On Saturday mornings he would open a can from the land of sky blue waters with a swish. This is Hank, he would say as he lit into I’m so lonesome I could cry. It was my Saturday morning cartoon substitute sitting there wide-eyed wanting She Loves You and getting A Tear in my Beer. He knew nothing of DNA but passed down the lonesome gene on those Saturdays with every sad song he sang. It developed slowly, dormant for so long, but finally grew strong nurtured by life and hung on like the last chord of a steel guitar. It is the lonely yodel of finally being loved by a good woman but still hearing his voice on some lonesome Saturday say this is Hank.
Zen and the Art of Being Lonely