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.

Snap Judgments

Finished up a bunch of series in the last six months, rocking 'em old school one episode a week because, you know, life and such. I find bingeing has ruined the viewing experience and the tide is turning in my favor. Here are 9 series, quick takes all to fit in this format because I care. A lot. Maybe too much.

Best of the lot has to be Hulu's remake Shogun, far exceeding my expectations above and beyond, a really magnificent, compelling epic. This time around, they managed to do it right. This is what major scale series and productions should be modeled upon. That it was so popular world-wide is major step in the right direction should they attempt something along these lines again. Hopefully, it's not a fluke. Showering it with Emmys is frosting on a beautiful cake.

Ripley on Netflix has to be one of most gorgeously shot shows 
on television probably ever and it's all in glorious black and white. Hah! Andrew Scott makes the lead character so creepily bland that's damn near hypnotic. This show is a slow burn and turned my stomach into knots, which is a good thing for a thriller.

Then there's 3 Body Problem, a show I expected to be similar to the sensational German series Dark from a few years ago. It missed that mark by a country mile, though it had its moments, enough to keep my interest to the end. However, glad to see Rosalind Chao get an overdue decent role after all this time.

Endings are notoriously difficult to pull off, "sticking the landing" as I like to say. (Who said it first? Was it Amelia Earhart?) If you can't manage the finale, it can sometimes negate what came before. Case in point: The Veil on Hulu. Five episodes of really taut story-telling leading up to a potentially smashing finale and...it goes right off the rails and limps off into the sunset. Fortunately, Elisabeth Moss saves the day once again, making this the best of this bunch. She's a goddamn jewel.

Under the Bridge, also on Hulu, had a decent wrap-up which actually rescued it from obscurity since it was two episodes too long, junked up with unnecessary sub-plots that proved there wasn't enough faith in the source material.

The worst show of the year thus far, Netfix's Eric could barely get out of the first episode without tripping over itself, particularly painful for me since I am a Cumberbitch and he was the only reason I stayed with it. He owes me one since what followed is a trash heap that I had hoped the last episode would at least give it some kind of redemption. Instead, it had to be the worst hour of television imaginable. I'm still holding my nose from this one.

Amazon Prime's Fallout is a better than your average bear post-apocalyptic show with enough twists to make it appear fresh when it's just another notch on the genre. But anything with Walton Goggins is worth your time and mine.

Also on Prime is Good Omens 2, a swell adaptation of a Terry Pratchett/ Neil Gaiman collaboration
about the relationship between an angel (Michael Sheen) and a demon (David Tennant). And Jon Hamm is a hoot as an amnesiac Gabriel.

The second season of AMC's Interview with the Vampire elevates it to a new level, setting the bulk of the story in a vampire theater. The role of Claudia, the young girl turned vamp who must spend eternity in the body of a child with adult sensibilities, was re-cast this season and the actress who portrays her, Delainey Hayles, is superb-fierce, compelling and ultimately heart-breaking.

As of this writing , I haven't finished the new season of The Bear, Dead Ringers, Mr. and Mrs. Smith or The Lazarus project. I'll get to 'em, okay? What's the rush? Damn, you're pushy. I've got better things to do with my time besides watching TV like blog about watching TV...

Yikes. I'm a sad soul. What's it like outside these days?

Special Guest Star: Adam West

There's an old saying, supposedly attributed to Marcel Proust, that states "Never meet your heroes. You'll always be disappointed".  Proust never met Adam West. I did and Marcel can go choke on a Madeline. 

