I Love Love

An old girlfriend told me that I was in love with the thought of love. I suppose that's true, but then again, I have an unrealistic view of the world as it is. Reality is too tough and always has been. It probably explains why, to this late day in my life, I am one immature sonuvabitch. However, in the third decade of my longest running relationship, I ain't doin' that badly.

I blame the movies. Well, TV too. And books. (What, do you think I'm going hold myself accountable? I'm twelve years old and always will be!) Love stories in film, TV and literature have given us false hope from the day our lil' minds were formed. Some of us (right here, dude!) never fully developed.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for a good love story. For my personal taste, they are few and far between, but that can be true of anything.

But in honor of Valentine's Day. the holiday dedicated to love and gangland shootings, here are a few of my favorite things, minus the tribute to Al Capone and his cronies.

Rom-coms are a dime a dozen and I wouldn't give a plug nickel for 99% of them. As far as I'm concerned, the gold standard was set in 1987 with Norman Jewison's MOONSTRUCK. This totally New York tale sucks me in every time thanks mainly to its pitch perfect script by John Patrick Shanley and spot-on cast. Do I buy into this story of "true" love? Not really, but something has to be said about making the right choices in life, even if they seem wrong at the time. My wife and I adore MOONSTRUCK and watch it at least once a year. Dialogue from that film has become part of our personal lexicon.

Richard Lester's ROBIN AND MARIAN tells the tale of the older Robin Hood (Sean Connery) returning to Sherwood Forest after serving in the Crusades and falls back in love with Maid Marian (Audrey Hepburn) who is now a nun. The story of regaining a lost love hit me right where I live, even inspiring me in my own story SONG OF THE CANYON KID. And the final scene of ROBIN AND MARIAN is one of the most tragic, yet love-affirming scenes ever committed to celluloid. As the tagline read the trailer of this movie, "Love is the greatest adventure of all."

The time travel saga SOMEWHERE IN TIME is another heart breaker that leaves me in a puddle of tears every single time. I remember watching this with my mom soon after my dad passed away. She told me that she believed that she'd meet up with her late husband in Heaven the same way Christopher Reeve does with Jane Seymour. Then there's the story behind the photograph of Seymour that haunts Reeve, prompting him to find her, well, somewhere in time. The reason for her smile? She was looking at him at the time that portrait was taken. My favorite picture of my wife, one I snapped all by lonesome self, has the same effect on me. I took the shot on our wedding day and she is smiling directly at me through time and space.

Speaking of time and space, one of the better love stories of recent times is on the small screen. It's not secret that I'm a DOCTOR WHO fan, my "tenure" beginning with the most-maligned Steven Moffat-era, which I've never understood. I don't care what inconsistencies or major infraction the so-called Whoinverse accuses him of committing, this is the writer who gave the world the amazingly complex and beautifully constructed story of The Doctor and River Song. These two go backwards, forwards and even sideways in time and space, capturing all in a diary to somehow figure where they are in their relationship. Have I met him yet? In this their last night together or did that already occur? It's brilliant and everything I want in a love story, just as I do in life.

Unrealistic.

What can I say?

I love love.

See Ya, '17!

(sung to the tune of I Saw Her Standing There)

In Twenty Seventeen
The world turned really mean
And it seemed to me
It was way beyond repair

Oh I'll never look back and wonder
Cuz I really just don't care

Okay. I'm not a lyricist. Sue me. No, don't. In this day and age, you probably will. Plus I do care. Probably too much.

Without a full year-end review because you can find that anywhere else, I will only say that, at its worst, 2017 seemed like a sneak preview of the post-Apocalypse. Can anyone say Dystopia Now? At its best, we're still here. Get used to it. We human beings are a pretty resilient bunch, that's for sure. And we'll persevere. Because, as Ma Joad once said, "We're the people."

Instead of moaning and groaning about the past, present and future, I choose to celebrate 2017 because, guess what, it wasn't all bad. Here are some of the better things-17 in fact- that happened to me this year-personally, professionally and culturally.

