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This Is Always

Unable to sleep and without anything constructive to do, k_sra reaches for her phone...

Brass monkey boss. Far from the monkey. Enjoying a hotdog at a baseball game.

Happy Monday, Sunny Tuesday

I have neither time nor interest in writing anything worthy today. Please tune in tomorrow.

Thank You.

We Will, We Will Mock You!

Rock fans in the USA may be a little disappointed to learn that when they throw the devil horns toward their favorite garage/punk/acid/thrash/metal band, all the little deaf children are laughing at them. That's right. Deaf children can't hear your damned rock music. And what's more, they mock your allegience to your favorite bands. They have their own version of the devil horns. Check out the sneer on this hipper-than-hip young deaf woman's face as she demonstrates the sign language equivalent of the word 'mock.' She is clearly deflating the egos of a vast crowd of wannabes when she throws it down like that. That hurts, deaf chick! You're a mean drunk.

Ok. That's it, people. There's nothing to see here. Go home.

(Thanks to Daryk for supplying the facts.)

Eulogy

It pains me to announce that Brian has quit this Blogosphere.
He has shuffled off this blogger's coil and has passed on into a better place...
Real Life.
(and I think this time he means it)

I just want to say how much I have enjoyed his warmth and energy

on the web world of the wide.

His sense of humor as well as his poetic heart.

For sharing his cats with us.

For pointing us all in the direction of video singalongs.

For teaching us how to use curse words to deepen our friendships.

In blog, he was a vibrant, intelligent, wonderful, kind human being.

And I know that wherever he is, he'll be watching over us.

With a smile on his face.

(he said he'd check in every now and again)

Brian, we wish you the very best in all things

and godspeed on your journey.

You will be missed.

VOICE

Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice
Voice

Meet Whiteninja

You should really roam around a bit to get a feel for the guy.

I just like his take on fatherhood.

Sign My Petition

Dear readers,

if you have not already

weighed in on this

very important issue,

please add your signature!

We'd dearly love to see

some prose written by

the king of poems, Lukas Abrhm.

(Backstory here.)

Do it, England!

No Jumping Allowed

...for Elephants. Poor dears, *they can't even run. Nope. These non-jumping, non-running giants can walk briskly, swim and gore the living day-lights out of enemies. That's it. (Thanks to Paul, btw, for the tidbit.) Truth be told, if elephants could jump they would damage their own bodies. Their weight makes jumping a physical impossibility. They would squish their internal organs or break their legs. Also, if all the African Elephants were to join trunks and jump at the same time they'd put a crack in the earth's crust resulting in earthquakes, tidal waves, mayhem, etc. So, it's a good thing they can't jump. Doncha think?

So, don't worry. They may crush you, sit on your head, shit on you to death, gore you, beat you with their trunk, but an Elephant will never jump on you. No never. So rest easy! Elephants are our Friends!

Here's something else interesting about elephants: they can paint. And their pictures can sell for a tidy bundle. Even more interesting to me is the fact that most painting elephants will choose to paint only with yellow and their trainers have to step in and "suggest" other colors. Why is that, do you think?

Here's a couple fun things to do with Elephants:
Dollar-gami (Here's how)
Robotics
Simpler Robotics
Voting

There's a short list. Have a blast!

*(creds to El Fid for that tidbit)

The Ciderhouse Rules

Worldgineer informs me that hard cider can be made at home.

Mmm, hard, hard cider.

Let's have a picture, shall we? That's lovely. (There's one bad apple in every jug! That's what gives it its hardness...) Hard cider is made from crushed apples, yeast and closure. Or rather vacuum. Or something. You put the apple juice in a bottle, add some yeast (the right kind), you can also add sugar if'n you want, but it's not necessary, shake it all up (also called pitch), seal it with a tube thingy and let her sit 2-3 days in warm room temp. Then 1-2 days in frig. Drink and enjoy! *

Use responsibly.

*More fun squirrel pictures!

Lunch at Wendy's: $2.
Breyer's Frozen Lemonade: $1.39.
Blingin' Frog Pin: $39.
Celebrating your inner orphan on your lunch break: Priceless.

Would You Like To Know More?

So would I. In fact this entire site is (ostensibly) designed for the sole purpose of aquiring new and interesting information about OUR WORLD.

