Read this post if you think my tractor's sexy (Part One)

I have a confession to make. I... think I'm starting to like country music.

Gulp.

This summer I've been progressively exposed to more and more tidbits of  country music, and guess what? It's growing on me. My blind eyes are starting to see the light behind this treasure trove of what makes Amurrika so great ("fuck yeah!").

But it hasn't necessarily been of my own accord.

Wal-Mart, the grocery store, most bars, and even outside of the gas station err on the side of assuming that everyone wants to rock out to talent like the Trailer Park Choir, regardless of how much it makes your ears bleed. After all, who doesn't want to envision that beer-gutted dream of a gal, "sippin' on a Bud/ hangin' with her friends on a Friday night"? Hell yes I'll blow another dollar on a song, Monsieur Jukebox. That's dang good noise you got flowing out of them thar speakers!

All kidding aside, seeing as two out of every three radio stations in this part of the U.S. play some version of  country, it's kind of hard to avoid it.* I've tuned into those radio stations more often than I prefer to admit. All that time between patches of cell service has given me plenty of room to consider the few but legitimate redeeming aspects of this under-appreciated-by-most-Americans-except-for-those-folks-in-the-flyover-states genre. It's also given me time to consider the very specific conditions under which country music must operate in order not to suck.

Let's discuss.**

Things that country music has going for it:

1. The art of storytelling -- I've never heard a country song that doesn't include a plot of some sort. Most of them have to do with life events such as marriage, births, heartbreak, and the like. Many are artfully crafted, and their lyrics fall into rhyme seamlessly. 
2. Real, bonafide instruments -- None of that dub-step crap going on here. If anyone can prove to me that there's a better modern use for an autoharp, I'm all ears.
3. Real, bonafide talent -- Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Randy Travis, Alan Jackson, Linda Ronstadt, Dwight Yoakam, Garth Brooks, Gillian Welch, Willie Nelson, the Dixie Chicks, Waylon Jennings, Patsy Cline, Woody Guthrie, and my favorite Lyle Lovett, to name a few. 
4. Many sub-genres to choose from -- Seriously, this list is looooong. 
5. Two words: Josh Turner. WHY, OH WHY DID THIS DREAMBOAT OF A MAN HAVE TO GET MARRIED AT THE TENDER AGE OF 25? I definitely lost out on that one. Where was I when he was signing away his freedom and beginning to sow the seeds of fatherhood? Oh yeah...somewhere in Northern California, hanging out with dirty hippies and easily eating my weight in Ben and Jerry's ice cream. That explains it. 

Things that it does not:

1. LOTS of white people. (Although Darius Rucker is breaking that mold quite well...not bad stuff I'll admit.)
2. Covert, and not-so-covert, references to Christianity -- Save that for another genre like Gospel please. And yes, Josh Turner is guilty of this but he's perfect no matter what in my eyes, so I'll let it slide.
3. Waaaaaay too many double negatives -- Did anyone go to school and learn anything about how to form a proper sentence?
4. Oversimplifications galore -- Where do I start? Just like hip hop, the majority of the fans in this genre are not actually members of the demographic that created it. How many of us really have actually stacked a bale of hay in our lives? Didn't think so. So stop acting like you know about the plight of the country boy.
5. Repeated reflections on life's milestones and what makes us "us" -- Just a short list of what is regularly referenced in country songs: first love, first car, making out in the dark***/moonlight, how things are done "round here," cars, trucks, tractors, dancing, how it's 5 o'clock somewhere, what it's like to be a little bit of country and little bit of city, etc. etc. etc. Ugh, gag me with a spoon!
6. Lack of subtlety -- I concur, Natalie Maines. Everything is blatant, and not much is subtle. Where's the art these days?

Now mind you, the comments above pretty much only apply to mainstream "rock with a fiddle," as Neil Young coined it, and classic country (= country music before the 80s). I have yet to indulge on the many quirks of a particular subset of country that I find absolutely abhorrent/fascinating. I call it "bum country," my boyfriend lovingly calls it his kind of music.

Think I'll save that for the next post.

