Tales from the VIlle-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Conclusion

Wrapping this sad saga up with either a pretty bow or a hangman's noose, here is the blissfully final installment of my Palace Showboat directorial debut.

After the final dress rehearsal and less than 24 hours to go, it was coming right down to the wire. Set pieces we're still being constructed and painted that would hopefully be dry and nailed/glued/stapled/duct taped together by the time the curtain rose om opening night. That didn't stop the reception of another kick to my groin. In finale, set in a heavenly nightclub called Pair O' Dice, I envisioned tables with paper mache' fronts on either side stage painted to resemble clouds, Maxfield Parrish puffballs. My tortured heart sank to anew low when I saw the end result: two giant ice cubes that just tore a hole in the hull of the Titanic. What a metaphor. Too late to redo them, my final directorial decision was that to shit-can them both and keep them as boring cocktail tables. Blah, humbug.

For me, the opening weekend of LEGEND OF THE ROGUE/LIFE IS A CABARET was an absolute blur. Apparently, all was well, for the most part. The melo went swimmingly, a triumph I wasn't able to enjoy with the Sword of Damocles vaudeville hanging over my head. But CABARET, lumbering mess that it was, plodded along without a hitch with the exception that it was so bloody long. The entire show didn't let out until close to midnight, 30 to 45 minutes over.  

DW Landingham. Naturally.

In the following week, damage control was put into place without my participation. In effect, Goldie, in her venerable role as producer, basically took my show away from me, an act of mercy perhaps that should have happened weeks before opening. Instead of being led behind the barn with a bullet put to my head, I chose to suffer the consequences, namely staying with the show as a cast member only. (My director credit remained on the program.) More numbers were sliced, diced and tossed in the trash bin, replaced by a couple of old favorites from the Ville catalog, more irony for me to chew on. The great D.W. Landingham came in to save the day, becoming a special guest star cast member as the top banana in the DR. CURE-ALL sketch and THE HECKLER. Naturally, he excelled, guaranteeing his spot on the Pollardville Mt. Rushmore. This is how it went down for the entire run which continued without major incident or my input. By the show's end at the end of the summer, I was relieved for it to be over and put behind me.

But was it? Here I am over forty years later. dragging myself over the coals, though I'm doing so to gain some perspective and complete this apology tour. In retrospect, LIFE IS A CABARET had its moments, a very adequate second half,  though I know goddamn well that it is nobody's favorite. (In case you haven't guessed, I count myself in the mix) The musical numbers were all fine, throwing a tap number into the finale and a solo spot for our superb drummer Joel Warren playing the conga and singing Kenny Rogers' "The Hoodooin' of Miss Fanny DeBerry". However, there was a big gaping hole I didn't fill and that was COMEDY.  The one thing I had built my reputation upon had been sorely lacking. Two bits I conceived had been given the heave-ho and I had zippity doo dah to replace them. Thank Buddha for D.W. and some classic material at our disposal.

Quite frankly, as if I haven't been, the whole premise of the show was flimsy at best and, under scrutiny, fell apart at the seams. The only word to describe it all would be disappointing. It's like that phrase parents use to cut kids to the quick, "I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed." Among those I let down were Goldie, who gave me this shot, Bill, who I treated poorly as both a friend and never a collaborator, the cast, who always gave their best and elevated the material each and every performance and even the Ville itself for taking my back on its legacy because I wanted to put my own spin on things I knew nothing about. The previous show, GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE, was a big step forward while mine barely made it own of the starting gate before tripping over its own feet. 

Mercifully, it wasn't a complete boondoggle. The melodrama did maintain the spirit of excellence that SEVEN WIVES FOR DRACULA (GOODBYE TV's companion) set forth, both on stage and behind the scenes. For that I was grateful enough to keep my head above water. While the cast excelled throughout, I have to award the Most Valuable Player Award to Ed Thorpe for going above and beyond with his contributions to the whole show. Cast as Rhett, one of two henchman of the villain and the smallest role in THE ROGUE, he created a demonic Tasmanian Devil-like character that blew the roof off the joint. I had created a character for him in the second half, a hick stand-up comic named Jim Bob Cornhusker, that he brought to brilliant light but was unfortunately short-lived. To make up for it, he received an important role in DOCTOR CURE-ALL where he once again exploded onto that stage like the seasoned Pollardville pro he was and always would be.

What I have come to realize in reliving this episode of my Ville life is that prior to accepting the role of vaudeville director, things were too damn easy for me and when it became hard, I floundered like a tuna on the deck of a fishing boat. My inherent immaturity overrode my talent. What I failed to recognize is the plain truth (or life cliche', if you must) that it is the hard that makes it good. If putting a show together was so easy, everyone could do it. It isn't, they can't and at that pivotal moment, neither could I. But, hey, wasn't I supposed to be Orson Welles? Uh-uh. Neither was he at first. Orson didn't suddenly appear out of the blue with CITIZEN KANE in his hot little hands. He had years of training and stage experience under his belt before his career took off, albeit at an early age. Me, I'm self-taught at just about everything, which served me well initially, but the arrogance of youth, my own, exposed my shortcomings and damn near did me in for good.

