"Turn Him Out!": a PBR Fansite

I Wish I Knew How to Quit You, Sacramento

2012-02-04T12:31:00.000-08:00

Our intrepid reporter S. has braved the wilds of Sacramento, and emerged to bring us the following post and photos!

Actually, I did quit Sac ra mento back in 2010, and with initial trepidation turning quickly into infatuation, transferred my love to Fresno. Let us compare: Sacramento has bad traffic, controversy (the Kasey Hayes helmet incident, the Mauney/Jacoby/scoring fiasco), few fan activities, and incredibly lame bull pens (culminating with the year that Mike Lee probably filled a whole flight by himself with repetitive goes on really poor re-ride bulls); Fresno had Amtrak, pleasant events, lots of fan activities, and good to great bull pens. So it figures that after two years of happiness with Fresno, the PBR, in all their wisdom, drew up the schedule for 2012 and Fresno was not on it, forcing our break-up.

So what to do to get a PBR fix? It was off into the bad traffic crawling slowly toward the Powerbalance Pavilion. Although I would have really loved to have seen the inaugural 15/15 (and Asteroid!), it wasn't to be, for a variety of reasons, so Sunday was the day. After grabbing subs nearby so we could avoid the usual gross nachos, we arrived in good time. I had been hoping against hope that there would be more fan events (or even early entry) than the sad three or four sponsor-affiliated signings listed on the website, but surprise, surprise, there weren’t. I was, however, quite chuffed to see Chad Berger at the Cooper Tires booth with Austin Meier, since this boded well for the bull power at the event. Plus, he cheerfully stuck a Cooper Tires sticker on my hat, because you have to have a sponsor, apparently.

There was then a delightful interlude where we couldn’t get a day sheet for any price. The people at the merchandise booth said that the ushers had them, the ushers said they’d run out. I managed to get two from a nice man at the help desk, but he said not to tell anyone where I got them since he didn’t have very many; I ended up giving one of the copies to the people in front of me, who also didn’t get any when they arrived. I don’t understand this. How do you not have enough day sheets? Don’t they know how many tickets have been sold? Couldn't they print that many and a few more for day-of ticket sales?

Even if they don’t want to risk over-printing a lot of color day sheets, is it really too much to ask to have some black and white photocopies around? I find the day sheets extremely helpful as far as cataloging my photos, not to mention that it is invaluable when the in-arena announcers fail to mention the name of a bull. Why is getting a simple program to go along with your ticket such a fiasco each time?

Speaking of announcer failures, there was a moment with the Wrangler Best-Dressed Fan of the Night that made me roll my eyes. The fan was a little boy (of course), who got the whole “girlfriend” spiel from Flint. Somewhere in here, the kid revealed that he had four cats, all of which were named after bull riders (notably, one was named Skeeter). One of the in-arena announcers busted out with, “Get that boy a dog!” and then they all went on about that for a bit (of course the dog had to be named Flint). Really? What are we talking about here? Were they implying that cats are for girls and dogs are for boys? I know they have to pass the time somehow, but a little thought before speaking into a microphone might be nice.

And, I suppose while we are on the topic of things that annoyed me at the event, the Stanley Stud Finder has not gotten any more tasteful since I saw it first at the World Finals in 2010 (and this is setting aside the fact that Stanley’s definition of a “stud” definitely diverges from mine). The ad with Douglas Duncan, Adriano Moraes, Guilherme Marchi, et al., is somewhat amusing, because it is tongue-in cheek (plus we get a classic Adriano eye roll).

But listen up, geniuses over at Stanley and the PBR: I am a woman. I use tools — shocking, I know. I just bought a house that was a foreclosure, and it has lots of deferred maintenance. Out of PBR loyalty (since very few PBR sponsors are aimed at my demographic so I don't have the opportunity very often), unless there was a huge price difference, I have been purchasing Stanley and DeWalt brands, but this Stud Finder nonsense is not encouraging me to continue. Newsflash! Women use screwdrivers, glass scrapers, needle-nosed pliers, and even power drills, and to have the in-arena announcers sound off about how this promotion is for men only, and women “can help” is just condescending. It's not that I don't get the whole "stud finder" gag and why they do it the way they do, but it's really not my favorite.

Maybe I was already touchy, since being obliged to watch the livestream video of events on the live event center if I want to see half the events at all means that I am forced to see all the in-arena interactions; these sometimes are amusing but other times, not so much. The other week, a woman won the “shooting rubber-tipped arrows at plastic buck” contest, and there was all sorts of crowing about how the losing man needed to turn in his hunting card because he got beaten by a girl. Must we go there? I think the plastic bow I used at summer camp when I was 9 was harder to draw than the ones used in this contest, and shooting fake arrows at a plastic buck is hardly an activity that gives men a huge advantage. I might be being especially humorless about all this, but watching the LEC means that I am hearing this stuff all the time and it’s wearing me down—Craig Hummer comes out with some doozies, but usually they aren’t of this nature. At least this time we were spared any comments about Mesa Pate being, dear heavens, A GIRL.

In Sacramento, we were subjected to the plastic buck, but we weren’t subjected to jousting (probably because the arena is so small), so I guess there’s that. Also, being there live meant that we weren’t assaulted with “Get Off on the Pain” or the yelling of R. Lee Ermey as in the past. And hurrah, the cheesy voice-over woman is gone, although the “Warning, warning!” still remains. At least we have the flaming bull heads to console us. The seats were decent and for once, the audience around me was great, except for the lady a few rows down and over who felt the need to whirl a towel above her head whenever Flint did something “funny” or

someone she liked was riding. Which would have been annoying no matter what, but as she was directly in my line of sight to the chutes, that was quite problematic.

Since I’m apparently on a tear, I’ll move on to Flint. Flint actually was pretty toned down (for him) at this event, but there was some really unfortunate interactions with the 90-year-old future Fan of the Night. Grandma Mary had a sign in front of her that said, "Cowboy Butts Make Grandma Nuts." (I think the younger female relatives sitting near her came up with that, since she didn't seem all that interested in any butts, including Flint's). Flint, of course, latched right on to this, and at one point, ended up doing some horrifying lap-dance type thing for the stone-faced Grandma Mary. There are no words. The tribute might have been funky, but we can all aspire to be walking down flights of stairs to sit in the front row for bull riding when we're 90 years old!

Anyway, those quibbles aside, the positive! The National Anthem was sung in an entirely straightforward way, which I always appreciate. The bull pen, with an assist from Chad Berger and Mesa Pate, was much better than any I’ve seen in Sacramento in the past. Will James in particular was quite impressive in person. The new InvinciBull helmets are kind of freaky-looking (especially Colby Yates’ Jason face mask one), but I’m all for anything that makes the guys safer. We were mostly spared injuries, and that always makes any event better.

What didn’t make the event better was how angry Guilherme Marchi was with his weekend's performance. I’ve been following the sport for years, and I’ve rarely seen Guilherme have as poor a weekend as this, or respond so poorly to a buck off. Not that he was out of line, but it was depressing to see him struggling and frustrated. Hopefully he gets his mojo back soon.

What also did not make the event better was the epidemic of chin seaweed, lip scruff and mountain man beards. There’s nothing wrong with facial hair, but a little maintenance goes a long way, guys! And believe me, it looks just as frightening in person as it does on the TV, if not more so.

However, it was delightful to see Ryan Dirteater get back into the groove, and to see Silvano Alves in the short go, despite his “conservative” choices in the past. Only time will tell if Silvano's strategy is the right one, but he seems to think it's the right one for him, and I'm kind of tired of hearing the commentators rag on him for it.

Cord McCoy is also a revelation so far this season—I wasn’t sure he had it in him, but I knew I’d miss that smiling redhead if he was gone, so for many reasons it’s great to see him doing well. Jory Markiss, well, the strutting and skeet shooting are fine when you do amazingly well at one of your first events, but they won’t be so cute after a few events, assuming he can keep it up. It's nice to see some new blood who can run with the pack, though, and we'll see where Markiss goes from here.

Marco Eguche, our champ—how can you not like a cowboy with a cowlick who looks twelve? He seems remarkably self-possessed and since there seems to have been some questionable scoring regarding him in the past, I was more than happy to see him crowned (buckled) our champion.

Since the PBR declined to provide us any fan events, and Ford had managed to sabotage the one picture with Ryan Dirteater I'd managed to get between his many unfortunate injuries, we did stage an impromptu photo session of our own. Ryan was obliging, as always. I hope he has an injury-free year where he can really show what he can do. And as always, it was amusing to see the cowboys try to figure out how to sign stress balls and people's iPhone cases, and deal with the shrieking younger female fans and who knows what the heck else. And, Renato Nunes continues to remember me as the one who gave him the drawing, so that was gratifying.

So, while it certainly wasn't Fresno, I guess I’d have to say that while I still miss Fresno terribly, Sacramento isn’t an entirely horrible ex to get together with for one weekend. And since I've got a house to maintain now and may not be going to the Finals or other events, at least this one had a good bull pen, a decent audience, and gracious cowboys. The PBR can screw up a lot of stuff, but so far, they haven't managed to screw up my overall enjoyment.

Just Say No to Nostalgia

2012-01-30T07:58:00.000-08:00

Howdy, friends and neighbors! I anticipate we may enjoy a guest report on the Sacramento event a little later this week, but ever since the event in Portland, something has been eating on me, and I decided I might as well let it rip.

First off, I want you all to take note that I have not ranted about J. W. Hart in a good long while—as a matter of fact, the last time anybody at the Stockyard complained about him at any length was back in August 2009, when Sir Alexander MacKenzie commandeered the computer to demand that JDub be shown the door. So I guess maybe it's time Mr. Hart took a bow on his way to the woodshed, because that's where I'm taking him.

I am absolutely sick to death of hearing JDub insist that the guys whom he competed against who are still on the PBR tour can ride as well or better this second than the cowboys who are currently at the top of the heap. I will grant you that Chris Shivers has shown us some great stuff so far this season, but seriously—Sean Willingham? Isn't that the dude that JDub himself ripped a new one last season because he couldn't ride a stick horse? Mike Lee? Really? Yeah, he's ridden a few this year, but does anybody with two eyes and any sense at all really believe that Mike is riding as well as Silvano or Valdiron?

And for damned sure I don't want to hear one more word about Brendan Clark or Ross Coleman or any of the others who have either been cut or have finally come to their senses and retired. It's embarrassing enough that those guys are being trotted out to drive the Ford F-150 around in those lovely infomercials we are treated to each week. Some newer fans probably have never even HEARD of half the guys JDub keeps praising to the skies. For their sakes and ours, John—give it a rest.

Of course, JDub isn't the only such sinner—his best bud Justin McBride is at least as guilty. Say what you will about how crazy Ty Murray makes me with his endless bull riding clinics during the broadcasts, but he, at least, seems to be looking at the current field and assessing their riding reasonably well.

It all comes down to this—nostalgia is a useless exercise for a sport that is scrambling, at this point, to hold its own, let alone bring in new fans. New riders come onto the PBR tour all the time, sometimes from one week to the next, as witness the astonishing performance in Sacramento of young Mr. Marco Eguche.

Those who are running the PBR need to look forward, not backward, on every single front—I have a strong suspicion that this mess with the broadcasts is a perfect example of the boss dogs not paying attention to something that in hindsight was perfectly obvious—and they would do well to advise those who are the public faces of the operation to do likewise.

Shannon Concludes!

2012-01-21T07:23:00.000-08:00

Finally, I offer up a few observations.

Flint

-Every year, his show gets smaller and smaller. I'm not sure if it's because of health issues or something else, but it's certainly nothing like it was a few years ago (it's even less than what it was right after his heart attack).

-Am I crazy, or is misogyny alive and well within the confines of the PBR? Not with the "rides like a girl" comments or the "girls can't ride at this level" comments, but has anyone ever been to an event where Flint's fan of the night has been a woman? Or has the best dressed award ever gone to a little girl wearing wranglers, a button-up shirt, and cowboy hat? Because I have yet to witness that. Oh, and while I'm discussing it: I wouldn't be surprised if one day, the Rock Star girl showed up in body paint just to see how long it would take people to notice. And, of course, the Jack Daniels girls were back, although this year, they were wearing flat cowboy boots. Yet, they still teetered on the dirt. Really, girls--heel, toe, heel, toe....I've been on that dirt in boots, it's not that hard to walk on.

-On the up side, Flint did make one remark that I had to pass on: He said that he really appreciated Valdiron's honesty. That when he asked other riders if they are okay, he gets, "Yeah, I'm fine," but when he asks Valdiron, he gets "No." I like the honesty, too.

The rides

Not much to comment on here, really, except for these three things.

-Astroid is amazing to see in person!

-Renato got hit so hard, I was sure he'd be unconscious, but he got up and walked away. What a tough guy!

-As exciting as Guilherme's rides and wins were, Justin Koon has my vote for the ride of Sunday night. I didn't even need to see it up close and on replay via the tv. It was that incredible watching how he just stuck to it, hung on, and worked hard for that buzzer.

Fans and riders

It's always interesting for me to sit back and watch the fans, as well as riders' reactions to them. This year, while the kids were getting autographs, I figured I had every one I really cared to have this time around, so I just sat and listened. There were the typical reactions from both, but while watching Ryan Dirteater both nights, taking a lot of time with everyone who wanted to talk to him (and there were a lot), I reflected on just how patient they have to be and how I don't blame some of them for not really wanting to deal with it (although I do appreciate the ones who suck it up and do). For Ryan, I wondered how especially uncomfortable the moments are, like on the dirt Saturday night when one male fan was taking a picture of his girlfriend with Ryan and, attempting a joke, said awkwardly, "Just keep your hands to yourself." Sheesh! Poor Ryan! I'm sure some riders can handle that well, but to say it to Ryan? Talk about not knowing your audience.

Then we got a big eye-rolling kick out of the two girls who, with almost every rider who passed by, would say "Wait! Are you married? No? You're cute, how old are you?", and then would hand them their phone numbers. Boy, did that give us something to talk to the kids about on the way home! Some of the riders ate it up, of course, but others didn't seem to care.

So, with my live events out of the way for the year, I find myself wondering how I'm going to approach next year. Should I bother with the fan club membership again? Should we save money and try for the chute seats? Oh, we'll go—it's fun and a tradition now, but I am mulling over a few things. Until then, I'm looking forward to seeing just who clenches the victory this year.

Shannon Speaks!

2012-01-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

Folks, The Stockyard Queen is proud to present the first of two installments of the Divine Shannon's report on the Anaheim Invitational last weekend. Next post will be up tomorrow morning, so drop back to check out the rest of her observations!

Just When You Start Thinking, "You've Seen One Show, You've Seen 'Em All. . . ."

After we spent a ridiculous $645 on six tickets, our weekend arrangements were this: Date night for me and my husband at Saturday's round, then a family day for Sunday's round.

Rick and I arrived in Anaheim early so we could enjoy a nice dinner before heading to the arena, because if we were going to spend $50 or more on food, it was going to be a good meal with waiter/waitress service. We figured since there is a nice variety of restaurants right across the street from the host hotel, we might as well park there, venture through the lobby, and out the front door. Before we even parked the car, we saw what appeared to be the cab of a trailer. It was really cool. We parked by it for a closer look just as Rocky McDonald stepped around to the driver's side. We commented on the truck and asked how many miles to the gallon it got. When he said, "12," it hit home just how much it costs in gas alone to haul bulls to an event. After talking to him for a minute, we were on our way. (If I may be allowed a bit of fan-girliness here: His eyes are so dreamy!!)

We chose Outback Steakhouse and were pretty much glued to the TV sets over the bar where one hell of a play off game was being played between the San Francisco 49ers and the New Orleans Saints. They still had some time left when we walked back through the lobby of the hotel and, since the lobby TV was on that game, we joined a few fans standing in front of it. Within minutes of us stopping, Colby Yates and Harve Stewart (fellow Saints fans) strolled up and began watching it with us. So engaged in the game was Colby that, when the Saints pulled ahead with 1:30 minutes remaining, he asked if his cab driver could wait. We had a nice chat with both guys (and a few quick comments with Guilherme when he passed by), until the game was over. The 49ers pulled out a TD with only nine seconds left, eliciting some groans among the two of us and Colby, although we did agree that it was a great game.

With a few more minutes left, I sat down on that famous lobby couch while Rick stepped away for a moment, and who should appear but Robson Palermo! I was very confused at first, looking at him blankly, then finally shaking myself out of the fog, saying "Robson?" He nodded, then walked over and sat down. We had a great chat about his daughter, whom he obviously adores, his desire to wait until he's fully recuperated to return, no matter how hard it is to sit around, and McKennon's trip to Brazil. (Apparently, McKennon still gets dizzy spells and is having a hard time with his left side. However, he is not only very determined, but was also extremely helpful on the ranches in Brazil.) Robson had to leave a few minutes after Rick got back, and then we were on our way.

The first thing we noticed while walking along the concourse is the lack of giveaways this year. There didn't seem to be quite as many booths up and, of those that were, they weren't really giving away anything except fliers. Ariat still had the "win a pair of boots" contest and Rock Star was giving out hats and samples of their drinks, but beyond that, there wasn't much happening. (Rock Star is very good, btw. At 10 calories each, I'll be picking up a lemonade can whenever I'm exhausted and have no time for a nap!) Also, the "This flight is sponsored by" announcements have stopped, nor was there a big Armed Forces spectacle in the beginning of the show. I'm not exactly sure what to make of this--hard economic times? Is there some sort of shake-up in behind the scenes? Hmm....

Anyway, we met one of our PBR Fan Club friends and her husband, who mentioned that they might be able to get us up to join them for a few flights in the front row of the chute seats. We thanked her and moved to seats we paid for, and lo and behold, just a few minutes later, she texted me with "Meet us at ground level, section 224 NOW!" OMG--she got us in! We would have been grateful for just a flight or two, but were told by a very nice PBR employee that we could stay for the first five flights, but had to make our way back before the short round. Wow.

Wow, wow, wow. From the moment the event started, time stopped. Flint barely existed (although, part of that, which is the only complaint I have about the front row chute seats, is that the sound from up there sucked). I didn't even register most of the scores and at times whether or not someone rode or was bucked off. The activity, the explosiveness of the bulls coming out of the chutes...it just drew me into another world. The seats are very expensive and something I wouldn't do more than once, and that would only be if I was sure I could spare the money, but, imo, worth it. Now, I would NEVER pay for the second row. I heard complaints all night that you couldn't see the rides on the opposite side from where you were sitting, but we saw it all from the front row seats. We were very grateful for chance to experience it. However, the one thing I did not need to experience was just how dirty it could get. One bull sent some...atmosphere...flying and hit Skeeter right in the side of the face. He was obviously a bit grossed out, but seemed to handle it well. I guess if you're going to do this for a living, you have to ready for anything. Blech.

The night ended with a really disorganized trip down to the dirt. It's really not too exciting anymore since I've met most of the riders already, but since I paid for it, I was going to do it. After that, we met with the friends who got us into the seats, and then left for home.

Sunday, family day for us, brought much of the same, though, without the special surprise of chute seats. Still our seats were fantastic and we all had a great time. Nothing really out of the ordinary happened, except for a comment or two from the woman sitting next to me. It was her first BFTS event and she had won All Access tickets. She wasn't impressed. She said there were supposed to be riders on the tour, but none of them showed up and the food was so spicy she couldn't eat it, except for the soft pretzels. This is good to know in case I find myself looking at those tickets for next year.

Tomorrow, I will offer up some general observations about the event. Do come back and see us!

Losing My Heart Again

2012-01-20T08:04:00.000-08:00

We will proceed apace to the Divine Shannon's report on the Anaheim Invitational last weekend, but before we do, I want to draw your attention, please, to two stellar performers at that event.

As is his custom, that fine and divine bovine Charlie Bullware unloaded Ben Jones almost before Ben could take a seat, and then in his typical business-like fashion went looking for the out gate. Charlie is one of the rankest and most consistently overlooked bulls on the PBR tour. He has a 85.11% lifetime buck-off average, an average buck-off time of 4.54, and his record just keeps improving. He has been ridden just SEVEN TIMES since 2009, and if his debut performance in 2012 is any indication, he will keep laying the cowboys low for as long as he's bucking. I have a hunch that if Justin McKee had been in the house on Sunday, he might have said something about Charlie's contribution to the sport thus far.

The other is newcomer Grey Feathers, who had no use for Mike Lee and let that young upstart know about it almost instantly. He's so new to the tour that he isn't even listed on the PBR website--although now that I think about it, maybe that's no surprise.

And speaking of that, it's a sorry situation when a girl has to go a bull's Facebook page to actually get a look at him. But we have learned to our sorrow that if there's one thing you can always count on, it's that the PBR website will be baffling, awkward, and, when you finally get where you want to go, somewhere between adequate and useless. In Charlie's case, calling it "adequate" isn't even an option.

Well, Isn't That Special?

2012-01-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

First up, on the off chance that you haven't seen it already, here's the link an article that ran in People magazine last week about the PBR.

I thought you might particularly enjoy reading it (possibly for the second or third time) because it now appears that there will be NO broadcast of the PBR event in Anaheim on CBS Sports until Sunday. I've checked both the PBR website and my local listings, and that is the only conclusion I can draw.

Which brings me to the point of this post—I thought the move to CBS Sports was supposed to be big leap forward for the sport, but now I'm not so sure. First off, the coverage of the event started half an hour late last Saturday night because you can never depend on basketball players to get the game over within the allotted time, and now it is looking like we are going to be endlessly jerked around from one weekend to the next, trying to figure out where to tune in and when.

All this makes me wonder why the PBR forsook Versus in the first place. I sort of doubt that they are going to herd a whole bunch of new fans into the fold with this late-Saturday-night crap, although of course those of us in the western time zones won't fare as badly as our comrades on the East Coast or even the Midwest. I guess they can always hope that some rednecks will have passed out drunk on the couch in the early evening and will awaken to find that their basketball game is over, but hey! We see guys climbing on the backs of bulls! Must still be feeling that cheap tequila!

And for those of you who managed to watch the Friday night event last week on YouTube, I am truly happy for you, but I will not be joining you. I'm sure it's all because I tried to watch it on my laptop, but all I succeeded in doing was getting a migraine. I refuse to consider watching on my PC—I work on the damned thing about 60 hours a week, I have to work until 6 p.m. on Friday nights, and I am not going to sit in front of the computer for another second past that hour, thank you very much, not even for the PBR.

We are not starting off well, folks. First we have all this hassle with actually managing to SEE the events, and then when we do manage to see it—ye Gods and little fishes, Dakota Beck got smacked in the face and suffered a "through and through" laceration of his cheek, and then on Saturday night, what a horrible wreck Pistol Robinson got into. In hindsight, J.B. Mauney's recorded comment that his dad always told him to get up and walk out of the arena "unless you have two broken legs" seems like the worst possible coincidence, unless you, like Freud, believe there are no coincidences, and no accidents, either. If Freud had followed professional bull riding, he might have rethought that position some.

I suppose we should be grateful that it only took the PBR about four days to report that Pistol had undergone not one, but two, surgeries, that when he finally gets up, he'll be walking around on titanium rods and a double handful of screws in both legs, and that the surgeon reported that putting Pistol's left leg back together was like reassembling a jigsaw puzzle. I won't be the least bit surprised, though, if that's the last we hear about Pistol for at least a year, since, needless to say, he's out for the season.

So hightail it on over to the People website, folks, and get your (admittedly weakass) PBR fix for the next three days! That is, of course, unless you are braver than I am and are willing to wrestle with the new and improved LEC, where, as far as I can see, you can't see anything beyond the last five rides. Laissez les bon temps roulez!

And before I forget: Bring back Justin McKee!

It's Time to Ride

2012-01-03T15:31:00.000-08:00

Howdy, friends and neighbors! We are swabbing out the Stockyard, preparatory to a great year of bull riding. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life—you get the picture?

Considering everything we endured last season, it's a damned miracle I'm ready for the whole wonderful pageant to start all over again. We've had a bull doping scandal, we've had life-threatening injuries, we've had interviews by commentators and remarks by bull riders that were so dumb that we were ourselves struck dumb trying to figure out which end of the bull rope to pull on.

Right after the PBR finals, one of my loyal readers sent me a note, asking if I hadn't posted anything about the event because 1) I was too busy or 2) something had upset me and I was too pissed off about it to write yet. The answer, fortunately, was 1)—the end of the academic year is always a busy time for me, and this year seemed even more insane than usual.

Equally as fortunately, the answer was most definitely not 2). Watching the finals this year was a great experience—I could not possibly have asked for a more exciting series or a better outcome. Sure, there were at least a couple of nights when the bulls were subpar, and there were a lot of nights when the American riders were subpar, but all in all, it was a great finals.

In the interim, I have been mulling over some complaints from some of my readers that I am too prone to dwelling on the negatives about the PBR, and I have decided that 1) that's a load of bullshit and 2) I don't plan to change my ways. There's plenty to like about the PBR, but there's also plenty to gripe about, and I will never let it be said that I backed away from my obligations to help tote the load. If you want to read puffery about the PBR, there's always the PBR website. I'm sure they'll be happy to have you over there.

Which brings me to the point of this meandering post: The good, the bad, and the "haven't they learned a thing"? To wit:

1. We are starting a new season WITHOUT JUSTIN MCKEE, which is just a fucking atrocity. I have thought about this state of affairs a lot over the past year, and I concluded that the reason McKee got bounced was David Neal's fundamental ignorance about the sport—he apparently didn't get that half of the bull riding equation is the bull. We need Justin McKee back, if he'll have us. The boys in the booth just have not been able to dish out the same level of information about the bulls that Justin had at his fingertips. I do not intend to shut up about this just because a year has gone by.

2. We must pray to whatever gods we believe in that Neal has at least learned one singular fact about bull riding: From one week to the next, you can't count on any rider being in the mix. How can we forget Neal's rhapsodizing about how wonderful Brendon Clark's accent was and how he planned to involve him in the production? And the long-ass intro with Gary Allen wailing as pictures of the riders flashed before our eyes? Fast forward to the end of the season: Brendon Clark was no longer even on the tour, and a whole bunch of those guys who had been lauded to the skies at the beginning of the season were either barely hanging on, or were injured. I suppose it might have been an honest mistake—after all, the worst injuries you can suffer playing poker are probably a paper cut and/or being over-served—but on the other hand, nobody should start a new gig without doing due diligence. I see no evidence that Neal has done that to this date.

3. We are starting a new season on CBS Sports. I will be interested to see whether that move will bring in new fans to any degree, or whether we are going to learn, once and for all, that bull riding is in fact a niche sport loved only by redneck refugees from NASCAR and a handful of liberal women, which is where Turn Him Out! comes in.

4. We are finally rid of Erin Whosis, and I for one hope she didn't let the screen door hit her in the butt on the way out. I did my best to cut her some slack, I really did, but after I witnessed with my own eyes her stalking rudely away from Valdiron when her five-second standup with him in Billings was over, I was so done. And the woman's boots looked like shit, too.

5. We are starting off yet another season with the PBR PR department doing its utmost to 1) confuse us totally or 2) keep us completely in the dark. The press release about the move to CBS Sports might as well have been written in Sanskrit for all the information it imparted. We did, of course, learn that the sponsors are the real reason there even IS a PBR, which can't be news to anybody who attended a live event this past season.

What we didn't learn was that Peter Farley was very seriously hurt in Australia sometime around Christmas—it took Kris DiLorenzo posting about it on her fine blog to get the word out. I guess we should be grateful that three days after she posted, the PBR added one tiny clause to its description of Farley, and I quote: "Farley, who is recovering from a practice-pen injury in Australia, started off 2011 with back-to-back Touring Pro Division event wins in Denver and Pueblo, Colo., in January, and then picked up a third lower-level win in Winston-Salem, N.C." You can always count on the PBR to not report on stuff that people might actually want to hear about. The organization's handling of the bull-doping mess was pretty much a classic example of its head-in-the-sand approach.

6. We are also starting off without Bushwhacker, who was scheduled to undergo surgery today to repair a fracture in his back right leg. Wait—let me get this straight: Pete Farley was so badly hurt that he was put into a medically induced coma, according to Dustin Elliot, but there's not one word about that on the PBR's website. On the other hand, this bull, whom I absolutely love, got an entire feature to himself. It's certainly not that I don't want to hear about injuries to the animal athletes—it's just that Pete Farley, and for that matter McKennon Wimberley, deserved equal time. Boys, pay attention—if you get hurt riding bulls on the PBR tour, it's pretty much out of sight, out of mind.

After all that, I'm sure some of you are wondering why I'm bothering to tune in next weekend. Surely you know the answer: It's the bulls, stupid. Oh, yes, and the Brazilians, who act like professionals in all seasons.

Bring it on, sez I. Open the damned gate.

Here We Go

2011-10-26T12:01:00.000-07:00

Friends, the PBR Finals begin tonight, and of course we will be in our customary place--parked on the sofa, making notes, yelling at the TV, weeping, rending our hair, gnashing our teeth, and drowning our sorrows, as indicated. Sounds like a great time, doesn't it? Come on over! We will gladly make room for you, serve up party snacks and drinks, and listen to your observations with great interest.

Honestly, this seems like it has been the longest damned season ever, doesn't it? It's just been one damned thing after another, and for the first time in my life, I am actually looking forward to a month or two without all this drama. But I cannot forsake my beloved bulls, or the handful of cowboys I am rooting for.

We plan to post something every day during the finals, although we cannot promise it will be something significant. Do drop by at your convenience!

In Memoriam

2011-09-27T12:34:00.000-07:00

Last week, we all received the news of the passing of PBR superstar Little Yellow Jacket. It had been a while since I had heard anything about the three-time bull of the year, and I simply imagined he was relaxing in a pasture somewhere between Tom Teague’s place in North Carolina and the Berger Bucking Bulls HQ in Mandan, North Dakota. Lots of stud service, I figured. And I am sure that was true in both locations and beyond via straw sales. So I was taken by surprise when I heard that my old pal from my favorite TV show had crossed over the Great Divide, as we say out here in Montana.

The news took instantly me back to the glassed-in back porch of our house in East Los Angeles. It was a typically overly warm summer evening (we did not have air conditioning), and I was flipping through the cable listings when I ran across Professional Bull Riding. “Bull riding, eh?” I thought, “Could be worth a look.” This was in 2001, and Little Yellow Jacket was just a little shaver, although still plenty formidable. I took to watching bull riding right away. I knew a quite a bit about rodeo, and as the curator of a major collection at one of the world’s greatest museums of Western American culture, I knew ALL about cowboy traditions and cowboyness. It was the bulls that really grabbed me, though. I was, and still am, just fascinated by those amazing, athletic animals.

Inevitably, my lovely Stockyard Queen stepped out onto the porch, most likely with a cold beer in her hand. “Uh, what is this, a rodeo?” she asked. “Professional bull riding! ‘This ain't no RODEO!’” I responded, parroting the proud pronouncement that I had only heard for the first time myself a few minutes before. “Check out this bull action!” And she did. I was surprised that she gravitated to the bulls right away, just as I had, and it was not long after that we were hooked.

There were giants in the land in those days—literally. Blueberry Wine and Mossy Oak Mudslinger, Moody Blues and Dillinger. We loved those bulls and got to know them by their personalities (as well as you can ever know a TV star’s personality). One of those bulls rapidly became our favorite, however: Little Yellow Jacket. We could tell right away that he was something special.

For the two of us, he was the ambassador of the PBR. When we talked to our colleagues at work or to our family or friends about our new obsession with bull riding—and rooting for the bulls—they usually gave us a selection of cock-eyed and skeptical looks. “Bulls? Really? ” “Yes, REALLY!” we told them, “There’s this bull named Little Yellow Jacket and he is so smart, so well trained, that he busts out of the chute, does his job of throwing a cowboy, and then stops dead still right there in the arena and looks straight at the crowd. He’s showing off! He’s clearly saying ‘I’m the big daddy in this house and don’t you forget it!’”

Our friends mostly thought we were crazy, but they did like the stories we continued to tell them about Little Yellow Jacket’s ongoing triumphs. When he won Bull of the Year in 2002, we told everyone, “See, I told you that bull had promise.” One year, one of our friends even made us a Little Yellow Jacket Christmas ornament that we always hang proudly on our tree.

Over the years, we have come to appreciate the amazing feats of the PBR’s human competitors as well. We still miss Justin McKee in the PBR announcer’s chair (remember that guy?), and we are happy that we can say we saw Adriano win this second PBR championship back in 2001.

More than anything else about our 10 years as PBR fans, however, we will always remember Little Yellow Jacket. His crooked horn, his incredible strength, and most of all his endearing sense of style in the arena made him a symbol of everything that is right about Professional Bull Riding. Even now, in 2011, when the Queen and I sit in front of our much-larger TV in the living room of our air-conditioned house in Montana, when we see a particularly spectacular bull performance, there’s a good chance that one of us will be thinking “Yep, that reminds me of that yellow bull from Mandan, good ol’ Little Yellow Jacket.”

Happy trails, Pardner!

I'm Mad as Hell

2011-09-02T13:22:00.000-07:00

Dear friends, in the weeks since Pearl de Veres posted her spot-on analysis of the PBR drug controversy, we have continued to see reports about it that have ranged from thoughtful commentary to outright rumor to completely crazy conspiracy theories that have just about made our heads spin around backward.

