Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-Happy Trails

The Final Chapter of the Tule Flats Saga

Preparation for the 30 hour marathon weekend, the grand finale of the first season of the Tule Flats Ghost Town, were well on their way. We didn't add much more than we already had entertainment-wise, and, in retrospect, we should have done a lot more. Live music should have been an option and since it was Halloween, we could have had some sort of haunted attraction. But we had the rides, such as they were, movies in the hotel and of course, we had the gunfights scheduled to going we into the night. The thought of an after-midnight show really appealed to those of us who would have been partying heartily ourselves.  

For the last street shows of the year, I came up with a couple of newbies, the first written specifically for Grant-Lee Phillips as the Russian gunfighter character Two Gun Boris. ("I am Two Gun Boris"  "You on have one gun."  "Ha! Joke is on Boris!") It was a perfect showcase for Grant and I knew he would run with it. (I used this same character in my melodrama Song of the Lone Prairie, now Song of the Canyon Kid) The other was called The Return of the Gunfighter, a Halloween themed piece that had a pair of bullies picking on some town folk including a little kid whose father was a gunfighter who had been shot down a year before. When the kid cried, "You wouldn't do this if my pa was here!", that dead pa in question rises from the grave and shoots the two bullies down. He kisses his daughter goodbye and exits into the night. Now we needed a spectacular special effect for his entrance and subsequent exit, so Bill Humphreys came up with an idea that involved a line of gunpowder on a pair of 2x4s on either end of Main Street. When ignited, the first looked like a curtain and the zombie gunfighter (Jim Cusick dressed all in black as always) stepped through the smoke. When he left, the pyro went off after him, closing the curtain behind him. Awesome. Perfect for an evening performance. The main problem was that there wasn't a completed script because, given the time constraints, I ran out of time and felt the show could be an improv since one of our regular shows, The Boss, started that very same way. After a couple of rehearsals, I was confident enough that it would work. 

Another factor in this marathon weekend was the acquisition of a temporary license to sell beer in the town. It seemed like good idea at the time and certainly those of us that enjoyed a brew or several had no qualms about it. But when you're dealing with the general public, hoo boy. Watch this space.

That Saturday, the gates opened and we were well on our way. Attendance was way up and things went smoothly right up until about sundown. The debut of The Return of the Gunfighter went off with a lot of hitches. I was dealing with a pair of non actors in the roles of the bullies, one of which had a snoot on from dipping into the beer supply, a right he believed he had since he was one of the town's partners. As a result, the both of them had no clue what to do, jumped in far too early and basically made it a confusing mess, a major error on my part. The only things that saved it at all were those bloody special effects which got a rousing cheer from the large crowd but wasn't enough to appease my anger, mostly at myself for not being better prepared. 

Kid Blurry and Sheriff Max after hours (honest!)

As the night wore on, the brewski on tap was taking its toll on the patrons as they swiftly grew a little too rowdy and overbearing for us to wrangle.  When we staged our 10pm gunfight, the streets were packed with suds swillers left, right, over and above. We had to yell our lines at the top of our lungs to be heard, not by the audience but each other. Once that debacle was blissfully over, the decision was made to break up these boozehounds and even close to town at midnight, ending the 30 hour marathon concept. Most fols left peacefully, but the saloon was packed with inebriated owl hoots and had to be cleared.  This meant all hands on deck, so every cowboy available was ready to rustle this herd out the front gate, easier said than done. Ed Thorpe, now wearing Sheriff John's badge, thought it best to get everyone's attention by firing his pistol inside the building. Well, it sure brought everything to a halt alright until someone made an announcement along the lines of "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. It's closing time!" But once Ed holstered his weapon, a drunken yahoo behind him confiscated it. Cocking it, he waved the six-gun at everyone grinning like the goon that he was and backed out of the saloon onto Main Street, many of the cowboys stalking him, particularly Ed who seemed like he was ready to pistol whip this hombre once he retrieved his weapon. I had slid out behind this dipsy desperado, realizing like everyone else that this was spinning out of control fast. I have no idea what got into me but once he stepped out of the saloon and onto the street, I jumped onto his back pinning his arms to his side. He flung me back and forth, trying to throw me off but I held fast. Yee=ha! Ride 'em cowboy! This gave the other gunfighters enough time to finally snatch the gun away once and for all and said varmint was escorted off the premises along with the rest of his boozy compadres. The gates were locked for the night we went into lockdown until the regular opening time of High Noon for Day 2. 