Following THE ROGUE/CABARET came Bob Gossett's melodrama PIRATES OF THE GOLDEN SEA  (or KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY CHEST) and Ed's VOYAGE TO PARADISE. I wasn't about to jump into the frying pan again, so I stayed off the stage for quite a stretch. Goldie, bless her lil' pea-pickin' heart, played into my strengths again and allowed me to pen a couple of sketches and gags for it as I did for the next production as well. I kept my feet in the water, but I wasn't ready to go back into the deep end again. Not yet anyway. 

That's a story for another time. Just not this one. 

SEE ALSO;

LIFE IS CABARET PART ONE

and PART TWO

AND THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY ALL ONE PAGE ENTITLED

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part Two

The continuing misadventures of my directorial debut at the Palace Showboat Theater at Pollardville. Pardon me as I purge.

Time has never been my friend. In fact, I would venture to say it was my arch-nemesis. This indisputable fact came into play as I scrambled to put my show LIFE IS A CABARET together. By the time auditions rolled around, I had perhaps 2/3 glued together. (Maybe 3/4 if I was being generous, which I'm not) The pressure was definitely on, but my finger hadn't hit the panic button. Yet. 

Tryouts were, unfortunately, rather turbulent. We had a decent turn-out of past Showboat players, many of which were highly complimentary of my melodrama script (LEGEND OF THE ROGUE) which gave me a necessary boost. But egos came to the forefront when one actor we wanted as the villain of the piece gave us (producer Goldie Pollard, melo director Bill Humphreys and yours truly) a set of demands that included being excluded from any cast numbers in the second half of the show as well as a solo specialty number. Since it was my vaudeville, I put the nixed these suggestions and he went on his merry way, a pity since I always liked this guy as a performer and he would have been perfect for the villain. Another actor who really wanted the lead got a supporting role, became butt-hurt in the process and also decided to set his own terms. Goldie met them all because this actor was always an asset, despite being a royal pain in the ass when things didn't go his way. What he walked away with was trivial beyond measure, but he felt victorious, though the chip remained on his shoulder throughout. 

 One bright note was a hearing impaired actor who absolutely crushed his audition and had been cast in a supporting role in the melo. I saw him as a potential breakout star. He had dramatically interpreted a song that I don't recall utilizing ASL (American sign language) and I felt this would make a great number for my show. Unfortunately, he reconsidered and dropped out before the first rehearsal. Goldie  insisted I take over the role which I reluctantly accepted. There's nothing I love more than being on stage, but I needed to focus on the second half and saw this as an unnecessary distraction. And I wrote the goddamn thing! As a result, the decision for the cast was set in stone and turned out to be all heavy hitters, as good a bunch as to ever set foot on the stage, a winning combination of the past, present and future.

Even though he was already directing THE ROGUE, I chose Bill to act as my assistant AD because I needed a safety net, even though my insecurity began to take hold, causing me to keep him at arm's length and pretty much in the dark. His experience was far greater than mine and I thought he'd take over. Was I being a control freak or merely a neurotic fool? You make the call! On a rare positive note, I had a musical director in my corner who interpreted everything I heard in my head. I couldn't read music, but I could point to what I wanted. He validated my instincts enough to show I had been on what I considered to be heading in the right direction. Unfortunately, he disappeared, POOF!, never to be heard from again. I have no idea what occurred only rumors that have never proven to be true. All I knew was he was gone and replaced by another musical director whose second guessed just about absolutely everything in my original arrangement. On top of that, I had to provide the new guy a dreaded solo number that had to be jerry-rigged into the show. My choreographer also wasn't too keen on my concepts either and attempted outlandish ideas that went nowhere, especially the girls performing their number on roller skates. My ode to female sexuality became a slapstick roller derby number. Mother of Mercy, was this the end of Cherney?. The roller skates mercifully went bye-bye in short shrift since it was a ridiculous notion and, you know, potential injuries, lawsuits and the like. The can-can number and my slapstick 10 Tango were both scrapped, the latter right after I cast myself as a bumbling waiter, but not before I took a fall off-stage smacked the back of my noggin with a curtain weight. A couple of other pieces dropped by the wayside as well including my ode to English music halls and a salute to Marlene Dietrich's rendition of "Lilli Marlene". 2/3 of a show line-up had become 1/2. The word dire became part of my vocabulary.

Creatively, I had hit a brick wall hit head first and came to a screeching halt. Confronted by people who still considered me as their friend for some unknown reason, I was taken to task for my inability to deliver the goods and keeping my cards close to my chest because I knew damn well I had nothing in my hand.  This was indeed an intervention. It was the moment that many people in the creative arts, be they actors, writers, directors, artists, what have you, dread most in their lives: when you have been exposed as a fraud. Your ego had been writing checks that your meager talent and lack of experience couldn't cash. I found myself breaking down and tearfully confessed to Goldie that I was in over my head. Without mollycoddling me, she talked me off the ledge with straight talk and cold-hard facts. What I had was enough to put on some kind of a show because, as it turned out, I actually had too much material. It was unwieldly and a frickin' mess, but a show nonetheless. 

Hell Week of rehearsals lived up to its name in more ways than one. The melodrama played quite well and, not surprisingly, Bill did a bang-up job along with the excellent cast and a spectacular set design by the brilliant Karen Van Dine. On the other hand, the vaudeville was a shambles. The cast had less faith in me as each passing rehearsal. Two of my former collaborators had completely turned against me and began working on their own show, but the worst was yet to come. Four days before opening, my father had a major stroke. While it didn't kill him, it was enough to change the remaining years of his life to their very worst. Understandably, I missed a couple of rehearsals and returned with two days to spare, a shell of my former self. My heart wasn't in it as it was and this only served to confirm that horrible reality. It didn't matter. For better, for worse or both, opening night was happening no matter what. 

