The Beatdown

In which yours truly auditions for Gimme the Mike.

Suffice it to say, I was horribly out of tune and had zero stage presence -- my hands were in my pockets the whole time. I wasn't wearing any of the "performance attire" that the application had "strongly suggested," nor did I fill up the entire sixty seconds I'd been allotted. But that was all part of my plan. I was hoping that the judges would savage me for sport, like the countless other hopefuls I'd seen skewered on Idol after they turned in similarly cringe-worthy performances. But Ulibarri wasn't there, and soccer mom, God love her, was as gentle and kind as a hospice nurse helping clean the crap off of some poor soul. "Thanks," she said stoically. "Be sure to check the website on the 14th for your name."

That was it, I thought? No sending me out crying in search of a straight razor? No "I've heard better sounds come out of a cat being squashed by a Peterbilt?" My sixth-grade choir teacher was more critical than that. For crissakes, my friends are more critical than that when I'm trying to do well. Talk about a buzzkill.

I'm not foolish enough to think I'll make the show, which begins airing Wednesday, March 9. But I'll be looking for Jason Nash.

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