Tales from the VIlle-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Conclusion

Wrapping this sad saga up with either a pretty bow or a hangman's noose, here is the blissfully final installment of my Palace Showboat directorial debut.

After the final dress rehearsal and less than 24 hours to go, it was coming right down to the wire. Set pieces we're still being constructed and painted that would hopefully be dry and nailed/glued/stapled/duct taped together by the time the curtain rose om opening night. That didn't stop the reception of another kick to my groin. In finale, set in a heavenly nightclub called Pair O' Dice, I envisioned tables with paper mache' fronts on either side stage painted to resemble clouds, Maxfield Parrish puffballs. My tortured heart sank to anew low when I saw the end result: two giant ice cubes that just tore a hole in the hull of the Titanic. What a metaphor. Too late to redo them, my final directorial decision was that to shit-can them both and keep them as boring cocktail tables. Blah, humbug.

For me, the opening weekend of LEGEND OF THE ROGUE/LIFE IS A CABARET was an absolute blur. Apparently, all was well, for the most part. The melo went swimmingly, a triumph I wasn't able to enjoy with the Sword of Damocles vaudeville hanging over my head. But CABARET, lumbering mess that it was, plodded along without a hitch with the exception that it was so bloody long. The entire show didn't let out until close to midnight, 30 to 45 minutes over.  

DW Landingham. Naturally.

In the following week, damage control was put into place without my participation. In effect, Goldie, in her venerable role as producer, basically took my show away from me, an act of mercy perhaps that should have happened weeks before opening. Instead of being led behind the barn with a bullet put to my head, I chose to suffer the consequences, namely staying with the show as a cast member only. (My director credit remained on the program.) More numbers were sliced, diced and tossed in the trash bin, replaced by a couple of old favorites from the Ville catalog, more irony for me to chew on. The great D.W. Landingham came in to save the day, becoming a special guest star cast member as the top banana in the DR. CURE-ALL sketch and THE HECKLER. Naturally, he excelled, guaranteeing his spot on the Pollardville Mt. Rushmore. This is how it went down for the entire run which continued without major incident or my input. By the show's end at the end of the summer, I was relieved for it to be over and put behind me.

But was it? Here I am over forty years later. dragging myself over the coals, though I'm doing so to gain some perspective and complete this apology tour. In retrospect, LIFE IS A CABARET had its moments, a very adequate second half,  though I know goddamn well that it is nobody's favorite. (In case you haven't guessed, I count myself in the mix) The musical numbers were all fine, throwing a tap number into the finale and a solo spot for our superb drummer Joel Warren playing the conga and singing Kenny Rogers' "The Hoodooin' of Miss Fanny DeBerry". However, there was a big gaping hole I didn't fill and that was COMEDY.  The one thing I had built my reputation upon had been sorely lacking. Two bits I conceived had been given the heave-ho and I had zippity doo dah to replace them. Thank Buddha for D.W. and some classic material at our disposal.

Quite frankly, as if I haven't been, the whole premise of the show was flimsy at best and, under scrutiny, fell apart at the seams. The only word to describe it all would be disappointing. It's like that phrase parents use to cut kids to the quick, "I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed." Among those I let down were Goldie, who gave me this shot, Bill, who I treated poorly as both a friend and never a collaborator, the cast, who always gave their best and elevated the material each and every performance and even the Ville itself for taking my back on its legacy because I wanted to put my own spin on things I knew nothing about. The previous show, GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE, was a big step forward while mine barely made it own of the starting gate before tripping over its own feet. 

Mercifully, it wasn't a complete boondoggle. The melodrama did maintain the spirit of excellence that SEVEN WIVES FOR DRACULA (GOODBYE TV's companion) set forth, both on stage and behind the scenes. For that I was grateful enough to keep my head above water. While the cast excelled throughout, I have to award the Most Valuable Player Award to Ed Thorpe for going above and beyond with his contributions to the whole show. Cast as Rhett, one of two henchman of the villain and the smallest role in THE ROGUE, he created a demonic Tasmanian Devil-like character that blew the roof off the joint. I had created a character for him in the second half, a hick stand-up comic named Jim Bob Cornhusker, that he brought to brilliant light but was unfortunately short-lived. To make up for it, he received an important role in DOCTOR CURE-ALL where he once again exploded onto that stage like the seasoned Pollardville pro he was and always would be.

What I have come to realize in reliving this episode of my Ville life is that prior to accepting the role of vaudeville director, things were too damn easy for me and when it became hard, I floundered like a tuna on the deck of a fishing boat. My inherent immaturity overrode my talent. What I failed to recognize is the plain truth (or life cliche', if you must) that it is the hard that makes it good. If putting a show together was so easy, everyone could do it. It isn't, they can't and at that pivotal moment, neither could I. But, hey, wasn't I supposed to be Orson Welles? Uh-uh. Neither was he at first. Orson didn't suddenly appear out of the blue with CITIZEN KANE in his hot little hands. He had years of training and stage experience under his belt before his career took off, albeit at an early age. Me, I'm self-taught at just about everything, which served me well initially, but the arrogance of youth, my own, exposed my shortcomings and damn near did me in for good.

Following THE ROGUE/CABARET came Bob Gossett's melodrama PIRATES OF THE GOLDEN SEA  (or KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY CHEST) and Ed's VOYAGE TO PARADISE. I wasn't about to jump into the frying pan again, so I stayed off the stage for quite a stretch. Goldie, bless her lil' pea-pickin' heart, played into my strengths again and allowed me to pen a couple of sketches and gags for it as I did for the next production as well. I kept my feet in the water, but I wasn't ready to go back into the deep end again. Not yet anyway. 

That's a story for another time. Just not this one. 

