Twenty Years of Thumbs

I first heard the phrase "please hold thumbs" from the South African would be my son-in-law.

Since I had never heard this before, he told  me it was "something we do for luck". In other words, it's the equivalent of crossing one's fingers. Does it work? Well, as the expression goes, time will tell. In this case, that time is ten years long.

Two entire decades has passed since my wife Laurie and I took the definitive adventure of our concurrent lifetimes when we traveled to the other side of the world just to attend a wedding. Of course, it wasn't just any wedding, but that of my brilliant and beautiful daughter Lindsay to that South African triatheletic motormouth love of her life, Chris.

That 11 day long saga going from here (Portland, OR) to there (South Africa) became the basis of my book,  PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, a tome I am proud to call my very own. This is the tale of the ultimate Cherney Journey, one that included an honest-to-garsh safari (with amorous lions and pissed off elephants), air travel troubles I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies (well...maybe) and The Main Event, the most extraordinary nuptials ever. For a place I wasn't sure I ever wanted to be in the first place, South Africa got under my skin and into my soul.

What started out to be a mere vanity project (What I Did on My Summer Vacation zzzzz....) evolved into something else entirely over time. I came to realize that PLEASE HOLD THUMBS at its core was a love story. Naturally that included Lindsay and Chris' whirlwind romance, but also the love I have for my wife, family and even finding a way to love myself, probably the toughest pill of all to swallow. I finally came to terms with my place in the world and discovered that it's all a matter of perspective. I also realized that the journey ain't over 'til it's really over.

So what about that "luck" thing? 

At the end of July, Lindsay and Chris will celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary, a milestone that must be shouted to the heavens. Their union has produced their best collaboration possible, the loves of my life, our granddaughters, Aefa, my theater girl with the golden eyes and the fierce warrior peanut herself, Athena. The love story continues.

Consider this a biased testimony, but as far I'm concerned, holding one's thumbs works.

I should do it more often.

Me in Kruger Park back at the turn of the century

I have several excerpts from said book on this here blog, all gathered together on the page I cleverly called CHERNEY JOURNEYS

Individually, they are:

OH, THAT'S NICE!
The first chapter in full

HURRY UP AND WAIT

The painful three day trip from Portland to Johannesburg

A DEMON MARCHES TO PRETORIA

A little something called a Tokoloshe visited me in my dreams

DOWN MEXICO WAY

A side-trip to Tijuana when I was a young 'un

BAD KITTY
The amazing safari in Kruger Park

For anyone who has an interest in reading the whole story go to:

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS ON AMAZON KINDLE

But, most importantly, because without the two of them, this grand adventure would never have transpired...

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, LINDSAY AND CHRIS!

Please Hold Thumbs: Bad Kitty

Welcome to the final FREE FREE FREE preview of the magnum opus written by yours truly entitled PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA, now on sale all across the web including Amazon.com and at the source, Lulu.com.

To catch you up to speed, my wife Laurie and I have had one helluva time getting to South Africa to attend the wedding of our daughter. In fact, it took us four days to get there , no thanks to the World 's Worst Air Carrier, Delta Airlines (AKA The Big Turd in the Sky). Anyway, after finally arriving, we made the most out of our truncated dream vacation by taking in a safari in South Africa's magnificent Kruger Park.

I hope you enjoy this final excerpt called:

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: BAD KITTY

Morning came quicker than any of us had hoped, especially since it had been the identical early hour we had arisen to the day before. First on the agenda after the hearty South African breakfast was the first safari of the day, the best time to catch the animals out and about since, just like their human counterparts, this was rush hour to them. We had been told to bundle up as we’d traveling once again our open-air transport and the time of year in this part of the world had been winter. And damn effing brisk it had been indeed as we soon discovered zipping about the park with our trusty guide, Russell, at the helm.

As we discovered, morning had been the optimum time of day to spot animals. Everybody was out in force and on the move, giving us a glimpse of rush hour, Wild Kingdom style, complete with exhaust of a more organic kind as evidenced by the piles of poop left just about everywhere. Interestingly enough, many animals traveled in packs, such as the giraffe, zebra and wildebeest. According to Russell, this was a survival tactic. Each species in the pack looked out for one another, nature not just taking of itself but one another. As they crossed the roads ahead of us, the pack seemed to be a variation of the It Takes a Village philosophy taken to its most basic and natural conclusion: survival.

Since my knowledge of animals isn’t very extensive, I was surprised to learn that the wildebeest and the gnu are same creature. It wasn’t until I saw them trotting along that I heard them call, “Gnu! Gnuuuuu! Gnu!” like a cow with a hairlip.

Russell slowed our vehicle to a crawl as we encountered our first lions. Moving along at the beginning of their day as they always had, these magnificent beasts ignored the likes of us, staying primarily on one side of the road while we kept a safe distance. On the other side and trailing behind were three young rogue lions, looking as though they had a rough night on the town. Russell explained that these three teenage punks probably confronted the den the night before and try to throw their weight around, perhaps even attempting to take over. From their overall ragged appearance complete with fresh wounds, they appeared to have had their asses handed to them and kicked royally. Now rather demure and depressed, the boys had no other options at the moment other than tag along behind and behave themselves, the little bastards.

Wanna come up to my place for a drink?

