A weary singer chases 'Idol' dreams of stardom

FOXBOROUGH -- I lay on the couch last May watching the season finale of my favorite show, ''American Idol." The pop star wannabees and their weekly performances have been a staple of my Thursday nights since the show debuted four seasons ago.

After Carrie Underwood became the fourth idol, I felt myself drifting off to sleep as host Ryan Seacrest announced the cities the show would be visiting for next season's auditions. ''We're coming to San Francisco, Denver, Boston . . ." I sat up with a start. Boston! My favorite show was holding auditions in my beloved Beantown?

I immediately called my mother, as much of an ''Idol" fanatic as me. ''Mom, I am so there."

When the ''Idol" website posted the Boston date, I decided to make the trek to the audition site -- Gillette Stadium in Foxborough -- and camp out overnight in the hopes of getting one of the coveted pink wristbands required for an audition.

After encountering a few bumps along the proverbial road to stardom -- including still not having a ride to Gillette at 5 p.m. -- I eventually arrived at the gates of the glowing stadium around 9 p.m. Tuesday.

We had heard a rumor that the producers had stopped giving out wristbands earlier -- and no wristband meant no audition. In a panic I sprinted up what felt like 27 flights of stairs. Wheezing, I stumbled up to an official ''Idol" production table and laid my eyes on a giant stack of pink wristbands.

Bingo.

I got a wristband and headed into Gillette to set up camp underneath the stands. The hallways of the stadium formed a sort of concrete campground. Sleeping bags and air mattresses flooded the alleyways. I spread out my meager comforter and pillow between a women's bathroom and a trash barrel, took out my jug of water and bag of barbecue-flavored chips, and settled in for what I expected to be a long night.

Two Texas Hold 'Em games, half a bag of chips, and numerous ''I'm at Gillette!" phone calls later, a little fatigue began to set in, and I figured I would try to catch some shut-eye before the 4:30 a.m. wake-up call.

Much to my dismay, many of the other campers did not share my sentiment. They clapped, sang, chanted, and had all but a jam session straight through to the early hours of the morning. Inevitably it seemed as soon as I closed my eyes the megaphones started blaring and we were being told to bring our gear back to our cars and prepare to audition.

A frantic rush for the bathroom mirrors ensued as sleep-deprived singers, including myself, tried to compensate for frizzy hair and baggy eyes with lots of hairspray and makeup. I've never seen more men primp in my life.

A mad rush ensued for Gillette's concession stands, which opened at 5:30 a.m. to cater to arriving participants as well as hungry ones who had longingly stared at the dark stand all night. I devoured pizza and a pretzel, hardly noticing it was 6 a.m.

As people filed into the stadium, excitement and tension filled the air. If you closed your eyes, it was almost like being at a Pats game, with more harmonizing. Everyone was up and out of their seats, cheering for the television cameras swooping up and down the rows.

It was then that Mother Nature finally rained on our parade. The skies opened, and hundreds of colorful umbrellas, some striped, some polka-dotted, popped up -- apparently sparking a producer's pain-in-the-neck idea. For the next hour the crowd attempted to collectively sing ''Singin' in the Rain" on cue while swaying and twirling umbrellas.

''All for the price of fame," coaxed Ron the production manager, who was desperately trying to get a soaked, tired crowd to play along with his idea. ''Boston is wicked cool!" This was followed by a collective groan at yet another ''wicked" joke by an out-of-stater.

Section by section, row by row, people were called down to the field to line up and head over to the 15 white audition tents on the opposite sideline. As I sat in section 133, row 23, seat 17, I still wasn't sure what I was going to sing. Once again, I came back to my partner in ''Idol" fanaticism -- my mom, who had previously suggested ''Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee. It was my tribute to the woman who attended every chorus concert and musical theater production since the years when I was singing ''This Land Is Your Land."

As our section was called, I watched the steady stream of people filing out of the stadium -- all of their dreams of fame and fortune and Simon Cowell crushed. I looked at the people around me in the stands who had joked, complained, and sung with me to pass the time and wished them luck.

And then I got nervous. Really, really, knots-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach nervous.

I approached the judges' table with confidence. I sang with all the might my heart could muster. I looked each judge right in the eye.

And then they politely but wearily told me my voice was not ''up to par."

Sigh.

As they snipped my beloved bright pink wristband and ushered me out of the stadium, I felt a little dejected. All that work for 15 seconds and a quick dismissal?

That is, until a fellow ''Idol" outcast took one look at the large bags under my eyes and said, ''Hey, at least you can go to bed now."

Music to my ears.