I Need a Vacation

Goodness, I’m tired, folks! I suppose I’m fortunate that my only real addiction is the PBR, because if I were prone to substance abuse, this past few weeks would have driven me straight into the arms of methamphetamine. I have been buried in work and there just aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything I need to do done. I’m reminded of the title of a book published years ago by a woman named Barbara Gordon: I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can. Ms. Gordon was addicted to downers, not uppers, but certainly I can sympathize with the sentiment.

All this is by way of saying that while I am going to miss the PBR something fierce for the next two months, I am sort of guiltily thankful for the break, because I don’t really think I’m holding my end up here. I very much appreciate your patience and willingness to stick with me, Gentle Readers, because I’m sure I wouldn’t handle the unrelenting pressure of working for a living without your wit and wisdom. Being self-employed has a lot of advantages, but one serious risk you run is getting really isolated. Another is that some of the time, the boss is really a bitch.

That said, I have a few observations about the F-150 Invitational in Pueblo last weekend, which I hope you will find interesting and/or enlightening.

1) I can’t tell you how gratified I was at the quality of the bull pen. Only 10 boys managed to stay aboard in round 1, and only five more made the whistle in round 2. That’s a new record low, folks. This suggests to me that Cody Lambert has been sandbagging us all season—where were these bulls when the PBR was at Madison Square Garden?

2) Ryan McConnell had better stop pushing his luck and put on a helmet. Anyone who saw Fog Horn step right on McConnell’s face in round 2 knows the cowboy is lucky to have walked away with only a broken jaw and a concussion.

3) I know it’s almost certainly none of my business, but I am really, really curious as to what Travis Briscoe is talking about when he keeps commenting that he’s had a lot of hardship lately. Is there something we can help you with, Travis?

4) Wasn't Cody Nance just the cutest winner we've seen all year? When the dust settled and he knew he'd won, he clearly didn't know what the program was from there on out. I predict we'll see more good rides by that young man.

5) I may be misreading the situation, but I think we are starting to see some cracks in Kody Lostroh’s icy veneer. He rode in the first round, got bucked off in the second, and then made a serious mistake when he picked El Presidente in the draft. Sure as night follows day, Lostroh hit the dirt and El Presidente got a bull score of 44 points. If there’s one thing we’ve been able to count on all year, it’s that Lostroh will pick a bull he’s sure he can ride in the short-go. Who is he kidding? It’s the secret of his success. True, he didn’t get to pick first, but there were still some easier bulls left in the pen when his turn came. From where I sit, it looks like he’s overcompensating for his injury by trying to pick the rankest bull, and rank bulls, frankly, are not his strong suit. Kody, I’m not feeling this new strategy. Best go back to what got you where you are in the first place.

Well, the PBR may be on vacation, but I do plan to be around the Stockyard, and I hope you’ll all drop by to chat. I have a few things in the hopper, and I love hearing from you. See you right here!

Hang Up the Target, Boys, and Stand Back

Now hear this: I have decided that for my purposes today, a shotgun will serve me better than a rifle, and I am going to load ’er up and let ’er rip. Looking back over the past few posts, I’ve realized that I’ve increasingly concerned myself with what others could legitimately consider minutiae, so I’m going to step back and look at the big picture for a few minutes here.

First, the Worcester Classic last weekend was by far one of the most exciting events I’ve watched all year, and that’s saying something, considering that J.W. Hart was blathering on nonstop in the broadcast booth. Generally when J.W. is in the house, it takes all my considerable powers of concentration not to start lighting on his foolishness like a duck on a June bug, instead of doing what I should be doing, watching the bulls buck and the boys (try to) ride. I give thanks to whoever's in charge that Leah Garcia made it back from wherever she’d been for the past couple of events, so Justin McKee could go back to the booth and, as one of my faithful readers so elegantly put it, Justin McBride could go back to Oklahoma, since when McBride and Hart are both in the house, I feel like I’m listening to Heckle and Jeckle.

But just think about it—we had everything this weekend. We had the number one rider, Kody Lostroh, out with an injury, and the numbers two and three riders, Guilherme Marchi and J.B. Mauney, running up behind him like freight trains on fire.

