My wife? Josh Groban fan.
BIG Josh Groban fan.
I even coughed up the money and swallowed an unholy amount of pride several years ago to take her to see him live when he did us a favor and stopped by our mediocre metropolis. Bit my tongue as he took the stage and serenaded us with his velvety vocal vibrations. Didn’t wave my hands in the air in mock orchestra-style-conductor jubilation on those solid high notes or make fun of the fact that you can’t understand a word he says most times by making up lyrics of my own.
It was hard.
But . . . damn! Thanks to a friend of mine who was kind enough (Pot-stirrer!) to send me this, I have perhaps an ounce or two more bits of respect for the man. Maybe not respect, but . . . willingness to let Josh be Josh and cling to the now confirmed notion that he has a funny bone. That, or he’s just a good sport.