And America, too. And all us goddamned sinners and the ones that didn’t stop us from sinning out of love. And the mornings and the evenings and all the funerals and parades. And the hatred and lies and the piles of donations and the water which will rise of its own accord. All those broken soldiers and the park benches with the initials of young love carved into their faces. And the history books and the gallows and the Colt .45 that tamed the west. Jesus, too. And the misfits and the coders and drunks in hallways who could not make it to their beds.
Shallow graves and deep pockets; God bless you, America. The Wampanoag and the Clovis and Vinnie from Bayside. Fishermen and widows and no-longer-Nazi rocket scientists and shortstops. Hitchhikers and serial killers, and cops and whores, and oilmen and trappers. And all these motherfucking rivers with their motherfucking gamblers. Beer and whiskey and hatchets and war and all of it America.
God bless us all, all us sinners.
“Beard, huh? Doesn’t itch?”
“When it comes in. Not after that.”
“And long hair? Gets in your eyes, don’t it?”
“Ya brush it out of your eyes. Wear a hat. Braid it up or something.”
“That don’t smell like a Marlboro.”
“I feel like I’m learning a lot here, Leon.”
Charlie Pride could’ve had a lot less hassle in his life. Hell of a voice: could’ve sang soul or pop or blues or standards or telegrams or anything he wanted to, and been a success with the right material.
But Charlie heard a stampede over the horizon when it was quiet in the house, and saw a cowboy in the mirror. Charlie Pride wanted to sing country music, and so he did, and well. Some people just have to sing songs of their own.
Be like Charlie Pride. (Charlie is seen here with some rando in his band.)
I don’t know why this is in my head today.
An offering and some news:
Willie Nelson is awesome, but there’s no version without Paul Simon. Just ignore the Jew and concentrate on the Texan.
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Willie Nelson has his own line of doobie coming out soon, because of course he does, and GQ has an article in which Willie gently and pleasantly ignores the interviewer for a few thousand words, but the real point of the piece is the quote. It’s from the CEO of Willie’s new weed company:
“For fifty years he’s been such an icon in this space that [for] everybody taking part in the artistic development of this plant over the last thirty, forty years, it’s kind of their bucket list to get product to Willie. And so Willie’s experienced the best cornucopia that has been grown over the decades and, you know, he really developed a legendary stash. And he’s developed a point of view about how he feels about the category and how he feels about the product and how he feels about consumers. So it’s taking that and distilling that vision and those values, translating that into the marketplace.”
And just like that: weed stopped being cool. Just another widget with a verified Twitter account. One more jungle for the monkeys of snobbery to hurl themselves through. Pedigree and genetics and terroir and lungfeel and optics and narrative and vision. Always with the fucking vision and the point-of-view: everything has a story, now. And values: brands have values, as if they were Methodists or something.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll return to it: white people are–as we speak–ruining marijuana in the same way they ruined coffee, wine, tea, movies, and clothing: by deliberately over-complicating a staple in order to rig a status game in favor of the wealthy and bored.
Is fortified wine still free of this meaningless corporate bullshit? Maybe the air is still clear out by Boone’s Farm.
This one ain’t a Dead song, but it should have been:
Commodore of the Crimean Fleet and dark horse contender in the 2016 Presidential run Mr. Completely brings this bit of genius Americana to our attention: the crowd’s half (at least) the fun here, and–not to engage in wanton stereotyping–Willie’s longtime harmonica player, Mickey Buffalo, has got to be the only Jew in the stadium, if not the county.
Fun facts: the Dead never played Whiskey River live. They tried it once at rehearsal, but it introduced pernicious thoughts into Billy and he was arrested later that day for sneaking onto a paddle steamer and punching Hal Holbrook (dressed as Mark Twain) in the dick, then claiming he had the vapors.
Also, at 8.10 you will fall in love.
Not enough for you, Fellow Enthusiasts? Need an overload of joyful noise to begin your Friday? Coffee not Irished up enough?
Here ya go:
Willie singing Kermit. God Bless America, and all her ships at sea. Take today out back and…well: make Billy proud.