Cowboy Hat Convention

Ah, yes. The Calgary Stampede. A whole week-plus of drinking, yelling and generally being an asshole. And those are just the girls. I only get a little bit of holidays this summer due to a new job, so I have to choose carefully. I chose Calgary for my first little jaunt, and it seemed like a fair choice, as it allowed me to break in the new truck on the highways, and give me that special sense of self-autonomy, which feels great and tastes great, too. Like a phantom popsicle. I must thank my friend Gavin for this excursion, since his idea to go on the Stampede Club Crawl was a sound one. And now for the day-by-day summary, and the hilarity that ensued.

Thursday: I drive almost right from work, stopping only at Bang-On on Whyte to pick up a new custom t-shirt and some new shades. The shirt says "Tonight's the night!", which what myself and Warren C overheard one chick say at O'Byrnes (and by the looks of her, good luck with that). I figured the shirt would fit the theme of the club crawl quite nicely. Warren and I hit the Stampede that night, which has a curious entry fee. Pay $12, or pay $6 for a "sneak peek". Oh, tough choice. We stroll into the Nashville North tent to meet up with some Calgary/Edmonton types, and see Great Big Sea playing their last few songs. After they finished, it began. For the rest of the weekend, save for times in the car, and a few precious moments at the bars, it was country music as far as the ear could hear. Now, for those of you who know my position on country music, this is just about hell for me. I realize it's the Stampede, but damn it all if country music isn't just the worst fucking music on the planet. Every song sounds the same, and all the line dances are absolutely retarded. Nobody looks sexy dancing a line dance. Two-stepping, when done by people who are "good" at it, looks like a writhing mass of flesh having a seizure. With cowboy hats on.

Beers: $5.50 for a can. Not stupid, but affordable.
Late night food: A shwarma (sp?), that Warren wanted me to try. Looks like a donair, but misses the little things. Like having a good taste, and the desire to have another one.

Friday: Warren and I spend the day traipsing up and down 17th, which, quite frankly, puts Whyte Ave to shame for the amount of great looking women. If I was wearing sweatpants... Of course, being that it was such a nice, hot day, some of the fellers decided that it was their constitutional right to not wear sleeves, short or otherwise. Does any lady out there just titter with excitement by the sight of some sweaty guy in a wife-beater, or worse, a shirt with the sleeves torn off? Oh, right. He's got a cowboy hat on. He's exempt.

The evening started early at Coyotes at about 8:00, although we got to the line at 7:30pm. We had bought $15 no line/no cover tickets, thanks to the ever-dependable Morghan. I thought that was expensive, but during the Stampede, expensive is the theme. More like absolutely ri-damn-diculous. $20 cover at Coyotes? $50 cover at Cowboys? That's beyond stupid into some realm where stupid beats Conan The Barbarian and Red Sonja. Nevertheless, the bar had just about the most scattered ass a warm-blooded heterosexual could want. Assless chaps on the beer tub girls? I think I signed a petition a while ago for that. Overall, pretty decent night.

Beers: $6.50 for a bottle. Of Bud. It had better taste like piss from a Royal family member. But not QEII. Gross.
Late night food: Gerry's, which used to be Husky House. Worst fucking double-burger I've ever had. The rat burger in Demolition Man? I'm sure a delicacy next to this pile of shit. I don't need Stallone to tell me that.

Saturday/Sunday: Ah, the Stampede Crawl. Started at the crack of noon (roughly), and for my ticket, at the Ranchman's Party Tent. It was a tent, but the party was somehwhat lacking. I've never seen a crawl this immense before, and it was certainly something to behold. I've planned many an event before, but the guys who plan this must have a death wish or something. Or, they're Superman. I bet Supe would plan an awesome party, but would probably evolve into everyone just kicking him in the groin repeatedly while he laughed. Food consumed consisted of one smokie hot dog by this point. After about two hours, we were ready to board the Bus Of Laughing Morons. Ah, nothing like a bunch of goons trying to get girls to flash, or sticking their asses out the window constantly. With cowboy hats on. My source of comedy was calling two guys "Toby Keith", simply because they looked like Toby Keith "Present" (fat and bloated) and Toby Keith "Five Years From Now" (fat and bloated).

Beers at Ranchman's: $4.25. No more crying!

First place was (incorrectly) Tequila's, which was pretty dirty, and smelled like an open sewer in some places. It's 2 in the afternoon, why is it dirty? Fairly unremarkable. Second place was Tantra, which was a little more memorable, but about as memorable as it could be. Nothing against it, as it seemed fairly nice. Seemed like a smaller Rum for clientele, so therefore I hate it and would never go again. Third and final bar: Coyotes. Ah, fuck me.

The crawl people had to stay in this outside patio/tent area, which was fine by me, given that I had already seen what the inside had to offer, and was in no hurry for the sequel. Plus, as a bonus, there's no bathroom attendant in a port-o-potty! That means I don't have to pay a buck for the hand sanitizer. After a few hours, Miss Morghan informs me that I should head over to Cowboys (bile rising), because if I'm staying at hers and Mike's place, it makes sense to get together. So I leave. Without asking what the line is like. "Huge", she says. Fuck me two times. I reverse it, but take the wrong path, leading me into some Calgary transit garage, which leads me to have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid an embarrassing turnaround (Hey, I don't know the guys working at the garage, but I certainly don't want them to think I don't know what I'm doing).

I try to weasel my way back in, but the mongoloid at the door says wait in line. So I do. I get to the front, and then he says that I have to pay the cover - $20. Are you kidding me? I paid $35 for the ticket? I relent, and get let in, but I can't get outside, because the mouthbreathers at two doors aren't letting anyone outside. This could not be going any better. I say fuck it, and leave. I get in a cab, and head to Morghan's, with the idea that I can sleep in my truck and wait for them. However, my phone is dead at this point, so I'm on a wing and a prayer. Good thing I remember where they lived. Mike wakes me up about an hour later, and the following conversation ensues (as I can remember it):

Mike: "Tyler, you can come up now".
Tyler: "No, I have to go to Warren's and get my truck."
Mike: "Dude, you're in your truck."
Tyler: (Confused) "Huh?"

I slept in a room that seemed only two miles from the sun, and in a cat condo which, due my allergies, made death seem like a viable option. I decided to book out early, and head to my Grandma's, where my parents are. Lo, and behold, what comes next? I LOCKED MY FUCKING KEYS IN THE TRUCK. Again. So a call to the parents (local call, Morghs, seriously), and AMA's on the way. But I'm not an AMA member yet, so it'll cost me. Oh, and I notice a parking ticket from the night before on my windshield. Fuck. Me. Running.

Overall Experience: I will absolutely, positively do this again next year! I can't wait to mercilessly make fun of country yet again. Stupid country. It all sucks. Except for Johnny Cash. He's a legend, and I've said it before, but JC transcends time, and space and denim.