Where Have You Gone, Bob McDill?

When I started work as a disc jockey in 1978, I was into rock music. Alice Cooper, Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin ruled my life, along with ELO, James Taylor and Jimmy Buffett albums thrown in for balance. The very idea of country music turned my stomach, due to the fact that I had heard snippets along the way of cheating songs and drinking songs and songs about Okies from Muskogee.
So imagine my surprise when I was hired to work afternoons and weekends at the local radio station WRJW-AM and WJOJ-FM. At the edge of town, along the highway to the coast, the building was set back in a grove of pine trees, the antenna tower rising above, with its blinking aircraft anti collision lights. It was a small building, about the size of a ranch house, with three offices, two on air studios and one main broadcast studio for the news desk, singing groups and preachers. Parked out front was a station van, used for live remote broadcasts, originally a VW microbus, and then later a full size Chevy van. The FM station was cool, but the AM station had been playing for thirty years the very music that I hated. I would work some afternoons on the AM side, sign off the station at sunset, and then babysit the automated FM system until 10:00 during the week, with occasional live stints on the weekend.
After learning the intricacies of operating the control board, I had to deal with the selection of music. It was not hard to ignore the music if I tried, due to the fact that there is much to do during the three minute average of the usual country song, but occasionally the opportunity to listen critically presented itself. For the most part, my low opinion was not altered. There were plenty of songs with titles such as “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed”, “She Can Put Her Shoes Under My Bed Anytime” and “Pittsburgh Stealers”. Yes the misspelling is correct, and no, it does not alter the quality of the song one bit.
But, occasionally something would sink in. It was around this time that I heard my first Bob McDill song, “Rake and Ramblin’ Man” by Don Williams. Don’s smooth, easy delivery drew me in, and the song took over from there. It was about a normal guy whose one night stand had resulted in a pregnancy, and his attempt to deal with the attitude adjustments and the practical plans. He says to his friend:

“Now she’s feeling sick in the morning and can’t get into her jeans
I spent my last ten dollars and bought her a second hand ring.
I start to work next Monday, ‘cause I just can’t let her down.
I’ve had me some good times, but that’s all changing now.

‘Cause you know I’m a rake and a ramblin’ man, free as an eagle flies.
Well, look at me now and tell me the truth…
Do I look like a Daddy to you?”

On each record that we played, the title of the song was listed, along with the songwriter’s name in parentheses on the label. I noticed the name Bob McDill on that song, and most of the songs that I was really drawn to for many years after.
I don’t mean to imply that everything McDill wrote was literature, either. As a professional songwriter, he produced many ordinary tunes for others just, as they say, to keep the lights on. But Bob had the ability to turn out occasional songs that would make me shake my head in amazement. One such song, probably his most famous, was “Good Old Boys Like Me”, another great recording for Don Williams. I never really liked the title, as it seems to imply shallowness. But the song really delivers. It is a nod to growing up southern and literate, which happens more often than many people realize. It deals with longing and human frailty, and the absolute need for some to leave the south while being always inexplicably attached to it.

“When I was a kid, Uncle Remus put me to bed.
With a picture of Stonewall Jackson above my head.
Then Daddy came in to kiss his little man,
With gin on his breath and a Bible in his hand.
He’d talk about honor and things I should know,
Then he’d stagger a little as he went out the door.”

Good Old Boys Like Me is considered by many to be the greatest country song ever written, and it’s hard to argue the point. From the mellow delivery to the irresistible hook, to the depths of the lyrics, it is still my favorite McDill song.
Along the way I fell in love with an album by Bobby Bare called Drunk and Crazy. The songs were eclectic and seemingly written for Bare’s voice, deep, resonant and full of emotion. One of the songs on the album was “Song of the South” written by McDill, and later recorded by Alabama, making it a huge hit, but missing the mark by being too fast and unemotional. In it, McDill wrote about the south in the depression:

“Cotton on the roadside, cotton in the ditch, we all picked cotton, but we never got rich
Daddy was a veteran, a southern Democrat, said “They oughta kill a rich man to vote like that”

A line so evocative that Alabama wussed out and changed to “They oughta get a rich man to vote like that.”
Later in the song, he says

“I was eighteen before I ate my fill; we lived on the garden and the cow’s good will.
Winter was wet and summer was dry, and Momma was old at thirty-five.”

