July 9, 2000
Stampee’d.
Living here during the month of July means living with the Calgary Stampede. If you’re not familiar with the Stampede, it’s billed as “the greatest outdoor show on earth” mainly because “the greatest show on earth” was already taken, and technically most of the event is held outdoors. It consists of a medium sized, mechanically questionable midway, concession stands peddling consumable and even possibly digestible foodstuffs manufactured entirely from animal by-products, rodeo clowns, horse shit, limp fireworks, and a parade that basically shuts off the downtown core for an entire Friday morning. Generally, the population of my home town falls into one of two categories: a) those who can’t wait for the Stampede to start because “dammit, I could really use an excuse to go on a 10 day piss-up while wearing undersized denim shirts to the office”, and; b) those who could give less than a rat’s crap about it. Under closer examination, I’ve noticed a few subgroups that don’t fall distinctly into either of these two primary (and obviously diametrically opposed) categories.
- those forced to dress western by their peers
- those addicted to miniature cake donuts
- those protesting the treatment of rodeo livestock
- those who sell cheap thematic curios
- those who have children
I guess I fall into that last category, although this year we are skipping the festivities because we have so many other summery things to do. As attractive a calling card the combined smell of corn dogs and manure baked onto asphalt is, I know that the Stampede will still be there next year. Yahoo, dammit.
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