''Dude,'' he says, without being asked, ''I'm really talented.'' He says that in addition to singing, he has written a children's book, The Silly Dilly Dot.

''It's about punctuation,'' he says. ''It's very educational.'' He starts to explain the plot, but fortunately the line starts moving again.

''For real,'' says Michael/Mikel, ''I'm really, really talented.'' He turns and plunges back into the sweating mass of exceptionally talented people shuffling forward, inch by hopeful inch, toward their wristbands, and fame.

Now it's early Wednesday morning, and the contestants, wearing wristbands, have again gathered in the dark, thousands and thousands of them, forming a line that wraps around the arena. Most were here before 5 a.m., even though the auditions won't start for hours. There are TV crews moving up and down the line, and wherever they point their cameras, people burst into song. The prevalent singing style is the one popularized by Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey, where the goal seems to be to hit as many notes as humanly possible for every syllable of every word of the lyrics, so the singer's voice is constantly swooping up and down the scale until you want to scream STOP YOUR DAMN SWOOPING AND PICK A DAMN NOTE.

Or maybe that's just me.

In addition to singing, some contestants in the crowd are campaigning for themselves.

''It's time for a Latin American Idol!'' shouts a Latin man.

''It's time for a big-girl American Idol!'' responds a woman who could easily start at offensive tackle for the Dolphins.

Standing a few yards away, holding a press conference, is a man who actually has some say in who achieves Idolhood: Senior Producer Patrick Lynn.

''What we're looking for is originality,'' he says. ''We're not interested in people who are just trying to get on the show.'' (To me, this seems to rule out pretty much everybody wearing a wristband. But what do I know?) Lynn also says there are 12 audition songs that the producers have heard way too many times and are sick of, although he will not say what these songs are. (Although one of them has to be Unchained Melody.)

Finally the producers start letting people into the arena to audition. The press isn't allowed, so I can't witness the release of this tidal wave of pent-up talent. The weeding-out will take a couple of hours, after which the contestants will trickle back out. A few will be ecstatic, because they're moving on, which means they still have a remote chance to become famous household names like previous Idol winners such as . . . OK, for example that guy with the hair, whatshisname.

But the vast majority of the contestants will come out disappointed. For most of them, the high point of their show-business careers will be . . .

An American Idol wristband!

I decide not to wait around to watch the wristbanded rejects make their mass re-entry to Reality. I'd rather leave now, while the air is thick with hope, and all these people, despite the glare of the morning sun, can still see stardom shining brightly ahead.

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