The weekend came and went (as most tend to do) and I managed to neglect writing the Country Stampede-themed blog I promised. I’d like to blame something rational for such an omission (I did spend 10 minutes at a drive-thru on Saturday… Where does the time go?), but it’s much more entertaining for me to fabricate an absurd excuse. Thus, I didn’t get any writing in over the weekend because I was called away at the last minute to attend a meeting of the secret society that dictates which greetings are considered cool. (Spoiler alert: the three-step-handshake/man-hug will soon give way to the double-wet-willie… Be prepared.)
With my 10-year high school reunion set for Saturday, I decided that I should look back at my experience working at the Country Stampede; the only job from my high school life that did not involve a lawnmower or weeds. Let’s hope this is more entertaining than pulling said weeds.
The decision to join the Stampede labor force came about as an effort to raise funds for a high school class trip to New York. Each student in our Entrepreneurship class was tasked with raising a certain amount of funds to make said trip. As an awkward high school junior-to-be, my most marketable skills were serving as a tackling dummy during football practice and stammering around cute girls. Oddly, such traits did not translate well to fundraising efforts. (Alas, if it had been six years later, I probably could have had Michael Cera’s acting career.)
Because folks weren’t willing to pay good money to see how quickly I could avert my gaze after making eye contact with someone, I was forced to pursue jobs that actually “existed.” Through one route or another, I wound up filling out an application to work as a Country Stampede laborer. At the time, I despised country music and had never been to the event. Frankly, the only real knowledge I had about the boot-scootin’ blowout was that a fatal stabbing had occurred during the inaugural concert. Win-win, this was not.
I arrived for my “orientation” session at the Stampede grounds a few days before the event began. Embracing my introverted nature, I’m not sure that I spoke more the four words the entire time. Instead, I just listened as a nondescript* middle-aged man explained my duty as an “ice runner.”
*Writer’s code for: It was 12 years ago and I respect you far too much to attempt to fictionalize this guy’s appearance.
Luckily, my job involved no actual running. Luckily, my job involved repeated trips into a refrigerated semi-trailer (to retrieve bags of ice) during one of the hottest stretches of the summer. Luckily, fellow ice runner and I got to cruise the Stampede grounds in a road-ready Gator vehicle
Unluckily, as I quickly learned, the Country Stampede brings thousands of people to Tuttle Creek Park, and many of them, when inebriated, are as kind and accommodating and pit bulls.
Backed with a soundtrack that my ears found quite grating, my days involved loading 20-pound bags of ice onto the gator, toting them to various concession locations around the grounds, and continually being cursed at by Stampede-folk because I would not compromise my integrity and rob my employer to give them free ice. Had I been an exchange student working on picking up the language of the American Midwest, I probably would have gathered that the “f-bomb” was the most versatile word in the vernacular. (I also might have assumed that the natural accent of folks from the area involved slurred speech.)
Granted, the Stampede was/is more than cursing drunks. I was witness to an all-out wrestling match in a pit of mud. I regularly participated in recreational people-watching. (Yes, some people do have their entire backs covered by tattoos of the Confederate flag.) I saw plenty of cute girls (with whom I, naturally, avoided eye contact). And, from what I understand, there was even some good music played. Imagine that… Some folks actually attend for the music.
With my 10-year high school reunion set for Saturday, I decided that I should look back at my experience working at the Country Stampede; the only job from my high school life that did not involve a lawnmower or weeds. Let’s hope this is more entertaining than pulling said weeds.
The decision to join the Stampede labor force came about as an effort to raise funds for a high school class trip to New York. Each student in our Entrepreneurship class was tasked with raising a certain amount of funds to make said trip. As an awkward high school junior-to-be, my most marketable skills were serving as a tackling dummy during football practice and stammering around cute girls. Oddly, such traits did not translate well to fundraising efforts. (Alas, if it had been six years later, I probably could have had Michael Cera’s acting career.)
Because folks weren’t willing to pay good money to see how quickly I could avert my gaze after making eye contact with someone, I was forced to pursue jobs that actually “existed.” Through one route or another, I wound up filling out an application to work as a Country Stampede laborer. At the time, I despised country music and had never been to the event. Frankly, the only real knowledge I had about the boot-scootin’ blowout was that a fatal stabbing had occurred during the inaugural concert. Win-win, this was not.
I arrived for my “orientation” session at the Stampede grounds a few days before the event began. Embracing my introverted nature, I’m not sure that I spoke more the four words the entire time. Instead, I just listened as a nondescript* middle-aged man explained my duty as an “ice runner.”
*Writer’s code for: It was 12 years ago and I respect you far too much to attempt to fictionalize this guy’s appearance.
Luckily, my job involved no actual running. Luckily, my job involved repeated trips into a refrigerated semi-trailer (to retrieve bags of ice) during one of the hottest stretches of the summer. Luckily, fellow ice runner and I got to cruise the Stampede grounds in a road-ready Gator vehicle
Unluckily, as I quickly learned, the Country Stampede brings thousands of people to Tuttle Creek Park, and many of them, when inebriated, are as kind and accommodating and pit bulls.
Backed with a soundtrack that my ears found quite grating, my days involved loading 20-pound bags of ice onto the gator, toting them to various concession locations around the grounds, and continually being cursed at by Stampede-folk because I would not compromise my integrity and rob my employer to give them free ice. Had I been an exchange student working on picking up the language of the American Midwest, I probably would have gathered that the “f-bomb” was the most versatile word in the vernacular. (I also might have assumed that the natural accent of folks from the area involved slurred speech.)
Granted, the Stampede was/is more than cursing drunks. I was witness to an all-out wrestling match in a pit of mud. I regularly participated in recreational people-watching. (Yes, some people do have their entire backs covered by tattoos of the Confederate flag.) I saw plenty of cute girls (with whom I, naturally, avoided eye contact). And, from what I understand, there was even some good music played. Imagine that… Some folks actually attend for the music.
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