Agony, ecstasy, and idolatry (part one)

I won't tell you immediately how far I made it in Houston at the American Idol auditions or if I'll be going to Hollywood. Regardless of the outcome of what happened just hours ago, I have lived through an ordeal so chaotic, frustrating, fantastic, character-building and, ultimately, bittersweat that to overlook the steps along the way would completely betray the ending. Borrowing from brilliance, I shall use a convenient episodic format to convey what I've survived. You'll probably need to read it in bits at a time. It's quite verbose. Now, picture it...Saturday, August 9, 2003...

Oklahoma Idol

I don't know why I told my manager I would work Saturday night. I planned on leaving for Houston at 8 a.m. on Sunday and I suppose I imagined that I would be completely packed. Instead, I woke up Saturday morning in a fit of panic. I had to work at 3, and I was nowhere near ready. Appropriately, I had also decided to try out on the local level at Quail Springs. Amidst a glittering sea of white trash and gospel choirs, I frantically registered and called everyone on my schedule to pick up my patio shift. After bribing a co-worker, my shift was covered and I was free to watch the amateurs. In a group of only 250 auditioners, I arrived in time to audition as #147. With the support of my parents and my high school chorus teacher, I decided to sing "We Shall Be Free" because it felt right at the time.

Now, before I continue, let me explain the local audition process. For starters, neither Fox nor American Idol endorse these auditions, although they do guarantee the winner an audition in front of Randy, Paula and Simon. I would soon learn how much anguish and torture that would save. That said, I came to the conclusion that even if I didn't win, my competition wasn't up to my standards. I left after my audition, never expecting to win...

...which was smart, because I didn't. The same girl who won last season's local audition won Saturday, as well. The overzealous little pudge sang some smarmy gospel song and had more off-notes than Carmen Rasmusen has whiteheads. However, I remained optimistic because a majority of the singers were mediocre. I spent the rest of the night packing, practicing and preparing myself mentally. I was in for a long week.

Only green lights and all rights

I would have picked up Tricia at 9 a.m. as planned, but I had to select the perfect CDs for our road trip to riches. Coldplay, Pink Floyd, America, U2, Forrest Gump and some shameless pop mixes (Janet Jackson, Paula Abdul, etc) made up our musical menu. After picking up Tricia and some bagels (more than a dozen, to be exact), we left for Houston. The road trip was uneventful and went smoothly. Too smoothly. I felt that God wasn't going to let me excel through the auditions without some adversity.

We arrived in Houston around 4 on Sunday afternoon. We drove straight to Minute Maid Park, the parking lot of which would be our home for the next three days (or so we thought). After getting a slight feel for the area and making sure that no cometitors had lined up yet, we drove around downtown Houston looking for an extended stay hotel. Our original plan was to stay within walking distance of the stadium so my car could remain in protected parking while we camped out in the crime-ridden portion of downtown Houston. Fat chance. The cheapest rate we found was around $120/per night. I was looking for the same price per week. Tricia and I devised plan B, in which we drive away from downtown Houston, find a cheap motel and drive to the stadium each time we return from crashing at the motel. On our way out of downtown, we found a pay-per-day parking garage just a few blocks from Minute Maid (we found several, actually). Our next destination was our other home for the next few days.

Of Zellwegers and Kimberly Caldwells

Minute Maid Park is conveniently located off of Interstate 10 in Houston, so we got on 10 and drove about 15 minutes west of downtown waiting for the extended stay hotels to miraculously appear. We eventually drove out of Houston and entered Katy, which is the hometown of Renee Zellweger and last year's contestant Kimberly Caldwell. I took this as a serendipitous sign and exited right by a La Quinta with a rate of $225 per week. We checked in and found the accommodations to be much better than we expected. While we waited for my dear friend and fellow Mizzou alum Rachel to pick us up for dinner, we napped. I remained skeptical because of how easily everything seemed to be falling into place. Ah, how bitter is the eruption of contentment.

Yay, Cafe Adobe!

Just as I had fallen asleep, Rachel arrived and we left for Cafe Adobe, an exceptional Mexican restaurant within two miles of our hotel. Over a breath-takingly strong margarita, I caught up with Rachel. We laughed about Mizzou, American Idol, and our respective jobs. After dinner, she showed us around uptown Houston. We caught glimpses of the huge mansions and shopping districts that were distinctly different from the area around Minute Maid Park. Although I felt a minor cold coming on, I ended the night in high spirits and good health. I even managed to sleep that night despite my nerves. I had two dreams over the course of my slumber. One revealed my inexplicable involvement in the autoerotic asphyxiation murder of a fat kid. The other had Rachel taking us back to Cafe Adobe and chanting, "Yay, Cafe Adobe!", a saying that Tricia and I would find amusing over the course of the week. The next morning, we planned to arrive at the line-to-form-a-line at 10 a.m. I was sure that would be early enough and that a pre-line wouldn't even have formed by then. Hahahahahahaha...

Won't you be my neighbor?

