It's a Year End Round-up, Y'all!

          It's the time of year for everyone, from Entertainment Weekly to Garden & Gun magazine, to recap their year.  We get lists of the Best and Worst in innumerable categories and I thought to myself, "Who am I to be different from other writers?"  So I give you my Top Events of 2018.
         1.  January - Ben and I celebrated the one-year anniversary of our first date.  If you had told me even at the beginning of 2017 that I would meet the man of my dreams, I would have thought you were still hung over from your post-New Year's revelry, yet here we are.  Yay me!
        2.  February - As we were not going to be together on Half-Price Candy Eve (otherwise known as Valentine's Day), Ben and I decided to celebrate the weekend before, returning to our favorite fancy restaurant, Parkers' Lighthouse.  After delicious seafood, he proposed; an event that was so far from what I had ever thought possible, I was caught completely off-guard and rendered, literally, speechless.  So speechless that while I cried a little bit and hugged him and proceeded to Google what hand you wear an engagement ring on if you are a dude, I forgot to say "YES!" leaving him momentarily concerned.
          3.  March - Being as conservative as me, Ben shared that he didn't want to move in together until were actually married.  Never one to dismiss people's values, we got married almost immediately, on March 12, at the courthouse.  Our "honeymoon" (if you want to call it that, and we most certainly do not) was a trip back to my alma mater in Mississippi for my 25th college reunion, where I also had a book signing and reading for Almost Odis, which had just been published the last day in December.  I am halfway to being a Golden Girl, which is what MUW calls the graduates who have reached their 50th reunion year.  I feel sure there are many who would say I am already a Golden Girl, most likely Dorothy.  I was able to take Ben to Louisiana (we flew into New Orleans) and Alabama (we literally drove past the state line, took a photo and immediately returned to MS).
          4.  April - This month was focused on talking.  I spoke at the TORCH (Texas Organization for Rural Clinics and Hospitals) State Conference on "How to Build a Dynamic Leadership Team" and had an impromptu book signing in the lobby of the hotel.  I also returned to the boons of my youth and spoke to the senior class of Rivercrest High School (accidentally cursing while imparting my wisdom) and held a successful book reading and signing at the Community Center, followed by an even more successful potluck lunch and gossip/reminiscing session that lasted until late in the evening and included fans from as far away as Omaha (Texas, that is).  I also had a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Long Beach where I sold 30 books and the staff agreed to keep my title on the shelf for the foreseeable future, ensuring I felt all successful and whatnot.  However, to keep it all in balance, I sold exactly one copy of Almost Odis at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena.
          5.  June - We moved into a new, larger apartment and The Sister visited for her annual trek out to the West Coast to laugh, sleep, float in the pool and eat Nick's Butter Cake.  After explaining what frolicking was, Ben and Shontyl frolicked all up and down the beach at Laguna Beach, while PawPaw Dusty observed from a surprisingly comfortable bench in the shade.
          6.  July - traveled to Greece, via Boston for BFF Christopher's Birthday on Mykonos Island, the nightclub of the Greek Isles.  We stayed in a lovely villa with bad plumbing so we couldn't flush paper products down the toilet and had to keep them in a lovely can next to the toilet.  I traveled thousands of miles and spent thousands of dollars to relive my childhood in a hunting cabin, except with beaches and Eurotrash.  We did have delicious food, though.
          7.  September - I started my new job at the VA Long Beach.  My dream job that I wasn't even aware was a job until it was created.  I am the Chief Experience Officer, which pretty much means, if VA Long Beach was a college, I am the Dean of Students.  I am finally putting both my degrees to good use, which is wonderful considering I've been paying graduate school student loans for 20 years, so far.  Yay me!
         8.  October - Ben and I celebrated our birthdays by attending an album launch party in LA with my good friend/actor/musician John Kapelos, he of 'Breakfast Club', 'Seinfeld' and 'The Shape of Water' fame.  We got hob-nob with all sorts of actors and producers and singers.  It was a veritable who's who of 80s and 90s character actors, like Bad Billy Pratt from 'Overboard'.  We also ate red velvet churros for the first time.  Our church also moved into its new building at Westminster Mall, so every Sunday I know worship between JC Penney and Victoria's Secret, which is fitting, I suppose.
         9.  November - I took Ben to meet the rest of the family in Ohio, where my brother and his family reside (Dayton) with The Dad.  The visit went well and The Dad was as charming as he could be, only farting and blaming Ben twice.  Lots of red meat and visits to Cracker Barrel were enjoyed.
        10.  December - We returned to the Panhandle of Texas (Amarillo) for our annual Christmas jaunt to the boonies, staying with my niece Payton and her lovely cowboy hubby, Colten.  It was our first chance to meet my newest Great Niece, Acey Elizabeth, and spend time with her slightly older sibling, Slade Catherine, along with my sister.  Ben showed he was the baby whisperer and I demonstrated that I was still the uncle who buys things so as to not have to change diapers or rock children to sleep.  We enjoyed delicious home-cooked meals and dangerous amounts of queso, sweet tea and sopapilla cheesecake and introduced Ben to the wonder that is Fried Twinkies and Payton's heart-stopping 4-cheese macaroni and cheese.  We were the envy of our fellow passengers on the flight home when our in-flight snacks were leftover Ribeye steak and Chicken & Dressing.  You can take the redneck out of the boonies...
          2018 was a fantastic year and I can't wait to see what 2019 brings.  I hope to finish my next book some time in 2019, so keep your eyes peeled for an announcement.  While you are waiting, you should read either A Gone Pecan or Almost Odis.  You can find both on Amazon or AuthorHouse or contact me for an autographed copy of Almost Odis.
          Happy New Year, y'all!
       
       

Gap Year on a Greyhound Bus

               I recently read several memoirs referencing someone’s Gap Year, an event more common in Europe than the US, but also typically available only to those college graduates from families of wealth or stature.  During their Gap Year most students gain life experiences, often through internships, volunteering in a service program, learning a new language or indulging in artistic pursuits.

                Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a member of a wealthy family, and while I am seventeen kinds of fancy now, I most certainly wasn’t when I graduated from college in 1993 and returned to the bustling metropolis of Tylertown, Mississippi.  My triumphant return to the boons of my youth (having moved 5 whole hours away from my family in an effort to live “somewhere else”) found me clad in pleated shorts with a braided belt and Birkenstocks, and rocking a goatee, do you hear me? 

I don’t know if I was delusional, scared, forgetful or simply unaware that one is supposed to find a job before one receives one’s diploma from one’s college, but I returned to the Cream Pitcher of Mississippi armed solely with a very expensive piece of parchment, bereft of position. Unsure what my next step would be, I received a fortuitous invitation from my college bestie (John Allen) to travel out of the country to visit his family at their lodge on the shores of Lake Kakagi, or Crow Lake if you don’t care about the Native American way of life or language, which is rude.  Allen’s Crow Lake Lodge is located just outside the charming Nestor Falls, Ontario, Canada.

When I presented the plan to my parents, The Dad looked at me like I looked at him that Christmas he gave me a rifle instead of an argyle sweater.  My mother asked how much I thought it would cost to fly.  Unsure, we researched it and after a few calculations, she informed me that our family was wealthy enough to offer a Gap Fortnight via Greyhound Bus.

Surprised and excited we could afford anything, I proudly boarded that majestic transporter of common folk, in McComb, Mississippi and arrived only a short 36 hours later in Duluth, Minnesota, where John’s brother lived.  From there it was a short drive to Ontario.  This was, of course, way back in the day when all you needed to cross into this outpost of Great Britain was a valid driver’s license.    

