Our Woman in Sacramento

Dear Friends, please enjoy this exceptional report by the illustrious S. And take a gander at this exceptional photos! Sadly, thanks to the limitations of Blogger, I can't seem to get them exactly where I'd prefer they go. (It's also possible I'm just to lame to figure out how to do it.) I do plan to get a little post up myself later today, but in the meantime, feast at this glorious banquet, courtesy of our talented friend.

Our Woman in Sacramento
On Saturday, the trusty Prius and I incongruously glided into the parade of Ford F-150s entering the parking lot to the Arco Arena in Sacramento, California. Ah, Sacramento, the land of the Governator and apparently also the land of PBR controversy--but more on that later.

I'll start off by saying that I am really tired of Sacramento getting such lousy bull pens. 2008 and 2009 weren't great, and 2010 was certainly not an improvement; in fact, I think there may actually have been a decline. The event ran at least half an hour long due to all of the re-rides, some of them even in the final round. There were re-rides of the re-rides of the re-rides (and in Mike Lee's case, I think perhaps even more than that, and I felt like he filled an entire flight by himself; by the end, I was sharing his inclination to hit myself in the head). One bull, the aptly named Oscar the Grouch, refused to participate entirely and flailed around in the chute for awhile before lying down. Many did a lame hop and skip around the arena, or just bucked really poorly.

Sure, we got Troubadour and Necessary Evil, but would we have had them without the Mauney versus Lostroh match-up? I doubt it. Of course, sometimes bulls have a bad day. But this was a lot of bulls having a bad day on the same day. Maybe they don't like SMUD (Sacramento Municipal Water District, and I can't say I blame them as I don't like them, either). Come on, Hawaii, put out some more like Hawaiian Ivory and save us from the yearly Sacto doldrums.

There were a few exciting bull moments that I don't believe were televised, like one bull threatening to charge the audience multiple times, and another (Pick a Spot) taking offense to Flint's mockery from the shark cage and having a stare-down with him. Also, a few enjoyed the limelight and had to be roped and escorted out by Julio Moreno. It's unfortunate that there was not a lot of excitement produced by the actual bucking.

As far as the riders were concerned, I was disappointed that Guilherme Marchi was not having a great weekend, and although I am not the world's biggest Kody Lostroh fan, I did feel some pity for him when I saw his defeated body-language. I think the ride of the night for me would be Brian Canter on Pick a Spot; that little guy showed a lot of grit and determination to stick on a bull that was bucking his heart out. Dusty Ephrom's wreck was really frightening, and I'm amazed he came out of it with only what appeared to amount to a giant, nasty bruise on his neck. I enjoyed seeing Adriano Moraes filling in for Cody Lambert, and it seemed like the Brazilians were enjoying having him around, as well as having Paulo Crimber there, who I hope is thinking with his head and not just his heart about his possible return.

Some random amusing things: the opening flaming bull heads seem to have been retired, and have been replaced by a metallic-y PBR logo that bursts into flames and rises to reveal . . . Kody Lostroh! I thought it was kind of daft, but the PBR seems really excited about it, so look for it at a city near you. Also, Ariat had some sort of remote-controlled dirigible with a picture of a bull head on the front, which flew around the arena, dropping what I assume was coupons. I didn't get anywhere near one, so I don't know exactly what they were, although one would probably be safe in guessing it was some sort of discount for something related to Ariat.

Flint is still Flint. Does he do the "this is how much screen time I get in the coverage" skit at every event? (SQ says: Yes.) I did enjoy his Kid Rock impression, and his voice wasn't half bad as he sang his own PBR-styled lyrics to "All Summer Long." He also seemed very enamored of how "cute" the bull Snowball was, which, well, I kind of have to agree. Shorty's hair was alarming, but luckily was only in view for a short period of time. Shorty's hair didn't help him be the "Go To Guy" for the evening, and the bullfighter who replaced the injured Joe Baumgartner (Eric Layton) seemed mildly embarrassed to be singled out for the honor.

As far as the controversy, it's interesting to me that both of the "lightning-rod" moments I have witnessed live in Sacramento seemed to not be a big deal at the time. During the Kasey Hayes helmet fiasco, the in-arena announcer sort of laughed and said, "Yeah, that'll show him [the bull]!" and that was it. It wasn't until I got home and saw the telecast and Justin McBride's commentary that I had any idea this was going to turn into another round of extra-special venom on the comment section to the PBR website, and result in disciplinary action for Hayes. After further thought, I didn't disagree with the punishment, even if it did seem rather harsh. That's what making an example of someone is all about.

In this case, the people at the event, and I presume J.B. Mauney and Elliot Jacoby, didn't know the individual breakdown of the judges' scores, so it really didn't seem that dramatic. I certainly was more concerned with the way that Mauney was holding his hand, and the look on Jacoby's face, like a kid who was given a Christmas present and then had it snatched away as he was told it was actually for his brother. It was only when I got home and saw that Ty Murray definitely had something to say about the score that I realized we were in for more fun with vile bickering online and, somewhat surprisingly, disciplinary action for the judge, in what I would say is pretty clearly yet another situation of making an example of someone.

