J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

If you don't know by now that my brain is constantly spinning like a whirling Dervish then, well, you haven't been paying attention. Readers more familiar with my neurosis are well aware that my cognitive function doesn't come with an off-switch, and no doubt anticipated that my birthday would bring with it a great deal of reflection. I turned forty-one this past Friday. After a wonderful weekend visit with an old friend, good times spent with friends, and then some shocking news followed by an unwanted phone call and five hours traveling alone for work today, needless to say I've done some thinking. The end result of my introspective meditation is this determination: In the grand scheme of things, I don't know a goddamn thing.   Now, of course I know things. I know a lot of things. I like to think that I am not just an educated man, but a learned man, one who has been able to learn from my experiences, both academic and practical. But then I spend a couple da

Each year at this time I post here a reflection on my life and the path it's taken in the previous year. Last year was particularly poignant for me as the initial digit in my double-digit years of existence changed for the first time in ten years. Although a bit clichéd but nonetheless appropriate as I entered my fourth decade, I examined my life through the words of Jimmy Buffett's A Pirate Looks at Forty .   This year, well, no one writes songs about turning forty-one.   So I'm left with my own words to mark the passing of another year.   I have many friends who have strong faith and belief, and they each describe their relationship with God as a friendly one – they can speak to God in prayer, or conversation. Well, when I look at things, let's just say that some will likely see what I am about to write as blasphemous. Point being, if God is my friend, and we're having a conversation, this is what I'd like to say to my friend, speaking friend to friend:

I was always the black sheep Too much fun, not enough sleep   Friends all said there would come a time I'd find a country girl and make her mine Then all my runnin' would come to an end And I'd finally have some time to spend   Livin' and dreamin' Instead of drinkin' and schemin' Lovin' some girl for the rest of my life No more runnin' and hidin' It was time to stop slidin' And make some pretty girl my wife   I listened for while Just to make 'em smile   But the road kept callin' me And those breezes by the sea Drew me away again and again I didn't yet have the time to spend   Livin' and dreamin' Instead of drinkin' and schemin' Lovin' some girl for the rest of my life No more runnin' and hidin' It was time to stop slidin' And make some pretty girl my wife   But then that ol' truck broke down In a sleepy seaside town   And that b

Writing one's own memoir is a daunting enough task – doing so without the ability to type makes the endeavor frustrating at best, excruciating at worst. Arthritis had long since stolen his ability to manipulate the tiny, plastic keys in front of him, and his failing eyesight did little to help the cause. His inability not only to write the words but also see them, was a torturous fate for a writer, akin to a musician losing his hearing, unable to lose himself in melodious song. No, he'd been left with no choice – if he were to write the Memoirs of James Allan Roberts , he would have to do so via dictation.   Mr. Roberts had grown cantankerous in recent years as his health faded much more quickly than he'd anticipated. What little comfort in life he still enjoyed came primarily from two sources: his boxer, Rufus, and a bottle of Johnny Walker. His lack of mobility prevented him on most days from even enjoying the grounds of the estate he'd work so hard to acquire an

"It's a Jeep thing. You wouldn't understand."   (Balls. Here we go…)   Hehehe you said bal… wait… Dammit! Stop that!   (*snicker*)   Grrrr. Anywhoos… Yes, it's true. When it comes to Jeeps, Wranglers in particular, there is just some things non-Jeepers will never understand. I wouldn't even call it a subculture at this point anymore.   There are so many of us out there that there are websites, online forums, clubs, events and even parks designated and designed solely and specifically for the Jeep enthusiast. It's a community, and, daresay, a family. Why do I bring this up, you ask?   (I… crap. Yeah, I actually was gonna ask this time.)   I bring this up because something cool happened Saturday night. Pulling into the parking lot in advance of   concert, I end up sliding into a spot right next to another top-down, ready to roll Wrangler. Instantly we had something to talk about, something in common. Of course, the fact that my next-

As you know, most songs and poetry are born of emotion. My own works are no exception. Writing the words is cathartic, therapeutic. There's been many a time I've written words and received some pretty strong reactions from readers, whether those readers were relating to my words and telling me how they applied to their own lives, or they were simply voicing concern for my well-being because of the nature and depth of feeling the words evoked. I suspect that this piece will do the same. I write this prologue to assure you that I am fine, spiritually and emotionally. Often times though it may take the words time to form, and although the moments I describe in my songs may have already passed, the words are no less poignant for me.   Though the mood of this piece has passed, I assure you, it took some time to find the words to express it. I hope you enjoy it for what it is: a country song from the heart about love lost and moving on. Thanks again, as always, for your continue