To further this end, I thought my readers might enjoy sharing interesting factoids they have found. (Actually, I thought it might save me some work trying to find something interesting to write about, but that's beside the point.)
Today and tomorrow whatever site or information you give me will posted here. With trimmings. And you know that's gotta be good.

Please you to like the German, also

German version of this site.

"For True" Cartoon of the Day

(for KoolAid and others)

The New All American

I said, "Pick any pair of pants and a shirt." She brought over a pair of playboy jeans with a huge bunny on the ass. Something in me seized up. I looked at the huge sign over our heads. It read "juniors." I looked back at the rack of clothes, at my young friend, and around at the other teen aged girls picking through this stuff. I blanked out. For a moment. I couldn't say anything. When I did find my voice, it was all anger. I railed, but kept my promise.

She got the jeans. They looked good on her.

So, I thought I'd had my vent and gotten over it. I thought I was done with the whole playboy for preteens thing. But I guess not.

At 3:23 this morning I crawled to the kitchen to "eat." I sat on the floor against the counter in the glow of the nightlight. I said aloud, "I'm angry." And then I started crying. And then I tried to eat some corn chex out of the box, which was impossible because you can't really swallow when you're crying. So I just kinda dissolved for a minute into a heap of chex and tears and spit.

And I know that wearing the bunny logo doesn't make a huge difference in a young girl's life. It doesn't make her sluttier or more likely to be taken advantage of by men. Her family, her friends are more important in deliniating where her worth lies and who she is. And I know that pornography doesn't make a guy a child-raping pervert. It matters what he's told by his parents when he's growing up, by what occurs in his life to shape his thinking.

But it didn't stop. I felt wickedly angry. Angry with this country for raising a generation of jackals that preys on its own and leaves little bodies strewn through the neighborhoods. Another mother in her oversized t-shirt and faded jeans sobbing uncontrollably on the TV. Another slew of posters of sweet-faced children who we all know probably won't be coming home alive. Another day when your stomach drops into your feet and you feel numb because no one seems to be able to protect the innocent.

I'm angry. I'm not ready for Playboy to be the next Tommy Girl. I'm not ready for them to be the new cleancut all-American look. Que sera sera, my ass.

I did eventually get to sleep. And woke up wobbly, but fine. Just a little disturbed by how much shit has to be swept under the rug to make this world appear OK for living in each morning. I try not to think about it. Because if the truth be told there's no one for me to kick, no child to rescue, no wrongs I can right. It all happens "out there." And I'm here. Helpless and enraged. All I can do is give it up and go back to sleep, back to work, back to k_sra.

3-Wheeled Socks

A-a-a-and go....

On Writing...

Writing is a lot like sex. At first you do it because you like it. Then you find yourself doing it for a few close friends and people you like. But if you're any good at all...you end up doing it for money. --Unknown

If the writing is honest it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it. --Unknown

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. --Cyril Connolly

Nothing, not love, not greed, not passion or hatred, is stronger than a writer's need to change another writer's copy. --Arthur Evans

Asking a writer what he thinks about criticism is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs. --John Osborne

We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out. --Ray Bradbury

Holla, Home Girl!

Hey Every Body!

Issa El Fid's Birfday!

Get yer birthday greetings on

and wish her some Feliz Cumpleanos N' Shmack!

Holla!

The Maloof Fan Club

"I'm not just the President, I'm also a member!"

Seems I'm not the only one enraptured by Msr. Maloof's continental charms. This comment was added to my blog yesterday by a friend of Maloof:

