The American Idol tryouts in San Francisco were held today at Pac Bell Park. I figured I would give myself a shot at stardom. I had the perfect song in mind too. One that would knock Simon’s socks off.

Since I only work a good 10 minutes from Pac Bell Park, I decided to try and sneak in on my lunch break. I heard that you had to stand in line this weekend and get a ticket which would get you into the tryout today. I didn’t do that, but they aren’t going to deny talent right? I grabbed my trusty old banjo out of the car and I was off to fulfill my destiny as a true singer.

The hard part was getting to the actual tryout. At Pac Bell Park, there are several ways to get in. However, for this tryout, there was only one way. All the other entrances were blocked off. I thought maybe if I played out on the street in front of the entrance that they’d see me and fall in love. However, I also thought it would make me look homeless, so I went with plan B. You had to walk up about 20 stairs to get to the entrance to the field, where they were holding the tryouts. I basically followed a group of female friends who were all dressed like Beyonce with fake hair and everythying who seemed to all be ready to tryout. They had a badge that was clipped on to a rope that was tied around their neck, so I simply used my old work badge, and it worked like a charm. We all just flashed our “badges” and I was in. Except I was the only one with a banjo.

As I walked towards the field, there was another security check. This time, you had to check your name off a list. I overheard this one guy say his name was Richard Long. So I became Richard Long. Only, I forgot, they were checking ID. As I crept through the mass of people to get in line, I was able to find out that my friend was the guy checking the ID’s. Man, was I so happy to see Samrong. I hadn’t seen him since grade school, but he was a memorable fellow. He gave Marcos and I some of his mother’s cookies and we damn near threw up one time. I’d never forget Samrong and I’d never forget his cookies. Luckily, Samrong noticed me, and he let me through. And just think if I had to use the name of Dick Long? But Samrong did slip me some cookies, saying that he remembered how much I liked them in grade school. Did he just carry those paper weights around with him? I just smiled and put it in my pocket for later.

I walked toward the grass area of the field and saw Randy, Paula, and yes, Simon. Paula was looking great as usual. One of the few women I’ve seen who are more attractive after 40, than before it. Randy looked a little slimmer but he was still my dog. And Simon didn’t have a nice look on his face at all. He looked quite upset. Just wait until he got a load of me.

Finally, after sitting through what seemed like 12 renditions of Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You, it was my turn. And I was ready. As I walked on the stage, Randy noticed my banjo and didn’t know people still played the banjo. I told Randy my banjo skills weren’t great, but I didn’t want prerecorded music. I wanted it all the way live. As I sat in my chair, Paula noticed my great posture. Why she notices stuff like that, I don’t know. And finally, Simon said my hair had too much gel in it and I could shed a few pounds. What an ass that guy is. I hadn’t even started playing yet.

Now it was time. Everyone was ready. The moment I was waiting for. I started to play my banjo slowly.

The music was creaping through the speakers. I watched as Paula smiled a big smile, and Randy started to throw his fist in a circle like Arsenio used to do. Simon just looked constipated. I started to sing.

Why are there so many
Songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side
Rainbow’s are visions
They’re only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide
So we’ve been told and some chose to
Believe it
But I know they’re wrong wait and see

Suddenly, Simon cracked either a smile, or he must’ve passed gas. I’ll say it was a smile. At least I hope. Paula couldn’t dance to my song so she wasn’t all that entirely happy. And Randy just kept calling me “dawg” underneath his breath. It didn’t deter me though. I went into the chorus.

Someday we’ll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me

As I was going to go into the second verse, Simon cut me off and said it was all he needed to hear. At this time, I’m starting to think he really passed gas and it wasn’t a smile.  He stood up and started shaking his head and said, “What in the blue hell were you just singing?”

I said, “Um, it was The Rainbow Conection by Kermit the Frog from The Muppet Movie.

He said, “It was blasphemous. Pure blasphemy. How can you live with yourself by singing such a song?”

I said, “Mr. Simon, it’s a great song. Classic. And I even played the banjo.”

Simon then told one of the security guards to get me. Paula then stood up and said that I wasn’t so bad and Randy called me dawg about 30 times in a 35 word sentence, but I figured he liked my fire but not the song.

Then before the security guard grabbed me, I simply asked Simon if I could finish my song. He said no. He said I was utterly dispicable. I told him that I figure that since I had a dream just like everyone else did, I should at least be allowed to finish. Simon said no. He was the star, and what he said went.

