Secretly Texan

Whiling my life away at Dallas International Airport killing time at a restaurant bar and waiting for a flight that’s three hours delayed. On the wall is a large framed portrait of J.R. Ewing. This amuses me because a) this is a reality and b) I recognize him. I guess though that’s what happens when one of your nighttime soap opera reruns addicted stepmothers used the television in your formative years as a stand-in for parenting. Thank God for my previous television-as-parent care provider then. His viewing menu consisted solely of watching and rewatching all the greatest goals and moments of World Cup matches and exclaiming and explaining to me the essence of the greatness even though his passion-voiced wide-eyed gibberish meant likely to me not hugely a lot as I was by that point little more than teething. Said other parent also had a relentless viewing interest in the Japanese animation classic Akira, touchingly terrible Thai horror efforts and every deathless beautiful film that Bruce Lee ever graced and starred in. But back to J.R., interestingly, earlier, a friend managed to tap into the “secretly Texan” vibe apparently woven into the very fabric of my nature and being. Let’s hope Maradona, Der Kaiser, Platini, Messi, The Black Panther and Bruce Lee managed to save the rest and best of me.


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