Not with a bang, but a whimper.
My whimper[s]. I forgot that living in Calgary for these 10 days made me hate cowboy boots, and I resent the Stampede immensely for that. Because I fucking love my cowboy boots.
I have never hated Stampede before, really. There are people who loathe it and always have; people who are convinced the whole thing is proof Calgarians were skipped on the road of evolutionary progress. Unlike these Stampede-sceptics, I like country music (I went to the Garth Brooks concert, and I knew every single word). Whether you love or hate two-stepping, however, the city is indisputably electrified with the excitement that such a massive festival can't help but engender. But how long can one be exposed to electricity before looking a little like Jack Nicholson at the conclusion of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Or the end of the Shining, really. Whichever. It takes working in the hospitality industry during Stampede to really establish that strong cowboy hat activated gag reflex. I'm tired of vulgar cut-offs, douchebags wearing Stetsons with their Ed Hardy, hungover coworkers trying to get out of their shifts, and patrons ordering noon hour shots of Honey Jack. I didn't even go down to the grounds on the centennial of the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth. But I'm tired all the same. I need a bath and 12 hours of sleep.
Oh. And I had to kick a crack addict out of the lounge today. So there's that.
Fucking Stampede.