Cue the Barry White music

On our second run later that day, we stopped when we encountered a lion couple laying in the brush, just soaking up the rays and enjoying each other’s company. In hushed tones, Russell told up they were in the midst of mating, having it off with each other for the better part of the week. More than likely, they weren’t just complacent but totally spent. They could’ve just been sleeping off Boff #19. We sat in as much silence as possible so as not to disturb when, after a good half-hour, the tired couple rose and lumbered down the road. No sooner did they reach the center lane that the male hopped on his lady’s back and gave it to her right then and there. Why don’t we do it in the road indeed.
I couldn’t resist. I had to express my admiration.

“You, sir, are my hero!” I called out to my amorous champion. I would have applauded, but instead I just saluted.

Want more? Then buy a copy, you cheapskates! What do you think this is...Reading Rainbow?????

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA is available online in paperback at Amazon.com and in paperback and download at
Scott Cherney's Store
and Amazon Kindle

More excerpts from PLEASE HOLD THUMBS as well some of my other "world travels on my page;

CHERNEY JOURNEYS

Please Hold Thumbs: Down Mexico Way

 In honor of the publication of my latest book, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA, the next three postings will be devoted to excerpts of said tome, just for you, the curious buying public.

This first clip will serve as an intro to the saga and also involves a fabled trip to Tijuana my folks and I took way back in the late 1960s. Please enjoy DOWN MEXICO WAY.

At no time of my life have I ever expressed a desire to visit the continent of Africa. Never once when I read Tarzan comics or watched Jungle Jim movies as a kid had I ever said, “B’wana, that’s where I wanna be!” That also goes for all the other TV shows I had seen like Daktari, Wild Kingdom, any National Geographic special or even George of the Jungle.

Don’t think I was ever opposed to the idea. It just never crossed my mind. Therefore, no desire had ever manifested itself inside of me, begging to be fulfilled. So, at this stage of my life, I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that Africa was completely out of the picture, mainly because it was never part of the picture in the first place. Maybe I could get to it in the next reincarnation, but this particular form of existence, I wouldn’t ever be in North, Central, East, West or even South Africa. Nope. You wouldn’t find me there.

The only time I ventured out of the country entirely was back in my early teens. That surprise excursion I mentioned involved a contest my folks had won through a car dealership in Stockton. First prize was a brand new Dodge Dart Swinger 340, a model that was on and off the market in the blink of an eye, and a weekend trip to their choice of three different locations where the Oakland Raiders were playing. The selections were Oakland (not a big deal since it was an hour away from Stockton), Cincinnati, Ohio, even less than a big deal though it did have the distinction of being out of state and San Diego, the city my folks picked. No contest, really. What would we have done in Cincinnati-visit Dr. Johnny Fever at WKRP?

I, being the youngest of three kids, was allowed to travel with them, leaving my brother and sister behind. The folks probably didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave me with my siblings who didn’t want me around either. Both factions knew what debauchery would be in store once Mom and Dad set foot out of town. I probably would have ended up duct-taped in a closet while Sis and Bro engaged in nefarious activities with all their friends which included sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll 24 hours a day for the next 72. My parents thought it best to spare me from potential torture, so they brought me along.

Once in San Diego, it became my mission-and my duty as a thirteen-year old male-to convince Ma and Pa that we go to Tijuana as soon as we possibly could. Why wouldn’t I? The lure of purchasing illegal fireworks alone was enough to spark my desire for this fantastic voyage. My mom wanted to go to the San Diego Zoo instead, but I managed to convince her to reconsider, enough though she had been the one who officially won the contest. My pop wasn’t too keen on the idea at all but, after much griping, we hit the road for Ye Olde Border Town, Tijuana, Mexico, famed in song, story and donkey show. Pop’s mood worsened after a California Highway Patrolman ticketed him for an illegal lane change before we hit the border checkpoint.

When we hit downtown TJ, which wasn’t dissimilar to certain sections of Stockton, the search began for a suitable place to park the car. We drove all about this chaotic city with my dad, getting more frustrated by the second. He more or less successfully navigated his way through the heavy traffic without plowing into any of the locals or tourists, though I know it would have made the trip worthwhile for him. Finally, we found a parking lot that appeared fairly acceptable.

The attendant tried to direct my dad into an open spot, signaling with his arms and yelling, “Aqui! Aqui!”

Pop groused, “I ain’t gonna give him the goddamn keys.”

We basically got a solid afternoon out of Tijuana. I came away M.O.F (mit out fireworks), but I did manage to score an authentic Mexican poncho so that I could impersonate a pubescent Clint Eastwood when I got back home. We found a restaurant off the main drag in an area that at least looked like Mexico and not Every Podunk Town, USA. When the folks ventured off to the bathroom, the waitress plopped a bowl in front of me that I mistook for some kind of cold tomato soup, so I had a couple of spoonfuls. This was my first experience with authentic Mexican salsa. It wasn’t very common back then. Neither was common sense. My mouth became a fiery pit of hell and I chugged my soda, ice and all. I said nothing to my parents when they returned. When they wondered why my eyes were so red and teary, I just told them I was just so glad to be there. Sniff.

