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My mom bought me my first two records, one of which was an album of cowboy songs. I'd be singing “Bury me out on the lone prairie” in the dark after I went to bed. She'd be telling me "go to sleep" and sounding really nervous.

Pretty soon a piano showed up and winked at me. I made the cheeky thing play “My country ‘tis of thee” with nine fingers tied behind my back. That's not easy, by the way. We made a deal, the piano and me. If I pushed down the right keys, it would make a pretty noise. Sometimes that actually happened. More fingers asked in on the deal. The noise got harder to make pretty, but on the good side, there was a lot more of it.

New records showed up, chore money put to good use. The Twist, the Mashed Potato, the Everly boys. (Why won’t MY hair do that?) In 7th grade, everybody who was anybody had to shoplift something. I got an Elvis and a Buddy Knox. The Elvis was “Surrender,” but if that was a cosmic suggestion, I resisted it.

My dad found a little Hammond chord organ somewhere. A power tool. Looked real nice in my room, with the orange lights and Playboy art. Somehow the family hi-fi wound up in there, too. The Doors, the Stones and the Airplane. The Spoonful and Frank Zappa teaching me harmony and disharmony, respectively.

And before long a band and parties to play at. Enborg Halle named us Dirty Girdle. Good enough. All that really mattered was it was loud and girls liked it. Felt like we'd made it when the cops showed up.

Off to college to study girls in greater depth and detail. Guitars, too. First one’s free, damn near. Mexican-made classical, 25 bucks. A little easier to cart around than SOME musical devices. Good for the serenade, too. Could get used to this. Did.

Wrote a song about horses. Thought it was great. I mean, it rhymed. What else would you need? Wrote another. Got a girlfriend. Wrote one for her. She dumped me. Wrote about that. Habit-forming.

Moved back to the Monterey Peninsula, where I’m from. Don’t hate me because it’s beautiful. The bohemian oasis called Ace’s Pizza had a tack piano in the back room. They said OK. Well, Jon Henault (rest his soul) said OK. Fridays and Saturdays. Dinner, beer, tips, friends to make, stories to hear and love to fall into. Pretty sweet deal.

Got an old reel-to-reel somewhere. Figured out how to get from me to it. Not always good to hear what you sound like, though, especially if you sound like Buffy St. Marie with a bad cold.

Tried L.A. for six months, knocking on doors. We were just wrong for each other, L.A. and me, even though they had that big statue of Bullwinkle you could get to from any part of town in four hours or so.

Moved back north. Heard KFAT in Gilroy, garlic capital of the world. Oddball country at its oddest -- like the wrestler Freddie Blassie singing “Pencil-neck Geek" -- and the good stuff, too. Emmy, Haggard, Waylon, local boy Larry Hosford. Whatever they liked. Good schooling.

Started writing that way and putting tapes in the mail to Nashville. The letter in the bottle in the ocean, pretty much, and what should wash back up on my desert isle but some famous strangers singing my songs. Holy shit, this actually works.

There’s a wife and child by this time, so we vote and it’s unanimous. What the hey. Tennessee.

Signed a songwriting deal about 3 months after showing up in the U-Haul. Did just well enough to not get fired for five years, with people like Vern Gosdin, Doyle Lawson & Quicksilver, Tompall Glaser, the Oak Ridge Boys and the Kendalls taking my stuff for a spin. Got a few on the radio, one that was on there for two years -- the last ten minutes of ‘85 and the first ten of ‘86.

After a while, they nudged me out the door, and just as well. Lots to unlearn, and lots more to learn. That took a while.

In 2002 I asked Mervin Louque at Douglas Corner how his writers night worked. He said forget that, just put a show together. The show didn’t suck, so there was another. Then another. And away we go.

Spent some time in nature -- competitive nature -- vying with my fellow man and woman before the judges of song. Got the nod at the Riverbluff Festival in 2004, then a New Folk finalist slot at Kerrville in 2005. In more cooperative ventures, I've been lucky enough to share the stage with a list of heroes and friends too numerous to mention, so I won't.

People would ask me if I had a website. I’d say between my toes. Now I won’t have to. Maybe someday I’ll have an actual album. Maybe not. Mostly I’m just waiting till I turn 70, when I plan to start my first hair metal band, with whatever hair I've got left.

Meanwhile, here we are. Thanks for listening. Hope you find something you like.