I was all of 11 years old with the BATMAN TV series debuted. As an early comic book fan of a certain age this had to be the best news I could imagine. Already I had Sean Connery's James Bond and Christopher Lee's Dracula on my shelf of childhood heroes with Clint Eastwood's Man with No Name waiting in the wings. But a live version of the Caped Crusader's exploits meant my generation could have with the kids before us had with Superman. Sure, I watched Supe's show, but the stories were pedestrian and the series itself had already become dated by the time I got around to watch that. Much like today, we kids wanted something new and BATMAN fit the bill. It also had three extra added attractions that elevated it over THE ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN. A) Two episodes a week, the first ending in a cliffhanger just like the cereals at the Saturday afternoon matinees that they no longer made. B) supervillains galore direct from the comics-Joker, Riddler, Penguin, Catwoman (here kitty, kitty...hello, Julie Newmar!) and more. And C) The shows were in living color! When the first show aired though, it actually was perplexing at least to this young 'un. High camp ruled the day and the show went out of its way to go over the top. I really didn't want to feel insulted, thinking that they were mocking a world I wanted to be a part of twice a week. But they dangled shiny objects in front of me with lots of cool gadgets and vehicles like the Batmobile, utility belt etc., a nifty Neil Hefti score with that classic theme song and fight scenes'a plenty. It wasn't long before the inherent silliness won me over including the entire world. 

Of course it couldn't have worked without the man behind the cape: Adam West. Leading men of the early to mid sixties who primarily worked in episodic television were a quirky bunch and West was no exception. I always wanted to see he, William Shatner and Robert Culp together to showcase their unique styles. In particular, Adam's portrayal of the Caped Crusader was an absolute study and commitment to character, making Batman so straight laced that he damn near breaks into pieces, yet holds it together with Super Glue like durability. His line delivery is near flat, but seasoned with pure sincerity and authority, playing that one note so masterfully and allowing himself to have as much fun as he could with a totally straight face.  You know he's in on the joke. He knows you know he's in on the joke. But he never admits that this is a joke at all which made his Batman iconic. Granted, physically West is a bit paunchy for his tights by today's standards, but back then, the buff were relegated to the gyms and beaches not on screen speakers at all unless part of ancient mythology. But Adam dove into the deep end mask first, kicking butts and taking names, saving Gotham City from the likes of evildoers at the end of the day or second episode to be exact. He, like George Reeves' Superman, Clayton Moore's Lone Ranger and Buster Crabbe's Flash Gordon all embodied their personas and, for the most of us kids and adults alike, they were the real deal. 

Of course things came to an end for BATMAN and Adam found himself stuck in his lane, finding it difficult to attain roles, pigeon-holed in the industry that didn't allow for many chances to break away and try something new. He managed a career for himself, but nothing had reached the heights of his greatest success. How do you compete with a phenomenon? Sure, he traded in on his most famous role when he could, especially in cartoons like SUPEFRIENDS, but why shouldn't he? BATMAN was a huge show, but the money didn't pour in back in the Sixties and residuals dried quickly. Man's gotta eat, pay some bills, y'know. West continued to be a working actor, even dipping his toe into low budget fare with titles like THE HAPPY HOOKER GOES HOLLYWOOD, ZOMBIE NIGHTMARE and NIGHT OF THE KICKFIGHTERS.

In 1987, Adam was cast in RETURN FIRE: JUNGLE WOLF II produced by and starring karate legend Ron Marchini who had gone into the action movie business in films similar to his Olympic karate team mate Chuck Norris. Ron's movies were a little lower on the food chain, but had done quite well in the Asian market. This romp was a sequel to...can you guess the title?...another variation on the Rambo theme so prevalent at the time. As luck would have it, RETURN FIRE was shot in my hometown of Stockton, CA.

I was hired as an assistant director or, most accurately, second second assistant director. That is not a typo. That was indeed my title. It was my first gig on a movie crew and I had no experience to speak of, so I didn't object. I didn't care what they called me. I could have been third AD or even third third AD and I still would have gladly taken it, especially when I discovered Mr. Adam West was cast as the main villain of the piece.