My feelings and thoughts on the matter have little bearing on anything, but coming from someone who was there, I would say: a) judge #1 had no way of knowing that J.B. Mauney would ride Troubadour when he scored Elliot Jacoby; b) the judge also couldn't know that if J.B. rode, his ride would get good scores from the other judges; and c) he would also have no idea what scores the other judges were giving Mauney when he was scoring Mauney's ride. Since the judge has not explained his scoring, we can only speculate as to whether he purposefully was under/over-scoring, had an unconscious bias for Mauney's style or against Jacoby's, saw something the rest of us are missing, or if there were other factors, but I truly don't believe that this was some sort of deliberate fix, in part because it would be a really clumsy and ineffective way to go about it.

In addition, it seems to me that cowboy commentators can get the fans riled up like no one else, and the PBR had to respond in the face of that, and they did respond. The situation ended up being awkward for Jacoby, Mauney and the judge (and probably the Rules and Regulations Committee as well), but it was dealt with and hopefully will discourage any repeat situations. I do wish the PBR would get the take-home message that the fans (or, at least the ones who are vocal online) aren't interested in having one rider being the focus, and if they backed down a little with their rivalries and favorites, there would probably be a whole lot fewer conspiracy theories and wild accusations.

In my unsolicited opinion, the PBR is making the transition from smallish niche sport to mediumish niche sport, and there are always going to be problems associated with this kind of move. It's nice to see that they do seem to have set up a process that can be called upon when things go haywire, and hopefully they can continue to re-define themselves and take corrective action when needed. Not everyone is going to be happy with it, and many will make noises about the good old days and these evil business people, but if the sport is going to grow, it is also going to change, and that isn't necessarily bad. On the other hand, a system like in other judged sports with six judges and the high and low scores being discarded would certainly help do away with any real or perceived impropriety in the future, and in a much more concrete way than slapping down one judge one time.

I do hope that Jacoby gets a win soon, that J.B. Mauney holds his head high and rides well, and that the fans can move on; I hold little hope that the commentators will hold their tongues and think before talking. Ride on, boys, ride on, and may the bull pens not suck from here on out.

In other news, Adriano Moraes (who was doing a signing with Wiley Peterson at the Ariat booth), upon seeing my newest drawing, said I could make a living at it. I nearly died. I would love to do that, by the way. So if anyone from the PBR is interested, please contact me. ;)

Where’s My Parachute?

Good afternoon, gentle readers. I do plan to comment here shortly about the Madison Square Garden event, but I just had to share this with you all first. It all started when we were lounging around on Sunday afternoon, watching the PBR on NBC and making our customary snide remarks. All of a sudden, I was moved, for the first time this season, to go pull out my Turn Him Out! journal so I could make some notes.

Yes, friends, I am embarrassed to admit that I have an actual journal specifically for this purpose, and if you saw it, you would doubtless write me completely off as a poser, because I snagged it at a used book sale and it actually has curlicues and flowers and flourishes and the words “rose” and “love” in a girly golden script floating around on the cover. But it also has a spiral spine that makes it easy to write in while I’m holding it on my lap, and big pages to accommodate my slanderous observations that sometimes, I am sorry to say, do get writ large in really black ink. Suffice it to say that what’s on the inside doesn’t match what’s on the outside very often, if at all.

As luck would have it, I retrieved the journal just as Ty Murray was talking about whether the riders should think about hiring coaches, and when I opened the book up, what should fall out but three pages of scribbles from God knows when. It’s embarrassing but true—though I have an actual journal, I still sometimes just snatch up whatever scrap of paper happens to be wandering by at the moment and scrawl down whatever I'm thinking about. The miracle is that those errant chicken scratchings do generally end up getting stuffed into the journal at some point, even if I never look at them again.

Anyway, I opened up the folded pages and immediately found the inspiration for this post. It was not, I’m sorry to say, so salubrious a discovery as Mary McCarthy’s stumbling up on the materials list for her Catline costume in her old Latin grammar book, but since I’m dealing with subjects rather less elevated here, I will have to make do.

And I swear I am not making this up: the pages were covered, front and back, with a list (probably written under the influence) with this heading: “Why I Should be a PBR Coach.”

First of all, I was dumbstruck (and that rarely happens) to realize that this discussion has been going on for so long, because this pencil scrawl has to date to at least last summer and possibly earlier. Second, I was equally amazed to realize a great simple truth: Nothing has changed. Although Montana Barn Cat was been heard several times lately to mutter imprecations about the way the Powers That Be keep mixing things up, I was stunned to realize that nothing that’s been said on the subject in the past nine months has moved the discussion forward one iota. Suffice it to say, kind folks, that I am just as qualified to coach in the PBR as I was the day I grabbed a pen and started writing up my resume.

Since I am sure that many of you, too, are as qualified as I am to fill these important positions, I have to throw my hat in the ring right away, before too many of you catch on to this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So herewith I offer up my sterling qualifications, recorded so long ago and still as true as the day I first wrote them down.

1. I know the basics as well as anybody. To stick to the back of a bull, all a rider has to do is follow this advice:

a. Tuck your chin;
b. Stick your chest out;
c. Stay out over the front of the bull;
d. Break at the hips;
e. Turn your toes out; and
f. Don’t look off to the side.

