You Can’t Handle The Truth

For a brief time, when I was an opinionated loudmouthed argumentative teen, my mom thought I should be an attorney.  They get paid to argue with people, she reasoned.  Mom’s smart.

This morning I hit the road at 4AM. (Previously, scientists believed musicians were incapable of standing and walking around at this hour but I showed them.) I drove to Louisville, Kentucky to face a judge on account of a little driving infraction.  It wasn’t traffic court.  It was criminal court, on account of my little infraction being not so little: I was driving way over the speed limit.  You can loose lose your license in Kentucky for such a thing.  I live in Tennessee though, and I don’t think Kentucky can take away my license here, but I started talking anyway—like the opinionated loudmouthed argumentative informed verbose persuasive adult I am.

Thank God the prosecutor was a middle-aged Christian female in the South.  I know middle-aged Christian females in the South.  I have a middle-aged Christian female in the South Jedi/Christian-artist-mind-trick thing I’ve honed over eight years of soft rocking churches packed with middle-aged Christian females in the South.

I got the charges reduced to plain ol’ speeding.  And I think I have to play at a seven year-old’s birthday party now.  And make balloon animals.  I’m not sure what went down really.  I went all Perry Mason in the courtroom, called a side-bar, yelled “objection” a couple times, then left my body for a few minutes and when I came to again I was forking over $200 to a disgruntled government employee moving papers around all slothlike behind bullet-proof glass.  And somehow 20% of the courtroom sponsored children

Quite the morning, let me tell ya.

I’m home now.  Taking a nap before the gig tonight in the Nashville area.  I’ll see some of you there I hope.