What? Who is this British man, looking like a shabby Paul McCartney and standing in the middle of 350 card-carrying members of Youth Culture, all decked out in the height of imitation-veejay fashion? What did he just say? Fantastic boobs? Not even “breasts!” Boobs!

And the crowd, dolled up in every manner of sequined, spangled spandex imaginable, loves it! They’re cackling on the floor! Some are pointing at their chests and nodding! Where did these people come from? Who is that British man, walking through a gap in the crowd like a cocky Cockney Moses through a parted Red Sea of pleather and velour? And why are any of us here?

Where is “here,” anyway? As we wait for the start of auditions for “American Idol,” an upcoming reality series on Fox, “here” is the Windsor Room of the Congress Plaza Hotel in downtown Chicago. It’s 10 a.m. I am surrounded by hopeful Idols and I am kneeling, accidentally, in a pee stain.

I don’t know who made the pee stain, only that it is indeed urine, presumably human. And I don’t know what personal reasons the culprit had for darkening the taupe carpet with his pee, but I have a pretty good idea: He is so excited, so terrified at the prospect of being on television – not only of the prospect of being on television, but the chance to achieve the “American Dream” of permanent fame – that he has lost control of his bodily functions.

Such is the power of “American Idol,” it seems. Subtitled “The Search for a Superstar,” the ostensible purpose of the show is to locate, train and make famous the Next Big Thing in pop music. Over the next few weeks, the Fox team will, in the words of the boob-aficionado British producer Ken Warwick, “scour the country everywhere, from Los Angeles to New York.”

“We’re going to see ten, twelve, fifteen thousand people,” he says grandly, adding that he’s “looking for a special voice. Not someone who’s going to be a one-hit wonder but someone who’s going to be around for the next 10 years.”

Of course, this Special Voice’s route to fame promises to be a circuitous one, what with this initial cattle-call audition, callbacks in front of “high-end music business” judges and then being shipped off to Hollywood for performances twice a week on the show itself. Once a contestant makes it to Los Angeles, voters at home get to decide her fate.

It’s “Popstars” meets “Survivor” meets “Total Request Live,” and everyone in this room is here because they want to be a part of it.

Personally, I’m here because my editor told me to come and because I can sing. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to sing most pop music, so I’m planning on singing Mozart and Heart. That’s not the point, though. Mostly, I’m here because something about the whole affair is so deliciously … fitting. Definitive. The current American Dream in action – local, all-American girl/guy makes good in Hollywood, plucked from obscurity to spangled pop stardom by the benevolent force of Fox Television! Beautiful.

Some of these “dreamers” have been here for more than 12 hours. Expecting a much larger turnout, the first of the hardcore auditionees showed up with lawn chairs and plush blankets around 9 p.m. last night. As more hopeful singers filtered in from around the Midwest, the line gradually grew longer, with shivering contestants sending their frozen friends off to Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and warmth. Arriving around 6:30 a.m., I asked the first girl in line how much sleep she’d gotten. From within her swaddle of sweatshirts, she said “Oh, not any, really. Maybe about 45 minutes.”

By 8 a.m., the time auditions were scheduled to begin, the line had swelled to 220. J. Lo-haired girls squeezed into tight tiger-striped pants and glittery tank-tops fidgeted in the cold, stomping their clear-soled platform shoes against the sidewalk. Boys in artfully ripped jeans sang *NSync songs along with boom boxes on the sidewalk, dancing in tandem like wind-up toys with stylists. The senior producer, a kindly if somewhat slippery man named David Goffin, ran around with a cameraman and a boom mike shooting the most gregarious contestants.

“If someone’s following the camera and watching me, I know they want to be on tape,” he told me as he eyed the crowd. “And, if all else fails, you find somebody who’s good-looking. Get someone good-looking on tape – if they sing well, fantastic. And if they don’t, it’s even funnier.”

Even funnier, eh? I watched Goffin’s crew film two guys who looked like third-string Backstreet Boys do a dance routine to “Burnin’ Love” that included pelvic thrusts and the Robot. The shorter of the duo, a teddy-bear-faced, 23-year-old wiseass named Garrett, winked at me twice during the song, each time with a different eye. He and his friend Dave, a former Bar Mitzvah emcee, told me all about their plans for the audition.

“We’re gonna sing Spice Girls – whichever song you want. ‘Wannabe.’ I’m gonna sing ‘I Touch Myself,'” snapped Garrett, lightly caressing his rib cage.

“We’re cable guys,” offered Dave. “We met through a local guy group called Xposure.”

“We’re here ‘cuz we’re bored, and this is our dream. And we got nothin’ to lose anyway,” said Garret, chewing a large wad of gum.

“Yeah, man,” agreed Dave. “Hey, and we’ll hook up your cable for free.”

Another person Goffin filmed, a pretty, stylish blonde named Joanna, had all the elements of the traditional celebrity entourage – smooth-talking handler named “Kenny,” dapper in silk houndstooth shirt and alligator shoes, and an unconventionally pretty best friend who gave her head massages and brought her drinks. I asked her why she wants to be on “American Idol.”

“It’s a great opportunity to be able to audition,” she said intently, popping her gum. “I mean, this was the most popular show in the U.K. and it’s finally in America – I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. I mean, ‘Star Search’ is long gone, so we need this!”

She’s right – “Pop Idol,” the British incarnation of this whole phenomenon, was indeed an incredibly popular show in the U.K. And its producers hope that, like “The Weakest Link” before it, the serie’s special blend of saucy judges and gradually demoralized contestants will captivate America. Of course, to make it captivating, they have to throw in a few wild-card elements like fighting contestants and weirdos, but it’s entertainment, right?

