Special Guest Star: Anthony Bourdain

Dear Tony,

I wasn't going to include you in one of my close encounters of the celebrity kind, but since you've gone and killed yourself, I now feel compelled to do so. If I had a chance to give you some parting words, it would only add up to three:

WHAT THE FUCK

That is not a question, but more a statement. You can answer it if you want. oh, wait. You can't, can you? Friday morning I heard the news like everyone else that you, author//TV host/culinary bad boy Anthony Bourdain had died in France at the age of 61. Was it a heart attack? An accident of some sort? Nein and nein. You hung yourself like Kate Spade did earlier in the week. How trendy of you. And your best friend Eric Ripert discovered your body. Now if that doesn't say "thank you for being a friend", I don't know what does.

Sorry. I'm not showing the proper amount of respect for a celebrity death. But I'm pissed. I'm hurt. I'm so fucking confused. And you made my wife cry, you asshole..

But why should I be upset? I didn't know you. We weren't friends. I saw you once and spoke to you-or toward you, as it were- for a brief moment in time, but we had no real connection in the world.

Or did we?

I followed you from the very first episode of A COOK'S TOUR on the Food Network. Previously, I would watch cooking shows in passing, most of them boring as borscht since they were performing demonstrations like trained seals for the unwashed or endlessly rattling off recipes to the ether. When your show debuted, I saw a too hip for the room dude traveling the countryside, foreign and domestic, developing our culinary palettes and telling a tale or two along the way in a snarky, yet reasonably compassionate, articulate tone. It was transformative. I never looked at food, let alone the world, the same way again. You brought awareness to the fact that food does indeed matter. Where it comes from. Who cooks it. Who eats it.

I wanted more so I picked up your first book KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL and another lightning bolt went off. I had been attempting to put a book of my own together about the movie-going experience in my life. After reading your tome, I suddenly knew how to do it and thus, my book IN THE DARK was born. I could claim you were its Dutch uncle and it wouldn't be far from the truth.

Certainly that could have been the case when I visited South Africa in 2002. So many times in that adventure of a lifetime, my thoughts turned to you, especially on safari in Kruger Park when I had my own epiphany about life itself. I had several Anthony Bourdain moments on the other side of the world. While.I should have claimed those as my own, but you, fellow traveler, informed that Cherney Journey enough to not only live in that moment, but to also chronicle the entire experience in another book, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS.

(Here's some delicious irony for you to nibble on as an amuse bouche while waiting for your table at the Purgatory Cafe: While you kick-started my earlier books, your death derailed my writing this weekend. It seems I was too bummed over your sorry dead ass to write something of my own. Well, there's this. Gosh.Thanks, pal.)

So I'm eternally grateful to you. Your work inspired me. You inspired me. You went on to several others shows, NO RESERVATIONS on Travel Channel and PARTS UNKNOWN on CNN among others (THE TASTE not withstanding) that gave us some some the finest hours of, not just food and travel shows, but television itself in the last two decades. You promoted the food of chefs known (David Chang, Gabrielle Hamilton, Ludo Lefebvre) and not so well-known (Edward Lee, Sean Brock, April Bloomfield) on THE MIND OF A CHEF that you produced. You continued to write and have your own publishing imprint through Harper Collins. You began to produce features like recent documentary of chef Jeremiah Tower.
You had begun to create an empire and to make it all the sweeter, gave back to the world as a force of good in an increasingly intolerable society. Maybe you didn't invent food culture. But you sure as hell made it cool.

You came to Portland in what I believe to be 2006 to promote your latest book THE NASTY BITS at the Heathman Hotel. I discovered then you were shooting an episode of NO RESERVATIONS in our fair city, just on the cusp of being a food destination all its own. I brought a copy of your LES HALLES COOKBOOK from your time as head chef of that now-closed French bistro in New York and stood in line for a signing. I wanted him to autograph it for my wife who couldn't be there, at work at a downtown cafe herself.
I know I wanted to say a few words myself and anxiously waited my life in the queue when finally, over the rising decibels of the din I spoke.
"I wanted to thank you. KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL inspired me to write my first book. About movies."
You stared back without recognition. You may not have heard me. Maybe it didn't register. Could be book tour/TV show fatigue. I don't know. A blank stare is a blank stare no matter the reason. And without a word.
Uncomfortably, I readjusted and recalled something I read in the Portland Mercury that day.
"Oh, by the way, Marky Ramone is in town."
Suddenly a bell went off. As you well know, Marky Ramone is the last surviving member of The Ramones, your all-time favorite band and a friend of yours.
"Really? Where?"
"A club called Dante's. He's playing there tonight."
With that, you turned to say something to some lackey, maybe as a reminder of what I just said. With that, you grinned back at me with a nod. I was dismissed.
And that was that.

It's important to me to openly show gratitude to those who have made an impact on my life and was glad i was able to do so with you. It didn't register a blip on your radar, but it meant something to me. I hope you got together with Marky that evening. For that, you could thank me, but you never will, especially not now.

I just finished reading ROBIN, Dave Itzkoff's excellent bio of Robin Williams, another celeb that hung himself (what is this-a fad?) and another death that hit me right where I lived, pun so very much intended. I usually chastise those who take such things so personally, but here I sit, cocktail in hand after my wife and I both toasted your bloody self, and I'm gob-smacked and sucker punched in the soul by what is such a heinous act. I can't condone it. I won't, even though it too has crossed my mind more than once in this lifetime. I don't understand it in myself and I don't in others. I recognize that darkness. It's taken another, someone I happen to inexplicably care about very much. And what I feel is absolutely nothing compared to those in your personal life that you left behind including your eleven year old daughter. Suicide isn't just a personal act. There's a lot of collateral damage that's left in its wake.

On that note I'll leave you with this:
Thank you.
And fuck you.
I'm sure you understand.

ChernFest 2016: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                        
Happy birthday to me.


