There is a lot of shit that goes through your mind when thinking about someone that is no longer physically present.

That shit is unique to each person and their experience. I am not going to speculate on all the possibilities for one’s mind, but will break down this video in hopes that you might better understand its’ purpose.

I decided to create this video because a big part of The Bo-Hawg is storytelling. I have mentioned the voicemail from my dad in the post “A Brand Born From Grief” as well as the Our Story section of the site. Words can only take you so far, though. Hearing his voice and seeing him throughout his life holds an entirely different weight.

I am not on the level of doing a video breakdown like Bo Burnham, but I wanted to take time to write about the video, and my thought process, and share some memory nuggets you won’t find in the short flick. 

First act, opening sequence

I am sitting on a bench in New York where I live. This is where I returned in October after leaving my family who all reside in lower Alabama or Louisiana. It was a bizarre feeling leaving them. My wife of course was/is an amazing support system, and has experienced this same loss earlier in her life; however, it is just the two of us in NYC for the most part. I don’t have any friends here, except Crusty (a ride-or-die), but we don’t get to see each other much.

I don’t mention not having friends to make you feel sorry for me. I had only lived in NYC for two months before my dad died, so when I returned I wasn’t looking to get out there and meet people.

The shot of me sitting alone is representative of what it felt like being in NYC in the immediate aftermath of his death. The aftermath is an isolating and exhausting time. My wife says over time things settle, but that waves always come. I believe her. It took me four months to make this video which is just over 1 minute.

With the loud sounds of wind rushing off the East River, people walking past, and car horns honking, it is a cacophony that is just background noise when you are in the headspace of thinking of someone. Missing them. Making a continued effort to hold on to them.

After sitting still on the bend for a second, I start putting in my earbuds. This is because I listened to a lot of music (and still do). I would play my dad’s favorites: “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers, “Don’t mess around with Jim” by Jim Croce, “Soulman” by the Blues Brothers version, and “Cheese Burger in Paradise” by Buffet.

I have some GREAT memories of my pops and those songs. Riding in his old Isuzu Trooper with the windows down, the sticky air of Alabama blowing in on the way home from the ballpark sipping an ice-cold fountain Coke we scooped from the Uncle Sam gas station.

“I LIKE MINE WITH LETTUCE AND TOMATO,” my pops would scream the lyrics to Buffet’s “Cheese Burger in Paradise” and then point to me. “HEINZ 57 AND FRENCH FRIED POTATOES,” I’d reply finishing that line of the lyric before moving us into the second-to-last line of the bridge. “BIG KOSHER PICKLE AND A COLD DRAFT BEER,” my pip-squeak voice belted. Pops would swerve the car like we were pulling into a fast food joint that sold burgers and finish it off, “WELL, GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY WHICH WAY DO I STEER!”

I’m telling you, music is something that roots me into memories. It’s like a time machine and time capsule rolled into one.

Littered among my pop’s favorite songs were some of my own that I selected. An assort me of great songs, but once that ripped my guts out. I would be balling as soon as the first second of a song played. Some notable singers were “Sweet” by the Dave Matthews Band, “In the Meantime” by Spacehog, “Red Bird” by The Bailiwicks, and “Here it is Christmas Time” by Old 97s feat. Kevin Bacon.

“We’re both headed in the same direction. We’re both fading in and out. My ears were ringing when I came into the astral, but my eyes were clear enough that I could take a look around. Yeah, every day has its afternoon, and everybody has to die to come unglued.”

Those are some of the lyrics from Redbird. I should note that those are not the actual lyrics, but they are what I heard during that time. I imagine me and pops headed in the same direction even though he isn’t on this earthly plane. I imagine memories fading in and out, just like those waves I mentioned earlier and you see in the video. And I thought that if I was able to get to an astral plane or my dream, it would be the closest I could get to see my pops.

There is this fantastic line in the Apple TV show “Shrinking” where Harrison Ford’s character suggests putting on a song that makes you “sad as hell” for 15 minutes and just cry. That’s what I would do. Listen to music and cry.

