Banjo Pickers, Bluegrass and Gorilla Suits


Since the day he started here at the Cubicle Asylum, I've had a hard time learning to "read" Bossman. He doesn't often show positive emotion and on the rare occasion that you can get him to crack a smile, it seems forced. Often I've felt as though he laughs at my desperate attempts at humor in hopes that I'll just go away and leave him be.

Because of his usual lack of merriment, I was a little shocked yesterday when he confided that he'd always wanted a gorilla suit, to rent a spotlight and to play the banjo.

No.. really.

It started when I threatened offered to sing to him, which lead to his fleeing down the hallway at a pace not previously witnessed. Who knew he could move that fast?

When cornered, he admitted he had no desire at all to hear me sing, but if I could play the banjo, by gawd he'd be impressed. This lead to my admission to having taken banjo lessons as a child, which then lead to a small crowd forming to hear the story. No one could believe that the Ozzy lovin', Def Leppard stalkin' head banger once spent her Saturday afternoons a pickin' and a grinnin.'

They oooed and ahhhed when they learned that I once knew how to play "Cripple Creek" and "Dueling Banjos." I went on to add that I'd taken guitar lessons, piano lessons and that I'd been a trumpet toting band geek, second chair thankyouverymuch. The two years I'd spent in the middle school chorus didn't suprise them, but when they discovered that I'd sang in a church choir, even given a solo performance or two, there was some serious shock and awe.

Ya'll know they consider me to be the flaming heathern of Frog Pond Holler.

Nowadays I can barely play a radio. I still haven't figured out how to program the pre-set buttons on the one in Jolene. My phone doubles as an MP3 player, but I don't have any music on it.

But I still sing.

I can be heard a catterwallin' for miles and miles when I take Jolene (that's my truck, just to clarify for the newcomers) out for a drive across the mountain. There's such a sense of freedom to riding fast with the windows down, singing at the top of your lungs. It's usually rock that I'm torturing the hell out of, but occcasionally you'll hear me wailing along with Loretta Lynn or The Carter Family, because as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, those are the songs that are a part of me. Sort of like the relatives you don't spend much time with, but still hold dear.

Ya'll have a good one.

Later Taters.