Country Music Broke My Brain

by Gerry House

Then it happened. As she fought with the darkness, her fingers became entangled in something. She clenched her fist and in one Velcro-sounding moment, Julie snatched Buddy bald. She screamed like she’d been attacked by a limp, hairy monster.

  “Oh, Jesus. What is that?” She gave it a fling away from her toward the end of the crypt.

  Buddy’s scalp began to burn. She’d managed to undo a lot of glue, adhesive guards, and more. Bud had the Toupee 9000 that connected to his head with metal snaps. She’d yanked off his masterpiece with such gusto and fear, he literally felt light-headed. It was at their feet somewhere in the dark.

  Suddenly, in the distance they could hear a faint strain of “My Way” being played on the Dobro. The power was back on. The bed didn’t budge.

  Buddy said, “I have a plan. You have to follow my plan precisely. You must do exactly as I say or we’re both gonna die in here.” Julie listened carefully and noticed the music had come to the part where Frank sang, “And now the end is near.”

  Buddy continued, “The Clapper won’t work because we’re not in the room with it. I’m going to crawl down to the bottom of the bed. You brace yourself with your hands against the top. Put your feet on my shoulders and we’ll push the bottom of the bed out through the wall.”

  “You mean break the wood? OK.” She sounded skeptical, but it was at least a plan. She couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about doing exactly what he said.

  “When I’m in position, put your feet on my shoulders and, on three, we’ll push. Then you must keep your eyes closed for another five minutes. Agreed?”

  Julie repeated, “Feet on your shoulders. Push on three. Keep my eyes closed for five minutes. What is wrong with you?”

  Buddy was grunting his way to the bottom of the bed. He put his feet against the bottom board and guided Julie’s feet to his shoulders.

  “Just do as I said, OK? Can you do that for me?”

  “OK, but you keep your eyes closed then, too.”

  Buddy sighed and said, “Fine. I won’t look at you in the disco light. You keep your eyes shut, and we’ll be even. Ready? One . . . two . . . thuh-ree!”

  It was a mighty heave. Julie drove her tootsies into Buddy’s shoulders, and because of the sheer pain he shot his feet toward freedom. He heard a slight cracking noise and things began to give way. It was either the bed or Buddy.

  “One more time,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Julie pushed with all her might and broke her promise at the same time. The bottom of the bed flew off and light rushed in and Buddy went flying out. She couldn’t help it. She looked toward the light. She first noticed a glint of metal on top of his head dancing in the disco beams. He had four tiny, shiny horns. She noticed something furry was stuck between the bed and the wall. Buddy landed on the floor with a thud. She scrambled forward, eyes wide open.

  He sat upright. He was naked and bruised, and he was bald. She was naked and bruised, and she started laughing. She couldn’t help herself; it was an uncontrollable laugh—the laughter you couldn’t stop. She laughed the “laugh of people when somebody farts in church” laugh. She laughed so hard, she fell out of bed beside Buddy. Buddy was so immobilized, he didn’t even recoil when she touched one of the studs in his scalp. He was mortified. He was ruined. He was Linda Gratowski.

  It took five singles before Julie had a moderate hit country record. Once she broke through that wall, she had another, bigger hit. Then her next went to No. 1 and stayed there for five weeks. She eventually had a Greatest Hits album released. Music Row was in love with her.

  Everybody always remarked how much strength Buddy had shown. He had believed in her star dream when nobody else would. He was truly a genius. He had put so much of his own time and money into a project—much longer than anybody had before—and now it had paid off. That following year, Buddy was named producer and publisher of the year.

  Julie started dating a senator and sang at the White House.

  Shania and Kroger’s

  I HAVE A LONG HISTORY with grocery stores. Kroger’s, in particular, goes way back to my childhood. For many summers, while I was battling my way through the teenage years, I worked at Kroger’s. I realize it’s actually Kroger Company, but everybody I knew growing up called it Kroger’s. Can we just go with that? You realize Publix is not spelled correctly, either, and Piggly Wiggly isn’t exactly inspiring. I was a produce clerk, cashier, and general flunky at several Kroger’s for many a summer.

