Mr. Big Shot

Hard to believe that ten years ago, I sat down at a keyboard and plunked out my first blog post. 

What transpired was ten years of wonderful, magical, inspiring, brain-rotting drivel. And yet, here you are still enjoying it. This is why we are best friends. 

Sometimes, chasing clout (a new, young-people term for doing things just for the attention) really pays off. But other times, I had to get a real job.

I will say, I'm quite blessed with the jobs I've had. If you hadn't Sherlocked it down yet (a new, invented-by-me term that means you used your brain to figure out something), I am a man of many words; some of the words I have are great, and other words I have not be great. It stands that a lot of the past jobs I've had were word-centric. 

Here's some free advice that I learned the easy way: if you are a word person and like people, go into the field of Marketing. It has been pure fun since I began being a big shot professional. 

A brand new venture has come to my desk that I have really enjoyed. You are now reading the blog of one of the members of the Greater Orange Community Arts Theater Board of Directors. 

That's me: Mr. Board of Director member. Calling shots. Making decisions. Making motions and seconding others. It all might go to my head. 

 But fortunately it doesn't. I really recommend getting involved in orgs, associations, and causes that benefit your community and neighbors. It's a great feeling to build buildings, bring people together, and watch ideas take physical form.  

Mr. Big Shot really comes back down to earth when he looks around and meets people who are just like him, in all walks of life. I sit around large tables in a coat in tie, then come home and have to empty my trash cans. I look over financial sheets and plot fundraising activities, then come home and still find holes in my socks. 

I guess being a big shot is really more a frame of mind than anything else. 

My First Rodeo

 It has actually and finally happened: I found an occasion to say "sorry, this is only my first rodeo."

The truth of the matter is, I wasn't actually sorry. I was stoked.

If you've read this blog at any point over the last decade, you'll know how connected I've been to cowboy culture, how my grandad was a cowboy, how my family is scattered all over Texas, how SoCal gave birth to the silver screen cowboys that I grew up watching. So I'm sure you can imagine, once I heard about the opportunity to participate in a real, honest-to-Gene Autry, local rodeo, I was ecstatic. 

Saturday afternoon found me and my siblings at the Rusty Richards Arena at the Circle S Ranch, representing a small gaggle of part-time cattle sorters from Trails End Ranch just down the road. My trusty arena pal, Rip was my companion again, and my new, shiny spurs flashed in the golden, Silverado Canyon sun. 

My mission was simple: win the commemorative belt buckle. My mission was also basically impossible. 

Team after team signed the roster. Seemingly thousands of riders poured into the arena, though it was probably only about 30 or so. My chances of winning were about the same chance of  German shepherd filing my taxes on time (you know how bad they are at standardizing deductions).

But to me, it didn't matter. I was just happy to be there. Rip was ambivalent. 

My first round came. As soon as Rip and I crossed the starting line, the judge gave us a number, and we were to find the corresponding cow. We got him, and cut him out. Great start. The thrill of it all was just too much for Rip. His horsey endorphins went into overdrive and he took me on a grand victory lap around the arena. 

Oh boy did he run; gleefully careening toward fences and people. While my longsuffering teammates continued sorting cattle in the appropriate order, I was begging Rip to salvage my cowboy reputation to all the other cowboys who could, at this point, probably tell I was a bit of a greenhorn. 

Suddenly, a blonde horse with braided mane caught Rip's eye and ol lover boy made a beeline and stopped right along side her. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind hanging out with a cute blonde now and then, but business is business. I finally convinced Rip to get back to work and we sorted a few more in order before the clock ran out, ending our round with an incomplete job. 

Team after team filled the next hour, placing impressive scores and displaying impressive horsemanship. Deep down, I hoped Rip was paying attention. "That's how its done, Rip", I told him, "See how they stick to the job and don't leave or nothing?" Somehow, I don't think Rip was listening. Mentally, he was somewhere else, probably filing taxes with a German Shepherd. Good luck with that.

Our second turn came, full of hope and low of expectations. 

"Rider, when you cross the line, your time will start," said the judge. "Let's go," I told Rip. 

Rip stood still. 

"Rider, you may cross the line when you're ready," the judge implored.

"C'mon, Rip", I said to a very motionless horse. 

At this point, I briefly wondered if I had mistakenly saddled the hitching post by mistake, but I felt him slowly begin walking and I was relieved to find at least a partial horse under all that leather and tack. 

We cut out the first cow, and no sooner had Rip faced the other way when lil Blondie caught his eye again. No victory lap this time, it was straight to that Jezebel horse to say howdy again. 

"You gotta pull the reins," offered a nearby cowboy who could sense I was a little out of control. 

I pulled the reins, but my goo-goo eyed horse was bent on letting that blonde ruin his life. Trust me, I've been there myself, but there's a time for everything and this wasn't it. By the time I finally got Rip back to work, my team was struggling keeping the small herd of cattle together. Rip and I made a few close saves, but at the last minute, a crafty calf snuck by out of order, rendering us disqualified for that round. 

Back to the sidelines we went, spending the rest of the evening gathering the cattle that wandered from the hold between rounds, talking with more experienced cowboys, and basking in the glory of realized childhood dreams. 

Needless to say, I won no buckle. I didn't win anything that could be claimed on my taxes (to the relief of a certain doggy). But I walked away with the biggest smile and fondest memory of my first rodeo. 

In spite of the challenges, I think I'm ready for the second. 

Hot Take

What I'm about to say, I hope that you will accept with grace. I might get canceled for this. 

I've said it onced or twiced to various people, and almost every time, I lose friends. Tragic for sure, but I'm not sorry for standing up for what I strongly believe is the truth. 

So take a breath, and let's walk through this together:

I believe with all my heart that crunchy peanut butter shouldn't exist; it is a waste of cupboard space and pointless in nature. 

I know, I know, all you crunchy peanut butter lovers are fuming right now. But, I maintain creamy peanut butter supremacy. 

My reasoning is simple and rooted in observational science. In the first place, is there anything called butter that has chunks in it? Honey butter, apple butter, body butter, milk butter, they're all smooth and creamy. Because that's what butter is. 

How would you like it if you found chunks in your normal, cowmilk butter? Grosses you out, doesn't it?

Secondly, I believe food needs to have some sort of continuity of consistency within each culinary offering. Soft dishes need to be soft. Hard dishes need to be hard. 

You may say "But Mark, s'mores are hard AND soft!" How right you are, but the continuity says the crunchy is on the outside and softly gives way to the creamy inside. It tells a story! 

One time, I had a PBJ sandwich with chunky peanut butter and it took me a solid minute to realize I wasn't losing my teeth: someone had done half a job when making the peanut butter. What story are we telling here? Fluffy soft bread gives way to soft, sweet jelly, and indecisive half-chewed peanuts kinda interrupt here and get in the way. Lame. 

I'll say it again for the people in the back: Crunchy Peanut Butter is a job half done.

I stand by this.