SONG OF THE DAY: Country Child

I’m an old fool from the old school, who still downloads full ass albums of mp3s from random ass music blogs which still exist doing such things. I didn’t sit there spending 28 hours downloading a single Metallica mp3 back in the dark digital ages to give up having actual copies of shit, especially considering how often my kids are trying to stream a song in the car, and the song is no longer there or not downloaded to stops in the middle of our shitty cell reception region. You either got it or you don’t, fuck them fake ass clouds.

I got this one because I saw it pop up on a blog I check, and the cover met my aesthetics challenge of “does this look like a butter container design from 1974?” Then I looked up Robert Finley’s story, and dude’s an interesting fucker, definitely, so I copped it, and enjoyed it so much that he entered the realm of “if they got a bandcamp I’m gonna buy their new shit moving forward.” This song was one of my favorites, because he offers a woman that he’s not broke, got $15, and would buy her a hot dog. For some reason this reminded me of some shit my dad would say, because the small engine shop he worked at, he loved to go to Tom’s Country Store a block away and get their hot dog specials. Any time I met him for lunch, that’s what we did. At one point, he had a tiny ass Ford Courier pick-up with a grim reaper painted on the hood (that I painted actually), and he’d run up to Tom’s for hot dogs for lunch, then go eat it in the park, reading the newspaper. Later in life, when alcoholism got him too bad, he went to the liquor store instead, and would drink his Aristocrat at the park instead.

I’m first generation college graduate, not an obvious dumbass (though we all are, to one extent or another), and have exposed myself to a lot of art and creative shit. But I’m still a raggedy ass country boy to my heart, and I don’t even really understand these weird ass digital radicalized suburbanish country boys of nowadays. Nor do I relate to the petty bourgeoisie. (Yes, “petty” not “petit”.) It’s fucked up. But I can still walk in the woods and find an old bottle dump, dig ‘em out, wash ‘em up, spray paint them, and write cryptic warnings about the downfall of our ancient ways. “’Cause I’m a country boy…”