So far, so good, right? I guess I haven’t been listening to these guys natter on for nearly 10 years now for nothing. Ah, but there’s more!

2. I know the lingo, which qualifies me not only to coach, but also to talk to the media, if any of its members care to show up. To wit:

a. You got to ride ’em jump for jump;
b. I don’t pay attention to no bull scores;
c. I ain’t never seen that bull before;
d. You got to have your hammer cocked;
e. You got to keep your powder dry; and
f. (a golden oldie) He’s got the try.

I ask you, fellow fans, what else would you possibly need to know? After all, no cowboy in his right mind would conceivably take seriously Adriano’s comment that the riders need at least four coaches. Hell, this crew is so determined to do it themselves that most of them would rather get hung up and stomped half to death daily than PAY somebody to give them advice. Fortunately for me, I have one huge advantage that none of the other candidates have:

3. I’m a girl.

That’s right—it’s a deal-maker, because nobody would even have to KNOW I’m actually a coach. I could just appear to be hanging around the chutes with the other buckle bunnies, though the first guy that calls me that, or the considerably less complimentary “chute bitch,” will get his clock cleaned and no mistake. I’ll even clutch my girly journal to my chest and pretend I’m just there to gather autographs. I’ll be perfectly incognito, I promise.

So what are you waiting for? I’m the complete package! Now’s the time, boys, to step right up and enlist the Stockyard Queen to coach you to the next world championship. The very best part is, if it doesn’t work out, you can always pretend I wasn't coaching you, or if worst comes to worst, point out that I'm a GIRL. This is an offer you can’t refuse.

New Year's Resolutions

Friends and neighbors, it’s time again for the Stockyard Queen’s annual attempt to improve both herself and the sport she loves so much. That’s right, once again she’s trotting out the resolutions she has made on behalf of the organization, and in the spirit of fairness, she’s offering up some for herself and Montana Barn Cat, who doubtless won’t appreciate being suborned into these activities, but doubtless also will go along for the ride because he won’t know what hit him.

Resolutions for the Stockyard Queen

1) I resolve to post here at least once a week during the season, come hell or high water. I may take a breather during the weeks when there are no events, but I am sick to death of the slovenly way this blog has been run for the past year and I will brook no more whining and complaining about how the principals are just too buried in work to mend the fences and muck out the stalls at the Stockyard. I can’t deny that things have been perfectly awful here for the past two years, but I also can’t say that not posting has made anything any better. Certainly, it hasn’t made me feel better. I may be doing nothing here but indulging myself by clapping my gums together, but if all I accomplish is an improvement in my own attitude, it will be worth it.

2) I resolve to persuade Montana Barn Cat, who came up with the idea for this blog in the first place, to post something every once in a while his own self. MBC, we need to hear from you, please.

3) I resolve to continue to investigate the effects of premium gin on PBR events, and to try out as many brands as I can find without ending up on the floor snoring at the end of the telecast. Since on Sunday mornings I go to work at midnight EST, I can’t afford to be drunk and disorderly when the event is over, so I will be prudent. But I also can’t think of anybody better qualified than me to take this task on.

4) I will finally, somehow, find the perfect Western shirt to wear to PBR events.

5) I will attend the Nile in Billings and the Enterprise event in Bozeman. I would like to try to get to Nampa as well, but since it’s always the weekend after Billings, it’s problematical, especially since my dog sitter has had the audacity to find herself a boyfriend (and a fine man he is, too). Consequently, I hesitate to ask her to disrupt her life for two weekends running so I can go off joyriding around Sun Valley. This is especially an issue since looking after our dogs involves taking your life in your hands when you open the door, because MacKenzie still thinks that everybody in the world is pleased to be knocked to the ground and licked half to death upon arrival.

6) I will make every effort to get to the PBR Finals in Vegas this year. I can’t promise, because being in business for yourself means that you can’t conclusively predict what your income stream will be, but I really want to get down there. Every year, MBC and I talk about it, and every year we have ended up deciding against it, because to do it right meant spending a fortune and 10 days—in Vegas, for God’s sake. We don’t enjoy gambling (although some might contend that the second sentence of this paragraph proves I’m a liar), so you can imagine how much we would enjoy being stuck there for that long, even if we did manage to slip off to LA in the middle of the week to see some of our friends and relatives. But now that the PBR has collapsed the event into a single week, we might manage to get down there for at least the last two or three days. We will work on it, I promise.

Resolutions for the PBR

1) To insist that Leah Garcia, and not Donna Brothers, will be the *girl* reporter when events are broadcast on NBC. I wish just once someone would explain to me why the rest of the PBR broadcast team (need I point out that they’re all men?) moves over to NBC, but Leah is always left behind. I have not forgiven Brothers yet for chasing the crying Adriano Moraes down the hall after his last ride in Vegas in 2008, and I don’t plan to, ever, and just forget it. Leah is the one who really works her tail off at the events and, more often than not, shows a lot of guts when she questions the riders, so I’m willing to overlook the way she fawns on Kody Lostroh. Please, folks, vote Donna off the island. I’m sick of the sight of her skinny behind.

