I’m watching “The Voice” because this is what I do. It’s work, baby. It’s work. Since the early days of “American Idol,” I do not watch music shows for pleasure. Nope. Reality TV is an addiction. Like heroin, meth, crack mixed with gummi bears and Diet Coke. I only watch the mayhem when I have to, which is Monday-to-Friday daily.

Okay, okay, okay. So like I was saying, I’m watching “The Voice,” listening to the singers do their thing, and I’m feeling a rush. It’s a tingling that runs up my arms, through my shoulders, up my neck, up, up, up– and bam– out the crown of my head. It is delicious. Yes, yes, yes. Something I’ve experienced only a few times in life. Always with music. Always with people who have heavenly-choir voices. At least, how I imagine angels would sing if I ever heard them. Damn!

What’s striking, what’s glorious is how different these singers are. They are like wild flowers in a field, wild flowers that you’ve picked with your eyes closed. And did I mention they can sing? All of them. Each voice so unique that I imagine God sitting up in heaven with His chin resting in His hands and He’s beaming, thinking, Yes, I created that.