Search the Western Clippings Site

An Interview With…
        - Archives

Will "Sugarfoot" Hutchins
    - July 2023
    - April 2023
    - January 2023
    - October 2021
    - January 2021
    - November 2020
    - June 2020
    - April 2020
    - December 2019
    - November 2019
    - September 2019
    - August 2019
    - July 2019
    - May 2019
    - March 2019
    - September 2018
    - August 2018
    - March 2018
    - February 2018
    - January 2018
    - September 2017
    - August 2017
    - July 2017
    - May 2017
    - April 2017
    - January 2017
    - December 2016
    - October 2016
    - September 2016
    - August 2016
    - July 2016
    - May 2016
    - March 2016
    - February 2016
    - January 2016
    - December 2015
    - November 2015
    - September 2015
    - August 2015
    - July 2015
    - May 2015
    - April 2015
    - March 2015
    - February 2015
    - January 2015
    - December 2014
    - November 2014
    - October 2014
    - September 2014
    - August 2014
    - July 2014
    - May 2014
    - April 2014
    - March 2014
    - February 2014
    - January 2014
    - December 2013
    - November 2013
    - October 2013
    - September 2013
    - August 2013
    - July 2013
    - June 2013
    - May 2013
    - April 2013
    - March 2013
    - February 2013
    - January 2013
    - December 2012
    - November 2012
    - October 2012
    - September 2012
    - August 2012
    - July 2012
    - June 2012
    - May 2012
    - April 2012
    - March 2012
    - February 2012
    - January 2012
    - December 2011
    - November 2011
    - October 2011
    - August 2011
    - July 2011
    - June 2011
    - May 2011
    - April 2011
    - March 2011
    - February 2011
    - January 2011
    - December 2010
    - November 2010
    - October 2010
    - September 2010
    - August 2010
    - July 2010
    - June 2010
    - May 2010
    - April 2010
    - March 2010
    - February 2010
    - January 2010
    - November 2009
    - October 2009
    - September 2009
    - August 2009
    - July 2009
    - June 2009
    - May 2009
    - April 2009
    - March 2009
    - February 2009
    - January 2009
    - December 2008
    - November 2008
    - September 2008
    - August 2008
    - June 2008
    - April 2008
    - March 2008
    - February 2008

Do You Remember?
    - Archives

Comic Book Cowboys
    - Archives

Westerns of...
    - Archives

Heavies and Characters
      - Archives

The Stuntmen - Neil Summers
    - Archives

Western Treasures
    - Archives

Circus Cowboys
    - Archives

Radio Range Riders
    - Archives

Rangeland Elegance
    - Archives

Western Artifacts
    - Archives

Film Festival Fotos
    - Archives

Silent Western Reviews
    - Archives

Serial Report
    - Archives

Subscribe to Western Clippings


Western Clippings Back Issues

Daily Comic Strips
    - Page 1 (1910-1949)
    - Page 2 (1950-1979)

Sunday Comic Strips
    - 1907-1990


Miscellaneous Collectibles


Lobby Cards

Movie Posters



Who lost the most shoot-outs in TV Western history? Answer: Arvo Ojala—Matt Dillon shot him daid at the beginning of each episode of “Gunsmoke”. To me Arvo was the father of full-tilt forty-five firepower. The man was fast! Consarn, you’d think he woulda outdrawed Marshal Matt at least once in all those years, wouldn’tcha? But no…

The late great Steve Allen featured a funny running gag when he hosted “The Tonight Show” during TV’s black and white infancy. He’d give you the answer to a question before he gave you the question. Shades of Johnny Carson’s Karnac the Magnificent. Here’s one of my favorites. Answer: Washington Irving. Question: Who’s the Father of Our Country, Sam? (pause for laff).

I attended Washington Irving Jr. Hi in La La Land. We were called the Knickerbockers. An awkward time of life for me. My homeroom teacher was Paul S. Paulson. Back then, I was a frivolous fellow. He was dead serious. Closest he ever came to a smile was a sneer. One morning I stood at the back of homeroom joshin’ with my pals. Paulson was writing on the blackboard. He called for silence. Didn’t get it. He whirled like a gunfighter. In a flash he hurled his chalk, fast as a bullet. It shattered on the back wall, inches from my head. Was he trying to hit me or scare me? I didn’t ask. Ever faint standing up? Paulson was also our gym teacher. He was a tough sonuva big fella—compared to him, army basic training was a snap. Once a week I was subjected to the humiliation of dance class! Co-ed! Scanty outfits! One rainy day we were introduced to the rapture of the Lindy Hop. Paulson put Artie Shaw on the turntable and announced in his low, deadly, southern drawl, “I notice some of you young ladies are sitting this one out. Mary Ellen Butler, unglue yourself. You are about to Lindy with the worst dancer here.” Guess who. He was right. My Lindy Hop looked more like an Earhart Plop. Well, I served three years and moved on from a Knickerbocker to a John Marshall Hi Barrister.

