Listing to the left

I am anything but a rebel. I’m pretty non-confrontational and probably over-sensitive. I don’t dress so that people would look at me—well, that way, you know how they do if someone has blue hair and they aren’t 70, or piercings anywhere besides the ears. I actually admire people who aren’t afraid to be different, but I don’t think I’m one of them. Oh, it’s true I have no filter between my brain and my mouth, and someone once told me, “You say the most extraordinary things.” “Extraordinary” is not the word I’d use, but I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I’m pretty much a boots and jeans girl, although I do clean up nicely.

So I went to a major discount store, the name of which I’ll keep to myself because we do, after all, live in a litigious society. I needed a few odds and ends, and I happened to pass the music department. There was a man there, apparently a vendor rather than a store employee, re-stocking CDs. I browsed the classic rock and country CDs, but didn’t really see anything that appealed to me. Since the guy was right there, I thought I’d ask him if this was the extent of their selection.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Country?”

He grinned. “Don’t you know?”

“Yes. Country. Definitely.”

“We’re just about buried in country. There’s Randy Travis’s new one.” He pointed over my shoulder. “And Reba McEntire. George Strait.” He kept putting up CDs.

“Yeah. Hm. Not that kind of country. I mean, it’s good, I see why people buy it, but it’s just—you know. Not my thing.”

Now he stood straight. “If that’s not country, I don’t know what is. Who in particular are you hunting?”

“Hayes Carll?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

“James McMurtry? Ryan Bingham? Cross Canadian Ragweed?”

“I don’t know where you’re coming up with these. Never heard of any of them.”

“Steve Earle?” I asked hopefully. “Shooter Jennings?” By now I was fiddling with the zipper on my purse.

He grunted. “Your tastes are a little left wing aren’t they?” He went back to his task.

“I never thought—well, I don’t know. I guess.”

I’ve thought about that conversation off and on since that day. What was it about that music that made it left wing? Did I say Willie Nelson? Did I say Kinky Friedman? Did I say Dixie Chicks? Not that I necessarily disagree with the sentiments of any of them.

Music isn’t the only “left-ish” thing I’ve been accused of supporting. I had a Subaru once. A very dear friend said that was too bad, because only liberals drove them. I have a big iron peace sign on the front of my house. Hippie. The first official Oklahoma state flag flies next to the American flag on my front porch. Commie. I subscribe to This Land Press. Radical.

I’m really at a loss to explain these prejudices. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I realize that everything one does makes a statement, but the interpretation of those statements might ought to be better thought out.

Well, that’s about it. I have to go shop for a Prius and pick up some tofu.