*Yes, that's a statistic I've only heard anecdotally but it's my blog so I get to cite it if I want.
**I realize that this post may be a bit inflammatory to some of my friends who are more serious country fans than me. That's ok! We're all entitled to our opinions. And I'm entitled to generalize because this is really a topic you could write a whole thesis on, not just a blog post. We'll keep it to 700 words or less this time around.
***I actually love this song. 

Like a Rhinestone Cowgirl

The quiet solitude of summer took a major turn the third week of July. I don't mean that there was another tornado warning (which we actually had) or that my boyfriend came to visit (he did), or that there was a shortage of Bud Light at the drive-through liquor store (which may/may not have happened). Oh no. It was bigger than that.

Question: What's the one-time event of the year that transforms Cheyenne into the biggest white trash tourist attraction this side of Carhenge?

Answer: None other than the "Daddy of 'Em All," Cheyenne Frontier Days!

Let me introduce you to the greatest thing to happen to Wyoming since Yellowstone.*

Front row seats with a helluva view for bronc riding!

The gist:
CFD, as we'll call it, is a 116-year old "western celebration" that is coined as the largest outdoor rodeo in the world. This tiny town of 60,000 people more than triples in size to welcome hundreds of thousands of tourists during the 10-day event each year. Within 24 hours of the rodeo's start, you're guaranteed to see this town bustling with city slickers. If you didn't know better, you'd think you fell asleep last night only to wake up and find yourself in a mini version of Midnight Cowboy. Seriously, CFD turns this sleepy town upside dowwwwwn.

The goal of CFD is to keep Western traditions alive by luring outsiders within its borders in order to get them to pay top dollar with the promise of seeing "how it's really done" here in Wyoming and The West. There is a daily PRCA/PBR rodeo (including bull and bronc riding, steer wrestling, barrel racing, and my favorite: wild horse races), an Old West-themed town with Wyoming souvenirs, a carnival, big name country music concerts, as well as daily parades and free pancake breakfasts. Not to mention a Native American village, complete with tipis.

CFD amazingness part 1: THE PARADE

The full moon half of the Hell's Half Acre float

If you ever want to remind yourself of what's quirky and endearing about Small Town, USA, try to attend a local parade. The CFD parade was a mishmash of heartfelt nostalgia and unintentional hilarity: alongside random tidbits of CFD history there were horses. Lots of 'em. And tractors...and beauty queens...and marching bands...and the military...and random roller skaters...and old people in wheelchairs. Good times were had by all.

CFD amazingness part 2: THE RODEO

My take-home from seeing the rodeo over two days at CFD is this: cowboys are badasses! The first day that I got to see it put us in the front row right behind the chutes. We could literally hear the conversations on the field as the cowboys rallied to rope the broncs. It was incredible -- I'll never feel that jazzed to sit near a 3,000 pound pissed off animal as I did that day. The second day was up in the nosebleeds, but luckily we still had a good vantage point of the events, and not to mention an even better one of the cheapo cowboy getups worn by a family of French tourists. You could still smell the horse crap way up there. Or as they say in France, the "merde de cheval."

CFD amazingness part 3: THE MUSIC

Yeah, I'm a broke grad student, and yeah, I'm a burgeoning country music fan (see an upcoming post for more on that topic). So why not spend $58 of my summer stipend to see Alan Jackson? Next to Brooks and Dunn a decade ago, it was hands down the best country concert I've ever been to. We also got to explore the wide array of talents from an '80s cover band in the Depot Plaza one night. 

Please, go back to the '80s where you belong

CFD amazingness part 4: THE CARNIVAL
Last but not least, the carnival was a wonderful way to cap off what my mom would call a whirling dervish of a week at CFD. My friend Kendra and I did well not to dole out our hard-earned money to the carnival. Bret and I, however, lost more than I'll admit on booze and carnival games (luckily my honey rescued a stuffed bumblebee from the clutches of an evil carnie!). The coup de grâce of the whole experience was the ride at the end: for some godawful reason Bret let me choose which ride to waste our money on, so I chose that nasty spin-around, up-and-down piece of machinery from Hell called "The Hurricane." Yes, the one just like the ride in The Sandlot where everybody pukes only a few minutes after getting on it. And yes, I came thiiiiiiiiiiis close to spewing my lunch all over Bret. Thank the Lord I didn't, but I'm sure he would have held my hair back if I did. Guess I'm getting too old for carnival rides.

