Surely Doris Day Knew

               Rock Hudson died the day I turned 15.  Seeing as how I really didn’t know who he was, it didn’t make that much of an impression at first.  What I came to find out, via the Enquirer at the 7-11 next door to the motel my mother managed, was that he was an old movie star and he had died of AIDS.    This being a time before we bought our first VCR out of the trunk of some guy’s car at the Paris, Texas Wal-Mart, I was not familiar with his movies that I would later come to love, like ‘Pillow Talk’ or ‘That Touch of Mink’.  As far as I was concerned, he was simply that old looking dude who kissed Linda Evans in the barn on Dynasty and she had FREAKED OUT when he died.  And not just because of the hay he left in her coiffure.

                Living just to the left of the buckle of the Bible Belt, I didn’t have much information about AIDS other than it was bad, it had killed him and he got it because he was gay.  Thanks to the Reagan White House and the rest of the country’s seemingly mutual agreement to not educate people about this disease, I thought you could get AIDS just by being gay; like black people and Sickle Cell Anemia.  What did I know, I was newly 15 and encased in a family so far inside our Southern Baptist bubble that to this day, my parents have never actually had “that talk” with me.

                So I suffered in silence terrified that I would get AIDS and die based solely on the fact that I knew I was gay, but in title only.  I hadn’t kissed or even held hands with anyone at that point.  My family is Southern Baptist, but much more "19 Kids and Counting" than "Preacher's Daughters".  The most daring thing I did in 1985 was watch 14 of the 17 hours of LiveAid, including both of Phil Collins’ performances.  Remember, he sang in London and then flew across the Atlantic and sang in Philadelphia?  On the same day?  Partying like a rock star, receding hairline and all, y’all.  Kanye wishes he had that much swagger.

                Quite honestly I never knew, and could not find, much information about AIDS until I did a research paper in my Senior Honors English class in 1988.  I asked my teacher to “assign” me homosexuality for my topic so I could find out something about it, me; whatever, I didn’t care.  In an era before the internet, our only research options were in the local library.  And can you guess how many books there were on homosexuality in the Tyler-Vegas High School Library?  Exactly zero, unless you count Encyclopedia Brittanica.  I was forced, do you hear me, forced to do this “stupid paper, on this crazy topic by that darn Miss Boyd; what’s her problem” and finally realized that I really wasn’t the only oddball in the world; just the only oddball in Mississippi.  And God bless her way-ahead-of-the-curve thinking, she gave me a 96 instead of 100 because “you spent a lot of time focusing on equating homosexuality with AIDS and that’s not accurate”.  I will forever be thankful for Nola Faye Boyd, God rest her beautiful soul.  I wonder if she knew she was the first person I came out to, unofficially or not. 

                And the reason this is even on my mind was an article in Vanity Fair magazine about the remake of Larry Kramer's “The Normal Heart”.  The author asked why this piece?  Why now?  And as a member of the Board of Directors of Academy of Friends and living about 26 feet from San Francisco, I can tell you the average person simply doesn’t think the AIDS is a real threat anymore; that drugs and treatments have essentially the problem of HIV and AIDS.  And that’s not accurate.

                My organization raises money to award grants to groups who provide services or education for those living with HIV/AIDS in the Bay Area and this year’s beneficiaries are doing wonderful work:  PAWS (Pets Are Wonderful Support), Project Open Hand (meals for the critically ill), Shanti (HIV/AIDS support and counseling), LGBTQ Connection (Napa Valley Youth Program), Maitri (residential end of life care) and Clinica Esperanza (HIV/AIDS services for the Latino Community).  And I’m glad I can do my part to support a community that I’ve never really embraced.   Outside of the way I dress, I’ve never been very good at being gay and never been that interested or supportive of gays in general.

                I’ve been reading Philip Yancey’s book “What’s So Amazing About Grace” and I’ve realized that I haven’t offered much grace to my fellow LGBTQers and I am not proud of that.  At various points in my life, I was, for all practical purposes, a homophobic homosexual.  I was taught to hate gays and since I was gay, I was taught to hate myself; at home, at church, at school, at work.  And as someone who tried to do everything to the best of my ability I was hating on an Olympic level, y’all.

