Quit hollern' at us

This bastard plague. Now it's gone and done it.

It's got John Prine. And he's intubated and in critical condition and it doesn't look good.

Apologies in advance, Blobophiles. No, I take that back. This is my Blob and it's my rules and so sorry, not sorry for deviating from the usual Sportsball script today. It's not like there are games to write about anyway, now that the bastard plague has taken those away, too.

But back to John Prine.

See, he was the soundtrack to our honeymoon, back in the day. We spent a few days on Mackinac Island filling up on fudge and watching horses pee in the street, and then we drove down through Charlevoix and Petoskey and Traverse City and over to Sleeping Bear, while "Jesus, The Missing Years" and "Muhlenberg County" issued from the tape deck. Linda went to Mars, Sabu the Elephant Boy visited the Twin Cities alone and we talked dirty in Hawaiian while angels from Montgomery sat on our shoulders cruising down M-22, one of the prettiest stretches of road in America.

Now, if you don't know who John Prine is, the previous sentence will make no sense to you. Also I feel sorry for you, because he's a country/folk songwriting legend, and, damn, I can't believe COVID-19 has him, even though we're finding out COVID-19 is no respecter of persons.

Here's the thing about John Prine: He's written some of the best ballads, with some of the best lyrics, ever. If you haven't heard "Jesus, The Missing Years," then you don't know about how "the years went by like sweet little days/With babies crying pork chops and Beaujolais." You don't know about "Christmas in Prison," when "the food was real good/We had turkey and pistols, carved out of wood."
And you don't know about "Quit Hollerin' At Me," which includes maybe my favorite lyric of all time:

You don't have to tell the neighbors
A little silence ain't no sin
They already think my name is
Where in the hell you been?

I actually met the man, years ago. He was standing in the dark scouting a guitar player in Columbia Street West in Fort Wayne, and of course we all recognized him. Finally, because no one else would, I got up, walked past him on the pretext of going to the restroom and stuck out my hand.

"Love your music," is all I said.

"Thanks, man," he replied.

That's my John Prine story, such as it is. I wish I had more.

But I guess That's The Way That The World Goes 'Round.