A Question for the Ages

Has this perfectly fine song, performed in a perfectly fine manner, been unfairly forgotten by history because the perfectly passable performer was Bo Duke? And, if it is a perfectly fine song, who could sing it now and give it another shot at being a perfectly fine song for the ages?

I’m going to say Alan Jackson. Alan Jackson should cover this.

And, as always, Gretchen Wilson should cover this, and save her career (See, Republicans? I’m willing to give you brilliant career advice when I have it.)*.

But the real question is this: Could anyone now do this song justice or does John Conlee’s voice make each song so uniquely his that there’s no way to cover it and do it justice?

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*I have to tell you that what tickles me about this version is that I’ve known and loved this song my whole life. In fact, I probably hadn’t heard this song performed by anyone but me in years. And then, when I first got an iPod, I bought this song and I played it and I realized that I’d been singing the wrong tune, all this time. Just made up my own tune, similar to Frizzell’s, but not the way the song actually goes. And then, I found¬† this version on YouTube and I realized, even David Frizzell doesn’t sing the same tune to this song every time he sings it. And that made me laugh and feel in good company.

Name Names or Shut Up, Gail Kerr

Gail Kerr is scolding some folks for referring to Kim McMillan as “Kimmie Mac.” I, in return, am going to scold Gail Kerr by saying, “Name names, or shut up.”

Really, if you have a beef with the way folks on the internet have been carrying on, a big enough beef that you’re going to get all high and mighty in your newspaper column in order to chastise them, then have the courage of your convictions. Name them.

Don’t be lecturing your readers about the wonders of feminism and what a badass you’ve had to be in order to be treated fairly as a woman unless you’re going to actually act as a badass and name names.

No, truly, fuck it. How is naming names even the badass position? It’s the position of fairness and journalistic integrity. Not naming names, but just complaining about people who are then supposed to guess if maybe you mean them? That’s passive-aggressive and manipulative. Name names.

Except, if Kerr names names, then it becomes apparent she’s complaining about poor old Tom Humphrey and Adam Fucking Kleinheider, who doesn’t even have a job any more.

Yes, the biggest offender, by far, is a guy who doesn’t even have a job any more.

You win, Kerr! SouthComm has purged the bad guy from its midst already. Pat yourself on the back about that.

But before you get too self-congratulatory, maybe check your use of “boy” in your column. If you think diminutive gendered terms suck and must end, don’t do it to others. Walk the walk or mind your business about whether women younger than you are properly appreciative of your feminism.

Why I Love Y’all

So, there’s this thing called Groupon. Basically, the Groupon folks make a deal that, if they can promise a business x number of patrons, the business will give the patrons Groupon brings them a sizable discount on their services. I haven’t ever used it, but the people who have seem to think that it’s nifty.

Today’s Groupon deal is $40 worth of stuff from Bates Nursery, right around the corner from my house and from whom I purchased Henry, the magnolia of joy, for $20.

And this is the part that makes me love you.

I have gotten emails about this out the butt. I haven’t seen nor heard from the Butcher since early Monday, but I got a text from him because people that know both of us have been texting and calling him about it.

Could I be any more tickled with y’all than I am right now?

No, no I could not.

Long have I wished I could train the dog to annoy the Butcher on command and long has the dog thwarted my every attempt to even teach her our names.

But today, the Butcher was inundated with calls and texts about my love of gardening.

It’s really so awesome and makes me feel like a success as an older sister.

Thank You, Anonymous Rumors Patron

So, a bunch of us were at Rumors last night for wine and knitting, which was wonderful, as always, but, as always, contains this set of stairs that kind of sucks. The restaurant is in an old house that sits way up off the curb. So, you have to go up a set of steps from sidewalk level to yard level. Going up them is no problem (though I don’t have problems going up stairs usually, unless they’re open back or don’t have a railing). But going down towards them is always strange, because the sidewalk in the yard slopes down to the stairs and you can’t get a hold of the railing until you’re right up on the steps.

But I have always successfully gotten down the steps.

Until last night, when, upon approaching the steps, I started to have the rumblings of a panic attack–the sweating, the shaking, the, obviously, feelings of intense panic–that increased as I got closer. And then I stopped walking, without intending to. Which is a bad sign for an impending panic attack, once the body and the brain stop working in concert.

So, I knew my choices were either to push through (which I sometimes can if it’s something I’ve done before) or to turn around, go back in side, and explain my predicament to the knitters.

Well, I didn’t want to push through, because I was afraid it would involve crying or falling or something, and there were people on the porch. But going back inside seemed so stupid.

So, in a move of bravery/desperation, I asked the group on the porch if one of them would be willing to just let me take his arm down the first step, until I could get hold of the railing.

And one of them totally did!

And I was mortified, but he was totally sweet about it. I apologized for being foolish and he said, “No, foolish would have been not asking for help and falling down the stairs.”

Which made me feel better, like, hey, there’s even a completely rational, non-fucked up reason someone might need help with the stairs.

Which then made me feel better about being fucked up about it.

So, thank you kind sir.