                “Love the sinner, hate the sin” is a phrase that’s been used a lot by some self-professed Christians professing to “not hate ANYbody”.  And I believe that’s true.  The opposite of love isn’t hate; it is indifference.  And it has felt to me that the Church has been, at best, indifferent toward the LGBTQ community.   I’d like to believe they have love for all, but I wonder if some say the beginning of that phrase solely to allow them to say the ending.  Why can’t we just say “Love the sinner” and then actually do it; we’re all sinners.  And as a Christian I try to do that and many of my friends and family do, too.  Not all Christians are like Fred Phelps or Pat Robertson.

                Let’s just all agree to try to love each other in this broken world, okay?  I’ll be the first one to try.  But could you people get to dressing a bit cuter, for pity’s sakes?  Especially the gays; y’all have no excuse.  If y'all just got that together we could love, love, love each other in color-coordinated happiness.  Jesus would want it that way, right?

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Fashion (for dudes, 'cause they need help, y'all)

                Yesterday, I slept late (7:00 a.m., because apparently we have cattle to feed) and The Dad had already checked the mail and placed it, as per usual, on the dishwasher.  I walked over to see what was there and picked up a magazine.  The Dad looked at me and said, “Is that a gay magazine?” 

                My first thought was, what is he talking about?  I don’t have gay magazines in my house; I am far too uptight for that mess.  When I asked the magazine he was referencing, he pointed to the Nordstrom catalog.

                I said, “Well, admittedly Nordy's is fussier than JC Penney, but I don’t think I’d call them ‘gay’.”  When I asked why he questioned it, he said it was because the models were “dressed gay”.  What he meant was they were wearing a suit and not in the context of a court appearance.  And while I don’t agree with his assessment I understand his viewpoint.  Most men don’t put much thought into their wardrobes.  The only difference between my father’s outfits while sleeping and during the day is that he takes his hat and shoes off when in bed.  Seriously, he sleeps fully clothed as if he is practicing becoming homeless.  Which, truth be told, if he doesn’t stop being so messy and loud, it might be sooner rather than later.

                But this got me to thinking about men and their clothes and I realized that I have given the world Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Fashion, but not specifically for men.  As I am including dressing for success in the management training program of my trainee James (‘sup, dude!), I thought I’d share some thoughts with you.

1. What you wear shows how you feel about yourself and the world around you.  It doesn’t matter if you want this to be true; it simply is.  Ratty t-shirts and dirty jeans connote either someone who doesn’t care or someone who is trying very hard to convince you they don’t care.  In my experience it’s usually the latter.
2. Don’t be afraid of color.  Not everyone wants to, or has the energy to, be me when it comes to fashion.  However, if you decide to embrace color (and you should), remember less is more.  If you wear a brightly colored shirt, wear more muted pants, like khaki or navy.  Even I don’t wear colored pants and shirts.  I always pair things like apricot pants with a navy gingham shirt or a blue oxford button-down.  If I wear a purple sweater, it’s with navy chinos.  One wants to look like a party, not a parade.
3. I wear colored socks and they are ubiquitous these days.  However, a good rule of thumb is to match your socks to your pants; never to your shoes.  If you’re bold, match them to your shirt or tie.  If you don’t match them to anything, people will talk about you.  And by people, I mean me.
4. Pay attention to you when choosing colors. 

1. If your cheeks are ruddy (red), do not wear shirts in that spectrum (red, pink, orange).  Your face will glow and not in a good way.
2. If you are overweight, avoid yellow.  Every time you stop walking, small children will try to board you.  Also avoid yellow if you are pale; you will look jaundiced.
3. If you have blue eyes, you’ll look great in blues, greens and purples.  Redheads look great in those colors too.
4. If you are olive-complexioned or darker, congratulations, you are able to wear most every color in the rainbow and will look amazing in bright colors like red, aqua blue or pink.  Literally, thank the Lord for His gift to you.  Those of us that are more in the lunch meat-complexioned category are jealous, even when we say we aren’t.

