The Canyon Kid Rides Again!

"This here's a song of the lone prairie

It's a tale of woe and of misery

It's a tale of right and a tale of wrong

All about the weak and the very strong"

(sung to the tune of BURY ME NOT ON THE LONE PRAIRIE)

So begins SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or POEM ON THE RANGE, a western comedy melodrama originally written over twenty years ago by yours truly and produced on the stage of the Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville.


When the straight shooting, and guitar strumming singing cowboy hero known as The Canyon Kid, returns to Dirt Clod, Missouri, he finds his hometown in the grips of a tyrannical albino “hanging judge” named Basil Kadaver and his evil co-horts, including the slinky gypsy seductress Nastassia Kinky and her half-wit brother, Two Gun Boris. To make matters worse for The Kid, he also discovers that his childhood sweetheart, Darla Darling, is engaged to Dalton Doolin, a known desperado who is now the town sheriff. The action culminates in a knockdown, drag out slugfest on the streets of Dirt Clod when justice at last triumphs and The Canyon Kid saves the day.

Yeah, it was a hoot, all right, at least that's what the critic for The Stockton Record said. It was the best review I had received up to that point.

SOTLP (aka SOTLIP) was actually the best melodrama script I ever wrote. It represented the culmination of everything I had learned up to that point at Pollardville, the place I had considered my "college". You see, I got to do everything I ever wanted to do in show business at the place we called the Ville-acting, writing, directing, producing, stand-up, singing, dancing, improvisation and so on and so forth. This included my apprenticeship as a stunt cowboy performer in Pollardville Ghost Town all the way to my post-graduate studies as the writer/director/master of ceremonies on the Palace stage. It was the best time of my life and SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE was pretty much my grand finale.

It began as a possible running character in the Ghost Town, though it never got out of the idea stage out there. The character of Two Gun Boris, however, did end up in one of the gunfights, since it was written specifically for Grant-Lee Phillips who was working there at the time. But I knew that The Canyon Kid needed to be the hero of a melodrama and so it began. Previously, I had co-written LARUE'S RETURN with my best friend Edward (Max) Thorpe and had flied solo with THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE which Bill Humphreys had admirably interpreted on the Ville stage. Ed had concocted the initial story for LA RUE before our collaboration while the script for LEGEND actually only took me a week . But SONG took a few years to put together. I had an idea here and an idea there, but nothing came together.

Then I hit on the idea of the albino hanging judge as a villain, probably inspired by Stacy Keach's character Bad Bob from John Huston's LIFE AND TIMES OF JUDGE ROY BEAN written by John Milius. (Yes, I just mashed Bad Bob and Judge Roy Bean together and came up with an albino hanging judge. I always was the clever boy) Some of the early drafts involved a lot more about Judge Basil Kadaver that, unfortunately, got lost in a fire. There had been a great scene involving the judge as a baby, throwing a hangman's noose over the side of his bassinet. I never could recover those bits nor could I muster up the inspiration to recreate them, unfortunately. The other characters that popped out of my head-Charlene Atlas, the female blacksmith and Two Gun Boris' hot as balls gypsy fortuneteller sister, Nastassia Kinky, more than made up for it.

I was off and running after writing and directing three back-to-back vaudeville productions at the Ville as well as assisting my mentor Lou Nardi with his two shows. Finally, SONG was starting to take form and in early 1987, I finally finished my lil' ol' magnum opus and was allowed by producer Goldie Pollard to direct it as well. (I think this was more economical this way-getting a script and a director for one lump sum-but an opportunity is a damn opportunity and I am eternally grateful for the chance)

Casting the show as easy as pie and I couldn't have asked for a better cast-EVER. Greg Pollard was the aw shucks epitome of The Canyon Kid. Bob Gossett fit Judge Basil Kadaver like a glove. As an albino, he looked just like a walking skeleton. Elaine Slatore was dead-on perfect as Nastassia, as funny and sexy as only she could be. Two Gun Boris was claimed and owned by John Himle. No one could have been better Dalton Doolin than Tony Petrali. Layne Randolph and Paula Stahley as the Mayor and Charlene were on the money. The came two actresses out of left field. Suzi Yelverton, all of fifteen years old, played the heroine's mother without a hitch. Then, for my heroine, Darla Darling, I had the pleasure of directing Leslie Fielding in her one and only Pollardville show. She was underplayed her role to perfection, a stark contrast to the regular melodramatic heroine which caused her to elevate her character to new heights.

