We’re no longer posting all the content from each issue of our magazine. The move wasn’t made in an effort to make us more money; it was made to save us time. Which is money. So I take it back. We’re making more money with this move. In any case, here’s the back-page essay from our March issue, which isn’t online. The March issue is. Just not the back-page column. Except I’m posting it here. So I guess it is online. Just goes to show: you can’t fight the internet. Without further ado, here’s the PDF. And the text:
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Dwaine caraway is an interesting man. You’ll recall that in his tenure on the Dallas City Council, the mayor pro tem has: launched a crusade against saggy pants; arrived at a meeting late and limping, delivered a rambling speech in which he mentioned that he and the Council loved the mayor, and said he’d fallen out of his pickup the night before; tried to get the cops to stop hassling people at his favorite poker house; steadfastly denied that he is a “sixty-fivehundred- dollar Negro,” even though no one had called him a sixtyfive- hundred-dollar Negro; and, most recently, revealed that he has two imaginary friends. I’m sure I’m overlooking something.
The deal with the imaginary friends arose after Caraway made a domestic disturbance call to police. Cops said the squabble was between Caraway and his wife, state Representative Barbara Mallory Caraway, but Caraway told a reporter for the Dallas Morning News that the cops had it all wrong. He said he’d called for help because two of his friends had gotten into it during a football-watching party at his house.
“It was Arthur and Archie,” Caraway said. “Archie loves the Cowboys, and Arthur hates them. … Everybody knows how bad Arthur hates the Cowboys.”
I would have liked to ask Caraway a few follow-up questions. For instance, what are fi ve things everyone doesn’t know about Arthur? If Ashton or Agamemnon had attended the party, do you think either one of them could have talked some sense into Arthur? Do you know any men whose fi rst names start with B?
But a few days later, Caraway admitted that he’d lied to the reporter. Yes, he’d actually called the cops because he and his wife were having a “marital disagreement.” He explained it this way at a City Council meeting: “Those of you in this audience that are married, those of you that are listening that are married, if you’ve not always wanted eggs and bacon and some of you may have wanted something else, but you didn’t get it and that’s just what marriage is all about.”
When I read those words, my heart went out to Caraway, and any temptation I felt to poke fun at the guy vanished. Seriously, I know where he’s coming from. I’m married. Any married guy would understand.
You’ve not always wanted eggs and bacon. You’ve wanted something else. Crepes à la neige, Belgian waffl es, maybe some fresh dragon fruit blintzes. I’m not saying you get the blintzes on a regular basis. That’s a treat for a special occasion, like a birthday or an appearance on Dr. Phil to talk about your fight against sagging pants. But I don’t think it’s unreasonable to get, say, flapjacks once a week. Instead of fl apjacks, though, you know what you got? Eggs and bacon. Again.
That’s what marriage is all about. You want a little variety. You don’t get it. You call the cops.
At my house, it’s not an eggs-and-bacon thing. We’re cereal people. We do Smart Start and oatmeal almost exclusively. If I’m lucky, I’ll get Frosted Mini-Wheats. But that’s about it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve begged my wife for some Banana Nut Crunch. I know some guys dig Count Chocula. I’ve never tried it, but I’d be willing to give it a shot. I’m up for anything, to a point. Froot Loops? Fruity Pebbles? Franken Berry, Rice Krispies, Marshmallow Mateys, Special K Protein Plus? Yes, I’m in! (I draw the line at stuff like Richard Petty 43’s.)
Point is, I’ve experienced the same sort of rut that caused the marital disagreement in the Caraway house. We all have. And though I’m probably the last guy who ought to give advice in these matters, I think the key is to maintain some perspective. Realize that you are fortunate to get any eggs and bacon at all. Or, in my case, Smart Start.
Now, I do have one caveat. While I empathize with the mayor pro tem, I don’t exactly know what the euphemism “eggs and bacon” means in the Caraway house. We married men all have our own code words for this stuff. I’m just assuming that “eggs and bacon” means missionary, with the lights out.
I could be wrong, though. Idioms like this sometimes confuse me. You know the Soulja Boy hit called “Crank That”? When the song came out, I admit I misinterpreted what it means to “Superman” someone. My bad.
13 comments
“I’m just assuming that ‘eggs and bacon’ means missionary, with the lights out.”
Holy Moley, Tim.
@Incognizant: What? Did I get it wrong? Does “eggs and bacon” mean reverse cowgirl? God, I feel so old and out of touch with pop culture.
I don’t empathize with someone who lies, and I’m not sure why you do. Being a contrarian in this instance against media and public opinion makes no sense.
Thanks Tom Leppert!
This was hilarious. Tim, nothing is as sexy as a man who cooks. How do you know she’s not saying “I wish I had Beef Wellington tonight?”
Come on, people.
Every married man wants a “meatloaf dinner” but when it’s “bacon and eggs” you get hopping mad and Hot damn you call the cops. Later you’re ashamed of your future because meatloaf dinner is an abomination before God, an act so depraved, so vile in its conception, so gymnastic in its execution, that it would make everybody laugh to picture you doing it and they’d holler and hoot to imagine your wife denying it to you. Those of you in the audience understand. A married man can sympathize with somebody who lies for the greater good. Lying is just what marriage is all about.
P.S. I one time called the Sheriff’s Office because my wife would not grant me a “pork pot stickers.” The person on the other line, a lazy, indolent public servant if ever there was one, just laughed. “Hell, I’d have to give my wife three clambakes and a chicken fricassee if I were to expect pork pot stickers,” this inane pig sneered. “Thank you very much for wasting my time, Sir,” I informed him, and promptly hung up seething in my own humility. Seriously, people, we pay these people our tax dollars!
“Lying is just what marriage is all about.” Isn’t that kind of like bringing home takeout?
Zing, Amy S! But I can’t help hearing it spoken in Dr. Phil’s voice. [audience gives a whoooo which dissolves into applause of affirmation]
A bill before the Texas legislature, which would make non-consensual goulash eating a Class C misdemeanor, has received support from both sides of the aisle. Said State Sen. Dan Patrick late Tuesday “…this is not a condemnation of Mediterranean cuisine, by any means, and what people eat in the privacy of their own homes is their own business…but this body will not stand by and see the men and women of Texas forced to eat exotic cuisine without at least hearing a full explanation from a licensed nutritionist as to exactly what goulash is, so that they can make an informed decision.”
Me and the missus refer to it as ” doing the laundry” around the kids.
One night she wasn’t in the mood and promptly fell asleep. Later she woke up and felt sorry for me and said “honey, do you wanna do the laundry now?”.
I said “no thanks, it was a small load so I did it by hand”.
Heyoh!
Guess that Thanksgiving invite at Casa del Caraway won’t be coming in the mail, will it, Tim?
Caraway deserves a box of Lucky Charms.
We ought to be celebrating Caraway for his “just pull your pants up” campaign and the national attention he (and we) received from it. He’s our city’s greatest ambassador.
How cultured and cosmopolitan Dallas must look to the world when Caraway utters such words of wisdom to the people. And better still, how populated. Caraway’s anti-crack campaign proves that people still live in Dallas, that Dallas is not Detroit . . . yet.
I think Mayor Caraway likes Fruit Loops, or Fruity Pebbles, or just about anything with fruit on top, or on the bottom.