The Kid in me

There are a number of bloggers who will provide excellent recaps of last night’s gathering of sociologists and tag-alongs at the Karaoke Kid (later in the day you may check here, here and here). I will not be one of them. I am about the last person on earth who should ever write about Karaoke. I never pay attention to rock groups and artists any more and it took me a long time to understand that a reference to Fiona Apple was not a comment about a brand of fruit from the Farmers' Market. But since I pick up songs easily, even as I am not listening to them, I do know words and melodies to the strangest collection of songs and so the urge to join up at the Kid is always strong. But no summaries: I do not know who sang what and when – it’s all a blur of TV monitors and different combinations of people standing up, sometimes falling down and dying (yes, there was a reenactment of a death performed with painful accuracy by the author of JFW), often singing with eyes closed as if their (okay, our) life depended on it.

So how is it that this pop-cultural ignoramus gets herself to the Kid so faithfully and shamelessly each time the trumpet sounds? Well, isn’t there an ancient song out there about Fools Rushing In Where Wise Men Never Go?