RACE IS ON TO CONQUER ADDICTION

It was a country crowd, and that meant three things -- big hair, big belt
buckles and big bellies flopping over big belt buckles.

But seriously ...

Wait a minute ... that was serious.

Aside from those three items, however, a country crowd means a big
personality, someone who is ashamed of his flaws but proud he has overcome
them.

Meet George Jones, alias the Possum, a combination of shame and pride.

He has earned both -- mostly the pride.

A country legend still going strong at 69, Jones came to town last week,
performing for about an hour at the Abraham Chavez Theatre.

"I have an important George Jones announcement to make," a roadie told the
crowd about 15 minutes before the show was to start. "George Jones is here."

The crowd erupted into laughter -- and relief. Jones, you see, was always a
hot ticket, but he was rarely a sure one. Hence his nickname, "No Show
Jones." He missed more dates than a wallflower, usually because of
disastrous bouts with liquor or drugs.

The country star has done plenty of both, but those days are gone, he said.
Jones has not touched a drop of liquor in two years. He seems happy, but
more importantly, he seems comfortable with his happiness.

Comfortable with his happiness. How bizarre is that? A country singer is
supposed to revel in his misery, right? Without it, he is just another
warbler, just another guy with a print shirt and a black cowboy hat,
earning millions of dollars by pretending to be sensitive.

But Jones has earned his joy. He has defeated his biggest enemy -- himself.
Now, instead of misery, he is filled with wisdom and irony. Not a bad
trade-off ... And, besides, the man knows he is just another whiskey bottle
away from sadness and degradation -- a realization that invests those
down-on-his-luck songs with even more power.

"The thought of playing here again makes me tard," he said, greeting the
crowd as he slung his guitar across his shoulders. "The last few times I
was here, I stayed in trouble across the border."

Then he launched into one of his classics: "The Race Is On."

Well, the race is on, and here comes pride up the backstretch,

Heartache's goin' to the inside.

My tears are holding back, They're trying not to fall.

My heart's out of the runnin,' True love's scratched for another's sake.

Well, the race is on, and it looks like heartaches,

And the winner loses all.

He finished the song, and then he smiled, as if he were detached from the
sadness and self-pity he expressed in the song.

"I'm gonna drink a little bit of spring water now," he said, poking fun at
his image as a hell-raiser.

Jones looked at the bottle, longingly, as if it contained whiskey, not
water. But it was his throat that was parched, not his soul. So he realized
he better settle for water.

"Now I know it's not spring, but this is water," he said, smiling.

After about an hour of singing, chatting and even shimmying, Jones picked
an appropriate song with which to end the evening -- "I Don't Need Your
Rockin' Chair."

I don't need your rockin' chair. Your Geritol or your Medicare

'Cause I still got neon in my veins. This gray hair don't mean a thing.

Of all the classics he sang that night -- "She Thinks I Still Care," "He
Stopped Loving Her Today," "I'm a One Woman Man" -- those lyrics rang the
truest.