I boarded the bus, full of excitement, which turned to wonder, which turned to confusion as to why the floor was sticky and why it smelled like urine.  I perused the faces and outfits of my fellow passengers and found none to my liking, taking a seat by myself, filling the adjacent seat with my travel accoutrement.  The driver told me I had to share my seat with someone.  I informed him that he should fill the bus around me and if, at that time, there was a need for someone to sit in the adjoining seat, I would gladly let them.

After a bus change in Memphis there was a 4-hour layover in Chicago, where the sweet lady who ran the lunch counter let me sit behind it with her because, “[you] don’t look like you belong here, hon”.  I concurred and ate my complimentary pie and coffee with 24 inches of Formica countertop between me and the unwashed masses.  What?  I’m not being a snob, I promise you I smelled ‘armpit’ and ‘butt crack’ and ‘cigarette smoke’ in equal measure. 

After we re-boarded, I spent the trip to our next bus change in Madison, Wisconsin, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the elderly gentleman across the aisle whose left hand remained down the front of his pants, while his right hand shoveled Funyuns into his gaping maw.  Okay, that was somewhat snobbish.  Mea culpa. 

Suffice it to say, I arrived in the sparkling city of Duluth (Germanic Midwesterners are tidy, y’all; no litter and no grafitti!), and was met with a banner unfurled welcoming me to the Great North.   After a quick stay in Duluth we headed north to Ontario where I spent the next two weeks doing my version of outdoor activities like:

·         Pretending to enjoy catching, cleaning and cooking fish; actually enjoying eating it;

·         Popping a wheelie in a canoe because I weighed at least 100 pounds more than my passenger (cabin boy Stephen; his paddle didn’t even touch the water, he was so far in the air);

·         Being pushed off a 60-foot cliff into water so clear you could actually see me struggling not to drown;

·         Inadvertently shoplifting a braided leather bracelet on our one trip into town, because I got so excited that trendy accessories actually fit my meaty wrist; and 

·         Being too fat and/or uncoordinated enough to water ski for the first time.  It didn’t even work with me trying to start from a sitting position on the end of the dock. 

John returned me from my successful Gap Fortnight via a non-stop road trip from Ontario, Canada to New Orleans in a gold Ford Tempo with a cat, cooler full of baloney sandwiches and Mello Yello, ketchup-flavored chips (popular in Ontario) and enough No-Doz to keep 67 college students awake for finals.  I don’t remember much from that road trip except that we either experienced or hallucinated a tornado in Missouri and drove so fast past the St. Louis Arch that, to this day, I am uncertain if I saw it.

If the measure of success of an experience is that you learned something, I can say this was a successful Gap Fortnight.  If nothing else, it drove me to graduate school to ensure a future with enough money to fly wherever I needed to go, resulting in the bougie wonder you know and love.

Carpe Experientia, y’all!

Define "High Maintenance", please

                Everyone who knows me knows that although I appear high maintenance, I am, indeed, not high maintenance.  Other than my sense of style, sarcastic wit and penchant for saying “okaaaay, gurl!” or “Look here, sister friend” more often than is typically warranted, I am not stereotypically gay, the people who invented High Maintenance, regardless what those Reality TV wives would like to believe.  And by sterotypically, I mean, I don’t have a beauty regimen, y’all.  I take a shower with shower gel and get my haircuts at Great Clips.  I know, I know, it’s a chain and like a royal on the outs with their family, I abhor, and try to avoid, chains.  But I have my reasons, mostly because I was tired of spending $60-75 for a mediocre haircut at a salon, when I can go to Great Clips, get the same mediocre haircut for $16 and then spend the remaining money on colored chinos, Starbucks iced tea or cinnamon rolls. 

                The universe and my circle of friends have conspired to turn me high maintenance, as to remove the cognitive dissonance they experience when I end up being all down-to-earth and stuff.  Until I moved to Southern California, I had never imagined a scenario where I would have a manicure or pedicure.  I could cut my own fingernails and the less anyone sees or touches my janky old-man feet, the better off we will all be.  

                My friend, let’s call her Curly Sue, is an avid fan of the mani-pedi experience.  When I good-naturedly mocked her beauty routine, she reminded me that I promised to always try something first before I pass judgment.  I agreed and went with her to Bliss Spa on Broadway (in Long Beach).  As the young lady (named Ivy) was soaking my feet, she asked if I wanted to add ‘callus removal’ to my treatment that day.  I replied, “That’s a thing?  Well, Ivy, you best get to gettin’ on these big ol’ yeti feet of mine, girl!” And she did, and I was hooked, do you hear me?  Now Curly Sue and I do mani/pedis followed by Thai food once a month and don’t you even think about asking me to reschedule or postpone.  I will turn seven shades of irritated, y’all, like a Dance Mom whose untalented daughter got cut from the drag queen’s dance troupe.  I binged a lot of reality TV the day after Thanksgiving, y'all.  

                I have also never included moisturizing in my bedtime rituals.  Previously I would simply brush my teeth, read my Bible (yes, I'm a better Christian than you), take my medicine and go to sleep.  Due to observing Ben’s regimen (lotions, moisturizers, occasionally calisthenics) I have changed my routine, but only adding lotion to my legs and arms, so my skin will retain its youthful glow, its color a familiar milky white with touches of pink and purple, not unlike one of those mother-of-pearl vases you bought your MeeMaw at the Dollar General.  I also use linen spray on my sheets and pillow because, well, I’m not an animal.

                Even though I know deep in their heart of hearts, my friends and acquaintances, understand that I am very low-key and easy-to-please, at Thanksgiving we played a game (the unimaginatively named The Voting Game) wherein everyone votes anonymously for whichever player best fits the descriptor on the card.  I was voted several things that were very flattering (Most Likely to have been voted Prom King (which I wasn’t, but my brother was) and Most Likely to be Read About in Your Grandchildren’s History Book (which would be cool and possible if all my Facebook friends would buy a copy of my second book, he said with exaggerated side-eye).  However, I was also voted Most Likely to have a Complicated Order at Starbucks.  With this title, I take umbrage.

                While I spend an inordinate amount of money at Starbucks, I think my order is fairly mundane.  It’s simply a Venti Black Iced Tea with 3 Splenda and No Water (the No Cane Sugar is unspoken and understood by the baristas, y’all).  How is that complicated?  I know Ben orders a Cappuccino with no other specifics other than size (always Grande), but if we’re comparing the world to him, everyone is high maintenance.  Other than his overly complex moisturizing/lotioning routine and his insistence on exercising every day, he is one of the least complicated people I’ve ever met.  You should have to compare me to someone like Leslie Jordan or Crispin Glover or Wallis Warfield Simpson, Duchess of Windsor.  Measured against those people, I’m like Saint Whoever (Catholics, help me out here), but with cuter outfits.

                Alas, I know that you have to compare me to “regular people”, like those voluntarily taking public transportation or shopping at The Wal-Mart, and so I will appear to be High Maintenance, my 27 pairs of colored chinos and 21 sweaters (even though I live in Southern California) notwithstanding.   So, I will accept the title thrust upon me; being named, well, The Most, I suppose.  Now that we’ve uncovered by heretofore hidden Most-ness, I'm not inclined to even finish...

Books are my Football and I'm Still Tired

If you’ve ever wondered why I am so good at trivia, the answer is that I read, literally, every day; mostly non-fiction.  I throw in a little fiction here and there when my brain needs to take a break.  I am currently reading several books, because that is how I roll.  One of them, The Book of Answers (BoA) edited by the Reference Librarian at the New York Public Library, is from 1990 and is filled with the most unusual and entertaining questions patrons have asked over the years.

