Gunslinger Turns Glum Singer

Random Memorandum™ to Fair-Haired Citizen Songbird Terry “Brad” Shaw: The only thing sadder than the “Tears Of A Clown”— when there's no one around other than a team of wide-bodied American fútbol anal-ists — are the tears of a once-feared-and-revered gridiron great with his heart on his denim sleeve in a Nashville recording booth. But isn’t that the way life is? One minute you’re riding high (on Demerol®, we’ll posit) — a noble warrior, a darling of the media and a hero to your adopted, third-tier river town — and the next minute you’re staring down a snickering assemblage of studio long hairs, with the weight of the world on your non-padded shoulders? Bloody hell, mate, surely you knew that you’d face an onslaught of skepticism when you traded in your helmet for a ten-gallon hat — and your high-topped cleats for lizard-skinned shitekickers. But face down the doubters you done did! With the gusto of a Schlitz® beer-guzzling, high seas sailor, you sang your heart out—forever imprinting your melancholia on hi-fidelity stereophonic vinyl, your song selection rivaling the deftness of your play-calling days: “The Last Word in Lonesome Is Dove”; “Here Comes My Baby Back Ribs (And Side Slaw)”; “Take These Chains From My Heart (And Wrap Them ‘Round The Radials On The Pickup)”; and “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry Uncle”. Bravo, Terry Brad! With titles like that, I don’t imagine you’ll be lonesome for long! Indeed, when the platters arrive in stores this summer, methinks they’ll be flying off the shelves and you’ll soon be lip-sinking on-stage and, then, backstage with lonesome, big-haired strangers who share your passion for the Risen Lord, along with the rising, which is to say visible, maleness in your velveteen trousers. So sing a song, sensitive man of the seventies, sing it to last your whole life long — which, one hopes will be longer than that of heavyset pop star Karen Carpenter — and remember that you’ll always have a friend in Yours Truly, Constable Dooley®.