Keepin' It Real with Cam Marston

On the way home from Oxford Saturday, Cam and his family stopped at a service station which led to him thinking about what NOT to put on his Christmas list.

-----

For years I had my children convinced I was allergic to cats. I told them the reason we couldn’t have a cat as a pet was that my head would explode in a fiery ball. They wanted a cat. They asked regularly and finally accepted that I was allergic.

I’m not allergic to cats. I’m not sure how they found out, but the cat-pet requests are back. Frankly, I want nothing more to do with anything that requires fuel or any sort of sustenance from me to operate, be that cars, boats, cats, birds whatever. My wife and I have four kids, too many cars, one dog, and share responsibility for a boat. And I’m weary of giving birth to, parenting, raising, collecting or owning creatures or things that need me.

Buckatuna, Mississippi is a nice stopping point between Oxford, Mississippi and Mobile. We stopped there coming home this past Sunday. We had five people in the car, and it was time for a fluid adjustment in some way for all of us. The ladies in the car needed a bathroom, and I needed something cold to drink to keep me awake for the final stretch of road and the boys just needed to walk around.

There at the door of the service station sat a cat. We noticed another and then another. My wife and kids went toward them using their kitten voices. There were a lot of them. Another car stopped and the driver got out, watching my wife and kids. “I want all of them,” my wife said.  She is now the pro-pet cat camp. “All you gotta do is catch one,” the driver said, “But, be careful what you wish for. My daughter,” he told us, “came home with one and said ‘I rescued a cat!’ Well, I said, that’s your cat. You have to figure out how to feed it. Then she came home two months later with another. Two months after that, we suddenly had nine cats and my daughter was struggling to feed them all. Then one day I came home and there was a dead snake on my porch with its head gone. I found out that cats help clean up vermin in the yard. Rats, mice, and even snakes. They bite snake’s heads of and bring the body home as a gift. So now,” he said, “I’m feeding those cats.”

“So,” he said again, “be careful what you wish for.”

The holidays are on the horizon. Kids making lists for themselves. You, perhaps, making lists for your kids. I’ve begun the tradition of making lists, making copies, and leaving them in places around the house where I know they will be found. Toilet seats. Front seats of cars. I’ve even put them in cereal boxes. No one can claim they don’t know what to get me. Cats are not on the list. Neither are dogs or anything alive or inanimate needing food or fuel. As a child we had a pet rabbit that ate through the power cord of the deep freeze. It wasn’t until all the food was spoiled that we realized it.

Anyway, just like cats and that rabbit now’s the time of year to be careful what you wish for.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ It Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam tells us about some early morning attacks that are happening in his part of town. You'd be surprised at who is doing the attacking.

-----

On the top of the Tangles Hair Salon on Bit and Spur Road in Mobile sits a hat and a headlamp with its light on. The headlamp is the type that an early morning jogger wears before the sun comes up. How it got up there is a heck of a story.

Dennison Crocker jogs before daylight nearly every morning. His headlamp lights the way. One dark morning near Bit and Spur Road, a giant thunk, thud, and whoosh caught Dennison off guard, and his hat and the light were gone. Something had hit him in the back of the head. His light was flying away and stopped on the roof of Tangles. The culprit: an owl. Likely a barred owl. They’re the ones known to attack.

But that was just the beginning. Weeks later he was jogging not far from the same spot when the owl hit him again. He was in the middle of the road and, bang. Dennison started swatting wildly in the air. Just then a car stopped and asked if he were ok – Dennison was, after all, wildly swinging his arms around in the air in the middle of the road before daylight early one weekday morning. He told the driver about the owl. The driver looked concerned for Dennison’s mental well-being and slowly drove away and, just then, the owl hit him again. The driver reversed back, seeing Dennison wildly swinging his arms again and offered to get him outta there. Dennison dove in and went straight home.

The owl has become quite a star around here. My new best friend, ChatGPT, says the owl is either protecting its nest or it thinks Dennison is poaching on its hunting ground. It’s probably the latter since it’s a bit early yet for owls to be nesting. So Dennison, per the owl, looks like a food supply threat. And, well, maybe he kinda does. Dennison’s a big solid guy and I’m guessing he’d need a lot of squirrels to fill up, leaving fewer for his owl friend. The owl is rightly concerned Dennison taking more than his share.