At the time I was directing SOTLP, I had been immersed in two other projects at the same time. I was working as a second assistant director on my first feature film RETURN FIRE: JUNGLE WOLF II (a story I'll save for another day) and producing/promoting/hosting my very own comedy open mike night at the Ville, an off-shoot of my burgeoning (and was it burdening?) stand-up career following my first place showing in the one and only Stockton Comedy Competition. I was really running myself into the ground fast. In fact, I collapsed from exhaustion about five weeks into shooting. Oh well. I needed the rest apparently.

While recovering, I had a brilliant idea of an ending for SONG-a fight scene to beat all fight scenes, one that would involve every member of the cast and from everywhere in the theater-on stage, off stage, in the audience and so on. And so it was. The Canyon Kid fought Dalton Doolin. The Mayor had it out with the Judge. Darla and her mother took on Nastassia. And finally, Charlene punched it out with Boris. They all duked it out in the name of entertainment. It was my version of the BLAZING SADDLES fight and put this show over the top.

SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE opened November 6, 1987 and ran until May of 1988. What a great run and, if I say so myself, what a great show. Bob Gossett recently ran a copy of SONG on Portland cable access. While the video and sound quality was crude, it still holds up.

Now twenty years later, I expanded the script a bit (kind of George Lucasing it into a "special edition") and published it.

The cover sure do look purty, done it? The cost is $8.95 for paperback and $5.00 for a download e-book. Performance rights are available too since this was the whole point of publishing it to begin with. Well, that and to satisfy my long beleaguered ego. (Okay, everybody, in true melodrama style give me an "AWWWWWWWWWWW...........") Since LARUE'S RETURN has had some success on stage, I t felt it was high time to get SOTLP out there so others can enjoy it as well. Yes, I'm damn proud of my work. What of it? More info about performance rights can be obtained by e-mailing me at: writtenbysc@gmail.com

To buy SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or to read a free preview, go to my storefront at:

http://www.lulu.com/scottcherney

Until next time, pardners, happy trails to you, until we meet again...

(Sorry, Roy. I couldn't resist)

Tales from the Ville-Who Do the Voodoo?

Memories of Pollardville still keep flowing out of me like a hooker in a confessional. From time to time, I'm just going keep pouring them into here, the perfect outlet for stuff like this.

Rounding the last curve of my sojourn at Tule Flats Ghost Town, the lure of the theater was almost overpowering which, by the beginning of fall, became a reality. The first Palace Showboat production I had appeared in was the second go-around of Marian Larson’s melodrama The Downfall of the Uprising or Who Do the Voodoo? Bob Gossett had approached me to be his assistant director and to re-write the script. This was our "re-imagining" the original material as they say these days. We took all of the songs out of the show (including "People Gotta Learn to Get Along Together", a tune I didn’t really appreciate until the reunion), changed a couple of characters around (Melvin became Melisa, for example) and set out to add a multitude of gags. The result? A frickin’ mess, but a lovable frickin’ mess and pretty damn funny as well. The cast included, among others, Bill Humphreys as the villain Bugaloo, Cory Troxclair as Governor Julian Beam, Carol Lyon as an angel (yes, really) and Grant Lee Phillips as Bombo, Bugaloo’s henchman.

Bob cast me as Bertram Beam, an army officer who wore a bandleader’s uniform that would have made Michael Jackson jealous. (Check the photo) Bert was turned into a zombie by a voodoo spell and spent about 75% of the show totally immobile. For most of the melo, all I had to do was sit around, not move a muscle and bug my eyes out. Of course, this gave everyone in the cast the license to fuck with me incessantly. I had things stuck in my nose (thanks, Grant), my head used as an arm rest and so on.

On one particular evening just before the curtain opened, I had just gotten into place on a love seat and got into character, zombie-ing myself up. Goldie Pollard, playing Fanny Sweet, a character I don’t remember, began to pace back and forth in front of me as she did at the beginning of the scene. Just as the curtain started to open, she looked down at me and said, “Do you know that you have a hard-on?”