One of the seven books on my bedside table, that is about to be put into rotation, once I finish the hilarious You Can’t Touch My Hair by Phoebe Robinson, is called Jenniemae & James by Brooke Newman.  I picked it up at the thrift store for $2 and it struck my fancy as the inside of the book jacket stated, “James Newman was a brilliant mathematician, the man who introduced the mathematical concept of ‘googol’ and ‘googolplex’.  Googol is 1 x 10¹⁰⁰, which is 10 with 100 zeroes after it.  It was, at one time, the largest number used in math.  I learned this bit of trivia from my high school Physics teacher, Albert Wood.  And, yes, it’s where the name of the company Google got its name. 

                One of the things that I dislike is when I read something that is simply untrue, and I know it’s untrue, but because it’s published or said with authority, other people are then misinformed.  For example, when I worked at Blockbuster Music (remember those?), I was surrounded by really dorky, music snobs who loved to blather on about esoteric musicians Yngwie Malmsteen but have no knowledge of normal songs and artists that customers want to buy. 

One day the Malmsteen fan answered the phone, said, “No way, man.  What a crazy question.  I guess you lose.” and hung up the phone.  I was curious what question he thought was crazy.  He said, “that guy asked if Patrick Swayze (the actor) ever had a hit record.  He had a bet with his friends.”

I replied, “Well, he did have a hit record.  ‘She’s Like the Wind’ went to #3 on the Billboard Hot 100 and #1 on the Adult Contemporary charts.  It’s from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.”

He said, “Well, how am I supposed to know that?”

I glared at him and his ponytail and said, “You could have asked someone.” I was irritated mostly because that poor guy was right and he'll lose a bet because he was unfortunate enough to call when I was on a Dr. Pepper break.

Then there was the time that I was reading some pretentious drivel in the late 90s and the author stated that Janet Jackson had starred in the sitcom The Jeffersons, which is not true.  She was in the cast of Good Times, Diff’rent Strokes and Fame as well as her family’s variety show, but she was not on The Jeffersons.  How did his editor not catch that?  I almost sent a letter of complaint, but it was the 90s and I was too busy rocking out to No Doubt and Nicki French.  Well, not so much rocking out as dancing like a sorority girl, but whatever.

Anyway, I was reading The BoA’s section on Science and it stated “(Googol) first used in 1940 by nine-year-old Milton Sirotta…It was brought to public attention by Sirotta’s uncle, mathematician Edward Kasner, in his book Mathematics and the Imagination.”

That information struck me as somewhat familiar, so I picked up Jenniemae and James to re-read the inside jacket; I needed to confirm what I had read.  I confirmed what I had read.  I discussed it with Ben.  We decided, coincidentally, to Google the information to see what I could find.  It turns out that Newman and Kasner co-authored the mathematics book, but Newman’s biography lists him as the person who came up with the word ‘googol’.  At least there was a measure of truth in both books; not comprehensive fact but not untrue either.

I was glad that there was no need to contact either or both publishers to help them see their error(s).  Ben congratulated me on my arm-chair editing.  Books are our Football, y’all.

This must be why I’m tired all the time.  You’re welcome.

Can Your Bulldog Tiptoe?

                It’s funny how our memories work.  I can hear a certain phrase and start singing (usually in my head, sometimes out loud) related song lyrics.  I can throw down all sorts of Baptist Hymns from even the most mundane phrase in a sermon.  Often, I will have quick, sudden memories come flooding back when the most random and un-related things happen. 

                Today, I was opening the door of my temporary office, which is the size of the back pocket of a hipster’s skinny jeans and was accosted by a stench.  Apparently, when I left work on Tuesday afternoon, it was before the young man who empties the trash came by to empty mine.  In my haste to flee the confines of the federal government for the frolicking fun of my birthday extravaganza, I failed to remember to place the waste receptacle in the hallway, inadvertently leaving behind something in it that, after returning 36 hours later, smelled like a dead animal who had passed away after eating really old manicotti. 

In the tight confines of this cubicle-with-a-door, the stench was concentrated, y’all.  I promise you, when the smell hit me in the face, I immediately assumed a defensive posture, not unlike that illegal one The Karate Kid did at the end of the movie.  It was a fitting response, considering I had two months of karate training during fifth grade in Oklahoma before my instructor left town for reasons other than my astonishing lack of talent or skill.  Trust me, I can hit and/or kick you, but only if you stand directly in front of me and walk into my fist and/or foot, repeatedly until you injure yourself or get really tired and/or disinterested, like me.  Unsurprisingly, this reminded me of my father; the stench, not the martial arts.

When that particular synaptic misfire landed on The Dad, I suddenly remembered a conversation we had recently where he told a story that he surely could not have believed, but seemed to with his whole heart, y’all.  He truly thought he had taught his bulldog Rufus to tiptoe.

Anyone who knows The Dad knows he can be aggressive and loud.  He was a frightening man when we were growing up.  His Boston Terrier, Lulu, is a sweet little dog; I practically stole her form him when he lived with me in Palo Alto.  She is an awesome pooch and I have only heard her bark one time.  Ever.  The Dad said he trained her not to bark.  I’m unsure of the methods and I think it’s best if we don’t ever find out.  Do I think he hit her?  No, I don’t.  Do I think he yelled at her until she complied?  Oh, yes, I do.  The Dad was a proponent of the ‘Volume is a Virtue’ ideal used mostly by barking heads who consider themselves pundits, these days.  It’s the main reason I am so loud.  It’s in my DNA, people. 

We were discussing Rufus and how big and clumsy he is at the age of two, weighing about 100 pounds.  Think of a Volkswagen Beetle, but with fur.  He told me that when Rufus moves across the kitchen floor headed toward The Dad in the quixotic hope that he might get some table scraps, his toenails clickety-clack.  The Dad, not the most patient of individuals, told me that he had been trying to train Rufus to be quieter on his sojourns.  By train, The Dad meant yelling at Rufus to be quiet.  I laughingly asked if his method had worked and he swore that it had. 

Throughout the conversation he kept asking me if I could hear him because he couldn’t hear me.  I assured him it was probably because his phone is a relic, y’all.  Seriously, it is a flip phone.  I think he got it for free with a fill up at the gas station.  I repeatedly told him to turn up volume, but I sang it like that M.A.R.R.S. song, Pump up the Volume, which was as helpful as you’d think. 

I asked him if he was wearing his hearing aids.  He said, “Do what?”  I repeated the question.  He said, “I can’t understand you, JD.”  I then yelled, “Hearing Aid!”  He replied, “My battry’s dead in my hearing aid, but I don’t need it.”  I said, “Yes.  You.  Do.”  He replied, “What?”  At this point I sighed the sigh of the overburdened and simply waited for him to pick up the conversational baton in this relay race of a phone call. 

His next words were very excited.  He said, “Here comes Rufus, JD!  He’s tiptoeing!  I’ll put the phone down by the floor, so you can hear that there’s no sound!”  I heard a shuffling sound as he bent toward the floor and then heard, very clearly, doggy toenail on tile.  Rufus was clickety-clacking as loudly as you’d expect from a dog so meaty and clumsy. 

