Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-Happy Trails

The Final Chapter of the Tule Flats Saga

Preparation for the 30 hour marathon weekend, the grand finale of the first season of the Tule Flats Ghost Town, were well on their way. We didn't add much more than we already had entertainment-wise, and, in retrospect, we should have done a lot more. Live music should have been an option and since it was Halloween, we could have had some sort of haunted attraction. But we had the rides, such as they were, movies in the hotel and of course, we had the gunfights scheduled to going we into the night. The thought of an after-midnight show really appealed to those of us who would have been partying heartily ourselves.  

For the last street shows of the year, I came up with a couple of newbies, the first written specifically for Grant-Lee Phillips as the Russian gunfighter character Two Gun Boris. ("I am Two Gun Boris"  "You on have one gun."  "Ha! Joke is on Boris!") It was a perfect showcase for Grant and I knew he would run with it. (I used this same character in my melodrama Song of the Lone Prairie, now Song of the Canyon Kid) The other was called The Return of the Gunfighter, a Halloween themed piece that had a pair of bullies picking on some town folk including a little kid whose father was a gunfighter who had been shot down a year before. When the kid cried, "You wouldn't do this if my pa was here!", that dead pa in question rises from the grave and shoots the two bullies down. He kisses his daughter goodbye and exits into the night. Now we needed a spectacular special effect for his entrance and subsequent exit, so Bill Humphreys came up with an idea that involved a line of gunpowder on a pair of 2x4s on either end of Main Street. When ignited, the first looked like a curtain and the zombie gunfighter (Jim Cusick dressed all in black as always) stepped through the smoke. When he left, the pyro went off after him, closing the curtain behind him. Awesome. Perfect for an evening performance. The main problem was that there wasn't a completed script because, given the time constraints, I ran out of time and felt the show could be an improv since one of our regular shows, The Boss, started that very same way. After a couple of rehearsals, I was confident enough that it would work. 

Another factor in this marathon weekend was the acquisition of a temporary license to sell beer in the town. It seemed like good idea at the time and certainly those of us that enjoyed a brew or several had no qualms about it. But when you're dealing with the general public, hoo boy. Watch this space.

That Saturday, the gates opened and we were well on our way. Attendance was way up and things went smoothly right up until about sundown. The debut of The Return of the Gunfighter went off with a lot of hitches. I was dealing with a pair of non actors in the roles of the bullies, one of which had a snoot on from dipping into the beer supply, a right he believed he had since he was one of the town's partners. As a result, the both of them had no clue what to do, jumped in far too early and basically made it a confusing mess, a major error on my part. The only things that saved it at all were those bloody special effects which got a rousing cheer from the large crowd but wasn't enough to appease my anger, mostly at myself for not being better prepared. 

Kid Blurry and Sheriff Max after hours (honest!)

As the night wore on, the brewski on tap was taking its toll on the patrons as they swiftly grew a little too rowdy and overbearing for us to wrangle.  When we staged our 10pm gunfight, the streets were packed with suds swillers left, right, over and above. We had to yell our lines at the top of our lungs to be heard, not by the audience but each other. Once that debacle was blissfully over, the decision was made to break up these boozehounds and even close to town at midnight, ending the 30 hour marathon concept. Most fols left peacefully, but the saloon was packed with inebriated owl hoots and had to be cleared.  This meant all hands on deck, so every cowboy available was ready to rustle this herd out the front gate, easier said than done. Ed Thorpe, now wearing Sheriff John's badge, thought it best to get everyone's attention by firing his pistol inside the building. Well, it sure brought everything to a halt alright until someone made an announcement along the lines of "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. It's closing time!" But once Ed holstered his weapon, a drunken yahoo behind him confiscated it. Cocking it, he waved the six-gun at everyone grinning like the goon that he was and backed out of the saloon onto Main Street, many of the cowboys stalking him, particularly Ed who seemed like he was ready to pistol whip this hombre once he retrieved his weapon. I had slid out behind this dipsy desperado, realizing like everyone else that this was spinning out of control fast. I have no idea what got into me but once he stepped out of the saloon and onto the street, I jumped onto his back pinning his arms to his side. He flung me back and forth, trying to throw me off but I held fast. Yee=ha! Ride 'em cowboy! This gave the other gunfighters enough time to finally snatch the gun away once and for all and said varmint was escorted off the premises along with the rest of his boozy compadres. The gates were locked for the night we went into lockdown until the regular opening time of High Noon for Day 2. 

