So tonight I went to see Steely Dan, a concert to which I’d been greatly looking forward to and for which I’d paid relatively dearly for tickets.

And I was treated to the delightful croonings (crowings? no, more like shoutings) of my seatmate, who seemed to think that he was just as capable of delivering classics such as Peg and Aja as Donald Fagan. Sadly, he neither the vocal sylings, nor, in fact, even the pitch of Mr. Fagan.

FWIW, I *do* sing at concerts but I (a) do it sotto voce unless it’s a a great big whole-audience sing-along (which I love, BTW) and (b) I try to do so on pitch.

Couple this with his space-invading arm flinging and his periodic mid-song howls and air punches of encouragement to the band (who I’m sure would have just stopped without the added cheerleading) and he almost managed to foul up and otherwise pretty great show.

I’m trying to let it go now (I’m being ridiculous, right?).

Sigh.