Them's Fightin' Words, or Who You Callin' Perky?

Earlier this evening, I participated in a City of Fort Worth Town Hall Meeting, where the topics included the collaboration between the City and the YMCA to build a $5-million facility in our area. Each side is pitching in $2.5 million: the Y from a bank loan and the City from a 2004 bond.

I'm on the board of the local Y and my mission was to lend moral support if disgruntled residents lit their torches, grabbed up their pitchforks and attempted to chase the monster Y director out of the village. Fortunately, the issue quickly turned away from the Y and toward the trustworthiness of the City Council.

But me being me, I felt compelled to defend the Y early on when its value to the community was questioned. After a few hostile misstatements were fired across the bow, I stood and explained that I had lived in Summerfields (the hostile group) from 1990 to 1997 then moved to my current, nearby neighborhood -- Park Glen -- in 1997.

All was going well as I explained my role as a volunteer with the Y and how I'd even raised money to provide scholarships for kids who couldn't afford Y programs. I talked briefly about my daughters and how they've grown up with the Y, and when questioned whether I voted for a YMCA in the bond package, I responded that I voted for the bond package and that I was happy that the City was doubling its investment by collaborating with the Y.

I heard a few minutes ago that I even made the Channel 11 news.

After the meeting adjourned, I was talking with a group of friends near the stage, when I turned to ask our local City Councilman a question about the bond package. The Councilman is in a wheelchair, so when I turned, I was facing a hostile mother who looked at me and said, 'Yes, Mr. Perky-I-live-in-Park-Glen . . . '

I must've looked less-than-perky when I pulled out my six-gun-of-a-finger and -- probably spitting perky all over her -- told her that I'm a cancer survivor and that I love life. I'm not going to apologize for being 'perky.' Before I could get out the words 'bitter old bitch,' her friend grabbed her and dragged her to the door.

She's just lucky that she didn't call me handsome and charming. I would've been all over her like white on rice.

I talked with Lance Griggs, the long-time president of the Summerfields Neighborhood Association, and he explained to me that the 2004 bond program specifically identified a community center in District 4, which is our area. The YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility will be slightly north of the area, out of District 4; and that location has become the real issue behind the protests.

His neighborhood, Summerfields, has become one of the lower-income neighborhoods in our North Fort Worth community; and, unfortunately, many of its residents feel betrayed that the new community center is not located in their neighborhood as they feel was promised in the bond program.

When I asked Lance what he wanted to happen, he said that he'd like to see the City of Fort Worth pay its portion of the YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility with windfall monies from the Barnett Shale (natural gas drilling) and use the $2.5 million in bond money for a community center in District 4.

I just checked the City of Fort Worth's Web site; and after some digging, I found a list of 2004 bond projects, including the allocation of $7.5 million for three community centers that included the Far Northeast Community Center in District 2, which is where our new Y will be located.

I know Lance Griggs to be a caring, trustworthy and concerned citizen, and I'm looking forward to talking with him again, especially to clarify the promised location of the community center.

But just don't let anybody call me 'perky' again!

Poetic License to Kill

I am so thankful for my get-a-rope posse of blog readers, but this is sort of a confession. I mentioned in my last post that a co-worker criticized my writing and that I was ready to shoot it out at high noon over the slight. I was so proud . . . all you guys sounded like real Texans, just like Willie sings in Beer for My Horses:

Grandpappy told my pappy: 'Back in my day, son,
A man had to answer for the wicked that he done.
Take all the rope in Texas, find a tall oak tree,
Round up all of them bad boys, hang them high in the street'

And for that I'm thankful that I didn't identify my co-worker. I like him a lot and I'd hate to find him dangling from a blog noose with that 'what'd-I-say-and-who-are-those-guys' look on his face.

So, maybe I should clarify . . .

My co-worker is actually my boss, and we're close friends, to continue our Western saga, kind of like:

Butch and Sundance

And I did take a little bit of poetic license with my last blog, but reality was way too complicated.

