BRANDON GARCIA: 'American Idol' told me to go away ... twice

They'll never suspect. No way.

In my hand is a long notepad with a pen clipped to the cover. Beneath the pen is my business card. I've positioned it so that The Monitor's bold, familiar logo can be seen from at least a few feet away.

"Chill out," I tell myself.

For all they knew, the American Idol Superstars Live tour was just another story I was getting paid to cover.

Little did they know I wasn't even on the clock.

Little did they know how my obsession with getting on American Idol stripped me of my last few shreds of dignity.

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Back in August 2006, I waited almost eight hours to audition for American Idol, but the wait didn't faze me because I'd done it the year prior and knew what I was in for.

I hadn't seen the sun since it peeked over the Alamodome shortly before 6 a..m. that day, right before they herded us inside. At 4 a.m. there were more hopeful singers lined up outside the stadium than there are people in La Feria, but by 2 p.m., the judges had decimated our ranks by about 65 percent. Not Simon or Paula or Randy - the "celebrity judges" leave the mind-numbing task of sifting through thousands upon thousands of auditioners to the pencil-pushers. These mini-judges sat two to a table in a row of 12 stations on the floor of the arena, where they would eventually hand 75 or so singers a pass to try out again the next day in the second round while showing the other 8,725 to the door. Television spares us the details of this massacre, and it's easy to forget there are a whole lot more dreamers in the world than fortune has time to smile upon.

This year's going to be different, I told myself. I went in cold to the previous year's Austin auditions, and I paid the price. My singing hadn't improved dramatically since then, but that was beside the point. This year, I had a look: 10 pounds thinner and 15 shades tanner, I knew a matching button-up and my best khakis weren't going to cut it.

I stuffed the legs of my jeans into my bullhide cowboy boots like Kleenex into a nostril and said aloud, "On TV, image is everything." Summer heat had literally made oven ranges out of the concrete in San Antonio, but only a black winter thermal could have complemented my favorite red plaid roper shirt in that "edgy" Idol way. I stared in the mirror of my room at the Best Western and drew jagged rings around my eyes with eyeliner, repeating "If Jared Leto does it, it's cool."

Frenzied with confidence, I took digital photos of myself in costume and then E-mailed them to my mom. The outfit met her adventurous standard of approval, but as it turns out, she was just being shrewd. Like blowing a buck on Lotto Texas, she hedged her bet with encouragement. Just in case the judges and the producers and the rest America were as misguided as I was, she would know be able to say she was there for me "from the beginning."

I called my look "pirate-gone-country," but in retrospect, "rodeo clown" was probably more on the mark. Mom later agreed.

Lined before the mini-judges in groups of four, we had about 30 seconds each - a verse and a chorus - to prove we were right for the show. While others in my group tried to tackle Martina McBride and Aaliyah to no avail, I stood calmly, knowing I'd brought along a secret weapon. One by one by one, my fellow singers gave it their shot, and the judges lifted their hands daintily, instructing them to stop.

Come my turn, I inhale and mimic the routine I'd practiced for weeks: an original song, one I wrote specifically to highlight both my growl and my falsetto while hiding my vocal cords' more pedestrian qualities. For thirty seconds, I vanished and watched who I wanted to be.

"Stop."

I stand back, stand tall and wait for destiny to show herself. I shut my eyes and Paula Abdul descends like an archangel from the rafters, a torch in one hand, the other reaching out to me.

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My 30-second audition was up, and I stepped back to await the judges' opinion. I hit about four-fifths of all the notes right, and my performance, if a little strange, wasn't boring, which automatically gets you the boot at American Idol try-outs.

The executive producers reviewing us on the floor of the Alamodome glanced wearily at one another, then back at my group of four, one of the thousands they'd had to suffer so far that day.

"Unfortunately, we won't be putting any of you through to the next round. Thank you for coming." And that was that. The four of us walked the well-trod loser's trail out the west gate together, a long day at an end.

