Please Hold Thumbs: Down Mexico Way

 In honor of the publication of my latest book, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA, the next three postings will be devoted to excerpts of said tome, just for you, the curious buying public.

This first clip will serve as an intro to the saga and also involves a fabled trip to Tijuana my folks and I took way back in the late 1960s. Please enjoy DOWN MEXICO WAY.

At no time of my life have I ever expressed a desire to visit the continent of Africa. Never once when I read Tarzan comics or watched Jungle Jim movies as a kid had I ever said, “B’wana, that’s where I wanna be!” That also goes for all the other TV shows I had seen like Daktari, Wild Kingdom, any National Geographic special or even George of the Jungle.

Don’t think I was ever opposed to the idea. It just never crossed my mind. Therefore, no desire had ever manifested itself inside of me, begging to be fulfilled. So, at this stage of my life, I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that Africa was completely out of the picture, mainly because it was never part of the picture in the first place. Maybe I could get to it in the next reincarnation, but this particular form of existence, I wouldn’t ever be in North, Central, East, West or even South Africa. Nope. You wouldn’t find me there.

The only time I ventured out of the country entirely was back in my early teens. That surprise excursion I mentioned involved a contest my folks had won through a car dealership in Stockton. First prize was a brand new Dodge Dart Swinger 340, a model that was on and off the market in the blink of an eye, and a weekend trip to their choice of three different locations where the Oakland Raiders were playing. The selections were Oakland (not a big deal since it was an hour away from Stockton), Cincinnati, Ohio, even less than a big deal though it did have the distinction of being out of state and San Diego, the city my folks picked. No contest, really. What would we have done in Cincinnati-visit Dr. Johnny Fever at WKRP?

I, being the youngest of three kids, was allowed to travel with them, leaving my brother and sister behind. The folks probably didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave me with my siblings who didn’t want me around either. Both factions knew what debauchery would be in store once Mom and Dad set foot out of town. I probably would have ended up duct-taped in a closet while Sis and Bro engaged in nefarious activities with all their friends which included sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll 24 hours a day for the next 72. My parents thought it best to spare me from potential torture, so they brought me along.

Once in San Diego, it became my mission-and my duty as a thirteen-year old male-to convince Ma and Pa that we go to Tijuana as soon as we possibly could. Why wouldn’t I? The lure of purchasing illegal fireworks alone was enough to spark my desire for this fantastic voyage. My mom wanted to go to the San Diego Zoo instead, but I managed to convince her to reconsider, enough though she had been the one who officially won the contest. My pop wasn’t too keen on the idea at all but, after much griping, we hit the road for Ye Olde Border Town, Tijuana, Mexico, famed in song, story and donkey show. Pop’s mood worsened after a California Highway Patrolman ticketed him for an illegal lane change before we hit the border checkpoint.

When we hit downtown TJ, which wasn’t dissimilar to certain sections of Stockton, the search began for a suitable place to park the car. We drove all about this chaotic city with my dad, getting more frustrated by the second. He more or less successfully navigated his way through the heavy traffic without plowing into any of the locals or tourists, though I know it would have made the trip worthwhile for him. Finally, we found a parking lot that appeared fairly acceptable.

The attendant tried to direct my dad into an open spot, signaling with his arms and yelling, “Aqui! Aqui!”

Pop groused, “I ain’t gonna give him the goddamn keys.”

We basically got a solid afternoon out of Tijuana. I came away M.O.F (mit out fireworks), but I did manage to score an authentic Mexican poncho so that I could impersonate a pubescent Clint Eastwood when I got back home. We found a restaurant off the main drag in an area that at least looked like Mexico and not Every Podunk Town, USA. When the folks ventured off to the bathroom, the waitress plopped a bowl in front of me that I mistook for some kind of cold tomato soup, so I had a couple of spoonfuls. This was my first experience with authentic Mexican salsa. It wasn’t very common back then. Neither was common sense. My mouth became a fiery pit of hell and I chugged my soda, ice and all. I said nothing to my parents when they returned. When they wondered why my eyes were so red and teary, I just told them I was just so glad to be there. Sniff.

Later my parents and I posed for a souvenir photograph for a street vendor who used his burro-drawn cart for a backdrop. The folks sat in the driver’s seat with my pop wearing an unbelievably goofy sombrero. I climbed on top of the donkey, who was none too thrilled to have this particular adolescent on his back. The photographer, sensing danger, quickly snapped the picture, then pulled me off the jackass immediately because he started to buck. Though the image of burro’s head is blurred by its angry swaying, the existing photograph shows the crazed look in his eyes with three smiling tourists oblivious to the fact that Senor Donkey wants to stomp their gringo asses to death.

