To All Lurkers

I would like to take a moment to formally welcome all of you who have been checking out this blog recently. Through the magic of Google Analytics, I know when you've been here and I also know where you're calling in from. I invite you all to step out of the shadows and let the rest of us know you're here. You are welcome to comment on any post in the comments field, or you can just say hello on the zonkboard. I'm sure you have many interesting observations that the rest of us will find quite enlightening. Just be polite, please.

I'd also like to remind you all that my guest blog submission, "So Much In Common," is posted today on John Hewitt's blog about freelance writing. Check it out: http://www.poewar.com/

Let's see if we can send the man some traffic he might not otherwise get!

On Risk

This morning, I received a note from my virtual friend Shannon, who is rapidly becoming an advance set of eyes and ears of this blog because she reads everything she can find on the subject of the PBR and very kindly keeps me clued into what is going on. Shannon reports that someone in the administration of the PBR posted a note on a bull riding board about Paulo, indicating that the surgery went well and he is, in Adriano Moraes’ words, “Good to go.” That is a huge relief to me, and I thank Shannon for spreading the word so quickly.

Naturally, all this has made me think quite a bit about the fundamental dangers of bull riding, and the men who gladly take that danger on. Paulo’s potentially career-ending injury, plus the fact that Ross Coleman fell on his head in Orlando too and won’t compete in Dallas this weekend, have brought home to me yet again that these guys are playing with fire every time they climb into the chute.

Yet I do not believe that risk-taking is necessarily always foolhardy. I don't agree that mountain climbers who get stuck on a mountain in a blizzard should also get stuck with the bill for getting them down off the mountain, assuming they do make it down. I'm not about to go out and climb a frozen waterfall next weekend, or snowboard down a hill I can only reach by being dropped out of a helicopter, or swim five miles in the ocean or even run a marathon, but I do see the need sometimes to quit sitting in front of my computer trying to fix other people's broken prose and go outside to do something different.

A couple of weeks ago, I read a book review in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle of Forget Me Not: A Memoir by Jennifer Lowe-Anker, which has a foreword by Jon Krakauer. Some of you likely will recognize Krakauer’s name—he has written such seminal books as Into Thin Air, about the disastrous 1996 climbing season on Mount Everest, Into the Wild, on Christopher Johnson McCandless’ ill-starred attempt to live off the land in Alaska in 1992, and Under the Banner of Heaven, an examination of present-day polygamy in Mormon communities that seems especially apropos given the goings-on in Texas of late. Jennifer Lowe-Anker is the widow of mountaineer Alex Lowe, almost universally considered one of the greatest practitioners of his craft of his generation, who died in an avalanche on Shishapangma in the Himalayas in 1999. Jennifer Lowe was left a young widow with three boys to raise on her own.

I full intend to read this book, not the least because the reviewer remarked extensively about how Alex Lowe’s obsession with climbing mountains affected his wife and family. Although Jennifer Lowe missed him desperately, and sometimes resented his protracted absences, she ultimately realized that he simply could not have done any differently. Apparently there are individuals who thrive on thrills and adrenaline, and without those stimulants, they are prone to depression and more obvious and available self-destructive behaviors. Those of us who can’t make any sense out of their need to scale an ice wall or cross a lava field might do well to hold our tongues and thank our lucky stars that we are not similarly burdened. Just because we don’t want to do it ourselves does not automatically mean that nothing good can come of it. At least if these folks are up on mountains, or on the backs of bulls or saddle broncs, they aren’t shutting down the local bars and driving home drunk in the middle of the night, through the streets of our cozy little towns and big cities. Whether they learn anything of value from their exploits is ultimately up to them—as it is to all of us, in all our experiences.

At some point, Alex Lowe taped to the wall of his office a quotation from Helen Keller’s book The Open Door that spoke to him: “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” In the end, life is risk—nobody gets out alive, and hunkering down in our little hidey-holes won’t change that. And we need to accept as well the fact that sometimes no amount of preparation is going to change the outcome. Blizzards blow in unexpectedly, bull ropes break. Better, I think, to take it as it comes, to be disappointed, but not discouraged, when things don’t work out the way we’d planned.

