An uncle sent me a Buddy Rich video and some drumsticks for my sixth birthday. After watching Buddy navigate his drum set like a racecar driver, I knew I wanted to emulate his greatness. As a Phil Collins concert would later confirm, I had to be a drummer.

About eight years later, I also discovered that high-pitched voice of mine was good for more than public embarrassment. The little weirdo can sing, imagine that! After my first "American Idol" audition in 2003, it nearly overtook skin bashing as my greatest passion.

I skipped two days of a summer community college English course in 2003 to audition at Minute Maid Park, the venue that hosts my hometown Astros. I slept in a moldy sleeping bag on the stiff pavement. Spotted rainstorms dampened the more than 8,000 contestants in line.

The morning of the mass audition, a brutish and ballsy "Idol" producer woke up the contestants at 3:30 a.m. with a megaphone.

The producers had woken us up four hours before admitting us into the ballpark so we could half-heartedly yell stereotypical Texas phrases like "y'all come back now, ya hear" and "don't mess with Texas." Someone might want to send the "Idol" folks a memo: Not everyone in this state owns a cattle ranch and a lasso.

Inside the baseball stadium, I listened to some poor schlemiel explaining the audition process. A burly, beer-bellied producer who said he graduated "from the University of Texas," led 15 renditions of "Deep in the Heart of Texas."

The judges listened to 20 seconds from each contestant - most were fantastic singers - then shot down their dreams with a simple "no." I feel lucky to have gotten a "you're not what we're looking for."

This was my scenario: I had 20 seconds, in street clothes that smelled from my two-day camp out, to convince a triad of producers that I was the next American superstar amid 20 other voices.

Transmission from the Department of No-Duh: The floor of a sports stadium is a terrible venue to host singing auditions.

There are at least three rounds of cuts before any contestant sees Simon, Paula, Randy or Ryan.

"Idol" presented an appalling image that season of Houston as a thunderstorm-prone hotbed for no-talents and idiot Southerners.

"Could anybody in Houston sing?" I remember Seacrest asking in a voice over.

The show's faithful followers should know the answer to that question is a resounding "yes."

I auditioned two years later in Austin and again left with a dream unfulfilled. I know now that just making the show is a victory in itself.

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