BECAUSE T.J. SAID SO!
2005-01-01

"What has been the effect of coercion? To make one half the world fools, and the other half hypocrites. To support roguery and error all over the earth." Thomas Jefferson Notes on Virginia, 1787

Thank you, TJ.

Now:
EAT YOUR VEGETABLES!
CHANGE YOUR OIL EVERY THREE THOUSAND MILES!
QUIT PLAYING THAT DAMN GUITAR!
TURN OFF THE LIGHTS WHEN YOU LEAVE A ROOM!
PUT MY TOOLS BACK WHERE YOU GOT THEM!
DON'T TALK DURING THE NEWS!
TURN THAT MUSIC DOWN! PANTS!
DON'T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR!
USE SCOPE!
BUY NOW, PAY LATER!
THINGS GO BETTER WITH COKE!
RESPECT YOUR ELDERS!
SIGN UP FOR THE ANNOUNCEMNT ONLY LIST!
BUY MY RECORDS!
COME TO MY SHOWS!
BECAUSE I SAID SO!

"a" story
2005-02-28

Besides "Smith", "Miller" is the most common surname in America today. We're everywhere, my friend. You can't spray for us.

And you can't swing a dead rat without hitting a "scott miller" in the music business.

So to DIFFERENTIATE myself from the rest of the miller,scott masses when I released my two new records "Are You With Me?" and "Thus Always to Tyrants" I decided to add my first initial 'A' and be a Scott Miller. Hell, like many southern boys, I am called by my middle name. My first name is "Allen" which I've never used except in college where I chose to remain anonymous. (I had good reason).

Well you'd a thought I'd started to call myself "Sting" the way some people reacted.

So I give up.

From now on, if you don't mind, just refer to me simply as
The Scott Miller.

LEADERSHIT
2005-03-01

I am not a leader of men.
And a child shall lead them.
Lead me not to temptation.

If you lead me now...
You picked a fine time to lead me, Lucille.
If I lead here tomorrow.
I'm leading on a jet plane.
You're Gonna Change or I'm a gonna lead.
Been a long time leading, be a long time gone.
Fifty ways to lead your lover.
I be leadin' you.
Lead her, Johnny lead her

Lemmings have
Lead poisoning

BB Guns
2005-03-01

When I was eight years old I got my first gun. It was a Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun: single action lever/single shot air rifle. Guns were common in our family, as was the healthy respect for them and the safety thereof. We had a gun safety class in our school in 5th grade besides the grilling my dad gave us. Teachers, kids, parents, etc. still had them in their gun racks when they came to school. "Zero Tolerance" applied to sissies-you weren't allowed to be one. Not that owning, carrying or knowing how to use a gun made you "unsissified", it wasn't even really paid attention to. It was as natural as the smoking area or the bus rides to school.

My father owned many guns (and still does) not out of any loyalty to the second amendment or fear of government power (which he had anyway) but for groundhogs, wild dogs, birds, rabbits, and rabid raccoons or foxes. An occasional deer was "harvested" but not out of any sport. When we ceased to NEED the venison, he ceased hunting. Besides, it was getting dangerous out there in the woods anymore during hunting season. Another by product of overpopulation in my opinion-- not of deer but of HUMANS. He did occasionally shoot over the heads of drunken teenagers who were smashing our mailbox. (Now mailbox baseball should be another subject of discussion ... a federal offense yes, but when you catch one with the sweet spot: ooo-la la)

Shooting THINGS is fun. Have you ever shot a cinderblock with a Mauser? Have you ever shot a gallon milk jug filled with water with a 4.10 shotgun? Have you ever shot a TELEVISION??? I had a friend who shot apart a whole house trailer with a 10 gauge. It took him all freakin' summer, but what a sense of accomplishment!

I'm not looking for a race war, or my government to come "pry it out of my cold, dead fingers", I'm looking to make some noise and smell gun oil. I'm listening to the sound of cold polished steel slide back and forth into place with precision. I'm looking for a good grouping of shots in case Mr. Intruder ever visits me.