Despite the temptation to share the wildest (and naturally, the least trustworthy), however, I want to direct your attention to two pieces that were published in the Stephensville Empire-Tribune. The first, which appeared on August 20, describes the drug-testing process at the Thackerville event. The second, published a week later, discusses the fallout from the discovery that one of the bulls tested positive for steroids there, a full six weeks after PBR officials warned the stock contractors that they would be testing all competing bulls in Thackerville.

I am recommending these two articles to you not only because they are authoritative and comprehensive, but also, and most damning, because we have still not heard one official word in response from the PBR about this frightening mess. Let me repeat that: Not. One. Word. I have been looking at the website almost constantly since this whole thing raised its ugly head, and there has not been one word posted about it. I have even, I am sorry to state, watched PBR Now on the Real F****** Dumb TV network, hoping every week that some fan will slip past the gorgons manning the phones and ask a question, any question, on the subject. Read my lips, people: Not. One. Word.

At this point, the only people we have semi-officially heard from are being quoted in the Stephensville newspaper--the PBR's general counsel, a couple of vets involved in the testing, and Ty Murray, who could hardly get away without being questioned because he lives in the same town. None of that is a substitute for a straightforward statement from the PBR brass.

All of this is leading me toward a conclusion I am loathe to reach, one that pisses me off more than just about anything else I can think of. I really do not want to believe that the men who are running the PBR are a bunch of arrogant dudes who really believe all they have to do is lay down the law, and people will stop thinking and talking about this mess. I've got news for you boys--it ain't gonna happen.

The fans of the PBR do not work for the PBR--in fact, we could make a pretty convincing case that the PBR should be working for the fans if it wants to keep them. The people who run the PBR are not our fathers, or our husbands, and they are for damned sure not our bosses. They can't expect us to do what they tell us to just because they apparently think they are gods and we will quail for fear of being struck dead if we question their authority. We don't have to believe that they have our best interests at heart.

In fact, this ridiculous silence only suggests the opposite--they are hiding some even bigger atrocity than we have thus far supposed, or they are covering somebody's ass (possibly several somebodies, possibly several very big somebodies), or worst of all, they are trying to save their own bacon. None of these possibilities bodes well for the sport.

One article on the subject is still to come from the Stephensville Empire-Tribune. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but it's obvious that’s the only place I can turn for factual information and analysis of the subject. I invite you all to stay tuned.

Mixed Feelings

2011-08-16T08:39:00.000-07:00

Friends, I am back, finally, to tell you a little bit about the Stanley Tools and Security Invitational presented by Cooper Tires. Yes, I’ve been remiss, but I hope, given the very important report that the Divine Pearl de Veres posted last week, that you can cut me a little slack on my tardiness. I did not want to post anything before we got that one up, and as I observed before, it took us a while to pin down the information to the point where we felt comfortable (although not happy) about talking about the issue.

Still, you can no doubt appreciate that I went to Billings with mixed feelings. We had a great time there, and weren’t there nearly long enough—over on Saturday and back Sunday after the event—but I felt like a nasty black cloud was hanging over me the entire trip, and that cloud was the idea that someone was drugging bulls. This notion is making me question my love for this sport.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed the trip a lot. Like any event, it had high and low points, and since I am occasionally accused of having nothing good to say, I think I will mix it up a little bit. So here we go:

Plus 1
The Rimrock Arena. A little over a year ago, a tornado (tiny by Midwestern standards) tore the roof off the old arena. They actually had to delay the Billings event for a few months—it’s usually in April—so they could get the building finished, but The Stockyard Queen deems it worth the wait. (Even though it meant that the event happened during the hottest part of the year—a sweltering 90 degrees, with a whopping 15 % humidity! No, I will not be going to Thackerville, or even to an indoor event in Tulsa or San Antone in the middle of the summer. I moved 2,000 miles to get away from that kind of weather, and I won’t be going back to spend my vacation in it for anybody or anything, not even the PBR.)

To begin with, attendees now walk from the parking lot down a nice civilized ramp rather than down the Four Staircases of Death with a few thousand other fans pushing and shoving and stepping on their heels. The arena is bright and clean and cheerful, and the steps down to the seats are wider and not nearly as steep as they used to be. This is a mercy, because we always seem to arrive just as the lights go out and the praying starts. For years, I have had an abiding fear of falling headfirst down the steps in the dark and taking an entire section with me to our rewards. (“I can see it now,” Pearl opined. "‘Dear Lord, we ask you to protect our...’ ‘AAAAAAARGH!’ Half the crowd perishes, but your Adriano boots look awesome while you’re taking them out.”) Fortunately for all involved, a Queen wearing Adriano boots with Cuban heels can now get to her seat without killing anybody or spilling her beer.

The acoustics in the arena are infinitely improved, and our seats were just terrific. We sprang for the most expensive ones, and they were worth every single penny. We were one section up from floor level, about halfway down, and maybe 15 feet out in front of the chutes, so we could see everything, whether we wanted to or not.

And for once, we were not in the middle of Skank City, although on Sunday afternoon we did see a pair of prospective (prospecting?) buckle bunnies get kicked out of the seats about four rows down from us, where they apparently had sneaked in on the premise that the folks who bought the seats wouldn’t show up. Sorry, girls! Instead, we sat on Saturday between two nice couples, and on Sunday next to a rancher from Glendive. (“You came quite a ways,” I said to him. “Not really,” he said. “It’s only about 75 miles farther than you came.” For those not familiar with driving customs in Montana, that means he drove about 15 minutes longer than we did.)

Minus 1 and 2
Running late. Honestly, folks, in our everyday lives, Montana Barn Cat and I are NEVER late, so it’s a mystery to me why we can’t seem to get out of Dodge and over to Billings in any kind of decent order once a year. First off, one of us actually had to work on Saturday morning, and the other took full advantage of the situation to sleep in later than s/he should have. Next, we had to race around getting ready for the dog sitter, since we quake in our Adriano boots at the thought that she may become so disgusted by our slovenly ways someday that she will decline to sit for these crazy mutts ever again, and just forget it. Then, about the time we got past Livingston on I-90, one of us discovered that s/he had forgotten his/her wallet, which meant we had to turn back to get it. To make a long and discouraging story short, we got into Billings about four hours later than we’d planned to, and then one of us misread the starting time on the tickets, with the result that we got there almost half an hour after the event started on Saturday.

Which wasn’t, in hindsight, all bad—we missed out on the praying and the militaristic rhapsodizing and the swearing-in ceremony, and you all know how I feel about that stuff. Speaking of which . . . .

The swearing-in ceremony on Sunday. As you know, I always grit my teeth through this, because I think it adds an unseemly carnival-like atmosphere to a very serious undertaking. I suppose that Major Whosis, who marched the recruits into the arena on Sunday, meant well, but when he prefaced administering the oath with a homily about the troops who had been killed the day before in that chopper crash in Afghanistan by saying, “I guarantee you that all of these young people—”

Folks, my heart nearly stopped. I was absolutely sure he was going to say “are going to get shot” or “will die in the service of their country” or some equally encouraging thing. Fortunately, he managed to pull back from that dire perch and get on with the show, but if I had been one of those kids standing in formation in front of him, I would have run screaming for the exit.

Plus 2
Dinner with friends at Bin 119. I highly recommend this restaurant—they have a brief but imaginative menu, a wonderful wine list, and a beautiful, soothing dining room. It didn’t hurt that our waiter looked a lot like Ryan Dirteater, either. I tipped him accordingly.

Minus 3
You Shook Me All Night Long. Speaking of war, I am declaring same on this hideous piece of ’80s tripe. I cannot for the life of me figure out how the PBR can bill itself as family entertainment and then let Flint dance and prance to this tacky piece of crap. If I took a kid to a PBR event, and that kid asked me what “She told me to come but I was already there” meant, you can take it to the bank that I would be dialing up Mr. Rassmussen and making him explain it to said kid. And believe me—if I had to, I could find him.

Plus 3
The Crowne Plaza. I really cannot explain why I am so enthralled with this hotel—it’s certainly not the San Francisco Ritz Carlton. But it’s always quiet (no mean feat with a few hundred cowboys and fans running around loose in it), the rooms are beautiful, the bed linens are sumptuous, and the view from the 15th floor to the south, toward Wyoming, is one of the most spectacular city/landscapes I’ve ever seen. And I have seen several, believe me, in way bigger, more exotic places. Add to that the extraordinarily helpful staff and the cozy little lobby bar, where you can sit at the back and see all the bull riders, stock contractors, and TV types you ever wanted to see (and some you didn’t) within shouting distance, and you’ve got a pretty much perfect experience. Even if, as Montana Barn Cat observed, the drinks are so expensive that you feel like you’re buying rounds at the airport. (At one point, I texted Kris DiLorenzo, advising her that I was sitting behind her favorite commentator and asking if she wanted me to go spill a drink on him. Fortunately for both of us, she didn’t reply in time for me to take appropriate action. We’re good friends, but I doubt that she would have bailed me out.)

Plus 4
Having breakfast on Sunday with friends who drove 240 miles for that express purpose. This is Montana, folks, where people routinely drive 300 miles to buy groceries, eat in a restaurant, and go to a dance. It’s all in a day’s work out here.

Minus 4—and possibly 5 and 6
The bulls. Given that I was already anxious about the possibility that some of the animal athletes were being drugged, you can imagine how happy I was to discover that the bull pen, to put it mildly, sucked. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe some bulls who otherwise would have been there had been pulled from competition because their owners couldn’t get them clean enough fast enough to get past the drug testing. And since I’m only in this for the bulls, you can doubtless tell where this may be leading.

Plus 5
Getting away for a day. Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and get out of town to really relax. It’s tough duty, but I will not shirk it.

The Weird and the Unfortunate
Where is everybody? We arrived late to the event on Saturday and still snagged a prime parking spot, and furthermore got out the parking lot in a record 20 minutes afterward, because—you guessed it--there were hundreds, possibly thousands, of empty seats. The lower levels were mostly occupied, but the upper ones were mostly vacant. This does not look good, folks.

Speaking of the parking lot: To the jerk who was pissing in said parking lot after the event--maybe if “The Battle of New Orleans” hadn’t been blasting out of the open doors of your jacked-up Dodge Ram, your bad behavior might have gone unnoticed. Yes, I am the woman who deliberately drove around your truck in a big circle, giving you the stink eye the whole time. If looks could kill, you’d be dead now.

To Mr. Chad Berger: Please get rid of that red pseudo bowling shirt you were wearing in the bar on Saturday night. Trust me--it was not a good look on you.

Seeing one of the riders who was in a decent position in the standings in a bar at noon on Sunday, drinking a shot and a beer. We didn’t stay long enough to see if he had another, but he did fall off both bulls later that afternoon, so I don’t think self-medication helped him any.

Seeing a prostitute in the bar on Saturday night. The buckle bunnies were out in force, but the difference was unmistakable. I didn’t see any transactions taking place, but I did wonder whether when the PBR comes to town, all kinds of businesses benefit? (“The mind boggles,” sez Pearl.)

Plus 6
Meeting Valdiron de Oliveria in the hotel lobby. Oh, I already talked about this, didn’t I? I guess you figured out that it was the high point of the trip. I’m going to have to hang onto that memory for a while, for my own good.

Something's Rotten in the State of Colorado?

2011-08-12T14:19:00.000-07:00

This is a topic that is both touchy and one that has understandably not received much coverage, and I have waffled on what, if anything, to say about it; hard facts are in short supply, rumors are rampant, and the fall-out has very unpleasant possible ramifications. I am going to avoid the rumors and innuendo as much as possible, but this is a topic that is central to the continuance of our sport.

What is indisputable is that in 2007/2008, the PBR brass loudly trumpeted their new drug testing committee, and proceeded to test bulls over the season for performance enhancing drugs. This historic testing all yielded negative results. Whether this testing continued in any significant way is unclear, but there certainly was a lot less PR about it. Then came Pueblo in 2011.

I will defer to Don and Janelle Kish here, who have posted a letter on their website regarding this matter. And I quote:

As a PRCA and a PBR Stock Contractor and an ABBI Share holder and past president I am embarrassed of the recent findings from the drug testing during the PBR/ABBI Pueblo, Colorado event.

Money and notoriety has led some to a “new way of thinking” they have no regard for the safety, well being and future of the animal athlete. To think a person will cheat or try to win at any cost is alarming to say the least. That makes it a sad time to be a Stock Contractor...

We are very disappointed with the individuals that have enabled the drug use, with no regard for the time, money, effort and wisdom put towards the Bucking Bull Industry.

(See the full letter linked on the page here.)

I will also defer to the UBBI, which has unveiled a new rules in response to the unfolding drama:

UBBI Headquarters (June 15, 2011)–Due to recent developments within the bucking bull competition industry regarding the suspected use of drugs, substances and other agents believed to enhance the performance of bucking bulls, the United Bucking Bulls, Inc has added specific policy and enforcement guidelines to it’s 2011 Rule Book.

(See the full press release here).

To say that this is alarming is an understatement, for any number of reasons. I guess it was naive for any of us to expect that this could never happen, even if the "cowboy way" is supposed to be above cheating. As with any sport in which money is involved and one part of the equation is an animal who can't speak out, someone, somewhere will find a way to take shortcuts, no matter the potential harm to the animal or the industry at large. (This is why we have thoroughbreds who run very fast and have exceptionally poor feet, and the sad racking horses that have been "sored" to get a gross, exaggerated parody of what their natural gait should be.) I don't think that this is a model that any true fan of bull riding would like to see the sport follow. There are of course legitimate veterinarian-recommended reasons to use steroids and other drugs classified as "performance enhancing" on animals, but if any of the rumors are remotely true, the scale means this was not solely legitimate veterinarian-endorsed, health-related use.

The potential harm to the bucking bulls is obvious. To drug a bull into performing beyond its natural capabilities is a short-term strategy at best. And for all those dedicated to improving the genetics of bucking bulls, this can only be seen as a nightmare. Not only are there potential fertility issues with animals who have been doped regularly, there is also the issue that perhaps some of the bulls people chose to use in their breeding programs simply would not have made the cut if performance enhancing drugs had not been used. Now, obviously drugs can't make any bull into a top bull, but for any contractor trying to find the magic blend of genetics to get a good set of bulls, having to worry that a bull might have poor reproductive qualities and not be as great as advertised without performance enhancing drugs? Let the headaches begin.

Part of the reason this has been kept so quiet, I suspect, is of course that the "no publicity is bad publicity" creed doesn't pan out here. This is, quite simply, terribly bad from every possible angle. It is simply appalling that some stock contractors would basically hand extreme activists the ammunition that has the potential to take them, and the entire sport, down. And if that thought is frightening, just consider what could happen if the USDA/FDA became involved. As far as I am aware, these federal bodies make absolutely no distinction between "rodeo" cattle and food cattle. Non-food-grade drugs making their way into the food stream is a gigantic potential problem that could have far-ranging and unpleasant implications.

The testing apparently is continuing, so we will see what this means (will some bulls disappear, or buck/appear differently than before?). But it is just all so monumentally stupid, it blows my mind. I don't know if the PBR dropped the ball on testing, but it seems clear that some contractors decided to take shortcuts. Once one person starts cheating and winning, there is more incentive for others to start cheating to attempt to level the playing field. We have seen this play out in other sports, and it is horrifying to see it start in ours. Drugs are layered upon drugs to fool the testing, and each time the testing is updated, the drugs are updated. I hope the PBR manages to police this in a fair way that protects the stock contractors who want to do things the right way, and of course the bulls, who are half the equation of our sport and should be treated exceptionally well. If not, we, and the sport at large, are in big trouble.

Something is indeed rotten in the state of Colorado. Let us hope that sanity will prevail, for the sake of the bulls, contractors, cowboys, and fans of this sport.

The Stockyard Queen at the NILE

2011-08-08T14:02:00.000-07:00

Friends, I have much to tell you about this past weekend's festivities, but before I dive off into much longer (and doubtless occasionally tedious) posts, I just have to tell you this:

The ONLY reason Valdiron won the event was because I shook his hand at the hotel on Saturday. Of course, Montana Barn Cat insists that it's because HE shook Valdiron's hand, but I'm sure he's wrong about that. I mean, I'm magic, right? Nobody in his right mind would deny that.

And we managed it with our customary smoothness--we walked into the lobby, Montana Barn Cat looked right and saw Adriano and I looked left and saw Valdiron, I stopped dead in my tracks, and the Barn Cat plowed right into me. It wasn't quite the Keystone Kops--we didn't fall flat on our faces--but I'm sure that all witnesses were prepared to swear that we were drunk. We were not.

And Valdiron was very, very kind to us when we rushed up to congratulate him on his success thus far. I am really hoping that he continues his winning ways and takes the championship. He will make a fine ambassador for the sport.

That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I reflected that it was worth everything I've gone through with this blog, all the hassle and expense of traveling to the events, all the anguish and yelling at the tv, all the Jack Daniels and dry martinis consumed in fear and loathing, to have seen the event that evening and to meet that man and shake his hand. I am so glad the bulls and boys are back in town.

If I Ran the PBR . . . . Publicists Needed!

2011-07-26T08:40:00.000-07:00

Dear friends, please join me in perusing the Divine Shannon's observations about how the PBR could do a better job of promoting the sport. I look forward to your observations on the subject!

Publicists Needed!

My friend Sonja first mentioned that she was shocked at the riders’ lack of promotion. Once we started talking about it, the ideas started rolling. Keeping in mind that you have to spend money to make money, here are just a few of the things I’d do with the riders if I were in charge.

First: Hire some publicists to work specifically with the riders. They might start by looking at the following areas.

Media

There are many TV programs that the riders and the PBR can be promoted on. Two I was thinking of are 20/20 and Who Do You Think You Are? For the former, why not try to sell a story not just on bull riding, but also on stock contractors and the riders from other countries? I picture it this way:

*Ten minutes on Mesa Pate and Chad Berger
*Ten minutes on the riders
*Ten minutes on the riders from other countries (especially the Brazilians)
*Ten minutes on the PBR itself (the inception, rules, treatment of bulls, etc.)
For the latter, how interesting would it be to see one of the riders’ family trees (especially Ryan Dirteater)?

Next, I’d go to People Magazine Special Editions: “Sexiest Man Alive,” “World’s Most Eligible Bachelors,” or “50 Most Beautiful People.” There are plenty of riders in the Top 40 that People could consider.

Fashion

If Adriano Moraes is sponsored by Ariat, then why don’t he and his wife design a line of men’s and women’s cowboy boots with Adriano’s signature on it or his initials stitched into it somewhere? Many riders are sponsored by Wrangler. What about a line of Wrangler jeans or shirts with their names on it? They could also help design the clothing. Then, at the events, these riders could sign autographs next to racks of their clothing for sale. For every sale of clothing or pair of boots, the rider would get a percentage of the sale.

All of these items could include a small card with the rider’s info/websites and PBR info/websites.

Miscellaneous

Photgraphs! Some of the guys who work on ranches could have a photographer come take some gorgeous shots of them around the area, then have them sign the prints and frame them or make some into posters and calendars and then sell them at the events when they are signing.

Finally, there are the riders like Shane Procter who, with his wife Jesse’s help, make chaps and leather accessories for horses. When he’s signing autographs at a local store (and you can bet that here in Anaheim, I’d have him at the Broken Horn (http://www.brokenhornsaddlery.com/), he could have a sign up sheet to win a free accessory. Then there would be mass emails to all the participants with all of his and the PBR’s websites. Same with Josh Kochel and spurs.

Rider Images

Finally, a brief note about those images I’ve griped about over the years. A good publicist will work out an image for a rider and identify things for him to do and not do within that image. The publicist would monitor all online social media and, if one of his/her clients steps out of line, damage control would start.

Two Final Notes

The PBR in general could use a lot more advertising. I suggest this.

1. Promotions on local radio stations and local TV stations. With 40 riders in the BFTS, as well as Craig Hummer, J. W. Hart, Justin McBride, Ty Murray, and some increasingly well-known stock contractors, there are more than enough guys to do the rounds in every city.

2. More merchandise! What about yearly calendars? I don’t believe I’ve seen any in Target or Barnes and Noble. And how about any of the appropriate stores in the general areas where the events are held? There’s a sports section in Walmart and Target where they can sell sports accessories and t-shirts with riders/bulls/PBR logos on them. Where is this stuff?

Basically, what this comes down to is this: There is no reason why these guys shouldn’t be making more money. If the PBR wants a bigger audience, helping to promote the riders could be a good way to start.

If I Ran the PBR . . . .

2011-07-15T15:18:00.000-07:00

Welcome, gentle readers, to the first in a series under the umbrella subject, “If I Ran the PBR.” I have invited several of my longtime contributors to write about this, and I expect we are going to get an earful about a very diverse group of topics.

In the past few days, as some of you no doubt already know, some very, very bad stuff has begun to emerge about practices in the PBR, but I am going to leave that alone for just a bit, till some of the smoke clears and we can get some hard facts about the situation. In the meantime, we will go on with our previously planned offerings, subject to change without notice and at my whim, naturally.

Since I am the Queen of this Stockyard, I cannot of course be outdone right out of the chute, so I staked my claim at the outset. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my magnum opus (thus far): If I Ran the PBR, I Would Dump the Small-town Rodeo Crap.

I hasten to say that I don’t mean I would no longer have the Touring Pro Division swanning around to small venues, or that I would not be looking for new talent on the rodeo circuit (small town or otherwise). Not all of fans are fortunate enough to be able to get to a BFTS event, so Mohammad must go to the mountain.

What I mean specifically (and I can already hear the outraged cries of the less enlightened starting to roil the air) is that I would eliminate all the artifacts that the PBR imported, willy-nilly, into its events straight from rodeo held at the Podunk County Fair. Here’s why: The PBR will never be a world-class, international sport till it starts looking more like other international sports—that is to say, sports that recognize and embrace an international audience.

First up: I would do away with the public prayer before ALL PBR events, BFTS or Touring Pro or what have you. The world is not made up of Christians only, let alone of fundamentalist, right-wing, Southern Christians, and it’s way past time that the PBR accepted this. There is no public prayer before National Football League games, or National Basketball Association games, or National Hockey League games. The PBR would be wise to follow those examples. (There is, naturally, public prayer before NASCAR races, but NASCAR can by no stretch of the imagination be considered an “international” sport. There are NO sanctioned NASCAR events outside the boundaries of the United States and, indeed, none anywhere except in the South. Case closed.)

As a matter of fact, I would ban ALL religious observances at PBR events, including the Cowboy Church and Riding High Ministries. If you folks want to proselytize, you’re free to believe that’s your calling, but if I were in charge, you’d be doing it on your own time and not on the PBR’s dime.

And while I’m on the subject: The condition of my soul is none of your damned business. Nothing to see here, move on.

Next, I would deep-six the xenophobic declarations that “We live in the greatest country in the world” and the overt militarism. I am fine with playing and/or singing the national anthem before the event starts. Everybody does that, everywhere. Hell, at NHL games between U.S. and Canadian teams, BOTH national anthems are played. Maybe we should also be playing the Brazilian, Australian, Canadian, and Mexican national anthems, just to acknowledge the contributions of participants from places other than the United States.

But I would most definitely NOT have “The Star-Spangled Banner” serving as a backdrop for film of F-18s soaring over the mountaintops, nor would I march a bunch of new recruits in and have them take their oath in front of the crowd. That kind of mawkish jingoism creates a circus-like atmosphere that demeans the seriousness of the commitment those people are making. I would put a stop to it, yesterday.

No doubt about it—we do have the biggest, most expensive military in the world, bought and paid for with a budget that is ten times larger than that of the country in second place (which happens to be Great Britain). But if we are going to take the PBR international, we would do well, as our distinguished Commander in Chief said recently, to not spike the football.

Next, I would do away with the official second-class treatment of women. On my watch, there would be no leather-clad Jack Daniels girls or Copenhagen girls (and don’t even get me started on how out of line the PBR is in endorsing the use of tobacco in any form) and no Las Vegas showgirls, not even in Las Vegas. If I were in charge of small-town rodeo, women would be competing in rough-stock events and there would be NO demeaning, girly competitions like goat tying and barrel racing. It’s time for the PBR to move into the 21st century and act like it really cares that roughly half of its fans are female.

Next, I would ban all political speech, regardless of which side it endorses. That means Justin McKee would not be making jokes about Nancy Pelosi, or anybody else, for that matter. If you want to attract an international audience, you have to recognize that some of them aren’t Tea Baggers, and it will do you no good to stand on either side of the political fence.

Finally, I would ban ALL hateful public speech, and since I am a generous sort, my definition of “hateful” would be considerably broader than most people’s. The bottom line is that nobody formally affiliated with the PBR—not board members, employees, announcers, entertainers, bull riders, bull fighters, pick-up men, roadies, or grounds crew—would ever again say anything hateful or demeaning about any group. Never on my watch would any cowboy, World Champion or not, stand up on camera and say he was embarrassed to have ridden “like a girl,” nor would there be one mean word spoken about any ethnic group, women, or gays. Anybody who broke this rule would be reprimanded and fined—painfully—on first offense. If it happened again, he would be thrown out of the PBR for life.

And when all these changes are completed, and my utopian bull-riding kingdom has arisen anew from the ashes of its ancestry, only one form of violence will be tolerated — the violent interplay between rider and bull, under the bright lights, down on the dirt, where it belongs.

All the Bull from Duluth, Georgia

2011-06-01T14:07:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I am greatly indebted to the divine Black Boots, who attended the PBR event in Duluth and sent me this stellar report and pictures. Enjoy!

It’s always nice to have the bulls in for a visit. And yes, there was this football player who thought he might take Deja Blu out for a lil’ test drive, but more about that later.

On the second night of the event, E and M (my bull-riding buddies) and I took the Behind-the-Scenes Tour. I was surprised at the carte blanche we were given to clamber around on the equipment, as LONG AS WE DIDN’T TAKE ANY PICTURES IN THE DRESSING ROOM. Which was actually kind of funny, because as soon as our group showed up at the dressing room door, all the riders scattered like rabbits through the other exits—and we were left with the fencing, ropes ,and gear bags you’re all familiar with from the broadcasts. But we got to go up and down stairs and walk out onto the arena dirt (good old red Georgia clay and sand, thank you very much.)

The first piece of equipment I chose to clamber around in was the infamous Truth Booth. It’s not a booth—it’s a backdrop. As you can see in the picture, it’s pretty stark. The monitor where they watch the ride is at a weird downward angle, so I guess that’s why all we see are the tops of the cowboy hats of so many Truth Booth occupants. It’s also entirely voluntary, which made me wonder why a rider who has just been unceremoniously dumped chooses to further expose his pain in the Truth Booth. I know some of the segments are pretty painful to me.

This is the monitor for the boom camera. The top screen is live (yes, that’s Craig Hummer in the broadcast booth), and the bottom screen is the upcoming segment (this one was Ochocinco’s crash course from the morning). I wish the boom camera operator had been around, because I’d love to find out how they choose shots-and how that thing works.

And this shot of the dormant silver Flaming Bull Heads O’ Death convinced me that someday, somehow, I must save my pennies and see this show from the chute seats.

But the highlight of the tour was the moment we got to stand behind the chutes, where the riders wait for their moment of glory (or, you know, NOT) and turn and see the ocean of bull-dom directly behind us. This is the closest I’ve ever been to PBR BFTS-caliber bulls, and all I could do was grin like a kid and marvel at their size, the way their muscles moved across their shoulders, and how they huddled together in seemingly choreographed movements. I got close enough to Perfect Poison to call out to him and he listened, ears a’swiveling. He stepped close enough for me to reach out and touch him. I had to jam my hands in my pockets to resist the impulse. That was, without a doubt, one of the most exciting moments I’ve ever had as a PBR fan.

After the final portion of the tour (“Here’s some fencing! Here’s some boxes!”) we got to the meet and greet part:

Guilherme is always so nice.

My *squee* moment: Robson Palermo has the best skin of any human being I’ve ever seen.

Dusty Ephrom just got a new fan.

Mike Lee never spoke. He signed his name and added the words “Follow Jesus.” I wanted to ask him, “Where’d He go?”

We always get tons of rank bulls. I make notes on the day sheets, and the bulls that got stars were a clone named I’m Back, Muddy Chicken, Range War, Houchie (love the Houdini bull names!), Black Cuervo, Immigrant, and the ever-handsome King Lopez. In the broadcast, they didn’t show rookie rider Matt Triplett do a backflip off the top rail à la Renato after riding his first PBR bull.

During the first 40 rides on Saturday, Mr. Ochocinco was perched in the chute seats with a posse, and Ty Murray was in his ear the entire time. Even from our seats, we could tell he was ashen, trying to concentrate in that way athletes do before they perform but unable to get the fear that gripped him completely off his game face. I’d seen him the night before, when he huddled with Ty in front of us to watch Deja Blu buck off Josh Faircloth. At intermission, the mob of media swarmed after him, then back into the arena, where we waited--and waited--for the network feed. The cowboys gathered en masse behind the chutes with their cameras and cellphones, and that was a lot of fun to see--kind of a family portrait of the PBR. The music got loud, Cody Lambert pulled rope, and none of the judges dared squeak a word of discouragement.

And in 1.5 seconds, it was over. And he didn’t get bucked off so much as just dumped off. I was impressed with how swiftly he ran once he got to his feet, but wondered why he went to the arena gate instead of the chute gate (did Ty not tell him the bull would be headed that way, too?) Sadly, the best picture I got of Mr. Ochocinco was on the beeg screen (my little point and shoot wasn’t fast enough to catch the buck-off action), and he was nothing but gracious in his praise for the riders and the bullfighters.

It was a good weekend, and the memories should hold me until the series cranks back up again.

How Low Can We Go?

2011-05-09T11:02:00.000-07:00

I'm sure we can all recall the judging fiascoes of the past, and how we were reassured that judges would go to clinics, things would change. Well, unless the clinics consist of, "How to give bonus points to all-American dudes on the fly," and "Toss a coin to decide when hipping equals a re-ride," they don't seem to be helping. Between the total lack of clarity regarding what's a re-ride and what isn't, and of course the inconsistent scoring, frankly, it's becoming somewhat embarrassing to be a fan of this sport. That's not even getting into the infamous Lima DQ incident, and believe me, I could rant about that one for days.

But lest I get off on a days-long tangent, let's go back to Albuquerque, a place where the scoring was very, um, interesting. Stockyard Queen, Montana Barn Cat and I attended this event with several people who could be described as casual fans. They had never attended a live event and knew nothing about the current cowboys or past judging issues. Somewhere in the midst of Flight 3 on Saturday, one of these relative newcomers turned to us old hands and said, "So, I think I see how this works. If you are Brazilian, you get several fewer points for no real reason?" How frustrating, how infuriating, to have to say, "Well, er, essentially.... yes."

While the scoring has been up and down all season, unfortunately, there have been multiple weekends this year marred by extremely poor judging. Now some of this can perhaps be explained by the good old "flash" argument. I am reluctant to name specific cowboys because they don't control the scoring, but someone please tell me how L.J. Jenkins has more flash than Silvano Alves, or Ryan McConnel has more flash than Fabiano Vieira? I get it with the King of Flash, Chris Shivers, or J.B. Mauney at his best, but most riders really don't have that much magical razzle-dazzle that can explain the difference. And some of the time it is just inexplicable -- if someone flashy is running way behind the bull and having to throw repeated hail marys to get back into position, why is that worth more points that someone who sits in the middle in control and spurs to show further control? How is it that someone whose bull gives up at 6.8 seconds gets a higher score than someone whose bull gives his all for 8? How is it that riding an "unrideable" bull gives one a lower score than riding one of the "money bulls" that guys should ride? How is it that two nearly exact "hipping" incidents leads to one re-ride and one without a re-ride option? Unfortunately, the common denominator often happens to be that the guy getting a little something extra is from the good ole USA, and the one getting shorted a few points is from Brazil.

I'm not sure the slanted judging is conscious or deliberate, although there are times when one judge is lagging so far behind the others in posting a score that it is pretty suspicious. I suspect some of it is unconscious and goes back to the fact that there are a lot of great riders from Brazil right now, and they are very dedicated and very talented and simply outclassing most of the American riders. This is a state of affairs that some may not welcome -- the U.S. is the top tier of bull-riding, and suddenly, the Americans are having trouble holding their own. Sure, there have been great Brazilian riders in the past, but not this many of them performing at the top level all at once. I highly suspect this is causing consternation up top, and judging by some horrible comments on the internet, within parts of the fan base as well. The PBR may protest, "We don't mind if Brazilians win again and again, REALLY, we don't," but I'd like more show, and a lot less tell.

Are some judges feeling the pressure of the "Brazilian domination" and consciously or unconsciously responding? It raises the question: is anyone reviewing the stats and trends on the scoring by each judge, in order to keep them honest? I would like to think that this is the case, but since the PBR doesn't even see fit to tell us the judges' names, I have my doubts. I just cannot understand why the continuing judging problems do not appear to have been addressed in any meaningful way -- suspending one judge and making the judges wear uniforms is fine, but when this is not followed by making any apparent changes to the system that gave rise to the problems in the first place... this is just appeasement to the fans and is solving absolutely nothing. The PBR has had ample time to address the judging inconsistencies, but outwardly, it doesn't really appear that they have done anything substantive.

