goad-eo at the rodeo
I saw my first rodeo today under mild summer weather so perfect, I felt like reaching into the clear blue sky and brushing God's hair for him. Peckerwood throwbacks with names such as Brock Brady and Rod Rimmer (sounds like a homo porn star) rode horses and roped doggies. The "riding" of horses is a barely concealed rural potency ritual—a Reno hooker once told me that of all the white dudes she's serviced, the rodeo boys always had the hugest wang-diddy-dangs. In between such tight-jeaned displays of cocksmanship, a rodeo clown made fun of hippies and referred to Will Smith's "Wild Wild West" song as "disco." I ate a nut-covered, chocolate-dipped ice-cream bar that was so good, I may have involuntarily emitted some seminal fluid. I only saw one black man, possibly because blacks don't like to be around white people swingin' rope.
A cool green ride through a thicket of Northwestern timber takes you from Portland to Molalla, where I once bought a chihuahua. It's only forty miles away but is the proverbial "worlds" away culturally. The road passes through the logging town of Estacada, whose main bar/restaurant features a giant stuffed polar bear in a glass display case. Cruising through these dusty farm towns, with their feed stores and wholesome, clay-eating folk, I resolved to make good on my ancient threat to one day flee the city for good.
