My memory bank has overflowed out of control forever. I'm surprised my smile hasn't killed me yet. I have lived an indescribable joyful, adventurous, musical dream life and it just gets better every year.

I don't care if it's Bruno Mars or Aerosmith or ZZ Top... it's about songs. 'Paperback Writer,' 'Satisfaction,' 'Cat Scratch Fever,' 'Walk This Way,' all the killer songs in the world start with an identifiable guitar pattern that is basically a bastardization of either honky-tonk or boogie-woogie. And that's in every cool piece of music in the world that you and I love.

My haters are laughable punks, my supporters the greatest people that ever lived.

The freedom-hating gun-grabbers do not care about reducing crime or saving lives, or they wouldn't be fighting for more gun-free zones where the most innocent lives are always slaughtered. Those squawking the loudest for banning guns from we the people will not get rid of their we-the-people tax-dollar-paid armed security guards.

I stand humbled on bended knee but, of course, the response to that would be 'Duh!' And to be given that incredible honor means that I represent the piss and vinegar, the energy, the defiance, the musicality of the Funk Brothers and Motown and Mitch Ryder and Bob Seger, Brownsville Station and Grand Funk Railroad and Eminem and Jack White and Kid Rock - are you kidding me?

Look what venison does to a goofy guitar player from Detroit? I'm going to be 54 this year and if I had any more energy I'd scare you.

On my first bowhunt on the property a few years back, I was on my own for twenty-two days and killed an amazing thirty-three head of big game. I'm surprised I even came home. I was in heaven.