Babyface, Rookie Greenhorn

 

Part 11 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

There was a guy who was a real greenhorn, if that word means what I think it means. A guy green around the gills, looking forever innocent, perpetually driven but more or less incompetent, perhaps also lacking aptitude, even basic sense, taken in with the rodeo and joining it, yet still doing some good along the way.

Like I say, this guy wasn't a quality star, or even one of the lesser lights in the universe, and you might say he was even less than a fizzling firecracker — not at all like the brightest star in Earth’s darkest night — but he still had a purpose. His purpose was to inspire others to be yearn to be rodeo stars, holding on to the very good chance that they would exceed him in ability. I still call him the Rookie Cowboy, never maturing to be any good, just forever maintaining his place, his purpose, and his surprisingly good looks.

“Hey, Babyface!” they’d call out to him after a painful spill. He’d grimace, get a snarl on his face, and seem to be cussing under his breath, hoping the pain would go away, and that they'd see only the smile on his face. Someone might say, “Oh, nursing some wounds, huh? Got bucked off again? Landed on your head? Be careful, you don’t want to lose your looks!” After a bit he’d brush it off and climb back on the animal again, so he had optimism.

Mam and Pap’s rodeo got a lot of good talent over the years inspired by the Rookie Cowboy's troubles, those who’d just turned 18 (let’s say for the sake of argument) and others who might’ve actually been 18 or over. With a hunger for the life of travel, the smell of animals digesting in the morning, afternoon, and evening, and heart-stopping competition, the kind of romantic daydreaming you read about in the cheaper rodeo magazines.

Pap told him, “Babyface, everyone starts out somewhere and everyone ends up the same place, on their ass. See those impressionable young guys in the stands? Most of them have just one purpose in life. Their path has led them to the rodeo, a life they’ll love like you.” And indeed it was so, the life of the rodeo, one of life’s choices that once you’re on the road you come to tolerate more or less as an OK thing. You get to see a lot of one-horse towns, and tent living’s not bad if it’s not raining and there’s not the slightest breeze. And as long as someone pays you, you tolerate it like any other job.

So Babyface was in the rodeo! Good for him. Even though he never made the record books, and we’re even considering the fact that rodeo record books are easily forged. But he did set a record of sorts for enticing a generation of young cowpokes to excel at clowning, ride the bucking broncs, bulls and other animals, and of course maintenance. If you run into him, ask him for a bubblegum cigar. He once did a lot of good with that friendly gesture, impressing younger fans everywhere he went.

Down In Front, Idiot!

 Part 9 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I won't give precise details about the neighborhood I grew up in. Except there were certain female creatures of approximately my age and species known for beating up boys. Not often, you couldn’t find a schedule for their attacks, and there was very little evidence left when the job was done. But it did happen. I was this close to the clubhouse one particular day and came this close myself to dying.

I believe the basic problem then came from the unfortunate fad of giving your kids a clubhouse. If I had kids, knowing what I knew then, they'd never get a clubhouse. And if I heard of clubhouses in the neighborhood, that'd be places my kids wouldn’t be playing. Because I wouldn’t want to see anyone beaten beyond recognition. That’s a good reason! Or for that matter, beatings less severe. One, it can do something to their self image (minor); 2) It can mean certain death, since bruises are nothing other than coagulated blood, that, if it reaches whatever brain they might have could be an aneurysm!

But I do remember a group of boys lead like prisoners to the worst switching of their lives in a clubhouse. The girls had knives and not only had cut switches off trees but had them honed. And no doubt they learned from one another the worst switching techniques before luring them to their near-death experience. I went out of my way to avoid everything about it. I once was in one of the clubhouses and heard girls coming, and but for a fire diversion — tossing a match into a pile of leaves and burning down half the town — I’d be dead today.

Now, let's take a look at our fiddler friend. He looks a lot like our Fiddler on the Roof friend from the movies, if memory serves. He's got a sort of an ethnic headpiece, not an attractive adornment in my opinion, feet like a platypus, a devil-may-care grin, and excellent fiddling technique. But something must be wrong with his hearing. Because those blocked from seeing the dancing girls were catcalling him — nicely at first — to be more considerate of their view.