He picked up the phone and said, “Ain’t that somethin’?  I taught ol’ Rufus how to tiptoe!”  I could hear his smile all the way from Ohio.  I yelled, “Yes, sir!  That’s somethin’ all right.”  I didn’t know what else to do except go along with it.  I just hope he doesn’t try to go on America’s Got Talent with his new ‘skill’.  My sainted brother doesn’t need the headache of posting bail money if/when The Dad gets “some lip” from Simon Cowell.  Check your local listings, just in case. 

Like Norma Rae, but in a Church Choir

                There is a time and a place to be a rebel, of course, truly it only works out in movies or TV.  Where it most certainly does not work out is a Baptist Church in Mississippi. 

                Feeling that life had dealt me an unfair hand, I was on the lookout for instances of unfairness (against me or others) and tried to fight them as best I could.  As I was desperate for acceptance by anyone and everyone, it wasn’t a true fight.  I never came to fisticuffs literally or figuratively; however, I did take a stand against what I thought was wrong and didn’t involve actually protesting or other forms of exercise.

                While in high school, we attended a small, country church on the outskirts of a small, country town, in a small, country (dry) county situated atop the toe of the (work) boot of Louisiana.  There were about 80 people who attended on a regular basis, so you knew just about everything about everyone, including the state of their salvation, which leaned heavily on attendance, and some sort of participation, at church.

                As a rule, I am nice to most people, whether I like them or not, at least at church.  If you’re going to be fake, that’s the best place to start; only God can see into your heart of hearts and He’s not going to tell anyone anything, no matter what those televangelists and snake-handlers say.  God will keep your secrets, y’all.  At least until the End Times, when everything will be shown to everyone on a big screen like those cineplexes with the reserved leather recliners.  You’ll need to be physically comfortable when everyone finally sees the sins you committed in the dark.  Am I right?

                The one person (or at least the one that I am discussing this time) was a man who I shall not name.  I will give you a small hint:  He shares his first and last name with a former Miss America.  Happy hunting, y’all.  Seriously, you will never figure it out, so stop trying.  Even though Evelyn (1954) is sometimes a man’s name in England, I can assure you there is no man in Mississippi that was ever named Vonda (1965), Kaye Lani Rae (1988) or Savvy (2017).

                This particular gentleman was our little church’s Director of Sunday School (or whatever the title may have been, I can’t remember as it was 1989 or so), but was often late to Sunday School, if he and his family came at all.  They had perfect attendance for what is called Big Church or The Worship Service or The Sermon (depending on how old you are).  As someone who was dragged out of bed each and every Sunday morning by the 5’2” inches of Jesus Shining known as my mother, whether I wanted to or not, I found it to be profoundly unfair for someone to be in a position of authority related to our education in the House of the Lord, who didn’t find Sunday School important enough to attend on a consistent basis.

                It irked me to no end and I mentioned it several times to my mother who told me to “Let it go, son” long before Elsa sang that song and created a house with her dramatic gesture.  As I am persnickety on a good day, I just couldn’t do that.  However, I am nothing if not quick on the uptake, so I stopped mentioning it and bided my time.  As the year rolled to a close, we had to elect new officers at our church.  Well, elect is not the correct word as most people were nominated for the same position every year until they declined and no one dared vote against them as that could be viewed as impudent and you must not be impudent with Jesus lest you feel all the wrath of God poured out on your heart that is apparently black with sin, or so we were told each and every Sunday and sometimes Wednesdays. 

Okay, maybe I’m going a little overboard, but Baptists really, really don’t like anyone to make waves; not even ripples that you make when you throw a rock into a puddle.  As we have discussed before, Baptists are under the impression that God is skittish and likes only smooth sailing as we are taught from the time we burst forth into life that one must never be bold in church or be loud in church or have a contrary opinion in church.

Well, I had a contrary opinion and since I was already resigned to being cast into the Lake of Fire because I was gay (closeted, but still), I felt it wouldn’t do much harm to vote my conscience.  When the time came for voting, I was sitting in the choir loft as I was a member of the choir; a Tenor, if that makes any difference.  Everyone would see how I voted, giving maximum visibility to my stance.  I was Reality TV before Reality TV was a thing, y’all.

The Chairman of the Deacons droned through the list of the same people as the year before, repeating the parliamentary phrasing of “All in favor say Aye.  All opposed same sign.  The Ayes have it” and I waited my turn.  When he got to the Sunday School Superintendent or whatever, he said, “All in favor say Aye” and almost everyone said, “Aye” even though I don’t think they realized that is how it is spelled.  When he said, “All opposed, same sign” I said, “Aye!”  A hush fell over the crowd.  Well, they were already hushed but the silence was more silent than before, as everyone froze and the more pious in the audience began to search throughout the Biblical information in their memories, trying to figure out which Commandment I had broken.  My mother, from the front row of the choir loft (she was an Alto) turned and gave me The Look.  My sister tried to give me the same Look as my mother, but I could tell she secretly thought it was funny.   

After what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like an eternity, Mr. Chairman broke the silence by saying, “The Ayes have it” and giving me a look that must have been his version of The Look, which was inferior to my mother’s I can assure you.  I tried to look appropriately chastised, but my smile betrayed my sinner’s heart. 

It wasn’t much of a rebellion, but it happened in open forum and from that point on I knew I had to be true to myself.  For the first time, I think my family thought it might be in my best interests to finally take the plunge and switch to be a Methodist.  It was our (Baptist) understanding that Methodists could get away with more sin and still get into heaven.  And I truly wanted to ensure my name was on that “Roll Up Yonder.”  I currently attend a non-denominational church; which Baptists figure is a nice way to say I am in a cult.   But to quote Dolly Parton, as Truvie in Steel Magnolias, “God don’t care where you go to church, as long as you show up.” 

And show up I still do almost every Sunday and have for the last 30 years.  I know that needs an Amen, y’all.  All you Baptists on the back row, need to give one up!

Why Would Lionel Richie Want My Frito Pie?

              Now that Fall is back, my thoughts have naturally turned to an activity as much a part of me as the argyle sweater I asked for at Christmas (age 14) and finally, finally (Hallelujah!) received for my 15^th birthday.  That activity is MARCHING BAND, y’all.  I was a big ol’ band nerd from fifth grade through my sophomore year in college.  A trumpeter with a fair amount of talent, I was often chosen to play solos on the field.  I don’t say that to brag, I say that to set up a story about my band experiences that wouldn’t have been as interesting had I simply blended into the formations that changed every two weeks at my small, country high school in the Red River Valley of Texas.

                I had played in concert band for the previous four years but had never participated in marching band as you had to be in high school to do so, at least in that particular school –Rivercrest.  I had no frame of reference for marching bands other than my mother was a clarinet player in the Mississippi College marching band in 1963 and that was the reason she was in Mexico City (for the Fiesta Bowl) when JFK was assassinated.  She never shared any other specifics.  After being a member of the Rivercrest Rebel Marching Band for two years under the tutelage of Claire Jesse, my frame of reference was skewed to something I have still never experienced or even heard about.

                Mrs. Jesse created and taught us a different halftime show every two weeks.  Yes, you read that correctly.  We learned new songs and new marching formations for every home game and the subsequent away game.  We were not required to memorize the music, obviously, as we were taxing our brains to remember the very specific choreography that had to be exact, so the show would work as we only had like 35 members. There’s not a whole lot of designs you can make with that few people, a Blue Moon being one of the ones I remember.  Anything more complex than a circle or square would be interpreted as “People Randomly on a Field…in Big Hats…with Feathers”.  Minimalism doesn’t begin to describe it.  On top of that, we had to learn new songs for the pre-game ceremony at Homecoming.

