🎵 Some songs arrive before the musicians do.
A true story about burns, banjos, bluegrass, big dreams, and the song that made me imagine singing with Steve Martin before I die. Come along for the ride at tretaylor.com, where humor meets healing and every adventure becomes a story.
A Letter to Steve Martin from a Surf Van
By Tré Taylor & Bleep the Tattoo
🚐 ✨ 🚐
A few weeks ago, I encountered a culinary injury. I accidentally baptized myself in an exploding bacon-grease griddle catastrophe.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
At Strawberry Music Festival, while cooking breakfast for a camp brunch, I managed to give myself a second-degree burn on my right hand.
My dominant hand.
My writing hand.
My coffee hand.
My "please don't let me injure this hand because I use it for absolutely everything" hand.
Needless to say, this was not part of the master plan.
Then again, most of the best stories never are.
🔥 🥓 🔥
The Story Isn't Really About the Burn
The burn makes a good headline.
But it isn't really the story.
The story began years ago when I was carrying nearly 200 extra pounds and finally decided I wanted my life back.
It continued through bariatric surgery.
Double knee replacement surgery.
Dental reconstruction.
Van life.
PTSD.
Homelessness.
Recovery.
And learning one of the hardest lessons of my life:
How to ask for help.
There were times I honestly didn't know if I was going to make it.
There were days when I was too sick to work.
Too proud to ask for help.
Too exhausted to imagine a future.
Yet somehow, life kept placing remarkable people in my path.
Friends.
Strangers.
Teachers.
Healers.
Musicians.
The county programs that helped me survive.
The supporters who donated when I needed help the most.
A GoFundMe that quite literally helped save my life.
One act of kindness at a time, I slowly found my footing again.
🌻 🌻 🌻
Dear Steve Martin,
Now we arrive at the slightly embarrassing part.
The part where I admit I sent a song to Steve Martin.
Yes.
That Steve Martin.
The wild and crazy guy.
The banjo-playing genius.
The comedian who helped shape my sense of humor when I was growing up.
The artist who taught me that absurdity can sometimes save your life.
After my bacon grease incident, I did what any perfectly reasonable person would do.
I wrote a bluegrass comedy song about it.
Naturally.
The song is called:
Bacon Grease Baptism
And somewhere during the process, I thought:
"This song needs banjo."
Then I thought:
"This song needs Steve Martin."
So I sent him a note.
I basically said:
"Steve, I survived a bacon grease explosion, wrote a bluegrass song about it, and I think your banjo belongs on this thing."
Life is short.
Dreams are free.
Why not ask?
💙 Music • Food • Art • Fun 💙
What AI Taught Me About Creativity
The funny thing is that technology isn't the story.
People are.
The story was real.
The burn was real.
The healing was real.
The fear was real.
The laughter was real.
The dream was real.
Technology simply gave me another paintbrush.
As someone with severe dyslexia and ADHD, I've spent my entire life translating ideas from one language into another.
Not English.
Human.
I think in stories.
Images.
Patterns.
Music.
Feelings.
Connections.
These new tools help me express ideas that have been trapped in my head for years.
Not because they replace creativity.
Because they help unlock it.
🌲 ✨ THE GRATITUDE TOUR ✨ 🌲
Saying Goodbye
This year I also made a difficult decision.
After many wonderful years, I won't be returning to Strawberry Music Festival for a while.
There are no villains in that story.
No dramatic ending.
Sometimes a chapter simply reaches its natural conclusion.
Sometimes gratitude means letting go.
Sometimes growth means carrying the lessons forward and building something new.
Strawberry gave me friendships.
Music.
Memories.
Stories.
Community.
And one unforgettable bacon grease injury.
For all of that, I am genuinely grateful.
Now it feels like it's time to see what comes next.
🚐 ✨ 🚐
Turning Pain Into Power
My hand is still healing.
The scar isn't finished teaching me whatever lesson it came here to teach.
But I feel different.
Stronger.
More willing to take chances.
More willing to dream out loud.
Because after everything I've survived, I've realized something:
The biggest risk isn't failure.
The biggest risk is becoming afraid to dream.
And I'm simply not interested in that anymore.
🐆 🎵 🐆
Three Questions for Fellow Dreamers
1️⃣If you knew you couldn't fail, who would you most want to create something beautiful with before you die?
2️⃣What dream has followed you for years and still refuses to leave you alone?
3️⃣What would become possible if you treated your scars as proof that you survived rather than evidence that you're broken?
🎵 🎵 🎵
