Where have all the cowboys gone?

Growing up in my house was like living on a military base without the moving and brattiness. When you got a 98 on a test Dad made you run around the block until you threw up. When I was 14 I wanted to see Whitney Houston in concert. The only way I could get a ticket was to go with some friends and buy them from a scalper. When I told my parents my brilliant idea, Dad pulled out one of the many penal law books in his library, found the appropriate law that I was about to break and made me write it 100 times.

There were some perks to having a dad who was a cop and a military historian. He taught me how to break into a house, I was the only kid on our block with a real bow and arrow set, and there was never a shortage of books for me to read and do reports on. Dad’s love of history was contagious. You couldn’t eat breakfast until you told him what war anniversary took place on that day – the answers were always hanging conveniently around the house because every average family has battle landscapes adorning their walls. He was also a big movie buff anything with John Wayne, The Best Years of Our Life, Zulu, Four Feathers, and Remember the Alamo. We’d watch movies together every weekend and during the commercial breaks he would go down to the basement and bring up the exact gun, knife, or spear that was featured in the movie of the day. Not a normal childhood by anyone’s definition.

As a kid I loved played cowboys and Indians. I know that’s not PC to say anymore but we didn’t think about those things back then. My brother was the perfect victim and always willing to let me tie him up and throw him in the closet or into a fully stocked toy chest for a few hours. My favorite person to play was The Lone Ranger. I had the silver mask and official Lone Ranger badge and hat. I also had a kick ass plastic rocking horse that carried me wherever I wanted to go and the neighbors could hear me shouting “charge” at all hours of the day.

Now that I’m all grown up and dating I get asked a lot what are you looking for? What kind of guy do you want? I hate those questions. Recently someone asked me and I was in such a snarky mood that I replied “I want a cowboy.” No seriously, I want a guy who can start a fire with sticks and stones, who can handle himself when I leave him alone at the table with my girlfriends to go use the restroom, someone who leaves me to handle my own messes and knows when to step in without making me feel foolish, a guy who can wrangle a rouge squirrel that somehow wandered in my city dwelling without harming it and who knows how to say it all with a wink and a smile.

The days of the classic tall, dark, and dusty cowboy are over. They’re replaced with urban cowboys who wouldn’t know how to survive a few hours without their cell phones. Guys who flash fake smiles and whip out plastic cards are a dime a dozen at the local watering hole. Belts and gun holsters are replaced with skinny jeans and modern day utility belts packing the latest gadgets that are meant to help you communicate. But when you look them in the eye, there’s no meaning, no glimpse into their soul, you can barely tell if they’ve had a hard day or not. Rustling up a couple of young sheep is easy at the bar because like sheep, women are clueless and they’ve lowered their expectations. Not me. I’m holding out. Standing tall, tired, and determined at my own personal Alamo.

So gentlemen if you’re reading this, buck up! Rent a John Wayne flick or two. Don a mask or a cowboy hat if you have to. But muster up the courage to ask a girl to dance, grab her hand for no good reason, hold the door open because you want to – not cause you have to, and when you look at her have a message waiting to send with a wink and a smile.

Hmmmm...so, where have all the cowboys gone?