"Stool-Kicker" is the new "Awesome"

               Yesterday I was honored to welcome the participants of the Leadership Development Institute to the Long Beach VA.  This is a program designed to create the next generation of leaders from VA facilities in California and Nevada.  When I get these opportunities I always strive to inspire others to get excited about learning and growing.  And you know I took more than my allotted minutes.
                Whenever I have the opportunity to speak to an audience of one or many, I want to challenge them to be bold, creative and passionate.  I tell them to look around and see what’s missing and then fill that slot; whatever it may be.  Be the change you want to see.  Be the passion you can’t find.  Be the creativity that you think is sorely lacking.  And never be afraid to display your talents.  Own your awesomeness, I always say.  And The Dad would agree.  His most famous saying, not related to flatulence or food, is, “It ain’t braggin’ if it’s a fact.”
                I have some musical talent.  I sing, play the trumpet and can dance like no Baptist ever should, y’all.  And it’s a family thing; music, not dancing, although in the spirit of full disclosure, my mother did teach me how to do The Stroll, The Twist and The Mashed Potato to the tunes of the American Graffiti soundtrack.    I guess we were Methodists on Saturdays?
               I have always loved music; singing, dancing, listening, you name it.  My tastes run the gamut from Christian and country to folk and dance music, both hits of the 80s and club music from the 90s. I also love four-part harmony.  Prior to 6^th grade I thought the only music that existed was the Beach Boys and the Statler Brothers.  My mother stated it was her car; her music.  I love to sing tenor in a mixed quartet or alto when it’s an all-male quartet.  The point is I love me some music, y’all.  Can I get an Amen?  
                Whenever I think of music I can’t help but remember Ms. Neva Jean Oates, music teacher extraordinaire at Bogata Junior High.  You want to talk about passion?  How about a woman who would pound out the melody to any song you could name, while yelling chord changes to the beginner guitarists and keyboardists, who were sharing the stage with vocalists, both lead and back-up?  I can picture her now, just going to town playing and yelling, “C! B flat! G!” and the musicians would strum or finger the note until the next one was yelled.  It was fun and riotously entertaining.
                I have mentioned Bogata, TX many times and I mention it again as this was a tiny, tiny, tiny town chock full of talent; not to mention our tiny, tiny, tiny sister city, Talco.  There were so many student bands at our schools that the year-end Variety Show was a musical extravaganza. 
               As a member of the briefly existing Pine Branch Boys, I feel my musical roots are here.  If memory serves our group was formed for the sole purpose of a barnstorming tour of not just Bogata Elementary/Jr. High but also Deport.  That’s right, y’all.   I was on tour for exactly one day.  Try not to be jealous.  My rendition of Alabama’s “Roll On” brought cheers and applause unheard of until, at the very least, the Rodeo.
                There were other bands that were more legitimate, meaning they had a name and t-shirts and sometimes even backdrops.  My memory is sometimes cloudy, from the Aqua Net haze of the 80s, but I remember an all-girl group called Midnight Lace, a country/pop band named Stardust, a hard rock group with the interesting moniker Plexus and a country/crossover group called The Derricks; there are others I’m sure I am forgetting.  And I won’t bother to try and recite all the members, but I’ll throw out a few names like Allen Dale Huddleston, Marty Burns, Kendra Moore, Ray Lou Damron, Matt Case, Jody Thornton, Donita Lewis.
                I remember one unforgettable performance at the Variety Show in 1980-something.  The Rebel Flag Corps had finished their routine to “Addicted to Love” for which the previously mentioned Wood Sisters and I were costume designers and assistant choreographers.  The performers were resplendent in white shorts and white ripped sweatshirts as an homage to Jennifer Beals, with matching neon tank tops and socks.   My bangs are starting to feather just thinking about it.
              Tricia Duffer was normally the lead singer for The Derricks, but for this particular song, Tim J. Wood, pianist and the Wood Sister’s brother, was in the spotlight.  It was a cover of Yes’ “Owner of a Lonely Heart” and Mr. Wood displayed about eleventy-seven kinds of passion when during his piano solo, he stood, kicked back his stool and finished that song standing up, y’all.  I remember thinking, “I have never been so passionate that I kicked a stool on stage in front of people.  I need to get more out of life.”
                Now I’m not saying that was a turning point in my life, but I will say that for some reason I still remember it, so draw your own conclusions.  They always say to dance like no one is watching and I agree. But don’t forget someone is always watching, so make it good, y’all.  Show out a little bit.  You never know what could happen.
                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

What's bucket list in French?