A good steady flow of (blissfully sober) customers entered through the front gates of Tule Flats that last day of 1979. All went swimmingly after the near-boondoggle of the night before. The street shows in particular were going beautifully, especially the one (and only, for some reason) performance of Two Gun Boris. The success of that gunfight more than made up for the mess of the other new show the night before. That one may have had some spectacular fireworks to make up for its lack of anything else, but Two Gun Boris had Grant-Lee Phillips in the title role, the best special effect of all.

The last gunfight of the day and season was to be Saddle Drop, a gunfight that had been performed since day one of the original Ghost Town. I thought it was time to give this show a decent burial, a chestnut that had pretty much worn out its welcome as far as I was concerned, no matter what we added to it over time. For example, we added a bit when the sheriff gives his adversary a fighting chance by allowing him three free shots, knowing full well that he would miss which, of course, he does. The gags were usually a bell ringing for shot number one, a rubber chicken falling into the middle of the street for number two and a cowboy falling off the hotel onto a rigged wagon behind the bad guy for shot number three. But for the final shot that afternoon, bodies fell everywhere, the rest of the cowboys who weren't in the show and a few spare Ghost Town employees as well, one end of the street to the other all the way down to the hotel where, of course, somebody fell off the balcony one last time. Then everyone, the entire cast and then some, gathered together in the middle of the street in a circle, arms around each other and sang the great Roy Rogers classic "Happy Trails" for the audience, for ourselves and for the Ghost Town itself. 

And with that, Tule Flats Ghost Town rode off into the sunset after season numero uno. And while it reopened the next year, several changes had come down the pike. The four partners basically split up and a few key cast members had moved on, so the magic of 1979 had worn off, settling back into the way things used to be once again. Eventually, the town reverted back to the ownership of Neil Pollard, changing the name back to the original Pollardville Ghost Town as it remained until finally closing down altogether in 2007.  

The inaugural season of Tule Flats was actually a coda of my Freshman year at Pollardville University. So much of what I learned on the dusty streets of that town gave me the necessary tools to move on to the next chapter of my "academic" life including crowd work, comedic timing, character building, not to mention Writing and Directing 101. If it wasn't for the Ghost Town, I wouldn't have been able to accomplish what I did going forward. I still have my hat, holster and six-gun stashed away to remind me of who I was and always will be, a weekend cowboy through and through.

Happy trails to you until we meet again in the Ghost Town of my memory

The first five chapters of the Tule Flats saga, as well as other Pollardville stories from the Ghost Town and Palace Showboat can be found at:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

or individually:

THE BEGINNING

IN THE SUMMERTIME

THE ELECTION

I SHOT THE SHERIFF

OH, BLACK WATER

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-Oh, Black Water

Following Sheriff John's passing after the Fourth of July, the summer season of Tule Flats Ghost Town flew by basically without incident. Attendance didn't seem to grow though it did level out to an acceptable fair to middling. Unfortunately, without substantial and sustainable financial growth, some amenities had to go by the wayside such as the ice cream parlor and the hamburger grill (aka Fine Victuals). Fortunately, these were the only two casualties of the first year.

A new character entered the fray, not exactly a carpetbagger but a gentleman that promised more than he could actually deliver. Since I became wary of this guy from the git-go, I dubbed him The Wiz, not because I felt he was a nefarious sort but I had my doubts. Then again, it wasn't my money he wanted to throw around. He pretty much led the four ghost town partners to believe he could provide a variety of small carnival style rides to coincide with the only real attraction that we had, that being the train. As it turned out, he only came up with a pre-existing rowboat that he tossed in the mossy pond, operating it as one would a gondola and the notoriously litigious piece of carnival history known as the Swinging Gym, also known as The Flying Cage. This apparatus required no electricity, solely operating under the power of physical exertion. A rider would enter the cage and rock it back and forth in hopes of sending it over the top. Pretty cool if you could do it, though stopping it was another thing entirely. With no padding, it was an all heavy metal experience and injuries were a definite possibility thanks to the laws of gravity and, you know, physics. This beastly contraption ended up sitting in the back corner by the costume shop and was only used by the likes of us. That wondrous boat ride lasted only a couple of weekends itself and became memorable thanks to Grant Phillips. Unbeknownst to anyone, he and a friend slipped into the pond and snuck up on the boat with their t-shirts over their heads, looking like creatures from the deep in a cheesy horror film. Basically, they scared the crap out of a couple of kids not to mention The Wiz himself. Maybe he actually Wizzed himself. 

