Never in the bulk of my half-century of life did I envision embracing any sort of cowboy or Country-Western motif – be it style, music, decor or anything. For so long it just didn’t catch my fancy, aside from the occasional ‘Don’t Tell Me’ moment or a Beyonce foray into a funky little ‘Texas Hold Em’ song. Even Tom Ford’s Texas background and proclivity for cowboy boots wasn’t enough to persuade my feet into similar attire. Time, however, works its mysterious ways with us, and as a wise woman once noted, that which you resist is that which you eventually become. Up until now I’d never quite squared how that worked, but after years of avoiding and not being interested in or enamored of the country cowboy atmosphere, I’m fully immersed and loving every minute of it.
Granted, this is largely still a pose, but most of my lasting transformations began with just a pose, so I’m not sure this one won’t last. And it’s a refreshing switch-up from the razzle dazzle extra-excess in which I typically dwell.
In some ways, I’ve always been a cowboy at heart – or a disguised cowboy as my nephew would more accurately put it. There’s a rebelliousness and defiance of mainstream societal limits and boundaries that aligns with similar vibes in a cowboy’s life. The older I get, the more compliant I get in some ways (out of sheer laziness and apathy), but in others I seem to be growing more defiant and stubborn, embracing all that goes against the traditional grain of society, questioning our silly social rules and regulations. One must keep oneself entertained, and the mind sharp, even if cowboys don’t often live anywhere near forever.
In these parts, a gay cowboy is really just a cowboy. Cowboys have historically never much taken to identifying themselves as gay or straight or anything other than a cowboy. It’s a modern-day defiance of labels that runs back to a time long before being gay was commonly named. Here, we celebrate gayness and queerdom and all the diversity of the world, especially when it comes to cowboy living – because at his heart, a cowboy is all about living to let live.
To that end, this celebratory post features a favorite song by The Cowgays (see also Chris Housman in his Dazzler of the Day crowning here). It’s a hand-clapping exercise in self-acceptance and self-love for all us gay kids who grow up wondering if we were worthy of it.
Wish I wasn’t gay, wish I wasn’t gay I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more Clap your hands for Jesus, hallelujah, praise the Lord I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more
Used to lay in bed at night and cry myself to sleep Tossing and a-turning, wondering why Thought that damned old devil had a hold on me ‘Til the day I finally saw the light
When I think back to how absolutely lost I felt as a gay kid, with no internet, no gay visibility, and no idea that everything I was feeling wasn’t wrong or twisted or sinful, I marvel at how relatively well-adjusted I turned out in spite of that (while simultaneously marveling at how genuinely fucked-up I was in terms of how ill-equipped and unloved I felt when I dared to step into my queerness). Things cut every which way back then, and there are still repercussions to having grown up like that.
Wish I wasn’t gay, wish I wasn’t gay I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more Clap your hands for Jesus, I done shut that closet door And I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more
Without guides or support or the basic recognizance of seeing myself in just about anyone else, I made my way mostly alone, and at the worst time of one’s life to be alone. Those formative years, while difficult tin many ways, served to fortify and build a strength in me that most of my friends didn’t need to have at such an age, and that some lucky people don’t really need at any age. I’m grateful for having built myself up then, and glad, in retrospect, to have done it all by myself, because it taught me I could survive just about anything, even when left entirely to my own devices. That’s a striking sense of independence that I wouldn’t trade for any years of youthful ease; it prepared me better than most to deal with an awful and often unfair and unjust world. Gay people of a certain age are simply built stronger, because we had to be. It was that or die, sometimes quite literally, and I had my fair share of close calls. It’s hard to feel like you belong somewhere when you never felt you belonged anywhere, and if you don’t feel like you belong at at early age you do wonder at what value you have on this earth.
Preacher used to tell me I was headed straight to Hell For something that I tried but couldn’t change Had to walk through fire ’til I found myself Holy revelation, I’ve been saved
Wish I wasn’t gay, wish I wasn’t gay I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more Clap your hands for Jesus, hallelujah, I’m reborn I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more
Strangely enough, and it came from somewhere deep within me, some vain sliver of a belief in myself, I never once wished I wasn’t gay. It would have been easier in those days, it would have made things fit comfortably into place, it would have solved any number of issues that came from being closeted and repressed and forced into a life that wasn’t natural for me – but for some reason I never crossed into that particular realm of self-hatred. Oh I hated myself for many reasons, but my queerness wasn’t ever really one of them. (There was so much more to hate than the fact that I found men attractive!) Still, I understood soon and well enough that being gay would indeed be more than ample reason for others to hate me, so I wouldn’t admit it until the age of 18.