The show must go on, don'tcha know?

TO BE CONCLUDED

SEE ALSO:

PART ONE OF LIFE IS A CABARET (KINDA, SORTA) 

 THE REST OF THE POLLARDVILLE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville-Life is a Cabaret (Kinda, Sorta) Part One

As I continue to chronicle my time at the Palace Showboat Theatre at Pollardville, I have to be as true to myself as I possibly can and admit to my own failures, this one in particular. These next few posts are pretty much of a purge, but necessary to my story.  

Because I was (am) a moony eyed dreamer, one of the early heroes I claimed in my creative development was Orson Welles. Using CITIZEN KANE as a benchmark, I aspired to achieve what he had with that classic film, that is, write, produce and star, by the tender age of 25. The title of wunderkind had appealed to me as well. Little did I fathom that I couldn't claim that for myself, but to have it bestowed upon by others. (There's a parallel here with the first appearance of a delusional Wile E. Coyote in a Bugs Bunny cartoon referring to himself as a "super genius".) This wasn't the only misconception I had about either myself or Mr. Welles at this point in time. To paraphrase Junior Soprano, what I didn't know could fill a book...or at least a couple of blog posts. 

Following my stage debut at the Ville, I unwisely opted out of auditioning for the next show, SEVEN BRIDES FOR DRACULA/ GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE for a couple of fairly valid reasons. The first was my commitment as Entertainment Director for a second year at then titled Tule Flats Ghost Town. The second, I wanted to create my own show for the Palace Showboat stage. Though Ed Thorpe and I wrote LA RUE'S RETURN, I wanted to go off and thus my first solo melodrama, THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, was chosen for the next show, another feather in my cap of growing plumage. But that wasn't all, as I soon found out. Producer extraordinaire Goldie Pollard granted me the honor of directing the vaudeville portion of that same show. Therefore, the next production was to be a Scott Cherney joint from top to bottom. This incredible leap of faith on Goldie's part was insurmountable. Destiny itself had blown its majestic trumpet as I had been given the keys to the kingdom...at the age of 25. Orson who?

Over the moon and back again, I dove in head first. Following the current show would be a daunting effort to say the least. DRACULA/GOODBYE TV had pretty much changed the landscape of what was possible on that stage, ushering in a new era. I felt up to the challenge and set out to do it all by myself. After all, I wrote THE ROGUE in a week's time, so how hard could it be? 

Reality check, please! 

#1: This would be my directorial debut. On stage. I was a babe in the woods. I had staged a few gunfights in the ghost town the summer before, but what else? Zippity-doo-dah. 

#2: I wanted to re-invent the wheel...again, namely the concept of a Pollardville vaudeville show. Bill Humphreys had done this with GOODBYE TV and I chose to follow in his footsteps until I headed down my own path.  My arrogance (and ignorance) prompted me to turn my nose up to what I considered to be the cornball Pollardville formula. After all, I knew better, didn't I? 

#3 My theater experience overall was pretty slight, especially in terms of music and choreography. What the hell did I know? I had been a bit player in a high school production of DAMN YANKEES and struggled through the singing and dancing portions of  UNDER THE BIG TOP. I certainly couldn't read music and as for dancing, my closet was full of left shoes. 

Yup. The odd were against me, but what did I care? I'd show 'em. I'd show 'em all.  But first, I had to pass GO, with or without $200.

All summer long, I delved into the research and development of my show . In those pre internet days, my best friend was the public library for the wealth of information at my disposal. Initially I considered to go with a vaudeville centered around my favorite subject-the movies. I had no idea why I decided against it, probably because it was too easy. I went in to deep dive of material and soon, my concept became thus: A show that celebrated the elements of a Palace Showboat vaudeville from various venues around the world such as British music halls, Paris' Folies Bergere, American nightclubs, Germany's cabarets and so on, and so forth. Following that last piece of the puzzle came the title LIFE IS A CABARET. 

Despite this rather vague, unformed concept, my creative juices began overflowing with ideas. As a fan of THE MUPPET SHOW, I wanted puppets to serve as a background chorus for a voodoo number. A can-can dance was a necessity. I conceived a slapstick tango number to go to the tune of Ravel's Bolero. (Blake Edwards' 10, was a major film at that time). The guys' number was another rock and roller ala "Hot Patootie" from the current show. I wanted Spencer Davis Group' "Gimme Some Lovin'",  featuring Chicago gangsters for some reason I don't recall. I wanted the girls' number to be the absolute epitome of hot, a combination of  "Fever" and "Steam Heat". The opening of course had to be John Kander of Fred Ebb's "Cabaret". The finale I actually derived from a very racist Warner Brothers cartoon called GOIN' TO HEAVEN ON A MULE. In it, a lazy worker drinks a jug of hooch, passes out  and dreams he lands in heaven, which turns out to be a nightclub called Pair O' Dice. I kept that same setting with the addition of the numbers "This Joint is Jumpin'" and "It Don't Mean a Thing". Sounds horrible in a 21st century context, doesn't it?  I justified it all in the belief that whitewashing we'd apply would make all that nasty racism go away. In retrospect, I didn't have a fucking clue. However, no one else called me on this either. Not many years before, the Ville staged their own Caucasian minstrel show, so my ignorance ran concurrent with past productions. Unintentionally offensive is still offensive, but that was then, this is now. Can't change the past, but I sure can own up to it.