Which brings us back to the interior of the hotel. The would-be contestants wait, large numbered stickers plastered on their chests and stomachs, for their big chance. Some sing to themselves; some sing to others; some loll about on the floor, crowing loudly. The camera crew circulates, shining lights and attention on the lucky. The production assistants, all bored-looking local film students, call off five numbers at a time, starting with 5000. I am number 5303.

It is an excruciating wait. I and others wander the halls of the Congress Plaza aimlessly, listening to budding divas belting Mariah Carey in the bathroom and watching rejected auditionees blubber about how mean “that asshole English guy” was. Every once in a while, a new callback list gets posted, prompting a wave of high-fives and histrionics. I spoke with several people as they were about to go in and face the judge.

“Are you nervous?” I ask Ramina Oshana, a 17-year-old from Chicago who plans to sing “I Turn To You.”

“A little,” she says. “But I feel it’s all up to God, and if God hasn’t planned this for me, then I won’t make it, because I believe God has written what’s gonna happen to you and what’s gonna go on in your life, and if this isn’t meant for me, then …” She trails off. It’s time.

Eventually, my number is called, and I follow the production assistant into a waiting room, where I spend another 40 minutes staring at the wall and listening to my group-mate Keillan freestyle an R&B song about my “red hair and pretty green eyes.” We go into a long, empty room with nothing in it but a camera, a table and Goffin. Keillan sings an Usher song with a voice he described to me as “smooth, yet sharp; gentle, yet harsh.”

I sing an aria from “The Marriage of Figaro.”Goffin gets excited. His little producer eyes light up for a moment. Can I wait a minute after Keillan leaves? Sure. Keillan leaves. Can I sing anything else, anything pop? I oblige him with the chorus from “Magic Man” and then, under duress, the end of a Whitney Houston song. He seems genuinely, inordinately happy. I’m unnerved by this, but not displeased.

Grinning, he dismisses me. The production assistant who ushered me in ushers me out, beaming.

“Dude, he loved you! He’s flipping out!” she says.

“Why?”

“Think about it – he knows you’re just here for the newspaper, you look weird, you’re ‘classically trained’ – “

Oh God! She’s right! It’s all coming together! Thrift-store clothes – I stand out. Here on assignment – good backstory. And the opera – that damnable meaningless phrase, “classically trained,” that publicists use liberally and emptily to lend their employers a shred of artistic credibility – what have I done? I’ve walked into a trap! I’m Good Television!

I cover my face with my hands and groan. “But I don’t want to be an ‘American Idol!'”

“Ha ha!” she howls. “They’re gonna make you Indie Spice!”

“Uggggghhhh …” I croak.

“Come with me, the executive producer wants you to sing for him.”

I am appalled. “The boobs guy?”

“Yeah, the boobs guy. Come on!” I soon find myself in front of the executive producer, our paunchy Paul from this morning, and two other judges. They seem genuinely pleased, if a bit nonplussed, and are thrilled to discover I’ve been taking voice lessons for three years. After that, I’m forced to sing yet again for a kind man inexplicably named “Seven.” No last name, just “Seven.” Then, after another 45 minutes of waiting, I learn I’ve been called back. They want me for the next round here in Chicago, where I will be judged by such industry luminaries as Paula Abdul.

Incredible. The American Dream on the hoof – who doesn’t want to think their voice is good enough to be heard by millions? Who doesn’t want their talent analyzed by a woman who once sang with a rapping cartoon cat?

Everyone else who got called back seemed so ecstatic – one tall, beautiful boy, a dancer, literally pirouetted for joy.

But as I walked around and figured out what kind of people they were calling back, the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It seemed to be about a 50-50 split between the genuinely talented and the genuinely weird. Because it wasn’t just J. Lo clones that showed up – there were a few oddballs, like a homeless woman who sang gospel and was well above the cutoff age of 24, a heavyset fellow in an aqua shirt that said “You Go, Girl!” who planned to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” and a girl who sang the Kool-Aid jingle as her audition piece.

Were the same producers who’d been so nice to me setting these people up to play the fool on national television? Wouldn’t that reflect badly on the actual winner? And didn’t the truly talented people deserve better than to be dismissed during callbacks by smarmy, oily judges whose every word seemed calculated to provoke maximum humiliation and emotional pain?

Goddammit! I thought. They got me! Sure, these Fox people are looking for an Idol, but they’re also looking for a summer’s worth of Good Television along the way, which is where I and the rest of these poor bastards come in. This whole scene is a shuck, a savage burn on the talented and a cruel prank on the weird and sincere. Do these people deserve what nasty on-screen treatment they may get just for showing up?

What kinds of appalling montages will their moments of heartfelt warbling and acute grief be spliced and mangled to make? Brutal techno! Snide comments from the smoothly dressed hosts! Will there be a laugh track? The mind reels.

In the end, I figured the producers of the show used the same kind of reasoning behind the waiver posted at the registration table. “A TV show is taping here. Your presence constitutes your consent and agreement to recording and use of your performance. Any failure to stay out of camera range constitutes a waiver of any and claims of invasion of privacy, defamation, etc.” Oh, the brutal flip side to the American Dream. They’re going to make an ass of me on national TV.

Maybe I should have paid more attention to Ken Warwick’s words:

“I want good, and it’s a TV show, so I want someone who’s fun,” he said. “If they’re good fun, or they entertain me, they’ll be in the show.”

Dammit! nyou