We had drama, and comedy, courtesy of Mr. Clayton Baethge, who won the first round on Friday night and then promptly got disqualified for leaving the chute with his spur hung in the bull rope on Saturday, the second time this has happened since he came onto the tour. Not content with challenging the call and losing that challenge, Baethge then threw gasoline on the fire by taking off his spurs and wrapping the heels of his boots in tape before his ride in round three, to make it impossible for him to hang a spur again. He also made it pretty much impossible to hang on--he came flying off the bull almost as soon as they left the chute, and narrowly missing whacking himself hard on the fence. The result? No score in the second round plus no score in the third round adds up to no chance to ride in the short-go. Price tag? $500 for losing the challenge plus $5,000 for the second offense. Despite all that, Baethge still managed to make $8,000, so at least he came out of it all in the black, not just black and blue.

We had several minutes of absolute terror in round two, when Buckeye reared up in the chute and fell backwards on top of Guilherme Marchi, who had the good sense to just sit down beneath the bull and thus doubtless avoided serious injury. A bunch of the Killer Bees, lead by skinny little Renato Nunes, hauled Marchi back up onto the fence while the gateman got the gate open and the bull rolled out into the arena, where he thrashed around for a bit. Montana Barn Cat and I both thought for sure that bull was seriously hurt himself, but he finally managed to stagger to his feet and shake it off. If Buckeye thought he was going to get out of having to buck by pulling that prank, he was sadly mistaken. They ran him back into the chute and Marchi, with a nick on his chin and poop on his hat and a maniacal look in his eye, absolutely stuck it to him, spurring the bull like a demon and scoring 90.25 points. I don’t know whether he got the score because the judges thought it was a great ride, or whether it was because it was a good ride by a man who had just shown us more guts than seems humanly possible, but out here in Montana, we were jumping and screaming and cheering him on. It’s possible that one of us (I ain’t saying who) actually burst into tears when the buzzer sounded. Hell, it’s possible one of us is crying right now, remembering it.

On a side note, I have to add that when J.W. Hart then commented, “That will make the ol’ butthole pucker,” I wondered for a minute if J.W. and my mother, the inestimable Ruby, might not be the matter/anti-matter versions of one another. Even if that’s not true, it’s still good that Ruby wasn’t in the booth with him Saturday night, because by now she’d be standing over him with her high-heeled boot on his chest, and he’d be spitting out a big mouthful of soap, even though technically speaking he wasn’t being profane—just vulgar. Two things we can count on in this life: J.W. Hart will be vulgar, and Ruby will not put up with that. It’s not impossible that J.W. might even enjoy being treated like that—what do I know?

Then too, we had Adriano Moraes roaming the locker room and the back of the chutes with a microphone, interviewing folks and cheering his Brazilian compatriots on and generally looking adorable. Riding the crest of his enthusiasm, Robson Palermo, Valdiron de Oliveira, and Marchi finished first, second, and third in round two and doubtless scared the daylights out of the rest of the other riders, who had to be wondering what else the Killer Bees had up their collective sleeves.

We had two astonishing rides on Apollo, previously unridden in the BFTS—the first by Palermo in round two, and the second by Mauney in the short-go. I can’t remember the last time I saw a bull jump like that—he looked like he would hit the rafters every time he left the ground. I’m not sure but what he wasn’t a little bit off this weekend, since I remember that he usually kicks as well as jumps, but nothing can take away from those boys’ achievement. My hat is off to both of them.

In addition, we got to watch what has to have been the best short-round bull pen I’ve seen all year. The results of the short-go, in which only five riders managed to stay aboard, confirmed my growing suspicion that the bull draft is now a elimination tool, since the guys who pick first pick the relatively easy bulls, and the guys who pick last have no chance, none, of staying on for eight seconds. And this was one rank bunch of bulls. I couldn’t ask for any better.

Next, we had Chris Shivers winning the event, his first event-win of the season. Shivers is walking proof of the axiom that you can’t beat consistency—he had three 86 point scores before he blew the top out on Buckeye in the short-round with a 91.75. Marchi had two 90+ scores and two down in the 84 point level, and ended up two points behind Shivers. J.B. finished the event in third, which had to feel pretty good after his recent stretch of bad riding.

