Imagine you are a middle-aged Midwestern salesman with two bratty kids and a wife that nags at you like a woodpecker. You’re on vacation in Nashville, because the old ball and chain sure as hell is not going to fly EVER AGAIN after 9/11. And being the sort who thinks we ought to bomb those towel-heads back to the stone age, she’s got this idea in her head that she just might bump into Toby Keith on the street down there. Since you just bought this nice Ford Windstar with the DVD system in the back and you got the A Plan discount, you figure you’ve saved just enough money to pay for this wretched trip. That is, if you keep an eye on your costs. So instead of paying real money to drag those spiteful little monsters of yours to see a good country act, you take them to some bar/restaurant with a 50-gallon deep fryer. The Eminem DVD was left back in the minivan, so your son is pouting. Your teen daughter didn’t have time to apply her makeup in your rush from the Ramada, so she’s embarrassed to be seen in public, especially around all these cute cowboy-types. The wife is still craning her neck, making the fat rolls dance with her jowls, hoping to spot someone she might recognize from TNN. And that’s when you hear Trent Summar scream, “Who’s ready to party and raise hell.” The New Row Mob kick into an insipid country rocker called “The Beat Don’t Ever Stop” and you order the first of what will be many Coors Lights that evening. The band is polished, the songs are “fun,” and the wife is having a great time. “What a show,” she says, over and over again. “That Trent is quite an entertainer.” You just keep drinking and try not to notice as your daughter slow dances with a 40-year-old mustachioed redneck in a pair of soiled Levis and a NASCAR T-shirt. Small solace can be had from your son’s surprising interest in this crap-fest. When he asks you if he can learn to play country guitar, you hear yourself asking him if that means he doesn’t want to grow up to be a white rapper anymore? Disappointed in his answer, you try and make an argument for why Eminem is, in fact, a good role model. But your son sees through you, entranced with Summar and his witty banter between songs. “If we could get some tequila, beer, and pretty girls up here in front of the stage as soon as we could, it’d be pretty good.” So, begrudgingly, you give your wife the money to buy this awful CD after the show. Next year, you swear you’re taking the family on a cruise and jumping overboard in the middle of the night.