PERSONALLY

Celebrated 20 year anniversary with my beautiful wife, Laurie

Turning grandpahood into an art-form, watching my grandson Sebastian graduate from high school with honors and enter college, then traveling to Denver to witness my spectacular granddaughter Aefa on stage for her theater camp performance of Hair Salon Disaster. Finally, wrapping up the year in the prettiest of bows when I discovered I am becoming a grandpa AGAIN. Yes!

PROFESSIONALLY

In 2017, I had five stage productions of my plays, a new personal best. MURDER: THE FINAL FRONTIER was performed with three separate theater companies. SONG OF THE CANYON KID finally made it onto the stage of the Mantorville Theatre Co. in Minnesota after four years of me bugging the hell out of them. They even filmed one of their shows, available on the YouTube. Take a look-see for yourself.

While I haven't completed anything new for 2017, I did combine two of my melodramas, LEGEND OF THE ROGUE and ROXANNE OF THE ISLANDS into one volume I oh-so cleverly call A DOUBLE SHOT OF HA-HA, a companion piece for the two murder mysteries called A DOUBLE SHOT OF MURDER. Next year, a third in the series called  A DOUBLE SHOT OF NO NEW IDEAS.

CULTURALLY

My birthday movie this year was LA LA LAND that I took in at a sweet little neighborhood cinema in Portland called the Moreland. I enjoyed the film (with reservations) but it was more about the experience, a treat I gave myself. Recently I took in THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MO., another fine film with which I have some issues, although it was an afternoon well worth spending playing with the reclining seats.

Way too much good TV (it's getting to be a dangerous obsession) with my very favorite being TABOO with my fave rave Tom Hardy. I'll also include the hoot known as FEUD, BETTER THINGS with my girlfriend Pamela Adlon, THE LEFTOVERS with my other gal pal Ann Dowd, MINDHUNTERS, GODLESS w/Jeff Daniels and oh so many more that I'll have to enter them below.

The best all around season in recent memory for DOCTOR WHO was a fitting send-off for both Dr. 13 Peter Capaldi and show-runner Steven Moffat. Whiny geeks have been bitching about Moffat for eons. Now they can complain about everything else. And they will. Trust me. Moffat was my entry drug into this show and I will be eternally grateful.

Peter Morgan's writing on THE CROWN gives me a reason to live.

Another Morgan, Jeffrey Dean to be exact, is the finest villain in recent memory as THE WALKING DEAD's Negan. Whatever shortcoming the show has lately, JDM is crushing it each and every time he appears. And I tire of the death knell the former fans are ringing for this show. Shut up. Move on. Get another show. Hate watching is for morons.

After a terrible personal tragedy, Patton Oswalt rebounded with his hilarious and moving Netflix stand-up special, ANNIHILATION.

With a year that included both Paul Auster's 4321 and Michael Chabon's MOONGLOW, the finest fiction I read this year had to be Francine Prose's MISTER MONKEY, a multi-character comic tale revolving around a children's theater performance. It warmed my heart like no other.

Non-fiction wise, the hands down winner was Kliph Nesroff's superb history of stand up comedy THE COMEDIANS.

Some nice tunes this year with local favorite Portugal the Man's catchy ditty I FEEL IT STILL a good listen as well as Awol Nation's WOMAN WOMAN. If I have to be honest, I have to go with The Revivalists' WISH I KNEW YOU as my pick o' the year. It had a good beat and I could dance to it. Plus the nostalgic paigns of new love in an older life hits me in the sweet spot.

A monumental day at the Denver Art Museum for their incredible exhibition ONCE UPON A TIME...THE WESTERN: A NEW FRONTIER IN ART AND FILM. I was in hog heaven. (I just rejoined the the Portland Art Museum, so expect see some kudos going that-away next year)

Nothing compares to the restaurant experience-food, service, ambience- at the New Orleans' style bistro ACADIA in Portland. I'm still salivating over that meal.

I have been searching for a perfect every day beer for years now and I found it this year. Silver Moon Brewery of Bend, Oregon gave the world-and me, in particular-this fine beverage. Chapter 2 Casual Ale. it is what I will consume come midnight on New Year's.

