"So... what are you going to sing," he asks Goldman.
"Don't pressure me, man!"
I find out more: Goldman used to play bass in an Elvis cover band, doing hot-rod rallys as pinup girls danced on the sides; it's not hard to picture him as a retro-rodder, rocking into an upright bass for guys who have the whole Reverend Horton Heat catalog. He hates -- HATES -- when someone calls him the Cake Boss. "I hate that guy," he says, with no reservations. "The next time it happens on a morning show, I'm just going to walk off."
It's not a feeling of bitterness, though, it's owning who he is. And when the KJ finally does call his name, there's a visible change in Goldman, and it becomes clear that going out with him isn't just about having a few drinks or doing karaoke, it's the same thing that happens with anyone who's a public figure: as he steps up to the mic, he gets recognized, and all of a sudden the pressure is actually on. Girls want pictures with him first; the KJ asks me to snap one as well.
Goldman's song -- the only one he'll end up singing the whole night -- comes on, and it's completely unexpected: Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson." He lights up as he sings it, nailing the lyrics without looking at the screen. He's not just a karaoke singer, though, he's a celebrity, and -- in as egoless a way as is possible -- he knows it, looking at cameras as they flash while he sings through the song. He finishes, and walks back to us, drink in hand.