Thought that I was lost with no end in sight ‘Til I found my chosen family tree Any friend of Dorothy’s is a friend of mine So cheers to the queers like you and me
Once I did, however, there was no going back, and forging a way for my gay self at a time when not everyone did was forging an existence brazenly fired in the heat of defiance and courage. In some ways, it made everything that followed a bit of a cake walk – something I need to remind myself when I recoil from simpler challenges. It made me into the man you see before you – and in a lot of ways it made me the cowboy I’ve only recently discovered in myself.
Wish I wasn’t gay, wish I wasn’t gay I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more Clap your hands for Jesus, hallelujah, praise the Lord I don’t wish I wasn’t gay no more!
Growing up in the small town of Amsterdam, New York meant I was more on the town side of things rather than the rural landscape that was on the outskirts, and the only barn I frequented as a child, and not very frequently at that, was a fast-food joint called The Red Barn. It actually looked like its namesake – a large open-aired barn-type structure of red that stood in a shopping plaza off Route 30, right next to the old-school drugstore called Fay’s. Nearby in the parking lot was a tiny little photo-development place called FotoHut or something that, which was literally the size of a closet. It’s where we would get family photos developed. At the dawn of the 1980’s, this is where my childhood was taking place, and if it feels quaint now, it definitely didn’t feel so at the time.
The Red Barn was supposedly one step up from McDonald’s and Burger King, and several steps down from the most basic of restaurants, and naturally as a kid I loved it. It was always a toss-up between that and Arthur Treacher’s when it came to treats our parents occasionally afforded us as children – kids loving anything salty and fried and coming with the possibility of soda. We rarely got such things at our healthy home-cooked kitchen, so the Red Barn was a rare treat and exercise in how the other half lived.
Class distinctions for someone of relative privilege, such as myself, didn’t go very noticed at the age I was when we visited the Red Barn, nor for some years after that. That comes with privilege, because comfort doesn’t demand notice until such time it is removed.
Cowboys often clash with culture and class, and this space is too small and limited to offer much more than passing glances and surface rumination on that. Instead, a pose before a barn painted red will have to suffice, positing its own questions based solely on imagery, and a pieced-together history that I can barely even remember anymore.
Willie Nelson gets some help from Orville Peck on this rendition of ‘Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other’ which was originally written by Ned Sublette way back in 1981 (yeah, this cowboy was alive then by a few years). It gained notoriety when Willie Nelson first covered it in 2006, followed by this duet with Orville Peck in 2024. Today it finds a proper place in the pantheon of cowboy songs we’re enjoying for the fall of 2026. A good song transcends time, bringing the listener along for every iteration and every generation. This one sets up the juxtaposition of the country western motif with the existence of gay cowboys – because when my biased mind used to think of cowboys, it hasn’t always been with the open acceptance we’ve been attributing to them here. My cowboy world is strikingly different from reality in so many elements, and it posits a new view and a new characterization, based on previous pockets of defiance, which is the very essence of a true cowboy.
Well, there’s many a strange impulse out on the plains of West Texas There’s many a young boy who feels things he can’t comprehend And a small town don’t like it when somebody falls between the sexes No, a small town don’t like it when a cowboy has feelings for men
And I believe to my soul that inside every man there’s the feminine And inside every lady there’s a deep manly voice, loud and clear And a cowboy may brag about things that he’s done with his women But the ones who brag loudest are the ones that are most likely queer
While the cowboy world of the Old West may at first glance seem inhospitable and impossible for a gay cowboy to make his way, there is a hidden history of people who had been ostracized as different who lived as they were – people of color seeking to escape social exclusion of other areas (particularly after the Civil War – and it’s notable that around that time one in four cowboys was black or Latino), trans people who sought the freedom of the frontier communities (as seen in Peter Boag’s book ‘Re-Dressing America’s Frontier Past’) and cowboys who lived together, forming bonds of family and friendship and sometimes even love. The latter weren’t using ‘gay’ to describe their lifestyle or their actions – as action was it was all about. Many considered the act of two men living together and getting it on just that: an action not indicative of any defined sexuality. It was a way of living that lacked labels and somehow allowed for greater difference than the boxes we want to assign people today. Not that there’s anything wrong with labels or letters or anything that helps people understand each other better.
Cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other What did you think all them saddles and boots was about? There’s many a cowboy who don’t understand The way that he feels for his brother And inside every cowboy, there’s a lady that’d love to slip out
I find it fascinating that so many so-called ‘fringe’ elements of society came together under the cowboy guise, and then were buried under years of white-washing and homophobic history-revision. We were there, we were part of that world, yet the rest of society has worked to erase us from that space. A true cowboy is welcoming and open to all people, largely living to let live, and not bothering with what people wanted to do at the end of the day. That’s my definition of a cowboy. It’s also the driving impetus of this fall, and if it turns the Old West on its head, maybe it’s time for a different sort of revision – one that puts the diversity and open-minded acceptance of a dream utopia back into the cowboy realm where it’s always belonged.
