Regrets? Oh please. If my true feelings about this past year were a painting, they'd make Munch's The Scream look like one of Margaret Keane's big-eyed waifs by comparison.

In February, I hounded Willie Nelson, angling to interview him about his digital single, "Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other," for a gay and lesbian newsmagazine. Just before our chat commenced, my editor asked me to "go easy" on music queries, and shoot for more gossip. Consequently, I wasted one of my favorite artist's time with questions about acting alongside Dyan Cannon in Honeysuckle Rose, and Jessica Simpson's IQ. Kill me now.

Speaking of the former Mrs. Lachey, who booked her to perform—and bomb—during the Dolly Parton segment of the Kennedy Center Honors? Jessica Simpson is the antithesis of Parton. Beneath her golden locks, Dolly has always lived by her wits and talent—no matter how plunging her neckline—while Simpson has yet to display a modicum of either. Please tell me some numbskull was fired over that blunder.

I still can't believe the Meat Purveyors broke up. I keep praying I'll wake up and it will all be just a terrible dream, and it will really be Big & Rich who split.

Finally visiting Nashville, Tennessee, was one of my 2006 highlights. But during my visit to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, I got yellow-belly fever when one disgruntled patron loudly booed a video clip of the Dixie Chicks. I should've told her to jam a sock in it, but feared I was outnumbered at a Music City tourist destination. Would that I'd shown one vertebra of Natalie Maines's spine at that moment.

Of course, I might have been more inclined to stand up for the Chicks if their album Taking the Long Way had sounded as awesome as the video for its first single looked. "Not Ready to Make Nice" came off like Marilyn Manson directing a community theater production of Our Town. But the disc itself, with its all-star contributors (Sheryl Crow? John Mayer?), was too slick and nondescript, the last complaint I thought I'd ever level at a Rick Rubin production.

Seattle is a kick-ass town for roots music. Alas, many of the best venues for it are in Ballard, Georgetown, and other far-flung neighborhoods. My sincerest apologies to every great act I missed at the Tractor, Little Red Hen, or Jules Maes because I was reluctant to sit on a Metro bus for 45 minutes, or shell out 15 bucks on cab fare, just to get to the gig. Not to sound like every other writer at this rag, but for Christ's sake, why doesn't this city offer better public-transportation options?

And to whoever stole my time machine, please return it immediately so I can fast-forward through the next couple months. Both Rosie Thomas and Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter have amazing new records in the can, and Seattle audiences shouldn't have to wait another minute to hear them.

kurt@thestranger.com