I blame my folks for muckin’ up my surname, leavin’ me with a handle that don’t quite fit. My daddy was a tireless, self-made barbecue pitmaster from Austin with a touch of narcolepsy and a fondness for ropin’ steer. My mama was a sixteen-year-old saloon dancer from San Antonio named Callie with boots that could kick up a dust storm. My daddy would chase skirts, he’d knock back whiskey, and he’d spin tall tales like he invented the lasso. Sometimes he’d call pecans lazy, the kind of low-down grumblin’ only a genius or a madman would mutter. My childhood was pure Texas, summers in the valley, ridin’ broncs. In the spring, we’d craft leather chaps. When I was ornery, they’d stuff me in a feed sack and whack me with mesquite branches—pretty standard, really. At twelve, I got my first Bowie knife. At fourteen, a cowgirl named Wanda ceremonially polished my spurs till they gleamed like a West Texas sunset. Ain’t nothin’ like a pair of shinin’ spurs, it’s downright glorious—y’all gotta try it. still, comin’ up with an avatar and name was never my milieu.