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Maybe it all started with reality TV in general — the idea that any one of us not only can be a star, but should be. But I like to blame Simon for the phenomenon for a couple of reasons. One, he’s mean, so it’s easy to point accusatory fingers at him. But two, he’s sort of the engine behind the idea that inside each of us might be an undiscovered superstar. One word from the snarky, supercilious Simon and you’re either America’s Next Big Thing, or you’re a loser destined for lifelong obscurity.

The Simon phenomenon, as we’ll call it, can go to your head, giving you delusions of grandeur, filling you with a heady admixture of notoriety and power. And so it was with me this past week, when your little Island Hopper served as celebrity judge for the big karaoke contest at Donna’s Silver Dollar in East Naples Labor Day weekend — part of their daylong minifestival that also included a series of local bands, all-you-can-eat barbecue, and all-day prize giveaways.

When event organizer Seth Garon first asked me to participate, I excitedly agreed. “I call Simon,” I told fellow judges Dave Elliott (morning show host on WGUF 98.9) and Jon Garon (owner of My Favorite Guitars in Naples), claiming the role of the all-powerful, all-judging Simon Cowell.

I arrived at Donna’s Silver Dollar Saturday afternoon, the place unexpectedly busy even at midday. The 12-hour event was chockablock with favorite local performers — harp guitarist (and entertainer extraordinaire) Andy Wahlberg, house band the Fleas, bluegrass pickers the Sawgrass Drifters, and country duo Robin and Dean.

Out front of the strip-mall restaurant was an unlikely collection of instruments and musicians, an impromptu al fresco jam being provided by banjo, guitar, upright bass.

Inside, the karaoke contestants were gearing up — a whopping five brave souls competing for gift certificates and the top prize — a two-song studio recording session.

Now, people, you might not think so, but I love me some karaoke. It appeals to the thwarted rock star in me — I want nothing more than to be brave enough to take that mic and belt something out. (I found the courage to do so only once, many years ago, when I attempted The Devil Went Down to Georgia, its lyrics having been embedded in my Southern soul practically since birth.)

When sweet little Allie Cooke took the stage, a 15-year-old wunderkind singing the daylights out of Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats, I quickly learned a little something about myself: I am not, in fact, a Simon.

It’s true — and totally shocking to me: I liked everyone. Allie rocked the house with her gritty little rendition of the vengeful song (and nothing pleases me more than seeing our youth of today roaring out proudly about shooting whiskey, infidelity, and rampant vandalism).

The next contestants delighted me as well: Moses Randez with his lovely job on Billy Vera’s At This Moment (uncertain Elvis finish, but hey, he went for it), and Tony Ramono’s unexpectedly Fogertian Have You Ever Seen the Rain.

Seventeen-year-old Alyssa Goleman yodeled her way adorably through LeAnn Rimes’ Cowboy’s Sweetheart. Bryan Johnstone — feeling no pain, so it seemed — brought some white-guy panache to What a Wonderful World with quite a credible Louis Armstrong impersonation.

After each performance, we judges were given the mic and encouraged to weigh in, just like the American Idol panelists. Dave Elliott gleefully channeled Simon, taking his position very seriously and breaking down for each contestant exactly what worked — but more often, what didn’t.

Jon Garon cracked wise and gave good advice, serving as our moderate, neutral Randy. And I, well, folks, I gushed like Paula Abdul with a good-looking young male contestant. I was delighted with the singer’s courage, enchanted by the fact that most could actually sing fairly well, taken with their self-consciously stagy little Celine Dion gestures and Julio Iglesias earnestness. I, the picky little Island Hopper, reveled in the very unpretentious, amateur-rock-star aspect of the whole thing.

I’m actually not a big fan of reality TV in general, nor of American Idol in particular. I often decry the state of our entertainment industry when the bulk of our television offerings consists of real-life wife-swapping, on-screen dieting, out-of-control frat boys and girls gone wild, and the eating/touching/soaking-in of disgusting things for shock value.

But there truly is something endearing about a solitary soul who has a song inside him or her that’s dying to bust free, taking the mike and loosing their inner song stylist for five glorious minutes.

There’s a lovely vulnerability and hope to it, a charm about the small-scale aspect of taking a local stage in front of a few dozen neighbors for the sheer pleasure of self-expression — as opposed to the relentless striving and delusions of glory of the national television versions.

Moses Randez and Allie Cooke walked off with the grand prizes Saturday afternoon. But every other contestant also left with a prize: free restaurant dinners, or at least a certificate of participation.

And despite my often picky, purist reviews of local entertainment, my inner Paula liked the Panglossian “everyone’s a winner” feel to the afternoon.

Take that, Simon.

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Drop me a note at tiffanythescribe@msn.com!