Then going by the caption, it sounds like someone even called out, asking nicely but with a little more oomph, “Down in front, Idiot!” I don’t like that kind of talk, really, since you can get more honey — how’s that go? The sweeter you are the more people will like you? No, you can catch more bees with honey than with a net? The point is, If you deal with people gently you’re more able to manipulate their behavior, bend it to your will, than if you’re too direct and mean, coming on too strong. Plus bees.

Well, I think they had the right idea. Because the dancing girls, like dancing girls everywhere, also want to be seen. Their legs start just above the toes and go all the way to the promised land, next is the hips and everything above that. Dancing girls, professional women, never know if there’s a great agent in the audience with the keys to the kingdom of show biz looking to feature them in a Las Vegas revue or maybe even a feature film, a Hollywood tycoon.

Whatever they were thinking, things got hairy fast when the fiddler was accidentally kicked, fell and hurt his leg and had to be removed stage left. There’s no telling what all happened then. No one could match one foot with any particular bruise. Then the coagulation. And the problem really might have included sandbags as the dancers averred. You can trip over a few sandbags and buy the farm. Which still doesn't explain the fists. And possibly switches, clubs, and at the farthest extremity (only rumored) a battering ram, now missing.

We may never learn what the range of murder weapons included. We do know Moshe is no longer with us. And until Central Casting comes up with another Fiddler on the Roof guy, one with some good judgment, at least an iota of sense, they're using a CD of fiddling music -- an improvement in my opinion since everyone can now see the girls. And with the improved view, a few of the ladies have indeed been cast in Hollywood, some old time crime films, murder, mayhem, the whole shebang. More power to them!

Guidance Counselor Recitations

No. 18 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

We don’t recite enough these days. I must’ve been born in the wrong century. I think it would’ve been cool to be one of those guys in the past who goes town to town reciting things. Before TV, before radio, when it was your memory and a confident ability to warble out inspiration. It’s hard to picture us these days, or even in the last 50-60 years, being patient with recitations. But people used to love it.

And it’s stuff that I don’t even know. I actually do know a bunch of Bible passages more or less because that’s one of my interests. But recitations once upon a time was so much more. Verses from Whittier, Shakespeare, and other literary talents, and no doubt a lot of  wash-ups from the past as well. The greats and plenty of hacks.

How’d they do it? Why’d they do it? Other forms of entertainment were totally primitive compared to now. I have a TV set up where I record movies to my cloud 24 hours a day, but I have time to watch maybe four or five a week. The others will eventually go away, I guess. Certainly cloud based music has made listening to music a lot easier. Still, I can see why people want to go out and invest in an expensive record collection, taking back personal control of it. And better sound. And the pride of having it.

The old recitations though, like from preachers, traveling evangelists, or just local guys with booming voices, would've been nice too. Just because I personally don't like a lot of affectation in voices, the rolling of Rs, archaic gestures and affectations, doesn't mean others didn't. And how fun it would’ve been to live in those times and go around mimicking it, making a little fun. Surely someone would’ve thought it was funny, but more likely they would’ve strung you up.

In terms of the Guidance Counselor, I’m saying he was a pompous ass. And it's easy to picture him spouting the wondrous words of deity, the psalmist, as though they’re meant to exercise his tongue and make people marvel at his eloquence. Later he'd be back in his trailer counting his coins, praising or cussing out the rubes and the county.

Opposing him, then, in the graphic, we have someone more from our way of doing things today. Someone who hasn’t imbibed the great words of oratory, but is still with-it enough to know that the best way to puncture oratory and pretentiousness is by quick vulgarity and a dismissive attitude. Stand on your head with your ass and/or crotch in someone’s face and belittle them for what they’re doing and you’ll see the power of language and gestures. And everyone's got it going on today in social media.

Our guidance counselor lesson for the day: I gave the guidance counselor power over me. I realize that now but I had no power at the time to counteract his poison tongue. I sat there and took it and tried to stay out of trouble. But he still beat me down with his nasty spirit, making him one of the bastards of the century.

In high school I was good at standing on my head, but I really didn’t know enough (or wasn't brave enough) to dress him down with vulgarities. It would’ve had bad consequences, so it's all better left in the fantasy world of today than in the actual world of those dark days.