I've been called many things in my life, some complimentary, some dramatically less so. A reader who didn't like the Danica Patrick column I wrote in this morning's Charlotte Observer called me something I have never before been called. He called me a good old boy.
Man, I am thrilled. I'm not worthy. But I am thrilled. I would love to be a good old boy.
There I am on the twisting mountain road with Junior Johnson, running from the revenuers. He asks me to drive..
There I am catching fish and cleaning them and liking it. There I am building an addition to the house, putting a new engine in the car, calling a woman "ma'am" and meaning it.
There is hope. I'm not big on country music, but I kept hearing a song on the drive to Daytona Beach about a woman who wants to call a guy at about 1 a.m. because she misses him so badly. It was kind of country, and I could listen to practically the whole thing without changing the station. And I respect Waylon and I respect Willie and grew up with Fords and I wear jeans almost every day.
So maybe I am a good old boy. When I received the good old boy email, however, I had my right hand wrapped around a non-fat latte. So maybe I'm not.
But, ma'am, I can dream.