              This past week a friend was requesting bucket lists and I decided to develop mine and send it her way.  Coincidentally, I was preparing a presentation/training for the administrative leadership at my hospital because we are kicking off a new era of process improvement and I am the guru of all things processed and improved.  My presentation focuses on VA-TAMMCS, a process improvement framework used in the Department of Veterans Affairs.  I won’t bore you with details, but it is a great way to help you identify a problem, develop a solution and, once you arrive at that solution, a way to sustain and continually improve it. 

               Still in the throes of my creative high, I put much thought into what I truly want to achieve in approximately 5½ years.  This length of time will find me standing as close to age 50 as I can be without 50 asking pointed questions about romantic intentions.
              In the next 67 months I want to:

1.      Complete my visitation to all 50 states which would require me to travel, voluntarily, to North and South Dakota.  South Dakota at least has Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse carving thing, which begs the questions, is there anything else to do there besides carving things into mountains and is that a requirement before you can leave?  North Dakota’s claim to fame seems to be “we’re not Canada” so you see how excited I am sur cet emplacement (it’s French…because it’s Canada).

2.      Publish my blog as a book. I would like to think www.pennyloafersattherodeo.blogspot.com is funny enough to make me peripherally wealthy, or at least help me pay off my car.  I have no desire for fame.  I don’t need the microscopic view of my life bandied about in the press.  Most authors are not recognizable in person except maybe Stephen King and all it got him was run over by a car in Maine.

3.      Visit Western Europe but only the countries where I have friends or relatives because I don’t want to pay for a hotel.  A childhood of vacations spent sleeping on blankets (we called them pallets) piled on the floors of friends/relative’s homes is something I just don’t want to stop.  It’s so much more fun, n’est-ce pas?

4.      Obtain my PhD in Organizational Psychology and Leadership.  I love to learn and love to teach and the more you learn about people and the hows and whys of their thoughts and behaviors, the better you can be at showing them how to be as awesome as possible.  And isn’t that what we all want: to be awesome?

5.      Have mastered my current position and have come to a decision about becoming Director of a VA hospital.  In this climate, I’m not sure I want the horrendous stress that job entails.  I simply want to improve the work the VA does and make life better for our Veterans, in whatever role I am most effective.

6.      Have performed stand-up comedy at least once, just to see if I could do it and if it would be fun.  And if it gets me a book deal, so be it.

7.      Have a closer, deeper relationship with God.  I know He wants me to do something with my life story (as a tale both cautionary and redemptive), I’m just not sure what and, to be honest, I am a bit nervous.  I think He gave me the gift of communication for a reason; I just need to find the right platform and decide on the appropriate angle.  I already have a title: If Jesus has a Last Nerve...

8.      Own a piece of real estate.  As a single man with no dependents, no real estate and a six figure income, I am in the worst tax bracket possible; it's like 94.6% or something.  I have thought of declaring myself a corporation but that was vetoed by that very smart young lady at H&R Block who offered me, as a consolation, a free fish taco coupon from Rubio's Fresh Mex.  I also thought of proposing to someone for this very reason (tax purposes, not free tacos).  I feel pretty sure I would be better off with a piece of property.

 

9.   Stop inserting random phrases in foreign languages into conversations or blog posts.  This was recommened by different members of my family who are tired of having to google things I say.  Quelle pain, they  would most certainly not say.  I'm not going to be successful at this one.

 

      The first step in achieving any goal is to take an idea and actually write it down; then it's no longer an idea, it's an action plan.  Now that my plan is published, I am going to hold myself accountable for the achievements.  And I hope you’ll hold me accountable as well.  I relish your thoughts and prayers and encouragement and suggestions.

          And before I stop talking, can I ask what’s on your bucket list?  Because if you’re not dead; you’re not done.

