My First Rodeo

 It has actually and finally happened: I found an occasion to say "sorry, this is only my first rodeo."

The truth of the matter is, I wasn't actually sorry. I was stoked.

If you've read this blog at any point over the last decade, you'll know how connected I've been to cowboy culture, how my grandad was a cowboy, how my family is scattered all over Texas, how SoCal gave birth to the silver screen cowboys that I grew up watching. So I'm sure you can imagine, once I heard about the opportunity to participate in a real, honest-to-Gene Autry, local rodeo, I was ecstatic. 

Saturday afternoon found me and my siblings at the Rusty Richards Arena at the Circle S Ranch, representing a small gaggle of part-time cattle sorters from Trails End Ranch just down the road. My trusty arena pal, Rip was my companion again, and my new, shiny spurs flashed in the golden, Silverado Canyon sun. 

My mission was simple: win the commemorative belt buckle. My mission was also basically impossible. 

Team after team signed the roster. Seemingly thousands of riders poured into the arena, though it was probably only about 30 or so. My chances of winning were about the same chance of  German shepherd filing my taxes on time (you know how bad they are at standardizing deductions).

But to me, it didn't matter. I was just happy to be there. Rip was ambivalent. 

My first round came. As soon as Rip and I crossed the starting line, the judge gave us a number, and we were to find the corresponding cow. We got him, and cut him out. Great start. The thrill of it all was just too much for Rip. His horsey endorphins went into overdrive and he took me on a grand victory lap around the arena. 

Oh boy did he run; gleefully careening toward fences and people. While my longsuffering teammates continued sorting cattle in the appropriate order, I was begging Rip to salvage my cowboy reputation to all the other cowboys who could, at this point, probably tell I was a bit of a greenhorn. 

Suddenly, a blonde horse with braided mane caught Rip's eye and ol lover boy made a beeline and stopped right along side her. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind hanging out with a cute blonde now and then, but business is business. I finally convinced Rip to get back to work and we sorted a few more in order before the clock ran out, ending our round with an incomplete job. 

Team after team filled the next hour, placing impressive scores and displaying impressive horsemanship. Deep down, I hoped Rip was paying attention. "That's how its done, Rip", I told him, "See how they stick to the job and don't leave or nothing?" Somehow, I don't think Rip was listening. Mentally, he was somewhere else, probably filing taxes with a German Shepherd. Good luck with that.

Our second turn came, full of hope and low of expectations. 

"Rider, when you cross the line, your time will start," said the judge. "Let's go," I told Rip. 

Rip stood still. 

"Rider, you may cross the line when you're ready," the judge implored.

"C'mon, Rip", I said to a very motionless horse. 

At this point, I briefly wondered if I had mistakenly saddled the hitching post by mistake, but I felt him slowly begin walking and I was relieved to find at least a partial horse under all that leather and tack. 

We cut out the first cow, and no sooner had Rip faced the other way when lil Blondie caught his eye again. No victory lap this time, it was straight to that Jezebel horse to say howdy again. 

"You gotta pull the reins," offered a nearby cowboy who could sense I was a little out of control. 

I pulled the reins, but my goo-goo eyed horse was bent on letting that blonde ruin his life. Trust me, I've been there myself, but there's a time for everything and this wasn't it. By the time I finally got Rip back to work, my team was struggling keeping the small herd of cattle together. Rip and I made a few close saves, but at the last minute, a crafty calf snuck by out of order, rendering us disqualified for that round. 

Back to the sidelines we went, spending the rest of the evening gathering the cattle that wandered from the hold between rounds, talking with more experienced cowboys, and basking in the glory of realized childhood dreams. 

Needless to say, I won no buckle. I didn't win anything that could be claimed on my taxes (to the relief of a certain doggy). But I walked away with the biggest smile and fondest memory of my first rodeo. 

In spite of the challenges, I think I'm ready for the second. 

Hot Take

What I'm about to say, I hope that you will accept with grace. I might get canceled for this. 

I've said it onced or twiced to various people, and almost every time, I lose friends. Tragic for sure, but I'm not sorry for standing up for what I strongly believe is the truth. 

So take a breath, and let's walk through this together:

I believe with all my heart that crunchy peanut butter shouldn't exist; it is a waste of cupboard space and pointless in nature. 

I know, I know, all you crunchy peanut butter lovers are fuming right now. But, I maintain creamy peanut butter supremacy. 