Paula then started to say, “Let him sing, let him sing.” And all the other people there to audition started with her. “Let him sing. Let him sing.” Remember that episode of Beverly Hills 90210 where Donna Martin got drunk on prom night and they weren’t going to let her graduate? The people at the school started chanting, “Donna Martin graduates, Donna Martin graduates!” I felt like Donna Martin.

Even Randy started up, but his was slightly different. “Let him sing dude, let him sing dude.” And while it wasn’t necessarily the same as what the rest were saying, I was with him.

Simon said that since he was out voted, I could continue, but then I had to leave. I then gave him Samrong’s cookies for being so nice. So I continued.

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it’s done so far
What’s so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see

And then I went hardcore into the chorus.

Someday we’ll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me

I knew there was one verse left, but I figured I would just stop while I was ahead. After I finished, there was a round of applause that was huge. There was even a sign that said, “I’m Aiken for Dick Long” which made no sense but I applauded the creativity. And after Paula hugged me four times, Randy gave me dap and called me “dawg”, I asked Simon what he thought.

He said, “In all my years of being a record producer, I have never heard so much dribble in my life. If I were to put you on my show, we’d have to change the name to American Awful. I’m sorry, but you’re not going to LA.”

As dejected as I was, I continued the third verse without my banjo. I did it acapella.

Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
I’ve heard them calling my name
Are these the sweet sounds that called
The young sailors
I think they’re one and the same
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it
There’s something that I’m supposed to be

Someday we’ll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me

And at that, Simon kicked me out of Pac Bell Park, and said I was never to be in his presense again, and with a name like Dick Long, I should be in porn. Well, at least I tried. I gave it my all. Some day I’ll find it. The rainbow connection. The lover. The dreamer. And me.

I’m not sure if you remember one of my favorite posts, entitled, The Greatest Love Of All. Well, there has been a part two. Part two happened a couple months ago, but I keep hearing about part two so often, I figured everyone else might as well hear about it too.

It happened at the dry cleaners. Delia’s Dry Cleaners actually. My wife usually waits for a long time to take her clothes to the dry cleaner so her clothes pile up. She probably takes over 20 pieces at a time, but waits about 2 months or so to do it. Delia’s is the only dry cleaning franchise that I know. You figure that it’s probably a decent place to drop your clothes off since it’s so well known. We’ve gone there a handful of times and other than the fact that their customer service is horrible, we’ve been ok. That was until a couple months ago.

I wasn’t there to see her expression when her hundred dollar pants were missing and replaced with what she calls “cheap clothes for fat people”. I’ll admit that when she’s in a rage, every ethnicity, every stereotype, every person ever with a blemish, is uttered, usually with an F word or two afterwards. Carol’s pants were size 4 and she said the size pants she received back were size 14. And the style? Something Carol wouldn’t have bought even if the lady in the store said they were free. She said her pants compared to the pants she received back were like comparing ice cream to horse manure. I’ll have to admit. If I took some Air Jordan’s to be cleaned up and received Air Jordashe’s back, I’d be in a rage too. But I’d probably be a little more politically correct.

Nonetheless, you’d expect Delia’s famous dry cleaning center would have better policies when they make mistakes. You’d expect them to kiss your rear after spending two hundred dollars at their well known dry cleaning facility. But you’d be dumb. Their policy is at first to deny that they could have made a mistake. Then, they try to make it nearly impossible to for you to claim what happened. They want receipts of your original purchase. Wait, didn’t you check the pants before you cleaned them Delia? Shouldn’t the size 14 pants surrounded by the size 4 pants tell the story? Not to Delia. Nope, Delia decides that even when she makes a mistake, she doesn’t make a mistake. You can imagine Carol’s rage. Fire. Emotion. Passion. Pleading. Begging.

Well, Delia didn’t do anything. Carol’s love for her pants goes on like the love one has for a long lost puppy. We go to the mall and Carol will say, “There they are” and point to pants on the rear end of another woman. She’ll go to used clothing stores and simply yell out, “Pants, can you hear me?” She has a pants jones, she has a pants jones, oh baby ooo ooo ooo. Help her ladies and gentleman. If you see a lady looking at asses of many women, she’s not lesbian. Nope, she’s just a lady who lost her pants.

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