My mama always loved Randy Owen. Still does.

And I mean the giddy, teenager type love. It has always been weird. And I’ve told her plenty, but she doesn’t care.

I’ve never really seen my mother read. Her bookshelf isn’t one I’d peruse for very long, historically. This one, however, caught my eye.

Well well well, what have we here? The front man of Alabama, the band that produced forty-three #1 singles, although for whatever reason the Beatles still get credit for the most in history with their meager twenty.

In any case, I thought the book was a little boring. Too few stories. Lack of artistic authorship. Bland.

Maybe it’s jealousy. When you’re famous already, you don’t have to be a good writer. It’s fine. I won’t lose sleep over it. Maybe.

Anyway, I’ll return the book to Mama’s bookshelf because I know that, though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even read my stuff, and I’m not entirely positive she read Owen’s book, this is definitely the one that she would read more than once.