I flew home last week in such a hurry to be with Dad and my family that I left Texas with two shirts, eight pairs of socks, and no dress shoes.  So today, I am wearing my father's shoes.  I've worn his black shoes many times since I was a kid, even though my feet are about half a size bigger than his.  Here's the irony: last night, when I put his shoes on , they were too big for my feet.

I saw a Dear Abby column once with the headline, "Stop calling me junior!"  In the letter, she advised a reader who asked if, after his father passed away, he wasn't supposed to use "Jr." anymore at the end of his name, because "Sr." was no longer living.  I've thought about that column many times in the last few years, wondering what I would do if I ever had to face that decision.

My father lived a life of dignity, honesty, and hard work.  His was the true simple life that honored his family and honored God.  His was the true example that those of us still here should be emulating.

My father helped me learn how to drive, and to this day, I still stop far enough behind the white line at an intersection so that I can see it.  Of course, this led to a ten-minute wait to get out of Target the other day because I wasn't on the sensor.

My father taught me to ask questions that other people might not make time for today.  In thirty-one years, I have never crossed a picket line.  Once, when working at a tennis tournament in San Diego two years ago, I had the driver let me off before he crossed a picket line so that I could talk to the strikers, and then walk behind the resort and go to work.  They respected that.  That was my Dad in me.

Carrying Dad's name around is a heavy burden.  First of all, it's not easy to spell.  It hink after Mom was in labor for about seven weeks with me, she didn't have any problem when Dad said, "Let's name him Talmadge."  And outside my family, I only ever heard that name once a year -- on the first day of school, when you usually found me hiding under my desk during roll call.

Being a junior means always striving to live up to the example of senior.  I know too well what so many of you have said to me and my mother the last few days -- just the simple sentence that, "Frank was a good man."  Simple, small words, but they are the highest compliment you can give to my father.

I am so happy today, because I know my Dad is with the Lord and his family in heaven.  His fight and his hard work here are over, but our work is not.  The best gift you can give to my mother and to us, the best way that you can honor my father, is to imagine yourself as junior, trying to live up to the worthy example of senior.  Tell the people around you that you love them every day.  Don't sweat the small stuff.  And remember, there is a quiet dignity to living a life of honesty, of hard work, of integrity, and of boundless love.

I've thought alot this week about what Dear Abby wrote.  My father's shoes are indeed too big for me.  I have a lot of work -- a lot of work -- to do before I am worthy of bearing my father's name.  It may mean I spend the rest of my life as junior, but until I have achieved the level of my father's life, I'll remain Frank Thomas, Jr., my reminder to strive every day to deserve his name.

Date:	2004-11-16 21:57
Subject:	48 Hours as a Straight Man (Rated PG)
Security:	Public
Mood:	satisfied
Music:	Basia - Time and Tide

I suppose I should start this report on my weekend with a warning -- the tale will be told in two parts. Most of the story is suitable for all ages. But certain details will be left in a private entry, for just my most trusted friends. I don't know whether that is to protect my reputation, or the character of those mentioned in the story, but I don't plan on dwelling on that too much. This is how I am going to do it.

I went to College Station for the weekend. This was one of those "every other weekends" that I head down there for my best friend's campaign meeting. See, my best friend and erstwhile little brother, Scott Smith, is planning to run for student body president (SBP) at Texas A&M in the spring. For more than a year now, he has been planning this, and he's had me in mind to manage his campaign almost from the beginning. But this weekend, I was deciding, it was time for me to step out of that role and let it fall to someone on campus, someone younger and with a better feel for the unversity. Anyhow, that decision forms the last part of this story, so I suppose I should go back and stay in chronological order.

I left work early on Friday in order to arrive in Bryan in the mid-afternoon. The most I remember about Friday night was having dinner, visiting with the folks who were home, and going to bed early, around 11 p.m. when Scott left for Midnight Yell. I did wake up a couple of times during the night, specifically when Mark upstairs came home drunk and stoned with his friends Zach (ex-girlfriend's brother) and Travis (best bud from back home in Odessa, visiting for the weekend). Otherwise, I slept straight through the night.

I woke up in the morning to the hushed sounds of the guys upstairs, thinking no one could hear their silly stage whispers. Mark sent Travis downstairs for something to drink. By that time I was sitting up and checking email, and Travis asked if he could have something to drink. I told him I didn't care, because I didn't live there. I introduced myself and he went back upstairs.

I got a degree from the University of Alabama in 1993. I spent two years at the University of Texas. And yet somehow, the eleven months I spent at Texas A&M have stayed with me as the most permanent college experience I had. I keep much closer ties with A&M, have a greater affinity for its sports teams, than any other school. And I know a lot of it has to do with the good friends I have down there. I would move there, save for the fact that those friends would eventually graduate and move, and then I fear the place would not be the same.

Having said this, I have to state that my primary reason for traveling to Bryan so frequently has been Scott, and as a result, I spend most of my time with him and his girlfriend Leigh Ann, and some with the downstairs roommate, Will. This weekend would turn out very differently.

I decided not to try to sneak into the football game -- the weather wasn't that great -- and instead hang out with Mark and his friends, and then hook back up with Scott after the game was over. We would often stay up very late playing cards or games, watching movies, and laughing. Instead, I became a straight man for the weekend.

