Something about Mark Gungor’s explanation helps me understand the male mind like no relationship or self-help book ever could.

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See that cute little cartoon bird on the right column of this Web page, beckoning you to follow me on Twitter?

I just squealed when I saw the variety of graphics, and you just might squeal, too.

Now, go get your own! http://siahdesign.com/archives/150

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The warm, pungent odor of animal shit stinging my nose was the first indication that the next few days would be out of the ordinary.

Despite living all of my nearly-30 years in Nebraska, one of America’s most rural states, I don’t think I’ve ever spent considerable or meaningful time on a farm.

Livestock, corn, hay bales. All of that was a mystery to me. I knew how much I loved steak, loved corn, loved all those delicious foods of the Heartland that made their way to my table – restaurant, home or otherwise.

But the stories behind those foods remained veiled. The livestock, in particular, had personalities. Had histories. Had lives, most of which are spent pinned in manmade cages, fed grain mixed with God-knows-what, and poked with sharp objects, leading them to their eventual, collective and delicious (for me) demise.

Don’t take me for a vegetarian, though. That social choice couldn’t be farther from the truth. Steak, hamburgers, bacon and ham are the not-so-delicate delicacies that make my soul sing.

But back to the smell of animal shit.

I found myself at the River City Roundup and Rodeo, a celebration of all things agriculture that finds its way to downtown Omaha every fall. In sleek, modern space where I’ve witnessed live performances by U2 and Simon and Garfunkle now sat 200 truckloads of brown dirt (caked with animal shit, I’m certain) and colorful advertisements for Wrangler Jeans.

It was an American rodeo, all right, and I couldn’t have felt more out of place had I been walking nude through the exhibition halls. Dressed in a short denim skirt, bright green T-shirt and sassy pink scarf, I looked nothing like the other women who walked by. Something about them looked tough. They wore low-cut, tight-fighting, Western-style shirts on top, skin-tight jeans on the bottom. One (or more) articles of clothing were adorned with silver or sparkle embellishments and they had a swagger about themselves the likes of which I hadn’t seen before. Some wore cowboy hats with lots of ratted, curly hair flowing below the brim. Very few carried purses, but almost all of them wore cowboy boots.

I quickly glanced downward to compare my shoes: $5, Mary Jane-style, canvas tennis shoes I picked up on sale this summer at Payless. They were comfortable, cute and practical. Wasn’t that enough?

(Even the children running about mirrored the adults, wearing miniature-size cowboy hats, vests and chaps with fringe.)

I’d be lying if I said those tried-and-true Western beauties only gave me friendly glances in passing. The truth was, I felt more like a city slicker who shouldn’t have been let on the farm.

You see, I found myself at the River City Roundup and Rodeo because my boyfriend, Matt, works on-air for a country radio station in Omaha. Hailing from a background thick with the sounds of AC/DC and Led Zeppelin, his transition to embracing country music hasn’t been too terribly challenging. Much of his adolescent and teen years were spent in small towns – that, and he owns a cowboy hat. (I’ve joked that it’s something I’ve learned to look past, me being a City Girl and all.)

For the next three days Matt would be broadcasting from the River City Roundup and Rodeo, promoting the radio station and meeting his listeners.

Always up for a new challenge – not to mention ideas for essays – I tagged along.

As we walked through the main entryway, I smelled the unmistakable odor of, well, you know. It stunk. Bad. I honestly thought for a few, albeit brief, seconds that I would be sick, covering all those shiny cowboy boots with the Jimmy John’s sandwich (Turkey Tom, no sprouts, please) I had for lunch.

But I breathed through my mouth and forged ahead. Matt seemed at home as we walked past the countless vendor booths selling Western jewelry, animal photographs and prints and, yes, even cowboy hats. (For kids, too! But more about the cowboy hats later.)

We snaked our way upstairs to the food counters, downed a few hot dogs and beers before heading inside to catch some of the rodeo. My experience wouldn’t be complete without damn good seats to a rodeo!

I’d never been to a rodeo, let alone understood what this “sport” was all about. I quickly learned that eight seconds is all it takes to become a winner, so long as you stay atop the animal. (“Oh, eight seconds. Like the Luke Perry movie, right?” I asked Matt, my query laced with complete honesty. He shot me a questionable look, no doubt embarrassed given the seasoned spectators nearby.)

Steers? Cows? Buffalos? I really couldn’t distinguish what these petite men were riding and why the animals were kicking so powerfully. After a few rounds and close examination at the battles before me, it appeared each animal was let loose from its cage wearing some type of rather uncomfortable saddle. As they ran about the dirt-covered floor, they kicked those hind legs, while the riders held on for dear life.

Audiences cheered as the animals writhed in pain. The colorful commentators, clothed in only the finest Western wear, made quick barbs after each ride, egging the crowd on to cheer louder and louder with each rider. They reminded us rodeo-goers that these men were “the true athletes” of the world.

Really? Riding a defenseless animal was a sport? Where’s the competition? How could the animal even win, writhing in pain the way they were? And how did they know to exit the arena, as if on cue, after each ride was over?