                One of the upsides of being a talented trumpeter is getting to play a solo.  Trumpets are the coolest people in band, on par with the drum section, if you don’t count the bass drums or cymbals, no offense.  In the Fall of 1984, I was selected to play the solo at the pre-game Homecoming ceremonies.  The song was the timeless tune, Lionel Ritchie’s Truly.  If you’ve never played that melody on a trumpet, let me tell you it isn’t necessarily a difficult piece of music if you were to play it once.  However, repetitious playing can be taxing as there are very high notes which require you to tighten your lips on the mouthpiece to play them properly and I was going to excel at whatever I was doing.  For those who don’t remember, Homecoming 1984 was held on a very wet and extremely muddy football field.  It seemed like it had rained the previous 40 days and nights.  I promise you there were animals lined up in pairs in the parking lot of the football stadium, looking for an ark, people. 

                Cut to me standing in the same spot on the field to the left of the Homecoming Court who were walking very slowly on sunken red carpet, holding the skirts of their Scarlet O’Hara meets Barbie Birthday Cake formal gowns out of the mud, one of them wearing football cleats and another wearing cowboy boots, so as not to get, literally, stuck in the mud.  Because their walk across the field took about four times longer than we had practiced, I was forced to play a beautiful but difficult song four times as many times as I had planned.  It seemed like 64 times, but it was probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 16 times. 

                Anyone who has played a trumpet knows that your lips get tired after playing for a long time and you have to give them a rest.  Don’t say a word; it’s too easy.  I was used to tired lips (again, too easy) but this time when I finished, my lips wouldn’t work at all.  I literally could not form words; I could only make weird sounds. Imagine Charlie Brown’s teachers or a very sad Chewbacca. 

This shouldn’t have been a problem as most people who sat near me in the football stands would have loved to have a break from the wonder that are my stream-of-consciousness conversations, ranging from my unending need for a Frito Pie to my secretly coveting (but outwardly mocking) a certain band member (let’s just call her Jathy Cones) whose mother brought her iced tea in a mason jar. 

One thing I wasn’t aware was happening during my extended remix of a solo was that I was slowly sinking into the mud.  So much so, that when I turned to leave the field, my shoes got stuck and when I jerked my legs to remove them from the muck, my natural athleticism took over and I accidentally pulled both my feet out of my shoes, leaving the double-tied Kaepas peeking out of what was supposed to have been grass but was stock-show level muck, y’all.

As I was on the field, not the sidelines, I had to somehow get my shoes.  I didn’t want us to get a penalty and/or someone to trip over them causing us to lose the game and making me the local preppy non grata.   When I went back to get them, I was forced to get out of the way of my bandmates who were leaving the field behind me in a big hurry, as the pre-game had spilled over into the game time and we were in violation of something; I don’t remember what.  I played football not even half-heartedly (eighth-heartedly, maybe?  I mean I showed up to the games and that counts for something, right?) for two years but remember only that I hated it and every move I made was the wrong move.

One of the more observant cheerleaders saw I was trying to get something off the field and ran over to help (let’s call her Jonna Do Javis) as she was also a very kind person, with a heretofore unknown wicked streak.  She saw my shoes sticking out of the mud and extricated them in the nick of time.  I was thrilled that she had them.  Now I just needed to get them from her.  I smiled and motioned to her in a very subdued manner, like a Baptist sneaking a second helping at a potluck, to get her attention.  She smiled and waved the shoes at me and not in a subdued manner; more like a Pentecostal moved by The Spirit.  I don’t know if I knew where she went to church, but I’m sure in retrospect she had to have been back-slidden because what she did was downright Unchristian.

Jonna Do Javis held my shoes high in the air, like a trophy and walked slowly to the middle of the track surrounding the muddy field directly in front of the Homecoming Court and all the people in the stands.  I know you’re thinking ‘how many people could that possibly be in a tiny town?’  Well, it was Homecoming, so it was literally everyone who lived within a 20-mile radius, except the housebound or the infirm.  This was THE event of the Fall, on par with the Rodeo in the Summer, y’all.  I might as well have posted the video on YouTube.  Football games were the Facebook of the 1980s in the South.  The Dad even went to them and he left the house about as often as the Pope watches Pay-Per-View Wrestling. 

Once she made it to the spot she felt was most advantageous to maximum embarrassment, she wiggled the dirty shoes at me.  I tried to motion her over to keep from being publicly humiliated again (lest we not forget the time I accidentally tackled the opposing football team’s bench, but not any of their players and injured myself but no one else in the process).  I just wanted to go sit down and eat my Frito Pie once my lips started working again.  But no.  Jonna Do was not having it.  She thought it was hilarious to make me walk (muddy) sock-footed to get the shoes from her hands, in full view of the throng and I mean throng, y’all, for real.

If my lips had been working I would have given her the business but alas ‘twas not to be.  And I wasn’t the type to exact revenge on anyone, especially to the person who was the closest we had to Snow White in our school.  She literally had woodland creatures follow her around school.  Or maybe those were just the taxidermized specimens in the biology classroom.  Or maybe I’m misremembering her interrupting my speech on Koala Bears when I brought my stuffed animal as part of my presentation.  When she interrupted, my teacher didn’t stop the timer and she helped me get past the five-minute requirement from Mr. Lum, our teacher, saving my under-prepared butt and keeping my A+ average intact.  I was normally a conscientious student, but the night before the report was due, The Dad came home with a VCR he had bought from the trunk of a guy’s car in the parking lot of The Wal-Mart and somebody (I won’t say who) decided to watch Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, four or five times.

I can’t believe I had forgotten about that almost-debacle.  Jonna Do, the saintly Disney Princess helped me maintain my academic reputation.  And here I had nursed a (relatively small) grudge all these years.  I apologize Jonna Do.  Mea Culpa.  Mea Culpa, indeed. 

Car Stories 2: Near Death Experiences with Ice Cream

                When I shared about the cars of my youth, I initially shared only those cars which caused embarrassment.  There were other cars both cool and quirky.  Anyone who has driven a used car (clunker or otherwise) knows that each mile you drive is a borrowed mile and eventually your car just stops working, unable to be resuscitated even by the most talented of shade tree mechanics. 

                Based on the slight uptick in the quality of the cars once we moved to Paris (in Texas, which I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you, but I guess you’re just not paying enough attention) the management of a motel seemed to be a reasonably consistent money-maker.  Whether acute embarrassment, engine failure or the incongruity of owning an Estate Wagon without said Estate around which to drive it, was the cause of us relinquishing ownership of the previously mentioned behemoth of a ’76 Caprice Classic, we quickly shifted gears and found ourselves the operators of a 1983 Mazda GLC Hatchback!

 It was red and very, very cool and had custom speakers that were encased inside little black wooden boxes that sat in the back window and would be flung into the back of the head of anyone sitting in the back seat if the hatch were opened or the brakes were slammed, or the car swerved suddenly.  You wouldn’t think these events would happen very often, but you would be wrong, especially the swerving.  My sister is not one to brake when necessary, she simply changes her route around the slowing object without reducing her speed, whether the new terrain is paved or not.

One of the things that my parents never knew was how dangerously this particular car was operated on the 60-mile round trip from Paris proper to the boons of Bogata to the 1A Rivercrest High School.  My sister, unlike me, was not a conscientious student and was prone to leave things like homework, book reports, and the like until the last minute, leaving her scrambling most every day.  Honor student that I have always been (sarcastic comments that I often made from the back row of my classes notwithstanding) I was never unprepared for each school day.  Other than monumentally impressive Farrah-hair that could withstand hurricane force winds, my sister was typically unprepared for most school days, especially book reports.

