John Mayer on 316, another musical memory

Winter never feels like winter in Georgia. Not that I've ever experienced it anywhere else...it just doesn't feel like what I think winter should feel like. Truly cold days are uncommon, and significant amounts of snow are real rarities. Tonight was no different. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn't particularly harsh or biting...just slightly crisp and even a little refreshing. However, it did merit the donning of my grandfather's old flight jacket. The leather and wool coat had become a staple of my wardrobe since I found it in the storage closet. I liked the way it looked on me, but more importantly I liked the way it made me feel. With khaki pants and brown shoes, it gave me a certain 'General MacArthur' look, and if I'd had the hat, I probably would've gotten the urge to beat the crap out of the Emperor of Japan.

My hastily packed suitcase was stuffed into the backseat, and I was halfway through my oft-traveled journey up Highway 316 back to the promised land. The sun had just slid over the horizon, and the air was filled with an almost tangible, dull lavender tint. I always found driving to Athens rather therapeutic, especially at night. I almost looked forward to it every time -- just me, my car, and my stereo. As much as I like having my radio deafeningly loud, I often found myself tuning it out, opting instead, albeit subconsciously, to spend most of the trip day dreaming, or hashing out whatever dilemma in my life at the time. I got quite a bit of thinking done between Fayetteville and Athens.

By virtue of the fact that it was late December, the route to Athens was essentially deserted. The majority of people in Athens, well, weren't. Most students were at home celebrating one holiday or another with their families. But partially due to my love of music, and mostly due to my contractual obligation to the University of Georgia athletic association, I had to make the trek back to Athens to play my mellophone -- poorly -- at a basketball game for two hours, in between snide remarks directed at Steve Newman.

My MP3 player had worked its way to the J's, and the slow strumming of a guitar brought me out of my trance, like the air conditioning switching off in the middle of the night. The songs to which I usually seem to get the most attached are the ones that I feel like I would've written myself if I had the talent, or at least had the idea first. Daughters by John Mayer falls into this category. Normally I don't care for Top 40 songs like that because I feel like there's no 'feeling' in them...they're just written because people like it and teenage girls will buy it and go to the concerts. And that bothers me on some level.

At any rate, very few of the girls I know have what they consider 'good' relationships with their father. I often wonder if it's as bad as they make it sound, but that's really neither here nor there, and it is what it is. But this one's a little different. She's a little more adamant about it than everyone else.

I read somewhere that girls are attracted to men like they're father, and with her it seems to be true -- in as much as she's attracted to guys that treat her like crap and make her cry. Naturally, this leads to her general opinion that all men are worthless, which, I suppose for her is also true. She tends to become enamored with various guys, only to have them break her heart. It's such a shame, and not in a sarcastic way. It really is unfair, mostly because she deserves better than that, but also because when someone's genuinely nice to her, she doesn't know how to handle it. She's such a fantastic person, but just can't seem to let go of the bitterness long enough to realize it.

Telling her as much certainly didn't have the desired effect. I thought it was my fault at first, but the more I think about it, maybe it isn't. I'm just pissed at her dad.

I park my car, pop the trunk and pull out my horn, and make some self-deprecating comment on its condition as I duct tape the mouthpiece into place. The temperature had dropped significantly since I left home. I can see my breath hanging in the air as I walk around to the back of the coliseum, and can hear the stray notes coming from my fellow band nerds warming up outside.

Damn I hate it when my mouthpiece is cold.