2) To finally make wearing helmets mandatory. Really, people, how long do we have to keep talking about this? My woman Leah had a long-ass report during the Baltimore event about how the PBR has officially sanctioned two types of rowels for spurs, so maybe fewer riders will get hung up in their ropes and dragged all over creation, but the Powers That Be can’t suck it up and insist that the riders put on helmets or take their business elsewhere? Does that make any kind of rational sense to you? A year ago, the National Football League initiated a study of the effects of multiple concussions on players’ lives AFTER they leave the league. In case you haven’t noticed, those players are REQUIRED to wear helmets, but apparently that isn’t enough to protect their brains from serial injury over the long haul. But the PBR, for God’s sake, can’t cut the mealy-mouthed crap about this being “an individual decision” and save a few lives, to saying nothing about the quality of those lives? Really, I’m fed up with this macho posturing. Do the right thing and make those boys put on helmets.

3) To encourage some riders to just retire and get it over with. I am ready to see Cord McCoy, Mike White, Mike Lee, Brian Herman, Ross Coleman, Sean Willingham, and Luke Snyder bow out, because overall, none of them is riding worth a damn anymore. I really love some of those guys, but I’m ready to see some new faces. More importantly, most of these guys are just embarrassing themselves by hanging around. If I never see Brian Herman bucked off again, I will be a happier woman, and I for damned sure won’t miss hearing the commentators rhapsodizing about how Brian spends so much time in the gym. Whatever he’s doing, it ain’t working. Next case.

4) To revive the slogan “The Toughest Sport on Dirt” and ditch the milque-toast version you’ll now see on PBR merchandise, “The Toughest Sport on Earth.” And to fire the genius who thought the latter was an improvement. This is a no-brainer, folks.

5) To start a national campaign among the fans to provide Code Blue with all the Waffle House waffles that adorable baby can eat. I’m ready to sign up, right now.

Dear Kody Lostroh

I’ll get right to the point—I’m breaking up with you. I know it’s bad form to conduct such business via the Internet, but no doubt you figured out when I didn’t write or call over the holidays that I was not happy with you. I am sure you carried your cell phone around with you every waking minute, hoping that you’d see my number on caller ID. I am not in the least sorry to have disappointed you.

Several factors have contributed to my decision, not the least of which was that your winning the PBR World Championship sent me into a profound funk. I am sure that my loyal readers discerned that something was the matter with me, since I could barely bring myself to type an observation on the Zonkboard, but you, in typically oblivious male fashion, just went right on celebrating with no regard for my feelings.

Perhaps that is as it should be. I have to admit that I was not proud of myself for feeling let down by your victory, and I’ve spent quite some time thinking about why it affected me the way that it did. In my heart of hearts, I did not really believe that Guilherme would manage to pull it out during the finals, since I had intuited what Adriano verbalized when he commented that “Guilherme doesn’t like pressure.” It’s one of those absolutely spot-on observations that cuts a fan to the quick, but I could not deny the truth of it. So by the time the finals rolled around, I had pretty much decided that if J.B. Mauney won the title, I would be able to dance at the party with a heart as light as my heels.

So when you won, I was perplexed because I just couldn’t be happy about it. Certainly I wasn’t surprised—everybody keep saying you were going to win, for months on end. I don’t believe that I am just a dog in the manger, sullenly growling that if my guy can’t win, the guy who wins shouldn’t enjoy it. One of my strictest rules is that I never, never wish that anything bad happens to anyone involved in the sport, not just because I think it's in poor taste, but because though I am not religious in any conventional sense, I do believe that in the end, we reap what we sow.

No, the truth is, something about you has always rubbed me the wrong way. I don’t find your riding style particularly inspiring, and I really dislike the way you go for the easiest bull in the draft every single time. Those are minor matters, however, so despite my sad moping, I was fully prepared to keep my mouth shut and just move on. Then my readers suddenly started pointing out the pictures of your bobcat hunt on the web, and I knew that I had to speak up.

Nearly 20 years ago, when I fired my insensitive and self-absorbed husband, I moved halfway across the country to work for one of the most important history museums in the world. If I mentioned its name, it would no doubt silence any suspicions you might have about how I just don’t understand the rural way of life. One of my co-workers was a courtly Southerner, a graduate of William and Mary and of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, who had worked for several conservation outfits before he landed at the museum as public relations director. He loved fly fishing and hunting for game birds, and he kept company with a long and distinguished line of extraordinary hunting dogs who were, in his view, members of his family.

One Monday morning, he remarked that he’d been out over the weekend on a deer hunt with some folks from back east, and he said in passing that it was the last time he planned to do that. When I asked him why, he said: “Because big game hunters are assholes.”

I won’t go so far as to say that, because as it happens, I grew up in a family of hunters and I have eaten my fair share of venison and game birds. I have no quarrel, none, with anyone hunting to put food on the table, or even because he or she prefers wild game to domestic meat.

But I know, down in my bones, that trophy hunting is despicable, and trophy hunters are despicable, and I want nothing to do with anyone who indulges in it. That most definitely includes you, Mr. Lostroh. I cannot for the life of me understand why anybody would want to shoot a bobcat. They aren’t much bigger than a domestic cat and the worst damage they could possibly do would be raiding somebody’s chicken coop. Just exactly what did you get out of that, besides a big adrenalin rush and the firm conviction that your cojones are bigger than anybody else’s? It wouldn’t surprise me one bit to find out that you’re one of those jerks who hankers to go shoot an elephant or a tiger. Those people are the lowest of the low, in my book.

