6:00pm Friday 18 April 2008
Prologue: Well, I’ve finally recovered from the rodeo. Oh, who am I kidding? I’ve been bereft and inconsolable ever since. The enormity of the irony was so much more devastating than what I was prepared for (see the reference to the “federal judiciary flunkees” in the Various Marginalia account of the rodeo ramp-up — trust me, a lot of the rest of this “Prologue” will make more sense that way, too). It’s really nothing short of amazing that I have survived:
You see, the Grand National Rodeo did not design, create, or otherwise produce any shot glasses this year (let me wait for your horrified gasps to subside…)!!! None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Rien. This means — as a consequence of previously shooting my other GNR shot glasses to smithereens — I have not even one shot glass to commemorate my ever urbanely sashaying amidst and among the countrified crowds at the Cow Palace! Yes, OK, so I am now a crack shot — which is sure to come in handy someday — but my precious shot glass collection suffers for my trigger-happy ways, and will conspicuously lack a certain luster until at least next year…
But even if the Cow Palace prevails for another year, and we figure out how to park in a supermarket, and the rodeo comes back to town, and I get all gussied up in my cowgirl duds, and I mosey on down there, what if they don’t have any shot glasses for sale next year, either?!? I mean, how much heartache can one cowgirl be expected to endure?
The Hostess realized — in due time and over the course of days of disappointment — that there’s really only one thing to be done under such cataclysmic circumstances — and that is to pick myself up, dust myself off, climb back onto the next bar stool in The Book, and hope I have it in me to hold on for at least eight seconds. That’s right: I need to “cowboy up” so to speak. (Yes, it’s a link to an article about the Boston Red Sox, but it’s also the most comprehensive discussion of this colorful colloquialism from a reputable and authoritative source on the Internet. Click on the link. You just might learn something…about baseball, journalism, or both.)
With that in mind, and for absolutely no rational reason, this Official Visit will serve as a wake, of sorts, for my my much-lamented shot glasses. I’ll buy a drink for anyone who composes me some suitably elegiac cowboy poetry befitting the occasion. They say misery loves company, so try to distract me from my doldrums with tales of your own tragic loss(es). Maybe toasting our dearly departed together will remind us of all that we do still have left in this wild ride called life to admire, to appreciate, and to treasure. But being as Edinburgh Castle is Scottish Bar, maybe leave your cowboy hats at home, aye?