But for now I have the Red Ryder. I have a BB range set up in the back yard, much to the chagrin of my wife. But it's tastefully done. There is an answering machine that's fun to shoot, an alarm clock, numerous beer cans, a Mickey mouse doll (he squeeeeaaaaks when you hit him in the chest), various downloaded pictures of people I HATE, and a Wisconsin license plate.(Don't worry all you inhabitors of the Dairy Air state - when a BB hits that thing it bounces back at you with about as much velocity as it left the muzzle - AND THAT AINT MUCH! You generally have time to shield your eyes.) The worst I do with my Red Ryder is hit squirrels in the ass when they climb all over the wife's birdfeeders. It's useful and respected.

Unless you've tried it, you can not know the Zen relaxation of shooting at aluminum cans for hours on end. Thinking and shooting. Thinking and shooting. Thinking and shooting.
So, keep your muzzle pointed a safe direction, know your background, treat EVERY BB gun as if its loaded, and you won't put your eye out....

This Scout Can.
2005-03-02

A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

It's unfortunate that I have to defend the fact that I was a Boy Scout. But there was the whole GOD thing back in the 80's and now the GAY thing; the fact that people have seen them as a para-military group since the 'Nam, and lay on top of that the GEEK thing and you'd just as soon have your kid join the "Dungeons and Dragons Club". I'll wager the D&D may have TALKED about killing, but they never did. (I'm convinced that if the Boy Scouts of America hired the publicist the truckers had during the 1970's they wouldn't be in such piss poor shape. But I digress.. )

A "Camporee" in the B.S. vernacular is a gathering of troops, generally of the same Area Council (ours still being the Stonewall Jackson Area Council---don't even go there) for a weekend of camping, competition and LEARNING. This particular Camporee was to learn how you could survive in the wild with only your wits, a knife, two matches, a tarp, a compass, a length of rope and whatever you could hide on your person. We were given coordinates to a field strewn with potatoes (I think they referred to them as "Brazilian nuts"). Another set of coordinates took you to a field laden with carrots. You gathered your food, built yourself a shelter, started your fire and waited. For what? FOR WHAT? I'll tell you for what.

Yonder came a tractor-trailer loaded with live chickens to be released in a fan fare worthy of Les Nessman. When I see pictures of soccer crowds in England going on a rampage, or footage of the Ayatollah Kohmeni's funeral, or the Christmas Season that cabbage patch dolls were the toy to buy, it reminds me of the sight of four or five hundred starving twelve to fifteen year olds chasing after twice as many chickens. Mankind hasn't come that far, let me tell you.

One scout in our troop, and I won't name him (Macon Coleman) was lucky enough to be among the first to snatch a bird, and before anyone could think he smacked it's head against a tree trunk. Job done. And done well, I might add. We had that yard bird plucked, gutted and cooked before ANYONE. We were ready to chow down so quick that we almost missed the scoutmaster running from fire to fire telling everyone NOT to eat the birds. Somebody figured out that they weren't FDA inspected, and the last thing the BSA needed was a lawsuit...

It was then I looked over at the campsite next to ours, and saw a lone scout holding a live chicken in his arms. He was crying. I guess the chicken was too. He couldn't bring himself to kill it.

I guess it would be here you would expect some sappy ending, but those damn city troops were a bunch of wimps. He'd probably make his parents stop off at KFC on the way home because he was hungry and not give it a second thought.

I guess to be a scout you don't have to kill chickens, just choke 'em.

BUT IN CONCLUSION:

To all you "crunchy granola suites" out there, when you're having a meadow party and you have your kegs but no one can build a fire because it's raining, who can?
This scout can.

When you're drowning after diving into the town duck pond drunk as a skunk, who can save you?
This scout can.

When you're moving home from college and you're trying to tie down your Morrisey poster so it won't fly off your parents' car, who can?
This scout can.

