Photo John Friedlander
Like love, and life, hats can get complicated.
Whether it’s a crown, a fedora or a beanie, what you wear on your head speaks volumes about who you claim - or wish - to be.
In a previous life, I was a computer consultant, riding the range to help fine gentlemen and fair maidens use their computers more productively. During one period just before the turn of the millenium I traveled quite a bit, often heading west to round up more digital dogies as a part of my entrepreneurial chores. I packed my saddlebags light, with a laptop, a cellphone and a toothbrush. I liked my steaks rare, my coffee strong, my meetings short and punchy, and my hotel room sheets high thread-count.
Seeking a distinctive visual signature and a unifying theme for my frequent business presentations, I did what thousands of other great communicators before me had done: I bought myself a Stetson to go with my already well-worn cowboy boots.
What fun I had, galloping through the concrete badlands of corporate Cupertino! I became a legend in my posse, talking tough in meetings and swaggering through cocktail parties, with all the weight of an American tradition of chivalric individualism and service to community behind me. It was all an act, of course — the truth was that I was a New England techno-geek with soft hands who could type 90 words a minute but not rope a single calf, driving a station wagon more accustomed to hauling computer monitors than hay bales. Still, life was good.
Then disaster struck.
A self-proclaimed Texan born a short ride from Yale University moved back east to the White House, bringing all his cowboy-posing friends with him. The neighborhood - and in short order, the world - went all to hell, and the positive image of cowboys everywhere went face-down in oily black mud.
I put my Stetson in a drawer at the back of my closet. My boots started to gather dust. I didn’t call my friends in Texas much anymore. Listening to Lyle Lovett became more bittersweet than ever. I reconciled myself to booking Jimmy LaFave (twice) because after all, didn’t he grow up in Oklahoma?
There were lights in the darkness, thankfully…
The Kerrville Folk Festival
Kinky Friedman (”Find something you love, and do it ’til it kills you!”)
Junior Brown
Rest in joy and peace, Molly…
And let’s not forget the Dixie Chicks!
But my overall feeling for four years was that the fun had gone out of cowboyin’, and, Texas being the most powerfully self-absorbed cowboy state in the union, it became socially awkward to talk in a drawl or arrive anywhere wearing cowboy boots.
After the 2004 Selection, though it seemed impossible, it got worse.
It became unsafe to turn down barbecue, if there might be a DHS infiltrator nearby. Like lead-footed drivers who adorn their rides with stickers claiming their generosity to Policemen’s Benevolent Associations in hopes of avoiding speeding tickets, homeowners all over the neighborhood began prominently displaying large, decorative Texas stars.
But nothing lasts forever. There’s change in the air. A year from now there’ll be a new sheriff in town, and Texas will have a chance to earn its way back into my good graces.
Meanwhile, Texan Eric Taylor will play here Saturday, April 12. His artfully dark perspective should be a welcome antidote to the mindless Texas pandering we’ve had to live with for too long, and a reminder that there is more to that great state than all hat and no cattle wannabee cowboys, like me.
