The Legend of D. W. Landingham

D.W. Landingham was a legendary character.

As presumptuous as that sounds, I stand by those words. Would I be saying that if he hadn’t passed away this last weekend? Am I swayed by my immediate grief to elevate him to such a high standard? Not at all. The real truth is that losing someone as important as Dennis was in my life gives me the right to place him on any damn pedestal I want because, frankly, he deserves it. And let’s face it, no matter how smart or sophisticated we think we are, we always fall for the same thing. We don’t realize what we have until it’s gone.

What makes someone legendary? One answer might be that people will talk about you long after you’re gone. Certainly this will be the case for D.W. and he had the talent, personality and character to back it up.

I knew Dennis for over thirty years, our paths first crossing at the Pollardville Ghost Town. It wasn’t until 1979 when the place was re-branded as Tule Flats and for the relaunch, he became the entertainment director that we became better acquainted (even dating the same woman at one point). He was directing and overseeing the gunfights, naturally casting himself in some of the best roles. No one could begrudge him that since nobody was better as it than he. He threw himself into every aspect of the gunfights, living out his childhood dream of being a real cowboy (minus the horses). Dennis was quick on the draw with his six-shooter and probably the best stunt man out there. None of us were trained to do the things we did-falling off buildings, tumbling in the dirt or engaging in fisticuffs, But Dennis’ instincts were better than the rest of ours and gave his all every single time. In fact, I named one of his “patented” stunts after him. When he’d get thrown out of the saloon, he’d always throw a flip into it, tucking and rolling as he went. I called that a “landing ham”. And as far as I know, he never suffered any real injuries in the gunfights save for the occasional scrape,cut or powder burn. At least, nothing permanent. Later on, he probably felt those falls as they have with all of us. It's taken us all a little longer to get out of bed in the morning since then...and it ain't just age.

On one late Sunday afternoon, Dennis played the outlaw Clay Allison in a gunfight called Wanted Dead or Alive as a summer storm began to brew in the distance. Near the end, Allison breaks free and prepares for his final showdown with the sheriff. At same moment, a wind gust blew down main street, lightning flashed and thunder crackled , echoing through the landscape-sensational all-natural special effects propelling this show to above and beyond anything that hit ever that town...and Dennis along with it. Talk about motivation.

Dennis gave up the Ghost Town for awhile returning back to the other end of the property, that being the Palace Showboat. He began his directorial debut on that stage, Seven Brides for Dracula, which, coupled with a second half of Goodbye TV, Hello Burlesque,became of one of the very best shows ever produced on the Palace Showboat stage. A couple of years later, D.W. asked me assistant direct The Ratcatcher's Daughter, a show that gave me the confidence to redeem myself after a difficult time I spent with The Legend of the Rogue and Life is a Cabaret. The second half of Ratcatcher was a traditonal vaudeville, the first since Goodbye TV, called Hello, Vaudeville, Hello directed by Ray Rustigian. It turned out to be my favorite show and Dennis was undeniably the top banana of the Palace Showboat. It was always a pleasure to watch him work and boy, did he ever. he must have burned off a couple of gallons of perspiration per night. Then again, I used to say that Dennis would sweat in the shower.

On the second go-around of The Scourge of Scrubby Vermin, Dennis played the title role and while I got the role of the one and only Dr. Percival P. Hackemgood. In our big scene together set in Scrubby's shack, Dennis kind of juggled the pages of the dialogue each night, somehow going from point A to point W, then back to point B and point F. I was proud of the fact that I could always follow him and get us back on track no matter where he took us. One night, near the end of the melo in our last scene together, it was my turn. I went up on my lines so far that I couldn't even see them again. I had no idea where I was, a definite vaporlock. Of course ,I turn to my trusted friend, colleague and co-actor for help. He just held his chin down and shrugged his shoulders slightly as if to say, "I dunno. You're on your own, pal." My buddy. Maybe he was getting even for that shower remark...

I had such a blast with D.W. in the second half of that show, Vaudeville Tonight, performing "The Doctor Sketch" with he and Carmen Musch and "Take a Pea" with he and Tom Amo. Comedy came easy to Dennis. Dancing, however, not so much. Whenever chorographer Kim Keifer tried to stage a number, there was Dennis, just off-stage, going over every step until he got it right. "5...6...7...shit! 5...6...shit! 5...shit!" Finally, he got the footwork down when Kim would exclaim, "Okay, now we're going to add the hands..." Dennis exploded. "HANDS?! HANDS?! NOW YOU WANT HANDS??!!"

When he left the Ville for other stages, his mastery of character acting came into play with so many diverse roles in such shows as Oklahoma!, Biloxi Blues,Wife Begins at 40 and Laughter on the 23rd Floor. Nothing was better or more chilling like his portrayal of the main villain in Wait Until Dark. I think this might have been his favorite role. He loved creeping an audience out, taunting the blind girl heroine without her knowledge and definitely scaring the crap out of everyone when he leaped out of the darkness when he was supposed to be killed.

Dennis' mastery at villainy translated to the screen as well when he was cast as a bad guy in three Ron Marchini ultra low budget action flicks, sharing much deserved screen credit with the likes of Adam West, David Carridine and Stuart Whitman. I was so glad I was able to make that connection with Marchini for him. That was the kind of give and take relationship we had. In this case, I was able to get him a role in a feature film, that being Return Fire: Jungle Wolf II. (Yes, there was a Jungle Wolf I) To return the gesture, he got me job as a lab courier.

