A Professional Bull Riders Competition in Reading Pennsylvania, a Bent Review by The Queer Critic-Yippie yi yo kayah!-2006 I bring to you a “crit” unusual from most that I have done before, in that I had to cross the line; cross the aisle; cross the gulf , if you will, of my own preconceived notions, and for an evening at least try and participate and assimilate in an objective, un-opinionated way, the methods in which my host, The United States Army, might, I feared, present and perhaps slant to some degree, the presentation to its guests of a fast growing national sport that I do enjoy for reasons I will elaborate on as I go. Given my past and current politics and my personal displeasure with the current state of domestic and foreign affairs, I presumed the army’s presentation would be, if not completely opposite to, at least in a large degree, alien to this artist’s “bent” point of view. To quote the original “Queer Critic”, Quentin Crisp, commenting upon daily passing a New York bar spewing Hell’s Angels and other such rough-trade, biker types out onto a Big Apple sidewalk: “They've never murdered me. When I take my laundry to the laundry on First Avenue, I pass between their house and their row of Harleys. I pass with bowed head to show I accept their supremacy, and they've never murdered me.” I came with very much the same forebodings as Quentin, here, and as I am still here writing to you, and so you see, the United States Army did not murder me. I feared for the worse given their recent reputation, but I had laundry of sorts to do, and I was bent on seeing and enjoying this competition in a season of competitions presented by a host of different sponsors. I was brave and found my way into the Sovereign Arena in Reading, Pennsylvania [That’s in the US of A] to watch the latest event in a season of these events that lead up to a world championship week in Las Vegas, Nevada later this year involving a cool 3.2 million dollars in prize money. My excitement for once overcame my fears and I faced these fears, braved the unusual landscape, and the unfamiliar kind of crowd to go and gawk and be bedazzled by the marvelous talents and expertise of that icon of my country, that historic and contemporary hero unique to it, that “man of all men”, the beloved American cowboy! Although there are cowboys from Mexico, Brazil, and other lesser places, none of these in my opinion are the original, and although talented as they may be, and cute as any can see, they do not have for me, coming as they do from foreign places, the mystic of the American cowboy. No, I will not give up this territory claimed in the American Old West, and I am happy to say still alive and thumping and judging from the money in hand growing and prospering to boot, the pun intended. Now let’s get one thing straight at the “get go”. Cowboys and I suppose, if you are perverted unlike me, cowgirls too, are sexy! I’m talking hot, hot, hot! Please someone douse me with cold water or better yet take me into their showers! But, let’s not dwell upon the obvious, and let me instead tell you of all the lesser distractions, not so tall and big perhaps, but things of which you may not already know. As if the United States Army, and the cowboys, were not American enough, we had also that favorite American obsession and pastime working overtime this night, pushing all else aside, [never mind the talent or the art], that is to say everyone was making and spending money. Not since Rome, has there been to such a degree, such a people so loose and free with economy! You see, besides sex, we have a common denominator. These spurs are made of gold, honey, and the cowboy hat is trimmed in real fur, not fake, like any found at the Five and Dime-that’s Walmart, today. Money, honey, makes the world go round. I’d be lying to you if I said it does not make these tits twirl! And twirl we did, both on and off these expensive bulls. First of all everything and I do mean everything, including the rodeo clown’s bum had an advertising logo on it. Just look at the pics. We’re talking advertising and advertising everywhere, both visual and verbal. Now if you think I mean this as a criticism, I do not! It all, like in the movie, Talladega Nights came together in a beautiful cocktail of colors, shapes, and text, just beautiful to behold, especially on a cowboy’s chaps and other areas unmentionable. This is the American way. We led this way and still do lead despite rumors from Beijing to the contrary. Andy Warhol, where are you when we need you? Sex sells. Cowboys sell. The army sells. I sell. Everybody sells. It generates capital. It provides jobs. It is capitalism. Don’t look now, but it won! We were even shooting beer, or maybe it was cans of pop, out of bazooka guns into the crowd. Oh! It was fun! And the gun carried a message, not of war so much, as “buy me”. Here’s the first one free! There were hawkers in the stands and on the address system, too. There was the big screen, visible to