The Truth of Memory; or, Cisco Kid + Telecaster = Heaven
Remember the whiz-bang shoot-’em-ups of Saturday afternoons of yesteryear?
I don’t (having been weaned on monster movies and Tarzan flicks, which I watched with my sister during those rare moments when we weren’t pulling each other’s hair). But somehow the flickering, galloping images from oaters are in me. (Perhaps they are inculcated by a potent combo of formula and Tang and suburban development living?
I came to westerns late, but fell hard. Now I watch reel after reel of anything with a holster and cartridge belt. But even I can get a little bored by early westerns. Talky, with long spaces of silence, fakey sets, and deadly dull plots. And the heroes!
You ever notice how cowboy heroes have gotten younger, trimmer, and maybe a little meaner? Back the heyday, westerns had pot-bellied middle-aged heroes who could have used some Elvis swagger. Not that there’s anything wrong with that–I have a fondness for middle-aged men. So I’m happy when I find something that reminds me not of the kinda boring episodes but my memory of those episodes: fast and furious, kinda dirty sexy. I get my Cowboy Moment shiver every time I see it.
Buckaroos and Buckarettes, a Wild Western Web find, from (I think) En Petit Comite: