Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-The Adventures of Crash Pollard

Part two of the Under the Big Top saga, a three part "epic" recalling my first vaudeville show at the

Two Cyclinis and a fish

Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville in Stockton, California.

PART ONE OF UNDER THE BIG TOP-BE A CLOWN

Neil Pollard is one of the funniest men who ever walked the face of the earth. That I was fortunate enough to work with him was an unexpected, but more than welcome perk of this show I didn't expect. It paid off dividends in the end because I was able to momentarily ride on the coattails on the man, the legend, the guy who never met a chicken he didn't like. 

As I stated in the first installment, Neil was managing the Chicken Kitchen restaurant as the same time the show was underway, taking care of those customers as well as the theater patrons since this was indeed a dinner theater. How he knew to race across the parking lot to get ready for whatever act he had been cast is beyond me. Sometimes he'd run a little late like the blackout Neil and I were cast in.

Me: I heard your parents used to be in the circus. 

Neil: That's right. They used to make love on the flying trapeze. 

Me: What did they call themselves? 

Neil: Hi Diddle Diddle! (buh-dump-bump!) 

One night, Neil missed his cue and I did the whole thing myself. When he realized his error, it barely fazed him. "Shit," he uttered. "Well, carry on!" Then he dashed back to the restaurant because, above all else, Neil Pollard was a early pioneer of multi-tasking.

In UNDER THE BIG TOP, Neil also appeared as The Great Flamo, a fire eating act. (Or was it Flamo the Great? Maybe it was just plain Flamo)  I should have asked how he did it, when he learned it or even why. Whatever the answers were, he certianly did it. Set up on one of the side stages, Neil gave a little audience patter as he lit his torches over a can of Sterno on a small podium. While I didn't witness this myself, I got the full report from several sources of what occurred during an early performance. After he had fired up the Sterno, he accidentally knocked the can over, spilling the jellied fuel and igniting the podium on fire. Neil basically stood dumbfounded, flipping his hands in the air like Art Carney's Ed Norton character from THE HONEYMOONERS. Thinking fast (mostly), Greg Dart ran down the side aisle with a fire extinguisher. He put out the fire, but the powdery blast from the extinguisher bounced off the back wall of the side stage and ricocheted into the audience members who were unfortunate enough to be sitting in the front row that evening. Unaware for what happened since we were getting ready for our Wild Willy number, Goldie and I entered the same side stage soon afterward in the midst of a toxically dusty haze. When the lights came up, I couldn't get my lines out, basically choking throughout the whole thing. I could hear Goldie coughing inside her bear mask as well. Once it was mercifully over, we stumbled our way backstage and I think we both said in unison once we got our breaths back, "What the hell happened out there?" Oh, it was Neil.

Another sketch in which I had been cast was the other circus act known The Cyclinis. All the

performers, with the exception of Flamo, were all Italian. (There were a bunch of "inis" in the show.) Our bicycle act consisted of Neil as Bicyclini, our brother Vincent as Unicyclini and me wearing a crash helmet and chewing bubble gum as little Tricyclini. For my entrance, I rode a creaky tricycle around the band pit, stop midway, blow a big bubble and complete the circle. How I never fell into that dark hole is a theatrical miracle. The sketch consisted of the three of us writing our bikes back and forth across the stage as Phil De Angelo, in his role as ringmaster, narrated the entire act. Vince had popped a wheelie across the stage, hence his designation as Uni. After a couple of more back and forths without or reason, I switched bikes, now riding on the handlebars of Neil's bike backwards and had to pedal us the two of us in reverse from stage right to stage left, hitting the proscenium arch with the front tire or my back whichever came first. What could go wrong? Well, it started off all well for the first month or so until one night as I was about to start pedaling, my foot slipped once we got started. We instantly started to wobble and Neil attempted to regain our balance, but took took a sharp left upstage in the process. He tried to adjust by steering right just as hard. Helpless, I didn't know what to do except lift my feet up so it's not to get caught in the spokes or drag on the stage. All of a sudden we passed up Phil. I thought to myself, "Hmm, that's funny. There goes Phil." And in that split second, we fell in a heap down stage left on the other side of the proscenium arch. I landed sideways on one ass cheek directly onto one of the footlights, basically a cut out spray painted can, flattening it and a crushing the light bulb underneath. Had I landed an inch or two over, I probably would have cut off my right buttock, remaining half ass for all eternity. In a burst of adrenal shock, I immediately stood, brushed myself off, walked off stage and screamed to the top of my lungs. I then returned a second later and posed. Ta da! The act was never the same again which I can only blame myself for since I had grown a little skittish after our pile-up, throwing off both my timing and balance. What were the odds that would have happened again? In my mind, pretty goddamn good.

Our founder

On closing night I had something in mind I had been plotting for a while. When Neil would pop in from the restaurant duties for the Cyclinis, he quickly don his tights, sometimes just wearing hem underneath his street clothes to save time. Then he'd change hair. It's no secret that Mr. Pollard wear a rug in his daily life. But for this show, he'd put on a curly wig, not over his toupee, but in place of. To accomplish this without anyone watching, he'd shove his entire head into the wardrobe and pull the old switcheroo. He wasn't fooling anybody. If he did, they'd probably still wonder, "Why is Neil sticking his head in the wardrobe?" During the last performance, I chose Hubba Bubba, the juiciest bubble gum at the time. Before our big ride across, Neil used to give me a big kiss right on top of my crash helmet. That night after the big smooch, I took the gum out of my mouth, lifted his wig, place it underneath place and slapped his curly locks down upon it. Splat! Backstage as he pulled off that juicy wad of Hubba Bubba, he gave me the ultimate Neil insult:

"You sumbitch." 

An ass move on my part to be sure, but believe me, it was done with a lot of affection. Honest.

Neil and friend

Following that show, Neil only appeared onstage only a handful of times, still flying across the parking lot in the nick of time, sometimes not. I, for one wish there was more and I'm not alone in that, but the tide was changing around the theater at that point. What Neil did onstage appeared so deceptively effortless and devoid of self-consciousness because he didn't have a false funny bone in his whole body. He was all natural and, dare I say, organic. Probably free range as well. In real life, he certainly had his moments as well with an abundance of unintentional slapstick to his credit. There is nothing more satisfyingly hilarious to a Pollardville veteran than a Neil Pollard story and there a million of 'em, all solid gold.

I was proud to work for and with the man, especially during my very first show. If I had to do it all over again, I'd give Neil a big kiss on his head. That is, before I stuck my gum on top just so I could hear it one more time again:

"You sumbitch."

COMING UP: NAZIS INVADE POLLARDVILLE

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Tales from the Ville: Under the Big Top-Be a Clown

Something else that made 1979 my favorite year was my debut on the Palace Showboat stage soon after the ghost town closed for the season, joined by my fellow desperados in arms, Bill Humphreys and Grant-Lee Phillips. I've already recounted the melodrama part of the story, that being DOWNFALL OF THE UPRISING or WHO DO THE VOODOO,  so let's take a deep dive into the second half of that double bill, so break out your pool noodles, gang, and float along. 

WHO DO THE VOODOO?

Since the shows at the Ville were traditionally two parters (melodrama AND vaudeville, the peanut butter and chocolate of show biz), the second half of this particular show debuting at the end of 1979 was to be entitled UNDER THE BIG TOP as directed by Mr. Phil DeAngelo. At first glance, conventional thinking would at least assume these might be a circus themed olio. Well, yes and no. At our first rehearsal, Phil laid out his plans for the show. Yes, there would be circus acts, basically recycled bits from shows past. However, he wanted to expand on the concept and rattled off his ideas like clues on The $100,000 Pyramid.  The finale was to be gospel-themed along the lines of a tent revival. Midway there would be a big production number featuring the entire cast ala Broadway or, more accurately, in the manner of Music Circus. "Things found under the big top, Phil!" Grant-Lee Phillips added "How about mass camping expeditions?" As for that production number, we'll bookmark  that for now.