I went on to work at other stations after that, some country formatted, some not. At one station, I worked with Ted White, who had spent some time in Nashville and imparted some wisdom about country music, like Tanya Tucker’s nickname in the industry (it rhymed), and how songs got made. He told me one thing that has always stuck with me. He said that there was so much junk in Nashville that a good song stuck out like a sore thumb. He said “You can’t hide a good song in Nashville. Somebody will always find it.” That has always made me smile, and was always the basis for my respect for the genre. Until now.

Something happened along the way, as I began to sour on country again. I found myself being drawn to Album Oriented Rock stations as I grew older, occasionally drifting back to country stations and finding a gem along the way, such as “Time Marches On” by Tracy Lawrence and “I Hate Everything” by George Strait. As the rise of Country Music Television happened, we were overrun by the plastic artists. Young, good looking people singing other people’s songs while posing like rock stars. I call them the hat dippers. At any important line in the song, like where they shouldn’t be crossed, or she better know that he’s not kidding, or the bad guys ought to look out for an American boot in the ass, they strategically dip the edge of their hat and stare into the camera. As if they really, really meant that. Please.
And so it did not surprise me to learn that the great songs by the songwriter I loved had gone away for a reason. Bob McDill says that he retired from songwriting in 2000. Not because he lost the talent, or the desire to see good songs recorded, but because the people on whom he depended to interpret his words were gone. They are still around, they are still talented, but they are touring casinos and county fairs, and they don’t have an album out soon, or a video debuting on CMT this weekend. They are not hat dippers; they are not pretty boys or girls anymore. They have outlived their usefulness to whatever mega corporation has dipped its toe into the music business this year. Yet, they still trudge on, to their credit, and I for one hope that the industry crashes and comes back to them. But I won’t hold my breath, or bet the farm on it.

The Bubba Telegraph

The boss comes in every morning in a huff, cussing, laughing and ruefully shaking his head. He has just heard the latest, and can’t wait to be the one to spread it around. I groan inwardly and feign interest, because I know what is coming.
“Did you see what Obama did yesterday?” He says. I knew that it would be about Obama because it is always about Obama. I wonder, halfheartedly what he railed about before Obama came on the scene, but of course I know. Clinton. Or whichever “Demoncrat” Fox News told him to worry about that day. He is capable of hateful insight, but needs direction. And these days he is not alone. I wonder in amazement how so many people in the course of a day can repeat and believe something that is demonstrably false and reveals itself to be so after thirty seconds worth of reasoning. Or at least a short Google search.

Dit-Dit, Dot-Dot.

I call it the Bubba Telegraph. Bubba because it is mostly, but hardly exclusively southern, like the remnants of the political party that successfully practiced it for so long. And the boss is the primary conduit.
“I can’t believe that the sonofabitch bowed to that Arab over there. What does he think he is doing?” I want to ask him whether it would be better to kiss and hold hands with him, like his hero did, but think better of it. Like most people in the post W world, I need the work.
“And he gave the Queen an IPOD. AN IPOD! And it was full of videos of his speeches. Can you believe the gall?” It would be hard to convince him that the unit was full of highlights of her recent trip to the United States, when he was still a junior U.S. Senator. The story was not true, but that did not matter. What mattered was that it was true enough. The fact that it had, as Colbert likes to say, certain “truthiness” to it is good enough for the Bubba Telegraph. Accuracy is not important. What is important is the way that it makes people feel. If they feel like the uppity boy from the projects is acting too big for his britches, then a story that reinforces it is just what the doctor ordered.
So why not try to correct the mistaken assumptions? It should be easy to do, just relate the facts, or point them in the right direction to find out for themselves. It really should be easy, but it is not. Having tried repeatedly, I run into this undeniable fact. They don’t want to know the truth. And that is the genius of the Bubba Telegraph’s circular logic. If you hear it from something other than the telegraph, don’t trust it. The great Liberal Media is out to discredit the very things that we believe in, and if you don’t believe it, just listen to the telegraph for proof.
The boss doesn’t limit his scorn and hatred to the president, either. Did you know that Michelle is just as bad, if not worse? The boss calls her the “First Bitch”, and she has just purchased a swing set for her kids. “She put it right on the White House lawn, one of those plastic ones, like you get at Wal-Mart.”
The fact that it is a very nice addition to the people’s house, and is not in any way cheap or plastic, or likely to have come from the local super center is lost on him. He heard it, and it must be true.
The news travels fast, and it gets passed around in record time. Fox, Walton and Johnson, Rush, Hannity, Laura, Bill, and back to Fox. It flows from the lobby of the hotel in Birmingham to the sales office in Oklahoma City. Have you heard the latest? You’re not going to believe this!