  I was the genius at the Ludlow Kroger’s in Kentucky who took it upon himself to put the truckload of bananas into the freezer for protection. I didn’t realize bananas don’t do all that well in subzero temps. We had a sale on black bananas for several weeks because of my industrious work habits. I also had the joy of crawling into the produce truck to check for tarantulas. I still have a massive case of arachnophobia because of it. I’m also scared, pant-peeing crazy scared, of spiders. If you’ve never opened the back of a truck and had a giant, furry, eight-legged monster come leaping out at you, you’ve never had any fun. Tarantulas are actually fairly tame, but I never wanted to get close enough to one to actually test that theory. The tarantulas didn’t want to be in that truck full of bananas any more than I wanted to find them. We achieved détente early on.

  I was the one who fell off a ladder into a table full of cantaloupes while changing a fluorescent lightbulb. Another summer sale. It was yours truly who put the wrong prices on cans of soup, which were snapped up immediately for one cent apiece. I stood in the meat department mesmerized by the meat cutters. I saw them get hypnotized by the monotonous motion of sawing up a chicken and buzz off a thumb every now and then. As an aspiring piano player, I quickly realized six fingers were not good if one day you wanted to become Liberace.

  I especially enjoyed watching the thieves. Nobody was really dangerous, just sticky-fingered. We had one old guy who came in every day and walked laps around the store to get free samples of food on little toothpicks. Lunch every day included a couple of rounds through the store. One of my friends was a guy who worked for private security. We all knew most of the “pickers,” as they were called. People who would eat, nosh, drink, and sample their way around a Kroger’s. There would be a trail of half-eaten Twinkies and empty bottles of Coke on shelves every night. It was as if they said, “Hey! The stuff is just sitting there. Why not have some?” It never occurred to these folks that it was stealing.

  Two or three times a week, I watched the security guy chase somebody into the parking lot with a canned ham in their shorts. My favorite was a woman who was waddling around the store. The private eye pointed her out to me. “Look at the way she walks. Somethin’ ain’t right.” She’d disappear for awhile into the restroom and then come out and waddle the aisles some more. When she got busted, it turned out she was putting on pair after pair of pantyhose in the women’s restroom. If she hadn’t been so greedy that she had to walk like John Wayne, she’d have gotten away with her crime. The waddle did her in.

  I also remember with some pain that the store manager loved Guy Lombardo. He chose Guy’s Greatest Hits as the music of choice over the speaker system. Even today, if I hear Guy and those damn Royal Canadians honking though “Harbor Lights,” I get hives. Over and over and over with that damn saxophone. It’s the same effect I see guys who drive ice cream trucks have, with that tinklebell version of “The Entertainer.” It’s no wonder those guys are nuts.

  I also flirted like crazy with every girl who came through my checkout lane. I actually requested to not work the “10 items or less” express lane. If I got a mom with her teenage, sullen, and bored daughter in tow, I didn’t want them whisking through too quickly. It’s not called the checkout lane for nothing. While they were checking things out, so was I. While Mom watched me like a hawk as I rang up her groceries, I casually asked the daughter, “Who’s your favorite singer?” If she was particularly babe-a-licious, I even volunteered to push the grocery cart into the parking lot and help load up. I was just
that wonderful of a young man; I only wanted to help all I could. Several times I offered to ride in their car to help unload at the daughter’s house, but that was probably crossing the line.

  Today, I rarely go into a Kroger’s. When I do venture in, it’s because I am in the area and can’t wait for a pill or lunch—usually both. I generally wind up in the same checkout line because I don’t like that self-serve deal. I’m against all self-serve deals because I always think the company is not paying somebody. I don’t want to self-serve at the airlines’ check-in. I like it when the agent does it. That way I feel like there’s actually a seat and a plane waiting for me. Otherwise, I always think I’ll get to the end of the boarding ramp and step off into empty space.

  I’m not a self-serve guy. I don’t like those Korean restaurants where they bring you raw chicken and some soy sauce at a table with a grill in the middle. I didn’t go out to a restaurant to cook my own damn lunch. Hire a guy who cooks. I’m not a self-cooking guy.