SEE ALSO;

LIFE IS CABARET PART ONE

and PART TWO

AND THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY ALL ONE PAGE ENTITLED

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part Two

The continuing misadventures of my directorial debut at the Palace Showboat Theater at Pollardville. Pardon me as I purge.

Time has never been my friend. In fact, I would venture to say it was my arch-nemesis. This indisputable fact came into play as I scrambled to put my show LIFE IS A CABARET together. By the time auditions rolled around, I had perhaps 2/3 glued together. (Maybe 3/4 if I was being generous, which I'm not) The pressure was definitely on, but my finger hadn't hit the panic button. Yet. 

Tryouts were, unfortunately, rather turbulent. We had a decent turn-out of past Showboat players, many of which were highly complimentary of my melodrama script (LEGEND OF THE ROGUE) which gave me a necessary boost. But egos came to the forefront when one actor we wanted as the villain of the piece gave us (producer Goldie Pollard, melo director Bill Humphreys and yours truly) a set of demands that included being excluded from any cast numbers in the second half of the show as well as a solo specialty number. Since it was my vaudeville, I put the nixed these suggestions and he went on his merry way, a pity since I always liked this guy as a performer and he would have been perfect for the villain. Another actor who really wanted the lead got a supporting role, became butt-hurt in the process and also decided to set his own terms. Goldie met them all because this actor was always an asset, despite being a royal pain in the ass when things didn't go his way. What he walked away with was trivial beyond measure, but he felt victorious, though the chip remained on his shoulder throughout. 

 One bright note was a hearing impaired actor who absolutely crushed his audition and had been cast in a supporting role in the melo. I saw him as a potential breakout star. He had dramatically interpreted a song that I don't recall utilizing ASL (American sign language) and I felt this would make a great number for my show. Unfortunately, he reconsidered and dropped out before the first rehearsal. Goldie  insisted I take over the role which I reluctantly accepted. There's nothing I love more than being on stage, but I needed to focus on the second half and saw this as an unnecessary distraction. And I wrote the goddamn thing! As a result, the decision for the cast was set in stone and turned out to be all heavy hitters, as good a bunch as to ever set foot on the stage, a winning combination of the past, present and future.

Even though he was already directing THE ROGUE, I chose Bill to act as my assistant AD because I needed a safety net, even though my insecurity began to take hold, causing me to keep him at arm's length and pretty much in the dark. His experience was far greater than mine and I thought he'd take over. Was I being a control freak or merely a neurotic fool? You make the call! On a rare positive note, I had a musical director in my corner who interpreted everything I heard in my head. I couldn't read music, but I could point to what I wanted. He validated my instincts enough to show I had been on what I considered to be heading in the right direction. Unfortunately, he disappeared, POOF!, never to be heard from again. I have no idea what occurred only rumors that have never proven to be true. All I knew was he was gone and replaced by another musical director whose second guessed just about absolutely everything in my original arrangement. On top of that, I had to provide the new guy a dreaded solo number that had to be jerry-rigged into the show. My choreographer also wasn't too keen on my concepts either and attempted outlandish ideas that went nowhere, especially the girls performing their number on roller skates. My ode to female sexuality became a slapstick roller derby number. Mother of Mercy, was this the end of Cherney?. The roller skates mercifully went bye-bye in short shrift since it was a ridiculous notion and, you know, potential injuries, lawsuits and the like. The can-can number and my slapstick 10 Tango were both scrapped, the latter right after I cast myself as a bumbling waiter, but not before I took a fall off-stage smacked the back of my noggin with a curtain weight. A couple of other pieces dropped by the wayside as well including my ode to English music halls and a salute to Marlene Dietrich's rendition of "Lilli Marlene". 2/3 of a show line-up had become 1/2. The word dire became part of my vocabulary.

Creatively, I had hit a brick wall hit head first and came to a screeching halt. Confronted by people who still considered me as their friend for some unknown reason, I was taken to task for my inability to deliver the goods and keeping my cards close to my chest because I knew damn well I had nothing in my hand.  This was indeed an intervention. It was the moment that many people in the creative arts, be they actors, writers, directors, artists, what have you, dread most in their lives: when you have been exposed as a fraud. Your ego had been writing checks that your meager talent and lack of experience couldn't cash. I found myself breaking down and tearfully confessed to Goldie that I was in over my head. Without mollycoddling me, she talked me off the ledge with straight talk and cold-hard facts. What I had was enough to put on some kind of a show because, as it turned out, I actually had too much material. It was unwieldly and a frickin' mess, but a show nonetheless. 

Hell Week of rehearsals lived up to its name in more ways than one. The melodrama played quite well and, not surprisingly, Bill did a bang-up job along with the excellent cast and a spectacular set design by the brilliant Karen Van Dine. On the other hand, the vaudeville was a shambles. The cast had less faith in me as each passing rehearsal. Two of my former collaborators had completely turned against me and began working on their own show, but the worst was yet to come. Four days before opening, my father had a major stroke. While it didn't kill him, it was enough to change the remaining years of his life to their very worst. Understandably, I missed a couple of rehearsals and returned with two days to spare, a shell of my former self. My heart wasn't in it as it was and this only served to confirm that horrible reality. It didn't matter. For better, for worse or both, opening night was happening no matter what. 

The show must go on, don'tcha know?

TO BE CONCLUDED

SEE ALSO:

PART ONE OF LIFE IS A CABARET (KINDA, SORTA) 

 THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part One

As I continue to chronicle my time at the Palace Showboat Theatre at Pollardville, I have to be as true to myself as I possibly can and admit to my own failures, this one in particular. These next few posts are pretty much of a purge, but necessary to my story.  