Hmmm...doesn't sound like much of a trade-off, does it? Film immortality vs pee jockey. But hey, look at the result. I ended up writing a book based on my courier days with SmithKline. So if it wasn't for Dennis, there would be no Red Asphalt. (I also based a character on him in the book) Besides, working with Dennis on a daily basis was what got me through that job. I used to relish our times spent in the break room at the lab talking about everything under the sun and laugh about...well, most of it anyway. It was actually during that period that I really got to know Dennis as a person. We had kind of a stupidly macho guarded friendship, the kind where we didn't tell each other how we felt about one another, but I can say that I grew to love the man and found what a good friend he could be. He was always supportive in anything that any of us did artistically. He was always in the audience for our shows. In fact, he was the only member of the audience during a matinee of The Long Pavement Overcoat at Hutchins Square. When the cast came out for our curtain call, I just looked at him and said "You'd better give us a standing O, you son of a bitch. We outnumber you."

During that period we worked on a couple of video projects with Tom Amo, Backstage Pass (filmed at the Ville) and The Revenge of Chris White, where we were able to capture his great Godfather impression. A running joke for us was the Marlon Brando greeting which was simply kind of drawn out raspy groan. "Uhhhhhhhhhhh...." It was like Aloha. It meant both Hello and Goodbye. Sometimes at work, if I would get a call on the radio for an out of the way stop I would have to make or from a boss neither one of us much cared for, I could always count on D.W. sending a faint "Uhhhhhh...." over the airwaves and it would ease the stress of my day. Later on, after I moved to Oregon, there's nothing that would make me smile more than to hear on the other end of of my phone a long distance "Uhhhhh...." We'd even open and close our e-mails the same way. It was our signature.

Now he's gone. That has been a tough thing to finish. Not to write, mind you because there's plenty to say and to relate as far as D.W. Landingham went. I haven't even scratched the surface. It's just that I feel that when I finish this, well, it's all over. But that's a dumb way to feel and I know that. Obviously, I'm not alone. His family and friends feel his loss as well, but we've all been better people to have been able to know him at all. And we have a wealth of memories to work from.

Reading the comments and tributes from everyone else in the news stories and online reminded me of a line from The Wizard of Oz when the Wizard tells the Tin Man:

"A heart is not judged by how you love, but by how much you are loved by others."

That sure rings true of the one and only D.W. Landingham, a legend in our own time.

For my friend, I give one last salute...

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...........................................

Ladies and Gentlemen...The Palace Showboat Players (2010 Edition)

It's been close to a month since the magical land known as Pollardville ( or what was left of it) has been demolished into history, lock, stock and barrel-or theater, ghost town and restaurant. All that remains is the tower that once a mighty chicken stood at its tip like an angel on a giant Christmas tree. It's the end of the Ville as we know it.

As an ex-Ghost Town gunslinger and former Palace Showboat Player, I found it sadder that Pollardville sat in decaying ruins for the past several years than when it was finally put out of its misery. After the last Pollardville reunion in 2007, it was tough to say goodbye, but I made my peace with it and walked away, never to return. I wasn’t there for the demolition either and didn’t really want to watch any news footage since I thought it might be like watching the autopsy of a close relative. Curiosity won out and I relented, observing the process online from the Stockton Record website while fellow Pollardvillian Tom Amo, one of the few who witnessed the event, gave the last words on the matter to the various media outlets on the scene, like this one here.


But rather than give yet another obituary on the Ville, I recalled that back in 2006, I posted another blog, not about the past, but more about today and the accomplishments of my comrades in arms. (That post, if you are inclined to read it is archived as: There's No People Like Show People) I've noticed that. as of late, my friends are in a very creative period and I for one want to not only applaud them but toot their horns like the Tijuana Brass.


In recent months , I've mentioned our first Oscar nominee, Jeremy Renner of THE HURT LOCKER as well Grant-Lee Phillips, now touring the Planet Earth as a real-life traveling troubadour, kind of a riff on his character on GILMORE GIRLS while promoting his latest work
LITTLE MOON.


Here's an update on what some of the rest of that ol' gang o' mine is up to these days:

Our first Emmy winner, Bill Humphreys, has made his big screen directorial debut with JUST SAY LOVE, now hitting the festival circuit across the country.


Christian Berdahl continues to have considerable success in the Christian market. (Yes, Christian the Christian. I get it. So does he.) His latest release is THE APPEARING-HEAVEN'S LAMB.

Kim Docter Luke is quite an excellent writer in her own write (boy, can I turn a phrase) with 2-count 'em-2 one act plays (ALL SKATE and THE EDGE REVISITED) in 2-count 'em-2 separate theaters in San Francisco. Check out some of her recent blog posts at her spot on the dial called
MADAME LUKE . That is, unless she's out on the roller derby track as her alter-ego Mildred Fierce, a proud member of the Santa Cruz Rollergirls.

Charlee Simons has just scored the coveted afternoon drive DJ gig at Sacramento's FM country station 101.9-The Wolf as well as running his own production company Good Boy, Buster Productions.

Jim Walsh is helping put together the Peace and Justice Network (PJN) ins Stockton.

