"Don't Mess with Texas:" 30 years of swagger works

(okay, before reading this, DISREGARD YOUR KNOWLEDGE OF TEXAS AND ANY OF THE FOLLOWING: the governor and the legislature, the gun nuts, over-the-top church-goers, school funding (or lack thereof), traffic, our newly elected Senator, yankee immigrants, Tea Partiers, environmental laxity, whoever disassembled the Southwest Conference, Vidor and its (hopefully) former residents, John Connally (who I think started the swing from 99 percent Democrat to 99.9 percent Republican), litigious nightmares that keep physicians out of low-income regions, and any of the crazies who have attracted international media attention)


So screw you, we're from Texas

Screw you, we're from Texas

Screw you, we're from Texas

We're from Texas, screw you

 -- Ray Wylie Hubbard, "Screw You, We're From Texas"

Yeah, we Texans can be a proud and vocal group, and we can certainly turn a phrase:

• Remember the Alamo
• America's Team
• Houston ... the Eagle has landed
• One riot, one Ranger
• Bless her heart
• "Poor George ... he was born with a silver foot in his mouth" -- Ann Richards, former Texas governor

And, of course -- going back to the days when today's residents were immigrants and immigrants now were residents -- Davy Crockett's "You can go to hell. I'm going to Texas."

My in-laws are from the East Coast -- Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia -- and at a family gathering a few years ago, a new-to-me family member said, "You Texans sure are cocky. I've seen those "Don't Mess with Texas" signs.

It broke my heart to tell him that "Don't Mess with Texas" -- his perceived beacon of chest-beating, Texan-machismo swagger -- is an anti-litter campaign.



Ask any long-time Texan about the days before open-container laws, and he'll share with you stories of drinking a six-pack while driving, and tossing the cans out the window of his pick-up and into the truck's bed. Unfortunately, not all Texas drive pick-ups so there is nothing to catch the litter; and most, especially after drinking while driving, aren't very good shots, so Texas found itself with a huge amount of trash on its highways.

In 1985, the Texas Highway Commission (now the Texas Department of Transportation or TxDOT) researched its worst offenders and launched the "Don't Mess with Texas" public-education campaign to stop the embarrassment and clean up the mess.

The advertising and public relations campaign kicked off during the 1986 Cotton Bowl with a television ad featuring Texas blues-guitar legend Stevie Ray Vaughn. Audience-specific ads featuring an anti-litter rendition of The Fabulous Thunderbirds' "Are you Tough Enough" and Dallas Cowboys legends Randy White and Ed "Too Tall" Jones followed.

In 1987, Texas music icon Jerry Jeff Walker gave us all credit for getting the can in the back of the truck, but reminded us that it won't stay there at 70 MPH. Two years later, the god of Texas music (and, therefore, all of Texas) Willie Nelson involved our mamas and told them not to let us grow up and throw cans from our pick-up trucks. In 1998, born-again non-litters voted this "Don't Mess with Texas" TV commercial as their all-time favorite.

One of my favorites is 1994's "Cowboy Poet," featuring Fort Worth's Steve Murrin -- the "Mayor of Worth Stockyards" -- reciting anti-litter poetry around a campfire ... when an oncoming 18-wheeler reminds him of his pappy's advice of not camping in the middle of the road (screw you, we're from Texas).

By 1998, TxDOT research indicated that 98 percent of Texans had heard of "Don't Mess with Texas," but only 61 percent knew it was an anti-litter campaign (guess I should take back all those names I called my in-law).

Research also found that the greatest littering offenders --- tagged Gen L for Generation Litter -- were 16- to 24-year-olds known for drinking, smoking, eating fast food and, of course, driving a lot. Smooth-talking, hot-bodied actor and native Texan Matthew McConaughey spoke directly to the age group with a little mock vigilante action that resulted in Scarlet Letter-style deportation for litterers.

In 2005, the TxDOT announced that litter on Texas highways had dropped 33 percent since 2001. It also launched the Litter Force, a school-by-school awareness campaign urging "super-hero" first graders to "blast the trash," hoping to create Texas' first litter-free generation.

Responding to research that children who saw their parents litter were more likely to litter, TxDOT shored up the Litter Force campaign with a series of TV ads -- "I wouldn't do it," "This is" and "Trashball" -- featuring Texans popular among parents of younger children to deliver its role-model-needed message. Chuck Norris helped deliver the message, and as we all know, litter throws itself back in the truck when it sees Chuck Norris.

In 2006, Advertising Week named "Don't Mess with Texas" to its Walk of Fame as America's Favorite Slogan. Since its first Austin ADDY Award in 1986, the campaign has continued to rank among the top award-winning advertising and public relations campaigns.

By 2010, when all-that-is-country-music's George Strait (my name is George; what happened?) joined the fray, 82 percent of Texans had heard of "Don't Mess with Texas" and knew what it meant.

Earlier this year, TxDOT rolled out an updated "Don't Mess with Texas" advertising and public relations campaign, targeting the same Gen L, this time those 16- to 24-year-olds not born when the original campaign started.

And because Texas music played a major role in "Don't Mess with Texas" and because it didn't involve Gary P. Nunn ... well, you could ask me what I like about Texas, "but we'd be here all night long."

(all research data provided by dontmesswithtexas.org)

Follow me on Twitter @FWgib

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.

Santa Claus, Moses and Me

When did my beard turn so gray!? I'm blessed with non-graying genes from parents who were still salt-and-pepper in their 80s, and my hair's still brown, but I've been shocked at the last few photos I've seen of myself and how gray my beard's become (I'm also blessed with two college students and a 10-year-old, which certainly accounts for at least a couple of shades).

I've been tempted to shave by that sexy Swedish girl in the '60s Noxema shaving cream commercials from way back:

"Take it off. Take it all off."

Then I remembered a very special prayer. I prepared myself for worship. I dragged my straw out of the closet, wrapped a bandana around my head, slipped into my boots, knelt before the Lone Star flag on my bedroom wall, and prayed to the one who knows:

I was lost in trouble and strife, I heard a voice and it changed my life
And now it's a brand new day, and I ain't afraid to say
You're not alone when you're down and out
And I think you know who I'm talking about
When I don't know how I'll get through
I ask myself:

WHAT WOULD WILLIE DO?

NOT A DAMN THING!