Special Guest Star: Robert Blake

 

It's been my inclination to always-or almost always-root for the underdog my entire life, perhaps because I can relate or the empathy I happen to feel for the individual. For the late Robert Blake, it was the latter. Sure, he had a show business career that spanned well over the half-century mark, earning Prime Time Emmy and Golden Globe awards along the way as the star of hit TV series and working with such iconic directors as John Huston, Richard Brooks, Hal Ashby, George Stevens and David Lynch. 

None of that really mattered in that end, for when he died this past year, most headlines read:

ROBERT BLAKE 'BARETTA' STAR ACQUITTED OF WIFE'S MURDER, DIES AT 89

So there's that too. 

I have no idea if Blake was guilty of the crimes he had been accused of relating to this case. This was the highest profile Tinseltown murder case that came down the pike post O.J. which the world at large had still not gotten over, but still seemed to have the blood lust enough to hash it out ad infinitum and nauseam for that matter. Therefore, I begged off on the judgment call, though I have a few opinions of my own that I'll keep to myself. 

I do know that Blake was one messed up individual having gone through alleged abuse by his parents, even while he was bringing home the bacon as a child actor in the final leg of the Our Gang comedy shorts at MGM and as sidekick Little Beaver in a slew of Red Ryder westerns. He survived drug addiction in the Fifties, dealing with every more demons. Television roles kept him employed until he landed a role, usually noted his very best, in Brooks' adaptation of IN COLD BLOOD. Stardom still eluded him until he landed the lead as BARETTA, the cop show that lasted four seasons in the mid 70s. 

During this period, he became a frequent guest on THE TONIGHT SHOW. Johnny Carson had a way with the volatile Blake, getting him to open up about his life to a superficial degree, allowing to be a rather entertaining raconteur about old time show biz and life in general. Carson gave him an outlet he never had before and Blake seemed to have the time of his life and less of a tormented soul, making several appearances over time. 

Following the end of BARETTA, he tried to kick start his film career again. One vehicle brought Robert Blake to my hometown of Stockton, California. The movie was COAST TO COAST, a riff on IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT with Dyan Cannon in the Claudette Colbert role with Blake as Gable, I suppose, in the guise of a trucker, a nod to the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT crowd. Since this was a road movie, it had been shot on several locations, many to mimic other parts of the country with downtown Stockton standing in for what I think was somewhere in the Midwest (Kansas City, according to IMDB).

KFMR radio station (which eventually became FM 100) had only recently debuted on San Joaquin County airwaves during this period. I had been longtime friends and former employee of the owners, Bob and Sue Carson  and had an idea to score a coup for the station. So I grabbed my cassette tape recorder and headed downtown to the set of COAST TO COAST in the hope that I could get the one and only Robert Blake to give a station ID for KFMR.

My friend Bill Humphreys and myself parked out by where the stars trailers and fabled Honey Wagons had been circled. Security was pretty much lax in those days, so I felt I would have no problem accomplishing the task at hand. It was long before shooting wrapped on the set and the actors returned to their portable sanctuaries. Dyan Cannon was first one out of the shoot, but I didn't even consider asking her as well. I would have made a complete fool of myself, probably more so than I usually did with women who weren't movie stars.

Robert Blake followed not long after and off I went. With the arrogance of youth on my side and no trace of a brain in my whole head, I had no qualms approaching this reportedly volatile Hollywood star and imposing on his valuable time just to get his voice on my cheap-ass cassette. He could have brushed me away like a mosquito or barked his disapproval, making me pee my pants and dash away with my tail between my legs all the way home.

I'll damned if he didn't comply. Maybe addressing him as "Mr. Blake" helped. I didn't give him any copy to read, just basically told him what to say. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR."

He repeated, sort of. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to...what?"

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KRFM."

"No, KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're...what?"

"This is Robert Blake. You know that part already."

"This is Robert Blake..."

"...and you're listening to KFMR.."

"...and you're listening to KMFR."

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR." 

He done did it. Graciously. Putting up with my wise ass self and not throwing my cassette recorder to the ground and stomping on it. Or me. I thanked him profusely and away we went in opposite directions. Maybe he had all along and was simply messing with me. Whatever the reason might have been, whether he was in a good place at the time or he was a consummate professional who dealt with the public the way he would like to be treated himself, even by the likes of a smart of a Stockton bumpkin like myself. 

That entire exchange ran on the station verbatim and it became my one and contribution to KFMR. An edited version without me also popped up between songs until both versions disappeared entirely when the station was re-branded as FM 100.

COAST TO COAST didn't fare very well at the box office or critics and after a couple of other misfires, Blake returned to television where he found his greatest success. At the turn of the 21st century, his

career was over and out, as was he, initially convicted and eventually acquitted for his wife's murder. The demons that chased him his entire life finally got the best and worst of him. When he died in the first part of 2023, an unfortunate punctuation to Robert Blake occurred due to his exclusion to the In Memoriam section of the Oscars only a few days later with no thanks to Jimmy Kimmel and a bad joke that has no business being repeated, at least by me. 

The point of the story? Merely another close encounter of the celebrity kind, a brush with someone famous who ended up, unfortunately and probably inevitably, infamous. I feel fortunate I was able to catch him in his prime time so that the memory I carry has a positive ring to it as opposed to what happened later when his life and career were over-powered by a horrific turn of events that would dictate his legacy from that point on. Such is the fragility of fame.

 

The Great Bijou Theater Robbery

Many moons ago, I, along with three other chaps, were robbed at gunpoint at the legendary-or infamous, as the case may be-Bijou Theater in Stockton, California. Instead of coming down with a case of the night terrors and PTSD from the incident in question, I got a half-way decent story out of it that I related in my chapter about my days at the Bijou in my book, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, adapted here to fit this format.

“Down on the floor!”

Like an ornery desperado from the pages of a western dime novel, the robber barked out this command after drawing his revolver and pointing it at the four of us. The small caliber of his weapon-a .22-was irrelevant because, after all, a bullet is still a bullet no matter what the size. Of course, it carried more weight when backed up by the sawed-off shotgun his ski-masked partner held beside him. In that instant, life as we knew it changed, as the distinct possibility suddenly existed that there might very well be four dead people in the Bijou Theater that winter’s night.

My brain had been thrust into a fogbank of confusion. Which way was up? Which way was down? If there had been anything on my mind at all, it was this: Every seat in the small auditorium had been filled that evening except for one and I knew exactly where it was located. All I had to do was get inside, slink down into that single, solitary chair and hide out until this all blew over.