My take on CFD:
I spent the whole summer looking forward to CFD. Sure, I was lonely and couldn't wait to have visitors. Moreover, up until now I never had the chance to explore it as an adult and partake in the more entertaining aspects of the spectacle (like, you know, the beer and mechanical bull riding). This time around I really, really enjoyed myself. I loved watching the tourists, counting the anachronisms, and reveling in the strength of the people who still practice old ways in a modern world. Most of all, I loved playing tourist on my home turf. It's a nice way to rediscover the things that make a place unique!



*And my mother's birth in Cody, WY.

A gaggle of bums and gravel roads to nowhere

Just like what they warn you about, yes, I can verify first-hand that your metabolism slows down the minute you turn 25. Or, in my case, it's a result of a dangerous cocktail consisting of work-induced lethargy, not enough exercise, and too much drinking...all of which can spell metabolic catastrophe.

Which is why I bought myself a fancypants road bike when I started the downward slide toward 30. My goal then was to have an excuse to get outside and mooooove (read: I sure as hell am not getting any fitter by sitting on my duff and blogging about it). As luck of would have it, two years after that fateful purchase I have had an epiphany.

Cycling is more than exercise -- it gives you an amazing sense of place. Zipping around town on a bike exposes you to sights and sounds in a much more intimate way than you'd get by driving. You also learn to navigate the streets more quickly than you would by running them or using GPS. All of this combined creates a richer awareness of the present moment.

Many of my cycling moments in San Francisco were both chaotic and somewhere on the periphery of peaceful. Surprisingly, I've come to find those moments here in Wyoming are a different version of the same. Here's why:

I'm not a morning person. Plain and simple. The four-mile morning commute to work in San Francisco was my way of waking up and easing into the day (albeit begrudgingly). I can distinctly remember the fog on my face as I skid past the gaggle of bums every morning on McAllister and Market (all before a single cup of coffee, mind you!). The buildings were pink in the morning sun, and there was usually the smell of jasmine lingering in the air that was followed by the smell of farts emanating from the sewer. I also distinctly remember the instant regret after I groggily tried to beat a bus around a corner and my tires got stuck in the Muni tracks. Nothing beats flipping ass-over-tea kettle in front of an entire busload of morning commuters.

The morning bike ride to work here in Cheyenne is my wake up routine too. Only now the most formidable opponents aren't bums or Muni buses; they're giant trucks and semis with no regard for puny cyclists like me. They rage past and blow nasty exhaust directly into my face. But as soon as they are gone I can smell the willow in the breeze and watch the clouds follow overhead as I make my way down the road to the Herschler Building. It's glorious. Sometimes I don't even need the coffee after rides like this <gasp!>.

Similarly, longer bike rides prove to be an intimate sensory experience. Northern California is sensory overload actually, with its sights, sounds, smells, cars, people, other cyclists, and constantly changing viewscapes. The freezing trek across the Golden Gate is worth it in and of itself.

All I could think in this moment was, "Weee!"

Wyoming, on the other hand, stretches infinitely into the horizon. The wind blows at exactly the angle that goes against your trajectory so that you have to exert all of your strength just to avoid screeching to a halt. But when you stop to catch your breath there is always the magic song of a solitary bird or the hush of nothing but silence and grass and road that goes on for miles and miles. If it weren't for the altitude I'd continue riding forever.

That is, except for when the bike route on Google Maps sends you down a gravel road and you end up walking your bike for 3 miles to get to the next stretch of pavement. Not cool, Google. Not cool.

Looking back on that gravel road to nowhere

At any rate, if it weren't already taken by surfing and motorcycle maintenance I'd rename this blog post as "Zen and the art of cycling." I'm having a blast exploring Cheyenne and its surrounding parts, and Denver too when I go visit my parents. All of this has made a mediocre summer into a peaceful, mindful and calorie-burning experience that my buns of steel will thank me for.


PS- True to my last post, I'm already a quarter of the way through reading that hunting memoir "Call of the Mild." You may be talking to a future huntress...we shall see.

