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 was 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

The Return of La Rue's Return

First production of LA RUE'S RETURN at Pollardville

Evil always returns...
only this time, it has a bad French accent!

Oh, he's back alright. Jacques La Rue, that is. He's the villain in the very first theatrical venture show written by Edward Thorpe and myself. a little melodrama called LA RUE'S RETURN or HOW'S A BAYOU?.

The Legend Continues

Rising from the ashes...or emerging from a pile of papers...is THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, yet another western comedy melodrama in the grand tradition of SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE.

Grand tradition, my Aunt Petunia's pooting patootie. Boy, two productions of the same script in one year and all of a sudden, it's OUR TOWN. Never mind that it took 27 years for even a second show to get off the ground...

SHUT  UP, YOU! Ignore that snarky naysayer in my head. How the hell did he find his way into this blog?

THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE was my first solo effort as a melodrama playwright after Ed Thorpe and I wrote LA RUE'S RETURN for the Palace Showboat Theater stage at Pollardville. This is my homage to the masked western hero sub-genre which includes The Lone Ranger, Zorro and Marvel Comics' Two Gun Kid. Coincidentally enough, I had penned a Lone Ranger sketch for the previous show at the Palace, GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE.

The Rogue had been a character I created out in the Pollardville Ghost Town but never got the chance to bring him to life on those mean streets, so I featured the character in another script called THE WRATH OF THE ROGUE or WHO IS THIS GUY ZORRO ANYWAY? It landed with a thud after I unsuccessfully submitted the script to Goldie Pollard, the producer and Mother of Us All at the Ville. The Rogue was more of a Zorro type complete with cape, mask and sword that glowed in the dark. It wasn't much, except for this exchange between the hero Brian Ryan and the heroine Georgia Washington after she discovers his secret identity. These were meant to be asides to audience.

BRIAN: If only she knew.
GEORGIA: If only he knew
BRIAN: If only she knew that I know that she knows.

Eat your heart out, David Mamet.

But I gave it another go a few months later, turning the new script into an origin story instead and a plot similar to a movie from my youth: THE LONE RANGER AND THE LOST CITY OF GOLD. However, I needed a major element that THE WRATH sorely lacked: A good villain. What's an evil trait not seen in most melodrama bad guys. Well, I hear racism's pretty bad. How about a good old fashioned bigot? Alright, but what kind? Hey, it's the Old West, what say we have an ex-Confederate officer, a Foghorn Leghorn type, who wants to fight another Civil War and set things right again? And he can oppress the Indians at the same time? But what to call him? A name hit me from the deep recesses of my demented creative soul...Randolph Hitlear. Of course! A Kentucky Fried version of the worst villain of all time!

Once I had my villain, I was off and running. I knocked out a first draft in four days time. Within another week, I handed it off to Goldie and, saints be praised, it green-lit as the next production. I didn't have a sub-title at the time and reluctantly settled for GOOD GUYS WEAR BLACK, also the name of a Chuck Norris film, one that my mom once mispronounced as BLACK GUYS WEAR GOOD, another concept entirely.  

(The saga of this particular production where I was chosen as the writer/director of the vaudeville section as well, is a tumultuous tale to be told another time. Let's just say in the most cliched of terms, "Be careful what you wish for.")

However, I will say that THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, directed by Bill Humphreys, had its one and only run at the Palace Showboat for the first six months of 1981. I never got a chance to see it because I was in the cast. It has not seen the light of day since.

The personal triumph of SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE this past summer has given me the initiative to revisit this story that I had felt was beyond help. But a fresh perspective works wonders and I realized that I hadn't given the material enough credit. There was enough here for salvation and development, so I went ahead and expanded the story and characters to make more it more of a well-rounded story instead of an elongated sketch. Hence, THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE lives again and this time with a different sub-title: MASK ME NO QUESTIONS. I'm still only half-sold on this, but I have a feeling Chuck Norris might come after me for copyright infringement. Sure, he might pull a ham-string kicking me in the face at his age, but then again, I didn't need my face rearranged into a Picasso either.

Here's the story and yes, it's full of very obvious spoilers:

Hard times have fallen on the Clayfoot Indian tribe with the arrival of Randolph Hitlear, an ex-Confederate general obsessed with idea of starting a second Civil War under his leadership. To finance this effort, Hitlear searches for the Clayfoot's mountain treasure, the Tomb of Gold. With the help of his dastardly henchmen, Ashley and Rhett, Hitlear forces the tribe into slavery to dig for the gold including the Clayfoot leader, Chief Boyardee. His daughter, Fawn, is a mystic who has the ability to speak to the Great Spirits. From them she learns of a prophecy that states that "the dark cloud of evil shall ride a warrior of good who shall become a savior". With that thought in mind, Fawn seeks the help of Brian Ryan in nearby Parched Throat, Arizona, a handsome young lawyer who moonlights as sheriff of this one lizard town. Brian falls in love with Fawn at first glance, raising the ire of saloon singer Sugar De Spice who wants to put her claws into the novice lawman herself. When the sheriff agrees to help, a jealous Sugar, along with the weasely corrupt Indian agent Percival P. Pestt, inform Hitlear. Laying in wait for the sheriff, Hitlear gets the upper hand upon Brian's arrival and in the fracas, Fawn is killed. When Brian is left for dead himself in the desert, Sugar has a change of heart and rescues him. Back in town, Fawn's spirit comes to him in his delirium and empowers Brian with special abilities given to him by the Great Spirits since he is indeed the warrior of good in the prophecy. Brian dons a mask and adopts the persona of the masked avenger known as The Rogue. He catches up to Hitlear just as he enters the fabled Tomb of Gold and thwarts his plans once and for all, saving the Clayfoot tribe and the nation from this vicious war criminal. And the rest is legendary... 