  At my usual checkout lane, a tiny, bent-over grandma works as the bag boy. I used to be a bag boy, and that job is called “bag boy” even if it’s worked by a tiny, bent-over grandma. I spent years learning to put the loaves of bread in the bag first and then placing the soft drinks and cans of liquid concrete on top. I know how the system works.

  And, of course, you also have the choice. Grandma always croaks out the question, “Paper or plastic?” Bag technology is a big deal. You either ask for the plastic, which means you end up with hundreds of environment-choking bags in the trunk with each single bag only holding a lightbulb or box of Cheerios . . . or you go with the paper bags, now with “handles,” which come loose just as you’re almost in the house. Hellman’s mayo and Ding Dongs crash and disperse on the steps.

  My wife says people who bring their own bags to the grocery store are just showing off. Flaunting their tree-hugging goodness for the rest of us Earth haters. How did we send people to the moon and not perfect the technology of paper bag handles?

  Tiny, bent-over Grandma makes me feel guilty. She never knows where one load of groceries ends and another begins. She usually starts packing somebody else’s Cool Ranch Doritos in with my celery. She should be home and not packing up groceries all day. I’m not being sexist, I just wish she didn’t have to work at the wrong end of an endless line of groceries. She should be home doing grandma things: watching the grandbabies and knitting doilies and betting on the ponies on the internet.

  How did she get to this place? What confluence of the stars got TBO Granny into such a situation? This (and you thought I’d never get here) is where Shania Twain comes in.

  Talk about wanting to check out somebody’s groceries. Shania was gorgeous. I first met her early on, when she was trying to have a hit with Norro Wilson as producer. Norro, by the way, is a perfect example of why you should never let a small child pick out their own name.

  Ms. Twain didn’t really hit the jackpot ’til she hooked up with Mutt Lange. Mutt is legendary for his songwriting and producing talents. I suspect he also picked out his own first name. Together, he and Shania made some explosive records: “Any Man of Mine.” “You’re Still the One.” “Man! I Feel Like a Woman.” Combine a signature sound with great vocals, and you get a lot of hits. She also was one of the first to be marketed by videos. The vids exploded, too. They went off like rockets because, on film, she’s even more gorgeous.

  Shania was constantly criticized for her records. I never understood why music people would say, “She’s pretty, but she can’t sing.” I would nod and then go online and watch her singing somewhere live, and she sounded like she could sing to me. Oh sure, her lyrics and songs weren’t going to make poets tremble, but so what? And if being able to sing perfectly was now a requirement, half the town would be looking for a new job. But she could sing.

  I’m certain all that small-town, Music Row talk made her defensive. She always seemed like she was going to be attacked when I spoke with her. She was lovely but a little unsure of herself. Guess what? Your parents get killed, you raise your younger brothers practically by yourself, you get a little unsure. I always thought she should be hugged and applauded. The jealous reaction, however, was pretty intense. Some of that seeped into the public opinion but not enough to keep her from becoming a huge star.

  About a hundred feet from my songwriting office was a vegetarian restaurant. I could never remember the actual name of it. We all called it “Weeds and Seeds.” I went there twice a week and often saw Shania and Mutt enjoying a plate of something that looked like horse feed and grass trimmings. This was usually the daily special. I ate there because it made me feel healthy. I never actually enjoyed it, but they had wine, so it wasn’t a total lost cause. I often saw Emmylou Harris chowing down on a big pile of leaves and tofu. When we all left, nobody smiled. You just knew your teeth looked like the hood of a tractor.

  The joy was spotting Mutt in a natural setting. There are more pictures of the Abominable Snowman than there are of Mutt Lange. Supposedly, he bought all the available shots of him and hid them away. They looked happy when I saw the two of them sitting there. I always thought of them then as “Mutt ‘n’ Honey.” They were on a break from making an album. The musicians who played on the sessions with Mutt at the helm said he was pretty demanding. He’d have them all play and play, and take a shot. Usually, from what I heard, he’d “fix” it himself later that night. Their relationship went south years later in a bad way. I know Shania is now married to the husband of her former best friend. Former being the key word.