Marchini's co-producer on this epic informed the crew that Adam was to be considered the DMZ to all of us. In other words, don't bug the star. Don't engage in conversation not related to the production. Don't pester him by any means at all, especially about BATMAN, otherwise face certain expulsion. This was disconcerting to say the least, but since Mr. West was kind of down-punching to be in this film to begin with, perhaps he could be a lil' touchy and not want the attention. You know them Hollywood types. I abided by the rules because this was my dream job. I always wanted to be a second second. On a night shoot at a cemetery, someone crossed the line. The cook on the production crew who provided meals of a sort to a hungry crew, had been in his cups and stumbled over to Mr. West when no one else was around. I never found out what he said to Adam, only that we were minus a cook the next day. When we broke for lunch, we had KFC.

However, when I finally met The Man himself, he could not have been any more gracious. One morning, I decided to dip my toe into the celebrity pond when I mentioned to him that before I arrived on the set, I watched him in a couple of scenes from HOOPER which had been playing on HBO as I was getting ready. It was a scene where Adam's character is about to rescue a dog in a high fall, but of course is replaced by his stunt double Hooper (Burt Reynolds). Adam lit up and with a big goofy smile said that he came up with the line "I love danger!", a miniscule piece that he proudly owned. Every little bit helps, I surmised, even for Adam West.

Unfortunately, I missed most of his scenes since that same producer decreed a closed set edict and I had other duties to perform on the production, wrangling extras and the like. However I was present for his last day of shooting set in a hangar at Stockton Metropolitan Airport. He had been engaged in a shoot-out with the hero, dodging bullets left and right, calling out at one point, "STEVE!!! BE REA-SONABLE!!!", drawing out that last word for emphasis in that unmistakable voice of his. For years after, it became a catch-phrase between myself and some friends that also worked on the shoot. As the crew was setting up for the next shot, I caught Adam all by himself running his lines before his final scene.  Out of bullets, Adam, being the cowardly bad guy that he was in this flick, decides to take it on the lam, but he doesn't get very far since Steve Parish (Marchini) gets the drop on him. West pleads innocence, saying "Look, Steve..." as he steps forward hands in the air. He tried it once, then again more convincingly until he gave one last spin. "Look, Steve..." he coos seductively, biting his lower lip as he moves in for a smooch, cracking himself up in the process. He stopped dead in his tracks and shook it off before getting back to the business at hand. Witnessing what was supposed to be a private moment delighted me to no end, a true insight to the man who probably didn't feel like he was slumming on a picture like this after all, considering it just another job for the working actor he had always been and the true professional he always would be. 

To prove that point, Adam returned a couple of years later to appear in another Ron Marchini actioner, this one entitled OMEGA COP which also featured Stuart Whitman and Troy Donahue. His scenes in this one were the highlight of the film, other than me getting the crap beaten out of me as a mutant. According his filmography on IMDB, that was his final foray into the realm of low budget movies. He continued to work for another twenty five years, finally a semi-regular voice-over work on Seth MacFarlane's FAMILY GUY playing...Mayor Adam West, a Bizarro world version of himself that must have tickled his fancy to no end. And on 2012, he had finally he been honored with a much deserved star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. 

The last time I saw him was on his Facebook page, sharing a video of cooking a pot roast for his family. Somehow, this had been a fitting a tribute to the man as any, just Adam being Adam. 

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=10154374560013024

More close encounters of the celebrity kind can be found collected on  SPECIAL GUEST STARS

Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-Goosesteps

The wrap-up to the UNDER THE BIG TOP saga, the vaudeville that paired with the revival of DOWNFALL OF THE UPRISING OR WHO DO THE VOODOO?, my first show at the Ville.

So it's time to address the German elephant in the room. 

During our first vaudeville rehearsal, director Phil De Angelo ran down his lineup of the show, mentioning that there would be a big production number smack dab in the middle featuring the entire cast. The name alone gob-smacked me into next Tuesday: "Springtime for Hitler" from Mel Brooks' first movie, the comedy classic THE PRODUCERS. At the time, Brooks was primarily known for BLAZING SADDLES and YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN. His debut had still been pretty of a cult film and it would be almost 25 years before a musical adaptation opened on Broadway.