Besides, I hadn’t seen the movie yet.

About a year and a half before that fateful encounter with Butch Cassidy and the Ski Mask Kid, an amazing occurrence happened in my hometown. An actual honest-to-goodness repertory cinema opened just off Stockton’s version of the Miracle Mile, Pacific Avenue and, coincidentally enough, not very far at all from my own house. I was positively flabbergasted that anything this fantastic could ever exist in a place like Stockton, a town I considered to be a cultural desert. Movie theaters of this type that features an on-going parade of vintage classics, foreign and avant-garde experimental works operated in more sophisticated urban settings like New York, San Francisco, even college towns like Berkeley. Not in Stockton, for Christ's sake. These people snorted peat dirt! But, lo and behold, I gladly accepted the fact that my snotty, cynical teenage self could actually be proven wrong for the grand and glorious 

Four friends got together in the early seventies and transformed the space into a movie theater, on the cheap. They set up 16mm projection equipment and added some used seats from a torn-down theater, created a combination box office/concession stand and voila! Instant Bijou! Their hopes were to appeal to the tastes of University of the Pacific students and hipper members in the community, filling a niche that was certainly apparent to my eyes.

Well, that lasted about a year. Unable to maintain a steady flow of customers, the business was sold to new owners, Bob and Sue Carson. They maintained the repertory element of the Bijou for as long as they could until converting into a second run house with occasional forays into Stockton premieres that the other cinemas in town had passed over. Thanks to a low overhead, admission prices were kept down especially on the popular 99-cent Monday and Tuesday night specials when change for a dollar took the form of a Tootsie Roll instead of a penny, no one's favorite coin, except for maybe Abe Lincoln completists. 

I came into the picture almost right from the start of the Carson era, acquiring what I considered my dream job at the time, a job in a movie theater. I ran the box office and concessions during the evening and janitorial duties in the daytime, the last part certainly not as "glamourous", but I had unlimited free admissions to all showings when I wasn't working of which I took full advantage.

Soon, the Bijou became a viable, however minor player in the Stockton movie theater scene. Times were so good for the Carsons that they were able to save enough for a European vacation over the holidays a little over a year after they took over the theater. They sub-let the Bijou to George Westcott, a true Stockton character who fancied himself to be the local version of Walter Winchell with his entertainment newspaper column, Entertainment by George! (yeesh…) Westcott could have been Oscar Homolka’s stunt double and chain-smoked almost non-stop, often not taking the cigarette out of his mouth and the ashes would drop off onto his charcoal encrusted stomach. Small wonder why he wore so many gray suits. With a crew of Dan Foley, who was basically second-in-command of theater operations, and myself, George became the captain at the helm of the S.S. Bijou in the Carsons' absence. 

Westcott had managed to book the Christmas attraction-the area premiere of WALKING TALL. Starring the inimitable Joe Don Baker, the saga of Buford Pusser had been a sleeper hit across the country. The ad campaign was spectacular in its simplicity. It began with a shot of a full movie theater audience beginning to rise to its feet as the narrator asked, “When was the last time you stood up and applauded a movie?” Well, it worked because audiences responded to this redneck vigilante minor masterpiece all across the country. George secured the rights for the theater just in the nick of time. The result was fairly phenomenal. WALKING TALL out grossed several higher profile holiday releases that year in Stockton and the theater drew the steadiest stream of customers in its history.

On the first Tuesday of the New Year, that grand Bijou tradition of the 99 cent special was in full swing, filling the theater with Joe Don Baker fans from the far reaches of San Joaquin County. (I always imagined the star of WALKING TALL to have a big ass monogrammed ring with his initials spelled out backwards in diamonds. That way, when he punched a guy in the jaw, he’d also brand him with a JDB-Joe Don Baker!) Five of us ran the show that busy night: Dan, myself, George-forever bitching about “these goddamn Tootsie Rolls”-and Les Fong, Danny’s friend whose father had been the Bijou’s landlord at the time. The fifth wheel, Butch the projectionist, kept to himself as always up in the seclusion of the projection booth.

George had actually made a generous contribution to the theater by donating a piece of indoor/outdoor carpeting he had for the purpose of covering the plywood ramp at the entrance. The second feature that week, THE LAST AMERICAN HERO, a Jeff Bridges Nascar biopic, had just started and it seemed to be as good a time as any to lay some carpet. George supervised the operation from behind the counter, hooving butt after butt while Dan and Les went to work. I stood by and observed as well, not because I didn’t want to help. It just wasn’t a three-man job, that’s all. That's my excuse.

Being the middle of winter and all, we had closed the front door so as not to freeze our huevos off . Suddenly, it swung open and two gentlemen had begun to enter.  We were prepared to inform them that, unfortunately, we were sold out at the moment. One of them had one of those knit caps with the brim, a look popularized by the Jackson Five if I’m not mistaken. His friend wore a full-face ski mask.

That’s funny, I remember thinking. It might have been cold outside, but was it really ski-mask cold?

Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) pulled the door closed with one hand and his pistol from his belt with the other. Ski Mask whipped out his sawed-off shotgun.

“Down on the floor!” Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) growled.

Les and Danny, already on the floor, didn’t have far to go. George muttered and sputtered his way out of the box office. He held his hands in the air until he lowered himself onto the new indoor/outdoor ramp rug. While they complied, Ski Mask’s shotgun popped open momentarily. He snapped it closed, hoping nobody noticed.

“Hey!” Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) barked at me, pointing his pistol in my direction. “Where you goin’?”

Who? Me? What does he mean where am I going? I’m not going anywhe…oh, shit. My feet WERE moving. Where was I goin’? It had been a subconscious reaction; maybe a survival instinct took over. Then, in a nanosecond, my mind caught up with my body and flashed inside the auditorium. 234 people sat inside in an auditorium that sat 235 at that very moment. One seat, in the middle of the back row was all that was left. If only I could just slip inside, I’d be safe. They wouldn’t have come to get me, would they? I could have just run out the back exit too. So many thoughts in so little time but…the shock took over. The entire room had all the life sucked right out of it. It was a complete vacuum and a hyper reality took over. That .22 pistol of his grew to the size of Harry Callahan’s .44 Magnum and could blow my head CLEAN off. I had only moved a couple of inches so I had not problem getting back to my starting point.

“I said DOWN ON THE FLOOR!” 

He did say that, didn’t he? No problemo, sir.  My body and soul caved at the same time as I hit the ground and spread out flat like a skinned beaver.