  Shania has a great phrase. I’ve seen her probably twenty times in my life to speak or do an interview. She’s like me. She can’t call up a name immediately like Garth does. Shania is so cool, however, she sees you coming and says, “Now, there’s a face that looks familiar.” I’ve stolen that. It tells the other person, “I know you, I want to talk, but give me a clue here, pal.”

  I know Shania struggles with dysphonia. Stress in life strikes at your vocal chords. It’s an insidious problem that takes away the one thing singers have. Can you imagine? You’re worried about your voice, the worry affects your voice, and the spiral continues ’til you can’t sing. I am hopeful that, from what I hear, she’s on the mend. I also hear rumors of a Vegas show like Celine Dion’s. She deserves it. I want her to feel like a woman again.

  Old Black and Whites

  I WAS A “SURPRISE” to my parents. I have one sister, Carole Jean, who is thirteen years older than me. She got married at sixteen and moved out of our home, so I don’t know her as well as some family members know each other. I was three and more concerned with making vowel sounds and discovering my feet. We still chat now and then, and recently she sent me a box of old black-and-white pictures my mother had kept in her attic.

  My mom was hilarious. As I mentioned earlier, she was on my radio show for years. She was also not a hoarder. She threw out most of the things I left behind when I went to college. I could have killed her. My baseball cards—gone. My collection of old records—gone. My entire collection of Hardy Boys books—ditto. All are now probably worth upwards of $285—lost forever.

  However, she did keep pictures, and I’m going through them trying to recall who is who. I have a single picture of my dad’s mother, Grandmother House. She is right out of the Amish-Mama playbook. She wasn’t Amish, but she’s wearing that long, black dress. It’s tightly buttoned up and very prim. She’s got a gray bun and is built like grandmas are supposed to be built—round and firm.

  My dad’s pop was a character. Will and Emma House lived on a farm in Kentucky. Every single visit, my grandfather asked me to give him a hug because, “Your old grampa won’t be here next Christmas.” Those are always lovely words for a six-year-old to hear. “Death is imminent, so get ready for it, sonny boy.” He gave me the same “final hug” speech for about twenty years. My only memory of Grandma is “Grandma is in the kitchen.” I think she was born in there and slept in there. I loved to go to their farm because t
hey had a root cellar. As rural as that sounds, it is. It was a huge mound dug behind their little farmhouse. It had a door on the backside, and you walked down steps to enter. It was beneath the earth. It felt like an adventure. I ran to the root cellar the moment I got there. One time, you were in the dark, cool root cellar and saw the few jars of beans being kept cool. Another time, you saw the hams hanging on a rope. And another time, you looked around at the dim stone walls. Then fun in the root cellar was over. Root cellars are good for storing stuff that spoils in the house and are a real blast for about two minutes. After that, it was time to visit Grandma in the kitchen or discuss the future with Grandpa Kervorkian.

  The biggest memory of my life was at age ten. Mom and Dad packed up the car to drive south to the farm for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was a big deal back then. It was the only time other than a week’s vacation that we went anywhere. My father’s family visited and there were other kids. We went to the creek, played in the barn, or, if things got dull, locked one of the girls in the root cellar—all quality activities.

  Thanksgiving dinner was the pièce de résistance for me. Grandma produced the greatest food in the world, and my dad reminisced. For weeks ahead of the special day, Dad described the golden brown turkey and the sweet potatoes and how fabulous the stuffing was. There wasn’t a restaurant in Paris that could prepare apple pie like Grandma. I wasn’t sure they had pie in France, but I went with it. Ten-year-old boys dream about food and bikes and root cellar adventures. Girls aren’t in the picture yet.

  I do remember some country music playing in the background of my memories of Grandma’s house. There was no television to be watched, but a massive wooden radio stood guard in the parlor. The radio was so old that it only had one giant dial to find radio stations. The call letters of the big, 50,000-watt AM stations were printed right on the outside of the dial: WSM/Nashville, KDKA/Pittsburgh, WIL/St Louis, WLW/Cincinnati. I imagine that’s where I first heard WSM and that “old-timey” country music. It all now feels like I was in a black-and-white Turner Classics movie.