Monday, May 14, 2018

It's Not Cussing if it's a Direct Quote


              I recently returned to Texas for several speaking engagements and book signings, both impromptu and planned.  Speaking to executives from rural and community hospitals on leadership and team building, I was in Dallas, where I pulled off the previously unheard of hat trick of entertaining and teaching conference attendees at 8:30 in the AM, y’all.  Uncle Dusty can bring the funny regardless of the time of day.  The Dad says, “It ain’t braggin’, if it’s a fact.”  I had several hours to kill before my friend, the esteemed Master Richard Waller, was available to dine, so I sat in the lobby and, in an extremely choreographed nonchalant manner, managed to sell a dozen copies of ‘Almost Odis’.  I did not curse a single time, during my presentation, lunch, book sales or dinner.  This is important to note.

                As you know, dear readers, my blog is G-rated.  I do not curse, as a rule, and I never talk about things that could even loosely be construed as nasty or dirty.  I am a man of high moral standards and my language, while colorful, is not often coarse.  Full disclosure, I do occasionally cuss, but usually only in traffic and, even then, only in response to the actions of someone who is ridiculous.

                The next morning, my tour guide for the trip to Red River County and memory lane was my former girlfriend and one-half of the twins who were my besties starting from 30 seconds after we met in 1982.   The hilarious, sarcastic force of nature known as Juliann (Juli) Wood, apparently enjoys a reputation for using the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb and adjective.  This is also important to note.

                I had a speaking engagement at Rivercrest High School on Friday, April 13, 2018.  While I don’t normally buy into these sorts of superstitious nonsense, there might be something to it.  I forgot to tell you my room at the Hyatt Downtown Dallas was on the 14th floor.  However, seeing as they didn’t number a 13th floor, my room was actually on the 13th floor.  Weird, I know, but what can you do; hoteliers are an odd bunch. 

                I hadn’t been to Bogata, or Rivercrest High, since we abandoned Texas for Mississippi, with literally a moment’s notice in 1986, the summer between grades 10 and 11.  I was asked to speak to the senior class and wanted to make sure I connected with an audience which, admittedly, I barely connected with when I lived there.  Uncle Dusty is an odd bird out in the boonies, y’all.  True Story.  I always refer to myself as Uncle Dusty when speaking to high school and college students, as I started giving advice to my nieces and nephews and this is the moniker they created for me.

                My presentation made a number of points, some of them confirming my bonifides as a former resident of the boonies, showing pictures of me with my sheep and in my football and band uniforms.  I then proceeded to give a little advice.  I won’t put you through my complete presentation, but I will say that Ronny Allsup’s (Brother Ron Ron to the other half of the twins, Denise) only request was, “Don’t get me fired.”  I assured him I wouldn’t do anything to get him in trouble.  He, and several other people, said they didn’t have any concerns about me, but they were worried about Miss Juli and her salty tongue, as she was to introduce me.  Juli was adamant they had nothing to worry about and her intro was delightful and set to the tune of Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’.

                My talk bounced from telling them that my plans for after high school were the slightly vague, “I want to be indoors” and the more specific, “Not hauling hay.”  I talked about being proud of who you are, unless you’re mean and then you need to “Stop it!  There’s enough jerks in the world.”  I told them I was proud to be from Bogata, but I couldn’t wait to leave.  I told them if they left that was great, but if they stayed, that was great, too, as long as they traveled because that’s how you broaden your world view and makes you more aware. 

                I told them to appreciate their family and friends and to choose relationships wisely.  I encouraged them to debate, not argue.  I reminded them that hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.  I challenged them to be the thing they don’t see in the world, whether its kindness, passion, authenticity or honesty.  I specifically said they should never lie; be as kind a possible, but don’t lie just to spare someone’s feelings.  I asked them to focus on doing something they love and not worry about making money and I even quoted Abraham Lincoln, “Whatever you are, be a good one.”

                I know you have to make people laugh to get them to listen and remember advice, especially from some random older guy, wearing Kelly green chinos and navy wingtips.  You also have to use stories to connect with people and I was telling them tales of rodeos, involuntary horseback riding and other 4-H-related things.   We had segued into the last part of my talk where I give them ‘Tips on How to be A Decent Human’, like (1) your mama lied to you; you’re not special, rules apply to you, just like everyone else, (2) put the buggy back in the corral at The Wal-Mart or the grocery store, (3) don’t dislike someone you’ve never met, (4) if you get defensive when someone questions your opinion, you might need a new opinion and (5) if you have to exaggerate to make a point, you just proved your point isn’t worth making.

