I Must Say

Bulls were beyond awesome last night!

Looking to the Future

An excerpt from a much longer discussion between two of the three wranglers of this blog about the upcoming events this weekend:

"Did you see that Hummer won't be there this weekend?!?!?!?!?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, they are subbing in Brandon Bates one day and Clint Adkins the next.

"I guess we'll see if they can keep their sexism in check, but I have to hope they'll be less dopey than Hummer."

"I wouldn't bet on it--the 'color' is provided by J.W. 'Flapping Piehole' Hart, so anything could happen."

Some Very Disturbing News

Folks, Pearl and I just stumbled upon a news story that ran in the Weatherford, Texas, Democrat last Wednesday (June 22). It reports that McKennon Wimberly was arrested  that afternoon for allegedly shooting a hitchhiker.

Of course, we don't know the whole story yet, but nothing about this sounds good to the Stockyard Queen. Let's hope the justice system in Weatherford gets this sorted out as quickly as possible. 

Boneheaded and Bullheaded

So Pearl de Vere and the Stockyard Queen were sitting around last week, drinking beer and moaning about the sad state of the PBR and alternately accusing one another of being lazy bitches because neither of us has posted a thing on Turn Him Out! in weeks. Then practically in the same breath, we both confessed that we have been daunted by the fact that every time we start writing a post, we also start ranting because there is so much wrong with the way this season has been managed that we feel like screaming our heads off about ALL of it, straight off.

So the Stockyard Queen, being a masterful negotiator and pourer of oil on troubled waters, suggested that instead of trying to wrestle the whole bull pen of stampeding issues to the ground in one mega-session, we should try for a series of posts that deal with only one matter. And since the Stockyard Queen opened this Stockyard, and Pearl is to some degree just an innocent bystander who got dragged into the stompings, the Queen volunteered to go first. In the end, though, it took both of us to write this post, but at least that gives us both plausible deniability.

The Stockyard Queen, being nothing if not diplomatic, posits that two words will sum up her discontents with the PBR: boneheaded and bullheaded. It seems like that outfit repeatedly makes stupid moves and then compounds the carnage by insisting that 1) they were the right moves and 2) they aren't going to talk about it anymore and 3) furthermore, nobody else better talk about it either, OR ELSE. On top of that, Pearl and the Queen agree that every time they think the Powers That Be (whoever the hell they are--does anybody really know?) have pulled a stunt so outrageous that they cannot possibly top it, they outdo themselves, sometimes within a few hours or days so the last atrocity. 

SQ has already bitched about the sorry state of the broadcast schedule, and we know because we have heard it from the horse's mouth that many of our readers have lost interest in the PBR entirely because of it. 

Nevertheless, one thing you can always, always count on the PBR to do is to hide the fishhook in the pecan pie. It would be naïve to read a PBR press release and not suspect that when they announce something wonderful, they are usually covering up something horrible. We have to give them full points for trying to spin their bad news, but unfortunately, once people figure out that it really is bad news, the PBR folks would rather face a firing squad than admit it. The one exception we can think of, the extraordinarily defensive post in which they finally explained that they had been caught with their pants down when NBC Sports bought Versus and gave the PBR the boot, just proves the point. And oh, never mind that they had a whole year to think about what might happen. That's the boneheaded part.

Then the plot thickened--the PBR announced its new fan club, Posse, and of course they insisted that Posse would be the greatest thing since sliced bread, and we should all just line up and shell out. It took roughly five seconds for the Divine Pearl to deduce that whatever good things Posse was offering members with one hand, it was taking away from the fanbase at large with the other, and we are just pretty damned sure that there are more fans than there are fan club members. 

So the story about Posse goes on forever, and there are a few new and improved features, but the big change for the rest of us who don't feel like shelling out for a membership is that the Live Event Center, which once was where you could go to find out what was happening during the events that weren't broadcast (in other words, most of them), now will only show scores and the leaderboard for free (although you do have to register to gain access). To see the video, hear the audio, see the Bull Stock Media photos, or even view the detailed scoring, you have to be at least a Tough member. This means that for all the events not shown on TV, you would have to pay at least $29.95 to have crappy streaming of Flint doing his same crappy stuff, or anything useful beyond the very basics of who scored and who is winning.

