I've been listening to a lot of country radio lately. I love it, I hate it. That Applebee's song comes on and I hate it then I love it. I want tequila-little time with you. Hair piled high big hoops. He ain't mine but he's my boy. Sittin here, drinkin beer, talkin God Amen, where the peaches grow.
The picture it paints is just simplicity, good old American life, partying, and a few happy tears. A long gone fairy tale.
People. This is what Covid has pushed me to. The brink of top 25 country commercial radio.
Just turn it off, you say. No. I have this old dial radio in my kitchen. It was my Uncle John's. He would sit in his chair in his apartment in the Northern Liberties in Philly and listen to all kinds of stations. He was listening to it when he died in that chair. He wasn't found dead until days later. I told this story here. Throwback to 2007! OMG!
This music just transports me out of my house/home office/sanctuary/prison into another world where we're all healthy, with glowing sunkist skin, a pair of jeans that fit just right, bare feet in the cool grass, big wine slushie in hand during a gorgeous sunset.
Maybe soon I'll turn the dial back to the classic rock station, when Salty D loses his mind because Fancy Like is played almost every hour. Until then I'll live in my sunny country fantasy.
So the old radio is playing the country music while I work and I just decided to blog again.
Comments