In those moments when the music was blasting I would think about my family. I would catch glimpses of moments in times when pops was here. Some came fast, usually fast, and others slow. That is why you see those quick flashes of old photos while I put in the left earbuds and then the right. You’ll notice that the first set of photos are pictures of him with his family and every one is young. The second set is from milestone moments in his kid’s lives, mainly weddings.

He wasn’t here for my wedding, so I put the closest thing I could think to a milestone in my life — getting my Ph.D. I also did that as a f*** you to all the people who say, “He’s not a real doctor.” I think that pissed dad off more than it did me. If you are reading this and are one of those people, no shit I am not a medical doctor. But guess what? Medical school by itself does not provide training in how to do research, allowing professionals to focus on medicine and care. A Ph.D. — That is all about how to conduct research.

After I put in my earbuds, the outside environment is muted, a recognizable sound for those that have earbuds or noise-canceling headphones. I pull on the back of my beanie and then look directly into the camera, locking my eyes on you, the audience. This is intentional, as I wanted you to see my face, feel the power of eye contact, and have the chance to notice little details.

You might see the slight resemblance I have to pops, especially those eyebrows — always out here trying not to look like a barn owl. yikes. Then the lines of my face that have come over the years. And lastly, my eyes, which have a story of loss embedded in their brown hue.

My dad would tell you that my brown eyes because I am full of shit. He loved to say that, so I wanted to break up this serious breakdown with that tidbit.

Once I’m staring into the camera, there is another quick cut to videos of me and dad. If you think music triggers emotions and memories, the sounds of silence can put that shit into hyperdrive. The first is a fragment of a memory I have from a trip to a zoo. The second is a snowball fight we had…in ALABAMA. I don’t know why those stood out to me, but they did.

Before moving into the second sequence, there is a shot of me taking a deep breath in followed by a heavy exhale. I am preparing myself for what is to come. I close my eyes and everything goes black for a split second and the unexpected comes in.

 “Hey dude, this is your pops.”

This is one of a three-part series I will be releasing. The Voicemail, Part 2 will be published on March 21, 2024

We did it! The Bo-Hawgs first departure from the O.G. color scheme. Moving forward with the evolution of the Pig Fish, something I know my pops would be psyched about.

And our first collection? That would be the Neon Vol. 1 Collection, good people!

Am I sure pops would be psyched that this was our first choice? That I cannot answer. I know he wouldn’t be upset, but I can hear him asking, “Why the hell did you pick neon first? What about bringing the Fishing Team back? Or seafood?”

Well,  I can shed some light (pun intended) on why this was our first choice, and how pops is embedded in the idea.

I have always been a big fan of neon. It started when I was a kid and would watch the Boston Celtics® with my dad and big brother. TV wasn’t really high def back then, so the TD Garden green looked neon to me. I was always confused why the green on my Dee Can Dunk shirt wasn’t neon, but I didn’t care. It was from my big bro.

Outside of the discolored TD Garden on my TV, the only neon outerwear that floated around my little town growing up was hunter safety orange. I am not knocking that color at all. Safety first, ya’ll!

But that was it. Hunter safety orange, and of course the classic neon green for crossing guards. Salute to those fine humans because that job seems INTENSE. We would always give our school crossing guard chocolate covered cherries for Christmas. I think those are gross, but apparently they were their favorite. 

Of course, hunter orange now has dope logos on it and the gear is rather fresh. But not in 1995! You can ask my brother-in-law, Jake. I wore it once or twice during my short-lived career as a hunter, but that’s it. Thanks for trying, bro.

Anyway, I finally got to rep some neon when my mom started findings these Nike® windbreakers at the outlets in Ocean Springs, Mississippi.*

I looked SO FRESH in that gear! Wait. Thought? Hell nah. I looked fresh as hellllll wearing those. 

If I was feeling real stylish, I would wear just the windbreak bottoms and a flannel long sleeve unbuttoned with a t-shirt underneath. I was like Kurt Cobain met Charles Barkley’s ’92 Olympics fit (minus the loafers, those were more pop’s style).

I was a true fashion icon for 5th graders at Fairhope Intermediate school. I bet I was bad at hide-and-seek, though. Could hear my ass coming from 100-yards away with that fabric rubbing against the legs.

SWISH. SWISH. SWISH. Never got the chance to hide, just seek. 