Dan suggested that the two lock the door behind them so that no one would walk in on them. Later, he told us this was an attempt to get a fingerprint. After complying, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) hopped behind the counter, grabbing everything in the till.

“Where’s the rest of it?” he demanded as his partner’s shotgun popped open a second time. It took two tries to shut it this time. Somehow, it didn’t appear to be loaded, but I wasn’t going to be the one to test that theory. I could have been wrong, you know.

“Sir, the money’s in a drop safe. I don’t have the combination,” George offered. 

Oh no. Shut up, George. Your lies could get us all fucking killed. There was no drop safe. The night’s take had been stashed in its usual place, upstairs in the projection booth crammed into a popcorn box.

At this, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) began to grab our wallets.

“Don’t you look at me!” he snapped.

Who? Me? Was I looking? Not anymore. I scrunched my eyes closed and mashed my face to the floor as I felt his hand in my back pocket, removing the contents. I saved my watch by sliding it up my wrist and under my sleeve when he was taking the box office receipts, the only time I had been grateful for a skinny wrist. I heard the door open and nearly passed out. Had someone just walked in? Nope. It was Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) and Ski Mask taking it on the lam.

Immediately, Dan flew to the phone as Les took off after them. In no way, shape or form was I about to follow. I yelled out the door for him to come back. Quivering on the shakiest legs I have ever seen on an old fat man, George struggled to his feet and over to the big wooden spool that sat in the corner. Oddly enough, he did not light a cigarette. Just then, Les reappeared with everyone’s wallet…except mine.

Remarkably, not one member of the audience knew what happened that night for no one ventured out that entire time to even use the bathroom. THE LAST AMERICAN HERO must be one HELL of a picture! As it turned out, an off-duty policeman had been a member of that audience. He greeted his fellow officers when they arrived on the scene at intermission. They all had quite a good laugh about it. Ha ha ha. One other person didn’t realize that the Bijou had been robbed. Butch the projectionist, who wandered downstairs after the show to get a Coke, unaware of the drama that had just unfolded beneath his very feet.

The two perps, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) and his ski-masked partner didn’t get away with much that night, but they did get away. Are you guys still out there? Just wanted to give you a shout out. 

Can I have my wallet back now?

Copyright 2011 by Scott Cherney

EPILOGUE

In the years that followed, the Bijou became, as many other cinemas had in the mid-1970s, an "adult" theater, eventually purchased by the Pussycat chain. When that finally dried up in 1993, it evolved into the Valley Brew, the oldest brew pub in Stockton where it remains to this very day. End credits.

IN THE DARK:A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available on Amazon in both Kindle and paperback form

Fish Story

In the film, ANNIE HALL, Annie (Diane Keaton) tells her boyfriend, Alvy Singer (Woody Allen), how much she enjoyed his stand-up set, then added:

"I think I'm starting to get more of the references too."

So stop me if you've heard this one...

What did the blind man say when he passed the fish market?

"'Morning, ladies!"

Yeah. You've heard it before. If you haven't, it's new to you.

Back in the 90s in my hometown of Stockton, California, I was driving down Wilson Way, a thoroughfare on the east side of town that was absolutely notorious for streetwalkers, prostitutes, hookers, hos or whatever you'd to call them. One summer's day, I found myself on that strip when I came across this sign and damn near stood in the middle of the block to applaud the grand gesture of this editorial. I felt the need to get a picture to chronicle this event. Since these were the days before cell phone mit out cameras, I actually bought a used camera in a thrift shop and hoped like hell the sign wouldn't change overnight. Lo and behold, I got the shot the very next day.

The fish monger probably had enough of his deteriorating neighborhood and needed to express his frustration somehow. He used the form of communication at his disposal. The sign outside his shop, normally reserved for specials or the catch of the day, carried his message to the world, couched in the punchline of a crude joke.

To me, that statement read loud and clear. And obviously, I got the reference.

That's important in life, getting the references. Sometimes, it can make you feel that you're not alone in the world and that your voice is not only being heard but understood..

And it helps if you get the joke. There are few things more frustrating than the question:

"WHAT'S SO FUNNY?"

Number One with a Bullet

 

Forbes Magazine announced the "winners' of its annual top ten list of America's Most Miserable Cities. Coming in at the number one spot this year...

Stockton, California!

Yeah, the old hometown took the crown this year after last year's second place between Michigan's two finest-Detroit (#1) and Flint (#3), making it one big miserable sandwich. Yeah, good ol' Stocktonville pulled an upset over Chicago, Cleveland and even Miami. Woo-hoo! The ghosts of Victoria Barkley and Charles Weber are smiling from above.

Forbes’ criteria for this dubious honor was based on violent crime, unemployment, income tax rates and commute times. It’s also Ground Zero in the housing market with the highest foreclosure in the country.

I’m not gloating. Just because I hauled my ass out of Fat City twenty years ago doesn’t mean I wish ill on the place. As a matter of fact, the whole thing saddens me to no end. I may have severed my ties with Stockton, but I’m not in denial either. I was born there. I grew up there. I spent most of my life in that town.

But the truth hurts, baby.

Stockton has never taken care of its own. It’s like one of those smokers who’ve been puffing on three packs a day for the last fifty years, despite all the warnings, then threatens to sue Big Tobacco because he gets lung cancer. Then when he wins his lawsuit, he still continues to smoke because now he can afford to buy more cigarettes.

When I visited the ol' home town last year, I barely recognized the place. It was though I was driving in and about Greater Kabul after a rocket attack. To this day, I still haven’t shaken the feeling of dread I had while I was there. I was watching a relative on life support dying a slow, painful death.

And I also thought about my family and friends who are still living in Stockton and wishing I had the resources to airlift them the hell out of there once and for all. For now, I can only hope for the best and that they’ll come out of this okay.

Hey, Modesto, just down the road from Stockton, placed fifth on the Forbes list, more than likely since it is the car theft theft capital of the country. Well done! How proud do you think Modesto's favorite son, George Lucas, is at this moment?

You can't go home again because sometimes, you just don't wanna.

A Melo Summer

Some sweet summer memories from 2015.

As I continue on with this play marketing journey I have been on the past two years, I have discovered that melodrama is often synonymous with summertime as many companies tend to believe this is the optimum time of year for these shows, probably since they tend to be more family-friendly than genres.

This year I had three melodramas running in three different states, one more than last year, a number to grow next time around. But this year....I'm no longer regional (in my beloved Calif-orn-I-A) and can be considered national. (Hey, whatever delusions of grandeur I can conjure up is better for my mental well-being than a bottle of Muscatel and a bag of Cheetos.)

