Everybody has an Annie, at least everyone should. Mine happens to be the longtime companion of my miracle cousin Jan, whom I often refer to as my hero.
It's one tough job to be a hero, but another to be marrried to one, and Jan and Annie have been together for a long, long time. Long enough to have their names fused together like vertebrae in the chiropractor's sample "This could be you!" X-ray, or pumkins placed close together while still on the vine. "JananAnnie" we call them, and I make frequent pilgrimages to their San Diego home to drink up gulps of grounded spirtitual sanity from their Osterizer blender, or sparkling on the surface of their sock-shaped pool.

"Queer Across America" I tell her, as if the name alone will give her as much info as she needs. She nods in accordance and begins the questions meant to inspire and validate me.

I came to S.D. this weekend to film the Golden State Gay Rodeo Association's 15th annual San Diego event. Queer cowboys is a subject that makes just about everybody's eyebrows climb a notch or two, and Annie was no exception.

."What's the difference..." She asks, " . . .between the gay cowboys, and the leathermen?"
She knows that both use symbolic animals (Bears, Bulls or Horses), both involve leather, hats and mustaches.
"Plaid" I tell her, "The cowboys have plaid ".

I stepped into a tent full of mustaches and hats on Thursday night to witness the "Boots and briefs" auction, Cowboys being sold like so much cattle to other cowboys. It was the first in a series of events that would go on all weekend for the rodeo, all proceeds go to charity. The host was a drag queen who asked the subjects a series of questions like "What car do you drive?", and "Are you a top or a bottom?". If they hesitated on either question she would answer it for them "It's a Ford Escort, isn't it?" or she'd say "My God, another screaming bottom, honey of you had to think about your answer, you're not a top!"

In the dance hall were about 100 guys two-stepping or line dancing, and looking very relaxed and at home. They were offering lessons between 7 and 8 to learn the steps (I guess it's just as difficult as it looks) but I decided I was too proud to admit I wasn't a REAL cowboy. I'm certain that the rodeo crowd is a small one that rotates infrequently by the amount of murmur happening as I walked into the room. "Fresh Meat" was all I heard, and I felt a bit self-concious. Me without a hat, in a room full of Matt Dillons, and sporting sneakers.

Day 1 of the rodeo was calf-roping, bull wrestling (called chute-dogging, I think), and I videotaped the footage I needed for my "Queer Acrosss America" project, then promptly took off for the nearest Bootbarn Western Wear Outlet to fix me up with an authentic cowboy outfit. The term "greenhorn" played over and over in my head like a christmas tune on December first.I was hoping a tight fitting pair of jeans with the right colored bandanna would quell that din.

The salesman saw me meander in, a thin young blonde-haired guy, and asked me if he could help me find anything in particular. As I was sifting through the sale items, western shirts with snaps for buttons and double-breasted pockets, that funky stitching across the shoulders you only see on Western styled shirts, I must have looked like I needed help, like a drowning man in that sea of gingham and plaid. I told him I needed to be "outfitted" as if, like drowning itself, that wasn't already obvious. Like a kindly cousin, disinterested in exploiting my embarrasment for his own amusement, he set me up with a new hat, and a pair of jeans that fit "tight in the right places".

At the checkout counter he asked me if I was attending the gay rodeo. Damn, pegged again. "yep" I said, "Good, because I gave you a 10% discount, and I'll see you at the party tonight."

Dancehall: 10 p.m.- It's strange trying to find things to report in this case, because once you get over the boots, butts and hats, it's all pretty much the same as most queer gatherings. One major difference being the boys are very friendly, charming, chatty and warm. I attribute that more to being in San Diego than being among cowboys. None-the-less here's one thing I took away from it; community.
These boys and girls have circled their wagons to form their own firepit, and they have settled easily into a reality for themselves where they can be gay, masculine, loving and strong. In interviews with some of the men I heard that the non-gay rodeos are bit less accepting of queers with steers, so for pure survival purposes the gay rodeo had to exist. These boys would starve to death otherwise, and with 26 different gay rodeo events taking place all over the Untited States annually, there's plenty of un-broke Horses and open dance-floors to keep them busy.
Many of them talked about the finals taking place next month in Tulsa, they'll all be there rooting for each other and two-stepping in the dance hall at night. I regret not taking the lessons offered to learn how to do that, seems that's a better judge of cowboyability than riding a horse, pulliing your boots on right, or wearing your hat well.
Perhaps some blog next month will be a dispatch from Oklahoma, where I express the nuances of line-dancing, and I go into detail about some cowboy who wrestled a steer to the ground, and then swept me off my feet in the ballroom that night.

Chances are, Annie will know all about it before I even get in the door in San Diego, and with her hands in the sink and her back to me, ask me some question about the road to Oklahoma, the blisters on my feet from dancing all night, or the horshoe shaped hickey on my neck that she spotted when I got out of the car, from behind two walls, with the eyes on the back of her head. "How's that Cowboy Project Going for you?" She might ask, "I hear those fuckers can Dance!"

Posted by tommy 10/02/2003

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