Ms. Wiggins, Empress

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 5 of 30

“I don’t know.” Ms. Wiggins pondered a new revelation of Destiny, “This could be more than I bargained for.” This dear one thought it through with many doubts. Which is common enough for those uncommon enough to feel the mantle of history bearing down on them.

One thing seemed sure to help, that it was a done deal. The cards of Destiny had been shuffled, the deck cut, the face cards and lesser numbers mixed as thoroughly as any deck -- and judged "as random as we can make it" by various experts in such things -- and the verdict of history pointed squarely at this one individual.

It’s really something, a surprise, when you've been tagged by Destiny. As life goes, it's certainly better than nothing. Although it so often turns out that the person had a better experience when they were nothing. It is hard for them to be so disappointed.

Maybe you're one who's felt the strange weight of Destiny at least once in your life. It feels pleasant enough, but with hidden dimensions of concern. To be thought of by Destiny and in the running like that, then to have the whole apparatus turn around and choose you is not an experience for the cowardly. Although the cowardly are so often the best recipient, because it’s such a surprise and there's something marvelous about existence in it: The ugly duckling becomes the swan! Or an old dumpsite the best site for the palace!

Our destiny, though, often turns out to be temporary, later growing up with trees and weeds and everything rots away, and someday someone shows up with a camera to document its at least temporary demise. But in Ms. Wiggins’ case, she still reigns as Empress of the World! She didn't slide from it in vanity! Yes, she had her doubts, but they went away, and she said, “If this is the way it’s gotta be…” She took it as an obligation, which grew into the realization day by day that her destiny was sweet, like buckets of candy you never grow tired of. Probably chocolate or peanut butter cups.

But for any one of us, you never know; the Empire might grow tired of you. In which case it’s best to stay humble, hoard your candy, and not take any riches for granted. Keep clipping coupons and pinching pennies. Because you might be right back in the same old spot, your good old life before the new life claimed you, and you'll need to get along with the same skills you had before. Easy come, easy go.

That's what happened in my life. I never got a big head, not too big, I kept the same size head it needed to be to fit through in the old shirts I saved. In Ms. Wiggins' case, she kept most of her old clothes, too, shorts, dresses, or whatever, from the previous realm, the backyard garden. And of course they're still stashed away as she still reigns in power as Empress, a very wise woman.

For many of us, Destiny's way seems like a lot of practical jokes and trickery. And wisely we never give in to it entirely.

Your Destiny Catching Up

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 4 of 30

This might not entirely apply to you today, if you’re not old in body, mind, or spirit. I’m definitely getting that way, becoming creakier, unpleasantly stiff, in a lamentable condition, and just plain pooped out. If you're like me or worse, your destiny might be considered in the past tense, meant specifically for you but it’s already happening. If that’s how it is -- judge for yourself -- when you look up the track you might see the rear end of the caboose. I can see it and it's getting smaller all the time. But as long as we're still breathing, there’s always the Home for the Aged.

Speaking for myself, I try to rejuvenate myself by a rigorous discipline of nursing old regrets. Running over them endlessly in my mind. “Everything I did last year and the year before that and the year before that turned out all wrong, and all the years before that… If Destiny is a thing of promise for each of us, for me the best is yet to come.” But then I think, “I am old in body, old in mind, and old in spirit, regardless of what mind games I play to deny the truth. Should I just quit?” I wonder. Then I have to think, “No, let Destiny catch me, it's six of one, half dozen of another, life costs the same if you try or if you give up, may as well press on. And maybe Destiny's working on bigger losers, so I'm safe.”

So I'm forever trying, trying, trying, and even with such challenges I still manage to get out ahead of myself. And suddenly I’ve got it goin’ on again, everything’s hunky dory, it’s all gravy, I have my dessert and meal, to be eaten in any order I choose, etc. Destiny’s good if you know the mind games! What I need now, in fact, is for it to catch back up to me just to offer some challenge, because today at least I'm way ahead, not lagging, not dragging. C’mon, Destiny, try to keep up!

But like all things in life, if there’s a real need for balance it'll happen. Destiny might've had a brain fart and lost sight of me, an oversight. And let's say nothing’s really lost to Destiny. Not you, or you over there, or you in the university library stinking the place up, googling, “Free showers near me.” Destiny wants you to have a shower, along with everyone else along that whole wall or bank of computers. Just keep searching, or perhaps ask the librarian; she looks very tidy, having the inside track on soap and water and the combination thereof.