A good steady flow of (blissfully sober) customers entered through the front gates of Tule Flats that last day of 1979. All went swimmingly after the near-boondoggle of the night before. The street shows in particular were going beautifully, especially the one (and only, for some reason) performance of Two Gun Boris. The success of that gunfight more than made up for the mess of the other new show the night before. That one may have had some spectacular fireworks to make up for its lack of anything else, but Two Gun Boris had Grant-Lee Phillips in the title role, the best special effect of all.

The last gunfight of the day and season was to be Saddle Drop, a gunfight that had been performed since day one of the original Ghost Town. I thought it was time to give this show a decent burial, a chestnut that had pretty much worn out its welcome as far as I was concerned, no matter what we added to it over time. For example, we added a bit when the sheriff gives his adversary a fighting chance by allowing him three free shots, knowing full well that he would miss which, of course, he does. The gags were usually a bell ringing for shot number one, a rubber chicken falling into the middle of the street for number two and a cowboy falling off the hotel onto a rigged wagon behind the bad guy for shot number three. But for the final shot that afternoon, bodies fell everywhere, the rest of the cowboys who weren't in the show and a few spare Ghost Town employees as well, one end of the street to the other all the way down to the hotel where, of course, somebody fell off the balcony one last time. Then everyone, the entire cast and then some, gathered together in the middle of the street in a circle, arms around each other and sang the great Roy Rogers classic "Happy Trails" for the audience, for ourselves and for the Ghost Town itself. 

And with that, Tule Flats Ghost Town rode off into the sunset after season numero uno. And while it reopened the next year, several changes had come down the pike. The four partners basically split up and a few key cast members had moved on, so the magic of 1979 had worn off, settling back into the way things used to be once again. Eventually, the town reverted back to the ownership of Neil Pollard, changing the name back to the original Pollardville Ghost Town as it remained until finally closing down altogether in 2007.  

The inaugural season of Tule Flats was actually a coda of my Freshman year at Pollardville University. So much of what I learned on the dusty streets of that town gave me the necessary tools to move on to the next chapter of my "academic" life including crowd work, comedic timing, character building, not to mention Writing and Directing 101. If it wasn't for the Ghost Town, I wouldn't have been able to accomplish what I did going forward. I still have my hat, holster and six-gun stashed away to remind me of who I was and always will be, a weekend cowboy through and through.

Happy trails to you until we meet again in the Ghost Town of my memory

The first five chapters of the Tule Flats saga, as well as other Pollardville stories from the Ghost Town and Palace Showboat can be found at:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

or individually:

THE BEGINNING

IN THE SUMMERTIME

THE ELECTION

I SHOT THE SHERIFF

OH, BLACK WATER

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-The Election

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

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

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

Humphrey Williams

He's our man

Best darn throughout the land

Humphrey Williams

Rah Rah Rah

And best of all he wears no bra!

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

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

Goldie won by a landslide.

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

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

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

Sheriff! Sheriff! Have you seen the sheriff?

What the fuck do you want, you little asshole?

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

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

Next up: Chapter Four-I SHOT THE SHERIFF

MORE TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-In the Summertime

So the Ghost Town, now rebranded as Tule Flats, was up and running. Well maybe strolling. The boosts in attendance following Easter began to taper off maybe not too dramatically, but significantly. Things were better than they were but in order to sustain this new model there needed to be more attendance. For the first time, admission was charged when admittance to the town had been gratis since Day One. But, in Ghost Town 2.0, if ya didn't cough up the dough, ya didn't get in, at least not through the front gate.

Things were taking shape though with this kinda sorta new crew. The street shows, namely the gunfights were packed with more action with more stunt work by are team of non-professionals. Even I was shot off the roof the hotel, falling off onto the wagon below. The acting itself, as it were, had certainly been elevated, probably the most talented bunch of weekend cowboys that ever roamed the Pollardville range. 