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

Christopher Lee, Prince of Darkness

This just in from the "prestigious" British newspaper, The Guardian:

Lord of the Rings star Christopher Lee has been awarded a prestigious BFI Fellowship. The presentation will be made on 19 October at Banqueting House, Whitehall, during the London film festival, the BFI's premier event.

The BFI Fellowship is an award given "to individuals in recognition of their outstanding contribution to film or television". 2012's honorees were actor Helena Bonham Carter and director Tim Burton. In 2011, writer-director David Cronenberg and actor-director Ralph Fiennes were recipients.

Wankers.

First of all, it's SIR Christopher Lee. Second of all...LORD OF THE RINGS star? He also "starred" in 1941. What was Dracula...a footnote?

I have great love for this icon of my youth. Obviously, since I wrote an ode to he, Sean Connery and Clint Eastwood in my book IN THE DARK entitled "The Good, the Bad and the Undead". Since Sir Christopher is receiving his award next week and Halloween is coming up, here is an excerpt from ITD all about the man, the fangs and the cape.

The heroes of my life were all killers.

Oh. I’m sorry. It appears that I’ve upset you. Let me assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. If your hackles have been raised since reading those words, you can go ahead and lower them now…slowly. Don’t make any sudden moves. For God’s sake, get that judgmental look off your face…It really disturbs me…

Aw, relax, would ya? It’s not as if I worshipped at the shrine of Charles Manson, traded baseball cards with The Boston Strangler or harbored a lifelong dream to open up the Ed Gein Culinary Academy.

Hardly.

My heroes were a dapper, debonair government assassin, a monosyllabic bounty hunter who brought ‘em in mostly dead not alive and a bloodsucking Lord of the Undead. To better identify them, you might recognize the names James Bond, The Man with No Name and Count Dracula.

In every one of his movies, the last member of my trifecta started out dead. Okay, okay…UN-dead. (Must we have this conversation? It’s all semantics anyway.) He was, of course, Dracula, the Vampire’s Vampire, embodied by the legendary Christopher Lee.

From the mid-fifties to the early seventies, Lee, along with Peter Cushing, was one of the main stars of Hammer Studios, England’s chief producer of horror films. It was there that Lee recreated a couple of Boris Karloff’s greatest roles, namely the Frankenstein Monster and the Mummy. However, it is the character most closely identified with Bela Lugosi that Lee found his fame as well. His interpretation of the Count was vastly and radically different from his predecessor’s. Physically, Lee was taller and certainly more athletic than Lugosi, so Dracula became more of a swashbuckler, albeit an evil swashbuckler. He would use his cape as an extension of his own body, flowing behind him as he strode away or would wrap it around his long frame like a black shroud. He tossed the Transylvanian accent out the window and instead utilized those stentorian tones of his with complete and absolute authority.

But, in my personal favorite of the Hammer/Dracula series and the first I had ever seen, DRACULA, PRINCE OF DARKNESS, Lee has no dialogue at all and it is extremely effective. Dracula is virtually silent during the course of the movie, save for the occasional scowling hiss that seemed to come from deep within where his soul used to be. Never before or since has Dracula been portrayed so frighteningly. This was raw, savage evil incarnate, a truly vicious demon from hell. Legend has it that Lee played it in this manner because his dialogue was so trite. It doesn’t matter to me because, as far as I’m concerned, it worked. It made such an impression on me that when Lee spoke in the follow-up film, DRACULA HAS RISEN FROM THE GRAVE, I remember being very disappointed in the change.

Lee had help from the Hammer makeup department that outfitted him with a great set of sharp fangs and, best of all, bloodshot contact lenses. He could have been a poster boy for Visine. He was also provided with another set that were solid red indicating that after a night’s feasting, this dude was full.

The movies themselves contributed greatly to his success in the character. Hammer pictures, while low budgeted, benefited from good to excellent production values. The acting was always decent, the stories fairly exciting and the bottom line was, for an assembly line, Hammer put out a very respectable and reliable product. Naturally, what really stirred my juices were the two ingredients I began to crave…good ol’ sex and violence.

My first memories of blood on the big screen, before then almost a taboo, were in Hammer films. These weren’t overdone splatter effects, but for that time, they didn’t hold back much either. A stake through the heart was no longer just hinted at, projected as a shadow on the wall or executed off camera. There it was in all of its gory glory. When the blood flowed in the resurrection scene of Dracula, Prince of Darkness,  director Terrence Fisher made it almost a character itself, perhaps the essence of all that is unholy.

The icing on my boyhood cake was that these Hammer pictures were so damn lusty which, along with the sexuality portrayed in the Bond pictures, meant I was doing A-OK for my age in the sexual awakening department. I was exposed, in both senses of the word, to many a bursting bodice and plunging peasant blouse that revealed enough cleavage to fill both sides of the screen. Several times too was that camera shot of the undraping of a lusciously voluptuous woman tuned away from the camera, revealing only her naked back that outlined her curvaceous female form, making my increasingly horny little mind believe that I had just seen everything!

Since Dracula is one of the great sex symbols of all time, Lee’s version of the Count fit right into this atmosphere.  You knew damn well this guy was getting a lot more action than the monkey bites he was doling out. It has been said that no one could resist the will of Dracula, but it always seemed that Lee’s victims wanted to give up more than their jugulars.

Christopher Lee will always be the perfect Dracula to me. Unfortunately, I feel like I’m betraying a fellow Hungarian by not giving Bela Lugosi his due, but that’s part of the problem I have with him. Bela always came across to me like a creepy uncle, the one the family didn’t talk about much.  Granted, Lee’s Dracula was more of a product of my era and I accept that. There was no getting around that overpowering presence of his when he donned the cape. Lee gave the world’s greatest vampire his unmistakable signature, the distinction of a great actor that makes him totally identifiable with a given character. As Dracula, he dominated the screen to the point of making all else in the film before, after or even during his screen time seem inconsequential, save for him.

