Johnny Cash "I Walk The Line"

There was this girl that I had a huge crush on . . .

Okay, let me stop right there and point out that there are many many entries of this blog that start with some form of that last sentence.  But I don't think I've ever written about this girl before.  It's true, I had a lot of crushes on a lot of girls in my day, but never did I pull of a coup such as this.

It all started 7 years prior, somewhere circa 1993.  I had met this girl at a business meeting and was completely lovestruck in the first 30 seconds when she said, apropos of nothing, "Would you like to hear my imitation of a moose?!"  I was utterly charmed.

I asked her out and, I dunno, something happened.  A miscommunication or something.  And it seemed like she blew me off.  I was crushed.  Not long after, I heard she moved West.

Seven years later, I was walking out of the grocery store and did a double-take.  There she was, walking into the store.

I quickly shoved my groceries in the car and went back in, to find that item I, um, forgot.  Yeah.  I forgot toilet paper.  So even if I tried to talk to her and she blew me off again, at least we'd have extra toilet paper at 7 Maples.

But she didn't blow me off.  She remembered me.  We chatted.  I played it cool.  I asked her what she was doing for work.  Told her that now that she was back in town, I'd see her around.

And then I stalked her.

Okay, not really stalked her.  I mean, it just so happened that my favorite coffee shop was right across the street from the office where she was working.  So I'd go there every day, and sit at a table and read a book and hope she'd come for a coffee break.  Or that she'd leave the office at the same moment I was leaving the coffee shop, so I could wave to her.

It did happen from time to time.

She was very friendly and warm, and she prolonged the conversations.  She seemed interested.  Right up to the point where I'd say, "So and so is having a party this weekend . . ." and she'd say that she had something going on.

One night on the town, I figured out where the resistance was coming from.  I saw her in a local bar with a nicely dressed, good looking dude.

Okay, so she's seeing somebody.  But I think she's still interested in me.  Because in all our conversations, she never mentions this guy.  I think I have a shot.

I needed to do two things.

I needed a way to get her to hang out with me, without it seeming like she was on a date.  Because if she was seeing someone, she wouldn't go out on a date.  But if it were just a night out---not a date---then she could say Yes.

Secondly, I had to pitch an irresistible line. And I found that line:


Hear the line, on Youtube.

Well, I didn't say "Hello I'm Johnny Cash" to her.  What I said was, "I have an extra Johnny Cash ticket, would you like to go?"

Now understand, this wasn't just a ticket to see Johnny Cash.  This was an opportunity to see him at The Carter Family Fold.

I'm sure you know the Johnny Cash story.  He married June Carter, who was a member of the famous Carter Family, known as some of the originators of what we call country music.  The Carter Family had a farm not far from where I lived in Virginia.  And on Saturday nights, they opened up their barn for concerts, usually featuring bluegrass and Old Time bands.  But June had a new album out, and she was putting on a concert, and Johnny, as well as their son John, were on the bill.  My friends and I scored 10 tickets.

Come with me and my friends to see what would perhaps be the last chance to ever see Johnny Cash (and yes, it turned out to be one of his last ever live performances)?

She couldn't say no.

And no unmentioned boyfriend in the world could veto an invitation like that.

We met up on the day of the show, and, as preplanned, my friends got into two four-seater cars, in two groups.  No room for anyone else in either of those cars.  That left two people behind.  Me and my non-date.

"We can take my car, I guess," I said, nonchalantly.

And that was my whole plan.  To be nonchalantly awesome.  

I had music by her favorite artist on the tape deck in my car.  I had racked up and road-tested a dozen stories to tell, just in case the conversation slowed.  I made her come up to the concession stand with me, and I bought her a 50 cent ice cream sandwich, which came off as wholesome and charming---all part of the plan.

The Carter Family Fold is literally a barn-like structure, built into a hill.  If you get there late, you can sit on the hillside and look into the open side of the barn.  But if you get there early, you can sit inside, because it's first-come, first serve.  And these are not Skybox seats we're talking about.  These were wooden benches, made "softer" because they had rug samples stapled to them.

We wanted to get there very, very early.  Mostly because we wanted to be close-up to Johnny Cash.  But yeah, it didn't hurt that this extended my non-date.

I was deftly managing to walk the thin line between date and non-date, quite well.  Being fairly awkward as a rule, telling myself this wasn't a date took a lot of the pressure off.  I was only off my balance once, when one of my friends made the crack to her about "PJ doesn't bring all his dates to a show like this."  I shot laser eyes at him to indicate: "THIS IS NOT A DATE."

Hours were passing and my material was running low, but The Plan was working.  I felt like I was winning her over.  And then . . .

"Hello, I'm Johnny Cash."

