paper. They’d made it through. The first one out of two hundred. We were sobered. We were scared. We were put in our place. When my section finally went to the field, I felt no nervousness. A common feeling among those competing. You don’t feel nervous down there on the killing field until the sharp eyes of a bored, money-hungry producer are pointed on your face and you must sing.
As we stood in line for judge number 7, the snake-eyed, British blonde, and watched very few people ahead of us make it on to the next round, we talked, laughed, smiled. Some tried to hum or sing their audition number. Convincing themselves they were here for a reason. At another table I saw an Asian kid with chopsticks in his wild hair doing the most ridiculous dance I’d ever seen. I nudged Vicki. “See him? The kid over there grinding the table?” “Yes.” “He’s gonna make it to the next round.” Sure enough, he got his paper and the went up the stairs to the second audition. In line ahead of me a young black kid did one of the most eye-catching dances I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t hear his voice. I don’t think his voice mattered. The producer looked very pleased, her eyes little slits. She called over a camera crew and they filmed the kid singing his song and dancing like a fool. He got through to the next round. He did a somersault. The entire audience behind us had seen his dancing. They shouted and clapped their approval as the camera crew struggled to follow his victory run to the staircase. That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to get through. If I’d been thinking a little clearer at that point I would have started working on my SNL-worthy, ass-smacking version of “Hot Stuff.” But no. I harbored a foolish notion of my own dignity. My ability to succeed on this show with the dulcet tones I am known and loved for by friends and family. Tsk.
Just as our line of four reached the producer's table, she and her assistant “had to got to the bathroom.” I’ve never heard anyone British refer to it as “the bathroom.” She’s been in America for a while. So they left. Not a good sign. Nothing breaks a producer’s flow like taking a bathroom break. And nothing helps them get back on the horse like rejecting the next few rows of people. Not good. Her assistant, who returned first, was a sullen-eyed kid with a sinewy pink scar on his cheek. He never looked at anyone straight on. Always up through his brows. There was something really creepy about him come to think of it. He looked like “children of the corn.” He cut off our wristbands after we were told we weren’t wanted.
So, I wonder after this whole experience, who were those hand-picked few? Seems they were picked for a reason. Do they pick their top thirty two contestants from music schools or private teachers? And I wonder if it actually increases the fan-base for the show to let the rest of us audition? Maybe it makes the rest of us more invested in the program. I don't know.
I know I had a good time (until the end) and I enjoyed seeing it from the inside. And hell, now I don't have to delete references to the show on my blog!

I'm sorry the ride couldn't have lasted a little longer for you folks back home. I'll have to try to pull a stunt at Graceland on our way home.

Thanks for coming along!