"Honey, singing just isn't for you." -Mom

Sorry for not writing more this week, folks. I pulled a Garbo (I vanted to be alone). I've been in the throes of deepest despair and I'm only now able to laugh about it all. Or at least talk about it without bursting into convulsions.

I'm no longer a bad review virgin. After an unbroken stream of excellent notices, it's like some pissed-off gypsy told the papers, "Qvick! Zee boy, he eez movink to New York! You must destroy heez self-confidence!"

Thanks to Aretha, winner of last week's hastily chosen Best Ever, the show has become a singing contest, at least to the critics.

She sings songs and they sing her praises. Then they examine the opposite end of the singing spectrum. That's where I am. The great disappointment. "Weak of throat", "flat and sharp"...and that's just the first two reviews. Nevermind the fact that I fly all over the stage, deliver world-class Shakespearean monologues, and have a hot bod.

Ever since my Mom and sister came to see me in the Cranberry Opera House production of 'Fiddler' and told me that I should avoid singing at all costs, then seeing the video and realizing I had been flat the entire summer and nobody told me, I've wanted nothing more than to impress my family--no, the world--with my golden throat.

They all came on opening night. And the only people I impressed were some distant bloodhounds who joined in my blood-curdling, ear-piercing bays and howls.

It hurts my Mom and Dad to see their son making a fool of himself. I think they wish I would just stop trying to be something I'm not and accept the facts.

Okay, joking and self-effacing humor aside, I admit it. Opening night wasn't so great. I was battling fierce allergies and could barely talk earlier that day, my parents were sitting at eye-level on the hill (they were the first things I saw when I hopped onto the stage for the opening number), and I was absolutely scared to death by the 1,000 faces that met my half-naked body as I sang the first note of the show with our inconsistent band.

I've improved greatly in the days since. A-Dub even saw me on a night when I managed to score the affections of all the teenage girls sitting in the front row (thanks for the positive review, by the way, A-Dub!). But try telling that to the five critics who all came on the one night when I sucked hard core.

Every day a new review comes out. Every day I find out from a cast member or a loved one that, "Well, you ARE pretty flat in this song and this song and this song." And every day I feel more like crawling back to Alma Mater U and getting a "real degree" in computers or accounting or something like that.

I won't, of course. I'll get through this, just like I've gotten through everything else.

But in the meantime, it sure isn't any fun leaping onto the stage at the top of the show and singing my heart out to a once-loving audience that now looks like this:

Meh. Everyone's a critic.