Stupid American Idol never fails to make me cry. I think the producers have found a way to weave Estrogen into the Alpha waves that my TV is sending out into my living room. One note of a Whitney Houston song (one that I would normally scan shamelessly past on the radio) coming from the belly of a 18 year old Pet Smart cashier on a mission to get the hell out of Dodge and my eyes turn to watery pools of emotion. Barry White, Celine Dion, Luther Vandross and the like have never succeeded at making me cry with their corny ballads, so how is it that these sweaty and awkward teens are evoking so much emotion from me just by singing a single a cappella verse during auditions? I don't know. Sometimes I say to myself "Who ARE you?!" Like today, when I changed my favorite cake from Cheese to Carrot. I just don't know. I surprise myself sometimes.
My soul is a big fat black woman singing the blues in a smoky New Orleans bar. She is prisoner of pit stains and bad breath and utter poverty but she knows why the caged bird sings...
My soul gets high and drinks Southern Comfort with Janis Joplin.
My soul gets low and shaves her head like Britney.
My soul gets off on sunshine and wind and the stars in the San Luis Valley because they're so close you could jump up and catch them in your beer bottle when you're really drunk.
My soul is B Minor because my fingers still stretch and struggle to keep the strings down and fuck it if it never comes out right.
Alas, I am still a white girl as far as this life is concerned. Just trying to keep the snakes at bay. Just living one day at a time. Paycheck to paycheck. Boyfriend to boyfriend. Apartment to apartment. Mile to mile. Just another white girl who will never make it to American Idol to be discovered. Just another white girl still choking on dreams as they cut to commercial.