But back to Destiny. With the idea that you strayed a little farther ahead of it than it expected and now here it comes, catching up. I’m not sure it stops. I have seen it go whizzing by. Like with the train, the engineer gets a head of steam up and he or she doesn’t want to stop. But since this is all symbolic, you can forego the usual cautions about literal trains and jump on as it passes. Then try real hard to keep up, on board wherever Destiny takes you, because psychological splits in Destiny double the pain.

Positive & Negative Devils

 

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 3 of 30

I’m going out on a limb to say, This devil doesn’t apply to me in any way. I hate the sight of the Devil and that’s no joke. And it’s the same story if it’s the Tarot deck, where there’s a Devil card. It’s never my favorite card to see. Even if there's positive things you can say about it. Any of the others, including Death, are OK and cards meant for me. But if I pull the Devil card, obviously something happened a little out of whack. Perhaps an enemy is walking up the sidewalk in front of my house. Or is just coming around the corner nearby. Or is somewhere else in the Big City daring me to come out for a decisive rendezvous. But I won’t. I actually postpone trips till some other day, beyond taking the dog out to poo. And if I ever saw a Devil walking by when the dog’s out, we'd need a Plan B. Just yesterday, though, the dog saw a pit-bull and went ballistic, while the pit-bull was quiet and well-behaved. Which one's the Devil?

Here our Devil anti-friend gives us his message, “Always give your level best!” Which is kind of a positive message, unexpected, for a Devil. Although it could be he’s not a Devil but just looks like one. Car wreck? Mashed in a machine? Maybe had chromosome or genetic problems and is actually an angel. I wouldn’t bet on it, but they -- angels -- could just as easily have problems. Remember all the angels in movies lacking wings? Although it’s more likely to be the Devil trying one of two things, 1) Pretending to be a former evildoer who’s gone straight, or, 2) Just more deceit whereby to deceive more insidiously.

How that would work precisely is not a subject I’m given a lot of thought to. Just "Anything Can Happen." But as with the Tarot Devil, like alluded to already, he’s not always a negative but a positive corrective to possibly something unbalanced in your life, eating too much sugar, a reminder not even to tell little white lies, or sometimes meant to ensnare you (“Ah, the cute little Devil”), who suddenly has you in his grasp, the pitchfork piercing you with the hottest sharpest tines ever you've felt. They’re pierced in you and you’re lifted in the air like a forklift, dangled over the fire, and at the last second, in pain and just as you’re about to black out, dropped in eternal flames. That’s a little reward for those of you who like things literal and not just seeing them symbolic of discipline and correctives, which is more of a psychological aim.

My “feel-good” advice, while perhaps not 100% true is at least more pleasant than "Go to hell." So, no matter how screwed up your Destiny appears to be, always give your level best. Try to put yourself in the driver’s seat, thinking this logical “truth,” that Destiny generally has a positive side. Try to see the downers you face as a corrective, steering you toward a positive outcome. Don’t be one who quickly gives in to the idea (like I’m prone to do) that Devils are always literally bad news. There’s about one chance in a million that that’s not so, but it’s better than nothing. So go with the flow. However screwed up things appear to be, continue giving your level best.

Whatever you do, keep your happiness intact to the degree that it’s possible. Don’t let the pick-ax hit you on the way out.

Destiny's Little Things

 

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 2 of 30

Here we are today with a subject that never satisfies anyone. I'm thinking back on some of my earliest training on the distinctions between destiny and predestination, and one of the fits I threw at my simpleton idiot professor.

The basic thing is your Destiny is the greatest thing in the world. But it has all kinds of little boundary lands that you have to occasionally choose or avoid. Requiring careful attention to detail, because the least little thing can sidetrack you and leave you vulnerable to many consequences. When it comes to something as simple as taking steps (see graphic), I’ve learned to mince when mincing is best and leap when the boundaries are a bit more far-flung.

Has this had consequences? It’d be shortsighted to say no, when what appears to be obvious suggests otherwise, so I’ll have to say Yes. And if choices are as predestined as some say, Yes is the obvious right answer. (I’m making the choice apparently in a more informed way, given my vast experience doing the wrong thing. Determined often by pain to the organism, myself or every person, creature, and situation before me. To which, let me apologize, to say I’m sorry if you’ve been implicated in any rampage of mine, big, little, intended, or accidental.)