A fan of romance novels and Gone with the Wind, my sister was a voracious reader but only of the topics she chose.  Unfortunately for her, LaVyrle Spencer and Debbie Macomber were never part of the English curriculum of public schools in Texas.  This left my sister to either threaten or cajole me to read the book and write the report for her or read the book under duress and procrastinate on the writing of the book report in the hopes that some tragedy would befall our community and the school would be forced to close on that particular day.  Mind you, she didn’t actually pray for anyone to be hurt in order for her to avoid writing the report, but she was willing to deal with the psychological situation should someone’s sacrifice be required.

On those days, when the morning news did not carry any word on the destruction of the school, she would maneuver the car from within the parking lot of our home (at the motel) all the way to the outskirts of town, paying as much attention as one can when rocking out to Tears for Fears or (King) George Strait, with earrings large enough to serve up some chips and salsa, y’all.   

Once we hit the city limits and the traffic on Highway 271 reduced considerably, she would turn over the steering to me, while she wrote the book report in her notebook propped on the steering wheel.  Note that I didn’t mention that we had changed seats…because we had not.  I’ll let that sink in for a minute. 

Oh yes, dear readers, I steered from the passenger side of a little red hatchback while my sister wrote a book report in a notebook propped on the steering wheel of her car, speeding up and slowing down at my directions, including passing “pawpaws and mawmaws” and the occasional tractor, who committed the sin of enjoying their leisurely morning drive.  Where they were going is beyond me.  Didn’t they have chickens to feed or cows to milk? 

And that wasn’t the only thing that happened in that particular car that was nerve-wracking.  One time, on the way home from an away game during football season (we were both in band; I, a way-cool trumpet player, she the Captain of the flag corps), somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00 pm, we ran out of gas before we made it home.  In those days, in that geographic area, there was no 24-hour anything, so finding late night petrol was an exercise in futility.  When we assessed our situation, stranded on an empty highway right in front of a cemetery, actually Meadowbrook Memorial Park as I believe it was called, with no cell phone and no inclination to walk the distance remaining to our home, we decided to sleep in the car until our parents and the search party they would have formed could find us. 

Mind you I got no sleep as I was awaiting death via stylized zombie dancing as Michael Jackson’s Thriller had invaded our world and embedded fear in anyone’s brain who had MTV.  We lived in a real town and, therefore, had cable.  We didn’t have to pay the rich guy in town to “steal” his satellite service like some people who shall remain unnamed. 

I had just closed my eyes, pretending to sleep after Shontyl had mocked my fear of an impending, albeit rhythmic, attack, when someone knocked on the window of the car.  We both screamed as loud as Drew Barrymore the first time she saw E.T.   The screams turned to joy, when we realized the face belonged to TJ, one of the residents of the motel who happened to be on her way home from a night of doing whatever you do when you are out late and smell of alcohol.  What?  I was Baptist and 13, my idea of nefarious nocturnal activities involved the secretive eating of pilfered food or trying to watch MTV after bedtime.  I made Mother Teresa seem like a wanton hussy, y’all.  Seriously.

On another occasion, we were tailgating an 18-wheeler (because that’s what yu do when your main goal in piloting a vehicle is to be “in the front”) and when he stopped suddenly, we almost hit him and Shontyl had to veer off the highway and into the grassy ditch.  Never one to allow a change of terrain to keep her from her goal of being “in the front”, she didn’t apply the brakes, even when we saw what appeared to be a six-foot long metal cylinder of acetylene.  As the offspring of a welder, we could identify these things quickly.  When it became clear we would hit it, my immediate thought was “I can’t die!  I’ve never met Madonna!”

Before you start rolling your eyes, remember this was 1986 and Madonna was white hot, people.  White hot!  And don’t act like you didn’t like her.  I didn’t single-handedly make her famous.  There were plenty of other people Material-girling across America.  I felt as strongly about Madonna as I did about my chances of being selected to appear on The Real World, Season 2, back in the early 90s.  Apparently my DUSTY:  THE BOXED SET wasn’t as clever (or desperate) as I thought.  Thank the Lord for small favors, y’all.  If I had ever been on TV I would be unemployable. Just sayin’.

Luckily the “acetylene tank” was actually one of those really long punching bags from a gym and we hit it, rolled right over it, got back on the road in front of the 18-wheeler and headed right on our way home.  Of course, we had to stop at Braum’s for a treat.  Nothing takes the edge off almost dying like chicken-fried steak sandwich with a two-scoop sundae on the side.  You wouldn’t think almost dying in a car was a frequent event, but you would be wrong.  I’m not saying going to Braum’s after every vehicular near-miss was the main reason I was chubby during my time at Rivercrest but it’s as good an excuse as anything else.  Am I right?

"Footloose" was a Documentary, Y'all

                Just like Kevin Bacon’s character in Footloose, I have been dealt harsh punishments from good Christians related to dancing in a place thought to be inappropriate.  It was a cook-out at a lake.  Allow me to explain.

                My aunt and uncle had a ranch just outside the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population (allegedly) 1,100.  I’m unsure who or what was deemed as ‘population’, but based on my time living there, this included dogs, blackbirds and, when necessary to get up the numbers back up due to someone’s death, tractor tires. 

The specific location of the ranch was Rosalie, an even tinier community as far away from the Bogata Baptist Church as it takes for someone (usually me) to sing the country super-group Alabama’s hit “Love in the First Degree”, if you held the last note for a good 30 beats or so.  This must be done from either the open bed of a pickup (Ford or Chevy depending on your inclinations) or the open truck of a Lincoln Town Car, depending on who was driving.  Those who are surprised must not be familiar with my background as the lead singer of The Pine Branch Boys, when I was in the 8^th Grade.  I have carried the baggage of celebrity for a long time, y’all.

As there isn’t much to do in Bogata, much less Rosalie, there were often activities planned for the youth at church that included inventing new reasons to eat outside at night.  I don’t know if this particular cookout was to celebrate the fact that it gets dark at night or that it was summer or something equally mundane, but cookout we did, on the banks of Lake Providence West. The original Lake Providence was in Northeast Louisiana, where my parents grew up and met and I and my sister were born, after an appropriate lapse in time, thank you.  This body of water was much, much smaller but we were homesick, I suppose.

Once we started the fire, ate our hot dogs and s’mores (in which the chocolate never melted from the heat of the marshmallows, regardless of how hard those commercials try to convince you is possible), most of the adults retired to my aunt and uncle’s home, about a mile away, on the other side of the Irby Dairy Farm, possibly to escape the noise and Christian antics of a baker’s dozen Baptist youth.  I never saw an aerial view or drawing of my relative’s ranch but, based on the fact that we had to drive through the dairy farm to go from one side of the ranch to the other, the Irby’s land was the hole in the center of the donut of my extended family’s acreage.

Someone had brought their jambox that also had a radio (remember those?) and we found a station playing what we had been told was the devil’s music.  You may remember them as The Go-Gos. 

As heathens are wont to do, some of us started dancing, only two of us with any rhythm.  Baptists are not known for being rhythmic in any capacity and rarely use the word as it sounds ‘dirty’.  It was innocent fun and ended rather quickly due to God being omnipresent and, therefore, lurking somewhere nearby we assumed, but I had seen a new dance move by one of my cousins that intrigued me.  I saved her from recrimination then and I am steadfastly loyal even now.  As all innocents do, right before their undoing, I asked for and received a quick lesson and mastered the rudiments if not the dance itself. 