LA RUE'S RETURN or HOW'S A BAYOU?, the very first

Avenue Theatre LA RUE cast photo

melodrama I wrote with my best friend Ed Thorpe (aka Max), had two productions this summer, its debut out of state fell in West Plains, Missouri in June. The Avenue is a renovated art deco cinema converted to this community theater playhouse.

THE AVENUE THEATRE IN WEST PLAINS, MO.

One proud papa

Next up. LA RUE had the honor of being the summer attraction at the Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville in Oceano, California in the same exact spot as last year;s SONG OF THE CANYON KID (LONE PRAIRIE-it's complicated). Max had the honor of visiting them in July.

Jacques La Rue and Miss Polly-GAM style

On top of that, the Great American is celebrating its 40th anniversary, so this is a real honor. (As opposed to a fake honor?. What am I babbling about?)

The show runs until Sept. 20

THE GREAT AMERICAN MELODRAMA IN OCEANO, CA


Finally, the Canyon Kid and Thunder rode into Wyoming this July for the Cheyenne Little Theatre Players' production of SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or POEM ON THE RANGE at the historic Atlas Theatre in Cheyenne.

This show had two-count 'em-two separate casts for this show, which kind of makes it two shows in one. That's what I keep telling myself anyway.

LONE PRAIRIE Cast #1 

LONE PRAIRIE Cast  #2

They even made Thunder a bigger star than he was already.
(Thanks, Julie Wagner, the actress who brought Thunder to life. Here's a carrot for you.)

THE CHEYENNE LITTLE THEATRE PLAYERS IN CHEYENNE, WYOMING 

It's gratifying to know that community theaters like the Avenue and the CLTP embrace melodrama and consider it to be viable enough to include it in their seasons filled with such shows as SEUSSICAL, OLIVER, SPAMALOT, LEND ME A TENOR and AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY. Of course I'm also grateful that theaters that specialize in this form like the Great American Melodrama continue to exist as well. It's certainly good for me as a creator that specializes in this genre, but it's also good for theater in general. I still believe that any type of theater should be supported and not looked down upon from some elitist point of view. It all helps perpetuate the art form as a whole.

Speaking of which, coming this fall...a new murder mystery. Oh, get ready to turn your noses up at this one, you wags.

The Return of La Rue's Return

First production of LA RUE'S RETURN at Pollardville

Evil always returns...
only this time, it has a bad French accent!

Oh, he's back alright. Jacques La Rue, that is. He's the villain in the very first theatrical venture show written by Edward Thorpe and myself. a little melodrama called LA RUE'S RETURN or HOW'S A BAYOU?.

The Canyon Kid Rides into Cheyenne

It's official!

The Cheyenne Little Theatre Players  will present SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or POEM ON THE RANGE will be presented on their stage this summer at the historic Atlas Theatre in Cheyenne, Wyoming. This production joins LA RUE'S RETURN at the Great American Melodrama in Oceano, CA and a brand spanking new murder mystery for Mel O'Drama Theater in Nashville, another coup for yours truly (with maybe another on the way...).

This marks the first time The Canyon Kid and Co. will trod the boards outside of California after its debut at the Place Showboat Theater back in the Jurassic period and the one-two punch of last year's show at the Great American and the Footlight Theatre Co. in Jamestown .

The word "historic" is more than just an adjective when speaking of the Atlas Theatre In Cheyenne. It was, in fact, listed on the National Register of Historic Places back in 1973. Read on, MacDuff.

THE HISTORIC ATLAS THEATRE ON WIKIPEDIA



And to make this even sweeter, this joint is apparently haunted too.
                                                                               

HAUNTED HOUSES/COM

Shoot. I ain't fraid'a no ghosts.

Performances for SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE run from July 9-August 2. I jumped the gun and announced this before they did, but for more info (once they get it together), click on the link below. Hurry! Operators are standing by!

CHEYENNE LITTLE THEATRE WEBSITE

So today, Cheyenne....
Tomorrow....the world!
Now if I can only get into somewhere within driving distance, that would be nice too.

.

Suddenly, This Summer

It began with a frog and ended with a deer.

Such was the summer of 2014, definitely one for the archives. Book-ended by two separate Cherney Journeys, the months between May and September became one extended round trip, one I'd gladly sign up for again.

In May, THE PERILS OF FRANCOIS, the first play I'd written in almost 2 1/2 decades, began its run in Nashville, TN courtesy of the Mel O'Drama Theater for my new friend, producer Mel Roady. This was one mind-boggling experience that prepped for the rest of the season.

This was immediately followed by a return visit to Denver (relayed in the blog: THINGS TO DO IN DENVER WHEN YOU'RE RED) to visit my beautiful Coloradan family who resides there with a grand birthday celebration for my three year old granddaughter Aefa.

In June, SONG OF THE CANYON KID (re-titled from SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE to coincide with the book of the same name that no one seems to want to read but if you did you would laugh your spurs off if that's your idea of a good time) premiered at the Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville in Oceano, CA for a summer-long run.

At the same time, the Footlight Theatre Company in Northern California's Jamestown planned to produce SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE under its original title at the end of August. Both shows had the same identical closing dates.

Visited in Oregon by more family members from down Santa Barbara way-my step-daughter Tracey and now sweet sixteen granddaughter Kardena-was a sweet week-long visit that had been a long-time coming but so very nourishing for the heart and soul. Just before their stay with us, they had traveled to Oceano to see THE CANYON KID, something else to boost me into the stratosphere. Kardena's favorite gag in the show was one I didn't write, a Harry Potter reference. Oh well.

Many had suggested that I find some way to see the show myself, either in Oceano or Jamestown. I actually didn't think it possible. Somehow that desire had been sent out to the universe because a trip indeed was in my immediate future.

I've known Ed Thorpe for most of my born days. We met in 6th grade at Grover Cleveland Elementary in Stockton and have been not just best friends, but the brothers we never had...and we both had brothers. We've shared laughs, tears, anger, up, down, overs and outs...including a woman. I devoted an entire chapter of my first book IN THE DARK to Ed who I call Max and who calls me Max because we're Maxes to the Max. He's also the one responsible for my foray into melodrama in the first place. He brought me out to Pollardville where we were both gunslingers, asked me to co-write our first melo LA RUE'S RETURN and arranged for me to attend the grand finale reunion when the Ville closed once and for all back in 2007.