So, in an effort to add some positive ideas to my negative post, here's a few suggestions for the PBR:

1. Reveal to the fans who the judges are. I can think of very few professional sports where the judges are anonymous. So far, the only judges I know by name are ones who have been disciplined or were in the middle of a controversial call where their faces were on television. This does not give a feeling of confidence.

2. Have a greater rotation of judges. This way, if there are biases on the part of some judges, unconscious or otherwise, they will have less impact.

3. Have a time limit for when the score must be submitted. Display all the scores at once, after the last one has been submitted. Do not allow changes to scores unless there was an obvious typographical error in entry. This will make it a lot less sketchy if a score must be changed after the fact, and will avoid the scenarios where a judge scores far after the others.

4. Have some sort of review process and tracking of scoring to uncover any issues. Judges are human and they will make mistakes and have unconscious biases. However, the PBR should have a system to know about any issues, if they don't already, so they can take action and make the judging as fair as possible.

5. Stop changing the rules randomly in the midst of the season, or, at the very least, explain clearly when this is happening and why this is happening. (As in, "guess what a slap means now?," and "hipping is only hipping when we want it to be.")

Yes, judges will make mistakes. Judges will blow calls. But when you shroud not only the judges but how they make their calls in mystery, it can't be a surprise when fans are uncertain about the fairness of it all. If this sport is going to turn into one where the golden boy(s) of the moment get gifts (points and re-rides) in order to keep the Great White Hope alive, I'm not interested. If the PBR really wants to be able to crown an American for sure, they should institute an "American Champion," the highest scoring American at the World Finals, as Australia and Canada do for their natives at their finals, regardless of who gets the most points overall. At least this would be consistent within the PBR, and with a guaranteed American champ, maybe that would calm some of the people who just can't stand that the Brazilians are staying on more bulls than the Americans.

That aside, the PBR is not the WWF. I don't tune in to see a "story." I don't care if the New Mexico natives win in New Mexico, if the top 10 is all guys from Brazil or all guys from America, or if an old champion comes back to win again, or if a Touring Pro invitee takes the place by storm. I am fine with any of those things or none of those happening, as long as whatever happens, happens fairly. I care that each guy is getting the best shot possible, and that the best guy at each event is winning. When it seems like this is systematically not taking place, my interest in the sport begins to wane.

PBR, you keep telling us that you are a serious sport. Well, then, give us irreproachable judging that we can understand, judged by named individuals who are on a rotation and are held to a professional standard, and attend professional refreshers and training on a regular basis, and tell and show us that this is taking place; then we will take you seriously. A sport that wants legitimacy needs judging integrity that is clear to participants, fans, and the casual viewer. You can add all the theme songs, slo-mo and "WIRED" moments you want, but if the judging is suspect, the "flash" isn't going to distract for long. Your choice, PBR. I hope you make the right one and do so loud and clear. Soon.

You Haven't Lived Until . . .

2011-04-25T15:03:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's been a scandalously long time since we were in Albuquerque, and none of us has stepped up adequately to discuss all the goings-on there, but I just have to share this with you.

A bunch of us trailed over to Dan's Boots and Saddles on Saturday afternoon before the event. After I finished handing over millions of dollars for a new pair of Adriano Moraes-endorsed Ariat boots, I spied our gay bull-rider friend checking out the helmets. I sashayed over there just in time to hear the salesclerk ask her where she rode.

"On the International Gay Rodeo Association circuit," my friend said.

The salesclerk rocked back on her heels and looked my friend over. After a long pause, she said, "I guess we don't have that here."

Believe me, child, it's your loss. I'd rather watch wild horse drag race than barrel racing any day of the week. If you're thinking of competing, though, be warned: Open-toed shoes are verboten.

Live Blogging the Last Cowboy Standing--Round Three

2011-04-16T21:36:00.000-07:00

Flint is leading a Journey singalong. I wish he'd take the midnight train going anywhere.

Aaron Roy bucks off Titanium Tough and takes a shot to the head as he wheels off over the bull's head.
Pistol Robinson gets SLAMMED back into the chute by Black Pearl. Bull starts bucking as soon as the gate comes open and throws Robinson almost instantly.
Sean Willingham bucks off Slim's Ghost at 7.93--really did look like he was going to ride him. Willingham challenges it. Hummer says Willingham had the tail of the rope in his hand at eight seconds, but the judges do not give him a score.

LUKE SNYDER BECOMES THE LAST COWBOY STANDING IN HIS 300TH EVENT!!!!! He's not my fave, but he earned this one. My hat is off to the man. He wins $210,500.

Here's Jim Haworth, the CEO of the PBR--but frankly, I will skip that part. Now Luke is standing with Haworth and the two showgirls--the cameraman zooms in so close on one of their butts that I can see how fine her fishnets are. A fitting end to the broadcast, I must say.

Oh, just one last tidbit, which some of us have been anticipating: Hummer says, "Pay Per View looks to be the wave of the future." You heard it here first.

Live Blogging the Last Cowboy Standing--Intermission and Round Two

2011-04-16T21:16:00.000-07:00

Here is Justin McBride a-sangin'. He's got a big mess of chopped-off strings going every which way up on the neck of his guitar. Justin, for future reference, you can cut those strings off short for special occasions, like if you're going to be on TV.

For back-up he has a fiddle player and another guy on guitar--I guess that mob he hired for the Finals has deserted him. Sez Montana Barn Cat: That guy sucks.

This is PAINFUL. What fool told this guy he can sing?

And now we present, for only the 99th time this season, Ty Murray's Bull Riding Basics. The only worse thing is the crap that Flint has been putting out into the stratosphere. Pearl, if you're there--you saw Flint's same show in Albuquerque, believe me.

Here we go.
Alves bucks off Hank, big time.
Fabiano Viera bucks off Spitfire.
Kasey Hayes bucks off Jawbreaker--huge jumps.
Ben Jones bucks off Yellow Jacket Jr.--11 buck offs in a row for this bull.
Reese Cates rides Smackdown for 6.43 seconds--then bucks off. Seventh straight buck-offs for this bull.
Caleb Sanderson bucks off Perfect Poison. Sanderson challenges, but no reride.
Douglas Duncan bucks off White Magic at 7.71 seconds. I have NEVER seen White Magic so rank. Bucked him off finally and then took a run at the bull fighters.
Valdiron de Olivera gets manhandled by Stubby.
LUKE SNYDER RIDES BRAVEHEART for 90.5. Gets his bell rung when he hits the ground, but he has a score.
Kody Lostroh gets slammed by Big Tex, but gets a reride--and I'm sorry to say, I have to agree. Bull clearly fouled himself coming out of the chute.

Now I'm really in a jam--I have thought for years that Snyder should quit, since he stays on the BFTS by dropping down to the Touring Pro tour. And you all know how I feel about Lostroh.

Lostroh's reride bull is Sue. Uh-huh.

Guilherme Marchi bucks off Little Hummer at 2.45 seconds.
David Kennedy gets helicoptered off The Situation. Probably the fastest bull we've seen tonight.
Colby Yates bucks off High Octane Hurricane at 5.93.
Aaron Roy rides Paycheck, so now we have two riders in round three. 85.25.
Pistol Robinson rides Hee Bee Gee Bee for 90.5. Way overscored, but it's a score Says Ty: "Now we have a horse race, Craig."
Sean Willingham rides Priceless for 90.75. Scoring is out of control now.
Lostroh's reride--SUE BUCKS HIM OFF at 7.25!!!!!!

Shorty predicted that four would move on--this is scary.

Leah's with the four contenders. Pistol is thinking of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Willingham credits lake boarding with improving his bull riding and clearing his mind. Snyder says they are all on a roll. Roy says he knows the bulls in the next round pretty good.

It's MCKEE back for the draw. He's now got a total of maybe 12 MINUTES of airtime on this event!

Shorty says two guys will ride in the third round.

Live Blogging the Last Cowboy Standing--Round One Continues

2011-04-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

Going to have to try something different--going too fast to report each one. Qualified rides in round one:

Luke Snyder 88
Silvano Alves 87.75 on Wrangler National Patriot--astonishingly great ride.
Kody Lostroh 87.25
Colby Yates 87.25
Kasey Hayes 86.25
Valdiron de Olivia rode Rico for 86.25--he was off more than he was on, but he rode.
David Kennedy 86
Aaron Roy 86
Sean Willingham 86
Ben Jones 85.5
Pistol Robinson 85.25
Guilherme Marchi 85.25-honestly, I thought he was off a dozen times. An amazing ride! Bull was RMEF Bugle.
Fabiano Viera 84.75
Reese Cates 84
Caleb Sanderson 83.5
Douglas Duncan 83.25

FINALLY--here's special guest McKee! Hummer says, "You're like our Bob Costas--you only show up for the big events!"

He's hosting the Lucas Oil Deep Clean Playback. His entire contribution so far--FOUR MINUTES!!!!!

On to the draw.

Live Blogging the Last Cowboy Standing--Round One, Opening and Flight One

2011-04-16T19:01:00.000-07:00

Good evening, folks! We are going to start out by blogging about each flight in turn. Once the first round is over, it's anybody's guess.

First up: a bad version of Viva Las Vegas! Now here's Flint. I notice they haven't shown us the crowd yet. Country hick voice-over dude is ON TV--and that ain't good.

Now we're praying.

Now--Las Vegas showgirls are up on the shark cage, showing us their navels! If you are prone to migraine, this is not the place to be right now.

They're introducing the cowboys, who are walking up ramps on the shark cage between the showgirls. Most of them are obviously trying not to look left or right till they're past the nearly nekkid ladies.

The Cirque du Soleil Singers are singing the national anthem. Better than a lot of renditions I've sat through--or it was for a while.

Hummer and Ty are talking, and we can finally see the crowd--I'd estimate it's just a little more than half full.

The hair is standing up on on JW's arms!

And here we go!

Dustin Elliot rides Touch of Class, but bull stumbles--Elliot gets a reride.
Douglas Duncan rides Go To Guy.
Ben Jones is on Gin and Tonic--reaches down at 7.19 and pulls his rope. No score. He challenges because he says, "Fuck! The fucking bell went off!"
Ty Pozzobon bucks off Bible Belt.
Paulo Lima bucks of a big red bull--they can't be bothered to tell us who the bull is.
Ryan McConnell bucks off Spartacus.
David Kennedy rides Zip Code--a big, dirty, slow bull.
Cord McCoy bucks off Secretary of Soul.
Fabiano Vierra rides No Guts.

And we have a ruling on Ben Jones! He gets a score. Leah asked Jim Bob Custer about it--he says that Ben heard a whistle and pulled his wrap. Custer says that no one in the arena heard the whistle, but the guys in the production truck DID hear it. So--Jones advances!

Elliot Jacoby falls off his bull, which is unfortunate because he would have gotten a reride.

So we have four who rode in the first flight.

And HERE'S a news flash--BEN JONES IS GETTING MARRIED AT THE LITTLE WHITE CHAPEL TOMORROW AFTERNOON AT 4:30! LET'S ALL GO DOWN THERE RIGHT NOW!

Taking One for the Team

2011-04-15T13:03:00.000-07:00

Folks, I write to inform you that after all our shucking and jiving, we WILL be watching Last Cowboy Standing tomorrow and, as an added bonus, sort-of live blogging it, most likely on the Zonkboard. The way this came about is fairly embarrassing because it shows just how wishy-washy we can be in our resolve sometimes, but then, we never claimed to be paragons of consistency. Around here, we're more of the Walt Whitman frame of mind: "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then." We will leave the high moral ground to certain of our readers who KNOW that all issues are black and white.

The short version of the story is that Montana Barn Cat was supposed to be away this weekend, so of course The Stockyard Queen had planned to spend both days lying on the sofa, eating bonbons, drinking tequila neat, and watching Sex and the City 2 and reruns of shows that give MBC the bends. Alas, his trip got canceled, and he REALLY wants to see LCS. So, being the fairminded sort that I am, I blackmailed him--I agreed to shell out the $30 IF he helps me live blog. Amazingly, he agreed.

You heard it here first, folks. Tune in tomorrow night for the debut of that maniac blogger, Montana Barn Cat, reporting live from The Stockyard!

Albuquerque -- The Ambiance

2011-04-10T16:08:00.000-07:00

Every year, it seems like the commentators on the TV talk in hushed, reverent tones about how The Pit is "like no other venue." Assuming that this was like all the other overblown commentator-speak that we hear at each event, I couldn't really appreciate that what they were saying for once lived up to the hype... until I was there in person, staring down the seemingly endless stairs heading into the depths of The Pit.

Let's just say that going to bull riding at The Pit is almost like going to an event in a giant funnel, or perhaps being seated in the midst of Dante's Inferno (only way more appealing and with hopefully a few fewer sinners being tortured), with bull riding at the bottom instead of the final circle. (See helpful illustration by Botticelli.) Although at times it did sound as if one were in a funnel (or possibly the Inferno), with crowd noise ricocheting around with nowhere to go to be dampened, this somehow only added to the excitement that pervaded the venue.

The seats are set in a very steep, tiered fashion, which comes decidedly in handy when at least half the audience is likely to be wearing cowboy hats that can impede the view. The actual floor of the arena is relatively small, necessitating the shark cage to be placed on one side of the arena next to the crowd, and for there to be only four chutes on one side, which, combined with the fact that no matter where you are sitting, you feel as if you are on top of the action, lends a strange intimacy to the proceedings.

The unique layout of the venue also apparently limited the usual over-the-top pyro, as the flaming bull heads sadly did not make an appearance here, and the "PBR" flaming letters were a bit odd, with a loop around the front. To balance out the incalculable loss, most of the audience should have been able to see things they can't always at other venues, being basically stacked up above the chutes no matter where they were seated: the bulls milling around in their pens, and a nice view of the bulls and the cowboys in their "natural pre-ride habitat." The one big drawback of the venue became clear when watching the cowboys have to make the long trek up and down the many, many stairs, their only entrance and egress, which the audience only had to attempt a few times.

Incidentally, one side bonus of this venue is that it has great lighting, which is not a given at any bull riding event. Besides making it a generally nicer viewing experience overall, it also ups the chances of getting any decent photographs. Which, as you can probably guess, is an interest of mine.

Ty Murray clearly loves this event with his name on it, and it was nice to see him on the dirt rhapsodizing about it. He may not be a natural commentator, but he can be a charming guy. It was also nice to see the Native American invitees -- while they may not have done very well this year, the crowd definitely made noise for them and they seemed ecstatic and grateful to be there. Another unexpected and somewhat unlikely return was Tony Mendes, a blast from the past who came out with his breast cancer awareness chaps and made a case for returning to the tour once again after his heyday in the early 2000s.

If the crowd went crazy for the Native American riders, it was nothing compared to the arena-shaking roar that went up for the New Mexico natives, Ryan McConnel and L.J. Jenkins. I find Ryan McConnel kind of endearing with his devil-may-care approach and crazy sense of style, and there's something a bit bashful about L.J. Jenkins that is appealing, so seeing them react to the approval of the crowd was a bit touching, even for those of us who found the scoring for this even to be a bit... convenient. (I'm sure Stockyard Queen and/or I will have a whole rant on this in a future post.)

Stockyard Queen has already waxed poetic about the overwhelming bull power of the event, so I won't go over that ground again, but how could I talk about the ambiance of this event without talking about "the moment" of the event -- the moment that Valdiron de Oliveira chose Bushwacker in the draft. This thick, expectant silence fell over the audience once Valdiron spoke; there were almost visible thought bubbles over many a cowboy hat, "Wait, did he just say that?!" Say that he did, when he had a decent selection of much more rideable bulls from which to choose. And as it sank in, suddenly, as one, the crowd let out something that was half gasp, half yell, building up into a huge cry of approval that nearly brought a tear to this cynic's eye.

It was one of those "goosebump moments," and I will try my hardest to hold on to that moment whenever I read some ignoramus going on about how "the Brazilians" (because they apparently operate as a unit) always choose "the easy bulls" (because, apparently, some short go bulls are always easy) and that's why "they" are winning, or whatever nonsense. And of course Valdiron de Oliveira can't win here, because those who scorn "the Brazilians" for choosing "the easy bulls" can now rejoice that he bucked off Bushwacker (even though obviously he is far from the only one to do so) and conveniently ignore the fact that he chose the rankest bull in the pen. But, whatever the ignoramuses may say, he had the confidence to make the pick, he seemed to be doing it strategically to try to make up some points, so I for one salute him for the effort.

There was something about that moment and the reaction of the crowd that was a little unreal, a little magical -- this strange little arena makes it seem like anything can happen. I may have my doubts about the direction the PBR is taking, I may have had my doubts about the scoring at this event, but overall this event made me feel like we were back in the glory days. Let's hope I can recapture that feeling in the face of the increasingly obvious judging shenanigans of the events since.

Why I'm Here for the Duration

2011-04-08T04:50:00.000-07:00

Let’s face it, folks—it’s been one tough season for devout PBR fans. We’ve seen sudden, inexplicable, and completely unexplained changes to the broadcast, the addition of a ridiculous short-go at the end of each round that basically just guarantees that any rider who is on a (even momentary) tear will move from front runner to unstoppable, and apparent changes in the leadership of the PBR—I say “apparent,” because despite multiple reports of such goings-on, we have yet to hear one word from the organization itself about whether Jeffrey Pollack is still working in Pueblo. We’ve seen changes to the live events that range from amusing to excruciating, while of course the crap that NEEDS to be changed is piously being preserved, like dead bugs in amber. Since the first crack out of the box back in January, it’s just been one damned thing after another.

Consequently, Montana Barn Cat and I debated long and hard about whether we were, in fact, going to venture to Albuquerque for the Ty Murray Invitational at the end of March. What finally convinced us to go was 1) we had made the arrangements months ago, and of course not one, but BOTH of us, would have had to suffer traumatic amputation of all four limbs (and possibly our heads, too) before the airline would consider refunding our money, and 2) we have good friends there, and had invited yet more good friends to join us there, and we are not ones to miss a party, particularly not when we promised we’d throw it.

After many high jinks and dubious adventures, our crew (Pearl de Vere, Montana Barn Cat, a gay bullrider from San Francisco and her escort, two friends who had yet to be inducted into the mysteries of bull riding, and myself) all gathered on Saturday at our hotel, from whence the very cute shuttle driver (my BFF Elisabeth would have dubbed him a “cocktail frank” on the spot) trundled us down to The Pit. Even though he was driving a minivan, it still took two trips. We reassembled at our seats just before the lights went out and the WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! IF YOU ARE PRONE TO SEIZURES, GET THE HELL OF HERE THIS MINUTE BEFORE WE START SHOOTING OFF FIREWORKS AND FLASHING LIGHTS! crap commenced.

But finally the foolishness was over, and the bulls started bucking, and I was, as my drama queen friend Sandy used to say, in my glory. The bulls were absolutely at their best all weekend long. I don’t see much point in rehashing the rides verbatim when the illustrious Pearl has kindly offered to share with me what she modestly calls her Buck-off Gallery, and we all know how loudly a picture speaks. Some of these photos are from Saturday night and some are from Sunday afternoon, when she, Montana Barn Cat, and I (the diehards) returned for our second helping, but I have no shame—I will cheerfully mix them all together and revel in every dusty second of it.

You all know that I certainly don’t want to see any cowboy get hurt, but I most certainly want to see ALL of them hit the dirt, so the short round on Sunday was pretty much heaven for me. Ten up, ten down—I can't recall ever having seen that, but I am grateful I got to see it once, live and in person.

Weren’t they just irresistible, those long-horned, short-horned, muley, black, white, black-and-white, brown, red, and speckled babies? Weren’t they just poetry in motion—Flip Side, Wild and Out, Lincoln Electric’s Bring It, I’m a Gangster, Palm Springs and Too Tall and Slim’s Ghost and all his brother clones?

The one who epitomized my ongoing love affair with the sport, though, had to be Insaniac. He’s a 1,500-pound five-year old bull who’s been on the tour for two years now. His riding percentage is too high for my taste—66.7%—and on Friday night, Ryan McConnell had ridden him for 87.50 points. But apparently somebody forgot to send him the memo about how he was all washed up, because on Saturday night he promptly threw Anderson Viana Alemcar for a loop, and then took a victory lap around the arena, lifting up his feet, tossing his head, snorting and pawing the dirt, daring anyone to tell him he wasn’t the rankest bull in the pen.

That, right there, is why I’m here: the bulls just keep getting better, and the best of them never doubt for one second that they belong in the big leagues. They don’t get star-struck and fall to their knees before Bushwhacker’s pen. They pay no mind to bright lights and loud noises. They don’t waste one second thinking about whether the cowboys on their backs are newcomers or world champions. They are there to put the cowboys on the ground, and they glory in every leaping, belly-rolling, high-kicking second of it. The new ones are as brash and confident as the seasoned ones, and there is no shortage of new ones waiting in the wings. As long as the bulls keep showing up and bringing it, so will I.

S. in Fresno

2011-04-02T21:21:00.000-07:00

Our intrepid reporter S. has journeyed to the land of Fresno, and has brought back the following report and photos for our enjoyment!

I have to say, against all past experience with Fresno, outside of the Finals, Fresno has now become my favorite event to attend live. This year was even more interesting in the interpersonal arena, since the hotel we stayed last year and stuck with this year was suddenly the host hotel.

Unfortunately, this hotel seems to have a problem with getting rooms done on time and this has not changed in the intervening year. When I attempted to check in at 3:00, the lady at the desk said, "Well, check-in is at 3:00, so your room is not yet ready." What? Anyway, we ended up waiting quite some time, which would have been incredibly annoying, except: see the previous statement about this being the host hotel. So as we forlornly sat in the breakfast room, our luggage strewn about us, we were entertained by the comings and goings of various folks, including:

Brandon Bates, who has a snazzy hand-tooled belt with his name on it.
A limping J.B. Mauney, on a quest for a fork.
Shane Proctor in work-out gear.
Cody Nance, pre-neckerchief, with his apparent newbie under wing, Corey Bailey.
Shorty Gorham, who was very excited about some magazine.
Keith Ryan Cartwright, bustling to somewhere.
Ben Jones' dad.
Much of the Brazilian contingent, including Valdiron de Oliveira, Elton Cide, Paulo Lima and Silvano Alves.

After an hour of being amused in this manner, we could finally check in and then had a brief window of time to get ready before heading off to the SaveMart center in our scheduled hotel shuttle. Unfortunately, some shuttle-stealing cowboys thwarted us, leaping into the shuttle and zooming away as we stood in a cloud of exhaust and confusion. We were more amused than anything, since those guys have to be at the arena much more urgently than we do, plus we ended up meeting a neat older couple that we would run into again and again over the weekend -- I really enjoyed meeting them and they helped me gain some perspective after I narrowly avoided launching myself in incoherent rage at some fans expressing their, um, views on the Brazilians.

As we did not have tickets for the first night, we bought some cheap seats at the arena, which actually turned out to be pretty decent. As TeamPBR members, we were allowed into a mini meet and great, which featured Paulo Lima, Fabiano Vieira, Silvano Alves, Douglas Ferreira, Valdiron de Oliveira, Ben Jones and Chris Shivers. The newer Brazilian qualifiers really impressed me, as mingling with people you can't really communicate with has to be a bit daunting, but they were extremely pleasant and appreciative of the fans. Ferreira even did some joking around, and joking around has to be pretty hard when you don't have much of the language. My camera settings, pre-loaded for bull riding, were sadly not terribly cooperative with the opportunity.

As far as the introduction to the even itself, I was happy to see the return of the flaming bull heads. I had missed them. There seems to be an excess of pyro now, though, and the ridiculous voice-over lady and man and "Get Off on the Pain" are apparently inescapable. I also had to laugh at the "Warning! Warning!" with the red flashing lights that tells you to flee if you don't want to see the pyro, etc. Really? So cheesy.

We had Trace Adkins singing the anthem, which, well, this is the first time I have heard the anthem sung in the bass range. Trace Adkins also had a running gag of threatening to beat Flint up in the parking lot after the event-- no idea what that was about. Flint now does 1980s sing-alongs-- be warned. Things get awkward when the crowd doesn't know the lyrics to "Don't Stop Believin'," let me tell you.

I'm sure you've all seen the event so I won't go in too much detail on that, but in the immortal words of Charlie Sheen, the bulls were, "Duh -- winning!" In contrast to the usual state of affairs in the other NorCal event, Sacramento, the bull pen was really strong, and there were very few re-rides. The bulls were doing so well that for awhile that I thought there wouldn't be 10 rides to fill up the new short go, but we ended up with 11 qualifying scores.

Now, not to get too off topic here, and you all know that I love Valdiron de Oliveira, but this format is pretty much tailor-made for him and it makes things pretty lopsided. His riding percentage is insane, and if you give him a chance to have another bull run under him, more often than not, you are giving him another score. And in this case, he was the only one to score in the new short go, meaning he had a huge advantage over the rest of the field (which was fine with me and I'm sure with him), but it seems like this new short go is really changing the way the season will go. We shall see how it plays out, but I'm suspecting that short of injury, the way it is going to go is Valdiron winning handily, with Renato Nunes, Robson Palermo, Shane Proctor, Austin Meier and a few others doing their best to stay in it.

After the event, there was an on-the-dirt signing, which I found a bit weird. I enjoyed being on the arena floor, but sadly, not all fans have manners. The cowboys were trying to sign things for us and for people on the railing; it was kind of chaotic. My mission was to get Shane Proctor a copy of the drawing I had done, and to get him to sign one for me, and at least that was successful. And Renato, complete with a big grin, remembered me as the one who did the drawing for him, so there was also that. Doing the drawings is something I enjoy for the process itself, but getting nice feedback doesn't hurt, either.

Anyway, we exited into a cold downpour, which would come back to haunt us in the morning. We rose early in order to attend the bull housing tour, which I was incredibly excited about. Unfortunately, we got a call from the front desk saying that the event was canceled as the rain had made the grounds too sloppy. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement, although obviously I understand the liability and safety issues. I really hope that I can catch one of these in the future, because of all the things going on in Fresno, this was the one I was anticipating the most.

Having been denied the bulls, we headed down for breakfast, where, if you will excuse me, I will use a quote from the movie Spaceballs to illustrate a point: "So, Lone Star, now you see that evil will always triumph.... because good is dumb."* Let's just say that several of the Brazilian contingent were at a table, looking clean-shaven, neat and pressed, eating what appeared to be balanced breakfasts. They looked well-rested and were chatting cheerfully with fans. In the meantime, several cowboys from countries other than Brazil stumbled down, looking disheveled and rumpled, and started digging into biscuits and gravy while staring blearily around the room with jaundiced eyes. Now I'm not saying that it isn't fine for guys to come out to ride to make enough money to have a good time touring and partying with their buddies, but when they are going up against people who treat this as a serious profession, I really think that says most of what there is to say about the Brazilian dominance of the PBR. There may be a few non-Brazilians that are taking the same approach they are, and some with enough talent that they don't need that approach, but overall, I think the Brazilians have a plan and they are executing it with aplomb.

Tiring of cheese pizza, we took a break from the world of the PBR to get some sushi, and then it was back to the SaveMart. Team PBR, it turns out, had arranged something new and different for us. Besides another mini meet and greet, they had set aside a room where the BullStock Media folks, the saviors of many a time the Live Event Center has been down, had set up a photo studio of sorts. You could go in and get your photo taken with Chris Shivers, Cody Campbell and Aaron Roy, and then they would print it out for you with their super-duper printer, all in a matter of moments. Kind of nifty and definitely appreciated, even if it did end up looking kind of like a photo Christmas card, with less Christmas tree and more cowboys.

As to the event, to revisit a comment from Chris Shivers last season, is it time to breed a better cowboy? We were pretty scarce on rides, and outside of Renato's triumphant outing in the short go, there was nothing going on for the cowboys there. The bulls are getting better and better, and the cowboys are seeming outclassed. The odds are against the cowboys anyway, and now with these professional and organized breeding programs, the odds are not getting any better. For bull fans, that's fine, but it will be interesting to see how the fans of the cowboys react as there are fewer and fewer rides. Oh, and one thing to look out for when you are at a live event -- Shorty talking to himself. Obviously he's talking to the broadcast, but it's kind of funny to see him during a moment of down-time, waving his hands around and talking to the air. I like hearing from the guy, but I hope this double duty doesn't pull him too many ways.

Other things that might not have made the broadcast: Curveball exited the chute alone, leaving Paulo Lima clinging to the back of the chute. There was lots of yelling and gesturing, and it was determined that Paulo hadn't called for the gate. How does this happen? Between the malfunctioning timer and this kind of thing, it doesn't give one a lot of faith in the professionalism of the sport. Nor does the fact that the commentators can't figure out how to pronounce Silvano Alves' name. Of the range of names in the PBR, Silvano is really not one of the tougher ones, guys. Come on, now.

Although, one moment of judging did impress me. We were seated by the replay judge (not sure who it was, as I don't know many of the judges by sight), and Fabiano Vieira had hit the replay button on the time for his ride on Get Off. The in-arena announcers had said that it was declared a buckoff, but no one who spoke Portuguese apparently told Fabiano, because he was standing around in confusion for what seemed to be quite some time. The replay judge finally gestured to him to come over, showed him the replay on his screen, and showed him the timer along with the ride on the screen, all in a clear, calm and patient manner. I have to say that I was favorably struck by the way this was handled.

Another moment that impressed me was Robson Palermo taking the hat off of his head to lend it to Renato Nunes, whose hat was in the midst of being trampled by RMEF Gunpowder & Lead. There's something wonderful about the comradeship that all the riders have, but the Brazilians seem to have a special bond, and that was just a sweet little moment. I guess it helped, too, since Renato rocked it out for 92 points, and capped it off with some strange little victory breakdance. Valdiron didn't ride in the short go but finished off the evening with a win based on the strength of his earlier performance. That is, unless you are Erin Coscarelli, in which case, Renato won. Okay, Erin, one is 5'9" tall and 165 pounds, and is the current world number one. The other one is 5'7" and 135 pounds, and is the reigning world champion. They don't look remotely similar. How embarrassing. Back to you, Craig.

One random story for you: we caught the shuttle back to the hotel, and as we were heading off, the driver got a call to pick up some people across the street. As we pulled up in front of the place, the driver started heading around the back so as to not be in the middle of the road. As we started to round the corner, there was a blur of white cowboy hat in the logo-covered shuttle window and a loud, startling banging on the side of the van. My friend yelled out, "Cowboys, stop! Stop!" Our driver screeched to a halt and opened the door to reveal Cody Nance, Corey Bailey and a friend. Upon finding out that the driver really was going to stop for them, there was quite a lot of laughter as they realized that they didn't need to charge a moving vehicle. In the words of Cody Nance, "We made a memory!" We also had an interesting discussion about the insurance, or lack thereof, that the riders have, and discovered that Cody Nance is an old-fashioned gentleman who offers his hand to ladies getting out of shuttles. I would have expected nothing less of our favorite neckerchief-sporting cowboy, but it's good to know first-hand.

Anyway, a great two evenings of bull riding, rank bulls, nice fans, gritty cowboys and interesting interactions. Here's to hopefully doing it all again next year, however it is this year turns out!

*Disclaimer: take the Spaceballs quote as seriously as anyone should take any part of the movie Spaceballs. Which is to say, not at all.

Albuquerque Adventures

2011-03-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks, it's true--Montana Barn Cat, Pearl de Vere, and The Stockyard Queen sauntered to Albuquerque this past weekend for the Ty Murray Invitational, and it was about as much fun as any of us could stand. We will be posting about it at least a couple of times this week, but in the meantime, here's a little text exchange that Pearl and the Queen had on Sunday morning:

The Stockyard Queen: Want to go find some food?
Pearl de Vere: Sounds excellent!
Pearl de Vere: LOL, just in an elevator with Tandy Freeman. He is not very talkative. ;)
Pearl de Vere: He looked kind of scared. And tired. He made a beeline for the coffee.
Pearl de Vere: It was getting awkward, so I finally said I hoped he didn't have too much to do today. He agreed with that.

Just moments later, The Stockyard Queen herself saw the good doctor in the lobby, hung about with numerous bits of luggage, filling up his coffee cup in preparation for what promised to be yet another day of patching up the walking wounded and counseling the more seriously wounded to sit it out, please.

Bear in mind that this was most definitely NOT the host hotel, so we theorize that Freeman might have stayed there to get away from the adulation, and doubtless the impertinent questioning, of fans who don't get the concept of doctor-patient privilege. We salute you, Dr. Tandy, and we hope that coffee went down well. Fortunately for the riders and the medical team, Sunday was a lot less harrowing than Saturday night.