Finally, my good friend and benefactor Melanie Roady, formerly of Mel O' Drama Theater, gifted me with the original latex head of Francois Fibian from the original production of THE PERILS OF FRANCOIS (now known as DEAD TUESDAY) Created by master mask maker David Knezz, he is true work of art and I'm proud to own him for more reasons than one. Francois sits above my front door, reminding of me who I am and what I can do. Now all I have to do...is do it.

That's what 2018 is all about. Let's do it, people. Otherwise, we have to blame no one but ourselves. Time's a-wastin' and waits for no man, woman or child. The only thing you have to lose is yourself-and that's the whole ballgame.

Happy New Year, I mean it. Let's reboot and start 2018 on, if not a positive, at least a willing note. It's time we took back our lives. We either surrendered or cowered in fear when the Empire struck back and snatched it away. We have to fight back. Our very survival-physically, mentally, morally- depends on it.

Bring on the 2018.
Full steam ahead.
Fire in the hole, kids.

Bon jour, 2018! Laissez les bon temps rouler!

  

The Fall Guy

This has been a spectacular fall here in the Pacific Northwest. I'm going to nominate it for Best Season of 2013.
Then again, I'm a real sucker for this time of year anyway and not just because I'm in the autumn of my life.

(Quit looking at my hair. It was an early snow. Shut up.)

Now we are about to be immersed into the dreaded holiday season, a time that conjures up the End of Days in our already chaotic lives.                 

Ain't that a shame? What used to known as the most wonderful time of the year is now another trigger for gloom and doom, no thanks to you, Andy Williams. And if anyone starts harping about the hijacking of Christmas or reminds who is the reason for the season is going to get a lit yule log crammed up their tannenbaums.

Here are a few high and low lights from the past few months:

Portland Art Museum's current show, Samurai!, is pretty damn spectacular, featuring armor and artifacts from 14th-19th century Japan. What seems like a historical exhibit, almost out of place in an art museum is put into perfect context under inspection of these incredibly intricate, ornate items. The show runs until January 12.

Subway is promoting the new HUNGER GAMES movie. And I am opening a HomeTown Buffet on Donner Pass.

After a depressing TV summer season (THE KILLING, THE BRIDGE, BROADCHURCH), the fall line-up has lightened up a bit, if you want to call THE WALKING DEAD light. James Spader is killing it on THE BLACKLIST. a potentially decent NBC offering that is hampered by contrivances and the worst CGI on TV. AMERICAN HORROR STORY is back in top form after last season's obnoxious everything including the kitchen sink ASYLUM. This year's story, COVEN, is a kick in the royal ass especially with the addition of Kathy Bates and Angela Basset joining the ace in the hole Jessica Lange. Jeffrey Wright is deliciously wicked in this year's BOARDWALK EMPIRE with Shea Wigham really breaking out as Eli Thompson. It's sad to see actresses the caliber of Margo Martindale and Allison Janney slumming on two separate CBS stink-coms. Martindale is reduced to awful menopausal gags on THE MILLERS while Janney is quite the slut on MOM. Though I must admit, a slutty Allison Janney is pretty damn hot.

But the big TV news for me and pretty much the rest of the geek universe is, well, feast your peepers on this, kiddies:

Get your fish fingers and custard ready.

National Lampoon's Staycation

Last week, I took some time off (or gave myself a time out, whichever the case may be) for some much needed R n' R. This is something I ridiculously consider a luxury because, quite honestly, I never give this particular sucker an even break and consider PTO so valuable that I don't want to spend a minute. But since accumulation of same is maxed out, necessity became the mother of reinvention as my brain pan was coated with over-cooked reality. Thus, I withdrew some hours and took a vacation. Since I didn't leave town, per se, one clever ass in the hat has dubbed this a "stay-cation". This was probably the same Alexandre Dumb-Ass who also came up with "bromance" and calls sandwiches "sammies".

