The Wrangler’s National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas is the “Super Bowl of Rodeo,” and for 10 straight days cowboys, cowgirls, and rodeo-goers run the Strip.
It might be the only time an international city will make you feel out of place for not wearing a cowboy hat.
Go figure, it's the one cowboy without a cowboy hat who wants to be your friend — a close talking, belligerent drunk who calls himself an “Arizona Urban Cowboy.”
It seems like a good idea, at first.
You're at Gilley's saloon for its legendary NFR “watch party” and post-rodeo pop-up honky-tonk. When you get to the stylized replicas of 18th-century galleons in the Treasure Island Lagoon, you're in the right place.
“Rodeo and honky tonk go hand in hand. This is where you gotta be,” opined one man on his way through the door, buckle like a hubcap hitched at the waist.
But country dancing is best done with a partner. For this night to reach its full potential, you’ll hope to secure additional assets: a wingman, and a cowgirl to dance with.
Though be careful what you wish for.
Arizona Urban Cowboy
By Vegas standards, Gilley’s is basic fare, a ground-level joint on the casino floor that smells of pheromones, cigar smoke and intermittent wafts of weed. But it's the patrons that make a place, which means tonight is not basic fare.
And this is not your basic wingman.
He's tall, clean shaven, about 30, and introduces himself as an “Arizona Urban Cowboy.”
Assuming he’s a representative case, AUCs are cowboys who like to get drunk. Picking up a lot of frat-boy meets ranch hand vibes here.
“It’s gonna happen, it has to. You know why? Because all these girls, you know what they want?” he says, arriving out of nowhere to rest his forearm on your shoulder.
What do they want, you say, maneuvering backwards. He rubs his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for cold, hard cash.
“It is what it is, and that’s OK because I’ll figure it out. I’m not going to rest until I’m making money in my sleep,” he says.
He’s a very close talker, and his uncanny footwork manages to pin you on the bar like a boxer who’s cut off the ring. For reasons unknown, he’s taken to your unrequited liking, which he expresses by breathing on your face as though trying to fog up a window.
Imagine pouring Jack Daniel’s into a steam humidifier, then holding your face 6 inches from the nozzle mist; that’s what we're dealing with.
Fortunately, he’s got a mind to breathe on other faces, including that of a bikini-clad bartender who's just climbed atop Gilley’s mechanical bull.
“NFR! Man, this is IT! Don’t go anywhere,” he says, turning to elbow his way through the crowd in the direction of the bull.
Mechanical Bulls Make You Feel Like A Heel
The bar is named for the country singer Mickey Gilley, who happened to own the original mechanical bull patent, which he bought from its inventor in 1979.
He was also the owner of Gilley's nightclub in Houston, known best as the setting for the 1980 movie "Urban Cowboy," starring John Travolta.
This circles you back to the wingman from Arizona, who you spy across the room with a look like he wants to do more than breathe on the girl riding the bull.
Although, you decide the real creep here is the guy with the joysticks, steering El Toro ringside with a glint in his eye you can only describe as sinister. The next cowgirl hops on in a jean skirt, and in seconds it's coming up over her hips.
She’s in a lurched position with her arms wrapped around the bull's neck. Her posterior is high in the air, jouncing up and down, and pointed for the duration — what a surprise — directly at Mr. Joysticks.
She makes her way through the crowd after the ride and steps on your foot, then turns and says, “I’m so sorry!”
Your first thought is to respond, "No, I’m sorry, for how you were objectified on that bull!'
Your second thought is to ask for a dance.
But you don’t have the courage, because something about the involuntary butt bouncing spectacle makes you feel like a total heel.
Although for all you know, the skirt coming up might have been her plan from the start. She certainly seems to enjoy the flash of post-bull-ride celebrity, as cowboys eagerly clear a path for her through the bar.
Worst Wingman Ever
Your hopes for a dance look up when you meet a cowgirl from Salinas, California. Her name’s Crystal, and she’s a Western fashionista whose favorite part of NFR is the excuse to let her sartorial self out of the barn.
“This is a place where you can wear whatever you want. I love wearing fringe, sparkles and fuuuuuuuurrrrrr!” she says, throwing her head back for emphasis.
Tonight, you compliment her textured Western blouse worn under a black suede vest with fringe. She points out how your bolo tie matches her turquoise necklace, and suddenly there’s chemistry afoot.
But the spark is trampled on by the worst wingman of all time, Arizona urban cowboy, who wedges between and boxes you out like Nikola Jokić.
“Hey! You're pretty. What’s your name?” he says, shamelessly, twirling her vest fringe in his fingers.
More surprising than the audacity of your anti-wingman, though, is the fact that Crystal appears receptive to belligerent charm. It feels like a double betrayal, and I’m not the only one who sees it.
“I’ve been watching this guy, and I don’t like him,” says a blond woman in red pants; she’s Crystal's friend, and from what you can tell she’s got a straight head on her shoulders.
“We like you. You can stay. But this guy, no,” she says, with laser eyes on the anti-wingman.
We concoct a plan to stick him on the mechanical bull, which involves the false promise of free booze. He doesn’t take the bait, and the scene gets more depressing from there.
Apparently, Crystal decides to buy Urban Cowboy a cocktail, which he gladly accepts, right before departing in hot pursuit of another pretty lady. Her friend doesn’t like what she sees.
“Did you buy him a drink? I swear, if you just bought him that drink, I will light him on fire and drag him out of here…” she says, referencing body parts that need not be described here.
It's your cue to sidle away.
‘Should’ve Been A Cowboy’
The dance floor is teeming with happy Texas two-steppers, but somewhere between the mechanical bull and the anti-wingman drama, your honky tonk mojo was lost.
In hard times like these, it's helpful to draw on the wisdom of elders. Fortunately, you land beside a 73-year-old Colorado horseman who’s been to NFR off and on for 25 years.
He goes by the last name Truxel. He has silvery hair long down his back and a gravelly voice like Billy Bob Thorton’s, which has the effect of making his opinions seem both simple and profound – as is his philosophy on honky tonk.
“It's all about the right partner. If you find someone who has got rhythm, and they can move at the pace you want to move at, it's really great. But you can’t force it,” he says.
“Last night — great — great dance partners. Tonight, not so much. But that’s okay, you can still enjoy yourself and listen to the music.”
Sometimes a small bit of advice can provide a big comfort — just listen to the music.
Currently the music is a cover of Toby Keith’s “Should’ve Been a Cowboy.” As many times as you’ve heard the song before, you appreciate it in a completely new way thanks to Truxel.
It's a nice moment. There’s only one person who could possibly ruin it. And here he is again with his forearm on your shoulder, singing the lyrics into your face.
“I should have learned to rope and ride,” croons the worst wingman ever, fogging up your face with hot boozy breath.
“You know what I love about this song,” he says, "It's right. He’s just right, about everything.”
Before he can elaborate, his thoughts drift elsewhere. Like a terrier with eyes on a tennis ball, he spots a pretty young lady and gives her whatever remains of his drunken attention.
On a night of strange surprises, at least you know there are some things you can always predict.
“You’re pretty,” he says to the girl. “What’s your name?”
Contact Zakary Sonntag at zakary@cowboystatedaily.com
Zakary Sonntag can be reached at zakary@cowboystatedaily.com.
