Howdy! Once upon a time at a Fest O’ the West in Knoxville, Babs and I moseyed on down the aisle to front row seats for a rousing panel discussion. Our pard Jim Shoenberger Q&A’d  Babs’ hero Bob Horton, sultry Jeanne Carmen, and my hero,
Dobe Carey. Jim asked Bob about his favorite TV directors—pause—Bob allowed as how he really didn’t have any. He reckoned they were glorified foremen, doin’ jobs o’ work, gettin’ paid for bringin’ epics in on time and, if possible, under budget. Bob said the only piece of imaginative direction he could recollect came from Richard Fleischer on a Western—‘twas a sorta intimate scene ‘twixt Bob and the lovely de jour. To spice-up the moment, Fleischer suggested, “Bob, during all the dialogue, you might try taking off your chaps.”

Jeanne Carmen! Wow! Among her talents she was a trick-shot artist at golf. She had a date to play golf with
her pal Marilyn Monroe on the Sunday Marilyn committed suicide—or did she? Jeanne thought not. She had her reasons. A few nights later, Jeanne received a phone call in the dead of dark. An unknown voice whispered that Jeanne might do well to get out of town for awhile. She did. Next day, she moved to Las Vegas for 10 years. Jim asked her to explain the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. “They’re the same,” said Jeanne. “No, they’re not,” chimed-in Dobe Carey. “I love Ben Johnson, but I’m not in love with Ben Johnson.”

That affable gent John Buttram gave us a jingle. I told him we had more snow last year in Long Island than in Sochi. You know folks, though April Snowers may come your way, they bring the plowers that clear the way. So when it’s snowing, have no regrets, because you’re kinda lucky not to own some faulty Chevrolets.

Pardon me, I’m recovering from the shock of realizing I’m still on this earth, and Shirley Temple ain’t. She was my first crush. Back in the ‘30s I listened faithfully to KFAC radio, daily, for the Uncle Whoa Bill show and the latest Shirley Temple hit record. I went to see “Bright Eyes”, and was I surprised to see that the good ship Lollypop was an airplane! My grandmother Nana took me shopping in Bullocks Wilshire, and there she was—Shirley Temple! with her mom. Shirley was getting taller. I didn’t like that. I wanted her to stay America’s little girl forever. Her head appeared e-nor-mous! All those curls! Her head looked like a Macy’s Parade balloon! The story goes, one night a car pulled-up out front of the John Agar and Shirley Temple house. Honk, Honk! “Hey, Agar, come on out and go with us. It’s Ward and Duke and Dobe and we’re on a toot! Come along! “Aw, sorry, fellas. I’d love to, but Shirley’s cooking dinner, and we’re going to watch “Little Miss Marker”.

Hey, pardners, y’all might want to check-out “Jeff Sorg’s I Am a Cowboy” on YouTube. Jeff’s our pal o’ the saddle on Long Island and he’s chuck full of talent. He’s an artist, musician, song writer, and singer of songs. He kindly included a photo of ol’ Sugarfoot in his montage of cowboys in his YouTube piece. “I Am a Cowboy” oughta be a classic. It’ll sure get your toes a’tappin’ and you’ll be shoutin’ Yee Haww! Babs and I treasure Jeff’s framed drawing of a stagecoach with Cavalry escort straight out of Duke’s “Rio Grande”. Thanks, Jeff, for the gift, for all you gifts, for your friendship.

                                        —Adios