 Lee had a bumpy road ahead of him once he left the cape behind. Fortunately, he was able to make a class A horror film, THE WICKER MAN, a sensational picture from director Robin Hardy and screenwriter Anthony Shaffer. From there, he continued on as a villain in a better grade of films like Richard Lester’s THE THREE and FOUR MUSKETEERS where he held his own against Oliver Reed, Charlton Heston and Faye Dunaway. A dream damn near came true for me when Lee played the James Bond villain in THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN, an unfortunately weak entry in the series. He managed to shine when the movie didn’t. But now, here he is over the age of ninety appearing in some of the biggest movies of recent times time, the Lord of the Rings trilogy (though Peter Jackson callously cut his scenes from the theatrical version of RETURN OF THE KING) and the Star Wars prequels , where George Lucas kept him for all three films even if he had the unfortunate name of Count Dooku. And Lee’s still working. That, my friends, is called longevity.

Once and forever, I live with the memories of these indelible images. Connery, Sean Connery is Bond, James Bond, saving the world once again from a maniacal madman before tumbling off to the sack with another spectacular babe. Clint Eastwood as the Man with No Name except Blondie takes a puff off his cheroot after drawing his six-shooter and blowing away a pack of ornery cowpokes with names like Umberto and Giuseppe. Finally, standing on the grand staircase of a cobweb ridden castle is a statuesque aristocrat with crimson eyes, an ebony cape and pointed ivory fangs that glisten in the light of the full moon, for he is Christopher Lee as Dracula, the Prince of Darkness…and it’s supper time…

Copyright 2009 by Scott Cherne

UPDATE 6/11/15: Today we learned that Sir Christopher Lee has passed away at the age of 93. If his movies have taught us anything, he shall return. Until he does, his legacy on screens large and small have made him immortal.

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIME IN A MOVIE THEATER is celebrating its tenth anniversary this year. It can be found on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle versions. 

SCOTT CHERNEY'S AMAZON PAGE

A Decade "In the Dark"

Hey, kids! What time is it?                    

Time for another milestone!

Ten years ago saw the publication of my very first book, the tome I humbly call my movie memoir IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER.

Ever since I was a snot-nosed little dirtball in Stockton,California, I harbored a dream of someday not only penning, but publishing a book of my very own. I took the advice of every writer since the Paleolithic era and wrote about what I knew: going to the movies. Thus, ITD was born. Now I needed a mid-wife. After several rejections far and wide, I looked at the then-infant stage of self-publishing (now referred to as independent publishing since "self" sounds so damn desperate). I looked high. I looked low. Eventually, I signed a deal with the Devil itself, the publishing house known as Publish America and my words finally saw the light of day.

Over time, I discovered that the Satan in question, Publish America, has the worst reputation of any book publishing house on the planet. At least that’s what I gather from every unfavorable posting I’ve read on writer’s watchdog sites like Writer Beware and Preditors and Editors. Granted, they are just looking out for vulnerable scribes who don’t know any better. These sites provide a great public service and are advocates for those who really need help. Their points about Publish America are valid for the most part.

But I am here to proclaim something you won’t find anywhere on the web:

PUBLISH AMERICA DID ALL RIGHT BY ME.

They treated me as fairly and squarely as they possibly could. They provided help and support with each step of the process or whenever I requested it of them. They never promised me anything they could not deliver. On top of everything else, they performed every service for free. For someone with no budget, this worked for me after having my dreams of a large advance gone the way of all goldfish. I have to admit that I had the immortal of the late Jimmy Dean echoing through my head:

"Ye git whut ye pay fer."

Yes, PA's contract was not good, giving them exclusive rights for seven years. Their royalties were piss poor. The mark-up on my 150 page paperback was outrageous priced ($17.95). I had to edit it myself, but they sent the proof to me before it went to press for a last look. The cover they created (from my design) wasn’t as spectacular as I envisioned with an ugly title font, but I didn’t correct it and gave it a pass forward.

            I knew exactly what I was getting into with Publish America because I read the damn contract before I signed my book away. I accepted their terms without regret. I wanted my book to be published and get it out there to the world. And Publish America got the job done right on schedule. They even sent out review copies to anyone and everyone I asked of them.

At the end of seven years, I didn’t renew with Publish America and, since I had published three more books on my own, took control of IN THE DARK all by my lonesome. PA and I parted ways amicably and I’ll always be grateful for what they were able to do. I would have to admit that Publish America treated this virgin author with quite tenderly, the gentlest and sweetest first lover I could ever hope for…

Okay, that’s creepy...

But from the bottom of my heart, I again want to extend a sincere and unironic thank you once again to Publish America.

Do I recommend them?  I can only speak for myself and the relationship I had with PA, but it depends on your expectations of success. PA is a print-on-demand publisher and they still charge nothing for their services. But you'll have to do everything else yourself-editing, marketing publicity, etc. Know what you're getting into with PA or any self-publisher. Understand the risks. If you don't, have someone explain to you or do some research. Go to Writer Beware, Preditors and Editors or any other watchdog site. If it sounds like you want to give them a try, be my guest.  http://www.publishamerica.com/

But now, here in 2013, IN THE DARK is mine, all mine. I revised it a couple of years back with some new material, even having the gall to re-release it as a SPECIAL EDITION. It has more me than ever before if that’s your idea of a selling point. Apparently, it’s mine.

So Happy 10th Birthday, IN THE DARK.

For more info on IN THE DARK and to read a brief excerpt, please visit:

http://www.scottcherney.com/in-the-dark.html

See ya at the movies.

You STILL Only Live Twice

I loves me some James Bond, but especially You Only Live Twice. as this excerpt from my movie memoir In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater (Special Edition) will explain:

Late in 1967 came the summer release of the next “official” 007 film and my sentimental favorite, You Only Live Twice.

