The Marshall continues his reverie: "The popcorn sure smelled good; I'd go back if I could..."

I probably trespass on Marshall Andy's demographics. I have only vague memories the sad latter days of Saturday matinees at the Riviera—or was it the Tennessee? They showed short movies for kids, and between them a clown would come out and give a humorous lecture. I strongly disliked caramel, butterscotch, licorice, malted milk, and all chocolate that had nuts growing in it. But in the theater there was candy everywhere, smeared on kids' ugly faces, gumming up their crew cuts.

Outnumbering adults always made me acutely uncomfortable. I'd never read Lord of the Flies, but it was easy to picture something like that happening if they didn't open those big doors soon.

I, for one, wouldn't go back if I could. You couldn't pay me.

But, for some reason, I've made a habit of Riders of the Silver Screen. Every Saturday the Marshall hosts a miniature film festival of scratchy copies of scratchy movies with actors who, I think, later got jobs in Houston as the first NASA engineers. They mostly stand in rooms talking, their boots nailed firmly to the floor, or hang onto black-and-white horses as the animals race back and forth in front of big rocks. Often, as they hang on, the cowboys shoot pistols into the air with a flick of the hand as if they were flinging the bullets, or maybe Milk Duds, at the bad guys.

Every once in a while, Marshall Andy appears in his white cowboy hat as, with his sidekick, Frosty, they discuss the nuances of these films, the stars who went on to bigger things or died tragically. Frosty's an elderly man with white canopy eyebrows. He looks like Lloyd Bridges, except moreso. Frosty's the classic trustworthy sidekick, and you gather he's done a few of these movies, himself.

Marshall Andy has no illusions about cinema as Art. He routinely calls them all "B Westerns," and when he does, I sometimes wonder if the guests he has on the show are offended. But surely they notice that Marshall Andy speaks of "B Westerns" with such pride you get the impression he strongly prefers them to "A Westerns." And because he does, you do too.

After all, there's something appealing about the herds of black-and-white horsemen and scratchy monotones. It goes well with a tin cup of coffee and a plate of peppery huevos rancheros and, unlike all other television, doesn't intrude on the sunny peace of a Saturday morning.

This idyll sometimes ends in jarring color, with Marshall Andy in a fluorescent-lit basement somewhere, singing cowboy songs before a stoic country band. The sidemen look sober and tired, though maybe it's just the contrast with their ebullient Marshall. It makes you wonder what they really think of him. Then we hear the theme again:

Now they're riding where the river meets the sun

They'll never ride the silver screen again

The riders of the silver screen are gone!