And there’s always somebody who says what the others just whisper And mostly that someone’s the first one to get shot down dead So when you talk to a cowboy don’t treat him like he was a sister You can’t fuck with a lady that’s sleepin’ in each cowboy’s head
While it’s nice to dream of such a scenario and work towards such a promise, the reality is much different, and often much more tragic. But I’m here for the fight, I’m here for the battle, I’m here for the war. And if I want to wear a cowboy hat and sing Willie Nelson tunes and maybe even learn a line dance or two (ok maybe not that) then let us have a cowboy’s life.
Cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other What did you think all them saddles and boots was about? There’s many a cowboy who don’t understand The way that he feels for his brother And inside every lady, there’s a cowboy who’d love to come out And inside every cowboy, there’s a lady that’d love to slip out
The Fall of the Cowboy is off to a rollicking start, and on this first of October it feels like a fine and fitting place to pause for a spell and revisit how far we’ve already come. It’s been a long time since a new image/era/project had me feeling this inspired, which means it’s unfolding precisely how it should be – that the universe has finally aligned after years of feeling slightly out of sync. That doesn’t mean my demons have been eradicated – in fact, this only seems to have put them in clearer focus – and that’s good. You can’t vanquish what you cannot see; you cannot destroy what you cannot name. While nobody falls as hard as a cowboy, nobody rises as miraculously as a cowboy either. Let’s revisit where this cowboy’s already taken us…
Thirty days hath September – April, June and November…
Somehow the last day of September is already upon us – and I’m left wondering what the hell I’ve been doing for this month, other than transforming into the cowboy before you – a cowboy in name and spirit more than action and reality – for such has always been my life. The transition from September to October has often been marked by emotional upheaval – and next month will mark seven years since I stopped drinking, which no longer feels like the big deal it once did. Not that I’m not still happy with the decision, and thrilled with how much it freed and inspired me to work on myself in ways that alcohol was only ever going to mask and disguise – I’m just not sure how much more there is to say about it. Maybe I’m feeling a little tired and exposed, a little worn and weary. It’s too early in this fall to be anywhere near this exhausted; it’s too late in my life to be anything less than exhausted.
And yet… and yet. Whenever I find myself on the edge of a field – a field that stretches out into sunshine and shadow, a field that runs further than the eye can see, that disappears from sight before it ends – I find the desire and impulse to start running – as fast and as hard as I can, the way I used to run up the street as a young boy, trying to get away from everything that was wrong in my childhood. Then the exhaustion I feel as a fifty-one-year-old man slips away, and my boots strike out and into soft, lumpy stretches of grass. Exhilarated, the mind impels the body to keep going, until lungs burn, until legs sting, until I have to admit I’m human, until I have to admit I’m too old to do this, even if I’m not.
It’s strange how trying on the life of a cowboy has me finding out more about myself than when I was decked out in the feathers and sequins everyone thinks of as my true style. Putting on the damage of another persona may be the freedom from being myself that my overthinking and overanalyzing ass needs. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the books: distraction and fluff to allow for your mind to unwind. When you focus on something for too long and too intently, you completely lose sight of it. You need to get out of yourself. For me, getting into the cowboy is the best way of getting out of myself.
This post goes out to my pardner in life Andy, and the shirt is my homage to his love for cars. T-shirts have marked a couple of occasions for us – the first being the ‘Get Wicked Tonight’ shirt he wore when he met my parents way back in 2000. (In fairness to us both, he didn’t know he was meeting them at that particular moment, and I didn’t know he would be wearing that t-shirt.) Later that same fall, I had a t-shirt made that said ‘Puddin’ on it, which was his name for a hot young piece of ass, which I have always aspired to be. Being someone’s arm candy was a relatively new role for me at the time, one that I slid happily into with arrogant aplomb. Twenty-six years ago, there were deeper things at work between us, and while ‘Foxy Lady’ may be the song that Andy assigned to me at the time, this song speaks to the more poignant love that was developing between us.
I’ll always remember the song they were playing The first time we danced and I knew As we swayed to the music and held to each other I fell in love with you
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Could you be my partner every night? When we’re together, it feels so right Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
How could we have known that we’d go on to be together for the next quarter of a century and counting? We couldn’t, and we didn’t, and in those early weeks every day seemed to be a breaking point day. Not necessarily in a bad way, and not always in a great way – simply in the way that the early days of any relationship are fraught… with every emotion. That’s a sign that it’s going to matter.