Curtain!

My eyes bugged out even more than usual as I tried to hold myself in check without breaking. I couldn't move. I was a zombie. I couldn't even check to see if there was any downfall to my uprising. Just as I was about to calm down, here came Cory, striking a match on my shoulder to light a cigar. Yes, it was pre-planned, but it didn’t help.

Next came Carmen Kiefer as my daughter Melisa. Now Carmen really threw herself into her characters. Sometimes she threw her characters into everyone else. If you couldn't move, you were an easy target. Melisa, pronounced Melittthhhaaa with the ultra-exaggerated lisp Carmen gave her, came bounding in the room and plunked right next to her dear old dad, drenching him in Melittthhhaaa thpit with every thingle tholitary line she thpoke. Needless to say, I was drenched. Working with Carmen in that show really prepared me for living up here in the rainy Pacific Northwest.

Finally I got some peace. No one could mess with me the rest of the scene. So I scanned the audience with my eyes, still not moving a muscle. Hey, I was a young actor. I wanted to see if any babes were out there in the audience that might enjoy the company of a zombie. I panned from stage left to right until I got to the center aisle. There in the fourth row was Al Hanley.

Al was probably the Ville's biggest fan. He was the equivalent of Mrs. Miller, the perpetual audience member who sat in on the old Merv Griffin Show back in the '60 and early '70s. Al and his family showed up every Friday night without fail sitting in the same exact place every time, the aisle seat of the fourth row. Neil Pollard even had that chair padded especially for Al, the only comfortable seat in the house. Well, sort of. Anyway, as I checked out the audience, I stopped dead center only to see Al Hanley, staring right at me and pretending to focus a pair of imaginary binoculars.

That did it! I started to lose it again. This time I thought for sure I was going to break. My eyes darted all over the stage in an attempt to hold tough until the end of the scene. I didn’t think I was going to make it. Any second now I would just explode. So I looked to the one place where I knew I could get support…right to the orchestra pit.

There was my friend Joel Warren, sitting at the drums. Deadpan, he lifted a drumstick and began to stick it up his left nostril.

Blackout!

Curtain!

Thank you, Jesus!

I had six months of this. Oh, and I got to wear tights and ride a tricycle around the pit in the vaudeville section, Under the Big Top. And there were Nazis involved.

But that's another story...

The Ville-The Final Curtain: Tribute

Saturday night, the Palace Showboat Theater sailed into history in grand and glorious style. The reunion was an overwhelming success from pretty much top to bottom. This sold-out event brought attendees from across the country, far and wide as they say (some wider than others as we soon discovered).
Arriving the day before prepared for the onslaught of even more familiar faces at every turn of that place. Sometimes it became tough to get my bearings when bombarded by some many people that I have known and loved (well, mostly) over the years and many I thought I never would be able to encounter again.

The renuion not only attracted former Palace Showboat Players, but some Ghost Town veterans, Chicken Kitchen employees and people who have supported this institution over the years that just had to make one last visit and share the love with the rest of us. As for myself, three former school teachers of mine, each of whom had coincidentally served some function at the theater over the years. Judy Caruso-Williamson, my very first drama instructor (and one of my favorite co-stars), Ed Carr, my senior art teacher who had painted sets for many productions and Lou Nardi, a man who was the closest thing to a mentor that I ever had. There were so many different people from various aspects of my life that I became torn and found I could only spend a short amount of time with some that I should have spent more. What can I say? I got caught up with the whirlwind.

Maximum occupancy be damned, we all filed into the auditorium to a series of makeshift tables, quite a change from the theater seats that had been pulled out when the Showboat closed to create a dance floor fro the country bar it later became. After dinner and much carousing, we all strapped ourselves in for the ride. After all, it was showtime, folks.

The extravaganza Ed Thorpe (heretofore to be referred to as Max) produced for the reunion pretty much summed up the whole Palace Showboat experience, reverentially I might add if the title Remembering the Best...Forgiving the Rest was any indication. Max designed this this show to be tribute to our beloved institution and to us all.

