I watched the Academy of Country Music awards program with equal parts disgust and disbelief. At one point, the co-host had on raggedy jeans, a tuxedo coat with ruffled shirt and a trick bow tie. How down-home is that?
If I could still holler loud enough, I might try my luck at it, too. They make bazillions, and it appears the only requirement is a dirty T-shirt, a factory-worn baseball cap and a three-day beard. And all you have to do is stand with feet wide apart while grinding your hips and snarling something completely unintelligible. A tastefully selected sleeve of arm tattoos would probably help, but I’m afraid of needles.
I’m grateful that Hank, Roy, Porter and Marty didn’t live to suffer the indignity of what has happened in Nashville.