Let the cancellations commence. 

To Be Continued

See also: GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE TALES FROM THE VILLE-HI YO, SILVER! 

                THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE THE LEGEND CONTINUES

                 THE REST OF THE STORY, ALL ON ONE PAGE TALES FROM THE VILLE

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

MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE

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

MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE

 

Look What I Can Do!

Asking the world to acknowledge a milestone in one's life and/or career is pretty much the equivalent of acting like Stuart from the old MAD TV. "Look what I can do!" Sure, it's self-serving, but if I don't serve myself, who is?

A little history first. (Take notes. There's going to be a test.) Having had the privilege of having three melodrama scripts produced at my late, lamented and dearly beloved Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville in Stockton, California, I wanted to share with other like-minded theaters in the country (nay, the world!). I first submitted them to various play publishers without any success whatsoever. So, after a helluva lotta research, I approached theaters one at a time. A couple of times I hit pay dirt, though the second one actually produced it without either contacting myself or my co-author on LA RUE'S RETURN, thereby trying to get away without paying us. When Ed the Pitbull went after them, threatening legal action, we were compensated handsomely. Once the Internet kicked in, I dove in and tried, tried, tried again with one production to show for all my efforts. I ended up self-publishing my scripts. My rationale was that I had to get my work out there, hoping for something, sometime, somewhere.

It wasn't until the Fall of 2013 when I was contacted by Nova Cunningham (no relation to Opie) who was the marketing director of the Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville Theatre in Oceano, CA. She found my script, SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE online and wanted to produce as their 2014 summer production. The only stipulation was that the title would be changed to SONG OF THE CANYON KID. Well, I was just about to publish my novelization of LONE PRAIRIE (a silly experiment of mine) that I re-titled SONG OF THE CANYON KID. I saw a possible tie-in here, that, alas, never transpired, but my head was in the clouds once again. Naturally, I told Nova yes and lo and behold, a third act of my life was created on the spot.

I started re-channeling my efforts and sure enough, my gamble paid off. THE CANYON KID not only played that summer, but another production ran concurrently with it in Jamestown, CA. LA RUE'S RETURN also found a new stage in Missouri and, as the cherry on top, was slated to be the 2015 Summer attraction at the Great American Melodrama. From there, I was off and running with a an interesting off-ramp into the world of murder mystery dinner theater as well and finally having three of my scripts published at long last by OFF THE WALL PLAYS. 

So thank you, Nova Cunningham, wherever the hell you are in this world, for my first big break since the Pollardville days which has culminated in having my plays produced from one end of the US of A to the other. 2024, my official anniversary year, promises to be one of the best yet. More news of that to come here and on my other blog MURDER, MELODRAMA AND MORE!

The main thing I've learned from the experience is that if you fancy yourself to be a writer, get your work out of the shadows. No one will find it if you've hidden it away from the world. Not knowing does no one any good, least of all yourself. Sometimes, showing up is half the battle.

So Happy Anniversary to me. Let the festivities begin!

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-The Election

The Fourth of July in 1979 fell on a Wednesday, but Tule Flats Ghost Town would be open for
business even though it was normally a weekends only operation. Therefore, we had something extra special planned for this holiday extravaganza.

I haven't a clue who came up with the idea, but it was decided that we would have an election that day to name the Mayor of Tule Flats. The field for candidates was wide open-anybody and everybody could run if they so desired, provided they run for this prestigious office in character. We all had been given free rein to create a town character for ourselves. Bill Humphreys became Humphrey Williams (clever boy), the town banker. Ed Thorpe was Ned Tate who ran on the Law and Order ticket. I had a couple of different characters, one of them being Al Jennings, a real-life western train robber who later became an attorney. (look it up) But in the gunfight known as "Poker Chip", I played the Storekeeper role as a Swede named Sven Bjorn Bjorg Gunther and he is who I chose to throw my hat into the ring with. 

So those became the main three vying for town mayor. We were to run our campaigns throughout the day on the Fourth, culminating in some fancy speechifyin' in the gazebo out before our potential voters. Grant-Lee Phillips wrote Bill's-or Humphey's, rather-campaign song that he sang as they paraded down throughout the town.

Humphrey Williams

He's our man

Best darn throughout the land

Humphrey Williams

Rah Rah Rah

And best of all he wears no bra!

In a nutshell, meaning his amazingly creative head, that was our Grant-Lee.

As we all stood on the gazebo, ready for our campaign speeches, a dark horse candidate entered the picture. Accompanied by a bevy of bombastic beauties all dressed to the nines in hotsy-totsy saloon girl costumes, here came Goldie Pollard, all decked out in full regalia as though starring in a Mae West one-woman show. She took the stage by force of her sheer personality and announced to the crowd that she indeed was running as a write-in candidate for mayor. Her campaign promises included no restrictions on gambling, the sale of alcohol and...wait for it...open prostitution. 

Goldie won by a landslide.

There was no way any of us would attempt to contest the results because I think we all voted for her ourselves. Maybe some of the townsfolk and one of the business partners took issue with the "open prostitution" line, but that's politics.