Cast of the orginal production of LA RUE'S RETURN

The melodrama fit perfectly into this format and actually went over quite well. I had no problem at all with any liberties they took with the piece. Why should I? Their additions seemed to work. I couldn't help but quote George S. Kaufman who, while he was backstage during a Marx Brothers play he wrote, quipped, "I think I just heard one of the orginal lines." Of course, back in the day, I would have kicked their asses for not performing the show "as wriiten" like I was Neil Simon Jr. This is despite the fact that I rewrote almost every script out there that didn't have my name on it.

The first big "Gulp!" moment when the tear ducts just opened up came early as the cast sang "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" as each presented our dearly beloved Goldie Pollard. In rather frail health in recent years, the "Mother of Us All" beamed like an angel as she proclaimed, "You came here as actors, singers, dancers, writers and directors and youa left here as stars..My stars." As I said, Gulp!
Following the melo were various vaudeville bits performed by the show cast specific to the Ville interspersed with a series of specialty acts by former cast members.

Julie Grider, one of the original cast members, favored us with a tune

Ray Rustigian and Phil De Angelo fractured and slayed 'em with their classic "Heckler" routine just as they had every night on that stage.

Kim Luke sang a hilariously bawdy song she had written herself in the grand tradition of the red hot mamas that were a Pollardville staple.

Bob Gossett played a touching acoustic version of "People Gotta Get Along Together", a song that musical director Marian Larson composed for the melo The Downfall of the Uprising.

Another Gulp! moment was the memorial video Bill Humphreys had masterfully pieced together as a salute to Palace Showboat Players who had since passed away. The footage of Vaudevillian Extraordinaire Ray Mello ("I gotta standing ovation from a bunch of midgets and didn't even know it!") and the original Red Hot Mama herself, Jeri Worth, just hit everyone where they lived.

The one and only Daddy Goose

Now this is where I came in. Yes, I had to follow what I so charmingly referred to as "The Death Parade" with a funny comedy bit. Oh, lucky me. I had to cut my first line "Look at all these familiar faces from my past. Am I about to die? It wouldn't be the first time on this stage." So for the very last time, I performed Daddy Goose, the piece that I performed at the Ville and what won me the stand up comedy competition. Now I never have to do it again. No. Don't ask me. Please. No really. Don't. Did I kill? Yes, I killed, right after The Death
Parade. Oh, sweet irony.

Soon after I finished, along came a very special guest star, our favorite son, Grant-Lee Phillips.
Just like the rest of us, he too returned to his point of origin, in his case, a launching pad for his incredible career that we are all proud of. Naturally, Grant not only sang, but surprised us all with a little stand-up, a mind reader bit that brought back memories of his, pardon the expression, wild and crazy side. What else stood about Grant's appearence was that this was the first he had performed anywhere in the area since hitting it big and that his brand new CD, Strangelet, was being released not days later.

As so often with a Palace Showboat show, the band kicked up a number , highlighted as always by a solo from the master of the drumsticks himself, Mr. Joel Warren. Just to give this night an extra kick in the ass, Joel revised his signature piece, playing the entire theater. His sticks rolled across the stage as emerged from the pit, just he used to, rapping and tapping as he went and working his way into the audience, hitting tables, bottles and even the hollow noggin of a certain Stockton Record employee. Joel then moved back to the stage, banging his sticks on anything and everything, disappearing behind the curtain until he emerged again at his rightful place at the drums. Fantastic.

The finale of the show began with the cast reading the name of each production and ending up with all-too famililar rendition of "Grand Old Flag", which, on the last note ends with the cast holding hands around the pit as the sound effects of bulldozers tearing the theater down is played. After 8 seconds of silence, Max stood forward and gave the final benediction while a mournful violin played "Ashokan Farewell" . Struggling to hold his emotions back, Max told the audience that this was indeed the last show of the Palace Showboat and Pollardville in general. He ended by saying that he had purchased the main red curtain from Neil Pollard. As his gift to every Palce Showboat Player, he proceeded to cut it in strips with a pair of scissors. The first tear of the curtain resonated throughout the house and it was right then and there, we had closure. We all lined up to get our own swatch of the red for ourselves, literally taking a piece of the theater home with us.

This grand gesture put an exclamation point on an evening filled with laughter, tears and so much goodwill. With this show, Max and everyone else involved in this production gave us the tribute we wanted and the tribute we deserved.

Gulp! indeed.