In true Cherney style,, the week began with just about every electronic device in my possession going on the fritz-phone, computer, cable TV-and almost immediately, I went apoplectic and damn near suicidal with fears of what next might crap out. I wanted to beat them to the punch and depart this world before they did because I JUST COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. Technology is not my my friend. Oh, who am I kidding? My nemesis is basically anything with moving parts. I probably have an Neanderthal ancestor who fretted when the fire burned out and poured out his guts on a cave wall.   

"How fire work? Oh, woe is Kronk."

Kronk Cherney, caveman blogger.

Of course as I post these thoughts online, the irony is just so very...over-bearing. And my angst? Over-dramatic, to say the least and the least said the better. Yes, I over-reacted as everything returned to what I considered normal and you can all just consider these the rantings and ravings of One Whiny Bitch. That's what they used to call Kronk.

Frankly, I just wanted my cable back. There was a bountiful feast of programs just waiting for me and I wanted to gorge since I finally had the time to do so. I got my greedy little wish and dove in head-first. I caught up on TREME, BOARDWALK EMPIRE, LOUIE, HOMELAND, SONS OF ANARCHY, DOCTOR WHO (guest starring my buddy the great Mike McShane), HELL ON WHEELS to name just a few.

You have your choice of two quotes here.

Jimmy Kimmel at this year's Emmy telecast: "There's a lot of great stuff on. I'm going to have to go out less."
or
Woody Allen in ANNIE HALL: "And eventually, you grow old and die."

Both actually apply.

HONEY BOO BOO aside, this really is the Platinum Age of television. No longer the Vast Wasteland, unless you count Bravo and TLC, TV has it all over the movies these days and that pains me to even consider those words.

This is why I am so over the moon about BEASTS OF THE SOUTHERN WILD,  the brilliant first film from director Benh Zeitlin that has actually restored my faith in the future of cinema once again. This fanciful tale of the Louisiana bayou told through a child's eyes grabbed me from the first frame to the last, a near-perfect fusion of fantasy and reality. Its sultry atmosphere and dreamy ambiance just wrapped me up and transported me to another world in time and place. That's where cinema-GOOD cinema-has the upper hand over television. Zeitlin's is one of the finest debuts from an American filmmaker since Terrence Malick's BADLANDS back in the Seventies (a film I don't think Malick has exceeded). But BEASTS would be only half as good without the extraordinary once-in-a-lifetime performance from Quvenzhané Wallis as the fierce heroine Hush-Puppy. Forget Batman and all of The Avengers. Hush-Puppy is the true super-heroine of summer 2012. She is one fierce Beast.

The rest of the week included stops at Portland culinary destinations like Bunk Sandwiches and Chef Andy Ricker's Pok Pok knock-off, the Whiskey Soda Lounge. This latter featured Vietnamese bar food like those amazing fish sauce chicken wings as well as a dish called Miang Cham-chilies, ginger, peanuts, dried shrimp, lime, shallot and coconut all minced and wrapped up in a betel leaves. A one bite wonder.

To justify an annual membership fee, the week finished at the Portland Art Museum for the new show, The Body Beautiful, presented in conjunction with the British Museum. The Body Beautiful is a collection of Greek and Roman art, much of it never seen before in the U.S. Yes, it's the kind of show that make you want to clap your hands together and chant "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" But as usual, what sticks in my craw (which is found right up my ass) is the General Public. At what point in time has it been acceptable to bring a camera or even use one's phone as such in a goddamn art museum? I don't want a bunch of rubes flashing their doo-dads like a spastic paparazzi when I'm trying to enjoy the fucking art. The Gossip Girls posing with the discus thrower just about made me lose my Miang Cham. Does everything have to be chronicled and documented instead of just experienced? (Yes, I'm blogging about it. Irony. Yeah, we already covered that. Move on.) What's next PAM...laser tag? Cameras in art museums, wham bam, no thank you, PAM.

And finally, the grand finale of the week was a personal triumph for your humble narrator. I actually did some damn writing that didn't involve blogging, posting or anything online. I finished the first draft of my next book, even rocked it old school by penning it all in long-hand. Now the real hard part begins as I move on to the next level by trying read my own scribbling. Does anybody know Sanscrit?

To the right is a visual clue about said future magnum opus.