   5.    The color wheel can be your friend (Google it). 

1. Colors that are immediately adjacent to your color are complementary.   
2. Color that are directly opposite on the wheel are contrasting.
3. This knowledge will help you better coordinate your choices.

   6.   When in doubt ask your girlfriend; odds are she’s better at fashion than you (apologies to Neal Eckrich and Quinton Walker, but they’re alone in this category).
   7.  If you don’t have a girlfriend, then visit your local clothier’s tie department.  Look at the patterned and paisley ties.  These color combos work very well. 
   8.  Most tie designers try to help you decide the color suit you should wear with a particular tie, by using that color on the back of the tie, in the diamond shape at the bottom.
   9.  If you don’t have a lot of confidence in your fashion skills or you’re short on cash, basics are the way to go.  Khakis go with everything.  Blue or white button-downs and primary colored polos are an easy, inexpensive way to look appropriate for most occasions.  Navy suits are popular but a charcoal suit is more versatile.
   10.  Brown shoes, brown belt.  Black shoes, black belt.  This is not difficult.  You can buy your belt at the same store as your shoes.  The salespeople will be more than happy to help.
   11.  Don’t buy a red dress shirt.  Ever.  Seriously, put it down. 
   12.  Ditto for black dress shirts.  Unless you are in the mob.  Then I like your look; please don’t kill me.
   13.  Every time you buy a shirt and tie already paired in a box, a fashion designer dies.  Stop the madness!
   14.  If you’re going on a date, even if it’s someone with whom you have a relationship, you should not be wearing jeans and a t-shirt.  At the very least wear a button-down or a polo with your jeans.  Snarky tees are only appropriate when hauling furniture, mowing the yard or trying to “chill” in someone’s basement.  Experiment with wearing a sport coat on a date and see how the dynamic changes.
   15.  ZZ Top said it best, “every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp-dressed man.” Air guitar solo is allowed, because I did it too.


You’re welcome.

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Reality (Millenial Edition)

              I recently witnessed a scene somewhat sad and perplexing.  I was behind a young man in the line at Starbucks who was dressed in an odd manner.  As we were literally in the shadow of Facebook (it was about 100 yards away), I assumed this 12-year old in $300 denim was one of the acolytes of Zuckerberg, Inc. 

I guess odd isn’t the right word.  Unexpected, maybe? From the waist up he was your typical hipster nerd, complete with snarky t-shirt and non-prescription glasses.  However, below the waist, his over-priced jeans were, and I believe I’m using this term correctly, “bustin’ a sag”.  I am so street.

                Don’t get me wrong, I applaud anyone who his committed to a specific look.  I do, however, believe in giving someone a dose of reality, if needed.  I don’t think Devin, if that was his real name, was giving off the appropriate gangsta vibe.  Why you ask?  Well, for one, he was at Starbucks, for pity’s sake.  If that wasn’t bad enough, he ordered a “non-fat skinny mocha-choco-latta-ya-ya” or somesuch.  All I could do was sing, ‘Creole Lady Marmalaaade!” in my head.

                From what I gather, real gangstas, were they to find themselves in a Starbucks (evading Johnny Law, I presume) would order something like “Caw-Fee!  Random Expletive!  And a Cookie!  Subsequent Expletive!  Yes, Warm!  Final Expletive!”  What?  I watched that TV show that one time.

   

                In honor of this interaction, I’ve decided to offer Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Reality for Millenials or as The Dad would say, “young-uns”.

 
1.       Pull up your pants.  You only get dates dressed like that because women have taken pity on you.  They think they can save you.  We’ve had to start prayer circles.

2.       If you are thin, stop dressing poorly.  If you have no taste, look for a friend that does and ask for help.  Or call me.  I will literally take anyone shopping, up to and including Charles Manson, although how you accessorize with a forehead swastika would be a stretch even for my significant abilities.

