“Ramblin’ Jack’s one of those people whose whole life was music. He’s like William Blake and Bob Dylan and other people who just believed and lived for whatever poetry they could come up with. That’s probably the thing I was trying to be.”

“Ramblin’ Jack’s one of those people whose whole life was music. He’s like William Blake and Bob Dylan and other people who just believed and lived for whatever poetry they could come up with. That’s probably the thing I was trying to be.”
Maybe you’ve never heard of Ramblin’ Jack but surely you’ll recognize the man who I just parroted. He’s not just any old poet/songwriter/singer/actor/ Rhodes Scholar he is the most interesting creature in the universe! That’s right, the above quote is from Kris Kristofferson and he totally kicks the Dos Equis man’s arse- hands down. And I love Dos Equis.

He traded a Rhodes scholarship and made his own roads. Some might argue he wasted his gifts but I believe he chose a path that allowed him to share those gifts with the world. How many stuffy ole geniuses does the world need anyway?

It’s still NPM so I’ll try not to turn this into the life and times of Kris Kristofferson. It would take years to cover that. We could talk for a month of Sundays about his material alone. Speaking of Sundays here is what I still refer to as Sunday Morning Sidewalk.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An’ I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An’ stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I’d smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I’d been pickin’.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin’ at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
‘n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken.
And it took me back to somethin’,
That I’d lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cos there’s something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin’ city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.

In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin’ little girl who he was swingin’.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin’.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin’.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cos there’s something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’,
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin’ city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.