So from now on, when Leah sidles up to you after a ride, I will be hitting the mute button. When Justin McKee starts waxing poetic about what a great rider you are, I will leave the room. When you see me in Billings this April, don’t even try to look me in the eye. I will not be asking for your autograph, and I will not shake your hand. Just walk on by, Kody. Don’t write me, and don’t call. You and I are done.

The 2010 PBR Kickoff, or, the Challenger Series Championship in Drag

Folks, I am pleased to welcome you to Black Boot's stellar description of the PBR Kickoff event in Georgia. Where would I be without my loyal readers? Sad and lonely, that's where. And take a gander at Ms. Black Boots herself. Isn't she gorgeous? Enjoy this--I certainly did.

Three nights of bulls! My best friend (hereafter known as the inimitable “E”) and I settled into our seats on Friday night with giddy anticipation. Thanks to the PBR’s 50% off ticket sale on Halloween, we scored seats in our favorite section (low on the left chute side) for all three nights. It’s prime viewing for bulls, chutes, and arena action. This being the first event of the season, there were some changes. First thing we noticed was the program, or the absence of one. Instead, we got a day sheet wrapped with 2 pages of articles culled from the PBR’s website, with a glowering J.B. Mauney on the cover. Inside, though, were 56 glorious riders. Not a one was Kody Lostroh’s. E and I were not displeased, since we had heard more than enough about our New! World! Champion! two weeks earlier. Also conspicuously absent were the Flaming Bull Heads O’ Death. Instead, we had the four world champions present (Ednei, Mike Lee, Shivers, and Guilherme) standing tall over the chutes with sparklers glowing in front of them, which seemed to startle Ednei the first night. Atop the shark cage was Mr. Mauney with his ever-present toothpick. He got the smoke machine and blue lights treatment.

Once the fire and mayhem were dispensed with, on to the bulls. The Friday pen was rowdy as all get-out. The minute you came into the arena, you could hear them clanging and shuffling around, which was scary considering that the pre-show lights were low and you couldn’t see who was causing the ruckus. When they bucked, it was like broncs with horns. They galloped, they scraped, and they panicked their rookie selves all over the arena. Entertaining for us and even more so for the folks new to the PBR (and there were TONS of them every night), but at the end of the evening the gate and pickup men were exhausted. Saturday night was a mixed pen (Skyhawk Cut-A-Rug, Booger Butt, plus rookies), and then Sunday afternoon was the short-go with Code Blue, Voodoo Child and Chicken on a Chain.

As far as the three-day event being “the best riders you never heard of,” a line Flint kept flogging—well, it wasn’t. The top 15 from the Challenger Tour were familiar names to most PBR fans—Matt Bohon, anyone? We recognized almost everyone behind the chutes. As for the riders we truly didn’t know—Jordan Hupp is a standout. I’d look for him on the BFTS early on this season.

We were thrilled to see Paulo Crimber on Friday, hale and hearty and thoroughly enjoying pulling ropes. He visited with Robson, Valderon, and Guilherme for a long time—fun to watch them joshing around. We were also treated to Guilherme’s warm-up routine all three nights and if you haven’t ever seen it—well, ladies, you need to put it on your bucket list.

There was no mention during the entire event about Dustin Elliot’s father’s passing, so it was awful to learn about what he was going through while we enjoyed watching him ride. (I hope to HADES those Versus cameramen didn’t know about what had happened or they should be dangled by their privates.)

It was tough to see Chris Shivers have such a rough weekend. He didn’t make the last cut and was replaced on the opening hoopla on Sunday by hometown boy Sean Willingham. We sat next to his family and enjoyed meeting them. E and I like Sean because he’s a Georgia native with a genuine accent, and when interviewed, he comes up with something more interesting to say than, “I just ride ’em one bull at a time.”

We decided that “Seems Like a Nice Guy” awards should go to Ryan McConnell, McKinnon Wimberly, (who must have been granted honorary Brazilian status, because wherever they, go he goes) and Harve Stewart. I tried my darndest to point these gentlemen out to my 21-year-old daughter on Saturday night, but she was more interested in exercising her newly acquired legal status (i.e., she was buying a beer) when they strolled around after the event. (I was her designated driver that night, so it was fine.) Her favorite rider is J.B., which will become more important later.

Highlight of the weekend #1: One word--Guilherme. What a thrill to see him ride with that verve and passion. Viva!

Highlight #2: Meeting Ednei, Edimundo, Renato, and Valdiron after the event on Sunday. They were all in high spirits and were wearing these crazy beat-up straw cowboy hats Ednei had tried to fashion into a fedora. He is evidently the prankster of the bunch. Valdiron was truly moved when E told him how happy we were that he wears a helmet. What a sweet, sweet man.

Highlight #3: Instead of the Dickies, bullfighters we were happy to have a Bullfighter Team competition. There were five teams of two bullfighters who rotated in and out of each flight. I’d love to see more of this, and it gave Flint some new material (thank God.)

