I was driving down the road, (not trying to loosen my load), listening to the radio. I would have needed an extension ladder to reach up to the level of mellow I was toolin’ in. Only God knew the ghastly weakness hiding just under the heartthrob from the seventies.

I was contemplating all the recent changes in life, my radio tuned to the 70’s station cinched it like a sailor’s knot. A song came on that I had to listen to in secret, or at least enjoy inside only when I was a kid.

The artist was one of those that men and boys didn’t listen to. It might not have been against the law, but telling a brother or buddy that you like that guy could get you beat up, punched in the gut at minimum.

The singer was one of those heartthrobs whose pictures from the magazines ended up on the bedroom walls of young girls like he did on my big sisters.

I never told anyone as a kid that this particular song gave me a lump in my throat and squeezed the juice outta my eyeballs. That would’a been suicide.

When Bobby Goldsboro’s “Honey” came on I smiled. Funny, after all this time, when he got to the part where Honey dies, I still get a little sad.

a ghastly weakness

image courtesy of photo bucket.com

Even in a state of melancholy, I tend to drive like a bat leaving Lucifer’s house. I turned left and headed north at about ten miles an hour over the legal limit. The old guy, (relative term now-uh-days), cruising in the lane next to me, sporting a maroon Chrysler 500 floored it… then proceeded to cut me off.

Heat was rising under my collar, and not just from the Arizona summer, till after he got in front of me. He then slowed to twenty miles an hour less than what he had been doing to cut me off. Presto – my Achilles heel, Kryptonite, weak link, bent nail, whatever you wanna call it, had come back to pay me a visit. I suppose to see if I’d grown up, matured, or come to my senses.

After we turned left and I wheeled around the “speed-up-to-inflict-my-will-upon-you” artist. He was ranting and raving, I assume cussing, at me… Nuclear explosion.

It was the worst version of myself that hit the brakes while rolling my passenger side window down. Now, I’m not given to cussin’, but I wasn’t bashful about inviting the guy to pull over. He rolled up his window, slowed then turned… leaving me driving along with veins pumping poison.

It doesn’t take as long as it used to for me to become smothered in regret. It’s almost instant. I was amazed at how I could go from the peaceful easy feelin’, (another Eagles plagiarism), to that monster that finds it’s fuel in pride.

It’s a ghastly weakness that works like Kryptonite. You’d think I’d be all about showing the world all the grace and mercy shown me… maybe next time.