#sunset carson

R.I.P. Peggy Stewart June 5, 1923 – May 29, 2019

Alien Outlaw (1985)

“I went to Popeye's not too long ago for the usual (a number six, with mashed potatoes and a pile of hot sauce packets), and found myself in a long, hungry line of like-minded patrons. As is often the case in my area, the source of the hold up was a senior citizen having a fit of some kind. On this particular occasion, the wrinkled hands on the aluminum walker belonged to a disgruntled man wearing dirty green sweatpants, a Hawaiian shirt, and a cowboy hat. Just by going for fast food at all, I was asking for trouble, so It wasn't bothering me. It's the kind of thing that happens all the time, unique outfits and all. It helps that fried chicken was involved, and I'm still kind of riding the high of even having a Popeye's within thirty minutes of my residence. I did what I usually do in these situations and zoned out, probably thinking about robots, boobs or monsters. At some point, the walker assisted individual finished accosting the low paid poultry dealer and without me noticing, had started towards me with a mumble. "What?" I said snapping back from whatever mental plane I had found in my escape. He repeated himself, "Does your phone have a camera on it?" Hoping I wasn't being dragged into the ordeal and gaining unease, I shot back only a "why?" The man struck a sort of pose in the space between his handlebars. "You might want to take a picture…..you’re looking at the last real cowboy." I said nothing in reply, although I swear a few of the unfed behind me let out a few gasps. My response must have been unsatisfactory because the endangered scoundrel simply hobbled his metal contraption loudly through the doors and left. It didn't take long before my turn to order, but the declaration stayed with me long after they called my number. I would get my chicken, but fate included a dark biscuit of foresight for no extra cost. Pondering as I sat down to my crispy meal, I came to terms with the reality presented to me by the broken down "last real cowboy". If he was the final specimen, that ship had sailed, and the breed would soon go extinct while watching Wheel of Fortune. Everything ends, I thought and drowned the sadness with a fuck-ton of hot sauce. It was more sympathy than anything, as by and large, the loss wouldn't affect me. No matter the owner's authenticity, the headwear seemed ordinary enough, and I know somewhere there is a vaquero herding beef, as it is in the store right now. Had he not said something, the absence of this "real" variety of "cowboy" would likely have gone unnoticed. I can't think of a time I would have needed one. Then again, my dusty town has never been overrun by malicious interplanetary marksmen, like in Alien Outlaw (1985)...”