Later my parents and I posed for a souvenir photograph for a street vendor who used his burro-drawn cart for a backdrop. The folks sat in the driver’s seat with my pop wearing an unbelievably goofy sombrero. I climbed on top of the donkey, who was none too thrilled to have this particular adolescent on his back. The photographer, sensing danger, quickly snapped the picture, then pulled me off the jackass immediately because he started to buck. Though the image of burro’s head is blurred by its angry swaying, the existing photograph shows the crazed look in his eyes with three smiling tourists oblivious to the fact that Senor Donkey wants to stomp their gringo asses to death.

So much for my world travels.

To purchase PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA in either paperback or e-book editions, visit:

SCOTT CHERNEY'S STOREFRONT  or AMAZON

See also Chapter one of PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: OH, THAT'S NICE!

Please Hold Thumbs: Oh, That's Nice!

 I'll be frank here. I have to be frank because I can't be me. And Sammy sang "I Gotta Be Me" not Frank. That being said (whatever the hell that was), I have to admit to one and all that I am finding difficulty keeping up with this here blog in the midst of re-writing the first draft of my novel (see previous posts did: FIRST DRAFT DODGER and THE GRATING AMERICAN NOVEL), marketing my other written works (see my website at www.scottcherney.com)and the horrors of everyday life.

Therefore I have decided that, over the course of the summer, and in celebration of the 10th anniversary of its publication, I will release the first full chapter of my true travel tale PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT SO ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA. 

Here's the story:

Attending their daughter's wedding in South Africa promised to be the vacation of a lifetime. But first, they had to face the treacherous gauntlet of modern day travel

Join this hapless, sometimes helpless couple as they brave their way through a never-ending obstacle course filled with such hazards as flight delays, the purgatory of layovers and an incompetent, uncaring air carrier that treats its passengers worse than their luggage. Waiting for them on the other side of the world are an honest to goodness safari with amorous lions and elephants with anger issues, a life affirming visit to a South African school and an anxious bride and groom standing patiently at the airport with a sign that reads:

WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?

Please enjoy PLEASE HOLD THUMBS. I said please.

CHAPTER ONE
OH, THAT'S NICE

How long had I been dead to the world?

The exact time of day couldn’t be easily pinned down since there wasn’t a clock anywhere within my soft focused field of vision. By the light of the room in general, I took a wild guess and thought it might be daytime. Since I had been lying on my side in this bed, it could have been the stroke of midnight and this was a searchlight blasting in from the outside for all I knew. But right then and there, I didn’t know anything. 

I turned over onto my back and stared up at the whirling ceiling fan when it suddenly hit me:

I was back in ‘Nam.

Wait a second. That didn’t make any sense. I’d never been to Vietnam in the first place so how could I be back there? I may have been out of my head from fatigue, but I sure as hell knew I wasn’t Martin Sheen.

To my immediate left, I saw my wife Laurie in the bed beside me deep in the throes of slumber and figured out in my addled state of mind that where I had actually returned to was Beaverton, Oregon. The bedroom windows in our “European style” apartment had been wide open all night long, airing out the place after ten days away. The familiar sounds of the Max train, a proud member of Portland’s light rail system, whooshing into the station just three floors below our building brought a knowing grin to my bed sheet lined face. That was a sure sign that we were home again.

I rose from the bed with great difficulty. My body had contorted into one giant cramp. With each movement, I cracked and crunched so much, it sounded like a drive-by shooting in a popcorn factory. Maintaining my balance wasn’t any easier as I staggered about from one end of the apartment to the other in a game of human pinball. All this had to be achieved while my sleep-laden eyelids kept drooping closed and each attempt to open them became a strenuous weight training exercise. But, damn it to hell, I was determined.

I had to go to the can. There are some things a man just has to do.

It was the first coherent shit I had taken in over a week. My bowels had been performing in fits and starts for almost ten days now. This can be attributed to the fact that they had taken a trip around the world and had been treated with probably less care than my luggage. I wouldn’t say that I had a spastic colon, even though I do think that’s a great name for a band. (“Hello, Des Moines! Give it up for Spastic Colon!”) Then again, I still had that feeling of accomplishment; a claim to fame that could only be called “a guy thing”, a definite gold star in Camp Testosterone. Not only had I taken a dump on three different continents and in four time zones, but I had also squeezed off a few salvos on both sides of the equator. What a big boy am I.

But now I was back on the road to recovery. This included the bodily function known as the morning constitutional. Talk about a sigh of relief. I had a sudden moment of clarity as I discovered the true meaning of the word regularity. Maybe my ass, plain and simply, was just homesick. 

I then took something else that had been a luxury in the last little while-a long, hot shower. As I cleansed my body of whatever I had acquired in the past couple of days of travel, it dawned on me that the last time I had bathed was on the other side of the world.