3.       Never assume retail employees have good taste.  No one checks out their outfits during the interview, with the possible exception of Kate Spade.  I have seen co-workers from my days at Dillard’s tell a customer that the only shirt that would coordinate with khaki pants, would be a khaki shirt.  Yes, if you are the Roto-Rooter guy. 

4.       If you think the cashier at any store has the power to change company policy, you are special kind of silly.  This is not a bazaar in Calcutta.  You can’t barter at Forever 21. 

5.       Stop wearing flip flops with jeans.  Because it’s stupid.

6.       The cashier at Safeway is not in charge of how many lines are open at 10PM on a Saturday night.  You waited 11 hours for the new iPhone, you can wait 10 minutes for whatever cheap alcohol you’re trying to buy.  Stop being rude.

7.       Don’t be rude to servers in restaurants.  If you’re nice, they’re nice.  That’s how it works. 

8.       Please tip your servers appropriately.  They are providing you a service.  I don’t care how cheap you are, tip at least 15%; more if you’ve gotten great service.  How would you like it if you were paid based on someone else’s opinion of your work?

9.       It’s great to be passionate about your beliefs.  However, if you haven’t put much thought into why you believe what you believe, don’t get mad when someone questions you.  If you find yourself unable to defend your position, maybe you should figure out why. 

10.   If you’re not horrified by the world around you, you aren’t paying attention. 

11.   It is your right as an American to have an opinion.  Coincidentally, you have to deal with the repercussions of your opinion.  Just like everyone else. 

12.   Hard work is the only path to success; there is no other.  If you want to invent an app so you can sit around chillin’, you have to actually invent an app.  All those Facebook and Twitter guajillionaires are hard-working people.  Granted they sometimes wear hoodies and seem laid back, but they actually invented, and then aggressively marketed, a product.  You’re not a dreamer.  You’re lazy.

13.   Not every successful person is smart; but all successful people are hard-working.  If you don’t apply yourself, you’ll never succeed.  If you’re in school, that means you need to study.  I know Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg dropped out of college.  But they dropped out of Harvard. 

14.   When you’re driving and you make a wrong turn or miss your exit on the highway, just keep going.  Trying to cut across four lanes of traffic to make your exit is dangerous and stupid.  I am not dying in a fiery car crash so you can get your fix of over-priced caffeinated beverages.  And you know good and well it was something that stupid.

15.   Oh, and your music is simply a re-tread of 80s music, without the panache or hair spray.  This is demonstrated by your rap stars’ inability to a make a hit without sampling Spandau Ballet and Dead or Alive.  I know that’s harsh, but whatevs, Felicia.  Slow your roll.  Is that right?  Did I do that right? 

 And that’s all I’m saying for now. 

Would the Village People Steal Snacks?

                Exercise is universally acknowledged as dangerous; at least in my house.  However, I was never aware consuming low calorie snacks could cause pain and suffering outside of the unpleasant results of eating sugar-free cookies.  The snack in question was a 90-calorie bag of naked popcorn.  Naked in the sense of no artificial flavors; had there been a more scandalous connotation it should have been titled nekkid popcorn.  There’s difference, at least where I’m from.

                I have a drawer in my desk that holds my snacks.  I keep it filled with healthy snacks for all manner of emergencies like late nights, the 2:00 pm energy boost or bribes, depending on the situation.  Prior to yesterday, the only danger with this system was that the drawer, bottom left, if not closed firmly will sometimes slide open again, like the bedroom window of an unrepentant teen after curfew.  And I’ve hit this drawer with my chair and my leg but never with the full force of my body in motion. 

                I was sitting in my office, talking to my management trainee James (hey, dude!) and we were discussing some of the ins and outs of leadership and managing people.  It should come as no surprise that I was telling a story and a good story always needs a snack.  I had just retrieved said bag of popcorn from the drawer and opened it, while closing the drawer with my foot, which I felt was the most efficient use of time and energy, just like those dudes from Toyota.  I’m living the lean journey, people, LIVING IT!          