I learned about all this at my regular Thursday beer drinking session with my homies and it was Jay Stubbs who told Dennison’s story only because Jay told us HE has been attacked, too. Jay is an early morning walker and not far from Tangles where Dennison’s hat sits, Jay got hit by what he says felt like a broom over the back of his head. His hat flew off and all he saw was wings. Jay, too, looks like a food supply threat. Jay could pack in some squirrels.

Oddly, I’m on team owl. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, I don’t wany eyes gouged out, but I like it that in our terribly predictable world, we have to worry about an owl attacking. It makes me chuckle. Getting attacked by an owI is something you could never have predicted sitting on your couch New Year’s Day, making guesses about your upcoming year. It’s a wonderfully refreshing story of life’s randomness and unpredictability.

What’s the moral? It’s simply this – it’s against the normal order of nature for people to exercise before daylight. Even the owls know this.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam recalls a time when he was very much out of his element and was slightly afraid for his life.

-----

About midway through the fourth quarter of Alabama’s loss to Vanderbilt, my son, who is a student at the University, sent me a text. It read, “Can I transfer?” I laughed.

As a Tulane student we were fond of saying that on Saturdays in the fall, the New Orleans Superdome hosted a cocktail party for students to mix and mingle in the stands. Occasionally we would look up and notice that a football game was going on in front of us, but we never let it distract us.

Then one weekend I visited friends in Tuscaloosa. Saturday morning, I asked about plans for the night. “It depends,” was the answer.

“On what?” I asked. “Whether we win or lose tonight.” “You mean the football game?”

“Of course!” they said.

“Well,” I suggested, “let’s assume we’re going to lose and make some fun plans anyway. That’s the way we do it at Tulane. And if we win, it’s a wonderful surprise.”

There was quiet look of incomprehension. Of disbelief. “I recognize your words,” their faces showed, “but I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I realized that I stood in a dangerous culture unfamiliar to me, and I’d best button my lip unless I said something that might bring me harm. Like standing with uncivilized tribe in the Amazon jungle where you don’t know the rules and a foolish move may cost you your life.

My son’s text brought that memory back.

Monday, I spoke with a friend who was in Nashville during the Vanderbilt game. He watched from a balcony on Broadway as the goal posts made their way down the street. The students were very well heeled. Lifting the goals posts over the cars and apologizing if their impromptu parade was inconveniencing drivers. Very kind. Very nice. Bear Bryant’s advice on what to do when you’re in the endzone – act like you’ve been there before – was lost on them. By-standers watched in delight and awe, like spotting Halley’s comet, returning after making its long loop around the sun. It was a lifetime event. He said even the police were in on it, blocking traffic and making way.

I have a friend who’s quit smoking except for the second half of Alabama games. He watches through the window, one cigarette after the other. Another who only watches alone in his small home office where he can’t be disturbed, and no one can be offended by his cursing. I have some who make everyone stand up and change places when something goes wrong on the field. As if new seats in the room will bring better luck.

Saturday I’ll be watching the Alabama Tennessee game with my father, my two brothers, my son and some nephews at a work weekend at my father’s camp in Clark County. I am a Tide fan, after all. But there will be no strange hocus pocus from us. Just my lucky Bama hat, my favorite Bama shirt, and my lucky Bama sock – just one sock. I tried wearing them both again during the Vanderbilt game. It’s my fault they lost. I’m sorry. I took the bad one off and burned it.

Roll Tide, ya’ll.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston tells us about a bomb maker he met who sends the bombs he makes to his friends. Oddly enough, you and I should be happy he's doing it.

-----

There’s a man on the outskirts of Mobile who spends a good part of his days making bombs. He uses items he finds around town and buys from retail stores. He then sends his bombs to his buddies to see if they can disarm them. It’s a game and, believe me, it’s a game you and I should be grateful they’re playing.

I’m participating in a seven-week course called the FBI Citizens Academy. For two hours each week about twenty of use hear how the FBI works, and we meet their agents. Last night we met the bomb guy. He stays sharp by creating bombs that he may encounter made by the bad guys. He tries to get in their heads by making bombs out the same materials they would. The bombs out there, he says, are getting more sophisticated as the items available to the public are getting more sophisticated. He mentioned light sensitive triggers, much like the light sensors on my flood lights that toggle their nighttime settings.

