Disunited States of Bohemia: So that's where all the cowboys went

It's 7pm, 102°F outside, 89°F inside - and climbing. Rachel and Ethan have taken refuge at the lake. Our recently installed and literally fantastic whole house fan is a modern wonder, but only works when it's cooler outside than in, i.e. in the case of tonight, probably about 2am.

Of course, most of suburban America is air-conditioned these days, at considerable expense both to the individual and the environment, but with the advantage of making vast swathes of the country habitable to people other than hardy pioneering folk.

Still, the hardy folk abide. I've seen them with my own eyes. July the Fourth was the day we headed down to the Molalla Buckaroo Rodeo - an event on a smaller scale that its sister in St Paul, OR (check out the video on the homepage), and thus cheaper and more down to earth. Ethan's ice-lolly cost a dollar which seemed such a ludicrously low fee that I thought I had misheard him, and when the price was confirmed, was tempted to tip (note just tempted, of course). The audience is for the most part rural, white and Hispanic, and charming to the point where even the most misanthropic Englishman (Will Self?) might temporarily relax amongst his fellow man. The soundtrack is of course Country (I don't think anyone calls it Country & Western any more), and leans heavily towards the jingoistic end of the spectrum, the kind of sound that used to make me want to laugh and hurl simultaneously, but which I have now learned to tolerate, though without nearly the grace with which the fans of this music appear to tolerate my presence in their country. And it was Independence Day. Of course, it still makes Rachel want to hurl ~ Exhibit A: Darryl Worley - Have You Forgotten?

Anyhow, let's side-step the politics and concentrate on the entertainment; it is, after all, one of the great liberties of my alien status that I can ignore the (polite) scoffing of my fellow Portlanders and indulge my love of Americana without heed to the confines of class or upbringing which might prevent me, say, from attending an underground bare-knuckle boxing match in Stepney or, indeed, a jolly old fox hunt across the Downs.

Rugby players are a fairly tough crowd, granted. Far, far tougher than I. These fellas, however, make the Five Nations look like the chess club I used to attend at Streatham Wells Primary School. The whole thing is a truly incredible spectacle of training, horsemanship and machismo. I for one will be back next year - and I'll be wearing my Stetson.

Left: that would be a cowboy. Right: Ethan cools off with an Italian ice. It was ninety-something degrees.

The event kicked off with what I'm going to call synchronized riding. It was all highly choreographed and impressive. All cowgirls here, I think. This is probably considered the dainty stuff.