"You should see her as Avril Lavigne!" Says Roger, a middle aged manager of pop tribute acts in the GTA. Or from what I saw, a purvayer of night club acts featuring enthusiastic young women.

The company, name still unknown, was auditioning young women this Saturday for a Pussycat Dolls Cover Band. Based upon first impressions, auditionees live partly in a 905 fantasy world. Clad in noxious shades of pink and pastels these ladies were dressed to induce vomiting rather than to kill. And, the accessories of choice included, you guessed it, pony tails and fits of hollow giggles. This was a girls club, and it was obvious my friend and I were intruding.

Baffled by conversation topics, even too mundane for me, included one girl who sang "Care Bear Stare!" while flaunting baby fat. I took shelter from what I thought to be a pending pillow fight. Thankfully Yazamataz and myself were spared.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was going to be like this!" Yazamataz apologized.
"It's okay," I said, "I came to have a fun memory with you. I don't care about this audition. We're going to have fun!"

The auditions begin. So we're gathered into the living room of a rental house where a black curtain is hung infront of the window. We're encouraged to stand up and sing, "Dontcha", the PCD most famous single. One girl, who I called "Guccy Lucy", opted to booty shake, grind and giggle her way through it.

Where is the professionalism? Obviously not present at this audition!

We are asked to sing seperately. My friend sings with a nervous passion akin to a women aware that this isn't what she wants, but, she's in too deep to quit now!

Gucci Lucy's turn. The music starts and in a baffling display of confidence she articulates her inexperience with bumps, grinds and curious bootyshakes. In a fit of laughter she stops singing in the first verse "I can't do this!" she whines. Roger encourages her to sing. "But, it soOOoo repetative! I don't like singing it." and she goes over to Roger like a Jane to her John and shakes her modest female form.

I can't say he didn't enjoy it.

After my turn, it was clear. Professionalism, skill and talent are not necessary requirements to be in this group.

However, the girls weren't all baubles and bubble gum! I made conversation with one girl, a funky quietly strong women and a mother of an 18 month old. She's auditioning for the first time for the part of Carmit. And in a quiet admission between the two of us, PCD is not a band she would just pick up and listen to. She, unlike the other women, is there to make a little extra cash to help with her household expenses. I dig her. I dig her a lot. She's very cool.

Meanwhile, in the corner of my eye I'm treated with more gyration. I grow weary and step foreward to offer direction. I try to explain what it means to give focus to the lead performer, to move slowly and luxuriously because, "You're dancing burlesque"
"But, they do hip hop too" says a buxom young blond. I sigh in defeat because these girls just don't get it.

I make a space on the couch and wait for Yazamataz to return.

"It wasn't like this the last time I worked with them. It wasn't like this at all!"
"There's no need to apologise! How were you supposed to know that we were entering some promo man's wet dream interpretation of a pop burlesque troup?"
"I didn't"
"You're too smart and beautiful to be associated with this crap."
"I know."
"You're a professional. Amateurs sometimes don't see true greatness because they're bogged down on the trivial details."