The closest parallel I’ve come up with is that the FBI is like a hospital emergency room. People go to the emergency room because something bad has happened. Similarly, the FBI doesn’t act because something good is happening, they react to bad threats, bad news and bad events. And, I learned last night, just like emergency rooms have busy seasons like Halloween and New Year’s Eve, the FBI gets busier around Christmas. A Christian holiday where people gather to celebrate their Christian faith is a dinner bell for some bad guys. Underground news begins percolating and rumors of attacks ramp up around the holidays. The FBI responds to all of it. Every one. And the bomb guy stands by, ready to diffuse the device, explode it safely, or worst-case scenario, examine the scene for evidence and ask witnesses many seemingly irrelevant questions including what color was the smoke – all of it helps to solve the puzzle and find the maker.

You and I live mostly unaware of complexity of the work of the bad guys. We live mostly unaware of the constant activity of the FBI. It’s white-collar crime. Violent crime. Sextortion. Terrorism. And much more. Add to that the sometimes brutal criticism from the public who knows nothing about their work yet feels superior enough to criticize, including our former – and perhaps future – commander in chief.

Keeping the team motivated must be difficult. They’re focused day and night on evil, malice, and destruction often without the support of the loudest voices in our communities and nation. But my takeaway is these are tough men and women who are compelled to serve. To simply serve. They’re givers in a land of takers. Every one of them.

Six weeks ago, our class began with this: The bad guys want to be bad. The good guys want to be good. The bad guys work very hard every day to be bad. The good guys work very hard every day to be good. And the bad guys only need to be bad once.

Before the class began, I was fond of the FBI. Six weeks later, I’m deeply grateful.

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.

On this week's Keeping It Real, Cam Marston reacts to a book review about society and how we're raising kids. It's not the kids fault, Cam says, it's definitely the parents.

-----

The Economist magazine reviewed a book called Infantilised: How Our Culture Killed Adulthood. The author, Keith Hayward, argues that western society is keeping kids less mature than previous generations. He tells of a young lady who insisted on spelling the word hamster with a P. When corrected repeatedly, she called her mom and put her on speakerphone to tell her boss not to be so mean.

That’s laughable, but I’ve heard similar things. I work with employers to help them manage, motivate, and recruit employees. I hear stories like this, though the ones usually shared with me are the extremes. Is it true we are keeping kids less mature? I think maybe we are.

Life stages are transition periods leading to a new phase of life. These transitions can happen quickly, like becoming a parent, or they can be a more drawn-out process, like moving into retirement. On the other side of the life stage – once it’s complete-, the person is usually changed. Their view of the world and their values have evolved through the life-stage.

I track several life stages using Census data. It clearly shows that today’s younger generations are going through the same life stages as previous generations but at much older ages. Average ages for first marriages have increased nearly year over year since 1970. Young adults living with parents has increased sharply since 2007. Average age of mother at first birth continues to climb.

One explanation, per the book’s reviewer, is that youth today continue their schooling longer. Therefore, they are dependent on parents, resist getting married and resist having children until older. Maybe. It does make sense. But my research shows that since the Renaissance, in times of affluence, parents work to keep their children younger longer. Parents facilitate, as one writer calls it, Peter-Pandemonium. And I can tell you where you can go witness first-hand it if you wish – high school sports.

I’ve seen parents demand more playing time for their children on the field or the court regardless of performance data. Parents lose it over a slight they feel their child received, regardless of team rules. Demanding the child not get what they’ve earned, but what the parents feel the child wants. The lengths they’ll go through, the bridges they’ll burn, the scene they’ll make is shocking. Oddly, the child seems to care the least, but the parents – wow.

There’s a story told by author Michael Lewis that sums this up. It’s about his high school baseball coach who was tough on kids. The alums, now adults, wanted to buy a plaque to honor this coach who, the alums agreed, shaped them into the men they are today through discipline and tough love. At the time the alums were raising money for the plaque, this very same coach was being attacked by current parents as being too mean and too hard. The current parents demanded his resignation. The same coach. The same coaching. Diametric opposite opinions of the effects of his methods.

