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I saw him early in the morning riding down the middle of a busy street near my office. I saw him again on my way home riding in the middle of a pack of about 30 bicyclists all decked out in their lycra suits and helmets. The two sightings were 9 hours and 20 miles apart. You’ve got to admire that kind of commitment to being crazy.

I really don’t mind harmless crazy people. My mom was a harmless crazy person. She was convinced that a secret network of real estate agents was spying on her and she used to put my underwear in the refrigerator after she did my laundry, but those are stories for another day. The point is that mom would have never dreamed of hurting another person and I doubt the bicycling Santa would either. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the attention and every time I picture him in that group of riders I laugh out loud.

So why are there so many crazy people in the world that do want to hurt other people? And why does it always seem to be about religion? I’m so tired of turning on the radio or the TV and hearing about people who have killed/want to kill/plan to kill/are hearing voices telling them to kill - some other person/race/sexual orientation/political party/sports team affiliation - all in the name of God.

I know it’s been this way forever. There was the inquisition, the crusades, the holocaust, and a million other horrible examples. I know the only difference today is that in a world with the internet and instantaneous world-wide communications the crazies simply get a bigger pulpit. It just gets really depressing sometimes.

I’m a total news junkie but I’m going to do myself a little favor this weekend. I’m not going to turn on CNN, MSNBC, or NPR. I'm not going to open a newpaper, or even surf the web. Instead, I’m going to watch a couple of Mel Brooks DVD’s, drink a few glasses of wine, and think about the bicycling Santa.

Lust, sweat, throbbing rhythms...chaps. Now that I have your attention I thought I'd tell you about my weekend, which involved all of those...sort of.

My wife and I went out on the town with three other couples. We had a nice dinner at P. F. Chang’s where one of the guys in our group consumed so much beer that he began to wear the lettuce wraps on his head like little green yarmulkes. Obviously, more alcohol was in order, so we proceeded from there to a new bar in Tulsa called the “Wild Horse Saloon.”

Since there is an average of six cowboy bars per square mile in Tulsa, one would assume a “Wild Horse Saloon” would be redundant. But apparently, the “Tin Dog Saloon,” the “Dead Horse Tavern,” “Tumbleweeds Dance Hall,” and “The Caravan Cattle Company” (I’m not making those names up) are not adequate to cover the demands of drunken people with gun racks in their pickup trucks, so Wild Horse Saloon opened it’s doors.

I haven’t been to a cowboy bar in a long time. I immediately noticed that we were not dressed appropriately. The correct dress for men is Wranglers, boots, a big ass belt buckle with a big ass hat to match, and a starched plaid shirt.

The correct dress for women is Wranglers, boots, a big ass belt buckle with a big ass hat to match, and any top that displays a copious amount of cleavage.

A lower lip full of Skoal is optional for either sex (If you don’t know what Skoal is, you’ve obviously never been to Oklahoma).

You would never make fun of this type of dress while at the bar. While at least 80% of the people there are posers who make their livings as accountants, convenience store clerks, and Indian Casino workers; in a place like Tulsa, about 20% are likely to be actual cowboys. An actual cowboy would immediately kick your ass for making fun of their attire, and that goes for both the men and the women.

I was surprised that the music being played was not all country. The obligatory George Strait ballads were interspersed with Techno, Rock, and Rap. The problem with this is that the people on the dance floor were two-stepping regardless of what was being played. Watching someone two-step to the Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps” will really twist your head around.

It’s also fun to watch the mating rituals of the Native Oklahoma Cowboy. The male of the species will spot a female with the most visible cleavage or the one who’s Wranglers are cutting off all circulation to the top half of their bodies and approach them with a gentlemanly “may I have this dance Miss?” The female will then proceed onto the dance floor and present her back side to the male. The male will then spend the next three minutes attempting to mount the female while holding on to her like he’s riding a bull at the rodeo if you get my drift.

If no males have asked a particular female to dance, she will dance with a girlfriend while the cowboys stand at the bar and engage in lesbian cowgirl fantasies.

Mostly, the experience made me glad that I’m no longer out there trying to meet someone (or “meat” someone, as the case may be).