The next morning, after breakfast back at the house, the adults were in the living room chatting.  The teens and really tall 12-year-olds were in the kitchen performing some sort of child labor and singing, I assume, Hard Knock Life (from Annie) as you do when you are feeling overworked and underappreciated, when something came over me.  I don’t know if it was the devil himself or too much socializing with The Methodists, but I took my new dance step out for a test drive.  Any sin committed in the dark is quickly exposed in the light and I was caught red-handed or rather red-footed by one of my aunts.  When she asked, heatedly, what I was doing, I said, “Dancing” as ashamed as an Amish teenager on Rumspringa, y’all.

I was summoned before the tribunal, otherwise known as my mother, grandmother, other aunt and uncle.  They demanded I give a full account of the activities including, if possible, at which point we had headed down the path of unrighteousness, a demonstration of the sinful movements and a list of fellow sinners and/or witnesses.  My crazy aunt tried not to laugh; the other members were as serious as a spelling bee, people.  I felt like someone on trial, which I most assuredly was.    

Have you ever had to complete a brand-new dance move with no accompanying music, while crying, on a Saturday morning in the living room of a single-wide trailer in Northeast Texas?  No?  Trust me when I tell you this is humiliation on an epic scale, especially when there is the very Biblical wailing and gnashing of teeth inside your head.  Silent, internal flagellation will throw off your rhythm something fierce, y’all, especially when you are trying to modify the dance move into whatever is least likely to get you cast into the Lake of Fire. 

Apparently, I felt stomping my foot really hard in one spot, like I was either ‘pitching a fit’ or squishing a bug, was the least offensive move I could make.  The tribunal scoffed and peppered me with more questions, demanding to know if that was really all that happened and instructing me to reveal my co-sinners.  Tearfully, and with a confidence I did not feel, I lied; like the heathen that I was.  I started wondering what it would be like in the Outer Darkness, where I was about to be cast.  I hoped there would be at least a night light as I was scared of the dark, y’all.  For real. 

Based on every After-School Special I had ever seen, starring unknown British kids with bad haircuts, I knew I had only tasted the sinful freedom of dance.  My punishment was the tried and true ‘whooping and solitary confinement’, which in a single-wide trailer was more akin to ‘don’t you dare look at anybody or have fun in any way’.  Even though I was unused to much punishment, being as close to Jesus as one can be wearing Husky-sized Tuffskins and hand-me-down cowboy boots, I was able to cope with the repercussions of my mistake.  But, in my heart-of-hearts, where all my secrets were kept, I knew I had to keep dancing; not so much for the love of movement, but for the opportunity to excel.  If dancing was to be my ultimate downfall (as was verbalized by someone in the tribunal – I was too teary-eyed to make out who), I wanted it to be for something a bit more decadent and/or impressive than the Electric Slide.

Can I get an Amen up in here?

Definitely Fast, Not Necessarily Furious

              As we have previously discussed, on an average day the Light of Jesus shines from my face, y’all.  It’s true.  However, when you put me behind the wheel of a conveyance, be it automobile, moped, roller skate, bean truck, you’d be hard-pressed to believe I have ever entered a place of worship, much less have a relationship with God.  This is apparently genetic as The Dad and The Sister are aggressive drivers.  Even my sainted Mother, while never actually angry, drove with a heavy foot.  And I mean heavy; she once got a speeding ticket in Oklahoma on a highway with no posted speed limits.
                My recent trip to Red River County (TX) brought to mind an astonishing number of car-related memories with my sister considering she had her driver’s license for only the two years we lived in Paris.  In her defense, in those two years, we did commute 60 miles round trip from our home in Paris (TX) to the high school in Bogata, as my parents promised each of us that we could finish high school where we started, in direct conflict with our gypsy ways.  Let it be noted here that my sister was able to attend the same school for all four years of high school.  My brother was able to attend the same school for junior high and high school.  I, however, had to change in the middle of high school, even though I swear I’m not bitter or anything. 
                Once we had moved to Paris proper, I desperately wanted to go to Paris High; people there wore argyle and penny loafers; I had seen them at Mirabeau Square (or Malibu Square according to the Strawn Twins of Bogata proper), the local shopping center, home of Belk and JC Penney, where I was to procure my first pair of Reeboks, parachute pants and monogrammed button-downs. I was convinced there were many Blaines (from Pretty in Pink) at Paris High, knowing full well that I was more like a chubby Ducky than anyone else in that movie.  I preferred to think of myself as a male version of Molly Ringwald’s Andy, but we all know I used to suffer from delusions.
             My parents reply to my plea was, “Your sister wants to go to Rivercrest and you have to ride with her because it’s unsafe for a girl to drive that far alone.”  To Rivercrest we went, never once seeing the river or the crest for which the school was supposedly named.
              During those commutes, we had every sort of incident you could imagine while commandeering an array of used cars, which were replaced with alarming frequency.  I’m not sure if my parents accepted old cars as a form of payment for the apartments my mother managed, but we had a different car every couple of months, it seemed.  During this time, we drove a 1974 Buick Regal whose tailpipe would pop and spit flames if you punched the accelerator to pass someone, which happened every couple of miles as my sister’s goal was seemingly to be “ahead”; of everyone, I assumed. 
            This same car was what my sister was driving when we were pulled over for going 92 in a 55 MPH Zone and she cried her way out of a ticket, being told only, “Slow down, now.”  This will work only for women, dudes.  Trust me. I say that because I tried to cry my way out of a ticket once in Mississippi and the trooper accused me of being drunk and threatened me with arrest.  As it was 1989, I guess they didn’t have tasers, yet.  I’m sure he would have used his had the technology been available to him.
            Not long after that, we changed to a 1968 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with faulty brakes; a fact unknown to us at the time; at least until we tried to stop at that little store/lawn mower repair shop near Deport one morning.  When we attempted to slow down to turn, I was riding shotgun (in the front seat) while my sister drove, and my brother sat in the back seat.  
             I feel sure at least I wasn’t wearing a seat belt as, when the brakes failed, and my sister sailed through their little parking lot, skidding to a stop sideways, almost in the ditch, I sat up and found myself to be in the back seat with my brother as if we were being chauffeured to school.  I was lucky the Oldsmobile company had created a car so large you could host a Potluck Luncheon in the back seat and covered everything in thickly padded “leather”; I had no visible bruises other than to my ego as it was obvious that I was the source of the majority of the screeching sounds, not the brakes as you would guess, because my screeches didn’t stop as quickly as the cars.
             We also drove, at one point, a 1976 Caprice Classic Estate wagon, the size of which cannot be understated.  It was literally the size of a Winnebago or an 18-wheeler from JW Hunt.  You can Google it, I’ll wait.  We had no interesting adventures in this particular car, it was just embarrassing to own.  Really?  You’re expecting a mature attitude from a teenager in the 80s wearing three Swatches, parachute pants and a pair of double-tie Kaepa tennis shoes?  Ducky is dramatic, y’all.  It’s a thing.

Career Geography, Part 5 (It is finished, y'all)

             In June 2011, I cruised into the Bay Area ready to take on an interesting new job.  My time conducting reviews of Prosthetic Services across the country had given me an idea of how to create “perfect” Prosthetic Service should I ever return to a facility to work.  Additionally, I was looking for what my next step would be as I had surpassed my 5-year and 10 -year plans as well as my ultimate career goals and truthfully did not know what direction I was headed.  I felt like I wanted to return to a facility where I could make meaningful change, but I wasn’t entirely convinced that I hadn’t romanticized working in the field as I had been removed from that environment for at least five years. 