Being full of youthful piss and vinegar combined with the chutzpah I felt I earned from my year in the Ghost Town and working on the melodrama with Bob Gossett, I desired to creatively contribute to the olios as well. I wrote a few bits, mostly duds, but one made it through, a two-piece blackout I called it "Tex McKenna and His Dancing Bear". When introduced, cowboy Tex would draw his pistol and make his bear dance by shooting at his feet. For the payoff, the roles were reversed with the bear holding the gun, shooting at Tex to make him dance. Blackout. I played Tex with the one and only Goldie Pollard as the bear. As director, Phil changed the name of the cowboy to Wild Willy for some reason, but didn't alter it any further. For its inclusion to UNDER THE BIG TOP, I have to thank Goldie for going to bat for me. From this point on, I realized I had found a theater angel or, better yet, she found me. Because of her shining the light, I had an in-road into the theater that lasted for the next decade an. as I always said, allowed me to do everything I've ever wanted to do in show business, amazingly under one roof or big top, as it were. One stop shopping.

Joining the vaudeville cast were Lisa DeAngelo, Vincent Warren (despite what the program says, which is Joel's middle name) and Neil Pollard himself, pulling double duty managing the Chicken Kitchen and schlepping across the parking lot for a few choice moments in the spotlight. More about him later. As for Lisa and Vince, it should definitely be noted that this was where and when their relationship began, resulting in a marriage that has lasted after all these years. That's probably because they didn't get married on the Palace Showboat stage. Take it from one who knows.

UNDER THE BIG TOP began with Lisa's solo rendition of the Sondheim classic "Send in the Clowns", transitioning into "Be a Clown" with most of the cast in full costume and makeup. Over the standard six month run of the show, the clown facial paint had its variations. For example, someone (maybe me?) once drew a tic tac toe on their face. Another time, three of us-Grant (his suggestion), Cory Troxclair and myself-made up our faces as the members of KISS. Kids. Whudda ya gonna do?

Following the opening were the various circus "acts", per se, called for us to don tights (hello, dance belt!) and perform parodies of three ring performances. One of them was Grant in the role of Jugglini, a rather one note bit that he ended up transforming into comedy gold. He gathered up a bunch of whatever he could find backstage, studied them and came up with gags that were spot on hilarious, prop comedy at the speed of light. To see that teenage mind at work was awe-inspiring. He still worked in the juggling gag, lame as it was, as his "big" finish or finale (He would tell the audience in broken Italian accent, "I know that it you say. Finale.") His best gag involved the can of mixed nuts with the spring snake inside and announce that he would now recreate a scene from the movie ALIEN. He'd hold the can up to his chest and say "I can't eat no salad", then open the can to release the "chestburster" within. Absolute freaking genius. 

NEXT UP-WORKING WITH NEIL POLLARD

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Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-I Shot the Sheriff

Photo by Edward Thorpe

Back in that first year of Tule Flats, we played fast and loose with the age-old gunfights we performed for the semi-masses out, on Main Street. One of these known as "Poker Chip" had the main antagonist gun down the sheriff. Aghast, the Storekeeper cries out:

"You shot the sheriff!"

Someone, I'm not sure who only that it wasn't me, adlibbed, in song:

"But I did not shoot the deputy!"

I don't think Sheriff John Hoffman got that joke. Then again, he was on the ground anyway and probably for the most part, didn't get a lot of what we tried to pass for humor that year. And it didn't mean a damn thing to him anyway.

Such was Sheriff John. As long as you didn't mess with him, try to throw him off or try to give him something to do that would alter his well-worn character, he went along with it. 

John was such an iconic figure that it seemed like the whole town was built around him. But as the story goes, Neil Pollard had visited Frontiertown amusement park at the Big Oak ranch in El Cajon, California and stopped dead when he saw John for the very first time. He couldn't get over how much he looked like Richard Boone, starring at the time in Have Gun, Will Travel and couldn't take his eyes off him. According to John, he thought Neil was perhaps into cowboys, but in a different way if'n y'all catch my drift. (Actually, John was more blunt than that.) Neil finally approached him and wanted to hire him away to be the sheriff of his own place up in Stockton and the rest was Ghost Town history.