Granted, From Russia with Love and Goldfinger are better films overall, but Twice is the one I could claim as my very own, mainly because I was allowed to see it all by my lonesome without parental supervision. It was a milestone in my movie-going career and I took full advantage of it. I felt like I had spent the entire summer at the Esquire Theater watching Twice, though the actual total came to 9 times. I became such a regular, the manager put me to work a few times, which I did gleefully, tearing ticket stubs and closing the auditorium at show time. He repaid me with free popcorn and a cardboard cutout of Connery as Bond holding a space helmet in one hand and a Walther PPK in the other, which was part of a lobby display (shades of Bambi!)Though only twelve years old at the time, I became friendly with the nineteen-year-old concession stand worker, a cute girl named Denise, who helped get me into her karate class, something I wanted to do as a result of seeing You Only Live Twice. The karate, that is, not the nineteen-year-old girl. I was twelve! If something had happened between the two of us, don’t you think I would have told you?)

You Only Live Twice had all the elements I wanted in a Bond movie. The then-exotic locale of Japan was fascinating. The women were all hot and, at twelve, I was really beginning to take notice (forget the nineteen-year-old already!) John Barry’s music is both exciting and romantic as only his can be. The final battle sequence set in the volcano rocket base, an outstanding production design by Ken Adam, is a jaw-dropping action sequence to this very day. Donald Pleasance is absolutely wonderful as Bond’s chief villain, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Mike Myers must have thought so too since his character of Dr. Evil in the Austin Powers series is undoubtedly a burlesque Blofeld. Then there was one of the high points of every young boy’s life when he discovers what a ninja is, introduced to the cinematic world in this film.

Since the introduction of Bond’s gadget laden Aston Martin in Goldfinger, each preceding film had a new vehicle for him to commandeer and Twice is no exception. This introduced a mini-helicopter named Little Nellie, complete with machine guns and other implements of destruction. Years later, I had a 1979 Honda Civic that had the color and near size of a cough drop. As a tribute, I named her…you guessed it, Little Nellie. Many a time, I wished Q had been my mechanic.

One single camera shot in You Only Live Twice totally epitomized the entire James Bond persona to me. In the middle of the film, there is a long shot of Bond fighting the bad guys on a warehouse roof. The camera pulls back just as Barry’s theme music reprises. It is a moment frozen in my time and made me swell with an excitement I’d never felt before. Here in these few seconds is everything I felt a movie hero should be, one guy against ‘em all-and winning.

In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater is available in paperback and Amazon Kindle

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/scottcherney

http://www.amazon.com/Scott-Cherney/e/B004KJOHN8/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

P.S. The title of this blog is intentionally lame. It's a reference to the sequel of I Know What You Did Last Summer, the insipidly named I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.

I know what I'm doing...some of the time.

The Cinema of My Mind's Eye

On the occasion of the publication of the Special Edition of In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater, I offer the following, a piece that says a lot about me and the inner workings of my cinematic mind.

Most people have a memory bank. Some unfortunate souls, merely a savings and loan. But me, I have something entirely different sitting inside of my skull and that would be a movie theater.

It’s certainly not one of those generic multiplexes that are so prevalent, they have become the standard of how we view film in today’s world. They aren’t theaters so much that they are just screening rooms, stacked together like so many shoeboxes. What kind of nostalgic memories will those conjure up for future generations? You might as well get all warm and fuzzy for a parking garage.

Not for me.

My internal cinema is an ornate structure from an era before my very own, a time when attending the movies was so special, they were shown in a palace. The huge marquee out front, over lighted in all of its bombastic neon glory announces the current attraction in typical Hollywood hyperbolic fashion. The art deco lobby is trimmed all in gold, including the staircase to the fabled and forbidden Loge section where the really good seats are. The concession stand is not ostentatious, almost a footnote rather than the lobby’s primary focus. It sells treats that can only be purchased in a movie theater like Raisinettes and ice cream Bon Bons.

Inside the slightly darkened auditorium, the air is always cool, no matter what the time of year. Illuminated by black lights on each wall are identical day-glo murals of a wild white stallion in full gallop, ridden by who appears to be the Greek goddess Athena, flying back to Mount Olympus after an all-nighter at Bacchus’ place. The intermission music, set at an appropriately low volume, contains classic motion picture soundtrack music by such composers as Max Steiner, Dmitri Tiomkin and Miklos Rozsa. The massively wide screen is draped over by a majestic burgundy colored velvet curtain.

While the seating capacity of the auditorium can easily accommodate several hundred, there is always an audience of just one. That would be me, sitting smack dab in the middle with my feet up on the seats in front of me, thank you very much. I’ve got the place all to myself ‘cuz that’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it.

Now playing in the Cinema of My Mind’s Eye are not only recollections of what I’ve seen on the Silver Screen in my lifetime, but also the life and time I’ve spent doing so. As the years pass, so goes the memory, yet I still retain near-total recall of my tenure as a movie patron. Give me a title. I can tell you if/where/when I saw it, who (if anyone) I was with and how I was feeling at the time. “Going to the show”, as we used to call it, was a very special time for me. It formed the nucleus of this passion I have for an art form that has enriched my spirit and consistently given me great joy over the years.

This passion in question has manifested itself into an obsession to be sure. It’s harmless, but not entirely healthy either. Maybe the hermit-like existence I’ve spent at the movies has been instrumental in the creation of the oddball I am today, one whose quirks, phobias and eccentricities can be easily traced back to way too much time spent in a celluloid trance and not nearly enough human interaction.

My belief system is cockeyed as well to be sure. Film, after all, is my religion and a theater is my church. For me, attending a film is not unlike attending Mass, except with Coming Attractions. (Your theological debate begins here) With very few exceptions, I prefer to fly solo in my own particular pew so I may worship in peace. If I had my druthers, I would actually watch movies Elvis Presley style. Big E would rent out a theater after hours for private showings and insist that any guest he invited act accordingly. Keep your yap shut. I’m tryin’ to watch a movie here. You don’t like it? Lump it, Jack. Hit the road and don’t step on my blue suede shoes.