Seriously, I wore neon A LOT. I don’t know what it was about the colors, but I just liked how they popped. I am also a big UNC Chapel Hill fan, so Carolina Blue was a staple in my attire as well. Outside of windbreakers and UNC long sleeve shirts and khaki hats with the Tar-heel logo on them, my neon game was limited. * sigh *

Luckily, when I got to high school and could drive I discovered a local head shop, David’s Gallery.

I realized David’s carried a lot of bright colors because of how they reacted to black lights. Later, I learned why the combination of black lights and bright colors are cool. Hence my reference to “trippy lights” in some of the Neon Vol. 1 item descriptions. 

The year was 2002 and I was now rocking bright pink shirts with “Comfortably Numb” written across the chest, or an all-white shirt with the Widespread Panic “Dove and Snake” logo traced in black on the back. The black lights were good to me in those days, and my neon game was getting stronger.

When Nike® launched their sneaker customization feature though, it was game over. 

The first pair I created looked a lot like the Planetarium Slime color scheme, except the shade of purple was a shade of black. Purple wasn’t one of the options, and I don’t know if I had the vision to create color schemes that I hadn’t already seen before. * adds lacks vision to resume *

The soles and laces were bright neon green. I paid the extra $5 and got GBT monogrammed on the tongue of the sneaker in that same neon. I kept those kicks FOREVER. When I graduated from undergrad I wore them…without socks…and shorts.

My dad was fired up and proud while the rest of my family was shook. Mainly because I graduated, but also that I did not wear socks. My guy wore rented tuxedo shoes to my brothers wedding without socks. He hated socks.

Back to the shoes.

My pops would always say, “Those are some ugly ass shoes you got on. But they match your face, so that seems right.”

His attitude about neon changed when the University of Oregon exploded on to the college football scene in 2009. Not saying they weren’t on the scene before, but them folks in Bama only knew about the West Coast powerhouse, USC! Since I know this blog reaches 1 million people daily, I have this to say to the NCAA: GIVE REGGIE HIS HEISMAN BACK!

Never really knew much about Oregon, though.

“The Ducks have some tight ass uniforms, Trippy,” he told me. “Did you know they have 5,000 variations?,” he asked me. Not true, but he said it with such confidence that I was like, “Damn. They really have that many?” To which he replied, “Phil Knight doesn’t f****** play!”

Pops was hyper focused on the Ducks because it looked like they were the team that would play Auburn (his nemesis, not mine! Don’t crucify me for his hatred. War Damn!) in the National Championship that year. 

He was right. What a game. I’m not getting into all that nonsense here, but I will say that my Pops had on an Oregon shirt. 

Months after the game, he’d wear that shirt because he said the colors were “too damn cool!” He had become a fan of neon, but only for the Ducks. He was also really into Woot.com around that time and would buy my nephews and nieces tons of shit.

My siblings will tell you to this day that the sheer amount of items he bought from Woot made up 90%  of their kids’ wardrobes. He was always looking for those wild ass colors.

“I got the girls these hoodies on Woot that are the same color as Tripp’s wild ass shoes, Bub. Five bucks each. Cheap as snake balls,” he’d tell my brother. 

He grew to appreciate neon and the personality the colors had.

It is pretty serendipitous I would pick Neon as our first drop because if you ask someone who knew my dad to describe him I can guarantee they would say something to the affect of, “There was only one GB. Nobody else had a personality like him, and no one ever will.” 

Neon Vol. 1 is the first in a series of bold, bright, and colorful designs. It’s something I loved since I was a kid and something my dad grew to appreciate later in life. It has a lot of personality, just like the two of us!

He never wore it outside of his Oregon shirt, but you can bet your sweet ass if he saw the Pig Fish in these colors he would. 

My guess is the Planetarium Slime t-shirt in Indigo Blue. Actually, probably the pink-on-pink-on-pink Birdy Bird items because my niece created the color scheme. I can see him wearing that pink hoodie at an event and some wise ass that sort-of knows him saying, “Nice hoodie, G.B.,” in a sarcastic tone. 

“Yeah. My niece designed this. You wish you could pull it off, but you aren’t a big player like me. Go f*** yourself.”

