Food, Glorious Food!

It's been 25 years since I left the old hometown of Stockton, California. Absence hasn't exactly made the heart grow fonder, but it hasn't grown weeds either. I can't deny that this is where I was born and bred and I never will. I've even stopped wincing when people ask me where I'm from. 

Even if it wasn't an entirely idyllic childhood, life was pretty damn good growing up in the semi-suburban bubble I grew up in. While I will never live there again, there are things I miss after all this time. Many of these involve food related items, be it a specific meal, dish, take out or what have you that fed both my stomach and soul (yes, really) making me long for just one more bite. These are the good memories. The others can take care of themselves.

Many of these establishments no longer exist but I feel the need to honor in the only way I know how by memory. I also can't vouch for the current status of the survivors. 

My list includes the following in no particular order:

Oyster burrito from SAN FELIPE GRILL

Love at first bite. Beautifully seasoned oysters deep fried to perfection with a bit of green cabbage and a simple white sauce (mayo and vinegar perhaps?), the simplicity of this beauty a joy to behold and better yet to engulf which I used to do almost week. The fish tacos were also quite good, but the oyster burrito is a craving I cannot satisfy to this very day because no one I can find serves them. Why? No please. I need to know. Did I do something wrong? Again? 

DOK SHOONS

Bud Bakalian was a great guy, a terrific host with side of snark who somehow managed to put up with me. I recall visiting his original location in Lincoln Center, the year I have no clue. His second location on the Miracle Mile became my home base when I worked in the area. For some reason, I was anti-mustard then, so I wanted to invent my own dog: tomato, ketchup and pepper. Bud's face turned to utter disdain as he reluctantly made my dog, but he made it anyway. I finally went back to the original (having come to my senses perhaps?) and he was glad I did. After he sold it to a guy named Jimmy Lee, a new item appeared on the menu: a meat loaf sandwich on white bread. The meat loaf had to be hot, not cold, damn you, and slathered with ketchup (again) and mayo. This became what I would I want for my final meal. 

Shrimp scampi from the WATERLOO

I love shrimp scampi. Such a decadent dish of shrimp saute' in garlic butter, white wine and lemon. Stockton Joe's made a mean scampi, but the king is the version at the Waterloo. Served with a gnarly pesto pasta, this could be a dying man's last request. However, what makes it an absolute classic are the leftovers you're bound to take home because they serve hearty portions. Mix the pesto with the scampi and this is absolute heaven on a plate. (By the way is it The Waterloo Inn or just The Waterloo? I seem to recall it was the former, but as always, I could be wrong)

YE OLDE HOOSIER INN

Everybody loved the Hoosier Inn. I never heard a bad word or review in relation to that fine old (or olde) establishment. The fact that it survived as long as it did on Wilson Way is astonishing. Breakfast ruled here as far as I was concerned. If you ordered steak and eggs, it came with the signature garlic butter melting over your meat. (sense a trend here?). Eggs any way you would want them and they were be stupendous. I'd choose scrambled, absolutely fluffy and off course the best hash browns in town. Top off your meal with a blueberry muffin and you were set for the day or even the rest of the week because you started it all with a trip to the Hoosier.

Enchilada Suizas from MI RANCHITO 

You know, I don't actually know if this sign is from the Stockton Mi Ranchito. No matter. The MR to which I refer was on South El Dorado I believe and served an enchilada I kill to have again. Well, maybe hurt someone's feelings instead. Happy now? A cheese enchilada covered in a creamy sauce with tomatillos and peppers. I hope my cardiologist doesn't read this. I obviously don't eat these anymore, but I sure would if I could.

Sausage and mushroom pizza from MICHAEL'S PIZZA

I've eaten a about a ton of pizza in my lifetime, though honestly, not many pies have stood out to be memorable or even craveable. The experiences in pizza parlors stood out more especially watching silent movies, mostly comedies, while chowing down at Straw Hat on Pacific. Then there was the live Dixeland music at Shakey's, one member of the bad being one of our teachers from Stagg High, Charles Koliha. But my favorite pizza itself cam elater, the sausage and mushroom at Michael's New York Stile Pizza on North El Dorado. Bonus points were given due to its close proximity to my house. Can't say that this was true New York style per se, but it don't matter to me. Love me some Michael's.