You could say that mine has been a life of too much viewing and not enough doing. If that’s a crime, it’s victimless because the only person that could possibly have been hurt is yours truly. If I’ve wasted my time on Earth by going to the picture show, at least I’ve been entertained in the process.

As far as the theater inside my brainpan, I guess, for lack of a better term, you could call it my Happy Place. (Normally, I would send anyone using that particular phrase to a Sad Place by way of the back of my hand. But, I’m unable to perform that task upon myself. The angle is all wrong.) Safe Haven might be more apropos, but doesn’t that sound more like a halfway house? How about Sanctuary? How about who cares? Whatever name or label you want to slap on it means nothing to me. All I know is that when I am there, I find solace.

I am one of those who Norma Desmond referred to in Sunset Boulevard as “one of the wonderful little people in the dark”. In that darkness, I have found enlightenment. Sure, I know it comes from the lamp of a motion picture projector, but it would be unfair to call it artificial. How is that possible when that light can recreate dreams? My dreams. My past. My present. My future.

As I close my eyes, I open my mind into the theater inside of my head. I sit listening to the final moments of Ernest Gold’s “Theme from Exodus” and I smile at Athena’s ascension to the heavens. The lights begin to fade and the curtain starts to rise. Suddenly, I am basking in the glow of the illuminated screen. It is then that I realize that the world-THIS world-is mine, all mine.

Copyright 2011 by Scott Cherney

In the Dark (Special Edition) is now available at Amazon.com in paperback and Kindle

Odsen Enz

Is there anything more annoying than the nasaly whine of a Kardashian? Holy Underwear, they all sound that way...Kim, Courtney, Cloverfield...each one indistinguishable from the other. It's like someone drilling into my soul by way of my ear canal. It's such a shame they can't be a force for good.
Maybe they license their voices for smoke alarms. Their squawks would clear a building safely and save lives. Better yet, their name alone should be forever synonymous with an excruciating, irritating screech. "The neighbor's cat's in heat again. Kept me all night. Goddamn, that's kardashian!"
Aside to Kris Humphries: In the words of Lenny Bruce, "You betta off!"

These sexual harassment allegations against Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain sure seem to be increasing. My, isn't the timing impeccable. I haven't seen this much muck being raked so early on since 1992 and we all know how that turned out, don't we?


There's no segue for this so I'm just going to plow ahead:

The new paperback version of my movie memoir, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER (SPECIAL EDITION) is now on sale at my page on Lulu.com:

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/scottcherney

(What makes it special? Sea salt.)
I've also got a new page on Facebook:

Written by Scott Cherney
Come on by and like me. (Damn, I'm needy)
The Facebook page is the same name as my website found at http://www.scottcherney.com/ . Yes, I am an original muh-fuh, that's for sure. The latter has some new content including an unpublished short story entitled THE FUTURE MRS. WILEY, a wry love story told in the manner of Damon Runyon by way of Larry Flynt. Just in time for the holidays.

Enough with the plugs already. Nothing, I mean NOTHING was any better this year than the fourth season of BREAKING BAD, so good than just about everything pales in comparison and what has followed just isn't measuring up. THE WALKING DEAD's follow-up season has been deathly slow, as if wading in on its accolades from last year. It's just not good enough to coast like this and hasn't delivered on the promise of its excellent pilot episode. The characters are too one-note and the pacing slower than snot on a winter's day. BOARDWALK EMPIRE has at least capitalized on its success with more gripping gangster history from the Roaring Twenties. Then there's AMERICAN HORROR STORY on FX, a wonderfully twisted and downright scary series that fills the gap THE WALKING DEAD is vacating. Ryan Murphy has rebooted the ghost story for a new era, recalling his sensational NIP/TUCK and washing the glucose ridden GLEE out of my sub-conscious. And I am officially nominating Jessica Lange for an early Best Supporting Actress Emmy. What a nasty-ass villainess! Talk about a career revival.

FX's series specialize in these superbly dark turns by forgotten or over looked actors: Margo Martindale in JUSTIFIED, Ted Danson in DAMAGES, Ron Perlman and Katey Sagal in SONS OF ANARCHY.

Until next time, Carp Diem! (Seize the Fish?)

A Hoot is as Good as a Holler

Hidy-hi, there, friends and neighbors near and far, over, under, around and through.

It's time once again to revisit the SPECIAL EDITION of the one and only IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER now available on Amazon Kindle

IN THE DARK is what I call my movie memoir, a book that spans a lifetime spent in my natural environment watching one great film after another. Well, maybe some aren't so great, at least not in the traditional sense, as this excerpt will illustrate for you. This is a little to-do about a special movie classification I've coined that I affectionately call Hoots.

HOOTS
A Hoot is a special breed of movie that makes you laugh, whether intentionally or not, in that very special fashion as only a private joke can. A Hoot can vary in quality from a well-made, big budget extravaganza to an absolute piece of dreck. A few examples that I consider Hoots of the highest order: MOMMY DEAREST, QUEST FOR FIRE, THE CANNONBALL RUN and FOOD OF THE GODS. Regardless of its pedigree, you will take a Hoot to your bosom and claim it like your own personal pet. For all of the love you bestow upon it, a Hoot will reward you with much joy, especially with repeat viewings and you will want to share the experience with others. Such a Hoot is:

BILLY JACK (1971-d. T.C. Frank) Its intentions are strictly honorable yet its execution is so dubious and amateurish that it is an instant Hoot classic. I can recite entire passages from this film, especially Billy Jack’s monologue in the ice cream parlor when he goes BER-ZERK! Still, as laughable as Billy Jack is, it always manages to touch some of my deep-rooted knee-jerk liberal sensibilities and I moronically blubber, “Don’t worry, you damn lovable little hippies! It’s alright! Billy Jack’ll save ya!” Then I yell for the spilling of redneck blood like a crazed vigilante as Billy beats the shit of every bigoted asshole from one end of town to the other. That’s right. In the name of peace, Billy Jack kicks ass. Such is the contradictory magnificence of Mr. William Jack, Esq. whose film holds a very special place in the Hoot Hall of Fame.

