About The Old West And DVR
Post 146:
Two things I love—movies about the old west, and the DVR. Though these might seem to be two things too disparate to bridge across time and space, I intend to try. That’s the beauty of a blank page. You can throw anything on it and it’ll stick.
I would love to live in an old west town for a lot of reasons, but mostly, you wouldn’t need a DVR, and as person with something to sell, you wouldn’t need a whole lot of advertising.
I will spin a small tale to illustrate:
Randall McCarthy stumbled through the saloon doors with a dusty crash. He brought with him a smell bad enough to make pigs scatter. All the cowhands at the bar turned to face Randall, trying to drink and hold their noses at the same time.
“What the hell happened to you, Randall?” asked the barkeep.
Randall took a few awkward steps forward, dragging a bum leg. “I’ll tell you what happened. You know Johnny D’s daughter?”
“Did she do that to you? Looks like that little lady drug you through a mile of manure. Get on out of here, Randall. I’ve got paying customers.”
“She didn’t do it,” Randall bellowed, smelling under his armpits, as if they were the source of the odor. “It’s just—we went down yonder to the pond last night.”
“And just what in the hell does that have to do with anything?” asked Bill the drunk.
“Well, I don’t know if Johnny D is too happy about it, that’s what.”
The barkeep spit into a glass and polished it with his rag, doing his level-best to decipher the reeking riddle. “Hold on there, Bill,” he said, smacking down the glass. “You done got thrown off your horse, didn’t you, Randall McCarthy.”
“That’s all I was trying to say.”
“You never said anything nearing that,” old Bill brayed.
“Easy Bill. The boy clearly threw a shoe. Horse jumped him off, likely into a big pile of shit. Now he needs a shoeing—afraid though—afraid Johnny D’s gonna get to whooping his ass for necking with his daughter.”
“That’s all I was trying to say.”
“I need another drink,” Bill said, pulling his crusty hat down over his eyes.
“I could use one too,” Randall crowed.
“A little courage?” asked the barkeep. “Come on and take a bottle. Use the rest after Johnny D puts the straps to you. Pay me after, if you’re not dead.”
“What if I’m dead?”
“Reckon a bar tab might be at the bottom of your list at that point.”
“Yes sir.”
Okay, besides being something ridiculous that I conjured up in four minutes, what’ve we got? I’ll tell you. We got it all. Poor Randall knew just where to go. The saloon. He needed two things: a drink, and info. He didn’t need to go on the internet or see a billboard. He dragged his sorry butt into the saloon, because it’s the place you go for that sort of thing. He also knew where he needed to go. The blacksmith. He knew Johnny D was the blacksmith, because everybody knows who the blacksmith is. Yellow pages? I don’t think so. It’s three shacks down, thank you very much. You’ve seen it every day of your life.
What I’m doing here is definitely a good old days fallacy, but come on—wouldn’t it be cool to know where to go and not have to be convinced or coerced?
Eh, it’s all good. I don’t envy Randall. I’ve got 500 channels and a DVR. Nobody’s selling me a dang thing today. Besides, I think he might get his butt kicked. Good look Randall.
See you after.