Deep fried prawns for POLLARDVILLE CHICKEN KITCHEN

Neil Pollard and friend

I would be remiss if I didn't mention Pollardville, my second home, but this time around, it's all about the food. As much time as I spent out there, I had a lotta of their famous fried chicken, among other things (including their signature breakfast A Square Meal. It said so right to the menu.) But I wasn't in love with it as many people were. I actually preferred (get ready to bail, half my readers) the chicken livers. Not the giblets, mind you. Those suckers were damn tasty. The stars of the show, however, were the prawns. Jumbo didn't even begin to describe their size. Deep fry these babies with the same batter and the results were juicy, luscious and succulent. I'm going to take a cold shower now.

Egg Foo Young from THE CHOPSTICK

Like pizza, I had more than my fair share of Chinese food in Stockton, the best in my book being Yen Du. What brings a nostalgic tear to my eye is the Egg Foo Young from The Chopstick. Yeah, it's supposedly inauthentic and considered a Chinese/American dish ala Chop Suey. Whatever. This satisfied my craving every time, the egg and bean sprout omelette slathered with that  brown gravy full of goodness. And it's still open for business! You go, Chopstick!

OTIS SPUNKMEYER'S OLDE TYME BURRITOS 

How can I consider this a guilt pleasure when I loved these so damn much? Yes, the stupidest name ever as well as a bizarre business model but someone, maybe Otis himself said "Hey! Let's open up a burrito joint right to where we sell cookies in the mall!" Hence, this place along with several others in the chain, found themselves appealing to stoners everywhere. Using the Subway sandwich approach, these applied an assembly line burrito making station to make them big fatties however you wanted. Talk about inauthentic, but hey, cultural appropriation never tasted so good. My burrito of choice was the beef w/refried beans and sour cream and, oh, I dunno, whatever else they had laying around. (but no cheese. had to watch my figure) The guac probably, though it was more of avocado like product, definitely not the real deal, but it was my gateway drug since avos still make gag but guac doesn't. I'm an anomaly. So were Otis Spunkmeyer's Olde Tyme Burritos, the "olde tyme" being in another dimension.

Manny Burger from MANNY'S CALIFORNIA FRESH CAFE

It's Manny's to me. It'll always be Manny's to me. I can't utter its "full and proper" name because it sounds affected and affects me enough to gag a little. That said, the Manny Burger is hands down the best burger I ever had or ever will have. It beats the Double Double from In 'n Out but a few lengths. It was pretty much a staple of my diet in my twenties. Now I could maybe have one a year, but it would be a highlight, that's for damn sure. Really good chicken, "broasted" for God's sake, which combined with what used to be known as Mojo potatoes and Portuguese beans made for a rollicking Friday night meal. Checking a recent menu online, I see where the name Mojo has gone the way of the Dodo. Here in Oregon, they call them Jojos and were supposedly invented here. What a claim to fame. Also the menu mentions deep fried oysters. Hmm... 

Spaghetti a la Caruso from STOCKTON JOE'S

Get ready for chicken livers to rear their ugly heads again. In the 90s, this was a go-to place in Lincoln Center. Really good chow came out of that kitchen. The aforementioned Shrimp Scampi was a highlight until I fell in love with The Waterloo version and didn't want to cheat on her. Excellent Bloody Mary as well. What put this over the top for me was the Spaghetti ala Caruso, named for the famous Italian tenor Steve Caruso (or was it Jeff?) Ol' Carso loved his chicken livers and wanted a dish to call his own. Combined the livers with sauteed mushrooms in a winey tomato sauce over pasta that made me say "Abbondanza!" which in English means "Goddamn it, I dropped my fork again!"

That's a pretty decent list. Some I had to leave off, so a sequel may be in order because I'm a completist. Some may argue otherwise, but that's another blog.

As for now, I think I need a snack. I'm a little peckish.