My reasoning is simple and rooted in observational science. In the first place, is there anything called butter that has chunks in it? Honey butter, apple butter, body butter, milk butter, they're all smooth and creamy. Because that's what butter is. 

How would you like it if you found chunks in your normal, cowmilk butter? Grosses you out, doesn't it?

Secondly, I believe food needs to have some sort of continuity of consistency within each culinary offering. Soft dishes need to be soft. Hard dishes need to be hard. 

You may say "But Mark, s'mores are hard AND soft!" How right you are, but the continuity says the crunchy is on the outside and softly gives way to the creamy inside. It tells a story! 

One time, I had a PBJ sandwich with chunky peanut butter and it took me a solid minute to realize I wasn't losing my teeth: someone had done half a job when making the peanut butter. What story are we telling here? Fluffy soft bread gives way to soft, sweet jelly, and indecisive half-chewed peanuts kinda interrupt here and get in the way. Lame. 

I'll say it again for the people in the back: Crunchy Peanut Butter is a job half done.

I stand by this. 

Ode to Dad (An Appreciation Post)

In a world where everything is changing quickly, there is a unified cry among society for strength. There is an obvious omittance of stoic-minded leadership and wisdom. The glaring absence of righteous aggression, responsibility, courage, and the ever-assertive thirst for intrinsic independence to place a mark on their spot in the world. These things tend to be viewed as uncommon superpowers. 

As far as I'm concerned, my Dad is as close to Superman as I'll ever meet. 

He's one of those guys that, if I were not his son, I'd definitely want to be his friend. Maybe you know someone like him. If you do, you already understand the high-value someone like him brings to life. 

Frequently the tallest man in the room, my dad has stood as a pillar of strength my whole life. In a friend group, he is the silent type, with the uncanny ability to crack the wittiest remark at the perfect time whilst exerting minimal effort at all. I don't mind admitting it: Dad is funnier than me and always will be. 

My Dad is every bit Texan as could be. He still has the same pet turtle he rescued from his home state, he makes the most perfect steak you'll ever taste, and he is scared of neither man nor beast. He taught me to eat pralines as a breakfast item, and to fish using a bamboo cane pole. He makes shrimp and grits so good that it would make Willie Nelson cry. In a good way. 

My Dad is a natural born athlete. He made it to 6 feet tall before he left his teen years and aced every sport he tried. He taught me at a young age that "You never play for fun, you play to WIN". I've been a wimp most of my childhood so he taught me to lift weights and take Jay Robb Whey Protein, which I know this sounds like an ad, but I really do take it every day. You should too, it's good for you.

Its hard to imagine anyone cooler than my Dad. I recall once he stared down two drunk hobos who had encroached upon his family's personal space one night in downtown Nashville. My Dad neither flinched, nor raised his voice, but as they got closer (and seemingly more nefarious), all Dad had to do was look them in the eye and give them a gentle "Take a hike, boys." Those two guys probably had to change their underwear that night--I've never seen anyone so intimidated.

My Dad finished college later than most, with little baby children and a wife at home. He studied to get his teaching credentials and became a substitute teacher. He has this way with kids that's truly special. When I was a little tyke, we used to have a party trick where he would grab me by my ears and lift me off the ground. To achieve this illusion, I had to hold on to his forearms as he held on to my ears so in effect he was just relying on me hanging on, lifting me with ease, complete with theatrical shaking and flailing for effect. Not only was it fun for both of us, it made everyone laugh--it was a show stopper every time, and once the other kids learned how we did it, they all wanted to be lifted up by their ears too!

My earliest memory of Dad goes back to 1997: I was sitting on the front step of our house, drinking water from a yellow sippy cup. Dad was just an arm's length away, working in the yard. The smell of freshly churned dirt and misty lawn sprinklers imprinted so deeply upon me, that I still smile every time I catch the scent again. 

Today, Dad lives a charmed life of retirement. He tends to his lawn, his garden, his fruit trees, his bird feeders, and turtles. He still flirts with my Mom, his wife of 34 years, and still hangs out with his kids. He reads local news, has his favorite coffee spot in town, and never passes up a chance to go fishing. He still works out, and still puts peanuts in his Coke. He's the kind of man I sometimes think I'll never live up to. He has a discipline and work ethic that I aspire to. 

Without a doubt, if everyone had a Dad like him, this world wouldn't have a problem in sight. I'm sure glad to know him.

And if you couldn't tell by now, I'm really quite proud of him.