So much for my world travels.

To purchase PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA in either paperback or e-book editions, visit:

SCOTT CHERNEY'S STOREFRONT  or AMAZON

See also Chapter one of PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: OH, THAT'S NICE!

ChernFest 2016: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Some day, either before I kick or even after, I want my very own film festival. (Of course, if I'm dead, it would really ruin the experience for me) It could bear my name, which of course would be an honor unless, of course, I named it myself. (I am nothing if not self-serving) But I can also rock out the self-deprecation like nobody's business which explains away my other suggestion, the Some Dunce Film Festival. But since it's my birthday and this is the date I designate for my this fauxtival o' mine, I decided to settle on the more self-reverential ChernFest. Yeah, it's all about the Self. (But truth to tell, Some Dunce is better and probably more accurate)
 ChernFest will obviously center on my favorite films of all time, but the feature attraction of the very first cinematic celebration has to be what I consider the King of the Hill. Here, in an excerpt from my book In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater, is my take on Sergio Leone's masterpiece, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Sergio Leone used his camera like the baton of the maestro he was, conducting his grandiose shoot-‘em-up horse operas with a robust flair of an outrageous master with a lust for life. Never was this more evident than in his masterpiece The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, the last of his Dollars trilogy, which were akin to Wagner’s Ring Cycle on horseback. This became the epic film of my youth. Never before had I seen the western set in such a bold canvas as the Civil War. When I tasted this spicy mesh of fact and fiction, stirred together in a cinematic bowl of rich minestrone, my palate was changed forever for it made me want to sample more complex flavors that existed in thecinematic world, which I soon did.

Due to their familiarity to American audiences, Lee Van Cleef, Eli Wallach and Clint Eastwood almost seem like astronauts stranded on a distant planet against the backdrop of Leone’s vision. It takes but an instant to realize that they are the great director’s boldest colors on this magnificent painting of his and they are unforgettable. Van Cleef had such a distinct presence on screen that it is difficult to believe and the shame of Hollywood that he was so unsung an actor and underutilized by producers. Wallach, in the role of Tuco as the credits state and “also known as The Rat” as Eastwood says in the film, is nothing short of fantastic. It is to his credit that he goes so far over the top in his portrayal without becoming obnoxious, not an easy task in a film not in one’s native tongue.

Then there’s Clint. He is so laid back that he appears to be slumming and allows his co-stars to outshine him. The majority of critics had already misdiagnosed his acting style as “wooden” at this point. They ignored the inherent cool he projected which became part of his signature style. But, it is evident that this is still his movie. One of the most poetic moments in GBU (Good, Bad, Ugly) occurs when the Man with No Name (or Blondie as Tuco calls him) tends to a dying young soldier near the end of the film. He allows the boy a drag off his cigar, a last smoke for comfort. Suddenly, there is a decency about this man that surfaces momentarily. While this small act of charity is fleeting, this Man with No Name more than earns the title of “The Good”.

The first movie soundtrack album I ever bought was GBU. I’d play it incessantly and discovered the inspirational qualities of music while I wrote my stories as a kid. Many a time, that familiar strangulated cry from the main theme blasted out of the stereo speakers in my bedroom. I often wondered if anyone in my neighborhood thought someone was being murdered in our house. Later, I compiled several tracks from this and other soundtracks to create a mix tape that I used for atmospheric purposes at a western theme park called Pollardville Ghost Town. I was the entertainment director for a couple of years there as well as a cowboy stunt player in the various skits we performed on the town’s main street. (I even wore the poncho I bought ten years before in Tijuana after I’d seen GBU)

One afternoon, I was in downtown Portland, Oregon waiting for a light rail train nearby what is now known as Province Park, the home stadium for the 2015 MLS champion Portland Timbers soccer team and other sporting events. It was near five o’clock on a Friday and I was fatigued by a particularly grueling work week. Like everyone else, I just wanted to go home. Music, very familiar music at that, caught my ear. This was a melody so esoteric and personal to me that I began to feel as though I were imagining it, scoring my daily life like music sometimes does.

But no, it was indeed Ennio Morricone’s music from GBU. The piece from the film soundtrack is entitled “The Strong” and its melancholy tones echoed throughout the streets of SW Portland. It was coming from the stadium across the street from where I was standing. I walked to the curb and just stared at the stadium when another cut called “The Ecstasy of Gold” began. In the film, it plays when Tuco (Wallach) discovers Sad Hill Cemetery and searches for the grave holding the buried treasure he seeks.