"Hell with them, y'all," said one of my group members, a large black girl who sang "How Will I Know?" as if she were proctoring an SAT exam. "At least we tried."

She's right, I thought, though I still wonder how she equated "dental assistant smocks" with "what stars wear." I unbutton my shirt and remember it's a four-hour drive back home, back to obscurity.

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Two months later, I'm interviewing ex-contestants at the American Idol Superstars Live tour at a Pharr nightclub.

At the end of every season after the winner's been crowned, American Idol sends its Top 10 finalists on a mammoth nationwide tour. These singers perform their world-class karaoke at places like the Verizon Amphitheatre and the Frank Erwin Center, and there's not an empty seat in the house.

This isn't that tour.

Tonight's typical contestant basked in the glow of national television for about three and a half minutes, struggled through a Mickey Mouse Club-esque version of "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You" or "Hit 'Em Up Style," then held a precarious pageant smile as Simon Cowell stripped them of every inch of pride in front of 4 million people. Two days later, they were shipped via discount flight back home to Tallahassee or Denver or Greensboro. They gazed doe-eyed out the window of the plane as clouds took the form of record deals, Spin photo shoots and the red carpet at the American Music Awards.

Now they're here in a dank bar fifteen minutes north of the Mexican border waiting to sing for people who changed the channel on them.

I didn't.

I know everyone who's set to perform tonight. I know their names, the songs they sang on TV, the howler notes that got them sent home and what's become of them since.

And now here they are, just beyond the edge of the stage. There's Season 4's Lindsey Cardinale, relentlessly trying to work some body into her straight ruddy hair. And there's Brenna Gethers from this past season, looking more than ever like Chucky from Child's Play dressed up like a Bratz doll. They're all there, crammed like lepers in a pen before they perform.

Everyone, except for Justin Guarini, sitting alone and smiling to himself.

Despite coming in second to Kelly Clarkson on the show's first season, it still seemed like a done deal that Justin Guarini was going to be a star. Then From Justin To Kelly hit theaters, his album tanked, his second album tanked and now he's stuck just below the D List. While Kelly got to sell out Dodge Arena earlier this year, Justin's on tour with William Hung.

Even though it's likely a matter of practice makes perfect, he's the nicest person I've talked to tonight. He looks me in the eye and patiently answers the same tired questions I've asked everyone else, the same questions he's been asked 8,000 times since his short heyday. - "New album? Favorite song you sang on the show? Simon: friend or foe?" Finally, I'm run dry. We sit in a silence that screams: "INEPT AT YOUR JOB."

Dim light without a clear source fills the V.I.P. lounge. Under it, the distance from Justin to Kelly looks as endless as telephone wire binding the horizon from east to west.

And the distance from Brandon to Justin? Right now, it's an arm's length.

Justin and I have both stood in a crowded auditorium and tried to convince a couple of soulless TV producers from L.A. that we were talented and hip and bound for stardom. Before that, we both stood staring for hours into a hotel mirror wondering if our hair was perfect enough, if we'd make it to the Hollywood round or if we should shut the drapes, pack our suitcases and get back to reality before anyone noticed we were gone.

Freshly shaven and blow-dried and exfoliated, we admitted we might be harboring delusions, the kind people laugh at. We worried we were on the threshold of one of those "Why, oh, Why, God?" memories. Hands on their hips, our reflections in the mirror rolled their eyes and wagged their fingers at us.

"You're chasing a lost cause," they said. "And worse, everyone can see you."

"But ... what if you're wrong?" we asked our reflections. "What if I'm not? What if ...?" And so the story goes.

"It was a pleasure speaking with you, Justin," I say walking away, the distance between us stretching like a rubber band.

Ruben Studdard won't sing for at least another half-hour, but I got the scoop I needed, the cold, hard facts I already knew, and nobody suspected a thing. I belt a song by Dwight Yoakam on the drive home, still completely stoked that I didn't blow my cover.

"Congratulations," I tell myself. "You're through to the next round."

This essay first appeared in The Monitor in its original form in November 2006.