I’ll always remember that magic moment When I held you close to me As we move together, I knew forever You’re all I’ll ever need
For all my cowboy-like independence – an independence I would insist on maintaining, sometimes to my detriment over the years – I also knew I wanted to belong to somebody, and that somebody was Andy. Back then, he had all these blue circular stickers on his CDs, and when I asked him why he said he was tired of ex boyfriends making off with his stuff, so he’d started putting these stickers on his CDs so they would know which ones were his. Somehow one of them got stuck on his wallet, and when he noticed it, he took it off and put it on my hand with a devilish smile. From that moment on, I knew my heart would belong to him.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Could you be my partner every night? When we’re together, it feels so right Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
The crux of healthy independence and healthy dependence was the space of tension for those early months, but we worked our way through it because we knew we had something special. We also took things one day at a time rather than weighing ourselves down with arguments over never or forever. Throughout it all, a tenderness was taking place, along with a peace and calm and feeling of destiny I’d not experienced before. We were designing our own cowboy dance, forging our own partnership, and twenty-six years ago the world was a very different place – we couldn’t even get legally married back then.
This song was one of the first I learned on the piano, and it was a favorite of my Mom’s. Now it rings differently, reminding me of my husband, of all the years we have shared, of the life we have created together. Some cowboys have an independent streak that never gets broken – I knew I wanted a partner, and Andy wanted that too.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Could you be my partner every night? When we’re together, it feels so right Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
Our Fall of the Cowboy posits a deeper rumination of what it means to embody the spirit of a cowboy, and for many the deeper question for a cowboy comes to the choice between romance, love and partnership or independent solitude and going through life alone. It speaks to the greater question of how much we’re willing to give up in order to get what we think we want. The problem with love is that eventually it requires compromise and negotiation, and a cowboy doesn’t need or want to bother with such stuff. They do what they want, when and how they want, and there’s no one to answer to, and no need to discuss further. There is also a definite cost, often a very high cost.
The question for all of us is how much of it is worth it if you are someone who wants to be alone? If you can do anything you want to do are you willing to give that up to be with someone? Strange that a cowboy should conjure such questions in modern-life, but that’s one of the thrilling ways this theme resonates in so many of our lives.
Some might question how true of a cowboy they are if they need another person: the nature of a cowboy is to not need anyone. This may not hold true for all cowboys, but it is certainly the case for the cowboy in our upcoming fall tale.
The Fall of the Cowboy is a love story. It’s a story about choosing to be with someone instead of choosing to be alone. A cowboy most often chooses solitude, with notable exceptions when he wants to get laid. Cowboys make very good lovers in the physical sense. Anyone unavailable and aloof is somehow hotter. Cowboys often have a great deal of practice when it comes to lovemaking, yet cowboys make awful lovers in the emotional sense. The death of the cowboy comes whenever he falls in love and chooses another person over his cowboy nature.
The Fall of the Cowboy is also about choosing to go through life alone, being completely true to yourself and to what you want without thinking of anyone else. It wholeheartedly embraces the notion that sharing a life with someone means giving up independence, not entirely, not completely, but in some essential ways, and the decision becomes whether you’re going to be entirely self-sufficient or allow your heart to rely on someone else. There are dangers inherent in both and I am not in any way proposing one over the other. These are just choices we all have to make. The Cowboy is a rugged example and sample for the more subtle and refined emotions all humans eventually experience.
“Day by day and night by night we were together – all else has long been forgotten by me.” ~ Walt Whitman
The letters fell into my possession through chance and luck, and maybe some nudge of the universe that understood only I could put them out and share a bittersweet story with the world – one of likely many similar stories from a time when it was dangerous and deadly to be different. They came from a time when men would not have typically written to each other, and if by some strange stroke they did, not much of import would have been said. In that respect, there is more to be read between the lines and within the omissions than is usually there, which makes deciphering this love story – if that’s what it is – especially tricky. I’ve taken great license and probably made a bunch of shit up, but it didn’t really feel like I was writing this. Something or someone else compelled my hands across lined paper, slowly drawing forth a story that is based only on letters – ancient, forgotten, discarded letters that may never have even reached their intended recipient.
The small cache of letters was found in a hidden drawer of a worn and battered chest in Maine, a treasure that came across my path in some antique store I haven’t been able to find again since. The wood smelled strongly of pine, like the smell of history. The chest was stamped with some identifying information that once may have meant something to someone, like the dates stamped on certain Wedgwood pieces which were forged in England.
