Steamed and Starched

I used to drink with a champion bull rider.

I was far from out of the closet (not even close in my own mind) in those days but the guy was clearly gay. The, ah, roommate he'd lived with for several years in a farmhouse right next to the transmitters for the radio station I worked for, was a real give-a-way. They could only get our station, so close were they to our transmitters, plus the radios would only last months before being fried. The association with Neil (his name I think) provided me with one of my minor life's regrets. He offered a group of us an opportunity to ride a bull -- only two of us did so. I chickened out and did not. Maybe that anecdote should provide proof of my intelligence and not regret.

I have two superb cowboy hats. Both cost in excess of a couple hundred bucks -- in 1980s dollars. One (a dark chocolate brown Biltmore) is pristine, rarely worn -- it was a going away gift from work shortly before I moved to a place where one just doesn't wear such hats -- if, indeed, there is EVER a place a profoundly fake cowboy can wear such a hat. The second (a pale cream Stetson) is a glorious mess. Wore that hat everywhere, much like I'd wear a baseball cap these days. Helped that I drank in hardcore working class bars and was an employee of a intensely C&W radio station.

The hat was re-steamed and shaped many times - a roommate and I learned to do it ourselves over a kettle to save on the cost of having the local hat shop do it. Oh, and to assist with visualization later in this blog, know that the roommate was mostly Ukrainian, a lot Indian, and some French. He, also Steve, was 6'5", ugly in a sweet way, but also in a I-can-rip-your-arms-off-if-I-decide-it-will-amuse-me kind of way, and regularly wore knee-high, hand-made (by women in Inuvik, where he once lived) mukluks and a hand-made, deer-suede, (long) fringed jacket, and ALWAYS a black cowboy hat. Oh, and cowboy boots, of course. (I chose my drinking partners carefully -- when you drink with the big and mean looking you can say much of anything you want when you're a pale, skinny-assed closeted homo wimp).

Steve had a foster brother, Billy, one of the most gorgeous men on the planet, at least in my memory. Native, he had jet black shiny hair to his Levis covered ass. Last time I saw Billy he stopped by the townhouse I shared with 4 other guys in the dead of winter night, and announced, "Hey boyz, I just came tah say hello. Can't stay long, the car is stolen 'n the cops is after me. Yah got any beerz?"

Hmm, booze and hats. When I was 18 I traded a Mennonite boy most of a 26er of CC rye for his hat. We then drove around on his horse drawn buggy sharing the 26er from the bottle until his father arrived -- the 26er long gone -- yelling, jumping onto the buggy AND pulling my new hat from my head and ordering me off the buggy and driving away screaming at his son, who was hot, as I recall.

God, how did I not know I was gay. I'm still pissed I didn't get that hat.

Anyway, when the cream coloured hat was new I treated it with utmost care, so for a couple of months it continued to look like it had just been pulled from the box.

That disturbed those of my friends who were of the school that white running shoes need to be scuffed fast and cowboy hats need look like they've been worn. The roommate, Steve, was of that camp and was continually trying to ruffle the hat. At a major outdoor drinking binge, er, I mean, a music festival called Boggey Creek the hat assumed its real character. When a light rain began to fall I whimpered something about my hat getting wet, fearing for the felt. That was enough for Steve who grabbed it from my head, threw the hat into the dust and began to dance his 250 pound filled cowboy boots all over the hat. To many cheers, I'll point out. Steven had this mock Indian dance he'd do complete with hoop hooping whenever he was drunk and my hat provided the dance floor. He then, in front of hundreds of folks -- we're in the campground section of the music festival -- proceeded to piss on my hat. Finished, he kicked dust all over it and proceeded to dance again. He then picked up the Stetson, walked it to the nearby creek of music festival name, soaked it thoroughly ("a rinse" he said) and plopped it on my head. The hat no longer assuming the shape of a cowboy hat, I looked (for there is a picture)like the hillbilly kid held back a year for stupidity in grade 7. (I believe in the photo I have, in magic marker, a vest painted on my shirtless upper body -- but that's another story from that festival.)

I still have the hat. It's been professionally cleaned a couple of times since then. I suspect, although in a box, it will need steamed and starched into some shape again if ever to be worn. The dark hat will remain as crisp as plywood.

That all popped into my head as I waited for blogger to load so I could blog about Brokeback Mountain the movie, which I'm thinking is gonna prompt some sort of Urban Cowboy thing soon and I might have reason to wear the hats at costume parties or the like soon.

It is with dismay, perhaps (I can't decide) that Brokeback Mountain is getting such critical acclaim. Not because it's a bad movie ('cause it's not, exactly) and not because of anything to do with its gayness or non-gayness or that political bullshit, but because it's simply not the best movie of the year, by any stretch. Not from a movie making viewpoint, least.

My disappointment was not there while actually watching, but the director fails in so many substantial ways with the film that it leaves one wishing upon reflection for what could have been with such a good story and instances of profoundly remarkable acting (in a couple of cases). I'm wondering if maybe I should blame the editor too.

But, I'm outta space to go on about the film, so all you get is the story of a pissed on hat.