TO BE CONCLUDED

Summer Bloggin' Numero Dos

You know, there’s something so gratifying about taking a leak in a major department store and hearing a song by someone you actually know coming through the speakers. Such was the case today when I took a comfort break at the Nordstrom can and listened to my friend, Grant Lee Phillips singing TRULY, TRULY. It reminded me of our days back at the Palace Showboat Theater when he and another performer would sing Rush songs in the men’s room, just because the acoustics were so good.

Continuing on with my Summer '06 Endreport.
(Yeah, as if this stuff is so damn important that it has to be serialized…)

Wrapping up the movies section, I ventured out a few times to view the aforementioned and chastised SUPERMAN RETURNS: THE QUEST FOR FRANCHISE CPR and A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION, which I covered in an earlier piece (look it up yourself. What am I-your mom?)
I also caught the following:
ARMY OF SHADOWS: I am a sucker for French crime dramas and while this doesn’t fall into that genre, it was directed by a master of the game, Jean Pierre Melville (LE SAMOURAI) which is why I jumped at the chance to view it. This is an ultra-cool as all get out look at the French Resistance in WWII, a 1969 film that had finally made it to the American shore this year. While about twenty minutes too long, ARMY was a fresh approach at a subject that seemed milked dry.
undt
CLERKS 2: Kevin Smith is a very funny man. Rosario Dawson is a very hot woman. 'Nuff said.

However….my favorite films of the season were DVD rentals.
WISCONSIN DEATH TRIP is the best documentary I’ve ever seen. Writer/director James Marsh’s film version of Michael Lesy’s book concerns the horrific and bizarre events that occurred in a small Wisconsin community during the late 19th century. The recreation of this farming community going absolutely bug fuck is just astounding. A hauntingly beautiful piece of work.
and, because I’m a new fan of Korean cinema…
3-IRON-A great twist on a love story when a drifter who breaks into homes not to steal but to merely spend the night, discovers one that is occupied by an abused wife and the two fall for each other without speaking a single word to one another.
TV this summer had several riches to enjoy as well.
RESCUE ME ended another sensational season, one that both made me laugh heartily as well as bawl my eyes out toward the end.
DEADWOOD came to an unfortunate close with a season that matched its first and sometimes surpassed in its intensity. Special tribute must be paid to the jaw dropping performance of Gerald McRaney, the most incredible villain turn of the decade. Who knew Major Dad was such a goddamn good actor?
BUT….
the summer belongs to one star, hopefully rising to the heavens but one who has earned my respect and admiration for being a class act all the way. I watched the dumbass AMERICAN IDOL rip known as ROCKSTAR:SUPERNOVA where a supposed “supergroup” of has-beens and who-the-fuck-is-this-guy auditioned potential lead singers for their band. (Just who is Gilby Clark anyway and why does he look like Travis Tritt on heroin?) From Portland, Oregon came the Amazonian goddess Storm Large who heads up the local band Storm and the Balls (click on the title of this blog to link to her site). While she didn’t make the band (a blessing, considering these guys are going nowhere after their national tour following the show), Storm did make it down to the final five and was able to showcase her enormous talent for a national audience. Her rendition of Dramarama’s ANYTHING, ANYTHING sent chills up and down my spine that still resonates down to my soul to this day. I regret that I have not seen her perform live, but I vow to rectify that error in my judgment as soon as possible. If there is one thing that I’ve learned from this extraordinary lady this summer is that I feel like I am now an Oregonian because she made me feel proud to be living in the same air space she occupies.

Storm, I love you, baby…especially when you’re LADYLIKE.

In The Summertime

Ah, yes. In the Summertime. I think I speak for most everybody when I say that we are all so very fortunate that Mungo Jerry was a one hit wonder. Thank God he (or they) never had another song beyond that most irritating of all summer songs. It's too bad this one survived the seventies.

Whew! Hot isn't it? Damn hot! It's all Al Gore's fault, you know. We didn't have a real problem with global warming until he started talking about it. He's still angry about the election-and the fact that no one gives him enough credit for inventing the Internet. At least he made the cover of ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY a couple of weeks back. The funny thing is he looked like the villain in the new Bond movie. Now he'll really be pissed! So long Antarctica!

