Rhinestone Cowboy

Last Sunday I went to the Austin Rodeo with a new co-worker who is acting as my ambassador of all things Texas. Originally from Houston she taught me a few new terms for my Tejas dictionary:

1. cholo - (this one seems derogatory, but I'm not sure) a girl who emphasizes her Latina looks by drawing in thin eyebrows and outlining her lips with dark pencil. I've seen the look for years but never had a name for it.

2. Kikkers - named after Houston radio station KIKK, kikkers are people or apparel that is very country cowboy. Like: the line of men wearing elaborately embroidered cowboy boots, wrangler jeans and large cowboy hats were a crowd of kikkers.

3. bull fighter - the politically correct term for a rodeo clown, because even cowboys succombed to sensitivity training.

Yes, I know that bulls buck from having their balls tied to their stomach. Yes, I agree that it seems cruel. No, I can't explain why this knowledge didn't stop me from watching the bull riding. A few more fun facts about bull riding is that riders must keep one arm free and in the air to score better. They must stay on the bull for eight seconds in order to score. Not many riders scored.

I felt more sorry for the riders, these guys in their twenties who are thrown around on the bull back until flying through the air. The riders seem fine because they walk out of the ring and the announcer tells them to suck it up and leave like men. However, the announcer also points out that this rider just recovered from a spinal injury last summer, and that rider maybe broke his ankle in the last round but he's still going to give it another try. Some wear hockey masks, some don't. They limp away, and by the final rounds they move like men ready for retirement.

One rider was slow out of the ring, his arm hung dead at his side and it was clearly dislocated, maybe broken too. The announcer quipped, "Just dust off the dirt man. Dust off the dirt." Apparently there is no empathy in rodeo. I could see how cowboys earned their 'no sissy' reputation.

The cowgirls came out in full rhinestone, sparkling, high-wasted outfits. The pagaent princesses of the rodeo gathered in the ring to hear the winner of the coveted, diamond encrusted, rodeo queen's buckle. Their big hair, white teeth and heavy makeup is what you would expect from any pagaent, but these girls were also rated on their horse-handling abilities so I guess there must have been dirt beneath those acrylic nails.

Kids got into the show too. There was a bucking-sheep riding competition for kids under ten. They were trampled as much as the bull riders, though I imagine sheep hooves hurt a little less. Either way, it is hard to imagine myself as a five year old getting strapped to the rope harness of an animal intent on throwing you off their back. It looked painful but hilarious!

We watched piglets racing in an Indy 500 style course, watched an old west shoot-out, and drank margueritas from plastic boots. I ate the best corndog I've ever had, and enjoyed my first deep-fried Snickers bar. It was beyond anything I ever thought I'd do in my life, and beyond any expectations I had for the rodeo. I've already re-written my resume to include newly acquired lasso skills. I mean - that's useful in all parts of life - maybe.

The favorite moment of the day though was when a seven year old boy showed me how to hold a baby goat. He asked "Where you from?" Chicago. "That's up north, ain't it?" I nodded. "Betcha don't see a lot of goats up there, huh?" I think he felt sorry for me, like he was meeting a kid who grew up without a TV. While holding a baby goat that cooed and wriggled in my arms, growing accustomed to the sweet smell of manure, I could understand if he felt that way.