That Town Bum was Neil Pollard

When I met him, I got the same impression as literally thousands of others that passed through the gates of the town did: Sheriff John scared the crap out of me. I chronicled this in an earlier post:

THE VILLE-PART TWO

Once I became a gunfighter and fixture in the town myself, John wouldn't admit it, but he was kind of fond of me in his own inimitable way, calling me "Knucklehead" (pronounced Knuckhaid in his drawl). For awhile, there were only the three gunfighters in the town-Sheriff John, Fast Fester (who ran the saloon) and me. Since we didn't have any set schedule of when to perform, I always wanted to put on a show no matter if what size audience we had, sometimes as low as five people much to the chagrin of the other two. I came up with a gunfight where I did all the talking, pitting the two of them in a showdown for my amusement. In the end, they both gunned me down, stole my money and went into the saloon together for a drink. They loved this show...obviously. It became known as "The Quick Show" and it became to go-to as far as John and Fester were concerned. What did I care? I got to be the star of show. Once the three of us were asked to attend a Girl Scout day camp at Micke Grove. As for what show should we do, the majority-my two pals-ruled. "The Quick Show!" Since I was all of maybe seventeen at the time, skinny as a rail and cute as a button (if you consider clothes fasteners attractive), I somehow became a teenage idol, at least to this gathering pre-adolescents. Once The Quick Show had finished and I lay on the grass shot by the other two, I found myself surrounded by a swarm of Girl Scouts. Suddenly, they became a bit aggressive and I did the only thing I thought I should do-run for my life. They gave chase immediately, screaming at the top of their lungs. I felt like all four Beatles wrapped into one with their rabid female fans in hot pursuit. I called out to John and Fester for help, but they were too amused to lend a hand. 

My favorite Sheriff John story was during "Poker Chip" when I played the Storekeep. Neil had just that day given me a new straw hat (made out of styrofoam). At the end of the gunfight, Fester shoots at my feet and runs me into the saloon. As he did, he broke a board in the porch and down he went down hard. Fester being a large man of considerable weight, should not having been doing any sort of stunt work whatsoever.  I rushed over to him to see if he was okay when he just laughed at me.  I thought he hit his head on the way down and was delirious, but he said, "You better start laughing too because here's your hat" as he pulled my crushed bonnet from under his enormous ass. Shocked I went to the sheriff and bawled like Stan Laurel. "John! Look what he did to my hat!" John snatched it away, stuck it on my head and consoled me. "Oh, it's alright." Then he pulled the brim down on either side over my ears, destroying it once and for all. Neil did not give me a replacement.

When I returned to the town for the Tule Flats resurgence, John seemed relieved that both Ed and I were part of this "new" crew as well as DW since he wasn't one for change. When I took over as Entertainment Director, I felt it best, just like Dennis did, to allow John to be John. Let him do his own thing as well as his same roles without variation. That left it up to the rest of us and try some new things. Doing the same bits over and over, I loosened the tethers probably a bit too much to allow for some variation and experimentation. Grant and Bob Gossett found a couple of paper mache bird heads from the Showboat to become a pair of chicken cowboys in "Saddle Drop".  A line of dialogue they added was: "Who's your favorite composer?" "Bach-Bach-Bach!" Another time Grant (once again) and I crammed a bunch of clothing in the back of our pants to give us giant butts, maybe as a homage to my old friend Fester, for the same gunfight. It was purely a visual, but it went over well. Not everyone thought so, particularly Ed. We got into a heated argument over this, he being more of a purist at that time, unwilling to improvise at these curve balls we threw. But John was another matter. After the "Big Butt Saddle Drop", he held up his hand to me and said, "Don't even talk to me." I was momentarily crestfallen as I watched him amble  away to sit on the porch of the Assay Office. He then looked up at me, began to chuckle and shook his head as if to say "You fuckin' kids..." 