The energy in the place was undeniable. There was something happening there to be sure, actually feeling like a real town since, for the most part, we all stayed in character the entire time. Even though it was for the sake of the paying public, we sometimes gave ourselves over to the illusion of what we conceived to be the Wild West, at least our version of it. 

I was convinced of this one day when Grant Phillips and I went out to rob the train, a little bonus for customers that occurred on every run. For some reason, I thought it was a good idea for the two of us to come running back in town after the robbery to continue the story a little bit more. Once I hit main Street, Dennis Landingham was standing at the hitching post in front of the saloon, noticing I had the gold bag in my hand that I just brought from the train. Instinctively he drew his pistol and I drew mine. We began to exchange gunfire back and forth. Grant did not have a gun and basically ducked and covered as we tried to make our way down the street. Hearing the ruckus we just started, a couple of of other gunfighters joined in the fray. As I recall, we scampered behind the buildings and popped out right by the assay office while the other cowpokes lit out after us. In desperation,  I took a couple of customers, young purty girls of course, as hostages and, along with Grant, hold up in the jail trying to figure out what to do next. Outside, Dennis was hollering for us to give up which I refused to do. Grant didn't really care on way or the other, just along for the ride. Realizing there was no way out of this mess (or bit), I felt until it was time to make a hasty exit, leave Grant and the hostages behind and shoot my way out. Throwing open the jailhouse door, I ran to the middle of the street in desperation, pistol drawn ready to face the two or three cowpokes outside when I was met by a hail of blank gunfire from everywhere and everyone, three times more than what I expected. I fell to the ground in a heap, meeting my maker that fateful afternoon. The silence that followed lasted only a mere second before there was a burst of applause that surprised the holy hell out of me. I rose from the dirt to see we actually had an audience for all of this. Here we were, playing cowboy not much differently as when were kids and the customers loved it. Oh yeah. we were on to something, that was for sure. The question was, how to recreate it? 

Memorial day weekend saw another up-tic in attendance, but the drop off afterward led to some changes that didn't set well with some. DW, for one, grew frustrated when more duties were laid upon us that had nothing to do with being gunfighting such as maintenance. He realized that he didn't want the position of Entertainment Director any longer because he already had a full-time job during the week and this was supposed to be recreation not another job. So he gave it up, still wanting to be part of the town and even agreeing not be paid as long he didn't have to fulfill another other responsibilities. 

The Powers that Be, as I called the partners who now ran the town, offered me Dennis' position instead and I became The Guy. I didn't go along with the additional workload conditions either for the gunfighters, let alone myself. For some reason, they went along with me and dropped that nonsense. Why they didn't do the same for Dennis was beyond me. 

As the new Entertainment Director of Tule Flats, the world began to open for me, both creatively and personally. The black clouds of depression I lived under at the beginning of the year faded away in the sunshine of this moment. Instantly, I rewrote some of the old scripts and penned a few new ones with more of an emphasis on comedy because we started to lose some of our stunt performers. Since we didn't have any training, we were basically making it up as went along and if we continued, we could have broken our fool necks if weren't careful and we rarely were as it was. I could see we as a collective were capable of more, much more and wanted to expand on it.

Naturally, in the words of a certain web slinger, with great power comes great responsibility, not to mention a boost to one's ego. I had gone to from zero to sixty in a short amount of time. The black clouds of depression that nearly laid me out at the beginning of the year faded away in the sunshine of this moment in the sun. For the first time, I had a swagger in my step and confidence that had previously been foreign to me. I felt a bit like a rock star that summer. How could it not get into my head?

The seeds of what was to become at Pollardville in general had been firmly implanted in that summer in the Ghost Town. It wasn't long before we became a closely knit group of people and bonds were forming fast. It became difficult to leave at the end of the day, so we didn't. That's when the partying started. Often we go far into the night, consuming many a bottle of beer, laughing, carousing and whooping it up like there was no tomorrow. Unfortunately, when Monday rolled around again, it was time to rejoin the Real World again. We prayed for time to fly until the next weekend when we could head back in time to a world, a better world of our own making. 

And coming up fast was the next big holiday celebration, the Fourth of July. let the fireworks begin.