To oversimplify it, Infantilised argues that kids today are soft. Maybe. But I promise you, they’re not nearly as soft as the parents. Just ask a high school coach.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam's family dog heard what he said to the vet. And she has something to say about it.

-----

When I walked through the back door our dog, Lucy, looked at me as if to say “you and I have some unfinished business.”

Lucy had been feeling bad. She was lethargic and had thrown up in four or five places in the house. On the rugs, of course. I got to my hands and knees to try to clean them up. It was nasty. She definitely wasn’t herself and my wife, who Lucy seems to regard as The Kind One, took her to the vet. My wife texted that afternoon saying, “Please go pick up Lucy before the vet closes today.” Nothing more.

At the vet I told the lady that I’m here to pick up Lucy and I’m in a hurry to get downtown for a meeting tonight. In my experience veterinarians, as a rule, seldom operate with any sense of urgency. They’re in the warm, fluffy, cuddly business which does not lend itself to hurrying. To her credit she jumped into action and said, “that will be $800.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Say that again.”

“Eight-hundred dollars.” My expression must have concerned her.

“I’ll print the receipt,” she said, “so you can see what was done.”

The receipt was written in medical code. None of it made any sense to me. As if these Latin looking medical terms and abbreviations explained anything. What I did comprehend, though, was the long column of dollar figures running down the right side of the page.

Then I said what makes vet offices hate people like me. “You know I can get a new dog that’s not broken for this amount.” A moment of silence then, “Yes. I know.” She didn’t roll her eyes but she may as well have.

“For this amount I need to speak to my wife to make sure she’s aware of this and then speak to the vet to get an explanation of what was wrong and what we need to do. My wife is busy now and I don’t have time for the explanation today, I need to get downtown. Can you keep Lucy for the night and let my wife come get her and talk to the vet tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said, dropping her eyes. She never looked at me again. I could tell she loathed me. Shouldn’t I want to bring my dog home to comfort her? How could I leave her in a crate at the vet? Eight hundred dollars vs the comfort of having Lucy home? And the opportunity to care for her? I’m a cruel and heartless human being. I’m the bane of mankind.

And that’s exactly what Lucy was thinking when I came home the next afternoon. She was still lethargic but there was anger in her eyes. “I heard your voice when you came to get me yesterday,” her look told me. “I thought I was coming home. You left me. The Kind One came and got me like I knew she would. I’ve been thinking about you. Remember those vomit spots you cleaned up the other day. They were nothing. I was just warming up.” And she was.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston says he has a question for you. And he's curious if you have a question for him.

-----

A story that lives in legend in my family is the day my mother interrupted a story about a boastful largemouth bass fisherman and my mother, in full innocence, asked “Who had the large mouth? The fish or the fisherman?” She had never heard of a largemouth bass. But, considering the context of the story, it was a legitimate question. The group fell silent and stared. Someone then explained to her about the species of fish.

While the story gets repeated because of the question, my memory of the story is her reaction after getting the explanation. She began laughing at herself. At how silly her question must have sounded. At how perfectly naïve she was. I love the memory. Laughing at herself, fully confident in herself and her innocence. No need to be embarrassed. Self-composed, self-confident, and self-aware.

I have inherited the questioning part of my mother. I ask a lot of questions. And I can’t exactly explain why I want to know these things other than just to know them. Do the answers make my life better? I don’t know. It certainly makes me happier to learn these things. Do I make my environment better by asking so many questions? I don’t know. Do I make the people who I ask questions of better? Yes, until a certain point.

I was asked to go to the back of the line at a tour of the Biltmore House in Asheville when the tour guide said we were in room number two of the twenty plus we were scheduled to see that day and were already an hour behind schedule. My questions were to blame. Today I’m participating in an academy hosted by the FBI and one of my fellow participants said we need to stop asking questions so the agent can get on with their slides. The comments weren’t targeted at me exactly, but I was asking a lot of questions.

I find incurious people boring. I’ve learned it’s the single characteristic that makes me interested or not interested in a person is are they curious about things. Plenty of people are not. Plenty of them. What they see and what they get and what they observe and what they hear is fine. No questions asked. They find me annoying that I want to know more.