But the big news is that Guilherme Marchi is now less than 400 points behind Lostroh in the run for the world championship, and J.B. Mauney, who got bucked off a string of bulls before he finally got his act together weekend before last in Omaha, is just a little less than 1,100 points back in third place. I’m certain that these developments are what caused Lostroh to announce on Monday that he’s going to try to persuade his doctors to let him ride with his injured arm in a brace for the next two events, since riding right-handed turned out to be harder than he thought it would. I’m betting Lostroh’s doctors, who have to take the long view, won’t be very happy about the suggestion.

It was just about perfect—a close, hard-fought contest that left me tired and breathless and happy when it was done. Yes, folks, I have to ask—what else does that remind you of? Is there any better way to start the work week?

Oh, the Things that We Learn in Times Like These

Sometimes it seems like Brian Canter just can't catch a break. His triumph at the Bass Pro Shows Shoot-out in Omaha last weekend, which was a long time coming and most definitely well deserved, has been somewhat overshadowed by the nasty pounding Brendon Clark took when Black Smoke threw him and then tried, and nearly succeeded, in stomping his guts out. I guess I'm at least as bad as everybody else on this score, because though I am genuinely happy that Canter is back in a big way, it's Clark's story that I've been following on the PBR website all week.

It looks now like Clark may be out of the Creighton University Hospital and on his way home to California by the end of this week. Doubtless he owes his rapid improvement to the bull fighters, who dashed in there to get the bull off him, to Tandy Freeman and his medical crew, who hustled in, assessed the situation, and got him out of the arena and to the hospital without delay, and to the doctors and nurses at Creighton, which also happens to be a first-rate trauma center. If there were ever a patient suffering from trauma, it has to have been Clark, who arrived at the ER with a lacerated liver, bruised lungs, and several broken ribs, spitting up blood and barely able to breathe. It also didn't hurt that Clark is in good physical shape--if he hadn't had such core body strength, his injuries might have been even more serious. Oh, and the vest. Never underestimate the protective qualities of the vest, which helped to spread the pressure from the bull's feet out over a wider area, just as a Kevlar vest simultaneously stops a bullet and spreads the impact out.

Still, I was interested to see that the "friend" who raced to Omaha when she got word of Clark's injury wasn't Anna Hunt, of bucking-bull-breeding fame, but one Allison Renz. Almost equally interesting is the fact that Ross Coleman called her with the news. This pretty much tells me that the "glamorous power couple," who were featured on 60 Minutes almost exactly two years ago, is a couple no more. I may be reading more into this than it deserves--I suppose Anna might be off at some bull breeder's convention in Kuala Lumpur and hasn't heard that her sweetie was mauled to within an inch of his life last Saturday night. But frankly, I doubt it.

All that remains for me to wonder at this point is whether Brendon Clark, who will be out of action for at least three months while he heals up, will follow the path of other badly injured PBR riders and drop off the face of the earth till he suddenly appears back on the BFTS circuit. Let me remind you that we never hear anything anymore about Lee Akin, who suffered a serious brain injury back in 2006, or about Paulo Crimber, who broke his neck last summer and pretty much hasn't been seen or heard from since. If I hadn't stumbled across that episode of CW's In Harm's Way last October, I most likely still wouldn't know that at that point, Paulo's doctors were giving him a less than 1 percent chance of ever riding a bull again.

In my most cynical minutes, I wonder whether this isn't deliberate--after all, it's a safe bet that nobody at PBR headquarters wants to keep reminding people how dangerous the sport is. In my slightly less cynical minutes, I suspect that it's a policy by neglect--the riders and the brass don't like to think about it, so they don't talk about it, and the fans are left to glean what little information they can from other sources.

All this flies in the face of the outpouring of support that Brendon Clark has gotten from the public and the riders. As Ross Coleman told him a day or so ago, “We’re brothers. That’s what we do for each other.” I don't doubt that's the case, but I do wish the PBR would update us more regularly about the status of those of our brothers who are out of our sight, but never out of our thoughts.