I love THE PRODUCERS, considering it to be a near masterpiece of film comedies as well as being crazy about the "Springtime" number itself in the film. The fact that this would be considered to be part a Pollardville production seemed to me at least ill advised. It's all a matter of context. The crooked Broadway producers of the source material purposely search for the most offensive and worst stage property they can find in order to raise the money, close the show early and collect what's left over. It's supposed to be gawdawful given the subject matter alone. Would an audience get the obvious parody of the song taken out of its natural element? And not just any audience, but a Pollardville audience?

For some reason, my recollections of the number itself including the rehearsals thereof are sketchy at
best. I don't recall the choreography (though there might have been a goosesteps thrown in for "good" measure) or how it had been staged. I do remember wearing a cheap plastic Nazi helmet along with my fellow cast members and a few odd bits here and there. To introduce the number, Bob Gossett as Groucho Marx began: "Ah, Germany, home of Hansel and Gretel and war!" (the funniest line or bit in the whole thing as far as I was concerned) Out we came singing the opening verse of this satirical song until in walked Hitler just in time for the chorus. In the film and subsequent productions, this part was merely a stormtrooper, but Phil promoted him to the Fuehrer himself. He was portrayed by Vincent Warren, who it should be noted, is African American and wore a dash of white paint to give the appearance of Schicklgruber's mustache or at least a negative version of it. That was basically the big joke of the piece and did garner a decent crowd reaction, though it might have been a tension reliever since they reacted pretty close how the audience did in the movie. While we managed to garner polite applause, it frankly wasn't very enthusiastic.

"Springtime" had problems to be sure which were addressed at brush up rehearsals. At the first run through, Grant Phillips barely made it onstage in time, losing his pants in the process. Phil yelled out, "Leave it in!" He also suggested a kicker to the piece. Hitler and Eva Braun (possibly to be played by  Monica Dale in a blonde wig as I recall) would join Groucho Bob on a side stage and drink a toast to each other as The Karl Marx Brothers. Then Adolph and Eva would keel over dead from their poisoned cocktails. Groucho would then quip: "Well, I always wanted to be a single." It didn't fly, but the dropping of the pants remained since it didn't require a fly.

To the best of my knowledge, we didn't receive any complaints from the audience initially nor did this result in any walkouts. However, during one performance, we finally did get some blow back. Hoo boy, did we ever. Attendance that Friday night was not  the best, maybe a third full, just above the cancellation level. The show moved along swimmingly until the midway point when it was time again for "Springtime for You Know Who". One of the audience members obviously didn't get the joke and utterly blew a gasket. He stood in the fourth aisle and maniacally began thrusting his arm forward in a Nazi salute and yelling, "Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!" From the stage, we could only stare in disbelief and confusion as we struggled through the number. Whoever had accompanied this gentleman attempted to get him to return to his seat, but he was having none of it, remaining standing in the fourth aisle, continuing to holler and saluting his Germanic karate chops. He gave me the impression he might rush the stage at any moment. Thankfully, we got through it and moved on with the rest of the olios, unaware of what happened to our "critic". As it turned out, he managed to last all the way through to the finale, sticking around afterward because maybe he wanted some answers from somebody, anybody for that matter. I believe Phil took it upon himself himself to have a spirited conversation with this gentleman after the show. He found that this guy had no clue in the world about THE PRODUCERS or the song itself, so in his eyes and ears, this was a full blown tribute perhaps? To put it bluntly, this caused him to totally lose his shit. Phil managed to appease him. He went away, maybe not happy, but at least mildly relieved our show wasn't underwritten by the American Nazi Party.  Fortunately that was the only time something like that occurred, but it did leave some of us a little gun-shy, so to speak.

We finished the show with a gospel finale, quite the turnabout from that earlier number. Wiping off his white moustache and leaving Hitler behind, Vincent came out on top regaling one and all with his spectacular rendition "His Eye Is On The Sparrow" while the rest of us joined in, banging our tambourines in the name of the Lord. Maybe it was enough to redeem ourselves and soothe our angry patron or anyone else for that matter enough so as to not rejoin the French Resistance.