Max felt I should see my show and made it a point to fly me down there in order to do that very thing. It is one of the finest gifts I could ever imagine. I don't know how I warrant all this love and generosity from people. It's not false modesty and me playing Harry Humble. I am honestly baffled. Grateful, but confused.
It was Max's intention that we head to Oceano which involved me flying into San Francisco and the two of us driving down in our own version of an Alexander Payne road movie.

At the same time, my wife had decided that this would be a good time to visit her mom and sister in the Bay Area, so we made arrangements to depart PDX within minutes of each other-she on Southwest landing in Oakland, me on Alaska to SFO. And we made it just in the nick of freaking time. Nothing like an ass full of stress to start the weekend right.

So Max greeted me at SFO once I landed and down Hwy 101 we drove, yapping up a storm the entire way and not shutting up until he dropped me back the airport Sunday night. We relived the past, even those things of which we dared not speak.We mulled over the present. We outlined the future. Most importantly, we repaved our common ground which over time was well-worn, full of potholes and needing some necessary repair. I got my brother back and Max got his.

Once we hit Pismo Beach, our base of operations,the world pulled back into focus. it wasn't the town, per se, it was the beach...the California coast that I longed to be near again. The sound of the waves breaking is my mantra, my safe place when life begins to go south. The Oregon coast, beautiful as it is, can't hold a hourglass of sand next to the state of my birth.


The Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville in the main attraction of Oceano, maybe running a close second to the Dunes, the only state park in California where vehicles can be driven on the beach, bu tit certainly is the most popular business known all over the Central Coast. When we arrived Saturday night, it was an event that had to be documented, so I posed wherever I could. Standing before the window display of my show) featuring a stuffed version of The Canyon Kid's horse Thunder), Nova Cunningham, the artistic director of the Great American who chose my script, approached  and greeted me with open arms. She brought me into the theater before the show where the cast was warming up with vocal exercises and introduced themselves one by one. What a good looking group this was and surrounding me around the swell set of the THE CANYON KID. This was the set I didn't have when my show premiered back in '87, that's for sure. No wonder I looked like a proud papa in those shots.

As the show began, I noticed the changes they made right away. Additional songs were obvious as well as some altered lines (more than just Harry Potter references). This made my mind race back to a time at Pollardville when Tim Kelly, one of the most prolific melodrama playwrights in the the business, had been flown up to Stockton for the opening night of THE RATCATCHER'S DAUGHTER. it was one of those miracle opening nights when nothing worked all Hell Week long, but once we got in front an audience, the magic happened. When I met the author in question, I was so giddily excited that I grabbed my copy of the script to show him what we-actually mostly me-had done to it.

"Look! We cut this scene and that scene. We turned this character into a male. This character here we just cut completely out. Totally unnecessary!"

I asked him to sign it for me and handed it to him. Stone faced, he scribbled the name "Kelly" and thrust it back at me.

Oops.

Well, whatever goes around... Thirty years later, here I sat watching SONG OF THE CANYON KID minus a character, lines changed, songs added and I could not have been more delighted. Their adaptation was wonderful, doing justice to the material and giving life to a show that not seen the light of day in this century. Lee Anne Mathews' direction ran circles around mine. Her staging of certain scenes, particularly the attempted hypnosis of The Canyon Kid by Nastassia Kinky (Emily Smith) became a delirious tango in her hands and choreographed brilliantly. Some of the changes improved the show, while others, to be frank, did not. (My fight scene kicked major ass. Nyah!) But the cast was top notch all the way. Andy Pollock and Christine Arnold totally embodied The Canyon Kid and Darla Darling. There is an extension to their first scene together that was not in the original 1987 script. I added it later when I published it and has never been performed. I had to wipe a tear from my eye because in their hands, it was pretty damn touching if I do say so myself. But I have to say that the show was sent into the stratosphere by Katie Worley in the role of Charlene Atlas. She totally transformed this character, hysterically stealing each scene to the point that I couldn't wait for her next entrance to see what she do next. I would have to say Katie gave the best interpretation of anything I've ever written and one of the finest comic performance I've ever seen on the stage. And to top it all off, she'd only been with the show for a couple of weeks after her predecessor had to leave the cast unexpectedly and Katie, a veteran Great American performer, Amazing. When the curtain fell on SONG OF THE CANYON KID, I leapt to my feet and gave this fine cast a triumphant standing ovation I believed they deserved. I was probably clapping for myself as well My step-daughter Lindsay would call this "a victory lap".

It turns out that the cast have triple and sometimes quadruple duties at the theater outside of performing. They seat the audience, run the concession stand, then when everyone has cleared out, they clean the auditorium. There's no way in hell we would have done that back at the Palace Showboat. Maybe these guys are paid better, but I personally it to be a major pain in the ass to be the Major Domo before I stepped out on stage as MC. Sure, they are probably paid far and above whatever we were making, but still...

After being treated as King for a Day-or Night,rather- I gave my hail and farewell to these fine folk and hugged each and everyone of them  I even sought some of them out just say they too could have a genuine Scott Cherney embrace. They really were quite a special bunch. Damn kids anyway. The evening ended in true California style at the In-n-Out Burger drive-thru for a Double Double after show dinner.

The long drive back to the Bay Area on Sunday afternoon culminated when Max and I wrapped up the weekend with a huge honking steak dinner before we made our goodbye. We went our separate ways, but forever entwined in true brotherly bond that was reinforced with cement by the incredible gift of his for which I am eternally grateful.

I returned to PDX with a smile on my face that some day may have to be surgically removed, Hopping on the Economy parking lot shuttle in front of the terminal, I, along with my fellow weary travelers, were welcomed back to Portland by our driver, Bob, whose voice sounded like an older version of Chris Farley's character Matt Foley character. It was apparent that he couldn't wait to back to his van down by the river. And for some reason, he decided to toss in a little shuttle driver humor along with the ride.

"What do you call a deer with no eyes? No eye deer."

While the other passengers chose to ignore this, but I just had to chuckle. Yep. I was back in Portland alright.

I drove home in my wife's VW Bug and was just around the corner from I where I live when something slammed up against the car on the driver's side. It was louder than it was forceful since I didn't lose any control at all of the steering. I didn't see a thing and thought I ran over something, but I checked the mirrors and saw a flash of brown fur galumphing away and disappearing into the night.

Apparently it was a no eye deer.

Fortunately, I was unharmed. Unfortunately, the car has a broken fender, a severely dented door and a broken headlight. Bambi? I haven't a clue. Couldn't find him, but somehow I think he was going to feel that bump the next day.

And just like that, summer ended and fall fell.