Better by a long shot to take the view of a local resident whose obituary I read in the paper last Friday morning. I’m sorry I never got to meet him because he sounds like he was a lot of fun. According to his friends, he died fully subscribing to the theory that “Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well-preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, ‘Holy shit, what a ride!’”

My friend Jay, whom I think I have succeeded in addicting to the PBR without his even having seen a televised event yet, was corresponding with me over the weekend of the Orlando event about Paulo’s wreck, thoughtfully kept on continuous loop for us on the PBR website. “Bull riders, and especially professional bull riders, are obviously, and perhaps certifiably, insane,” he remarked. “For some reason, I’m suddenly reminded of Darth Vader vs. Luke Skywalker. And the carnage at Normandy, during WWII. Ancient Greek and Roman myths also come to mind, wherein the good guy fights the bad guy . . . or the gods themselves, all on his own. It’s truly an amazing, fantastic, dangerous, fascinating spectacle.” Indeed, there is something primal, archetypal, about the sight of a cowboy trying to stay on the back of an animal that will do anything to get him off, and then may stomp the liver and lights out of him, as Barn Cat says, “Just for fun.” It’s why we keep coming back for more, because we hope, weirdly and impossibly, every time, that we’ll see them fail, and that we’ll see them succeed. If they fail, then they’re no better at it than we would be, right? If they succeed, we can tip our hats in sincere admiration.

“I’m yearning for a properly prepared souffle au fromage, accompanied by a glass of truly fine champagne, this morning,” Jay continued, “but I’ll accept bacon and eggs, with a glass of milk, thankfully. (Which is my way of saying, ‘If you’re ALIVE, bull riders and other cowboys, you’re ahead of the game.’) Or, I’m reminded of the old pilot’s saying, ‘Any landing you can walk away from is a GOOD landing.’” Certainly any time a bull rider can get up and stagger to the fence, it’s been a good landing. Regardless of whether he rode that time, he’s lived to ride another day. There’s always the next go-round.

Paulo Crimber

The latest report on Paulo Crimber’s injury has knocked my plans for blogging into a cocked hat. I had intended yesterday to post an entry based on several e-mail exchanges I’ve had over the past week with a friend of mine in California, but considering the gravity of Paulo’s condition, I don’t really think that’s appropriate.

Of course, I’ve been reading anything I could find about Paulo and I know he’s having surgery on his neck today. I am not going to criticize anything that anyone has said about this tragedy, even though it seems to me that several comments have been less than helpful, because I know that at times like these, people feel the need to say something and sometimes what they say doesn’t really reflect their feelings. We all are wishing Paulo a safe and speedy recovery, and we each are offering him up whatever help falls within our purview and convictions to give.

But I do think it would be a good idea, for a little while at least, to recognize that Paulo and his family have good cause to grieve what he has lost. It’s too soon, in my opinion, to be making suggestions about why this might have happened or what might be in store for him later on. It might always be too soon for that. For right now, I am just terribly sad about this accident, and I can only hope that by recognizing Paulo’s loss to whatever modest extent I am capable, I can honor those attributes that have never been in question--his contributions to the sport of professional bull riding, and his courage.

Terrible News

Courtesy of my new virtual friend Shannon, who directed me to a PBR press release, I learned late yesterday afternoon that Paulo Crimber’s wreck aboard Roughneck Friday night was even more serious than was initially thought. Besides breaking his right collarbone and some ribs on the same side, Paulo refractured his C1 vertebra when he fell and then the bull fell on top of him. Dr. Tandy Freeman describes this as a “career-threatening injury.” Here is the link to the press release:
http://www.pbrnow.com/release/?id=3968

Even if he decides he wants to try to make a comeback, Crimber will be out for a good long time while he heals up. Montana Barn Cat and I join with all the other PBR fans in wishing him good luck, and godspeed. We hope to see you back with us, friend.