Because I was (am) a moony eyed dreamer, one of the early heroes I claimed in my creative development was Orson Welles. Using CITIZEN KANE as a benchmark, I aspired to achieve what he had with that classic film, that is, write, produce and star, by the tender age of 25. The title of wunderkind had appealed to me as well. Little did I fathom that I couldn't claim that for myself, but to have it bestowed upon by others. (There's a parallel here with the first appearance of a delusional Wile E. Coyote in a Bugs Bunny cartoon referring to himself as a "super genius".) This wasn't the only misconception I had about either myself or Mr. Welles at this point in time. To paraphrase Junior Soprano, what I didn't know could fill a book...or at least a couple of blog posts. 

Following my stage debut at the Ville, I unwisely opted out of auditioning for the next show, SEVEN BRIDES FOR DRACULA/ GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE for a couple of fairly valid reasons. The first was my commitment as Entertainment Director for a second year at then titled Tule Flats Ghost Town. The second, I wanted to create my own show for the Palace Showboat stage. Though Ed Thorpe and I wrote LA RUE'S RETURN, I wanted to go off and thus my first solo melodrama, THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, was chosen for the next show, another feather in my cap of growing plumage. But that wasn't all, as I soon found out. Producer extraordinaire Goldie Pollard granted me the honor of directing the vaudeville portion of that same show. Therefore, the next production was to be a Scott Cherney joint from top to bottom. This incredible leap of faith on Goldie's part was insurmountable. Destiny itself had blown its majestic trumpet as I had been given the keys to the kingdom...at the age of 25. Orson who?

Over the moon and back again, I dove in head first. Following the current show would be a daunting effort to say the least. DRACULA/GOODBYE TV had pretty much changed the landscape of what was possible on that stage, ushering in a new era. I felt up to the challenge and set out to do it all by myself. After all, I wrote THE ROGUE in a week's time, so how hard could it be? 

Reality check, please! 

#1: This would be my directorial debut. On stage. I was a babe in the woods. I had staged a few gunfights in the ghost town the summer before, but what else? Zippity-doo-dah. 

#2: I wanted to re-invent the wheel...again, namely the concept of a Pollardville vaudeville show. Bill Humphreys had done this with GOODBYE TV and I chose to follow in his footsteps until I headed down my own path.  My arrogance (and ignorance) prompted me to turn my nose up to what I considered to be the cornball Pollardville formula. After all, I knew better, didn't I? 

#3 My theater experience overall was pretty slight, especially in terms of music and choreography. What the hell did I know? I had been a bit player in a high school production of DAMN YANKEES and struggled through the singing and dancing portions of  UNDER THE BIG TOP. I certainly couldn't read music and as for dancing, my closet was full of left shoes. 

Yup. The odd were against me, but what did I care? I'd show 'em. I'd show 'em all.  But first, I had to pass GO, with or without $200.

All summer long, I delved into the research and development of my show . In those pre internet days, my best friend was the public library for the wealth of information at my disposal. Initially I considered to go with a vaudeville centered around my favorite subject-the movies. I had no idea why I decided against it, probably because it was too easy. I went in to deep dive of material and soon, my concept became thus: A show that celebrated the elements of a Palace Showboat vaudeville from various venues around the world such as British music halls, Paris' Folies Bergere, American nightclubs, Germany's cabarets and so on, and so forth. Following that last piece of the puzzle came the title LIFE IS A CABARET. 

Despite this rather vague, unformed concept, my creative juices began overflowing with ideas. As a fan of THE MUPPET SHOW, I wanted puppets to serve as a background chorus for a voodoo number. A can-can dance was a necessity. I conceived a slapstick tango number to go to the tune of Ravel's Bolero. (Blake Edwards' 10, was a major film at that time). The guys' number was another rock and roller ala "Hot Patootie" from the current show. I wanted Spencer Davis Group' "Gimme Some Lovin'",  featuring Chicago gangsters for some reason I don't recall. I wanted the girls' number to be the absolute epitome of hot, a combination of  "Fever" and "Steam Heat". The opening of course had to be John Kander of Fred Ebb's "Cabaret". The finale I actually derived from a very racist Warner Brothers cartoon called GOIN' TO HEAVEN ON A MULE. In it, a lazy worker drinks a jug of hooch, passes out  and dreams he lands in heaven, which turns out to be a nightclub called Pair O' Dice. I kept that same setting with the addition of the numbers "This Joint is Jumpin'" and "It Don't Mean a Thing". Sounds horrible in a 21st century context, doesn't it?  I justified it all in the belief that whitewashing we'd apply would make all that nasty racism go away. In retrospect, I didn't have a fucking clue. However, no one else called me on this either. Not many years before, the Ville staged their own Caucasian minstrel show, so my ignorance ran concurrent with past productions. Unintentionally offensive is still offensive, but that was then, this is now. Can't change the past, but I sure can own up to it.

Let the cancellations commence. 

To Be Continued

See also: GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE TALES FROM THE VILLE-HI YO, SILVER! 

                THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE THE LEGEND CONTINUES

                 THE REST OF THE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

The Agony and the Irony

Hindsight may be 20/20, but sometimes it requires bifocals. That is, of course, if you care to take a closer look. You might not want to, lest it interrupt your  rush to judgement. But if you take a breath, you might be surprised.

Take, for example, the recent fallout from Trump 2.0, already in progress. Tesla car dealerships have become hotbeds of recent protests, often resulting in vandalism and, on a few occasions with the use of firearms. Howcum, you might ask when you emerge from under a rock? It's all directed at Tesla CEO and Trump human shield Elon Musk, whose Doge is running rampant. hacking and a hewing at government waste. At least that's what they're leading us to believe. 

