The video above is Brian performing. The musical artists that I place in high esteem are for the most part poets. Brian, Kris Kristofferson, John Prine, Guy Clark… and any time I get a chance I go to see them. The smaller the venue, the better.

Last night I had the honor of listening to Brian and Terry Rasor at a place called Chubby’s Burger Shack on what is now called Camp Bowie West, it used to be called Hwy 80. Three hours of picking, singing, foot tapping and smiling. 

This is the type of country music that takes me back. An open outdoor stage, jets flying overhead, Harley’s cruising up the road, the clank of long necks in buckets, greasy french fries, wind blowing, the sounds of America emanating from the stage. Performers who shake hands with the audience, wave to friends, sit and talk during their breaks. It reminded me of the jamborees of the ‘60s. Performers, artists, real people no fancy tricks just pure music about me, about us.

By the way, Chubby’s makes a great burger and a great Frisco.

Television used to have outstanding theme songs. You knew immediately what was coming on based up on the theme. Who can hear the “William Tell Overture” without thinking of the Lone Ranger ? And everyone is familiar with the bar where everyone knows your name.  Bonanza, Rawhide, The Rockford Files great shows and memorable theme songs.

Can you think of a show, that isn’t animated, on television today with a memorable theme? There are a few like “Bad Things” from True Blood; and “ I’m No Superman”, Scrubs, but after those I was drawing a blank.

Then I came across a  show which has a great memorable theme and infuses music throughout. Music is integral to the show. The show is on TNT and although I don’t subscribe to cable I found it on streaming video at their website. That show is Memphis Beat. The music is early rock and blues. The show stars Jason Lee, yes that quirky guy from My Name is Earl. He portrays a Memphis Police detective that sings part-time and has a heart. He uses his knowledge of Memphis history to solve crimes.

The crime solving isn’t flashy or high-tech, it is mostly good old-fashioned pavement pounding and asking questions. The writing is fair to good but the infusion of the music is superb. I find myself unable to sit still and I tend to back up and replay certain sequences just to hear the music again.

Speaking of music, I went to hear Freddie, Larry and Steve play at Chubby’s and they were great. Kudos to Larry he has become  a musical virtuoso. I am going to have to catch them more often to see how deep their repertoire is.

The story goes that when it came time to select the class song that the majority of the seniors, class of ‘65, voted for the Roger Miller song, Chug-a-lug.

Our senior class sponsors did not think this song was appropriate, apt probably but not appropriate so they chose the Andy Williams’ song Moon River.

The story has been around since the results of the voting was announced. The truthfulness I can’t personally attest to but I did vote for Chug-a-lug.  It was allegedly a case of authority figures imposing their will because “they knew best”.

Would I be ashamed of having Chug-a-lug as my class song today. NO. Even though alcohol and I have parted ways for many years it was part of my life. The song represented who we were, rebellious teenagers.

Some friends and I responded to a couple of status updates. One status update was “You never forget your first true love.” This statement elicited comments ranging from initials of that first love to testimonials.  I “liked” the status but didn’t comment.

The reason I didn’t comment is because it hit too close to where my head has been lately. In writing my stories I often use personal experiences as a basis for the plots, but lately my writing has become labored. I start to write and my mind wanders. I am unable to write because memories come flooding in and I am transported back in time. I get distracted. I get overly emotional and the writing suffers.

As I get older I seem to be getting more and more emotional. Tears, once a rarity in my persona, are now frequently falling on my keyboard. I ask myself if I have become softer or if the tears are a result of PTSD. I now believe that the tears have been there all along. I suppressed my emotions for a very long time and as a result my relationships were all doomed to failure.

Two high school acquaintances reconnected after all these years and demonstrated that love is possible for people over 60. I remember  having a crush on the distaff half of this couple back in high school, but then I believe most of the males in school did also.

The thoughts of first love and high school brought back memories of my own experiences. For those who have read my book, you know that those memories are key to who and what I became. They are also a daily reminder that I am alone.

It was the responses to the second update that really caught my attention and started me reminiscing. I posted a video link to an old Don Williams’ song, Some Broken Hearts Never Mend.

The discussion turned to how only love can mend a broken heart (another great song) and strange ways people met.  Having been relatively date free since 2003 I took a distinct interest in this portion of the conversation.