The Return of the Native Son

Aside from the (predictable, but predictably irritating) overhyping of Kody Lostroh’s presence there, the story most obviously emerging at the Nile Invitational was the return of Flint Rasmussen to the arena. Flint had missed four events while he recovered from a mild heart attack in March. We attended the second night of the event, and there Flint was in his new white jersey, kicking up the dust.

His performance was definitely less energetic than we were used to seeing, and featured a lot more talk and a lot less action. Gone was the high-speed, impossibly kinetic dancing, the running up the stadium steps into the nose-bleed section, the charging around in the dirt like a maniac five-year-old on speed. In place of all that, we heard a bunch of jokes about his medical condition and treatment, the changes in his exercise regime, and his new diet. Probably the most interesting moment came when Travis Briscoe bucked off Big Mack and threw a small temper tantrum as he stalked out of the arena, which apparently he followed up with a bigger temper tantrum as he stalked down the hall to the locker room. Said Flint: “Boys, remember the movie Footloose? From now on when you fall off a bull, don’t stress! Dance!”

I really wish he were in a position to take his own advice, because as much as I wish Flint well, I didn’t particularly enjoy his performance Saturday night. My disinterest had nothing to do, really, with the lower energy level—I really just don’t find the man particularly funny, and there was a lot more that reminded me of how un-funny I find him. The low point was definitely when he donned a fake-fur coat and climbed up on the shark cage to sing a parody of Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long”—arguably the dumbest rap song ever written, right down to the opening riff that sounds like it was lifted right out of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Kid Rock is way overrated and Flint’s choice didn’t do anything to elevate my opinion of his taste. Just a sample of the lyrics: “Drinking Jack out of the bottle/Have a heart attack tomorrow.” Get the picture?

The evening had its moments, of course. One sweet turn transpired when Flint asked to have the spotlight turned on a group of fans in the middle level of the arena. There they were, all the way from Hungry Horse, Montana—damned near a seven-hour drive—decked out in their Flint outfits and holding up their “We ♥ F-L-I-N-T” signs. Even if I can’t fully appreciate his performance, I can certainly join those folks in heartily wishing him a complete and uneventful recovery.

Dear Guilherme

I want to apologize for failing to keep my promise to shake your hand at the Nile Invitational in Billings last weekend. I am genuinely sorry that Montana Barn Cat and I didn’t get to meet you. We had been looking forward to it for a long time.

One of our problems, quite frankly, is you weren’t scheduled for any public appearances during the day on Saturday. I really do wonder what that is all about. It seems like every year, the PBR trots out the same crew in Billings—-Chris Shivers, Mike White, Mike Lee, Ross Coleman, and Brendon Clark. I won’t say “the same old broken-down crew,” because I have no call to insult any of those guys, but still, you get my drift. This year they did manage to add Robson Palermo and Valderon to the line-up at Shipton’s Big R, but you were nowhere to be seen. Reese Cates also was at the Boot Barn, but sadly, we had made a lunch date with some friends we haven’t seen in a long time that conflicted with both his and Robson’s appearance, so we didn’t get to meet either of them. I really wanted to ask Reese about that van, too.

I have to confess I’m totally mystified as to why the PBR folks didn’t have you prominently on display sometime during the day. You are, after all, the reigning world champion! Are they afraid of your accent? Are they afraid of your charisma? What’s going on here?

Something else did raise its ugly head during the competition on Saturday night, and I sincerely hope that it doesn’t mean what I, in my worst moments, suspect. For some reason, Kody Lostroh rode Soulja Boy, the last bull in the next-to-last flight, rather than at the end of the evening, as usually befits the event leader. As a Kody-Lostroh-rides-a-spinner experience goes, it was okay, but it was most certainly not a 91-point ride, not by any stretch of the imagination. The only conclusion I could draw was that the judges were trying to score Lostroh high enough to guarantee he’d win the round, even though five top contenders were yet to come. Your ride on Why Not Minot, which is the bottom picture, was way better than Lostroh’s, but what did you get? A measly 86.25! Just take a look at this picture, at the top, that Montana Barn Cat took, about five seconds into Lostroh’s ride. This is what a 91-point ride looks like, Guilherme! Yes, you're right! It looks exactly like a bull’s ass!

