No Hat, No Cattle

No boots to scoot.  Taking in Diamond Rio from the not-so-cheap seats.

It is safe to say that without my wife, my social life would be almost nonexistent.  She has been dragging me out of the house for 20-plus years and I still get butterflies of reticence each time.  Last week while watching our daughter’s volleyball practice, my wife casually mentioned having tickets to something called the Cattle Baron’s Ball and gauged my interest in attending.  It was that coming Saturday night, four days away.

Making autumn plans on Saturday is always dicey due to my devotion to a certain Burnt Orange-clad football team.  The game that day was set to kick at 11am, freeing my evening. Unless of course, my team lost, and I spent the rest of the day in a depressed state of pointless lamentation.  That didn’t seem likely, however.

The Cattle Baron’s Ball, as my wife explained, is a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society with an obvious Western theme. Urban Cowboy with hedge funds.  Appetizers, or hors d’oeuvres in this type of setting, would be provided along with dinner, an open bar, and live entertainment.  The band was Diamond Rio, not to be confused with Diamond REO, or REO Speedwagon (d. 2024, thank you, Kevin Cronin’s ego). Diamond Rio came on the national scene in the 1990s when country singers sported mullets and bolo ties. 

As with most social opportunities, I remained noncommittal.  My wife had a table to fill and put me on standby should other more interested parties prove unavailable.  

Saturday, I learned I was her plus-one.  As I mentioned, this was a Western-themed event, or cowboy after-five, as I refer to it.  I haven’t a stitch of Western wear and had less than two hours to cobble together something presentable.  I’ve often considered acquiring a cowboy hat, mostly for ironic pairings.  Given my passion for the Texas Longhorns, a pair of cowboy boots might be cool, but clearly not at the top of my priority list. With my daughter’s first club volleyball tuition payment having gone out this week, I would not be splurging. Nor will I before next summer.

When I was young, my mother considered a pair of boots to be an essential part of my winter wardrobe. To her ever-concerned mind, sneakers were not appropriate for cold, wet weather, and cold, wet feet, of course, lead to illness which nobody wanted.  As such, each November, she’d take me to a Western store for a new pair of Dingo boots that I would doggedly resist wearing for the next four months.  You can play football with wet feet; you can't in cowboy boots. My wife could at least borrow our daughter’s boots.  Devoid of options, I went with jeans, white shirt, sports jacket, and Jordans.  I’m not Phil Lynott, the cowboy life is not the life for me. 

The Ball was held on a ranch a few miles south of our home.  From the outset, it was evident that this was something of a big deal.  A valet took our car, and with it, six months of Costco gas receipts, an empty Diet Pepsi can, various fast-food napkins, and likely a pair of our daughter’s dirty volleyball socks. 

We received VIP wristbands and after a quick look around, I was certain this was not the average, run-of-the-mill, Coors Light-chugging, Saturday night shitkickers’ hoedown. The men dressed like Bret Maverick and many of the women resembled Dana Delany’s character in Tulsa King. Others paired short skirts with boots. The majority of guests wore cowboy hats. Guys end up looking either like country singers or used car salesmen of ill repute.  My wife and I had barely entered the tent when people started pushing booze.  There was a local lager with a drop-in.  From there, I was summoned to a table where a distillery was pouring whisky called Same Old Moses.

Cattle barons enjoy a good whisky in the evenings once the boots have been pulled off and gauchos have been escorted off the property. Unfortunately, I never developed a taste for whisky.  When it comes to liquids, my palate ceased expansion when I was twenty-three. Except for the occasional tropical libation, I never got beyond beer.

“What’s your gateway whisky?” I asked. 

There was such a thing, and I was told all about it, as a sample was poured.

It was smooth with a satisfying burn that traveled quickly.  Non-stop service to the frontal lobe with access to the decision-making lounge. I understood the appeal, but it was far too stout for me. I was out of my depth and needed to get back to the penny slots.  I went to the bar and ordered a Pennsylvania Budweiser, Yuengling.  