"kay-sra-sra...hey:if you're still in NOLA you should be headed NORTH... for home.re: ivan-the-terrible/ITT.....estimated landfall: tomorrow, 9/16/04.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~this is my story:i recently googled: "Noble Suydam Rustum Maloof". needlesstosay --- your blogspot was the first result/hit listed. with curious delight, i read about your encounters w/him. found four daily postings dated: 7/20, 8/20, 8/24 & 8/27. my connection w/maloof (aka: dr. strangelove); we both live in the same highrise condominum earlier this month, there was a condominium owners' association meeting. just fyi, there are 125 suites in our building... the condominium board of managers called an owners' meeting to address a pressing.. controversial.. derisive issue. dr.m. was in attendance. he raised his hand to be called upon. he was acknowledged. he stood up w/clipboard in-hand and read a prepared statement. and, for the most part, his statement was accurate and to the point. however the dialog that followed was somewhat inappropriate and confrontational... basically he lost the battle and stormed out of the meeting room. most of the long-time residents know him as an eccentric and bizarre old man. but, NOT as kind old man. i don't think that most of the residents are aware of the fact that he is very hard-of-hearing/deaf. poor guy. not only does he need a volume-control on his phone... he should make an investment and buy a whisper 2000; one for each ear. he is an original owner, meaning he's lived here since the building first opened in 1976. can you imagine what his suite must look like considering twenty-eight years of build-up of stuff, junk or trash? based on the same old same old soiled, tattered outfit he wears everyday; his place has to be a mess. at one point you were able to glean he does not have a television. i do not think he has a computer either; what do ya think? anyway, back to the google results for dr. noble maloof (an anatomist) ... a total of 387 hits.. but not all are directly related to him. (check it out) however, he's has numerous publications. 50 articles listed w/national library of medicine (PubMed & MEDLINE); went to amazon.com/books, again 130 items listed for OUR-GUY. journal publications w/info re kidneys, renal anatomy, the bladder, blood transfusions, etc., etc. one of the articles is dated 1954, ergo, he's been doing this for at least fifty years. a more current article in the "Anatomical Record" re the kidneys of giraffes lists the author as: N.S.R.Maloof - Dept of Nephrology @ Case Western Reserve University / CWRU, April 2002. ----- now, most-of-all, i want to pass on, to you, the following scenario: this week, we ( ten of us who live "in-the-building" ) got together for a picnic/potluck... there's picnic area at the rear of our building... tables and grills, it's right by the lake. there were several in our group of ten, who were not able to attend the recent owners' meeting, therefore, those who did attend presented a brief overview; including the info re OUR-GUY storming-out of the meeting. it was at that time, i introduced them to: "YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW( almost) EVERY DAY" by: kay-sra-sra. one of the group members read it aloud, i.e., the four daily postings re: dr. maloof. everyone listened in awe; all were very impressed with your narrative style, wit and humor. mucho applause. excellent ! wonderful ! thank you so much ! p.s., i tried to e-mail you @ wabc; not sure if you got it or not. please, be-in-touch."


Oh, I surely will, tiki. I surely will.

Speaking of Nothing

It isn't so much the day as it is the lack of air in this basement that has my eyes feeling somewhat itchy and irritable. I have 109 minutes left of work day. Let's see how many I can waste at my computer typing in absolutely pointless references to my day today.

Minutes 1-8

It is interesting to me that I have only two hands. I don't tend to think about them specifically very often, but when I do they seem strange, foreign to me. Sometimes I'm looking at one hand and it suddenly surprises me by jumping up from its place and picking up a cup or scratching my chin. These moments are the closest to drunk I can get without actually drinking. They don't happen often.
Or similarly, there are times when I am staring at a plate full of mashed potatoes or the folds of a comforter and no matter how hard I try to tell myself it isn't true, I see a human face in them. And I stare and I stare and I know if I just shifted a little to the left or right the illusion would vanish and all things would return to their proper stasis, but I am deadlocked, freeze-framed, eyes-glued, head-on, can't move, tharninated by the face I see. Like it's about to speak or something. And then I blink and everything goes back to status quo. Or when you look at an image in the dark and it appears upside down or inside out or something else that technically you know is improbable, but because of the lack of light or the imprecision of your perception it becomes something other than what it is for a moment.

I have a recurring dream that there is a tiny rock on my chest as I doze on the floor and as my sleep deepens so does the silence and as the silence buzzes around me the rock suddenly expands, instantaneously, like a balloon and I am pinned helplessly beneath it. And then the rock shrinks again and then expands, noiselessly. And when it is a huge boulder I can hear the sharp hiss of silence very loud around me and when it's a pebble I hear nothing.