all, telling you of the many opportunities to buy this or that. It was snap, crackle, and pop even before anyone got atop a bull! Oh, let me tell you of the bulls for they were making money too. You see, it’s all about staying on the bull for just eight seconds. That’s all. Just eight seconds, Partner, and you’ve won, if not very much, at least the applause of the crowd, some points, and the ire of the bull’s owner. Those bulls that can not be rode are, for eight seconds, famous. Those bulls who like gladiators, are for awhile unconquered, unseating all the cowboys who dare, are treated very well and their owners do not complain. The scoring of each eight second ride is done in equal measure; a score for the rider and a score for the bull. The Superstar bulls, for however long they’re famous, earn big bucks for Daddy, and they are not worked hard. They are rode, so I am told, for approximately twenty four seconds a season. I kid you not! They make thousands of dollars by the second. That’s better than any call girl or call boy in the world, unless I’ve missed something or someone quite special. We won’t mention the stud fees to come later. I don’t want you too excited. It goes without saying that the cowboys are not poor. The one final prize at the end of the season is a cool one million dollars, and that’s on top of all the rest and the perks to boot. It is not just the football players, the hockey players, and the other jocks we reward all too well. Mind you they all deserve it for all the other money they churn not to mention the very dangerous jobs they do. Oh, it’s unfair, but didn’t I tell you. This is America. Like Ancient Rome we are not in financial matters anything to do about fair! Are you so naive? We after all pay a fair minimum wage, do we not? I counted the coral if that is what the main platform and the stanchions are called, where cowboys and sacred beasts await their turn in the main arena. I counted in human numbers perhaps seventy five men and a few women. This is upfront, anyway, a male thing. Do not fear, though. The money surely trickles down. I’m sure; for one thing, more than a bull earned some fee for being ridden later that night in Reading, Pennsylvania. I only know it was not me. Sorry. That was crude and a little rude. I am about entertainment and fun. The point is that outside this “coral” are thousands and thousands of other jobs for both men and women. There is the city. There are the sponsors. There is the technology and the media. There are the parking lots, the hotel rooms, and the security. It all adds up, you see. It is about money, lots and lots and lots of money. The big camera boom alone, I so admired, must have cost the mint. When leaving the center, I saw a vehicle parked outside that had what must have been a hundred little TV screens glowing in the night. I think you see where I shine my light. But when it is all said and done, it was more than the mundane American process of making money. True to all art, it was more about the contest, eight seconds long, between man and beast, a contest waged since the dawn of time. It is as exciting now as it was in cavemen times, and it still puts food upon the table. I can not begin to tell you how much I admired this dance. It was an art form as beautiful as any ballet, and I take my hat off to the cowboy and this noble beast. I am an artist in every way. I loved it all, and I can assure you it was not wanting in creativity. Most everything that man strives to do with grace and perfection is art or didn’t you know? -at least when it is pursued with passion sometimes to an extent it becomes compulsive. How many people world wide are glued to the telly in some obsessive, seasonal, ritual, following something involving what they call sport and I bestow an adjective on; “art”. I’d like to invite you to at least see one of these cowboy things, if nothing else, just for the fun of it. The United States Army was a good host and the thing was only political in that it welcomed some of our soldiers back from a tour from you know where. In the end, no matter on which side of the aisle we are, that is what we all want; to see them safely home and far from harm’s way. There was no political posturing either, as the rules and history of the Professional Bull Rider’s Association do not allow it. The crowd too was not anything I expected. I felt perfectly at home. I am after all in my own country, peacefully about my own pursuits, perhaps not high in a tower, but in a civic and civilian place. And too, if you go to one of these cowboy events, whether it is a bull rider competition or the more traditional rodeo, if you’re “bent” like me, you’ll surely see, some eye candy, and you will have participated in a historic rite. Have any of you been to a bull fight? It is more to do with ancient ritual than the killing of any bull. Some would say it is religious. But I am very “bent”, you see. Some things have a history and are best left alone. It is perhaps pompous