I’ve lived in villages in Germany like Pfungstadt and Steinwenden, and big towns in Florida like Naples and Fort Myers. I’ve lived in mega-cities like Tokyo and New York City and small towns like Bloomsbury, New Jersey and Turner, Maine.
I was born an Army brat in Ethiopia around the time Eisenhower was bowing out and Kennedy was strutting in. When I returned, the number I landed on was 22 - give or take. It took me about five minutes after walking away from my keyboard to count ‘em all. Thanks to a career in journalism that took me around the world, and before that a nervous mom who was picking out our next place to live before we had even settled into the place we briefly inhabited two times before that, I’ve lived just about everywhere. After all, my town could well be the place the latest mega-election of our lives gets settled two Novembers from now. If you want more, hit Google, or better yet, wait until he undoubtedly becomes Trump’s opening act during one of those standup routines when he menacingly stalks an Iowa cornfield, shaking down his groupies to help pay for his endless supply of noxious gas.Īll this did get me to thinking a bit about my town, Madison, Wisconsin, and I’d like to spend a few minutes telling you about it. So that’ll be the last mention of this three-chord poser. Not because I don’t think it’s an important issue worth kicking around in earnest, but because I am not much interested in helping such an intellectual shrimp garner such big record sales. I wasn’t going to get into all this small-town noise echoing off a borrowed song by a tone-deaf country music phony named Jason Aldean.
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