The Good
Fireworks
In the quest to super-size everything into grand spectacle, the Stampede offers up nightly fireworks just to remind everyone that one more day of gong show is gone. While the sentiment’s cheap, the fireworks are pretty cool to watch from the safe distance of Scottman’s Hill. Aside from Global Fest, there aren’t too many opportunities to sit down with the family for a fireworks show in land-locked Calgary. It’s one of the more lasting Stampede traditions, and now, seems kind of classy in comparison to the rest of the junior-Vegas debauchery we host.
Free Food
Free food, even when it’s bad, is ultimately still good. Regardless whether those sausages have been evolving in the sun over an 8-hour span, they still taste as sweet and delicious as nectar from the gods for the sole reason that you did not pay for their botulism-fused goodness.
The Sky Carriage
The forbidden pleasure of spitting on tourists can hardly be matched in this entire world.
The Bad
The Coca Cola stage
If you are a musician or entertainer, and say you’re looking through the stable of shows your agent booked, and you see that you’re scheduled to play the Stampede Coca Cola stage, this means only one thing. It’s over. Whatever success you achieved, whatever heights you reached in the past, they are not coming back. The Coca Cola stage is the place where bands come to die. It’s a veritable garden of Tom Cochrane’s, Cheap Tricks, and unforgettably, Hinders. I can’t in recent memory, think of a band who played the Coca Cola stage and was better for it – Matthew Good fell Icarus-like after his show. Sloan never tasted the same success after the Stampede. If you see it on your schedule, just put your guitar down, put on that Arby’s smock and get that burger spatula ready. It’s the only way to save a little dignity.
Country Music
Country music was once good. There was Merl Haggard, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline. Then came Billy Ray Cyrus with Achy Breaky Heart and it was bastardized forever. Let’s make one thing clear. Today’s “country music” is hardly country music. It’s generic rock music with violin. Worse still, is that country music is nearly as bad as rap music for gimmicky concepts and atrocious lyrics (uh, hello, Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy – barf!). Today’s country music is what office drones want to dance to in their one pair of embarrassing white jeans. Ever notice that cowboys on old western movies don’t wear white jeans. That’s because they would be shot. Enough said.
The Ugly
Being trapped in the Zipper with someone getting sick above you or losing your wallet on the Zipper.
Both are equally frightening. There’s nothing quite as terrifying as being stuck in the caged claustrophobia that is the Zipper, stuck facing slightly up listening to the squeaking of the badly-carnie managed ride, when all of a sudden, you hear the familiar sound of someone losing their corndog high above you. You’re stuck. There’s nowhere to go and that mesh front is hardly a defense. You shake the cracked mahogany chest pad in desperation. But it’s too late. Here it comes. No, no, noooooooooaaaaah.
The other scenario is frightening, but not as disgusting, and I actually had happen to me when I was like thirteen. When you’re thirteen, if you are a loser-kid like I was, you had a slim velcro wallet of some kind. You probably were a dumb kid, like me, and didn’t put it in your acid wash jeans and instead put it in your jacket. So the Zipper starts up and you get a swinging and whoops, there goes your wallet into the bottom of the compartment. You hope it stays there, but of course the ride starts up again and you go spinning upside down. Your wallet plummets out the loose grate and you watch it go tumbling into the crowd. Being the respectful Stampede crowd it is, your money disappears forever. Spiderman wallet, why did you forsake me?
Topless Guys and Girls
You know that sweaty shirtless guy dancing outside at concerts. He’s all drunk, swaying and yelling random crap. He pisses you off and rubs his mansweat up against you as he stumbles frantically toward the front of the stage. Well, the Stampede is where all those guys get together. It’s the shirtless douche bag convention.
Dude, I don’t need to be coated in your Ogden-flavoured manbrine. And, really, you and your beer garden breath are totally wrecking Hinder for me! You are ruining my Hinder experience.
Ladies you fare no better. If having some chain-smoking cougar flash her low-hanging milk curtains at you is a special thrill – look no further than the Stampede. If I want to see soggy flapjacks, I’ll take in a free mall breakfast.
I’m always surprised at these quality people who show up. Where do they come from? I never see them all year, until the beginning of each July. Do they all reside in some secret cave, and come July, go rolling out of it into the blazing sunlight, their fingers splayed, shading their eyes from the judgmental heavens?
Or is it some kind of Bruce Banner-like transformation, only instead of incredible superpowers, people lose half their IQ, half their walking speed and have the sudden desire to walk in a horizontal line slowly so it is impossible get around them and traverse the Stampede grounds from end-to-end in less than three days.
Why does the Stampede give regular people the excuse to be morons – do they simply think that big crowds hide stupid better? I haven’t pinpointed the exact reason, but I have my clear suspicions. It’s those damn superdogs.
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