Matt Kenney's still rockin' SoCal venues with The Matt Kenney Band.

In Northern California, bassist extraordinaire A.J. Joyce and John "Wizard Fingers" Wilder are kickin' up the jams with their various respective gigs.

Then sometimes something comes out of the blue that you never expected but it makes you immediately rise to your feet and start cheering. Our own Scott Duns has pulled off what most of us have dreamed about ever since we were able to dream at all. He has just completed his very first starring role in a feature film, BAD FAITH, a film that he also written, directed and produced. This is the epitome of a true labor of love that you not only have to admire, but to also respect. To top it off, the Duns kid is having a private screening at the classic cinema known as the Crest Theater in Sacramento. Nothing could be better than that.

This is but an sampling of the few, the proud, the talented that passed through the Pollardville portal at one time or another. There are several others that have performed in one form or another since their stay at the Ville and have had their own triumphs that are equally well-deserved. They only need to stand up and be counted so they too can get the applause they deserve as well.

As the Ville no longer exists on the physical plane, its spirit still lives on thanks to its ongoing legacy known as The Palace Showboat Players.

Long live the Ville.

The Canyon Kid Rides Again!

"This here's a song of the lone prairie

It's a tale of woe and of misery

It's a tale of right and a tale of wrong

All about the weak and the very strong"

(sung to the tune of BURY ME NOT ON THE LONE PRAIRIE)

So begins SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or POEM ON THE RANGE, a western comedy melodrama originally written over twenty years ago by yours truly and produced on the stage of the Palace Showboat Dinner Theater at Pollardville.


When the straight shooting, and guitar strumming singing cowboy hero known as The Canyon Kid, returns to Dirt Clod, Missouri, he finds his hometown in the grips of a tyrannical albino “hanging judge” named Basil Kadaver and his evil co-horts, including the slinky gypsy seductress Nastassia Kinky and her half-wit brother, Two Gun Boris. To make matters worse for The Kid, he also discovers that his childhood sweetheart, Darla Darling, is engaged to Dalton Doolin, a known desperado who is now the town sheriff. The action culminates in a knockdown, drag out slugfest on the streets of Dirt Clod when justice at last triumphs and The Canyon Kid saves the day.

Yeah, it was a hoot, all right, at least that's what the critic for The Stockton Record said. It was the best review I had received up to that point.

SOTLP (aka SOTLIP) was actually the best melodrama script I ever wrote. It represented the culmination of everything I had learned up to that point at Pollardville, the place I had considered my "college". You see, I got to do everything I ever wanted to do in show business at the place we called the Ville-acting, writing, directing, producing, stand-up, singing, dancing, improvisation and so on and so forth. This included my apprenticeship as a stunt cowboy performer in Pollardville Ghost Town all the way to my post-graduate studies as the writer/director/master of ceremonies on the Palace stage. It was the best time of my life and SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE was pretty much my grand finale.

It began as a possible running character in the Ghost Town, though it never got out of the idea stage out there. The character of Two Gun Boris, however, did end up in one of the gunfights, since it was written specifically for Grant-Lee Phillips who was working there at the time. But I knew that The Canyon Kid needed to be the hero of a melodrama and so it began. Previously, I had co-written LARUE'S RETURN with my best friend Edward (Max) Thorpe and had flied solo with THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE which Bill Humphreys had admirably interpreted on the Ville stage. Ed had concocted the initial story for LA RUE before our collaboration while the script for LEGEND actually only took me a week . But SONG took a few years to put together. I had an idea here and an idea there, but nothing came together.

Then I hit on the idea of the albino hanging judge as a villain, probably inspired by Stacy Keach's character Bad Bob from John Huston's LIFE AND TIMES OF JUDGE ROY BEAN written by John Milius. (Yes, I just mashed Bad Bob and Judge Roy Bean together and came up with an albino hanging judge. I always was the clever boy) Some of the early drafts involved a lot more about Judge Basil Kadaver that, unfortunately, got lost in a fire. There had been a great scene involving the judge as a baby, throwing a hangman's noose over the side of his bassinet. I never could recover those bits nor could I muster up the inspiration to recreate them, unfortunately. The other characters that popped out of my head-Charlene Atlas, the female blacksmith and Two Gun Boris' hot as balls gypsy fortuneteller sister, Nastassia Kinky, more than made up for it.

I was off and running after writing and directing three back-to-back vaudeville productions at the Ville as well as assisting my mentor Lou Nardi with his two shows. Finally, SONG was starting to take form and in early 1987, I finally finished my lil' ol' magnum opus and was allowed by producer Goldie Pollard to direct it as well. (I think this was more economical this way-getting a script and a director for one lump sum-but an opportunity is a damn opportunity and I am eternally grateful for the chance)

Casting the show as easy as pie and I couldn't have asked for a better cast-EVER. Greg Pollard was the aw shucks epitome of The Canyon Kid. Bob Gossett fit Judge Basil Kadaver like a glove. As an albino, he looked just like a walking skeleton. Elaine Slatore was dead-on perfect as Nastassia, as funny and sexy as only she could be. Two Gun Boris was claimed and owned by John Himle. No one could have been better Dalton Doolin than Tony Petrali. Layne Randolph and Paula Stahley as the Mayor and Charlene were on the money. The came two actresses out of left field. Suzi Yelverton, all of fifteen years old, played the heroine's mother without a hitch. Then, for my heroine, Darla Darling, I had the pleasure of directing Leslie Fielding in her one and only Pollardville show. She was underplayed her role to perfection, a stark contrast to the regular melodramatic heroine which caused her to elevate her character to new heights.