“Welcome to our new life,” Matt said, his right arm suspended above the crowd and attraction taking place in front of us. I couldn’t believe it.

Which leads me to my Run-In With a Cowboy Hat two days later. After sitting through the 90-minute River City Roundup and Rodeo Parade that wound its way through the urban cityscape of downtown Omaha, Matt and I made our way back to the main event just a few blocks to the east. He had joked about getting me into a cowboy hat just once that weekend, and he succeed.

Knowing my love for the color purple (the hue, not the movie), he made a beeline for one of the vendors. He plucked a purple cowboy hat from the shelf and placed it atop my head.

“Get your camera,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got to get a picture of this.”

I smiled for the camera and anxiously waited for the flash when I could remove the hat, hoping no one I knew saw me. While placing the hat back on the shelf, I saw the “Kids” sign, realizing I had just tried on a hat sized for a small child; and, to be honest, it fit perfectly.

(This day, however, I learned my fashion lesson for attending a rodeo. I wore jeans, a short-sleeved collared shirt, but the same $5 tennis shoes from Payless. It was the best Western outfit I could throw together with just a day’s notice. No fringe or sparkle for me, thank you very much.)

The experience of the past few days were truly worth it when, later that night, I was one of just a handful of people who met Jessica Simpson.

Yes, THE Jessica Simpson, the one with the handbags and shoes and cosmetic line and “buffalo wings” comment.

That story, dear readers, is yet to come.

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Have you read a well written and insightful profile of someone (famous or not, local or not) lately?

If so, please post the link. I’m collecting articles for the Media Writing class I teach Monday nights.

Many thanks!

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Admit it: you want one. The colors are just gorgeous and the price couldn’t be better. The purple one is most definitely calling my name.

Damn you, Apple. Kind of.

Decisions, decisions …

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I love Jerry Seinfield like nobody’s business, but what message are you sending here? I’m confused … more so than usual.

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Much has happened since my last post. Not specifically to me personally, but in the broader sense. You may have found a new love, or ended a toxic relationship. You may have tried a new restaurant, or found a new professional calling.

The point is this: outside of blogging, life still happens.

My book idea is taking shape. I wished I could report that pages upon pages have been finalized and edited, but that isn’t the case just yet. Chapters have been written, but many more need refinement. Hell, those chapters need to be dumped from my brain to the page.

I’m toying with the idea of first rolling out the book as a free PDF and then, if I’m lucky, find a publisher to work its magic and make my words available in bookstores everywhere. (Kind of sounds like an ad line, I know.)

A few books I’ve read as of late have provided just the right amount of encouragement, inspiration and oomph to make me serious about my own writing. (And in case you are wondering, “oomph” is, indeed, a literary term.)

This fall in addition to work I’m taking another graduate class — Speech Communication — and teaching an undergraduate class — Media Writing. Needless to say, my once-brimming proverbial plate could easily overflow without proper attention.

But the drive and need to write never wanes. In fact, at my most stressful times, all I want to do is write, write, write the stress away.

In time, I am sure. In time.

For now, I will focus on the freelance article I need to wrap up, the prep work for next week’s Media Writing class, my Speech Communication homework and, of course, the cranberry bread I have baking in the oven.

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Nice news for a Monday morning. Here’s the story on Omaha.com and in today’s Omaha World-Herald. (Could I be any prouder?)

Published Monday, July 21, 2008

What’s it like to be in a band with your brother?
BY WES TAYLOR
WORLD-HERALD STAFF WRITER

What’s it like to be in a band with your brother? Is it a musical family love-fest? Or do guitars become weapons?

By Matt Tompkins’ reckoning, he’s living the dream.

Matt, 27, and his brother Ben, 21, play in an Omaha band called Matt’s Rocket Collection. They consider it a hybrid of cover band (a lot of AC/DC and Led Zeppelin) and original musicians, playing rock from the late ’70s and the early ’80s.

The Tompkins brothers started playing together about three years ago when Ben graduated from high school. Someone gave him a drum set as a gift, prompting the siblings to start jam sessions in their parents’ basement.

“We’ve always been a pretty musical family,” said Matt.

After about six months, the sibs decided to take the next logical step and form a full-fledged rock band. Since then, they’ve been tearing up stages, basements and dive joints together — and dodging the dramatics that have plagued other sibling groups.

“We’re kind of naturally on the same page,” Matt explained. He thinks that allows the band — including bass player Chris Holtmeier and lead guitarist Chris Schrom — to keep a smooth working relationship and stay focused on the goal: “We’re just in this to have fun.”

Sibling rivalry has been legendarily destructive in the music world. Remember Oasis? Tensions between brothers Noel and Liam Gallagher nearly broke up the British band more than once. And the Bee Gees did split up, at the height of their 1970s fame, over brotherly disagreements about the direction of their music.

Is such tension inevitable?

