Our Woman in Billings: The Skank Factor

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

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

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

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

Our Woman in Billings: The Rides

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sacred and Profane Hype Machine

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Woman in Fresno

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

S, Reporting from FresYes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Woman in Winston-Salem

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

The PBR in Winston-Salem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shannon Goes to Anaheim, Part 4

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

The final two days:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I Have No Patience With: Caution, Rant Ahead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To which I say, Bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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