It was then that I discovered my own treasure. I smiled from ear to ear as I heard the magnificence of Morricone enrich my soul and an actual tear came to my eye in recognition. It was right then that I found that I wasn’t alone in the world. Some one had the chutzpah to play Ennio goddamn Morricone for a sound check at a sports arena and that person was just as big of a freak as me. When you’re an eccentric weirdo, you never know when you’re going to run across a kindred spirit.

I’ve always resisted making Top Ten All-Time Best Film lists. I dunno. Maybe it’s fear of commitment or something. What’s more likely is that I’d end up obsessing over the damn thing. “Oh no! I left off Megaforce!” It’s all relative anyway. Do I really know what’s the best? I can only state my own preferences. To tell you the truth, I didn’t actually come to terms with what my very favorite movie of all time was until just a few years ago. I had in my head it was either Citizen Kane or The Godfather Part II. But after I took in a screening of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (with restored footage) in 2003 at Portland’s Cinema 21, it all come home to me. I sat in that theater on a Saturday afternoon, bouncing up and down in my chair like I was 12 years old all over again. (Thank God I went alone) The film was as vibrant and spectacular as I had remembered and reminded me of the influence it has made on my life. Therefore, I can emphatically proclaim without any reservations whatsoever that The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

moved into the number one spot, making it my favorite film of all time. (Yeah, I know. Way to make a stand.)

                                                        
Happy birthday to me.


In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater is available on Kindle at Amazon.com and in paperback at Lulu.com This is the Special Edition too. It says so right on the book jacket.

Sign of the Times

Driving down the street the other day, I spotted one of those sign spinners, one of those guys who advertises businesses or housing developments. The thing is, this guy has a new angle. His sign read: SIGN WALKER FOR HIRE and his phone number.
Yeah, this economy's in the dumper. I even passed a Hooter's that has gone out of business.
I expect to see some bosomy homeless girl in dirty shorts and tank top holding a sign that reads;

"Will jiggle for food!"

The Oscars have come and gone. My batting average was damn good-SLUMDOG sweeping all the major categories making my "expert" predictions easier than a Joe Biden comb-over. I know how Hollywood works, so I wasn't surprised by Sean Penn winning for MILK (I haven't seen it. I'm not judging, but I did call it right) I still wanted Mickey Rourke to take the final gold, but that is a very unforgiving town. Those bridges he burned in the past are all part of that infrastructure and will probably never be earmarked for reconstruction. it's best Mickey stay in the indie circuit where he was welcome back with open arms and justifiably awarded for his brilliant performance.

Despite mega gaffes here and there (like the audible "Open the curtain!"after the opening number), the Oscar broadcast itself wasn't half-bad (except the big musical tribute. Pee-yew). The acting awards presentation did reach a new level of ass-kissery, as if the whole thing isn't just one big circle jerk to begin with, but it somehow came together. And Hugh Jackman made all the nay-sayers eat a collective bowl full of their pre-judgements.

Watching Clint Eastwood's GRAN TORINO at a theater in the burbs was a mistake on my part. What I thought would be convenient, a Regal moldy-plex five minutes from my home, became a royal pain in my ass thanks to a Yuppie couple (a Coupie?) that gave a running commentary throughout the film, apparently bothering no one else except yours truly, causing me to move too damn close to the screen to get away from their obviously inane chatter. (They didn't respond to my attempts to shut them the hell up)

However, they almost made the movie for me as they put me in the same frame of mind as Eastwood's character in the film. I growled every time he did, not out of sympathy, but out of empathy. When Clint snarled, "Get off my lawn!", I had the same reaction. "Shut your goddamn traps!"

I usually put more care in my choices of cinemas. Going out to see a film is becoming more and more of a luxury and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to just stay home in supposed retaliation, when it is just plain defeat.

As for GRAN TORINO itself, it is an Eastwood performance for the ages. I've been watching a lot of Gary Cooper films as of late and these two share a lot in common. I caught Anthony Mann's MAN OF THE WEST with an elder Cooper, about the same age as Clint and the similarities-the old world staying afloat in the new-are unmistakable. If you are an Eastwood fan at all, the ending of GRAN TORINO will tear you up. If this is indeed his last as an actor, what a way to go.

He said to get off his lawn...and he means it!

Now get out of my theater!