Minutes 9-16

There is a similar dream that also occurs only when I am resting midday, dozing, half in, half out of dreams, in which I am like the rock. My body is one moment infintesimally small in the center of the room, a tiny speck on the carpet of the space which is now larger than any cathedral and the next instant I am wholely larger than the room, the house, the city, equal in size to the planet or perhaps even larger. Then it does that silent flip-flop, now tiny, now enormous as I lie there terrified that if I open my eyes during these changes I'll be left in that state.

This phenomenon happens most pronouncedly, too, when I am speaking for any length of time with my eyes closed. Such as in prayer in my younger days. I used to freak out and panic and wonder why my voice still sounded calm when my body felt like it was the size of the universe and surely no one in the original room where I started this monologue to God could hear me now. And always there was that awkward and slightly disappointing moment when I open my eyes and see that I am me, the same size I always was, sitting on the same couch or chair or floor. And nobody even gave me a strange look for all my transformations in the dark.

Minutes 17-27

I don't like it when people comment Anonymously. I should just say that now. I realize it is their right, their perogative, to comment in any way they think best and generally, I don't care. If for instance, they are too lazy to pick a username and start an account, then so be it. No biggie. I have a friend in England who does that.

But when someone posts a criticism or a come-on as Anonymous it makes my skin crawl. If it's a com- on, then what is so inappropriate about their comment that keeps them from telling me who they are? Obviously, I like compliments. I like knowing that I'm cute, funny, have great hair, nice gams, (leave the boobs alone folks, I don't know you that well) etc. So, fine. Tell me how cute I am. But why the hell you have to post it as "Anonynous?" What's wrong with you that you can't tell me something like that? Is it gonna get you in trouble or make you embarassed? Are you a married man who doesn't want his wife to know he's flirting? Are you a woman who hasn't come out yet? Or are you a stranger off the net who stopped by and didn't have a username? I mean, seriously. What the fuck? I suppose it doesn't matter. And maybe it's none of those things. But if I find one of my regular readers came to my site and decided he or she HAD to comment on my legs and be all secretive about it, I'm gonna KICK THEIR BUTT. And that ladies and gentlemen is today's rant.

I busted my knuckle on a bag of ice. I did the ol' body-bag on the sidewalk move, holding the top of it so ice wouldn't spill out (I'd already opened it) and WHAM, it slammed back. I stood up and winced, that brave whince I do when something just really hurt a whole hell of a lot. I leave cussing for a second or two later. I look at my hand. Nothing, Just icy-white knuckles. After a minute the cloud of purple and blue rose up and filled the skin. Juicy. Nice little bruise that'll last maybe a week and make me look like I got into a fistfight on my way to work. It doesn't hurt now. Musta been the ice.

Minutes 28-31

Today we served chili dogs and nachos for the kids at the school. Two tables, full trays of all-beef franks, buns, homemade chili, shredded cheese, onions, relish, condiments, the works. And then we even had those little nacho cheese trays with the two compartments like you get at a high school basketball game with a little bit o' cheese in one tiny side pocket and some chips in the rest of the container. We have those. My boss orders them from, I don't know where. But she does. And she lets the kids dip their own, we don't portion out their nachos and cheese. We're not stingy like that. In fact, we're not stingy at all. Those boys - some of em apparently haven't done growing - need to eat. And one kid smashed a plate with four hotdogs, 8 cookies and a tray of nachos in twelve minutes. I kid you not. He's one of the new ones: the athletes.

Minutes something to something: 70 minutes left

Ok, so there's this new self-awareness excerise that I've been doing of late to retrain my brain to listen to myself. Because apparently I don't. Or at least not enough to help me deal with some of the shit I'm stuck in currently. So it goes something ike this: Look around you and notice everything, what shapes, colors, textures do you see. Where are you? Do you see people or things? Can you sunlight or are you in artificially lit surroundings.? Then, what do you hear? Are you someplace quiet? Does the quietness make you uncomfortable? Is there music or conversation? Are you trying to ignore it? Do you hear cars? Or water? Can you hear yourself breathing? What can you smell? Are you eating or drinking anything? What does it taste like? Is your chair (if you are sitting) comfortable? Is your body warm or cold? Are you sitting comfortably or are you slouched or cramoed into a corner? How does your body feel? Do you feel tension in any part of your body? Try taking in a deep breath. How does it feel? Can you breath freely or does your breathing stutter? etc, etc.

