You never even call me by my name

When I bartended my way through my first degree, I had a boss who would get drunk every Wednesday night and sing that song.  He had more than a passing resemblance to David Allan Coe with a gravelly voice, thick beard, and big cowboy boots.  Years later when I was living in New York, I grew a bit nostalgic and bought the CD along with Pat Green and Robert Earl Keen.  I would recommend the latter as true Texas songwriters although Coe's redneck music still puts a smile on my face.  Green and Keen conjure memories of Chilifest, Aggieland, the Chicken, and tubing down the Guadalupe with a cooler of light beer and a jug of purple jebus #7.  Coe reminds me of life in that bar where I made a lot of money off people (men) who returned regularly to hear me tell them what I really thought.  My most frequent customers were the ones who received the most abuse and they loved it.  I didn't realize then that this was probably one of the only times in my life that I could always say what I thought and still keep my job- and even be rewarded for being me.

I still have moments that shine, when my contribution is requested, but I also spend a portion of my day being just one of a number of people who are all doing a variation of the same thing in the same style, which is safe and acceptable and expected of us.  Oh how I want to break free.