Between midnight and 10 a.m., while Tricia and I slept soundly, 1,000 people formed an official pre-line. Granted, only an approximate 400 of those 1,000 were auditioners, but the number seemed daunting once we arrived at Minute Maid Park the next morning. Fully stocked with a huge "Heritage Hall" umbrella, fold-out chairs, and two coolers, we arrived in line right after Deborah and Angie. Angie was (and still probably is) a beautiful 17-year-old from Wisconsin with a voice like Leann Rhimes. Her mother, Deborah, would affectionately be known as "Mom" to Tricia and me in a short matter of time. Immediately after us in line were Mandy, another beautiful 17-year-old girl (from Dallas), her mom and brother. Joining them in a matter of minutes would be Patrick, a 17-year-old Houston local, and his mother. Patrick and Mandy both tried out last season in Austin. Last time, Mandy was cut (undeservingly) after the first round, and Patrick made it to round two but was cut because the producer said he "looked too young." I admired their gumption for trying out a second time. Just as we were all getting to know one another, the bluest skies in Texas turned into a nasty thunderstorm. The inept workers of the Minute Maid Park, who had absolutely no clue how important the line was to the thousands of people it comprised, told us to run to Interstate 10 and seek shelter underneath it. However, the one AI producer who had been flown in early pleaded with Park officials to allow us to perform an emergency evacuation in a single-file line of 6,000. And although each of the 6,000 of us were in danger, we were grateful.

Apocalypse now

Deborah's (Deb's) motherly streak reared its ugly head when a certain white trash starlet and her two greasy companions attempted to cut in line while we were moving from the park to Interstate 10. I believe I was the first to speak up when I said, "The line starts about five thousand people back." The girl replied, "I was in line right behind you, but you're walking too slow." Without missing a beat, I replied, "You think that might be because 1,000 people in front of me are walking too slow?" As she advanced a few steps ahead of me to cut Deb and Angie, I alerted them. Now Deb, who is a polite, kindhearted mother of three, and an elementary school teacher to boot, had her limits. People smoking annoyed her, as did people singing late at night. To cut her, however, was to wage a war with a mother's fury. "I don't fucking think so," she muttered. As soon as the girl advanced, Deb screamed, "Don't you dare cut me, bitch." This only instigated a brief but bitchy exchange, which ended with Deb telling a police officer that the girl was cutting. She could have told the police officer that Julia DeMato was offering her body as a sacrifice and he wouldn't have cared. He apparently did not watch the show, nor did he behold the sacred respect of my 6,000 companions. However, once Deb located the producer, he cared, and the bitch was abruptly sent back to the Appalachians. And so, for several hours, we sat underneath Interstate 10. The contestants (and their respective entourages) formed four long lines approximately one mile long each underneath the sanctuary of the highway. With so much time on our hands and nowhere to go, we strengthened our familial bonds. With Deb, Mandy's mom, and Patrick's mom, Tricia and I had a sense of security and belonging. We knew we could both leave the line at the same time and have absolutely nothing go wrong.

You can't escape my love

You might remember Edgar Nova. He was a staple of last season's audition process as he journeyed from Miami to Los Angeles for not one, but two bad auditions featuring Enrique Iglesias' music. This year, he decided that Houston would be his stomping ground. Patrick, as die-hard a fan as there ever will be, had his picture taken with Edgar, who told everyone that the producers had paid him to return for the third season. I didn't believe this until I witnessed an encounter between Edgar and the executive producer on the day of round one auditions, but we'll get to that later. Meanwhile, back in our part of the line, everything was calm. It wasn't raining, just cloudy, which meant the temperature was quite pleasant. Tricia and I had decided to leave most of our stuff at the hotel room and in the car, figuring we had all of Monday and Tuesday to make trips back and forth. However, at about 6:45, the lone producer decided that everyone would be forced inside the Minute Maid Park for safety reasons. We were only allowed one bag and sleeping bag per person. Those were, of course, the items that Tricia and I had decided to leave back at La Quinta. Other items, such as chairs and big coolers, would not be allowed inside. Of course we had those in ample supply. Oh, and I forgot to mention the decision would be effective at 7:30. Anyone late would have to start over at the end of the line. Tricia and I decided we could not live without our allowed luxuries, so we made a mad dash for the hotel. Just as soon as we stepped into the open horizon, it started to rain torrentially.

With this wristband I thee torture

By the skin of our teeth, Tricia and I made it to our hotel and back with our stuff just in time to rejoin our "family," which now also included Ben. He was a talented pre-med student from small town Texas who decided to put off his first year of medical school so he could audition. Once Tricia and I returned to the belly of the Interstate, the rain stopped. The producer, whose "primary concern" was our safety, still insisted we all move into the stadium for the remainder of the pre-audition process. None of us minded in light of the intense heat that would await us if we stayed outside. However, before we were allowed into the park, we received our coveted wristbands, which guaranteed us an audition. Once inside, we filed into seats according to our order in line. Several hours later, the producers arrived. They would take turns "babysitting" us and treating us like the dung of a elderly camel. Beth, perhaps the only nice producer on the AI staff, announced a strictly enforced "lock down." In other words, no one would be allowed to leave the stadium until the auditions were complete. This was at Monday around 10 in the evening. Auditions did not start until Wednesday morning at 8. Anyone attempting to leave would not be allowed back in, nor would he/she be allowed to audition. My plans to enjoy two nights of pleasant sleep at the La Quinta were crushed. Instead, we'd all be sleeping on the disgusting floor of a baseball stadium. Instead of going to sleep at 11 as Beth had suggested, I stayed up chatting with my fellow contestants. We discussed everything from Ruben's T-shirt controversy to the enigmatic season two advancements of Julia DeMato and Carmen Rasmusen. Around midnight, as the necessity of sleep outweighed our fear of the floors, hundreds of hopefuls began warming up their voices. And by warming up, I mean belting out wordless noises in the highest octaves possible. It sounded like a hundred slutty girls were attending their first gang bang. Still, Tricia and I persevered and tried to sleep. That's when executive producer Simon Fuller, a man for whom I would later audition, made an announcement that changed everything.