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-Oh, Black Water

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

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

DW Landingham, gunfighter

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

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

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

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

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

Next up: The Final Chapter-HAPPY TRAILS

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

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

Photo by Edward Thorpe

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

"You shot the sheriff!"

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

"But I did not shoot the deputy!"

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

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

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

That Town Bum was Neil Pollard

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

THE VILLE-PART TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next up: Chapter Five-OH, BLACK WATER

MORE STORIES OF TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

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

 

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: Daddy Goose

As Father's Day approaches, it's high time I pay tribute to the other significant pater familia in my life, the one, the only Daddy Goose.

Without going into a long list of my credits, I have to admit that the years I spent out at Pollardville were the most creatively prolific in my writing life with material that continue to pay off to this very day. But for all the melos, sketches and gags I wrote or re-wrote over time, there is one person I managed to short-change:

Me.

When I first ventured onto the Showboat stage in 1979, I had just come from the Ghost Town where I had been the entertainment director for much of the past season. Therefore, I was full of piss, vinegar, beans and hops and wanted to take the theater by storm after that most amazing of all years playing in the streets of the Ville's backyard. I had already co-written LA RUE'S RETURN a couple of years earlier. And Bob Gossett, who was to direct his first melodrama, a revival of DOWNFALL OF THE UPRISING or WHO DO THE VOODOO? written by Marian Larson, asked me to be his assistant and to help him punch up the script. Naturally, I wanted to do more, submitting many a gag for the vaudeville section only to be roundly shot down by olio director Phil DeAngelo. I did manage to squeeze in one piece which, coincidentally featured myself as a cowboy and his dancing bear which he accomplished by shooting at its feet. Later on, the tables were turned as the bear made the cowboy dance in the same matter. Goldie played the bear and I believe that was where our long friendship was cemented. (Kind of a metaphor, eh, wot?)

But as time passed, I wrote more and more for the greater good which turned out to be those talented individuals I worked with. If I ended up in the melo/sketch/blackout, it was usually an afterthought or happy accident. Don't get me wrong. I had some great roles, but sometimes it was by default. I was my brother, Charlie. I shoulda been looked out for me a little bit. (As I try to make a point, I make no sense. Sue me.)

Further down the road came the first total rock n' roll olios, ROCK N' VAUDEVILLE. Since GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE's guys number, "Hot Patootie" from ROCKY HORROR SHOW, more and more vaudevilles had more contemporary numbers, including rock ' n roll, so why devote a whole show around it? We decided to have a DJ character set up in a side stage studio set and that's when I developed the character of Daddy Goose, a beatnik well past his prime. this piece was just a variation on the old FRACTURED FAIRY TALES segment from THE ROCKY AND BULLWINKLE SHOW. (Jay Ward, the creator of that show and GEORGE OF THE JUNGLE has always been and always will be a major influence) So, I wrote a new version of Cinderella called Cinderbaby. She was a Valley Girl who lived with her Step-Mommy, a riff on Flip Wilson's Geraldine character, and her two hideous stepsister-The Lee Sisters, Ugh and Home. With the help of her Fairy Godfather (and all it implies) Cinderbaby was able to go to the ball thrown by the Prince, Little Red Corvette and all. Since this was a all out assault on Mother Goose, I came up with some nursery rhymes as well. This pre-dated Andrew Dice Clay’s X-rated versions by at least of couple of years or at least my awareness of them.

Look at me! I'm a weiner!

This was the beginning of my very short-lived stand-up career. Playing Daddy G twice a week on the Pollardville stage gave me the confidence to give it a try outside my comfort zone. It all culminated in 1987 when I entered and won the one and only Stockton Comedy Competition. At the finals, I performed a truncated version of Daddy Goose. Winning that event in itself was one of the definitive moments in my life. If somebody ever plays a highlight clip reel when I die, that night will be included. Okay, so maybe there are those of you who don’t get it. Perhaps you think that this is a lame claim to fame and that winning first place in a stand-up competition in Stockton, California is the equivalent of say, being crowned Miss Picante Sauce at the Salsa Festival in West Cowpie, Texas. But you know what? This brief moment in the sun means the world to me and, in my life, I will always have this particular fame to claim.

