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. 

Me More Cowboy Than You

Has anyone else noticed that the whole world has picked up the cowboy craze again?

And yes, I mean again. It was well documented in the 90s when everyone wore bolo ties, boots, and mullets. It was well documented in the 50s just before the space race. It was well documented in the 30s once silent films became talkies. Seems to be on a schedule I guess. 

I, for one, love to see it. In my opinion, everyone is much more attractive and smarter looking when they were large belt buckles, plaid, and the ol Cattleman crease.

Have you heard that song on the social media lately? The one that goes:

Me, me, me, me, me more cowboy than you.

I swear that I'm working class through and through

If you haven't heard it yet, I have no idea what rock you've been hiding under. It's been stuck in my head for months. Those Brudi Brothers have a prolific algorithm to go with their sharp senses of satire.

The tone of the lyrics just outright smack of the Bob McDill-penned, Alan Jackson-rendered Gone Country from my youth. Or even I Was Country (When Country Wasn't Cool) from my dad's youth. 

So have you noticed it? The world yearns to be cowboys and cowgirls again. There simply must be something ingrained within our very DNA that compels us implicitly to head for the barn and chew on hay. What's not to love about being everyone's hero, being a dependable and cool-headed member of a posse? Why wouldn't everyone try their hardest to cast long shadows of integrity and grit? But best of all, doesn't everybody think belt buckles are cool?

Fortunately for me, I've never been yanked around by the frivolous fads of society. Like Barbara Mandrell says, I was doing all these things whether or not they were considered cool.

I was wearing belt buckles when kids my age had those swoopy haircuts and were listening to Fireflies by Owl City. I was feeding cows before the movie Avatar was released to theaters. Unfortunately, it wasn't on MY ranch. I didn't have a ranch then, I was on a friend's ranch. Him more cowboy than me. Me still don't have ranch. Him still more cowboy than me. But back to me point:

All my life, I've looked down my little sunburnt nose at the blue alien loving crowds of people and boasted with "Me more cowboy than you". All my life, they've looked down their little noses at me saying "Why haven't you seen Shrek, it came out in theaters decades ago?"

And now that its popular to wear cowboy jeans in public again it's so hard for schmucks like me to stand out from a crowd. What's worse I look....trendy!

GAG!

I may not be the most cowboy person on the planet, and I'll certainly never be the most hip, but I'm thankful that cowboy culture has come around once again. Y'all are really looking good these days. I'll be right here when the fad comes back again. 

Happy trails, pilgrims.

Learning the Easy Way

"I had to learn THAT the hard way," you say to your friends or colleagues, after you detail some harrowing experience that was due only to your uninformed misstep. Everyone chuckles and takes your timely wisdom to heart. Then off everybody goes, on their merry way like usual.

But did I ever tell you about the thing I learned the easy way? Well, allow me:

I found myself, one pleasant winter day on the Trails End Ranch in scenic Silverado, California. Lately, I've had the amazing opportunity to learn the noble art of cattle sorting from some very experienced riders. I've done a small share of horse riding in the past, but nothing too much more than a trail ride. My experience would be what some would call "tenderfoot", which is just a funny way of saying n00b.

The concept of cattle sorting is very simple: you and one other rider alternate between guarding a corral "gate", and riding into a herd of cattle to pick one and only one out to guide it into the corral. This continues one at a time until all the cattle are in the new pen. Easy.

I sat on the back of a lazy ol' horse named "Rip," who is scared of waving flags, strangers, and hard work. Getting him in and out of the pen was comical in itself as all the other cowboys shook their heads when I reprimanded the horse multiple times saying inspirational things like "C'mon, c'mon, he's getting away...he got away...and all his friends with him." Thanks, Rip.

But one cowboy had faith in me. "You want to ride my horse?" What a beautiful animal she was, too. Tall, sandy brown, and muscular, "Jewels" stood gallantly awaiting my commission. As I settled into the saddle, the wise cowboy said, "Now just remember, she's a finely tuned horse, kinda like a—"

"A mustang?" I asked, thinking of a car and not thinking of how stupid I sounded comparing a horse to a horse.

"She's like a Porsche, very responsive to little effort," he said, not hearing how stupid I was.

Sure enough, Jewels was miles ahead of Rip. I practiced turning her around and found that she spun on a dime and gave Rip the change. It was time to put her to the test.

I lined up, awaiting my turn to enter the pen once more to sort cattle. As I was waiting, a thought crossed my mind.

"Hey, how do you back up with her?"

"Oh, it's simple. Just give a little rein and heel like so."

Simple it was. While waiting my turn, I had Jewels walk forward and backward in a single file line to practice. I felt good. I felt too good.

The pen opened and Jewels and I entered. I knew what I was there to do. Jewels had no clue what I was thinking. In my defense, in the heat of the moment, a cowboy has to make quick decisions about when to turn, which calf to cut, which to block, and has to make sure his horse knows too.

Left, right, forward, backward, stop, go, go faster, stop faster—I don't know how many signals I gave poor Jewels, the Porsche of Ponies, in just 10 seconds, but she had seen enough. Completely done with my amateurish indecision, she did something I've never had a horse do to me before.

She ran backwards.

And I do mean she RAN backwards. All the cowboys on the fence were shouting "Go forward!" and that sounded just fine by me. However, Jewels was done taking orders. No matter what I did, she only did one thing: run backwards.

Before I could come up with a game plan on changing the mind of a horse (which preliminarily only included leading one to water), she hit the fence, getting everyone's attention. Now all eyes were on me: the cowboy who lost control of the most finely tuned saddle pal there could be.

When smashing into the fence didn't rid her of the confusing cowboy in her saddle, Jewels did two very sharp crow hops, loosening my feet from the stirrups. Then, with one mighty rear, she reared a rear so reared that I slid all the way to the ground on my rear.

By now, my thoughts consisted of "this is fun" and "being trampled to death would end my fun," and I scrambled on my elbows and heels toward the fence, dodging the frantic hooves of a beast that was over me and my kind for good. Jewels didn't want to muck up her shiny shoes with my guts either, so she got away from me as fast as she could. Neither of us were hurt, and we certainly didn't score that round... all the cattle got away. Disqualified.

Since then, I got back with ol' Rip and we've come to an understanding. I have 100% of my instructions down like a fine science, and he agrees to comply with 60% of them. We are happy. We still DQ three out of four matches. Nice to be reliable.

The moral of the story is this: indecision is the quickest way to get thrown to the ground. Getting thrown to the ground hurts your rear.

I learned that the easy way.