                After a minute or so, I rose to demonstrate something appropriately leadershippy (and if you ask James he will concur, won’t you James) not realizing the desk drawer hadn’t ever really closed, like those mattress stores that are “Going out of Business” for the better part of a decade.

                As you probably know, the desk is inanimate and stationary and my body isn’t, so it should come as no surprise when I came into contact with the drawer, I tripped over the drawer, slicing my leg, but fortuitously not my suit pants, and fell.  While trying to catch myself, I only propelled my rather large head into the wall and landing with a thud, followed by an interjection that would most certainly not have been exclaimed in that “Schoolhouse Rocks” tune.  You remember interjections show excitement (Wow) or emotion (Hey)?  My interjection had several more letters and was followed by an appropriate number of exclamation points.

                One of the measures of success, I feel, is the size of one’s office.  This hadn’t occurred to me until I looked up, all prostrate, rumpled and embarrassed, to see at least a baker’s dozen people crowded around me.  There was the aforementioned James, our student worker, two of our clinicians, one of my managers, two nurses, a cop, a cowboy, a construction worker and an Indian.  I could be wrong about the last three; I was woozy from the blow to my head.

                So, I was picked up from the pool of blood on the floor, mostly from the leg; not so much from the head.  They rushed me to the emergency room (it’s convenient to work in a hospital) , triaged me, interviewed me and took me to a room where I examined and then photographed my open wound.  James, great guy that he is, accompanied me to the ER and we sort of just stared at the wound.  No matter what sort of guy you are, you are drawn by morbid curiosity to really gross things.

                Cut to a fantastic medical team treating the wound, not laughing directly in my face when I explained how it happened and sewing me back together with 17 stitches in my right shin.  You know I’m going to try to be #1 in anything I do.  Simply fall down?  That is sooooo not me.  I will fall down with prejudice.  I will have an open wound, with possible infection.  I will not take painkillers.  Ok, maybe my head got hit a little too hard.  I’m strong-hearted (according to the book of baby names), but not foolish.  Pain pills, please.

                When I got home The Dad had fixed dinner (Pork Chops, Home Fries and Fried Cabbage; the last two items containing at least a pound of bacon between them) and I ate like I hadn’t had my afternoon snack or dinner, which I hadn’t.  Can I tell you that I needed some comfort food?  It was sooooo gooooood, I cleaned my plate, which is something I haven’t done since 2008. 

                The Dad was so pleased that he didn’t even make fun of me for falling down; at least not to my face.  I wonder what he’ll say at breakfast?  But a more important point to ponder, what happened to my popcorn? 

Is Wibbly an Action Verb?

                Recently The Dad had a doctor’s appointment and during the time he was there, the conversation turned to his exercise regimen, or lack thereof.  The doctor asked if he used the treadmill we have in the den.  The Dad has used it on occasion.  I have used it on a regular basis.  Well, not in the traditional definition of regular.  Let’s just say it’s more often than Halley’s Comet, but just barely.

                Quite naturally, the next question was, “How fast do you walk?”  The Dad replied, quite proudly, “Two miles an hour!”  When his doctor laughed, The Dad was somewhat embarrassed but mercifully didn’t say anything.  When he was telling me the story, he admitted, “I really only walk 1 mile an hour; I said 2 just trying to look better.”  I laughed but realized laziness must be genetic.

                It’s ironic that I moved to one of the most active, exercise-y locations in America and pretty much stopped exercising, other than walking and even then typically in conjunction with shopping; thrift, outlet or otherwise.  I don’t run, even when chased.   I have gained 10 pounds in the last year simply through being sedentary and I know it’s not healthy but for some reason it doesn’t seem to matter.  Did you know that all you have to do is eat 100 extra calories a day to gain 1 pound a month?  It’s true; rude, but true.  I could exercise, but that’s more mature than I care to be at this juncture.  And I’m not so much worried about a few pounds; it’s just that I am woefully out of shape.  Unless you count wibbly as a shape.  Although wibbly connotes movement.  It sounds as if it is a kinetic fat; a fat of motion.  My fat is inert.  I don’t mean that I don’t move.  I mean that my fat doesn’t move when I do.  I may be out of shape but this is the skinniest I have been since I was wrenched from my mother’s womb in the wilds of Northeast Louisiana.  I didn’t want to come out; I had felt the humidity and was having none of it.  But Christian folks just don’t talk about these things, so I’ll stop.