Later that night, we all celebrated Goldie's win and it was the first time the ghost town and the Palace Showboat merged together as one. It wouldn't be long before some of us would take up residence there, but right then, we were two separate entities that found common ground and that is due to the one person who brought us all together, the one (and only) duly elected Mayor of Tule Flats Ghost Town, the Honorable Goldie Pollard. 

As we partied long into the night in the saloon that night, one person joined us who never had before, our very own Sheriff John. In, all the years I had known him up to that point, he had always kept to himself, the lonesome cowpoke he had always bee. Here he was though, drinking, laughing and celebrating with the rest of us. In fact, at one point, we spouted lines from our gunfights, adding a plethora of swear words to not only spice things up, but to crack ourselves up until the cows came home.

Sheriff! Sheriff! Have you seen the sheriff?

What the fuck do you want, you little asshole?

High comedy indeed and a perfect end to the holiday, or any other day for that matter.

That Fourth of July, we didn't need fireworks. We made our own.

Next up: Chapter Four-I SHOT THE SHERIFF

MORE TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Love Ya, Max

I'm procrastinating. I don't want to do this. I'd rather call my best friend Max and and catch up as we always do on the weekend. Even if there was nothing new to discuss, we'd always have something to talk about-the past, the present, the future and everything in between. Whether it be trivial nonsense, deep philosophical ruminations or, more often than not, silly ass jokes at each other's expense or better yet, someone's else's, we'd fill up that time, have a laugh or two or several, maybe share a lump in the throat and always conclude that call with the words "love ya".

But I can't do that. You see, Ed Thorpe died last week. My best friend of fifty three years. My brother. 

Gone. Just like that. 

We've known each other since the sixth grade at Grover Cleveland Elementary in Stockton, CA. I believe he arrived mid-year after his dad schlepped he and his older brother up from Los Angeles. We were both in the same grade but different classes. I became aware of Ed almost immediately since he got into a fight on his first day of school. It wasn't long before we hung out together during recess, not interacting with each other too very much until one day, I wanted to make points with my comedic skills. I would sneak out of bed and catch the first half-hour of The Tonight Show. If Johnny Carson was performing his Carnac the Magnificent bit, I would write down the best jokes and repeat them to my pals during recess. Carnac was the great seer, soothsayer and sage who would mentally give answers to questions sealed inside an envelope. Typical joke: Siss, boom, bah. (opens envelope) Describe the sound made when a sheep explodes. When I read the previous night's bit the next day, I'd give the answer Carson-style when suddenly it was repeated, just like Ed McMahon did for Johnny. Surprised, I turned to see, not McMahon, but Ed Thorpe joining in. The other guys in the group didn't do it because, basically, they couldn't. But Ed did. He got it. Therefore, he got me and vice versa. From that moment on, we were off and running. 

That was the beginning of decades of in-jokes, obscure references and esoterica that formed the groundwork of our relationship, shorthand, if you will, almost a secret language in our own private club, a problem for many an outsider who felt left out of the conversation, but, hey, them's the breaks.  Keep up or keep out cuz when we were on a roll, we weren't gonna put on the brakes until we damn well felt like it.

A long-lasting friendship such as ours weathers many ups, downs and storms a'plenty. Even this year, we had a knockdown drag-out fight about this goddamn pandemic. I was fretting, as usual, over the state of things, trying to vent my frustration and fear over all this crap when he told me, flat out, there was nothing I could do about it. Me, being Mr. Irrational, took this as a dismissal of my feelings and state of mind. He felt I was doing the same to him and the shouting commenced ending with a hang-up that still resonates. The problem is, you can't disconnect a smart phone by slamming down the receiver.  The end result was a stalemate between two grumpy old men on the same page, but different paragraphs. 

Eventually, we kissed and made up and got over it like always. But his words stuck with me, especially now. 

He's dead and there's nothing I can do about it. There's a piece missing from my heart, a big hole or vacant lot where a mighty building once stood. Sorry. That's prime real estate. I have to refill it and I will try to do so with the memories we shared after fifty odd years and channel them into that empty space for as long as my brain will allow. Believe me, there's enough there for sustainability. And it isn't just the reminiscences, but their implications and significance as well, be they good, bad or ugly. In the end, it all came down to complete brotherly love. Unfortunately, it's all recyclable material and a poor substitute for the real thing. 

I will feel forever in debt to Ed for all that he's brought to my life, leading me on paths I never knew existed. Had it not been for him, I never would have ended up at Pollardville. It was he who became my Sherpa into that Shangri-La between Stockton and Lodi, leading me through the open gates of the Ghost Town and onto the magical deck of the Palace Showboat. He had such a (literally) undying passion for that place that culminated in the last reunion show back in 2007 right before the House that Pollard Built closed up shop for good. The final production on that stage was such a labor love for him and it showed from beginning until the very bittersweet, touch grand finale. It was Ed's magnum opus, an accomplishment that he was unabashedly proud.

He was so much more in his life and times. While serving in the United States Navy, he traveled the world and became a skilled and accomplished respiratory therapist. His work with AA allowed him to overcome his addictions and help so many others over the years, saving several lives in the process. He was a true force of good in this often cynical world. A little over ten years ago, he reunited with his daughter, Justine. I was so glad he was able to experience something that I myself cherish-the joy of grandpahood when he was blessed with a grandson named James. As such, the legend continues.