Let me tell you something, my friends. Getting back to basics sure felt good. I'm actually kind of proud of myself for the first time in awhile.

And THAT was a good week off. Or as Cronk Cherney would have said:

"Beats working for living."

Doctor Who Am I

I suppose it's alright to call me a Whovian.

Those of you unfamiliar with the term, I haven't moved to Whoville, but this does have everything to do with a doctor, even if he name isn't Suess. This fellow is Who. He isn't on first and he'd be more at home on a cricket field than a baseball diamond.

Enough already.

Of course I'm referring to DOCTOR WHO, the iconic British sci-fi TV show about to celebrate its 50th anniversary and is more popular than ever. Count me as one of the initiated, hence the Whovian moniker. I don't actually mind the name, but I could do without it. When I watched STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, I didn't consider myself a Trekkie or Trekker, a Generator or even a Nextling. I just watched the damn thing, enjoying it more than the first series. Okay, I went to a couple of conventions too, BUT THAT'S ALL! The only name I'd cop to is the all encompassing "geek" designation. No sub-headings. It's the old Groucho Marx argument about belonging to a club that would have him as a member. Or me.

With the addition of the Doctor to my geek cred, I suppose I've warmed up to the idea of being a bloody Whovian. Sounds like a great band name. "Hello, Cardiff! Give it up for The Bloody Whovians!" So be it. I yam what I yam. Just a sweet potato.

This has been my first real pop culture obsession other than my lifelong love of the James Bonds films, which are also celebrating a 50th anniversary with the release of SKYFALL. Truth to tell, I avoided WHO as though it had major cooties from way back in the Seventies, shown primarlily on PBS here in the States. From the outside looking in, the whole enterprise seemed to be dipped in thick Stilton cheese, from the stories to the budget conscious production values including cheap special effects, rubber monsters and cardboard cut-out sets. It appeared to have an air of juvenility to it with a premise that just didn't cut bait with me. A daft dandy gallivanting through space and time with young sidekicks in a police call box? Oh, Dalek, please... I had visions of Dr. Smith from LOST IN SPACE and that stupid giant carrot, as well as any number of asinine creatures and antics from the Irwin Allen television sausage factory. That was almost enough Kryptonite to keep me away for good. Ignorance wasn't just bliss. It was a defense shield. Soon, it seemed that DOCTOR WHO just fell off the radar entirely, an ironic victim of real time.

After the turn of the century, I began to recognize a resurgence of this hoary old chestnut when apparently, the show got a reboot. It started popping up on the Sci-Fi Channel long before it became Sy-Fy. I still took a pass because I have standards, don't you know. It interfered with my WWE.

Curiosity was beginning to get the best of me when I finally dipped my toe in the Tardis swimming pool and it wasn't very long before I baptized myself in WHO.

My gateway drug was TORCHWOOD, a spin-off of WHO created by Russel T. Davies, rebooter of the 21st century Doctor. I dove right into the five-part mini-series CHILDREN OF EARTH and hit the bleedin' jackpot. It brought back memories of British sc-fi writer Nigel Kneale's QUATERMASS series, a British creation back in the Fifties and Sixties, spawning, among others, the masterpiece from Hammer Studios FIVE MILLIONS YEARS TO EARTH (aka QUATERMASS AND THE PIT).This became the jumping off point for me to discover where it all began.

Fortunately, the timing was right for me to start with the arrival of the 11th Doctor as portrayed by Matt Smith which had just began Stateside, a perfect beginning. However, I wasn't immediately taken with the show, almost too much of a leap from the emotionally devastating CHILDREN OF EARTH. Then again, WHO has the more difficult task for audiences to accept even its basic premise. TORCHWOOD is more accessible since it's Earthbound. WHO bounces about the universe, backwards and forwards encountering aliens, creatures, supernatural beings of all shapes and sizes. On top of that, the vessel to these worlds is that damn police box known as the Tardis. Now I had to expunge the image of BILL & TED's most excellent phone booth out of my mind. But once I accepted the conceits of the entire shebang, then I had to contend with the hyper-kinetic antics of the main character. And when he worked his charm over this viewer, the pay-off has been in spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs,  the whole deck of cards.