Random Notes on the Git-R-Done Invitational

1) I don’t quite get what Larry the Cable Guy’s relationship was to this event. Did he co-sponsor it? Just lend his name? Tater said he called Larry because he “needed some money,” so I suppose cash must have changed hands, but I’m hazy on who paid whom, and for what. And I'm pretty damned sure I'll never find out.
2) I have been watching the PBR a long time, and I have seen a lot of injuries, but I have never seen one that affected me as much as Paulo Crimber’s in the first round. I could have cried for him.
3) Perhaps it was because of events in the political arena last week (I won’t say another word), but I found the boys in the booth even more tiresome this week than I have in weeks past. Several things they were laughing about struck me as adolescent at best and sexist and offensive at worst. For instance:
a) Larry’s comment about Sarah Jessica Parker starting to look like Twisted Sister frontman Dee Snider (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Dee_Snider_on_stage.jpg).
I am giving you guys fair warning—just get up off Ms. Parker. Not one of you are exactly Miss America material yourselves. The day any of you looks as good as she does, I’ll be happy to listen to you. Until then, like Nicole Baker in The Executioner’s Song, I don’t want to hear a goddamned word you have to say on the subject, or for that matter, on the subject of any woman’s looks.
Of course, it was pretty revealing that J.W. had absolutely no idea who Dee Snider is, but since he probably hasn’t listened to anything but Toby Keith since 1993, I guess we can cut him some slack.
b) All of the boys sniggering suggestively about Kasey Hayes’ girlfriend. Would you want somebody to talk about your sister like that? Just cut it out.
c) J.W.’s remarking that one of the riders drawing a bull owned by his girlfriend’s dad was the contractor getting revenge. That’s beyond tacky.
4) In a related matter that I can’t blame on the commentators (I don’t think), the Zantrex-3 Insta-Shot Grudge Match sounded like a good idea—till I figured out what Zantrex-3 is. I cannot believe that the PBR has stooped to taking on a sponsor that sells this kind of crap, but clearly that’s what’s happened. Did they cut a deal for free samples for the cowboys, maybe? The commercial for it, with the gal in her red negligee trying to wake her snoring lover up, led me to advise her to smack him with the champagne bottle, which led Montana Barn Cat to bark, he laughed so loud. If I were in her marabou-trimmed boudoir slippers, I’d have beaten him just about senseless.
Really, it makes me long to have Bob back, Bob who was “doing well, very well,” and proved it by carting around a wheelbarrow with a log and two boulders in it. Awful as Bob was, his commercials at least showed an occasional flash of wit. Of course, I can’t remember the name of the product he was peddling to save my life, but of course I can’t forget what it was for. All this leads me to speculate about whether a bunch of male PBR fans are suffering from this malady. As much as I am tempted to comment on that prospect, I think I will hold my tongue, just this once.
5) I also could have cried for Cord McCoy, who looked uncharacteristically solemn while he was waiting for Sean Willingham to ride, and then waiting longer while Sean challenged the judging. It would have been great to see Cord win an event.
6) And while we’re on the subject of crying, I was about in tears when Guilherme bucked off for the second time. He looked really, really tense all weekend. All in all, it was a weepy few hours around the Stockyard.
7) I am willing to concede that perhaps Sean Willingham did have a qualified ride to end the short-go, but would it be too much to ask the judges to show us what led them to reverse themselves? From the angle I (and all the rest of us) had, it looked like Sean just about slapped El Gato into next week. Maybe if the judges weren’t so damned secretive about the process, and were willing to show us whatever video they are reviewing instead of just the damned stopwatch, some of us might be a little less critical when it looks like somebody is getting shafted.

I Am Mortified

Bodacious was NOT a muley! He had short little horns! I do apologize, folks, I can't believe I made such a stupid mistake. It just goes to show you, you can't trust your visual memory when it comes to bulls and riders. I'll do better next time, I promise.

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?