Through all his trials and tribulations, certainly with his health problems in the last few years, Ed knew that life was worth living. He had so many obstacles that he had to endure and through it all, he recognized himself as a survivor. "Bring it on," he once told me.

And brought upon him it was, one last time on Monday, November 30, 2020. 

Should you, whoever's reading this, have someone in your life as I have had with Ed, whether it be a friend, a sibling, mother, father or any sort of relative, a lover, husband or wife, whoever occupies a space in your heart, mind and soul, it will enrich and reward you until the day you too will pass from this earth.  You will be a better person for it just as I have been for knowing Edward Alan Thorpe.

Now I have to wrap up and I don't want to do that either. I can't say goodbye because, frankly, I don't wanna. So I will merely sign off as we always did.

I will talk to youse later.

Love ya, Max

 

Curtain Calls

Currently, there's not much business in show business. This is certainly true of live theater presentations. Broadway is still totally dark and theater companies around the world, dependent of having butts in seats, have had their seasons postponed, truncated or cancelled altogether. The Great White Way will probably bounce back due to the big bucks that are backing them, but what about those on a local level, your community and regional theaters, both amateur and professional show folk? And when and if they do return, how will they not only adapt, but survive at all?

I've been involved with the thea-teh most of my life, both on and off the stage, the latter of which some might see as a blessing. ("Yeah, he belongs on the stage alright...the first one leaving town!")
The thing is I believe it is a viable art form, one that can be embraced on every level of society, hence, its longevity in an era when virtual is beginning to take hold. Sometimes, theater seems to be clinging on for its very life. Then there's a resurgence and once again, the hills are alive with the sound of applause as life in the theater goes on and on.

The following theater groups have been very, very good to me in the past few years I've enjoyed as a produced and now published playwright. I want to return the favor to these good people by showcasing them here with links to their websites or Facebook pages. Give them a click, check them out, show your support. If they're in your area, so much the better. Stand behind them. They're good for the community. They're also good for business.

These are the the theater groups that are, as of this writing, still in operation. Click 'em, give 'em a look, support 'em if you can.

GRAHAM REGIONAL THEATRE  GRAHAM, TEXAS

THE GREAT AMERICAN MELODRAMA THEATRE  OCEANO, CA

MANTORVILLE THEATRE COMPANY MANTORVILLE, MINNESOTA

SANZMAN PRODUCTIONS  LOS ANGELES, CA

RIO LINDA/ELVERTA COMMUNITY THEATER  RIO LINDA, CA

THEATRE SUBURBIA  HOUSTON, TEXAS

GOLDEN CHAIN THEATRE  OAKHURST, CA

DELTON ACT DELTON, MICHIGAN

STAGECOACH THEATRE  LOUDON COUNTY, VIRGINIA

SAN LUIS VALLEY THEATRE COMPANY   FORT GARLAND, COLORADO

MT. VERNON COMMUNITY THEATRE  MT. VERNON, MISSOURI 

ACTORS STUDIO INC. BAKER CITY, OREGON

BRICKSTREET COMMUNITY PLAYERS  CLOVIS, NEW MEXICO

BRAZOS THEATRE OF WACO  WACO, TEXAS

AVENUE THEATER  WEST PLAINS, MISSOURI

SUGAR HIGH THEATRICALS  GALESBURG, ILLINOIS

ROGUE THEATER  STURGEON BAY, WISCONSIN 

CHEYENNE LITTLE THEATER PLAYERS  CHEYENNE, WYOMING

BLACK BART PLAYERS (now MURPHYS CREEK PLAYHOUSE) MURPHYS, CA

TAKE A BOW, PEOPLE!

Those that didn't make the list are no longer in operation, such as the late, great Palace Showboat Theater at Pollardville in Stockton, CA where it all began for me, Mel O' Drama Theater in Nashville where the angel who walks on Earth, Mel Roady convinced me to write a couple of goofy-ass murder mysteries, the Foothill Theater Company in Jamestown, CA and the Gaslight Theatre in Campbell, CA.

Also a big shout to another of my own stomping grounds, STOCKTON CIVIC THEATRE in Stockton, CA where a lot of my friends and former colleagues are still hoping to trod the boards once again.

These are but a few. There are more out there than you can imagine. Try this link for more info about community theaters across the country.

AMERICAN ASSOCIATION OF COMMUNITY THEATRE

To all of you out there-actors, singers, dancers, musicians, writers, directors, producers, stage hands
 and all theater personnel in one form or another...

BREAK A LEG!

We're going to need it.

SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL THEATERS!

Roxanne Redux

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, kids of all ages...

It is with a great deal of pride and pleasure that introduce to the world, the latest love of my life.
Her name...

ROXANNE OF THE ISLANDS.

Roxanne is the lead character in what I am calling a tropical adventure comedy melodrama, a mouthful to be sure while the full title of which is:

ROXANNE OF THE ISLANDS
or
THEY'RE PLAYING OUR SARONG

This piece of pure Cherney-ana has been published by Off the Wall Plays, the first of all my works not published by yours truly, a major moment in the life of me.

The story of this epic revolves around the brave and beautiful Roxanne on her home of Ooaheek Island in the South Pacific after World War II. Not only must she contend with a lovesick witch doctor named Zhivago and a 1000 year old goddess with daddy issues who's after her ship-wrecked sea captain boyfriend but also a volcano that just won't give a poor girl a break.