At the time I was directing SOTLP, I had been immersed in two other projects at the same time. I was working as a second assistant director on my first feature film RETURN FIRE: JUNGLE WOLF II (a story I'll save for another day) and producing/promoting/hosting my very own comedy open mike night at the Ville, an off-shoot of my burgeoning (and was it burdening?) stand-up career following my first place showing in the one and only Stockton Comedy Competition. I was really running myself into the ground fast. In fact, I collapsed from exhaustion about five weeks into shooting. Oh well. I needed the rest apparently.

While recovering, I had a brilliant idea of an ending for SONG-a fight scene to beat all fight scenes, one that would involve every member of the cast and from everywhere in the theater-on stage, off stage, in the audience and so on. And so it was. The Canyon Kid fought Dalton Doolin. The Mayor had it out with the Judge. Darla and her mother took on Nastassia. And finally, Charlene punched it out with Boris. They all duked it out in the name of entertainment. It was my version of the BLAZING SADDLES fight and put this show over the top.

SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE opened November 6, 1987 and ran until May of 1988. What a great run and, if I say so myself, what a great show. Bob Gossett recently ran a copy of SONG on Portland cable access. While the video and sound quality was crude, it still holds up.

Now twenty years later, I expanded the script a bit (kind of George Lucasing it into a "special edition") and published it.

The cover sure do look purty, done it? The cost is $8.95 for paperback and $5.00 for a download e-book. Performance rights are available too since this was the whole point of publishing it to begin with. Well, that and to satisfy my long beleaguered ego. (Okay, everybody, in true melodrama style give me an "AWWWWWWWWWWW...........") Since LARUE'S RETURN has had some success on stage, I t felt it was high time to get SOTLP out there so others can enjoy it as well. Yes, I'm damn proud of my work. What of it? More info about performance rights can be obtained by e-mailing me at: writtenbysc@gmail.com

To buy SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or to read a free preview, go to my storefront at:

http://www.lulu.com/scottcherney

Until next time, pardners, happy trails to you, until we meet again...

(Sorry, Roy. I couldn't resist)

Peeing in the Sand

Portrait of the author at work.

How many blogs must a blogger post

Before they can call you a blogger?

The answer, my friend, is peeing in the sand.

The answer is peeing in the sand.

Yessiree-bob, another analogy to blogging.



The other one had to do with that tree falling in the forest. I'm actually beginning to think it relates to self-publishing my book. Is it making a sound? Is the tide erasing any evidence of it? Are my feet getting wet?

Enough of this shilly-shally. I've got an announcement to make:



At long last, my book, RED ASPHALT is available for sale on the one and only Amazon.com. Those of you holding out for the legitimacy of said goliath conglomerate carrying my first novel can now purchase it from a company with which you feel comfortable. (click on the title of this here blog or I'll bop you with this here lollipop) Everyone else can go to the source, Lulu.com for a copy or to be able to download it for a fraction of the cost. That, of course, is:
http://www.lulu.com/content/1885435

As for the photo above. Well, kids, the year would be maybe 1958. The location is Capitola, California which is just down the road from Santa Cruz. Those of you who have enjoyed sun-bathing on that beach over the years have probably laid your heads right where I was taking a leak.

So much has happened this year as I've been trying like hell to promote this book. I feel like the world's been passing me by.The writers' strike, the Oscars, the end of THE WIRE, Bryan Cranston in BREAKING BAD, the passing of Jules Dassin, Charlton Heston and Richard Widmark-all without a peep outta me...and don't think that didn't hurt. So the next few entries are getting away from RED ASPHALT primarily and back to the business known as show.

In the meantime, here's a YouTube link to something I appeared in back in the early 90s, filmed at Pollardville Ghost Town
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=263wvXvQBow

Thanks to Randy Mann for sharing this with me. It makes me miss the Ville all over again.

The Ville: The Final Curtain- Requiem

Since the show dominated the proceedings, the time for more carousing and partying in general ran short that night. Since the powers that be had dictated that the bar close at the regular 2 AM deadline, a bunch of us found ourselves on the deck of the boat with no back up plan in place. This didn’t sit that well with one Joel Warren.

“I’ve been associated with this theater for over thirty years and I have never been asked to leave this early before.”

“Joel, you are positively indignant,” I told him.

“What’d you call me?” he demanded, then exploded with that Joel laugh of his that I’ve missed all these years.

Perhaps if we had a bit of foresight, we could have met up back at the Holiday Inn and met the morning hours as in days of old, provided of course that we had beverages to consume to help the time pass that much smoother. Alas, we did not, but through no real fault of our own. How did we know we wouldn’t be able to stay at the theater and watch the sun appear at the bottom of the back door like the old days? Ay. There’s the rub. It just wasn’t the old days anymore, was it? Still, the need for further celebration remained unfulfilled and a wee bit frustrating. Unsown wild oats and all that rot.

More importantly it was the desire to bond more with these folks. Goddamn it, I’ve missed them. If there’s been a void in my life, it has been the lack of friends like these. I’ve never underestimated the power of friendship, especially in the years at the Ville.