Banquet Behavior for Baptists

                This weekend I was reminded of a simpler time, during my formative years, when a brief, fleeting romance was the most color-coordinated of my life and I thought I should use that as a gentle foray into schooling the tacky masses on proper attire for a date.
                When I was in 8^th grade, we were living in the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, home of the alliterative food-related businesses, Tip Top and Kwik Korner.  We had moved into Bogata proper from the village of Fulbright and I was feeling rather fancy as our neighbors were more posh than those previous.  In Fulbright, our neighbors were cows, hay bales and the occasional wolf.  In Bogata we lived across the street from a judge and a church converted into a home and next door to the Wood family homes, both residential and funeral.  Two of the three Wood offspring were my besties; the twin sisters Denise and Juliann (Hey, y’all!).
                During my two years in Red River County, I had acquired, and somehow lost, a fair number of girlfriends; otherwise known as “girls who I was going with”, to use ‘80s Texas Teen vernacular.  Christy Northcutt, Eyvette Hannah, Cindy Davis, Leslie Johnson were all lovely girls who had responded positively to my hand written note asking them to check ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but then wandered away to other activities, I suppose.  George Strait didn’t invent it, y’all, he just recorded it.
                In an attempt to provide G-rated activities for youth,  a Valentine Banquet had been planned at Bogata Baptist and I was to acquire a date and the young lady I chose to send the note to was none other than Becky White, ginger pianist, flautist and wearer of “Annie” eyeglass frames.  It was a match made in the hallway of the church, literally, because that’s mostly where I saw her other than at school.  They lived near the nursing home which was not far as the crow flies, but since I was walking, it was too far.
                One day, a week or so in advance of the event, Becky called and asked if I had selected my outfit for the occasion.  I informed her that I would be wearing my newest favorite outfit; a Christmas gift from my grandmother, the sainted Mama Dot.  On top, a burgundy and slate grey Ocean Pacific (OP) sweater with a thin rainbow stripe across the chest.  Bear in mind that OP was a very popular brand in 1983 and this had been purchased in Dallas, people.  Dallas!  I paired this with grey brushed-corduroy trousers and felt that I was just about the fanciest boy in all of Red River County, which truth be told wouldn’t have been difficult a feat to accomplish.  Not wearing boots would have immediately placed me in the Top Five.
                When I arrived at the White residence on the night of the event, Ms. Becky walked out wearing a grey dress with a burgundy jacket that matched my outfit exactly!  I couldn’t believe it.  Her mother, the talented Alice Ann, had made her outfit especially for the occasion.  These were my people, people.  I felt sure that we would summarily be crowned king and queen of the banquet, because Baptists love a crown, y’all.  By the way, we did not win the crowns, but it may have been the last time they did that because several girls who also did not win, left the room in a flurry of tears and emotion, which is frowned upon unless you are “feeling the Spirit” and even then there are limits.  Baptists are very British when it comes to public displays.
                However, Ms. White and I did make a dashing pair and I remember having a thoroughly grand time for what couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours because (1) we were 12 and (2) we were Baptist.  Only Methodists and other heathens were out too far past dark.
              My point is if 8^th graders in the wilds of East Texas can get our act together, you millennials can surely dress appropriately for a date.  I wouldn’t wear some of the outfits I saw last night (on my Fit Bit-inspired loop down 2^nd street) to take out the garbage.  I am more color-coordinated while sleeping.  Yoga pants are only allowed in yoga class and I’m betting dollars to donuts that you weren’t at yoga.  And even if you were, that is past tense so change your outfit already.  And booty-shorts should only be worn if you’ve already given up on life because your mother named you Tanqueray.  And gentlemen, on the off-chance your date is dressed to the nines, you should at least strive for sixes.  For a frame of reference, t-shirts with jeans and flip-flops is a minus four.  See how I’m using math as an grown-up?
               Suffice it to say the relationship between Ms. Becky and myself lasted for a little while or maybe it ended after the next pep rally, I can’t be sure.  But I remember she was kind, bright, and talented and a red-head.  That’s a pretty complete package, y’all.  Oh, and she also had an in-ground pool.  I probably should have proposed.
              And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Oil Wells, Roast Beef and the Infirm

