Writing about Rick Rubin and Johnny Cash reminded me of The Avett Brothers who Rubin also produced to add more luster to that halo he surely deserves.

And that made me think of my favorite Avett Brothers song “No Hard Feelings” and the first time that I heard it and the two good friends that were part of that day that so matched this song.

Did I mention that I have A.D.H.D. ? I did? Good. THAT figures into this story too.

And yeah, YEAH! I AM going to finish “The Last Confession,” especially since I already published the ending for you to read if you want to, AND I AM going to finish “Beg Mercy,” which I left off a little while ago to pick up later just like I did with it thirteen years ago.

But don’t worry, I’m NOT intending to let another thirteen years slip by before I pick it back up, mainly because I doubt that I have thirteen more years left in me. How about you just get off my ass about BOTH books for now, huh? OK? I’m WRITING. OK? I’ll finish them. Alright?

“Are you NOT entertained?”

“Oh, JESUS CHRIST! NOW he thinks he’s Russell Crowe’s Maximus in “Gladiator!”

Well, yes, I do, but THAT’s beside the point. Just try to stay with me here, would you, please.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, “No Hard Feelings.”

I met Michael B. in law school. He was a year behind me. We were the second and third presidents of our law school’s chapter of The Federalist Society which our mutual friend and law school mentor, Len M., organized there and was the first president. I was the first president of our law school’s chapter of Christian Legal Society, and Michael was the second president. Incidentally, Len ran for governor of our state once. He didn’t win, though. He’s now the president of a Christian college. Before he ran for governor, he’d been head of a Christian public interest law firm in our state. Michael was the United States Attorney for our state. I’m something of the slacker of this group, I guess, although for two weeks about two years ago, I had Michael’s hard earned job offer to become an Assistant United States Attorney.

It took me six months of work and great distraction from my day job, a mountain of application forms, a personal interview with Michael’s chief and the heads of his criminal and civil divisions who didn’t know me from Adam nor that Michael and I were friends, although Michael’s chief knew, a writing sample, and a timed test that included me writing a response to a human smuggler’s motion to suppress a confession, and all this during the nationwide shut-down and governmentally-imposed enforced isolations to address the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty.

I had the job offer that came from Michael’s chief on July 2nd, and I had already written but not yet delivered my resignation letter for my still current job, taken my drug test, started on the even larger mountain of forms you get to fill out when you finally “get the job,” which job includes not one, but two “federal colonoscopies,” as I affectionately call them, from the Federal Bureau of Investigations, the first one a quick peek up your ass to see if there’s anything obviously disqualifying in your backside at the start of your two year probationary period and a later, more thorough one where they really rummage around your insides, poking things with sticks and kicking over any rocks they might find there to see what comes crawling out from underneath.

Not having lived with my head up my ass, I don’t know what the F.B.I. might have found up in there. I don’t think they would have found anything, but who knows? What’s the friend of a friend of a friend of an enemy gonna say about you? Do you have enemies? I’ll bet you do. Everybody does. What would your enemy confidentially tell the F.B.I. about YOU?

Anyway, I’ll never know, because after two agonizing weeks, contemplating how I was going to tell my beloved colleagues in the hardest job that I ever had in my life, and still have by the way, and looking forward to the day I would drop my drawers, bend over, and let a federal agent shove his or her pointy stick up my bum, I texted Michael to ask if I could speak with him on the phone, and when I finally did, I told him that I wasn’t going to accept the job after all. It wasn’t just the dreaded F.B.I. background checks. I didn’t even mention them. It was a lot of other, more important things that I told my old friend who listened patiently while I somewhat rambled on like I’m somewhat doing here. When I was finished, Michael just said, “It’s OK, Hess Baby,” calling me the nickname he gave me in law school, “I’m sorry we put you through all this.”

I said, “No, Michael, it was a privilege to have just applied and the highest honor of my legal career to have been offered the job. I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

“None whatsoever, Hess Baby.” he said. “No worries.”

Later that somber afternoon that I had taken off from work to live through, a new and equally as dear friend, Brian B., sent me this song just out of the blue. Brian and I and our wives worked together in a Christian ministry called “Young Life,” and he and I have taken long hikes where we shared our life stories. Brian is a retired officer in the United States Marine Corps who has been in combat and seen friends die in battle. Brian works with combat vets and told me that I undoubtedly have post traumatic stress from all the work that I did in my years as a prosecuting attorney and now do trying to protect and help neglected and/or abused children.

I texted “No Hard Feelings” to Michael a few hours after I had spoken with him, and he just texted back, “HAH!”

Anyway . . . that’s the long-haired record producer, Rick Rubin, swaying to the music in the following video of the equally long-haired hillbilly musicians, The Avett Brothers.

“Brothers . . . ” What would a man do without them?