PurePBR? Pure... Something.

While I am demoralized by the sudden return and inexplicable triumph of Sean “What’s the Next Step?” Willingham, I am not unaware that I have been neglecting my blog duties and so will charge into the fray.  This will probably be a bit snarkier than my usual foray here, but I’m tired, under-caffeinated, and cranky about last weekend’s event.

So let me just start right in on David Neal’s latest and greatest invention, PurePBR.  Not satisfied by merely wiring riders so we can hear a thrilling series of grunts, or setting up the Truth Booth so we can experience cowboys utter such illuminating insights as, "That’s a little black bull, and, um, I fell off him," Mr. Neal has decided to bring us even closer to the "action."  Unfortunately, Mr. Neal apparently doesn't realize that a clearly uncomfortable circle of cowboys sitting in folding chairs and mumbling unintelligibly is not terribly exciting. 

Also unfortunate is that, in addition to being rough and somewhat boring, there were huge sound balance issues, and a couple of the more interesting "moments" were ones that clearly slipped by the TV crew.  And while J.W. Hart telling us about flank straps and bull ropes might be marginally intriguing for new fans, it's old hat for the rest of us, and it verges on irritating when they insist on showing Hart nattering with a rope in his hand while they do a split screen and we can barely make out whatever ride is in progress.  

And now that they've explained bull ropes and flank straps, what do they plan to talk about for the remainder of the 10 thrilling PurePBR episodes slated for us?

Never fear, I have the solution! Simply hand me the controls to Telestrator (remember when they used that about three times and promptly forgot about it? Or maybe it was like the X-Mo and just on loan), and I would surely spice up the proceedings!

For example, I would be sure to highlight whenever the chute judge begins prematurely yelling at a Brazilian rider, or lets a rider from another country dink around in the chute for a long periods of time with no comment.

Along the same lines, I would happily do side-by-side ride comparisons to attempt to explain to the viewers why one ride gets a widely divergent score from another similar-appearing ride, in my own streamlined fashion.

I would also be sure to point out whenever a cowboy would land in a horrible way on some previously injured body part, only to have Shorty Gorham ask, "Hey, buddy, how’s that elbow?"  Maybe he needs more notes in his armband.  Or to be able to do his main job without being overtaxed and asked to do things that he clearly isn't quite prepared to do.

I would like to say that I would highlight when Flint is repeating the same material from the last several years, but then again, as he is always sure to point out, they never show him on the broadcast anyway.

And finally, since it was mentioned on the broadcast, we might as well really get our money's worth out of the Telestrator.

Yup, I went there. 

Let us hope, for everyone's sake, that PurePBR finds its footing and becomes less of an experiment, and more of an experience. And that I get some coffee soon.

I'm Mad as Hell

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.

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

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!

Calgary or Bust!

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.

Let's Take a Little Break

I'll get around to commenting on the Copenhagen Bull Riding Invitational here in a day or two, but first I want to tell you about something that happened about two weeks ago. When I fired up the computer that Monday morning, I found this communique from SoCal Jay, my erstwhile budding PBR fan:

Stockyard Queen,
Life is strange enough when one can't sleep, gets out of bed at 2 in the morning, and goes on the computer, ya know? Weird and even surreal things can easily occur, and often do, as I'm sure you know.
I'm usually on guard against such goblins, to some extent, but I was completely unprepared for a sentence I read on a certain blog: "I have to admit that by the time the short-go rolled around, J.B. could have ridden a wooly mammoth with a cattle prod up his butt, and I would have yawned in the man's face." Before I could so much as put a hand in front of my blood-shot eyes, it was too late, and that image, I'm QUITE sure, was burned (think a branding iron on cowhide) into a dark corner of my brain where, I fear, it will remain forever.
Yikes.
Loveys, -J.

Now, this would be interesting if only because none of the rest of you remarked on that particular phrase, which forces me to conclude that you were all either too mortified by my obvious lack of class to comment, or else you were as bored as I was and thus didn't even notice. But I can always count on Jay to sink to my level and even to flop around there with me in the mire. Hey, it's good clean fun and at our age (and we are almost exactly the same age), we have to make our own fun.

But then Jay had to go and up the ante. A few days after I got this message, I got something else in the mail, which I feel compelled to share with you.



Ladies and gentlemen, I have to take my hat off in the presence of true genius. I can write 'em up, but Jay can leap from the verbal to the visual, a gift that I truly envy. I am hereby appointing him Artist in Residence at the Stockyard. Stay tuned for his next contribution!

Something I Didn't Expect

As crabby, cantankerous, sarcastic, and even rude as I can be sometimes, every once in a while something challenges me to re-evaluate a long-held opinion, and I’m gratified to learn that I can change my mind and benefit from the process. 

Thus I feel no fear when I tell you that the rider I was most impressed with, and the one I ultimately ended up feeling sorry for, during the PBR World Finals is Chris Shivers. This is mostly a testimony to the fact that no matter what you think you know, you probably don’t know everything, and sometimes what you don’t know makes all the difference. It powerfully underscores the admonition “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” and gives me reason to hope that I, and everyone else, might be able to keep an open mind and thus improve as a human being.