Drying off after that lengthy hose down, I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t recognize the guy that was staring back at me. My face had tanned like never before and appeared to be more of a badge of honor that was earned rather than burned. The best part was that it was all natural, not one of those orange tinted spray jobs from a tanning salon that make its patrons resemble overcooked Cheetos. This was the real deal. I hadn’t shaved in several days and my beard stubble, sprinkled with various shades of gray as it has been for years now, complimented my new skin tone. Usually when I’m unshaven, I tend to think I look like a grizzled old sourdough out prospecting for gold. “Eureka! I done struck me the Mother Lode, by cracky!” Laurie hates that description, preferring instead to say I look “seedy”. Yeah. That sounds much better. But even she had to agree that this combination actually worked on me, giving me much needed maturity and, dare I say, a dash of ruggedness. Finally, I searched my eyes, trying to take this all in as I stared directly in the mirror. They were glassy, almost doll-like initially most certainly stemming from various stages of physical, mental and emotional exhaustion.  Their shade, seemingly much greener than before, had taken on a more muted hue, which fit quite comfortably with the rest of my new look. As I continued gazing at my eyes, they began to come to life as the drowsiness melted off. At this point, I was looking past them and what lay beyond. Suddenly the vision of a far-off land appeared before me, stretching off into the horizon and in the same array of earthen tones and colors sitting on the palette that was my face. A sudden recognition overtook me and I smiled at myself knowingly. I realized right then and there that I wasn’t dead to the world after all. I was alive. After all, I didn’t just visit South Africa; I had brought it home with me.

It was written all over my face,

Copyright 2010 by Scott Cherney

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS is available in paperback and Kindle at Amazon

More chapters available and travel tales on my page entitled CHERNEY JOURNEYS

Please Hold Thumbs: A Demon Marches to Pretoria

In this installment of PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT SO ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA, my wife and I finally landed in Johannesburg after four days of flight layovers, re-routings and general mismanagement by our carrier. (I won't mention any names, but it rhymes with Schmelta.)

While my wife bounded off the plane ready, willing and able to make up for lost-or more accurately, stolen-time, I was a wreck, going down for the count quickly with a deadly combination of a hangover and jet lag. 

Welcome to:

A DEMON MARCHES TO PRETORIA

My first impressions of South Africa were muted and filtered through my rapidly deteriorating state of mind and body. Anything I could assimilate in the drive from Johannesburg to Pretoria, where we would be staying, was unrealistic and should be taken with more than just a grain of salt. (Perhaps a peppercorn would have helped.) That said, the countryside looked to me much like parts of California’s San Joaquin Valley, an area I’m very familiar with since that’s where I spent most of my born days. I could have sworn that we were driving through Turlock at one point. Then again, I felt as though I had just been through brain surgery without an anesthetic.

We arrived at the home of Chris’ mom, Elke, in a gated community that had one major difference from one in the USA. Razor wire and lots of it was spun around the top of the walls surrounding the area, definitely a sign that trespassers were not welcome in the least. The use of razor wire can be justified by the residential burglaries that yearly range into the tens of thousands. The murder rate in Joburg’s greater metro area runs at about three times the rate of our very own Chicago. I don’t know what the stats were for Pretoria, but it could have only been slightly better due to its smaller size. Still there was no reason to feel paranoid, just vigilant. This would have been the same precaution one would take just about anywhere in the world, including back in the good ol’ USA (and especially Chicago apparently). You have to remember that in my hometown of Stockton, it was not unusual to hear gunfire in the middle of the night no matter where you lived. Still, it was obvious that even in this more affluent neighborhood in Pretoria, complete with adjoining golf course, security was a major concern. I couldn’t help but think that the razor wire gave this upscale suburban community a bit of a Fort Apache flair, reinforced by the security guard shack that were passed through upon arrival.

Once inside Elke’s lovely house where she so graciously allowed us to stay, I began to enter the earth’s atmosphere. I knew I would be crashing and burning some time very soon. After a much needed scrubbing that washed the trials and tribulations that had accumulated on my body for the past four days, I found my way to the nearest bed and down for the count I went for a necessary rest.

What I mistook for my own snoring stirred out of my slumber, but the thing that hovered over me brought me to full consciousness…I think. It was a naked doll-sized that seemed to have been dipped in oil, which would account for the glistening sheen of its skin and stringy clotted hair. Its pus colored eyes bulged forward as if ready to explode with blackened pupils surrounded by numerous blood veins staring directly at me. The sound that I thought was my snore was actually a phlegmy, wheezing growl that blew over his craggy teeth like the wind over ancient ruins. It took another half second to realize the gender of this thing was male if the enormous penis between its stubby legs had been any clue.

I tried to remain calm, but I had to flinch when it spoke.

“Human…” it hissed.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?”

“You don’t know who I am?” it demanded indignantly.

“I dunno…Flavor Flav?”

“I am the Tokoloshe!”

“Taco who?”

Then I remembered reading about this little imp in my research before the trip.

“Oh yeah. Tokoloshe. You’re a South African demon or something, aren’t you?”

He rolled his bug-eyes.

“This is South Africa. I am the Tokoloshe. So yeah, good guess, human.”

I noticed that when he shifted his weight from one foot to the next, he had only one buttock. No wonder he was so unpleasant.

“Wait a minute. In everything I read about you, you’re not supposed to be able to get on a bed that’s elevated above the floor. That’s why people put bricks or blocks underneath. You can’t climb. This bed’s off the floor. How’d you get up here?”

“I pole vaulted.”

“How?”

“I had impure thoughts and let nature its course. She-boing!”

With that, he grabbed his unit and started spinning it around cockily, so to speak.

“Stop that. What’re you, Will Rogers? You can put an eye out with that thing. What do you want anyway?”

He threw his package over his shoulder like a Continental soldier and snarled.

“I am going to make your life a living hell!”

My nasty mood resurfaced and I shot back at the little creep.

