Yesterday’s _Times_ brought the seemingly-endless obituary of George Jones, together with a feature story in which Michael Buble took his backup singers down into the subway at Lincoln Center to fill a guitar case with tips and literally “build traffic” under a new album. It should be possible to bridge a blog comment between two pillars like that, but I feel as dry as a watering hole in late August. Oh, yeah: the caption said that Buble was wearing a “tuxedo,” but it looked like one of the skinny-tie concoctions I had to wear back in the ninth grade. What’s happening to sartorial vocabulary? And I liked that twin-necked guitar!
I’m a dude too! The first time I crossed the Hudson River there was a farmer milking a cow–out in his field!!!, beside a two-lane highway, without any barn–and silver-sided formica diners, and Burma Shave signs, and I know not what else. I’ve been entranced with the west, in that faux-gothamite sort of way, ever since!
Being a Texas writer, I’m not entranced with the West, but I do enjoy the way country music makes you want to smile, almost against your will, even if the lyrics are sad. There’s an undertone of self-mocking humor only found elsewhere, maybe, in Cole Porter?