By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
Dwight Yoakam: There are very few times anymore that my wife of 10 years is in the mood for marital relations. In fact, there are only three ways in which I can assure myself that I'magonnagetmesum: one, if she downs more than three Gloria's top-shelf margaritas; two, if I clean the house, find a babysitter, make dinner, light candles, and lose 20 pounds--all in the same day; and three, if I take her to see Dwight.
Which is why you may have seen me, crushed cowboy hat and all, dancing my fat ass off at Starplex the last time Dwight came through town. Sure, I was thrilled to hear his string of hits, but I was even more excited to watch my better half get all giddy at the sight of his yoakam, pinned to his leg by his tight-fittin' denim.
Not to reduce what Dwight means to me, my family, and country music. When my wife--who has true country cred: grew up in a trailer, didn't have a telephone until she was 18, lived on cream gravy--introduced me to country music 13 years ago, she said simply, "Start with Dwight Yoakam, then we'll work our way down." And so we did throughout the decade, making our way through the good ("Guitars and Cadillacs," "Two Doors Down," "Things Change," "Gone") and the even even better ("A Thousand Miles From Nowhere," "Home for Sale," "Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room"). We listened, we sang, we danced, we got our groove on. I'm hopeful that on October 1--or, perhaps, October 2...after midnight and all--we will again.
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