Reporter’s notebook

When my editor called to ask if I wanted to write a story about the “American Idol” auditions in town, I thought, “I am so trying out.”
When KDUK called to tell me I actually could try out, I thought, “I am so running away.”
I am no American Idol. I didn’t even watch the show, which, for the record, America ripped off from Britain’s “Pop Idol.” The gist, as I understand it, is crooning hopefuls compete for a record contract and the subsequent hordes of adoring 12-year-olds. Apparently, Paula Abdul had something to do with it. Was she a contestant? Ooooo. Burn.
To earn the privilege of performing, I had to submit a “talent resume” and a head-shot (which I hastily had a newsroom photographer take), and sign a contract which basically signed away all my rights and possibly my firstborn.
Notice that none of this includes actually hearing me sing before selecting me from the more than 75 applications received. Since I spent the better part of a minute writing my resume, my assumption was that I have some look that appeals to them. Certainly not “The Look,” but a look nonetheless. But, as I was one of four guys among the 25 contestants Wednesday night, I was likely selected because I have a penis.
Back in “The Day” (aka high school), I fancied myself a performer and took part in the school plays and musicals. I even fronted a band freshman year. But I haven’t sang publicly in more than three years, and these people wanted me to sing a cappella, which is Italian for “asking to be embarrassed.”

The other catch is contestants only get 30 seconds to sing. Why don’t they just shove bamboo spikes under my fingernails? Thirty seconds isn’t enough to accomplish anything. As the Emerald photographer — my so-called moral support — put it to me before I sang: “You’ve only got one shot, man. This isn’t like three strikes. You’d better not screw up.”
Thanks a lot.
When did I start taking this seriously? I was doing this for a laugh and a good story, but my pride kicked in somewhere along the line, and now I was envisioning myself drinking cosmopolitans in a hotel room with
Avril Lavigne.
Maybe that’s what got me to the Wild Duck Music Hall on Wednesday night for the auditions. It certainly wasn’t courage, because I was shaking more than a Chihuahua in Alaska. The contestants were called on stage in random order, so I sweated it out while the other hopefuls performed. “Wow. They’re all really good. How am I going to answer that question? I think I’ll leave the mic in the stand. She’s only 17?!”
My turn came up somewhere in the middle. The stage lights basically blinded me to everything but the judges, which made it easy to ignore the insane number of people staring at me.
I begin my abridged performance of “California” by Rufus Wainwright. I had timed the first verse at exactly 30 seconds. But most of the contestants were going over so I chose to sing the chorus as well. Here’s how that went:
“Ain’t it a shame that at the top… man, I so just forgot the words.”
I’m sure my face was rapidly approaching the color of my bright purple shirt. But I just smiled and said, “Well, I got in my 30 seconds, right?”

Speaking of my shirt, it elicited the first comment from one of the judges from abc Model/Talent/Sport Management: “What made you decide to wear that shirt? I mean, who wears purple shirts?”
It’s not bad enough that I forgot my words, now they’re going to make fun of my clothes. Fantastic. I stumble out some shyly defensive response and she said, “It makes a statement, and I like that.” Oooo-K.
Well, that wasn’t enough to get me into the finals. The last male performer, who thankfully sang after me, was phenomenally good, and he carried the male representation into the next round. My elimination was actually a relief because I don’t need that kind of stress to induce the ulcer my coffee intake is already working on.
Though it was just for fun, getting a remote chance at stardom was a nice thought. I guess I’ll have to settle for my picture in the paper twice a month.
There is a brief epilogue to my story: After the show, some guy came up to me, handed me a piece of paper and said I should call him if I wanted to go out for coffee. I guess that was the statement the shirt was making.
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His views do not necessarily represent those of the Emerald.