I realized only in hindsight that going to the gym wearing a Kinky Friedman campaign t-shirt with GOVERNOR KINKY emblazoned across the front was a really, really bad idea. I’m still not sure what tipped me off.

My personal trainer awkwardly glancing at my chest when he thought I wasn’t looking?

Or when he awkwardly cleared his throat and said, “Man, what’s with the shirt? Governor Kinky?”

Maybe when he said he only noticed it because a fellow trainer pointed it out to him.

Or maybe, just maybe I was alerted to the BAD IDEA as I was on my way out and two youngish employees laughed and told me how “awesome!” it was.

“You guys like his campaign?” I asked, enthused.

Mistake number one was wearing the shirt. Mistake number two was asking that question.

“Campaign?” asked the African-American of the two.

“Well, I mean, this is a real shirt,” I said, clearing my throat. “There’s a guy named Kinky Friedman running for governor in Texas.”

Mike, stop. Stop right now and walk away.

“Well, that shirt is hilarious, man,” declared the Caucasian-American one.

You’d think I would’ve gotten the idea. Nope!

“He’s an independent candidate, actually. He was once part of a fairly well-known band called “Kinky Friedman & The Texas Jewboys“.”

The African-American employee laughed. “Jewboys? Right on man, right on.”

“You guys should check it out on the web if you don’t believe me.”

“Alright, bro,” said The Caucasian-American.

“Seriously, go Google it.”

“Sounds good.” The African-American nodded and glanced over at his coworker as if to say, “Dude, when the hell is this guy going to shut up?”

Finally the clouds parted, light shone down from the heavens and my brain clicked on. I said “See you guys!” turned around and briskly walked to my car.

Moral of the (Horrible) Story: If two twenty-something guys comment on how awesome your “Governor Kinky” shirt is, let them think it’s a joke.

Oh, Muse, you fickle bitch. You tell me you love me, that you can’t live without me. You even let me be Little Spoon!

Then you kick me to the curb. You leave me cold and shivering in a fetal position on your rubber welcome mat, scratching at the foot of the door and begging in a hoarse scream to be let back in, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

I took a sip of lemonade. We sat beneath a canopy amidst a large field of golden summer grass.

“That must have been so incredibly boring, growing up in the suburbs.” My back was to the sun, so she squinted as she spoke.

“Nah,” I said, “it wasn’t too bad. Yeah, there weren’t too many people, and the town wasn’t the most happening place on earth, but I still had a great time.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the most exciting, exotic place you’ve ever been?”

“Paris, France.” She moved a light brown wisp of hair from her eyes.

“Now, are your best memories about the actual things you saw or of the people with whom you vacationed?”

“Hmm. More about the actual things I saw.”

“I see.” I took another sip.

“I mean, Mike, it’s Paris.”

I looked down at my glass. Crescent-shaped ice cubes were melting.

“I think living in a small town isn’t any different from living in Paris. Eventually you run out of places to go and things to see and it all comes back to who’s standing next to you.”

“But Mike -”

As she spoke she lifted her glass to her lips, tipped it back and took two ice cubes into her mouth. Her cheeks made shapes as she moved the ice around. She crunched down hard. Her words were slightly garbled when she spoke again, and she moved her left hand quickly to catch the water dripping from her lower lip.

“- it’s Paris.”