Outside the VIP tent, a circle had been cordoned off.  I found it occupied by a tag team of fire twirlers.  A country and western band played behind them, forming a peculiar experience.  I had excused myself to visit the restroom.  Guests stood around the circle snapping photos and video of the display.  By the time I returned, the crowd had dissipated, the fire twirling having exhausted its shelf life.  

Inside the main barn, the guests took their seats at assigned tables waiting to be served dinner.  As this was a fundraiser, buzzes were suspended while horrific stories of cancer were shared via video and in-person testimony.  It’s been said many times and many ways, but cancer does indeed suck.

After a fine dinner, the auction began. I knew from my surroundings that this was going to be more lucrative–and expensive than the typical fundraising auction.  We weren’t going to be bidding on three hip-hop dance lessons or automobile detailing packages. Cancer is not only a bastard, it’s an expensive bastard.  It was going to take some nice carrots to make these horses trot.

I find auctions fascinatingly irritating. They add an element of obnoxiousness to otherwise staid events.  Every auctioneer I’ve ever seen looks like Jeff Foxworthy, with maybe the occasional Kix Brooks peppered in.  These characters combine vaudeville with used car sales acumen to milk every dollar possible out of the attendees.  Their repartee is drawn directly from 1001 Dad Jokes. 

The most notable thing about auctioneers is the rapidity at which they can speak.  I don’t know if one is born with this ability, it is cultivated, or they simply take amphetamine suppositories prior to showtime.  Whatever the case, these dudes move their tongues so fast one would think they’d be popular with the ladies.  They should probably ditch the dad jokes. 

A live auction combines multiple variables impacting outcomes. They allow people to overpay for things they don’t need. Open bars help.  I once bought a very expensive hockey ticket when I’d had too much to drink.  Other than my own personal fulfillment, no charity was involved.  Live auctions also allow people the opportunity to flex their wealth in front of other members of their income tax bracket.  If this doesn’t work, a good auctioneer isn’t above shaming. 

“What are you, cattle barons or ranch hands?  Get dem dur paddles up in the air!”

I had borrowed a dollar from a ranch hand to tip the bartender.  My paddle remained flat on the table for the duration of the night.  Besides, I have no real desire to kill a large horned creature in Africa.

A line dance demonstration followed the auction.  I had thought–and fervently hoped–this trend had died, taking with it, Mo Betta shirts. Audience participation was stout, enthusiastic, and largely female.  After a brief lesson, the boot scooters were left to their own devices.  Men joined the fray, and the scene took on the look of a pharmaceutical ad.  Rheumatoid arthritis.  Probably Humira.

“Worst opening act ever,” I huffed to my wife.  This was no off-the-cuff remark.  I saw Limp Bizkit open for Primus.  I was convinced I’d witnessed the nadir. 

Diamond Rio took the stage to the delight of the crowd, many of whom, like my wife, were fans during the band’s halcyon days in the 1990s. Fueled by the combination of alcohol and live music, the dance floor in front of the stage was packed with revelers.  I watched from my seat at the table.  The band was tight, and I was surprised at how many of their songs I recognized from my days working in a redneck stronghold in college.  I have to say, it was good to see people enjoying themselves.

This is only the second country music concert I’ve attended.  From that small sample size, I can say country performers express a delight and appreciation for their fans that rock acts are too cool to convey.  The band didn’t force feed the audience new material, tinker with alternate arrangements, or withhold their hits. Diamond Rio understood the assignment.

The night air had turned cold by the time we funneled outside to await the valets.  Not surprisingly, they were efficient, and within five minutes we were in our car. During the drive home, my wife, proud owner of a guitar pick courtesy of Diamond Rio lead singer Marty Roe, commented on how much she’d enjoyed the evening.  Though I’d never come right out and admit it, I was glad that she, yet again, dragged me out of the house.