Sort of Live Blogging from the PBR Event in Fresno

2011-03-19T06:34:00.000-07:00

Through the magic of the internet, we at the Stockyard are proud to bring you a little conversation we had late yesterday with our fine correspondent S, who journeyed to Fresno for the event. We look forward to her complete report, but can't resist teasing you just a bit. First, a few words of wisdom from the hotel lobby:

S: Well, we are waiting for our room and have already seen Valdiron, Paulo Lima and Elton Cide, as well as Shane.
S: And now JB. Getting a fork.
SQ: Getting a fork? As in, "Stick a fork in me, I'm done"? Did you speak with Valdiron?
S: Yup, plastic fork, not sure why. He looks pretty banged up, but said hi. The Brazilians were spotted while we were paying our cab. Also saw Shorty, KRC and Brandon Bates, who has a belt with his name on it. Oh, and Ben Jones' dad.
S: And now we see Cody Nance, sans neckerchief.
S: Oh, finally got our room....And got to see Shane in his workout clothes.

And now, just a couple of notes from the event itself.
S: Renato remembered me, aw.
S: Oh, and crap, the voooiceeeoooover woman has prerecorded bits at the event.
SQ: This does not make me look forward to the two events on my calendar.

If You'd Like to LYAO

2011-03-17T04:58:00.000-07:00

Folks, I am pleased to invite you all to trundle over to Abraxan Mini Farm and check out our good friend Jean's photos and commentary on the Glendale Invitational. Laughter is good for the soul!

Folks, I Have Seen the Future

2011-02-25T11:56:00.001-08:00

The Powers That Be Speak--Not!

2011-02-18T11:14:00.000-08:00

Folks, all of you need to go on over to Kris D's blog and read the response she got from a member of the PBR board about her petition to reinstate Justin McKee. It might be time to start boycotting the sponsors.

There's Justin! Now--Where's Leah?

2011-02-16T15:31:00.000-08:00

Because I know that some of my devoted readers don’t have access to RFD TV, I girded up my loins and watched PBR Now on that august channel, so I could report on the appearance of Justin McKee on that stellar program. I thought it was the least I could do, and never let it be said I failed to do the least I could.

Actually, I have to confess that I recorded the program, because I have heard RFD TV referred to by people I trust as “Real F****** Dumb Television,” and nothing I’ve ever seen on that channel has persuaded me that said appellation is unjust. I certainly don’t need to see another commercial that brags about how the owner of RFD TV beat out hordes of bidders to bag both Trigger and Bullet when the Roy Rogers Museum in Victorville, CA, divested itself of its collection. (This reminds me of a time when I overheard a coworker on the phone—he had been asked whether Gene Autry had had his fine horse Champion stuffed and mounted when Champ went to his reward. “Absolutely not,” my colleague stated. “All of Mr. Autry’s animals had proper Christian burials.” I SWEAR to you that’s a true story.)

The good news is that Justin McKee did in fact appear on the show, and he was absolutely brilliant—polished, adroit, articulate, professional, and funny in that impish way that I find nearly irresistible. In fact, you could say he stole the show from co-hosts Justin McBride and J.W. Hart.

In fact, you could say he SAVED the show from those boys, who frankly were not at their best that night. As a matter of fact, J.W. Hart was stammering and stuttering so much that I wondered if he might not be coming down with something. It was positively painful, watching him try to spit out whatever he was trying to say. Neither McBride nor Hart said or did one single thing in the hour-and-a-half-long show to persuade me they’ve improved one whit as talking heads. I do have to give the PBR folks credit for not putting those two together in the broadcast booth at the events, because when they’re in the same room, they behave like two frat boys turned loose at Hooters. Truly—it was that bad.

When the show started, with McKee ensconced in the station at the far right, McBride announced that the support of the fans was one reason why he was back, and referred to the Facebook page (Save Justin McKee), with its 2,000+ fans, as a primary mover and shaker in that support. I have no doubt that the Facebook page contributed to the effort, but I also suspect that the phone calls and emails the PBR received on the subject also had a lot to do with it. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that all told, the messages from the fans from all sources numbered in the thousands.

So for a brief, shining moment, it looked like we had won that battle—until McKee took the very first call from a fan. The woman on the other end of the line asked him pointblank if he was coming back to broadcast the events. McKee neatly avoided answering that directly—and that’s when I started to get a sinking feeling. So—the genuinely bad news is, Justin McKee clearly will NOT be back on the event broadcasts in any substantial and permanent way this season—if ever.

And I’ve also decided that the lovely Leah Garcia may well have saddled up and ridden out of PBR country for good. At the beginning of the season, we were assured she would be featured on alternating events with Erin Coscarelli, but we have not seen hide nor hair of her since the Madison Square Garden event. Of course, Leah may have decided to walk of her own accord, for all I know. If I were in her Ariats, and my bosses informed me that they were giving half my gigs to a gal who doesn’t seem to know a saddle horn from a shoehorn, I probably would have told them where they could put that saddle horn, and I would not have stammered when I said it.

So now I find myself on the saddle horn of a dilemma, so to speak. Shall I continue to watch PBR Now to get my McKee fix, or shall I just boycott the whole mess on principle? I’m still mulling that over, but if I do decide to boycott the program, I most certainly will not miss hearing McBride slapping the desk roughly one time per minute of the show. I’m not sure even the pleasure of watching Justin McKee can ease that pain.

Introducing: Pearl de Vere

2011-02-07T16:30:00.000-08:00

My dear friends, please gather round and join me in welcoming a new hand at the Stockyard, the lovely Ms. Pearl de Vere. Like me (and as you've undoubtedly noticed, unlike Montana Barn Cat), she will be posting here when the mood strikes her. Ms. de Vere, a self-employed business woman, is a long-time fan of the Professional Bull Riders. Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the Divine Pearl de Vere!

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time there was an organization called the PBR (our hero!), which started with a little cash and a whole lot of dreams. Through hard work and luck, the PBR grew and grew. Eventually the PBR grew so big that some problems (horrible monsters!) rose up to challenge the success of the organization. They were: the television production changed, including the removal of a beloved commentator; the event format was changed to "create more excitement"; and there was great hue and cry about chute time, soaking and Brazilian bull ropes (and Brazilians, for that matter) from the stock contractors and some fans. Things became so bad that the PBR was forced to shut down fan comments on their website.

But wait, you are thinking, that last thing hasn't happened this year! Which is totally true, because in this case, "once upon a time" was the year 2004. History seems to be repeating itself. This all struck me as I reread of Fried Twinkies, Buckle Bunnies & Bull Riders, a snappy little book by Josh Peter that takes one through the trials and tribulations of the 2004 PBR season (and if you haven't checked out, you really ought to do so).

Sure, there are a few variants to keep us on our toes:

It's not that the PBR got its rights back and cut ties with TNN to move to OLN, as it did circa 2004, but the ushering in of the era of David Neal Productions and his "improvements" this year. It's not Donnie Gay who was given the boot from the broadcast booth because he wasn't interested in commenting live (not to mention Tuff Hedeman quitting the board/being removed as a commentator amidst much drama), it was Justin McKee being removed for whatever undisclosed reasons, as we are all so painfully aware. It's not that the Finals have added round points for 2004, it's the addition of the new Bonus Round. Sadly, the soaking/rope situation has apparently not been altered by the passage of time, and fortunately or unfortunately, the PBR is showing absolutely no signs of shutting down fan comments (formerly a message board).

But outside of the spooky similarities, what really stands out is: Why are we stuck in this Groundhog Day?

One could speculate that the loss of institutional memory with the departure of Randy Bernard is a large factor in the 2004 redux. While Bernard was around, a lot of fans loudly blamed his lack of Western background for anything questionable with the PBR, but now that he is gone, many seem to be lamenting losing his hard-earned knowledge of the sport, his canny business sense, and his relatively soft touch. It doesn't help that Jeffrey Pollack, after his initial flurry of press presence and invitation to the fans to email him, has been extremely quiet. In fact, the whole PBR has been exceedingly quiet on almost all of the issues, in what one can only suppose is a very questionable PR strategy--if we don't talk about it, maybe it will go away.

This only serves to highlight the passivity of the PBR overall. I don't know if this is part of some stubborn cowboy code of never admitting to weakness, or part of a PR campaign of "ignore and conquer," or due to an unease between the cowboy side and the business side of the PBR, but the stoic silence in the face of legitimate questions doesn't help matters. While in situations like "Where in the World is Justin McKee?" there are obvious HR implications that could be a factor, some basics regarding the who, where, when, and why of many decisions remain shrouded in mystery. This makes it difficult to say with any certainty that the PBR still doesn't have effective systems in place (as we saw with the judging fiasco), but it certainly leads to speculation.

Which leads us to, if in 2004, the soaking/Brazilian bull rope/chute time question was a burning one, why has so little of any substance apparently been done since? Yes, the PBR put in new rules as far as chute time and as far as how many people can pull a rope, and obviously the PBR must be incredibly reluctant to publicize any issues that might lead to the attention of animal rights groups. Not to mention the minefield of rider nationality is extremely daunting. But what about the allegation that the Brazilian rope can be pulled tighter than an American one? Especially considering the number of cowboys from all countries who use the Brazilian style rope, surely some sort of testing could be done to settle the issue and, if needed, decide upon a standardized rope style or three, much as was done with the rowels for the spurs. Yes, Ty Murray seems set on de-mystifying the Brazilian rope, and I thank him for that, but I'm not sure he's making much headway, and the problem is far larger than that. Letting this sometimes xenophobic-tinged issue simmer since 2004 has only made it worse, and while the issues here are not easy ones, it is apparent that they are not going to magically disappear.

While the PBR appears to carefully avoid some issues, when it comes to others it just can't seem to stop tinkering. The ceaseless urge to mess with the format is completely mystifying, considering that the sport, at its heart, is very simple. In 2004, the PBR wanted to make the finals more of a draw, so it put more points on the table. This way, one cowboy couldn't really cement a win over the course of the season--a good finals performance was nearly mandatory. This in theory would lead to more fan interest, which would lead to more viewership, more advertising dollars, more sponsors, and the like. But while the urge to tinker has remained constant, the goal seems to have changed, from potentially broadening the field to potentially streamlining the field. The bonus round and the Final Five Chase seem designed to narrow down the number of cowboys in the spotlight. In these economic times, one can understand the desire to ramp up the excitement, but it seems like David Neal Productions doubts that the average fan (or perhaps the new fans that he hopes to attract) has the attention span to keep track of 40+ cowboys and even more bulls. So instead of seeing all the rides, we get a song focusing on the top 10 or so, and a bonus round perhaps designed to narrow the field of interest to those who consistently do well enough to make the special new round. It remains to be seen how this will play out.

Sure, times have changed and the PBR has changed--stagnation wouldn't have served anyone. The PBR did and does and probably always will face the issue that it is a niche sport, and there isn't a whole lot anyone can do to change that. Having only two commentators in the booth is not going to magically turn the sport into something that someone who likes a mainstream sport will want to watch. Wiring the riders won't make the sport into something people magically want to watch, either (and honestly, listening to people grunt, or worse, be hurt, is just not appealing). Ridiculous commercial voice-overs and a Truth Booth also don't add much appeal.

But in the end, the format issues, while annoying, are not critical. Format issues can be fixed. We are back to the real issue: Why does the PBR never seem to learn? Why is there still is very little transparency, sudden and poorly explained moves made, and such bumbling PR attempts to cover it all? The fact that McKee has been asked back, on however limited a fashion, does give one hope that the PBR does recognize there have been misfires and they are trying to correct their course, and of course, only those there know what happens behind the closed boardroom doors.

To end on a slightly more optimistic note, it seems like for this weekend's event, some of the format issues were indeed tweaked for the better: the awful siren seems to have gone away in favor of the familiar buzzer, the scrolling sports scores that were screwing with the aspect ratio of our TV sets are gone, and there seemed to be less of the robotic female commercial voice-overs. Now if we can just get more Leah Garcia and more Justin McKee, we might be talking. After all, the PBR has a great product, and it's really hard to ruin bull riding. In the end, this sport is simple--one cowboy, one bull, eight (or less) seconds. That's what I want to see, whether it's a top 10 cowboy or a TPD alternate, a bull of the year or a debut bull. As long as there are great bulls and great rides, we should all survive the fight to escape this cycling back through the issues of 2004 and get back to some great bull riding.

Now that's what we hopefully will call, "living happily ever after."

Ode to Kaylynn Pellam, or, Let's Call a Spade a Spade

2011-01-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

My fine friends, I am astonished by the number of issues about the PBR that are swarming around me, pulling at my sleeves and snapping at my heels, while I try to pick just one. We have people who ride WITHOUT HELMETS getting stepped on, people who ride with helmets getting them knocked off and their chickens scattered in consequence, Kody Lostroh aiding and abetting racist behavior over on the Breeder’s Connection boards, Justin McKee still absent, and Erin Coscarelli proving that she doesn’t even have the sense to prepare decently for her first PBR appearance by dreaming up a question more intelligent than, “How did that feel?” (I presume she was talking about the ride.)

It’s like being dropped into the midst of a litter of adorable puppies—except that none of these puppies is exactly adorable. In fact, it’s more like having to choose the shark that needs to be bludgeoned first. People, it’s going to be a damned long season.

Having said that, I say again: BRING BACK JUSTIN MCKEE! NOW!

Now that I’ve (temporarily) cleared the decks on that one, I will proceed to the matter closest to my heart at the moment. I know that many of you noted that just before the season started, a PBR press release announced that Kaylynn Pellam would be the first woman to compete in a PBR Touring Pro event on January 8.

As it happens, I have been thinking about writing something on the subject of female bull riders and the PBR for nearly a year now. Several of the folks who visit this blog have also corresponded with me about it, and I have kept assuring them that I intended to do something, but I was hindered by some issues with research and ethics, and had consequently pushed the matter to the back burner for a bit, to simmer, so to speak.

In addition, I know, personally, a woman who is a bull rider on the International Gay Rodeo circuit, and I’ve talked to her about this matter quite a bit. Given the extraordinarily homophobic attitudes I’ve heard expressed by many PBR fans, however, I am loathe to come right out and name names, because I don’t want to take even the slightest chance that I might put her in harm’s way.

Anyway, when Montana Barn Cat read the press release about Ms. Pellam, he promptly forwarded the link to our bull-riding friend, who proceeded to follow the story to the best of her ability. Which was not at all easy, I might add, because nearly three weeks after that event in Grand Rapids, NONE of the Touring Pro results are anywhere to be found on the PBR website. Maybe instead of throwing money at David Neal Productions and telling him what an awesome job he’s doing (not!), Mr. Jeffrey Pollack should throw some at a decent webmaster. We keep hearing that things will get better on the site, but seeing is believing.

So Female Bull Rider Friend did some sleuthing, and she confirmed what I had begun to suspect—Ms. Kaylynn Pellam bucked off her first bull in Grand Rapids. I am not surprised, because I’m pretty sure that most newcomers to the PBR buck off their first bull, and probably several after that, before they gain their sea-legs. What is interesting, though, is that the fanfare that greeted the announcement of her participation appears to have dried up entirely. There has not been one damned word spoken on the subject, as far as I can see, since the Grand Rapids event.

While we’re standing around the stockyard picking chiggers, as my dad used to say, I’d just like to shovel a little manure out of the way, so we won’t waste any time stepping in it and scraping it off our boots for the rest of the afternoon. Here’s the deal: There is absolutely no physiological reason, not one, why a woman should not be able to ride bulls professionally. A fit female athlete should be able to climb on the back of a bull, and fall off, without endangering her life, limbs, or reproductive prospects any more than a male athlete would. Anybody who tells you otherwise is pushing his (or her) sexist agenda. Do not listen to it.

Pellam’s credentials are impressive. According to the PBR’s press release, she has won several bull riding titles (the 2009 Open Bull Riding Championship at Vinita, OK, the 2003 California state bull riding title, the Southern California section championship in 2004 and 2005, and the Northern California section title in 2005 and 2006), and has placed very high in the standings in other events for years running. Now a senior at Oklahoma State University, she competes in team roping, breaking roping, and goat tying. She hopes to go to vet school after she finishes her degree in biochemistry and molecular biology this spring.

But here’s the reason I find her achievements so interesting: There is not one word in this list about her having won or placed in any National High School Rodeo Association events, which is the avenue by which most youngsters enter the field. And there’s a very good reason for that: The National High School Rodeo Association BANS FEMALES from competing in rough-stock events at NHSRA-sanctioned rodeos. Check it out here for yourself, and note as well how neatly the association sidesteps having to justify its stance.

As our Female Bull Rider Friend told me months ago, this is what keeps women, for all intents and purposes, out of the sport from the get-go. It’s a perfect system, because it cuts the potential talent off at the knees before most of them are even old enough to think they might like to try to ride bulls. Having been around a lot of young women who do compete in rodeo in this part of the country, I’d have to say this tactic goes hand-in-hand with funneling them off into genuinely stupid so-called sports like barrel racing or, worse yet, goat tying.

It reminds me of Yossarian’s epiphany about Catch-22, which he saw “clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an elliptical precision about its perfect pair of parts that was graceful and shocking, like good modern art. . . .” Any way you turn it, the NHSRA’s method is a tight, self-contained solution to the problem of women getting so uppity as to think they can ride with the big boys, and it makes me nauseous every time I think about it.

My Female Bull Rider Friend asked me whether I thought Pellam was paid to compete in the Touring Pro event in Grand Rapids, and of course I have no idea. I am pretty sure that somebody else (and it would not surprise me to learn that it was Melissa and George Marshal) paid for her PBR membership card, which is all a person has to have to start competing in PBR events. (Unlike the NHSRA, the PBR is very careful not to step directly into this hornet’s nest—there’s not a word about gender in the PBR guidelines for competing that I can see.)

But I don’t really care about who paid what to whom here. What I care about is that this seems to me to be a straight-up publicity stunt that went nowhere, and I hope that Pellam does not suffer because of it.

All in all, I have to admire Kaylynn Pellam for deciding that she wanted to ride bulls, and then for figuring out how she could go about it, since the NHSRA was closed to her. (She must have done that at a relatively young age, since she's 21 at the moment, and she won the state bull-riding championship in California in 2003.)

And I want it understood that when I state that barrel racing and goat tying are not sports, I mean neither Ms. Pellam nor any other woman who competes in those activities any disrespect. I know well that there is expertise involved, and I know that many of the competitors knock their brains out to excel at them. I have no doubt Ms Pellam is a goat-tyer par excellence.

That being said, if Venus Williams took up goat-tying, I still could not take it seriously. As far as I can tell, it’s just another way to keep the girls occupied while the boys of rodeo compete in the events that really matter.

And those events are rough stock, and the glamour sport of rough stock is bull riding. If the PBR is serious about encouraging women to give it a shot (which frankly I doubt to the bottom of my skeptical soul), the Powers That Be in Pueblo need to quit looking for publicity-garnering quick fixes. They need to lean on the National High School Rodeo Association, and for that matter all rodeos that ban women from competing in rough-stock events, to move into the 21st century and acknowledge that women can compete in those events at the highest levels. All they need is a fighting chance to learn the ropes. My advice to those who doubt this is that they get out of the way and watch, while the women prove them wrong.

Shannon in Anaheim

2011-01-24T11:46:00.000-08:00

Once again, devoted readers, the Divine Shannon has schlepped off down to Anaheim to see the boys and the bulls, and has sent us this sterling description. Since things have been a bit different at the PBR this season, I found this first report of a live event very enlightening. Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to read it for yourselves. Shannon speaks!

The PBR in the OC

I can honestly say that for about 95% of the time in Anaheim, I had a great time, but yes, things have changed with the live show. To me, they were only slightly annoying, but it’s possible that others are very bothered by them. If you get lucky enough to get to a live show this year, I’d be interested to hear what you think about it. From the reports I heard about NYC, I think they’ve gotten a bit more of their act together.

Now, once again (and, as usual, with less about the rides and more about the experience) and with thanks to SQ, I give you my annual guest blog.

WARNING!

It seems as though safety and liability are now a bigger priority for the new owners. I realized this as soon as we headed to the Fan Zone only to have to sign a waiver to set foot on a flat concrete floor with some camera equipment on it. Okay. Whatever. Guilherme was standing just a few feet away from us—I’d have signed a promise to name my next kid after the bull of the year to chat with him. Besides, it only takes a minute. However, later that evening, the liability issue got even more eye-roll worthy when we were subjected to a big, red WARNING! sign flashing on the video screens and our new female voice explaining that the show opens with loud explosives and strobe lights and if you are sensitive to these things, you may want to spend the next few minutes on the concourse. Talk about taking the fun out of it! I know that some people are afraid of loud noises and, if it’s their first time, they may not be aware it’s coming, but still. My friend Sonja noted, though, that the voice sounded almost sarcastic, as if she were saying, “I’m told that it’s my job to warn you that you may actually hear some loud noises and see a light show at this highly adrenalized sporting event.” With that done, we were treated to the usual opening with even more fire, more fireworks, and more lights, but less pomp and circumstance—there were no patriotic flag bearing military members and no swearing-in of new troops. All the riders were introduced and stayed out on the floor throughout the national anthem (sung by an Aussie—I wonder how all of the “This is AMERICA!” people felt about that!) and we heard one of the nicest prayers I think I’ve ever heard at a PBR event. Then the show was on!

This Section is Brought to You By…..

Sponsors! Yes, the name of the game is definitely money. We got commercials before the show. We got another voice telling us, at the beginning of each flight, that this section was being sponsored by this company. And I thought a bit less of Flint would be a good thing. I understand the need to satisfy sponsors, but I really thought having their name plastered all over the arena and the riders, not to mention their booths out on the concourse, their female, barely dressed, assistants and, in the case of Rock Star, having a rider flashing their beverage at the camera, would be enough, but I guess not. Oh, and just a quick note to the new producers: You may want to do another filming of the ad where Flint talks about the PBR store. You do know that he’s not sponsored by Enterprise anymore, right?

Bull Power

The bull power was actually better than I’ve seen in the past. Only 12 rides on Friday and not many more on Saturday. Stormy, J.B., Skeeter, Ryan D., Silvano, McKennon, Guilherme, Mike Lee, and Renato gave us some great rides. In terms of the actual rides and bulls, this was one of the more exciting events I can remember. I wonder, though, what happened to Chad Berger. I think this is the first year I haven’t seen him or his bulls in Anaheim,

Bushwacker is in the House!!!

Okay, so he only came out once and we only saw him for about 2 ½ seconds, but this is one magnificent creature! His bucking style is just electrifying and I feel privileged to have been able to see him work in person.

Fans: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (and the Humorous!)

I love people-watching. There are so many that make you smile, some that make you laugh and some that make you go, “hmmm…..”. And of course, we had it all in Anaheim. There were the two um…what’s a good way to put this?...hoochies, I guess, who were able to navigate up and down the stairs in the skimpiest of outfits (miniskirts that barely covered their butts, lacy bras showing, and enough fake bling to light up the dark winter sky ) complete with, I’m not kidding you, at least 3-1/2″ spiked pumps! Rick, shaking his head and catching the shocked look on the people behind us, said, “One day, they’ll develop some self esteem”. Amen to that.

Then there were the two old guys in the audience who tried to not only one-up each other, but also Flint, with their (not so great) dancing skills. I wish he hadn’t engaged them so often—it got old really fast. There was the cutest little girl (about 5) with braided pigtails tied with ribbons, wearing a pink plaid, button-up shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots who broke our hearts afterward when she set her eyes on her favorite rider, not realizing that he had already passed (thinking he was on his way), and shouted in her little, excited voice, “Ryan Dirteater!” Then there was me and Son…um, I mean…the two 40-something-year-olds who won-Boot Barn boy cut underwear and got some of the more light-hearted riders to sign them. There were many laughs and smiles, the biggest from Valdiron and Silvano. We were shocked when Kasey was up for it and laughed when McKennon, who happily signed them, said that he didn’t have a sunburn from his afternoon surfing, that he was actually blushing. Yeah, right.

One final thing: If Skeeter Kingsolver continues to stay strong and in the BFTS, watch for him to get as popular as J.B. The crowd was very happy to see him when he was announced, and the applause was practically deafening on Saturday after his short go-ride.

Surprise, Surprise!

Many of the riders were very nice to talk to. They were much more responsive than usual, and we really appreciated it. The three best moments of the weekend were:

1. Ryan Dirteater remembering the gift that Amelia made him after he got hurt the last time and spent a few minutes with her talking about it. He put a little something extra in her autograph and said that the gift was still displayed on his shelf. He seemed sincere, but even if he didn’t really bother to keep it, I appreciate that he told her he did.

2. Rick getting a smile from Silvano when he said, in Spanish, “It was a good night. You had good luck.” At first, he looked shocked (because Rick does not look like someone who can speak such good Spanish with such an excellent accent), then smiled and answered back. He then proceeded to misinterpret the action of the little boy next to us, who turned to say something to his mother just as he approached, and assume that the little guy wanted his shirt signed across the shoulder. The mother let it go without comment and just grinned.

3. With all due respect to our resident Minion, I’d just about given up on ever seeing J.B. Mauney after an event. Since my first visit to a PBR event 5 years ago (and I go all two or three nights), I have only seen him out twice, and that was years ago. Butlast night, just as we were about to leave because there wasn’t a rider in sight, Dalton said, “Oh wait—there’s one more who just came out.” We were thrilled, not only that he came out when the kids were there, but he was actually engaging in conversation. Rick said “Man, I have never seen a ride so rank as yours tonight in the short-go,” to which he responded “You and me both—and I was tied to the back of him!” Then he let me take a picture of him, the kids, and Rick (he’s Rick’s favorite rider).

I Don’t Want to See Someone Die

I don’t recall the topic of the conversation we had on this board last season—if it was the helmet issue, or that genetic engineering is producing bulls that are tougher and tougher, but I do recall SQ saying that one day, we’re going to witness the death of a rider on live tv. [SQ: It was about helmets—read it again here, if you’re interested.] After the drama of Beau’s accident, McKennon’s ride immediately followed. It happened so quickly, it was shocking. The helmet went flying and he hit his head on the bull and fell off, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Things came to a stunning and frightening halt. The woman in front of me, a fan that I’ve met many times, sat rocking in her seat with her hand over her mouth. I was intently watching to see if he was breathing, convinced that if he was, he’d surely have fractured many facial bones (thankfully, after a couple of minutes, I realized that if he wasn’t breathing, we’d be seeing some CPR). Rick was watching intently to see if any fingers or a foot moved. Nothing. Simply nothing. I don’t think any of us had ever been so scared in our lives. After he was brought out—still unresponsive and, according to those on the floor afterward, he never woke up on his way to the ambulance—we were held on standby until one of the ambulances returned. There was no music, nothing from Flint. The people in front of us left. Some of us didn’t feel like getting excited for the next two rides. However, we did rally and gave Silvano and Skeeter the applause they deserved for their great rides and a very close 1-2 margin. Then we made it down to the floor, where we met the guys, who, like I said, were much more chatty than usual. I guess after something like that, talking—whether it’s about the accident itself or mindless stuff—can be healing. It sounds odd to be grateful that McKennon only has to deal with a broken jaw and surgery, but given what we saw, that’s a very good prognosis.

Final Thoughts

When I started hearing complaints about the NYC event and saw all the glitches in the televised events, I was thinking that I may not buy another membership this year if it’s that bad. All in all, though, we still had a good time and the changes, while annoying, are ones I can deal with, so I’ll be renewing my membership for another year. In fact, I’m considering going to Fresno. If I do, you’ll be the first to know.

Thanks for allowing me to ramble, SQ! I’ll be interested to hear what all of you think about this weekend’s event.

What I Hated about the New York Broadcasts

2011-01-13T15:54:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning was just pretty damned dismal around the Stockyard, folks. We had watched the broadcast of the PBR event from Madison Square Garden on Saturday night, and we were dreading, literally dreading, what we might see on Sunday afternoon. Unfortunately, our worst fears were realized, and we also suffered additional atrocities that we just weren't prepared to handle. Here, in roughly the order that it all unfolded, is our joint list of disasters.

1. The voice of the man who does the intro voice-over. Honestly, this dude sounds like he just finished mucking out the barn in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, before scraping the manure off his boots and heading to the microphone. I thought (mistakenly, apparently) that you didn’t have to be “country” to appreciate the sport of bull riding. Using this man for the intro pretty much knocks that notion into a cocked hat. Hearing him makes me want to chew on a straw and swig moonshine out of a little brown jug. And spit.

2. The voice of the woman who does the “coming up” voice-overs. Why is it that with the notable exception of Leah Garcia (who, as I have said before, actually could get away with taking her shirt off), virtually every woman featured on a PBR broadcast dresses like a hooker and talks like a provender of phone sex? (At one point on Saturday night, I turned to Montana Barn Cat and asked, “Who is that slut in the Daisy May shirt on top of the chutes?" Turned out she was the Rockstar girl.) This woman’s disembodied voice does nothing to persuade us otherwise.

3. The absence of Justin McKee. Did I hear anything interesting about a single bull this weekend? NO! Did I learn ANYTHING at all about any of the new bulls? NO! Can you connect the dots here?

If you concur with this sentiment, I urge you to email your objections to the PBR at admin@pbrnow.com. You can also try emailing Jeffrey Pollack directly at jeffrey@pbr.com, though I haven’t heard that he’s replied to anybody at this point.

4. The eternal lectures on the mechanics of bull riding. I have always loved Ty Murray, but if I have to put up with this endless nattering every time he’s on, I am going to learn to love him a lot less. I have already heard it so much I’m qualified to coach, as are most of my distinguished readers.

5. The abuse of the Telestrator. Anybody can draw circles around names on one of these contraptions. Either do something interesting with it, or give it the deep six. We really don’t need any further reminders about how clueless many of the PBR folks seem to be about technology—the big Live Event Center meltdown and the unconscionable screw-up with Cody Campbell on Sunday did that plenty effectively.

6. The ridiculous lack of information about each ride. About all we could really count on learning was the name of the rider. Reporting the name of the bull, the bull score, or even the final ride score—even one item at a time—all seemed to be beyond the abilities of the production team. If this is what David Neal meant when he said he wanted to “unclutter” the broadcasts, he can give me back the clutter right now. I might have to sic Niecy Nash on his ass.

7. The absence of Justin McKee. Maybe Neal really meant that he thought all that information McKee routinely provided about the bulls was just “cluttering up” people’s heads. He. Was. Wrong.

8. The perfectly idiotic features, like the clip with Brendon Clark and the Naked Cowboy and the Truth Booth. Does David Neal really think this stuff is funny? Or is he just so entranced with Clark’s charming (not!) accent that he loses his head whenever the Aussie opens his mouth?

9. The inexcusable omission of an interview with Valdiron de Oliveria after he won on Sunday. When is the PBR going to accept that most of its key riders speak Portuguese and hire a translator? Anybody with any sense at all would have done so long ago, if only to make sure someone would be on hand to help if one of the Brazilians got hurt.

10. The sight of Ben Jones’ missing teeth. I really appreciate Jones’ almost tearful acknowledgment of the PBR’s role in turning his life around, but surely the man has made enough money by now to get some dental work done. When I see him, I feel like I’m looking at Lil’ Abner. Maybe he and the Rockstar girl should get together. It might be a match made in heaven.

11. The long gaping silences while the cowboy in the chute got ready to ride. To that, I credit items number 3 and 7. Maybe if McKee had been on the scene, fewer people might have noticed how long de Oliveria took to get out of the chute on his last ride. Granted, the man did take a shot to the head just as he was about ready to go, but he was still in there longer than he needed to be.

12. The most damning fact about our experience is that when we were waiting for the short-go to start on Saturday night, I got BORED. The last time I was bored during a PBR broadcast was the big Tulsa fiasco of 2008. Remember that?

Though I have read that David Neal has something like 30 years experience in production, none of it showed during this broadcast. I don’t know if he’s trying to get by on the cheap, or if he’s just vastly misreading his audience, or both, or something else entirely, but I can tell you right now that I am not looking forward to another 29 broadcasts like the one last weekend.

And I categorically reject the suggestion that he just needs to "work the bugs out." If you sell yourself as making big improvements in a broadcast, the improvements need to be evident, front and center, from the get-go--no bugs, no glitches, perfect the first time. No. Damned. Excuses.

And, oh—did I mention? Bring back Justin McKee! NOW!

Bring Back Justin McKee

2011-01-08T08:53:00.000-08:00

Here’s a news flash I’m sure you don’t give a damn about: Early as it is in the academic year, the scholars of this world are working their fingers to the bone, and consequently, so am I. In the three seconds I have to myself every day, I ponder their absolutely astounding productivity with amazement, awe, and not a little fear, because it means I, too, will be working like a Trojan for the foreseeable future. Trust me, I am not complaining—too many people are out of work for me to ever feel anything less than hugely grateful that I’m as busy as I am. Scholars of the world, call on me! I will not let you down.

A side effect of all this, however, is that I haven’t really carved out time to comment on developments in the PBR for a while. In many cases, this is good, because it means I don’t snark off about every little bit of information that strikes me the wrong way, right out of the chute.

Contrary to what you might think, I am not somebody who likes being pissed off all the time. I’m just not. For one thing, it can’t possibly be good for me physically to constantly be all amped up on adrenaline and pawing the ground like an angry, er, bull. For another, if you let things sit for a bit, you usually find out they aren’t nearly as hair-raising as you first thought. But an announcement on the PBR website last week pretty much put me into orbit, and since I haven’t landed yet, I’m going to have to speak up.

And you all know what’s coming, don’t you? What on earth were the head honchos at the PBR thinking when they fired Justin McKee?