While moving it, I felt and heard something shuffle but that made no sense as I’d just cleaned and emptied the inside. Looking around for something else that was making a noise, perhaps some fly or bee that was around, or the metal-studded ends of a pair of drawstrings on shorts, there was nothing. I lifted the chest and shook it again, and there, distinctly, was the sound of something moving. Carefully, I opened it up again, and found nothing. While it was open I lifted it and shook it once more – some shuffling sounded, something was in it, but I was looking inside and saw nothing – then I turned it over and the faintest outline of a small trap door revealed itself to my eyes when they stopped focusing so hard.
A collection of letters, written on degrading parchment, bound with fraying twine, some missing pieces chewed by mice or moths, fell to the ground. They tell the abstract story of falling in love through scattered scenes and pictures of moments, sketches of feelings and rough renderings of emotions – nothing too concrete or spelled neatly out until the last one – but a story appears between the lines, within the very fibers of the thick paper, if you know how to listen, if you cull the sentiment behind the silence. The world was quieter then, and it’s usually easier to make sense of things in the quiet.
Rather than get into the particulars of how the letters happened to find their way to this chest (because that might incriminate otherwise blameless folks who only wanted the story to see the light of the internet) I’ll keep this in the language and style of the story that was told, and let the narrative, put together as best as I could glean, speak for itself, at least from the point of view of the younger protagonist/narrator. Like all episodes of storytelling, something is sure to be lost in this rendition, but since when have I proclaimed this to be a space of accuracy, moral or otherwise?
Ripped in two, the first part of the very last letter our Narrator ever wrote to The Cowboy reads like a cliffhanger, given even more suspense by the mystery of someone’s ultimate disappearance – a mystery shrouded and still unsolved by the eventual appearance of a body, and the solving of one mystery so often leads to more mysteries, secrets loving company and kindred spirits as they do. This letter is the longest of the bunch – a full two pages, written carefully and deliberately, and gives the clearest picture of what may have happened between these two men. I present the first half of it now, to give you an idea of where this story is headed.
The Last Letter to the Cowboy – So Far as Can be Told
Dear Cowboy – Forgive me if you’re not a real Cowboy. You never did explain what you meant by that. You never explained a lot of things you said you would, like the story of your parents that you promised would explain your origin, and I never mustered the courage to insist. This letter has been written a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, and placed in a hundred locations where I thought you might surreptitiously discover it. If it finds you at all, it will be a bit of a miracle, but it’s the only hope I have left, and it isn’t much. This will be my last attempt at finding you, but you will always be in the back of my mind, in whatever new town or city I stumble into, and it will subconsciously impel me to traverse the world in the secret latent hope that I will one day happen upon you. You will ruin me for all others who follow in your wake – the ones who dare to kiss me, the ones who think they can tame, the ones who love unconditionally and smother me with affection – no one will ever fill the hole you left. Maybe that’s the fucked-up mark of true love, and if you find it and ruin it then your life will never be quite whole again. I feel like that’s what you did to us. But what do I know. I’m only twenty. I still live with my parents. And you… you are gone. I fear this is the last letter I will ever send to you. If intuition is any indicator, you have left us all for good, and maybe forever. This letter will have to do as my final thank you and my final farewell. I don’t know where you are and I don’t know where I am headed. Will we ever meet again? Thought I’d spend the rest of my life roaming with you, believed when you said as much, but that’s not how it turned out. I thought a cowboy was true to his word. Maybe only one word, not the many beautiful ones you wound around us late at night and into the mornings. Thought I then might spend it trying to find you but that feels wrong too. You said love shouldn’t be a chase or a hunt. Instead I gotta let it go – let you go. But not before I say a few more things…
{The first part of the letter ends here, along a torn, frayed line which was subsequently taped back together – and we will take our leave on this tantalizing note, because otherwise what would impel anyone to return?}
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There is eloquence and poetry in this letter, in the way that only cowboys can convey, the way that only cowboys might understand. (I’ve intentionally ignored the grammatical and spelling errors as well.) In the earlier letters, which will be revealed in later posts, there is much less – literally. The first few read as almost perfunctory, but there is a kindness and softness that wouldn’t be common at such a time and in such a place. As with most letters, there is more to be said and gleaned from what isn’t written, what lies between the lines. You’ll forgive me for the liberties about to be taken, and I hope the Narrator forgives me as well. From here until the end, you’ll be reading his voice. His name is Levi. He is not quite a cowboy when this story begins.