Highlight #4: On Sunday, Chicken on a Chain was in the pen closest to us. What a big, handsome dude. He spent the entire final round before the short-go standing quietly and scanning the crowd with huge, liquid brown eyes. It gives me chills to think about it. And call me crazy, but when I whipped out my camera (which decided to act up that day, dammit), he knew I was shooting his picture. It’s a bit fuzzy, but I’ve included it here. Just call me the bull paparazzi!

And finally, the J.B. story: On Sunday, just after we’d met Valdiron and Co at the rail, we saw J.B. Mauney in the autograph line. He is my daughter’s favorite rider and she would have been happy to meet him--only that day she had to go pick up her best friend from the airport (no stopping for beer.)

“My child would have a bull calf if she knew we were about to meet J.B.,” I laughed.

“What if we take your picture with him and she ‘accidentally’ sees it?” E mused.

We cooked up the dialogue while he approached, and as he signed my day sheet, E asked “J.B., would you mind helping us with a practical joke?”

JB shifted his toothpick. “Um, yeah.”

“Would you please pose for a picture with my friend? Her daughter just turned 21 and she's smart and funny. And oh yeah, she’s really good-looking.”

No response. E tries speaking his language. “Actually, she’s downright smokin’.” On cue, I nod emphatically. JB’s toothpick stops and his eyes light up. E continues. “She couldn’t make it today. You’re the young lady’s favorite rider and she’ll have a bull calf when she sees this picture…”

Out comes the toothpick. J.B. musters his most dazzling smile and staunchest grip-and-grin pose, then visited with us until arena security shooed us out the door. Said picture is here (that’s me with Mr. Mauney.) What a good sport he was to help out with the shenanigans of two funny old ladies, and thankfully, the camera worked beautifully for the shot, that did indeed cause my girl to have a bull calf of major proportions.

So it was glorious. Three nights of bulls. Lots of Marchi madness. The best prank ever on my daughter. (I know, payback’s hellacious.) I know it was confusing and disappointing to some fans not to have the televised emphasis on J.B.’s Tour win, but rest assured he got the same amount of accolades in the arena that Guilherme did, plus one of those nifty hand-tooled leather PBR hat boxes. I want one!

And 167 rides, not a one of which was Kody Lostroh’s.

Finito: S's Adventures in Vegas, Concluded

Folks, I have managed to beat the millions (oh, all right, maybe three) who are demanding my services back long enough to post the second half of S's charming tale of the finals in Vegas. Here it is, and I for one am sad it's over, it was so much fun. But wasn't that true of the whole season? Enjoy!

Sunday -- The Main Event
Because the hotel we were staying at did not get Versus, and we were too cheap to pay $9.99 per day for the interweb and also had musical theater plans that interfered with locating a sports bar, my knowledge of what the numbers were on the final day was shaky at best. Upon arriving at the Thomas & Mack, I purchased a day schedule and found it very useful; like a big nerd, I wrote down which bull went with which guy and what the score was (and notes like "?!?!" next to the scoring for the ride where J.B. Mauney was hanging off the side of the bull for a substantial portion).

As far as the event, I have yet to see the televised coverage so I don't know what was shown and what wasn't, but I'll try to focus on things that might not have been revealed to home viewers. First of all, as I was entering the arena, I passed by the goofy commentator booth with the Ford truck grill on the front, cordoned off outside the arena. I'm not entirely sure how that worked; I'm assuming there was a live feed so the commentators could, well, comment on what was occurring. Ford can also be, er, thanked for the inflatable "thunder sticks" draped on the backs of each seat in the arena--fortunately neither I, my friend, or the people around us decided to inflate them, because they were quite unwieldy and made an unpleasant noise akin to a high speed inner-tube wreck.

My seat was up in the hinterlands, although at least in the hinterlands midway between the divided arena, so I could see all the chutes without difficulty. To my left were two Kody Lostroh fans; to my right, a couple celebrating their silver anniversary. We started the afternoon off with Not-Tim McGraw (Sean Patrick), a giant flaming $1M on the dirt, and a monstrous American flag descending from the ceiling with sparkles and rappelling army guys. We also had enforced prayer, and a surprisingly not overwrought version of the national anthem as sung by Kissy Simmons, the current Nala in The Lion King at Mandalay Bay. There was also of course a face-off between J.B. Mauney and Kody Lostroh on the bed of a Ford Truck, and a pile-up of cowboys on a slowly revolving platform. Then Flint tried to get a guy who turned out to be a cop to dance to warm up the crowd, but since the fellow was practically shooting a tazer out of his eyes while standing with unmovable folded arms, Flint moved on to someone else.

In-arena announcements that might not have made the broadcast: the white horse (I believe it was a mare, possibly named Jo) was retiring after 17 years working the arena. She also got a moment of fame when her rider jokingly roped the Ford truck that wouldn't start and thus couldn't clear the arena; they jokingly pretended to haul it (in the end it turned out that they were attempting to use the wrong set of keys, which I guess is good as it didn't look so great for the reliability of the Built Ford Tough brand at that moment). Randy Bernard announced that the World Cup will be held in Las Vegas in April, to coincide with the Country Music Awards, something that I see little to no press on, so I'm not sure what that means. The bull Avalanche retired in style by bucking off Dusty Ephrom. And finally, I'm pretty sure I heard the announcer say that Ednei Caminhas is not retiring, in style or otherwise.

