Fry-Pan Who?

What is your hobo name?

My loyalty to old clothing runs deep...so deep that I still own (and occasionally wear) a tattered, green Michigan State baseball cap I bought in the 7th grade (sad, I know).  Call me crazy, but I will take a holey T-shirt that has been worn paper thin by years of perspiration and thousands of spin cycles over the latest micro-fiber, Patagoochie, sweat-repelling pullover any day of the week and twice on Sundays.  

Clearly, I am not alone in this sentiment.  When pressed, most will confess to having a "go-to" pair of jeans or favorite T-shirt to which they will reach for after work or when puttering around the house on the weekend.  Sadly, however, I have been repeatedly reminded by friends, family, and most recently, my wife, that my loyalty to these clothing articles too often clouds my awareness of social norms.  For example, my wife repeatedly reminds me that just because my jeans have holes doesn't make them "holy" and certainly doesn't make them acceptable church-going attire. 

Perhaps my penchant for the tattered is further highlighted by the fact that I am a physician in a small, rural community.  Personally, I don't see why it matters...but my family constantly tells me I need to "dress professionally" even when I am not at work because I will inevitably run into patients around town.  Hey, wait a minute!!!  Since when did someone's occupation become there entire identity!?!?  Don't get me wrong, I'll sport a button down from 7am-6pm when I'm in the clinic or in the hospital, but after that its cart blanch on the rags!  If a patient so happens to spot me in Home Depot wearing a holey T-shirt, some paint-stained Carhartts, and an old tattered ball cap, so be it.  After all, I would think it could only serve to humanize me and break down the curtain of formality that too often impedes the patient-physician dynamic. 

Am I right?  Are you pickin' up what I am layin' down people?  Well, don't feel bad...neither does my family & friends.  In fact, shortly after I started dating my wife she began calling me a hobo.  Having endured years of similarly directed ridicule from my family, I took my wife's commentary in stride.  To be honest, her jibe didn't really stick until one day a friend of ours shared with us an article from the Oregonian Newspaper that explained how to determine your hobo name.  As you can see from the article, my name "Jon Myers" translates to the illustrious hobo name "Fry-Pan Jones."  

Needless to say, the name stuck.  From that day forward, a week has not passed without my wife saying something like:  "Are you kidding me!!!  Come-on, Fry-Pan!  You're going to wear that in public!"  Or "geez, honey...you're really Fry-Panin' it up today." 

So it stands to reason that my dream of owning a 1950's-era pickup truck with a ton of rust and dents (or character, as I like to say) would be the next logical extension of my proclivity for the tried and tested.  Go figure, some guys fantasize about buying a Porsche or BMW--me, I've always dreamed of owning an old, rusty pickup with flared wheel wells and a lot of character: a true Fry-Pan truck.  Well folks, I'm living proof...dreams do come true!