It wouldn't summer without another Hollywood star going nuts. Yes, Mel Gibson, I'm talking about you, just like everyone else is at the moment. I knew he was going to snap. All that drunken anti-Semitic rambling...What's wrong with you? I guess that explains the Bin Laden beard he was wearing there for awhile. Will he recover? Well, there'll always be a spot open for him on Fox News. The guy I feel sorry for is the director of the documentary WHO KILLED THE ELECTRIC CAR? which contains an interview with Mel. I'm sure that good liberals out there are booing his segment as soon as it appears. "Why...that's the Jew hater! C'mon, Saffron, we're going back to see AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH again!" The wagons are circling fast. All Mel's breaking loose! He's being attacked from within and without. Why, even Rob Schneider posted a letter in VARIETY, proclaiming that he's never EVER work with that Jew hater Mel Gibson. I guess that shoots down plans for DEUCE BIGELOW: ARAMAIC GIGOLO. Wow, Rob.Way to take a stand. Carrotop could not be reached for comment. As for Gibson's defenders, it looks like Jodie Foster has risen to his defense. Where's Richard Donner and Joel Silver, director and producer of the LETHAL WEAPON series? What about Danny Glover? Most of all, where's the one guy who Mel rescued from himself...Robert Downey, Jr.?

The high point of my summer had to be last week when I got to see the guy I am honored to call a friend, Mr. Grant Lee Phillips, here in Portland, Oregon. He is currently on tour promoting his latest album nineteeneighties. (Fo' mo' info, y'all can visit his website at grantleephillips.com or just click on the title of this blog to link right to it. Ain't that neat? Thank you, Mr. Gore!)

I've known Grant since 1979, which dates the both of us, but la-de-dah. Even then, back when he was the tender age of 16, I knew, as did just about everyone else at the time, Grant had so much talent that he almost couldn't contain it all. But he did. Grant has shown us all what he could do and continues to do so. I couldn't help but sit there in a combination of awe and pride for being able to see him perform live. As time has passed, Grant's grown even more comfortable with his audience, establishing a familiarity that draws them in while at the same time blows them away. If ever there is anyone that deserves his success, it's my friend Grant .He never fails to inspire and to impress. Keep flying high, my friend.

So...how is YOUR summer?

Blog Jam

With oil prices spiraling out of control, the search for alternative energy sources
continues...

Gee, looks like it's a lock for President Bush (aka GW Bungle) to go down in history as
WORST PRESIDENT EVER. Congrats and kudos, Mr. Pressydent. This guy's so bad, Nixon just popped his head out of his grave and said, "Jesus...and they called me Dick..."

Well, let's go onto the world o' show biz, shall we?

The more I see of Brandon Routh, the new Superman, the more skeptical I’m getting about the whole shebang. Not only does he resemble the love child of Tom Cruise and Jason Schwartzman, but what is the deal with the damn curly-Q? If this movie is costing almost 300 mil, can’t they spend a few bucks to make this nimrod’s hair look a little less like an inverted Alfalfa from OUR GANG? As for Kevin Spacey as Luthor, I feel like I’ve been there, done that. Well, shucks, wasn’t he Dr. Evil in the pre-title sequence of AUSTIN POWERS: GOLDMEMBER? Maybe Kev needs the bucks after the Bobby Darin fiasco. I ain’t no Spacey hater by any means, but the return of Superman to the screen needed a different villain than Lex-baby. Brainiac, perhaps-even a lesser known opponent would have been acceptable. It worked pretty decently for Batman last year. Ah, me. What’s an aging geek to do?

TV has perked up once again with the return of THE SOPRANOS and HBO’s latest triumph, BIG LOVE. Who knew one could be so enthusiastic about a Bill Paxton show? This is a gem in the making, the story of polygamists walking the earth among us-or another version of I LED THREE LIVES retitled I WED THREE BRIDES. Paxton is married to Jeanne Trippelhorn, Chloe Sevigny and Gennifer Godwin and, well, let’s just say wackiness ensues! This is one fine damn cast. Along with the leads, you get Harry Dean Stanton, who I thought dropped off the edge of the earth, as the smarmy cult leader, the great Mary Kay Place, and the dynamic duo of Bruce Dern and Grace Zabriskie as Paxton’s parents. The best HBO shows involve sort of variation on the family, whether it’s THE SOPRANOS, SIX FEET UNDER, ROME, even, to some extent to THE LARRY SANDERS SHOW. BIG LOVE is no exception, taking what could have been a one-note sitcom premise and instead taking a willing audience for a nice bumpy ride in the country. What fun.