* fact check that when you read the page mom and drop a note in the comments, please. I am not sure when you will read this, so when you do…love you!

Grease popping, no breeze, standing in direct sunlight, lifting coolers with 50 pounds of grouper, hands coated in cornmeal and batter, and a heat index of 107. Ah, those were the days.

That’s what it was like cooking seafood with my pops. My man LOVED this. A big reason is because he did this with his dad growing up. Later in life they began volunteering their services (and fish) as a way to
help raise money for youth sports in our hometown. They would fry grouper, boil peanuts, boil shrimp — you name it, they did it.

So, it was only natural that my siblings and I grew up sharing this tradition with him. My brother and I even cooked the food for my wedding rehearsal. Pops had prepared the menu in August 2022, one month before he passed. It was: Indonesian grouper, boiled U12 shrimp, and West Indies salad. 

Swear to god we were both back there frying fish as guests were walking up..It was strange performing this ritual without him for such a momentous milestone in my life. Missed you pops.

Anytime someone was strategizing how to raise money for their non-profit or event, pops was first to volunteer. “I’d like to donate the seafood and my services,” he’d say. People knew his reputation for frying
up some of the best damn fish you’ve ever had in your life, so they were as happy to accept.

When he volunteered though, it meant we (his kids and whoever else he could wrangle) were also volunteering. My brother tells great stories of times my dad would casually say, “We’re cooking for so-
and-so this weekend. It’s about 200 people.” Usually, he told my brother mid-week. Classic.

He cooked for local sports events, churches, organizations,  and even  individuals, but I will always remember cooking for Children of the
World.

Children of the World is a non-profit that is an intercountry adoption service that places children in adoptive homes in Alabama. From my memory, I always remember this being in July. And to quote my man Stevie Wonder, it was hotter than July outside. Standing next to two, 30-gallon fryers with the butane fueled
flames roaring so loud it sounded like a heavy breeze running through a tunnel just turned the temp dial up higher.

But my dad loved it. He loved the people that ran it. He loved what they did for kids and families. He always looked forward to this event, even though it was a lot of work.

What he did not like was the recognition. Pops never volunteered for the shine. Never to hear the words,  “We’d like to thank G.B. Taylor for cooking.” In fact, I remember one time when they surprised him with an
award in front of a ton of people. While he appreciated it, being recognized made him cringe. I’m pretty sure when they handed him the mic he said, “I don’t want this.”

I say all of this to let you know that giving back was something my dad was passionate about. I knew when I launched The Bo-Hawg that parts of him needed to be embedded in the fabric of who we are. And this is an important part.

That is how I found Evermore.

Looking at those scores and status awards, it was bananas how many shitty organizations there are “dedicated to grieving.”

I created a spreadsheet of nonprofits that focused on grief and/or bereavement. All-in-all I probably   looked at 50. Next to each were their 2-3 sentence elevator pitch/mission followed by a transparency
score or status (e.g., silver, gold, platinum, etc.). Looking at those scores and status awards, it was bananas how many shitty organizations there are “dedicated to grieving.”

GRIEVING! Literally one of the most jarring life experiences a human can face, and people are taking advantage? Truly disheartening.

My obsession with transparency stems from my time as a journalist. I never approached a story thinking I would be lied to; however, I always was conscious of the potential and therefore would do deep dives.  Sometimes my notes really did look like that Charlie Day meme where there is red string spiderwebbed across a board and psychotic grin to match.

I also had just finished watching Telemarketers, a documentary that examines those bogus call centers
that push charities. It is truly wild, and I recommend it if you are into those true crime type docs.

Apologies for the detour, back to finding Evermore.

I knew I wanted to team up with an organization that was “in the shit.” By that I mean people working, grinding, and making every effort to provide resources to those dealing with what I was (and still am)
going through. Some non-profits are hands off, which is not a bad thing.

But my experience is standing next to fryers in July, so I wanted someone in that same headspace.

And honestly, Evermore was not who I was expecting we’d link up with. They are big picture thinkers who are grinding to make nationwide change on a policy level for bereaved people. They have been featured
in The New York Times, The Atlantic, on Good Morning America, and more!

“Surely these people will not have time for a small-time company like us,” I thought. “They’re just plug-and-play (meaning hands-off) at this point, and our small potatoes won’t mean anything.”

