Music

I have never been that much of a music nut. Sure, I love to hear it but I am one of those guys who could not tell you what the title of a good song really was. Or sure, there are some that you know right off. For example, I am listening to Ray Charles sing America the Beautiful right now. What word works? Wow. Not quite enough. Moving. Yes it does. Almost to tears. There just is not a good choice. It is what it awesomelly is.

There are songs that I really enojoy. Riding on the City of New Orleans is one even thought I have never cared for that city. I begged Willie to sing it one time and finally he did. That made my wow list.

I am beginning to understand some songs more as I get older. The Sound of Silence. People talking without speaking...people listening without listening...talk about today...like silent raindrops fell.

Then there are some songs that make me want to jump into the bus asile and grab anyone who is having a bad day and dance. Brown Eyed Girl. Respect. And Ballamos. (That's a big time favorite.)

I have been fortunate to have met some of the best singers of our time while I was hauling Willie around. Johnny Cash. Waylon. Ray Charles. They were all great people. But, I didn't know music that well and when I turned on the radio, I went looking for a rock station.

Go figure.

There is a lot of truth in music of course. Some of it cuts to the quick. And some of it cuts to the quick personnally. It's like the singer|writer knew you personally and was shaking his guitar pick at you.

Dylan does that to me today. I loved some of his songs and sang them during some drunken outings at the Kappa Sig house when I was stumbling my way though college. Everyone chimed in on parts...like a rolling stone...can you hear your out-of-tune singing friends chime in? Can you see their smiling faces? Can you smell the beer and the cigarette smoke? Can you remember rebellion and war and God I hope I get at least a 2.0 this sememster?

I wasn't at Remington Arms Company very long before I met Mr. Personality. His name was Bob Reineck. He was an Ohio State grad and in sales and had it all. Personality. Looks. And he got into the sack faster than anyone I ever knew. "Just walk up, tell a joke or something, and ask them if they want to *uck."

"That's it?" I asked. "Don't you get slapped?"

"Sure," he said. "But I also get laid alot."

And he knew music. One Friday, he came over to my office and pleaded with me to go to a concert with him for the weekend. It was about 90 miles away he said and it was on some farm. He saw fun and good times. I saw mosquito bites and I was going fishing. I didn't catch any fish but Bob caught Woodstock. Can you believe I passed on Woodstock? If you run into Reineck, he'll verify that and laugh his cute head off that he used to hang out with me.

Not many people hang out with me today. I am pretty much alone by choice. I live in a hotel with the basics but I have made one big change. I have added more music and an I-Pod to the mental mix. I have made room for Aretha again. And Van Morrison. And Willie. And Enrique. And Ray. And Mama Cass. And Simon and Garfunkel. You are already humming aren't you.

So am I. And maybe welling up a little. Music hasn't been a bigge to me but it is taking me on a journey again. It was nice to be in the Kappa Sig House. It was nice to remember Reineck. It was nice to remember my Willie Days.

And it is good to face the truth once in a while...how does it feel...to be without a home...like a complete unknown...like a rolling stone?

Sometimes I could cry.