Lost American Idol Audition Tape: Tom Waits

[Ryan Seacrest] "For the first time ever, American Idol is in Pomona, California, searching for the next American Idol. The 5th largest city in Los Angeles county, Pomona is the home of thousands of hopefuls and future stars seeking to be... The next American Idol. We'll be right back with the new season of American Idol." (leans over to camera man) "Hey, can I get a Ginger Ale? Also, is anyone else sick of the title of this show being in every freaking sentence we say?" (laughter off camera) "Seriously, get me a Ginger Ale."

(Cut to judges preparing for the day. Simon is filling his 68 ounce bright red Coke cup with equal parts Vodkah and Pepto Bismal. Paula is double-fisting 600mg Vicodin. Randy sits still, staring, in a daze.)

[Ryan Seacrest]
"The first 267 Idol hopefuls were complete wastes of time. I mean it. Pile them all together, and you couldn't get an emotional choir take of a 'It's a Small World', much less 'We Are The World'." (off camera) "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who wrote these cards? Anyway, keep rolling. I'll wrap up the intro to this next psycho." (pause)

"While Simon and Paula bitch and moan to each other in their usual train-wreck banter, little could prepare them for what was about to walk through the audition door."

[cut to the door, where a 50 year old+ man wearing a fishing vest covered in tackle, a top hat, and carrying a fifth of whiskey limps and swaggers onto the floor. He looks around the room after stopping on the gray "X" on the floor, as if he's still not sure he's in the right place.]

(TOM WAITS) "Hi." [He mumbles and wipes his mouth, spilling whiskey on his shirt.]

(RANDY JACKSON) "Uh... Hi dude. Mister... uh... Waits?" [looking through his papers] "Tom Waits. 'How you doin', dawg?" [Randy mumbles without looking up.]

(TOM WAITS) "Fine. Look, can I put down my drink? I just spilled all over myself, and I'd like to get focused on what's really important here."

(RANDY JACKSON) "Sure man, do what 'chu gotta do." [Randy looks sincerely scared now, and Simon has begun to snore.]

[The singer pulls out 2 spoons from his coat pocket and begins banging them together on his knee. He starts making a strange sound with his mouth that is rhythmic like beat-boxing, but tonally sounds closer to the login of a dial-up modem on AOL. The only distinguishable words are "I got the bread, but not the buttah! I got the winduh, but not the shuddah!" and "I'm Big in Japan! I'm Big in Japan.". This goes on for a good 2 minutes or so with no noticeable climax or dynamic control whatsoever.]

(PAULA ABDULA - OFF CAMERA) "STOOOOOOP!" (Waits stands upright, then calmly sits on the floor and grabs his bottle of whiskey)

(SIMON COWELL) "Mate." [leaning back and holding both hands over his own breasts.] "What in the bloody name of melody, was that?"

(TOM WAITS) "Big in Japan." [from the floor.]

(SIMON COWELL) "I think you're big on Cocaine if you think that would sell records!" [smirks at his own cleverness.]

[OFF CAMERA - Paula is crying.]

(RANDY JACKSON) "AAAAAA HAAA HAA HA HAAAHAHA AAHA!! Dude, that was the dopest rhythm I've ever heard someone pull out in here, man. And with a pair of spoons, man. That was insane! I would love to play with you on some of that stuff, but dude! You just ain't right for this show, man."

(SIMON COWELL) "Are you insane?" [Simon stands up.] "That was utter rubbish!"

(RANDY JACKSON) "Nah, dawg, you didn't hear some of the stuff he was playing. That was pretty bad ass. His voice ain't for everybody, which is what this show is about... voices that are for everybody... but still, it was innovative, man." [leaning back in his chair.]

[The two continue to bicker over the top of Paula's comatose head, completely ignoring the contestant standing in front of them. Finally, a stage manager walks on screen wearing a headset and a "Masterpiece Theater" t-shirt. "This way, sir."

As Waits follows slowly, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of fighting coming from off camera, he takes another swig from his bottle, and walks outside. ]

(RYAN SEACREST) "So, how'd it go?" [standing with... no one... waiting for the audition to end.]

(TOM WAITS) "Huh?" [stops and looks up, as if woken from a dream.]

(RYAN SEACREST) "How'd you do? Did you get in?"

(TOM WAITS) "Oh. Yeah, I think they're gonna call my agent. That Paula Poundstone looks great, though. Man, I'd like to smother her with Miracle Whip."

(RYAN SEACREST) "Okay!" [Seacrest looks back into the camera.] "Pamona California, ladies and gentlemen! What the hell are we doing with our lives..." [He drops the microphone and walks off camera.]

'Been weird. Turning pro.

My first review, a positive one, compares me to music I haven't heard. I'm intrigued. ""Get Weird, Turn Pro" was kind and generous in their review. I hope you'll read it, and the rest of their work (usually pretty fair, so I'm taking the short post on my record at it's word.)

If they ever read this. Thanks.
Meshach

When it rains...

I'm in Texas. Which means, by obligation of the pack, Rosco (my boxer) is in Texas. He was born here. But he's not from here. He's a New Yorker. He loves the snow. He loves hating NYC rats in Washington Square Park. He's a 75lb brown boxer from New York.

He's been in Texas about 3 weeks now, and Texas, slowly but surely, is killing him. It's rained damn-near every hour we've been here. Unheard of for Texas summer, the mosquitoes are unreal. The first week we were here, Rosco was drinking the bright blue water from my parents' swimming pool, and his front paws slipped forward, sending him head first in a hilariously clumsy dive into 3 feet of water. In that moment (I was in the pool at the time) I realized that he both (a) had never swam before, and (b) had scraped his stomach from the brick side of the pool, and left a nasty 5 inch gash straight down his sternum.

The next day, I was treating his new wound with peroxide when I noticed him limping. Somehow, he'd cut his back right paw about 1/4 inch deep and wide, and had gotten it filthy in the pin where he's currently dwelling. I took him to the vet 2 days after that, when I noticed that a few random bumps that had popped up around his body had presently swollen into full-scale boils all over him. He'd scratched one on the side of his face to the status of open wound, looking like something had just scraped the skin right off the left side of his face. The vet gave him a shot of Cortisone and some antibiotics to be taken daily. Also, some antiseptic spray, which he hates.

The bumps went down, but not before they had been rubbed completely raw, and become open sores. Hairless, gross, open sores. About 50 or so of them. All over his body.

About an hour ago, he scratched on the back door of my parent's bedroom, where I'm stationed at the desk while they're away. I opened the door to find him nursing a fresh wound on the aforementioned paw, this time up near the "elbow" joint, and chopped, down to the bone.

I have absolutely no idea what is causing all this shit, or if he's just not used to his surroundings and is constantly finding new things to hurt himself. I just wish it'd stop. While I was cleaning the latest injury (peroxide, neosporin, gauze, tape, etc...), I had the distinct feeling that I needed to decide if I could afford to treat him any further. The simple answer to that question, without hesitation, was a resounding no.

My parents return home from Africa tomorrow. It should be a joyous day. I may have to give up my dog... or worse.

Fuck.