In the years that we have been gathering here, we have all seen changes come and go with the PBR, including a lot of stuff that hasn’t stuck to the wall and some that has. But this one is so out of left field, so completely counter-intuitive, that as Ruby is wont to say, I cannot even figure out which end of it to pull on.

So let’s just lay all the pieces out and take a look at them, here, before we start trying to put them together. On December 28, the PBR issued a press release with some details about the 2011 TV schedule. It extolled the virtues of the new production company, David Neal Productions, and roughly halfway down the page, it just sort of mentioned the fact that the commentators this year will be Craig Hummer, Ty Murray, Justin McBride, and J.W. Hart. Oh, and some woman named Erin who will supposedly be working with Leah Garcia. I daresay I’ll have more to say about that later.

If somebody at headquarters thought the implications of this list might go unnoticed, that person was in for a very rude awakening. It might have taken three seconds for PBR fans to discern what it meant, and then the comments board lit up like a pinball machine. The bottom line is that Michael Gaffney and Justin McKee will NOT be in the booth this year.

Now, I like Michael Gaffney well enough, as much as it’s possible to like somebody that you only see on TV every couple of weeks. He earned his stripes in the bull riding trade, and he seems like a genuinely nice guy. But NOBODY in the current lineup brings the wealth of information about the bulls to the table that McKee routinely reeled off, and NOBODY had the same, dare I say it, boyish enthusiasm for the bulls that shines out of him. When it comes to loving the bulls, and studying
up on them, the man gets up every day with his hair on fire.

What more could you possibly ask of a commentator? He filled a need in the booth that none of the rest of these guys seemed even remotely interested in, beyond the usual crap about how these are the best bulls in the world, yak yak, blah blah. McKee KNOWS WHY they are the best bulls in the world, and furthermore, he can TELL you WHY without making you wish you could tape his mouth shut. The stuff that he can reel off is absolutely astounding. I have learned more about the sport from Justin McKee than I have learned from ALL the rest of the commentators combined.

Just let me say here that I know for an absolute fact that it was not McKee's decision to leave the PBR, because the man told me so himself two days ago. Yes, I did email him at McKeeRanch.com, and he was kind enough to reply to somebody he'd never heard of.

It is often fascinating to watch the machinations of private organizations, precisely because such outfits are not obliged to be transparent. I don’t know whether this decision was made by some outside consultant, by some insider who has had it in for McKee for a while (and believe me, that shit happens everywhere, most frequently, in my experience, in companies that describe themselves as “families”), or by Jeffrey Pollack himself. But I am weighing in here, and I hope to hell somebody will hear me AND every other fan who has been wanting to lose his/her shoes in the PBR board’s collectives asses since this was announced.

This decision is a huge mistake.

Bring back Justin McKee.

Update: Pics are Here!

2010-11-15T06:52:00.000-08:00

Hi, folks--As you can see, we have managed to get S's fine reports illustrated with her equally fine photographs, and through the miracle of professional help, we have even managed to get them where they belong in the posts! Take a gander while you (continue to) wait on the Stockyard Queen to free herself from the ol' salt mine long enough to get up a new post. Soon, I promise.

The Divine S Reports from Vegas: Part 2

2010-11-05T07:34:00.000-07:00

Folks, the Stockyard Queen is saddened to report that today, there's good news and bad news. The bad news is that even though the magic button for uploading pictures has FINALLY reappeared on Blogger, something is still not working, so she STILL cannot post the Divine S's final report of her adventures in Vegas with appropriate illustration. The good news is that the Divine S is sufficiently succinct that you won't have to wade through a multitude of reports about the finals--let's face it, this has been a done deal for two weeks already. For that reason, I am going to go ahead and post this without the pictures, and I'm then going to go nag the folks at Blogger till they get this fixed. So enjoy, please! And stay tuned--we are about to reveal some important news about Turn Him Out!

Part 2

Saturday: Big Green Egg Cookoff

We decided to ditch the draft, which already had gathered a large crowd, and instead stake out some of the bleacher seats for the Big Green Egg Cookoff. Now, I know nothing about the Big Green Egg, and as a vegetarian living in an apartment with a small patio, I don’t have much call to use a giant BBQ contraption. According to the woman sitting next to me, they are amazing and you can even make cakes with them. I had no idea. I guess they must have some amazing convection properties (and at their price, they’d better have amazing properties of all kinds).

Anyway, the set up was that three chefs from local restaurants (Gilley’s, Rare 120 at the Hard Rock, and another one I can’t recall—the Palazzo?) were each paired with a cowboy (Colby Yates, Tater Porter, and Cord McCoy). The event had “Dr. BBQ” and Clint Adkins as MCs, and Adriano Moraes, Ty Murray, Michael Gaffney, and J.W. Hart as judges. It was much like Iron Cowboy Chef, with a basket full of “secret” ingredients and the directive to impress the judges. In this case, the ingredients were meat (steak), more meat (sausage), and Jack Daniels, and there was a “pantry” of additional items the contestants could use to supplement the surprise ingredients. [SQ: Damn. Sounds like my kind of meal.] And the race was on.

Colby Yates and Cord McCoy quickly demonstrated that the best thing they do in the kitchen is stay out of the way (this was confirmed by the wife and fiancee, respectively). Tater Porter, however, seemed to really know his way around a kitchen knife. I won’t go too much in detail as this went on for awhile, but I will say that I did have to wonder exactly how much proficiency J.W. Hart and company have in judging the presentation of a meal. In the end, Yates and his partner’s Asian twist on a cowboy meal won them each a Big Green Egg of their own. (The others took home cookbooks and some publicity.) I honestly hadn’t thought about Tater Porter in years, but seeing him slice and dice like a pro increased my fondness for him quite a bit. But on second thought, a guy named Tater ought to know how to cut veggies.

And by the way, apparently the meals made by all the chefs aren’t really anything they serve at their restaurants, which is unfortunate because the Asian twist meal looked much better than anything I ate or saw at Gilley’s (there was a very pretty salad and a corn dish in addition to the meat, meat, and more meat.) Also, there was apparently a magical sauce that seemed to defy cowboy description other than “It’s good!” (said in a tone of wonder by both Colby Yates and Clint Adkins), and the corn dish was described by Adriano Moraes, who is apparently quite fond of corn, as one of the best corn dishes he ever ate.

It was nice to see the guys getting some ribbing in and being their natural selves (Cord McCoy’s natural self is so goofy, which is of course part of his charm). Ty Murray even got a little potshot in at Adriano, more or less along the lines of, “Based on his shape since retirement, I think Adriano must be an expert in judging food.” The crowd let out an “OoooOoooOOoo,” as Adriano mocked outrage in the background.

So while I can’t say I’ll be running out to purchase a Big Green Egg, it was a nice promotion for the cowboys, the product, and the chefs. Maybe the year if they do a vegetable cook-off, I will buy one. Since this will never happen, I should be safe from ending up spending $900 on a BBQ contraption in which one can bake cakes. The thought of J.W. Hart’s face if he was presented a plate of vegetables warms my heart, however.

Sunday: The Main Event

And at last it was Sunday, and I can’t express how wonderful it was to be away from the dim interior of Gilley’s and instead be in the nosebleed section of the Thomas & Mack. Who thought I’d ever be saying that? On the plus side: our seats were positioned nicely on the corner above one set of bucking chutes, so our view was not obstructed by rigging, and we weren’t too incredibly far away. On the negative side: Ford once again provided those inflatable whapper things to annoy everyone. The only good thing I can think to say about them is that no one directly around me was using them, and that this is apparently the last year they will be giving them out.

Because likely everyone has seen the event on TV except me (thanks, NBC, for airing the show once semi-live and then never again), I won’t go too much into detail, but I can cover some things that I am guessing weren’t shown on the broadcast, or probably felt different for those of us in the arena.

Apparently earlier in the week, there had been some sort of interesting pre-show in which the much-discussed kabuki screens had been made off with by one of the Cirque groups in an artistic way, which would have been very interesting. However, what we got was commercials and various features projected on the hanging screens, the cowboys entering and being silhouetted behind the screens in the four corners, all your usual pyro, a slowly spinning Ford truck, Air Force flag presentation, the anthem and enforced prayer, and the screens being dramatically dropped. Thankfully, I believe that we have lost the video featuring the fighter jets. (And there was great rejoicing!) [SQ: Is this the one that starts with the American flag and segueways into the jets shooting big contrails out into the western sky? Hallelujah!]

Once again, I think it was probably way more exciting to be there than to see the event on television. It was fairly obvious as the day wore on that Renato was going to win resoundingly, but there was no sudden voice-over telling us the precise moment that Renato clinched it, which I’m sure there was on television. I’m also sure we saw a lot of rides (well, likely buck-offs, as there was a pretty high number of those) that had to be cut to fit the event into NBC’s reduced format, and of course, we got more Flint.

Flint has new material, at least, new to me, and a new sponsor, apparently. It was definitely a strange moment—Flint got to his Fan of the Night segment, and started saying something about Enterprise and what a great sponsor they have been. I wasn’t paying the closest attention, but next thing I knew, he was peeling off his clothes to reveal a rather lackluster Cooper Tires ensemble underneath. He then handed the clothes to the Enterprise guy and proclaimed he’d always be their Captain Enterprise. I’m sure the whole thing was meant in the best possible spirit, but it sort of put Enterprise on the spot for pulling out as a sponsor, and was likely incredibly mystifying to those in the crowd who weren’t aware of Enterprise’s general “pull back and fade away” ploy over the past year or two. Nothing was said to really explain it further, and it was on with the show.

One interesting thread through the event was a sort of dancing theme/victory dance theme. Shane Proctor, apparently feeling the lack of his own victory dance, threw in a medley of other riders’ greatest hits after his successful effort aboard 7 of Hearts. There was a little of Ben Jones’ chicken dance, a dash of McKennon Wimberly’s boxing, Ryan McConnel’s surfer dude schtick, and I believe he topped it off with a little Austin Meier strut. I guess he wasn’t feeling up to the Renato back flip (and at that point, Renato hadn’t even been nearly plowed over by the bull after an ill-timed back flip celebration!).

Flint also went on a tear about how he wished that just once, instead of stalking off or throwing things, a cowboy would do a dance. He demonstrated the dance he had in mind, a sort of spinning, pirouette-type move that spanned most of that side of the arena. Indeed, he was so captivated by this idea that he was willing to put up the princely sum of $20 to the first one to do said dance. A few cowboys declined, but Travis Sellers, quite hilariously, obliged with a quite credible twirl across the arena. No word yet on if Travis is indeed $20 richer, but the world is richer for pirouetting cowboys. In another curious moment, Guilherme did a strangely endearing victory dance that culminated in a headstand into his hat. I definitely enjoyed the exuberant, joyous atmosphere that pervaded much of the event and was outwardly shown through amusing dances.

From these highlights we go to a low-light, the giveaway from one of our new sponsors, Stanley tools. We had the, er, joy of seeing the “Stanley Stud Finder of the Night,” as the in-arena screen scanned over three men in the audience, beeping repeatedly when it found a “stud.” Because that’s totally tasteful, and of course women don’t use power tools. (I guess I’m glad my power drill is Black & Decker.) [SQ: This reminds me of one summer when I was remodelling a house with the help of my BBF Elisabeth. She was putting up towel racks in the bathroom and managed to find what we dubbed “The Only Stud in the House, nearly breaking her hand in the process. I still have the pictures.]

Outside of these moments, there was, of course, the bull riding. Silvano Alves continues to impress with his slow and steady way of racking up the great rides. Watch out next year when this guy has a full year with which to play. It was definitely nice to see guys like Guilherme Marchi and Skeeter Kingsolver getting back into the groove, and of course there were revelations like the newcomer Wesley Lourenco. Seeing Robson Palermo come back from what could have been a catastrophic accident and score a 91.25 to win the championship round was another one of those great PBR moments. It was a bit depressing to see Austin Meier lose his trajectory, but he seemed to handle the situation with grace. Seeing him pull Renato’s rope for his last ride revealed that he’s a classy guy, showing the very best of the “cowboy way.”

Of course, the story of the night was Renato Nunes, who gathered up all the mojo he’d lost after the button-pushing fiasco and simply out-rode them all in his particular crazy style to win the event and the title for the year. Although I would have been happy with pretty much anyone in the top few slots ending up the winner, it’s obvious that Nunes really wanted it, and it would have been a shame if he had lost due to head games caused by an action that was entirely justified and lead to direct results and hopefully improved judging.

I only wish Renato would have been able to stick it out on Major Payne [SQ: Bite your tongue, woman!], because seeing those two unorthodox athletes battle for the full eight seconds would have been electrifying, but seeing his giant, infectious grin as he stood behind two giant fake checks and held the trophy high was completely perfect.

Well, if Bones wasn’t rewarded for one good out by being made bull of the year, then things would have been perfect, but we can’t have everything. For now, I will savor the hilarious interviews with Renato, and look forward to another year of talented guys battling it out to the last, just as it should be. As much as there are things about the PBR that make me crazy, and as much as I feel they have added all sorts of useless frippery of late (how useless was the Final Five Chase?), as long as at the heart this sport is full of moments like Austin Meier hanging with grim determination on the side of his bull for an astoundingly long time, Major Payne befuddling nearly every cowboy who gets on his back, and Renato Nunes overcoming his demons to pull off a triumph, I’ll be watching.

If anyone wants to know more about anything, or there’s something I didn’t cover that you wanted to know more about, fire away!

The Divine S Reports from Vegas: Part 1

2010-11-02T05:40:00.000-07:00

Breaking news: For some unexplained reason, Blogger won't let me post pictures, so I am posting S's report without her lovely images for the moment. Working to fix this, because her pics tell at least 10,000 additional stories.

My dear friends, please join me in pondering the adventures of the Divine S, who attended the PBR World Finals in Las Vegas and who has submitted this immortal report. I must confess that I pretty much laughed my, er, fanny off, reading this. Hope you enjoy it, too!

Part 1

It’s always more fun when your team wins. Well, of course, as everyone probably knows, my favorite “team” going into the finals was Team Valdiron, but unlike last year, this year I knew that whatever the result, I would probably be quite satisfied. And it turns out that my expectations were exceeded.

Hotel Adventures

My Las Vegas experience started with Treasure Island, one of the three host hotels this year. One does have some questions about the how or why of there now being three host hotels, but they remained unanswered. I also found myself wondering how they figure out which cowboys stay at which hotel (and if they all pay the same for their rooms, even though I imagine the hotels must have different rates) as I was riding in an elevator with Skeeter Kingsolver and his giant arm brace. And unless Austin Meier favors walking around random places while covered in Saran Wrap and ice packs, I highly suspect he was staying at the hotel as well. Most of the hotel-related cowboy-sightings were on Friday, the evening the -after-party was at Treasure Island’s Gilley’s, so I have no idea if the cowboys were staying at the hotel or just avoiding the after-party (which I was also avoiding). I tried, because I understand that after-parties are going to be a thing of the past after this year, but it was loud and crowded long before any cowboys could realistically appear, and I just couldn’t do it.

Speaking of Gilley’s, what a weird place it is. TI is known for its silly Sirens show. Having seen this strange spectacle once, complete with pyro and click track of dialogue and music, my friends and I have decided that the show actually tells the epic gay love story of a ship’s captain who can’t bear being separated from his cabin boy and must pretend to love the head siren to get him back—this makes the ridiculous thing much more entertaining. Anyway, smack in the middle of the piratical theme of the hotel is this incongruous cowboy bar with a bucking bull machine and waitresses in various stages of undress, depending on the hour. Really. In the morning, they wear jeans and tank tops, in the afternoon, micro-shorts and tank tops, and by the evening, we have descended to bikinis and chaps. Yes, that’s what I said, bikinis and chaps. I hope the evening shift gets paid more, and while I don’t really want to see anyone dressed in bikinis and chaps, I found it rather unfair that the waitresses had to wear this get-up while the waiters and the male bucking machine operator were not dressed in similar style. [SQ: I would bet the evening shift might get paid more, but I also bet those girls get nagged constantly about their weight, just to make their jobs even more wonderful.]

As you can probably guess, I would become all too familiar with Gilley’s. Because of the expense factor, I only had tickets to the last day of the finals, and as the rooms did not get Versus and Gilley’s was showing the PBR on 3/4ths of their televisions as well as on a big screen, they reeled me in. How clever of them. Sadly, I was never able to watch the event on the big screen because three hours per night at Gilley’s was already pushing it, and showing up even earlier for a good seat might have been the end of me. Multiple meals of starchy sides (I am the token PBR vegetarian) and too many rum and Cokes, punctuated by occasional drunken mechanical bull riding (by others, I hasten to add) had a certain charm, but I was certainly more than ready to watch the final day live when we finally got there.

Gilley’s did provide one exciting moment when a man was nearly flung onto our table as he bucked off the machine, but sadly, he was too young and not what we were looking for, so we threw him back. The staff was appalled and perhaps afraid we were going to sue them, as we had not signed any sort of liability as those getting on the bucking machine had, but no harm, no foul. In addition to all its other charms, this fine establishment also apparently has “World Famous Bikini Bull Riding.” I did not stay on Sunday to observe this phenomenon, although the folks at the front desk, who called me every day to tell me about the viewing parties at Gilley’s, also helpfully told me about the bikini bull riding so I could easily avoid it.

Friday: Production 101 Fan Club Tour

At the unfortunate hour of nine in the morning (or more accurately, at least 8:45 to sign the liability release in case someone fell down the stairs or something), it was time for the behind-thescenes tour for fan club members. From some chatter I overheard outside the Thomas and Mack, it sounded like the PBR crew was a bit surprised and overwhelmed by the number of people who showed up for the production tour and the stock contractor tour the day before (and apparently there were some people who were not respectful of the stock contractors’ requests regarding their bulls, which is obnoxious, dangerous and, on a more personal level, really irritates me because it would suck if they stopped doing the stock contractor tours in the future because of one or two people).

After the check-in process, the “handlers” trickled us into the T&M, down to the lower section nearest the production area. Unlike the nosebleed section, these seats are padded and have cup-holders, and since the lower seats are almost always reserved for packages and promotions, that may be the only time I ever sit there. There we were greeted by Clayton Cullen, the production lead who comes from a rock tour background, and his production assistant, Jim. Along with tidbits such as where the replay judge sits, where the sound mixer sits, where the announcers sit, and the many, many sound and video feeds that Cullen has at his disposal, we also were treated to the view of the backstage team trying to velcro a bunch of kabuki screens without getting them in the dirt. (How many men does it take to velcro a sheet? At least 10!).

We also learned that the COO loves pyrotechnics and so was shown the buttons to press to unleash them, and earlier in the week in his excitement he accidentally hit one button over and nearly melted one of the screens. Oooops! We also learned that one of the feeds that Cullen has is to Dr. Tandy Freeman’s mic, but it is never piped live in the arena because sometimes things come out of befuddled cowboys that shouldn’t go live, whereas the TV crew can edit such things before they air. Of course, the potential problems with this “the TV crew will catch it” method were displayed when for some reason they decided it would be awesome to go direct to an infuriated Ben Jones, who was at the time banging his helmeted head repeatedly on the chute. Gosh, I wonder what he’s saying? Probably something wholesome and kind.

The floor was opened up for questions, and I was disappointed to see that some people took this as a forum to vent their displeasure about the sound being too loud, or too soft, or the lighting being too little or too much, or whatever their complaint might have been. I felt it was inconsiderate to take up the time of this very busy man who had volunteered to give us all a glimpse at the man behind the curtain with complaints of this kind, not to mention taking up the time of all the other fans on the tour. But, we did get some interesting information about Cody Lambert “yelling” at them to just jump the Ford truck off the center stand when he thought it was taking too long to get it out of there, and some insight into the number of people it takes and the general panic and triumph of running a show of this magnitude.

Following this, we were shepherded around the arena to the one staircase that goes from the upper arena to the dirt, and were able to pass right by the surprisingly small and narrow chutes, the infamous red replay button, and back down the hallway of champions (as seen on TV, amusingly traveling through time from the incredibly youthful Adriano through the less youthful Adriano to the older Adriano), through the back chute area, and back to where the satellite and TV trailers live. Along the way we found Super Duty, who was there by himself for some reason. I understand that he isn’t the most friendly of bulls, but he seemed to handle the flood of humanity fairly well. I was excited to see a bull up close, since the stock contractor tour had popped up on the schedule two hours before my plane was to land on Thursday.

After learning a bit about the editing trailers and the satellite uplink, one woman in my group unfortunately seized the opportunity to ask for a locker room cam, but thankfully other people kicked in with ideas that were more tasteful, so we finished on a better note. Well, better until we got outside again and realized it was pouring rain. Although I appreciate Ford as a sponsor, I will say that a Ford F-150 is not a terribly effective umbrella, as we learned as we huddled under the truck that was above the red carpet entrance as we waited in the miserable line of people wanting cabs.

Friday: Gilley’s Again, This Time with Cowboys

Upon returning to Treasure Island, we headed back into the depths of Gilley’s, as Jack Daniel’s cowboys Aaron Roy and Rocky McDonald were making an appearance. “There are cowboys here, they are very cute,” said one of the JD girls. I had no idea. The real shocker of the afternoon was that the Jack Daniels girls would seem tastefully dressed after the Gilley’s girls experience. It was also heartening to see Rocky McDonald offer one of them half of his plate of friend chicken, which she dug right into. Rocky McDonald is very approachable and very funny—at one point, I said that I would love to do a drawing of him, but I’d never been able to find any good reference photos, to which he replied, “You’d have to be quick, because I’m usually under the bull in two seconds!” Aaron Roy seems very . . . Canadian. Very quiet, very polite. There was some delay in setting up the table with balloons and JD’s promotional materials, so we actually ended up chatting with the guys before that happened, and it was pleasant to be in a more informal setting without strange balloons and JD girls and their creepy male hangers-on hovering around.

Saturday: Meet-and-Greet

Saturday morning was, of course, the meet-and-greet, which unfortunately had been relocated from the slightly inconvenient parking lot of Mandalay Bay to the near-impossible to find and totally inconvenient parking lot of the out-of-the-way Hard Rock. The issue was compounded by the fact that the event started at 8 am, but at 8 am, there were no signs anywhere indicating where one should go. Thankfully, the bright yellow shirt and box of Starbucks belonging to a nice lady from the Stanley booth were able to help us, because walking all the way through the hotel and going up an escalator, out a door and through the pool area wasn’t exactly intuitive. As we made our way through the maze, more and more confused people joined us in following the lady in the yellow shirt; she was the pied piper of the PBR meet-and-greet.

Upon getting in line, we were confronted with video cameras borne by people with crazy hair, and realized when the people in front of us were asked to sign a release indicating that they were from MTV’s Real World. I didn’t even realize that was still on the air. Anyway, they are apparently doing some sort of episode centered on the PBR. I can’t wait to see how classy that production will no doubt be.

Some of the cowboys were running late (and I’m pretty sure a few of them never showed up; some, like Austin Meier and J.B. Mauney, doctored out, I believe, but who knows about the others), but eventually the hordes were let in. We of course had Renato and Valdiron as priorities so that I could give them their drawings. Guessing correctly that Renato’s line would quickly get out of control, we made a dash for him first. And I have to say, as much as I enjoy indulging myself by spending time drawing (and as a human being, I definitely don’t mind compliments on my work), the giant, delighted grin that broke out on Renato’s face was about the hugest reward I could ever ask for, as an artist and just as a person who admires his grit and talent and wanted to give a little back. He picked the drawing up, asked, “You did this?” and yelled in Portuguese to Robson Palermo, who was at the other end of the table, to look at it.

After getting a picture (where we were both grinning like fools), I told Renato he did the right thing by pressing the button. He mumbled, “I don’t know,” but gave a thumbs-up. I was about to step aside so as to not monopolize him when the Cooper Tires photographer asked if I would like a photo. When I said I already had one, Renato got a big smile on his face and said, “Yes, another hug!” So now I have two dorky pictures with Renato, he has one drawing, and I have a great memory. As an aside, his adorable daughter was “helping” by signing a stack of papers for him.

We moved on to Robson, who was quite curious about the drawing. I told him I’d try to get to him soon, which, well, I’m trying to get to everyone, but we’ll see how that goes. (By the time I get good reference photos of everyone and crank through the drawings, some of these guys are bound to have retired!) I am not going to go through each interaction as that would take forever, but I did want to mention Robson because while I know and have always known that this is a dangerous sport, it really drives it home when someone you were talking with in the morning is violently thrown on his head and taken out of the arena on a backboard in the evening. I am so happy and amazed that he came back the next day with a huge ride, and I only wish he would wear a helmet.

After Renato and Robson, we were on a mission to find Valdiron. We discovered him in the far, far corner of the lot. They had placed Valdiron, Robson Aragao, and Wesley Lourenco off the parking pavement and in a mud pit, which I found quite bizarre. It didn’t much bother me or them, as we were all in cowboy boots, but for those in slighter footwear ,it was a problem. Wesley Lourenco, by the way, reminds me of a baby Valdiron—very cute young guy with braces and a lot of talent. Robson Aragao, we discovered, actually signs things as “Spiderman.” I wish his English was better (or that I knew any Portuguese) because I really want to know what the Spiderman thing is all about. He is also taller than I thought, which is funny because most of the cowboys startle me by being shorter than I thought. Anyway, I gave Valdiron the drawing and was rewarded by one of his thousand-watt smiles, and even got a little joking in, as he said, “It looks like me!” and I replied, “A little bit!” He seemed quite tickled and I didn’t have the heart to ask him at that moment why he no longer wears the helmet. I really wish he would go back to it, though.

I did find it very odd this year the way they grouped people. Obviously some were by sponsor, but they had the two Australians together sort of floating in the middle of nowhere, and not very many people seemed to be talking to them, and then the four Brazilians were in the mud. I felt that last year they distributed it a bit more evenly, so that no one ended up sitting around and twiddling his thumbs. It was sort of awkward this year.

A few colorful scenes for you: I had the pleasure of watching Cody Nance set a gaggle of tweens completely aflutter just by existing. I also was quite pleased to see and chat with Chad Berger in his bright pink shirt, complemented by a bright pink autographed guitar he was going to auction for the Rider Relief Fund and Breast Cancer Awareness. I really respect Chad for going out there and taking a stand on an issue that isn’t a natural cowboy tie-in, and seemingly not caring if anybody thinks it isn’t manly.

After running around to various tables, we decided to go for broke and get in the Stanley line. Unfortunately, we were four people away from Guilherme and Silvano when they got called away, but we did get to see them huddled together under a quilt, for all the world like little cold-nosed puppies under a blanket. Too cute. We also had the dubious pleasure of seeing the guys make all sorts of ridiculous gun poses with Stanley power drills for some promotional shots. I also have to add that Stanley was responsible for one of the tackiest new giveaways at the event, but more on that later.

I did have many lovely fan encounters as well throughout the morning, somehow kept getting corralled by PBR camera people wanting happy crowd shots, and finished off the meet-and-greet portion of the afternoon by happening to be by the bucking bull machine when little Renata got on in her pink zebra cowboy boots. She’s pretty darn good—watch out in a few years, boys. Overall, I’m almost always impressed by the graciousness of the cowboys when confronted with the teeming masses, and while I’m sure some of them dread the finals meet-and-greet, most of them have the grace not to show it. A nice experience again this year.

Lamentations

2010-10-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Reindeer Games

2010-10-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Come in, friends, and take a seat—I need to speak seriously with you for a moment. For several days, I have been pondering a conversation that took place on the Zonkboard last week. A number of you were chatting about the Final Five event in Times Square next weekend. Shelia, who feels that this event may prevent the riders from getting rested up for the finals, remarked, “If anyone should appear in NYC to promote the World Finals, it should be the reigning champion, who has been absent unless he's riding! Kody, like Brian Canter and Kasey Hayes, should have shown up at events while recuperating. If the PBR didn't promote the 09 champ, it was because he wasn't available!”

Now, this is interesting on several fronts, the first and most obvious being that Shelia is absolutely right. Where the hell has Lostroh been, anyway? The official explanation from the PBR for his absence is that he’s been recovering from surgery. That might wash among those who are inclined to swallow any explanation whole, but I am not buying it, and here’s why: Several times during the six months that Justin McBride was out of competition because of a shoulder injury, he was still on hand as a commentator. And of course many other injured riders quite routinely show up at events and even come out to meet the fans on occasion.

Has ANYBODY seen Kody at ANY EVENT this season?

Oh, sure, we’ve all seen him now—he’s back on the tour. But why, exactly, has he not been out promoting the sport while his elbow healed up?

Where have you been, Kody?

I have to admit that I was thunderstruck by Shelia’s observation, and I feel considerable embarrassment about that for several reasons. First, I never even noticed that Lostroh wasn’t around—AT ALL—all season long. Second, I haven’t missed him ONE BIT. Third, when he did return to riding a few weeks ago, I realized yet again that I really do not like anything about him—not his put-me-to-sleep riding style, not the way he plays it safe when he picks bulls in the draft, not his beady-eyed stare when he’s looking into the camera.

But the fact remains that Kody Lostroh is the reigning World Champion of the Professional Bull Riders. He won $1,628,442.80 in competition last year, $1 million of that at the finals when he clinched the championship. But I guess the fact that he owes the sport a great deal didn’t stack up against the attractions of whatever he’s been doing instead of representing the sport to the fans and the larger world.

Yo, Kody—where have you been? My guess would be out shooting the **** out of something harmless, but I would really like to hear it from you.

When Justin McBride retired suddenly just before the finals two years ago, I was genuinely surprised to learn that one reason he was quitting was that he was tired of dealing with what he called “the media.” I suspect that might have at least partly been code for “the fans” as well, but McBride certainly affirmed that he was tired of being in the spotlight. Here’s the amazing thing about that—I had no idea he felt that way.

Over the years, I have found a lot to object to about McBride’s demeanour and his sometimes astonishing ignorance of what I consider to be common knowledge (and the way he conducts himself on “PBR Now” is frequently just embarrassingly adolescent, to say nothing of the irritating way he continually slaps the desk), but I really never imagined for a minute that he found the whole experience of being the world champ wearing. I truly believed that he ate it up with a spoon.

The title of this post, by the way, came from a comment that the divine S made when she and I were exchanging emails last week. “Lostroh seems really....not interested in being the media darling,” she remarked. “And people are surprised that the PBR has seized upon J.B. Mauney, who is not Brazilian and can play their reindeer games with some grace.”

Shelia seconded that opinion, but she also offered up an observation that, again, I found very revealing. She is, as you probably know, a member of Mauney’s Minions, a group of J.B.’s supporters. “But one thing we realized after meeting J.B. several times is he really doesn't have much to say to the fans,” she said. “He wasn't blessed with the ‘gift of gab’ like Adriano, Sean, J.W., Jody, or Beau—all of whom I have had lengthy discussions with. But J.B. is out there, smiling, shaking hands, saying, ‘Thank you very much,’ ‘Yes, Ma'am,’ ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘Alright.’ It might be just as difficult for J.B. to deal with fans and media as it is for Kody, but J.B. does it!”

Maybe the simplest answer really is the explanation—maybe Lostroh is just so painfully uncomfortable dealing with the media that he could not force himself to step up and do the right thing.

Maybe the answer is a little more sinister, or at least cynical—maybe Lostroh views his obligations to represent professional bull riding as nothing more than reindeer games, a ridiculous sideshow that he’d just as soon skip.

But frankly, I don’t care what his reasons are. I say that Lostroh has fallen down on the job. If you are willing to hang out with the boys and cash the checks, then you are obligated to deal with the aspects of the sport that you don’t like that much—ESPECIALLY when you’re the reigning World Champion.

Discovering Leah

2010-10-01T13:46:00.000-07:00

Gentle and devoted readers,

Last weekend, Montana Barn Cat and I ran away from home to Billings, where we ate and drank everything that couldn't run fast enough to escape from us at Bistro Enzo and then conked out at the Wingate. We weren't quite tired enough, though, to crash without watching at least a few minutes of television, through which adventure we had the good luck (or misfortune) to stumble upon our very own Leah Garcia working her day job.

This is but a taste of the actual infomercial, which went on and on and on . . . I kid you not, I could not believe how long the damned thing was. But here's the really great part: Throughout the first part of the program, the divine Leah was wearing a white summer suit with the coat open and a green sports bra. I vote she shows up at the next BFTS event in that rig--then we'll see just how gentlemanly (or not) those boys really are. I'd make a sizable bet, right now, that Leah's abs are better than those of any rider currently on tour. Any of you boys men enough to take me up on that?

On Professionalism

2010-09-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

It’s been nearly two weeks since that infamous night in Greenville when Renato Nunes had finally gotten his fill of inept judging and hit the challenge button, calling for a review of Ryan McConnel’s ride. Since then, I’ve watched with increasing amazement the gyrations that have gone on at PBR headquarters. On review, the judges confirmed what every single person who saw the ride already knew—McConnel slapped that bull nearly into next week.

A few days later, out came a terse press release announcing that the PBR was suspending all four judges who had worked the Greenville event. There followed a period of intense debate on the PBR comment boards about what had happened and how it all went down, about whether some of the judges had been fired outright, about who can suspend the judges, and on and on. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the PBR comments board, though, it’s that the remarks you see there strongly resemble free advice—it’s worth what you’re paying for it.

