It was one of those shining days. The azaleas were peeking out as spring came to the Chesapeake. I was in my car, tearing it up in hopeful duet with Canadian crooner Michael Bublé, when I noticed something interesting. Throughout "Come Fly With Me," I was just a little bit out in front. Bublé held each note a nanosecond longer than I did and waited just an extra half-instant before sliding into the next phrase. Though my voice was every bit as velvety and my attitude even more ring-a-ding-ding, I was always a shade faster than the master. Hmmm ... a voice inside me said.

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