Other shows worth my interest:
The Travel Channel’s ANTHONY BOURDAIN: NO RESERVATIONS
Round the world hi jinks with everybody’s favorite new alcoholic ex-junkie. Yippee!

E’s THE SOUP
A reworking of the old TALK SOUP show with Joel McHale. Much better than VH-1’s BEST WEEK EVER. Snide, snarky, snotty…and other adjectives that begin with sn…also balls out funny.

My friend, Grant-Lee Phillips (see SPECIAL GUEST STAR: LARAINE NEWMAN) who has been playing the troubadour character on THE GILMORE GIRLS since its first
season, will be featured in this May 9 finale. According to ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY, Grant will open the Stars Hollow Troubalooza, a town concert that will be a prominent part of the episode that will also include Neil Young and Sonic Youth. That’s my boy!

Well, that's all for now. After all, this is a blog, not a goddamn manifesto.

Special Guest Star: Laraine Newman

Sometimes celebrities make guest appearances in the otherwise mundane lives of those of us charmingly known as The Great Unwashed. It’s become more common since we occupy the same planet that they do (When Celebrities Walked the Earth!). But let’s face it, since the standards of becoming famous have hit new lows, the experience isn’t quite as rare as it once had been once upon a time. But when we, the low-based rabble, are graced by the celestial presence of the Stars, it lifts us up where we belong.

That is why I prefer to call them My Special Guest Stars.

In this installment, my tête-à-tête with, Laraine Newman, one of the original cast members of Saturday Night Live, a story with some many dropped names it’ll seem like an obstacle course.

Off and on since I was sixteen years of age, I had worked at a roadside attraction outside of my hometown of Stockton, California called the Pollardville Ghost Town. An offshoot of the Chicken Kitchen, an institution on Highway 99 owner by the Pollard family, the western town itself was pieced together with set pieces from the locally filmed William Wyler film entitled The Big Country. After purchasing these buildings and a few others such as the original Jamestown jail, they were transported to the property behind the restaurant and transformed into the amusement park known as the Pollardville Ghost Town. It was there that I operated the train ride that carted passengers around the back of the property (a couple of times off the tracks). But mostly I performed in western skits performed on the main street of the town. In essence, since the town was only open on Saturdays and Sundays, I was indeed a weekend cowboy.

In 1979, the town had been leased to three entrepreneurs who had high hopes of expanding the Ghost Town into a major attraction. They inexplicably changed the name to the Tule Flats Ghost Town and hired an all-new crew to make the place over. While the name change was a curious choice, to say the least, one thing was certain; new blood needed to be pumped some life into this operation in order for it to survive. This was not a cash cow by any means, but it sure had potential. Once I was re-hired and reclaimed my part-time gunfighter status, I saw the town in a completely new light.

At the same time, my friend Bill Humphreys, an actor and honest-to-goodness TV director who had worked with, among others, Ed McMahon and Dennis James, also became part of the new crew after he had returned to Stockton for a spell. Bill and I befriended another new member of this year’s version of The Wild Bunch, a strange yet hilariously brilliant fifteen-year-old named Grant-Lee Phillips. A musician, magician and extremely inventive comic, Grant had recently become the youngest finalist in the Steve Martin Impersonation Contest in San Francisco, finishing third in the competition.

In between our regular weekend gig at the town, Bill had to take a business trip to Los Angeles for his father. I, with certainly nothing better to do at the time, tagged along for what we used to call “shits and giggles”. Besides, one of the incentives was the promise of revisiting some of Bill’s old stomping grounds in Hooray for Hollywood. We asked Grant if there was anything we could bring back for him from the Land of La.

“I want any autographs you can get and a pack of gum from some place really neat.”

Right.