PHOTGRAPHS BY EDWARD THORPE

Next up: Chapter Three-THE ELECTION

MORE TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Love Ya, Max

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

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

Gone. Just like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will talk to youse later.

Love ya, Max

 

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats- The Beginning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

D.W. Landingham

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

Bitch. Moan. Gripe. Repeat.

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

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

Me back then. Nice hat.

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

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

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

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

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

Next up: Chapter Two-IN THE SUMMERTIME

MORE TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Tales from the Ville: Bohemian Rap City

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CLICK HERE FOR MORE TALES FROM THE VILLE 

Tales from the Ville: It's All True, La Rue

On this Cherney Journey I've been on the last few years, hawking my plays to and fro across the country, I have to remember where and how it all began and who was responsible. In my case, it all starts with the one and only LA RUE'S RETURN or HOW'S A BAYOU.

I've chronicles the origin of this melodrama written by my best friend Edward Thorpe and myself that was originally produced at the Palace Showboad Dinner Theater at Pollardville in a previous post entitled
THE RETURN OF LA RUE'S RETURN

Therefore, I'm not going to rehash that here. After its most recent production with the Mt.Vernon Community Theatre in Mt. Vernon, Missouri, LA RUE has become the most popular show in my catalog (yes, I have a freaking catalog, thank you very much) and I'm am pleased as punch about it.

The second go-around of LA RUE'S RETURN at the Palace Showboat, I was asked to direct which gave me an opportunity to heal some wounds. First order of business, Ed and I did a revamp of the script, adding a flashback scene that we believed fleshed it out a bit. A few other tweaks here and there and voila! Now we had LA RUE v.2.

I can't honestly say that my version of LA RUE'S RETURN was any better than the first as directed by Ray Rustigian, but I was able to put my signature on it which suited me just fine. The brilliant cast, consisting of Wayne Head, Elaine Slatore, Shawn O'Neal, Greg Pollard, Nicole Eddy, Robert Redmond and Elizabeth Schaefer made me proud each and every single performance. I even got a chance to appear in the show as Ike for the first month before Greg took over the role. I admit I had an "in" with the director.

Did it heal all wounds? No. In fact, it created a few new ones along the way. There was a regime change that changed the face of the Ville until it finally closed up shop. None of that backstage bullshit affected the show which, of course, had to go on and it did in the grand tradition of show biz. The bottom line (aka At the end of the day) was that our melodrama had the honor of playing that stage one mo' time and for that, I am grateful.

However, here is one story I would like to relate to you about the second coming of LA RUE.

As we were putting together pre-show publicity, someone...who shall remain nameless, because, well, I say so...had put together a mail-out flyer for the Ville's new production, artwork and all. Right away, I noticed that something was off, WAY off, namely the title of the show. It read: THE RETURN OF VICTOR LA RUE. As the coauthor and director of the show in apparent question, I attempted to correct the flyer artiste.

"First of all, the show is called LA RUE'S RETURN," I said as calmly as I could. "Second of all, his name is Jacques La Rue, not Victor."

"Oh," I was told, then very matter-of-factly, "I like Victor better."

Steam shot out my nose, ears and probably elsewhere on my body as I explained that it wasn't this person's call to make.

Argh.

Level heads prevailed, I guess and the flyer was, I imagine, reluctantly changed to the original title, No blood was spilled, but hatchi-mama...

(I should note that I never had any problems at all with this person before or even after this occurred. This minor incident has barely a hint of conflict, but I still left this person anonymous out of respect.)

CUT TO:
A FEW WEEKS AGO

As I do so periodically,  I enter LA RUE'S RETURN as well as all my other titles into a search engine as well placing them in Google Alerts, to see if anyone is staging any of my shows without consent. It's happened before and they've been caught with their hands in my bag.

On this recent search, I found RETURNS-LA RUE TACTICAL. Looks like assault rifles and accessories to me. Hmm. Then there's the RETURN POLICY for the KIKI LA RUE BOUTQUE, some actress named Eva La Rue returning to ALL MY CHILDREN and finally, an episode of  Chuck Norris' CBS show WALKER, TEXAS RANGER from 1996 called "The Return of La Rue".  Okay, now you've got my interest.