When it does fly off your car and causes a huge accident, who can treat the wounds of your soon to be accusers?
This scout can.

Who can out-smoke, out-drink, out-cuss and then (and only then) out-argue you about the worthiness of The Boy Scouts?
This scout can

Musical Grandfathers
2005-03-03

I guess everybody in the 'business' claims to have one. "I learned this song from my grandfather ...blah, blah." Well, I had two grandfathers like everyone else, but neither what would fit the definition of 'musical'. My dad's old man could whistle pretty damn good. He had the vibrato thing going and the whole nine yards. But he whistled show tunes and stuff. When you have lived through a depression I figure you can whistle any damn thing you want to and nobody can say anything. But it wasn't much inspiration.

My mom's father loved music, but he couldn't sing a lick. There is a family rumor of an acetate with him singing "The Old Rugged Cross" hidden somewhere. And I would love to hear it, no joke. But I stood beside him in church, I heard him singing under his breath to "Holy, Holy, Holy", and when I raised the hymnal up closer so he could read it instead of mumble it, he waved a hand like if someone offered you a smoke and you were refusing it, "No, No, I don't sing in church...."

So I had to adopt a musical grandfather for the sake of future interviews. I checked out Woody Guthrie - he was a little weird for me, which led me to Pete Seeger. "Sailin' up…sailin' down" ; I sang along with good ol' Pete to his songs about the Hudson River and Chang Kia Chek ("The three rules of discipline and the eight rules of attention" - or was it the other way around? ) Whatever, I didn't even care he was a Yankee Socialist or even COMMUNIST. He was my granddad, and I'll bet there are more people out there but they are scared to admit it. Oh, I have been mocked, but those mockers have never seen him live.

Introducing
2005-03-21

The hair that went with those boots was perfect. The overcoat fit magnificently and the cigarette was a Marlboro red. A-LIVE and in the flesh and standing in front of me was the one, the only Porter Wagoner. I guess in Nashville Music City, US of A they call it a "package show", and that night I was playing with Chris Knight, Mike Ireland and various other "Americana" acts. The backstage manager asked each of us to write two or three sentences for Porter to use as he introduced us. INTRODUCE US???? INTRODUCE US!!!!!!!

I was thrilled, to say the least.

And here is what happened: I wrote down in my shaky (i.e. sober) hand: "I'm from the Shenandoah Valley---home of the Statler Brothers. I was a V-roy, a band on Jack Emerson (I love putting that name first) and Steve Earle's E Squared Label."

Porter read it and asked me about a truck stop on I-81 near where I lived. He then said it was really nice to meet and to have a good show.

And he walked out into the spotlight in his purple suit and those silver boots and his whole BEING and said to the crowd:

"Folks, this next performer is nice young man from one of the most beautiful places in the whole United States, the Shenandoah Valley. Now, they got some windy roads up there. In fact, the roads was so windy that my bus driver burned out his battery honking the horn at his own taillights...
(laughter and chortling)
But I think you're gonna like this next young performer. I talked with him back stage and he seems like a real nice young man, so make him feel welcome, A. Scott Miller!!"
(light applause)

Porter smiled to the crowd, shook my hand and whispered in my ear: "You're in show business now, boy." I felt like I was playing covered in afterbirth...

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head
2005-03-21

Everybody has the moment when they realize they are. You suddenly come to and know that you're a creature on God's green earth and your parents are who they are and your dog is your dog and your house is your house and your thingy is…well that's yours too.

I came to on my grandparent's side porch. I had a canoe paddle for a guitar and I was singing the Burt Bacharach song "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" with everything I had to a very attentive audience of boxwoods. The whole family was lounging in the living room after dinner and listened through the wall. They clapped and I promptly disappeared into the great cosmos again and didn't come back for quite a while. My mother would plop me in living rooms throughout the family but not a peep from me. I'd like to think I was chatting it up with Zeus and Buddah, not having time to entertain the cousins. Turns out I was just being stubborn---that I definitely am.