“Okay, save your breath, Long Dong Silver! I just spent the last four days in and out of airplanes and airports trying to get to this place. I am jet lagged and pissed off. I need to sleep, you got it? Besides there’s nothing that you can do that would be any worse that what the goddamn airline I booked passage on hasn’t inflicted on me already. To sum up, I am not in the mood for any of your shit, you half-assed little bastard.”

The Tokoloshe looked taken aback.

“What airline did you fly?”

“Delta.”

“Oh yeah. Those guys suck. You poor son of a bitch.”

“So you gonna leave me alone?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he sneered. “I’ll go visit the neighbors.”

“Thanks. Sorry about the half-assed remark.”

“Don’t mention it. I get crabby when I’m tired too. Get some rest, human. I know the way out.”

He turned to go, but I stopped him.

“Hey, Tokoloshe?”

“What?”

“Do you know Charlize Theron?” He smiled with his Parthenon teeth then began to quiver.

“Charlize Theron? Whoa…”

With that, the Tokoloshe got excited again and propelled himself off the bed.

“You okay?”

“Eina! Uhh…you were right.”

“About what?”

“I almost put my eye out with this thing.”

With that, I drifted back to sleep, if I was ever awake at all. Something tells me I dreamt the whole thing.

Next Up: BAD KITTY

and if you haven't already, read the first chapter OH, THAT'S NICE

To purchase the unedited version PLEASE HOLD THUMBS in paperback or Kindle. go to AMAZON or my store on Lulu.com SCOTT CHERNEY'S STORE

Special Guest Star: Anthony Bourdain

Dear Tony,

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

WHAT THE FUCK

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

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

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

Or did we?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cherney Journey 2013: Rocky Mountain, Hi!

Blogger's note: The following events occurred two weeks prior to the flooding in Colorado. My heart goes out you guys.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation
by Little Scotty Cherney

Age: Nunya

This year of our Lord, 2013, we-being the wife and me-ventured forth for another faboo vacay made possible, yet again, by a generous grant from the L & C Foundation. Our destination? Deutchendorf, Colorado. My apologies. I forgot it was changed to Denver. My stepdaughter Lindsay and son-in-law Chris (famed for their debut roles in my book PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT SO ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA) moved to Colo's state capitol from New York City last year, quite a change of pace and scenery, eh, wot? So this sojourn became a family vacation in every sense of the word since we were spending mucho quality time with our beauteous granddaughter Aefa.

After a blissfully trouble-free and uneventful air travel experience-with the exception of the hot mess in first class who began bawling because she had to use the bathroom in coach and a pilot who seemed to riding the clutch the entire way from LAX- we landed at the Cirque de Soleil-like structure known as Denver International Airport.

It took us awhile to get a feel for the Southwestern nature of this area since the first week we spent in glorious grandparenthood at the kids' home in Stapleton, a neighborhood built over the previous airport grounds. We cared, fed, played and generally just fell in love with the latest member of the clan, an incredibly bright and verbose two year old whose every whim I didn't hesitate to cater to because I am a mushpot of the highest order. This meant seemingly endless tunes from the Raffi catalog and multiple viewings of an Animal Planet video on demand of potty training sloths.

"I want sloffs!" Aefa would demand and of course, her wish was my command. I'm a sucker for a pretty face.

However, we did begin to get a bit stir crazy in Stapleton since we were MOV (mit out vehicle). Stapleton is pleasant and clean and all that, but other than a couple of parks, the only nearby attraction of note was the 7/11 (shades of New York corner bodegas!) It's not like we were sequestered in a safe house out in Snotrag County. Our accommodations were more than ducky in our own virtual wing, not to mention eating and drinking like royalty. It's just that we wanted to see the sights and something more than vague silhouettes of mountains in the distance. I know I was getting a little stir-crazy in suburbia.

Of course, a lot of this psychosomatic feeling of claustrophobia stemmed from the deep-rooted prejudices I hoard in the filthy attic of my soul, . Stapleton is indeed a yuppie heaven, therefore Hell on earth to someone like me. Knowing from the outset that Colorado is reported to be the fittest state in the union set my heart aflutter as well amidst all the zero body fat individuals we seemed to encounter everywhere we turned. Everyone was fit and into being fit that I started to have a fit myself. Even the flies were fit, tauting me as I attempted to swat them.

"C'mon, ya Oregonian doughboy! Whatsa matter? Too much craft beer and bacon?"

When Lindsay and Chris generously offered us the use of their RAV-4 in exchange for some rides to work, we snatched it up like a loaf of bread with a file inside because this meant FREEDOM!

With Aefa in tow-scratch that-with Aefa towing us, our reprieve from Stapleton initially translated into kid-related activities such as The Children's Museum, two trips to the Denver Zoo which we found to be sloth-less but still managed to score a lot of quality animal for young and old alike and a grand tour of Tiny Town. No, not the Tiny Town from the first all midget western THE TERROR OF TINY TOWN. This Tiny Town a miniature village that a father built for his daughter back in 1915 then opened to the public a few years later adding a mini-railroad along the way. It was pretty damn precious especially when we rode the train with Aefa. Yes, I said precious. I told you I was a mushpot.

For the most part, Aefa sat in quiet contemplation, two fingers in her mouth, taking it all in wherever we went. At times, we thought she might be bored of it all since she didn't make a peep even afterward as we tried to get her to recap her experiences. Nope. She saved that commentary for her folks. The fingers popped forth and her enthusiasm flowed like champagne as she extolled the glories of the adventures she live through to Mommy and Papa.