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER

Now on AMAZON KINDLE 

Tell 'em Billy Jack set ya!

No, don't say that...He'd probably take his right foot and whoop me on this side of my face...and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could about it!

Really?

Really!

Oh, that Billy Jack.

What a Hoot.

Oh My Gaga

Hope y'all had a swell Mother's Day, at least half as good as we did this year. It kinda gave me a warm fuzzy feeling all over, enough to counteract the mishegoss of the last little while. Adding to the family-friendly atmosphere of this past weekend was a lotta Gaga. HBO ran the Lady's Monster Ball Tour special taped at Madison Garden in a marathon 24 hour showing from Saturday night to Sunday. I never usually watch concerts since I get bored less than half-way through. 'Twasn't the case here. This girl doesn't have time for dull stretches. That girl's fierce energy is contagious! Not only did I watch it the whole hour and 55 minutes show, but also watched the encore about three extra times.

Love that BORN THIS WAY finale. I know it's pretty derivative of TLC's WATERFALLS and Madonna'a EXPRESS YOURSELF, but I cannot resist its heart and soul...or the Gaga either. To me, she is the next step on the evolutionary staircase. Cher begat Madonna, Madonna begat Gaga and on the 7th day, She was exhausted.

 

It's All About ME.com

I am the master of my domain..
No, not in a Seinfeld sort of way.
Perhaps I should word this differently.
I am the master of my domain name.
Finally there exists on the Internet (aka Al Gore's greatest invention before The Climate Controlatron), the one and only scottcherney.com Yes, my very own website is up, running and ready for your perusal-or whatever comes to mind as check out this bloody thing that has been too damn long in the making. I know I'm late to the party, but at least I made it before websites go the way of the dodo. And while the creation of a website is a baby step for most folks, for me it's a giant leap for Cherneykind.
The title is simple: Written by Scott Cherney. In its description, it states that it is: "The works, written or otherwise of writer/actor/raconteur Scott Cherney" I know it's self-serving, but isn't that the point? It's all true. This isn't the movie CATFISH. Am I an author? Yes I am. My books back up that dubious claim to fame. Actor? Yep. Just because I haven't trod the boards ot stepped in front of a camera for awhile doesn't mean I still don't have it in me. Raconteur? Okay, maybe this is a wee bit pretentious, but what the frig, I can spin a pretty damn good yarn, so there ya have it. Would you prefer that I call myself Scribbler/Goofball/Blowhard Scott Cherney? I could just simplify it to Bullshit Artist, but sure as shootin', someone will ask "But is it really Art?" I think I showed great restraint. Of course I'm going to put myself in the best possible light. This is all about me, man. I yam what I yam.
It all began with the word and that is why I focused on my books, scripts and anything else I've jotted down in the last little while. They're all here-RED ASPHALT, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, IN THE DARK, SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE, NOW THAT'S FUNNY!-with excerpts and other pertinent information I've decided to include.
Written by Scott Cherney also coincides with the second edition of my first book (yes, you read that right) IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER. It's chock full o' updated material including something IN THE DARK V.1 didn't have: an introduction. (Yeah, I know. Duh and d'oh) IN THE DARK is also available as an e-book for the very first time with a paperback to follow very soon. For the uninitiated, IN THE DARK is what I call my movie memoir, the misadventures of a film geek who grew up watching movies at the same time the movies were growing up themselves. (Whew! I've got that line to a fine science!)
While I bitch and moan incessantly about Modern Times (not the Chaplin movie but the Here and Now) and all of its ramifications, I really am grateful to be living in this day and age, especially when it affords me the opportunity to fulfill some long-sought dreams. Now I have a showcase for all my works that I can show to the world and that means, well, the world to me. See? Even a computer illiterate, technologically ignorant, mechanically inept nincompoop like me can find his own place in the sun...even if it's in the virtual world.
Go forth to Written by Scott Cherney, please. The URL is as simple as pie: http://www.scottcherney.com/
Remember, this is a work in progress.
Just like me.
Would this face lie?

The Divine 99

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copywright 2002 by Scott Cherney

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

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

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

IN THE DARK in paperback and Kindle at Amazon

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

One on One with Scott Cherney (Literally)-Part One

On January 26, 2008, RED ASPHALT, the very first novel written by Scott Cherney, was published and released to the world. Some might say it escaped. (Not me)

RED ASPHALT concerns a week in the life of a troubled medical courier whose life takes a nasty sharp turn into the harshest of realities. When his marriage, job and dreams simultaneously implode, this distant runner-up in the human race suddenly feels empowered for the very first time when he becomes a nightmare on four wheels.

It's not surprising that Scott finally got around to finishing his novel. After all it has been a dream of his since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. You see, I've known Scott all of my life, so it's only fitting that I be the first to interview him on the arrival of RED ASPHALT. This may also be his ONLY interview as well, but only time will tell and as yet...he ain't talkin'.

But Scott is talkin'. I sat down with the author for this exclusive interview that you will see here only at ETC.

ETC: Welcome to Etc.

SCOTT CHERNEY: Thank you. It's a pleasure to be here.

ETC: The pleasure is all mine.

SC: I know. I just said that.

ETC: Oh. Huh?

SC: Skip it.

ETC: RED ASPHALT is your first novel, but not your first book, am I correct?
SC: Right. I have a couple of other published works under my belt. The first was what I like to call my "movie memoir", IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, which came out in 2003.