of me, and I’m sure many disagree, but I suggest that for one generation to, too quickly, trump so many generations before, is this not unwise? It seems to be not our history and not the American way. The constitution, indeed the Supreme Court may be flawed; it is not for me to say, alone. I’d merely take my time if I had my way, and not be too hasty to change anything that has worked so well for so long. But excuse me. I am “bent” to some degree, and if you saw Brokeback Mountain, you’ll know, that I am a very particular kind of cowboy. In the end, under the starry skies above, I will forever long to be just one thing. I will forever long to be free. Sing, yippie yi yo kayah! © 2006 by E.D. Ridgell	When the Muse Sleeps She's fickle and tends to be temperamental. I believe at sometime or another we've all learned not to take her for granted. What can I say? She's Greek. Artists of all kinds come in all kinds and work in different ways. It's not really feasible to suggest what you should do, should the muse temporarily abandon you. It's more helpful I think to tell you what I do when the muse won't work for me. What I endeavor to do is nothing. I do not presume on the attentions of a Goddess. Seriously, I've learned that I can not force that creative idea that mushrooms into a work of art, in this case, specifically, a poem. There are some writers who can sit down every day at precisely 3:15 and write until 6:15 and stop until the morrow. I am one of these. Did I just speak in opposites? Yes, of sorts, I did. What I mean to say is that the spark, the first line, the initial idea, I must trust to the muse. Once, I'm embedded within the work, I have the discipline to come and go at will. As a matter of fact, I've found this is very wise. If I let the poem I'm writing sit for a day or so, I find that when I come back to it, the muse is there with little sparks to make my working poem shine brighter. In fact I'm amazed at what I did not see was more or less under my nose at the last writing. This is not to detract from the spontaneous poem but merely separate the two in categories. I've written some of my best poems spontaneously, but in practice I take awhile to hone a poem before I put it up for "show and tell". I take care though to not overwork it. This is something that is instinctive and just builds on experience. It is just as important to stop when the muse dictates as it is to begin. Like many other poets, I am a danger on the road, as I look for something to jot that precious muse-whisper onto before the idea is gone with the wind and like the grocery list, and the coupons, I left the tape recorder at home. When I'm watching or listening to media I am always open to inspiration. Many of my poems are inspired by PBS specials or the History Channel, even the news. It is my habit, lazy creature that I am to lie in bed, watch TV and work at the laptop computer. If I'm engaged in something other than poetry, I can still quickly bring up Word and jot the initial spark of an idea down so that I do not lose it. Google and other search engines are invaluable sources of research to me and I personally believe that a new poetry of sorts is developing side by side with technology that to some degree will change the way we create, share, and actually read poetry. I'm no Jules Verne but I am an artist and all art is influenced by the inventions of time. The Bard did not have Google at hand but he did have a library thanks to Gutenburg. Like me and so many others, Shakespeare used history to his advantage not to mention what was contemporary if not dangerous to the times he lived in. I've a strong suspicion that the Muse and the Bard was an item if you catch my drift. William was no novice when it came to romance and I further would not be surprised if the Bard does not have a very comfortable couch somewhere in eternity. Regarding work shopping, it did not work for me. There are enough unfortunate misunderstandings on-line as it is, for this codependent case [I speak of me] to ever take the emotional strain of this sort of group therapy. It may fit your temperament very well, however. It depends entirely on just how thick your skin is, how firm your boundaries are, and how well you can juggle misunderstandings. I still grieve the number of poems I chopped up, all for the sake of trying to satisfy too many different points of view, and I've no heart for psychological warfare. By all means try it though. Much can be learned of value, just tread softly and carry an anthology of urban street language for rebuttals. Finally, I would tell you to trust in the muse. She may go wandering but she'll return. Life may have you under too much strain or you may be ill. There are many reasons why the Muse may be telling you to rest awhile. Do not try and dictate to her. Just follow her lead and be grateful to her. She's a gift to not be taken for granted. E.D. Ridgell Copyright © 2009 © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell