DONNY AND MARIE
One of my co-workers called me “Jodi Marie” today, which took me by surprise since Marie is not my middle name. She explained that she calls everyone “(Name) Marie,” and sometimes “(Name) Marie Osmond.” Well, everyone needs a hobby. But funny she should call me that, because I’m a little bit country.
If you don’t get the reference due to the recency of your birth, please keep it to yourself.
Ok, actually, I’m not a little bit country. If you examined the music section of my brain, no more than 0.1% would be labeled “country.” I dig the Dixie Chicks, and I had a Garth Brooks phase in the 90’s that lasted about 3.5 minutes. That’s it.
Do you know what happens when you play a country song backwards? You get your wife back, your truck runs again, and your dog comes back to life.
This brings me to my neighbor. He lives one block over and our back yards touch at the corner. He’s a nice guy, and from the vantage point of his second story deck he calls over to tell me what’s wrong with my house.
“You oughtta get your husband to clean the branches off your roof,” he once told me after a wind storm.
So I like him all right, except for his habit of playing country music in his back yard. And I don’t mean bluesy country like Bonnie Raitt, or rocking country like the D.C.’s. I mean flat out, twangy, wife-leaving, truck-breaking, dog-dying country.
No wonder my garden is so pathetic this year. Who could grow listening to that crap?
So before the summer is out, I’m going to get Technogeek to hook my stereo up to a speaker on the deck. I’m gonna blast some blues, baby. Eric Clapton. Buddy Guy. Koko Taylor. Big Mama Thornton. Stevie Ray Vaughn. Dr. John. Because when you play the blues and all that bad stuff happens, you still feel fine.