That light touch that put me off at first can turn on a tuppence into extreme darkness. I discovered this in my first encounter with The Weeping Angels, the most insidiously frightening characters I've encountered in fantastic fiction. The Angels are statues that stalk their victims when you look away. See an Angel across the room, turn your head, they move ten feet toward you. Blink your eyes and they're right in your face, teeth bared. That's one of the beauties of this show. The simplest elements can be objects of horror. Water, shadows, a child calling for her Mummy...

Soon after that episode, the show went right for the heart. An episode entitled "Vincent and the Doctor" had me blubbering like a widdle kid by its end. The Doctor encounters Vincent Van Gogh on an alien related issue. (Shut up. Just follow along.) This being the last year of Van Gogh's life, the Doctor takes a despondent Vincent to a 21st century gallery exhibition of his work, showing him the impact he made on the world. It just tore me up.

This show can do that. It is a testament of the writers. chiefly among them show runners Russell T. Davies and Stephen Moffat, that DOCTOR WHO can go from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again without missing a beat. They are respectful of the character's rich legacy, extremely intricate mythos and its devoted following who are monitoring and scrutinizing their every move. (It's the nature of the geek.)

They also make time travel, the hoariest concept of all, into mind-bending puzzle boxes that turn the entire genre on its head. For reference, I would refer you to the Moffat written  episode BLINK guest-starring a young Carey Mulligan. The Doctor attempts to explain it all for you: "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff. " Got it?

The characters that populate this Whoniverse (that's right, I said it) are as fantastic as the worlds they live from the vast menagerie of villains of the past (Daleks, Cybermen, The Master, etc.), present and future to the revolving group of friends and co-horts. Two that stand out for me have been River Song, the planet hopping "archeaologist" and probable soul mate of The Doctor, a career-defining character for the exquisite Alex Kingston, and the one and only Captain Jack Harkness. John Barrowman plays (in all manner of the word) the randy head of Torchwood who deservedly got a spin-off show. A shame it's now dead in the water after the attempt to Americanize it on STARZ.

The companions who accompany The Doctor on his adventures are mostly young women who have no trouble stepping into his Tardis with an older man and popping off to the unknown and beyond. This potentially creepy and/or corny conceit is redeemed again by the writing. These characters are formidable and clever and, unlike common sidekicks and tagalongs, have distinct purpose. They form the back bone of the show, reeling The Doctor in when he is in danger of spinning out of control and grounding him with their strength and humanity. Their relationships are temporary for he is constant while they are not. Mortality is a cruel mistress. As he said of his companions in a recent episode: "Some left me. Some get left behind. Some, not many but some...died." It's not difficult for him to grasp, but it is to accept. This is why this sometimes goofy and always brilliant Time Lord, the last of his kind, has become one of the most tragic characters in all science fiction.

Being a recent convert, I've only encountered 3 of the 11 Doctors, those from, for all intents and purposes, this century. I appreciated Christopher Eccelston's take on #9, pulling out all the stops, being more loosey-goosey and downright likable than he ever has been on camera before. The recent Doctor, Matt Smith, is a a Mad Hatter-ish imp whose seeming innocence barely camouflages his weathered soul.

If I had a preference, I'd have to vote for David Tennant, the 10th incarnation of the two-hearted man from Gallifrey. He is an anime character brought to vivid life and the one I feel adheres to the best elements of DOCTOR WHO, dancing on the balance beam between the light and the dark with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. I'd also watch an entire episode comprised of Tennant's Doctor Who saying, "What?!"

So I'm hooked. I am indeed a Whovian. I may be a neophyte, but I am sincerely smitten as only a true geek can admit. DOCTOR WHO has survived for 50 years for more reasons than I have been able to list here and will live long after I've gone away for good, that's for sure. My dilemma is that I've blown through most of the episodes of this re-birth. But with the preservation of this show in various forms, soon I'll be able to dig into the vault and see what occurred back in the "old days". I understand this Tom Baker bloke is quite good.

In other words, in the future, I'll have to go back in time. Just like you know Who.