The Great Suburban Cowboy

I live in suburban Pittsburg, but my heart yearns for western climes, undoubtedly from watching films that dressed up and romanticized the sweep of the tall-grass prairie, desert cactus and red-baked stone, endless pines in northern forest, Earth’s tall, Rocky Mountain bones. Where a man could breath the air, and hookers had those hearts of gold, when land was cheap and any one could be rancher proud and bold. Maybe all this is illusion, but there’s value in more then facts, I’m the Great Suburban Cowboy, and I’m comfortable with that. My riding was learned by lessons, ranching tricks I do not know, I’m prone to taking trail rides, I have never thrown a lasso. There’s a Winchester in my case, gets me comments down at the range, tried Deer-hunting with it last fall, but saw nothing out there but rain. And I have a big hat and boots, bull-hide with a walking heel, occasionally, with a lady, they have helped me seal the deal. Went twenty seconds, my record, on a large, mechanical bull, I’m a Great Suburban Cowboy, and I must live my life in full. Of course there is much more to it then just dressing up for the part, there’s a code that goes with it, makes this more than just a lark. The honor of the old west lore shows a man a better way, it certainly altered my path from my more thuggish, younger days. Urban folks will never get me, and the real cowboys roll their eyes, but so far no better choice has revealed itself to my mind. So the old western classic films, and the books will line my wall, better a suburban cowboy, than never a cowboy at all.