When the Gaslighter Theater in Campbell, CA produced LA RUE without either author's consent, we went after them and made them pay up or else. We discovered that they had torn the title page off the script I initially sent them years before. It contained both Ed's name and mine along with all of our contact material. At the top of the next page was the title they wrote across the top: THE RETURN OF LA RUE.

So this WALKER episode required further investigation. I looked it up on IMDB quicken'n a wink. Ah, looks La Rue was a recurring character and a villain, no less. Very good. Then I got a patented Chuck Norris sidekick straight to my nether region.

The character's full name?

Victor La Rue.

Hatchi-mama....

For more info about LA RUE'S RETURN or any other scripts o' mine please visit my website:
WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

Oh, and performance rights are available. Contact me at writtenbysc@gmail.com for more info.

Adventures in Low Budget: Under Arrest

I have always wanted to be in the movies, a dream shared with billions of others, a number I do not feel is an over-estimate at this point in time. After all, the movies have been around for well over a century now (so have I) and, since their inception, inspired the dreams of oh-so-many as they continue to do day in and day out.  For me, I wanted to be a movie star, plain and simple. This lifetime wish has made me no more significant than a grain of sand.  However, if it had come true, I would have been an extremely famous grain of sand. And rich.

It took me a long while to fulfill any semblance of my silver screen dreams. Like real estate, it was a matter of location, location, location and Stockton, California wasn’t exactly the Entertainment Mecca of the Universe. But, as I mentioned in previous posts, major and minor productions did find their way from Hollywood to this hub of the San Joaquin Valley. I did what I could to hunt down them while they were in the area with mixed results.

Stanley Kramer, legendary producer/director of The Defiant Ones, Judgment at Nuremburg and It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World filmed a major motion picture disaster about student unrest called RPM at the University of the Pacific starring Anthony Quinn and Ann-Margaret. During a riot scene, I snuck onto the set and hid in the bushes, filming the entire thing from my vantage point with my Super 8. The footage turned out to be useless since it turned out to be nothing but feet and foliage. When I finally saw the finished product, I couldn't find me anywhere in the riot footage, so I was very well camouflaged. Well, maybe too camouflaged. If there was a trace of me in this piece of dung, it would have made up for wasting any time at all slogging through Kramer's krapfest.

Not long after, Quinn returned to Fat City, scouting locations for a feature he was developing to be shot, among other places, at Stockton Jr. High. I recall Zorba himself standing in the courtyard between classes, surrounded by admiring kids and signing autographs. Two guys my age, Paul Stewart and Jeff Passegi, were walking past when Paul called to his friend in a voice loud enough for the Oscar winning actor to hear, ”Hey, Passegi! That guy kinda looks like Anthony Quinn!” This sarcasm caused Quinn turn to my smart ass friend with a slow burn. Even though a pair of local girls had been cast in the leading roles, complete with a feature in the Stockton fish wrap, the movie fell through.  I blame Paul.

It took me until after high school, but I finally made my way legitimately onto a working set as an extra in the TV movie, Senior Year (See post: Special Guest Star: Richard Donner) But I craved more and time was passing me by. Eventually, I had the good fortune to find my way into not one but three different shoots, not majors by any means, but minors of the memorable kind.

In 1981, I was deeply ensconced in Pollardville, an independent company arrived in the area for a film of unknown origin and content entitled Under Arrest. Thanks to Bill Humphreys, who had previously worked in television production down Los Angeles way in the 1970s, scored a casting gig on UA. This insured that most of us Pollardvillians were hired for roles big and small for this movie that was to be shot in locations in and around Stockton, Morada and Amador County, not to mention on the streets of our very own Pollardville Ghost Town.

A period piece of sorts, set in perhaps the late Thirties or early Forties, I was cast a newsboy (an honest to Buddha speaking role, no less!) who had to alert the main character, a small time thief, that the cops wuz watchin’ him. It had this Warner Brothers gangster vibe, so I affected some kind of a bastardized Bowery Boys accent that would have made Leo Gorcey wince. Little did I know that Under Arrest was a fabled Based on True Story and shot on the same locations where this tale actually unfolded. Therefore, my sequence was filmed in downtown Jackson in the foothills of Northern California, not the streets of Flatbush where I thought I belonged. Here I am, Frankie Darro’s long lost littler bruddah from Brooklyn in the middle of the Mother Lode. Oy.

