This is a song I wrote called “I Just Gotta Hit That Dusty Road.” I hope you like it. Here we go now:

And I woke up one morning feeling blue.
Truthfully, I didn’t know what to do,
So I turned to my wife and said: “Woman, I gotta hit the road.”
I told her: “Woman, I just gotta hit that road.”

One of the Lexus’s tires blew out just around 6.
Isn’t this something I could fix?
What would Charlie Patton do?
AAA came right away, sent an entire crew.

Limped into a Motel 6 in Raleigh round midnight.
Called the ol’ lady. She told me: “Boy, you ain’t coming back—you heard right.”
I said: “Maybe this life ain’t for me. I miss the kids and I miss you—”
And she replied: “Shut the fuck up.” (Repeat)


Now what was I supposed to do? Return to my job as a corporate-tax specialist for a mid-size law firm in northern Virginia? Give up on this lifelong dream of becoming a singer/songwriter troubadour, a ramblin’ man, laying down the miles, crisscrossing the back roads of this magnificent nation, carrying nothing with me except for my hopes and dreams? Don’t think so, thank you very much! Four, three, two, one … and kick it:

Tried to earn some coin by singing my songs.
Audiences didn’t take too kindly, but don’t get me wrong:
They threw me some change, a nickel here, a quarter there,
A dollar one time outside a Fuddruckers in Lewes, Delaware.

Went a little crackers, around the 21st of June.
Don’t remember much. I was dancing to my own tune.
Ended up in the backyard of my first serious girl.
“Hey, whaddya say?” I screamed. “Let’s give it another whirl!”


Perhaps I should also mention that I was crouched on her roof, wearing only my socks, and howling at the moon. And … if you saw me perform this song last night, please join in …

“What the hell’s happened to you?” my girl asked, taken aback.
Said I: “Had to follow my dreams! Trying to break out of the pack!”
“You must be going through a crisis,” she cried, slamming the door.
She then, I think, called her Marine husband in Iraq, though I can’t be sure.

Sold the Lexus for a can of Pringles and a new guitar.
Got drunk on homemade hooch and followed the stars.
Went on doing my writing, went on doing my singing.
Played for a group of teens outside Baltimore, took a horrendous beating.


I would now play a melodious guitar solo, but this sling prevents me from doing so. Also, I lost the guitar. Plus, I never really learned. Count it down now:

Slept the next few months in an abandoned car.
Woke up each morning next to a whore sporting a Z-shaped scar.
Walked across the country, dispensing, through my songs, advice,
Like with this little ditty about the 47-year-old with the terrible case of head lice.


You might have noticed the plastic shower cap that I’m wearing, right? It’s for the Nix shampoo. Takes a few hours to settle. Where was I? See …

Fell into a deep depression. Where I’d sleep was anyone’s guess.
How the hell did I get myself into this goddamn mess?
I’m no blues singer, just a middle-aged man with a law degree.
Called my wife one day (collect) and had her listen to my plea:

“Woman, I think I done made a tremendous mistake.
Just wanted to play the blues, but your boy’s ready for a break!
All I’ve ever wished for, really, was to become B.B. King.
Now I’m just an agin’ lawyer sufferin’ from a rare strain of gangrene.”

My woman, she told me: “I just found myself a new man. Actually, that’s not true.
In all honesty, I don’t want to stay married to you.”
And I cried: “Woman—”
And she replied: “Shut the fuck up.” (Repeat)


Can you hear me way in the back? The man talking on his cell phone? OK, I’ll sing a little louder …

If there’s a moral to this blues song, it goes a little like this …
I always yearned to become a blues singer, hit that dusty road and catch that last train.
See, I had no intention of pissing my life down the goddamn metaphorical drain.
Sometimes it’s best not to follow your dreams …
My last 25 meals have all involved ice cream.


I hope y’all have enjoyed my ode to the wanderin’ life … It’s been one hell of a ride, folks! I’ll be working, through the end of this month, and perhaps every month, as a busboy around the corner at the Chuck E. Cheese’s here in Daytona Beach. If any of you have any spare change, or maybe a few curly fries, I’d most greatly appreciate it … I sure as shucks would! Or a place to stay. Or a ride back to northern Virginia. I really do miss my family and my washing machine. It surely has been a pleasure, and I thank you all very much. For the record, I also miss my 27-inch Panasonic flat-screen. God bless.