You'll shoot yer eye out!

The first week at work, this flyer stopped me dead in my tracks when I first spotted it. Really? All you gotta do is pay ten bucks and you can have your very own rifle?

Wyoming, I knew you were a state that takes personal freedoms to extremes, but man oh man, the quasi-Californian in me found this hard to swallow.

I immediately got flashbacks of that scene in Bowling for Columbine where Michael Moore opens up a bank account just to show how quickly and easily he could get a gun. The whole thing is too reminiscent of a reality from some years back -- I myself was at school only a few miles away when the Columbine tragedy struck. Then came the Aurora shootings. And then came Sandy Hook. Suffice to say that I have long been of the opinion that gun control is a necessary tool to keep stupid people from hurting others (and themselves). Never mind that my boyfriend, my dad and my brother all own more than one gun.

Then there's this at the bottom of the flyer:

It reads, "The mission of the Muley Fanatic Foundation is to ensure the conservation of mule deer and their habitat and to provide such supporting services to further the sport of hunting and sound wildlife management."

Well...that was not what I expected.

Then I remembered that this concept isn't something new. I'd just forgotten what it was like to live in a place where wildlife exists as more than just an aesthetic exercise in "ooohs" and "aws/ahhs." Hunters in Wyoming have long been advocates for sound wildlife management practices, if not simply on account of the fact that there'd be no sport if there are no wildlife to hunt. They are some of the biggest contributors to conservation programs, setting aside hundreds of thousands of acres of habitat for wildlife, and they also play a role in population management.

If there's one thing I learned last winter in my environmental ecology class, it was that there is hardly a species on this planet that isn't affected by human activity. So, we can't really say that "nature takes care of its own." In a wild place like Wyoming, you'll never see the demise of the sportsman hunter and fisherman. It's simply a way of life.

What has surprised me, though, is the spirit by which this way of life is advocated. Nothing exemplifies this better than a recent New York Times article that explores the growing movement of ethical hunting, where women make up the only growing demographic in the sport and sustainability is a major motivating factor.

I'll save in-depth thoughts on the implications of that for another post. For the time being, I'd like to spend more of my summer talking to the people who are a part of this way of life. I'd like to learn more about their motivations and, surprisingly, more about their tactics. I.e- is it more humane to kill with a crossbow as opposed to a gun?

I also want to order this book to read: Call of the Mild: Learning to Hunt My Own Dinner by Lily Raff McCalou. There's something really intriguing about a hipster environmentalist turned hunting enthusiast.

It's not the destination, but the journey...right?

Much like for everyone else, my 20s were a spiral staircase of formative experiences. In the short span of a decade, I learned what it was like to form meaningful bonds, break some of them, form new and better ones, and climb the seemingly endless rungs of that staircase that leads to adulthood -- or whatever you want to call it.

San Francisco played a major part in shaping the direction of that upward climb (yep, I even blogged about it). Yet, the concept of "home" was absent from my identity during the six years that I spent there. Don't get me wrong-- I loved that place. But was it me? Did it reflect who I am, and did I really want my life to become anchored there, in that city, in that state? Something wasn't right.

I had to wonder -- does anyone else in this goddamned place feel the same way?

For all intents and purposes the answer to that question is rhetorical. Everyone leaves home at some point to embark on that great existential search for "who they really are" blebbityblahblahI'msuchadeepthinkerblahblahblah. But whatever, there's a purpose to that: many of those people find their way back from whence they came, embarking on the next stage of adulthood with a new, greater appreciation for what home is and a more profound sense of identity.

I'm one of those people. (Surprised? Didn't think so.) This summer is the first step in that much needed journey back home to what I know best -- the sites, sounds, character, and integrity of life in the good ol' Mountain West. Each morning begins with a breath of fresh air and the realization that holy shit, I finally have more than just a rushed holiday to spend quality time with my family and friends. Whoa, I can go hiking and fishing and be all outdoorsy and do all the other things I was too self-absorbed or insecure to do before I moved away to California. And there's still more to explore!

Most of all, I also finally have a lot of free time. So I may as well blog about it.

Stay tuned for more tidbits as the summer unfolds...