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Volume 1 #13 September 27, 1999
Musicians. I've known a few. Quite... Well... Uh... Personally. (This was back before the "Little Guy" and I took to being very significant others.) I know why they take themselves to the Road. It is some sort of addiction. Harry Chapin (may God rest his soul) would not have been killed if he had been home with his family. I am not condoning the drunken driver. Chapin was a dear one and gave us much pleasure. Remember "Cat's in the Cradle"? I truly hope his son did not turn out like him, as the lyrics go. I am not knocking Chapin or his work. Nor, am I knockin' any singer or song writer who works the Road. It's just they satisfy their own needs, as I suppose we all do in some shape or form. "It's that lonesome, restless feeling that you feel under the gun." Driftin' off to Lightfoot. He is probably the greatest example of Road Musicians. I remember wanting to "run my fingers through his curls". Back when they were profuse and golden as a Canadian sunset. I am a lyric freak. I could bore you all with the pictures his songs paint. The road is some sort of strange enticement, I suppose. I am not a psychiatrist. I am not judge and jury. I am an observer.

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©1999 Carol Ann Carson
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