Now THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE has been published by Off the Wall Plays. Performance rights are available.

CLICK HERE FOR A FREE PREVIEW OF LEGEND OF THE ROGUE AND TO INQUIRE ABOUT PERFORMANCE RIGHTS

Like the title says, the legend continues...

The Canyon Kid Comes Home

The Footlight Theatre Co. production of SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE opens August 29 in Jamestown,

CA, not far from whence it first reared its white Stetson way back in 1987 at the Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville. This is as close to home as the show's been for 27 years.

And after all, that's the real theme of this show: Going home. I had put melodramas in my rear-view mirror a long time ago and yet, I returned to my favorite, LONE PRAIRIE, and wrote a novelization of it as a lark. It turned out to be the project that rekindled my love for writing, comedy and yep, melodrama. An e-mail out of the blue from the Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville in Oceano got my show produced for the first time in the 21st century. So I sent out to few other companies and lo and behold, here's the Footlight Theatre Co. ready for the second production of this script this summer.

Now I've got a total of three scripts ready for the big time, LONE PRAIRIE, LA RUE'S RETURN, my first co-written with Edward Thorpe and a punched up version of my first solo show, THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE or MASK ME NO QUESTIONS. (New sub-title. It used to be GOOD GUYS WEAR BLACK, but I don't want my ass kicked by Chuck Norris. I don't care how old he is. He can still rip my lower intestines out with his bare hands and make me play jump rope with them)

Whatever goes around, comes around and I'm enjoying the ride.


This is the front of the Palace Showboat program.
Obviously, I didn't design this. The title isn't very prominently displayed. Neither is my name.  Goldie's name is. Hmm...
It also calls the play "A Western Fairy Tale". That's about as accurate as calling SAW a slapstick romp that's fun for the whole family.
And what in the name of Sam Peckinpah is up with that cowboy? Who is he supposed to be? Give him a golden earring and a head scarf underneath that hat and it could be Two Gun Boris...or Charlene Atlas before a good scubbin' and waxin'
I'm not sure what that stain on the program is. It could be from Pollardville fried chicken.
Yeah I can say all this now, but I treasure this like a Picasso.
 But that was then...

 
And this is now.
This is the latest incarnation of this show, quite different than the first in many ways. Read this from the Footlight Theatre Co. press release.

Hurst Ranch and Footlight Theatre Company have teamed up to meritoriously bring to life the world of Wild West Melodrama!  Set at the striking Hurst Ranch  with its beautiful vintage grounds, audiences are sure to have an outrageous, side-splitting laughter filled evening full of all sorts of knee-slappin, toe-tappin old timey fun!

Every performance begins with a train ride into the "town" of Dirt Clod on the Hurst Ranch Railroad, where guests can arrive in town and belly up to the bar at The Dirt Clod Saloon.

An 1890s style musical vaudeville shows begin at 5:45, featuring performances by  local old timey bands including Faux Renwah, The Lava Cats and more.

At 6:00 pm, with the ringing of the dinner bell, a 3 course gourmet Western BBQ is served up by The Historic National Hotel of Jamestown.

Romp-stomping action and non-stop hilarity ensue after dinner around 7:00 pm, just as the sun begins to set over the beautiful "Dirt Clod Lagoon"!!  In classic melodrama fashion audiences will get to boo and hiss the villains, sigh and swoon for the sweet heroine and cheer the brave hero!! 

And the next generation of actors portraying those wackadoodles I wrote many moons ago include:

Michelle Tennant as Charlene Atlas

Alexis St Onge as D and Richard Carr as The Canyon Kid

Valerie Smusz as Nastassia and Aaron Bennett as Two Gun Boris

Susan Chapman as Honey Darling

Rounding out the cast (those MOP-Mit Out Photos) are Art Delgado as Basil Kadaver, Anthony De Page as Dalton Doolin and Don Pierazzi as Mayor Darling.

So that's the story, glory.
Song of the Lone Prairie or Poem on the Range
Aug. 29-Sept, 20 in Jamestown, CA
And it was written by...
Hang on a second. Let me look at the poster again.
"By Scott Cherney."
WHY IS MY NAME STILL SO SMALL?
Sigh...
Everything old is new again.