Every night in Cody there’s a rodeo. Tourist and townsfolk alike gather at this Western coliseum, watching cowboys and cowgirls ride horses, throw lassos over bulls and fly the Star-Spangled Banner whilst eating sloppy joe burgers. Before anything started, the national anthem was played over the stereo system, everybody stood and sang. I’m sat on one of the benches in a hat that has two cans of beer attached to the sides, a Hawaiian shirt with a Native American motif and cargo pants that are eight sizes too big for me. On my calf I had a tattoo of the flag of the United States ablaze. I thought I looked like hot shit when I left my motel room earlier, but it turns out I had been outplayed by local patriots. Guy Fieri lookalikes in a MAGA cowboy hats, bumpkin mafiosos and rodeo fanatics decked head to toe in Eagle Wear. I had no idea what was going on, events would start suddenly, a 14-year-old boy would ride an enormous bull that would bound out from a game, thrash backwards and forward trying to throw the rider off, a pair of clowns would rush across the dirt to try and distract it, then the announcer would speak a string of words I didn’t understand and it would be quiet again. The whole thing was reminiscent of Story Of The Eye somehow, making me wonder the connection between the American rodeo and Spanish bullfighting, yet finding none whatsoever. It was a fantastic evening, something that doesn’t exist elsewhere; a mix of rodeo antics, country music and audience participation. There’s nothing more Wyoming than the rodeos of Cody.
The night wore on then finished suddenly, as most things do. I thought about going back to the motel, but wanted to be around people still. The energy from what I had witnessed couldn’t dissipate in the motel room, like emptying water onto a concrete floor rather than a plant. I walk slowly, watching people get into trucks, ride away, follow the locals, strings of people moving together, the next place. But where did you go after Cody Stampede Rodeo?
There’s a little place called Chicker’s, not too far from the gates of the rodeo grounds, family-run, good guys. Outside I had a strange feeling, as if something was about to end. They also serve $2 hotdogs and a quart of bone grease if you knew the right people. I’ve hired a guy for the evening to film me with a camcorder, using the light from his phone to try and arrange dramatic lighting for the different shots of me approaching people and asking if they want to buy me a drink. After half an hour of nonsuccess, I thought to myself; ‘ummm…methinks you should change tactics’. That’s when I started doing street magic.
It was night but the horizon still held a blue light. I sat on a rock that was a million years old and smoked a joint. Turned out the kind people in Cody loved magic almost as much as they loved rodeos. They were spellbound as I did some of my favourite illusions, moving my fingers and arms swiftly through the air as I made a coin appear from behind someone’s ear. Each were transfixed as I pretended to steal a person’s nose, revealing that it had all been a jape of the highest order. I could hear them whispering (of course), that I was the finest magician they had ever seen and they couldn’t work out how the tricks had been done and so therefore it must be magic. As I sat on the rock, I thought to myself about magic, wishing my belief caught up with my desire. I make wizard noises, thinking how boring the elemental system of earth, water, air and fire were. If magic can be anything, why have air spells? It’s more fun to have spells that summon zombies and things like that. What kind of wizard are you? Air. Oh, right, air magic.
The day after I arrive at Yellowstone. I see the animals, the trees, a little piece of America untouched by humanity except for the roads, cars and visitors. The other week a bison had commited suicide in one of the hot springs and tourists lay flowers down for it, wet petals sagging in the humidity. I had grabbed myself a Bigfoot t-shirt from the gift shop and wore it over the rest of my clothes, wondering to myself if I would ever meet the near-mythical hairy humanoid whilst I was visiting the park. After waiting for a while, it didn't look like that was going to be the case. My visit to the rodeo the night previous followed by my day trip to the National Park made me wonder if I would go even further back in time that evening, perhaps witnessing dinosaurs or Egyptian mummies. I started to think about how the Jurassic Park sequels should have been a series of post-apocalyptic films where the dinosaurs take over America and then the third film could do a Planet Of the Apes crossover with monkeymen warriors fighting dinosaurs. Now that's a cinematic universe we'd all love to see!