Now, ordinarily, I would have to excuse myself from this discussion because I am completely in your corner, and thus might not be the most objective person to talk to on the subject, but what really convinced me that Lostroh is being favored is the fact that Zack Brown, who literally got his guts stomped out at the Metra in 2005, and who came back out of retirement to win the event there last year, got practically NO acknowledgment from the announcers. That was bad enough, but I was mortified that the crowd didn’t seem to remember him, either. Between you and me, if you don’t repeat as champion this season, I am rooting for Zack. As far as I’m concerned, he has all the goods.

So all in all, the experience of the Nile was a mixed bag for us this year. Our seats were marginally better than last year, but we were stuck at the end of the row, next to a barrier, which meant we couldn’t get out without crawling over about nine other people, so we regretfully passed on the beer. With the exceptions of Apache Leap, Wrangler Big Rig, Unabomber, and Husker’s Terror, the bulls in the go-round really weren’t very good, but the cowboys kept falling off left and right anyway, so I guess I really can’t complain too much about that.

Our single biggest mistake, however, was that we raced out to the parking lot right after the event was over—and sat there for one hour, count them, 60 minutes, before we managed to get out off the Metra grounds and headed back to the interstate. We were in a rush because the restaurant we wanted to try closes at 10 p.m., but as it worked out, we would have been better off to have stayed and shaken your hand during the autograph session. We won’t do that again, I assure you. If you’re back next season, we will stick it out to meet you, come hell or high water. That’s a promise.

Dreaming of Billings

Dear friends, I write to you today as one who has her eyes fixed firmly on the prize, the Nile Invitational in Billings, Montana. This weekend Montana Barn Cat and I will saddle up our hosses and point them east, where we will land overnight in a free hotel room (courtesy of the millions of not-free hotel rooms we stayed in back during the Flood of '08), eat indigestible objects and wash them down with huge quantities of beer and hard liquor, and then toddle, weaving a bit in our high-heeled cowboy boots, down the long concrete staircase at the Metra to the Saturday night event.

All is in readiness here. We have the animal-sitting routine lined out for the youngster who will be charged with their care, the car gassed up--hell, we're even almost packed. This will be our third trip to Billings to witness firsthand the semi-organized chaos that is a live PBR event. We hope to see a bunch of Chad Berger bulls, especially Big Tex, and we hope to get to talk to some of our favorite riders, especially Guilherme Marchi. We've come close on a couple of occasions, but always before that weird tongue-tied shyness has overtaken us. Not this time, sez I. This time, it's shake the man's hand, or bust.

You could certainly make the case that Billings, Montana, is one of the least attractive cities of its size anywhere, and if you further suggested that it's one of the stinkiest, you'd get no argument from me. What with the flat, prairie-like terrain, relieved only by the Rims lurching abruptly skyward at the north edge of town, and the three or four oil refineries belching out huge clouds of hydrocarbons, you'd be hard pressed to find another contender. But I have my reasons for loving Billings. If you dropped by here in April of last year, no doubt I bored you senseless with my two-part rhapsody on the subject. In many ways, I count that long-ass post as the true beginning of this blog. On our return, I will bring you the best observations I am capable of, and this time, I promise, there will be pictures, too!

Saddle up, Barn Cat! It's time to head east. See y'all round the Stockyard next week.

Yes, I've Sold Out

Folks, you've doubtless noticed that suddenly advertisements are showing up on "Turn Him Out!" Yes, I must confess, I've signed up for Google Ads. I seriously doubt that I'll see any revenues to speak of, probably not enough to buy me a cup of coffee, but maybe it will help assuage my conscience for putting in time here that might be better spent elsewhere.

On the other hand--where could I possibly better spend my time? When I read the Zonkboard and your comments, I feel like I am being lifted up by a host of angels. I wish I could gather you all up and deposit you in my living room some Saturday night, and serve you snacks and drinks while we whoop and holler and yell at the tv set and offer up our unvarnished opinions on the bulls and the riders and (gulp!) the judges. But until such a moment arrives, wherever you are, laissez les bons temps rouler!