                In 2008 when I was still in New England, I had applied for the Executive Career Field Candidate Development Program (ECFCDP) to train to become an executive in a medical facility, I wasn’t selected, and I was not happy about it.  I couldn’t understand what had happened as I had been on a roll, getting selected for programs and positions each time I applied.  My very wise friend, Marion Felix-Jenkins, told me to stop pouting about it and ask for feedback.  When I countered that I was not pouting, she reminded me that she was the mother of three teenagers and, therefore, familiar with what pouting looked like and literally pushed me out the door of her office, telling me to call the chair of the interview panel, who was the Director of the Boston VA, just down the road.

                I called him and he as kind enough to agree to give me feedback.  His first question was, “Dustin, why do you want to be an Associate Director?”  My seasoned reply was, “Um…what do you mean?”  He repeated, “Why do you want to be an Associate Director?”  It slowly dawned on me that I had no answer.  He said, “Is it because it’s the next level and it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?”  I replied, “Well…uh…”  He smiled and said, “That’s what we thought.  Listen, you’re very bright, your resume is impressive, you interviewed very well, you are an exceptional candidate.  We just didn’t feel as if you knew why you were there other than that’s where you thought you were supposed to be.”

                It was hard to hear, and I pushed back a little, saying, “What’s wrong with taking the next step?”  He smiled again and said, “Listen, Dustin, you’re how old?  38? And you’re already a GS-14 and working in a VISN-level position.  Let’s say we sent you forward and you were selected and then appointed to be an Associate Director before you’re 40, what then?  You’ll have at least 20 years before you can retire.  There are only a few levels after this.  What’s your hurry?  Why don’t you enjoy where you are?  You should focus on becoming so proficient in your job that the next level will present itself in due time.  What are you trying to prove?”  Well, he had me pegged six ways to Sunday and I thanked him for his honesty.  I took his advice.  After working with Associate Directors through the review program we created, I felt like I needed to return to a facility to have an impact.  Palo Alto is where I decided to put my plan into action.

                When I got to Palo Alto, I knew they had issues in their Prosthetic Service, with delayed orders (orders that were more than five days old) and orders trapped in a pending status sometimes for months on end.  On my first day, we ran the report and they had about 400 delayed orders and 1800 pending orders (some of which had been in pending status for 18 months).  I started with talking to each of my staff, asking them what they expected from me, telling them what I expected from them and assuring them we could create a program where not only were there no delayed orders but where most orders could be fulfilled within 24 hours.  They looked at me like I was crazy, but it was a look I had gotten used to seeing, so we just boogied on. 

                I won’t bore you with the details of the procurement process but within 30 days we had no delayed orders and within 6 months we had cleared up all the pending orders as well, while at the same time receiving around 350 new orders every day.  And we did this with the exact same staff that was there when I got there, minus my deputy chief who retired after only three days with me when I shared my expectations for someone in his position.  By the end of the first year, we had gone from one of the worst programs in the country to being selected as the 2012 Prosthetic and Sensory Aids Service of the Year for the entire nation! Can I tell you we celebrated?  I don’t think I have ever been prouder of myself or other people.

                Once my service was ‘fixed’ and running well, I asked for the opportunity to get experience as Acting Associate or Deputy Director.  I was granted the opportunity on a regular basis and I really enjoyed the operational aspects of the job and the ability to have an influence across many services as opposed to just my own.  In January 2013, I was offered the opportunity to serve a detail as Acting Associate Director for almost 3 months.  The Deputy Director had left to become Director at another facility and the Associate Director became the Deputy Director.  During this time, I turned over the running of my service to my Deputy and functioned as an executive, overseeing a number of different services and programs.  I really thrived in that work and by the end of my detail, I knew I wanted to move into an executive position. 

I applied for the job and made it to the Top Three, but ultimately did not get selected.  When the Director brought me in to let me know I hadn’t been selected, I asked for feedback on what I needed to work on to be the successful candidate should I apply for other positions.  She gave me great feedback, but I initially had a little case of ‘sour grapes’ thinking, "Who is this yahoo that stole my job?"  Admittedly it wasn’t a mature line of thinking, but it’s what I thought in my deepest heart.

Of course, when I eventually met the man who was selected (Walt Dannenberg) and who would ultimately be my new boss, I understood why I wasn’t selected; he had a skill set that I did not.  I literally went to the Director after the first month and said, “I totally understand why you chose him.  I would have done the very same thing.”  I am able to admit when I am bested and over the next year I learned much under his mentorship.  Fortunately, I was still asked to act whenever I was needed, and I felt good to have his trust.

I didn’t apply for any further executive positions, unsure of what to do about moving forward.  It had thrown me for a loop and The Dad’s second-guessing my abilities (due to not getting the job) wasn’t helping me stay in a positive head-space.  I kept working with my service and was selected for a national leadership program called the Excellence in Government Fellowship, a multi-agency program sponsored through the Partnership for Public Service.  I gained many new insights into my leadership style as well as how to continue to grow as a leader.  I felt re-invigorated by this program and the changes I was seeing in myself and I started applying for positions again in the spring of 2014. 

I had decided to be very pragmatic about the job search and to not apply for positions in a location where I didn’t think I would be happy living.  I wasn’t going to apply for every position in the system.  I knew as a gay man, who hoped to one day marry, that I needed to steer clear of the South and parts of the Midwest.  As someone who had experienced enough snow to last a lifetime, I also avoided New England, the northern parts of the Midwest and whatever it is we call Colorado/Wyoming/Utah.  That didn’t leave too many locations, but there were enough opportunities that I was able to apply for several positions (Nashville, San Diego) but came in second to the Executive Assistant to the Director at both locations.

However, this time, I reached out to the Director in San Diego and asked if he would mind giving me feedback.  I had asked my Director in Palo Alto for feedback, but only because I knew her.  I didn’t think it was something that could be asked of a Director who didn’t know me outside of the interview process.  Fortunately, Jeff Gehring (the Director) agreed and offered some excellent and unique advice, the most important being “Make sure you interview your interviewers at the same time they are interviewing you.  You aren’t there with your hand out begging for a job, you are there to see if the fit is the right one.  Sometimes it comes down to fit.  Do you want to work with this team and do they want to work for you?”  He explained that I wasn’t the right fit for San Diego, but I was talented, and he knew I would eventually find the right team.

When Long Beach was advertised, I thought it would be a great opportunity.  I hadn’t planned on moving to Southern California, but it just felt like the right fit after I researched the facility.  I remembered his advice to interview them.  I remembered the advice I had gotten on several occasions (keep your answers short) and was very efficient with my words.  I also, cut myself some slack and when I blanked on an answer in my interview, I didn’t panic and was honest and said, “My mind just went blank.  Will you let me start that answer again?” and then I nailed it. 

When I drove out of the parking lot of the facility, I noticed they were building a Dunkin’ Donuts almost across the street from the Long Beach VA, the first official DD in California.  I took it as a sign.  And I was right.  All my preparation and training and guidance from mentors was put to effective use and I was offered the job as Assistant Director of the Long Beach VA, a healthcare system with 3,000 employees, five campuses and a $600 million budget.  It was almost too much to process.  My redneck self was about to become an executive with the VA, only 16 years into my career, having far surpassed my wildest career goals and dreams from when I was a temporary summer intern.

Like the Beverly Hillbillies I moved to (just south of) Beverly Hills, on the edge of Orange County, in the shadow of Disney and about six inches from the Pacific Ocean.