Now kids, let's head back into the Way Back machine set, for say two decades ago during the age of one GW Bush. That's when we got the long-awaited sequel to Desert Storm. The battle cry of protesters  back then was "No blood for oil!"  Progressives far and wide begged for the end of fossil fuel from our lives. And please, please please give us the electric car, you war mongering profiteers! There was even a semi-popular documentary that liberals dearly loved called WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? The antithesis of this miracle that were clamoring for was the Hummer, a gas-guzzling knockoff of the military truck and utilityvehicle  called the Humvee. Hummers, the douchemobiles of yore, were perceived as middle fingers to the left and were often vandalized at this point in time. 

Flash forward a few years later to when Elon Musk was THE media darling in a post-Steve Jobs world when it seemed everyone else was bored to tears by Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg. Elon the Genius was going to be our savior, cementing that stature when he formed a car company that would make wait for it, ELECTRIC VEHICLES. (Cue the Hallelujah chorus) Praise be to him! 

But wait just a gosh darn minute...he's switched allegiances. Musk is leaning right now... standing right to Satan himself, POTUS Don John Trump? That bastard! What else has changed about him? Hard to say. Maybe nobody was listening over all the Hossanas (unless you're Jewish). He's still the same tech weirdo, spreading his seed far and wide like Nick Cannon and his past accomplishments are being erased due to his current association with said Demon Incarnate. What's his end game? Couldn't be misanthropic...or could it? 

So here we are now. Those who yelled the loudest for the EV are focusing their ire at the one company that has popularized the very notion of the non-gas consuming cars. They are turning Tesla dealers into Target stores. Is it misguided anger? Well, not quite. Now they're going after the next entry on the list, the privately owned Muskmobiles themselves, just like in the Hummer days. (The Cybertruck is already its own joke and punchline, the Edsel of the 21st century. They could recoup their losses by selling them to the circus as clown cars) After that, the Tesla owners themselves, collateral damage in this War Between the States of Mind. 

And let's not ignore the MAGATS who believe electric vehicles are Satanic since oil is from the Lord but are now Elon Musk's biggest cheerleaders.

This is how it starts. They're playing us off against each other, a familiar tactic, a simple case of misdirection for the simple-minded, which is how they see us no matter where you stand. It takes the attention off of them. It's happened before. It'll happen again. History tends to repeat itself, sometimes exactly, sometimes abstractly. Look up from your phones every so often and see what going on around you. It doesn't cost anything to pay attention unless you don't. Then it might be too late and the price too great..

Tidbits

In years past, I would pontificating, criticizing and generally waxing on and off poetic about the Academy Awards which take place this Sunday, but I'm done with all that and especially the Oscars themselves. They finally wore me down enough so that I just don't care anymore. I'll watch it, basically out of habit, but that's about the size of it and not a fun size at that.

Instead, here are takes on some recent movies, some of which that may even get some Oscar, as if that means anything anymore. 

This year's big birthday blockbuster, a present I give to myself: Robert Eggers' version of NOSERATU. (There was another one with Jimmy Durante in the thirties: NOSEFERATU) So pleased to see it in the cinema, the last day before heading to streaming. It would not have worked its black magic on me at home as it did on the big screen. Loved it, but quite frankly, it scared the shit out of me and that almost never happens, the first time since Blair Witch. Dread lurks in every single scene and pays off in ways I did not expect. It's a one note movie like Oppenheimer, one that is a dirge that may be hard to take for some, but how does one extend a light touch during a rat-infested plague? It's ultra-violent as well, though I didn't find it gratuitous. The dialogue was an issue here and there, which could have been my ancient ear-drums or thick accents especially by the main blood-sucker himself. He actually was an issue, not the nightmarish demon of previous versions I really desired, but more a drunken uncle from the old country. Performances were superb all around with Lily-Rose Depp proving to be a force of nature equal to a howling storm. And any movie with Willem Dafoe is a plus no matter what. Eggers is awesome and so is his film. Happy birthday to me.

Starting off with a couple I heartily endorse instead of merely saying merely say "I like 'em both." NIGHTBITCH could be seen as a feminist diatribe by nitwits or a pointed view of motherhood and identity that resonates to even someone like me. Amy Adams nails it and has been sadly overlooked here in awards season. The same can be said about Marielle Heller's direction. Both make me want to howl at the moon. (or more likely, chase a parked car) Jesse Eisenberg's surprisingly triple threat work on A REAL PAIN gives him the major career lift he rightly deserves. And to allow Kieran Culkin to dominate the proceedings is almost a selfless act in itself, even though it's all in service of his film.

Here are a couple of recommendations (with reservations) from a genre I don't usually wade in-the dreaded rom-com. I wanted to see WE LIVE IN TIME mainly because I have a mad crush on Florence Pugh. (It's true. I love Pugh) The non-linear approach to this love story saves it from scrutiny while I watched it until later when I tore it apart. Still, it has its moments and worth a look. THE STORIED LIFE OF A.J. FIKRY was the nicer surprise and although not a traditional romancer, there is a lot of love to be found so it works for Val's Day. It ain't perfect and has its share of clunky scenes to be sure, but I got all misty-eyed toward the end. Then again, I cried when my team lost in the Puppy Bowl. I lost fifty bucks.

Finally, a question of the day. it doesn't have to be this day. It could be tomorrow or next month for all I care, but here it is anyway:

Do the people of Boston consider the title of WICKED to be cultural appropriation?

Discuss and never get back to me.

What A Novel Idea

Been teasing the fact that I have been attempting, nearly in vain, to complete my novel, something that has taken 27 years of my life. At long last, loves, I can finally announce that I am done. Finished. It's ain't over 'til it's over and it damn well is.