Basically, the LEC video is like being at an event, although they sometimes do interviews and other features. It's Clint and Brandon and Flint miked in, and a few cameras showing the rides. Some replays are shown, but not too much that requires post-editing. If you have a slow Internet connection, you're probably going to have a problem. It's not great resolution, so enlarging it makes it pixelated and icky, especially when you have something like a fast-spinning bull.

The detailed scoring breaks down the scores per judge for bull and rider. You won't know this with the basic scoring, which just shows rider and bull score.

Sometimes Bull Stock Media is the only way to know what's going on when the video crashes, since they usually post a photo of each ride and what the result of the ride was. You won't have this, either, unless you are a paying member.

Another fine new feature is that the LEC will now have a live chat board. Pearl and the Stockyard Queen frankly have no inkling about what the chat is, but we also can't imagine why anyone would want it. Will they moderate it? Can you imagine the fights if they don't? Can you imagine how useless it will be if they do?

So, just to overstate our point, we have less TV coverage, which nobody is happy about and which the folks in Pueblo must certainly have figured out by now. And yet they compound the problem because now we have to pay if we want to watch live streaming. Granted, some of it is stuff that we wouldn't have seen in past years (the first day of a three-day event), but some of it is stuff we would have seen before.

We are mystified as to how the Powers That Be think they can grow the sport when we suspect that most of the fanbase has Hughesnet, which can barely support streaming, and people would have to shell out for a higher TV package and for the ability to even try to see the video or anything useful on the LEC. And how many looky-loos are going to bother to register, and of those who do, how many will want to stick around to see basic scoring, the leaderboard, and some freaky chat?

This mess with the LEC is the bullheaded part. (We of course mean no offense to SQ's favorite players, the bulls themselves. When they use their heads, the outcome is nearly always spectacular, and sometimes terrifying.)

Or, to put it another way, friends and neighbors, if you want to see the definition of insanity acted out with unfailing regularity, just follow the PBR. We guarantee that you will see a bunch of fine folks doing the same (boneheaded and bullheaded) things over and over, and expecting the results to be different. We can pretty much guarantee it.

It's the End of the World as We Know It

Friends, I write to tell you of a decision that Montana Barn Cat and I, with great sorrow, arrived at perhaps three weeks ago. We had been debating the matter since January, really, when the new PBR season began and it immediately became apparent that bad things were happening with our favorite sport. As each succeeding month arrived, our debates became more urgent, although certainly they were never heated. We were in accord about our disdain for the amateurish way the broadcast schedule were being handled, thoroughly horrified by the fact that Justin McKee is still missing in action from the programs, and incensed by the way the PBR handles serious injuries, which reared its ugly head as soon as the season started at Madison Square Garden and Pistol Robinson crawled out of the arena on two broken legs. I don't have to remind any of you that's pretty much the last we've heard about that child, except for the occasional non-informational update. Finally, one day as we were driving home after work, I looked at the Barn Cat, he looked at me, and we said in unison: "We are not going to the PBR in Billings this year." That's right. For the first time in the five years that we have been back in Montana, we will not making that lovely two-hour drive to Billings in the spring of the year. The sweet ladies at the turnstiles will not see our smiling faces beneath our cowboy hats. We will be tuning in from home instead, assuming we can stand it. We would like to think that we are staying home because we are so high-minded that we cannot stand to support an outfit with managers so inept over the smallest things, like making sure they actually have a broadcast contract in place and that they keep the fans in the loop about the condition of injured riders, but the truth is, it all came down to money. When we go to the PBR in Billings, we go on Friday night and come back on Sunday afternoon. We stay at the host hotel (the Crowne Plaza downtown, except for one year when the Crowne was being remodeled and we were stuck out on the edge of town in some truly grungy dump with peeling wallpaper and dirty ceilings), we visit friends, we eat a couple of nice dinners, and we go to the event on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. We have endured Flint's spiel so many times that I swear either of us could recite it to you verbatim ("We all know that the true, die-hard fans come out on Sunday"). We have seen riders, some of whom we had high hopes for, come and go, and we have seen bulls come and go, and now we are seeing ourselves go, quite possibly from the live events for good. The cold hard facts are that the total expense of two nights at the Crowne in a reasonably nice room plus two good meals plus drinks in the bar after the event on Saturday (and a couple of rounds bought for nice lawyers who were riding their Harleys down from Calgary to Sturgis last year) and the gasoline to get over there and back is still less than the cost of four tickets to the two events. And I am not talking all-access, back-of-the-chutes tickets, either. I'm talking about the tickets in the lower tier of seats in the second section over from the chutes (because the view from the second section is way better than from the first), where you don’t have to look past Flint being creepy to see all the action. Believe me—we can go a lot of places that will cost us less than $1,000 for two days. I have to wonder how people with fewer resources than we have can afford to attend, either. Certainly a person has to make attending a priority, and in this economy, many other things have to take precedence over two nights of entertainment, even if it is the PBR. So when the doors open at the Metra this year, we will be missing in action. We will spend the weekend pulling weeds, doing laundry, and trying to figure out when the hell the event will be broadcast and on which network. Perhaps that's for the best. The truth is that we, like our good friends Jean and William, fell in love with the sport because we saw it on television. Perhaps being compelled to comply with religious practices that we don't agree with and to endure a heapin' helpin' of Republican politics and rampant militarism will fade some from our memories, and we will joyfully pull on our spurs and saddle up for the drive next year. I hope we will. It would be very sad if our enthusiasm for the sport ended not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Where Do I Begin?