After I won, I attempted to bring Daddy Goose into the clubs, but it didn't translate and died a thousand deaths, sometimes in one night. I began to lose faith in the Goose, doing about as far as I could with the character, so I put him up in mothballs. When Ray Rustigian booked outside variety show gigs for many of the Palace Players, he always requested I bring back the Goose. I resisted, preferring to go with newer material instead. Ray had more faith in Daddy Goose than I did. In retrospect, he might have been right, considering the audiences we played to during those shows who might have preferred the old over the new. .

When I appeared in ANGRY HOUSEWIVES at Stockton Civic Theater, board president Helen Kastner wanted to put together a series of separate variety shows on Sunday afternoons that summer. She asked if I would throw something together and so I took that Pepsi challenge. The all comedy revue entitled NOW THAT'S FUNNY! turned out better than I ever could have hoped. The cast, made up of some Ville alums and other theater friends, was a total dream and the show itself, a combination of some of my original material interspersed with some old vaudeville bits like Dr. Cure-All (featuring the one and only D. W. Landingham) as well as other kibbles and bits I gathered hither and tither, made for a damn decent show if I say so myself.

As MC, not to mention director of this one time only event, I took advantage of the situation. I performed some stand-up, cast myself in some sketches and made damn sure that Daddy Goose would make a  grand entrance. I never had this much freedom of movement before. At the Ville, I was trapped on the side stage behind the KPOL set. Other times, I had to make due with a postage stamp size platform. But on the SCT stage, I felt unleashed. This is exactly how this bit was supposed to go, The end result was a personal triumph, probably the best performance of Cinderbaby I ever gave. I think for the very first time I totally owned Daddy Goose and it showed.

When I moved to Portland, I used snippets of the Goose for various audition pieces, mostly out of laziness so I wouldn't have to learn a new monologue. But I thought that was about the size of it until I put together a collection of my comedy sketches together for a book I titled NOW THAT'S FUNNY! (Hmm, that' sounds familiar...) Naturally, I included Daddy Goose,nursery rhymes and all, never thinking I would dust off the beret and shades again.

Then the Pollardville reunion reared its head in 2007 and when I was asked if I wanted to contribute to the show, naturally I had to bring back the Goose one...more...time. It had been 15 years since the last appearance of DG and I'm talking about from beginning to end. I rehearsed like a mofo at my Oregon home,until I made the trip back to the site of the Big Chicken in the Sky. Oh boy, was I outta shape and by the end, damn near outta gas as I plowed my way through the story of Cinderbaby and all her kin. I wasn't a hundred percent happy with the result and if you look at the tape, it ran a too long 14 and a half minutes. I also looked like a bloated hungover bus boy at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville Bar and Grille.Once again, I felt handicapped by the space I was given, restricting my movements and quite frankly, I should have edited the piece. No one but me really gave two hoots in Hell if I told the whole damn story. I could have cut it short and ended with a Mick Jagger send-off which would have put a sweet exclamation point on the bit. But hindsight is 60/40 so I should quit my bitchin'. It wasn't meant to be all about me This was the last telling of this tale and I'm eternally grateful I got the chance. I did put my heart and soul into Daddy Goose's swan song in the place of his birth. It was a true homecoming, if only to say goodbye once and for all.

Daddy Goose is now retired, living in an assisted living yurt somewhere in Humboldt County, but his legend may continue. I may still do something with the character, perhaps an adaptation of Cinderbaby in some form or another. It would need an overhaul since much of the material is mired in 1980s culture. And the Fairy Godfather could use a makeover as well, not in the name of political correctness rather for the sake of evolution.

What can I say, Daddy? Not to get all Brokeback, but I just can't seem to quit you. Over the years, you've been good to me and I want to give you the respect you deserve with this overdue tribute at long last.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy Goose!

And to all of you fathers out there,

Peace, love, rock n' roll

MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE RIGHT CHER