Then after about ten minutes of this nonsense I can actually get down to business asking my body things like, "Ok, where are you holding the most tension?" And it's usually my stomach or in my chest. Then I concentrate on that place and even put my hand there and say to my body, "What do you need to tell me?" And then I listen. I bet some of you think this sounds dorky as hell and you're right. It is dorky as hell to blog about it on the internet with a bunch of people, most of whom I don't know from shit, but in practice it is not dorky as hell, it is kinda cool and liberating and friendly. To me. It sucks to think you might not be as friendly to yourself as you are to other people. For instance when I realized I took home a paper I was supposed to give to someone else at work I called myself a "bistress." One of my favorite insults. Only, it wasn't a very nice thing to say just because I took home someone else's piece of paper, you know. Had anyone else said, "Oh damn, I'm an idiot for taking this home!" I would have said, "Nah, it's no big deal. Don't worry about it, man. That kinda stuff happens all the time. Just return it tomorrow." And I would have meant it. So, maybe just maybe there's something to the dorkiness and the cheesiness and the laughableness of the whole "protect yourself" "be your own best friend" thing. I intend to find out.

Minutes: Who cares. Half hour left.

And now I'm bored with writing about nothing and after jumping around on the internet to see what else has posted in the last ten minutes I just notice out of the corner of my eye a bruise on my fore arm that I thought had reached it's color peak. It's now a peacock's rainbow of brown and yellow and blue. Damn white skin. I look like a bad apple. And the finger I smashed in the ice? Merely a red smear across the top of my fist. I do all this work, for nothing. The bruise ends up in the wrong place. Stupid bruises.

New Orleans Experience In Picture

Before hitting Bourbon street for a night on the New Orleans town, we stopped in at a belly dance concert to watch some chicks shaking and moving. We were told to hiss at them. I also booed for good measure. I'm just now seeing their outfits for the first time in color. The venue where they danced was fitted solely with red lights so you couldn't tell what colors they were wearing, but I see now most of them wore red. Also, I felt like a hamster and I just wanted a plastic tube to crawl in.

k_sra and unnamed gentleman light up a couple fat ones for the total Bourbon Street experience. Mm, mmm, cigars Why do I seem to post pictures of me smoking cigars? Maybe I just look better with a cigar... Also, those beads you see were NOT earned the old-fashioned way. No NOT!

Southern Decadence! Gay Pride. Show your style!

Some people weren't having as much fun as others... Somebody probably just told him his knees were rumply and his feelings were hurt.

k_sra ducks into a local haberdashery. EVERYTHING goes with that handbag! Love it!

Nando enjoys a little rule breaking at a local esplanade. He's a rebel!

Quality Control

I used the royal "we" to take a standing piss.
And as I hit the railing of the porch, I yelled, "I missed."
So I went in and drank more lemonade...




Write now I'm trying to right some slam poetry for honest+popular's upcoming festivities. Those of you who have skillz in the word game need to bust a move. Young Saul Williams and all that.

My Life Rating

My life is rated PG-13.
What is your life rated?


Thank you, Andy, for
the wonderful link above.
Yellow butterfly.

Improvement Movement

Sorry for not posting. I'm busy improving my life in other areas just at the moment. I just ordered a work desk for home (been working in the armchair too long) and I am gonna run pick up a ledger right quick. (That checkbook register is too damn small for my budget!) And a couple of self-help books from the library. Ah! It's a regular revolution up in here.

It's a R-r-r-ace!

Brain Food

Slim jims and peppermint pattie wrappers.
Eaten while contemplating my SRD.
Well, not the wrappers, just what was in 'em.

SRD - Site Raison D'être

SRD - Site Raison D'être.

(translated accurately from the French, it means: The reason for why your site is.) It is (and I quote) "an acronym to use when describing a website’s primary function or purpose."

(The acronym, SRD, was originally coined by web analytic converter, mymo. He asked that I give him credit. And so I have.)

But it made me wonder: just what is my SRD for this blog? Is it merely to "screw around on the internet with friends" as I glibbly wrote in the comments section? Or is it something deeper? Is it merely to entertain others with fluffy, light-topical information? Or is there a greater meaning to my work. After giving it some serious thought (while eating two slim jims and a peppermint pattie - the peppermint pattie is crucial after two slim jims, believe me) I realized something about this Site's RD. Something that I will now share with you.