But the language on their site sounded so authentic, so personal. I could feel how they were talking about grief and loss and the indescribable f**king fallout that comes after losing someone. They even have this
line on their mission page that says, “We need more than thoughts and prayers.” That’s exactly how I
feel!

And to top it all off, they use data and science to help them push change. That is LITERALLY what I did for nearly 10 years of my life as a research scientist focused on patient-provider communication, and mental health and emerging adults

So, just like Travis Kelce…I shot my shot and sent an email to one of those generic addresses listed on a website. Two days later, I received a response from one of their team members, Jena, asking if we could set up a time to talk.

At this very moment, I am moved to tears thinking about that first call with Jena. I imagined the call would be very sterile. That is would be all business with with questions about what I could contribute financially, how things would work
legally, a financial threshold for contribution, and contracts. Instead, she started the conversation out by saying
this:

I read the story about the Pig Fish and your dad. It’s so wonderful you created this for him. Can you tell me about him?

Seriously, I am sobbing reliving that moment. I couldn’t believe a few things, the first being that she read  my website, the second that she wanted to hear about my pops. Man, I was taken back. I am pretty sure I got choked up because until then, sharing my pops with the world was just me blogging and posting on social media. I was never really asked about him by a stranger.

The conversation we had was so beautiful. I talked about my pops and what I was going through in the wake of his death. She shared her own story of loss, which I will refrain from telling since it is not mine to
share. And then, we talked about music and storytelling.

Jena explained that they imagined using the donations from The Bo-Hawg to put toward storytelling. She told me about Evermore’s belief in sharing others stories and the power that it holds. Given that my dad  was a storyteller, and I am a storyteller, it could not have seemed more perfect.

“We don’t have a lot of sales right now, and I am really not sure when or if it will take off,” I admitted to Jena. “We aren’t worried about the money,” she said, “we just appreciate you thinking of us.”

Boom! Another moment I couldn’t believe was happening. She really didn’t care that we were small  potatoes. It didn’t matter that our contributions might be small or large. What was important was that we
shared the same values about helping those with grief.  Jena even mentioned how grief from the loss of a pet is important, which is something people blow off and don’t take seriously. But, I do. Evermore, rules.

The last 15 minutes we talked about the Grateful Dead and how Jena met her husband, how she got to see Billy Strings (a Pig Fish favorite) before he blasted into stardom, although she admitted he has
always been a prodigy. I learned more about Joyal, Evermore’s founder. She is a badass, be sure to  check her out!

The conversation wrapped with me communicating that The Bo-Hawg was not interested in promoting our  relationship with Evermore on a large stage. That means no advertisements saying, “Part of all proceeds go to Evermore…” More and more on social media you see brands that advertise their contribution to a  cause to move weight.

“Buy a shirt, plant three trees.” Or, “Save the turtles, buy a bracelet.” I am not knocking brands that do
this. Heck, I imagine a lot of good does come from them! But my DNA for giving is the same as my dad’s. We are not doing it for the flowers or to push our product. We are doing it because we care and want to
help out an organization whose mission, we believe in.

This post will be the only place on the site where I acknowledge our relationship, or whatever you want to call it. Its existence will only be known to those who purchase a product, talk about it organically, read this
post, or if Evermore decides to share. 

I am not an idiot. I know that at some point I might talk about our relationship if asked. Or we could collaborate on a design where all proceeds go to Evermore. If that does happen, please refer to this post. To quote Sean Carter, who will sometimes use verses from Christopher Wallace’s songs, “I say a B.I.G. verse, I’m only biggin’ up my brother.”

In other words, if The Bo-Hawg is talking about Evermore, we are doing so to raise visibility for them and their cause. Yes, a natural bi-product will be that our brand awareness might jump, but that’s just how it  is. It’s not our goal or motive.

The Pig Fish is a cool design. I love it. It reminds me of my pops every time I see it. I love that people are wearing it. But I want it to have a deeper meaning, something that pops would stop and say, “That’s really
cool. I’m glad it’s helping.”

I will close by saying that my mission will always be for the Pig Fish to evolve. Injecting Evermore into its DNA is just one way I believe we can accomplish this goal.

