August 22, 2007

i'm so not going to hollywood, dawg

Last night I dreamt I auditioned for American Idol.

I don't know. Just bear with me.

So there I was sitting in a big ass holding room along with all the other hopefuls at some hotel. I can't say for sure but it might have been the La Quinta in Secaucus, New Jersey. But don't quote me on that.

Then, suddenly, I was whisked into a smaller room where I was told by a production person that I was going on in a few minutes.

There were about four people ahead of me waiting to perform, Kenny Rogers and Paula Abdul among them. Like, Paula actually had to audition to be a judge and stuff. FYI, she and Kenny both got cut and Kenny looked positively devastated. I don't remember what happened to Paula. I was too transfixed by Kenny's sad face.

As I sat waiting for my turn, I tried to figure out what song I would sing... 'cause I'm well-prepared like that. I considered singing "Happy Birthday" because, apparently, my subconscious thought that timeless tune would really wow the judges. I suppose I would have had a big finish with an elongated and dramatic "to yoooooooooooooooooooouUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" at the end.

Other options I considered: "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" and that song that goes "Down down baby, down by the roller coaster."

Because I'm five.

Anyhoo, I was led into the room and there sat Randy and Simon Cowell... right next to the hotel reception desk. I voiced my concern about having to sing over the din of people checking in and out but I was ignored. And then I asked where I should stand because there was no "X" on the floor marking the spot. Simon got all sorts of bitchy with me and threatened to throw me out and then he made me stand in an area where there were a ton of hanging plants which were swinging back and forth in a most precarious fashion. Naturally, I totally whacked my head on a terra cotta planter. That shit hurt. He was a real dick about things, that Simon.

And then it was time to get down to business. Randy asked if I was ready and I responded in the affirmative and let fly with a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I don't remember making that decision to change up the song but in retrospect, that was quite the daring impromptu move. Go me.

Granted, I mangled the words at times but neither Randy nor Simon cut me off so I really started getting into it. I actually believed that I was quite possibly going to Hollywood.

I finished up my number and waited to hear my fate. I don't remember what Randy said because, well, he's Randy and I never pay attention to him. But I'm sure he used the terms "pitchy" and "dawg." Just a hunch.

And then Simon said, "I quite liked your lower register but no. Sorry." And then he put his arm around me and walked me to the door. That was nice of Simon, I guess.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. However, my voice today is a bit hoarse and ragged which leads me to believe that I actually sang a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in my sleep.

Thank God I don't have a roommate.

August 06, 2007


A knock on the door at around 7:30 this morning startled me from my semi-conscious state. My alarm had gone off about 30 minutes prior but I was enjoying that half-hour lazy grace period I always allow myself.

I didn't quite register the knock on the door at first because, at the time, I was entrenched in a very vivid dream. I can't for the life of me tell you what happened in that dream now because it's long forgotten. And for that, I'm certain you're all grateful because, really, is there anything more boring than hearing about someone else's dreams? I think not.

But as I was saying, the first knock on the door fell victim to the disorientation that ensues when I'm unceremoniously rousted from my slumber.

I lay in bed all confused, my eyes darting from side to side trying to figure out if I actually heard a knock or just dreamt it.

And then came a second knock on the door. It wasn't the same violent pounding and aggressive bell ringing I experienced during a carbon monoxide false alarm a few months prior so I ruled out the New York Fire Department.

After the third knock, I got up to inspect. My plan was to look through the peep hole and assess the threat level of the person on the other side. If the person looked like a potential murderer, I was going to pretend I wasn't home. Even if the person didn't look like a potential murderer, I was still going to pretend I wasn't home because I certainly didn't want to deal with whatever bullshit this person deemed important enough to address at 7:30am. Fuck that noise.

Anyhoo, I tiptoed gingerly across my apartment taking great pains to not step on any squeaky floor boards. I quietly lifted the latch on the peep hole and cautiously peered through.

On the other end was a young guy in a t-shirt and from what I could tell, shorts. He didn't look like a potential murderer but I was still uncertain as to whether I should alert of him of my presence.

As I was pondering my options, he yelled, "Tricia, let me in!"

And for reasons I still don't understand, I responded as such: "Um... I think you have... the wrong apartment?"

You know, if there was ever a scenario where it would be completely acceptable to respond, "You're in the wrong building, dumbass!" this would be it. However, for reasons I can't explain, I haltingly responded in the form of the question as if there was a possibility that maybe, just maybe, this Tricia lived in some hidden alcove or wing of my tiny wee studio previously unknown to me.

Fortunately, he didn't pick up on my uncertainty because he was too busy hauling his embarrassed ass out the front door.

Now if you'll excuse, I'm off to find this Tricia.