                As you know, by the 75% off candy at Walgreen’s, Valentine’s Day is in the very recent past.  Love was in the air and boy could you smell it.  That coupled with the plane tickets I have recently purchased for trips to Massachusetts and Scotland for the weddings of two close friends has me thinking about love and other four letter words.  If that tasted bitter, don’t blame me; that’s just your Starbucks Extra Dark Roast, salted with the tears of singles.  And I’m not talking about that terrible Matt Dillon movie.

                I’m kidding, of course, but just barely.  It’s not so much that I’m unhappy single.  I am very happy most of the time.  It’s just that I wonder if there really is someone out there for everybody and if so, why is my person ausente hoy (which is Spanish).  Is it because I’m bi-lingual? 

                And my reaction is usually one of awe that so many people have found their forever person.  Forever love requires a level of vulnerability that I’m unsure I can handle.  If you’re agreeing to be with someone for better or for worse, does that include them seeing you without your Spanx?  I don’t even want to see me without my Spanx.  I don’t think anyone’s preference is to be eternally saddled with a partner who, when undressed, looks like an uncooked turkey wrestling with a Shar Pei puppy.  I’m not being self-deprecating; I’m simply being more honest than I probably should considering at least 51 people are going to read this.  Smell that?  That is bitterness, y’all.  Share my blog for pity’s sake!

                Everyone, except The Dad, knows that Sunday night is the Academy Awards.  I serve on the Board of Directors for Academy of Friends (Academyoffriends.org) and we are hosting an Oscar-related Gala in San Francisco.  Our Gala theme is ‘Return to the Emerald City’, celebrating the 75^th anniversary of “The Wizard of Oz”.  Our Gala color is emerald green.  The fact that we have a designated color is proof positive that I have found the right place to volunteer.  Can I get a 90’s-era ‘what, what’?

                  Now, I have known about this Gala since I attended last year and I thought I might have a date for this year’s event.  And although I have had a couple of sorta-kinda-not-really-dates in 2014, I am currently bereft of escort.  However, there is an upside.  As Production Chair, I will spend much of the evening in my fabulous tux and a Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation headset zipping about ensuring nothing is awry.  And that suits me fine.  I have always been more comfortable in any given situation when I have a purpose.  And maybe, just maybe my forever love will be there.  But I’m not going to go looking; that would simply reek of desperation.  I’m going to stand near the entrance, in the spotlight, wearing my new silver reflective loafers from the clearance section of Cole Haan and let him find me.  I figure, if he can handle those silver shoes, he can handle the rest.

                And that is all I’m saying.

Why can't you just be funny, for pity's sake?

I feel sure you know that I enjoy writing.  I think I have something to say and I work under the assumption that people respond to my voice.  My life has been filled with moments, both mundane and monumental.  Some have been literally, life-altering and those I have shared with certain confidantes, including my church in Massachusetts.  And even though I feel that I could use some of the lessons I’ve learned to help others either not make the same mistakes or help them recover as well as I have, fear keeps me silent.  I have tried to figure out a way to put my life’s story to metaphorical paper, but am unsure of the voice that would be most enjoyable.  I would appreciate input from those of you who support me, even though most of you don’t share my blog with your friends.  Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Here is a smattering of memoir starters that I have kept in my journal.  For some reason I sound like different people and I can’t decide if they are all me.  Theoretically they are all me, as I wrote them, but are they all someone from whom you would like to hear more?   I would love it if you would (1) let me know which ones you prefer and (2) share my blog with all your friends.  I need more than 500 people to buy my next book. 