DW Landingham, gunfighter

I still felt optimistic about the town since our gunfighter group contains an array of talented individuals including our newest member John Himle who remained maybe even longer than I did overall. There was an energy, creative and spiritually that was undeniable that really put everything in perspective for me as though this were indeed The Way. The extended family atmosphere also nourished and nurtured me, further giving me not only a purpose but a sense of belonging. I discovered actually wasn't alone in this world after all, a revelation that was a total switcheroo from the first part of that year. There is where I wanted and needed to be. When I physically wasn't, my thoughts remained even I took a weekend off to attend a friend's wedding in Philadelphia. I became distracted in my duties as Best Man when I noticed the time and wondered what gunfight was being performed at that point on the other side of the country.

Fall arrived and the first season was coming to an end soon. It had been decided the last weekend of operation before the onset of winter turned would be Halloween weekend. A major extravaganza had been planned to finish off the year. Tule Flats was going to remain open for 30 hours straight from opening at 12:00 noon Saturday up until 6:00 p.m. Sunday night. It was an ambitious undertaking with street shows going well into the night, though with some necessary restrictions. Blazing guns after midnight wasn't exactly in the cards let alone logical. However a midnight show was indeed possible and definitely scheduled.

For such an event, the word needed to get out beyond traditional means, so a promotion was arranged on a local morning TV show shot in at KOVR's downtown Stockton studio. A few of the townspeople, myself included, were due to appear along with Bill Humphreys and Grant Phillips performing The Doobie Brothers classic "Black Water" live on camera with the rest of us on backup. First of all, it made total sense for these two to take the lead, being the only real singers of this group with Bill also doing double duty as spokesperson for the town. But the rest of us? Yikes. All we had to do was echo the chorus, but in rehearsal it didn't get above a tuneless murmur.  It reminded me of that old SNL sketch with Tonto, Tarzan and Frankenstein singing "Deck the Halls". I decided to bring a tambourine even if I have all the rhythm of a garden snail. I figured anything would help. And another thing, we weren't planning any music for the big extravaganza, so wasn't this, in a way, false advertising? Whose idea was this, The Wiz

And of course, after rehearsing the number the night before, we fell into our increasingly bad habits of partying hard into the night with some not very serious libations. It was enough to give this group of buskers a collective hangover, except of course, Grant, being the young 'un that he was and professional he was certain to be. We arrived at the studio in a fog, totally low-key for our segment that Bill and Grant knocked out of the park while the rest of us murmured our parts and I pounded my tambourine on my leg inexplicably in time with the music, its irritating cadence ringing through my pained skull like the bells of Notre Dame, not to mention anyone else, suffering as I was from the Brown Bottle Flu. That was some funky Dixieland, that's for sure. 

Oh, Black Water, kept us rollin', Mississippi moon smilin' down on us all the way toward the Grand Finale yet to come.

Next up: The Final Chapter-HAPPY TRAILS

FOR PREVIOUS POSTS OF TULE FLATS OR RELATED POLLARDVILLE STORIES,  PLEASE VISIT MY PAGE: TALES FROM THE VILLE

Boo to You

In the immortal words of the legendary Count Floyd:

"Here's something really scary, kids! It'll put goosebumps on your goosebumps!"

Well, I dunno. As far as horror movies go these days, fewer and fewer things actually frighten me anymore. Am I just jaded or is nothing really scarier than real life? What passes for horror makes me wince, sometimes jump in surprise or turn away in disgust due to unnecessary excess. But nothing has gotten has given me the night terrors in years, probably since watching THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT in an empty theater on a late murky afternoon in down Portland.

Back in the day, that day being a LONG ASS TIME AGO, I was all about the horror. They became my obsession, catching them wherever and whenever I could. I actually kept a tally of what I had seen, certainly sailing into four digits easily by the time I was twelve.Whether at the cinema or sitting in front of my TV at any hour of the day or night, if a fright flick was playing, I was there, front and center. When The Bob Wilkins Show debuted back in the late 60s, I found a kindred spirit and knew I wasn't alone in the world like Vincent Price in THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.

One of my first exposures to the scary movie genre took place at a slumber party my older sister threw at our house one Saturday night. I couldn't have been more than eight or nine. I had been allowed to stay up awhile at this soiree and tried not to get in the way of all these icky girls. It was all very chaste since everyone was prepubescent, they being two years older than moi. Another year down the road and I would have been shown the curb. Two years and I would have tried to find a hiding place with night vision goggles. But at this point in time, I was still on safe ground for probably the last time in my young life.

Naturally, the TV had been on, turned to a late night showing of HORRORS OF THE BLACK MUSEUM, a British effort starring Michael Gough. It opened rather benignly with two lovely crumpets named Winnie and Millie or something relaxing in their London flat sipping tea, smoking cigarettes and eating baked beans on toast while discussing the practical applications of Prince Charles' jug ears. A knock on the door reveals a delivery man with a package for plucky and pert little Winifred.

