When we first expressed interest in attending the Professional Bull Riders event last weekend at Madison Square Garden, PR man Jack Carnefix apprised us of the rules. Number one, we must “buckle up.” Number two, if we “go on Friday [we’re] going to want to come back Saturday. And if we go Saturday [we’re] going to want to come back on Sunday.”
(It is important to note at this point that The Transom is a wire-thin arts reporter, a Brit whose Queen’s English and Hugh Grantish stammer sounds like a royal parody.)
With weekend plans disregarded, there followed an anxious ride on the metro to Penn Station, early Friday afternoon, wondering what to expect. Will the bulls be chasing a fox? Would there be a ringleader with a bugle? Should we have bought our jodhpurs?
On our arrival, we joined the herd of cowboy hats and flannel shirts streaming into the arena, welcomed by the sound of Kenny Rodgers’s “Oh Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” At the bar more burly blokes in flannels and their denim-clad lasses drank Jack Daniels, all the time singing to an obscure compilation of country music that was foreign to this Englishman’s ears.
It appears New York is not as American as one had imagined. Or rather, is very American, but only when you give it a chance to be. Read More