It’s Showtime, Folks!, the last vaudeville I created from scratch, was based on this truth. In fact, the finale was originally a combination of “With a Little Help From My Friends” and the Bette Midler song “Friends”. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it work and instead ended up with two songs from The Wiz for some inexplicable reason that featured monotonous choreography and the worst costumes ever, as though there were inspired by some all male revue in Reno called It’s Raining Men. Regardless, I think the rest of the production came off rather successfully, if Murphy’s Melodrama, featured in the reunion show, was any indication. My point is that It’s Showtime, Folks! was something I wanted to give back to the theater and those that I still consider to be the best people I’ve ever known in my life.

Shawn B. O'Neal. me and John Himle

Sunday, a virtual “Murderer’s Row” of Pollardvillians gathered together again to join in a panel discussion about our final thoughts about the Ville. Just as he had the night before, Bill Humphreys shot the panel on video for a commemorative reunion DVD he was producing. He brought his equipment and crew all the way from the East Coast just for this purpose. Bill also conducted the interview. Again the stories flowed like wine and we all added our two cents to the conversation. We even learned a few things, like the fact that the theater had its roots in the USO where some of the founders had their start.

Sometimes I felt the panel was way too polite, but I suppose the goodwill of the night before pretty much dictated it all, still “Remembering the Best…Forgiving the Rest”. There were some moments of revisionist history and maybe just a bit of sugar coating for good measure. I guess I’m just lamenting the fact that I wasn’t a bit more coherent, still rather shell-shocked by the whole affair in general and a feeling that I held back when I shouldn’t have. Cry me a river, whiny boy. You had your chance to speak up. There never would have been enough to say everything that we wanted to say anyway. Look how verbose this thing is turning out to be.

2/3 of the cast of SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE

We did talk about the extended family aspect of the theater. With one show by itself running no less than six months at a time along with two months of rehearsals, we spent a lot of time together. Pollardville became a second home, especially for those of us who performed in show after show. Sometimes it was the only home that ever meant anything to us. Though we didn’t bring up the dysfunctional aspects of our brethren, I would venture to say that when it came right down to it, we were functionally dysfunctional.

Then there was the obvious fact of how much the Ville spoiled us as, dare I say, artists. The freedom we had at that place has been unsurpassed. We were able to develop, nurture and extend our talents in an environment that provided us that freedom. As I’ve said many times now that I’ve become my own broken record, I was able to do everything I’ve ever wanted to do in show business at the Ville-act, write, direct, sing, dance and even stand-up comedy. It made it difficult to leave and easy to return. No other place has been able to match that independent spirit. That may be what set us apart from the pack, causing the local theater community to look down their noses at us because, in their squinty eyes, the Palace Showboat was not a “real” theater. Well, they can kiss my “real” ass, now and forever.

The group also brought up the closing of the Ville for good. Most of us agreed that we
needed-and frankly, deserved-closure. Letting go of anything or anyone you hold so close in your heart is always difficult, yet, it was obviously time to do so. We had no choice in the matter. It was a done deal. Besides, since the Showboat closed in ‘92, the place just seemed like an empty shell sitting there on Highway 99, country bar or not. The Ghost Town had been forced to close off so many of its buildings due to building restrictions in the last few years that soon there would be no place left to go. I’m actually relieved that the Ville is going away for good rather than deteriorate any further into a condemned property or just another fire waiting to happen. There is something to be said for the Quality of Life. This way we could all move on with our heads held high with pride and the dignity of the Ville intact.

On Monday morning, Max and Tom Amo joined me on my last walk through the Ghost Town. Naturally, there was a story for every step we took, many involving our wicked, wicked ways way back when we were testosterone fuelled cowboys full of piss and vinegar, a lust for life and a thirst for adventure, ready to take on anything and everything that came our way. (see also: The Arrogance of Youth) The three of us speculated about the bawdy nature of the Ville in general. What the hell was it about that place that made us so damn horny? Was there something in the water? Or was it my theory that the place was built on an old Indian fucking ground? Whatever the truth may be, those who will occupy this land after we’re gone are going to have a big surprise in store for themselves.

As Max and Tom moseyed down Main Street, I found myself on the porch of the saloon and something told me to peek into the window for one last look inside.

“Goodbye, old friend,” I said aloud.

Suddenly, I heard in my mind’s ear a pair of faraway voices echoing from within my very being. They were reciting lines from the gunfight we called Saddle Drop.

"King of hearts!" some mangy cowpoke, probably Fast Fester, proclaimed.

“Ace of spades!” Sheriff John’s gravelly voice bellowed.

“Ace of spades?” Fester demanded. “I saw you pull that ace of spades right out of your sleeve!”

“Are you callin’ me a cheat?”

“Yeah I’m callin’ you a cheat!”

The sounds of chair legs scraping across the floor and boots stomping toward the front doors meant that some varmint was about to be tossed out on his ear out of the saloon and into the dirt. Only…

It didn’t occur.

The realization hit me right there and then that Pollardville had just become what it always aspired to be…an honest to goodness authentic ghost town. For me, I knew that this indeed the end.