So, here you go:

 

1. Unlike Diana Vreeland, I was unable to arrange to be born in Paris.  I was born in a small town in Louisiana; a fitting beginning to a life lived on the periphery.

 

2.Rock Hudson died the day I turned fifteen.  You would think this wouldn’t have been that great a moment in my life, but you would be wrong.  Don’t worry, though, I was wrong, too.

 

3.It never really dawned on me that I was the oldest son of an oldest son until, at age 17, I was asked to take the lead in carrying my paternal grandfather’s casket into his funeral.  It was heavier than I thought it would be although I had no frame of reference for the weight of a dead body encased in what I assume was the least expensive model, considering the limited resources of my extended family.   I guess it might have been different had I a connection to the occupant, which I most assuredly did not.

 

4. I used to be angry that I wasn’t selected to be on MTV’s “The Real World” when I tried out in 1992.  I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why they didn’t see my potential especially since my “Dusty:  the Boxed Set” simply reeked of creativity and desperation.  Never has a disappointment turned out to be a blessing in disguise.  At least the most horrifying moments of my early twenties are lost to the ages and the hopefully foggy memories of my friends and fraternity brothers.

 

5. I don’t fear anonymity as much as I fear success.  I don’t think I’m deserving of the latter, and I don't appreciate the former.

 

6. If God has a last nerve, I am definitely on it.

 

7. Have you ever told a story so often that you honestly can’t remember if it’s the truth?

 

8. Being a boy, even if you’re not very good at it, is preferable to being a girl. I would imagine.

 

9. If I truly cared what people thought of me, I wouldn’t dress the way I do.  But I do care; if I’m being honest.  I just hope they agree with me.

 

10. It requires significant focus, but you can become exactly who you want to be.  Shared delusion is easier than you think.

               

11. It’s not overly difficult to convince people you are someone you’re not.  Most people never scratch your surface, lest you return the favor.  Those who do scratch have one of two motives; it’s your job to decipher these motives, hopefully in a timely manner.

 

12. If someone is bold enough to question my sexual orientation, I always respond, "Southern Baptist.”  Most people laugh.  Well, most people don't ask, but that's doesn't give me a entrance point to this story, does it?

 

13. People who say they don’t care what others think of them are lying; either to themselves or to everyone else.  Aren’t we?

 

14. Can you keep a secret?  I don’t think I’m as smart as I pretend to be. 

 

15. Using proper grammar in prison will not give you street cred, to be sure.  It will, however, get you the nicknames “Teacher” and /or “Punk”.  One of those is preferable to the other. 


As an aside, have you noticed that most of my lists have15 entries?  Isn't that odd?  And that is all I'm saying.

What's Spanish for Annoying Loud Boy?

               As we have previously discussed, I have a passing familiarity with a number of languages, including French, Redneck, Spanish and Sign.  You name a language and odds are I can say ‘chicken’ and ‘bathroom’ with relative ease and accuracy.

                If you didn’t know, my first two years of high school my mother managed a motel called the Nicholson House in Paris, TX.  While it had a storied past, we were told, by 1984 it was a jewel past its prime, like Meg Ryan or a '78 Chrysler Cordoba. 

                Although I was embarrassed to admit we lived there, it was often fun.  We had a pool, Centipede in the game room, a Chinese Buffet in the lobby and I got to work the switchboard, which was something like Lily Tomlin one-ringy-dingying; there were cords that you plugged into the board and then dialed the number for the people.  You could even eavesdrop.  Not that I would ever do that.  I have no interest in secrets, dear reader.  The fact that the Rivercrest High newspaper staff named me “Most Likely to Tell a Secret” is coincidental at best.

                One of the unique traits of this particular establishment was that half of the rooms were kitchenettes that you could rent by the week or month.  This was particularly popular with construction crews that were attempting to gentrify the less fabulous parts of Paris proper.