This turned out to be quite the adventure. The shits and giggles were plentiful. Being more connected than I actually realized, Bill was able to visit a friend of his at ABC on the set of General Hospital, schlepping me along for the ride. Then along with another couple of old cronies, we snuck onto the back lot of Universal Studios dropping some jasper’s name at the gate and popping onto the tour. Then after a trip to Disneyland where I hadn’t been since the age of eight and a stop at Pink’s for a famous chili dog, Bill introduced me to a local L.A. TV celeb that used to be a kids’ show host named Hobo Kelly.

Still, no autographs of any note to bring home to Grant and a goose egg seemed to be in the offing until we had lunch at Musso and Frank’s, a true Hollywood landmark. I looked up from my cheeseburger to spy the one and only Laraine Newman, a honest to Buddha Not Ready for Prime Time Player, walking in all by her lonesome self, not appearing to be in a very good mood and plunking down at the counter. Aha! Here was my chance and with pen and paper in hand, I seized the moment.

There was no reason to be intimidated by her, especially since she was so unimposing. In fact Laraine didn’t make much of an impression at all and I felt I could just approach her, but not so much as one would a star of still a very TV hot show. Somehow, because of the age range we were both in, I considered her more of a peer. Ah! The arrogance of youth! Here I was, a guy who performed little cowboy skits in a podunk western amusement park in STOCKTON comparing myself to one of the stars of Saturday Night Live, probably the defining television show of my generation. But what the hell. It wasn’t Belushi. Or Chevy Or Gilda. Or even Garret Morris. It was Laraine Newman, for God’s sakes. I’m only grateful it wasn’t Al Franken.

Still she seemed out of sorts. I could theorize that maybe she took the red-eye in from New York and was still on East Coast time. Or perhaps she had been binging on one substance and/or another until the wee hours of the morning. Or should have just been tossed to the curb after an all-night Crisco party with the members of The Starland Vocal Band. Whatever the scenario that brought her to Musso and Frank’s that day, her eyes rested at half-mast and she definitely needed some sort of stimulant to kick-start her life and her attitude.

I know! How about some adulation from what would appear to be an adoring fan?

“Hi, Laraine. Can I trouble you for an autograph?” I asked friendly enough.

With abrupt exasperation, Laraine turned without looking at me at all and snatched the pen and paper from my mitts. Alas, the pen didn’t write. She spun about, still not looking directly at me, yet with a look on her face that could only be described as lethargic rage. She raised the faulty writing implement and cocked her wrist back as though she had a throwing knife and I had an apple on my head.

A gentleman, a complete stranger sitting next to her, interjected, “Here. You can use mine.”

Without changing her pout, Laraine slammed my pen on the counter and grabbed the kind stranger’s instead to write “L_______ N__________”. She thrust it all back at me and turned back to face the lunch counter. Her ordeal was over just like that. Thank God she survived it all. I handed the stranger back his pen and after thanking him, went merrily on my way, grateful that not only did I avoid injury at the hands of a founding member of SNL, but also that I didn’t have to bitch slap said TV star for bad manners.

Upon returning to Tule Flats, we gave Grant his autograph from a bonafide star as well as some gum I think we bought at a truck stop on the Grapevine on the way back. In typical Grant fashion, he cherished them both. We also brought home a Pink’s chili dog for my friend, Max. Even though it was purchased two days before and kept in conditions in direct violation of any health code anywhere, Max stuffed down his gullet without a care in the world.

Our task completed, we strapped on our six shooters and proceeded to return to the Old West for some gunfightin’, train robbin’ and whoopin’ it up like the cowboys we were. It was, after all, Saturday.

EPILOGUE

This incident was merely a side note of that year. The rest of that summer in 1979 turned out to be one of the best times in my entire life, primarily as a result what occurred in the Ghost Town during that season. It was a period that helped formed the framework of what we would all eventually become.

Grant eventually went on to L.A. himself, diving headlong into the show business. He fronted the band Grant Lee Buffalo (Fuzzy, Mighty Joe Moon, Truly, Truly) and is now a successful solo artist in his own right. I would have to say he is the single most famous person I know.

Bill moved back to L.A. for a spell, then ended up in New England where he has had continued success as a stage actor and director and working in public television, earning himself an Emmy along the way.

Laraine Newman lasted one more season on SNL and then went on to…well, pretty much obscurity.

As for me, I lived to tell the tale.

This is what is known as descending order.