A portion of all Bo-Hawg sales are donated to Evermore. 

SMACK! I got beamed straight in the eye by a pair of pear, white beads while yelling, “Dad! Dad!” as he floated by on a gigantic alligator. That is my first memory of Mardi Gras.

Fifteen years later, I’d be riding right next to him and my big brother. 

Pops always said, “Mardi Gras is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.” Take that for what you will, but suffice to say he really loved this holiday. He joined the KOER in 1994, a Mardi Gras organization in my hometown. His dear friend, John Ambrose, was already in and talked pops into joining.

Shortly after that, my big brother joined. He rode next to my dad on the Gator. So it was two Taylors in a row. 

You had to be 21 to join, but every year my pops would always say, “When you’re 21, you’ll ride next to me and your brother. I can’t wait to have both my sons riding with me.”

Growing up in Fairhope, it was always cool if you knew someone riding. It meant you were guaranteed to catch something. We’d tell pops and Bub (big bro) where we’d be standing on the route, and they would be on the lookout. As a kid, my brother-in-law would park his truck along the route a day early, right across from the local park. 

It is important to give the riders a landmark. It makes it a bit easier to anticipate where your crew will be so they’re easier to spot in the sea of people. But that’s easier said than done, as I would later learn. 

When they would spot us though, it was game on. 

We’d get pelted with beads, footballs, moon pies, and cups. My sister and I would get home and pour out our plastic grocery bags that we used to collect our spoils in, sort of how you do on Halloween. Back in the 90s the world famous Chattanooga moon pies had not hit the parade circuit in lower Alabama, so we’d get these ones in silver wrapping. Literally never knew what  flavor you were going to get…like a box of chocolates. 

As I grew up, I went to the parade with friends and we’d stand next to an old payphone right outside of Papa’s Pizza. Pops and Bub always delivered with the throws. And then, when I was 21, it was my turn.

My first Mardi Gras was on par with what people predict will happen — you have a little too much fun leading up to the ride, and then your brain takes a little nap while your body hurls things into the crowd, you completely miss all of your friends and family, despite telling them, “I’m going to hook you up!” You go to the Mardi Gras ball in your costume, brain still asleep, and eat and dance. Then, you wake up feeling terrible. 

The three of us managed to get a picture together that night in 2009. You can see it above. I had a great time, but my dad had the best time.

For the next 13 years, I spent one night a year (two if you include loading the float the night before) with my dad and big bro. No matter if I was living in Colorado, Florida, or on the road for work, I’d come home every February/March and ride on a gigantic alligator float with two humans I love more than I can express.

It’s about an hour-and-a-half ride around the small town of Fairhope. After it’s over, you say the same thing every year. “Great ride! Crowd was at least 100,000, the news said.” I don’t know about all that. Afterward you went to the ball, danced, ate, and drank. Fortunately, my brain stopped taking naps once I hit 25. I didn’t have time to feel like shit for the next three days.

As pops grew older and his health declined, he had really hard time getting on the float. Our good friend Jeffery would do everything he could to try and make it easier for him. One year he mounted a stool so dad could sit and throw since he couldn’t stand for long. Jeffery built extra steps, installed an easy access “door,” and reinforced a steel pipe running down the center of the Gator to create more stability. Everyone wanted pops to ride, but eventually he physically couldn’t get on the float. 

I promise no one wanted to be on there more than him. It sucked to watch, and even more so that he wasn’t riding with his friends and sons.

Still, my pops would INSIST my brother and I rode. He wanted to hear all about it. “How was the ride,” he’d ask us as soon as it was over. “Great weather? Good music?” 

Dad passed away in September 2022. In February of 2023, we honored him by throwing cups and beads with his face on them. A design by the incredible Chase Moran. The whole float wore a button with his initials on their costume. It is a tradition on the Gator that you wear the initials of any rider that passed away. If you look closely at the design of pops, you’ll see a BS pin and a JA armband. BS stands for Bill Smith, and JA stands for John Ambrose.

Now the riders wear GB on their chest.

I dropped out of the KOER this year. Previously, I had ridden for 13 consecutive years. Last year was tough. Even though he hadn’t ridden for the past 3 years because of health, he always texted and talked to us after the ride. Not getting that call, text, or seeing him the day after was fucking heart breaking.