I go out walkin’ after midnight Out in the moonlight Just like we used to do I’m always walkin’ after midnight Searchin’ for you
I walk for miles along the highway Well, that’s just my way Of sayin’, “I love you” I’m always walkin’ after midnight Searchin’ for you
Riding his horse or walking by his lonesome, a cowboy finds ample time to soak in his solitude. In some respects that’s the most powerful way I connect to the cowboy’s conduct – they have an affinity with solitude that I’ve always shared. Most people just aren’t comfortable for long stretches on their own; some can’t handle a few minutes without reaching out to their phone or other method of communicating with others. They’ve lost the ability to exist alone, which is very sad, as in the end we only have ourselves, and to not enjoy one’s own company is a hell I can’t imagine. It’s a little at odds with the music here, which pines for companionship and rails against loneliness. Loneliness is rarely an affliction of a proper cowboy – at least not loneliness in the usual sense.
I stop to see a weepin’ willow Cryin’ on his pillow Maybe he’s cryin’ for me And as the skies turn gloomy Night winds whisper to me I’m lonesome as I can be
Even when he doesn’t have his horse, a cowboy has his walk. Only God or whatever entity you believe in can take that away. The ability to get from one place to another, to move your entire environment and change your atmosphere absolutely – it’s a powerful thing most of us forget or neglect or never even realize. The cowboy remembers. The cowboy knows. The cowboy walks.
I go out walkin’ after midnight Out in the starlight Just hopin’ you may be Somewhere a-walkin’ after midnight Searchin’ for me
When I first felt the pull of the cowboy motif for this fall’s atmosphere, I also felt decades of pushing against such a motif. As a gay man, and in these recent years of divisive strife especially, I didn’t always feel the country-western vibe was particularly welcoming. A big part of the cowboy co-opting at work this season is to turn such notions on their head – celebrating the gay cowboy lifestyle – a gorgeous amalgamation of country-western images with an open-minded acceptance and celebration of all people. Gay cowboy songs have always existed if you know how to listen and what to hear – and lately some are gloriously blatant and deliciously overt – as in this haunting and poignant ‘Two Cowboy Waltz’ by Mark Weigle.
Four cowboy boots Gliding on air Turning and turning While I stand and stare At the two cowboy waltz At the two cowboy waltz
Grace, and dignity So hard to come by That I stand in rapture As I watch them dance by In the two cowboy waltz The two cowboy waltz
This also sets the stage for our cowboy story, set to begin posting tomorrow. It’s a sort of love story – the way any cowboy story is a sort of love story – with something sweet, something ruinous, and something lonesome. Tale as old as time and all that good stuff, given a cowboy edge and the kind of grit that never quite detracts from its beauty.
With shiny pearl buttons In faded blue jeans He’ll turn to me Tonight in my dreams And we’ll dance
Don’t think this will be a sweet ride the whole way through – a cowboy’s life is rarely so easy and linear. They like the twists and turns, else they wouldn’t give up so much for so seemingly little. And a story of happily ever after is only worth anything if there is adversity or tragedy coming beforehand to give it flavor and spice and contrast.
The two cowboy waltz The two cowboy waltz
He’ll take my hand Look into my eyes Then stetson to stetson Together we’ll fly
For now, though, let’s have a moment of romantic abandon – in that space right before the fall, that place when it could be the thing that changes your life for the better, that makes everything fall into perfect harmony and destiny. This is what we all seek, whether we realize it or not – the moment of hope, the sort of perfection that only exists because it’s in our minds. Never again will it be this lovely – it will have different resonance, different joy, but it won’t ever be as lovely. I wish it would be. I wish it could be. And maybe that’s just my own jaded experience. Maybe this time the cowboys will live happily ever after…
In the cowboy world, getting spooked could end in death. A spooked horse could buck a rider off and drag them to their death. A spooked dog could provoke a snake to administer a deadly bite, releasing its venom without thought or reason. A spooked human could ensnare a cowboy’s heart and destroy his life in a single spring.
Cowboys lived on a strange mix of superstition, spirituality, sorcery and survival. There was a cowboy code, but its rules were like quicksilver, its tenets as firm and stable as the downy fuzz at the base of a feather. Keeping a life together amid these ever-sliding nuances was the stuff of desperate magic – cementing some views of the cowboy as the ultimate charlatan – full of charisma and fun – able to charm and win over hearts and heads and other extremities.
The road ever-ahead of a cowboy was one way only – it didn’t allow for turning back, and as such cowboys were remarkably present and of the moment, wholly invested in wherever they found themselves. They entirely inhabited their bodies and their space, becoming one with each in a powerful and unbreakable way. Because of this, there was something rather Zen-like about most cowboys – as risky as it is to paint such unique creatures with such broad strokes.