He was old and he was grey and he was hoarse.  But he was Johnny Mother-F-N Cash and he was standing right in front of us singing "Big River."  He was playing straight man to the ever hilarious June.  And when he ceded the stage to let her sing, he would sit on the bench in the back, and somehow, miraculously, cease to be "Johnny Cash."  Somehow, miraculously, he could turn that charisma off and become human again.  Only to fire it back up when it was his turn to absolutely slay the crowd by singing "Far Side Banks Of Jordan" with June.

When it was over and we exited The Fold, we, along with the crowd, shared in the buzz of knowing that we'd just seen something pretty special, we'd witnessed a moment in time that we'd carry with us for the rest of our musical lives.

The ride home with her was quiet, as was appropriate for the ringing in our ears, the winding dark Virginia roads, and the brilliantly starry, crystal-clear sky.

I was at peace, knowing that despite the many, many disappointments and failures I had had in my dating days, I couldn't have made this night any better.

We reached home, and I distinctly remember the sound of my car door shutting, as I walked her to her car.  And when I heard that sound, I knew it was over.

"Well, thanks," she said.

"That was amazing, huh?"

"Yeah.  It was.  Thanks again."

"We'll do it again sometime," I said, pitching it somewhere halfway between a question and a suggestion.

"Uh, yeah, yeah.  Of course."  The hesitancy had returned.

"I'll see you down the coffee shop."

But the magic of seeing Johnny Cash, live and in person, was never coming back, and neither was this moment with her.  She had a boyfriend, and the temporary effects of a Johnny Cash show weren't going to override that.

Sometimes, even when you walk the line perfectly, she's still going to end up on the far side banks from where you are.  No matter how awesomely nonchalant you walk it.


Hear the song on Youtube.


Hear "Far Side Banks Of Jordan" on Youtube.

They Might Be Giants "Your Racist Friend"

All eyes were suddenly on me.  I had said that last line a little louder than I realized I guess, because the gears of the room had ground to a halt.  And I was the spanner in the works . . .

It was my house.  I didn't really know any of these guys.  And if I'd thought about it, I wouldn't have really cared if they liked me or didn't like me or whatever.  They weren't my friends.

They weren't my roommate's friends either.  Not if this is where we found ourselves.

Living in the farmhouse we called 7 Maples was, for me, a lovely continuation of my college years---free and unattached and late nights and drinking beer and having fun with friends.

As for my roommate and her friends, they were a few years younger.  College age.  So it wasn't so much a continuation, as, well, just the college years for them.

She knew a lot of guys.  And during breaks from college, when high school friends would come back to town, these college boys would show up at our place.  Presumably because they all still lived at their parents.

I think my roommate (in the minds of these guys) was kind of like the kid in the neighborhood that you didn't necessarily want to be your best friend, but, she had a pool.  So you hung out.

And that's how I came home to a dozen or so guys hanging around my living room, drinking beer and shooting the shit.  I stood in the doorway to the living room, observing, listening.  Nothing unusual.  Nothing I would have been upset about.

But I was protective of the roommate, and I could see this kid-with-the-pool thing.  I heard the way they talked to her.  Talked down to her.

I had heard many of these guys talk trash about her on other occasions.

And that put me off.

But when the racist jokes started, that's when things turned . . .

"What do you call a black guy who . . ."

"Please stop," my roommate meekly protested.

The joke teller paused for a split second, and kept going, even as their host was saying, "No, don't."

Buoyed by the laughter when the joke landed, and by the weak protest of their host, another guest offered a joke on the same theme.

"What do you call a black guy who . . ."

"Really guys.  Stop it.  I don't want to hear it."

But her protestations were only fuel.  The joke was delivered with more gusto.

It made me sick.

The racist jokes made me sick.  And the total lack of fucking respect for her made me sick.

A third jokester started.

"Okay, okay.  What do you call a black guy who . . ."

"THAT'S FUCKING ENOUGH.  NO MORE RACIST JOKES IN MY HOUSE."

All eyes were suddenly on me.  I had said that last line a little louder than I realized I guess, because the gears of the room had ground to a halt.

"Enough," I said again, more gently.

And then I stepped out of the doorway and into the recesses of the house.  Half embarrassed about by outburst.  Half furious that I would have to make it in the first place.

I heard conversation slowly start again from the room.  But within 5 minutes, the crowd was excusing itself, and within 10 minutes, they were all gone.

It was the strangest thing.  I had never thought of myself as so powerful.  I cleared a room full of guys who could just as easily kicked my ass, with two short sentences.

Even stranger, was the way these guys reacted to me when they would see me around later.  Instead of hating, or even acting embarrassed, they did something I completely did not expect.

They respected me.

I was given some level of deference by these idiots, who so easily disrespected and steamrolled my roommate (and I'm sure many others), and instead was treated with a cautious respect.

It was a good life lesson.

I'm a pretty shy guy.  Not one to rock the boat, or broadcast strong feelings to a crowded room.