The SRD for YLSN(a)ED is Making Me Popular. Or MMP.

Really and truly, the primary function of this website is to MMP (or at least MM think I'm P). And so far, it's working. Obviously, someday I'll have to get a real job and my blogging will slack off and I will lose all the Faithful Readers Required (FRR) by my SRD to actually continue MMP. But until then, I will continue LSN(a)ED just to keep the FRR to fulfill my SRD of MMP. And as my FR, you are R to R this blog and help in it's SRD by adding WC (Witty Comments) at every opportunity.

So, FR, now that I have explained the SRD of YLSN(a)ED, perhaps you can tell me (using WC) what is your SRD? What is the one thing that is crucial to the existence of your blog?

You're the best!

All About the Jeffersons

Lookie what I found! A genuine Jefferson Two dollar bill! I'm so excited. I can't wait to frame it... or spend it.

And How Are You?

Worn out faded hazy dazed tired confused...

Last Notes on American Idol...

As a post script (and in answer to my own question of "who are those well-groomed people being led in to sit in their own special section"), my sister honest+popular informs me that she saw a couple of their faces in the local Idol competition. So apparently, the time to audition for American Idol is before the auditions. Go figure.

Thought you might like to know... : )

Trying To Trick Blogger Into Letting Me Post While Singing Wind Beneath My Wings On My Lunch Break

Hurricane Frances in Ohio

Why oh why do they name hurricanes after people? Here is the current list of names in hurricane rotation. Looks like our next tropical storm will be called "Gaston." Good to know.

This morning I brought an umbrella to work. Wish I'd brought a jacket. This is not a summer rain. It is cold, windy, first-day-of-school-when-you-were-a-kid rain. You know the ones where you are more tired than you have ever been, it's dark outside and the faint smell of freshly sharpened pencils reminds you that you have all new school supplies and your new clothes are kinda itchy. Do you remember that? Come on, you know you remember that!

Anyways, I got plastered with rain the instant I set foot outside. At the bus stop I waited twenty minutes for a bus. Marty was there, the good-looking jock kid who won't talk to me unless I say something first. Sometimes I just let him feel uncomfortable in the silence. I wonder why he never starts a conversation. I bet somebody told him once he was only good for looking at so he decided to keep his mouth shut. He's not clever. But he is cute. So maybe they were right. At any rate. Marty and I chatted (I brought him up to speed on the whole jam incident) until the bus came.

And here I am, at work, with my heater on and my fingers cold trying to act like I'm working when I'm actually blogging. Blogging about weather. And new pencils. And Marty.

Not much to talk about. Maybe you all have things you want to say. On your blogs maybe or even here on mine. Go ahead and say it. I'm listening.

Open Season on Gmail

My gmail account has decided it is time again for me to share the wealth and invite more friends into the google fold.

Invites to anyone who asks.

Thanks,
The Management

Acid Face

Today is a slow one. A slow day. Hurtful slow. And sluggish.

I feel like acid. (not the drug, just the ph) Hard, acerbic, destructive. I saw my face a couple of times today... I look like a witch. Mean mean mean. I try softening my features, you know, relaxing my face, smiling every now and again, but it's not working. A nice young man recoiled from me as he got on the elevator this morning. I felt bad. He offered me an Altoid. I refused in the kindest way possible. I wished him a good day and went on my acerbic way. It's my bitchy-white-woman look and I can't get it off. I'm scared. Of myself. It has more to do with returning to a job I have taken a hating to than anything else I think. I hope. I tend to wear my feelings on my face. It's just the way I am. Despite my theater degree. I mean, I could fake it. But I don't.

I'm back in the loving embrace of Cleveland... feels more like a death grip today... and trying to sort out all my bloggings. Attendance numbers have severely fallen off in the last week. Posts have been far flung and sporadic (but you gotta admit it was quality blogging). Well, it's time I got dependable again. Just as soon as I stop feeling so glum.

It's spitting rain here.

Graceland Chronicles (start at the bottom)

Part Four

Part Three

Part Two

Part One

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!