Incredibly, the judging this past weekend in Springfield was worse than it was in Greenville. Several of my readers have theorized that the new judges must have had the jitters. When the smoke cleared after that event, yet another judge was suspended.

I want to make it clear, straight up, that I have no inside information about what is happening at PBR headquarters. The PBR is a closed (I’d almost say airtight) system, as anybody who has ever tried to storm the gates or even get a straight answer knows. I know one person who has been trying to talk to someone in Pueblo about her concerns for months, and has yet to even get a phone call or an email acknowledging that they’ve received her messages.

But I am arrogant enough to believe that what I lack in information I make up in insight. So here goes: I believe we are watching an organization suffering through the growing pains associated with professionalization.

The PBR started out very small, targeted a specific niche audience, and has grown astronomically in a short period of time. In the beginning, it was run by a bunch of cowboys and, I daresay, their friends and relatives, and on their watch, it began to grow. But there comes a time in the life of any grassroots organization, be it a business or a church or a county museum, when it’s time to call in the professionals and send the good ol’ boys home.

The need for professionalizing the PBR has been masked by the organization’s success since its upstart beginnings, and, yes, by the hiring of Randy Bernard. Members of the board were always quick to point out that Bernard was not a “cowboy” and they were damned proud of the fact that they had had the courage to hire him anyway. Everyone who has ever stopped by here knows that I am Randy Bernard’s biggest fan. Without Bernard, the PBR would not be where it is today, but you have to wonder if it would not have made more progress if more genuine professionals had been brought in sooner to deal with other matters. The fact is that a whole lot of stuff besides marketing has long needed professional attention and hasn’t gotten it.

By all appearances, the PBR is an organization that, as one of my readers once observed, values loyalty above expertise. This is evident in the fact that the website is a mess, damned near as difficult to navigate as a labyrinth; that despite all the hollering about how great the writing is in the magazine and on the website, it is usually marginal if not outright bad, and the reporting, by any reasonable journalistic standard, is worse; that the opening ceremonies have not changed appreciably in at least five years, except to get louder and more pyrotechnic; that interactions between fans and the membership office are not always cordial; and that though fans and riders have been complaining for years about how bad the judging is, nothing was done until Nunes pushed the button and the shit hit the fan.

What is truly interesting about all this is that we are now running through one set of judges after another. Has there never been any training program developed for these folks? Or were they, as I strongly suspect, just guys who wandered over from the PRCA and took a seat behind the bucking chutes? That said, what the PBR board should be taking away from this experience is this: When people complain and see no action taken, they end up taking matters into their own hands. I applaud Renato for doing so within the system. I want him to shake off the guilt he evidently feels for having done the right thing and get back to riding like the future world champion he is.

Furthermore, all this shucking and jiving over judging makes me wonder what else has been falling by the wayside, and what it will take to fix it. Clearly, the PBR board believed early on that good marketing would be the answer to their prayers, and they did have the sense to recognize that none of them were marketing geniuses. So they hired Randy Bernard, and he took the marketing end of the business and ran with it. It’s obvious, though, that some critical infrastructure has long been neglected and is now suffering from dry rot.

Right now, today, the PBR is at a critical point. No matter how much Justin McKee insisted that JHQ Arena in Springfield was “packed” last Friday night, all you have to do is look around at a BFTS event to realize that ticket sales are down. Ticket prices are too high for a family to take in an event without giving the matter a lot of thought, and who can blame them if they opt for something less expensive, like a ballgame or the county fair? The board members have to face the fact that they have pretty much reached everybody who is likely to be a “core” fan, and to keep the sport growing, they need to widen their fan base. To do that, the PBR is going to have to look less like a small-town rodeo and more like an international sport. That means biting the bullet and coughing up the bucks to bring in people who know what they’re doing, and it means putting up with the shrieks of those who feel that any change is automatically a change for the worse.

The good news is that true professionals know they are going to take some waves over the bow when they take over the helm. They know it goes with the territory, and they have the experience and the judgment to see past the immediate turbulence.

The bad news is, the PBR board members may still not realize that they need help. The worst news would be that they recognize the need, but even for the ultimate good of the sport, they don’t have the fortitude to put up for a while with some rough water.

Black Boots Goes to Greenville

2010-09-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

Folks, a lot has been going on with the PBR in the past week, as you all know, but I have been holding off commenting for the moment because the divine Black Boots made the trip to Greenville and offered to send me her observations on the experience. I think you are going to find this very enlightening. Thanks, Black Boots, for showing us what it was like on the ground.

The good, the bad, the bad, and the good of Greenville

First, a confession: I stole the title of my review straight from the adorable lips of Kiefer Sutherland in the movie Cowboy Up. In it, he plays Hank Braxton, a struggling stock contractor for the newly birthed PBR. Late in the film, he has a conversation with another character (played by Molly Ringwald in a less perky phase) who asks how he’s been doing since his no-count brother, a bull rider, ran off with Hank’s unrequited love, the barrel-racing hussy Celia Jones (played by fish-girl Darryl Hannah).

“Well,” Hank sighs. “Good. And bad. And bad. And good.”

That’s how I feel about Greenville.

Let me set the scene. I’ve never traveled to an event before. Since Greenville is only an hour and change away, the intrepid E and I decided to go, and we brought two brand-new PBR fans with us who were all up for a weekend away from our darling husbands. And Greenville is gorgeous. It’s got the most fabulously planned and resurrected historic district I’ve ever seen (and which was attached to the PBR’s hotel) and spectacular public green spaces. It is a center for arts and culture in that corner of the Carolinas. In other words, Greenville is an urbane town, as urbane as it’ll get this close to Bob Jones University. This will become more significant later.

The good

We couldn’t attend both nights, so we went on Saturday night because of the bulls. One of the arena announcers said, “They call this the BEAST Coast” and they weren’t kidding. Thanks to our proximity to Teague, Robinson, Waggoner, and other contractors’ HQs, we had Bones, Uncle Buck, Major Payne, the front-running Voodoo Child, and that sweet, magnificent baby Chicken on a Chain for the short go, and bulls like Skyhawk Cut-a-Rug, MacNett’s Pinball Wizard, and Super Hou in the second round. We are spoiled rotten for bulls, and they did not disappoint. You all know JB’s ride on Voodoo was spectacular (especially when Voodoo launched him in the dismount like a slingshot), but to be in the audience? Bedlam. It still gives me chills. By the way, he made the 8 seconds, case closed. It was a magnificent ride and well deserved the score. Chicken caught more air than I’d ever seen him catch, but Paulo Lima matched him jump for jump. Two most excellent athletes!

Bulls to watch? Keep an eye on that dadgum Fire Ant. On Saturday, he bucked like a maniac that couldn’t get enough (ask Travis Briscoe.) I was also impressed with the punch-and-go of Monty the Bull with JB, Pinball Wizard with Brendon Clark, and Hot Tamale with Travis Sellers. And Moebandy.com had his best out ever (which didn’t end well for Guilherme, dammit.) Were there riders I hadn’t noticed before last Saturday? Hmm, maybe Travis Sellers. He has excellent balance. And it was great to be in the arena when Paulo Lima caught fire. That out with Chicken is going to boost his confidence. Watch for him to stay on more tough bulls.

and bad. And bad . . .

After listening to the Friday Night Fracas on the event center, E and I knew there might be some tense faces in the hotel Saturday afternoon. In fact, the faces weren’t tense. There was a noticeable absence of faces. Except for Guilherme and a cluster of the younger Brazilians, no one was eating lunch or signing autographs. What was present—at least to me—was a sense of important things being discussed behind closed doors. (Note: JB did do a signing at his t-shirt concession—I got one for my daughter—and was mannerly as always.) We availed ourselves of the aforementioned historic district and then got all flossed up for the event.

The arena was only two city blocks from the hotel, so we walked. We had to wait outside for our other friends, so we squatted on some steps and watched the crowd go in. I observed that the arena staff was waving electronic scanner wands over almost everyone in line, and then the staffer at the end of the line called out, “If you have guns or knives, please do not bring them into the arena. Please take them back to your vehicle.” He repeated this phrase over and over again. At first it was funny, and then I thought, oh, god. Is this because of Renato’s callout?

Now you might say, “BB, it’s the South. Isn’t that part of the uniform?” To which I’d have to say, “For Greenville? No way.” It’s a PBR event with lots of kids and families in attendance. It’s not the kind of place the most, um, armed folks would carry their hardware. So why were they wanding everyone (including me?) Why even make that announcement repeatedly if it’s a family event? My deduction (and you’re welcome to agree or disagree) was that there was some concern there would be retaliation against Renato’s callout on McConnell’s slap. You see, I’d had time to read the sickening comments on the PBR’s thread. I knew what kind of craziness was transpiring, and it made me good and mad. And wary.

Because of my new wariness, I jumped like a scalded cat every time fireworks went off in the intro. Renato’s big climactic introduction was not met with boos, but much less applause than the world’s number one bull rider should receive. Afterward, there was so much smoke and fog in the arena that I felt like we were on Alcatraz on a winter morning. It was a jumpy event—not that our friends noticed it, they were entranced with everything—but it felt more jarring and uncertain, even, than events I’ve been to in the past. Not only that, I think we got out of there in record time. Why the bum’s rush?

There was a lot of buzz about Friday night’s drama in the stands. I’d say it was 50/50 as to whether or not Renato should have pushed the button. My opinion? The judging has been erratic and downright racist ever since I’ve watched the PBR. I’ve railed privately in my living room about the men who can’t let go of their personal prejudices or preferences and couldn’t believe that NO ONE in the PBR PTB ever stood up and called out that big pink elephant in the arena. Renato is the only person who has had the guts to point out that elephant. I am in awe of his actions; I also believe that Ryan’s initial reaction was an adrenaline-fueled outburst, and I’m happy with the way he’s calmed down and handled the situation. There was nothing overtly tense behind the chutes on Saturday, so I’m sure the riders felt like it had been resolved. It broke my heart in Leah’s interview with Renato on Sunday’s telecast when he said, “Maybe I just go back to Brazil.” I know his head was nowhere near where it needed to be to ride his bull that night, and we had to see him go down. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he’s turning backflips again; I fervently hope that he can find a way to put this behind him and go back to setting his jaw for a world championship. As always, YMMV. Note: We never saw him at the hotel.

. . . and good.

When we were leaving the arena, the folks who were handing out samples of BBQ sauce foisted an entire case of sample packets on me. My husband is a champeen smoker/griller type, so I knew he’d be happy with me. I tried to give a lot of it away, but took home a big enough supply that my dear hub was indeed tickled.

We did meet a few riders Saturday night after the event at the hotel. I came away with a good impression of Brendon Clark—very yakkity, friendly, and curious. I rode the elevator with Ross Coleman (he assured me that the sauce was good, heh), but he looked utterly exhausted. I remembered that he’d probably flown across the country to get to Greenville, and with jet lag gotten on bulls less than 48 hours after arrival, and then would get back on a 5+ hour flight. No wonder. Adriano blew past us a couple of times at the hotel—E did get a hug from him while I was out doing something else—but he was deep in conversation every time I saw him, I imagine about everything that was going on. JB and Austin have their jaws set and their game faces on, even though they’re cordial. They mean “bidness.” It’s going to be an interesting battle to Vegas.

And in my *squee* fangirl moment of the weekend, I would like to submit that Guilherme’s eyes are the color of dark cinnamon. He’s also every bit as nice as I imagined him to be. *Squee!* Okay, got that out of my system.

And one rider completely irked me. No dude, I was not trying to take a picture of your feeble chin spinach; in fact, if you hadn’t been so busy acting like a “D” list bit player, I might have told you that I applaud your decision to wear a helmet. Instead? Don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out of the Top 40.

The very best thing about the weekend? The elevators. They smelled like eau de bull. How I love those four-legged athletes!

And now I’m going to watch Cowboy Up (minus the ending I hate) for about the eleventy millionth time.

Our Intrepid Reporter in Ontario

2010-09-03T09:06:00.000-07:00

Gentle Readers, the Divine Shannon has yet again rescued the Stockyard Queen from the Slough of Despond, sending me this entertaining report of her adventures in Ontario last weekend. Pull up a chair and enjoy! Thanks, Shannon!--The Stockyard Queen

Musings from Ontario

First, thank God the heat lifted for this weekend. The previous weekend and the entire week up until Thursday, the temperatures were 100+, and on Friday, it was still 91. The high on Saturday was 75 and about the same for Sunday. This was a good thing because under normal circumstances, I’m a miserable witch in the heat, but when you like to dress the part like I do, in jeans and cowboy boots, I’ve have pitied my poor husband (who went with me on Saturday) and friend (who went with me on Sunday) for having to put up with me. Fortunately, it was quite comfortable.

Speaking of dressing the part: Is it just me or is it a Southern California thing that only a handful of us dress in our best jeans and boots while others come in the usual, local, seasonal get-ups? Here that was crop pants, sandals, or something comparable. I’m aware that not everyone has cowboy boots, but crop pants? Huh? It was rather baffling to me because, I couldn’t imagine going to a bull ride dressed like that anymore than I’d go to a rock concert in my Sunday best (and I mean no offense to anyone who dresses that way—it’s just that for me, looking the part is part of the whole experience). [SQ: It’s not just you. In Tulsa, the folks who came to the events looked like they had just stopped by on their way to K-Mart. I’m talking flip-flops. Flip-flops! I’ve seen more appropriately dressed folks at tractor pulls.]

In fact, bull riding going over so well in southern CA baffles me in general more than any other place on tour except maybe NYC. It surprises me that here, just 45 miles from Hollywood, where dressage is infinitely more popular than western riding, where PETA reigns supreme, the PBR has managed to have an Anaheim stop every year so far, and, for the last two, there were two events per season. Not only that, I’ve never seen or heard of one picket sign protesting the event.
But, I digress. I entered the event looking forward to seeing it live yet again, but at the same time hoping I’d see something exciting because the California events, to me, have always been a little dull. The really rank bulls are rare here and there are many bulls that people aren’t too familiar with and always a lot of rides.

The opening video

While watching the opening video of the wrecks, I thought about you here on the blog not liking the fact that it was all wrecks all the time. While I agree that they need to mix it up with some great rides, I thought of something my brother, a bull riding and NASCAR fan, said to me when he last attended an event with me. At one point, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, he was prompted to say “It’s just like NASCAR—everyone is waiting to see a wreck.” Morbid curiosity. Sadly human and, as Flint pointed out later in the program, “That’s what sells tickets.” [SQ: As one fan famously said, “We don’t want to see anybody get killed. We just want to see somebody ALMOST get killed.”]

Thankfully, there were only a few scary moments with riders getting thrown around, or limping out, with Ryan McConnel’s slam to the ground being the one true “someone was looking out for him” moment. Someone was looking out for the bull, too. It was still fresh in my mind, as well as many others, I’m sure, that it was just last week that Code Blue’s feet failed him as well. This bull, however, seemed to recover very well, as did Ryan.

Flint moments

After so many events, Flint has stopped really amusing me because it’s usually the same thing over and over again. In fact, a couple of times during the Sunday event, while my friend (a first time PBR attendee—she had a great time) was absorbed in watching one of his usual routines, I was texting a friend of mine updates because she wasn’t where she could watch a show online. I’m surprised he didn’t call me out—we were that close in what were supposed to be the best seats in the section, but I highly disagree to the point that the next time I go, I know exactly what row I’m going to request! Anyway, he did have some new stuff that made me chuckle: Running down Travis Sellers after his buck off, calling “What happened?! What happened?” to which Travis responded “The bull was better than me!” After we were sure that both Ryan McConnel and his bull were okay, Flint put himself into the mind of the bull and told us what he was thinking: “You think you can figure me out? Stay on this!” after which he crashed himself into the ground. After the Enterprise contest, in which Flint asks a fan what Brian Canter prefers—chicken or fish (really? Didn’t these people see the last event where that was aired on tv?), he wondered out loud if he liked boneless chicken and then went into a rather funny imitation of a boneless chicken. Finally, there was a cute moment when Flint and Brandon were having a contest to see who had the most famous person’s phone number in their cell phone. Brandon won with the number of a famous country singer whose name escapes me right now (sorry). [SQ: How famous could he have been if he’s hanging out with Brandon?]

Famous people and those who associate with them

On Saturday, the big talk was about “NCIS” and how Flint wasn’t invited. In fact, a large part of the crew was there in one of the back rows of the section next to us. Then on Sunday, I hear, from behind me: “Omg…that’s Tom Cruise.” Now, I’d heard from the sound man, whose booth we were sitting behind, that Tom was supposed to be there that weekend researching a new movie. Well, he was never announced, but people spotted him and yes, he was definitely in research mode. He was stuck like glue to someone in a cowboy hat, staring over the chutes, watching intently, asking questions and listening carefully to the answers. When he came down to right behind the chutes, he spent a moment or two with Guilherme, talking and laughing. Then, when it came to the rope pulling, the camera got him and that’s when most people got it—Tom was there! Loud cheers came from the crowd. I’m not crazy about his behavior and attitude these days, but it was kind of cool to see someone that popular at the event. I’ll be interested if anything comes of this movie.

On the dirt

Going on the dirt is an interesting experience because you learn a bit more about the riders and their attitudes. Ryan was in good form. Jordan Hupp is wonderfully polite and talkative young man. Renato and McKennon were mobbed, with each handling it differently. Both were accommodating and all smiles, but Renato had more of a vibe that said “I love my fans,” whereas McKennon had more of a vibe that said “I love being loved.” It was very subtle and it wasn’t enough for me to be turned off—like I said, he was very accommodating and friendly—but there was something. Perhaps the fact that he wouldn’t go farther than one or two steps across the barrier into the fan zone area and we had to go to him added to that. (After having seen his interview and rider profile the next morning, I really hope that someone he looks up to pulls him aside and tells him to dial it back a little.). Robson was the best encounter of the night. He spoke about his injury and then, when we told him about meeting his wife and little girl in Anaheim, he grinned and told us with great pride and animation about how she’s just started walking. Then about how she loves to go to the window to look out at the cows and announce, loudly, when they would approach the yard. He was glowing.

Something exciting!

In the end, it turned out to be a great event. McKennon was determined to hold onto that #10 spot. Shane made a great effort to knock him out of 10th. JB hung onto third. A short-go (sadly, w/o a Brazilian rider—how often does that happen?) with only one ride and, while I like other riders better, I have no issues with Austin Meier and respect the determination he has this season Therefore, I congratulate him on his win.

Dear Mr. Wagoner and Mr. Walton:

2010-08-26T11:15:00.000-07:00

Please retire Code Blue today. Do it for his own good, for the good of his unborn progeny, and for the good of the sport.

Do it because the last thing any of us wants to witness is you putting him down in the middle of the arena after he hurts himself so badly that nothing can be done for him.

Do it because it's the right thing to do.

J.B. Mauney

2010-08-10T11:22:00.000-07:00

Hard on the heels of our Tulsa adventure, we trundled over to Livingston for the Touring Pro event on July 28. Concisely called “Murdoch's Presents The Northwest Dickies PBR Touring Pro Division,” the event took place at the Livingston fairgrounds, which is a far cry indeed from the BOK Center. But after all the noise and fanfare of the BFTS, a Touring Pro event outdoors, with the most spectacular view of Paradise Valley you could ask for, was a real treat, particularly considering that in Tulsa, we barely dared stick our heads outside at midday for fear of suffering heat stroke. We dragged some friends along with us, and we all had a good time.

I will spare you the details of the cowboys and the bulls and the rides and the wrecks, which at the time seemed less than awesome and by now is old news. What I want to talk about happened during the opening ceremonies, when a helicopter landed in the middle of the arena (just barely, I might add, clearing the power lines to the south), and out popped a handful of the top riders.

And suddenly, there he was, not 15 feet from where I was sitting—J.B. Mauney in the flesh! You might think that this picture is blurry because my hands were shaking, and I would not deny that.

I have never gone out of my way to meet the riders at the events because, after all, I’m there to see the bulls, not the boys, and it seems hypocritical of me to shake their hands and chat them up, knowing full well that I really want to see every last one of them hit the dirt—safely, of course. But I’m telling you truly, this kid has a lean and hungry look to him that does not bode well for his competition.

Mauney has been riding hot and cold for most of the season. Given the intense scrutiny he’s under, and the blatantly hostile treatment he’s gotten and continues to get from a lot of fans, it’s no wonder to me he is by his own admission “fighting my head.” It would be miracle if he weren't.

I don’t know whether Mauney will be able to salvage this season and win the world championship—there’s too much season left and too many balls in the air to predict who will take home the buckle this year. But if he is fortunate enough to avoid serious injury, he will one day be the PBR’s World Champion. You didn’t hear it here first, but you’re hearing it here now.

Now, About Those Bulls . . .

2010-07-27T09:16:00.000-07:00

I kept hearing two themes at the PBR event in Tulsa. One went like this: “The return of . . .”—just go ahead and fill in the blank to your own satisfaction. On Saturday night, I was treated to the return of J. B. Mauney, Brian Canter, Zack Brown, and Brendon Clark. On Sunday afternoon, I was told about the return of each of those young men yet again—you get the idea. I got heartily sick of the sound of it, especially since none of those boys except Zack rode worth a damn.

The other theme was how great the bulls were. Don’t get me wrong—you all know that the bulls are the reason I love this sport so much. But although the bulls most certainly got the job done, what with only 29 qualified rides for the entire event, I was exceptionally impressed with only a handful of them.

One thing I really love about the events when the new young bulls show up is their enthusiasm. Certainly you’ll see a few who are freaked out by the bright lights and the noise, but then there are others who really bring it, who come flying out of the chute like nobody told them they were supposed to play nicely with the cowboys. Maybe the veterans like Bushwhacker, Major Payne, and Hank were giving the rookies some advice behind the chutes, because some of those adorable babies, particularly Holy Roller and King Lopez, wasted no time doing their job when the gate opened.

Still, my distinct overall impression was that the cowboys were not at their best at either event. I don’t mean to suggest they weren’t doing anything they could think of to stay aboard—I saw contortions the like of which I don’t often see—but many of the boys just seemed a little off their game. I don’t know if it was the oppressive heat they’d been wading through anytime they dared to stick their heads outside the hotel, or, as Ty Murray famously said, “Too much clubbing,” or (most likely, I think) the fact that almost all of them were all banged up to one extent or another.

In his Webcast Friday night, Dr. Freeman pointed out that the much-talked about break was, in fact, a break in “name only,” because many of the guys keep riding on the Touring Pro circuit while the BFTS is shut down. Consequently, by the time we showed up on Saturday night, Briscoe, Cross, and McConnel were all out of action with comparatively new injuries. Marchi, who had surgery on his hand a few weeks before, came to the event intending to ride and then decided against it when it became clear he wasn’t 100%.

And on Saturday night, the crowd seemed sluggish as well. About halfway through the event, Montana Barn Cat said to me, “This bunch makes the Billings event look like the Superbowl.” It was better on Sunday, when the true die-hard fans always turn out in force, but on Saturday night, I swear it seemed you could have heard a pin drop a lot of the time.

I go to the PBR to see the bulls lay waste to the cowboys, and certainly I saw plenty of that in Tulsa. I sincerely hope that what I sensed from the boys was just anomaly. There’s a lot of season left before Vegas.

Escaping the Bunny Hutch, or the After-Party That Wasn’t

2010-07-23T05:54:00.000-07:00

Leaving the Crowne Plaza for the PBR event on Saturday night, we got off in the second-floor lobby. (By the way, the Crowne in Tulsa isn’t half as nice as the one in Billings. Just sayin’.) Lots of people, mostly young women, were congregating in a seating area off to our left. “What’s that?” I asked Montana Barn Cat. He cast an appraising eye at the masses and stated unequivocally, “That’s the Buckle Bunny Hutch.”

After the event ended, we trudged back through the still-soupy atmosphere to the hotel. We had been debating all day whether to go over to Cain’s Ballroom for the official after-party, but doing that would have obliged us to retrieve the car from valet parking at the exact moment that millions of other folks were trying to do the same. So we postponed that decision and headed to the bar for a drink.

We were among the first to get in there, but it became clear very quickly that we were never going to get served. We heard the bartender, with whom we’d had a very pleasant chat about Tiger Woods the day before, tell one of the customers that he didn’t have a cocktail server on duty that night, so if you wanted a drink, you had to go to the bar to get it, and people were already standing three deep there.

(At one point in our conversation, the bartender asked us if we worked for the PBR. “Why did he think that?” I later inquired of the Barn Cat. “Because we aren’t dressed like slobs and I was wearing a cowboy hat,” he sagely replied.)

Faced with these dire prospects, we hightailed it out of there and went in search of food and drink elsewhere. We passed Adriano Moraes, who was going up the escalator as we were going down, which suggested that maybe a lot of PBR folks and riders might be coming to the Crowne instead of going over to Cain’s. Eventually, we ended up at a very nice sushi bar just a few blocks away. You might not think you can get good sushi in Tulsa. You’d be wrong about that.

When we got back to the hotel again, we spotted Ryan McConnel and three other riders leaning up against the railing at the far end of the lobby seating area, all of them looking like they’d rather have been anywhere but there. The buckle bunnies were out in force to our right, rummaging through the little buffet and roiling around among the rest of the fans. (By now I’m sure you can all recognize the buckle-bunny costume: a little stretchy top with or without spaghetti straps and/or spangles, either a micro-miniskirt (usually denim) or ripped-up cutoffs that just barely keep the essentials covered, and cowboy boots. In most cases, I’d bet the whole outfit doesn’t cost $25. Oh, except for the overpriced cell phone that they all seem to be packing, of course.)

On the other side of the escalators, we saw three dejected buckle bunnies sadly peering over the railing, I presume in hopes of spotting an unclaimed cowboy. Since these poor girls were decidedly less svelte than the rest of the occupants of the hutch, I didn’t think their chances were very good.

We ducked back into the bar and realized that regardless of what was going on at Cain’s, or out in the lobby, THAT was where the real PBR After Party was. Riders and fans were cheek-by-jowl in there, and you couldn’t have gotten a drink if your life depended on it.

We never got over to Cain’s, which is sad because it’s been a hotspot on the Tulsa music scene since the ’20s, and Montana Barn Cat was dying to look it over. But we did have a great time at the After Party That Wasn’t.

Open Letter to Kris diLorenzo

2010-07-21T13:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Kris:

I thought about you a lot while we were in Tulsa. Having slogged about six blocks through the soupy atmosphere from the hotel to the BOK Center on Saturday night, we snagged a beer and stumbled to our seats. A quick look around confirmed what had been apparent in the lobby: The place was at most three-quarters full.

While I was enduring the praying and the recruits taking the Air Force oath and the paratroopers repelling down from the ceiling and the welcome back for some veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, I kept remembering the question a colleague of mine had asked us both at lunch the day before: Why do nice people like you follow bull riding?

Anybody who has spent five minutes here knows the answer to that question—I’m in it for the bulls. But it occurred to me that in terms of its core audience, the PBR has probably hit the wall, and in fact may have begun to lose some ground. There’s not a whole lot more rednecks out there waiting to be rounded up and herded into the fold, and some rednecks may even be abandoning ship.

Let’s face it—if you’ve seen one pre-event show, you’ve seen them all. It would not surprise me one bit if someone managed to confirm that the prayer so piously offered at the beginning of the event is repeated word-for-word at every single venue. Since his heart attack, Flint has changed some things up, but not so much that you have to pay strict attention or you’ll miss something awesome. If anything, there is more blatant pandering to the sponsors than ever, right down to the silly little girls in their skimpy outfits tripping merrily through the dirt five times a night to throw tee-shirts and stress balls into the crowd. And another thing—every one of them runs (and throws) like a girl.

Unless you studiously devote yourself to following the cowboys and/or the bulls each season, it’s a safe bet that you’ll be bored about the third time you go to a BFTS event. I’ve been going to live events for five years now, and I can truthfully say that almost nothing has changed—it’s just more of the same, piled higher and deeper.

All this makes me wonder if Randy Bernard didn’t recognize that to take the PBR to the next level, he would have to do battle with a lot of good ol’ boys who are deeply invested in the way things are, up to and including the right-wing family values crap that’s handed out like chewing gum at the beginning of every event. Maybe he thought he couldn’t effect meaningful change anymore—maybe he didn’t have the stomach for the battle. Fifteen years in the same job can take the edge off anyone, and it’s clear that just adding more events and going to bigger towns isn’t going to attract a larger audience on a permanent basis. Curiosity seekers, sure. Hard-core fans—not so much.

I plan to be there till they put the last bull on the trailer and turn out the lights, but I can’t help but wonder if there aren’t a lot of nice people like me, and nice people who totally disagree with me on just about everything, who are starting to wonder whether it’s worth $75 a seat to hear the same sermon yet again.

Calgary or Bust!

2010-07-20T12:39:00.000-07:00

Dear friends: I am embarrassed to reveal to you our deep, dark secret: We are impulsive. On several occasions, we have taken off on a Saturday afternoon to go grocery shopping and ended up driving for hours along the banks of the Madison River, picking out the perfect spot for our next trout fishing adventure. Since we’ve lived here in God’s country for more than five years and have, each summer, bought fishing licenses without ever wetting a hook, I guess you could also say we are eternal optimists. There’s always NEXT summer, right? There’s plenty of fish in them thar rivers.

The point of this is that back in June, after I returned from spending 10 days on the road, six of them with my family, we hatched the idea of trundling up to Calgary to take in the Stampede. This was mostly inspired by Montana Barn Cat’s ceaseless moaning about how he was just going to DIE if he didn’t get to see some bulls buck soon, but I’d be lying if I denied that we were also somewhat persuaded by the memory of Reese Cates’ immortal description of his adventures in Canada two years ago. Anyway, we thought we’d just mosey up there, spend a couple days at the Stampede and see some draft horses, miniature donkeys, and bucking bulls, spend a couple of nights at the Fairmont in Banff, and then head on home. Since we planned to drive, we didn’t see any need to get our panties in a bunch about reservations and such till about three weeks before we planned to depart.

First speed bump: Montana Barn Cat realized he HAD to attend a Big Deal at the museum where he works. I totally concurred with this, so we pushed our departure date back to accommodate that.

Second speed bump: The Fairmont had been offering a stay-two-nights-get-the-third-night-free deal, which abruptly disappeared off the Website just as we were getting ready to book the room. I’m all for shamelessly indulging the Cat and myself, but that was just a little too rich for my blood. So we decided to cut back to one night in Banff and a slightly more leisurely trip home.

Third speed bump: Just as I was about to get online to make all the reservations and buy the Stampede tickets, Montana Barn Cat realized that—wait for it—his passport had expired. There was no way he could get it renewed in time.

Busted! Or, three strikes and you’re out.

So we gave all that detailed, complicated, in-depth planning the deep-six and flew to Tulsa.

Yes, Tulsa.

We flew down there and attended the Saturday night and Sunday afternoon PBR events at the BOK Center.

I plan to post at some length about the experience, being as careful as I can to avoid revealing much about the results, since I know that some of you plan to watch the coverage on Versus.

But I will leave you hanging with this last tidbit: The second night we were in town, we came back from slogging around through the 100 degree murk that settles over Tulsa like the Black Plague at this time of year, and went straight to the hotel bar for something cool. There we met up with an Australian gentleman who had just flown in from attending the Stampede. He informed us that the rodeo events in Calgary were a total bust, because apparently it poured rain the entire time he was there.

I guess sometimes it’s wisest to pay attention to the straws in the wind.

At Long Last, Worcester!

2010-07-02T13:22:00.001-07:00

Friends, I am proud to be able to post Kris DiLorenzo’s report on the 2010 Worcester Invitational, which she attended back in early May. I also invite you to check out the blog for her new company, Bull Riding Marketing, at http://bullridingmarketing.wordpress.com. You can also follow her on twitter at MarketBullRidin. Here she is!

The 2010 Worcester Invitational

The bulls won. I’ve never seen anything like it. Six riders made 8 seconds on Saturday night, but nobody made 8 seconds on Sunday afternoon, though Connecticut cowboy Dan Welsh got close. One commentator joked that they’d have to give the money to the bulls. Velcro was mentioned. There shouldn’t have been a Championship Round, but the powers that be decided that whoever had lasted close to 8 seconds would be in it. Then, a handful of guys stuck.

I drove three hours and braved a scattering of animal cruelty protestors outside the DCU Center in Worcester, Mass. to see the second of four PBR events in the Northeast. (I never tire of bragging that I saw JB hang onto Code Blue in Madison Square Garden in January.) There’s one aspect of bull riding the PBR should address: the public perception that bulls are tortured or hurt. I called out my car window to someone with a picket sign, “They don’t hurt the bulls, believe me! That’s expensive breeding stock!” -- not exactly a concerted PR effort.

I was horrified at the attendance—the lack thereof. On the second day, the arena was only half full; maybe less. Now that’s a marketing challenge I could sink my teeth into…and don’t think I won’t pester the PBR about it. Meanwhile, the Frontier Rodeo Website proclaims that they “delivered another sold-out event.” Seeing double? What’n hell were they drankin’??