After studying the responses and comparing the experiences of others to my own, I figured out why I shall remain dateless.

As a recovering alcoholic I must avoid bars. I only go grocery shopping in the middle of the night when the stores are pretty much empty. Never having had children I have little in common with most people. My life is an eclectic conflagration of contradictions. There are lots of little reasons. I suppose the fact that although I got married several times (drunk at each wedding) and that I got cheated on every time, I became more guarded. But the primary reason is that I am still in love with my first love.

I have only found one lady since then that evoked emotions as strong, but a rabid Lothario came between us. She crossed the line destroying my trust. When discussing our relationship she expressed doubt about the depth of my feelings because I treated her with respect and not as a “play thing”. I guess you could say there was a “failure to communicate”.

I believe I am still a romantic at heart but I am also a realist. I will never meet anyone sitting at home, but that is where my comfort zone is. My standards, my ideals are high, perhaps unrealistic for a fat old man. Maybe they are just another barrier I have put up to protect what is left of my heart.

I started writing for it’s cathartic benefits, now it seems that I have lost sight of my goal or perhaps my goal has never changed.  A man is like a boat but without a good woman to be his rudder he drifts aimlessly. Perhaps my goal has always been to love and be loved. A goal I prevent myself from attaining by being me, but I have to be me perhaps I’ve always been crazy, but it keeps me from going insane. 

There was the occassion that her boyfriend ,then, decided for some strange reason I was a threat so he provoked a fight with me, which I lost. There was the time I wrote a few poems for her. My poetry at the time was probably doggerel for my writing, like my living skills, were not yet developed. Even at that age, I was no stranger to fights. Being a military brat and constantly moving I learned early to stand up for myself. I learned many things but girls, ladies, …women were and to a large extent still are…a mystery.

The male friend and I were not close in high school although the two ladies we dated were. He married his high school sweetheart, but as a result of their not being able to keep secrets and those secrets getting back to my girl friends parents, my high school sweetheart and I were forced to part company. Her hypocritical father slapped me during this altercation. I stood there and took it…for the last time. I have only been slapped once since and that person had to have their arm reset in the hospital.

Time and circumstances precluded me and her from ever getting together. Multiple marriages for both of us but we were never single at the same time, or I was half a world away, there was never a good time. I discovered later that attempts at communication had been made and thwarted by other parties.

. I have struggled to be someone who would make her proud. Like so many Government minions before me, my actions now regulated to some hidden files securely locked away from the public eyes. I have seen her at various times but have never approached her ,for she seems to have found happiness and that is what I have always wished for her. As for me, I have the memories, the reminders and the loneliness. I guess happiness is for others.

The life of an undercover is a lonely life. I learned that early on. I also learned that all my attention and concentration had to be directed at the investigation. I can’t afford to be thinking about home.

Maybe it would have been different if I had had children, but her “operation” put the kibosh on that. I noticed when reading her obit that she went on to have children. Then there are the rumors, but officially I never had children.

My last divorce took place because of abandonment. She was absent nine years out of 12. When my father passed, I was alone. When I had my arm operated on, I was alone. When I had my heart attack, I was alone.  When my mother passed, I was alone.Five different times I had a pet die, I was alone.  When I fell off the wagon, I was alone.

When I think back over my life’s work I was alone for most of it. Part of the time by choice, part of the time by circumstance and part of time due to abandonment. I realize that her abandonment of me was mostly my fault since that is probably how she felt when my work took me away for extended times. She was just doing to me what I had done to her.

Prior to my heart attack I think I would have classified myself as an “A-type” personality. I lived for work, the action and adrenalin of the job.  It took a couple of years after the heart attack for me to actually slow down and come to grips with the fact that some where along the line I got old.

Not just old but sentimental and  pensive. I find myself crying at TV shows, commercials, sappy e-mails, the sight of Old Glory, hearing Taps, babies and puppies. A man who went through a gory war, stepped across bodies, who visited a multitude of fatal crime scenes, and autopsies with nary a flinch, now can’t seem to go a day without the water works. Is it just age or it is that I have finally come to the point where I realize man is not supposed to be alone. Are the tears sentimentality or a manifestation of loneliness?

I have no answers. I am still asking … Why?