What began as this:

Became this: 

To this: 

Until finally, this:

 

Typing that title meant everything to me. Even though I had changed it from CHEAP THRILLS (the original name of the piece since its inception in the 1970s. It's true, it's true...), I've never been able to fully commit to BURY ME NOT until I finished the bloody thing. The experience gave me a myriad of emotions. First of all, a sense of relief. It's been a long haul after all. This wasn't meant to be my life's work but here I am to finally tell the tale. So pride reared its grinning head next. I accomplished the, uh, unaccomplishable...or so I believed in my bleakest moments. Without puffing out my chest too much, something else entered my consciousness. Loneliness. Odd, isn't it? This story has been my constant companion and now that it's nearly over, I can't help but miss it. There's a gap where it used to be, hopefully to be fulfilled by taking the next necessary steps on this LONG Cherney Journey.

But make no mistake. I'm not delusional, at least I head to the Grand Finale. BURY ME NOT is not a book. It is a manuscript. When it is published, one way or the other, I can indeed deem it as such. Not until then, my friends. 

These words have both guided and haunted me since they first crossed my ears. 

"The dreams that possess you will blossom and bless you...or run you insane."-El Gavilan (The Hawk) written by Kris Kristofferson

TO BE CONTINUED 

More posts about the same damn thing:

FIRST DRAFT DODGER

THE GRATING AMERICAN NOVEL

My Truths Are Self Evident

As the  charming saying goes, opinions are like assholes, everybody's got one. That's still no reason to air them out in public all the time. It's mostly just broken wind anyway. As much as I've tried to listen to both sides of arguments over time I think I'm ready to throw in the towel. The world is inundated with blowhards hither and yon, full of bluster and nothing else. It could be that you want your voices heard but nobody is really listening anymore. They're only waiting for you to finish up so they can get their own words in edgewise. 

After this last ridiculous election fiasco the voices haven't cooled. The hand wringing on the left is going to result into a carpal tunnel syndrome epidemic of epic proportions. Of course this all has to do with FOT-Fear of Trump-rather than the accountability of the worst run political campaign of modern times if not ever. It's Chicken Little time, kids and Popeye's is working overtime to accommodate y'all afore the sky starts fallin'. 

Meanwhile the right is chock full of outrage for one damn reason or another as per usual. They can't manage the savor their victory enough to take a few laps. It's like they're disappointed the left didn't riot the day after the election so they have to double down on their own perceived on every perceived evil and existence. Would it kill you to let the little theater kids have their Wicked movie with your whining about wokeness? Other than Part Two of that same movie, they don't have a lot to look forward to in next few years, so back off, ya damn bullies. Go see who Biden's going to pardon next. So far it's been two turkeys and his son.

And everybody else, take a rest, people. In case you haven't noticed over all the palaver, it's the holiday season. Jesus's birthday is right around the corner December 25th according to his Facebook page. You know, "Joy to the World"? (Sorry, Kamala. Sore subject) It's already the most stressful time of the year as it is, so why not focus your energy into that? Not your holiday? Fine. There are plenty more to pick from. No seasonal spirit at all? That's okay too. Find something to enjoy or embrace even if it's just yourself. (Make of that what you will) 

 Whatever you do or even don't at least come up for air. You're not blowing off steam like you think you are. You're creating an impenetrable fog. So let's all chill out for the next month. You're all going to need your strength and clear heads, such as they are. Let's all meet back here on, say, January the 6th. Anybody busy that day? Until then, unclench your cheeks, unfurrow your brows, keep your traps shut  and, if nothing else, celebrate yourself for getting through another year. For all our sake, let's not give new meaning to the title of that overplayed Wham song and make this The Last Christmas.

Whee! The People!

I woke up Wednesday morning with the earworm of the dopey, yet perfectly apropos Britney Spears'
song "Oops, I Did It Again!" At first, I was gong to distance myself from this observation, claiming that it wasn't a reference to myself and therefore not responsible for what had come down the same pike that's carrying Lady Liberty's head impaled upon it, but America itself. But nope, I'm culpable too as are we all in this land we call America, the Land of the (currently) Free and Home of the Knaves .

How the bloody hell did this happen, not once, but TWICE in this lifetime? It's not difficult to decipher since it's not a riddle for the ages like the chicken or the egg debate. If you've had your eyes and ears open, it's painfully obvious and has been since the beginning of this election cycle. Unfortunately, the tunnel vision that exists in this culture has resulted in another crushing defeat....to the same goddamn candidate. Lack of perspective, denial and basic blind hatred has ruined the election day for the Almighty Dems, this time in both the electoral college and the popular. Let me capitalize that word for emphasis: POPULAR. Donny won American Idol again. Can't claim Russian collusion this time around, though some are sure going to try. This is THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE, but I reckon it's just not your kind of people, is it?

I wrote out a big rant n' rave to give my un-learned opinions on what went wrong from Day One. Since Wednesday, enough has been written and commented upon more eloquently and insightful that I ever could that whatever I say will be redundant and/or piling on. In the grand scheme of things, my takes don't mean a thing cuz you ain't got that swing state, so I suppose I'll continue to shake my head in derision until it falls off my neck.

Besides, while I'm tempted, you're not supposed to kick anyone while they're down. It wouldn't do any good anyway since no one is listening. And becaus there is no joy in Mudville because Momala Kamala has struck out, there's so much wailing going on because, why, no one saw this coming? The Boogeyman is coming, the same Boogeyman you have created, demonizing Trump that he has been elevated to Thanos like status when he was nothing more than a cheap hood to begin with. Not anymore. You won't, but you should hand it to him. Under insurmountable odds, he has dodged bullets, survived felony convictions and lawsuits and never ending harassment to come out on top one mo' time. Guess what though? He's not indestructible no matter what you might believe. 

But if you continue to make excuses, most of them egregious and misguided, you will make the all too apparent divide in this country even wider. Start whistling "The Battle Hymn of The Republic" unless you can't get over the agony of defeat and plan to just roll over and take it.

