CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY W ; <911 The Pendleton Round-Up My gut-level reaction is: There’s a lot of emptiness out here. America is too big. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense anymore! We who live in urban Portland and the Willamette Valley forget about Eastern Oregon, over the Cascades. Pendleton is where the heartland of America begins, that vast flatness which is a state of mind. Pat Boone will speak tomorrow. The airwaves are filled with Christian b.s. and small- mindedness. Lots of ranchers and wives and thermos buckets full of beer. Cowboy hats and boots carrying potbellies. Smugness. Everybody’s in a good mood. A rodeo celebrates rancher heritage. The copyrighted motto of the Pendleton Round-Up is: “ Let ’er buck!” What the hell does that mean? Let ’er buck! Let ’er fuck! What is there in male psychology which seeks to dominate a horse, a cow, a woman? They sell souvenirs. Olympia beer SUNDAY AT THE BAGEL LADIES . . . is a Sunday morning classic—fresh-baked bagels with cream cheese and lox, and lots of deli specialties at our Southwest store. We serve it up with good coffee from The Coffee Bean and fresh- squeezed orange juice. We have the same fresh Sunday morning bagels, to take out only, at our Northeast store. 4118 NE Fremont 282-8627 4830 SW Scholls Ferry Rd 292-9750 is a dollar a cup! You pay $4 for a paper bucket of beer. About quartsize. Boom! An explosion starts the buckeroo. Then the Star-Spangled Banner. There’s a free-for-all squaw race. A six-foot-five dude in braids and falsies rides around the muddy track, to laughter. The announcer says: “ Gladys, you really look good.” He will say about the wet track: “ I hope you got your snorkels on!” Mellow and good natured, yet — there’s a hidden racism here. Cowboys vs. Indians. Pendleton is located in the middle of the Umatilla Indian Reservation. The Indians participate, with the “ Happy Canyon” show at night. There are a hundred teepees erected behind the arena. Lip service is given to Indian pageantry in the middle of the program. But most whites walk to the exit to buy beer during that time. A punky-looking white kid says, “ Boo!” when a minute of silent prayer is offered for Clarence Burke, now-dead Indian a long time associated with the Round-Up. I can’t stay in my seat. The way the stadium has been designed, you can’t see a damned thing. The chutes are on one side, the prime seats. When you move around, everybody bitches for you to get down. A woman yells at me, “We paid for our tickets!” I yell back, “ I paid for mine, too!” It’s better to go to a small rodeo, like the all-Indian rodeo at Tygh Valley. I’m trying to take photos of the brahma bulls, my favorites. They’re mean! Of course, if you had nuts as large as a football, dragging them through the sagebrush and over barbed wire, you’d be mean, too! One has an entire horn broken off. Kids try to pet them through the fence, or prod them. I smell the cowshit, the piss, and the beer. It’s fun. The announcer says: “ Folks, welcome Angel Saint. This scrappy little mare holds the all-world bestbucking title last year.” She bucked so hard, the cowboy didn’t even get out of the chute to make his ride. Whites don’t seem to associate with Indians, and Indians don’t with whites. They cluster in different groups. Indians around the beer stand. There is a line-up to use the restroom. One Indian kid playfully starts to kick a white security cop in the butt when his back is turned, but changes his mind. I see Indian winos from Portland Skid Road. An Indian woman woefully struggles with three kids, one a baby, another in a stroller. No male helps her. “ You buy the beer!” one drinker chortles madly. Others drunkenly toss coins. “Oooh! Ohh!” the loser says. The Indians are shit-faced, and so are the whites. That’s democracy! I left when the bull riding ended. I always leave when the bullshit begins! A bull named Snuffy. In Fairness to Cowboys Old-time cowbays earned an honest living. It was hard work on the range, and you needed to be skilled. Nowadays millionaire movie stars and corporations own the ranches. I have respect for guys who can ride and rope and work in all weather. Under the bleachers, as we watched the bulldogging, I spoke with an old- time cowboy. He has worked for a local rancher, Dick Snow. He was worn out, but the real thing. I asked him if cowboys still moved cattle from spring and winter pastures. He said, “On small ranches, they still do .” He volunteered further, “ Rodeo cowboys began to make money after the Second World War. Before then, they did it for fun.” He added, “ It’s hard to even make expenses unless you’re a top money winner. Your wife has to take the horse and the trailer to the next rodeo. You’re always on the road.” There can be big money in rodeo, until you get hurt. Rodeo clown Jerry Mariluch was gored severely by a brahma last week. He’d made $55,000 last year. Cowboys were passing the hat for him at Pendleton. The East Oregonian newspaper showed a picture of Gov. Vic Atiyeh serving pancakes at breakfast, and mentioned that Robert Redford was the first male to be on the cover of The Ladies ’ Home Journal. Did you see Robert Redford and Jane Fonda in The E lectric Horseman! John Travolta rides a mechanical bull in a bar in Urban Cowboy. President Carter and Willie Nelson sing Amazing Grace together. Are these our heroes? We need new heroes. Pendleton “Drug store cowboys eat shit and bark at the moon. ” graffiti, The Lead Nickel Saloon Pendleton is a town of 11,000 or so. The gothic-looking Eastern Oregon Hospital and Training Center is located here, with a high brick chimney. (Several months ago, interns were indicted for abusing retarded patients.) Lots of brick buildings downtown. None higher than two or three stories. You could be in Idaho, or Arizona, or Nevada, the centennial. But . the place looks seedy, with a carnival. Bowman Hotel, steam heated. It’s still The I’m looking for Tiny’s Tavern. It was an Indian tavern, where I got drunk seven years ago. The Indians and us had a metaphysical conversation about football teams, the Huskies and the California Bears. “ Them bears,” they said, “ are tough.” Pretty soon, I realized they were reverting to cultural history. They were referring to the totems of their clans! The ravens are smarter than the wolves, etc. It stunned me. “ It’s not there no more,” a plump gas attendant told me. “ Tiny’s became Judy Q’s Steakhouse. It’s out of business.” “ The Lead Nickel Saloon. I value my face. I don’t like to fight. People get rowdy. That’s what the whole Round-Up is.” 36
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