It's a Long Story: My Life

Memories remind us that every moment of our lives, even the most tragic, have contributed to our strength. We’ve gotten through. We’re still here.

Cause one way or the other,” I said, rolling a fat one, “it’s all gonna work out.” “And what makes you so goddamn sure?” I took a hit and held it in. When I exhaled, I said, slowly but deliberately, “It’s a matter of faith, Waylon. And I got enough faith to last me this lifetime and whatever lifetimes come next.

When it’s on us, seems like the storm will never pass. But it always does.

Truth be told, these fuckers don't know their elbows from their assholes.

Get in there. Sing the song. Get out. I’m not big on a hundred takes and a thousand overdubs. My kind of singing isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s meant to reflect the imperfections of a human being like me. After a couple of takes, that reflection is pretty accurate.

Next to his pecker, a picker’s fingers are his most precious body parts.

Do Right Woman, Do Right Man.” I sang it nice and slow

Take people for who they are,” he once said to me. “Everyone requires respect. The less you judge people, the more successful your dealings with them. Don’t preach. Don’t be harsh. Don’t be arrogant. When it comes to working with others, understanding is the key. You can’t be too compassionate. Compassion leads to cooperation, and cooperation leads to accomplishment.” Compassion and understanding were the two qualities Doc exhibited on a daily basis. He was never too busy to stop and offer me praise when I deserved it and a critique when I needed it. “What I like about you, Willie,” he said, “is that you let your easygoing personality come out. Listeners like someone who’s not trying to impress them with his importance. What they don’t like, though, is when they turn on their radio early in the morning and discover that the deejay isn’t there. They don’t like that at all.” Doc was referring to the fact that, due to late-night gigs I had with Johnny, I had arrived late for a couple of my early morning shifts. Another boss would have fired me. Not Doc. Doc said, “Look, Willie, I know you’re looking to find yourself as a singer and a songwriter. No doubt you have talent, boy. I wouldn’t do anything to discourage that work. In fact, if it’s easier for you, I’ll move you to an afternoon shift.” “Thank you, sir.” “I’m looking for you to do big things, Willie. You and that Johnny Bush as well.” Doc also gave Johnny a deejay shift. “Both you guys are characters,” he said, “but the kind of characters our listeners like. Our listeners are getting a kick out of you.

Bottom line is that I’ve seen some progress in my time. Not long ago millions of gay folks were hiding in the closet and living in fear. Now they’re free to come out, create their own path, and even marry. That’s a beautiful thing. I’m not saying things are perfect, but I am saying they’re better than when I was coming up. I still see the need to protest, especially on behalf of the small farmer and especially on behalf of our environment. If we fuck up this planet any more, we fuck up the future of our kids and grandkids. Global warming is serious as sin. I’ll play just about any damn benefit where the money goes to protecting our earth, water, and sky. I still believe in taking strong stands.

We on the coast, Zeke?” I asked. “Afraid not, Willie,” he said. “Where are we?” “Weatherford, Texas.” Weatherford is barely twenty-five miles west of Fort Worth.

I sang ’em all—“Night Life,” “Funny How Time Slips Away,” “Crazy,” “Mr. Record Man,” “I Gotta Get Drunk,” “The Party’s Over.

When it comes to persecuting people for pot, there’s a long list of horror stories. The thing that gets me is, why? Why waste precious law enforcement resources on bullshit? I

It’s good to change. If the change brings about confusion, who cares? Confusion makes you think. And that’s another good thing.

When you expect the best, you release a magnetic force in your mind,” said Peale, “which by a law of attraction tends to bring the best to you.

pick up Trigger and see where this new

found a registered two-thousand-pound prize Seminole bull with a note that said, “Here’s that calf I owe you.” Faron took the bull out to pasture, where he and his partner Jimmy C. Newman, a star of the Grand Ole Opry, used it for breeding for years. Tootsie’s was the launching pad for all kinds of grand connections. One night I spotted Charlie Dick. He was Patsy Cline’s husband and manager. I had with me a copy of “Night Life” that I’d cut with Paul Buskirk in