Come on (whoo!) go ahead, and sing along (hey!) because everyone has done their cunty-cuntry turn – witness Madonna and Lady Gaga and now Beyonce (and we aren’t going to compare because comparison is the thief of joy). There’s enough room for all of us cowboys and cowgirls and cowpeeps – why destroy or attempt to diminish anyone else’s idea of fun? Temporary guise or permanent personality trait finally revealed after years of hiding it away? Keep ’em guessing (whoo!) keep ’em asking (hey!) and keep ’em coming back for more until we’ve peeled away all the layers and all the costumes and you finally get your full-frontal bare-naked body spilling out all of its creative juice…
Some have expressed surprise and wary disbelief that I could actually be turning a country corner, but then they haven’t been paying much attention – the only one true constant thing I’ve ever been is surprising, unpredictable, and slippery as quicksilver. My tastes change too much, my interests shift with the slightest wind, and my own sense of self is constantly evolving and transforming, ever on the hunt for something to inspire and entice. Besides, most people look better in a pair of cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. Try it and see for yourself, you may be surprised too.
Even at the age of 51, there are still twists and turns in this thing called life waiting to be taken and navigated. And at such an age, I find myself craving just a little bit of whiplash, a little unsettling toss and tumble to remind me I’m still alive, still able to be interested and interesting, still getting back on the horse no matter how many times or how horrendously he might have bucked me off in the past.
Feeling a little reckless, a little restless, and a little feckless – because who the fuck needs a feck anyway?
Is it Irish or is it Southern?
Country-Western or Cocky-Cockney?
He’s every woman. He’s a man’s man.
Words are useless, especially sentences.
Don’t ever tell me to stop.
