by James Bernard Frost
PORTLAND, OR –
Two weeks ago, I posted an entry entitled On the Wearing of Hats, Part 1, in which I discussed the raison d’être for my daily wearing of a shit-brown-colored truckers’ hat. The entry sounded noble, but missed the entire point of my wanting to write it in the first place, which wasn’t to explain why I wear the hat, but rather to talk about the strangeness that has crept upon me ever since I took to wearing it.
I was born and raised in Irving, Texas, a giant, sprawling suburb of Dallas, Texas, whose claim to fame, something emblazoned in huge signs as you entered the city limits on any of its major freeways, was that it was the home of the Dallas Cowboys.
From my earliest recollections, I hated it.