Everyone is at Lincoln Theater But Me Probably

I feel like a honky-tonk song tonight.

I don’t feel like listening to one, although I did listen to Both Kinds Radio while horizontal on the couch, and that was fun.  It’s more that I feel like I’m in one.

Probably it has something to do with listening to too much Loretta Lynn at my desk this week.  Our country-western cover band has practiced three whole times now and intends to stay together for five weeks until we do our first and only gig, so that makes us pretty official. We decided we were lacking in Loretta Lynn, and then I got stuck on Somebody, Somewhere, because I don’t think any of us can carry off Fist City.  But Somebody, Somewhere’s a rough one.

It’s pretty rare that I feel like I’m stuck in a honky tonk song.  If there’s something specific wrong then what you have to do is just write a honky tonk song about it, and even if you are not overly weighed down with songwriting talent you feel better when you’re done.  It’s honky tonk.  You just throw it all out there, and make sure there’s some wailing.

There’s nothing specific wrong, or writing a honky tonk song would fix it.  You know, something specific like always feeling like the wheels are one paycheck away from coming off. Or near-misses and wasted chances, or car doors that won’t unlock, and it’s really time to figure out when you’re going to schedule your third knee surgery. A hound dawg with an ear infection, and you suddenly don’t like anything in your closet, or you can’t find any fringe boots even if you could afford them this month, or everyone in Raleigh but you is at Lincoln Theater seeing Steve Earle and you thought about going all week but decided that $30 is too much to spend on a ticket when it’s ten days till payday and your iPhone is still busted and you have to travel twice next month and shouldn’t you have a better savings plan by now and how did you get to this age and still have to worry about $30 here and there? and on top of that, it’s just Sunday.


Well, I don’t know how to write a honky tonk song about all of that, or a dozen other unoriginal, non-catastrophic catastrophes.  So I listened to some wailing songs while horizontal on the couch, and I didn’t do anything on today’s to-do list, and I had peaches and corn and tomatoes for dinner, and Hound Dawg and I went on an hour-long walk at sunset.

None of that did it.  Hound Dawg and I are going to bed. I would say I’m going to bed with the New York Times crossword, but I already got frustrated and it wasn’t even a particularly hard one.  Dawg is really only part hound, to start with, it just makes him sound more honky tonk when I say that.

I’m only part honky tonk, anyway. Nothing a good night’s sleep and a cool morning walk and a fancy coffee drink on the way to work won’t fix.  (That, or someone’s going to have to help me write a whole album of minor catastrophe honky tonk wailing songs. stat.)

Good heavens. Nobody wants that. Fancy coffee drink will have to be a triple.

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