It makes me sad, knowing I won’t be next to my big bro this year. Sad that I am missing an opportunity to share pops with a crowd. Sad I won’t get to throw things to my nephews and nieces, or take a photo with my sisters before we get on the float. There’s a lot of things that made me sad about it.

At the same time, Mardi Gras season will always make me smile. It will always make me cry. Those memories of riding next to the big guys and Bub have so much joy and happiness packed into them that they’re a strong hit of carry-me-through juice. That’s what I like to call the moments where you get a powerful does of the person that is not longer on this plane of existence. A memory that allows you to continue to continue, to quote Simon and Garfunkel.

With that said, Happy Mardi Gator!

I hope everyone riding in Mardi Gras this year has a great ride. Has great weather, great food, and great music. I know pops does, too.

I also hope you are able to spot your crew in a sea of 100,000 people.

My dad was in utter disbelief. He had to practically pick his jaw up off of the floor.

How could this have happened? Perhaps there was an issue on the interstate, or maybe the entire internet had crashed and created this problem. There had to be some logical explanation for what was happening. I looked over and saw my dad pat his hand on his thigh, a sure sign he was either about to ask a question or detonate someone. In this case, it was the latter. 

“You’re telling me you have NO potatoes in this whole restaurant,” my pop asked stupefied.  “No sir,” the teenage waiter kindly responded. 

You might be asking, “Where were ya’ll that your dad thought potatoes should be on the menu AT ALL times?”

I’ll give 300-1 odds that you can’t guess what restaurant we were at where my old man was shocked to learn there were no potatoes. Are you ready? We were at a f****** pizza place!

You read the last line right. A pizza place! One of the last places on earth you’d expect there to be a  plethora of potatoes, especially in lower Alabama circa 2003 before cauliflower crust and health was a thing. But he loved to order this pizza that had roasted red potatoes, ranch dressing swirl, veggies, and other stuff. It was his go-to order. And on this day, there were no potatoes.

Now, my dad was not a Karen. He never belittles anyone for shitty food service, giving him a wrong order occasionally, or any of the absurd reasons these whackos conjure up today. Nope. He wasn’t angry at the server, he was angry at the restaurant. So, he launched into his favorite diatribe: marketing and advertising.

“I was in marketing and retail for over 25 years at Gayfers. Twenty-five years!,” he explained to the kid. First of all, Gayfers was a department store that opened in THE LATE 1800s (I am not making this up) and closed in 1998. So this kid was lost as last year’s easter egg already. He had to be thinking, “What a dumb name, and what the hell is this guy talking about?”

“Now, I was in charge of making sure we had everything that we advertised. So if we said he had pink shirts, there might only be one son-of-a-bitch that would want that color shirt, but by God we better have it in stock,” my dad said emphatically. At this point he was using the salt and pepper shakers like they were the customer and store representative having a conversation.

“If I didn’t have that one color, I got my ass chewed out. I’m telling you I was on the phone ordering 100 pink shirts the second that person walked out of the door. And if I didn’t sell them, I’d mark them down, ’50% off all pink shirts. Do you see what I am saying,” he asked the kid. It was clear the kid was even more lost than before.

“I’m the one guy looking for potatoes, and ya’ll don’t have any. Do you see what I am saying? ” my dad asked.

“Ok, so you want us to order some more potatoes and advertise that we have them in stock,” the kid said in the same tone you hear someone respond to a teacher that asked them to ‘repeat what I just said’ when they were daydreaming about something better.

That was when my pops McLost it.

“No, got damnit! I just don’t want you to advertise the f****** pizza if you don’t have the ingredients! That’s it.”

I was sitting at the table with my family and at this point we were starting to lose it.  “What the hell are ya’ll laughing about down there?” pops said, “Dude, you are probably the only person that orders that pizza. Potatoes are not a staple at a pizza joint, pops.”

He clapped back real quick. “First of all, don’t be calling me dude. Second, it doesn’t matter if I’m the only person, it’s on the menu, smart ass!”

