A Dark Week

Two weeks ago, I wrote about a potential personal catastrophe that was lurking on the set of American Idol.

Then, this past Wednesday afternoon, a reader of this blog emailed me this link, commenting, “You’re safe!”

I clicked the link. 24 names. No Tim Urban.

YES.

I had done it. I had thwarted the coup. I would not be “The Other Tim Urban” for the rest of my life. The hordes of middle school girls would disappear from my inbox. It was the greatest threat to my name yet and I had survived.

I was safe.

I scanned over the list a few times to make absolutely sure there was no “Tim Urban” on it, leaned back and released a deep sigh of relief.

Suddenly, it all seemed silly. Only 12 guys make it – so really, what were the chances? I had gotten my panties all up in a bunch over mere speculation. I chuckled to myself, satisfied. “You’ve still got it, Tim. You’re still the best Tim Urban around.”

That night, I flipped on the TV. Suddenly, American Idol would be fun to watch again. In fact, I was looking forward to watching Tim Urban be told by the judges that he didn’t make it. “Sorry, Tim,” they’d say, “there’s only room for one Tim Urban in the F-list celebrity world. Sorry, but you’re not going through.” And he’d get up, dejected, having been put squarely back in his place. He’d walk that long walk—away from the judges, out of the building, and back into anonymity. Yes, this was gonna be fun.

So the episode began, and they started filling up those final Top 24 slots. We hit the halfway point. No Tim yet. The 45-minute mark. Tim’s fate was yet to be announced. “I guess they’re saving him for the end,” I thought, calmly.

And then something happened.

They showed one of those quick montages of 3 or 4 people getting the “You’ve made it” from the judges—

I froze. Tim Urban’s face had appeared in this montage, smiling.

I rewound the Tivo. Again, there he was in the “You’ve made it” montage.

Smiling.

I spit out my drink.

I raced to my laptop and googled “Idol Top 24 2010” and I found this. I stared at the screen in horror.

I closed my laptop. I stood completely still. I took a deep, slow breath in. I puffed out my chest, tilted my head back, reached my arms out, palms up to the sky, and let out a long, slow, tortured bellow.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

For your reference, it was the identical reaction to the one Jafar had when the Cave of Wonders swallowed up Aladdin and Abu and he suddenly realized that Abu had stolen the lamp.

The next phase was one of “freaking out.” I raced through options in my head. You can move. You can move to Western China. No one watches American Idol in Western China. Or—or, you can kill him. You can find a hit man and it’ll be an anonymous job. You can find a hit man on Craigslist maybe. Or you—or you can change your name. You were Timmy when you were seven. Maybe you can be Timmy again. Or you can force him to be Timmy. Through blackmail. And kidnapping. You can jump off this balcony. That’ll make headlines, right?

This went on for about 10 minutes.

The third phase involved a personal pep talk. Tim, relaxxxx. It’s just a TV show. And so what if the ratings have consistently hit 30,000,000 a week for the first eight seasons? Who says the ratings won’t suddenly be dismal this year? Maybe they’ll be so dismal that the show will be pulled by Fox mid-season. See? There’s nothing to worry about. The show won’t last all of five episodes before they cancel it for its dismal, pathetic ratings.

In Phase Four, I bathed in a deep well of “panicking about the worst case scenario.” I envisioned Tim Urban not only winning the show, but becoming a Kelly Clarkson / Carrie Underwood-level megastar. This phase quickly ended up back in Western China, and migrated from there to the Stans, where I began rehashing through old memories, trying to envision what kind of life I could carve out for myself after my inevitable move there. I thought wistfully about my future as a Kyrgysh shepherd and wondered if it would be hard for me to slaughter my sheep after spending much time with them out on the hills.

I was in a dark place.

Nice work, Chris Golightly.

Finally, I reached Phase Five: Acceptance.

You win, Tim Urban.

You have defeated me. Broken me.

Just let me beg of you this—please, please, do not become a household name. You won the Google war (it’s currently a hostile takeover, and I will be vanquished entirely in a few days time). You’re younger. You have thick, flowing hair. You sing like a little angel. Your show gets four times the ratings that mine did. You’re current, I’m a has-been.

You win.

Just please be merciful. Don’t become a household name.

Look at me, Tim Urban. I’m not fighting anymore. I’m washed up. I’m an F-list celebrity. Even my mom doesn’t recognize me on the street anymore. I’m not going to hurt you.

So just please be merciful.