Saturday, September 13, 2003


Apologies to my male readers, but except for those of you who swing in interesting ways that drive the likes of Trent Lott NUTS, this post is basically going out to the WOMEN READERS OF LIANT.

Tonight marked the second foray for the Whistle Pig*'s "Bikini Bullriding Contest" in which, in theory, various and comely members of my own dear personal sex, that being the female, don bikinis and ride the mechanical bull installed earlier this summer at the Whistle Pig bar, which, in case you're wondering, is also the site of the Bug Women and Punk Martha Stewart Karaoke Extravaganza (tm).

Well, so, no femmes fatale (or otherwise) (and trust me, you don't really want to see Your Humble Blogger OR the Punk Martha Stewart in bikinis, garments which emphasize supposed flaws in the female anatomy which the pair of us have in plenty but we look really smashing in other states of habile and dishabile, just trust me, but anyway...) rode said mechanical bull in bikinis, but the riders who did ride inspired, in conjunction with an idea promulgated more or less originally by an inspired son of one of Carbon County's tribe of Esteemed Bug Women, an alternate and (not) Modest Proposal.

WHEREAS everybody knows that our wacky valley is populated by more DIRTY OLD WOMEN than DIRTY OLD MEN, and

WHEREAS everybody also knows that our wackey valley is populated by more EXHIBITIONIST YOUNG MEN than EXHIBITIONIST YOUNG WOMEN, and

WHEREAS everybody knows that DIRTY OLD WOMEN tend, in a given marriage or other domestic arrangement best left to the imagination (you dirty old people, you), to exercise MUCH MORE CONTROL over the purse strings than their domestic (aka male) partners,


The Whistle Pig Saloon would probably make a lot more money if, instead of pre-arranged and duly advertised "bikini bullriding nights", it instead instituted "BOXER AND BOOT BULLRIDING NIGHTS"**.

Duly agreed and inscribed this date by the female population of the Upper North Platte Valley of Wyoming, so help us Bog.

Watch media outlets near you for dates and times.

Punk Martha Stewart is committed to sing Garth Brooks and other tunes of the rider's choosing as musical accompaniment to said rides. As such.

*The bar just outside the Saratoga City Limits whereat I have, occasionally and gleefully, blasted opera (usually Wagner or Puccini) over the sound system with my good old speech teacher/coach who has, on occasion, moonlighted summers as a bartender.

**Defined as nights when (male) contestants in the bullriding contests held at least once a month at the Whistle Pig may ride the mechanical bull clad only in boxer shorts, boots, and (optional) cowboy hats.

Friday, September 12, 2003


Some mornings it just ain't worth checking the papers. The very first bit of information to penetrate my pre-coffee brain this morning was the news that Johnny Cash had died last night.

It should surprise no one who knows me or reads this blog regularly that I am not, and never have been, a fan of country & western music. I hate most of it.

But there have always been two shining exceptions (three if you consider bluegrass to be country – I own and frequently play all four discs of the Bill Munroe Boxed Set): Hank Williams, Sr. and Johnny Cash.

For me, Cash will always be closely associated with my father, as pretty much the only music that we can sincerely enjoy together. His tastes run to more Carpenters-y kind of stuff at which I still can't help rolling my eyeballs a little.

But Johnny Cash, you couldn't ignore him, couldn't call him corny, couldn't call him sappy. He was rough, he was sometimes funny, he was sincere, he was dark, he was gutsy, he connected with even prisoners and low-lifes. Nobody sounded like him, nobody wrote like him, and nobody else recorded albums in big famous prisons (I have both of them on CD, and listen to them often).

I got to see him live once, an experience I'll never forget. Oh, of course the show was brilliant – goes without saying, goes without saying. But what was wild was, I saw him at a Landsdowne Street club in Boston with a house full of little punk rock kids. Mohawks and piercings and torn leather as far as the eye could see, and up on stage, the Man in Black, up there by himself with an accoustic guitar, and everybody was just riveted.

(And this was something on the order of eight years before he recorded his version of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" - which I, alas, have yet to hear)

My dad had never gotten to see him live, so I jumped at the chance to remedy that a few years ago when Cash had set a tour date in Cheyenne, just a few days before my parents' wedding anniversary. Very excited, I jumped on the phone, hot little credit card in my hot little hand, and got tickets for them for their gift.

Alas, that was also right before Cash was first diagnosed with Parkinson's disease (I believe; some similar degenerative nervous disorder, anyway) and the tour date got canceled. I got my money back and just took my parents to dinner instead, but it wasn't the same.

I've been sort of grieving ever since. So, while today is a very, very sad day (and just one day after another, very, very, very sad day), it is not a surprising one.

Just a shitty one.

Sunday, September 07, 2003


That's right, the boys in purple won their second game, on the road in Shoshoni, beating out the Wildcats 28-8.

My Own Dear Personal Dad, their bus driver, said they all looked good and pretty much everyone got to play, even the tiny little 105-pound freshmen.

Looking good for this Friday, when they'll host the Wyoming Indian Wildcats at 4 p.m. to kick off the Saratoga High School Homecoming.

It will be glorious.

You heard it here first.