Fortunately for everyone (I’ll be inclusive), none of these matters are so crystal clear that our mistakes are actionable, being removed from our direct experience. Of course the guy across town, whatever his actions are today could have consequences for me later, but just try to prove it.

Say the guy drops a glass, it shatters in a million pieces. Then I happen along sometime later, in a few weeks, and while most of the mess was swept up and all things tidied -- using a broken glass for our example. Naturally, each shard was not accounted for, because such exhaustive tracing of things would be endless. So I take off my shoes for some reason. Only to happen upon a shard. Ouch! In my case, having strong feet this will not mean the eventual removal of my foot, but there are some poor souls whose destinies are always worse than mine -- remember Hopalong Cassidy? -- who are not as lucky.

Everywhere we look, then, in Destiny studies the horizons are far as well as wide, with enough narrow focus necessary for each one of us to turn out to be mortal. If you’re looking for advice, it’d about have to be, either Pay Attention To Every Little Thing, or Hope Your Destiny is big enough to take care of itself. I think the best way is a mix of the two, being the principle, Do The Best You Can. Eventually we'll die, but it probably won't be this week.

Remember I said my idiot professor, a simpleton, and I had a major joint meltdown, him in his "vast wisdom" being wrong, and me, the typical student somehow getting one over on him concerning predestination and destiny? That was quite an episode! One for the books!

Your Destiny, My Entertainment

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 1 of 30

Writing anything on “Knowing Your Destiny” is a tricky business. Because, naturally, I don’t like saying things that might be a discouragement to anyone. And I know when it comes to the subject of destiny or fate, things like that, people tend to read it very closely, and more importantly, extremely personally. I've never envied anyone in the horoscope business, although for the most part they’re insulated by anonymity. But everyone knows me and my great influence, and if I ever said there’s buried treasure in my backyard, I know I'd have half the country here tomorrow digging it up, and no doubt ruining the pipes. Full disclosure: There is not a buried treasure, but a couple months ago I did bury a dead cat.

When it comes to your own personal destiny, I’m just like you, usually. I have a pretty good sense of my own destiny, and I know when to care about it and when to ignore it; it pretty much works in its own nature without me needing to tend to it often. I always leave its default setting at "One Day At a Time," because for me that's the least intrusive. Onward we go, no fuss with it, everyone out there can do their best and I’ll do my best here. I find you don’t very often need a psychic, only if you have money to waste and say it’s the Renaissance Festival and it's fun, for entertainment purposes only. Yeah, yeah, that’s my own disclaimer too.

Anything I may say about your destiny, don’t let it bother you. I don't actually know you. But I always have your best interests at heart, and anything that appears negative isn’t, it’s just a backwards, attention-grabbing way to letting you know that your life and destiny are always in your hands, so always do your best and find joy in everything that’s revealed day by day. The best policy when it comes to your destiny is 'Don’t Worry About It.' But if you can tinker with it here and there without going crazy, talk it over with friends and loved ones, and any local witch-doctor you might know, then ease into it (or jump out) like you would a too-hot bath.

Now let me talk about myself, looking at the graphic, etc. There’s Uncle Sam, then there’s me, first always in Uncle Sam's heart. That’s a pretty great destiny, the envy of the land! The people of my country love Uncle Sam, and if they see his picture here they also love me! Suddenly, in their delirium, they’re stumbling and staggering like there’s an implant in their brain driving their devotion, because it certainly doesn’t make any sense otherwise. “We love America above all countries, we love Uncle Sam above all country symbols, and we love the guy who writes this Grandma Slump blog above all mortals -- if that’s what he is -- for his wisdom, devotion to country, and his fascinating interest in police chases on YouTube. It’s true, that last bit. I watch police chases, then wave a wand, and by the time the video’s over, the police have managed to capture or kill the perp.

Some of these police chase victims -- and that’s what I call them, since they were the unwilling recipient of a hair-up-their-ass that this idiocy would be a good idea -- are fascinating watches. If you want to predict someone’s destiny, watch what happens in their case. Once you've done that it doesn’t take much to extrapolate from it and pronounce, “And so shall it be for future idiot losers dumb enough to throw away their lives, money, or freedom for a half hour of being chased back and forth on the freeway!”

One fun thing to count during a police chase: How many times do the commentators use the obligatory phrase "high rate of speed"?

Happy New Year, Death To My Enemies

“May old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind...” We sang it last night at the local ball, a gala affair. I shouted at the top of my lungs for a "Happy New Year!" to my old community, town, and burg. Even though, let’s be honest, what've they done for me? But it’s the holidays! And if Christmas this year taught me anything, thanks to a rare movie I saw, it's good to live right, God bless us everyone.

That said, I frankly wouldn’t mind if a few of my acquaintances could be forgot, with the extra bonus of being never brought to mind. Yeah, that’s the ticket, I could use that for a New Year's gift! Perfect for the bastards ... and a few beyoches thrown in the mix. That's women’s progress, right? Having them right in there with the bastards, making my life miserable to the best of their ability. They may be ham-handed morons at everything else life throws their way, but they're experts at being bastards, real pros! No one's gotta lend a hand, they got it!

But it’s tough to open the New Year on a down note, although, frankly, this morning I’m high as a kite. I had a few good dances last night. There was this one young chick, wow, young, must have been 19-20 — I didn’t card her, that’s the doorman's job. And here I am, nearly 67 (but I could pass for 64), dancing with this little filly. Ha ha! Like dying and going to a particularly decent section of heaven, where everything’s blue and the Lord hasn’t gotten around to censoring it. Slow Lord there.

Anyway, she’d had a little too much to drink, thankfully, and I was stone sober like always. And I’m not saying she exactly went overboard with the close dancing — I’d never make that complaint — I'm just glad her dad wasn’t there to take her home. Nothing much happened, I hope you understand, I’m just hoping she doesn’t name it after me! No, no, of course I kid, although, you know, as much drinking as everyone else was doing, and me with my ginger ale, I probably could’ve skipped the country and no one would’ve been the wiser. Also, I always show up blurry on video evidence, don’t know why.

Getting back to the old acquaintances, the bastards, my enemies. There were a few bullies bullying me when I came in, “Hey, old man, past your bedtime!” “Does 'The Home' have a bus outside? We’ll have some blue-haired chicks next!” And one guy bumped into me in the hat room and I dropped my keys. But a helpful angel to my right picked them up and gave them to me. I thought, God, the abuse here is atrocious!

Closer to the serving table, it was more of the same. Friendly jostling for the most part, but there’s always a few in the crowd that look at me like I’m dirt. This one drunk bastard singled me out and was calling me Seabiscuit. I guess the same as saying I’m a horse. And if I’m a horse, perhaps a horse’s ass. I’m not completely sure, but it sounded like a slur.” Make way for Seabiscuit!” He bellowed louder than he had to. The chandeliers, which my mother would’ve loved, were shaking. I thought, I’d love to squash you under my hoof, you blankety blank bastard!”

Then the next thing, one of these evil SOBs suddenly had my car keys again! It was a pickpocket job, just to get my goat. As luck would have it — HIS — he was about two foot taller than me. And his equally asinine friends were nearly the same height. And they were throwing my keys back and forth, with me looking like a complete dweeb jumping in the middle. This went on for a couple minutes, very humiliating. Finally, one guy wasn’t expecting the keys to come to him. He raised a glass to sip another alcoholic beverage, when the keys were flung. He missed and they went by his feet. I grabbed them and crawled through the legs of several other people, bit the actual thief hard on the kneecap, then didn’t come up till I'd crawled to the chips and dip table.

I brushed off my knees and had a few chips. The dip was delicious, sort of like the way one of my aunts used to make it, very good. If only she’d been there. Kids used to say she wore army boots. And even though I never saw them, if she’d been there, she could’ve kicked these guys to the next county.

Happy New Year to everyone else who is good. But Death — temporal and eternal — to the various mofos there are in the world that hate me, Exhibit A being those guys and some of the other troublemakers, as well as the usual everyday people who hate my guts.

We Yearned For Mam & Pap

Part 30 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

It was rumored that the last season was the last season for the Mam & Pap show, but no one knew for sure. Since hope springs eternal, we kept our fingers crossed. It had happened before. We'd think it was all over, then there'd be a last minute miracle and everything was back on. Your blood pressure went up, then back down, it was the unforgiving back and forth of life come to getcha. I remember holding my breath, but finally against my will had to let it out.

Under those circumstances, what can you do, but just step back and quit worrying about it? Because sometime has to be the last time for most things. At least in your own life. I’ve always accepted that. Like when I graduated from school. I wasn’t the least bit hesitant to let it go, but eager. Now of course, all these years later, I think, What was the hurry? I should’ve done my level best. I certainly should’ve done better in my senior level History of Rodeos class. Who knew more? But I was relatively dumb then, still sounding out the questions as well as I could. And I even had the practical experience of traveling a season and a half with Mam and Pap...

