I’d
like to share a refreshingly red-necked group of performers known as the Antsy
McClain and the Trailer Park Troubadours.

I recently saw these folks perform on a recent trip home to Kentucky to visit
my family. One if the highlights of the trip was attending a street festival that celebrated old-school Country, Bluegrass
and Brazilian samba.

Don’t look so surprised, contrary to popular belief, Southerners can appreciate some south of the border
ass-shaking. We just do it in line-dance formation. In starched Wranglers. With
a General Lee replica in the parking lot. It’s the South,y’all…we’ve never
been quite right.

Anyway, this rag-tag team of professional musicians have been making the rounds,
sharing a delightful repertoire of songs that celebrate the experiences of the
working poor and marginally middle-classed.

I know that sounds…well…boring, but I didn’t quite have the heart to say,
“They is white trash who done good.”

While rockabilly isn’t everyone’s cup of Lipton instant tea, I
do hope a few of you might enjoy some of the following:

Antsy McClain and the
Trailer Park Troubadours website
The Podcasts
The
NPR Interview(no shit!)

Below is a short little ditty that’s very close to my heart. It’s a song about
bookmobiles and white trash tragedy – a song that reminds me very much of my
childhood growing up in the rural south.

I suppose I’m being a bit nostalgic — but looking backwards provides this
trifling prognosticator a clearer view of what lies ahead.

– Postscript –

I’ve spent the past two weeks in a work release program
enjoying a lovely two week reprieve from writing about the inane minutiae of
popular culture. My rehab vaca necessitated a certain detachment from
all things electronic, with the exception of a certain device strapped around
my ankle.

It took a great deal of intestinal fortitude to power-off, ditch the Bluetooth
and detach the fangs. Still, it was delightful rediscovering reality and the
pleasures that some call “living.” Nevertheless, too many days spent
away from this little box of flashing lights left me a tad…twitchy and
nervous.

And so, I’ve spent many sleepless nights trying to desperately catch
up on all the shenanigans of our most revered and reviled celebrities. I was
certain that if Beyoncé blinked during my departure, the extraordinary
circumstances of that incident had been noted (reference above and/or below
for such an illuminating glimpse into stardom ).

It occurred to me that the aspirational nature of celebrity, cue the “I’m
gonna be a big star” montage, is far from the idyllic, self-delusional
sweet-kid stories of yesteryear.

I’m reminded of a certain man concealed behind a curtain – you
know the one. He once promised to fulfill our dreams, but failed to deliver
the goods.

Well, it may be a tad self-delusional to believe there’s still magic and wonder
to be found in the increasingly cynical and hateful world of pop culture commentary
— but I’ve never claimed to be well.

Until next week.