| "BULL" At
a mid-1960s charity performance in the Downtown Bullring, Tijuana: the place is
packed at premium prices. It's for the Orphans Organization, and the performer
is Mario Moreno, Cantínflas.
Part of the warm-up act is
a genuine novice bullfighter fighting a genuine novice bull. By agreement it is
a genuine false fight, in deference to prominent figures who attend for charitable,
political and social reasons, but who would not condone the usual balletic carnage
of bullfights.
They finish their dance, the novices, and the two-legged
one retires to mild applause. Not so the bovine. The young, unlearned, untrained
bull cannot or will not find the exit even with the aid of verbal and hand signals.
Next and usual solution: run in a small herd of female bulls whose history
in the ring is to make a lap or two and leave, lowing. They know how, and do,
but contrary to expectations, the bull-boy shuffles himself out of the deal and
remains inside. More audible and visible instructions, to no avail.
Now, into the breach struts: The Man. El Hombre, for you Jervians. Here
is a guy with dignity, with presence, with poise and pose, with macho to
burn, with a Mexican Cowboy suit spangled and embroidered from stem to stern.
And that big Mexican Cowboy hat, similarly decorated. And a long, new, leather
rope.
The crowd is silenced by respect and anticipation. The Charro,
for that is what this decorous, decorated cowboy is, builds his loop, laying it
out and dragging it along the tainted turf in as sanitary and sinuous a circle
as one could have hoped for. Out of the corner of his eye he measures the young
miscreant, shows signs of an internal tap-tap-tap-kiss cross, launches his substantial
torso in a calculated backswing, pivots on close-clad legs, embraces the arc of
his power and sends it through his arm, lifting the reata with a hiss heard
throughout the arena, executes a particularly graceful flip of an elbow, and...
knocks the big sombrero off his head.
Silence. The rope coasts
to a limp halt. The Charro watches the slow-mo descent of the ever-so symbolic
headgear. This goes on for about a half-second; then the place erupts. All out
of their seats, shouting, screaming, laughing.
The Charro maintains
his composure, moving a little stiffly as he retrieves the rope, ignoring the
hat. His pale patrician, Spanish-heritage face is coloradito like something
very red and very hot.
The young bull surfs gently out of the arena
on the wash of sound, and as he goes he looks back at the hat on the ground and
shakes his head.
Cantínflas did appear, and
did "fight" a "bull" in artful and amusing ways; the charity was well-served;
thousands saw and were seen, and were rewarded for their contributions and patience.
And the guy whose every sinew and stitch represented anti-clown proved a principle:
the gap between being clothed in dignity and appearing naked before all, is as
narrow as a rope.
Or as wide as a sombrero.
Or something.
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"A Glimpse In The Rear-view
Mirror" I
was in Ensenada for the start of several of the Baja off-road races. It's difficult
for me to sort among them and say which it was, but It must have been late 1969
or some time in 1970 when actor James Garner was there as one of the sponsors
of the AIR effort. I understood then he'd had considerable training at professional
race-driving schools but not much actual race experience.
Parnelli Jones
was the big dog at the time, earning his reputation for lack of patience with
slower entrants he overtook on the course. I heard several of the recipients of
his teachings describe how he would emerge from the following dust cloud, look
around either side of the student's vehicle, and if there happened not to be sufficient
room to pass, he'd apply a bumper in a degree of force and angle sufficient to
create that room. There was understandable resentment, but not as much as I'd
have expected. The principal complaint was that in the current race one or several
of them had been assigned to a position of eventual victimhood by the draw for
starting times. Leave before Jones, reluctantly expend inordinate attention on
the rear-view mirror, as a matter of survival.
Technical inspection
on the year I'm struggling to remember was conducted in a kind of walled bowl
near the starting area, a wide spot in the road leading south out of town, but
near downtown and the "strip" of hotels servicing tourists on weekends, and midweek,
when such races were held, this monstrous crowd of participants and hangers-on.
It was quite a sight after sundown the night before the race, looking from outside
and above what I guess must have been the site of some form of animal abuse like
bull- or cock-fighting: bare bulbs created bright highlights and deep shadows
on the assembled hardware and patch-laden inspectors and participants.
Some of the absolute greatest off-road machinery and drivers were there, including
those factory Fords and AMC machines and dozens of specially-built privateers
like the "Bullfighters", Andy DeVercelli and Tom McClellan. These latter, consistent
winners in Mexico, had acquired their nickname in one of the very first Baja 1000
races when they hit a bovine near the finish but continued to win the class and
maybe more. Andy, it was said, had to have his head suspended in one of those
bolt-to-the-skull apparatuses for several months.
I was standing and
peering into the bowl, wondering if it would be worthwhile to feel my way to a
gate in the wall and slide down the sandy bank to circulate among the crowd packed
shoulder-to-rollcage and knee-to-knobby, when Garner appeared next to me. He was
elated, high as anyone on the premises on the excitement. He perused the crowd
and bellowed, "Parnelli! There you are, you sonofabitch! Hey, Parnelli!"
Just about everyone there heard him, judging by the number of faces that
turned his way. His place in the regard of the people in the bowl was not as high
as his actual location above their heads, judging by the eye-rolls and subsequent
backs-of-heads presented to him. Parnelli was one of the few who did not turn
to look. Garner did find his way into the bowl, and I watched his progress as
he bulled his way through the crowd in pursuit of the sonofabitch. I noted how
the largest of the jacket patches were turned to him as he approached. He did
catch up with Parnelli and throw an arm across his shoulders. Parnelli did not
alter his course or speed, near as I could tell, or respond in any way other than
a slow glance at Garner's face when he was first overtaken.
I didn't
think very highly of Garner after this incident; however, what I have learned
of him since has changed that. It seems to me now that he is a respectable craftsman
in his field, and a much better than average example of celebrity behavior in
general. Your mileage may vary.
############################ Copyright
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