It might've been better for me, had it been an option, if I could've dropped out of school all together and traveled with them full-time. That would have been the real-life experience I was craving instead of the more ethereal high-flown stuff of school, the different types of lizards in biology, the beginning and end of wars in history, and who was sleeping with who, the walls in the boys' bathroom. With the rodeo it would’ve been me, a kid, and a bunch of crazy adults. I could’ve crept up to the tents and learned all I needed, biology, multiplication. Or just following Pap to bank after bank begging loans for payroll would’ve taught me many lessons.

Mam certainly taught me the value of a gentle spirit. And remember, she started out as “The Ruler of the Elephant Circuit!” That's some big shoes to fill or scrape off. Mam literally had elephants eating peanuts out of her hand. Which takes nerves of steel as well as trust in your fellow animal to stand there with an elephant munching away. Just look at an elephant sometime! Their eyes are so far from their mouth that with a trunk in the way they’re liable to bite your fingers off! Or worse, take your whole hand!

As it turned out, of course, my parents (killjoys) wanted me to stay in school. Which back then, like it or not, was their decision. Us kids had no rights. They ran their ideas up the flagpole, I had no choice but to salute. So to this day I don’t consider myself that patriotic. I take a knee around all flags. Including foreign flags, rival school pennants, and window decals. I’ve worn out so many pairs of pants I need a cheaper way to protest the many things I hate. By the way, I also hate alarm clocks and any traveling rodeo shows run by snakes. If only they were all as honest as Mam and Pap, that’d be heaven on earth.

Mam and Pap were easily among the dearest to me on this terrestrial sod, and certainly in the history of the traveling rodeo. It would've been a fitting tribute if they'd saved the ashes of their old animal friends as they passed, then had their own mixed with them. I bet they never thought of it. People are so worried about other stuff when they're alive. And it's probably too late to worry about it now.

Pullin' Up Stakes

Part 29 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Saying goodbye's always one of the toughest things when it comes to a traveling rodeo/wild-west show. Some of the cowpokes have found new girlfriends and just got settled in when it's time to leave. But it affects everyone. It’s like saying goodbye to a loved one, like your dad when he goes into the service and has to report at such-and-such hours on a particular day. You’re afraid you might never see him again, which happened just like that in some of our more deadly wars.

Plus, rodeo folk are very emotional, going from place to place like that, never having a permanent spot to call home. They get used to the fans and especially the ones who are real autograph-hounds; they love that kind of devotion, which should probably reach across a lot of different occupations but always seems to center on the personalities performing in a big show, a major production.

But the calendar, while wide open on the days ahead, is very finite when it comes to particular spans. If you’re in a place two weeks, those days are frittered away before long and finally complete. It hardly pays to unpack because as soon as you do you’re packing again. Life calls us, though, everyone of us, to a bumpy ride of today, tomorrows, and the days of the far-flung future. What we’re doing today will soon be over and another span of time will open up, its vistas barely known, at least in their fullness. Getting fairly emotional here.

I remember way back, that’s the way it was with the traveling rodeos and carnivals, what have you, when I was little. And gypsies, which there were plenty of back then. What ever happened to the gypsies? I don’t know. They were very social people, so it could’ve been that one fell in a hole and the others were obliged to follow. I don't want to be spreading rumors, and I hope there’s no truth to that, but my mother really believed it, or maybe she just wanted to discourage me from ever being one. Whatever she thought, though, I kept to the straight and narrow, maintaining the path without fail.

Rodeo folk are folk just like us, though. And it’s easy to imagine that they’d like to have a piece of God’s sod that is theirs alone, a place to bed down at night and a place to wake up and see the same patch of sky everyday. There really is something about seeing the same patch of sky everyday, although I guess it’s not for everyone. Maybe for some of the more sentimental rodeo performers (and management), whereas any who are hardened or just have a tougher, more unsentimental bent it’d be different.

I remember waving goodbye as a kid to the traveling rodeo. We stayed almost till the bitter end, then I'd feel like I was going to cry and embarrass myself if I stayed another minute. So over the hill I went, then crept back a little bit later and they were gone. It was sentimental and they were fine folks, don‘t get me wrong, but they vanished so fast there wasn’t so much as a goodbye.