Curtain

Special Guest Star: George C. Scott

Back in the halcyon days in the last half of the century known as the 20th, the old hometown of Stockton, California and surrounding area played host to many a major Hollywood production. Several times a year, film and TV crews from the Land of LA congregated in our backyards to shoot a damn impressive array of titles over time.

One of those was 1973's OKLAHOMA CRUDE starring George C. Scott, Faye Dunaway, John Mills and Jack Palance. Produced and directed by Stanley Kramer, who also shot RPM with Anthony Quinn and Ann-Margaret at the University of the Pacific, CRUDE is a rollicking, unjustly forgotten Depression era saga of a wildcat oil well. It's nowhere near the caliber of THERE WILL BE BLOOD, but it's a damn decent piece of entertainment in the old Hollywood tradition. The Ospital Ranch northeast of Stockton stood in for the Oklahoma countryside.

At that time, my dad, Adam Cherney, ran a concession at Stockton Golf and Country Club. It was basically a snack shack on the 9th hole where Pop would flip burgers and pour drinks for players who took a break at the half-way point or those who just played 9 holes and didn't want to head back to the clubhouse. Since celebrities love their golf, many of those shooting in the area spent their downtime taking in a round at SGCC and most stopped by my dad's place.

One gloomy afternoon, Adam looked up looked up from his work only to see the only one and only George C. strolling up to his shack, all by lonesome, just like the other George. Gobel, that is. (Look him up, young 'un) On a midweek day off from filming OKLAHOMA CRUDE, George thought he'd kill a few hours on the links. After the first nine holes, the lure of an adult beverage or two proved alluring enough to put the game on hold for awhile. Being a slow day, he was my dad's sole customer that afternoon.

The rain began to fall, enough to cancel the remainder of General Patton's game entirely. Instead of calling it a day, George stayed put at the shack to consume a few more highballs and pound down half a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes. He passed the time away with my pop, chatting about this, that and the other thing. Since Dad was an experienced bartender from the old school, he undoubtedly treated Mr. Scott like a regular Joe and I'm sure he appreciated the normalcy of it. At that time, he was still riding on that PATTON gravy train and one of the biggest movie stars in the world. Flying solo and under the radar as it was that day, he probably wanted to feel grounded. And there was nobody that was more down to earth than my dad.

When the rain subsided, George decided to call it a day and hit the muddy trail.

"Besides, the wife's making soup for dinner," he told my dad. "You know you've got yourself a good woman if she can make you a good bowl of soup."

With that, he shook my dad's hand goodbye and tottled off to the house the studio rented rented for him while on location. That evening, my dad presented me with an autograph signed by the one only George C. Scott and relayed the soup story.

The wife Scott referred to wasn't Colleen Dewhurst, the great stage and screen actress he married twice back in the 1960s ala Liz and Dick. At this point in time, they had been divorced for good. I always felt that George and Colleen had to be one of those hard-drinking, hard-brawlin', hard-ballin' legendary show biz couples. They probably smoked each other's Lucky Strikes. They also sounded so much alike that calling them on the phone must have been difficult.

"Hello?"

"Is that you, George?"

"No, it's Colleen."

"Sorry. Can I speak to George?"

"George!"

"What?"

"Telephone."

"Hello?"

"Is that still you, Colleen?"

"No, it's George."

But alas, they were no longer meant to be. At the end of marriage, round two, they made the film THE LAST RUN. George fell head over heels for his younger co-star Trish Van Devere. Months after he divorced Colleen, he married Trish. They too made several films together including THE CHANGELING, DAY OF THE DOLPHIN and George's directorial boondoggle known as THE SAVAGE IS LOOSE.

Even if their relationship didn't hit the Shakespearean level of his marriage to Dewhurst, George and Trish stay married up until his death in 1999.

It could have been the soup. After all, you can buy the best ingredients, use the most sophisticated equipment and employ the finest skills known in the culinary world, but nothing tastes better than when you cook with love. Maybe George knew that, but he was just a newlywed back in 1973. On the other hand, he and Trish stay married for an impressive 27 years.

My wife is a fantastic cook and makes a helluva soup. I always tell her where she fixes me a bowl that somewhere, George C. Scott and my dad are both looking on and smiling.

It's a Bankrupt Life

This week came the awful news that my hometown of Stockton, California has declared bankruptsy. Once again, Stockton makes national news for all the wrong reasons. For the past few years, it’s made the top ten list of worst cities in America, but now it holds the not-so-coveted title of Loserville, USA. A place that used to be known as Fat City has been chewed down to the bone with its marrow completely sucked dry.

The last couple of times I visited Stockton, it resembled Bedford Falls if George Bailey had never been born. What I witnessed was the 21st century version of Potterville (and in some places, downtown Fallujah). Stockton was dark, foreboding and, in certain areas, downright fucking scary. It certainly wasn’t any vacation destination in the last years I lived there back in the late 90s. Many a night, the sweet sounds of semi-automatic gunfire echoing from the other side of Oak Park would lull me to sleep. But these more recent trips were positively-or should I say negatively-eye-opening, maybe because I had been away for so long I could get a fresh perspective and I could see how bad things had gotten. Absence hadn’t made the heart grow fonder, but gave me palpitations instead.

Alas, the Frank Capra WONDERFUL LIFE analogy didn’t end there. Stockton had always had its share of Mr. Potters robbing the populace blind and grinding them under their greedy thumbs. It has also had its share of stupid Uncle Billys fumbling and bumbling their way through local government and generally screwing things up for everyone concerned. And for the most part, the good people of Stockton just bend over and take it, letting these bastards have their way with them like the opening ceremonies at the annual meeting of the Ned Beatty Fan Club. Stocktonians have always been their own worst enemies especially in the victim department where they have become regulars and everyone knows their names.

It’s a tragedy what’s happened to my old stomping grounds. It won’t be the last American city to hit rock bottom nor is it the first. However, it is the most recent and that’s what made the news headlines. If it bleeds, it leads and Stockton is a hemophiliac. It sure would be great to read something positive about Stockton and not in the past tense. Hindsight in the golden glow of nostalgia can sometimes be blinding.

