Following are articles and videos on the 2006 LA Gay Rodeo I did for Yahoo! News Underground. They were originally published in April 2007. The videos Gay Rodeo Curious and The Ballad of Winnie Bago’s Thrashed Undercarriage include songs I wrote and produced with Dirk Ward.
GAY RODEO AIN’T FOR SISSIES (THOUGH THEY DID LET ME IN)
My first reaction to the 2006 LA Gay Rodeo was: Are you JOKING, GAY PEOPLE! It’s an election year! Aren’t you already dealing with enough bull*%#? (Or should I say guacamole? Guacamoled is rodeospeak for when a dim-witted cow craps itself all over you, as in Ann Coulter just guacamoled me.)
It wasn’t until I’d seen my third or fourth guacamoled cowperson at the rodeo that it finally dawned on me: Guacamole is a big reason gay rodeoers dig gay rodeo—and I’m not talking some weird fetish, here. I’m saying that, like pretty much anyone, gay rodeoers prefer not to be guacamoled. But at least when it happens at gay rodeo, they know it’s not because of their sexual orientation.
Neither is a good stomping or goring or trampling. Livestock just doesn’t discriminate. And neither does gay rodeo. Everyone’s welcome there—gay, straight, undeclared. Anyone can come get his or her ass kicked. Or watch while someone else does.
Gay rodeo is about inclusiveness…and spangled chaps, and tight jeans, and Marlboro man mustaches, and Stetsons, and studded shirts, and studs and fillies—in other words, it’s just like regular rodeo except the studs are more cut and maybe a tad cattier about it. And the cowgirls ride bulls if they want. Oh…and the dancing. Dancing is maybe as big a gay rodeo draw as gay rodeoin’.
In fact, participation in gay rodeo seems pretty evenly split between real rodeoin’ and serious dancin’. I’m told many come specifically for the dancing, which goes on all day, into the night, and does sort of differentiate it from traditional rodeo where you won’t likely see a lot of same-sex couples two-stepping to Christina Aguilera.
As far as pure gay rodeoin’ goes, the participants seem fairly well divided between city slickers and country boys and girls—many of whom grew up rodeoin’ but left when they no longer felt welcome in historically macho rodeo culture.
Which isn’t to say gay rodeo is for sissies. It’s anything but. A cowboy named Doug Graff broke his pelvis while steer riding. I watched the whole thing and never saw him cry. I’d have been bawling like a baby.
That’s the nice thing about gay rodeo: You’re still welcome even if you are a sissy. I mean, they let me in and no way in hell are you catching me trying to ride a bull or bucking bronc or even trying to put a pair of tighty-whities on a goat. And if you do, it won’t be because I’m suddenly less of a sissy. It will simply mean that I’ve gone completely crazy. That, or gay rodeo curious…
[You can find plenty of actual information on gay rodeoin' and events (which have been for charity since gay rodeo's inception) by going to the International Gay Rodeo Association's site at igra.com and surfing from there.]
GAY RODEO CURIOUS
My Beef With Cowpokin’
In case you’re wondering, I do have a beef with gay rodeoin’. But it’s not the rampant violation of the No Shirt, No Service policy I witnessed at this year’s LA Gay Rodeo. (I’ll wager the majority of the barebacked studs with six-pack abs I saw there had no trouble at all getting serviced—by complete strangers, even.)
No, my beef with gay rodeoin’ is the same as my beef with rodeoin’ in general, namely, that it’s mean to animals. Poor, dumb rodeo beasts get poked and prodded and whacked and ‘rassled and ridden against their wills and just generally tormented as a matter of course. It’s in the job description. Now, there are no doubt plenty of rodeoers out there—straight and gay, alike—who will gladly pay extra for that kind of treatment. But they have a choice in the matter. Even if kink does exist in the animal kingdom (and I’m quite sure I’ve met a twisted creature or two in my day), kinky animals have no way of actually letting us know they’re consenting adults. And they sure as shinola don’t have safe words.
