This morning over breakfast at The Virginian here in Jackson Hole, Lauren and I were talking about paperback Westerns — Louis L’Amour and the like — which led to a conversation about TV Westerns of our childhood. “Bonanza,” “Gunsmoke,” “High Chaparral.” Which led me to telling Luke about “The Lone Ranger.”
Pity the poor kid when I start talking about such things. But he seemed interested in the idea of a masked ranger in a tight, matching shirt-and-pants outfit, and his Indian sidekick. And to mount Silver by leaping into the air, well, that was almost too awesome to believe.
Tonight, after a full day around Jackson, Luke and I watched “The Lone Ranger” on You Tube. It was every bit as awful and wonderful as I had remembered: the terrible set-ups, the bad acting, the laughable fight scenes, the awful stereotype and English of poor Tonto, the Zen-like lessons from the masked man.
It was so bad, Luke insisted we watch a second episode. If I play my cards right, perhaps I’ll have him hooked on “Rawhide” by the time he’s seven.
LOST IN THE NOISE 