"I saw a monkey climbing to the sky! The kitty was sleeping! I waved at the 'ductor!"

(Translation for those who don't speak Toddler: The monkey was part of the zoo menagerie with the kitty in question being a jaguar. As for the 'ductor, the Tiny Town train conductor.)

And as much as it meant to Aefa, it meant even more to us. To see the world once again through a new set of eyes makes it all worthwhile. She and her parents were the real reasons we came to Denver. Everything else takes a back seat.

Thanks to Aefa, all was good in the grandparenthood.

 Next Up: Some Scenery At Last!

The New York Cherney Journey: These Vagabond Shoes

I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed with:
I SURVIVED THE LAST TWO WEEKS IN AUGUST-NEW YORK 2011

Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but considering what occurred during my East Coast invasion tour since the moment we landed, these words ring true like the bells at St. Patrick's Cathedral at High Noon. Think I'm overstating it a bit? Consider these disasters and near-catastrophes in just 14 days.
Hurricane Irene
The East Coast Earthquake
Tornado Warning

A near-crash landing
A trip to the E/R
Need I go on? Oh, I will. Trust me. I have a blog.
And so, another adventure begins. FINALLY.

It had been too long of a time between escapades, other than the local kind. Staycations are great in theory, but the truth of the matter is you're going to run out of ideas sooner or later and if even if you live in a place of endless possibilities like my own Portland, Oregon, you're going to need a break. Even the Great Outdoors can seem confining after awhile.

Good fortune smiled upon us once again as we were able to spend (thanks to a generous grant from the Kuhn Foundation) two fun and not cream-filled weeks in New York, New York, the city so great it should be called New York, New York, New York.

This trip turned out to be a be a quasi-sequel to my book, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, all about the trip to South Africa for the wedding of my daughter Lindsay and son-in-law Chris. That marriage has spawned a franchise with the arrival of my beautiful granddaughter Aefa on May 31, 2011. Hence, our vacation plans were pre-destined for an end of the summer blow-out in the Apple that is BIG. Like the major dork I proclaim to be, NEW YORK, NEW YORK ( the Kander/Ebb version, not the Bernstein/Comden/Green original from ON THE Town ) kept running through my head prior to boarding our American Airline flight out of Portland...several days prior to boarding. I hummed it. I sang it out loud. I even did a little dance when nobody was looking. At least, I think nobody was looking. I really wanted to go. So did my wife Laurie. After all, we were going to see her baby and her baby.

We departed PDX early Sunday Aug, 14 with lotsa luggage and a bag full o' provisional goodies to eat on the long trip (sandwiches, Clementines, protein bars and the piece' de resistance-wasabi arugula from Trader Joe's, Laurie's personal touch) as we jetted the first leg of our journey, Dallas-Fort Worth for a quick connection before heading off to Laguardia in NYC. This stopover proved uneventful with the exception of a 90 minute delay and a rollicking ride on the D/FW terminal light rail system, Skylink. a transport right right out of LOGAN'S RUN and if we stayed another hour, I would have ridden it a few more times just for shits and giggles. Somehow though, I think the TSA frowns on the ol' S and G.

On flight numero dos, the pilot announced that NYC was in the midst of a rainstorm of rather Apocalyptic proportions (though I'm paraphrasing) so we had to circle about until we got an all clear from Laguardia and air traffic was beginning to pile up like winged hemorrhoids . After another hour of circling we made our descent in storm central and what a ride it turned out to be. We hit the runway with such force that, for all intents and purposes, that could have been the end. It was just that sudden, just that severe. There was no time for goodies. No time for crying. No time to even say "Whoa!" It was more like like a "W---!" Another hard lesson in the fragility of mortality. To make matters even more fun, we hydroplaned across the tarmac until we mercifully came to a halt. I am just now now beginning to exhale from that landing.

Our son-in-law Chris greeted us inside the hot mess known as Laguardia Airport and patiently waited for our luggage to unload after another full hour. As my wife would say, "It wasn't lovely."

The rain had not subsided and the ride to the kids' place was treacherous to say the very least. New York roads are wretched, rutted and decrepit, all too easy to fill with murky lakes of rainwater, further extending our adventurous arrival. Along the way, Chris pointed out some all too familiar landmarks through the rain-soaked windows, a review of the vacation to come. Finally, the showers let up enough for us to make it safe and finally sound in Brooklyn to be greeted by one of my true idols in life, my daughter Lindsay. Afea had been asleep for hours and we were only allowed a cursory glance until morning. Laurie had presented their nervously sweet terrier Millie with a squeaky pink duck, guaranteeing that we had another new love in our lives too. After too much day, we drifted off to blessed sleep.

Bleary and groggy, I awoke in a strange land very early the next morning, Laurie, who had been wide awake for quite some time, said with her big brown eyes wide open, "I wonder if that baby's awake yet."

Sure enough, she was indeed.

Ladies and gentlemen, please rise. It is my honor and privilege to introduce the world to our main attraction:
Her Royal Highness Princess Aefa from the Kingdom of Brooklyn.

My Angel Baby.

Love at first sight.

Gee, does it show?