But instead of wallowing in your misery or living in denial, Stockton, why not turn it around? Embrace your horribleness. Mock what you are. Be in on your own joke. Deliver the punchline before anyone else can. Take the William Shatner approach. Back in the day, I used to say that instead “Someplace Special”, the town motto should “Welcome to Stockton…Duck!” Put the city limits sign in the center of a target and market the damn thing. Contact Mark Burnett and pitch the idea of SURVIVOR: STOCKTON. You’re bankrupt? Have the world’s biggest bake sale. I posted a smart-ass comment on Facebook that said that maybe Stockton should consider using Kickstarter. Run with that. Give the city council cardboard signs and put them on freeway ramps. This isn’t a if life gives you lemons, make lemonade affirmation. This is survival, people. No one is going to help you unless you start to help yourselves, Besides, smell the contents of that glass. That ain’t lemonade.

I hope for the best for you, Stockton. You will always be a part of me and not just because I still have family and friends there. Stockton is the place of my birth and somewhere I called home for most of my life. But you ‘d better wake the hell up. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they do. And don’t get looking for Zuzu’s petals. There’s nothing in your pockets. But there might be something up your sleeves. All you have to do is look.

The Divine 99

Ah, the drive-ins! Not only were they great places to see movies, but also fine institutions of learning. Why, one's sexual education could be formed for all time in a single evening, on and off the screen.

From the pages of my first magnumopus, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, a sweet summer memory from my hometown of Stockton, California.

Then, there was the 99 Drive-In. Oh. My. God.

The 99, so named because it was just an exit off Highway 99, was the strangest location for a drive-in ever. It sat right next door to 99 Speedway, the local racetrack featuring stock cars, midget racers, modified hardtops and even the occasional destruction derby. These were usually run on Friday nights and sometimes Saturdays thrown in for good measure, which were also generally the busiest nights for drive-ins. Isaw a lot of movies at the 99…Speedway, that is. We Cherneys were auto racing aficionados and I caught many a silent movie, silent only in the sense that the roar of the engines would drown out the soundtrack. The screen was in full view of the grandstands.Anybody who was sitting on the other side of the fence trying to enjoy a nice, relaxing night at the movies would have had to have been incredibly tolerant, deaf or just plain stupid…that is, if it was any other drive-in.

But, this was the 99 where sound was, basically optional anyway. It specialized in exploitation with a capital X. Rude, raunchy and rowdy were the only criteria for this  place. It featured a lot of early splatter works like BLOOD FEAST, 2000 MANIACS, THE UNDERTAKER AND HIS PALS and THE CORPSE GRINDERS. The latter dealt with some fine lads who ground dead bodies up into cat food, giving kitties a taste for human flesh. When Granny ran out of Purina Dead Chow, her starving pussies ate her instead! Fine motion picture entertainment.

Just to add more fuel to the fires of their patrons, the 99 also booked an array of big giant booby movies from the 1960s. These epics had proportions to match, especially those of the incomparable Uschi Digard and her Mammaries Dearest. The 99 had noqualms whatsoever screening these whenever they felt like it and that included during race nights. Was it any wonder I grew tired of racing? How the 99 got away with this I’ll never know. Were they trying to drive the speedway out of business? As far as I was concerned, it became the main attraction.

During one particular race called the Trophy Dash, the four cars involved were circling the track getting into formation before taking the green flag to begin. Suddenly, the drivers caught a glimpse of two enormous breasts peaking over the south wall on the screen next door. All four of them parked against the wall in a straight line, one right after the other and watched the movie for about a minute. When those bombastic boobs disappeared, they started the race. Who won? Everybody.

Copywright 2002 by Scott Cherney

Alas and alack, the 99 Drive-In (aka the 99-E) is no more, just like 99% of all drive-ins. The 99 Speedway is gone now too. Both have been swallowed up by the onslaught of progress. Both the Speedway and the Drive-In on 99 represented the sights and sounds of summers gone by and memories that live on in the hearts, minds and even loins of those who were fortunate enough to experience them back in the heyday.

Living here in Oregon, it fills my heart with sweet joy to know that in the nearby town of Newberg, one of the last drive-ins in the nation is still in operation. Its name? The 99W.

And for more swell stories about movies, theaters and, well, the wonderfulness of me, check out IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER at Amazon

IN THE DARK in paperback and Kindle at Amazon

To read another excerpt, go to my website
 WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

Displaced in Dis Place

Back in the winter of 1999, the love of my life who is my wife and I made like Lewis and Clark (that is, if they were a married couple, but who really knows? Maybe they were. It was a long journey after all) and migrated to the great state of Oregon. We settled in the sprawling megalopolis known as Beaverton, knowing full well it was a hop, skip and a jump away from Portland and I could use that geographical advantage to impress my friends…not that Beaverton doesn’t take one’s breath away in and of itself.

It took me a little time to adjust to my surroundings, to say the least since I was more than just a little homesick. Everything seemed so...foreign to me. What I really wanted to do was throw a temper tantrum and cry, “ I WANNA GO HOME!” loud as a bastard.

Therefore, in order to head that childish outburst off at the pass, I felt it might be a more mature solution to compose the following.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE STATE OF OREGON

Dear Oregon,

I guess I just don’t fit in.

That’s nothing new. I’ve felt this way my entire life, in one form or another. One big legal alien. That’s me all over. Blame it on the stars and chalk it up to an atypical Aquarian trait.

However…

In this particular case, that being my struggle to adapt to my newfound digs here in this off-world known as Oregon, USA, I honestly cannot blame myself. That’s quite a psychological breakthrough for me since I am basically a masochistic martyr at heart who really does want to be punished for his crimes. Perhaps there is some mental health in my future after all. So, it is with all due respect and whatever humility I can muster up to say that this time, it is just not my fault.

It’s y’all.

Let me get this out of the way right here and now so that we understand one another. I hereby accept any consequence resulting from what I am about to confess. The truth is going to set me free, though it’s guaranteed to piss all of you off.

Here it comes.

Ready…Aim…

I’m from California.

FIRE!

Go ahead. Do your worst. Roll your eyes in disdain. Sigh in exasperation. Throw your hands in the air dramatically and utter the inevitable phase that pays, “THAT figures!” Now hock up the slimiest, chunkiest phelegmball you can and aim it for the bull’s-eye that is this letter. Try to aim for my name if you can. Hell, why don’t you release all that pent-up prejudicial rage that you feel toward your hated neighbor to the south and rip this whole thing up into so much confetti with your superior Pacific Northwestern upper body strength? I’ll just wait here until you’re done.

There. Feel better now? Good.

Now, sit the hell down, hazelnut breath. Let me tell YOU a few things.

