Born in 1961, I caught at least two decades of the so-called Red Scare, but what’s going on now with political correctness, AKA the bloody afterbirth of the civil-rights movement, is the most egregious moral panic I’ve seen.
George Jones
Country singer George Jones, who to my ears had the greatest voice ever recorded, died on Friday. A genius of phrasing and nuance, Jones had a stratospheric voice that captured human heartbreak with bottomless poignancy. I once read that when he was a kid, Jones’s father would wake him up in the middle of the night and threaten to beat him if he didn’t sing for him. Whether or not that’s true, his voice conveyed a tortured soul that was unmistakably human.
Standing outside an Atlanta club on Friday night where I’d performed an amped-up version of “White Lightning” in honor of Jones’s passing, a self-proclaimed fan of mine told me he’d mentioned Ol’ Possum’s death on Facebook, only to receive a verbal feces-smearing by someone who called Jones a “racist” and a “redneck” who deserves to “rot in hell.”
As far as this guy could tell, his Facebook buddy felt Jones’s main transgression was that he was a white man who sang country music and was therefore automatically less than human.
Apparently, progressives only believe in hell when their perceived ideological enemies have died, hence the joyous “death parties” when Margaret Thatcher gave up the ghost and the cowardly gloating over Andrew Breitbart’s still-warm corpse by sneering, bucktoothed hacks who weren’t fit to sniff his underwear.
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