However, at the same time I can’t imagine going through life not wanting to know. And, unfortunately, the more I feel I know, the more questions I ask. Further, I’ve never been reprimanded for asking a bad question. For too many questions, yes. For a bad question, no. People seem to like being asked.

I recently finished a great biography of Leonardo da Vinci. He was famous amongst his contemporaries for his insatiable curiously and many of his questions lead to breakthroughs in his artwork and his inventions. One note he made to himself was to learn about the tongue of woodpeckers. Such a seemingly random thought. But a question to which he wanted answer.

I think I would have liked him. I’d love to have sat with him. And asked some questions.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

On Keeping It Real this week, Cam reacts to Tuesday's presidential debate and shares something he's learned about himself in the recent years. 

-----

Trump got waxed Tuesday night. Wow, did he get waxed. I watched the debate not knowing what to expect but man, to me, he got crushed. Trump later proclaimed it his best debate performance ever. He was outgunned. In hindsight, he never stood a chance.

The pundits downplayed his shellacking. They emphasized some of the points he made but largely overlooked how badly he performed. Fox News was doing cartwheels to find something to like about it.

Now, per the stereotype of public radio listeners most of you should be pleased with the debate’s outcome. I was. I’m not much a fan of the current leader of the Democratic party but I have a very strong negative reaction to the Republican party’s leader. And his presence in the national spotlight over these many years has taught me something about myself that is increasingly becoming more and more clear.

A friend says he separates Trump’s actions from his bombast and the lies and the crazy insane ramblings. My friend makes decisions based on the actions of the person, not their words. He doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by the insane ramblings. That is how, my friends said, to evaluate Trump. Ignore his words, observe his actions.

I have a big problem with that. Your words are a part of your actions. In fact, your words are how you engage reality. Psychologist Dr Albert Ellis is considered one of the most preeminent psychologists to ever live, and his findings are that how we think and talk about situations influence our perceptions of reality and the emotions that follow.

Words create our world. Our reality. You can’t separate them from behavior. They’re the seeds of our emotions, the seeds of our behavior. Ignoring what someone says is just stupid. Even in the book of Matthew, Jesus says, “For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.”

I knew a public speaker who had a brash, condescending, and overly simplistic view of selling. He offended people in his seminars as a part of his schtick. I was invited to his home as a part of a larger group and one of the friends pulled me aside and said, “He’s not really a jerk, he just acts that way.” No, he’s a jerk. If he acts like a jerk, he’s a jerk. If he’s regularly mean and cruel to people, then he’s mean and cruel. There are no asterisks or exceptions to this. In my world, in my reality, and in the study of solid psychologists, that’s not the way it works.

I can’t support someone who talks about people and things and events like Trump does and think that the way he talks and the words he uses don’t matter. Observe his actions, ignore his words? I’m incapable of separating the two. It’s not in my blood to do so, it’s not in my bones and, frankly, it’s not how reality works. His words define his reality and just like my words define mine and yours do yours. And his words, to me cannot be ignored. None of ours can. None of us.

And in both words and actions, Trump got waxed Tuesday night. He got waxed.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

Cam's back from his one month sabbatical and creating commentaries again. This one he simply calls Gettin' Lucky.

-----

Dr Suchan Shenoy is one of the regulars at Restaurant Five in Tuscaloosa on Saturday mornings. I join the regulars when I’m in town visiting my son who is a sophomore at the University. Dr Shenoy is an OBGYN at the DCH Hospital there. He and I sat together and we made some small talk. I don’t know any of the regulars well, but I enjoy their company when I’m in town.

Dr Shenoy could relate to my situation. I was a new guy sitting amongst a group of old friends in their familiar place, not knowing exactly what to say or do. I don’t have any background with them and the conversation can run pretty slow and thin.

Dr Shenoy mentioned that when he’s at a party or an event and the content runs thin, he brings up some things he sees around the hospital. Odd baby names. Things new parents have done. Stuff like that. Lots of people can enjoy those stories. Lots of people find them interesting.

