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Show SALT FLAT NEWS, OCTOBER, 1971 10 Reflections from the Pond 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 Add to these the 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, youd 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 day-blin- 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 horses 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 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 of 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 embarassment. 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, its 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 todays 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 I dont criminal psychiatrist know. It strains my imagination, but then I grew up in a time when e was the world of easily found, downtown at the movies, once upon a Saturday. make-believ- ird Foei Writes Again by R. Menzies As the summer of 71 draws to a close, Albert Cornell Gregerson, Millard Countys 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 elephants eye. A widower, seventy Gregerson confesses its more than enough work for a single man, and so puts forth a modest poetic proposal in one of his latest ight-year-old 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 1 NEEDING THE BILLY GOAT INN A WIFE Im old, all alone and today on my own; Atde Billy Goat Inn Wont some nice lady please answer my call? Neither frigh tened by devils nor darkness But darling, just suppose I should fall. you can play butnotvin, as de cardsare all stacked for da house; And when you've lost yer last dime, consider it time to go homeand cry out to yer spouse Im not particular providing she s serious, With an I. Q. that is equal to mine; With heartbeat of eternal devotion Atde Billy Goat Inn ' Ah, woman, tissaid, they jallops yer jin and while you's unconscious they rolls you; Thou art devine. Please write if you think we can make it; Im honest though ugly as sin; Romance, like all lottery is a gamble. Some are just lucky while others can 't win. Be a man or a pup cry out or shut up You're slapped if ya don 'tand yer flogged if ya do. Atde Billy Goa t Inn even virtue Goat Inn. Though wanting the authors inimitable recitation, the lyrics set forth on paper describe a figment of mind and not a spe-cific 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. A. C. Gregerson Fillmore, Utah 84631 is sin; Bright lights, vine, vimmin, viskey, and song every tings wrong So t'hell with the Billy Goat Inn. A.C. Gregerson Population Explosion With the world population exploding 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 citizen, the eminent author, philosopher, and lawman, Floyd Eaton, known to us as Deputy Dump, the dump population has doubled. Assuming residence in two abandoned cars, one thought to be a Buick, the other an unknown make, an unnamed migrant has located himself in a remote cor- ner of the 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.heremainsan illusive specter; but one can be sure . that SALT FLAT NEWS will make every effort to bring to its readers full details in a future issue. Deputy Dump, interviewed about this revolution in the long and colorful history of the dump, expressed restrained enthusiasm; I dont bother him, he dont 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,, close to a water line servicing the now closed 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 helped put Uncle Sam in the space race. Follow in future issues of the NEWS the events surrounding the new citizen and his day to day survival stint. |