But this vignette gave me the confidence to speak up when necessary, and to even speak combatively.  And know it was actually more likely to win you friends than enemies.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Sugar "If I Can't Change Your Mind"

"What the hell happened to you?!" the kid behind the counter at Subway had apparently asked, with just a little bit of trepidation.

Looking at my roommate, it's not hard to understand why the kid would have thought a crazy, perhaps dangerous man had just been in the sandwich shop.

It had been a loooonng day, and it started early.

This was when I was living in Southwest Virginia, in the a big farmhouse called 7 Maples. Living out the post-college dream of being on the radio, drinking beer, staying up late, being with friends, watching a lot of sports and listening to a lot of music.

My roommate was both a huge Bob Mould fan, and (because he was an alumnus) a Virginia Tech football fan. And on a hot, hot fall Saturday, there was both a game, and a Sugar show to go to.

So we were up early, with his Dad. I didn't have tickets to the game, but I took the road trip two hours up I-81, to sit in a bar within earshot of the stadium to watch the game on TV, while they went to the game.

I knew it was going to be a long, long journey into the night so I sipped my beer slowly, as the frat kids around me got sloppier and sloppier.

The sight of my roommate after the game, made me laugh.

"You sat on the sunny side of the stadium, huh?"

Lane Stadium could be a cold, unforgiving place in November and December. But on this day, half the crowd was on a concrete cookie sheet baking in the sun.

And my roommate was quick to turn lobster red in those conditions.

We split with his Dad, who returned to Abingdon, and we traveled on to Chapel Hill for Sugar, who were touring behind "File Under Easy Listening."

The Cat's Cradle that night was like a convection oven---mostly airless, but except of gusts of hotter heat that swirled around the raucous activity of the crowd.

Sugar was just a singular kind of band. They had this focused, precise, tight type of anger---a really amazing mix of ferocity and control. And the audience acted accordingly, moving and swaying and sweating en mass, both exhausted and still frenzied.

With our ears still ringing, we started our long drive home.

We were both broke, having spent what we had on gas and beer, but we scraped together a couple of bucks as we pulled into a local Subway. My roommate offered to go in himself, while I kept the car running.

I wish I could have seen the look on the kid's face when this large, tired-looking, wrung-out red man, fully drenched in sweat, walked into Subway and said, "Can I have two Gatorades and a small bag of pretzels?"

But my roommate came out laughing, having been previously unaware at just how horrible and weird he must look to the rest of the normal world, a world that hadn't spent the day watching football, drinking beer, driving a few hundred miles, jumping around at a rock show and steeling himself for another few hundred miles of highway home.

Hear the song on Youtube.

Bob Mould "See A Little Light"

Oddly enough, when I hear "See A Little Light" it takes me back to being in the dark. Literally.

Ah, to be young and single. There are so many aspects to the story that follows, that are so far removed from the life I have now . . .

Let's see, where to start.

I'm on a lawn chair, on the deck of a house that is not mine. It is after midnight. I am with a girl I like. It is completely dark.

Honestly, this scenario was not a one time thing. I often brought a girl to this very location.

I'm in my late 20s, living in southwest Virginia.

I live in a 100 year old rented farm house, known as 7 Maples, with two of my friends. The house is huge, the rent is cheap. We are all single and generally unencumbered (we own little and owe little). Beer and cigarettes and coffee and friends and dates come and go, frequently and at all hours.

I'm a DJ, working the evenings, which means I don't get home until after midnight, every night. So much of my social interaction occurs when most of the town has gone to sleep.

The farmhouse is on the road. A country road, but right on it. Walking out of the wood stove room/back door to the driveway in the back is a slight incline, which then become a steeper, brush covered incline. Cutting a path through the brush is a dirt road, winding its way up the hill. At the top of the hill, just before the treeline, is the studio.

The farmhouse is owned by a husband/wife artist team. They have just built this beautiful studio, for their expanding production. They bought the land to build the studio; 7 Maples came in the bargain, so they rent in cheaply. On the lower level, is her kiln and her rows of tiny, handmade jewelry. On the top level, are his looms for his giant, rich, wall hangings. And on their deck are a few lawn chairs.

It is not unusual for me to bring a girl up here. The landlords don't mind. Encourage it, in fact. Just pick up your empty beer cans. Otherwise, enjoy the view.

When I hear "See A Little Light," even today, this is where I am. On a warm summer might with a warm summer beer, hoping to impress a girl, and generally unencumbered by anything more taxing than that.

It seems kind of idyllic, and I could probably paper over the reality with nostalgia. But the truth is that what felt like freedom on a good day, felt like being set adrift, aimlessly, on another day. There could be drama and mood-swings and angst. Some of that generated internally, and some of that manifested in the people around me.