There were a few confusing moments... like Say I Won't Gunner having a truly wretched out. Clayton Baethge, well, his being there at all was surprising to me as I wasn't up to date on injuries, but his hang-up in the rope was truly scary. The arena was dead silent for what seemed an age while the bullfighters circled him, and the audience cheered when he was able to walk away. The same thing happened when Cody Nance hit the ground hard and was stunned for a bit; there were a lot of cheers when he walked out of the arena under his own power. There were some very nice moments in addition to the strange and scary, like seeing Guilherme Marchi get it together and make a ride, and seeing Validron de Oliveira's smooth, smooth riding style in person (I had a forlorn hope he'd be the spoiler this year, but maybe next year).

During the "intermission," the lovely woman who won the Invasion of the Bulls custom PBR Ford truck was fun to watch. She looked so incredibly happy. This whole segment also helped me understand why I had seen a camera crew following a guy around at the Meet & Greet--he was one of the finalists. I believe that somewhere in here, Shorty Gorham won an award--he was wandering around with a giant check, anyway. I was distracted by some traditionally nasty nachos at the time and wasn't entirely paying attention; please forgive me.

And then it was back to the action.

I understand from others that on the televised coverage there was a lame off-hand comment from Craig Hummer after a break and before the short-go saying they'd run the numbers and Kody Lostroh was the world champion no matter what happened, which seems tragically anti-climatic. I can tell you that it wasn't like that in the arena at all. Short of any enterprising math people in the crowd running the numbers themselves, I don't think anyone there knew for sure how it was going to play out. When Mauney got his ride for 93.75 points, the fans went absolutely crazy.(I loved seeing the pure joy on J.B. Mauney's face when he rode Black Pearl, I have to add.) And then as Kody Lostroh looked like he was going to ride Voodoo Child, the crowd jumped to their feet at around 7 seconds. The arena was filled with cheering in the expectation he would ride, and there was a huge gasp as he bucked off shortly thereafter, mixed with what I can only assume were the cheers of people who thought that meant that Mauney would take the title. I don't think Lostroh himself knew if he had enough points to win, as he promptly pressed the red review button. The in-arena announcer was emphasizing that if he was holding onto any part of the bull rope to 8 seconds, he'd get a score. It was tense, tense, tense as the crowd and Lostroh waited for the verdict.

The arena was filled with awkward silence while people shuffled around and wondered what was going on. Eventually the buck-off was upheld, and parts of the crowd groaned. Kody Lostroh had disappeared somewhere behind the chutes, and when the announcement finally came that he had won, the crowd made some noise but he was nowhere to be found. I'm still not sure Lostroh knew he won at that point because it seemed to take some time for him to make his way out to the random red carpeting and foliage, and then to burst into a huge smile as Randy Bernard said something like, "But no one wants to hear from me, they want to hear from your new World Champion, Kody Lostroh!"

I don't recall them announcing bull of the year, or why Bones wasn't there, but I'm sure they must have at least done the former. I don't remember much going on in regards to Cody Nance, our new Daisy Rookie of the Year. I hope he got some congratulations at the Awards Banquet, which I did not attend, nor did I attend the press conference (instead I sped out to the mile-long line for cabs). I do wonder why so little has been said about Cody Nance since, but I guess it really doesn't matter because he's quite talented, and I'm sure we will see more from him.

And while I am not a wild Kody Lostroh fan, he earned his moment in the sun and seemed genuinely thrilled. It will be interesting to see how he deals with the additional media scrutiny he will get as the World Champion. J.B. Mauney fought a good fight and has nothing to be ashamed of with his event title and with being the first man to stay on all 8 bulls during the finals. Guilherme Marchi seemed to be getting his mojo back at the end there, so I have high hopes for next season. All three guys, as far as I saw, conducted themselves with class in the face of the PBR attempts to build up some sort of rivalry mythology between them, and were truly good sportsmen.

And on that note, I will conclude this far overblown tale of my time in the tacky, tacky desert town with cowboys, musical theater and sangria, and leave you to try to figure out the signatures on the in(famous) drawing, and I will attempt to come down after a thrilling weekend.

S's Adventures at the Thomas & Mack

Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present the report of the divine S, who journeyed to Vegas last weekend for the PBR Finals. Reading this cheered me up immensely--I hope it does the same for you. And check out these photos. That's her, S herself, in the arms of Valdiron! Lucky girl! And don't blame her for the inexpert arrangement of said photos--that you can lay at the feet of the Stockyard Queen and Blogger. Enjoy, folks. It's the next best thing to being there.

So, your intrepid reporter set out to the city that never sleeps, the city that is so, so unabashedly tacky, the city that hosts CSI: The Experience (for a mere $30, you too can collect evidence!), the city of neon and dollar margaritas... Las Vegas, Nevada. Friends and coworkers alike were confounded by my reasons for doing so: the PBR, musical theater, and a side of tapas. I soldiered on in the face of their disbelief.