As a post script, I should add that ten years later in my last show, the olios were ALL THIS AND WORLD WAR TWO directed by Carmen Musch. In it was another Hitler number, this one DER FUEHRER'S FACE, an old Spike Jones parody song also featured in a anti-Nazi propaganda Walt Disney cartoon featuring Donald Duck. The context of this song was immediate, involving a lot of wet raspberries spit into the lead singer's face, me. The audience, immediately in on the joke, ate it up. And as for me, I just realized that my time at Pollardville was bookended by Nazis. Oy vey.

So ended UNDER THE BIG TOP, a roller coaster of a vaudeville that served, along with the melodrama DOWNFALL OF THE RISING, as my debut on the Palace Showboat stage. As tumultuous as the experience had been,, I couldn't have had a better or more memorable experience as my first show. Sure, there was drama o' plenty, a lot of slapstick, some injuries, but also a whole lotta laughs and, for me, wish fulfillment. I always said that Pollardville allowed me to do everything I ever wanted to do in show business and this show was only the beginning of a wild ride. So, in essence, this is my origin story.

PART ONE OF UNDER THE BIG TOP-BE A CLOWN

PART TWO-THE ADVENTURES OF CRASH POLLARD

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Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-The Adventures of Crash Pollard

Part two of the UNDER THE BIG TOP saga, a three part "epic" recalling my first vaudeville show at the

Two Cyclinis and a fish

Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville in Stockton, California.

PART ONE OF UNDER THE BIG TOP-BE A CLOWN

Neil Pollard is one of the funniest men who ever walked the face of the earth. That I was fortunate enough to work with him was an unexpected, but more than welcome perk of this show I didn't expect. It paid off dividends in the end because I was able to momentarily ride on the coattails on the man, the legend, the guy who never met a chicken he didn't like. 

As I stated in the first installment, Neil was managing the Chicken Kitchen restaurant as the same time the show was underway, taking care of those customers as well as the theater patrons since this was indeed a dinner theater. How he knew to race across the parking lot to get ready for whatever act he had been cast is beyond me. Sometimes he'd run a little late like the blackout Neil and I were cast in.

Me: I heard your parents used to be in the circus. 

Neil: That's right. They used to make love on the flying trapeze. 

Me: What did they call themselves? 

Neil: Hi Diddle Diddle! (buh-dump-bump!) 

One night, Neil missed his cue and I did the whole thing myself. When he realized his error, it barely fazed him. "Shit," he uttered. "Well, carry on!" Then he dashed back to the restaurant because, above all else, Neil Pollard was a early pioneer of multi-tasking.

In UNDER THE BIG TOP, Neil also appeared as The Great Flamo, a fire eating act. (Or was it Flamo the Great? Maybe it was just plain Flamo)  I should have asked how he did it, when he learned it or even why. Whatever the answers were, he certianly did it. Set up on one of the side stages, Neil gave a little audience patter as he lit his torches over a can of Sterno on a small podium. While I didn't witness this myself, I got the full report from several sources of what occurred during an early performance. After he had fired up the Sterno, he accidentally knocked the can over, spilling the jellied fuel and igniting the podium on fire. Neil basically stood dumbfounded, flipping his hands in the air like Art Carney's Ed Norton character from THE HONEYMOONERS. Thinking fast (mostly), Greg Dart ran down the side aisle with a fire extinguisher. He put out the fire, but the powdery blast from the extinguisher bounced off the back wall of the side stage and ricocheted into the audience members who were unfortunate enough to be sitting in the front row that evening. Unaware for what happened since we were getting ready for our Wild Willy number, Goldie and I entered the same side stage soon afterward in the midst of a toxically dusty haze. When the lights came up, I couldn't get my lines out, basically choking throughout the whole thing. I could hear Goldie coughing inside her bear mask as well. Once it was mercifully over, we stumbled our way backstage and I think we both said in unison once we got our breaths back, "What the hell happened out there?" Oh, it was Neil.

