Willard here. Just lettin' y'all know Fairweather will be back as soon as she can. We've all been down with a bug this week and of course the GOP thing caused a relapse. Add to that Mr Guilliani's ferret problem, we just had to take a break. But Have no fear Fairweather will soon be back here! Til next time Fare the well.

The truth of the matter was, I was politicked out by 9 PM the night of the Dems' Q & A on MSNBC, so I turned over to RFD-TV, where they show episodes of classic country TV shows.

That particular night they showed POP GOES THE COUNTRY with guest Conway Twitty. In very short order I was reduced to helpless guffaws by Conway singing one of his late l970s hits, "You've Never Been This Far Before." Like "Behind Closed Doors" before it, "You've Never Been This Far Before" stirred up an almighty ruckus at the time. First there was rumbling about whether this was a song about committing adultery with a married woman or (gulp) debauching a virgin. The real cowpats hit the fan, though, over the line "I don't know what I'm sayin' as my tremblin' fingers touch forbidden places." WHOA! Who wrote this, Hugh Hefner?

Actually not. Conway may have himself. As I recall, he ingenuously explained that the circumstances are such that putting an arm around this woman is forbidden. (Okay--it's a cheatin' song.) At this late date I got the giggles because it's badly written, and the nonsense syllables "bom bom bom" he tossed in at the end of each line were a bit much.

It did remind me of other songs that caused similar dustups in the same time span, though. In no particular order, they are:

"Love in the Hot Afternoon" recorded by Gene Watson. As these songs go, this one, written by Vince Matthews, is surprisingly literate and poetic. Although the lines ". . .she fell right to sleep in the damp tangled sheets so soon/after love in the hot afternoon" caused grumbles, the detail in the second verse that the lovers spent the morning smoking pot raised squawks.

"Where Love Begins" also recorded by Gene Watson. A much less well-written piece about--ahem--devirginization. Somebody had the foresight to toss in the word "love" but that didn't save the song from censure.

"If You Can Touch Her at All" recorded by Willie Nelson. Not anywhere near on a par with the great songs Willie has written in his career, but the line about a woman "who insists I don't watch her undress or watch her watch me" sent my normally unobservant father into an almighty rant.

"I Can't Wait Any Longer" recorded by Bill Anderson. Country tried to branch out into disco in the late 70s, and Bill Anderson was one of the casualties. Replete with attempts at sexy whispers (at which Whisperin' Bill does not excel) and such cutesy lyrics as "where do I have to go/what do I have to do/who do I have to lie to/so I can lie with you," it's simply a freakin' mess.

And the most infamous of them all, "Would You Lay With Me (In a Field of Stone)" recorded by Tanya Tucker. A very few people charitably concluded that the song, written by David Allan Coe, was about wedding vows and therefore innocuous; everybody else had conniptions because Tucker was only sixteen when she made the recording. Since she'd been doing adult-themed material ever since she began recording at the age of thirteen, this was in fact probably no more than a natural progression. It's also not a very good song.

I could also bring up the Bellamy Brothers, who spent the relevant period recording a series of hits that consisted mainly of atrocious double entendres, such as "If I Said You Have a Beautiful Body (Would You Hold It Against Me)" and "Do You Love as Good as You Look" but those were never intended to be serious songs; the ones mentioned above were performed as solemnly as Wolf Blitzer announcing Gabriel's done blowed his horn. Hey guys, it's only my opinion--and as usual way out there. Till next time, fair thee well.

Hey guys. I spent the day yesterday watching MSNBC's exhaustive (I almost said exhausting) coverage of the Democratic Q & A (I don't think I'd actually call it a debate) and I am about over politics. I'm not sure I'm gonna do it again for the GOP; I have reservations about what that whole crowd is putting in their Kool-Aid, a beverage I haven't drunk since Jonestown.

The debate did get me thinking about hillbilly musicians from the good ole days who tried to get into politics. I'm not talking about the ones who do fundraisers for various, usually GOP, candidates; I mean those who actually tried to win office for themselves.

