DAYDREAM BELIEVERS uncut
*
For all you diehard fans of my column out there (...Bueller?), here is the "columnist's cut" of my piece this month in its entirety. (American Idol provided with such a goldmine, it went long...and even this doesn't have everything.) Also I know many of you are too lazy to click on links...you know who you are.
Daydream Believers:
How Ten Thousand Pop Star Wannabes Finally Faced Reality
It’s dawn. I haven’t slept in two days. Still, I’ve managed to look my best in designer jeans and a button-down, hair mussed just so, sipping a trendy energy drink and sporting sunglasses even before the sun has fully risen. On any other day, it’d be safe to assume that I’m on drugs-but I’m not.
I’m on American Idol.
That is, I’m amidst a platoon of peppy hopefuls sloooowly filing in to audition, 10,000 minds with a single objective: Be. On. TV. As local newsmen goad the fame-whoriest of the bunch to flaunt what they got, one girl warns, “It’s bad luck to be on camera before the auditions!” I merely shrug-for unlike the rest of this battalion, I’m well aware that I’m no Fantasia Barrino, and I have a low threshold for public humiliation (I’m no Clay Aiken, either). Rather, I’m here to support my friend Becky-because I’m a devoted friend, yes, and also because I’m the only person she knows without a “grown-up job.” I, unlike the gainfully employed, have nothing better to do with my weekday than infiltrate this army of disharmony at the front lines of reality and snicker as they nosedive, one by one, like so many kamikaze. (It should be noted that I don’t watch reality shows; I pretty much think they’re the Devil and Heidi Klum combined. The notion that fame, like cancer, now randomly strikes anyone, at any time, depresses me-it used to be that stardom was for an elite few, predestined at birth…like cerebral palsy.) In other words, I’m here now to make fun of it later-but seeing as I’m vastly outnumbered by a legion of shower chanteuses who really, truly think they’re America’s Next Top Idol, or whatever, I decide to keep my mouth shut. (For now.)
Three hours later, the Beast With 10,000 Voices finally worms its way in, and the MC announces that our section will audition last. I pop open another Red Bull and prepare for the long haul. Nearby, one Idolizer leads his fellow wannabes in a hymnal rendition of “I Believe I Can Fly” and I imagine this to be a lot like the Underground Railroad, except these people are flocking toward enslavement, reality-style; that, and I bet nobody showed up to the Underground Railroad dressed as a banana.
Turns out the Chiquita a cappella is just one of many portents that being behind the scenes of reality is, well, surreal. Without an audition of my own to anticipate, I’m free to wander aimlessly as fresh-faced youngsters left and right burst into song without warning. It’s like I’m trapped in some abandoned musical where every extra thinks he’s the star-a dozen poignant ballads sound from every direction, delivered with the Aguilerian urge to make every note a showstopper. There’s a shirtless boy in the bleachers belting Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” into a Lemon-Lime Gatorade microphone, and he’s not doing it to be funny. Elsewhere, in the bushes, a girl earnestly croons, “I want you to want me, I need you to need me…” and the irony is lost on her doting mom, who gives a thumbs up. I gape in disbelief-they call this reality?
As the day wears on, all pretense of glamour evaporates in the 95-degree heat. We idle Americans perspire and burn. My all-nighter catches up to me as I wait 45 minutes for a lukewarm hot dog; the Red Bull’s long gone, so I sip some Evian that’s about to boil. Then a chubby boy in a tiara strolls by warbling “Daydream Believer” and I don’t point, laugh, or muster a sarcastic quip to take the edge off Becky’s nerves. It’s a bad sign. The likeness of a sweaty, sleep-deprived Kelly Clarkson appears before me and says, “If you endure just a little longer, fame and untold riches will be yours,” but then a feisty Paula Abdul mirage reminds her that I’m only here to poke fun, and Kelly vanishes.
Then comes the insanity.
As I watch contenders vigorously practice the kooky warm-ups they learned in junior high jazz choir, I’m hit with pangs of jealousy. I wish, for a moment, I could sing…or be delusional enough to think so; there’s an anxious camaraderie fueling these aspirants, whereas I’m fading fast. At last I feel tapped into the true meaning of American Idol-sure, there’s nothing more American than the quest for cheap celebrity, but isn’t it also American to pursue even the most fanciful dream? To sustain faith and dignity when odds are a thousand to one against you? To fearlessly sign a waiver that says you can’t sue when ridiculed on national television by millions? Sure, they’re all about to get the axe, but for now they wholly, collectively believe in something…themselves. What self-loathing cynic would sit here and judge them for it? Suddenly appalled by my Cowellian ways, I head in to root for Becky as she valiantly chases the American dream.
At 5PM-twelve hours after our arrival-I wait outside where “non-winners” (way to avoid the L-word, guys) emerge into the parking lot…with no way back in. Some lament that today, of all days, is The Day They Were Off-Key; others speed-dial Mom to tell her the grim news. One guy barks that the judges didn’t let him hit his “Note”-apparently, the one note so sonorous, it has the power to send him all the way to Hollywood! But best of all are the ones who step, blank-faced, into the harsh light of day-their expressions betray just a trace of bewilderment, as if suddenly confronted with finding a new life’s purpose. Where are the cameras? I wonder. This is reality.
Becky joins me and we trudge back to her car amongst a handful of other coulda-beens-famished, exhausted, and too dispirited for words. Finally, we all have something in common…except one crucial detail.
I’m not the next American Idol, but hey-at least I never tried to be.
