The first competition of what eventually became the International Gay Rodeo Association was held in Reno, Nevada, in 1976.  Within a few years, the one-off event had evolved into a gay rodeo circuit…
I.G.R.A. competitions supplement standard rodeo offerings—barrel racing, calf roping, bull riding—with what are known as “camp events”…

The New Yorker

My name is Carter Parker Paxton and I am President and Vice President of the Greater Upper West Side Chapter of the International Gay Rodeo Association.  I’m originally from Austin, which is Texas, but only slightly.  I moved to Manhattan exactly thirty-one years ago to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming blasé.  But I’ve never disclaimed my roots.  I am and will always be a Texan—with a doorman.  My husband, Cooper Spencer Caldwell, is originally from Greenwich, which is Connecticut, but only slightly.  I must confess that I’m thoroughly enchanted with Greenwich because it has the charm of a New England town and there’s a Saks Fifth Avenue, an Hermès boutique, and at least three Japanese restaurants, so you can really smell the fresh air.  

I met Cooper in the most southwestern way possible: during intermission at a matinee of the two thousand and two Broadway revival of Oklahoma, which starred Patrick Wilson.  I love Patrick because he’s handsome and talented and never undermines his performances with charisma.  Patrick is without question a leading man, but only slightly.

My older cousin, Logan, eight years my senior and a true cowboy, has been participating in gay rodeo competitions since nineteen eighty-nine.  I so admire Logan because he can wrangle cattle, ride a bronco without spilling a drop of his Beefeater martini, has sworn off anything and anyone related to social status, and because he’s never been a quitter, which is more difficult if you’re a bottom.  Logan has never shied from a hard day’s work or a hard top’s girth.  He’s known for his principles and for his great character: Miss Christi Anity, a down-home drag queen whose country songs, “Smoky Mountain, Smokey Eye” and “I’m So Lonesome I Could Dust,” have both become International Gay Rodeo standards.  Logan has been known to change a stranger’s flat tire, while explaining to that stranger why there hasn’t been a Broadway revival of the musical, “Mame,” since nineteen eighty-three.  “I can’t think of a single actress with the requisite élan,” he’d remark, “and, yes, I still say ‘actress’ because it’s not insulting, because it describes a woman who’s gifted and glamorous, unlike ‘female actor,’ which refers to a woman who’s serious about her craft, but could lose a few pounds.  Honey, pass the lug wrench.”

The Greater Upper West Side Chapter of the I.G.R.A. does not discriminate based on orientation or identity, unless you identify as someone who supports Isaac Mizrahi’s decision to reinvent himself as a cabaret singer.  Isaac is fearless—and so is his audience.  Apparently, he’s in talks to star as Tevye in a national tour of Fiddler on the Roof, opposite Donna Karan as Golda.  

Upper West Siders aren’t afraid of formidable challenges, like a fifth-floor walkup, but we’re petrified of a five-ounce wine pour.  And while many rodeo spectators look forward to events, such as calf roping and barrel racing, the Greater Upper West Side Chapter has created more regional-specific competitions, including: roping a friend into accompanying you to a performance installation at La Mama and racing to get to Café Luxembourg before they release your table.  Our branch may not engage with rough stock, but we’ll gladly take on rough trade—and respectfully pay in advance.  Most rodeo cowboys simply get back up after being knocked down, whereas our members immediately contact their therapists, claiming, “It was so completely unfair!”  And I appreciate that cowboys can stare down a bull, which is impressive, but we can look a maître d’ straight in the eye, who can’t seem to locate our reservation, and sternly inquire: “Are you calling me a liar?”

The Midwest is barbed wire, whereas the Upper West is barbed quips.  Rodeos advertise bareback riding, unlike my coterie, all of whom encourage the use of condoms.  And rodeos feature “wild cow milking,” an event during which a lactating wild cow is overpowered and milked against her will, as horrified lesbians look on and scream: “Switch to oat!”

The Greater Upper West Side Chapter of the International Gay Rodeo Association celebrates Pride Month every year with an intimate parade, which commences at Fairway Market, on the northwest corner of Broadway and Seventy-fourth Street, and concludes at Citarella, on the northwest corner of Broadway and Seventy-fifth Street.  We’re delighted to announce that next year’s Grand Marshal will be none other than Betty Buckley, a perfect choice because Betty Lynn was raised in Fort Worth and she rides and trains horses and she’s won a Tony Award, but can no longer belt an E-flat, so she’s extremely available.  Betty’s our discounted denim diva.

Cousin Logan has informed me that the I.G.R.A. does not recognize the Greater Upper West Side Chapter because our events, and I quote, “require no physical skill and were created to entertain bourgeois people who refuse to denounce Kistler Chardonnay as overrated, overpriced, and downright jejune.”  Cooper reveres my cousin and has characterized him as “a rugged Chablis-drinkin’ dude who probably wouldn’t hesitate to designate Sutton Foster as the Kistler Chardonnay of musical theatre stars.”

John Wayne said: “Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway.”  I say: “Courage is being scared to death and taking the bus anyway.”