c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
Other than having a very basic familiarity with social media sites, I did not know much about the business of streaming content via internet connections. Because of my place as a late member of the ‘Baby Boom’ generation, such things were not really on my personal radar. I still looked upon content creation in terms of print media, and physical recordings. Though I also knew that such a narrow view of the world was one quickly passing into the realm of antiquity. But for my contact at the record label, this handicap was not in effect.
T. Randall Squire seemed to have an uncanny sense of every avenue to promote music and entertainment. And he was keen on making my work available to a greater audience.
With some assistance from a young nephew who possessed insight into technical matters, I was able to install the TikTok app on my cellular device. Then, I propped up the phone vertically on a section of porch railing, and took my guitar in hand. From the bench, I intended to broadcast a short selection of tunes from my catalog. But as this impromptu concert was about to begin, I felt myself trembling with anxiousness. Once, a few years earlier, I had written about a character who pursued a similar leap into the realm of performing for public consumption. But that fictional adventure had been easier to process, with the benefit of artistry offering a comfortable measure of detachment. Now, I realized that upon clicking the link stored on my wireless accessory, I would be visible to a vast audience of unseen spectators.
This spark of revelation made my stomach ache. I was about to be completely exposed to an anonymous crowd of onlookers, with no barrier between us except for the virtual space from my vantage point to their own.
With the sage advice of a seasoned veteran, Squire coached me to put worries about my performance aside.
“Y’all are gonna be fine, boy! Don’t let it get under yer saddle. See, it’s just like playin’ fer friends in the neighborhood. Nobody will bust yer chops or jeer while ya sing. As a matter of fact, I reckon they’ll be hootin’ and hollerin’ and dancin’ up a storm! None of ‘em has ever seen ya live, before. They don’t have any idea who ya really are! This is a chance to make yer first impression as an up ‘n comin’ star! If it pans out, then y’all will be set fer bigger things! Like a tour of honky-tonk bars, or even the Grand Ole Opry!”
I wanted to vomit. My fingers had turned numb.
“I’m a shaggy, old hermit you know? I can’t think that anybody will be too interested in what I’ve got to offer...”
When the connection had been made, I saw myself on the screen. Then, a mood of humility took hold. I paused before plucking out some simple chords, and looked straight into the digital camera.
“Friends, my name is uh... Rodney Dean. I live in a little residence park south of Lake Erie, in Ohio. I’m disabled, retired, and to be honest, not someone who’s spent much time thinking about being on stage in front of people. The truth is, my angle on all of this has been writing for newspapers and magazines. But I’ve always had a love for music, and the culture of Appalachia. So, I scribble out song lyrics now and then. Nothing I have ever created is too difficult to wrap your ears around. I’m not one for complicated melodies or classical sophistication. My upbringing was with members of the family playing down-home, earthy tunes about real events and the lives of working folks. That’s what got me started on this habit of putting words onto paper. If you have a love for that kind of thing, then I hope you’ll be pleased with what I am about to sing, right here and now...”
I could see that comments were scrolling below my image, on the screen. But without the benefit of reading glasses, those lines of text were illegible.
“Anyway, let’s start with one I wrote a very long time ago, while living with my first wife and her son, in Painesville. This is a ditty about the familiar habit of drinking cold brew for refreshment and relaxation. I never intended it to be taken seriously. However, you might say that I imagined this to be a jukebox anthem, like something one could expect to hear from a Country Music personality like Garth Brooks...”
“Gonna drink me a couple twelve-packs today
You know I’ll darn sure kill the case
Yes, I’ll drink those little, 12-ounce bottles
To chase the blues away
Then I’ll go to the store and buy me some more
Bring it on home to here
I’m gonna take me a swim in a sudsy river
Of Blue Ribbon Beer!
Sitting with my friends and some Wiedemann’s
Or maybe a quart of Blatz
Then I’ll swig some Bud or Miller Lite
Until I run out of cash
Then it’ll be time to clear the fridge
And drink everything left behind
A single bottle of Busch or Steel Reserve
Until I’m drunk and blind
Now I don’t need no fancy swill
A blue-collar taste is fine
You can keep your damn Corona
Served with a wedge of lime
I’ll ride till dawn with a 30 rack
Of Genesee Cream Ale
Or Yuengling Amber, chilled up just right
On ice, in a galvanized pail!”
My contact at the entertainment company huffed cigar smoke while listening. Then he pounded his workspace with both fists.
“GAWDAMN, THAT FELLER REALLY FIGURED IT OUT! LISTEN TO THAT Y’ALL! I KIN HEAR THE CASH REGISTERS RINGING! WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO BE RICH!”
I was too busy with this amateur improvisation to notice that a small group had gathered at the end of my driveway. Yet when they began to clap rhythmically to the cadence of my strumming, I could sense that the moment had taken on a character of celebration. Familiar members of our trailer contingent swelled in number, as I continued to croon about becoming inebriated.
From his distant office, T. Randall Squire sent a string of messages to my device, in capital letters.
“THAT’S IT BOY, THAT’S IT! KEEP GOIN’ DON’T QUIT WHILE YER AHEAD! SING TILL YA CAN’T SING NO MORE! SING TILL YA BUST YER LUNGS! SING UNTIL THE MILLIONS OF BUCKS START POURIN’ IN! WE’RE IN THE MONEY! WE’RE IN THE MONEY!”
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