My advice is simply this: Pay attention. Gain some perspective. Stop listening to celebrities. Learn something from the mistakes that were made. And I'm not going all Rodney King on you with his tearful declaration of "Can't we all just...get along?" The sincerity and naivete of that statement after he was nearly beaten to death by LA's not so finest back in the day didn't hold water then either. Couldn't hurt to try though. And it might be a good idea to fight for something other than your right to party.

Believe it or not, it's not the end of the world as we know it. Not yet anyway. As for when, that's up to you. And me too. 

 

Time-Out Already!

Overexposure is an often unforeseen side effect of celebrity that can lead to the crash and burn of many careers. The glitz glamor and indeed The untold riches to be had by hogging the spotlight tends to stupefy the glorified into believing that their fame will be eternal. (Anybody seen Tiffany Haddish lately?) Perhaps one of the reasons for it could be that the old adage of "striking while the iron is hot" especially when it can cool off with the snap of a finger. In the case of this hoi-polloi, business takes precedence over show and it's more about brand and/or empire building. 

But at what price? An increasingly fickle public can turn on a dime when too much of what is perceived as a good thing becomes the pest that won't go away. The media gloms on to these famous folk like ingrown ticks and blast their images everywhere all the time not to mention porting on every minute detail of their glamorous lives especially the mundane in desperate grabs for eyeballs competing with every rank amateur out there. The line blurs when no one can tell the difference. Here are five show biz luminaries that need a time out. 

#5 Kevin Hart

Recently I had an aggressive fly in my apartment that kept dive bombing me, even hovering in front of my face, taunting me, daring me to swat it. Every time I thought I nailed it, the son of a bitch would re-appear and continue his tormenting, worse than before. This is what Kevin Hart is like. At least the fly wasn't in those annoying Chase commercials.

#4 Rob Lowe

Forever pretty boy, Atkins weight loss shill and middling actor Rob Lowe has now added game show host to his resume.

Madre de mios.

Someone call 911!

No, the other one.

#3 Nicole Kidman

I'd more surprised when Nic isn't in something. Is there any project she won't turn down? 

Well, maybe Mission: Impossible.

#2 Ryan Reynolds

Despite the fact his last Deadpool film basically broke the box office, Ryan's going to find that his wise-ass motor mouth shtick is going to wear thin when it's too late to turn it around. Take a gander at RED NOTICE on Netflix and see how far you can make it without shouting at the screen, "Jesus H. Christ, will you shut the fuck up already?"

#1 Snoop Dogg

Aw, Snoop, dear beloved Snoop, everybody's favorite laid back best friend. You've become the biggest offender of all and it's hurts the most because who doesn't love the Snoopster? But showing up everywhere has made him America's most unwanted guest. The wheels on the Snoop cart began to come off during the Olympics and now it has hit a gravel road. Take a break, my friend, blaze one up and...oh, that redundant.

You'll notice that the true overexposed celebrity, one Tay-Tay Swift is missing from this list. There's a very good reason for that. No matter what she does at this point in time, she has become indestructible.

She also has an army behind her, her cultish fans known as the Swifties that have her back and guarantee her exalted place in the world, so, sorry, she's bulletproof and, to so many, a goddess. I don't get it. I've never gotten it. I find her an innocuous talent at best, extremely indistinct in my book. Have you ever hear a Taylor Swift impression? Impossible. There's nothing there. I really have nothing against her. She's extremely talented in what she does. And she's basically a force for good, especially concerning creators' rights. But Lord a'mighty, a day without Taylor news is a day full of sunshine.  And if I ever utter or write the name Tay-Tay again, please help me. 

There are more celebs waiting in the wings that would be better off in the Green Room at this point in time, but for now, these people need to be on hiatus. Maybe when the election's over. 

Yeah, right.

Passion Plays

My jaw still hurts after sitting through Francois Ford Coppola's epic MEGALOPOLIS. My mouth fell open about five minutes into the movie and didn't close until I (finally!) visited the restroom two and a half hours later. I haven't seen anything as audacious, baffling, sumptuous, intriguing or incoherent on a cinema screen in recent or even distant memory. While endlessly fascinating, it also doesn't make a lick of sense much of the time, so much so that Fellini himself would said, "Huh?'

A more accurate title for Coppola's modernized Roman epic could have been EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE if it wasn't already taken. I will fully cop to the fact that much of this film went over my head. Then again, I believe the same is true of Francis. He dove straight into the deep end and, even though he starts to drown, he keeps swimming anyway. He knew he was going to break the surface again, struggling the entire way, right up to the point of hallucinating as he runs out of air. And what does he do then? He plants those illusion straight onto the screen, somehow keeping the whole enterprise afloat. But did he have to pen his screenplay in the pool as well? MEGALOPOLIS is overflowing with the most indecipherable dialogue any actor has ever had to perform which occasionally ventures into Latin for reasons only FFC can answer. So many questionable character names as well, though I did have a favorite, Aubrey Plaza's Ego Platinum. 

The cast is game, going over the top from the git-go, not to an irritating effect for the most part, though Shia La Boeuf ventures closest to the edge. Interesting to see Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight in the same film again, though it seemed a wasted opportunity that they didn't share a scene together. I have to give it up to Adam Driver for the Herculean effort he put into the lead role, running laps with his director in that drowning pool, unafraid of the consequences of his actions no matter how outrageous they might appear and oh, brother, did they ever. In some pretentious circles, this is considered bravery. "Oh, Adam's so brave for putting himself out there like that!" 