I’ve said before that Shivers’ inclination to talk about “making money” bothers the crap out of me, and I’m perfectly willing to concede that my Southern upbringing is at the bottom of that, since I was taught growing up that talking about money is vulgar. If I had ever once in my mother’s presence asked someone what s/he paid for something, I probably wouldn’t be writing this now, since Ruby would have crammed me into a barrel and fed me through the bunghole till I was of age and she could decide whether to let me out or plug the bunghole up.

You think I’m joking, but I’m really not. Ruby grew up poor on a dirt farm in a Southern state, and she had precious little beyond determination and a rock-solid set of values to get her out of there. Some of her prejudices make me shiver whenever she takes them out for a stroll, and yet she also has a remarkable delicacy in her dealings with people that bespeaks her fundamental generosity, even for people she doesn’t know or doesn’t agree with.

I got the shock of my life several years ago when Ruby, who regards gay people with suspicion, if not some level of fear, asked me why Anne Heche had ended up in somebody’s backyard in Fresno, mumbling incoherently, just after she and Ellen Degeneres had broken up. “I think she was drunk,” I said carefully. “Oh,” said my mother. “I thought her heart was probably broken.” If I never learned anything from Ruby beyond that willingness to walk in somebody else’s shoes, I would still owe her a tremendous debt.

I guess my attitude toward Shivers started changing when he got stepped on in Hawaii two years ago yesterday and broke both his leg and his ankle. It was an ugly wreck, and an injury I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Oh, maybe on her, but still, you get my drift. This season in Chicago, Cowboy slammed Shivers headfirst into the front of the bucking chute and broke his left cheekbone and eye socket. (Maybe that’s the injury I should be wishing on she who will not be named.) That was another awful accident, and I began to feel it was time the little guy caught a break.

But when Shivers turned up at the 2008 finals after being away for nearly four months, and told Leah Garcia that the surgery he’d had to repair a herniated disc in his neck had gone great, I suddenly understood something that hadn’t been evident. 

Anyone who has ever suffered with herniated discs knows that kind of pain will eat you alive. It makes you short-tempered and peevish, and it’s amazing to me that Shivers managed to get out of bed in the morning and onto the backs of as many bulls as he did with such an injury. Shivers said that until he woke up from surgery, he really had had no idea of how bad he’d been feeling, or how good he could feel.

And he went right back to riding like the champion he is, covering five bulls in his trademark style. Then in the seventh round, he rode Walk The Line for 91.5 points, only to get thrown into the corner post and stepped on in the dismount. I have to wonder if, had he not taken that shot, he might have ridden Troubadour in the short-go, and given Robson Palermo a run for the event title. 

As it was, he finished fourth, a mere 82 points behind Palermo, and anybody who has watched the sport for any length of time knows well that 82 points is a day off for Chris Shivers. Basically, it’s one mediocre ride, and Shivers almost never turns in a mediocre effort.

I’m really glad that Shivers has gotten some relief, but the fact that he rode through that pain for as long as he did makes me respect him even more. He might be the walking definition of “cowboy up.” One thing is for certain, Shivers left nothing on the table at the finals. Every time the gate swung open, he brought it. I look forward to seeing him bring it next season.

BREAKING NEWS!!!!

My dear readers, yesterday the scales fell from my eyes and for the first time in my life, I can truly see! How could I have been so stupid up until now? Since you are all astute and curious folk looking for enlightenment, I’m sure you are dying for me to share the source of my new-found knowledge with you, and how can I refuse you, who have done so much to encourage and support me?

So here goes: A loyal reader pointed out to me a comment that Tater Porter made in “8 seconds (or questions) with Tater Porter” on the PBR website: “Guilherme is having an exceptional season and one main reason is because Justin is out of the way. And, as you can tell, Justin is one of my best friends. Justin is out of the way so Guilherme’s doors are wide open.”

Truly, friends, when I read that, everything became clear to me. JUSTIN MCBRIDE HAS SUPERPOWERS! Why didn’t I figure this out before now? It’s obvious, when you think about it. After all, we all know that all Justin McBride has to do is show up to compete AND EVERYBODY ELSE STARTS FALLING OFF THEIR BULLS! Even guys who are riding 80-plus percent of the time will instantly START FALLING OFF THEIR BULLS! Just because Justin is in the house!

How does he do it? Is it enough that he casts his steely eyes upon them, or is it some sort of thought control? Does he telekinetically mess with their bull ropes or tangle the fringe on their chaps in their spurs? Does he have to slip into a phone booth to do his magic? Or is it more like what happens when I propose something to Montana Barn cat that he thinks is ridiculous, and he says to me, “Why don’t you just jump on your ROCKET CAR and get right on it?”

My life is complete now, and obviously I owe Tater a great debt. Now I can give up watching the PBR altogether, and certainly I won’t have to waste another second marking time during the THREE AND FOUR FULL WEEK stretches between events that hover like a juggernaut on the horizon. Folks, I’m proud to testify that I have been cured of my addiction, saved from my lunacy, I have seen the light, and I will never again make the mistake of thinking that any other cowboy on the planet has the slightest chance of beating Justin McBride this season.

But wait! What’s that I hear? DING DING DING Oh my, they’re wheeling in The Stockyard Queen’s Hoof in Mouth Award and presenting it to Tater Porter! And I thought he was telling me the God’s honest truth! Can it be that everybody doesn’t let their “friendship” with Justin pull his cape completely over their eyes?