I also managed to grab a couple of non-speaking roles as well. The first, a carnival barker (in appropriate disguise, of course) and as a double for my friend Ed Thorpe who had played a deputy to Bill’s country sheriff. (We went from Bedford-Stuyvesant to Mayberry in one fell swoop!) Ed had moved to Santa Barbara long before the crew returned for some re-shoots and pick ups, so I filled in as the deputy loping down the street calling for the sheriff in long shot.

Once completed, we were granted an advanced screening of the finished product at our very own Palace Showboat. Projection wasn’t an issue in our theater since Under Arrest was shot on 16mm, a format we could easily accommodate. A borrowed projector and a screen set center stage later, poof! Instant cinema!

Under Arrest turned out to be a revelation in more ways than one. First of all, it had the look and feel of a higher budgeted production. As a whole, we Palace Showboat Players came off quite nicely and we had every reason to be proud of what we did on screen, even me, not the Guys and Dolls reject I had imagined. (Our own D.W, Landingham liked to kid that he had three lines as a shopkeeper robbed by the main character: “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” and “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”) The film’s main cast, while mostly unknowns, did include two actors we had no idea had been involved since their scenes were shot after we had all wrapped and may have been filmed in L.A. Richard Moll, only months shy of appearing as Bull in the Harry Anderson sitcom Night Court was totally unrecognizable at first glance since he sported a full head of hair, not the scalping he had on the show. The other cast member had been associated with another film, though not as the main character not as a performer. Billy Hayes was the subject of his own Based on a True Story, Midnight Express, all about the hash smuggler who spent time in Turkish prison, played in the film by Brad Davis. Hayes must have been dipping his toe in the acting game, though nothing much more came out of it after this movie. Hope he didn’t return to his wicked, wicked ways.

What really blew our minds was that Under Arrest turned out to be, not a period crime drama, but a faith based story. Based on the autobiography of Phil Thatcher, this story is a classic Bad Boy Meets Jesus and Makes Good story and, for a film of this nature, really didn’t seem particularly preachy. Maybe the director, William Fields, had something to do with this, downplaying what could have an infomercial for Christianity and taking a more subtle approach. To be sure, its message was effectively signed, sealed and delivered, only not with the usual sledgehammer to the soul. Overall, I gave Under Arrest the full Ebert.

What became of Under Arrest in the years that passed is open to speculation. Only an hour in length, it wouldn’t have a theatrical release. I imagine it was carted around the country and shown to church groups, maybe even with a Q and A with Mr. Thatcher himself. I found a VHS copy in a Christian bookstore around the turn of the century. When I saw it on the shelf, I placed it over one of Willie Aames’ Bibleman episodes because…well, do you have to ask? Over time, I’ve had difficulty finding it on DVD until recently. It seems that an outfit called New Liberty Videos, a company owned by the film’s editor, Brian Barkley, acquired it and changed the title to The Phil Thatcher Story, a title even more generic than the first, but at least it’s been rescued from obscurity. It's available with two other movies under a separate title, Free Indeed. Also, the Christian Film Database which lists the film on their site, has mistakenly credited Mr. Barkley as the director when it was helmed by William Fields. Still, the preview offered on CFDb, the New Liberty page as well as YouTube confirms that first impression I had those many years ago. It looks pretty damn good.

UNDER ARREST aka THE PHIL THATCHER STORY/FREE INDEED

From top to bottom, Under Arrest was a downright pleasant experience, virtually stress free to the point that it almost spoiled me.  This movie was the polar opposite of the next two productions with which I became involved further down the road, not just in content, but behind the scenes as well. Divine Intervention, perhaps?

At the end of the day or the beginning or sometime late in the afternoon, I’m proud to have Under Arrest on my resume.  After all, it’s responsible for my very first IMDb credit.

Newsboy: Scott Cherney.

For that, that is only thing for me to say:

Hallelujah!

Maybe that’ll get me on CMDb.

The Magnificent Sven

How Swede it is!

