No. 214 - Texas Cologne and the Marlboro Man

The color of my cowboy boots is a blend of pecans and copper pennies. They fit, but they’re not trusted, broken in yet. They turn my frame into 6’3”, which I wear proudly.

My jeans are tan Wranglers, and I wear a denim shirt with an American flag sewn on the shoulder. I bought a leather belt with beadwork that explodes with color, and a silver buckle from Allen’s in Fredericksburg.

I don’t cut my hair, though I occasionally comb it, and my mustache is getting burly again. Over a mop of unwashed hair is a green hat with yellow lettering and a sweat stain.

I don’t wash my clothes often. In fact, my Wranglers and denim shirt haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine, ever. When I spill salsa or drop cigar ash, I blot it with Topo Chico and let the sun dry it. I’m not sure why I don’t wash the clothes I wear every day.

My guess is I smell like a cigar, sweat, and whatever aroma meanders through the Hill Country. I’ve heard this combination is referred to as Texas cologne.

I shave every few days because half the time I stay in places where the only sink is outdoors. Though today I’m at a buddy’s ranch where the bathroom is bigger than my apartment in New York.

I suppose all of it comes down to one thing that I’ve been obsessed with since I was a little boy — the Marlboro Man.

When I was growing up, every Sports Illustrated, Playboy, and Field & Stream had advertisements featuring a cigarette-smoking cowboy in the wilds of the West.

He was rugged as hell, usually with his horse, and had freedom in his eyes. I was obsessed — to the point where the walls of my bedroom were covered with pictures of this enigmatic cowboy.

Funny thing is I never outgrew him. The older I got, the more I wanted to carry a lasso, wear chaps, and smoke a cigarette while snow fell on the brim of my hat.

But like most childhood dreams, that’s where it stayed — until I got to Texas a year ago.

I arrived, as I always do, in a jacket, tie, and loafers. I even wore my fedora. As Popeye says, “I yam what I yam.” I didn’t know a thing about Texas culture. But I was in Austin, so zipping around town in a herringbone jacket and rep tie didn’t place me on the “Do Not Accept Checks From This Man” list. At any point I was standing next to an undergrad with blue hair and a tech bro in a Patagonia vest.

But I knew I wasn’t up to speed on anything Texas. So I read Caro’s first two volumes on LBJ, drove 1,500 miles through the Hill Country, visited dance halls and honky-tonks, and got enamored with the Comanches, Texas Rangers — not the baseball team — and the history of oil.

And I suppose it was only a matter of time before my loafers were replaced with the aforementioned boots — though I refuse to don a bolo. I bought a cowboy hat at a gas station in Wyoming, and from there, I was all in.

In the end, I fell in love with Texas — full stop. Absolutely head over heels in love.

I love its people, history, culture, food, music, dialect, architecture, topography, and maybe most of all, its proud independence.

Texas feels like home, even though I have no connection to it whatsoever. Being a twelfth-generation American, I can claim kinship to most of the East Coast, Midwest, and the West Coast — all the way to Alaska.

Maybe it’s the aesthetic, as I’m prone to be a chameleon when it comes to my clothes: I wear a suit and tie in New York, LL Bean mocs in Boston, Vasque boots in the Rockies, and a down vest with old-school tennis shoes in San Francisco.

And here in Texas, I’m perfectly comfortable in Wranglers — tan, no less — and a pearl-button denim shirt every day of the week. But I won’t be here forever.

Before I know it I’ll be working in Boston or San Francisco or D.C. And I won’t be putting a dirty denim shirt on every morning.

In Boston it’ll be a cotton oxford and conservative tie, along with a sack suit from J. Press and loafers. Same goes for D.C. and San Francisco.

Maybe what’s so appealing about Texas is it allows the right hemisphere of my brain to run wild. I can go months without a haircut and grow a mustache. I can do my best to imitate the Marlboro Man with impunity. I can live in the desert and bathe under oak trees. I can cry when The Pandandlers sing cowboy poetry…

I've seen the thunder heads descend and rip into the ground

The twisted hand of heaven spreading terror all around

Sending farmers in a deeper debt and ranchers to the grave

Where towers mark the end of time with slowly spinning blades

'Til the water table falls below the reach of human kind

I ain't crying that's West Texas in my eye

I can name a horse I don’t own, and dream of our adventures together.

I can be a loner and left alone.

I can get lost

    in Hill Country

        and West Texas

I can dream

    about vast deserts

         and turquoise rivers    

I can write songs

     that put me to sleep

           that no one will hear         

I can see God

      in a mess of stars

            patiently loving me

I can write poetry

     and take naps

           in hammocks

I can be my version of the Marlboro Man, and no one knows. Sometimes I don’t either.

*Composed, Edited, and Published between naps at The Duda Ranch in Fischer, TX