That’s when the tears began to flow. I cried out of grief for the Ville’s passing. I cried for all the joy this wondrous place brought to me in my life. I cried for all of us that had been fortunate enough to a part of its history. I cried so much, I seemed to be crying just for the sake of crying. It became uncontrollable after awhile, coming in waves like irrepressible laughter. Just when I thought I had finished, I started sobbing all over again. Some unresolved issues must have been washed out of my system in the process.

Photo taken by Grant-Lee Phillips

Finally I was done. A sense of relief restored me back to normal again. I could leave now.

Saying hail and farewell to the Ville was cathartic in more ways than one, an emotional and spiritual release that, though it wasn’t easy, was necessary. The place literally meant the world to me. This was my world, one that I gratefully shared with some incredible people that I’ll cherish forever. As much as I loved my years there, this grand finale made me appreciate who I was then and what I am now. I feel proud to have been a part of it and validated for what I’d been able to accomplish-and will continue to-because of my time there.

Making my goodbyes to my comrades in arms, I left the Ville behind to head back to Oregon. As I drove down the frontage road, the image of the Pollardville tower reflected in my rearview mirror. I watched the big chicken in the sky disappear for the very last time as I pulled onto Highway 99, heading away from what will always be deep in my heart as the place I call home.

The Ville is dead.

Long live the Ville.

The Ville-The Final Curtain: Showdown

After a very long first day, I halfway expected to collapse into a decent night’s slumber. A combination of separation anxiety from my wife mixed with some overamped andrenals caused me to pretty much a toss and a turn all night. It didn’t really matter a fig to me since I was raring to go the next morning (with some caffeine induced assistance of course). My first day felt like I had just taken a swim in the pool from COCCOON and I was ready to take another dip ASAP.

Initially, my intentions were to arrange some non-Pollardville activities during my four day weekend. I hadn’t been in the area since my mom passed away in 2001. I really did feel a need to contact some family and friends separate from the reunion.

But early Saturday, I found myself right back at the Ville, lured by the possibility of watching one more gunfight on the mean streets of the Ghost Town, featuring owner and operator Neil R. Pollard, to my mind, the funniest man on the face of the earth. Alas, twas not to be, since Neil had to juggle both the reunion and running the restaurant, busier than ever in its last weeks before closing itself. He had no time at all to play the town goofball, at least not in a street skit anyway.

I had been recruited to perform in said gunfight with two of my former partners in crime, Cory Troxclair and Greg Pollard, known in another life as Harsky and Stutch. I knew every gunfight forwards and backwards, except for the one they threw at me. Who knew these guys would come up with some new material after all years? Since the bit was a variation on old themes, it wasn’t too hard to piece together without a rehearsal as such. The difficult part, if you want to call it that, was trying to get through without laughing ourselves silly like the three blithering idiots we were at one time and thankfully, still managed to be.

A much younger me getting and a happy hostage

The gunfight itself went off without a hitch. Whatever seemed unfamiliar to me about the bit was easy enough to follow so that I could just jump in with my own two cents, the same as both Harsky and Stutch.Basically, it was just another excuse to make complete and utter fools out of ourselves just because someone asked to. We riffed, improvised and stumble-bummed our way through about ten minutes of low brow comedy that entertained us just as much as the audience we performed before, if not more so.

Those few minutes playing the dirt again served to remind me what an invaluable training ground the Ghost Town had been to those of us fortunate enough to work there. We were able to learn characterization, performing in the round, improvisation, comedic timing and even some stunt work without destroying our bodies too much. On top of that, we got to shoot guns!

The gift of that gunfight came with a price. I ended up trashing my voice like a rank amateur during the gunfight. This, combined with working without a mike during the run-through the night before was starting to take a toll on me. I still a show to do later. It was, after all, Saturday night.

That's something I hadn't had to consider for a long time.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Ville-Part Four

At the tender age of seventeen, Neil Pollard reluctantly hired me for my first job at the Pollardville. (I say "reluctantly" because that's the way he felt about anyone who worked for him) On a clear spring Saturday morning, I became the engineer of the legendary CKRR-old number 65-the great Ghost Town train.

The 50 cent ride (a quarter for young 'uns) took passengers on a tour of the north side of the property, starting across the trestle that spanned the deadliest waters known to man, those being the outdoor lab experiment known as the pond. How ducks swam in that muck and lived I'll never know. As the train chugged along at what I believe was a top speed of maybe 5 MPH, the sights along the way due east included the makeshift mine where suckers...uh, customers panned for gold, the huge red barn, an old-fashioned gazebo/bandstand and the foundation for a city hall that nevr materialized. Rounding the furthest end of the property that called "the back 40", a giant radio tower for FM station KWIN loomed overhead, a stranger in an even stranger land.

It was at this point in the trip that I derailed the train not once but twice on the same day of my first weekend. Oh, the whole thing didn't hop the tracks, just the middle car. The second time I had a full load of a kid's birthday party. To this day, I'll never forget those lil' tykes bouncing up in the air to and fro like popcorns kernels. In a panic, I slammed on the brakes and turned back to survey the damage. Mercifully unhurt, the kids just laughed and and proclaimed, "Let's do it again!" The little darlings. I had the pleasure of having to leave the train put as I walked the party back into town into the arms of their none-too-pleased parents. Neil and his dad, the venerable Ray B. Pollard, claimed that I sped around the tracks when nobody was looking. Oh yeah, I cranked that sucker up all the way to 10! Go, Speed Racer, Go!