ROXANNE is based on a sub-genre of films from the late thirties-early forties set in far off islands in the South Seas, the more exotic, the better and accuracy be damned. Titles ranged from John Ford's THE HURRICANE to what became the norm, B-programmers like ALOMA OF THE SOUTH SEAS.

Both of these movies had another thing in common besides their theme and locale. They starred the enchanting and drop dead gorgeous Dorothy Lamour. Known mostly today as the foil of Hope and Crosby ROAD pictures, Lamour had quite a career prior to meeting the boys beginning as a big band singer in the 1930s. After moving to Hollywood, it wasn't long before she donned her first sarong in THE JUNGLE PRINCESS, which was such a hit for Paramount at the time, it type-cast from there on in. Dotty was major pin-up girl during WWII and sold so many war bonds she was nicknamed The Bombshell of Bombs. I wanted to write a melodrama with a strong heroine, deviating from the damsel in distress normally seen in this type of show and one not dependent on being rescued by the handsome hero. Dorothy Lamour fit the bill for me.

While this is the first melodrama script I've completed since SONG OF THE CANYON KID (aka LONE PRAIRIE), it began its life back in the 1980s. Where the idea came from originally, I haven't a clue What I recall is that after I wrote LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, I had a series of ideas for melos set in various genres and locations. It always started with the title: DESMOND OF THE DESERT or AN OASIS IN THE HOLE. STAN OF THE SEVEN SEAS or 20,000 LEAKS UNDER THE SEA and MIKE OF THE MISSISSIPPI or YOUNG MAN RIVER. (Yes, they all have subtitles) But initially, the script I leaned toward was JUNGLE FEVER or B'WANA BUY A DUCK featuring the pith helmeted hero Congo Ted. It didn't fly, as much as I struggled with it and eventually went on to the next, that being ROXANNE. I got about half way into it and...the engine stalled out. It ended up sitting in the front yard with the tires off, obviously going nowhere. Fortunately, I saved it because, when I unearthed it over the years, I liked what I wrote so much that I couldn't dispose of it completely. While I considered placing Congo Ted into the mix, I resisted since he would have detracted the true main character, the brave and lovely Roxanne. It took quite a few years, but after my recent success with my other melos, I felt a moral imperative to complete this sucker after all this time and finally, I done did.

I drew a lot of inspiration, as I always do with my melos, from the cartoons of Jay Ward Productions, most famously the creators of Rocky and Bullwinkle, among others along with my own personal fave, GEORGE OF THE JUNGLE. Much of my humor stems from this deep well of brilliant absurdity. My penchant for titles and sub-titles is straight out of a Rocky and Bullwinkle cliffhanger, many times my favorite part of an episode. ROXANNE itself is chock full o' references from the villain's name (Witch Doctor Zhivago) to Roxanne's sister,Fred  ("Papa wanted a boy." "Close, but no cigar.") and the setting, Ooaheek Island, which is the sound a bird makes when it flies to close to the volcano.

What really fueled my muse was when I decided to add a couple of musical numbers including a swing dance number to open ACT II. I couldn't think of a better tune in the world than Benny Goodman's Big Band classic interpretation of Louis Prima's "Sing Sing Sing" with the incomparable Gene Krupa on the drums. I listened to this constantly and found that it really drove the project home.

So there you have it, kitty cats. That's the origin of ROXANNE OF THE ISLANDS. Take a bow, sister. May the world fall in love with you as much as I have.

To read an elongated excerpt or to buy a copy (hint! hint!) go to OFF THE WALL PLAYS .

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats- The Beginning

The past can sometimes catch up with you. As time passes, it can make a clean getaway all together. This is somewhere in the middle. If I get some of the facts wrong, blame my aged brain. After all, this happened 40 years ago.

The Pollardville Ghost Town wasn't always such. For a brief period of time, it went under the name Tule Flats.

Back in 1979, four business partners, consisting of Greg Dart, Jim Cusick, Steve Wright and Dave Black, approached Neil Pollard with the idea of running the Ghost Town as a separate entity. They would revitalize the town with improvements, new attractions and more gunslingers than you can shake a stick at. Along with this came a re-branding and a name change. Thus, Tule Flats Ghost Town was born...or re-born as the case may be. What the other names these guys came up with before they settled on Tule Flats, well, ya got me. How about Feral Cat Junction?

As I said, they hired a whole crew of gunfighters for the re-launch. I had been asked to join, but I was reluctant. At the age of 24, I felt I had move past the Ghost Town, having spent much of my teenage years out there. I stayed until I was 19 when all that remained was Sheriff John, Fast Fester and myself.  When I left, I tried to make it as an actor in San Francisco with mixed results and actually returned to Stockton a year later to enroll in Delta College. (Yeah. Go big or go home. Guess what I did?) In the years that followed, I found myself in a very bad state of mind, a bout of crushing depression that I stupidly kept to myself. I had nothing going on in my life at that time, a chip on my shoulder because of it and a head full of dreams that were beginning to make me light headed. After much soul-searching, which I did with a metal detector, I acquiesced and headed back to the mean streets of the Ghost Town.

I figured, "Hey, I'm a veteran cowpoke. I know these bits inside and out. As I soon as I walk onto Main Street, I'll be back in the saddle again in no time." Not so fast there, Slim Jim.