We had many an after hour get-together once the town closed with beer and booze a'flowin', so much so that it became a regular part of the day. At first, John didn't indulge and let us be as long we didn't keep him up at night when he claimed he'd shoot our asses, but as  time went by, he joined in. Sometimes maybe a little too much. His health, particularly his ticker, wasn't in the best working order. His chain-smoking of Bull Durham cigarettes, the gnarliest, nastiest tobacco on the planet, sure as hell didn't help. And long as I had known him, John took nitroglycerin pills. Whenever I saw him pop one, I'd wonder if he'd emit a little puff of smoke.

The weekend after the Fourth of July blowout, he wasn't feeling too perky, so he took that Friday and Saturday off  from the town. I visited him up in the apartment Neil built in the hotel, just as I had several times before in the off-hours. He'd tell me stories about his time in Missouri where he grew up and the various ghost towns he worked in like Silver Dollar City in Branson and the like. I even asked him some advice about women which became nothing more than really "Quit worryin' so much and just have some goddamn fun." For 24 year old me, that was sage stuff. That was the last time I saw him.

The following Friday morning, John's body was discovered on the floor of his apartment and, yep, it was said that he died with his boots on. That evening was a rough one. Ed was pretty much beside himself, going off on John's ex-wife who claimed was there to pick over his belongings like a hungry vulture. I ventured up those hotel stairs in pretty much of a daze myself, not believing this Rock of Gibraltar had come tumbling down.

We arrived as we always had to open the town the next day, though nobody's heart was in it. The decision was made to stay closed until the next weekend, but nobody left. We sat on the porches in silent mourning. I took a walk out back to collect my thoughts, all the way to what we called the back 40 when I saw what looked like smoke. Upon investigation, the brush out by the KWIN radio tower was indeed aflame and heading our way.  I ran back to get help from the pack of sad cowpokes in the town and together, we put that sucker out. The whole time, I kept thinking what John used to say some days in frustration. "I'll burn this goddamn place some day." Was this the day? Turned out, it wasn't.

The decision to bury John in Missouri didn't go over too well with us. We were denied the chance to say goodbye, no funeral, memorial or even a viewing of the body. It left a bitter taste in our mouths which we tried to wash down with too many pitchers of beer. Inebriation always brings out the best laid plans of drunken men, so of course we came up with a solution to satisfy our selfish grieving souls. Much like what happened to the corpse of John Barrymore, we'd steal John's body from the funeral parlor that was used as a way station before he was transported to Hannibal, Mo. and, what? Bury him in the Ghost Town? Where, the graveyard at the edge of Main Street? The Back 40? Backstage at the Showboat?  It obviously wasn't very well thought out beyond the body snatching, though it did get as far as Greg Dart and I going on a reconnaissance mission to the funeral parlor to scope out a way in and, hopefully, out. We weren't very lucky in our efforts and abandoned this stupid idea when we returned, a good thing because, as we discovered later, John was long gone. His body had been shipped off that morning. Level heads didn't exactly prevail. Fate took pity on our dumbass selves.

To compensate, we had our own memorial soon after.  We dug a an empty grave with a beautiful marker Jim Cusick with the words "Shoot straight and cut the bullshit" emblazoned on the bottom. A few of us spoke, then placed some items to commemorate him. I tossed in some of his nudie mags and the little tin badges he'd hand out to the kids. Two sides of the same coin. The original marker was apparently stolen over time, replaced by another that kept the bull but deleted the shit. At least they named a building after him-Hoffman House-in the town next to the Gazette office, which housed the same teardrop trailer he brought with him from El Cajon, a place mainly of us utilized that became the stuff of legends. 'Nuff said.

Sheriff John was larger than life, ornerier than shit and definitely one of a kind, at least in my lifetime. The memories I have of him roll through like the tumblin' tumbleweed he truly was, the one real cowboy out of all the poseurs we had in Pollardville/Tule Flats Ghost Town and that includes myself.  He had big boots to fill when he passed and no one was could quite fill them. Don't know why they ever tried. 

On my final visit to the Ghost Town, I sat by myself on the bench outside the saloon. I swore that I could hear his growling drawl spouting dialogue from one of the gunfights. Maybe I wanted to hear him so I did, the remembrance of a true character that reverberates to this very day and undoubtedly always will mainly because I want to and always will.