             You’ve heard the saying, feed a cold and starve a fever?  Well The Dad’s saying is feed a cold, feed a fever; heck, feed an ingrown toenail.  And just like the way The Dad has predicted “the sugah” will one day take his foot, the croup snuck up on me like a ninja wearing house shoes on carpet, y’all.  And it got me good.  As someone who is held up as the very picture of health and general awesomeness, I rarely get sick.  The last time I had to call in sick to work was 2009, people, and that was only after accidentally drinking the water in a city in northernmost Mexico; some people call it, San Diego, CA.  Whatever it was it turned me into an unpleasantly active airline passenger and I missed two days of work but I came through to the other side 11 pounds lighter and only a half a shade paler.  I believe my complexion is sometimes referred to as “mother of pearl”.
                All I know is that this week I was feeling poorly and the doctor had not listened to what I was saying about experiencing the same symptoms as two women from work and they had near-miraculous outcomes with something called a Z-pack.  Well, Mr. Dr. tut-tutted my comment in that way that makes you want to kick that little stool out from under them while they’re typing and stated that I did not need a Z-pack; therefore I did not get a prescription for said item.  He gave me cough syrup and 800 mg Ibuprofen and told me to get some rest.  Well, I left him with the most sarcastic cough I could muster and fled to the pharmacy in the sketchy part of town because that was the only Walgreen’s I could find in Long Beach.  Fortunately, horking up a lung whilst traversing the parking lot in the hood seems to get you a free pass.  I guess drug dealing gang members need to be in good health to cause mayhem.  Or maybe they liked my teal chinos and my new pebbled leather and suede wingtips.  Being in poor health is no excuse for poor attire.  And, yes, I’m talking to you, every person in line, both in front of and behind me.
                Once I got home, I took my pills and took my place on the bed awaiting blissful slumber that did not come.  Apparently I inherited my father’s constitution and needed something along the lines of a rhinoceros tranquilizer to get me to sleep.  As I lay, cursing softly under my breath, I remembered my father’s remedy for a sore throat; a ham sandwich.  I feel pretty sure you're now wanting some back story.
                When I was in fifth grade, we lived in Burns Flat, Oklahoma.  Our next door neighbors were a family of one mother (Totie) and five sons (Rickey, Dickey, Mickey, Cabbie and Chad).  I am not making this up.  I only mention them as my father did not particularly like Ms. Totie, but my mother considered her a friend.
                I came home one day with chicken pox because Stephanie Comes (yes, I remember her name) came to school with visible pox and infected most of my grade.  But my mother was capable of handling any and all situations so my being out of school for a few weeks wasn’t that big of a deal, right?  I was home for a day or so when something happened.  Not unlike those who live below stairs on Downton Abbey, my siblings and I were not privy to much direct information.  What we knew we had to piece together by listening in on snatches of conversations in darkened hallways.  There were unfamiliar words being bandied about; like ‘hysterectomy’ and ‘emergency’ and ‘bed rest’. 
               Having no familiarity with any anatomy other than our own and with no inclination to discuss such matters (we are Southern Baptist, people) my siblings and I didn’t understand anything other than my mother was to be in bed for six weeks and we were to be cared for by The Dad; the three children (all of which now had chicken pox), a parakeet and a poodle.  We shared the same look Carson gets when unexpected dinner guests arrive.
                The Dad was “running a crew” of welders building and setting up oil rigs and he typically worked 18-hour shifts.  He was home for only a few minutes when I told him that my throat hurt.  He told me to fix a ham sandwich.  I did and I ate it and, by golly, if I didn’t feel better.  So much so, that I ate another one, just to be on the safe side.  My sister (seventh grader and ardent admirer of Scott Baio) asked him what we were to do and he told her that she would have to cook and we would have to help clean.  My sister, always the bravest one, stated matter-of-factly, “I don’t know how to cook.”  The Dad replied, shocked, “What?  Aren’t you 13?  You’re practically grown!   You’ve watched your Mama cook!  Figure it out!”  I stood there thinking I’ve watched the Duke boys get away from Roscoe, too, but I don’t think I could make a car fly.  My sister suggested Ms. Totie could help, after all she had offered earlier that very day.  The Dad said under no circumstances would we take her charity.; we were too proud.  I assume he was using the royal we because I simply did not agree with that statement at its very essence.  The best kind of food is that cooked by others.
                When he left, my sister looked at me and we both looked at my brother who looked at the parakeet and I said, “What would the kids on ‘Little House on the Prairie’ do?”  So we went outside and rolled down the hill.  Surprisingly, that didn’t solve anything.  I offered to make everyone a ham sandwich, but my suggestion was rebuffed.  I ate one anyway.  No wonder I was chubby.
                Ms. Totie, God bless her, came over to check on us and Mother.  She asked if there was anything she could do and my sister burst into tears and said The Dad had said she had to cook supper and she didn’t know how and we couldn’t go tell mother because she was “laid up”.  Ms. Totie hugged us all and said, yes, she would make something in the crock pot and just bring it over and The Dad would never know.  That sounded more than reasonable to us; we had been hiding stuff from him for many moons, y’all.
                When The Dad came home around dark thirty, we set the table and presented him with roast, potatoes, carrots, green beans and rolls.  He looked at the food and then at us and, like a proper British gentleman, ate every bite and never questioned the manner by which the food came to be.  We kept up this charade for six weeks. 
                And I only tell this story to complain that among my new neighbors, I do not have a Ms. Totie, willing to secretly bring me delicious dinners.  I do have Glenn, the surprisingly well-spoken Harley aficionado next door and Justin, boyfriend of a bellicose young woman, below me.  I haven’t actually met Justin; I’ve just heard his named screamed by said woman while I was trying to sleep away my illness.  Glenn referred to her as “Shut Up or I’m Calling the Cops” but that’s probably just a nickname.
                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