There is something wrong with you people, I don’t mean just off-putting, I mean inherently. Quite simply, it’s your attitude. You wear a chip on your shoulder so blatantly that it’s almost a friggin’ fashion accessory-an out-of-date one at that and not enough to be retro just embarrassing. It’s a designer ‘tude with big gaudy “O” emblazoned on the front for all to see. You seemed to have acquired this attitude because you feel it’s necessary to help define the identity you so desperately desire. Observing this and trying to understand it all has led me to the conclusion that this attitude is just not real. It’s a put-on. It’s faux, y’know? But, you’ve maintained it for so long that you’re beginning to believe in it yourselves, much like an actor consumed by the character he’s created. The amusing thing is, you don’t seem to care very much for it either, thereby creating a mutant strain of attitude. You might call it “Attitudes in Collision”. In dissecting it all and placing everything under a microscope, I’ve discovered that its main property is, of all things, irony. Irony! The very lifeblood of the city of Portland alone! Why, how…ironic!

You guys have this territorial thing going on. So, you hate Californians, eh? Get in line! You don’t have the market covered just because you happen to border the Land of All Evil. How do you feel about Washingtonians? What about them Idahosers? Yeah, I’ve seen the sign at the state line. “Welcome To Oregon. You Won’t Be Staying Long, Right?” If the Statue of Liberty sat off the Oregon coast, she’d probably be waving boats away with her torch and the inscription on her base would read, “JUST KEEP MOVING”.

So many imponderables…so little time to decipher them all…and all of your liquor stores close early.

What the hell is with all the BENTO? I get it already. Bento is a Japanese box lunch. Everybody seems to be selling it. Bento here. Bento there. Bento everywhere. Coffee and Bento. Pizza and Bento. At McDonald’s, there a McBento Happy Meal. It has a Bento action figure. Have it super-sized and get a free side of Bento. Hey, Bento THIS.

Pop. That’s what you call a carbonated soft drink. Pop. Want some pop? Whatcha gonna do with that pop can? I’m gonna get me a bottle o’ pop. What is this- freaking’ Mayberry? Call it “sodie” if you have a mind to. Call everything a brand name. “Gimme a Coke.” “What kind?” “Root beer.” I don’t give a hot Pepsi what you do as long as you STOP THE POP! And say hello to Thelma Lou for me.

In regards to driving, I have only one question: When the bloody blue blazes are ever going to learn? Here’s a tip: MERGE is an action verb. Want another? Try looking up the words FLOW OF TRAFFIC in a search engine. That seems to be the only engine you’re able to operate effectively. I have a theory that everyone else can drive, but every third car contains a native Oregonian and, alas, there lies the problem. You can’t help it. Driving is just not indigenous to your culture.

No matter. It isn’t as if anyone can find where they’re going anyway. No one will give you coherent directions because they just make it up as they go along. The engineers who designed the roads here must have been a vicious pack of angry crazed alcoholics taking their drunken rage out against the world. We are all but rats in their endless maze and there is no such thing as a short cut in Oregon. If you’re lucky enough to reach your destination, you won’t be able get in for you will discover that every potential entrance is an exit and vice versa. You want to keep us all out, even it is only a parking lot.

Your solution to this rant ‘n rave of mine will be all too predictable.

“Well, why don’t yew jus’ go on back whar yew come from?”

First off, I know full and well that no one up here talks like that and, even if they did, they’d be from out-of-state, which to you means out-of-mind. Secondly, I can’t jus’ pick up ‘n git. It’s not that simple, Simon and it’s not of your goddamn business why. I’m here and here is where I’m going to stay, at least for the time being.

Besides, as much as I love California and always will, the area I am from is certainly not the land of Milk and Honey. In the Big Book of American Cities, my hometown of Stockton, California would be classified as nothing more than a giant speed bump. One of its claims to fame is the yearly Asparagus Festival. Ah, there’s nothing like a celebration that somehow involves foul-smelling urine. I have friends in Stockton that I care for very much and will visit whenever possible. But, I really wish they would all move because believe me, I don’t feel homesick for the town itself. I do not pine for its peat dirt or long for its dense, blinding fog. Do I miss hearing gunshots in the middle of the night? Well, gee, I’m not THAT unsentimental. Who wouldn’t? I have roots in Stockton to be sure, but they’re not unlike those of a bleached blonde badly in need of a dye job.

There are definite advantages to living here in this state of confusion. The lack of a sales tax and the abundance of great beer are both tremendous luxuries, though I’d really rather pump my own gas, thank you very much. Considering my place of origin, the change of scenery alone is damn near worth all of the hassle I’ve had to endure.

Aha! Did you notice or were you too busy sneering? I just said something positive. So, you see, it’s in me. Is in you? This is a period of adjustment for all of us.

With the influx of new arrivals here on a daily basis, I can understand your trepidation and sometimes, believe it or not, even your disdain. Really I do. Have you seen the latest bunch of muttonheads around lately? I’m talking about those clowns who walk down the street reading books, oblivious to any form of traffic or the world around them like they’re the Book People from Ray Bradbury’s FAHRENHEIT 451. Talk about moving targets. Why don’t you read your way toward the front of MY car?

So, what do you say we make some sort of a pact here, here? I’ll give in a little if you do the same. Let’s have a truce and maybe within it all, we can both practice a little tolerance. I don’t expect to meet you halfway but...MERGE, DAMN YOUR EYES! MERGE!

C’mon, give me that much at least. You owe me.

After all, in this whole diatribe, not once did I ever mention the rain.

Sincerely,

Your new pal,

Scott

EPILOGUE

It’s been almost three years now and the dust has finally settled. We’re still here. Recently, I made a trip down to Stockton and found that as soon as I got there, I couldn’t wait to leave, regardless of the great time I spent with old friends. All of the reasons why I left were crystal clear in a very short amount of time.

When I returned to Oregon, I drove back to Beaverton from the airport and found myself actually smiling when I saw the skyline of Portland by night. To my left was the snowcapped wonder of Mt. Hood, looking like the logo for Paramount Pictures. Below was the murky Willamette River, lit by that big spotlight known as the full moon in an uncharacteristically clear sky above and garnished with sparkling stars. What a welcome this was. That’s when it hit me.

I was home. This is where I live now. To quote an old Teamster friend of mine, I was proud to be here. Suddenly I grew anxious and really wanted to get back to my wife who was waiting for me in Beaverton. I missed her and wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I also wanted to let her know that for one of the very rare moments in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere and this is where it was.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. The freeway slowed to an annoyingly hesitant crawl. Something was holding up traffic. It wasn’t long before I discovered that it was, once again, a classic case of a slow driver in the fast lane.

Probably some stupid goddamn Washingtonian.

What's up with THOSE people?