When I began writing my new melodrama ROXANNE OF THE ISLANDS OR THEY'RE PLAYING OUR SARONG, I needed a distinctive character for the first mate of the sea captain hero, and found one that I had long wanted to incorporate into one of my shows. It has suddenly dawned on me that this guy and I go way back in time, all the way to a western ghost town far, far away. So let me introduce to you, the act you've known for all these years...

Sven Bjorg Bjorn Gunther.

I didn't actually name him. A bunch of us use to watch The Muppet Show back in the day and I began to riff on The Swedish Chef, a favorite of all of all ours. In retrospect, it was probably as annoying as anyone and everyone who said "Excuse me!" in the worst Steve Martin impersonation ever. Anyway, my friend Greg came up with this name and it fit like a wooden shoe. (Yes, I know that's Dutch. Thanks you for your unnecessary correction)

At the same time, I had returned to the Pollardville Ghost Town (at that time re-named Tule Flats) for an extended stint as a weekend gunslinger. One of the gunfight skits we performed entitled "Poker Chip" featured a storekeeper character and, being the comic genius I purported to be, transformed him into Sven. By then, Sven had evolved, meaning that I ripped off another bit, that being Tim Conway's Mr. Tudball on The Carol Burnett Show. My, what a shameless thief I had  been. Truth to tell, I stole a lot from Conway and I don't mind saying it. He has always been a major inspiration for me. During a Fourth of July celebration at the Ghost Town, we opted to have a mayoral election. Of course. Sven had to run and, of course, Sven lost. Ah well. That day, a customer told me that my accent was wonderful and wouldn't I like to meet their friend visiting from Stockholm? No, I didn't. I soon put Sven out to pasture before he overstayed his welcome.

But as soon as I started writing ROXANNE, Sven Bjorg Bjorg Gunther had to be part of the cast, no ifs, ands or buts about it. He changed once more, becoming a little bit more like the great character actor John Qualen, a member of the John Ford stock company of players in good standing. Probably best remembered as Muley in THE GRAPES OF WRATH, he can also be seen in Ford's THE SEARCHERS and THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE , but also poor Earl Williams in HIS GIRL FRIDAY. His role in THE LONG VOYAGE HOME is probably the closest to Sven himself, almost an exact role model.

So that's the story of the impact this Swedish meatball had on my life. In the words of The Swedish Chef himself...

BORK! BORK! BORK!

Whatever that means.

ROXANNE OF THE ISLANDS OR THEY'RE PLAYING OUR SARONG is now available at
OFF THE WALL PLAYS. Go forth now for a FREE extended preview. Performance rights are available.

I thank you. Sven thanks you.

Tales from the Ville: Super Chicken

 

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


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

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

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

"I got you!"

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

Some things never change. Boys will always be boys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

.
You were expecting "Happy Trails"?

It Ain't Me, Babe

Is this me?

I passed myself on the stairs this morning. I was coming up as I was going dowm. As I went by, I didn't acknowledge my presence. But after a few steps, I turned to watch myself go.

I wrote those lines immediately after the incident occurred in the stairwell of a medical office building. The one heading south was me, the other guy on the ascension, a definite look-alike. Well, it would have been a little more accurate had he not been ten, dare I say, fifteen years my junior. He was certainly a couple of inches taller and most assuredly slimmer and trimmer than the earlier model typing these words. I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself even though my other self in the doctor's smock may not return the compliment. He was a version of me that perhaps could and maybe even should have been. A young professional. Well, young-er. I tried not to let it bother me since this is the version I'm stuck with and I'd better just make peace with it. Since I had a few years on him, at least I can claim to be original and not extra crispy.



Or is this?

What I find significant is that scenes like this are occurring with increasing frequency. My doppelgangers, clones and lookalikes are popping up all over the place and it's getting rather unnerving.

My whole life, I've heard that I resemble somebody else. I look familiar. I remind them of someone they know, often in a roundabout fashion.

"You kinda sorta look just like my neighbor's cousin's boyfriend's brother."

I've always wondered if the opposite is true. Does someone ever look like me? Ask a rhetorical question, sometimes you get a rhetorical answer.

Nope, not this guy.