Rodeos Seeking New Talent

Part 28 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Everyone of us from time to time is faced with what will be our occupation, our work in the world, what we’ll occupy ourselves with, or what work we might be called upon to do. Maybe our first job. Maybe our second, third, and so on. Say we get fired a lot, we need something else. Because work is a task that has to be done. And as a task it’s never good — ideally — to leave it to someone else who’s simply going to screw it up. I still insist it’s true, If you want it done right, do it yourself.

The rodeo’s no different. And I’m trying really hard here not to be vain, apparently self-sufficient, the center of the universe when it comes to doing things in the best, most appropriate way. But if you’re like me, it’s likely that the rodeo could be your ideal path. If so, as we say in the horse line, Giddyup. Climb aboard, mount that thang, there could very well be a horse in your future and it’s not going to break itself. You’ll be with it to nurture it along. It’ll whinny when it sees you, and that's a heartwarming start to a rich, full lifetime together.

You’ve probably already heard counselors telling you to widen your perspective on occupations. ‘Don’t lock yourself into something so narrow that there’s not a steady demand for your skills.’ It’s my opinion that a lot of this nervous-nelly hand-wringing and sobbing is perfectly true. Say you had the option of going into medicine, being a doctor. As long as man gets sick, he’ll always need a doctor to help him get better; that’s the argument. But remember what we said about widening your perspective? Because it really could happen that someone will invent a single pill that immediately cures every ailment, from the common cold all the way up to broken bones, Italian breath, dog breath, and rickets. Then where will you be? On the scrapheap of destiny.

My recommendation — and I say this to everyone whether they have the aptitude for it or not — is rodeo work. The only way rodeo work could dry up and blow away is if mankind in his foolishness blew up the earth and wiped out his existence. In which eventuality doctors would also be completely worthless. But what have doctors ever been able to do to make the rodeo what it is and what it could become? Next to nothing. Setting fractures, checking out the health of animals, resettling the clanging in clowns’ heads when it becomes a distraction, and prescribing pills to help numb the pain of pounding stakes. I suppose a doctor’s value is actually immense, but, c’mon, even the highly rated professions are probably in some sense overrated. Can anyone just agree with me on anything?

And with the rodeo they’re always begging for workers. The various communist “counselors” that schools tend to get are always down on any occupation perceived to be off the beaten path. “The rodeo’s going the way of the dinosaur,” they prattle. Which is pure horseshoot for various reasons. Obviously it would decline if there were no workers to go into it, sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy for the pathetic counselors. We could say the same thing for counseling. It’s going the way of the dinosaurs. Then I get a job as a counselor to tamp down all this dinosaur anxiety; dinosaurs are virtually extinct, so people need to quit worrying so much about them.

Video Killed The Rodeo Star

 

Part 27 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Mam and Pap’s show went way back to the more-thrilling days of yesteryear when rodeos weren’t on TV day and night. Now, as everyone knows, we can tune in everyday and see professional shows replete with killer bulls, tough, tested riders with their fist double wrapped in rope, and clowns that have been to finishing school and can tell their pinkie finger from their willy. The big difference with today's clowns is they're out there from the pressure of tradition, and because ordinary guys in ordinary clothes wouldn’t do. With modern contracts, they're probably selling 18-inch celebrity shoes.

And right there’s a big change since the days of TV, and especially with the novelty of TV rodeos wearing off after a couple decades. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all jaded stuff, no neighborliness, naturally. Hell, I could go on about my many complaints — I pick them up and amplify what I hear when visiting my fellow codgers at nursing homes. Of whom, just to be accurate, most of them are dead, so to a certain extent the remaining shreds of my life are being lived as a tribute to them, their greatest hits, in the complaints they shared about progress.

It’s the earliest days that are the most interesting, since we thought our complaining might do some good. The TV producers would get the message. We only like rodeos where there’s some chance of the bull actually landing in our lap before it's over. Now we can hit pause and go to the bathroom and come back only to see some guy getting bucked sky high and land in a corporately-sponsored pillow. “Get a Good Night’s Sleep with Zonko Pillows.” In my opinion, the pillow industry shouldn’t have gotten into the rodeo racket. You could write a whole indictment of it: “The Dumbing Down of Rodeo.” But I’m old, I’ll leave that to new blood.