Then I compiled a bunch of comedy sketches that I had written into a collection called NOW THAT'S FUNNY.

And technically, RED ASPHALT is my first completed novel. There's another unfinished "masterwork" sitting in storage as we speak that I hope to finish before I croak.

ETC: Is it true that RED ASPHALT started out as a screenplay?

SC: Yeah, it did. Just about everything I come up begins as a movie. I look at everything cinematically. Everything's a movie to me. It's just the way I'm wired. I originally conceived RED ASPHALT as a film even up to the point that I wrote a first draft screenplay. Then I said to myself, "Hey! Why not write this up in book form, finish the screenplay and that way you can make two sales instead of one." So I used the first draft as an outline and proceeded to write my own novelization. But it soon became much more than that. The evolution of this material was quite amazing. Now when I return to the screenplay, there's going to be so much more to work with. I'm really happy with the result.

ETC: Speaking of movies, the title of your book sounds vaguely familiar.

SC: Yeah. It should. I stole that baby outright from an old driving training film about road safety, probably the CITIZEN KANE of the genre. RED ASPHALT was produced by the California Highway Patrol and featured a lot of gnarly real life car crash scenes-very gory and very graphic. A real splatter film-perfect for teenagers, especially after lunch. In fact, I just found out there is an entire series of RED ASPHALT movies, I think about five in all. The latest is from 2003. I'm sure they're all over You Tube. To tell you the truth, I've never seen RED ASPHALT or any of the sequels. I did see BLOOD ON THE HIGHWAY in high school though.

ETC: The cover of RED ASPHALT almost looks like the opening titles to one of those films.

SC: Yeah, by design. I think it gives it kind of a retro look. I always envisioned the opening credits of my RED ASPHALT in the same way, except a daytime shot. Anyway, I call my book RED ASPHALT as sort of an homage to those movies as well as an allusion to the traffic safety classes in the story. But it's also a better title than I ever could come up with, so there it is.

ETC: What's the story of RED ASPHALT?

SC: RED ASPHALT is about a guy named Calvin Wheeler, a dreamer who is in denial of his own reality. He feels shackled to his everyday life, a seemingly normal existence that he considers a prison. It's all because he aspires to greater things. He believes that he was put on this earth for a very special reason. Unfortunately, because he has to co-exist with the rest of the world, he thinks that his potential is being squandered and this great gift of his is slipping away from his fingers the longer he has to conform to a society that he wants nothing to do with. When he finds that is his only choice, Calvin goes all the way around the bend he had been heading for quite sometime. He's a guy who's splitting apart at the seams. Unfortunately, when he pops his last stitch, he just happens to be behind the wheel at the time because he drives for a living...and as Clint Eastwood says in THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES, "Dyin' ain't much of a livin', boy."

ETC: So Calvin has road rage.

SC: Yeah, among other things. But RED ASPHALT is not about road rage, per se. It's not a diatribe on the subject or even what you might call "a cautionary tale". Calvin isn't meant to be an Everyman figure. This is just one man's story. That's not to say there aren't more guys like him out there in the world, let alone out there on the roads. Who knows what's really going on in the heads of everyone else who's stuck in traffic with us? We can only hope that they're in their right minds and don't do something incredibly stupid out there on the freeway or city streets or even through our neighborhoods. We all have the capability to turn our vehicles, whether they're Mini-Cooper or ten-ton semis, into goddamn guided missiles out there. The vast majority of us don't because we're not nuts. But there are a lot more crazies than there used to be. That's not just because the population has increased. I think the percentage has gone up as well.

ETC: But you don't have to be crazy to have road rage.

SC: No, you don't. And it's really not difficult to see why it's become so abundant. It's an increasingly frustrating world and it can compounded behind the wheel of a car when you're stuck in traffic, dealing with shitty drivers and torn up roads that are constantly being repaired. That's a situation we have here in Portland. This is NOT a car friendly area and it's getting worse by the day. It really wouldn't be so bad if so many people didn't take driving for granted. Like Calvin says at one point, "It doesn't cost anything to pay attention." Aren't there enough distractions both in and out of the car without creating a bunch of new ones? We have the attention spans of fleas, like those nimrods who have a cell phone in one hand, a latte in the other and a rat face dog in their laps, just weaving all over the road, driving way below the speed limit because they are so wrapped up in their conversations to give a shit. How the hell is this twit steering? With her knees? Her elbows?

ETC: Maybe that's what the dog is for.

SC: You could be right. It's like the last thing on their minds is driving. It's an after thought if it's any kind of thought at all. And, from my observation and I am on the road more the average commuter, as far as cell phone offenders go, it's mostly women. This isn't to say guys don't talk on their phones too, but women seem to be more inclined to get involved in their phone calls than men. Guys, on the other hand, make up the vast majority of road ragers. Guys flip out in their vehicles because they think they can, as if cars are the last refuge for Manly Men. It's all about the illusion of power. They use their vehicles to intimidate and bully other drivers. Their competitive natures come to the forefront and the evening commute suddenly turns into a big dick swinging contest. More often than not, gasoline and testosterone turns into piss and vinegar. Again, from my personal observation, this seems to manifest itself predominantly in white males.

ETC: You talk about the Angry White Man Syndrome in your book.

SC: I do. I've noticed the influx of Angry White Men for quite some time. They're popping up all over the place. They used to be just Stupid White Men, but now they're just plain pissed because they consider themselves endangered species. They feel threatened by the changes in the world and that they'll no longer have the dominance they believe they have. They oppose diversity whether blatantly or secretly because that means they have to share the world instead of controlling it. So they hold all this tension in because they can't just lash out whenever they feel like it. Pretty soon, they're going to blow off that steam somehow, some way and it's going to be at a most inopportune time. In the book, Calvin is deathly afraid of becoming an Angry White Man and that fear is becomes one of his biggest obstacles in preventing that from happening.