7 Maples, due to its fluid and welcoming nature, attracted its fair share of friends and hangers-on, drunks and lost boys/girls. People searching, or flailing, or failing. People who's only reaction to things that didn't make sense, was to curse the darkness and shout out into the night.

"Ahh, shit. I'd better go see what that is."

I reluctantly got up from my lawn chair, which had been pulled close to her lawn chair.

Remember in "Say Anything" when you first hear "In Your Eyes" and you just think it's the movie soundtrack, until they show Lloyd in the yard with his boom box?

At first I didn't notice the melody in the air for anything other than a soundtrack to whatever I'm sure I was going on about in an effort to impress this girl. But then I realized that Bob Mould was booming from my house, which was a good 300 yards away.

We ambled our way in the dark, down the hill and as we got closer to the house, I could see a little light, literally, from the wood stove room where the stereo lived and most of the beer was consumed. The stereo speakers were now in the window, and the stereo was cranked up to 11.

I walked inside, smoothly and succinctly, heading straight for the stereo to turn it down.

"It's a little loud," I said, with a cocked eyebrow.

There was no point in making a salient argument, or getting too angry. He was drunk.

He was a friend of one of the roommates. The kind of guest that doesn't leave, even after his friend has gone to bed (if the are still drinks to be had).

I'm not sure what he was trying to accomplish by putting the speakers in the window and blasting Bob Mould across the hillside. And I'm fairly certain that he couldn't tell you either.

It was just the kind of thing you did when you were in your 20s, a little lost, a little drunk, a little in the dark, searching for some kind of answers.


Hear the song on Youtube.


Hear the song on Youtube.

Southern Culture On The Skids "Dirt Track Date"

It was called "7 Maples" and it's where I called home for five years in that stretch of the 90s when I lived in the most western part of the state of Virginia.

The farmhouse had come with the acres purchased by our artist landlords, who had built a beautiful studio at the top of the hill. "7 Maples" was the original homestead on the land, with parts of the structure dating back 100 years.

It was called "7 Maples" because the land had 6 maple trees on it, but the original owners thought "7 Maples" was more poetic-sounding than "6 Maples."

It was rickety and rustic and just right for as a space for a pair of 20-somethings to live in. It wasn't too nice---we couldn't really do anything to ruin it. And it had space for me and my roommate.

And one more.

Throughout our tenure, we had a rotating array of 3rd roommates. They were always close friends, but always changed the dynamic from the consistence of the two of us.

The sprawling layout was charming in the daytime, and would have been as charming at night, if we'd never heard the story of the murder/suicide that had occurred in our front room, early in the century.

At night, when the mind plays tricks, the house could be a bit scary, with its creaky floors, and maple branches brushing the roof, and the quiet, quiet countryside of southwest Virginia.

And then there was the creepy appeal of the 2nd floor room that we gave to the rotating 3rd roommate.

The room itself was fine, but it lead to a large walk-in closet. The closet was only partially finished. And off the walk-in closet, was another totally unfinished space.

A room, within a room, within a room. Like a panic room. Or a place you'd hide a body.

As I said, Roommate #3 was always the wild-card. And one night, I came home to find a certain #3 passed out on the couch.

Not unusual. Roommate #3 liked to take a drink. Or five.

Climbing the stairs to my bedroom, I had to pass by her room. And from the room I heard breathing.

Not unusual. Roomate #3 liked to take a drink or five and bring home a guest from the bar.

I worked the night shift those years, and sometimes, on my way in well after midnight, I'd pass some stranger, on his way out.

But this one was breathing loudly. I shouldn't be able to hear breathing through the closed door, should I?

I inched closer to the frame. Heavy, heavy breathing.

Mechanized sounding breathing.

There was something strangely robotic about this heaving, in and out, in and out.

It's after midnight. It's dark. I'm alone, except for a passed out roommate on the couch downstairs, and whoever is behind the door.

In and out, in and out.

Breathing from the creepy room.

I'm a reasonable, rational human being. What is there to be afraid of?

I stood there for another full minute, hoping I could come up with a good excuse.

Failing that, I thought I'd better look in the room.

The hallway light was harsh, entering the bedroom that was completely dark, except for the tiny glow of a stereo light.

A stereo that was playing. Counting. Spinning on low volume.

I'd been haunted by the ghost of Southern Culture On The Skids album "Dirt Track Date."

At the very end of the album, when the title track fades out, you are left with a sound. The sound of a dirt track.

Cars, vroomming around the track past a microphone. The doppler effect making the pitch rise and fall.

Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . .
Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . .
Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . .

It goes on for 5 minutes or so, this mechanical pulsating of cars roaring by, which, when turned low on your stereo, sounds a lot like mechanical breathing.

Jump ahead to 3:21 on the Youtube video, to hear the song end, and the cars/creepy breathing. (they fade it out; it actually goes on for 5 minutes on the record)