Friday, October 29, 2010


Friends and neighbors, while we are awaiting the Divine S’s immortal report about her on-the-ground experiences at the PBR World Finals, and preparatory to what will doubtless be a deluge of philosophical ponderings about the sport during the break, I want to say a few words about the way it played out in the living room of our lovely home during the broadcasts.

First up, I should tell you that Montana Barn Cat and I had fully intended to go to Vegas for the finals this year—until I learned that the only seats available were up in the nosebleed sections. I even went so far as to CALL THE BOX OFFICE, which is, as you most certainly know, unheard of in these days of online shopping. The very kind gentleman I spoke with me assured me that I could get floor seats IF I bought them for ALL FIVE DAYS. One of the reasons we had never gone to the finals before was that we hated the idea of being stuck in Vegas for 10 days, and the prospect of dialing that back to five was not quite enticing enough to lure us out there.

Nevertheless, since she had been to the finals before, I consulted with S, who told me that the PBR mostly gives tickets for the floor seats to sponsors, many of whom don’t even show up. That was when we decided that for once, we really COULD see it better on TV than in person.

Second, we were not disappointed—this was by far the most exciting finals either of us has witnessed. It had everything—a close race for the title, great rides, terrible wrecks, bulls that bucked like their lives depended on it, newcomers who wickedly threw spanners into the works, and old hands who enjoyed a brief revival of their glory days. We were absolutely limp by the time Silvano Alves and McKennon Wimberly hoisted Renato onto their shoulders and carried him, wrapped in the Brazilian flag, around the arena.

But as we all know to our sorrow, into every life some rain must fall, so I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that we experienced some lows as well as highs. And being the cranky miscreants that we are, of course those lows were greeted with shouts of dismay and horror. Because we would not want anybody to think that every day with the PBR is all unicorns and rainbows, we are reporting here a few of the observations made in our living room over that long stretch.

In an effort to not completely turn you all away from us forever, we must issue some disclaimers: First, some of this stuff is just pretty damned crude, so be forewarned. Do not read this if you are easily upset by the profane and the vulgar. Second, we cannot entirely conceal the identities of those that some of these remarks were aimed at, but we freely acknowledge that no doubt some of them are completely wrong and possibly unfair. Third, because we so love and respect one another (and because we need to cover one another's butts), we are adopting the method of Pierre and Marie Curie, who, when they were forced in their lab reports to distinguish between themselves, wrote, “One of us.” Here goes.

On seeing the leather-clad babes come in to give Michael Gaffney a congratulatory kiss for his predictions: “Their names are Cash and Tiffany? They should be ‘Cash’ or ‘Credit Card.’”

When one of us wondered what the winner of the fantasy contest was praying about after the truck started, the other replied: “Thank you, Lord, for helping me win this truck. Now I can haul my meth to town.”

On watching Justin McBride, backed by a fiddler, a bass guitarist, a steel guitarist, a drummer, and TWO other guitarists, mangle a Chris Le Doux song beyond all recognition: “Chris LeDoux must be about to rise from the dead and hogtie that boy.” Addendum: I presume one of those was the lead guitarist and the second was playing rhythm guitar, which just shows how really awfully McBride must play if he can’t even do a decent job on rhythm guitar. Trained monkeys can do it competently.

On hearing a commentator wax eloquent about the skills of a, er, washed-up rider who should have retired years ago: “The longer they’ve been on the tour, the harder the PBR types will _____ their _____.”

On watching yet another infantile display by a rider who had just been bucked off: One of us: "I am going to drive to wherever he lives, slap him senseless, slap his entire family senseless, slap his dog senseless, bulldoze his house, set fire to the rubble, and sow the soil with salt."

On watching the Rockstar girl strut around the arena in her leather outfit, waving her 90-point ride placard: “If you score 95, does she take her top off?”

That’s it for now. See you back here soon for S’s reports.

1 comment:

Shawk said...

Oh, the Rockstar girl. She was probably so excited to have something to do-- at least 97% of the time she stood forlornly in the middle of a freshly raked arena, a sad, crooked trail of cowboy boot prints behind her, waiting to be able to raise the placard we could barely see from the nosebleed seats.