Dit-Dit, Dot-Dot.

Yo-Yo

Yo-Yo is an interesting man, and not only because of his nickname. He is the rig safety rep and medic, and can be seen at various times with an actual yo-yo dropping from and rising to his hand as he walks around and talks to people. And He talks to many people. He will joke often about his name and his hobby. Yes, He likes Yo-yos, he says, but the real reason for the name is that his real equipment will also reach the floor and He likes to put it to good use. He says that in Singapore, where this rig was built, He had many different types of girls – Malaysian, Chinese, Australian, Thai, Russian and others. He is a man on a mission, starting up conversations at every opportunity with the only female employee of the company that does the cooking, cleaning and laundry on board. He is the kind of Hunter that must have all game in his sights, even if he cannot necessarily take the shot at the moment.
We are alone late one night and talking in the Drillers Cabin on the drill floor while work is being done high above in the derrick. He is there to monitor the safety actions, and he is talking a streak.
“Man, just three days till I go home. I can’t wait.” The rig crews work two weeks offshore, two weeks back home on land.
“Yeah, must be nice,” I said. We do not. We are here until the rig is ready. Which could be any day now. Really.
“But, it’s gonna be a busy week.” Says Yo-Yo. “On Monday I’ve got my DWI hearing, Tuesday my Gulf Clearance Card appointment, and Wednesday is my divorce hearing.”
“Wow. That’s a busy enough week for three men.” I answered.
“I know.” Then he went on to volunteer. “The DWI hearing should be interesting. The state police lost my urine test. I blew a zero, but they insisted on a piss test.”
“What happened?”
“I was driving, tired and on prescription medicine. I stopped to get a donut and coffee, and the next thing I know, the cops are there. I flunked the field sobriety test, so they gave me the breathalyzer, which I passed.”
“And they took you in anyway?”
“Yeah. It might not have helped matters that I threw a donut hole and said ‘fetch’. I don’t think they liked that.”
“I guess not,” I said, laughing. “But, if they lost the urinalysis, then you’re probably home free, just don’t do it again. But won’t that affect getting the background check for the card?”
“I’m hoping that it doesn’t. I like working out here.”
“Unless it gets dropped because of the mix up with the urine”
He gets a sheepish grin and shakes his head, running his hand through his spiky hair.
“Well, I’ve got some priors.”
“Oh”
“Assaults. I’m skinny, but when I get you down on the ground, I can do some damage.” He gets up and stretches, walks out of the door onto the drill floor, to observe safe operations in action. Yo-Yo is an interesting man.

