Resting Bitch Face

My face when I found out I didn't make it. #BigBreak

There are a lot of times in a performers life when they begin to question their existence. I've had a lot of those to plaster on the walls of Blogspot.com. Still, none have quite reached the foreclosure on pride that occurred when I received a rejection e-mail today from a singing competition held at a bro-bar beneath my apartment.

I made it past Round 1, sure. I wasn't surprised. When I returned for Round 2 to see most of the wide-eyed corn-fed schmucks in elastic waist band dresses and pleated dockers I had seen at Round 1...I was feeling pretty ballsy.

I was dressed well. I looked pretty. More importantly, I had great pitch and knew how to stay in key. I thought all of these things would easily qualify me for Round 3.

Sure, maybe my weight on one hip and unavoidable resting-bitch-face as the "vocal coach" of judges critiqued my song choice, and the fact that I was the gayest thing to hit this competition (and probably establishment) since its humble beginnings put me at a disadvantage for the type of person that would bring a slew of friends in to spend money.

But I'll be damned if my rendition of John Legend's "Ordinary People" didn't have as much soul as the 30-something weave-in-a-wrap woman screeching through "Proud Mary".

Call me crazy, but as a person who has been paid hundreds of dollars a week to stand on a stage and perform, I expected to make it to Round 3. I mean TOP 50? Come on.

I'm just going to call it adversity and pour a drink.

NOW where will I go for dollar beers on Wednesdays?

Boystown,

TJB: Making It