Coming up next: Straight inta Brooklyn

Oh My Gaga

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

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

 

Readin', Writin' an' Ramblin'

Last Saturday I re-entered the arena with my very first author appearance at the library here in Hillsboro, Oregon. (Arena? Yeah, it was a real Thunderdome) To say it went swimmingly would be both an under and over statement. That's me alright. Under and over, around and through.

Over-wise, it was a small (nay, minuscule) affair with only a handful in attendance, most of which I filled myself (totally grateful for all family and friends that showed).The library events director, the person who helped put this together, said that author readings tend to have very small audiences and that I shouldn't take it personally, which I didn't. She seemed to be pleased that anyone showed at all, which I also didn't take to heart.

From the under-side, I have riding on a cloud ever since. Maybe it's not Cloud 9, but a cumulus none the less, billowy enough for a comfortable trip around the ego. My nerves were pretty much shot going into this day. There has been the inherent fear that I just don't have it in me anymore because I've waited too long to get my own show on the road. I seemed to have forgotten who I was, almost as if I was running away from the real Scott Cherney. Maybe that's why I turned my talk into a near retrospective, a dip into Lake Me and hopefully not delivering my own eulogy. What's closer to the truth was what that day represented to me in general. I told the "crowd" that I was proud to be a part of the library not only that day but to have my works, my books on a library shelf. It's all about validation and for the first time in awhile, I felt comfortable being in my own skin. The road to find myself had led to the Hillsboro Library on Saturday, February 27, 2010. Nervous? You bet your ass I was nervous. I had no one other than my wife to express my trepidation and even that I kept to a minimum.

When Grant-Lee Phillips visited Portland in January for a concert, I expressed my anxiety over lunch and felt rather embarrassed that I used my friend as a therapeutic backboard. I mentioned it on the dreaded Facebook and fortunately I know a lot of great people who gave me some much needed encouragement even though I felt so insipidly needy about mentioning my stage fright at all. But hey, I had a lot riding on it. The stakes were my very existence. Fine. I made a u-turn into overstatement again. So sue me. It's my life. I know what it all meant. Part of me actually wanted to fail so I could go back to my non-existence, but fortunately, the real me prevailed and won the day.

I done good.

To paraphrase from my own book PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, since Saturday afternoon, I realized I wasn't dead to the world after all. I am alive.

Now it's time to move forward.

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS is now available in paperback and Kindle at Amazon

Caution: Author Reading

On Saturday, February 27, I am making my first public appearance as a published author when I visit the Hillsboro Public Library in Hillsboro, Oregon. I will be discussing my work including RED ASPHALT, IN THE DARK as well as reading a few passages from PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA. Along the way, I'll get in a few words about Pollardville, the Palace Showboat and even engage in a little Q&A with whoever happens to show up for said event. If anything else, you can see me drown in flop sweat if it all goes south.

I'll be selling and signing copies of PLEASE HOLD THUMBS and RED ASPHALT too. Buy one. Buy both. Buy all of 'em and sell 'em for a profit. I am.

The big day is Saturday, 2pm on February 27 at the Hillsboro Library's Main Branch, located at 2850 NE Brookwood Road in Hillsboro right across from the Hillsboro Airport. And hey, Costco's right around the corner. Hot dog and a soda for a buck-fitty. Sweet! For more info, call the library at 503-615-5000.

Please Hold Thumbs: Hurry Up and Wait

Welcome to the second exciting excerpt from my recently published book, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA, now available at Amazon.com

In this installment, my wife Laurie and I are finally on our own merry way to attend our daughter's wedding in South Africa. Unfortunately, there's only one thing standing in our way: the worst airline on the face of the earth. Their name? Now that would be telling. I'll give you a hint: It rhymes with Schmelta.


Please enjoy: HURRY UP AND WAIT

Laurie and I had other things in mind, like unleashing the hounds of neurosis upon each other for some pre-trip jitters. This involved the main task of packing. I made sure that I got my stuff out of the way first because my darling wife takes a little while to pack, say…twelve hours? If you think I’m exaggerating, I assure you I am not. She brings more clothes than all of the passengers on the SS Minnow combined. Should we ever be shipwrecked, she’ll be fine. Not only is she getting her own stuff together, she has to double check mine or at least question my packing methods. Okay, I may not be Mr. Neat, but, honestly, once she wanted me to get clothes-folding lessons from her son. In her eyes, I needed a packing tutor.


I attempted to get some rest on the couch at around midnight, but the flurry of activity and my own anxiety prevented that from occurring. So, I stayed up all night and when Laurie had finished somewhere around 2:30 AM, we tried to relax a bit before Boris picked us up at 4:00. She was quite proud of herself and to tell you the truth so was I. She had worked her tail off all day long and was ready on time. This had always seemed to be the hardest part and now it was over. I took it as a good omen.

This break gave us time to go over our flight schedule one more time before we sailed off into the wild blue yonder. We were scheduled to leave from Portland Airport AKA PDX on Friday, July 19 at 6:15 am PST heading for New York’s JFK Airport by 4:45 pm EST. (I’ve got all these designations down, don’t I?) A little over an hour later, we would depart from JFK at 5:55 pm and arrive in Johannesburg, South Africa on Saturday at 240 pm…uh, BLE (below the equator). This meant we would be spending, with time differences, over twenty hours in the air. Were we up for it? Sure, why not? The short stop over in New York was cutting it very close but I had something that I believed would get us through. It’s a little thing called Faith and in that, I would find my strength.