Saturday -- Team PBR Meet & Greet
The PBR part of my adventure started bright and early on Saturday morning at Mandalay Bay, where my friend and I, firmly clutching my poster tube and my coffee, walked through halls festooned with banners and signs depicting the top cowboys and bulls (including I'm a Gangster, leading me to wonder just when these were printed). After joining a massive line outside the Fan Zone in the parking lot, a friendly man gave my TeamPBR membership card a cursory glance before handing over some red paper bracelets for entry to the Meet & Greet, and a friendly woman handed me a map of the Fan Zone that I quickly disregarded as utterly useless (my directional sense is not great and the map wasn't great either-- bad combination. What I needed was Cowboy GPS. Sadly, this does not appear to have been invented yet). Immediately following, I was bewildered by being handed, in quick succession, a free DVD which is apparently some sort of cowboy testimonial (I can't say for certain as I didn't exactly rush home to the DVD player to find out) and lanyards and cards from Cooper Tires, who had their people out taking pictures of fans and the cowboys, to be uploaded to their website for future viewing and downloading.

In an attempt not to be tedious, I won't go on about each interaction I had, but overall, the cowboys were friendly and kind, as were the fans I talked to in various lines. The ones that weren't, well, although I do wish that a few of the guys would have summoned at least a semblance of interest in the proceedings, I can understand lack of enthusiasm at 8am, especially when tons of people want a piece of you. Part of my general good impression might have had something to do with the fact that I didn't even attempt to get anywhere near Kody Lostroh, J.B. Mauney or Guilherme Marchi (although he did bump my friend's elbow as he was coming through to get to the draft), all of whom had utterly insane lines.

As you may know, I had prepared a digital painting to get signed, and the reaction from the cowboys and other fans was good for my ego. Pretty much every cowboy said, "Hey, that's Brian Canter on Big Mac," or, "Who is that there on Big Mac?" when they saw it, which was pretty amusing and thrilled the former art major in me. Also, numerous people asked me where I bought it or where they could buy one, so I guess I missed a lucrative opportunity. Alas. Perhaps next year.

A few highlights:
- Running into Chad Berger, who was zipping madly around on a Segway. Just try to picture that. He seemed tickled that fans were talking to him and since Big Mac is his bull, he seemed to enjoy signing my painting as well.

- Having Shorty Gorham and Frank Newsom tell us, "Be safe." Um, right back atcha, guys.

(I'm the one grinning madly behind Shorty and clutching the prints of the painting. What can I say, I like the guy and his predictions.)

- Meeting the sweetest table of guys ever: Cody Nance, Wiley Petersen and Michael Manes and his dorky glasses (henceforth they will be dubbed "Team God," although I don't know if Manes is a big God guy or not). On Sunday, Wiley would remember me as the one with the drawing. Good memory on that guy, since I'm sure he met hundreds of people the day previous.

Team God is, unfortunately, rather blurry.

- Seeing a very pained-looking Ryan McConnel trooping through the Meet & Greet; I was worried for him but much like his bull riding career this season, he seemed determined to stick it out and you have to commend that. I hope he is getting whatever treatment he needs now.

- Watching Zack Brown joke around with a bemused Skeeter Kingsolver, and wondering why, if the cowboy in my painting was whoever he wanted it to be, he wasn't wearing Zack Brown's chaps and sponsor patches.

- Talking with Dustin Elliot about the process of making the drawing. Thankfully, no Bob Ross wigs were involved.

- Randomly bumping (well, not literally) into Brendon Clark in the hallway on the way out, which was quite unexpected. He would later reappear at the event with a set of keys that may or may not have started a custom PBR Ford truck.

And of course, the crowning glory was meeting Adriano Moraes, something that had somehow not entered my consciousness as a possibility at all. Some of the cowboys were at tables inside the main merchandise tent (including Team Border Patrol, consisting of Austin Meier and Luke Snyder, and the aforementioned Team God table), and I noticed while we were in there that there was a sign at the Jeffrey Scott booth with a giant Adriano face on it. The small print revealed that the man himself would be there signing during the time slot for the draft. So my friend and I made the easy decision to ditch the draft to get in the already somewhat long line for Adriano Moraes.

After admiring the handcrafted Jeffrey Scott buckles, and taking a picture for the nice North Carolinan in front of us, the conversation went something like this:

AM: "Hey, this is a pretty nice drawing, did you do this?"
Me: "Yeah, thanks so much. It's an honor to meet you."
AM: "That's Chad Berger's bull. You should show this to him. You know, I am breeding bulls now. Maybe one day you'll draw one of my bulls."
Friend: "You could commission her!"
AM: ::look of mock outrage:: "That's not how it works! It should be the other way around!"

Needless to say, if Moraes ever does have a top bucking bull, I'll probably be drawing it. Love that guy, and he looked relaxed and happy, which was nice to see.


In other news, although I don't have any need for a Big Tex trailer, a Ford truck, a Daisy airgun or in fact, anything made and/or sold by most of the PBR's sponsors, this urban liberal vegetarian female can heartily recommend American Cowboy Coffee, a place with great coffee and coffee-based items (such as soap and organic lip balm), which is run by very kind people.

To Be Continued...