Cowboys defied categorization as easily as they almost all adhered to the basic principles of cowboy life. A certain irreverence and flippant insouciance meant some people would never take them seriously – the way the most special, the most beautiful, the most unique and remarkable would always need to be banished or brought down.
As sunny as the cowboy’s path might look to the outsider, their internal travels were rarely easy or pretty – they seemed to have a gene for perpetual dissatisfaction, tempered with an equally-pressing insistence on seeing the bright side and humor of any dismal situation. That might be part of having a life endangered more often than most people.
“It was the kind of confidence that every cowboy needed in dealing with an intimidating bronc. Still, the quickest way for a rider to get in trouble was to take undue pride in his ability…” – Patrick Dearen
Most cowboys carry a certain hubris that is intrinsic to their soul. It’s not something necessarily negative – it simply forms that part of them that allows for such an independent way of moving through life: you have to really believe in yourself to stay true to who you are. Call it hubris, call it pride, call it confidence, call it vanity – and I’ve certainly been called all of it over this last half-century – it’s a pillar of survival for the cowboy.
I am just a cowboy, lonesome on the trail A starry night, a campfire light The coyote call and the howlin’ winds wail So I’ll ride out to the old sundown
I am just a cowboy lonesome on the trail Lord, I’m just thinking about a certain female The nights we spent together riding on the range Looking back it seems so strange
A real cowboy bucks against the societal restraints that make most of us cling to our day jobs in service of family or mortgage. A cowboy wants no constraints or rules or laws. A cowboy seeks freedom and a day of riding – all a meditation unto themselves. A cowboy can be a very peaceable person when left to their own devices and code. Most of us can be, I suppose.
Roll me over and turn me around Let me keep spinning ’til I hit the ground Roll me over and let me go Riding in the rodeo
The cowboy’s life can be messy, and it usually is. They work hard (sometimes) and they play hard (sometimes) and through it all they keep to their cowboy code even as it shifts beneath their boots. They’re used to shifting stirrups, to the instability of the animal between their legs. They know how to follow such movement; they become such movement, as if an extension of the animal itself. When you are the movement, you can never be pinned down. It’s like trying to catch the wind.
I was took in Texas I did not know her name Lord, all these southern girls seem the same Down below the border in a town in Mexico I got my job busting broncs for the rodeo
Roll me over and turn me around Let me keep spinning ’til I hit the ground Roll me over and let me go Running free with the buffalo Here I go!
Roll me over and I’ll turn around And I’ll move my fingers Up and down, Up and down
It’s OK amigo Just let me go Riding in the rodeo
It’s often hard to love a cowboy. I won’t shoot my wad this early, just hint at what’s to come, so to speak. So yes, hard to love a cowboy. Or at least hard to love a cowboy type – the person that has that cowboy essence in them. It’s a sort of restlessness, a dissatisfaction with the lots in life afforded most of us. Coupled with a sort of hubris, an essential belief in themselves that life is theirs for the taking – for the riding, for the spinning and falling, and the freedom. When a person believes in themselves, it’s very difficult for others not to believe in them too. Or so it should seem to be, to me.
Roll me over and turn me around Let me keep spinning ’til I hit the ground Roll me over and let me go Riding in the rodeo
Roll me over and set me free The cowboy’s life is the life for me
Last Sunday the weather changed. In one fell swoop, the rain had arrived in the night, and with it a cooler atmosphere by about fifteen degrees. A jarring start to a Sunday morning. When I opened the door to the back patio, I just as quickly shut it. Amazing the way a single rainy day can seemingly erase an entire summer of hot and sunny days – as if they’d never happened, as if the spring had returned and we had a chance to start again – as if the dead body of summer didn’t lay between us.
It’s been a while, my friend Counting days don’t seem to end I haven’t spoken to my poor mom since I can’t remember when It’s hard when someone knows just where you’ve been
Orville Peck’s new album ‘Mule’ came out after the concept and plan for this fall’s theme was in place, so I can’t take or give credit for the timing, but it works, and the album is a masterpiece. This cut is especially fitting, titled ‘The Fall’ and perfectly placed to help kick off this season of cowboy grit and drama. A contemplative yearning bleeds across the melody and lyrics – it’s the feeling of fall – a lonesome sort of feeling. This won’t be the last of that phrase or feeling. Fall can crush the soul that way. Fall will crush the soul.
So come around, my dear Take a rest right here And I will share your pain, I’ve seen it all Hot summer nights is where we started But it’s been cold since when we parted You used to tell me we’d get through it all We were flying, how could we have seen the fall?
