Cavemen, Cavewomen, Rodeos

Part 23 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

While we do not possess records of the exact day they invented the rodeo -- for all we know it might've taken a week -- the very existence of the rodeo points to the definite fact that it happened. And like so many things in history, it may even have happened more than once! Because in millions of years many things can happen, the idea fizzles when they put it on hold, then it's taken up by a later generation.

We are not completely in the dark, though, because there are cave etchings from some of the world’s best and oldest caves that reveal all sorts of things. Naturally we know about domesticity from cave etchings. Early man sitting on the couch and the kids underfoot. The division of labor between the sexes, men getting the kids off to school while the women took the more natural path of hunting and gathering and protecting the community.

Then there’s the famed etchings of animals, animals of prey, animals for food, for domestic use, and, more interesting for us today, the first glimpses of pens, bleachers, crowds, in short the whole rodeo in rudimentary display. Archaeologists only wish they could see more, for instance to be able to read the programs they held in hand, apparently telling of the events, the performers, and even the communities involved. The mere etching of a single vertical line has been interpreted as the first claim of a particular rodeo that “We’re Number One;” imagine what we could do with a whole file cabinet.

My own thought on this is that while it is interesting, I wouldn’t pin too much research on etchings. My first thought is always “People are people, whether they lived 10,000 years ago or last week.” Which simplifies things considerably, so we’re not just gazing at scratches but observing living people -- some of the same characters we know today, the good, the bad, the ugly, the really ugly, and the so-ugly we move to different bleachers. My basic overall theory is what we do now, they did then.

This theory's a great time-saver, too, because we can skip caves all together. Examine what we do and there's your answer. The only point of discomfort I’ve seen so far is having to explain it continuously to the various idiots at shows. They demand, “What are you doing under the bleachers?,” thinking we’re trying to look up their wife’s dress. “Nope, nope, just anthropological research, we’re exploring primitive rodeo attendees from 10,000 years ago by observing you in this modern day!”

While the research is extensive, it didn't take long to determine that ancient man at ancient rodeos were very finicky about researchers observing them that closely. Even back then they were anxious about their privacy. They may have worn skins nothing like our clothing today, but they still didn’t want anyone getting peeks, particularly at their women. Then as now, they wanted to enjoy the show without having to worry about researchers crawling the crowds pretending to document their lives while they were busy looking for action of a more carnal sort.

I Saw a Real Bumpkin

I saw a real bumpkin today, a real dweeb. I haven't seen an eyesore like this in a long time. He was a sight for sore eyes, after the fact. Like a train wreck on two legs. He couldn't hit the broad side of the barn of respectability, and that's putting it nicely.

What an appearance. I was embarrassed for him. I covered my eyes at the sight. But then I gave in, I couldn't look away. It was all too much, so revolting I don't know where to start. What the hell? He either let himself go, or he didn't have much to work with from the get go.

This was seriously a face only a mother could love, like something out of the funny papers. I thought it had to be a gag. Like getting makeup in reverse. How much of an absolute shambles can one person make himself? But he wasn't laughing, and it didn't look like a put on. I'm convinced this was actually the guy's real self. You know how nuclear waste has a half life? That's about what this guy has!

One thing he's got going for him, he's not overweight. He's skinny as all get out, like a toothpick, like twigs. His hair was outrageous, little tufts here and there, no definite arrangement. Of course what hair he had with any fullness was coming out his ears and nose. He had a long neck, like a giraffe. I couldn't look away. I'm just wondering what he sees when he looks out on the world, having the buggiest eyes ever, and cross-eyed to boot! His complexion was something from a pizza shop, and his nose was enormous, room for four nostrils.

I had to pass him on my way somewhere else. And stink! He stunk! To put it nicely, something of a fragrance, a little on the strong side, fairly stout. Good thing his pants were fastened, because they might've walked away without him, it was that bad. This was the kind of smell that sticks with you, and he was living proof of that. It might be a good idea to get this guy a bath. Shoehorn him in, anything it'd take to at least start the process of cleaning him!

His voice was another disaster. I heard him saying hello to someone. Most of us were standing around staring. He talked like a musical instrument gone sour, no music to it, just a kind of ridiculous warble. I have a word for that kind of voice, Durwood. If that's your name, sorry.

Like I said, I was thinking maybe it was a put on. He reminded me of one of my Grandpa's old jokes, actually my Grandpa's only joke. This is from the 1910s or '20s. A particular bumpkin comes to town. The townspeople see his backward ways and take him under their wing. They start off putting a necktie on him. Once he gets the tie he stands in one place for three days. See, he thinks he's a horse tied up! I remember Grandpa crying his eyes red telling that. This guy today would've tickled Grandpa's funny bone, that's for sure!