He mentioned that the maternity ward at the hospital had an unexpected surge of newborns in late July and early August. It was strange, he said, since it wasn’t a national trend or he would have heard about it. It appeared very local. DCH Hospital’s normal rate was one or two babies a week and suddenly the numbers had doubled for a few weeks. Almost out of the blue, there were babies everywhere. Very local. Very isolated.

We talked about how the hospital had managed the surge well. They were all hands-on deck for a little while. The surge in babies was, frankly, good for business and they knew it wouldn’t last but, for a few weeks, everyone was in motion caring for the babies, the mothers, and dealing with the families. It was odd he said, and he couldn’t figure out what had caused it.

Not content to let it go, Dr Shenoy reverted to an old equation he had learned in medical school that helped Drs back in the day estimate due dates. It’s called the Naegele Rule Calculator and it’s not much used anymore since the today’s computers are much easier to use and more accurate. However, using the Naegele Rule you can reverse the math and estimate a conception date. And the math zeroed in on November 25th. Late November last year.

Thanksgiving? Not likely. They would have noticed a surge in previous years if it were Thanksgiving and it wouldn’t have been isolated to the area. Then it occurred to him.

In the late afternoon of Saturday, November 25th last year, with 43 seconds left in the game, Alabama’s Jalen Milroe threw a bomb to the back left corner of the end-zone where it was caught by Isaiah Bond leading to Alabama’s extraordinary come from behind win. The surge in babies Dr Shenoy was seeing were conceived that night.

As Alabama fans taunted Auburn with “who’s your daddy” well, it became clear to Dr Shenoy that lots of daddies were made that night. Apparently, lots of people, including the Crimson Tide football team, got lucky.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

This week on Keepin' It Real, Cam gets a flashback memory to one of the low points of his early adulthood and why he should hold on to that memory to keep himself in check.

-----

I listen to my commentaries from time to time and I can sound quite self-righteous. A bit “holier than thou.” And I don’t much care for it.

Perhaps you’re familiar with the expression “beware the reformed.” It means those that have returned from the brink of some excess tend to be evangelizers of their new ways. They’re the alcoholics, for example, who insufferably rail about the dangers of alcohol and preach abstinence. Former smokers who warn off smoking. Sinners, who have committed what they feel are above average sins in both volume and degree that now implore us to quickly turn to JeeeZuss.

My self-righteous tone and the warning to “beware the reformed” hit me between the eyes this week. A friend sent a photo of himself at a service station in Babb, Montana. It triggered a memory.

Babb is a very small town on the western edge of the Blackfoot Indian reservation and the eastern edge of Glacier National Park. In college I worked two summers in Glacier National Park and there was a bar in Babb called the Babb Bar. It is there that my name, so I’m told, was on a list posted on the wall. I never saw that list.  It was a list of those the Babb Bar had banned for life.

It was the end of my second summer at Glacier. I was convinced I had become a cuckold by my then girlfriend. A confrontation with whom I imagined was her beau was brewing. Before I could control myself to have a calm conversations, I resorted to shouting and accusations. And, as was my case at that time, to prepare for the showdown I knew would occur that night, I guzzled a few too many long island iced teas. (And to my kids who might someday hear this – this is long, long before I even knew your mother existed.)

At the Babb bar that night, the alleged beau stepped out of the men’s room. I was on my way in. I exploded as soon I saw him. A shouting match, then my pitiful attempt to throw a punch. It was an airball. I missed him completely. However, the momentum of my punch, influenced by the many long island iced teas, carried me into him, then onto him, and we fell in a pile and began a shouting wrestling match on the nasty Babb Bar bathroom floor. We were both thrown out. As the instigator, my name was added to the Banned for Life list the next day.

My self-righteous tones in these commentaries need to be contrasted with the way I used to be. “Beware the reformed, Cam,” I tell myself, “Because you’ve become one of ‘em. Tone it down. You’re becoming an ass.”

Marcus Aurelius had a servant walk behind him during his triumphal processions. The servant was to repeatedly whisper “You will die someday.” It was meant to keep Aurelius humble. If the Babb Bar still exits and if you’re ever there and that list still exits, send me a photo. I’d like to print it and put it next to the chair where I write these commentaries each week. And work to rid myself of these self-righteous tones.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.