The oldest such people actually go back before the turn of the last century in my home state of Tennessee (there is no way to keep from outing myself with this story). In the l886 campaign for governor, brothers Alf and Bob Taylor ran against each other. The Taylor brothers were both talented fiddle players, and they used their talents in the "War of the Roses," so called because Alf ran as a Republican and Bob as a Democrat. They traveled together, debated each other at each stop, and finished up with an oldtimey hoedown. Bob won the l886 election; he served as governor from l886-l890 and was elected to another term in l896, in an election in which Alf did not participate. Alf was finally elected governor in l920; his other claim to fame is that he was the first governor of Tennessee to be elected after women got the vote.

A truly legendary country singer tried to run for governor in l948; Roy Acuff fiddled and sang his way across the state in an unsuccessful bid. He lost and never tried to run again on his own account, but he campaigned in l970 for another legend, Tex Ritter, who tried but failed to get a Republican nomination for the state senate.

The most successful country singer/politician, though, was not from Tennessee; he was Louisiana's Jimmie Davis, who served two terms, l944-48 and l960-64. He still is remembered as the Singing Governor, and his most famous recording was made an official state song of Louisiana in l977: "You Are My Sunshine." Gov. Davis is also the only sitting governor to have a number one hit; during his first term he hit the top of the charts with "There's a New Moon Over My Shoulder."

Can't help but wonder if it wouldn't liven up politics if some of the current crew could actually sing. We already know Sen. Rodham-Clinton can't. On the other hand, as someone or other pointed out, we don't choose a president by the American Idol method either.

Till next time, fair thee well.

Hi, y’all. More BS from Fairweather.

I’m writing this a few days after the Easter squall, when frost nipped the dogwood blossoms and we had a few odd snow flurries. The weather has turned turbulent: warmer temps, pewter skies and high winds, and the air feels sparky, the way it does before a late summer Tstorm.

Days like this make me nervous and drive me to fantasies of a hiding place: a room where I can retreat when stress gets the better of my good humor.

I don’t have that room yet; it’s one of my "someday" promises to myself. I’ve designed it in my head a thousand times. There are days when whole entries in my personal journal are designs for it! I’ve even begun cutting pictures out of magazines that look sort of like what I want.

The closest I’ve come to finding that perfect room has been a TV commercial. If you’ve seen the ad for Requip, a prescription for the treatment of restless legs syndrome, you know the one I mean.

That room is extraordinarily light and airy, with white woodwork, tall leafy green plants, wicker furniture, a room actually more like a solarium, a screened porch or a conservatory than a room where one might live. I love it, though. My lone caveat would be that in my room, the plants would have to be silk. Although any number of my family members have the proverbial green thumb, all I have to do to kill a live plant is look at it sideways; without fail, it’ll keel right over.

Like I said, it’s a fantasy for now, but if anybody’s looking for me that’s where I’ll be: away in my hiding place. Later, guys. Fair thee well.

The first emotion when we hear of monstrous acts like Monday's murders at VA Tech is anger. Sorrow and shock come later, and once those wear off we have to move to some intellectual level to try to make sense of the unfathomable. No need actually to think, though; we have the media to tell us what the appropriate reactions are.

Fortunately, the media leave us to deal with sorrow on our own. Some people turn to faith; others reach out to the survivors; still others make an immediate leap to exploring the political implications of this exercise in Grand Guignol.

I am not a person of conventional faith; I am geographically incapable of reaching out in any particularly meaningful way; and I do have opinions about the politics of murder, but today is no day to air them. Since Tuesday I have found the way to remember the dead, celebrate the living and ease my own unease is through music.

There is no comfort to be found in my beloved classic country. There simply are no songs there that speak to the visceral emotions aroused. Instead I find myself turning to Baroque: to Amadeus, in fact. The Requiem in D minor, which Mozart composed literally on his deathbed, is the only balm I can find. There is no opening more laden with sorrow, yet it is also profoundly calming; an acknowledgment that we can do nothing to restore the delicate balance that was disrupted that frightful morning, but that we can go on in remembrance.

The sonorous Latin rolls on from that opening through a cry for mercy, a frequently misused roar of God's wrath, on through the most heartrending expression of mourning that yet ends in a resounding Amen. This week I cannot make it through the whole mass; I can only get through that Amen, at the end of "Lacrimosa."

. . .et lux perpetua luceat eis. . .

Until next time, fair thee well.