The gunfights and fighters therein were being directed by the one and only Dennis Landingham aka D.W. He had brought in Jimmy Walsh, Bob Gossett, Terry Ross and some kid named Grant Phillips as well a couple of other day players. Some of this group had come over from the Palace Showboat, though Dennis and Bob had previous Ghost Town experience when I wasn't around. I think Dennis knew who I was as well, though we never met until the day I arrived. Naturally, the man who got me involved with the entire Pollardville experience in the first place, my best friend, Edward Thorpe had also joined the group, a major comeback for him  after his stint in the Navy. Last and never least, Sheriff John still held down the fort, even if that fort had been taken over by somebody new. I sure was glad to see him again and he, in his own ornery cuss way, might have felt the same way....without saying it, of course. He didn't say much of anything and sometimes that spoke volumes.

So there I was, watching Dennis put together some of the gunfights, bringing back some that hadn't been performed in ages because they required bigger casts. But some of the "classics", such as they were, were on the docket as well like "Poker Chip" and the ever popular "Saddle Drop". His style lent a little more on the action side. The wagon below the balcony of the hotel had new padding, perfect for a fall from above.  Naturally more stunt fights were added, though one took me aback with what considered to be an out-of-place, though well executed, judo flip. Hey, what did I know? I was just a hired hand and boy, did I begin to feel it.

D.W. Landingham

Then D.W. began to cast the roles and...uh...what do you mean I have one line and I die first? Or I don't have any lines and I still die first? Or I don't have any lines but I don't die first cuz I ain't in the damn thing at all? Whut? Hey, wasn't this my stomping grounds? My turf? My town? It was as though my years of experience meant diddly squat and another thing, I had done a play in San Fran-goddamn-cisco, okay? Yeah, that was fours ago, but...shut up! Who asked you? I didn't need this....

Bitch. Moan. Gripe. Repeat.

I'd watch the others with an overly-critical eye. I had quibbles to be sure. Bob and Jimmy were all fine and dandy to be sure. So was Dennis, who cast himself in everything because, well, he could. He threw himself into everything and I quite honestly was impressed. Inwardly, anyway. I couldn't quite figure out Terry. Something was...I just didn't know. Kept trying to direct me or how to take a fall, suggestions I readily ignored. As for Grant, I had more scrutiny. He was all over the place,really manic and seemed to be trying too hard. The truth of the matter was he was what I wanted to be again. I wasn't much different when I first came out there and now this kid had taken my spot. Observing him with my jealous eye, my insecurity wasn't about to give him a break. That is, until he made me laugh. More than once. Then I realized he wasn't me at that age. He was better. Damn it.

Tule Flats Ghost Town opened to a decent, but not especially crowded group of patrons, not as many as anticipated but a helluva lot more than in recent years. The place certainly looked better with a major clean-up and paint job on certain buildings as well as some new additions like an ice cream stand near the front entrance. The train was up and running, definitely spit and polished with a tune-up thrown in for good measure. Naturally, the gunfighters were the main attraction and the shows frankly didn't disappoint.

Me back then. Nice hat.

While I still had some issues with this new regime, I had invited Bill Humphreys to come out and join the crew. I had only recently met Bill through a mutual friend but we found a common ground almost immediately. He had been off in the world of Big Time Showbiz working in television in Oregon and Hooray for Hollywood. I'm not sure why he decided to hang out with us at the Ville. Maybe he was attracted to the same thing we all were.

But as for me, relegated to minor roles of one line or none, not to mention dying first on the far side of town away from the action, the frustration escalated. This continued over the next couple of weekends, making me doubt my extra added value to these proceedings. But I did get an interesting perspective on things from this vantage point, particularly on Easter Sunday. The patrons were better dressed than usual after church services and lunch at the Chicken Kitchen, but they did dwindle to only a few in the mid-afternoon. The skies clouded over indicating there might be a storm on the way.

We were performing a gunfight called "Wanted: Dead or Alive". D.W. had cast himself as the villain who found himself locked up in jail in the early moments. When his crew busted him out, the wind started to pick up, blowing a sizable cloud of dust down Main Street. Dennis exited the jail at this point ready for the final gunfight between he and the Sheriff. Lightning flashed overhead followed by a rumble of thunder as the two faced off to the inevitable conclusion. The audience and various on-lookers erupted in cheers, making up for their small size. The gunfighters rose from the dirt and, realizing some kind of Divine Intervention had just occurred. It was either that or the entire Tule Flats special effects budget for the entire year was blown in one fell swoop. All I know is that a sudden kinship between this new wild bunch was beginning to form from that moment on. Even Sheriff John had to smile. At least, I think it was a smile. Hard to tell.

I'm not saying this Miracle on Main Street is what caused me to re-evaluate myself and stop acting like a petulant child in the first days of Tule Flats, but it sure didn't hurt. In the following weeks, I moved into some better roles and the rest is Ghost Town history. (stories forthcoming) Starting over again wasn't a consideration when I decided to to go back, but it was necessary. I had to hit the re-set button and when my twenty four year old pride wouldn't allow it, my ego got a most deserved good kick in the huevos. Such is the arrogance of youth. This youth, anyway. It took a long time to accept the cold hard truth about the Ville in my life.

In order to move forward, I first had to step back.

Next up: Chapter Two-IN THE SUMMERTIME

MORE TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

TALES FROM THE VILLE