I live in a town like thousands of others in America, where nothing ever happens but the usual: Some kid with a new driver’s licence loses control and kills themselves, a mom and pop business silently bites the dust and no one even notices, and another meth lab is found in a trailer on the edge of town, and racial remarks are made behind people’s backs...
Sore losers keep their W stickers on their cars and gripe about Obama and have wet dreams about Palin’s triumphant entrance into D.C. in 2012. The unemployment lines get bigger and the rich huddle even tighter at the country club, and your neighbor goes off to yet one more tour of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan, and our kids keep joining up cause there aren’t any jobs or just to get the hell away from here.
And they come home messed up physically or mentally or in a box.
Just your normal, typical run of the mill American town.
So if something really different happens here, people sit up and take notice.
That’s what happened yesterday.
That’s when I heard on the radio at work several loud times, that George Jones was coming to town.
"Oh "No Show" Jones is coming!" one woman with a speech impediment came running shouting in a joyous voice. "I saw him at such and such a place one day back in such and such a time! He actually showed!"
I’ve never seen George Jones. My understanding of him is limited to the fact that he’s apparently a cantankerous old country singer who was once married, like a lot of men, to a woman he couldn’t get along with, and who will either perform or won’t perform, depending on how he feels at the moment it’s supposed to happen.
I know my mom and dad - both former cotton pickers out of necessity in their youth - loved him though, and would go see him every time he came close to sing and pick up some more easy money. Although, it probably isn’t really easy money, having to sing the same songs to the same people or same kind of people weekend after weekend, when you would probably prefer just to stay home in bed and have them send the money right to your booze supplier. (If he still drinks, and if fish still swim).
I’m not going to see him. Why? I can just stay home in bed like he would probably like to do, and write about him from here. I tried it just now, but couldn’t see the paper in the dark, so forced my self to get up and write this on this high tech redneck computer apparatus - like he will probably have to force himself to sing when he gets here (If he gets here).
So here’s my George Jones story in advance. Written two weeks before he will actually be here:
George Jones, living country legend in the (literal) mold of Jerry Lee Lewis, came to Rainbow City, Alabama, tonight, and could do no wrong. He could do no wrong because he has carved a unique niche in the world, one where he is fully expected, even desired to F*** Up and be revered for it.
That’s why we love him. (Yes, even me). Cause that’s what we’d all like to do: go through our lives just being ourselves, F****** up our lives, our loves, our children, and our jobs, and not only being paid for it, but being loved for it too.
So on March 19th, 2010, George came (or didn’t come) and sang (or didn’t sing) his greatest hits. And the people in attendance (Not me, I was home in bed) loved him. They all wanted to shake his hand. Wanted to be like him. Then he collected (or didn’t collect) his money and went on living.
A good time was had by all (even if he didn’t show).
Cause now the little old lady with the speech impediment can add to her own life by saying, "Oh, I was there AGAIN when he showed (or didn’t show) X amount of days (or years) before he died. He was wonderful."
In the radio commercial for the coming show it sounded like old George couldn’t hit some of the even easy notes anymore when he sang a tease of "I ain’t ready for your rocking CHAIR!
So it may not be too long before he does go into the Country Heaven Hall of Fame.
(Will Johnny be there, shooting up some heroin?)
Like some of the rest of us,
He’ll probably be glad when his days of toil on this earth are finally over.
How many times can you sing your greatest hits without getting sick of them?
How many times can you come to a town like this and wish you didn’t have to get off the bus?
The answer my friend, is known by a man living (maybe only partially, like the rest of us) in Nashville right now (or playing in some other town he doesn’t want to be in), and probably dreading the day he has to come here, even though it’s for one night only.
Hey George... Be glad you don’t have to live here all your life.
Like real working poor people have to do.
We love you because
You’re getting money for nothing
And your old country broads for free.
I guess that somewhere there is an unwritten rule of life
that only one person in the world can be revered for totally screwing up their life.
I wish it was me.
But, it’s you, George.
Congratulations.
WillBevis.com