Yesterday, I met a retired cowboy at a bar after rehearsal. I’m playing bass in a cover band, classic rock, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, just the good stuff. The band rehearses on Saturday’s and after rehearsal the drummer and I have a few beers in Pasadena. We were sitting at the bar when an older fellow sitting next to us started talking. He was slamming down Tequila shots and after a couple of shots he was feeling no pain and started talking. He gave us a lesson on how to ride a bull. I don’t foresee myself riding a bull anytime soon, but if I should, I’ll know to look at the bull’s shoulders, not his head, and not to think too much. I didn’t get the cowboys name, but he told us that he use to meditate before his rides. He used a visualization method to help him through, but mostly he didn’t think too much. It made perfect sense to me not to think too much, that’s when you get in trouble when you think too much.
The cowboy abandoned the subject of rodeos and started in on the game of golf, one of my least favorite subjects. He lifted his arm in pain and said he tore a muscle in his shoulder playing golf. "I love the game," he said. I sat there in silence. It struck me as ironic that the cowboy bull rider hurt himself swinging a golf club.
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