The plan for the four of us - me, Mark, Travis, and Zach - was to eat lunch, go to a bar to watch the Tech game, then come back to the house, drink some more and then hit Northgate, where all the good bars are. We went to Wings and More, and for some reason I started drinking then, around 2 PM, during the Texas-Kansas game. The guys didn't drink then (Mark and Travis are recently 21, Zach is 18), and we had lunch. We decided to get some beer of our own and just watch the game at the house. Mark got 40 oz. Mickey's for the guys, and I got a six of Shiner bottles.

During the first half, we drank all the beer and got hungry. Meanwhile, I am fitting in with the jocks (Mark and Travis - baseball player at Angelo State) with no effort. Mark thinks I am pretty crazy. Scott calls me the youngest person he knows. I don't even realize I am bonding, because I am so used to looking at guys in a different way.

Anyhow, now it's time for food. We order a pizza and go in Zach's car to pick it up. (Zach was pretty much inert the whole time. I guess the only reason the guys kept him around was because he had a car and easy access to weed.) We get the pizza, along with a second convenience store run for more beer and Mickey's. Mark has his head out the front passenger window, and I reach across Travis and out his window to swat Mark in the head. Someone does something funny, and Mark starts laughing hysterically out the window, with the pizza in his lap. He keep laughing out the window as we make the turn for home, until we realize he is laughing so hard that he is now puking. He keeps puking from the moving car until Zach stops the car in the street in front of the apartment and we all pile out. I take the pizza from Mark, we wait for him to finish, and then head inside laughing to clean up. Mark fills a pot with water and brings it back to wash off the car door. Lightweight number one out of the way...

Now Mark's buzz is gone, even though Travis and I were already about twenty ounces ahead of him already. We eat and make plans for that night while we watch the rest of the game. I finish my eleventh Shiner bottle without much effect. I drove the guys everywhere for the rest of the day, had no motor skills problems, and was generally normal. Not what usually happens when I drink that much, but I didn't notice that until later. We keep drinking until the nine o'clock hour, when we start getting ready to go out.

I only have nebbish clothes. One piece of clothing at a time, Travis had me wearing his clothes -- "No, that doesn't go. Here, wear my shoes." -- until I am clad completely in his clothes and Mark's straw hat. Travis, spending an inordinate amount of time on his hair, is in the bathroom when Mark comes in with a shot of brandy. Mark downs his, but Travis looks hesitant. I encourage him, and he takes the shot, and spits it right back into the glass. Then he hurls everything but his shoes into the bathroom sink. Mark comes in and sees the seemingly unused shot, and lifts the glass to down it. Being a good wingman, I tell him about the shot and he pours it out instead. Lightweight number two is toast.

Now I, the old man, the one who should have been in bed by ten, the one who should have passed out after five beers, I become the leader, the man, Frank the Tank. The three of us cram into the cab of my truck -- Zach bailed on us -- and head to Northgate. My job is to land chicks for the guys. Travis still buys me as one of the guys. Mark has known for a long time that I am gay. I play along. I flirt and direct girls to the guys, and drink three more chuggers (huge 36 ounce beers at the Dixie Chicken) and basically have a good time. As one a.m. approaches, a cold mist is falling, and we decide to call it a night. I pile the guys in the car, drive them home, and we go upstairs to talk and Mark starts a fire. The fire creates a massive argument between Scott and Mark that eventually embroils the whole house except Travis and me, and takes a couple of hours to settle. By four a.m., I am in bed downstairs.

I slept for five hours, waking up around nine, and I later went out for a run and some lunch. I came back later and took Travis across town to catch his ride back to San Angelo. Travis is a good guy. He's very fun, pretty cool. I don't have many straight friends. If I gave guys a chance, people like Travis could become good friends for me. (Not him, though. He's too far away.) So that's a lesson learned.

I didn't realize I was being a straight guy until it was all over. Some of my friends would say, "How could you tell the difference?" Well, I engaged in subtle changes to keep the secret. I picked up pretty quickly that Travis, rural jock, might not be too receptive to me being gay, so I pushed it back without noticing. We punched and "faced" each other all weekend, told dirty jokes, made comments about women, jabbered about sports, tried to get laid, tried to score some pot, and got shit-faced drunk. (I never puked.) I don't know what makes this a different experience from gay men. Right, there was no sex at the end of the night for anyone -- a major disappointment for the boys, but just another weekend for me. Looking back on this story, I don't think I have done justice to the weekend, though. It seemed a more profound event to me than the recounting expresses.

Scott and Will were up when I got home, smashed. Scott was very surprised to see that behavior in me. I hardly spent any time with him this weekend, which was also unusual. And the next afternoon, at the campaign meeting, my feelings about my decision were validated. I was not needed as campaign manager, and I told Scott that on the way home. I told him I would still be around as an adviser, but he needed someone else in the role of manager. He was disappointed, but not as destroyed as I would be if I knew I was the reason the campaign failed. This is too important to him for me to mess around with.

I think all of this is more for me than any of you. I want to remember this experience, and revisit it to see if I can figure out what it really means.

What you will be more interested in is part two. But I can't reveal even any teasers here. That wouldn't be fair to the boys.

More to come...