                I was on a roll and they were laughing and loving it and I started telling the story about my cow from 4-H.  You remember the one I told y’all where it was the only one in the competition and still came in third place.  I have told that story many times, especially when talking to groups about making emotional decisions, and I always quote The Dad as having said, “Son, that is a pitiful cow.”  The actual quote is, “Son, that is a shitty cow.”  I have never once used the S-word when telling that story, until that very moment.  I said “SHIT-TAY” right into the microphone, as loud as if I was announcing a boxing match in Vegas, y’all.  I didn’t even realize it at first until the teenage audience absolutely howled with laughter and it dawned on me.  I said, “Oh, no!  Did I just cuss, Brother Ron?”  “Yep,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

                What could I do, y’all, but try to do damage control?  I said to the group, “Okay, y’all.  I heard that Stanley Jesse is the Superintendent.  If he asks you, ‘Did Mr. Thompson say anything inappropriate, y’all should say ‘No!’.  As soon as I said it, the ring leader, you can always tell who it is, raised his hand and said, “Didn’t you just tell us not to lie?”  Ouch.  Out of the mouths of cowboy babes.  I was excited he had been listening, but shamed I had cussed.  What could I do but say, “Yep.  You called me out.  Disregard what I just said.  However, if anyone asks if I cussed, just say, ‘He did, but it was a direct quote’.”  They laughed and agreed, I exhaled and sat down and looked over at Juli, who was smiling that smile, you know the one.  I asked her, “How do you think it went?”  She smirked and said, “It was shitty” while Denise laughed in the background.
                I’m pretty sure I’ll not be asked to speak at commencement any time soon. 

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

They Have Those Everywhere, Don't They?


               I have a cousin, I won’t say which one, who inadvertently changed the way my family pronounces the word ‘underwear’.  When he was two or three, he was on stage on a Sunday night at the front of Melbourne Baptist Church, singing with his fellow preschoolers because that’s the one time Baptist children are seen and/or heard in church.  At one point, during the performance, he had to participate in a private act and so he turned around facing the back of the stage, believing if he couldn’t see us, we couldn’t see him.   Once he was turned around he began to pick at his butt crack.  The building fairly shook with the suppressed laughter of the entire audience. 
                Afterwards, when his mother asked him why, he said, “My wunnerwear was in my frack.”  Ever since then when I think of or say ‘underwear’, in my head I’m saying ‘wunnerwear’.   And I’ve been thinking about ‘wunnerwear’ a lot lately, because I have been on the hunt for new undergarments.  As you know, you cannot try these items on in the store, so I have been do a somewhat expensive trial and error process looking for something that should be, and once were, ubiquitous – white boxer briefs. 
                You may be thinking, “They have those everywhere, Dustin” and previously I would have believed you, but I have found this to be untrue.  When you want white boxer briefs, you are left to the ridiculous caprices of designers who are trying to out shine Victoria and all her secrets.  I promise you when you go onto Amazon and type in ‘white boxer briefs’, the first thing that pops up is a pair of red boxer briefs.  That makes no sense.  It’s like in ‘Gone with the Wind’; at the beginning of the book, Margaret Mitchell spends three pages going on and on about Scarlett’s green and white dress and green shoes and in the first scene in the movie, she’s wearing red.  Why?
                And I know you’re wondering why someone with an Imelda Marcos-like love of colored chinos would want mundane under garments.  Well, I’ll tell you.  On a band trip to Opryland in 1987, I wore blue underwear with white shorts.  This should have been private information that was pointed out by everyone.  And by everyone, I mean, that one random girl stranger who said, "Nice underwear!" while pointing and laughing.  I ran and hid by the corndog stand because, well, I was shamed and really wanted a corndog. I can assure you that public humiliation was enough to steer me toward a lifelong attachment to under clothes of the purest white.  This is especially important at this time of the year, as I have unleashed the array of pastels and other muted colors from the confines of my Spring/Summer wardrobe storage and I don’t them upstaged by visible drawers, as it were.
                My preferred brand, after several years of trial and error and a significant amount of money, is Tommy John, typically found at Nordstrom Rack.  As I had been unable to find white ones with the right amount of inseam (I like them almost the same as a bike short, at least reaching to mid-thigh), I gave in and went to Flagship Nordstrom begrudgingly willing to pay full price, only to find my color selections limited to black, gray, navy and bright blue.      After trying to find suitable ones in a variety of brands (Calvin, Ralph, Tommy (both Bahama and Hilfiger) and whoever designs Jockey), I was at my wit’s end.  I was driven to mingle amongst the ‘regular people’ and visited the Target feeling assured that those tried and true icons of under garments (Fruit of the Loom and/or Hanes) would be there, reliably boring as always. 
                To my surprise, they were not accommodating either.  They have a wide array or colors and stripes, but the only white offerings were those of the legless tightie whitie variety.  So, I went back to Amazon, and went down a rabbit hole of names and brands with which I had no familiarity.  I bought many pairs and trialed them, spending a month and over $100 trying them out and discarding the ones I didn’t like into the trash bin as you can't offer them to your friends and apparently no one lets you donate underwear at the Goodwill, even if they are new.  I felt wasteful but I am not about to wear underwear where the legs roll up while I’m standing still and/or where my shirttail comes untucked each time I moved so much as arching an eyebrow at some ridiculous person.  Like you do. 
                But fear not, dear readers.  I have found them, the magic wunnerwear!  I haven’t been this excited about undergarments since my mom bought me Incredible Hulk underoos for Christmas in 1970 something.  They are a brand called Victrix and they are (well done me) 70% bamboo and 30% cotton.  They are so soft, the inseam perfect and you couldn’t coax my shirttail out if you had a fruity drink and a sexy wink.  They are luxurious, seriously.  And, I realize they’re made in China and I should be buying American, but since those MAGA hats are made in China, I seem to be ‘on message’ with America, y’all and isn’t that what’s important?