Don't think I could say the same about the deputy.

Next up: Chapter Five-OH, BLACK WATER

MORE STORIES OF TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

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Tales from the Ville: Bohemian Rap City

The recent release of the Queen biopic BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY reminded me that once upon a

time, we at the Palace Showboat damn near beat them to the punch. Well, sort of.

Being that we had some many creative folks in and around the Ville at any given time, we had certain side projects that utilized not only members of our artistic community but the magical little play land we found ourselves in. many a video had been shot there in one form or another such as Bob Gossett's CITIZEN KANE parody CITIZEN PLAIN and several more by Tom Amo such as BACKSTAGE PASS, both projects that I not only collaborated on but appeared in as well.

But it was Bill Humphreys and Grant-Lee Phillips who joined forces to come up a short film based upon Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody". Music videos were in the infant stage and I don't think MTV debuted yet, so they were ahead of the curve in the USA by a smidge. (Queen filmed their own video of the song that aired on Britain's "Top of the Pops" TV show)  Even better, the project was to be actually shot on 16mm film, borrowing a camera of Neil Pollard's that hadn't seen the sight of day in many a moon. (Yes, you read that right.)

As I recall the basic premise, Grant was to play a young soldier getting sent off to war. It was all bits and pieces, much like a regular video scenario that we're all familiar with now, but back then it seemed innovative as hell. Script-wise I was able to put my two cents in, which was about what my contribution was worth. During the Galileo (Galileo) section, I thought several shots of  the famous astronomer should be included, finishing with a single shot of Figaro the cat from PINOCCHIO. Like I said, two cents worth. Other than this and a too-complicated 360 degree shot (summarily shot down), that was about it for my input. Mostly it was a Humphreys/Phillips joint.

A fantasy sequence was created featuring soldiers from different eras and since we had access to costumes from the theater, it looked quite promising. We found  a perfect location way in the back of the Ghost Town, an area we called the Back 40. There had been a crane on the property that Neil had been using for one thing or another. That Pollard guy was always up to something. Since it had a basket, Bill thought he could utilize this for the video...with Neil's permission, of course. So during a night shoot, we had what John Candy's legendary Johnny LaRue character from SCTV always dreamed of...a crane shot! When Bill went up in the crane basket with the camera, I could see why Jphnny coveted this. The rest of the shoot went well into the night without incident with the exception of John Himle, dressed as a Revolutionary War solider, simultaneously splitting and losing his pants.

Another scene filmed on stage at Stagg High School auditorium featured Goldie Pollard as Grant's anguished mother, sending her boy into battle. I wasn't present for that shoot, but according to Bill filled me in. He set up an extreme close-up of Goldie staring straight into the camera with a solitary tear falling down her cheek,  a heart-breaking image that positively nailed.

That was a wrap and unfortunately, that was that. We had no budget with the exception of what was spent on film, a totally rookie mistake for a bunch of broke-ass artists that didn't realize that someone had to pay to not only develop the raw footage we shot but also to put the bloody thing together in an editing room. While it was a sweet novelty for this to be shot on film, this wouldn't have been an issue had we used video. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, the Pollardville production of BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY was in limbo. The last I heard, Grant ended up with the footage when he moved to Los Angeles and somehow was misplaced over time

So this became a lost project of ours. It would have terrific if it had been completed. Now it would a real piece of nostalgia, a time capsule from that period of time. It didn't, but so what? The fact that a group of us wanted to stretch our artistic muscles and try something different was everything that we were all about back then. The effort itself, even if it came to naught, proved our mettle  and the memories remain even if the film does not.

Like the song says, "Any way the wind blows..."

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Tales from the Ville: Super Chicken

 

My last act as a long-time gunslinger for Pollardville Ghost Town involved a road trip up to Jamestown for an event known as the Gunfighter Rendezvous. Basically, it's a Shriner's convention with guns or a cowboy version of Comic-Con. The visiting gunfighter groups from around the state differed from us-a merry band of goofballs, clowns and miscreants-in their whole approach to the concept of wild west shows. They were re-enactors, not unlike those Civil War buffs that play out the Battle of Gettysburg in some Wal-Mart parking lot near East Bumfuck, Texas. These folks were historically accurate in every way-costumes, speech, demeanor-and their shows were deadly dull to the bone. This made up the bulk of those attending the Jamestown Rendezvous. Then there was us, dressed in our finest thrift store gear, parading about the proceedings like a bunch of rodeo clowns on happy juice.


