Published: November 18, 2008 06:23 pm            

Sounds of deer camp ring in my ears

I hate to admit it, but Glen Campbell is stalking me.

In the car, walking down the sidewalk, at work, brushing my teeth: the country crooner follows my every move. Actually, it is his words that won't let me be. The chorus to "Country Boy" is not merely stuck in my head, it is embedded in the temporal lobe.

My run-in with the "Rhinestone Cowboy" started in the wooded solitude of deer camp. While weather and beard stubble conditions vary, there are a few deer camp constants.

First, the red shed still stands after weathering another year. Built during the Lyndon B. Johnson administration, the red shed is a plywood and tin roof abode that screams rustic charm. Of course, the cedar-sided outhouse draws the same reaction -- especially on subfreezing mornings.

You also can count on a steady deer camp diet composed of the four basic food groups: pickled, smoked, fried and jerky. Summer sausage and powdered donuts is a grossly underrated breakfast combo. At one point there was a concern over vegetables, but we haven't put out bait piles in years.

While deer camp is several two-tracks from civilization, the outside world remains in range -- albeit with some static. For the past 15 years the battery-powered camp radio has emitted only one sound: country music.

The nifty cowboy hats aside, I'm not a country music fan. Although put a karaoke mic in my hand and I'm apt to foolishly follow Johnny Cash into a ring of fire or shed a tear in my beer with Hank Williams Jr. Out in the blaze-orange wilderness, under the cover of darkness and thermal-lined underwear, I indulge my inner honky-tonk. However, most of this music is auditory chewing gum. I can't fully digest the likes of Sugarland or Mark Chesnutt.

Then Glen Campbell came on the radio around lunchtime at the red shed. Like acid reflux, he keeps coming up on a daily basis.

Since last Sunday, the bell-bottom blue jeans era "Country Boy" has rattled around my brain. I'm sure valuable RAM gray matter was deleted so the lyrics "Country boy, you got your feet in L.A., but your mind's on Tennessee" could be stored as a non sequitur file. Unfortunately, no amount of mental floss can dislodge this song.

While a hot shower and shave stripped away the residue of deer camp four days ago, I can't simply wash away Glen Campbell. I'm stuck with him until my mind purges this useless tidbit. While it would unlikely change my predicament, it's too bad you can't file a restraining order on a song -- good thing for the Brittany Spearses of the world.

While Glen Campbell is not the ideal voice in my head, things could have been worse -- lyrically speaking. After all, his song "Southern Nights" contains 21 da's and two la's in one verse. The mere thought makes my temporal lobe hurt.

        

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