               

I'm not saying global warming is my fault, but...

                A proper wardrobe should count among its basics, a navy blazer.  It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, a navy blazer immediately dresses up your intentions.  Khakis, polo and baseball cap is not dressy enough?  Simply add a navy blazer and you are ready for Homecoming at Ole Miss, y’all.  And the reason I even bring this up is that for most of my life I was bereft of a blazer, navy or otherwise, and there were times when I needed to bring my A-game, fashionably, and found myself lacking. 

              I posted a photo recently on Facebook to commemorate the significant hairdos that I and my peers Aqua-Netted (or White –Rained, depending on your brand loyalty) into pillars (literally) of wonder.  To borrow from the Post Office, neither rain, nor snow nor Hurricane-force winds at a football game will keep our coiffures from doing their duty.  Now what that duty was, I don’t remember, but whatever it was those ‘dos were doing it, do you hear me? 
              However, my significant locks were not the reason I take finger to keyboard, it was the lovely ensemble I was wearing in the re-taken photo.  I had been elected Freshman Class Favorite at Southwest Mississippi Community College because this is the South and we love our superlatives.  And I wanted to make a great impression for posterity’s sake.  I mean, what were the odds that this would happen again, I thought to myself.  And an honor such as this required a photo for the yearbook with a proper outfit.  And someone as concerned with my clothes as I was, the math was not on my side.  The following equation will assist you in picturing my reality:

‘Great taste’ plus ‘almost-psychotic need to fit in’ multiplied by ‘too tall/fat to wear my 8^th grade graduation suit’ divided by ‘no money’ gives us the fraction: diddly/squat. 

This was a disaster of Biblical proportions!  Okay, maybe not Biblical but it was one of my plagues, people.  Oh don’t look so appalled; we’ve already discussed how shallow I was back then.

            The initial photo’s ensemble was the closest thing I had to dress clothes, which included some off-brand big and tall version of Z Cavariccis.  The pants were aggressively ill-fitting due to the generous pleating at the waist that competed with the pegged-for-you-by-the-manufacturer straight legs which gave the illusion that my torso was sitting atop a hot air balloon mid-descent.  It was a pretty as you would imagine.  If you pair that with a two year-old very tight Miami Vice jacket (in sea foam green, no less) and a plaid tie and you get the picture.  Thank goodness I was on the yearbook staff and refused to have that photo printed, in black and white or color.  Oh, I didn’t throw a fit or anything; I just destroyed the photo and negative in a lab accident, like you do. 
             Now, the reshoot was a bit better due to the borrowing of clothing more, but still not quite, appropriate for the occasion.  You see, America had been getting fatter by the decade and the clothing options were changing, but as an over-achiever, I had been getting fatter much more quickly than my fellow countrymen.  In 1988 there was no size 38 (inches) in Girbaud or Guess jeans.  By 1990, when those sizes premiered publicly, I was sporting a 40-inch waist.  Beyond feeling fat and ugly, it came to pass that the only person the same size as I and with whom I could borrow clothes was my father.  Can’t you just feel my excitement?  If I ever wanted to be a stand-in on ‘Hee-Haw’ or break into the country music scene in 1975, I was ready, people. 

If you look very closely, the jacket is of a fabric that hangs in an interesting manner.  Those in the fashion business call it leather.  Yes, dear readers, I was wearing a caramel-colored leather sport coat.  The pants were forest green and the tie was green, white and pink plaid, but not in that fantastic Ralph Lauren sort of way.  It was more along the lines of the are-there-any-ties-at-Hudson’s-Salvage-Center-that-have-green-in-them-smoke-damaged-is-okay-my-mom-can-get-the-smell-out sort of way that most people shop.  Thus the reality of black and white photographs in the Who’s Who section when you know I wanted that photograph in full color on the front, and every subsequent, page.  Upon revisiting the photo this week, it looks disturbingly like the commemoration of the wedding of some cult preacher and his 5^th sister wife who is missing her left thumb.