No, I am not dead, nor am I hospitalized with two broken legs and a fractured pelvis. I have just been buried under a pile of work that would make Hercules pause a moment, pull out his bandana, and wipe his brow in anticipation. Sometimes I feel like a postal worker, toiling away on one emergency and seeing, out of the corner of my eye, a never-ending line of other people and projects who need my attention. Fortunately, I had the good sense to move to the online end of my business, so I, unlike the U.S.P.S., am unlikely to ever become obsolete because I didn't foresee what was coming down the pike.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I actually have been pondering for a couple of weeks which of the nearly intolerable issues with the current PBR season I should tackle first. They gather 'round me, friends, like so many hungry puppies, nipping at my sleeves and begging pathetically for Pupperoni snacks. But one of them is growling now, and growling loudly, so I guess I better put down the tools of my trade and feed the bulldog.

And that bulldog is the damned broadcast schedule. I have thought about this seriously, and I cannot for the life of me see how the Powers That Be at PBR headquarters could possibly have made it any harder for us to watch the sport. And since I can search for "bull riding" via my DVR, I am more fortunate than most fans, who have to go to the website and poke around (and we all know how user-friendly and helpful the site is) to determine what network will be broadcasting the event, and when, and then translate that to their own particular time zone.

Honestly! Do the dolts who caused this mess not understand that the broadcasts are the ONLY reason the PBR has managed to gain a decent fan base outside of the NASCAR-loving, Stars-and-Bars waving, redneck, fundamentalist, snake-handling, right-wing demographic? Maybe that's straying from the main point, which is this: Take away the broadcasts, and the number of attendees of all persuasions at live events will plummet. You (and the PBR accountants) can take that prediction to the bank.

So here we are, with only ONE broadcast per event on most weekends, if we are lucky, and it is a not infrequent occurrence that the programming immediately before the PBR runs over, thus truncating an already abbreviated experience. I literally cannot count the number of times I have recorded the event, only to discover that the end has been lopped off because some eighth-tier basketball game slopped over into the PBR timeslot.

Just consider the atrocity perpetuated on us this past weekend--the Albuquerque event was a three-day event, and in the end, J.B. Mauney won for the third time this season, but all we got to see was one hour--the 15 on 15 on Sunday afternoon. How can any sensible person consider that a fair representation of the sport?

I hope somebody in Pueblo is working on solving this problem, because it is rapidly sapping a lot of my enthusiasm for the sport. It just makes me weary, and I assure you that I am not alone.

I Wish I Knew How to Quit You, Sacramento

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

Actually, I did quit Sacramento 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.