I wanted to keep track of the guy. See if there were any cracks in his facade, because maybe it really was a put on. He didn't look like he was in on the joke, but that's exactly the kind of discipline a trained performer might have. Come to a town, present himself as a bumpkin, then turn it around and let the joke be on us. I didn't want that to happen. I looked around carefully and didn't see any obvious confederates of the guy in the groups of people observing him.

This really sort of helped me socially, in a way. I don't usually talk to people downtown, therefore I'm always beset by loneliness. But others were making witty asides about the guy to me, and I was making others right back. A few hand slaps among us. I've noticed something socially these days, that we're all comedians. It might be the most predictable sorts of stuff, but it's all funny in the moment. I laughed at them, mostly so they'd laugh at me. The only guy not laughing was the guy himself, as he seemed oblivious to anything but his own inner being. Whatever that must be!

As I was going along, then, carefully keeping track, I saw the bumpkin making his way to what turned out to be one crummy car. Of course! Like a Bumpkinmobile, which ended up rattling down the road. How he ever got the thing licensed I don't know. It didn't look particularly road-worthy, just, predictably, a hunk of junk.

Even now I'm laughing. I just hope the memories of this, etched in my memory cells, don't keep me from sleeping later on, and don't make me physically sick.

There But For The Grace Of God Go I

Stylized reflections on my good fortune as compared to others of the human type suffering from dramatic strangeness, all credit and glory being given to God alone:

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I saw a guy sitting there with a big bushy white beard, terribly scraggly, basically repulsive. How in the world he could ever find love (of a physical kind) is beyond me. To have that horrific display in your face, not only as a detestable appearance but as a nightmare to the touch, is beyond sickening. And yet, somehow, in his ignorance, he persists in life, appearing in public. Are we on the same page, folks?

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

This other lady -- fart, this is bad -- was a rolling gelatinous something. About as scraggly as the other guy, no doubt googling a future in the circus. "What are your qualifica--? Oh good God, sign her up!" Mop my brow, I'd never sweat like that in an air-conditioned room. This I saw with my own two eyes; what do you think?

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I had to leave. Such a display was damaging my faith in humanity. It's too much to behold. I had to retreat to the bathroom, and without touching anything, behold my own perfect form in the mirror. The nose is right, the forehead not prematurely sloping, the eyes even, looking straight ahead, the mouth a miracle of design, my ears not too protruding nor too small. Oh Lord, who's this coming through the door? What a vile specimen! Reminder to self: Bring toilet safety shield next time!

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Back on the mezzanine, I feel I'm again in the safety of normal company. I see one of my rare betters moving by with a briefcase. This guy's a success, such polished shoes, such a nice fitting pair of pants. The eye thrills to follow him as he approaches the light post and vanishes around the corner. When what do I see coming the opposite direction? Saints, save me! How hideous can someone be?! To think this was someone's baby, sucking one time at the breast, treasured and kept from harm! What horrible karma has played out its cruel hand since then? He's a walking zit, with what looks like an unintentional mohawk, and he's a bit old to be carrying a crumbed-out skateboard under his arm!

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I'm headed for the bookstore, where the beautiful people live, breathe, and browse. In the safety of those stacks, I can also breathe, breathe in the wisdom of the ages. I settle in the paperback section, browsing and perusing. This or that author, I've heard of them. They were despicable in their time. No one liked them, but I think, if I'd been there, back in their time, I would've treasured them. Edgar Allan Poe is the author of this particular collection. Talk about a guy with a dark side. I should've read Poe more when I was a kid. I got stuck on "Tell-tale Heart" and just read it a million times and everything else none. I look out the window and see a crumb slink by, nothing like Poe.

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Where can I go that I shall not be beset upon by life's dregs? Don't these losers, bozos, and turds ever stay home? They're out and about. For their great difficulties at life, they certainly appear to excel in the open air. There's this one guy I'm thinking of, he's like a Viking. He's not dressed in a coat of mail but he would be if someone gave him one. His hair hasn't been washed since he was three. He's got a crazed look, but it might be a put-on. No one disturbs him. You wouldn't dare. He looks dangerous. He's never once exchanged a glance with me. He's so antisocial it's painful...

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Another specimen I see ... and another ... there's one without a head, completely severed, and yet he wanders the street. There's another. He can't afford food. But every square inch has been tattooed. Born a rebel. Good grief. Spare me. No head, how can that be? Just a big eye in his navel, exposed to the world. With a very hairy belly.