ETC: "The only thing we have to fear... is fear itself."

SC:Was that supposed to be FDR?

ETC: Yeah.

SC: Sounded more like Katherine Hepburn.

TO BE CONTINUED

NEXT UP: FANTASY V.S. REALITY: THE FINAL BATTLE

RED ASPHALT NOW ON SALE EVERYWHERE, BUT ESPECIALLY HERE AND HERE

FOR MORE INFO VISIT MY WEBSITE

2005-Dead or Alive

If there was one word to sum up the clusterhump that was the year Two Thousand and Five A.D., I suppose it would have to be LOST.

(Entertainment Weekly unwittingly agrees with me since the editors proclaim the cast of ABC’s Lost as their Entertainer of the Year. Ignore the logic and focus on the irony.)

The year started in the minus column with the aftermath of two major disasters-the Mommy of all Tsunamis and the 2004 re-election of President Bush League. There wasn’t even enough time to regain our footing from those events as we immediately slid downhill quicker than Tom Cruise’s approval rating.

In 2005 we lost a Pope, a Supreme Court Chief Justice and an entire American city along with much of the Gulf Coast of the United States of America during the worst storms anyone can ever remember. Add to this the Terri Schiavo debacle, the neverending story known as Iraq, the raping and pillaging by the major oil companies, illegal government wiretapping and wind it up with the preliminary strike in the upcoming Holy Civil War known as the Attack on Christmas…and you’ve got yourself either an ulcer, a substance abuse problem or a reason to take your own life and a few others with you.

(Hyperbole. It’s what’s for dinner.)

To keep our minds off the terrible tragedy that is everyday life, we usually can count on mindless entertainment to pull us through, but even then, it was one disaster after another. We became so beaten down that even mediocre was a cause for celebration. We stood up with our lowered expectations to cry for joy when the final chapter of Star Wars was not as bad as the others.

“Hey everybody, Revenge of the Sith didn’t suck! It didn’t suck! Thank you, George Lucas! Oh, thank you!”

(For the record, my favorite film of the year was Robert Rodriguez’s adaptation of Frank Miller’s Sin City. Flawed as it was, it still showed more flair, guts and balls than anything else I saw last year.)

Several great names were taken this year, many of which had a profound influence on my life, including Johnny Carson, Richard Pryor, Hunter S. Thompson and Arthur Miller.

Because it is my nature to balance my tastes between the sublime and the ridiculous, I also must mention the passing of another great performer, the WWE star Eddie Guerrero, a star cut down in the prime of his life. I have no desire to exalt my fascination with professional wrestling at this time, but I would be remiss if I didn’t pay tribute to someone who was a lot better than any of you will ever know.

Howard Stern left what is now known as “terrestrial radio” for the unknown frontiers of satellite broadcasting. Stern, in his farewell speech, called himself “the last of a dying breed”. While he may not be the last, there certainly will be no star of his magnitude to emerge from the ranks of commercial radio again, a business that has been in free-fall for several years now. I personally won’t miss Howard that much. I’m still in mourning for The Don and Mike Show, pulled from Portland area airwaves last Spring with no hope of revival.)

While I maintain that 2005 bit the Big One almost every day out of 365, I was able to claim a solid personal victory, a memory of which I will always cherish.

My book, In the Dark: A Life and Times in a Movie Theater finally made it into my local library. One down, several thousand to go. This completes the last of the attainable goals I set for myself in the publication of this, my book ever to see print. It also makes up for the fact that my sales have been, shall we say, non-existent (currently ranked #3,345,802 on the Amazon.com sales chart) and that I wasn’t able to garner any publicity whatsoever. The ultimate insult was that I was dissed and dismissed by Portland’s ultra-left-wing radio station KBOO-FM, the radio equivalent of public access. I might as well been scorned by a Buddhist monk. When In the Dark first saw the light of day back in 2003, I knew I was in for an uphill struggle. Publish America, the house that handles my book, is a Publish on Demand (or POD) outfit that is not much of a step above self-publishing in the vast Book World. It also pretty dictates that I market the material myself, something that makes me more of an incompetent boob than I already am. I knew from the first few months that it was going to be a Herculean task to get my material purchased by anyone more than my family and friends since, let’s face it, no one else really knew anything about it. I’m not complaining nor do I believe the people PA misrepresented themselves in any way. Who knows if my book would have ever seen the light of day at all unless I paid for the whole shebang myself? So I had to come to grips with this grim reality and at least bask in what remains of any success I’ve accumulated. First of all, I got published. I have a tangible piece of material that came from my own blood, sweat and tears and can call my own. Second, I am in an honest to goodness bookstore. No, not in theory, but the real deal: Powell’s Books in downtown Portland, one of the world’s great bookstores. How my book got there was that someone, I’m not sure who, resold a review copy to Powell’s as used. Technically, it’s still on their shelf, even if it is just one copy. Finally, a couple of months back while perusing the film section of the Beaverton Library, guess what I spied with my little eye? An edition of In the Dark sitting right next to Crime Films by Carlos Clarens, author of An Illustrated History of the Horror Film, one of the first books I ever checked out of the library. You cannot believe the rush I got seeing MY book-written by ME-with MY name on the cover-resting on a library shelf. I needed this validation more than I ever realized and for the first time in a long time, certainly all year, I was proud of myself. Now for full disclosure, I should tell you that I solicited the library myself. I was just pleasantly surprised they went ahead and decided to carry it. I guess one could say this is the equivalent of saying Star Wars didn’t suck. If so, then so be it. The sales of my book are dismal. It can only be purchased in as bookstore if someone returns a copy. And the Beaverton Library carries it only because I asked them too. So what? What this means to me is that I no longer believe myself to be a literary bastard because now I consider myself legitimate at long last. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all the confirmation I need for now…and that is enough.

There’s my freaking silver lining for the black cloud known as 2005.

I put one in the win column.