The Bull Diaries, Episode Two

Friends and neighbors, this has been a dreadful week around the Stockyard, what with our devastating disappointment in the coverage of Tulsa and our consequent lackluster enthusiasm for the Edmonton event. Hard on the heels of all that came the news that cute little Brian Canter, whom the Stockyard Queen could probably rope, throw, and brand with one hand tied behind her back, was seriously injured during the first PBR Shootout in Paso Robles, California. Fortunately, it turned out that the wreck looked way worse than it was, but knowing that it's coming hardly makes me want to rush down to see the dreadful deed enacted this Sunday.

So just to top off the week in the style in which it began, I offer up Mr. SoCal Jay's description of the big PBR viewing at The Deer Lodge last Sunday. My dear colleagues, read it and weep.

Episode Two: Our hero walks into a terrible wilderness.

I guess I should’ve known it wasn’t gonna work out when I couldn’t attach my spurs to my flip-flops, no matter how hard I tried.

But other than that, I was ready, Freddy, to watch my first PBR event on the telly. (Montana Barn Cat had arranged the viewing at The Deer Lodge, here in Ojai, California.) Had my photographer/bodyguard, Wink, and my angel/wife, Pam, in tow. Had a printout of the draw/results from the “Express Classic” in Tulsa folded up in my back pocket. Within ten minutes, we’d secured a prime spot for viewing at the corner of the bar. The bartender had a crummy-looking goat roper hat on, and one of three TVs over the bar was Right There. Open pit BBQ outside. Things were coming together quite nicely. . . .

Ten minutes later, as visions of “Booger Butt” butt-busting a cowboy danced through my head, we still hadn’t been visited by the bartender. Turns out it was his very first shift as a barkeep, and he was having troubles. (Nice guy. But he needs more training, or another line of work.) We placed our food orders, then I asked, “Would it be possible to put on the ‘Versus’ channel? It’s bull riding.” He replied, “Any idea what channel number it is?” No, I didn’t. (Most bars, I thought, had satellite service. We don’t have that at our house.) “Well,” he said, “let’s see if we can find it.” He reached up, and started clicking from channel to channel. Watching the channel numbers go by, I noticed he had the same service we did. Which is to say, not much. Then, maybe halfway through his heroic search, he was interrupted by other bartenderly duties.

A while later, as a vision of “Woodpecker Lips” ripping the lips off some cowpoke played in my head, we asked him to resume his search. “If you can find the bulls,” I said, “there’s an easy five bucks for ya.” Wink thought that to be an absurd, reckless proposition, but I’ve spent more for less.

Going up and back through the channels, no bulls. He then checked with a waitress wearing a black Stetson at the end of the bar. I happen to know she’s worked at The Deer Lodge for a year or so. Coming back, he said, “Unless it’s on basic cable, we don’t have it. Sorry.”

So that was that, I figured, except for our meal. But midway through my pulled-pork sandwich, I thought: “What about ‘Que Time’? They advertise: “Make us your favorite sports bar!” It was only five o’clock. Still an hour left in the broadcast. And they were only a block from home!

So we went home to throw in another load of Wink’s laundry (long story), and I called “Que Time.” Did they get Versus? “What’s the channel number?” “I don’t know. Aren’t you guys satellite?” “No. We’re cable, and if it costs extra, we don’t get it.”

Well, I get it. Ojai has many attributes, but cutting-edge technology at beer bars and barbecue joints and my own barn ain’t one of 'em.

So it goes, I guess. If you get bucked off, you pick yourself up out of the dirt and try again, eh? And what’s that old saying? Something like: “All things come to he who waits.” I’ll wait. It’ll happen. I’ve got an iron or two in the fire.

Meanwhile, out back after yesterday’s wreck, I’m looking over the printout, sipping on a beer with Pam and Wink. It’s hot out there, but not too. “Ah,” I say. “'Scene of the Crash.’ You know who owns that bull?” They both look at me like I’m the stupidest person on earth to ask such a question. My mind ain’t all that sharp these days, so I say, “Who’s the guy with the Scotch in his hand, on the ‘Blue Collar Tour’?” Wink says, “Ron White!” I say, “Yeah. That’s him. And that’s HIS bull.” They both answer, essentially, “No way!”

“Way,” I say. “I don’t really know this stuff, yet, but I’ve seen clips of him online. To me, anyway, he’s one bad-ass bull.”

Then, over more beers and cheap wine and the last two inches of Jack Daniel’s and Pam and Wink trying to hit a ping-pong ball into the fountain from the porch with a golf club to win a nickel—first one in, wins--it got weird.

- Jay