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Show ' rrT 1 SALT FLAT NEWS, OCTOBER, 1971 10 the Fbsd by Richard Menzies Just as the real West has receded into history, so has the real Western movie, an art form peculiar to the mind of early 20th Century America. Whatever semblance the movies bore to reality is difficult to say; most experts agree, however, that the West, whether actual or celulloid, is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. The matinee movie was a far cry from Saturday morning television. For one thing, it was more dangerous. Children came armed to the teeth with rubber bands, spit wads, pea shooters, and bags of ammunition. There were little kids who spent the afternoon slithering about the theater beneath the seats, and stumble artists lurking along the aisles to trip the day-blinAdd to these the balcony specialists with spools of black thread and rubber spiders and other horrible surprises for the audience below. The admission price in those days was a mere fifteen cents, or if you didnt have the cash, ten or twelve thousand paper milk bottle caps, or Pepsi lids, or box tops, or popsicle sticks. Practically anything was legal tender those days, and worth saving. Inside, you'd look for a safe place to sit, with your back to a wall, and while the pea shooter brigade warmed up by trying to get the projectionist through his tiny window, you waited for the show to begin. The movies were Westerns, with Roy Rogers, Lash LaRue, Gene Autry, the Lone Ranger, Tonto, Gabby Hayes, and Hopa-lon- g Cassidy. By any odds my favorite was William Boyd as Hopalong Cassidy. White-hairedistinguished, almost elderly in the saddle, he shot straight and admonished us to always obey mummy and daddy." He was the Walter Cronkite of our generation. Lash LaRue was a dude in a slinky black costume who could crack a bullwhip faster than a speeding bullet. But his best stunt was vaulting into the saddle over the horse's behind. Lash used to ride into a town, whip all the villains into a froth, and ride off like that. I dont recall that he ever mounted his horse in the conven . d. d, tional manner, and he always left town in a hurry. That man," the Lone Ranger, is well remembered for his silver horse and silver bullets. Like Hopalong, he dispensed a customary homily, a guide to everyday living, to always shoot to wound." He shot people through the hands, elbows, knees, feet. But never shot them dead. He only shot to disarm his attackers, in such a place as to cause excruciating pain and probably a lifetime of complications. Roy Rogers and Gene Autry were two consanguineous cowpokes who brought to the screen the concept or musical relief. First it was Gene, singing around teh WXYZ microphone with the boys" at Melody Ranch, who gave the country & western genre a real shot in the head. Roy was quick to pick up the theme, and with Dale Evans at his side survived to become the king of the cowboys." Singing cowboys were never much of a hit with the younger folk. Whenever Dale and Roy paused in the midst of a good shootout to sing Happy Trails" . the response in the audience was one of mass emharassment. Kids turned their faces in disgust as good old American violence began to collapse under the weight of encroaching wholesomeness. Fewer kids go to matinees these days. For one thing, it's too expensive, and in these inflated times few youngsters can get enough popsicle sticks together. Instead, they watch television at home, safe from the slings and arrows and rubber spiders of darkened showhouses. Still another form of Western has evolved, a curious amalgam of the new and the old and, worst of all, the relevant" Maybe today's kids can believe in a kid named Hoss" who lives at home with his pa and when threatened by badmen cries out for the sheriff, clergyman, or criminal psychiatrist I don't know. It strains my imagination, but then I grew up in a time when was the world of make-believ- e easily found, downtown at the movies, once upon a Saturday. forty-five-year-o- ld by R.jMenzies As the summer of '71 draws to a dose, Albert Cornell Gregerson, Millard County's resident poet, has things to do and much on his mind. Gregersons modest two acre farm is overgrown with crops; Spanish melons and giant banana squash weighing sixty pounds each, and the corn is even higher than an elephant's eye. A widower, Gregerson confesses its more than enough work for a single man, and so puts forth a modest poetic proposal in one of his latest achievements, Needing A Wife." "Life is a gamble," said Gregerson, and while on the subject delivered one of his favorites about a place called 'the Billy seventy ight-year-old THE BILLY GOAT INN Goat Inn. Though wanting the authors inimitable recitation, the lyrics set forth on paper describe a figment of mind and not a specific place. Gregerson himself never drinks anything stronger than the uncarbonated root beer he brews at home. Not a bad beverage for an aging bard, but the secret of longevity it isnt. NEEDING A WIFE Atde Bitty Goat Inn I'm old, all alone and today on my own; youcanplay butnotvin, as de cards are all stacked for da house; And when you've lost yer last dime, consider it time to go home and cry out to yer spouse Won't some nice lady please answer my call? Neither frightened by devils nor darkness Bu t darling, just suppose I should fall. AtdeBttlyGoatlnn theyjallops yerjin and while you 's unconscious they rolls you; Beamanorapup cry out or shut up Youre slapped ifya don't and yer flogged ifya do. Im not particular providing shes serious. With an I.Q. that is equal to mine; With heartbeat of eternal devotion Ah, woman, His said, Thou art devine. Please write if you think we can make it; I'm honest though ugly as sin; Romance, like all lottery is a gamble. Some are just lucky while others can t win. AtdeBttlyGoatlnn A. C. Gregerson even virtue is sin; Bright lights, vine, vimmin, viskey , and song every tings wrong So t'heU with the Billy Goat Inn. Fillmore, Utah 84631 A. C. Gregerson With the world population ex- ploding at an exponential rate, it had to happen. With millions of new citizens of the planet emerging daily, it was inevitable. The population expansion brings a startling new development to the Wendover Dump. Previously limited to its leading and only cit- izen, the eminent author, philosopher, and lawman, Floyd Eaton, known to us as Deputy Dump, the dump population has doubled. Assuming residence in two abandoned can, one thought to be a Buick, the other an unknown make, an unnamed migrant has located himself in a remote corner of tiie dump. Despite our best efforts to interview the new member of the dump community, located a mile south of Wendover, and only a hundred miles from Salt Lake City, he remains an illusive specter; but one can be sure that SALT FLAT NEWS will make every effort to bring to its readers frill details in a future issue. Deputy Dump, interviewed about this revolution in the long and colorful history of the dump, expressed restrained enthusiasm; I don't bother him, he don't bother me." It was reported on good authority that the new citizen, who in a single act has doubled the population of the dump, has situated himself strategically dose to a water line servidng the now dosed airbase, the same airbase where the crew of the Enola Gay prepared to zap Hiroshima and where Wendover Willie," the captured German V--l Missile hdped put Unde Sam in the space race. Follow In future issues of the 'NEWS the events surrounding the new dtizen and his day to day Survival stint. |