The selling point of TV — there were several — were convincing. You’ll have the rodeo right in your living room. No need to go out to a smelly fairgrounds. No waiting around for anything to start. No crooked rodeo performers stealing from your car. And on and on. The biggest thing of course was the convenience. They also put it forth between the lines as a great equalizer: "Now even a one-horse town can have all the horses it can stand! Where before they couldn’t support a one-horse rodeo!” With TV, the show from Las Vegas is a local event.

We had some meetings and demonstrations, heavily reported in the local paper but ignored by TV, with their bias. At first it was “Down with TV,” but our numbers and enthusiasm shrunk quickly as sets were snapped up like dirty magazines and replaced the real thing with the feel-good experience of instant gratification in your own home. You could even hear it from your own bathroom, which could no longer hold everyone up with an endless line to get in. Back then you might catch a glance of the guy standing next to you, then realize it's a horse!

Beware The Rodeo Zone

 

Part 26 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

If you like the impossible possibilities of the inscrutable, the mysterious, and the unexplained, you could always be a beautician. Or, avoiding the smelly classes necessary for that, go into rodeo.

There’s a signpost: “Rodeo Next Week.” Strange, isn’t it? There’s evidence all around you; it’s completely mysterious. Worn paths, strewn wood shavings indicating an arena, holes in the ground as though meant for restrooms. The weeds bending in the weird wind that kicks up at random. You think it’s oppressive, stifling, then there's a flier in the dust. The rodeo was last week and they forgot to pack the “Next Week” sign.

Yes, that was a false flag, forcing you back to apparent reality. Or was it? Couldn't that be exactly what The Rodeo Zone wants you to think, so that you will continue apace over the hill and out of sight, at which point the earth’s stranger creatures will reappear with a whole rodeo set up fully functioning, right down to the blue ribbons that competitors “win,” then pack away to “win” again at next week's show, and the week after that, and forever?

It’s a little spooky out here, like a foggy heath in Scotland or somewhere like that I’ve never been. Or one of those strange shamrock places in Ireland where they're always celebrating the earth’s fire, it’s molten core or whatever. I’ve never been to Ireland, and with their fascination with leprechauns and Irish accents I probably never will. It’d make me uncomfortable and I'd be out of place over there going “aye” and “begorrah” and the other lingo they push. Give me a good old-fashioned American rodeo alternately materializing and vanishing, portals to the great beyond and maybe back and I’ll be happy.

I certainly believe it’s possible. If rodeo energy was there once, and if we can agree that existence is more than spiritless matter, then there’s weirder things in this world possible than you can find listed in your Funk & Wagnall's encyclopedia. You occasionally discern these portals — like the Rodeo Zone — and you enter to relive whatever it was, let’s say, along with a warning, an important proviso, that, all things being other than what they seem, what it seems might be benign, but what it is is might be just the thing that consumes you, body and soul.

Say that happens. A clown leads you to the portal, promising you a good time at the rodeo in the great beyond. You foolishly step there and there’s no rodeo, but a traveling carnival. You only have thoughtful recognition of the circumstances for a few seconds, before all consciousness is mercifully removed. In those seconds you consider what you’ve now become, a beautician in an alternate world that has no hair. It's the pointlessness of hell! With another way of looking at it, it's a rodeo, true, but appearing and vanishing in some random and mad way.

I'm glad it hasn't happened to me, lately. And I'd recommend that you run -- run fast and run far -- and don't look back till you feel that you're a safe distance away, if such a thing exists.

The Three Wise Horsemen

 Part 25 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Christmas is one of the major holidays in most parts of the known universe. You're always running into someone who celebrates it. I also send out my personal Christmas greetings to one and all. If you are even now receiving my greetings, please receive them as something that it’s my pleasure to send. I hope the joy of the season — in vast quantities — will be yours today. And that if it's somehow able to be sustained that it will continue to be an encouragement to you, extending well into the New Year. My feeling on it is so big that if I could personally land on your roof and shimmy down your chimney and come up through the heating system and personally bring holiday cheer to your breakfast table or bathroom — anywhere! — I'd do it. Well, here I am.

Almost everything I know about Christmas I learned from family and the decorations we had. Among the decorations were the Christmas cards we received throughout the year. And because I was from a family that also went to the rodeo every time it came to town we were even remembered on their card list. How we rejoiced in the goodness of the season, thinking back to the very first Christmas when rodeo cowboys traversed afar following yonder star to where the Holy Family had put down stakes. There on the west side of Bethlehem’s fairground complex, the rodeo faithfully took place year after year, in rain, snow or ice, as long as the temperature was above 40 for the sake of the animals’ health.