The true courage, if that's what it can be deemed, goes to Francis F. himself. The man is in his mid-80s and put everything on the line for this project that has been almost 50 years since its first inception. Raising over $120 million in this day and age for an independent production is a massive undertaking that someone half his age will find impossible. What he ended with may be a colossal mess, but to call it a failure is extremely short-sighted. For myself, this was a once in a lifetime viewing that I couldn't even begin to forget (with some exceptions, but let's get back to the platitudes). I may never sit through it again, but I actually cherished the experience. I was rooting for Francis the entire way, though I had some personal misgivings going in and almost didn't watch it.

As a rule, a passion project such as MEGALOPOLIS doesn't match up to the filmmaker's vision and often fall flat on their faces in abject failure. For example, look, if you can, for Barry Levinson's TOYS, Terry Gilliam's THE MAN WHO KILLED DON QUIXOTE (hello again, Adam Driver), George Miller's THREE THOUSAND YEARS OF LONGING,  and Martin Scorsese's SILENCE (what, again Adam?) You can add Michael Cimino's HEAVEN GATE to take that to the broken bank, but one must really look at Orson Welles' THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WIND. It took nearly 48 years to make before Netflix actually came to the rescue to help finish what Orson could not. WIND is as chaotic and captivating as MEGALOPOLIS. Time has a way of diminishing the initial fire of the filmmaker's imagination. For Orson Welles, it damn destroyed his last gasp once and for all. For Francis Coppola, the jury is still out, though in this age of snap judgments and rotten tomatoes muddying the artistic waters, he's been shown the curb by an unforgiving world, one he has skewed in the film in question.

More recently, Kevin Costner has stumbled out of the corral with his epic western saga HORIZON which has cost him a ton of dough, a TV series (YELLOWSTONE) and possibly a career. Costner is even more stubborn than Coppola, stubbornly splitting his film into four chapters, two of which have been completed. The critics have been brutal, the box office grim and HORIZON is already streaming less than three months after its debut. As for the fate of Chapter Two and subsequent installments, it's all on the roulette wheel for now. But Costner is no less driven and downright stubborn than his predecessors.

This all hits very close to home for this guy right here. I have been writing a novel for more years than I would care to admit, one I consider a passion project of my very own. I've recently completed a draft I can live with story-wise since in all that time, it has gotten away from me too. In no way am I comparing myself to anyone I've discussed, but I do understand how a long-gestating project can come apart at the seams. An unwelcome part of the task becomes trying to fix the damage done by waiting too fucking long. But in that time, I have been able to correct mistakes and, in some ways, made it even better. However, it isn't the same as I originally envisioned it. What was meant to be a springboard has become a life's work, unintentionally or not.  I am about enter an intensive editing phase because what I have now is way too much of what I fear may not be a good thing. In other words, an unruly overwhelming and ultimately mess.

That's my reason for nearly ditching Francis Ford Coppola's MEGALOPOLIS. His failure would have been too much to handle because I would have taken it to heart. His failure would have dictated my own. At this stage of the end game, this has become an irrational fear. I have threatened to shit-can my work so many times over the years, why not tank the whole enterprise and call it a day? I finally relented and saw MEGALOPOLIS as I should have in an actual cinema, an endurance test but with benefits. I came away with the belief that, regardless of the outcome, Francis Coppola didn't take no for an answer, least of all from himself. The same could be said for Kevin Costner and so many others. I stand in their corners because I get it. They may very well have created fiascos from which they may never recover, but they were theirs to make. In that way and perhaps that way alone, they succeeded, inspiring me to head for the finish line, tripping and wheezing the rest of the way.

Call it obsession. Call it foolhardy. Call it nonsensical.

Call it passion.

 

Food, Glorious Food!

It's been 25 years since I left the old hometown of Stockton, California. Absence hasn't exactly made the heart grow fonder, but it hasn't grown weeds either. I can't deny that this is where I was born and bred and I never will. I've even stopped wincing when people ask me where I'm from. 

Even if it wasn't an entirely idyllic childhood, life was pretty damn good growing up in the semi-suburban bubble I grew up in. While I will never live there again, there are things I miss after all this time. Many of these involve food related items, be it a specific meal, dish, take out or what have you that fed both my stomach and soul (yes, really) making me long for just one more bite. These are the good memories. The others can take care of themselves.

Many of these establishments no longer exist but I feel the need to honor in the only way I know how by memory. I also can't vouch for the current status of the survivors. 

My list includes the following in no particular order:

Oyster burrito from SAN FELIPE GRILL

Love at first bite. Beautifully seasoned oysters deep fried to perfection with a bit of green cabbage and a simple white sauce (mayo and vinegar perhaps?), the simplicity of this beauty a joy to behold and better yet to engulf which I used to do almost week. The fish tacos were also quite good, but the oyster burrito is a craving I cannot satisfy to this very day because no one I can find serves them. Why? No please. I need to know. Did I do something wrong? Again? 

DOK SHOONS

Bud Bakalian was a great guy, a terrific host with side of snark who somehow managed to put up with me. I recall visiting his original location in Lincoln Center, the year I have no clue. His second location on the Miracle Mile became my home base when I worked in the area. For some reason, I was anti-mustard then, so I wanted to invent my own dog: tomato, ketchup and pepper. Bud's face turned to utter disdain as he reluctantly made my dog, but he made it anyway. I finally went back to the original (having come to my senses perhaps?) and he was glad I did. After he sold it to a guy named Jimmy Lee, a new item appeared on the menu: a meat loaf sandwich on white bread. The meat loaf had to be hot, not cold, damn you, and slathered with ketchup (again) and mayo. This became what I would I want for my final meal. 