Another sketch in which I had been cast was the other circus act known The Cyclinis. All the

performers, with the exception of Flamo, were all Italian. (There were a bunch of "inis" in the show.) Our bicycle act consisted of Neil as Bicyclini, our brother Vincent as Unicyclini and me wearing a crash helmet and chewing bubble gum as little Tricyclini. For my entrance, I rode a creaky tricycle around the band pit, stop midway, blow a big bubble and complete the circle. How I never fell into that dark hole is a theatrical miracle. The sketch consisted of the three of us writing our bikes back and forth across the stage as Phil De Angelo, in his role as ringmaster, narrated the entire act. Vince had popped a wheelie across the stage, hence his designation as Uni. After a couple of more back and forths without or reason, I switched bikes, now riding on the handlebars of Neil's bike backwards and had to pedal us the two of us in reverse from stage right to stage left, hitting the proscenium arch with the front tire or my back whichever came first. What could go wrong? Well, it started off all well for the first month or so until one night as I was about to start pedaling, my foot slipped once we got started. We instantly started to wobble and Neil attempted to regain our balance, but took took a sharp left upstage in the process. He tried to adjust by steering right just as hard. Helpless, I didn't know what to do except lift my feet up so it's not to get caught in the spokes or drag on the stage. All of a sudden we passed up Phil. I thought to myself, "Hmm, that's funny. There goes Phil." And in that split second, we fell in a heap down stage left on the other side of the proscenium arch. I landed sideways on one ass cheek directly onto one of the footlights, basically a cut out spray painted can, flattening it and a crushing the light bulb underneath. Had I landed an inch or two over, I probably would have cut off my right buttock, remaining half ass for all eternity. In a burst of adrenal shock, I immediately stood, brushed myself off, walked off stage and screamed to the top of my lungs. I then returned a second later and posed. Ta da! The act was never the same again which I can only blame myself for since I had grown a little skittish after our pile-up, throwing off both my timing and balance. What were the odds that would have happened again? In my mind, pretty goddamn good.

Our founder

On closing night I had something in mind I had been plotting for a while. When Neil would pop in from the restaurant duties for the Cyclinis, he quickly don his tights, sometimes just wearing hem underneath his street clothes to save time. Then he'd change hair. It's no secret that Mr. Pollard wear a rug in his daily life. But for this show, he'd put on a curly wig, not over his toupee, but in place of. To accomplish this without anyone watching, he'd shove his entire head into the wardrobe and pull the old switcheroo. He wasn't fooling anybody. If he did, they'd probably still wonder, "Why is Neil sticking his head in the wardrobe?" During the last performance, I chose Hubba Bubba, the juiciest bubble gum at the time. Before our big ride across, Neil used to give me a big kiss right on top of my crash helmet. That night after the big smooch, I took the gum out of my mouth, lifted his wig, place it underneath place and slapped his curly locks down upon it. Splat! Backstage as he pulled off that juicy wad of Hubba Bubba, he gave me the ultimate Neil insult:

"You sumbitch." 

An ass move on my part to be sure, but believe me, it was done with a lot of affection. Honest.

Neil and friend

Following that show, Neil only appeared onstage only a handful of times, still flying across the parking lot in the nick of time, sometimes not. I, for one wish there was more and I'm not alone in that, but the tide was changing around the theater at that point. What Neil did onstage appeared so deceptively effortless and devoid of self-consciousness because he didn't have a false funny bone in his whole body. He was all natural and, dare I say, organic. Probably free range as well. In real life, he certainly had his moments as well with an abundance of unintentional slapstick to his credit. There is nothing more satisfyingly hilarious to a Pollardville veteran than a Neil Pollard story and there a million of 'em, all solid gold.

I was proud to work for and with the man, especially during my very first show. If I had to do it all over again, I'd give Neil a big kiss on his head. That is, before I stuck my gum on top just so I could hear it one more time again:

"You sumbitch."

COMING UP: NAZIS INVADE POLLARDVILLE

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