                My sophomore year at Rivercrest High, I was taking beginner’s Spanish, but due to a car wreck or something our new teacher, Senora Franklin, had been unavailable and for the first couple of months of school we had a substitute teacher.  I got more useable Spanish from Morgan Freeman on The Electric Company, people.  Numbers and colors were mastered, do you hear me?  Verb tenses, not so much.  However, by Homecoming or so, Senora Franklin was no longer ausente (which is Spanish for absent).  Upon her arrival, in gauchos, knee boots and a side ponytail, we dove head first into conjugation which sounded dirty but wasn’t.  The first phrase I learned, unsurprisingly, was ‘calle te!’  That means ‘shut up’ in Spanish.  I learned this the second day of class.  Verbosity is my middle name; my last name is control.

                One evening, my mother and I were sitting in our apartment either reading or watching Knight Rider, when we heard a commotion in the parking lot.  My father had redesigned 6 motel rooms into a semblance of an apartment.  The best part was 5 bathrooms; the worst was my parent’s closet as well as mine, were turned into a hallway to access the other bedrooms.  Off the living room, there was a large balcony that overlooked the property, so my mother and I decided to investigate.  My Uncle Bill (my father’s sister’s husband) was the night watchman but he was hard of hearing and usually asleep. 

                The sight that greeted us was a large tenant of Hispanic origin who was being accosted by one of our more senior residents, Miss Lucille.  Her 92 ½ year-old, bottle-of-wine-a-day vision had led her to believe her fellow resident, wearing only khaki shorts and himself inebriated, was nude and she felt compelled to use her umbrella as the device to drive home her stance that this was, in fact, unacceptable.

                My mother, ever the problem solver, decided to intervene and I wanted to watch, but like Bette Midler, only from a distance.  My siblings were more entranced by David Hasslehoff.  In retrospect anything was better than Knight Rider.  In context, most things paled in comparison.  And don’t act like you didn’t watch, too.  My family did not singlehandedly keep that show in the Top 10.

                My mother, upon rebuffing Miss Lucille and redirecting her to her room with the promise of a free egg roll the next day at lunch, attempted to ask the gentleman if he was part of the road crew, managed by a man named Juan. 

                My mother said, “Do you work with Juan?”

                The Man said , “Que?”

                I interrupted “Moootherrrrr.  He is oooobviously Hispanic and of course I will have to interpret.”

                My mother, “I need someone who knows more than colors and numbers, sweetie, but thank you.”

                Me, “Mooootherrrr.  You know I am almost semi-fluent, right?  Riiiight?”

                My mother, “Okay, honey.  How do I ask him if he works for Juan?”

                Me (out loud), “Hmmm.  Well trabajar means ‘ to work’ so yo trabajo would be I work so tu trabaja would be you work so it’s a question so say (suddenly very loudly) TU TRABAJA CON JUAN.” Which if shown phonetically and I was being honest probably sounded more like TEW TRAYBAHO COWAN WAWUN. 

                She looks at me with that look (you know that look) but turns to him and attempts to repeat the phrase and I interrupt her to remind her to trill her Rs, so it’s more authentic.  Then I try to demonstrate how to trill one’s Rs.  From the balcony.  At top volume.  It’s a testament to her good nature that I was allowed to reach puberty.

                Of course, the entire time The Man was swaying gently and repeating “Que?  Que?”

                Realizing that neither of us had a knack for languages, my mother decided to mime “work”.  All the while I am screaming TEW TRAYBAHO COWAN WAWUN.  My mother starts to mime a shoveling motion and he stops swaying to watch her.  She keeps repeating, very loudly (it must be genetic) DO YOU WORK WITH JUAN followed by air-shoveling.  At one point she pats the ground and, misunderstanding, the man lay down in the parking lot and smiled a triumphant smile.

                Fortunately my screaming quasi-Spanish phrases had roused the aforementioned Juan who came out to collect his employee.  Feeling quite proud of my bilinguality, I said, “See?  I toooold you I could speak Spanish, moootherrrrr.”  She replied, “Yes you did, sweetie.  Good job.”

                And I always blamed my father for her looking tired all the time.