The two days I described were very stressful, but my boss didn't actually criticize my writing. His frustrations just poured over onto my job about the same time that two (count 'em, two) of my projects found themselves:

Custered right in the middle of their own Little Big Horn

When the arrows started coming a little too close, I raised my white flag, unaware that my boss, too, was just about out of bullets; and I asked if we might be saved by his managerial cavalry. He replied with his best Tonto:

'What do you mean 'we,' paleface?'

Okay, he actually just held his head in his hands and mumbled, 'Maybe what they're saying is true.'

I take a HUGE amount of pride in my job because 1) I'm very good at what I do (at least one other person said so) and 2) I think I've made a difference in our firm (I think somebody else agreed).

So them were fightin' words!

But, being a good employee and loyal friend, I probably should've listened when my 'they're-taking-scalps' news pushed my boss under the Monday-morning cattle stampede. But it was much more satisfying to scratch out a guns-blazing blog in response to a perceived assault on MY work.

My boss and my peers and I are necessary-but-not-billable evils in an engineering firm . . . we are the Marketing Group. Marketing professionals and engineers are not from the same teepee, and for the four years since my boss and I arrived, we've fought off the Indians, most still pissed off about those earlier whiskey-selling-blanket-trading marketing people. And we've done a great job building credibility and trust, but sometimes, like the two days I described in my previous blog, we do feel a lot like Butch and Sundance:

In the movie's final death scene

But guess what . . . we get to keep our scalps. Our engineering Indians, who really aren't such bad guys (and girls), have a huge (HUGE) new contract, thanks in part to our little Marketing Group.

So, please, blog posse, don't hurt my boss. He's just trying to get some of those arrows out of his back.

In response to one of the comments to my last post, I do get paid to write, but kind of like those guys at the United Nations get paid to scribble something in English when the Prime Minister of Outer Zwenbornio gets up to speak. I translate our technical guys' a-thousand-multi-syllabic-words-are-as-good-as-one monologues into marketable qualifications and customer benefits.

High Noon at Work, and It's Not Time for Lunch

Monday morning of last week and my barn was burned down, the stream had been dammed up and my cattle run off. And there was my co-worker smelling of kerosene, pants wet to the knees and cow-poop all over his boots. Being an even-dispositioned kind of man, I figured he'd had a bad day and accidents do happen.

Tuesday morning and the well's been tainted, my wife and kids sold to Indians and my best dog lured away with bon-bons and Scooby snacks. And there was my co-worker again, sipping on a chilled Ozarka, a pocket full of chips from the Indian casino, and sporting a new 'I love my dog' T-shirt. When a man's had a bad Monday, sometimes it's hard to bounce back on Tuesday, so I could let an little grouchiness on his part slide.

And then he criticized my writing. That's enough to get a normal man riled, but for me, it means the clock is ticking toward high noon. I looked to my role models and pondered, 'What should I do?'

Taking their best advice, I load up the pearl-handled pistols, strap on the hand-tooled leather holster, tying it on the leg, snap the brim of my Stetson, and call him out in the street. I stood there in the dust and the mud, and shouted to the saloon, 'I'm callin' you out, you barn-burnin', stream-damming, poopy-booted, well-taintin', wife-and-kid-discountin', dog-stealin', writing critic (I was nearly exhausted and breathless by this point)!

The sun high overhead and the Clint Eastwood music cued up, I motion my co-worker out into the street (okay, into his office) and townspeople begin running for cover (okay, I close his office door). I look him in the eye and say, 'You seem to have some issues with me during the last couple of days. What seems to be the problem?'

He looks back at me, his hand twitching near his holster and says, 'I do have some issues, but they're not with you. I'm sorry. You're the only one I can count on to help me through this.'

Well, I don't need a barn anyway now that my cattle are gone, and I can always buy my own bottled water. I never liked the dog anyway, and I probably rate my writing higher than it deserves; so I unbuckle the holster, kick up some dirt, and say, 'Oh. Okay.'

I just hope my co-worker has a better week this week. These boots are killing my feet.

By the way, the 3:10 from Yuma photo at the far right is for my friend Kristi. She's already written the Russell Crowe Caveat for her wedding vows. If Russell Crowe ever shows up, she's outta there.