To many people, rodeo is downright inhumane. Give PETA a call if you don’t believe me. Argue all you want about how PETA folk are nut jobs and that rodeo animals are actually treated very well. It’s a tough sell when, for the price of admission, one can view an afternoon of, say, bulldogging.
And yet, it is my experience that gays and lesbians can be—understandably—fairly rigorous where political correctness is concerned, both in their adherence to it and insistence upon it. There was nothing if not across-the-boards political correctness in effect among the gay rodeo organizers and participants I met. What I want to know is, how does that square with such a politically incorrect pastime?
Just asking.
I don’t hold myself up as some paragon of virtue (as you’ll soon see). Please be kind with your excoriating responses.
I was videotaping a couple of cowpokes—an old gay dude and young lesbian—herding steers at this year’s LA Gay Rodeo, when the old dude looks down at me and wants to know if I’m from PETA. I told him: “No way old gay dude, I’m no vegan wimp.” (Or something to that extent.)
I was so worried about making my old gay dude brother and young lesbian sister understand that I was cool—that I was down, that I wasn’t the enemy—that in that moment I became a collaborator: I was being all gay sensitive at the same time I was selling my animal kith and kin (not to mention my vegan friends) down the river. Or at least out to pasture.
To be fair, none of the beef I saw at the rodeo wound up in anyone’s burger that night—at least I don’t think it did. The animals were all healthy and well-cared for—when they weren’t being roped or wrangled. I was informed that certain implements of torture, things like sharp spurs and burrs in the saddles or whatever traditional rodeo uses to make bulls more pissed off, are prohibited in gay rodeo. But that doesn’t change the fact that a lot of put-upon animals endured a fair amount of punishment.
Still, I’m not calling for an end to rodeo, gay or otherwise. But I do wonder how you reconcile humane fun with a rompin’, stompin’, gay-rodeoin’ good time. I trust someone will educate me further.
The Ballad of Winnie Bago’s Thrashed Undercarriage
The 2006 LA Gay Rodeo made me limp (but only because I hadn’t worn boots for a while and I was on my feet for hours). Otherwise, I was good to go—as I sensed plenty of cowgirls and boys at the rodeo were, too. This, in spite of the fact that many of them were fairly beaten up.
Then, while limping along attracting more attention than I had in ages, it dawned on me: The good-to-go air wasn’t there despite everyone being beaten up. It was there because of them being beaten up…Because of the limping!!!
Rodeo people—straight or gay—have a thing for limping. A limping thing. A limping fetish…THEY MUST! After all, people are always limping at rodeos. Partners, lovers, husbands, wives, tricks, trampled bull riders, bucked bare-backers, gored clowns. Everyone at the rodeo has an animal-induced injury or three—a trick knee, a broken pelvis.
The injuries force them to limp like fallen warriors. And other rodeo people just eat it up! (That, or they just live with it; I prefer my more prurient interpretation). And the limp they like is always the same. It’s that hunched-up-shoulder, Marlboro Man, “I just smoked a pack of reds to get my blood going,” American badass kind of limp.
And my guess is, limping is such a badge of honor, such a rodeo right-of-passage, that sometimes when you’re at the rodeo, you limp even if you don’t have to. I’ll bet you sometimes people at rodeos just start limping due to proximity. It’s like when you’re around someone from the south and you just naturally find yourself talking with a southern accent. Still, it must have crossed a few style-conscious rodeoers’ minds that it’s kind of cool to limp. And there are those in gay and lesbian communities who tend towards style-consciousness.
Maybe I’m just flattering my limp. Maybe people weren’t checking me out at all. Maybe they were wondering what was wrong with me. Still, I’m sticking with my working theory, which is: You go to the rodeo and want to attract some attention? Limp.
Oh, as to the claim of this article’s subtitle that traditional rodeo is even harder on you: In traditional rodeo, you have to stay on the bulls and broncos longer. That, and the animals tend to be bigger and more ticked off (at the pro level, which is what I think most of us picture when we think of rodeo). Maybe a more apt title might have been: Gay Rodeo Makes You Limp, Traditional Rodeo Makes You Limper. I trust someone will let me know.