For all you diehard fans of my column out there (...Bueller?), here is the "columnist's cut" of my piece this month in its entirety. (American Idol provided with such a goldmine, it went long...and even this doesn't have everything.) Also I know many of you are too lazy to click on links...you know who you are.
Daydream Believers:
How Ten Thousand Pop Star Wannabes Finally Faced Reality
It’s dawn. I haven’t slept in two days. Still, I’ve managed to look my best in designer jeans and a button-down, hair mussed just so, sipping a trendy energy drink and sporting sunglasses even before the sun has fully risen. On any other day, it’d be safe to assume that I’m on drugs-but I’m not.
I’m on American Idol.
That is, I’m amidst a platoon of peppy hopefuls sloooowly filing in to audition, 10,000 minds with a single objective: Be. On. TV. As local newsmen goad the fame-whoriest of the bunch to flaunt what they got, one girl warns, “It’s bad luck to be on camera before the auditions!” I merely shrug-for unlike the rest of this battalion, I’m well aware that I’m no Fantasia Barrino, and I have a low threshold for public humiliation (I’m no Clay Aiken, either). Rather, I’m here to support my friend Becky-because I’m a devoted friend, yes, and also because I’m the only person she knows without a “grown-up job.” I, unlike the gainfully employed, have nothing better to do with my weekday than infiltrate this army of disharmony at the front lines of reality and snicker as they nosedive, one by one, like so many kamikaze. (It should be noted that I don’t watch reality shows; I pretty much think they’re the Devil and Heidi Klum combined. The notion that fame, like cancer, now randomly strikes anyone, at any time, depresses me-it used to be that stardom was for an elite few, predestined at birth…like cerebral palsy.) In other words, I’m here now to make fun of it later-but seeing as I’m vastly outnumbered by a legion of shower chanteuses who really, truly think they’re America’s Next Top Idol, or whatever, I decide to keep my mouth shut. (For now.)
Three hours later, the Beast With 10,000 Voices finally worms its way in, and the MC announces that our section will audition last. I pop open another Red Bull and prepare for the long haul. Nearby, one Idolizer leads his fellow wannabes in a hymnal rendition of “I Believe I Can Fly” and I imagine this to be a lot like the Underground Railroad, except these people are flocking toward enslavement, reality-style; that, and I bet nobody showed up to the Underground Railroad dressed as a banana.
Turns out the Chiquita a cappella is just one of many portents that being behind the scenes of reality is, well, surreal. Without an audition of my own to anticipate, I’m free to wander aimlessly as fresh-faced youngsters left and right burst into song without warning. It’s like I’m trapped in some abandoned musical where every extra thinks he’s the star-a dozen poignant ballads sound from every direction, delivered with the Aguilerian urge to make every note a showstopper. There’s a shirtless boy in the bleachers belting Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” into a Lemon-Lime Gatorade microphone, and he’s not doing it to be funny. Elsewhere, in the bushes, a girl earnestly croons, “I want you to want me, I need you to need me…” and the irony is lost on her doting mom, who gives a thumbs up. I gape in disbelief-they call this reality?
As the day wears on, all pretense of glamour evaporates in the 95-degree heat. We idle Americans perspire and burn. My all-nighter catches up to me as I wait 45 minutes for a lukewarm hot dog; the Red Bull’s long gone, so I sip some Evian that’s about to boil. Then a chubby boy in a tiara strolls by warbling “Daydream Believer” and I don’t point, laugh, or muster a sarcastic quip to take the edge off Becky’s nerves. It’s a bad sign. The likeness of a sweaty, sleep-deprived Kelly Clarkson appears before me and says, “If you endure just a little longer, fame and untold riches will be yours,” but then a feisty Paula Abdul mirage reminds her that I’m only here to poke fun, and Kelly vanishes.
Then comes the insanity.
As I watch contenders vigorously practice the kooky warm-ups they learned in junior high jazz choir, I’m hit with pangs of jealousy. I wish, for a moment, I could sing…or be delusional enough to think so; there’s an anxious camaraderie fueling these aspirants, whereas I’m fading fast. At last I feel tapped into the true meaning of American Idol-sure, there’s nothing more American than the quest for cheap celebrity, but isn’t it also American to pursue even the most fanciful dream? To sustain faith and dignity when odds are a thousand to one against you? To fearlessly sign a waiver that says you can’t sue when ridiculed on national television by millions? Sure, they’re all about to get the axe, but for now they wholly, collectively believe in something…themselves. What self-loathing cynic would sit here and judge them for it? Suddenly appalled by my Cowellian ways, I head in to root for Becky as she valiantly chases the American dream.
At 5PM-twelve hours after our arrival-I wait outside where “non-winners” (way to avoid the L-word, guys) emerge into the parking lot…with no way back in. Some lament that today, of all days, is The Day They Were Off-Key; others speed-dial Mom to tell her the grim news. One guy barks that the judges didn’t let him hit his “Note”-apparently, the one note so sonorous, it has the power to send him all the way to Hollywood! But best of all are the ones who step, blank-faced, into the harsh light of day-their expressions betray just a trace of bewilderment, as if suddenly confronted with finding a new life’s purpose. Where are the cameras? I wonder. This is reality.
Becky joins me and we trudge back to her car amongst a handful of other coulda-beens-famished, exhausted, and too dispirited for words. Finally, we all have something in common…except one crucial detail.
I’m not the next American Idol, but hey-at least I never tried to be.