Shrimp scampi from the WATERLOO

I love shrimp scampi. Such a decadent dish of shrimp saute' in garlic butter, white wine and lemon. Stockton Joe's made a mean scampi, but the king is the version at the Waterloo. Served with a gnarly pesto pasta, this could be a dying man's last request. However, what makes it an absolute classic are the leftovers you're bound to take home because they serve hearty portions. Mix the pesto with the scampi and this is absolute heaven on a plate. (By the way is it The Waterloo Inn or just The Waterloo? I seem to recall it was the former, but as always, I could be wrong)

YE OLDE HOOSIER INN

Everybody loved the Hoosier Inn. I never heard a bad word or review in relation to that fine old (or olde) establishment. The fact that it survived as long as it did on Wilson Way is astonishing. Breakfast ruled here as far as I was concerned. If you ordered steak and eggs, it came with the signature garlic butter melting over your meat. (sense a trend here?). Eggs any way you would want them and they were be stupendous. I'd choose scrambled, absolutely fluffy and off course the best hash browns in town. Top off your meal with a blueberry muffin and you were set for the day or even the rest of the week because you started it all with a trip to the Hoosier.

Enchilada Suizas from MI RANCHITO 

You know, I don't actually know if this sign is from the Stockton Mi Ranchito. No matter. The MR to which I refer was on South El Dorado I believe and served an enchilada I kill to have again. Well, maybe hurt someone's feelings instead. Happy now? A cheese enchilada covered in a creamy sauce with tomatillos and peppers. I hope my cardiologist doesn't read this. I obviously don't eat these anymore, but I sure would if I could.

Sausage and mushroom pizza from MICHAEL'S PIZZA

I've eaten a about a ton of pizza in my lifetime, though honestly, not many pies have stood out to be memorable or even craveable. The experiences in pizza parlors stood out more especially watching silent movies, mostly comedies, while chowing down at Straw Hat on Pacific. Then there was the live Dixeland music at Shakey's, one member of the bad being one of our teachers from Stagg High, Charles Koliha. But my favorite pizza itself cam elater, the sausage and mushroom at Michael's New York Stile Pizza on North El Dorado. Bonus points were given due to its close proximity to my house. Can't say that this was true New York style per se, but it don't matter to me. Love me some Michael's.

Deep fried prawns for POLLARDVILLE CHICKEN KITCHEN

Neil Pollard and friend

I would be remiss if I didn't mention Pollardville, my second home, but this time around, it's all about the food. As much time as I spent out there, I had a lotta of their famous fried chicken, among other things (including their signature breakfast A Square Meal. It said so right to the menu.) But I wasn't in love with it as many people were. I actually preferred (get ready to bail, half my readers) the chicken livers. Not the giblets, mind you. Those suckers were damn tasty. The stars of the show, however, were the prawns. Jumbo didn't even begin to describe their size. Deep fry these babies with the same batter and the results were juicy, luscious and succulent. I'm going to take a cold shower now.

Egg Foo Young from THE CHOPSTICK

Like pizza, I had more than my fair share of Chinese food in Stockton, the best in my book being Yen Du. What brings a nostalgic tear to my eye is the Egg Foo Young from The Chopstick. Yeah, it's supposedly inauthentic and considered a Chinese/American dish ala Chop Suey. Whatever. This satisfied my craving every time, the egg and bean sprout omelette slathered with that  brown gravy full of goodness. And it's still open for business! You go, Chopstick!

OTIS SPUNKMEYER'S OLDE TYME BURRITOS 

How can I consider this a guilt pleasure when I loved these so damn much? Yes, the stupidest name ever as well as a bizarre business model but someone, maybe Otis himself said "Hey! Let's open up a burrito joint right to where we sell cookies in the mall!" Hence, this place along with several others in the chain, found themselves appealing to stoners everywhere. Using the Subway sandwich approach, these applied an assembly line burrito making station to make them big fatties however you wanted. Talk about inauthentic, but hey, cultural appropriation never tasted so good. My burrito of choice was the beef w/refried beans and sour cream and, oh, I dunno, whatever else they had laying around. (but no cheese. had to watch my figure) The guac probably, though it was more of avocado like product, definitely not the real deal, but it was my gateway drug since avos still make gag but guac doesn't. I'm an anomaly. So were Otis Spunkmeyer's Olde Tyme Burritos, the "olde tyme" being in another dimension.

Manny Burger from MANNY'S CALIFORNIA FRESH CAFE

It's Manny's to me. It'll always be Manny's to me. I can't utter its "full and proper" name because it sounds affected and affects me enough to gag a little. That said, the Manny Burger is hands down the best burger I ever had or ever will have. It beats the Double Double from In 'n Out but a few lengths. It was pretty much a staple of my diet in my twenties. Now I could maybe have one a year, but it would be a highlight, that's for damn sure. Really good chicken, "broasted" for God's sake, which combined with what used to be known as Mojo potatoes and Portuguese beans made for a rollicking Friday night meal. Checking a recent menu online, I see where the name Mojo has gone the way of the Dodo. Here in Oregon, they call them Jojos and were supposedly invented here. What a claim to fame. Also the menu mentions deep fried oysters. Hmm... 

Spaghetti a la Caruso from STOCKTON JOE'S

Get ready for chicken livers to rear their ugly heads again. In the 90s, this was a go-to place in Lincoln Center. Really good chow came out of that kitchen. The aforementioned Shrimp Scampi was a highlight until I fell in love with The Waterloo version and didn't want to cheat on her. Excellent Bloody Mary as well. What put this over the top for me was the Spaghetti ala Caruso, named for the famous Italian tenor Steve Caruso (or was it Jeff?) Ol' Carso loved his chicken livers and wanted a dish to call his own. Combined the livers with sauteed mushrooms in a winey tomato sauce over pasta that made me say "Abbondanza!" which in English means "Goddamn it, I dropped my fork again!"

That's a pretty decent list. Some I had to leave off, so a sequel may be in order because I'm a completist. Some may argue otherwise, but that's another blog.

As for now, I think I need a snack. I'm a little peckish.