It’s hard to let go of some summers. Others past relatively uneventfully, forgotten in a cruel way – because summer should never be forgotten. Still others can’t pass quickly enough. This was one of those latter ones – not for any truly traumatic way, just for the way I hid away from its heat and sun and revelation. I ran away from the joy and the moment – spending my final days as a 50-year-old sheltered from the world and the wide sky. Not exactly sure why. Fear of letting go, perhaps.
Still the Hudson flows Guess that’s just the way it goes I’ve been checkin’ on the leaves to see if they’ve turned brown and gold Who made time so slow?
I watch the sun come up Strangers fill my cup Empty out the bag, it’s making noise
Run down my heart with many lovers Hide my head under the covers The wind is blowing, hear it at the wall Yeah, all that time we were just laughing through the fall
Fall signals ambivalence now – a mixed bag of feelings and emotions, memories and tricky rabbit holes that lead into the past, only to fuck with the future. Greeting it with a hesitant wariness, the way I’m suspicious of most things in the world now, I implore myself to leave past and future alone, and strive to focus solely on the present. Mindfulness is the surest way of getting through a day as well as a season.
And don’t you ask me how I’ve been I wore that chain every day, as if it were a ring And it hurt so bad to see you, so please next time keep walking As for the rest of you, please don’t ask me to sing
Fall used to mean a new beginning – even more than spring for reasons not fully understood by my small brain. It was the season that marked a resurgence in order and structure after the carefree and loose summer – for a Virgo that was heaven. As much as I hated returning to school, I’ve always relished the opportunity for a new wardrobe, a new image, a new era, a new project. Fall’s cooler nights and crisp mornings were the jolt of inspiration to get my shit in order again if I’d let things fall by the wayside in the summer heat. Now it feels different: the preamble to winter. There is sorrow and an element of danger present – will it be the winter of the seasonal year, or the winter of a lifetime? After the age of fifty, any fall could be the last – and there are fewer falls ahead of me than behind me. I can’t look away from that anymore.
So don’t look down No, you won’t see the ground Just a life that passes by you while you float
When a cowboy grows old, anything can happen. Truth is, many cowboys don’t get the chance to grow old – and for those that do, it always feels a bit like a surprise. A nasty, cruel, dangerous surprise – the way a prairie dog hole can trip up a horse, landing rider and animal suddenly on the ground. Hopefully the rider remains on top, because if he or she doesn’t, few survive being beneath a horse without injury or death.
Hot summer nights is where we started But it’s been cold since when we parted At The Bowery’s where I heard the angels call I thought it was the end, then I recalled the fall I thought it was goodbye, then I recalled the fall.
“Try it on me!” ~ Whitney Houston to Mariah Carey, or Mariah Carey to Whitney Houston, at the MTV Video Music Awards circa mid to late 90’s
Never having been a fan of country music, my interest in the country western vibe that has taken over this website and this autumn may seem at odds with who I am, yet if you dig deeper into what makes a cowboy a cowboy – the internal machinations and make-up of the rebellious fringe-dweller who refuses to conform to what society wants – it’s actually a good fit. Still, I understand if this feels like just another pose – as I have lived most of my life as a provocative poseur. It’s too late to change, and too late to apologize. The die of the chameleon has been cast.
Well I don’t wanna be a big star and I don’t need to drive a new car
Another mask, another guise, another persona to inhabit for a spell to work out whatever kinks remain, exorcizing demons past and present and possibly future, and if the cowboy is the conduit, I’m more than ready to saddle up. In a way, this is how art operates when used as a vehicle to find something or feel something or process something. Will I be bucking off broncos or herding cattle or stringing barbed-wire fences anytime soon? Of course not. Will I distract and dazzle in cowboy cosplay while buying myself some therapy and creative catharsis? Absolutely. And can I relate to someone who has historically been an outsider, a rebel, a person hellbent on living life on their own terms in defiance of social constraints and mores? Fuck yeah.
The writer and performer of this song – Charlie Overbey – expresses what it’s like to straddle genres – punk, country, honky tonk, blues, and rock – while not being defined or labelled as any single one of them. A standard flummoxed reaction often results when someone falls into uncharted territory, or somewhere in between or in several different categories. Humans want so much to organize things and understand others in the most basic of terms, when we are all too complex and nuanced and different to really conform to any single set of standards or descriptions. There are always exceptions, always footnotes, always asterisks and ‘See also’s and all sorts of annotations.
And those of us who dare to change, or evolve, or become something different from what people assumed us to be – well, we are viewed as suspect, as less than authentic, as a shape-shifting creature of mythology – not to be trusted or counted on or safe as someone they have supposedly figured out. We make others uncomfortable because our certainty is in our evolution. But I digress… This is the fall of the cowboy, not the chameleon – and cowboys are nothing if not sure of themselves.
