Flipping through the idiot-box wasteland one fine evening, I came across one of those frightening, out-of-control, mega-glitzy showbiz production numbers, the kind that seem to scream like a vein-popping drill sergeant, “We are now entertaining the living hell out of you!” I think it was the Grammys. Worse yet, it was a duet, confirming something I’ve long suspected: duets kind of blow.