"Blimey! I wonder who it's from!"
"Secret admirer, Winnie?"
"Oh, get stuffed, Millie. There's no card, is there?"
"Well, open it, you ninny."
"Aow! It's some lovely looking spy glasses!"
 "Give 'em a go, why don't you?"

So Winnie picks up the pair of binoculars from her anonymous benefactor and immediately goes to the window to give them a look-see. As soon she adjusts the focus, she screams and covers her eyes with both hands as blood runs through her fingers.

"My eyes!" Winiie cries as we cut to the binoculars on the floor with two sharp metal spikes poking through the eye pieces. Millie harmonizes with Winnie as they scream in tandem.

In our living room, this horrific scene triggered an explosive hallelujah chorus of shrieks from this slumber party filled with pre-teenage schoolgirls. To top it off was my mom, covering her own mouth in abject shock, first from the movie, second from the girls and third from the anticipation of phone calls the next day from these kids' parents.

But for lil' ol' me, I had been magically transported into the seventh heaven of my boyhood. Not only was this the finest moment in cinematic history up to that point in my life, I had been at Ground Zero for this visceral reaction of the power of movies, even a cheap horror flick like this. And probably since I had been enjoying HORRORS OF THE BLACK MUSEUM and its traumatic effects on my sister's slumber party (the gleeful ear-to-ear smile was a big clue), my mom sent me off to bed. 

There in my slumber, visions of  tricked-out binoculars, poked-out eyeballs and screaming girls in their pajamas all danced through my head. The horror...the horror....the lovely, lovely horror...

The Horror...The Horror...

My first obsession when I was a wee lad way back in the 20th century was horror films. I'd have to say they were possibly my first movie crush, the genre that led me down the path to geekdom. I watched them whenever, wherever, however I could anytime of the day or night. Once my friend Albert and I made his house as dark as we possibly could as we watched HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL in the middle of a bright sunny afternoon. Back then, there were only a handful of TV stations to choose from and I'd always insist on watching channels from the Bay Area because they showed the best stuff. I'd rush home from school since KGO in San Francisco played some choice morsels at four in the after noon. Late at night, KPIX ran their best of the best way after midnight. Antenna reception was questionable especially in the daytime, but I'd brave a couple of hours of snow and static to get my fix. The Sacramento stations just didn't have the programming I craved until the great Bob Wilkins Show came to my rescue when it premiered Saturday nights on KCRA.

Horror films were more accessible on TV, but I craved the movie-going experience. That was a leap to the major leagues as far as I was concerned. Once I was old enough, off I went and I never looked back.

Stockton's Fox California (now the Bob Hope Theater. Yes, really) was the best place possible to see

scary movies, it being the only true movie palace in town. In fact the Fox was like a giant screening room in an old castle, kind of murky, always cold and actually rather spooky. It's where I was able to finally see films from Hammer Studios, producers of the Christopher Lee Dracula series, Peter Cushing Frankensteins and so many more gloriously gory delights. When I saw John Gillings’ PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES, one of the scariest Hammer productions ever, the chilly Fox auditorium was such a perfect atmosphere that I felt like I was right in the picture, a graveyard in gloomy old Cornwall. I spent an entire Saturday-I mean day and night-at a marathon showing of five Edgar Allen Poe adaptations from the Roger Corman days at American International including TALES OF TERROR and TOMB OF LIGEIA. By the middle of the fourth film, THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, I was getting a little woozy, but I toughed it out.

I earned my geek merit badge by entering a Halloween costume contest at the Fox in a vampire get-up I created for myself. With makeup I applied at home, I honestly looked a little like Bat Boy. I headed downtown to the Fox by bus, ignoring the bewildered stares of the other passengers because I was too busy convincing myself of my impending first place finish. What I didn’t count on was that the contest was to be judged by applause and I just didn’t have any friends in the audience. You see, I went by myself as I often did and this had turned into a popularity contest. The winner was a kid with a whole bunch o’ buddies who clapped, hooted and hollered like there was no tomorrow. His costume was a hat.

And how did I rank in the contest? Well, there were crickets in the Fox California that day for I didn't receive a single solitary clap. After the walk of shame off the stage, I headed for the restroom to wash the makeup off my face the best I could. I returned to my seat and wondered why I entered at all. I did so on an impulse without informing anyone of my actions. Sure, I would have reveled in the joy of winning, but I didn't and just moved on. I actually wasn't sad. This was something I found that I had to do for myself so I just went ahead and did it. Ultimately, I was rather proud of lil' ol' me so I sat back and enjoyed the show. After all, it was a horror movie and right then and there, life was good.