I ended up wearing that same outfit in my sister’s wedding the following September, where I sang “The Wedding Song” and “Lost in Your Eyes” hidden ever so discretely behind a (rather large) fern.  My sister and the wedding planner both claimed the other had the idea to hide me.  If feel sure they were both telling the truth. 

However, once I transferred to MUW and pledged a fraternity, I had to find a navy blazer.  It was our Delta Sigma Omega uniform, along with our gold and navy striped ties and khakis.  These guys had just gifted me with a chance to be a regular “guy” guy and I was not about to mess this up.  God took pity on my shallow butt and I was able to find a double-breasted navy blazer at Hudson’s for something like $2 due to the fact that it had survived a mudslide in Argentina.

Mind you my significant research into a gentleman’s guide to dressing appropriately had taught me that any man who himself has double breasts, should not wear a double-breasted jacket as it tends to draw the eye to the mid-section and emphasize the girth.  But let’s be honest, it wasn’t the button configuration that brought the attention to my belly; it was the fact that I had a belly.  But it was now a member-of-a-fraternity-belly and that was all that I cared about.  It’s all about having your priorities in place, am I right?

And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Is there a Melissa Manchester ballad about athletic shoes?

               1982 was the year my nomadic Southern Baptist family wandered, somewhat purposefully, into the Red River Valley.  We moved to Bogata, a tiny hamlet of less than 500, unless you count horses and crabapples.  And we didn’t even live within the city limits; we actually lived in a nearby community called Fulbright, a misnomer to be sure. It wasn’t full of anything except houses and barns and there was nothing big and bright about it other than the stars at night (clap, clap, clap, clap).
                Moving here had been one of those moves that were common in my family and apparently no one else’s; you know the ones where your parents say, “Get in the car we are moving”?  I thought so.  We became adept at packing an entire house quickly and into relatively small spaces.  I promise you my mother could fit the contents of a 3 bedroom house in the back end of a Pontiac Bonneville station wagon, with room left for a cooler of fried chicken, a switch for when we ‘smarted off’ and my baby brother.  Don’t believe me? Call my sister (Hey, Shontyl!).
                This move was the first one that caused me concern.  I’ve never been one to get nervous around meeting new people and I have no issues with just sort of implanting myself in a new landscape and pretending I had been there for quite some time.  And in Bogata, I wasted no time in acquiring a girlfriend (she was cool and played clarinet) and a best friend (he was also cool and his Dad was the preacher).  And that was a great summer, but fall arrived and things were about to become a bit different.
                Up until this year, the only sport that was typically available to youth was baseball, and that was only in the summer.  I had participated with a reasonable facsimile of athletic ability from t-ball up through whatever they call community baseball for sixth-graders.  Full disclosure, I was known for striking out in t-ball and once, while playing left field, got so engrossed in a conversation with someone standing by the fence, I actually stayed in the outfield while my team batted and no one seemed to notice, not even the umpire.  I feel pretty sure my coach noticed but very wisely alerted no one.  The heart of the team I was not; the mouth of the team I was for certain.
                I don’t remember thinking sports were amazing but I also don’t remember disliking them to any degree.  It’s just what you did. But something had changed in sixth grade.  I had realized that I was much less like my Dad than I had previously thought and I had a sudden need to improve as a son; to be more of who I thought he wanted me to be, and that most definitely involved playing football.  Project Super Son was launched due to something my Dad had said on numerous occasions and that was “any boy not playing football is a sissy.”  It would become my mantra and I repeated it several times on the playground to, I feel pretty certain, utter confusion.  Macho, I was not, dear readers; determined, I was.
                And I almost dodged the football bullet, y’all, but like any Secret Serviceman worth his Bass Weejuns (that’s what they wear), I leaped in front of that bullet.  One of the conversations that my mother had with me was concerning our lack of resources.  I knew we had suddenly found ourselves without many of the things we were used to and we had to sell our car and truck when we moved but I wasn’t aware of the exact level of poverty until my mother said I couldn’t play football because we couldn’t afford to buy the football cleats.  My reaction (tears) wasn’t a proud moment for me but I didn’t know what else to do.  The success of Project Super Son hinged on the playing of the football with the appropriate accoutrement.  Of course, not using words like accoutrement would probably have helped.  Being in the band and an honor student hadn’t seemed to work in my favor, at least to my 11 year-old mind.  Yes, dear readers, I was 11 when I entered seventh grade and, to be honest, actually only became reasonably mature sometime in the last 5 years.
                My mother was never one to allow tears to sway her, but she apparently interpreted them to mean that I was desperate to play ball and I was, but not for the love of the gridiron.  I wasn’t privy to the conversations behind closed doors but apparently due to my implied level of devotion to the game, it was decided that my school shoes would be my football cleats and after a trip to The Wal-Mart, I became the proud owner and full-time wearer of athletic shoes.  Of course, these were not regulation cleats.  They were football shoes designed for short, portly youth to wear other places besides an athletic field; white with maroon stripes and a flap (that’s what it’s called) over the laces.  If you were to look at my class officer photo from 7^th grade (Class Reporter, thank you very much), you will see me wearing a short-sleeved button-down, overly-tight Wrangler jeans and my football cleats.
                What could I do?  When you are lacking in resources and you gain weight, you simply wear the clothes you have and lose either (1) weight or (2) concern over your appearance.  Anything else causes angst, y’all.  Even in those who don’t yet know that angst exists.  And angst-riddled I became as I was hyper-aware of my appearance and I was certainly not about to modify my eating habits.  I had to play sports, people.  Athletes need biscuits and gravy, don’t they?
                And I feel certain that my mother was confused and disappointed as my passion for football was not evident in my performance or lack of restraint in complaining about two-a-days and football in general.  You would imagine I would not cry out loud; that I would keep it inside, like Melissa Manchester taught us, and try to hide my feelings.  You might think that but you would be wrong.  For some reason my fear of ostracism never outweighed my need for martyrdom.  No, sir, I had a need to be as dramatic on the outside as I felt on the inside, which I’m sure only alarmed and/or annoyed those in my general vicinity.  I have matured since then, I can assure you.  It has been more recent than I would have liked but better late than never, right?
                And that’s all I should probably say for now.