Lo and behold, it wasn’t meant to be.
An announcement was made that Delta Flight #98 had mechanical difficulties that would delay its departure for at least two hours. This did not instill a lot of confidence right from the start. We had been there since about 4:15. Where was everybody else? Did some Delta nimrod leave the lights on all night and run the battery down? We could have checked out the plane ourselves, fixed it and still left on schedule.

Our timetable didn’t allow for this kind of nonsense since this delay would cause us to miss our connecting flight on South Africa Airways in New York. The Delta representative booked us on the next flight out, #1982 to Cincinnati, which was departing at 6:55. Then we would make an immediate connection to JFK twenty minutes later. This would have gotten us there just in the nick of time.

With a shrug, we were relieved that we were given a solution to our dilemma as we sat aboard Flight #1982 bound for Ohio. Once on board, we relaxed temporarily since there would be no reason to fret until we hit the Eastern Seaboard. I slept sporadically, catching glimpses of some asinine on-flight movie that I had no desire to actually attempt to watch on land, in the air or even under the sea. It suddenly dawned on me that after all these years after the contest my parents won way back in the sixties, here I was actually going to Cincinnati. I wouldn’t get a chance to see the Bengals, but then again, they wouldn’t get to see me either.

We landed in Cincinnati only ten minutes late, which would not have been too bad except that it cut our time in half. We were landing at gate 24 and had to board at gate 1. As we discovered, we were not alone. An extremely tall German woman had a connecting flight leaving JFK about the same time as ours was chomping at the bit as we soon as we hit the tarmac. When the door opened, she was out of chute number one and galloped like a gazelle leaving us in the dust. With our carry-ons weighting us down, we still managed to tear across the entire length of the terminal and arrived at the gate just in the nick of time.

Huffing, puffing and sweating like long distance runners, we plopped down in our new seats and sighed with relief that we were going to make it. There really was no turning back now nor was there a way to turn us back. Damn! This was exciting! We were facing these set-backs in stride and I couldn’t help but sing a variation to The Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song to myself.“We’re gonna make it after all!”

Why not? I was full of Faith.

Then the first flight announcement began.“This is your Captain speaking. I’m sorry. We’re facing a slight delay in take off, but I’m sure will be departing momentarily. Please stand by.”

A couple of minutes later…

“I’m sorry. It seems as though we’re facing a weather front that going to put us more than just a little behind. For those of you with connecting flights at JFK, the nearest Delta representative is ready, willing and able to help you solve any problems with your travel plans.”

Leaving Laurie on the plane, off I went to speak to the Delta rep in question. Immediately, this cordial, courteous and very helpful young lady informed me that we could make a connecting flight to France when we arrived in New York. Satisfied with that update, I returned to my wife. Another hour had gone by when the Captain announced the next piece of breaking news.

“It seems as though we are going to be sitting tight for quite awhile. There are severe thunderstorms across the Eastern Seaboard which means we are not going anywhere until they pass.”

At last, the weather broke and we able finally able to leave Cincinnati at 915 PM, a full (yet spiritually empty) seven hours after we had arrived. I passed out for the brief flight, knowing full well we’d be scrambling again once we reached JFK. I trusted Laurie had done the same since we needed all the energy we could muster to get through this next leg of our journey. After twelve hours, we had only made it as far as Ohio. If everything had gone according to plan, we would have been well over the Atlantic by now.

Maintaining my positive outlook on the whole situation, I recalled the Daylight Savings Time rule.

Fall back, spring forward.

As far as I was concerned, this was the best course of action. Unfortunately, I had it backwards.
Spring forward, fall on my face.

To be continued....

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA is now on sale in paperback and download at http://www.lulu.com/scottcherney and on Kindle from Amazon.com

C'mon back next time for my final free preview:

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: BAD KITTY

Please Hold Thumbs

It is with a great deal of pride and a heaping helping of pleasure that I announce the publication of my latest book entitled:
PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA

Please hold what? Thumbs, my dears, thumbs. It's a South African expression (sometimes attributed to the Germans as well) that means the same thing as crossing your fingers for luck, Luck is something my wife and I both needed back in 2002 when this truest of all possible true stories took place.

Attending our daughter's wedding in South Africa promised to be the vacation of a lifetime. But first, we had to face the treacherous gauntlet known as modern day travel. Join us, won't you, for we are indeed a hapless, sometimes helpless couple as we brave our way through a never-ending obstacle course filled with such hazards as flight delays, the purgatory of layovers and an incompetent, uncaring air carrier that treats its passengers worse than their luggage.

Waiting for us on the other side of the world are an honest-to-goodness safari with amorous lions and elephants with anger issues, a life-affirming visit to a South African school and an anxious bride and groom, standing patiently at the airport with a sign that reads:

"WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?"

The answer lies within the pages of PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA, a tale of triumph and turbulence...one that dares to tell the world's cruelest joke:

HAVE A NICE TRIP?

SEE YA NEXT FALL!

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS: A NOT-SO-ROUND TRIP TO SOUTH AFRICA  IS AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE 

To read excerpts from PLEASE HOLD THUMBS or any other of my travel blogs please visit my page CHERNEY JOURNEYS