Such were the origins of a geek like me.

Hollow Weenie

The first holiday of the season isn't really a holiday at all, is it? Defend Halloween all you want. The truth is that Halloween is about as real as Valentine's Day. I won't get into the cynical  discussions about crass capitalism revolving around these two, complaining that they're both just blatant marketing ploys for the candy, greeting card and costume industries. Who gives a royal hoot in Hell? They're just pagan celebrations that happen to give the economy a boost while injecting a little fun in your life. You get to play dress up, get the crap scared out of you and hopefully get a lil' sumpin'-sumpin' at the end of the night.

I've always liked Halloween from a geek standpoint because it used to be the only time of year when horror films were actually celebrated by those other than the core group of fans. October 31 became the time we could come out of our parents' basements and freely enjoy the cinematic delights of the macabre with everyone else. Then the next day, let the wedgies re-commence.

Therefore I'm going to suggest a few tricks and tricks for your All Hallow's Eve viewing pleasure. While there is a dearth of choices out there, here, from the Cinema of My Mind's Eye, are some recommendations for your own spooky film festival. In the words of Count Floyd, "It'll put goosebumps on your goosebumps!"

SHADOW OF THE VAMPIRE and NOSFERATU

A recent movie about movies is E. Elias Merhige's delicious wicked take on the making of the silent vampire classic NOSFERATU starring John Malkovich as director F.W. Murnau and Willem Dafoe in his Oscar nominated performance as Max Schreck. The conceit of this pic is the assumption that Schreck was a real vampire. Double your pleasure with the original NOSFERATU, but only if played afterward to see how well the former pays homage to Murnau and Co. No tolerance for silent film? Try Werner Herzog's incredible remake of NOSFERATU THE VAMPYRE with Klaus Kinki, a guy who could have been BFFs with Schreck.  This also works to a lesser extent with Bill Condon's film about director James Whale, GODS AND MONSTERS with Ian McKellan and that director's BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN.

SHADOW OF THE VAMPIRE and NOSFERATU are both available on Amazon Prime Video.

HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL and THE TINGLER
Back in his heyday in the Fifties and Sixties, William Castle was a genuine Hollywood character of epic proportions. A former carny, Castle used the same showmanship and bombast to get butts in movie theater seats with a series of schlocky horror films complete with marketable gimmicks like Percepto (theater seats that were wried to vibrate during key scenes in the movie). He even promoted himself as a lower-case Hitchcock, though he actually did make it into the big leagues by producing one authentic masterpiece, ROSEMARY’S BABY. Two of his best directorial works gave Vincent Price’s career a much-needed kick in the ass. HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL was the most frightening movie I had ever seen as a kid. When it played on TV one summer afternoon, the neighbor kids and I tried to make the house as dark as we could so that we could get the living crap scared out of us. It actually worked. I still think it works on certain levels and always enjoy the performances of Price and a more spaced out than usual Elisha Cook Jr. THE TINGLER is amazing, a wild story involving a creature that inhabits the human body that will kill you if you don’t scream when you're frightened. Two highlights: Vinnie takes an acid trip and, though black and white, the film contains a fairly effective color sequence.

CURSE OF THE DEMON and BURN, WITCH, BURN

Witchcraft in the 1950s is featured in these two sensational British programmers, neither one of them Wiccan friendly but both hold up really damn well. The demon in CURSE, directed by Jacques Tourneur, was unseen in its original British version, but when released to the States, a monster was created for us dumb ‘Mericans. Fortunately, the creature wasn’t a hack job and turned out quite terrifying. WITCH, based on Fritz Leiber’s novel CONJURE WIFE also delivers the goods, particularly in the climax with a giant eagle.

PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES and

I WALKED WITH A ZOMBIE

Remember when the walking dead were summoned by voodoo? Yeah, it wasn’t stemmed in reality like it is nowadays. Here are two excellent examples of old school zombies ina pre-Romero world. PLAGUE is Hammer horror par excellence. WALKED is one of produced Val Lewton’s best and directed by CURSE OF THE DEMONS’s Tourneur. Both are creeptacular and feature zombies the way they are meant to be: slow.

Fast zombies. That's about as stupid as cute sparkly vampires.                                                                   

There you have it, kids. See you in the back row...oh, oh, oh, oh...at the late night double feature picture show.

Happy Halloween

Oh yeah.

Boo!