Me Me Me

Michael Buble is a musical Rorschach test, a living inkblot of one’s taste in singers. And I am willing to stand up and say, loudly and proudly, “My name is Kathy, and I am a Michael Buble fan.” Many, many people do not share my opinion and are quite willing to tell me so, often with a snort of laughter. Guess what? I don’t care what they think. Michael Buble’s voice makes me happy happy happy. 

I’m discussing my favorite Canadian because I saw him at Madison Square Garden this weekend, my third time experiencing Mr. Bubbly (as I affectionately call him) live and in person. He was sporting his usual skinny black suit with a vaguely unattractive roosterish hairdo. (He recently broke up with pretty Miss Emily Blunt, who probably gave him better hair advice than he is currently getting.) During the show, he did his usual herky-jerky motions around the stage; Mr. Bubbly is not a dancer, but he’s so precious nobody minds. It’s the voice, people!

Oh my gosh, I love to hear this man sing, and so do several thousand other middle-aged women from the tri-state area, who swooned over Mr. B as their husbands (including my darling one) sat indulgently at their sides — payback, no doubt, for the wives sitting through an Eric Clapton songfest or some dull sports event. Secretly, many men like Michael Buble too, but it’s not macho to admit that, as Michael himself acknowledged during the show.

Now that I have worn out my three Michael Buble CDs (I am the one person in the United States who still buys CDs), I was thrilled to hear my man sing two numbers from his NEXT recording, “Stardust” (stop laughing!) and a Dean Martin song that I’m blanking on. He can recycle the Rat Pack’s greatest hits for the rest of his life as far as I’m concerned! I left MSG smiling smiling smiling, and managed not to buy a sparkly Buble T-shirt on my way out — even I have my limits.

Six short months from now, I will no longer be the parent of a teenager. My baby girl became a teen during the era of Dawson’s Creek, a show that now seems as tame as Captain Kangaroo. I progressed from Dawson and Pacey to The O.C. before my kids left for college; a girlfriend and I now savor the absolutely hilarious (and super-naughty) Gossip Girl together. Holy moly, I’m glad I don’t have a seventh grader at home anymore watching the underage G.G. crew sip colorful cocktails and lose their virginity on a weekly basis. And their wardrobes! “Mommy, I want Serena’s purse.” Honey, so do I!

The point of this particular trip down TV memory lane is that I love teenage pop culture. I can’t wait to see High School Musical 3 on the big screen this weekend. Hi Zac Efron! And my darling husband, who would surely rather listen to NPR or classical music on the Long Island Expressway, never complains about two hours of top-40 on Z100. He even gets into the spirit by asking, randomly, “Is that Britney?” (Rap, on the other hand, makes him reach for the secret station-changing button on the steering wheel.)

Is my taste for the young stuff inappropriate now that I’m the mother of two young adults? When do I have switch to Lite-FM? Truthfully, I’m slowly weaning myself from childish things — I don’t know one Jonas Brother from the other, and I can’t abide The Hills. But I’m determined to stay in the pop culture loop, even though being middle-aged gives me permission to listen to delightful singers like Michael Buble and Robin Thicke without apologizing.