The event had all the BFTS trappings—big screen, dramatically silhouetted entrance march, T-shirt shooters, joking commentators, and Rockin’ Robbie--the Touring Pro version of Flint. But the opening mix of flag-waving, Bible-thumping, politics (our veterans were in Iraq for peace; didja know that’s what all the firepower was about?), and declaring the U.S. “the greatest country in the world” was one distasteful spectacle. Excuse me, but how about not insulting the Brazilian riders? How about respect for non-Christians? How about this is a bull riding event, not a revival meeting? You wanna broaden bull riding’s appeal? Rein in the schlockmeisters.

Might as well turn out one more gripe. I wish they’d used the big screen to show rides, not wrecks! Most people don’t watch bull riding to see cowboys get maimed—they come to see them ride bulls. There’s plenty of footage of good rides—show it!

There were just two names on the day’s program you’d recognize: Cody Nance and Blueberry Wine’s son, Fine Wine. Kasey Hayes won Saturday night, but Sunday afternoon, the thrill was gone. Not for the bulls, though—they were hamming it up. After he dumped Ueberson Duarte, Tear Jerker didn’t want to scram; he charged the wrangler’s horse—first time I’ve seen that. Black Walnut so seriously balked at exiting that after roping him, the wrangler had to charge ahead of him to pull him into the chute after him. Broken Promises refused to leave center stage until a bullfighter ran into the chute, presenting him with a target he couldn’t resist chasing. Blue Collar flipped a bullfighter sky-high up over his back end (the bull’s back end, that is).

Cowboys got air-mailed every which way, and a lot of them didn’t get out of the way fast enough after they came down. On Blue Collar, local Jean Da Silva hung up by his foot, traveling upside down. After two buck-offs, Cody Nance came back for his re-ride ready for business: chapless, jeans tucked into his boots. Not the best look, but in the so-called Championship Round, he rode Motel Melvin for 87.5. Corey Atwell, Matt Werries, Tom Winikus, and Lance Roberts scored 90, 87.5, 91.6, and 86.5, respectively. Wallace de Oliveira, 10th in Nampa, didn’t stay aboard Barnstormer, but rode Vindictive in the Championship Round for 87.5.

Bulls were provided by Teague Bucking Bulls, Mark Reed, Frontier Rodeo Company, and Frontier Rodeo Company & Ray. Some to watch: Wee Willy will give a rider a good workout. Night Hawk has some good fakes. Loco is intense—not easy to ride. Alex is a big guy. And Austin Nights was giving it his all in the chute.

The fact that I took notes about the entertainment and announcing shows how dismal the first four rounds were. Announcer’s best lines: “Brazilian cowboy Darth Vader is gonna get the re-ride!” and “The bull riding fell apart like a cheap tuxedo” (McKee must be throwing his voice).

Rockin’ Robbie’s patter was sometimes a cut above the usual cheesy stuff. Trying to rev up the audience generation by generation, Robbie hollered at the under-20s, “Pull your pants up!!” He also informed us, “I’m 6′2″ on e-Harmony!” (Buyer beware.) Trying to be optimistic after the 40th buck-off, he proclaimed, “Somebody’s gonna ride somethin’ now—I know I’m right—I got ESPN!” Being told he had WBRDS (White Boy Rhythm Deficiency Syndrome), he danced wildly out of control, spun into the well of a cartwheel, and hit the dirt, at which point the announcer yelled, “Robbie! No more Red Bull, okay!?”

What surprised me was how many Northeastern riders were in the event: 18 from Massachusetts, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Pennsylvania. Five riders were from the South, four from the Midwest, and 10 from Brazil. But it didn’t matter; it was the bulls’ day. A fake Championship Round is just depressing. Why the guys couldn’t do the 8 seconds in the other four rounds is beyond me. Maybe they just needed more of an audience.

Our Woman in Billings: The Ambiance

2010-05-06T07:37:00.000-07:00

Late as it is, I’m going to try to get up a few more quick posts about our trip to the Nile, and then I swear I’ll leave you all alone about it. I have to congratulate myself, though, because on this, our fourth trip to the event, we have FINALLY figured out where to sit. This is no small accomplishment, because even though the folks who sell you tickets at the box office are the nicest people on the planet, their little seating chart looks like a first project for an 8th grade drafting class. It’s just about impossible to tell how well you’ll be able to see by looking at the chart, so at some point you just have to toss up the bucks and take your chances.

Indeed, if we had gotten the seats we had last year on our second trip, we might have never again sprung for the “expensive seats,” since even though we were in the front row of the section, we were so far from the action we might as well have been out in the parking lot with the jackasses who were soliciting signatures for a petition to outlaw abortion in Montana.

This time, I bought the tickets so late that I’d resigned myself to yet again having awful seats, but the lady at the box office really came through for us. We found ourselves in the middle of a row in the second tier, about four rows back, to the left of the bucking chutes, and ideally situated to see just about everything.

Aside from the skanks immediately behind us on the right (and down in the front row of the section, and two rows behind her, and behind us on the left), the folks we sat with were very congenial. One fine old gentleman right behind me obviously fell in love with me instantly—he kept patting me on the shoulder and asking me what the rider’s score had been. He might not have known the score, but his wife clearly did, and after about the third time, she shut him down and he kept his hands to himself (at least as far as I was concerned) for the rest of the evening.

The Rimrock Auto Arena at Metra Park is a tiny little stadium—it’s billed as seating 10,000, but I’m damned if I can see how that many people could shoehorn their way into it. The place was packed to the rafters, too. For this particular event, a dude with a crossbow fired a flaming arrow across the arena and lit the PBR lettering in the dirt—much more impressive than those guys sneaking around the arena in the dark to do the deed.

Then the roman candles started exploding, and the music hit about 100 decibels, and the confetti started to fall, and I felt like I was in a big snow globe being shaken by the Jolly Green Giant. Ordinarily I hate that stuff, but this time, I was ready for it in spades. How could I not be? Montana Barn Cat and I had a lot to celebrate. What better place to do it than the PBR on a Saturday night?

Our Woman in Billings: The Bulls

2010-05-03T08:40:00.000-07:00

I trust, Dear Readers, that you will forgive me for vanishing so suddenly last week, in mid-report, as it were. Between MONTANA BARN CAT PASSING HIS WRITTEN COMPREHENSIVE EXAMINATIONS FOR HIS PH.D., finishing up a huge book project, and catching a rotten head cold, I have been busier than a one-armed paper hanger in a windstorm, when I wasn’t in bed sniffling and sneezing. Never fear—I am back, and determined, late as it is, to honor my obligations and finish up what I started.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes! I wanted to write a few lines about the best bulls we saw in Billings at the Nile. To begin with, I was not that impressed with the bull pen on Saturday night, since out of 46 attempts, 22 riders managed to stay aboard. I was not happy about that. I am there to see the bulls, I’ve never made a secret of that, and anytime more than a third of the boys stick to their bulls, I am disappointed. I do have more favorites among the riders this season than since I started following the sport, but I still love the bulls best.

That said, here is a short list of the bulls who bucked like they meant it on that long-ago Saturday night:

Little Mr. T, who put Paulo Ferreira on the ground;

Bells and Whistles, who made short work of Stormy Wing;

Chococondra, who didn’t like Chris Shivers one bit;

Lacey Balls, whom I like more every time I see him;

Bootlegger, who unloaded Brendon Clark pronto;

Drill Baby Drill, whom I love even while despising the source of his name;

Cool Cat, who bucked Dusty Ephrom off; and

Class 6 Kat, who pitched Mike Lee off in an unceremonious heap.

But by far the best bull in the pen that night was Charlie Bullware, who apparently didn’t get the memo stating that Austin Meier was the new Great White Hope and should henceforth be let off easy. Since Charlie has his own Facebook page, I’m pretty sure he can read, so maybe he just begged to differ on that point. Mr. Meier did not have a good weekend in Billings, and I’m sure Charlie was pleased that he contributed so gallantly to that situation.

Our Woman in Billings: The Skank Factor

2010-04-28T15:23:00.000-07:00

I know I promised to talk about the bulls next, but I am driven instead to address a phenomenon that was continually rubbed in my face during the Nile at the Metra. I am sure that all of you who have attended a PBR event have seen it with your own eyes: the skank factor. No, I'm not talking about the Jack Daniels girls.

Now, unlike my (admittedly few) Republican friends, I do not feel compelled to tell other people how to run their personal lives--those issues are none of my business. And I totally get the “sistuhs are doing it themselves” point of view, but still, I was frankly amazed by the number of women and girls who showed up at the Nile looking, to put it kindly, like they’d been rode hard and put up wet.

It wasn’t just their clothing, though there were near-nekkid buckle bunnies aplenty. (Certainly I understand the point of that. Before somebody will buy it, you’ve got to sell it. That’s why God invented the push-up bra.) It was that many of them looked like they hadn’t slept or taken a shower or even washed their faces for about 48 hours. And it wasn’t just the young women--plenty of the females my age or older looked like they’d compensated for being up drinking all night by troweling on more makeup and putting on their tightest jeans.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, given that this was a Saturday night in Billings, Montana, and, let’s face it, the weekend starts at 5 on Friday evening, especially out here--assuming you can't manage to slither out of the boss' sight a little early. But I was still startled when, during the intermission, one of the little kids rode a miniature bull and two chicks of at least 30 years of age, in low-cut tank tops and hooker pumps (high wooden platform soles and heels, clear plastic insteps) in the row behind me jumped up screaming and drank a big beer toast to his success. I hope his mamma has raised him right, because he is going to have his hands full if he rides in the PBR.

Our Woman in Billings: The Rides

2010-04-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

The Divine Montana Barn Cat and I have conferred, and have decided that to avoid boring you all silly with one long-ass description of our high jinks in Billings, we would instead post a series of short essays on various subjects that are dear to our hearts. We recognize, sadly, that this may not succeed in communicating to you just what a great time we had over there, so just imagine all this going on against a backdrop of lots of really great food and really great wine and really exceptional conversation. Yes, folks, after an embarrassing number of years together, MBC and I still talk to one another like it’s going out of style. He is the most interesting man I have ever met, and I plan to talk to him nonstop every day for the rest of my life.

So I will begin with my list of the top four rides of the Saturday night event at the Metra.

Third runner up: Silvano Alves on Road Daddy. I swear to you that when the gate flew open and that bull jumped out, I thought Alves was a goner. He practically stretched out flat over the bull’s neck to stay aboard, and the miracle of that was he didn't foul the bull. It was an amazing ride.

Second runner up: Renato Nunes on Husker’s Terror. The new world #1 made the best of a less than wonderful bull with his signature style. Watching him, I finally realized that he rides like bare-back bronc riders do, leaning back on his pockets with his arm flung above and behind his head and his spurs going like crazy on the animal’s shoulders. It may not be textbook bull riding style, but it sure does dress up a mediocre animal.

First runner up: Robson Palermo on MacNett’s El Presidente. Robson is the most consistently underappreciated rider on tour at the moment. This is not an easy animal to, as Michael Gaffney says, “get by,” and Robson just made riding him look way too slick for his own good. He did stop my heart for a second, though, when he got thrown back into the chute and the bull stepped right on his ankle. Fortunately, it wasn’t as direct a blow as it first looked to be.

Winner: J.B. Mauney on Bird Creek. I am certain that the other three nominees rode as well or better than J.B. did this out, but he by far got the best bull. Bird Creek jumped high enough to earn his name, but it was no use—he just couldn’t unload J.B. I’m not sure it was a 91-point ride, but it was without question the best ride of the night.

In our next installment, the best bulls. Stay tuned!

The Sacred and Profane Hype Machine

2010-04-15T13:45:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't wandered over to PBRnow.com recently, I'm happy to inform you that IT'S NOT TOO LATE TO BUY TICKETS to see the World Cup in Las Vegas this coming weekend. Considering that the broadcasts on Saturday and Sunday don't start till after midnight, your chances of actually staying awake to see the event might be better if you did hop a plane at the last minute. I, for one, will not be making the trip.

I have thought quite a lot over the past month about why I'm not terribly interested in the World Cup, and the thing I keep coming back to is the way the Powers That Be at PBR headquarters keep hyping it, but lately I've decided that's not really the root of my discontent. It's that the PTB are so damned bad at hyping it. Hell, they're bad at hyping anything.

Some people used to accuse Hillary Clinton of being insensitive and tone deaf--I guess some of them are probably surprised, if they have the grace to admit it, that she's turned out to be one hell of a diplomat. But if she was tone deaf, the dudes at the PBR have their eyes closed and their fingers stuck in their ears, and are yelling at the top of their lungs to keep any other subject from coming to the floor. Come to think of it, they bear a fair resemblance to a woman some of them doubtless worship, Sarah Palin, whom Wonkette, the merciless chronicler of DC gossip, described recently as a "screeching dingbat."

Of course I don't know what's going on in Pueblo, but it does seem like every week, some new *controversy* is brewing and the commentators just have to talk about it like it's as important as keeping Iran from building a nuclear bomb. Trouble is, the new controversy frequently isn't a controversy at all, or worse yet, there's some other, more important issue that should be talked about that gets short shrift.

For instance: While we were being tortured with endless, blow-by-blow reports of who's on the team, who's off the team, which team captain doesn't like which of his compatriots, which compatriots are begging on their knees to represent and which ones, in Travis Briscoe's words, "could care less," Nick Landreneau quit the PBR in the middle of an event--packed his gear and walked away--and apparently disconnected his phones and pulled the plug on his e-mail as well. Is he okay? Who knows? Is it likely we'll ever find out from the folks at the PBR? There's not a snowball's chance in hell of that.

It's a good thing that Cody Lambert, at least, is good at what he does, because if the PTB at the PBR picked bulls as well as they pick issues to hype, I wouldn't give you a plugged nickel for their chances. We'd be watching cowboys and bulls sedately saunter around the arena, and dozing off in our seats. I fully expect to be dozing when the World Cup is broadcast, and I am pretty damned sure that I won't miss a thing.

Our Woman in Fresno

2010-03-30T23:13:00.001-07:00

So here we are, folks, toiling away in the unfruitful vineyard day after day, and wondering why, and wondering why somebody doesn't pay us to do what we really want to be doing, which is blog about bull riding all day long, and realizing it's probably because despite how riotously entertaining we are, we are just two (mostly one) voice crying in the wilderness in PBRLand. Fortunately for us, our loyal readers continue to attend PBR events and send us their reports of their adventures, which perk our spirits right up. Ladies and gentlemen, the Stockyard Queen proudly offers to you the account of the Divine S, who attended the event in Fresno almost two weeks ago now and filed this with the bureau here. Enjoy!

S, Reporting from FresYes

If someone had said to me prior to the event that in Fresno I would have an incredibly exciting PBR-related evening, not to mention that I would feel anywhere close to as thrilled as I did at the 2008 finals, I probably would have laughed. All my past experiences with Fresno have been miserable, and the bull pens in Sacramento for the past few years would not lead one to think that California is a priority for the stock contractors. But then there was the Table Mountain Casino Invitational, newly expanded for 2010, which turned things on their head.

Our adventure started with a relaxing trip by train, and a shorter but somewhat alarming trip by taxi, followed by arrival at the hotel, where unfortunately the room was not ready. However, it was amusing to hang out in the "breakfast room" with other people in PBR shirts who were also waiting for their rooms (the room cleaning service seemed to be a problem). I also discovered, via laptop and complimentary wifi, that there had been several activities, such as the pre-show taping, added to the roster since the last time I had checked. There were also several cowboy sightings, which livened up the proceedings much more considerably than the coffee that had been in the carafe a few hours too long. Finally, at 3:30, we were able to race up to the room and quickly get ready so we could race back down to catch the shuttle we had scheduled for 4:00. This was followed by the somewhat awkward revelation that we would be sharing the hotel shuttle to the SaveMart Center with "one of the participants" (which turned out to be Travis Briscoe, along with his wife). Thankfully, the trip itself was not especially awkward.

As TeamPBR members, we were allowed "early entry" (15 minutes, whoohoo!), which I used to utterly baffle the people at the hamburger place (just try to get a grilled cheese sandwich at an arena grub place that doesn't have it on the menu sometime; they were really nice about it, even if in the end, their rules required me to buy a cheeseburger and the burger part went on someone else's burger). In addition to this, we stumbled upon Robson Palermo taking pictures and signing at the Cooper Tires booth. After entering several drawings and trying to avoid hearing any more about Pillow Talk's fate at the Exclusive Genetics booth, it was down via elevator into a strange basement-type area, through several sterile, cement hallways that could easily be featured in an episode of "Law & Order: SVU," and into the pre-show taping area.

The very nice crew there kept trying to herd us behind Craig Hummer, Justin McKee, and Justin McBride, to "fill in the thin spots" not already filled by other TeamPBR members, an offer which we repeatedly declined. I found watching the taping from the front much more interesting and much less distressing (and I bet you can't hear much when you stand behind them anyway). Although I knew the crew must film some spots ahead of time, to see it happening, to watch someone choreograph the clips of rides and how they would be inserted into the televised show along with the commentary, was fascinating. Not to mention seeing the commentators razzing each other when the camera was off, and getting to see little silly human moments like Justin McKee suddenly realizing he needed to spit out his gum, then realizing he was tied in by cords and couldn't go anywhere, and so giving up and spitting the gum into the pages of a day sheet. Incidentally, the day sheets were on nice quality paper and were in color--how mysterious and delightful.

And suddenly, McKennon Wimberly was ascending the podium as Justin McBride was descending, and my friend and I were engulfed in madness as a whirlwind of people advanced on McBride. The end result, after several misfires, was a "Let's do it" from a rather mellow McBride, and a pretty hilarious photo. I can't say I was ever expecting to meet Justin McBride or that he would be so accommodating if I did, but I was really impressed with his demeanor. As it was getting close to showtime, we headed out soon after this encounter. On the way, we passed the pre-show stretching rituals of Joe Baumgartner and Frank Newsom; their brightly-colored uniforms made the creepy cement hallways seem much more interesting.

Then, it was time for the main event, which kicked off with J.B. Mauney standing behind the naff flaming PBR logo in place of the injured Kody Lostroh. Now I'm wondering if we'll see Renato Nunes standing behind it next week. I'm assuming most of you have seen the event on television, so I won't go too much into the rides. I will say that the crowd was very enthusiastic, cheering for high scores, and booing for ones perceived as too low (such as Fabiano Vieira's on Pick a Spot). The place nearly came apart at Renato Nunes ride on Sooner Shaker, but the incredible sound paled in comparison to that during his short-go ride on Hank. The short-go pen was rank--those bulls were bucking hard and it made it all the more thrilling when a cowboy stuck it out the full eight seconds. In fact, the bulls throughout were pretty great, and it was nice to see this caliber of bulls in person here in California--Pinball Wizard, Skyhawk Cut-a-Rug, Silver Wings, Chicken on a Chain, Major Payne, Necessary Evil... the list goes on. I was a little bewildered by Charlie Bullware's odd and not great out, but I was glad that Mike Lee escaped a potentially horrible wreck in good enough shape to take on Hot Tamale, and overall there were very few re-rides and/or poor showings.

There were some random fun moments of note, such as Justin McBride messing with Ross Coleman on the shark cage, getting to see Ben Jones do his dance... thing, and Aaron Roy's spectacular get off from Rodeo Joe (only funny because he appeared to be fine afterward). Then there was the poor bull who refused to leave the arena, and was incredibly annoyed by being roped; he was shaking his head around so wildly to free himself from the rope that he entirely missed the fact that the shark cage was in front of him, and ran into it face-first. I don't think that improved his mood at all, but he was eventually convinced to leave the arena.

In other news, Flint has new material! Because I was spending any downtime playing with my new camera and its settings, I wasn't paying the most attention to what he was doing, but he had a new-to-me contest, which involved a really blingy dealer's outfit and giant playing cards. A guy managed to not only win tickets to the World Cup, but also double down and beat Flint to get tickets to the Finals. (How do they choose the people for these contests? I have never seen this part happen.) There was also a fishing contest... and something involving throwing baseballs into the crowd (I didn't really understand that part). Oh, and a "dance-off" between two guys in the crowd, both of whom were not great dancers, but both of whom won some cold, hard cash for their efforts. The "fan of the night" was the bride part of a bachelorette party dressed in matching outfits.

At the end of the event, I managed to wedge myself by the rail next to a very nice lady who was getting a T-shirt signed for her brother. There were a fair amount of new-to-me cowboys at this event (side note: has anyone seen anything that clearly explains the last cut? I am lost), and I had the delight of hearing the rambunctious girls with programs behind me yell, "What page are you?!" to the cowboys and seeing how they reacted. Most looked slightly alarmed, and while I can't say I blame them, my favorite answer was that of David Kennedy, who said, "I don't have one... yet!" It came off as delightfully cheeky, probably in part because of his Aussie accent. These same girls also screamed, "JODY! JODY! JODY!" over and over again, until a confused Jody Newberry, who had nearly exited the arena, came all the way back across. They didn't appear to have anything momentous to say to him once he got there, but he was very obliging.

Strangest exchange of the night: Shane Proctor looking at the photos on the photo collage I had made to be signed, one of which was of him. He then said, "That's me on Bo Devil! I've seen that picture on the internet!" I wish I knew what my face looked like at that moment, but I guess only Shane Proctor knows. So, for future reference, apparently Shane Proctor is net savvy. Other favorite moments included the woman next to me flustering Guilherme Marchi by calling him the best-looking rider in the PBR, and a palpably thrilled Renato Nunes responding to our congratulations with something pretty close to, "Yes, I am number one! Number one for today! First for this weekend!" All said with a big grin on his face.

We had noted that there was an after-party scheduled at something called the Dog House Grill across the street from the SaveMart Center. We briefly considered attending, but after the shuttle went by the site and it, rather unsurprisingly, appeared to be loud and full of people drinking a lot of beer, we decided to pass. Our exciting alternate destination? Denny's! There we encountered Jody Newberry, Ednei Caminhas, Robson Aragao, and another of the Brazilians (I was trying not to stare at them, so I didn't see who it was). Fresno is a happening place and we were all clearly living the high life. And our cowboy encounters didn't end there, as we returned to the hotel, turned the corner to the elevators, and once again found ourselves in a confined space with Travis Briscoe and his wife. They seem like sweet people and I'm glad that Travis is having better results this weekend in New Mexico than he did in Fresno.

So, in conclusion, I left Fresno on a high from all the great bulls, great rides, and great interactions with other fans and cowboys, and was filled with a conviction that Fresno might be a new event destination for both days next year. Fres-NO? Fres-YES! Take that, Sacramento. One of you has been named the winner, and one of you is out.

Our Woman in Winston-Salem

2010-02-09T10:26:00.000-08:00

My dear friends, I am proud and grateful to present Shelia's report of her weekend at the PBR event in Winston-Salem. I have to warn you--this is a bittersweet report and it's possible that the Stockyard Queen herself shed a tear or two when she read it. And the pictures are amazing! I truly appreciate Shelia taking the time to write this up, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.

The PBR in Winston-Salem

The anticipation of the Winston-Salem event began to wane in the negative weeks that preceded it. The judging scandal left most PBR fans with the assumption that the accused judge had cheated on behalf of J.B. or J.B.’s family, Guilherme and Renato were out with a mangled wrists, Brian Canter had suffered a third concussion in less than eight days, and J.B. had gone 0 for 3 in Anaheim while his fiercest rival, at least in my opinion, had gone 4 for 4. J.B. resurrected his violent/immature behavior which was played and replayed ad nauseam into the Tampa event. Then, Kasey, Brendon, and Cord got the hatchet.

Luckily, the event in Tampa brought rays of hope: Jody Newberry was back, Wiley won an event, and J.B. did a decent job with a ninth place finish. Oh, and Kody failed to make eight seconds on both of his bulls, but I feel bad about that if it’s his injured elbow trying to deter him rather than Guilherme or J.B.

Then came the weather forecast: SNOW. NO. For those who’ve never spent a winter in NC, I have to tell you that EVERYTHING shuts down! We don’t have proper snow removal and we generally have more ice than snow, which means roads become a combination of ice skating rinks and bumper cars. There was no way we were going to drive the 85 miles to Winston-Salem on ice. So, we packed the car and took off a day early.

The first PBR “celebrity” we ran into was Flint. We were at the bar on Thursday night drinking Irish Coffee to warm us up when who should walk in and sit two stools down—The famous Flint Rasmussen in a PBR jacket and a Carolina Blue baseball cap. We talked about the weather (Frank was stuck in Atlanta), the vastly uninformed and inconsiderate folks who post on PBR articles—it seems that some of those posts become the topics of discussion and provide great moments of hilarity to the staff), Randy’s departure, Kody’s elbow (Flint didn’t know about the latest fracture or the Velcro idea—which led to a shaking of his head and a swig of beer, and finally a totally blank expression when I mentioned both Guilherme and J.B. Flint’s obviously not a fan of either….

It snowed all night and the streets turned to just a little bit of slush in the morning as the snow turned into freezing rain. The town was virtually empty!

At breakfast on Friday, we sat in a booth that backed into one occupied by, yes, Flint. He wasn’t alone. Shorty was with him. Flint informed us that Frank had rented a car in Atlanta and was on his way. After breakfast, I took my seat in the lobby to wait. Mike Lee sauntered in and headed for the restaurant. I smiled at Bud. I was waiting for some other bodies! Heehee!

The mini-parade began: Tandy, L.J., Skeeter, Caleb Sanderson, Rocky McDonald—I reminded him that he’d won here before (!), and a volunteer for Resistol who talked our ears off for over an hour, but then didn’t remember us later at the Resistol booth in the arena. Mike Lee appeared again, this time in gray gym shorts, tee shirt, and socks. I asked where his shoes were and he said, “I just brought boots,” and Shannon’s vision of cowboys on treadmills in shorts and cowboy hats came to mind.

Our friend, Carolyn, arrived in time for dinner at the hotel. There was a serious lack of characters around us. Crazy-girl wasn’t even there—she’s a fan who believes she’s Adriano’s love child. We’d met her at the first NC event and every one since. She even showed up in Vegas in 2008. She liked to hang with us, probably because we were Adriano fans, too, or more likely that we tolerated her and didn’t call her “stupid.” We headed to the arena early to attend the PBR pre-event get-together, but never found it, so did the regular stuff like sign up to win Ariat Boots, a Jeffery Scott buckle, an autographed cowboy hat, and get a Lowe’s discount card.

I’ve probably said this before, but I’ll say it again: the PBR opening video is absolutely horrid! I remember most of those wrecks and the suffering of the riders involved. I really don’t like sensationalizing the agony of the sport. The music part and the rides are great. There’s just too much negativity—sixteen horrible wrecks. Yes, I counted them. This set the tone of the weekend. Bud and I got into this sport when it was a bunch of struggling cowboys and bull riders and watched it peak and succeed and become all it is today. The heart is difficult to find amidst this thrill-seeking advertisement.

First rider out was Mike Lee on White Trash. Both looked fantastic, but the judges must have blinked too many times. The average score on that bull is 86-87 and an 81.5 seemed an insult to both rider and bull! Maybe we just thought it was better than it was since we hadn’t seen a live bull ride in over a year. The best of Flight 1 was one of my favorites and gets my vote for the most delicious cowboy ever—Billy Robinson! Gorgeous man. Beautiful ride. Poetry in motion. Ahhhhhhhh….

The highlights of Flight 2: Jody Newberry, Renato and his back-flip, and Pistol Robinson! Better luck in round 2 Jody and Pistol—I really, really want to see more of you! Flight 3: ho-hum. Ben Jones didn’t get to dance, but WWA-122 with Reese Cates on his back actually pranced in time with the music. Awesome! In Flight 4, Ryan McConnell looked way better in person! I got a few great pictures of him. His mannerisms both behind the shoots and after his rides are all gentlemanly greatness and humility. I hadn’t seen that on TV. Dustin Elliot’s wreck was scary. From my angle, it looked as if his head had broken off his body and rolled under his chest. Sports Medicine was at his side immediately and Flint looked scared and speechless. Then, Dustin looked up, smiled, and walked away. Halfway back to the gate he pulled on the back of his pants like he was trying to remove his underwear from between his, ah, er, crack. I think it was a set up. On the break between flight 3 and 4 Flint had done a monologue of his daughter’s gymnastics performances and how perfect they are until they’re off the stage and “adjust” their leotards to cover their “cheeks.” It was funny and GREAT to hear some new material. Well, while Dustin was still on the ground, one of the questions Tandy asked him was, “Do you remember that Flint said he would pay you $20 to pull at the back of your pants on your way out of the arena?” That brought a laugh, but when Dustin actually did it, it brought the house down!

The rest of flight 4 and all of flight 5 was good, but nothing to comment on. Then came Flight 6—what? Shane, Valdiron, and Travis bucked off? The highlight of the whole evening was my little hometown boy, J.B. I must have taken 100 pictures of him, 99% blurry. He got the bull RODE and I waved my “J.B.!” red and black sign. All of a sudden I was back. The PBR was wonderful and Carolyn, Bud, and I were walking on air!

The feeling didn’t last long. The next morning on our way to breakfast, the elevator doors opened to another empty chamber. NEVER have I been to a host hotel that I wasn’t surprised almost every single time an elevator door opened and revealed a cowboy. This was our third day and the only PBR person we’d seen in an elevator was the arrogant Dr. Freeman. I won’t even get into that.

When Bud and I slid into the booth, I couldn’t control my emotions. I missed Adriano. Adriano had brought me here and lit up the PBR like no other—and he wasn’t here. Neither was Guilherme. The PBR had changed and I was starting to believe that I had, too, and maybe the glory of it all was about to end. It was a sad meal.

My day brightened as the snow flurries gave way to sunshine and Bud and I headed to the Meet & Greet. We’ve all been to these events and I doubt that this one was different from any you’ve attended. The one exception was that a professional photographer at the far end busy photographing the riders one-by-one and sometimes two-by-two. J.B. and Brian showed up in identical navy blue and white striped shirts, which seemed funny until I saw that they were being photographed together. I felt a bit sad for Shane, who sat at a table by himself without much attention from the fans—but then he’s not really a NC cowboy. I did speak to him early on, but in hindsigh,t I wish I’d gone back to tell him that I was sitting in the same row as Jessi and surrounded by the Mauney clan, but at the time I just felt bad for him. The only no-show was Ross. Later when the riders began to wander about I asked Wiley if he’d write Ross’ name on one of the untouched pictures stacked next to Ross’ name card. He picked one up and scribbled on it the way you’d expect Wiley to do.

I didn’t blubber once and carried on actual conversations of several sentences with about ten of the riders, including Stormy Wing—a sweet young thing with rosy cheeks who looked too young to be riding in the PBR. The BEST conversations were with J.B., Jody, and Sean.

It wasn’t difficult to notice two teenage girls getting homemade tees autographed and having their pictures taken with all the riders. They were cute and giggly and I said something to them about how much fun they seemed to be having. They showed me their shirts and giggled. One of them said, “This is my sixteenth birthday celebration,” then rolled her eyes and looked at the riders. “But, I told them I was eighteen!” Uh oh, Buckle Bunny in the making!

After the M&G, we ran into a couple we’d met in Vegas and again at Jerome Davis Ranch. Sweet, gentle people, the kind I wished lived next door.

Carolyn met us for dinner at the hotel again and we headed to the arena determined to find the PBR Fan Club arena event. Honestly, we went where our Vegas friends told us to go and were sent on a scavenger hunt again! But, we finally found it and I got to show off my bucking Santa to a bunch of kids, but couldn’t find any real PBR PEOPLE. I think this item would be great if, instead of Santa, a cowboy was on the bulls back.

We stood around for 30 minutes until finally five riders came out—Beau, Aaron, Cody Nance (who wore a fabulous leather jacket), and two others whom I have no idea who they were!

Round two was just like on TV. Flint was back to his old material. Leah didn’t make it so Bud couldn’t give her the painting he’d done for her, which was kind of anti-climatic for him. The one highlight was the debut of Brian Canter’s little bull, Superfreak. I saw that bull at Jerome Davis’ and was greatly impressed both times.

I was so PROUD of J.B. for drafting (or is it drawing?) Code Blue. I don’t think he picked him to win the event—there were other bulls he could have scored 90+ on. I think he wanted another go at him. J.B. almost has the bull figured out, but as history is written an eight second ride wasn’t to be. Mark my words, J.B. will ride Code Blue for eight seconds next time around and he won’t hang off one side!

And then, my worst fear realized: The lovely Stormy Wing was on the ground. You could hear a pin drop in the arena and they worked on him for what seemed an eternity. The bull fighters, Flint, and so many others stood with hats over their hearts. The whole stadium was in a shocked silence and I was in tears.

From that moment on it, really didn’t matter who won or lost. Stormy’s life hung in limbo and I remembered what Michelle Kwan said to her crying fans when she didn’t win the Olympic Gold medal for the second time, “This is about skating—it’s not about life and death.” I learned a lesson today. The PBR is a sport. J.B. didn’t win tonight like I’d hoped, but he’s alive. And I hope Stormy is, too.

Shannon Goes to Anaheim, Part 4

2010-02-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

Sadly, folks, all good things must end, so herewith I present Shannon's report of the last two days of the Anaheim event. I, for one, have my hat pressed over my heart as a sign of mourning at its passing. Here we go.

