(Bosom) Friend Fridays: Rod Jones
What’s that, you say? Can a MAN bear the title of BOSOM friend?
Yes. Mostly because I want to make the Google search “Rod Jones’ bosom” yield results. (You’re welcome, Rod.)
Rod is truly one of my favorite people in the world. We met back in March of 2009 when I interviewed him as the East Nasty of the Week – basically the Stanley Cup of Nashville popularity (I’m really good at sports analogies). While our bond should have been instant, he was living out-of-state at the time, so he disappeared back to New York, and I continued on my path of awesomeness without him.
Fast-forward to November of last year. Rod had moved back to Nashville, and I had just decided to move to Denver. Thanks a lot, UNIVERSE. Luckily, we had a period of about 6 weeks before I left, and so we put our friendship on the fast-track, bonding over a mutual love of reading, writing, and chicken curry.
He taught me that Bob Dylan and Stephen King are brilliant. I taught him… well, probably nothing. But man oh man, does Rod Jones think I’m the greatest!
When I moved to Denver, I figured that our newly-forged friendship would fade like the Ryman in my rear-view mirror as I drove away. But mere miles cannot squelch this kind of bond, and we have kept up near daily contact for the past 6 months.
He will frequently read my blog or harebrained email, and respond with a hearty “Calm the f down, Annie P!” He saves me from awkward encounters at parties. He laughs at my dimwitted jokes. When I’m back in Nashville, he drives me around like it’s his job. And when insecurity starts barreling me toward a dead-end, he speaks good words that put me back in the driver’s seat.
He can be the life of the party, or at home alone with a book. He is the welcome committee of East Nasty, developing an instant rapport with all who meet him. He knows all sorts of useless riveting historical trivia. He is trustworthy and curious and funny, and one of the best storytellers I know. The man actually has a story called “Flaming Cow Head.” I mean, COME ON.
If I ever move back to Nashville, I hope he and I share a duplex. Separate quarters, but the ability to corner him to talk about our feelings every day? Best case scenario.