So, I’ve been in a Bob Dylan kind of mood lately. Barb and I went to see the A Complete Unknown movie a few months ago with some very good friends and it reminded me of how much I like Bob Dylan. So, I went to iTunes and downloaded a bunch of his stuff. Now I know I have much of this music on vinyl, but no working turntable. So, it’s download time.
I watched the movie again on my recent flight back to Michigan, yep, it’s that time of year again. Anyway, somewhere in my spare time at the farm I went to YouTube and watched his 1965 promo video of Subterranean Homesick Blues. Great song and great video. In this video Bob is dropping signs with key words in the song on them. One sign says, “Short Pants.” Now this is how my mind works when I have a deadline for an article.
Shorts Pants! My wife, son, and daughter know my opinion on short pants. I should explain. When Kelly was in high school and on the Milford Equestrian Team, she had a cowboy coach named Win. Win was old school cowboy – boots, hat, Wrangler jeans, and horses. Truly a great guy and coach. He would tell us a story on how he and some friends went down to Florida on a spring break. Of course they spent the day on the ocean beaches. In the evening his friends wanted to go to some bars. He boldly stated, “Well I had to go back to the hotel and change, I ain’t going into town in no short pants.” This had been my mantra for over 20 years.
When I was a young Timmy, my mom wanted to dress me in shorts. I hated it! Only mama’s boys let them put him in shorts. So, from 8 or 10 years old, no shorts for me. Then as an adult came the long-awaited ultimate confirmation, a truly man’s man says, “I ain’t going into town in no short pants!”
But now we live in Mesa and when this article is printed in July it will be frickin (sorry for the cursing) hot with 120-degree days on the way. Well after 2 1/2 years here I am proud to say that my legs are as pasty white as a polar bear cub. Maybe if I’m working in the back yard with a cinder block fence to hide behind, I might break down and put on some, oh ahh short pants. But I’m not proud of it.
The staff at the coffee shop have not yet seen me in anything but Wrangler jeans. Now I do have some variety.
New dark blue ones, mildly faded, and really faded and torn. Old habits are hard to break. Even in 120-degree heat. That’s not to say that I think customers in shorts are not manly. Many could kick my over-heated a–. I just can’t seem to get there. Oh, and guys, please rethink the Crocks!
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