Patriotism and Partial Nudity

             As a young man I excelled at managing the resources of others.  My downfall seemed to be my inability to manage my own.  As an adult I have definitely sharpened my skills; however, some lessons were hard to come by.  I would love to tell you that I was one of the noble poor, those who possess the gift of delayed gratification; those who, when given resources, use them wisely.  Full disclosure, I was of the less than noble poor; those who want so desperately to have things that when given access to anything, use them as if they were commonplace.  I considered my lack of royal birth as ample delay in any sort of gratification.  I say this to give the backstory for a time when I was publicly humiliated by a fashion choice made without good use of limited funds.  I am referring to the incident at Opryland, bastion of family values, overpriced soda and country music. 
                I was a trumpeter in the band from fifth grade until my sophomore year in college.  A band nerd to be sure; however, trumpet players are the studs of the band, if you will.  It is the only time I thought I was a stud; let me have this one, people.  Our high school band (Tylertown, MS) was an exceptionally talented group of people and we had been invited to compete in the Strawberry Festival and Parade in Humboldt, Tennessee.  In order pay for this trip we had to panhandle.  And by that I mean sell magazine subscriptions and candy bars to the townspeople or county folks as Tylertown was the only town in the county.  Each member had to sell a specific amount to pay for their trip and any money earned above that was returned to them for spending money on said trip.  I was a ‘champeen’ seller and paid for my trip plus received a refund in the triple digits so I was stoked, do you hear me?
                My parents had put back some money assuming, I imagine, that I would eat more Snickers than I sold.  When I told her of my bounty, my mother informed me that I could use those funds to buy a new outfit or two depending on the cost.  I was even more stoked; new clothes and a new place to wear them.  Look out Humboldt!
                If I were giving my 1987-self some advice, I would have said to buy khaki shorts and 2-3 polo style shirts to have more options and, seemingly, more clothes; good solid wardrobe staples.  Unfortunately the 16 year-old Dusty was all about a trend and poor choices were made, both in the immediacy and in retrospect.  My poor mother tried her best to nudge me in the right path, but what I chose I was amazing, y’all.  One outfit was purple, orange and black jam shorts with an orange scrub-style top.  Yes, like nurses wear.  It was a ‘thing’ back then in Southwest Mississippi.  The other outfit was a shorts and top set (don’t judge me) that was white with little light blue, pink and red nautical flags scattered both port and starboard. 
                So, fast forward to the really long bus trip where I don’t remember who I sat beside, I do recall that Angela Hall reclined her seat into my space.  Of course I said nothing as I am too polite and she could have easily bested me at fisticuffs, were they to ensue.  We arrived, competed in the marching festival, lost the grand prize by one-half a point and headed to Opryland to get as crazy as you can get at a family-oriented theme park with eleventy-seven chaperones and a band director who was suspicious of you because of your “smart mouth”.  Of course, in those days ‘crazy’ to me meant eating two corn dogs and not feeling guilty.  I was not a wild child, people.  All the insanity came in one 18-month period when I was 25ish.
