Sunday, December 29, 2019

Cowboys, Indians and Good Guys

When I was six years old I wanted to be a cowboy. Well, sir, they don't have cowboys in Birmingham, Alabama. I mean not real cowboys. Embroidered roses and tight pants tucked into fancy boots. A golden palomino, a fancy guitar and a red hot girl. Man-o-man-o-mighty!

From the age of nine until, oh, about yesterday, I suppose, my ambition has roller-coasted from rock'n'roll star to juvenile delinquent to race car driver to bon vivant to environmentalist, usually coming back around to rock'n'roll star. 

Besides lacking skills, credentials and knowledge, I've had inadequate pose. I mean I feel like a phony describing myself as anything with a title.

I write but I'm no writer. I sing but I'm no singer. I love... well, let's not go there.

Finally, it dawns on me that if you act like a nice guy, you're a nice guy. All I've ever wanted to be is a nice guy. 

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