Needless to say, we weren't very popular with the other groups. As for the audiences watching our shows, well, let's put it this way. No one yawned. Instead they laughed and laughed often. We provided something the others weren't: ENTERTAINMENT. (Well, at least our interpretation of the concept in this context.) It sure beat the hell out of sleeping through their version of Gunfight at the OK Corral. It was the kind of crap that kills Living History.

(Not the Pollardville version of that legendary Tombstone tale of which I did not take part. That was lean and mean...and about a half hour shorter.)

The big to-do at these proceedings involved a recreation of The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid, the attempted bank robbery by the Jesse James gang that ended in a massive shootout. All the gunfighter groups were to participate in this re-enactment,even us. Well, once the shooting started, it didn't let up. I, for one, didn't go down with one shot. Naturally, I had just been winged and kept firing long after the James boys were long gone. Hey, I didn't come all this way to be merely atmosphere. I wanted to change history. But when the gun smoke cleared, reality reared its ugly head. We were just playing Cowboys and Indians or Good Guys and Bad Guys  or as we used to call it in my neighborhood, Guns.

"I got you!"

"No, you didn't! I got you first!"
"Nuh-uh!"

Some things never change. Boys will always be boys.

The Pollardville Gunslingers' main show that day took place on, naturally, Main Street not far from the Jamestown Hotel. We picked the perennial "favorite" gunfight known as SADDLE DROP, the first skit most of us at that time learned as soon we strapped on a gun belt. We chose this because it utilized all the gunslingers we brought along, specifically the "3 free shots" gag we had added over the years. At one point, the sheriff tells his adversary that he probably couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, so he allows the varmint three tries to take him down. The first shot could be a guy standing off to the side holding a filled paper or strofoam cup with his finger covering a hole near the bottom. When the shot is fired, the finger is removed and water pours out of what looks like a bullet hole. It is then that the first victim of collateral damage falls to the ground. (This was Bill Humpheys' gag.) The second shot, a squawk is heard as a rubber chicken is flung up in the air and into the middle of the street. The last is a trick bullet that nails about four to five cowboys that drop to the street one after the other.

The only problem was that we forgot the rubber chicken. Steve Orr, who didn't participate in this particular year's Rendezvous but came up to support us, came to our rescue. He told us not to worry and went into the local market to make a purchase: a whole raw chicken from the meat counter . When the second shot was fired, a squawk rang out and Steve, standing off to the side, lobbed that poultry into the air. It landed smack dab in the middle of the street....SPLAT! Right on cue.

Neil Pollard, who also had  been visiting that day, checked out the carcass after the gunfight.

"You know, it shame to waste a chicken like that. I should bring it back to the restaurant," he said.

It wouldn't surprise me at all if Neil wasn't kidding.

That late afternoon, John Himle, the legend known as JT Buck and I hopped into his car and headed down  Main Street out of Jamestown and back to Stockton. I was only a passenger, not in control of the situation, much as I had been the whole weekend. To tell you the truth, I was just another body. The time had finally come to hang up my six gun once and for all. The fun had gone out of it way before this trip and I wasn't just going through the motions, I had just been showing up.In true Himle fashion, John popped in a cassette of the COLORS soundtrack with Ice-T on the title track, rolled down the windows and cranked up the volume. Sure, it was an ass move but the absurdity of it made me smile. After all, what were cowboys but the gangbangers of their time? As we low-rode out of town , all eyes on the street-gunfighter, tourist, resident- glared at us as we passed.. I rode with my friend Buck into the sunset, a ill-fitting, but somehow appropriate to this, my last round-up as a Pollardville Ghost Town gunslinger.

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You were expecting "Happy Trails"?