                Feeling all nautical, I had decided to christen Opryland in my white outfit.  I was standing near one of the rides chatting with my peeps, as I do not ride rides lest I barf in public, when a strange girl (and I mean strange in the sense that I didn’t know her, not due to any outward abnormalities) walked up behind me and said, “Nice underwear.”  Before I could stop myself I said, “Thanks” because I will take any compliment offered.  When I looked down to see why she would have mentioned my unmentionables, I noticed for the first time that day that you could, in fact, see the light blue tightie-whities (tightie-bluies?) I was wearing.  How no one in my group had noticed or pointed out the fact that you could see right through my ensemble I do not know.  I realize that my body does not inspire anyone to compose poetry or take chisel to stone but c’mon, these were supposed to be my friends; my fellow band nerds.  In response, I did the only honorable thing which was hastily untuck my shirt, flee the scene to seek solace in yet another corn dog and pray for sweet death to take me.
                Although I sweated enough for 17 people in the summer heat, I did not perish beneath the awning of the corn dog stand.  One of my roommates did, however, lend me his Walkman and cassette single of Shirley Murdock’s “As We Lay” to ease my humiliation.  These items had been purchased the day before at Sam Goody because Clark Sauls was rich, y’all; richer than me, at least.  Side note, Mr. Sauls was also the best-dressed boy at my school.  He had actually bought not just a cassette single but two additional entire cassettes!  I had to tape songs from the radio to have anything to listen to in my mother’s car and that was only while using the 8-track/cassette adapter we bought at the truck stop on double-clearance sale because nobody had a car old enough to still have an 8-track tape player except somebody's Pee-paw and apparently he already had one.
             The next day, we visited the Opryland Hotel and I was determined to not only mitigate the exposure from the previous day, but to ensure mass amnesia.  I didn’t know how, but “Entertainment Dusty” was going to need to make an appearance.  Entertainment Dusty was my alter-ego who did a one-man show whenever he needed to feel loved, was caught in an embarrassing situation, felt uncomfortable, felt at a disadvantage socially or simply wanted to hear someone laugh.  Generating laughter is my super power and something that makes me smile on the inside.
             We were trying to figure out how to enjoy hanging out in a hotel where we weren’t actually staying and I decided to give a tour as I suddenly remembered tour guides walk backwards.  This would solve the problem of possible exposure if, for some strange reason, my orange, purple and black jam shorts somehow became see-through.  Having never been to the Opryland Hotel, but very skilled at simply making things up on the fly, I started to point out the many details of the hotel’s décor. 
                “And we’re walking, we’re walking, please note the lovely mural to your right.  It was not painted here, unlike most murals.  It was actually imported from Uruguay and Canada at the same time, by the same artist.  Yes, that’s unusual and no, I don’t know why.  What can I say, artists are finicky.  And we’re walking, we’re walking, also note the decorative sconces that are supposed to invoke a sense of patriotism through their intricate curlicues.  They were imported all the way from Dunwoody, Georgia.  Imported means ‘not from here’.  Georgia is not Tennessee.  And we’re walking.” 
                After a half-hour or so, we came to a ballroom and I got distracted watching the staff decorate for a function.  Suddenly an elderly voice said, “Is the tour over?”  It was only then that I noticed there were 8-10 older people walking along at the back of our group who had mistaken me for an actual tour guide.  So I did what any self-respecting fake tour guide would do; I finished the tour and dropped them off in the lobby just in time to catch their bus.  I can’t disappoint my public, can I?
                And that is all I’m saying for now.