The final two days:

Well, my friends, as I sit here, over a week later, trying to remember enough to write another decent report, I’m finding that the words aren’t coming to me as they did in my first three installments. In the past week, I’ve had two wisdom teeth out, have been refereeing the ongoing sibling rivalry in the house, and have been shepherding a preteen who hates to read and write through a black history month project. So, needless to say, these haven’t been the best circumstances to write a lucid paper.

However, I do have a few things I’d like to pass on about the final two days of the event, so, if you don’t mind, I’m going to put the memories in bullet points:

• At the event, Sonja and I decided to skip the mixer and just look around at the different booths. She was particularly interested in the Ariat booth because she used to sell them and swears that they are the best. She was trying to talk me into buying a pair when Adriano walked up and sat down for autograph signing. What luck! I was admiring some boots near him and he asked if I was going to buy something. I said that I couldn’t right then because of my budget, but I was definitely going to write down a style number of one pair to look at later in the year. He asked which ones and when I pointed them out, he said I had great taste because his wife had the same pair. Funny how it can be the smallest, most insignificant things that make you happy. Anyway, I introduced him to Sonja and gave her a rundown of his accomplishments and she was duly impressed. He was very nice and humble and definitely a good representative of the PBR. I’m so glad that he’s still a strong presence there. [Ariat's are the best. If you run across an 8 1/2s, just remember that they were made for me!--SQ]

• After meeting Adriano, buying some food, and waiting for Justin McBride to stop talking to an older couple so I could say something to him (I was on a roll! Too bad the conversation went on so long that we began to feel awkward after a few minutes and ended up leaving), we went to our seats to watch the show.

• Right after Brian got stomped by Pick a Spot, the man behind me said, “That’s why we wear helmets, %$#@.” In spite of my oddly protectively attitude toward with Brian, I had to say a silent “amen” to that.

• When I went out to grab a drink, I saw Justin McBride, Beau, Ross, and Brandon standing around talking. I may have been on a roll, but there was no way I was going to walk up to that crowd. Putting aside what I may feel about each of the rider’s attitudes, I must say that on a purely physical (and yes, shallow) level, that was one good-looking group of guys.

• After the event was over, we went down for autographs, where we met a woman who admitted to having had too much to drink. It was her first-ever experience with bull riding. She loved it! She also loved the riders and proved it by calling each of them “cutie” and then telling them how cute they were in case they missed that fact when she said the word “cutie.” At one point, she even asked Brian Herman to turn around so she could check out . . . well, you know. We didn’t do a great job of avoiding her and since there were only a few guys I was waiting for anyway, I didn’t see a real need to—until Kody Lostroh came out. I chatted with him for a minute and was left feeling concerned about whether or not I’d offended him somehow. Sonja gave me many reasons why he might have been stand-offish and that helped me with my angst. It wasn’t until a few days ago that it occurred to me that if he thought I was with the rather . . . outgoing . . . woman, so perhaps that’s why he was not very comfortable with the situation. Oh well, live and learn. I did, however, exchange some nice words with Shane Proctor, who I really started watching and pulling for last season.

Kody was the last rider of the night and our day came to an end with Sonja emphatically saying that she’s in for next year. I’m already looking forward to it.

The final day of the event came and I was back in parental mode. There was no leaving early that day or hanging out somewhere to meet riders. We had a leisurely morning at the house, then headed out to Anaheim, where we ate at Denny’s so as to avoid the high cost of the stadium food. The highlights of our event there were:

• Noticing the plastic bull money bank at the PBR credit card booth. I had to have one. They were too cute to pass up. So, I may have another credit card sitting in my wallet soon.

• Chad Berger signing the kids’ items, then answering one of Amelia’s questions. Apparently, he has 175 bulls. This came as such a shock to Amelia, it rendered her so speechless that she never did get to her next question. Now, if you knew my daughter, you’d know that there is very little that makes this kid speechless! Her eyes bugged, her jaw dropped, and all I could do was grin and guide her out of there. Chad is certainly getting better with the fan adoration.

• Running into Robson’s lovely wife and beautiful little girl. I’d seen them around the hotel on Friday, but it didn’t feel like the time or place to say anything. This time, I figured I’d say something. She was very sweet and all smiles as we admired the little one.

• During the event, my kids were thrilled that Julio not only stood his horse right in front of them, but allowed them to pet it as well. I’ve always admired the beauty of that horse and now I admire Julio for giving the kids a little extra something special.

• Finally, it was down to the floor for more autographs. This time, there were fewer riders, but that made it seem a bit more intimate. Amelia, who apparently doesn’t fall far from the tree, had to be told every time to look at the camera and not the rider when Rick was trying to get their pictures. Later, as we were walking to the car, we noticed a small crowd around one of the cars. Travis Briscoe. Rick and the kids headed over for an autograph and picture and he was accommodating to everyone.

Thus ends the story of my weekend. In the end, there was a small inkling of disappointment knowing that Guilherme got hurt, JB didn’t ride, and Kasey got cut. Also, while I don’t begrudge Kody a win, he’s won the last three times I was at a live event—I’m ready to see a new person up there on my weekends, just to change it up a little.

Thank you, SQ, for once again letting me go on and on (and on-—I get wordy) about my experiences, and thank you all for taking the time to read it.

Things I Have No Patience With: Caution, Rant Ahead

2010-02-02T11:35:00.000-08:00

This isn't all of the top 10, but here goes:

1) People (some of them friends of mine) who stoically suffer for weeks on end with sinus or urinary tract infections because they think taking an antibiotic once every five years for 10 days makes them pawns of the drug companies or contributes to the development of a super-bacteria that’s going to rise up and devour us all as we sleep.

2) People who depend on herd immunity to protect their kids rather than having them vaccinated to prevent childhood diseases.

3) People who believe that they are obliged under all circumstances to preach the gospel of whatever crackpot theory they’ve embraced, including, but not limited to, #1 and #2, above.

4) People who insist that those who run sports organizations must have competed in the sport to be qualified to do their jobs.

I am not going to elaborate on items 1 through 3, nor will I discuss them here, so don’t even bother bringing them up. Instead, I am use the occasion of Randy Bernard’s resignation from the PBR as an opportunity to talk about item #4.

This is a subject I happen to know all about, because I am an editor. I have two degrees, one in English (minors in French, education, and Bible) and the second in rhetoric and writing. I have been working in this field for more than 30 years (I was only five when I started). Still, you might be surprised how many times my education and experience have carried no weight at all. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen ads for editors that say, “Must have a degree in pharmacology, preferably M.D./Ph.D. with post-doctoral studies at a major university research center.” I also cannot tell you how many times I’ve had people insist that I could not possibly edit their work because I’m not an engineer, a microbiologist, or a rocket scientist.

To which I say, Bullshit.

I have edited, among others, works on the performing and visual arts, history (particularly the history of the American West), Native American studies, feminist studies, literary criticism, engineering, microbiology, and rocket science. Every one of those documents was better for my having worked on it. Editing is about perfecting the language through which the subject is expressed. It’s about making sure the sentences work and that the ideas are communicated clearly. If I, with two degrees and 30 years as an editor and a better than fair cache of knowledge of all the fields I’ve worked in, can’t understand what you’re trying to say, there’s a very good chance nobody can. It won’t matter if you have 99 diplomas in oceanography stuffed into your closet somewhere. When you’re writing, you’re in my arena, not yours, and the advice I give you will improve your work dramatically if you have the good sense and humility to take it.

Running a sports organization is about bringing the sport to the public and improving the public’s experience of that sport. That’s it. (That's not to say that it's easy, just that it's relatively easy to define.) Anybody who ever objected to Randy Bernard’s being CEO of the PBR because he wasn’t a cowboy is a fool. Randy Bernard doesn’t have to say a word in his own defense—his track record speaks for itself. What’s more telling, though, is that the “cowboys” who hired him and worked with him over the past 15 years have done nothing but testify to his effectiveness.

But I am curious, I have to admit, about what exactly the people who always want a “cowboy” to run the PBR think a “cowboy” could possibly do for the organization. Teach us how to muck out a stall? Show us how to string some barbed wire or dig a new hole for the outhouse? Show us how to fill out a form for a government subsidy for not sowing the back 40 in alfalfa this spring? None of that would have furthered the agenda of the PBR the length of the instep of one of my cowboy boots.

And don’t give me any of that crap about how much more neighborly people were way back then, or about the “code of the West,” either. I have read enough Western history to know that people back in the day were just as apt to be ornery and dishonest and conniving as they are now. They stole each other blind and shot each other in the back and burned one another’s houses and then lit out for the territory.

On the other hand, thousands of good, decent, well-meaning people came out west looking for their fortunes, only to die of accidents and disease, to lose their livestock and their land and their children and their spouses and their minds. Some, the inherently good and bad alike, abandoned their families for a wild dream of quick riches or just because they felt like it, every damned day.

Guess what? They were doing all that back east, too, and in Europe and Australia and Asia. Where they were made absolutely no difference to their fundamental human nature, nor to the likelihood that they would fail or succeed.

I have absolutely no patience with nostalgia. I do not believe everything was better everywhere 50 or 100 or 200 years ago, and nothing you can say will ever convince me otherwise. For sure, we now have too much plenty in some places and little to none in others, global warming and pollution on a life-threatening scale, human trafficking and misery spawned by the bad behavior of individuals and corporations for their own profit, disease and war and famine, but as awful as all that is, the fact that we’ve got big issues is not news, historically speaking. What is news is that we have a greater likelihood now than ever before of hearing about those problems and a better chance as individuals and nations of finding ways to fix them.

This world does not need more people who sit around and carp about long-lost “family values” and moan about the loss of the good old days, who refuse to deal with the pressing issues of their own time, who say, in effect, to hell with everything and everybody but me and mine. For damned sure, the world does not need more well-meaning amateurs, who almost without exception cause more problems than they solve, to say nothing of being more trouble than they can possibly be worth.

What this world needs is more caring professionals, by which I mean people who have the education and the experience and the passion to take on big challenges and not flinch. Randy Bernard is one of those guys. From what I can tell, the IRL has its share of problems, so I admire him even more for taking a job that will not be a cakewalk, that carries with it no guarantee of success or promise of a big payoff. But then, I’d expect that of the man. He’s already shown he can take a marginal, shoestring operation that was really nothing more than a bunch of guys with an idea and a modest strongbox and some events under their belts, and help them turn it into a world-class sport. I wish him all good fortune and I will watch with interest his progress in Indianapolis. I can only hope the PBR can find someone who will fill Randy Bernard’s boots one tenth as well as he did.

Shannon Goes to Anaheim, Part 3

2010-02-01T12:41:00.000-08:00

Today the divine Shannon continues her report on the Anaheim event. Here comes part 3, folks!--SQ

Introducing a New Fan to a Full Day of PBR Activities: Day II

So, my alarm was set for 7 a.m., but the adrenaline was rushing through my body at such a rapid pace that I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I simply got up, ambled around the house with a cup of coffee, amd then got ready to leave.

This time was different, though. This time, I was bringing a good friend who grew up around horses and was well versed in everything equestrian and fairly knowledgeable about bull riding itself. She loves each and every bit of it and she’s a real kick to boot, so I was sure it was going to be a fun day. I picked Sonja up at 8:30 a.m., took her to Starbucks, and then headed out to the bull draft. We’d discussed going to the meet and greet, but it was early, she’s not really an autograph seeker, and I knew there was a big chance that I’d already met and/or gotten autographs from all the guys involved, so we passed on that.

Instead, we headed out to J.J. Schmidt’s and got there in such good time that we ended up talking in the car for almost an hour while they were still setting up. It was ok with us, though, because we’d get good seats! Well . . . they should have been the best seats in the house, except that Chad Berger, his wife, Skeeter, and a few others were standing directly in front of us. When the draft started, they stayed where they were, furthering my frustration—not only did *I* want to see and hear everything (the acoustics were bad, so we weren’t just having a hard time seeing, we were having a hard time hearing), but I wanted Sonja, whom I had dragged out for the entire day, to experience everything, too. At one point, I started to whisper to Skeeter, only to have Sonja say that she was fine—the view was good for her. It was when I followed her gaze that I knew we were definitely going to have a good day.

In spite of the bad view and acoustics, our seats did allow for some extra entertainment that not everyone was privy to. When it was almost time for McKennon to make his choice, I noticed Chad’s wife pacing, looking around, and frantically punching buttons on her phone. McKennon, who is good friends with the Bergers, was not there yet. Her angst got worse when his name was called. “He’s only a block away,” she muttered. The guys were half mocking, half serious when they encouraged Brandon to move on. A few on McKennon’s side tried to help with statements like “You started early!” Brandon disagreed (although by my watch, they did indeed start 5 minutes early). “He got caught up at the meet and greet!” someone called, which brought responses of, “We were at the meet and greet, too, but we’re here!”

Just as they were about to move on, McKennon trotted in, pushed through the crowd, and said “Hank” into the mic, causing groans from all of the other riders. Then he came back to where the Bergers were standing (which was so close to us that we could have reached out and touched him, thus furthering the obstruction of our view and adding to it at the same time) and said something that made us bite our tongues from laughing: “Damn cab driver wouldn’t run a red light,” he said with half amusement, half frustration, “and we hit every one of them! I offered to pay for any tickets he got, but he wasn’t going for it!”

Later, we had the pleasure of speaking to him during which time we discussed dogs—apparently, his Australian Heeler can be so vicious that most of his friends won’t set foot onto the property without the dog being put away first—and the floor at Madison Square Garden—Sonja said that her friends who do equestrian competitions and shows hate MSG because the floor is so slippery in spots that the horses have a hard time finding their footing. She watched Sunday night in NY very intently after the incident with Ross’ bull not performing and was convinced that was what was happening. McKennon confirmed it and then admitted that many riders were hoping to get the chutes on that side.

We also found out that the young Mr. Wimberly is indeed engaged and my 50th birthday acquaintance had told me the day before that she’s a real sweetheart. I hope so, because from my few brief encounters with him, he deserves a really sweet young woman. I have yet to be less than impressed with him.

After that, I had to stop Austin Meier to tell him how I’d met a young man in Iowa a couple of years ago and how that youngster regaled me with the story of meeting Austin, Austin buying him lunch and letting Dakota join him, and then giving Dakota tips on bull riding. I thought he should know just how much that gesture meant to his young fan. He was pleased to hear it and thanked me for saying so.

What a difference a day makes! I was talking to riders without turning into a bumbling idiot. I was on a roll and I knew there had to be at least a couple more good encounters in me.

After the draft, we decided to take what turned out to be an almost 40-minute ride to a little one horse town called Norco. Here was to be the fan zone event at the local Boot Barn. My friends, I have never seen a town like this anywhere—let alone in the middle of an area with so many big cities looming nearby. Tack and saddle shops were everywhere. A couple of small strip mall areas, a non-chain fast food place that had excellent food—you know the kind of food that appears to be homemade and fresh? Thick slabs of ham on homemade bread—that sort of thing. But, my favorite thing about Norco is that every store parking lot had horse corrals for those who rode their horses to do their shopping. That was really neat.

Anyway, the Boot Barn had the local country radio station outside doing give-aways and right inside was a table behind which sat a rather bored-looking Reese, Cody Campbell, McKennon, Guilherme and Valdiron. With the few people that were there all outside with the DJ, there was nothing really for them to do. We said hello, and I got my autograph from Reese, telling the rest of them that I’d already gotten theirs . We looked around a bit and as I was trying on some boots, Guilherme walked around the corner. We said hello and happy New Year. He said the same back and when we asked how his holidays had been, we learned that his family is doing well and that they spent the time in Brazil eating too much. After he left, I turned to Sonja, who used to be a flight attendant, and remarked at how good looking the Brazilian contingent was (I’d already pointed out all of them during the morning’s activities), prompting her to not only agree, but to state that all Brazilians are beautiful. “Even the homeless there,” she remarked, “are gorgeous.” I don’t doubt that for a minute.

As we wandered up front, I’d begun wishing that I’d worn my more comfortable bra. Completely forgetting that I was in public and going solely on the habit of “if something’s uncomfortable, fix it,” I reached up and adjusted it—only to turn and see Valdiron sitting there with a clear view of me. *sigh* I shook off the slight embarrassment and hoped that if he did see me, he wasn’t too shocked or embarrassed by my action.

Thus ended our trip to The Boot Barn—one autograph, a conversation with Guilherme, and accidentally getting too comfortable in front of Valdiron. Since we had a another hour or so before we had to get back to the event, we decided to go shopping in some of the small shops along the main road instead of going back to the hotel. We figured that if the same group of guys—especially McKennon—were to run into us in the hotel, that would look too suspicious, and given the fact that we were already seen more than once, we didn’t want to appear to be somewhat stalker-ish. Besides, upon walking into a few stores, we found prices on items better than what you’d get at Target, for much less than Target prices, so we knew it was worth looking around. So, in spite of the fact that we had to drive so far for something that wasn’t much fun in and of itself, we ended up seeing some great scenery and an interesting little town the likes of which I’d never seen before, having a great lunch and getting in some decent shopping. And I had my third comfortable conversation with a rider! All in all, I’d give the morning and afternoon a solid A.
Next, it was off to the event. . . .

Hold the Phone

2010-01-30T21:24:00.000-08:00

It now appears that Randy Bernard has asked to have till Monday to make a decision tabout leaving the PBR for the IRL in Indianapolis. Me smells the possibility of a deal to keep him in Pueblo afoot here.

Shannon Goes to Anaheim, Part 2

2010-01-30T11:05:00.000-08:00

Here is the divine Shannon's report on the Friday night action in Anaheim. Sorry it's taken me a bit to get this up, but now that it's up, please enjoy it.--SQ

Friday night!

When I finally got to the arena, I went in and looked around a bit, then headed to the mixer. This little fan event normally consists of people standing around talking to their friends or the volunteers. Not a lot of mixing going on. But, it does perk up a little when the rider of the night shows up. This time, it was Ross Coleman who provided us with my second favorite image of this weekend—Master Cooper Teague Coleman, who once again was the man of the hour. This time, dad was a little more accommodating with fans and less protective of the little guy. What made him man of the hour this time? Could it have been the little cowboy hat? Maybe it was the button-up shirt, jeans, belt with a buckle, and chaps. I think, though, it had to be the little cowboy boots complete with not only spurs, but little blue lights that blinked when he walked. He was everywhere and he was the hit of the mixer.

A few minutes after the autograph session, it’s time for the TV interview. The rider is ushered in with Leah and the fans are asked to stand behind the little stage and cheer. Of course we will! On TV during an interview?! Being three feet away from the actual interview instead of having to watch it on TV?! You bet!

Except not. Because of the in-house announcer, you don’t hear a thing that is being said. Thankfully, this time, it was J.B., so I was at least able to know when he was going to start speaking because of the trademark shrug and I would know when the interview was over because of reading his signature “thank you very much” on his lips.

When it was over, I made my way back to the worst seats I’ve ever had since going to live events and watched as the beginning of the 5th event of the 2010 season began to unfold. I was a bit confused at first because Flint didn’t come out, but then I realized that we were going to be treated to a whole new opening. I enjoyed it, because, even though I like Flint well enough as an entertainer, I’d gotten tired of the “dancing fool in the audience” routine. I much prefer the new video of the wrecks and rides of last season and seeing Brandon Bates during the introduction. The new fire-lit sign was great, but it felt kind of bittersweet to see our new world champion up there in the top spot when, at that point, he’d gone 0-6 over the last couple of weekends.

Throughout the night, I watched the usual rides and rerides, the bulls, Flint, and some audience members showing off and listened to those around me. Later, I watched with amusement as the Tecate Light girls teetered out on the dirt in spiked, needle thin heels, blue paint brushed over their bottom halves to look like they were wearing pants and halter tops tied so high under their breasts that there was no guessing on whether or not they need to eat a sandwich. And to think, I was once mildly offended by the Jack Daniels’ girls, who now look like stuffy prudes in comparison.

At one point, Flint, entertaining us during a judges’ review of Zack Brown’s ride, said, “I have an idea. These guys were actually on the bull, they have nerve endings in their hands, why don’t you just ask them if they touch the bull?” He calls to Zack: “Zack? Did you touch the bull?” Zack says, “No.” Flint respond, “See? It’s simple!” Sometimes, he still gets a smile and laugh out of me.

When the end of the show came around, we were asked to stick around for a short concert that was to be preceded by a small group of religious riders answering a few questions from the local minister. While they were setting up, they ran a nice clip of Kody talking about random things like taking small pot shots at Los Angeles for not having a pro football team, talking about what he likes to do for fun in his time off (accompanied by clips of those things) and cracking up when he kept making mistakes with the script. It was a surprisingly light moment for Mr. Lostroh-—I don’t recall the last time I’ve seen him smile, let alone laugh, during an interview. By the end of the video, I saw Wiley, Austen, Kody, and Mike Lee coming out to the center stage and the chairs that had been set up. I was willing to stay a bit later into an already late night to see what they had to say, but when the minister started getting cringe worthy--not with the God talk-—there was hardly any at all while I was still there-—but, with his interview skills, I opted to leave. I won’t get into how long it took me to find my car and why I’ve already embarrassed myself once with an admission of my poor navigating skills.

After a 40-minute ride home, then picking up the things around the house that my husband and kids overlooked—as I’m told many kids and husbands do when mom’s gone all day—and checking a few things online, I crawled into bed at midnight with my alarm set for 7 a.m. the next morning.

Godspeed, Randy Bernard

2010-01-30T10:20:00.000-08:00

The Indy Star is reporting that Randy Bernard has accepted the post of CEO for IRL. This story does actually get at least some of the facts about the PBR right, most likely because they let Randy speak for himself for a change.

Good luck to you, Randy. Despite the ridiculous comments of those racing fans who labor under the delusion that you have to "know the sport" (meaning you have to know how to ride a bull or drive an Indy car) to market it, I'm sure you'll manage to right the ship if the bosses will just stay out of your way. Thank you for your exemplary service to the PBR for the past 14 years. You did an extraordinary job for an outfit that needed all the help it could get. Enjoy Indianapolis, and we hope to hear soon about your successes in your new endeavor.

I have This to Say About That

2010-01-28T10:55:00.000-08:00

Breaking news: The Divine Miss S has alerted us to a post on Indystar.com titled "IRL Offers CEO Position to Randy Bernard." If you are brave, you can also see the comment I just couldn't keep myself from making. As my friend Sandy in St. Louis used to say whenever she found herself in the midst of a knock-down drag-out fight, "I was in my glory."

Although Randy has as yet neglected to call me for my opinion, I just want to go on the record to say that if the IRL offers him a good deal and he likes the idea, he should have no qualms about taking the job. The most valuable piece of advice I ever got about working was this: You are working for yourself. In other words, you should never forget that your personal satisfaction with what you do for a living trumps everything else. This is something that many women I've known have particular trouble grasping; they think they are working for all kinds of reasons that, in the end, are beside the point.

Randy Bernard has been CEO of the PBR since 1995. He was just 28, a kid by my lights, when he took the job. That is a long haul by any standard, particularly in this day and age, when people seem to job-hop like frogs on a hot sidewalk. Bernard has taken the organization from its scrappy beginnings to its present level of prominence. It would not surprise me one bit to find out that he feels like he's done all he can do. Everyone who has ever worked a job at one place knows that after a while, resistance to your ways and means tends to stiffen. Plus, he might be really tired of living in Pueblo, CO. Indianapolis is not my ideal city, but I've been there quite a lot, because one of my most important clients is there, and it's a town with quite a lot to offer.

So, Randy--whether you go or stay, you have my blessing, for what that's worth. If you decide to stay, maybe you can pry some concessions (and, with a little luck, a bigger paycheck) out of the PBR Powers That Be. If you go, I have good friends in Indianapolis who will be pleased to show you around. Just give me a call, I'll be happy to set it up.

Shannon Goes to Anaheim, Part 1

2010-01-26T21:37:00.000-08:00

Here it is, what we've all been waiting for--the first installment of the divine Shannon's report from Anaheim. She tells me there is more to come--what riches! Friends and neighbors, without further ado, I present to you her auspicious account.

Where do I start?

Maybe I should start with a couple of confessions:

First, I was in a friend’s store the other day and saw a small, impersonal item that I couldn’t resist picking up for Kasey and his new wife. I brought it home, wrapped it in a small box, and stuffed it into my purse, hoping that I’d see him and figuring that if I didn’t, I could unwrap it, take out the personalized card I made them and give it to either Cord, Shane, or Cody Nance—-whoever I ran into and felt good vibes from. The rest of that story will come into play later.

Second, I’m a Christian. Yes, I go to church whenever possible. I just don’t prosthet . . . prostety . . . talk about it . . . unless I’m asked, except for the occasional comment about church on Sunday or something small like that. However, that didn’t stop me from bringing my Bible with me, thinking that it could open up some interesting discussions with the more religious-based riders. Unfortunately, it would seem that that particular base of riders stay at different hotels, so I’m left not only having not really talked to anyone, but having to confess to God on Sunday that I was using the Bible for personal gain—something I’m not sure He’d take kindly to. But, I digress. . . . Now, back to my day.

Why do I do this to myself? Really. I’m 40 years old and after all this time, I know darn well that I’m a shy person and no amount of bravado or psyching myself up is going to change that and when I try to force it, embarrassment ensues. I’m a bit of a paradox, actually, in that if someone not shy and very engaging makes the first move, then I turn into chatty Cathy. Unfortunately, I’m going to guess that at least 90% of our riders are not open and engaging (although, I’m sure that number is relative to the age, sex, and general appearance of the fan attempting to talk to them). But, nonetheless, I once again trudged my way through the rain to spend five relaxing, and at times fun, hours in the lobby.

When I got there, the first pleasant surprise awaited me in an unexpected manner: Chad Berger was there and remembered me from last year! Seeing as he’s not any more engaging with strangers than I am, we didn’t exchange too many words, but enough for it to be one of my better encounters. I watched later as someone presented him with a beautiful painting of Big Tex and how he showed it off to one of the riders before heading up to his room to put it away. I was also amused to hear him call a friend and ask, “What is that drink you always order at Starbucks?” (Answer: a vanilla latte—my personal favorite.)

At one point, I watched with curiosity as a woman approached him enthusiastically with a hug. After a minute, she sat down near me, noticed my boots, and asked if I was a PBR fan. When I said yes, she told me that she was a Diamond Resistol Relief supporter and that this year the event fell on the weekend of her 50th birthday. One of her ways of celebrating was to get a hug from everyone in the PBR. She was well on her way that day as I watched her approach several riders with her arms spread saying, “I turned 50 today! Hug me!” They all responded well as I sat there wondering why I hadn’t thought of that for my 40th, then remembering that I’d chicken out every time anyway. Anyhow, Dee, as she liked to be called, spent a bit of time with me gossiping about some of the guys (I won’t divulge anything in a public forum—some of it was nice and funny, some not so much), then took off with her family for lunch. It was a whirlwind every time I ran into her, but she definitely made it interesting.

The next person I met was a lovely, elegant looking older woman. She was sitting across from me, looking as classy as ever, when she stopped the bellman and asked about all the guys in cowboy hats. He said they were bull riders and left and when she glanced at me, I grinned and said, “Yep. The cowboys are in town.” This started a conversation that turned her into student and me into teacher. Not only did she want to know about the rules, the tour, and where to watch it on TV, but, she wanted me to alert her every time a rider or someone involved walked through the lobby. I listened with amusement as she told her husband over the phone, “Honey, guess what? The top bull riders in America. . . ” (at which point she looked at me questioningly and I said “the world”) “ . . . in the world are here. They have an event in town. Apparently, it’s a big deal. . . .” When that conversation was over, she turned back to me and gave me a mental image that I will carry with me for a lifetime:

“Well,” she said, “that explains what I saw the other day. I was in the fitness center here and there were these three young men in there working out . . . ” (by her hand gestures, I’m guessing treadmills) “ . . . and they were wearing shorts, t-shirts, and cowboy hats.” Ha! Thank you, ma’am, I needed that. What an amusing image to carry around with me.

Anyway, the day went on and because of the weather, there weren’t too many guys walking around. I had the pleasure of seeing and saying hello to the Brazilians again, got to see Robson’s pretty young wife and adorable new baby girl, watched Renato laugh and joke with McKennon and his girlfriend. Reese Cates and Brian Canter provided me with an entertaining look at their bad weather clothing, proving just how different we all are: Reese in baggy, black sports shorts (like the kind you see on soccer players) that went to just above his knees, a black t-shirt, and slip-on white sneakers, Brian in a thick, blue hoodie, red-and-black flannel pajama bottoms, and slippers.

Finally, when it looked like running into Kasey was going to be a bust, he walked in and to the elevator. Looking at my watch and seeing how much time it was until the event started, I knew that it was going to be now or never. I crossed over to him, present in hand, called him and said that I wanted to congratulate him on his marriage. Handing the gift to him, I told him that I’d seen something in the store the other day that I couldn’t resist getting for him and his wife. He thanked me for the congratulations, but seemed surprised that a fan would get him something and said, “You didn’t have to do that.” Of course, being who I am, I couldn’t simply smile and say, “I know. But, I wanted to.” I had to mutter something mushy about romance, while the little voice in the back of my head said, for the first time that day, “Shut up!”

Sadly, that was the last encounter with Kasey for the weekend, save for one brief moment of eye contact the next night during autograph signing, where it was obvious that he either didn’t recognize me, or hadn’t opened the gift yet. Some other friends were hoping I’d get a comment on what I bought him and Leah.
After sitting for a bit longer, it was time to hit the road again and go to the event. This year, I had my trusty navigator with me. Sadly, when what she wanted me to do didn’t sound right, I thought maybe I typed the address wrong and headed down a different road and once again got turned around. How embarrassing. I really hope that Cord and Jet fare better across the world than I do in Anaheim, CA! Turns out, she was right, and I was wrong. Oh, well.

(To be continued…..)

True Confessions

2010-01-25T14:15:00.000-08:00

I have, I regret to say, a serious of sins I must confess before I get into the meat of this post, and it’s possible none of them will interest you in the slightest. Nevertheless, here goes.

First, I have to confess that I’m not really that anxious to tackle this subject. I have spent the past week looking at the videos and reading the official press releases, but in the end, I put off writing anything about the way a judge underscored Eliot Jacoby the final round at Sacramento. There are a couple of reasons for this, one being that I have been insanely busy for the past month, but another is that I really wanted to see how the commentators at Anaheim would spin the news that judge Jeff Shearer had been suspended for five events.

Second, I have to confess that I have not looked at any of the comments on the subject on the PBR website, so I’m sure that what I’m about to say is nothing you folks haven’t heard already. The truth is, I am not psychically equipped to read all that crap and keep my wits about me. Even if I thought my life depended on it, I would not be able to wade through the flaming and name-calling and general bad behavior that takes place there pretty much anytime, for any (or no) reason. If that is the level to which the average PBR fan is willing to sink, then I will do without knowing about it, thank you very much.

Third, I was really hoping that my main concern with this situation would be addressed, which, as far as I can tell, it has not. (Disclaimer: See confession #2, above.) Certainly I haven’t heard any of the PBR Powers That Be address it.

So, having said all that, I will get my opinion of the scoring fiasco out of the way: I believe that Jeff Shearer deliberately underscored Elliot Jacoby because he knew J.B. Mauney would be riding after Jacoby, and he wanted to do whatever he could to make sure that Mauney won. Despite S. Hawkins’ thoughtful reasoning about why she believed this not to be the case, I am pretty much convinced of it.

I am equally certain that J.B. Mauney had absolutely nothing to do with the scoring situation, and I do not believe this is evidence of a larger conspiracy. In general, I think conspiracy theories are for the weak-minded who might even be paranoid, or are, at least, close to it. I don’t have any patience with conspiracy theories and I have less with people who are easily convinced that conspiracies take place right under our noses, every single day.

Truthfully, however, what I found most interesting about the whole episode is that the Rules and Regulations Committee was called in to investigate. Here’s my question: Why now?

We all know, and have complained, about specific instances in which we were convinced that one judge, or more, had screwed up. How many times have we heard a judge’s score explained away with, “Nobody can help having a favorite”? We have even seen instances of what my friend Jean calls “the Points Fairy” mysteriously changing scores considerably after the fact. Hell, if a single event passed by without my screeching at the television over a scoring atrocity, Montana Barn Cat would probably drag me off the hospital for psychiatric observation. Just exactly what made this such a big deal that the PBR had to call in the big guns?

I have no answers for that, and I found Ty Murray’s explanation that the committee had to act because the judges had “no accountability” to be either troubling, or ludicrous, or both. If they aren’t accountable, then what possible credibility could the scoring of any event have? More to the point, if they aren’t accountable, who’s to blame for that?

I also am somewhat concerned that prominent people like Murray and J.W. Hart (using the word “prominent” as loosely as possible) will be second-guessing the judges to an even greater, and more public, extent. Now that such disapproval appears to have teeth, I am worried the judges may be prone to practicing their profession less boldly.

Despite the fact that I myself have frequently wanted to get up into a judge’s face and demand an explanation, I do not want them to feel like the bosses are free to meddle in their decisions at will. Given the apparent, meaning unexplained, capriciousness of this action on the part of the PBR board, I think that fear is well founded.