Yes indeedy, I'm stuck in Sodom-in-the-Desert, Lost Vegas, for a day, playing cowboy — "No, little lady, I'm not...I only found the the hat..." — Am at Bally's, where I'm paying $269 a night for the last non-smoking room in the house, which happens to be half a conference room with a Murphy bed...honest. The room is huge, so there's no problem with my horse. Haha.
As it happens, the town is full of real and faux cowboys, Western Market, Cowboy Gifts, a big chunk of Rodeo and the Single Action Shooting Society annual Christmas convention, which we're here to film. This makes for a strange cowboy-hatted hierarchy...the guys with the big belt buckles and strapping tape on their clavacles look askance at the ranchers and stockmen, who also have, in addition to the hats, big belt buckles but with all bones presently intact. Both of them sniff openly at the sheepskin jacket tourquoise-clad Aspen cowboys (and aging cowboyettes), who look at the Shady Brady wearing tourists as if they just crawled out from under a rock, which a cynical person might argue was indeed the case.
At the very end of this food chain is me and Tequila and the cowboy shooters, and nobody looks askance at us because, while we may be short of belt buckles, we are rumored to have guns...with bullets.
The net result is...a lot of hat tippin', missy! Yee-hawhaw! Bring on the showgirls and saddle my pony, Celine! Where's them damn white tigers?
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