We had a pretty good gymnastics team. In fact, we had the world’s champion rope climber. (Do they still climb rope?) My pals and I were in the stands one day for a meet with arch rival Belmont Hi. As usual, we were noisy and goofy to the max. Suddenly, my pal Richard Hill pointed to one of the judges, Mr. Paulson! He was looking at us, judging us, finding us guilty. Time had softened him. His sneer had a tinge of sadness. I have to credit Paul S. Paulson for saving me a passel of money. Thanks to my Jr. Hi twinkletoes trauma, thenceforth, I didn’t have to shell out for sock hops, proms, corsages.

Michael Pate.Michael Pate once sent me a Christmas card in July. Why not? Down under in Sydney, Australia, it was snowing. Pretty card. An illustration of a scene from “A Christmas Carol”. One of the ghosts, like Superman, is flying Old Scrooge through the London snow, hovering over Bob Cratchit’s house. Inside is Michael’s message, ending, “Amazingly, this is the first xmas card we’ve sent in 60 years. P.S. Be sure to find the stamps.” He sent a few bucks worth of uncancelled U.S. stamps. I affixed ‘em all, Michael. The jolly wanderer also included a brochure on the Aussie government’s national continence helpline. Why not? We’re all incontinent. Michael’s from the Australian continent. I’m in the North American continent.

Michael and I worked together on a “Sweet Toes” half a century ago. Great man, great life, great talent. Great honor to have kept in touch. Felippa and Kit, Babs and I send all our love. Until that time, Mr. Pate, until that time.

I’d love to send ya’ll Christmas cards. In lieu of that, my beautiful bride Barbara sends you her own private recipe for what she calls the best rum cake ever. Follow me as I bake what I call Barbara a Rum. Here are the ingredients. 1 cup butter. 1 tsp. sugar. 2 large eggs. 1 cup dried fruit. 1 tsp. baking powder. 1 tsp. soda. Juice of 1 lemon. Dash of brown sugar, and nuts to you (If I may be permitted a measure of levity). What, Babs? Oh, yes, 1 qt. of rum. Aw, make it 2. First, check the rum for quality—glug, glug—Mmmm! Tasty devil. Now, select a large mixing bowl and measuring cup. Better check the rum one more time. Must be of the highest quality. Pour one level cup into a
Drunk Santa Claus. glass and drink ‘er down, faster than you can say Jack Robinson—or Ted Williams—Ahhhh! Smacka my lips! Oh kay! With an electric mixer beat your cuppa butter in your large fluffy bowl. Add 1 seaspoon of thugar. Heh, heh—that’s 1 teaspoon of sugar! Beat it all to heck and back starring Audie Murphy. And make sure the ol’ rum’s of the quiest holity. Er, highest quality. So, test run another cup, cowpokes and cowpokesses. Slurrrp. Okie dokie. Add your basic 2 large eggs. Hmmm! Better get that other bottle while we’re at it. Open sez me. Where was I, all ya gourmet cooksters? Oh, yeah. Add the eggs plus two cupsa fried droot—ooops. Dried fruit, and beat it all over the place until it gets as high as a kite. Wheee! If the fried droot gets stuck in the ol’ beater, pry it loose with a drewscriver. Uno momento. Jes’ checkin’ the rum again for tow-skiss-tassy (Baaa-rooom!). Now sift. What’s sift? Anyhow, sift three cupsa pepper—or salt—who cares? Thru siffftin’ yet? I’ll wait. Ah ha! Now comes the best part. Sample the rum again. Arghhh! Makes a good gargle. Avast there, matey, on the port side. Wassail at dawn.  Har! What now! Oh! More sifftin’s called for—so siffft for the love of siffftin’. Siffft ½ pint of lemon juice and fold in chopped butter and strained nuts, and if ya ain’t got jacks or better, fold your cards. Ti ye kemosabes! Now, wix mell, er, Tom Mix, ah, Max Schnell, er Maximilian Schell. And greeze the ol’ oven and turn cake to 350 gree-deeze. Put the whole mess into the boven and ache. Oh, yeah! Better check that rum again. Smoooth! Don’t know about you—I’m headin’ for the last round-up. Happy Holly Daze from Hurricane Hutch.