Open Mic Night, 1:15 A.M.

This is a song I wrote called “I Just Gotta Hit That Dusty Road.” I hope you like it. Here we go now:

And I woke up one morning feeling blue,
Truthfully, I didn’t know what to do,
So I turned to my wife and said: “Woman, I gotta hit the road.”
I told her: “Woman, I just gotta hit that road.”

One of the Lexus’s tires blew out just around six,
Isn’t this something I could fix?
What would Charlie Patton do?
AAA came right away, sent an entire crew.

Limped into a Motel Six in Raleigh ‘round midnight,
Called the ol’ lady, she told me: “Boy, you ain’t coming back, you heard right?”
I said: “Maybe this life ain’t for me. I miss the kids and I miss you—”
And she replied, “Shut the fuck up.” (x2)


Now what was I supposed to do? Return to my job as a corporate tax specialist for a mid-size law firm in northern Virginia? Give up on this life-long dream of becoming a singer/songwriter troubadour, a ramblin’ man, laying down the miles, criss-crossing the back roads of this magnificent nation, carrying nothing with me except for my hopes and dreams? Don’t think so, thank you very much! Four, three, two, one . . . and kick it:

Tried to earn some coin by singing my songs,
Audiences didn’t take too kindly, but don’t get me wrong,
They threw me some change, a nickel here, a quarter there,
A dollar one time outside a Fuddruckers in Lewes, Delaware.

Went a little crackers, around the twenty-first of June,
Don’t remember much, I was dancing to my own tune.
Ended up in the backyard of my first serious girl,
“Hey, whatya say,” I screamed, “let’s give it another whirl!”


Perhaps I should also mention that I was crouched on her roof, wearing only my socks, and howling at the moon. And . . . if you saw me perform this song last night, please join in . . .

“What the hell’s happened to you?” my girl asked, taken aback.
Said I: “Had to follow my dreams! Trying to break out of the pack!’
“You must be going through a crisis,” she cried, slamming the door.
She then called her Marine husband over in Iraq, ‘tho I can’t be sure.

Sold the Lexis for a can of Pringles and a new guitar,
Got drunk on homemade hooch and followed the stars.
Went on doing my writing, went on doing my singing,
Played for a group of teens outside Baltimore, took a horrendous beating.


I would now play a melodious guitar solo, but this sling prevents me from doing so. Also, I lost the guitar. Plus, I never really learned. Count it down now:

Slept the next few months in an abandoned car,
Woke up each morning next to a whore sporting a Z-shaped scar.
Walked across the country, dispensing through my songs advice,
Like this little ditty about the forty-seven-year-old with the horrendous case of head lice.


You might have noticed the plastic shower cap that I’m wearing, right? It’s for the Nix shampoo. Takes a few hours to settle. Where was I? See . . .

Fell into a deep depression, where I’d sleep was anyone’s guess,
How the hell did I get myself into this goddamn mess?
I’m no blues singer, just a middle-aged man with a law degree.
Called my wife one day (collect) and had her listen to my plea:

“Woman, I think I done made a tremendous mistake,
Just wanted to play the blues, but your boy’s ready for a break!
All I’ve ever wished for, really, was to become B.B. King,
Now I’m just an agin’ lawyer sufferin’ from a rare strain of gangrene.”

My woman, she told me: “I just found myself a new man. Actually that’s not true,
In all honesty, I don’t want to stay married to you.”
And I cried: “Woman—”
And she replied: “Shut the fuck up.” (2x)


Can you hear me way in the back? The man talking on his cell phone? Okay, I’ll sing a little louder . . .

If there’s a moral to this blues song, it goes a little like this . . .
I always yearned to become a blues singer, hit that dusty road and catch that last train,
See, I had no intention of pissing my life down the goddamn metaphorical drain.
Sometimes it’s best not to follow your dreams. . . .
My last twenty-five meals have all involved ice cream.


“I hope y’all have enjoyed my ode to the wanderin’ life . . . it’s been one hell of a ride, folks! I’ll be working through the end of this month and perhaps every month as a bus boy around the corner at the Chuck E. Cheese’s here in Daytona Beach. If any of you have any spare change, or maybe a few curly fries, I’d most greatly appreciate it . . . I sure as shucks would! Or a place to stay. Or a ride back to Northern Virginia. I really do miss my family and my washing machine. It surely has been a pleasure, and I thank you all very much. For the record, I also miss my twenty-seven inch Panasonic flat-screen. God bless.”