It wasn't my fault. A small section of the track was a tad unstable that we subsequently fixed. Still this didn't endear me to the Pollards. Neither did the next incident.

During a Sunday rehearsal at the theater, Ray Rustigian had parked his car too close to the tracks right next to the tunnel, the end of the ride. I noticed it too late and prayed that I cleared it. Well, the front of the engine did, but the cab was just wee bit wider and BANG! I clipped Ray's bumper. Sheepishly I found Neil to tell him the news, who in turn, silently stormed over to the theater to find Ray. The damage to the car was minimal. The train had just scrunched up the rubber bumper guard and Ray pretty much shrugged his shoulder, claiming responsibility for his choice of parking spots.

Not Neil. He read me the riot act, which I think he wrote himself. " Say listen... If a guy had a train,he'd learn how to drive it! Goddamn stupid kids. Never pay attention to anything..."

But he didn't fire me.

That was the thing about Neil. He groused, he kvetched, he bitched, he moaned, he complained

about all of us that worked for him in one capacity or another. But he never let us go. Who knows? Maybe he actually liked us.

There's No People Like Show People

In the Big Valley of California, home of the Barkley clan (Nick, Heath, Jarrod, there's a fire in the barn!), fantasyland known as Pollardville, consisting of the Chicken Kitchen Restaurant, Ghost Town and Palace Showboat Theater. This institution, near and dear to many a heart including this one, will soon be no more. The Ville is going to that great roadside attraction home in the sky and, by this time next year, will exist only as a sweet memory. Since this is indeed the grand finally, a big reunion is in the works for next year, which I will be attending in case anyone had any doubt. Tracking down folks that have graced the Showboat stage, Ghost Town streets or worked at the Ville in any capacity has been quite an education in itself. (It's amazing what Google will turn up) I am humbled by the amount of my fellow performers that have continued in this business I call show. In the past, I've mentioned my friends Grant-Lee Phillips and Bill Humphreys. Here are some more:
there's resides a
Artis "A.J." Joyce, the man who schooled me in the joys of the bass guitar, has been tearing it up for years playing with blues artists like Ron Hacker and the Hacksaws and on Charlie Musselwhite's Grammy nominated "Ace of Harps".
Kim Docter Luke , front-woman of what has been described as the "psycho country combo" Moonshine Willie, is another Palace Showboat player who shared the stage with...
Matt Kenney, he of The Matt Kenney Band down in SoCal aka Southern California. It's true....it's true! The one and only Matt Chismo has his own band.
Along with his numerous radio gigs and voice-over work, my old pal Charlee Simons also has his own improv group down Fresno way called the Comedy Commandos.
D.W.Landingham has been adding more film roles to his resume and is fulfilling a lifelong dream appearing in the western End of the Trail. (that's his picture above. I could be wrong, but I think his character's name is Winky)
Then of course there's Tom Amo, a published author (Silence, available from Amazon, see the link to your right) and playwright (Bob's Your Auntie, among many others) AND ran his own theater company. Geez!

This is but an inkling of the talent that passed through the Pollardville portal. There are innumerable others that have performed in one form or another since their stay at the Ville and have had their own triumphs that are equally well-deserved. Some of them were spawned on the Showboat stage, orchestra pit or Ghost Town streets and honed their skills over time. Others merely made a short pit stop, making an undeniable impression before they moved on. Regardless of how long they stayed, they were all essential elements in the legacy of Pollardville. The buildings will soon be gone, but the legend will remain as long as the memories survive.

Special Guest Star: Laraine Newman

Sometimes celebrities make guest appearances in the otherwise mundane lives of those of us charmingly known as The Great Unwashed. It’s become more common since we occupy the same planet that they do (When Celebrities Walked the Earth!). But let’s face it, since the standards of becoming famous have hit new lows, the experience isn’t quite as rare as it once had been once upon a time. But when we, the low-based rabble, are graced by the celestial presence of the Stars, it lifts us up where we belong.

That is why I prefer to call them My Special Guest Stars.

In this installment, my tête-à-tête with, Laraine Newman, one of the original cast members of Saturday Night Live, a story with some many dropped names it’ll seem like an obstacle course.

Off and on since I was sixteen years of age, I had worked at a roadside attraction outside of my hometown of Stockton, California called the Pollardville Ghost Town. An offshoot of the Chicken Kitchen, an institution on Highway 99 owner by the Pollard family, the western town itself was pieced together with set pieces from the locally filmed William Wyler film entitled The Big Country. After purchasing these buildings and a few others such as the original Jamestown jail, they were transported to the property behind the restaurant and transformed into the amusement park known as the Pollardville Ghost Town. It was there that I operated the train ride that carted passengers around the back of the property (a couple of times off the tracks). But mostly I performed in western skits performed on the main street of the town. In essence, since the town was only open on Saturdays and Sundays, I was indeed a weekend cowboy.

In 1979, the town had been leased to three entrepreneurs who had high hopes of expanding the Ghost Town into a major attraction. They inexplicably changed the name to the Tule Flats Ghost Town and hired an all-new crew to make the place over. While the name change was a curious choice, to say the least, one thing was certain; new blood needed to be pumped some life into this operation in order for it to survive. This was not a cash cow by any means, but it sure had potential. Once I was re-hired and reclaimed my part-time gunfighter status, I saw the town in a completely new light.