The whole idea that the Wise Men were wise is no doubt tied in with the rodeo. Because it’s a hundred percent true that there’s no one as street savvy, mentally tough, and rough-cut good as rodeo folk. You tell them their mission — be it walk a bronc 10 miles across the desert to loosen up its tendons — they won’t utter a peep, except to say, “Which way you want me to go? When shall I be back? What if we get lost or separated?” And a host of other questions to cover the territory. Then once they’re gone and there’s no one to talk to, they’re very quiet, muttering to themselves or complaining to the animals about the difference between a vital task and busywork.

Let’s assume the earliest wise rodeo men, once they learned of the coordinates of the Christ child, went forth on their task with a lot of motivation to get there and behold this glorious site that they themselves had only known from Christmas cards. To have it all “come to pass just as the angel had spoken” would’ve been something to treasure in their hearts indeed and brag about on future nights while other less fortunate rodeo men were gathered about the campfire. There would be very little actual proof that they were the ones, but wouldn’t it stand to reason they were? Why would they say they were if they weren’t? It’s not something the average guy would believe, but maybe they would because who would make such a claim? “You have to know we don’t expect you to believe we were there. But why would we waste your time and ours saying it if it weren’t true?”

They had that argument, yes, and more importantly the power of their changed lives. For indeed, having seen the Christ child on that very first Christmas made them the best rodeo men in every way, including character and temperament! May it be said of each of us today, “I was there too. And if I wasn’t, why would I now be saying I was?”

Beg For Your Num-Num

 

Part 24 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

We live in interesting times in terms of our expectations, what we think we deserve and what we can have. I’m thinking in particular about the whole issue of eating, the meals we’ve come to expect, and the meals we often down without so much as a moment’s reflection on it as provision. I crunched myself though a handful of chocolate candy crackers and wish now I could've gone slower.

The rodeo’s close to my heart, thanks to my dealings with many of the team of Mam and Pap’s show. And they dealt with a lot of these issues of daily eating that not only the people on the show were concerned with but also the animals. In fact, the animals are more insistent, have more boldness to say it than some of the people, stamping their feet, blowing steam out of their big meaty nostrils: “I’m here, I’m hungry, feed me!”

Before I go any further, not wanting an uprising among the natives of the internet, always at the ready with a big pot of water boiling and their several spears, alert to any veering from the socially proscribed mores of life and behavior, in this context the provisions of food for all, let me say I do support eating, with full-throated enthusiasm. Like everyone, I could afford to cut back a little; it’d be nice to cinch my belt a little tighter, 10-12 inches. But that’s me, not animals who have little understanding of wise dieting and would gorge themselves to death before the 4:30 show if given a big enough feedbag.

The story I’m telling as part of the celebration of Mam & Pap’s rodeo focuses on some of the characters, the staff of their show. And there was a guy who did it differently from most when it came to feeding his horse, a decent horse named Hoss. Hoss’ human companion was Old Dan’l.

Daniel, to use his fuller name, believed that Hoss needed to beg for every meal. Maybe if Hoss reared back like that several times a day it helped him keep physically fit. And it'd be a reminder if he ever needed to see something afar he could rear back and see it. “Beg for your breakfast, beg for your lunch, beg for your dinner” was all consolidated down into a command a horse could more easily remember, “Beg for your num-num!”

Which of those words would be key? Probably “num-num,” if we’re thinking of how food seems to us, something we chew, something we savor, depend on for nutrition, and enjoy. “Num-num, food good.” Even a caveman would understand it, it’d be a piece of cake for a horse. Whatever Hoss thought, he put 2 and 2 together and associated raising up and letting out a loud whinnying as begging for his food. And was never denied as far as I know. I observed the ritual maybe 10 times and the food was quickly given with the proper stance, response, and of course the actual begging, a series of vocalized noises.

I’ve thought about that many times over my own meals. My family used to say grace over most meals. Not potato chips, but anything more. Keeping in mind old Hoss the begging horse, it simplifies it for me now that I’m on my own. Just lift my hands like Hoss does, and whinny a couple times, I know the Good Lord is satisfied. And I can partake of the meal with a clean conscience, be it meat, potatoes, a salad, etc. One thing I don’t beg for is potato chips, even though I still like them.

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.