“The only possible negative side is the potential to mix family and business in a bad way — arguments over pay or changing the band or whatever,” said Matt Tompkins. “That is serious trouble, because you always have to see that person. You can break up a band, but you can’t avoid your family forever.”

At the root of it, Matt said, the reason the brothers play together is to hang out and spend time doing something they both love.

The two weren’t as close before they started the band, he said, but now spend most of their free time together.

“We made a pact to avoid the ugly side of it. We know why we’re doing this, and that’s not it.”

• Contact the writer: (402) 444-1339, wesley.taylor@owh.com

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Matt, with guitar, and Ben, behind the drums, opening for Ace Frehley earlier this year.

If you and I ever meet for ice cream at Dairy Queen, please, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, do not allow me to order a Blizzard. This perennial dessert treat is nothing but dairy disappointment in a cardboard cup.

Monday night I craved ice cream. Despite having half gallon containers of mint chocolate chip and vanilla in the freezer, I opted to hop in my car and drive a short mile to a neighborhood Dairy Queen.

Before pulling into the parking lot and assuming my rank in the drive through lane, I mentally placed my order: a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard. I excitedly announced my selection while the faceless Dairy Queen “team member” provided the amount I owed and instructed me to pull forward.

Upon arrival to the restaurant window, I forked over the correct currency and, seconds later, spooned into my Monday evening treat. I expected large chunks of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup mixed in with soft vanilla ice cream. You can imagine my disappointment when those expected chunks were nothing more than pulverized slivers of frozen chocolate. Nary a peanut butter flavor even existed.

I was pissed.

I slurped down a few spoonfuls of the dessert “treat,” but was upset each time my mouth lacked the flavor of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

Never again. I think it’s time to try those hand-spun Wendy’s shakes I’ve heard so much about.

In other food news, one of my favorite lunch time and post-last call eateries is Jimmy John’s. I’ve read that the most popular Jimmy John’s franchise in the country is a few blocks from where I work and attend grad classes: the University of Nebraska at Omaha.

After grabbing lunch at that Jimmy John’s yesterday (for the curious: a No. 4 — Turkey Tom, sans the sprouts — with BBQ Jimmy Chips and a medium lemonade), I walked back to my car, parked nearby in an adjoining lot to a strip club (and Omaha landmark) known as the 20’s.

I wonder how many passer-byers unaware of Jimmy John’s high customer traffic believe the 20’s to be a popular hangout during the daylight hours (especially over the noon hour).

I, too, wonder what would happen should a fellow student, faculty or staff member spot me in the parking lot of the 20’s. Would I need to explain my location? Would my response (“It’s the sandwiches, I swear!”) even matter?

Thankfully, Jimmy John’s delivers.

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A wise woman — Maya Angelou, perhaps? — once said you don’t often remember people’s words, but you never forget how they made you feel. I have found this to be exceptionally accurate with not just those I love and hold close to my heart, but with one of my favorite Big Box stores.

Yes, it’s Target. (Did I even need to link to their Web site?) But you probably already guessed that. In fact, you may love Target just as much as I. If so, we’re going to be great friends.

I don’t remember the first time I stepped under Target’s signature candy apple red and crisp linen white logo, but I most definitely remember how the experience made me feel: enchanted, engaged, slightly dizzy. Corporate America wouldn’t want it any other way.

The idea that I was surrounded by so many of my Most Favorite Things and things I haven’t yet discovered that would become my Most Favorite Things delighted me to no end.

Lovely items of seasonal clothing, affordable shoes, jewelry and handbags and a wonderful line of hand creams and the like made me tipsy. Target’s stationary and paper goods selection isn’t anything to sneeze at, either.

When select Targets morphed into SuperTargets, good Lord, the experience transformed to the sublime.

But this essay isn’t merely a free advertisement for Target (or SuperTarget, for that matter). It’s what I call The Target Principle. Yes, its name is indeed lifted from the store, but the concept can be applied to life beyond the plastic red shopping carts and in-store Starbucks near every entrance. And the idea came from my mom.

Several months ago she and I were talking about the experience of shopping at Target, especially when your purchases include staples such as shampoo, razors, dryer sheets, milk and, well, staples for your stapler. But as you walk through the aisles, determined to purchase Just The Essentials and sticking to your shopping list, you almost always find a small item, something unexpected that is fairly inexpensive that just makes you grin like a little girl.

As you run other errands throughout your day, your slick Target bags along for the ride in your backseat or trunk, you temporarily forget about the One Item that wasn’t on your list. And when you discover it at home, according to my mom, “it just makes you happy.”

For me it’s something as nonessential as a bottle of nail polish, earrings or a new notebook (the thought of any new paper good causes my palms to perspire and my vision to blur).

And you know, my mom is right. It’s certainly true with the retail experience, but it can easily be related to your work life, your social life, the life you share with your betrothed.

The small, unexpected surprises can make all the difference when the status quo prompts unfortunate yawning and excessive daydreaming. When proverbial sunlight hits at just the right angle and something in life sparkles and shines, it can turn a bland day into a delicious day and make you thankful you are alive.

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