At the same time, my friend Bill Humphreys, an actor and honest-to-goodness TV director who had worked with, among others, Ed McMahon and Dennis James, also became part of the new crew after he had returned to Stockton for a spell. Bill and I befriended another new member of this year’s version of The Wild Bunch, a strange yet hilariously brilliant fifteen-year-old named Grant-Lee Phillips. A musician, magician and extremely inventive comic, Grant had recently become the youngest finalist in the Steve Martin Impersonation Contest in San Francisco, finishing third in the competition.

In between our regular weekend gig at the town, Bill had to take a business trip to Los Angeles for his father. I, with certainly nothing better to do at the time, tagged along for what we used to call “shits and giggles”. Besides, one of the incentives was the promise of revisiting some of Bill’s old stomping grounds in Hooray for Hollywood. We asked Grant if there was anything we could bring back for him from the Land of La.

“I want any autographs you can get and a pack of gum from some place really neat.”

Right.

This turned out to be quite the adventure. The shits and giggles were plentiful. Being more connected than I actually realized, Bill was able to visit a friend of his at ABC on the set of General Hospital, schlepping me along for the ride. Then along with another couple of old cronies, we snuck onto the back lot of Universal Studios dropping some jasper’s name at the gate and popping onto the tour. Then after a trip to Disneyland where I hadn’t been since the age of eight and a stop at Pink’s for a famous chili dog, Bill introduced me to a local L.A. TV celeb that used to be a kids’ show host named Hobo Kelly.

Still, no autographs of any note to bring home to Grant and a goose egg seemed to be in the offing until we had lunch at Musso and Frank’s, a true Hollywood landmark. I looked up from my cheeseburger to spy the one and only Laraine Newman, a honest to Buddha Not Ready for Prime Time Player, walking in all by her lonesome self, not appearing to be in a very good mood and plunking down at the counter. Aha! Here was my chance and with pen and paper in hand, I seized the moment.

There was no reason to be intimidated by her, especially since she was so unimposing. In fact Laraine didn’t make much of an impression at all and I felt I could just approach her, but not so much as one would a star of still a very TV hot show. Somehow, because of the age range we were both in, I considered her more of a peer. Ah! The arrogance of youth! Here I was, a guy who performed little cowboy skits in a podunk western amusement park in STOCKTON comparing myself to one of the stars of Saturday Night Live, probably the defining television show of my generation. But what the hell. It wasn’t Belushi. Or Chevy Or Gilda. Or even Garret Morris. It was Laraine Newman, for God’s sakes. I’m only grateful it wasn’t Al Franken.

Still she seemed out of sorts. I could theorize that maybe she took the red-eye in from New York and was still on East Coast time. Or perhaps she had been binging on one substance and/or another until the wee hours of the morning. Or should have just been tossed to the curb after an all-night Crisco party with the members of The Starland Vocal Band. Whatever the scenario that brought her to Musso and Frank’s that day, her eyes rested at half-mast and she definitely needed some sort of stimulant to kick-start her life and her attitude.

I know! How about some adulation from what would appear to be an adoring fan?

“Hi, Laraine. Can I trouble you for an autograph?” I asked friendly enough.

With abrupt exasperation, Laraine turned without looking at me at all and snatched the pen and paper from my mitts. Alas, the pen didn’t write. She spun about, still not looking directly at me, yet with a look on her face that could only be described as lethargic rage. She raised the faulty writing implement and cocked her wrist back as though she had a throwing knife and I had an apple on my head.

A gentleman, a complete stranger sitting next to her, interjected, “Here. You can use mine.”

Without changing her pout, Laraine slammed my pen on the counter and grabbed the kind stranger’s instead to write “L_______ N__________”. She thrust it all back at me and turned back to face the lunch counter. Her ordeal was over just like that. Thank God she survived it all. I handed the stranger back his pen and after thanking him, went merrily on my way, grateful that not only did I avoid injury at the hands of a founding member of SNL, but also that I didn’t have to bitch slap said TV star for bad manners.

Upon returning to Tule Flats, we gave Grant his autograph from a bonafide star as well as some gum I think we bought at a truck stop on the Grapevine on the way back. In typical Grant fashion, he cherished them both. We also brought home a Pink’s chili dog for my friend, Max. Even though it was purchased two days before and kept in conditions in direct violation of any health code anywhere, Max stuffed down his gullet without a care in the world.

Our task completed, we strapped on our six shooters and proceeded to return to the Old West for some gunfightin’, train robbin’ and whoopin’ it up like the cowboys we were. It was, after all, Saturday.

EPILOGUE

This incident was merely a side note of that year. The rest of that summer in 1979 turned out to be one of the best times in my entire life, primarily as a result what occurred in the Ghost Town during that season. It was a period that helped formed the framework of what we would all eventually become.

Grant eventually went on to L.A. himself, diving headlong into the show business. He fronted the band Grant Lee Buffalo (Fuzzy, Mighty Joe Moon, Truly, Truly) and is now a successful solo artist in his own right. I would have to say he is the single most famous person I know.

Bill moved back to L.A. for a spell, then ended up in New England where he has had continued success as a stage actor and director and working in public television, earning himself an Emmy along the way.

Laraine Newman lasted one more season on SNL and then went on to…well, pretty much obscurity.

As for me, I lived to tell the tale.

This is what is known as descending order.