You don't tug on Superman's cape

Or spit in the wind. Or pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger.

The evening started off with a bit of Carly Simon. Yes, I am vain, but I damn well know she never wrote a song about me. Then it segued over to Carol King, for reasons that had as much to do with hair as her songwriting and singing. Tapestry-era hair. And that led to Wikipedia, the collective wisdom of the masses. I was stunned at the songs that King had written. The woman's a genius and then some.

The talk shifted to the mellow zone of the 70s music scene, which led to James Taylor, which somehow led me to Jim Croce.

Every time I listen to Jim Croce I go back and forth from laughing to reaching for a Kleenex. And it hit me - the guy died long before he reached my current age. What a loss.

I admit to some jealousy. Quite a bit. Look at what Jim Croce did by the time he passed too soon. Then I recall that he left a little boy who never knew his dad. Back to the Kleenex.

Not that it's a choice or trade off, but I'll settle for my lower key life, without the fame, thankful rather than for glory, for the time I've got with my child. I look forward to teaching the boy to sing along with Bad Bad Leroy Brown, laughing along, and someday I'll tell him why I'll be crying a little bit too as we sing loud and proud.