No Steak for Service Hands

Drilling rigs are crowded, bustling places with a definite social structure. At the top are the company men, who represent the oil company that is paying for the use of the rig, sometimes at the rate of half a million dollars per day. Then there are the numerous personnel of the drilling company, which owns the rig, followed by the company that takes care of the food, laundry, cleaning, etc. These are people who take grief from most people on board, usually behind their backs. Finally there are the third party personnel or “hands” as they are referred to. Service people, from mechanics to technicians to engineers are on board for various lengths of time. I am one of these.
There were four of us on duty; Hand 1, Hand 2, myself and the boss. The boss is Chinese, 1 and 2 are deep Louisiana Cajuns, and I am a garden variety Mississippi boy. Not quite a redneck just returned from twenty years around the world and in the upper Midwest. We are working the night shift and the boys are explaining America to the boss.
“You gotta understand” 1 said. “These people working in the galley and cleaning our rooms used to be our slaves.”
“Yeah, they were, and they still should be” said 2.
“The only good Nigger is a dead Nigger” said 1.
I just stared. I was speechless.
“Whoa, Hoss, be careful. He might be married to a black woman or something” said 2, gesturing to me.
“Are You?”
“Nah” I managed. They were looking straight at me.
“Good” said 1. “I didn’t think you looked like a Nigger lover.”
That’s when I walked out, into the cool night to think about this. As the new guy, I was at the mercy of these guys until we hit land again, in a month. It was cowardly of me not to say anything, and I knew it. I felt ashamed, because I am usually an opinionated smart ass and anywhere else I would have welcomed the opportunity to argue and try to change their minds. I also knew that they knew that this kind of conversation, if reported to HR, would land them in the unemployment line. I also knew that offshore is a dangerous place and accidents happen all the time. I also did not want to be the different guy again. The election had just taken place, and I was the guy receiving the emails accusing Obama of being a Muslim traitor and many other things. Because I went against the tide and said that I supported him. Because I was different in a company culture that celebrates conservative white values, the foremost of which is a sense of unjustly fleeting entitlement. I said nothing, but hated them for making me hate myself.
A couple of days later, in the galley, we lined up for midnight meal. The food is usually very good, and there is plenty of it. We sat down, but 2 slammed down his plate and walked out of the room, leaving us to wonder what had happened. Later, we found him and asked what had happened.
“Son of a bitch told me I couldn’t have a steak.” He said.
“There was steak?”
“Yeah, left over from the main lunch today. I asked him to throw me one on the grill”.
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“He said they were just for main party personnel. No steak for service hands.”
“Ain’t that some shit.” Said 1. “He got a lot of nerve.”
“Guess we’re lower on the totem pole here than we think.” I said. I would not miss this opportunity. “Looks like everybody is somebody’s Nigger.”

Random Thought

Reason number 4,327 why we should pay attention in school.

INDIFFERENT

In the same way that dozens of cars just like the one that you just drove off the lot with seem to appear on the journey home, I have begun to notice other houses for sale.

On a jog through the neighborhood today, I noticed a realtor sign up ahead, and almost tripped as I read the tightly spaced letters on the bottom of the sign that spelled out "INDIFFERENT." Being somewhat new to the home seller's rodeo, I just assumed that maybe I was missing out on an unorthodox strategy and made a mental note to ask our realtor "Does that attitude ever work?" At this point, I am willing to try anything.

But of course, as is usually the case in my life, I was mistaken. The sign actually bragged "I'M DIFFERENT," and through a combination of middle aged eyesight and a general case of being not too bright, I made the assumption. And we all know what happens when we make assumptions.

These are trying times in many industries, not the least of which is real estate. Many thousands of home owners are wondering what is the best and most successful strategy. Maybe leaving a plate of cookies under the sign is the answer. Or perhaps a sign that says "Three free lawn mowings if you buy now!" would do the trick. Although soon it will have to be edited to say "snow shovelings." Unfortunately I am not wealthy enough to advertise "Buy one get one free."

So, as I wait for my home to sell, I will get my eyes examined. Maybe there is a way to include an eye exam as part of the deal....

Moving On Down, To The South Side

Timing, as they say, is everything. Having decided that a change in career was in order, I packed the car, left the sale of the house in the very capable hands of my wife, and drove in the direction of the gulf coast. Luck was on my side, as my brother and his family would host me for the duration of a lengthy training period with a large company in the energy industry. We would be able to sell the house, load up the boy and the labrador retreiver, and resettle in the Texas or Louisiana gulf coast area. The plan was set and all we had to do was carry it out. A little time apart is nothing, and the future holds much business travel, for which I will be well compensated.

Then Ike came calling.

I don't like Ike.

I grew up along the Mississippi coast, but have not been through a Hurricane since 1985. I remembered that they were exciting, sometime scary inconveniences. In the same way that the memory of the pain of a broken bone or kidney stone or even, I am told, childbirth lessens as the years go by, I had forgotten how much hurricanes are a pain, even after the scenes of Katrina.

No power for two days. And we were the lucky ones. Many Houstonians are still without power and water, a miserable existence. Schools and business closed for at least a week, including my new employer, which delays the training period and the chance to begin to earn real money.

And, the stock market imploded, capital is questionable, banks and insurance companies are shaky and suddenly no one is interested in buying a wonderful, four bedroom home in the Omaha suburbs. Thank God that I have a loving, generous family with (hopefully) lots of patience. We are all going to need it.

Timing is everything.