Over time, I've gotten the celebrity comparisons, usually those that do not flatter me in the least. Right about the time I graduated high school, I became the receiving end of Bob Denver comparisons. Not Maynard G. Krebs. Not Gilligan. Not even one of the FAR-OUT SPACE NUTS. My number landed on Dusty from the thankfully long-forgotten syndicated western sit-com DUSTY'S TRAIL. This was back at a time when I was a thin as a hitching post cowboy at Pollardville Ghost Town with the hair roughly the same length as Dusty's, not to mention I was overacting to the nth degree in various gunfighter skits on Main Street. I confess that I had been bitten by the broad comedy bug, so my acting skills would have been right at home on the TRAIL. I didn't like the analogy, but at least I understood it.

Fast forward to Oregon in the year 2000. after a particularly grueling and soul-kicking day at work, I stopped by my local Blockbuster Video for some cinematic sedatives. At the check-out, the dweeb in blue and yellow shirt just had to push my buttons.

"Anybody ever tell you that you look like Mr. Roper?"

I should smacked him. I should have left. I should have smacked him, then left. Instead, I answered in the negative and sulked home. No wonder Blockbuster wnt out of business. I've never been insulted by a Redbox.

This same scenario replayed a year later at another check-out line, this time at Trader Joe's from some limp wahini in a Hawaiian shirt. And as recent as two weeks ago, I was tagged in a picture by some dork on Facebook. If I'm not mistaken, I think this guy might have worked a register at one time too. Does a cashier's job description include assholiness?

Dude, seriously?

So three votes for Mr. Roper, supporting character on the abyssmal 1970s sitcom THREE'S COMPANY portrayed by the inimitable Norman Fell. I don't mean to besmirch the memory of Mr. Fell, a rock-solid character actor with ten times the talent of Maynard Gilligan Denver. Norm appeared in hundreds of TV shows better than THREE'S COMPANY with memorable turns in THE GRADUATE, CATCH-22, BULLITT and THE END. I would have been blessed to have such a career. Being accused of looking like the man or the impotent, homophobic lech he portrayed is another story altogether.

Some comparisons were not as insulting, like the Russian soldier in the original John Milius version of RED DAWN. When a friend pointed out a member of a Soviet tank crew harassing Lea Thompson, I responded like Hans Landa. "That's a bingo!" We had a match, except that he appeared to be at least six inches taller than me.

In the more recent past, the incidents have increased at an alarming rate, especially since I'm starting to see me in other places than a mirror. It began with that encounter on the stairwell.

Not a week later, a cafeteria worker at a Newberg hospital that I frequent on a daily basis for work asked if I had a second job with UPS. Apparently, there's another me delivering packages in Yamhill County.

The very next night, I caught an oddball indie film on Showtime written and directed by Quentin Duieux called RUBBER, all about a killer car tire with telekinetic powers. It's less wacky than it sounds, more along the lines of a failed Adult Swim pilot. After an excruciating twenty minutes, my finger poised on the remote, lo and behold, there I was again. This isn't just any old me either, but this version of old me in a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses driving a pick-up. It is the closest representation of me I've ever seen, so damn exact that I had to check the credits to see if it was indeed me. I don't know. Maybe I recovered from a recent head trauma and didn't realize that I had made this film. That's possible since, in this particular scene, the tire blows my head off, SCANNERS style. Save yourself 90 minutes and check out the clip below if you have any desire to see my melon explode into a ooey-gooey mess.

What the hell is this straight to video sequel to BEING JOHN MALKOVICH existence I find myself in at this point in time? The more this occurs, the more difficult it is to rationalize this as pure coincidence. To make matters even hinkier, I've had the overwhelming feeling of being uncomfortable in my own skin as of late. This could my body changing (or decaying) in the cruel onslaught of time, then taking an off-ramp to fuck with my brain along the way. Am I that close to my SELL BY date? It could be I'm expiring soon and all I've got to hope for is a DOCTOR WHO like regeneration. Then again, if that happens, I wouldn't look like myself any longer and that would take care of two problems with one shot. This seems pretty remote, but a girl can wish, can't she?

Of course, because I am the Ironic Chef, there is a suitable punchline for me and perhaps only me. Ever since I can remember, I've been trying to find myself. Now that I have, it turns out to be some one else.

Be careful what you wish for...or at least how you phrase it.