by Patrick Berlinquette,

Posted in on Sunday, Nov 25

My decision to go on "American Idol" was not ironic or irrelevant. I'm in my
twenties and, for real, I'm a different person every week of my life. Last
week, I watched "Rescue Me" and contemplated dropping out of college and
joining the FDNY. I really want to be Dennis Leary all the time. I think
Dennis is just about as crazy and out of control as I am. He will get drunk,
go into a burning apartment building and have sex with a half-naked
supermodel. He will save no one from the fiery abyss. Before the building
collapses, he'll say something clever, grab his fire axe and slip into the
shadows and smoke. But this is neither here nor there. This is not about
Dennis Leary or sex or even "American Idol". This is about passion.
Singing has always been the most consistent passion in my life.
As a boy, I was mastering scales and falsetto while you were sipping
Squeeze-its and playing freeze tag or whatever. When I was seven I was at an
upscale restaurant in New York with my family. I snuck away from the table
and sang La Bamba on-stage with old Italian men for over ten minutes.
The first record that I bought was the underrated and
transcendent Weird Al Yankovich¹s The Food Album. After being able to
nail every song on the album, including the White Stuff and I Love Rocky
Road, I got bored and purchased both Nirvana¹s Nevermind and
Metallica¹s the Black Album>. I immediately began punching holes in
my walls and walking with my head down.
So it was only natural that I would try out for "American Idol",
y'know? The decision came on Karaoke night in a dark bar in the bowels of
suburban Long Island. After an exhausting session of REO Speedwagon's Take
it on the Road, I was approached by a very drunk man. A couple of mozzarella
sticks and lies later, he became the ten-thousandth person to tell me I had
an amazing voice. I reminded him of the young Robert Plant and he
immediately became emotional. He claimed I could be the next "American Idol"
which in contemporary culture is definitely the ultimate compliment. He
signed me up for McLean's's "American Pie" which I found both ironic and
annoying. I thanked the man, refused his offer to meet him alone in the
alleyway at midnight, and swerved home.
I mused on this as I sat in line for the "American Idol"
auditions at the Wachovia Center in central Philadelphia. If you didn't know
this yet, the "American Idol" experience is fucking nothing like what you
see on the tube. It's actually fucking insane. Line-up begins at 5 AM. You
are not allowed an audition if you have removed your "American Idol"
wristband you were given two days earlier at registration. Out in the dark
lot, I was surrounded by crazed freaks with blankets and bottled water and
lawn chairs. People were already practicing their songs, sipping green tea
and talking about themselves in the third person. I was only equipped with
my iPod. I was not fucking around so I would converse little and laugh at
everyone's jokes less.
For the next fourteen hours I would listen to my audition song,
Lynyrd Skynyrd¹s "Devil in the Bottle" and sing to no one in particular.
After two hours in the lot we were all led into the arena where we were free
to be savage animals.
I met a twenty-eight year old stewardess from Binghamton. I
immediately fell in love with her and we joked about having sex in the VIP
booths above the arena and missing our auditions. One of us was serious
about this. I was involved in many faux-auditions around the arena where
other hopefuls gathered in circles and practiced their respective songs to
each other. I was told I was hot, amazing, cliché, the best, nervous,
unlikely, wasting my time, a gully-ass white boy, the next Morrison, gonna
make it, too raspy, too real, and different. I was told not to drink
caffeine, to drink caffeine, to not talk, to drink water, to loosen up, to
rest, to gargle salt water, to change my shirt, to smile, to keep lookin'
bad ass and to keep on truckin'. The gossip is you have to make five rounds
before you meet Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul and the black guy.
I ate four pretzels and drank four energy drinks and peed forty
six times. If you wanna know, the Philly audition brought in 25,000 people.
That's twice as many hopefuls who've ever auditioned for Idol in one city
EVER. Half of these people could not sing, a quarter of these people were
dressed in absurd costumes and an eighth of these people made me fucking
nervous when they walked the arena hallways flawlessly nailing Whitney
Houston, Frank Sinatra and / or Nickelback.
In the men's bathroom, guys would croon in front of mirrors,
vomit into toilets, sniff coke, or pluck eyebrows.
After buying the stewardess a seven dollar orange soda and
calling her beautiful, she fully trusted me and she proceeded to sing her
song to me. It was some obscure blues number and I thought it was merely
okay. She had nice breasts.
If you really wanna know, the audition process is ridiculous. In
the center of the arena are a dozen makeshift booths. Inside the booths are
two seated judges. You are called by rows, clockwise from the front row to
the nosebleeds to come down and line up between narrow makeshift gates. The
gossip is that the judges are cold and ruthless and there is one black judge
who hates white people. Once on the arena floor, you have around two minutes
to get into rows of four.
As the night came, people grew more intense. Frenzy was in the
air. All around me were people facing walls with a hand over the ear,
singing as loud as possible. There were fights, tears, puke, and Red Bull
cans. There were sing-alongs, camera crews, and people sprawled on the
floor, sleeping right through their auditions. The stewardess and I decided
to enter a circle of black people who were singing and clapping and
competing for the crowd's attention. The scene quickly grew ugly. There was
shoving, cursing and black women screaming "Oh hell no." I immediately
started singing Lynyrd Skynyrd.
The stewardess and I hugged, and her large bosom pressed against
my nervous heart. We were about to audition. I believed I had thoroughly
mastered Skynyrd ode to alcohol and I guess I was right. I made it on to the
2nd round.
The process started again with waiting and puking and crying and
lining up in rows. I could not stop believing I was in Auschwitz about to be
ushered in to see the Angel of Death. I had not slept in 36 hours, I was
gaunt and hallucinating. I began to question what a Lynyrd Skynyrd was and
the mechanism of my iPod began to fascinate me. I began to forget the lyrics
and shiver uncontrollably.
My next judge was the black man and, in retrospect, I believe he
hated me, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and devils in bottles. I was banished from the
arena and my wristband was cut. The vibe outside the loser's lounge (called
the non-winners suite in the Idol circles) was decadent and evil. People
were rioting, smashing iPods, doing graffiti and crying into cell phones.
I was crushed, poor, tired, hungry, horny and seeing Simon¹s
face coming out of building facades like it was
nineteen-eighty-fucking-four.
To be honest, I am proud of myself for attempting "American
Idol". It was a great experience. Fuck the man, I say. I know I'm gonna blow
up on my own. I'm gonna become a rockstar sooner or later. It's the only
thing that makes sense. One day, I'll be flying across the globe, going on
tour, and that stewardess will wink at me and I¹ll wink back and I'll call
her over and whisper in her ear that I¹m planning to buy my own damn VIP
booth high above some mysterious arena, where she can audition for me all
night long.

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