By this point, the kid was catching the drift that my dad wasn’t angry at him or demanding that the store go out and buy a sack of potatoes to fix his pizza. Pops simply just got caught in a flashback of what I assume had something to do with an old boss bitching him out for advertising something they didn’t have in stock.

This is one of my favorite stories of my dad because my brother and I always say, “How the hell do you run out of potatoes at a pizza place,” anytime a store is out of something. We used to give my dad a hard time and ask him that all the time, to which he would respond, “Would you two just shut up!”

So, the reason we offer a different variety of colors, fabric weights, and designs is because we want customers to have options. 

We don’t want you to be the one person that loves potatoes and our store be out. Plus, we can always mark down pink shirts 50%.

Is that title a bummer? I asked myself this question after re-reading the “Our Story” section 1000 times. I kept coming to the conclusion that yes, this version of The Bo-Hawg was conceived through grief. Don’t worry though, I promise this read isn’t a downer.

I say “conceived” because I never thought of The Bo-Hawg as my own. It had always belonged to my pops. He brought it into existence in the mid-80s and was always scheming of new ways to rebrand or “get the name back out there” for four decades. That’s right, FOUR DECADES!

“That logo and name are too damn tight,” my pops would say. “What if we did The Bo-Hawg seafood? What if we made t-shirts? What if we created a little business that was Bo-Hawg Bagels? I shit you not, for 36 years of my life, not one year went by that I did not hear a “what if” related to The Bo-Hawg. So when I say he loved  this thing, I am not kidding.

In the wake of his death, I was pouring over old photos, family videos, text messages, and voicemails. I was desperately trying to hold on to him. Trying to let him know that I wasn’t going to let him go (a phrase I think is so stupid when people talk about grief).

When I spoke at my pops funeral, I said this:

“He was a person in our lives that you knew was always there. Nothing could alter his presence. My dad himself was a constant. When he transitioned to another plane last week, I thought my constant was gone. Then I remembered he would never leave me. He left pieces of himself in others and scattered throughout the universe. – October, 2022

One night in April 2023 I was curled up with a t-shirt quilt that my friend Pat had created for me. Looking at all of the patches I saw it: The Bo-Hawg. The red and blue Pig Fish from the 80s! I had forgotten just how “damn tight” it was, despite it floating in-and-out of sight for the past 36 years.

Right then, I sent my friend Chase, and incredible talented designer, an email asking if she could digitally remaster the logo. Chase didn’t skip a beat — I had it within two days.

Once I had the logo, I immediately created a TON of stickers. The stickers had my pops name and either “Fishing Team” or “Hawg Wild Seafood,” incorporated into them, both of which existed. The two are pretty self explanatory: one was his seafood catering company, and the other was for the failed charter boat endeavor.

I sent them to family first. We cried and laughed thinking about my pops’ love-hate relationship with The Bo-Hawg. Then, I started sending them to my friends. With zero context. They were getting these stickers and would call me and be like, “Uhm. I got the sticker. It’s cool, but what does it mean?”

Rewind it back to earlier when I said I never thought of The Bo-Hawg as my own. That was until the moment I designed the stickers, printed them, stuck them in mailers, and sent them on their way. When people opened those envelopes they were  either met with a wave nostalgia or confusion and intrigue. Either way,  they  were holding a piece of my dad that I had shared with them.

On what would have been his 75th birthday, I launched The Bo-Hawg website. I cannot tell you how excited he is (I use present tense,  because I can feel him when I talk about this) that people have a chance to buy Bo-Hawg merchandise. I have no clue what anyone will buy, or even if anyone will buy anything.

But the best part about this whole thing is that I know my pops wouldn’t care either. If we sell three items for the entire year, or 3,000, he’d be proud that I brought back The Bo-Hawg, and touched that I did it for him. 

Through my grief, I helped my dad accomplish something he was never able to do while he was here — share The Bo-Hawg on a massive stage.  Like I said, he left pieces of himself scattered throughout the universe.

The Bo-Hawg is a piece he left floating in the universe. I grabbed it, molded it, and now I’m working to evolve it.

“This is on the internet where anyone can buy it? Now that is double-ball-busting-deluxe tight, Trippy! What are we going to do with it next?,” I can hear him ask while his crystal blue eyes stare at the screen and a big shit-eating grin spread across his face.