As the years progressed, my tastes changed. I started listening to vintage country (which, in my mind is the only type of country which can actually carry the term correctly. More than half of the "country" artists nowadays would make Hank Williams and Conway Twitty roll over in their graves.) when I lived back in New York. A radio station there played the good stuff (see links above) on Sunday mornings. Conveniently enough, it ran long enough for me to drive to and from church. If the sermon was short, I'd stay in my Jeep and allow the tunes to transport me to a simpler time. I wished the station would play more pure country but once the clock struck 11, back came the muddled songs that sounded more Top 40 than the country of yore. But none the less, I listen to as wide of a variety as I'm able to as much as I can, which brings us to the present lawsuit at hand.
When I moved to the south, my love of country intensified to its highest zenith in years. During the 14 hour drive from New York, country was the only genre of music played. When we left my hometown, we blared Miranda Lambert over my incessant sobbing. By the time we got to West Virgina, John Denver's Take Me Home, Country Roads spoke of the new landscape to come and that maybe I wasn't leaving a home but gaining another. By the time we hit North Carolina, I was back to sobbing; proud of coming so far but terrified about what lay ahead. DU softy put on our song as I understood that my life had turned into a country song. Which, funnily enough, is exactly what I had been searching for since my love of the genre was born.
It seemed that in my new home, wherever I went, I was faced with another facet of a country song. I experienced the melting heat of a southern night, tasted homemade peach ice cream, and learned fishing in the dark is the coolest thing to do in the summer. I learned that being a hardworking man's daughter is as revered here as a day of back-breaking work. Best of all, I fell in love with sweet tea, sitting in a duck blind, and a pick-up man.
Now that months have passed, I figured that all country songs represented the south pretty well; up until this past weekend, that is. After losing the land we had originally intended on hunting for opening day, DU made some calls and we ended up where last deer season had begun. We ventured to the land of empty power lines, fatback and biscuits with high hopes; DU had decapitated a bunch of thunder chickens last year there (yes, he actually cut their heads off- oh the power of bowhunting technology!). Hence, we were looking forward to bringing home at least one gobbler to enjoy.
Just like any night prior to opening day, I couldn't sleep. DU and I planned on rising at 4:30 but by 4, I was already wide awake. I threw on my camo (a beautiful collection of female-inspired hunting clothing which will be appearing as another off-center review shortly), loaded up my gun then we were off. DU planted us right were he had seen a gang of the gnarly looking birds last year. He had been telling me for weeks that turkeys have amazing eyesight, so true to stubborn form, I refused to move a muscle the entire morning. When we finally called it quits for the early-day hunt, I could barely stand up. DU then had the unfortunate task of informing me that one only needs to stay still when turkeys are calling back or coming in.
We hunted over 20 hours last weekend and each hunt went the same as above. We'd hear hens cat-calling and gobblers gobbling ; the latter ready to strut their stuff to get their spring break-esque partying on. The only turkeys we were privy to catch a glance of were 8 who fled from the sound of our gator barreling through the power lines and a 20-pound tom that the neighbor's 10-year-old son shot. Least to say, while the weekend was fun, it was a supreme let down, compounded by the creepy bugs that had decided to bombard our hunt like a violent, cannibalistic African tribe.
I had never seen a tick before I shook one out of my hair at Walmart after our Saturday night hunt but let me tell you, Mr. Paisley's song, "Ticks" painted a rosy picture of what the hell-demons are. For years, I had been under the disillusion that rolling around in a forest with a good ol' country boy and having to be checked for the burnt-umber monsters would be a cute, romantic experience. This, obviously, is not how things went.
The next morning was a Sunday so the only weapons we had on us were our bows. We located the local turkeys roosting spot and hunkered down for the afternoon hunt. Given that we had not seen much, I brought along my trusty books to keep me company. This proved to be a bad idea because my exposed hands looked like a delicious buffet in a mirage for the starving fiends. Therefore, just moments after assuming my statue pose, the brutes descended. In my stoic but frenzied attack on the advancing forces, I took special care to destroy the white-spotted ones, as I've learned those are the disease carrying beasts. We stuck it out about two hours when DU proclaimed the red army had won this battle. Again, this is not how Brad paints this portrait, singing:
['Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.]
Lyrics which easily brainwash his minions into believing that ticks are not only fun to find but also an aphrodisiac for a lonely girl, who has a tramp stamp no less ([In the small there of your back, your jeans are playing peekaboo
I'd like to see the other half of your butterfly tattoo.]), looking for love in a bar filled with guys who want to take her to a field of dark woods alone ([Let's get out of this bar, drive out into the country and find a place to park.]). Sounds like beginning of a slasher flick if you ask me.
I hope that this little illustration shows you the extent to which I'm disappointed by Mr. Paisley's portrayal of my harrowing weekend; hence making this lawsuit of mine all the more dire. I know the song is all in good fun but this kind of fun can not only get women kidnapped but also filled with lime disease and other unpleasant blood-infections. So, I'm not only filing this lawsuit for my own greedy, unemployed personal gain but also for the good of mankind! Who knows, maybe I'll become the country-music- avenger; taking down the songs that misrepresent the south one battle at a time, all while wearing a bedazzled, camo cape and riding a giant mischievous badger!
UPDATE: The Writing Huntress went to city hall, congress and eventually The Grand Ol' Opry but no one would hear her case, citing that not only is it extremely frivolous, more so than the Starbucks and McDonald's suits combined, but also ridiculous, as country music tells stories and should be seen as fun. Upon hearing the dismissal of the charges, TWH was unavailable for comment but was seen wearing what appeared to be a diamond-encrusted cape and tugging what seemed to be a very large, ornery rodent into the sunset.
ADDITIONAL UPDATE: Brad Paisley just hit his 16th #1 single with a song he coined after watching news footage of an insane woman trying to sue him. "The Country Music Avenger" went to #1 after 36 minutes of airing on CMT.