A Canyon Kid Summer

Big doin's in the world of The Canyon Kid!

On June 19, The Great American Melodrama & Vaudeville in Oceano, CA presents SONG OF THE CANYON KID (aka SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE) written by yours truly. This is the first production of this western comedy melodrama since its 1987 world premiere at the legendary Pollardville Palace Showboat Theater in Stockton, which I also directed. This particular show will run all summer long until September 20.


THE GREAT AMERICAN MELODRAMA and VAUDEVILLE

That's just Southern California. Northern California steps up to the plate later in the season.


On August 29, the Footlight Theatre Company stages its own production of the same play under its original title in conjunction the Hurst Ranch in Jamestown, CA. It involves a train ride, BBQ, live band and sounds

like quite the event. This prod closes the same night as the other-September 20.

FOOTLIGHT THEATRE CO. ON FACEBOOK                                      
So what the fun is it-SONG OF THE CANYON KID or LONE PRAIRIE? Well, when I was working on the novelization, I always meant to change the title for the book. When Great American contacted me, they asked to change it to TALES OF...but I balked and suggested the other. They went ahead and added it to their 2014 line-up, though they added an S to their promotional brochure calling it SONGS. Sigh. After the summer shows, the play title will be SONG OF THE CANYON KID. Stay tuned. Or not.

But the BOOK is now and always will be SONG OF THE CANYON KID..Yeah,  a real, honest to God BOOK that you hold in your hands, flip the pages, throw at your loved ones and what not. This fine tome is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle versions.

SONG OF THE CANYON KID ON AMAZON

So all in all, it is indeed the summer of the Canyon Kid. It's been a long time coming, but from the dude who created these characters many moons ago in a wondrous land called Pollardville, I believe that the time for the straight-shootin', guitar strummin' cowboy has finally come.

Yippie-ky-ay indeed.

Dedications

Writing a book dedication is like a final punctuation, a kiss goodbye to send your tome on its merry way. But more importantly, it's a big piece of your heart that you've given to certain individuals that is forever embedded in your work.

My first book, IN THE DARK, was dedicated to my wife.
To Laurie, my honey
Wanna see a movie?
She was my constant movie companion and one of the few people on this earth I can stand to sit next to in a cinema. Laurie's not gone by any stretch of the imagination. She just stopped going to movies.

The recipients of of book numero dos, RED ASPHALT, were Don Geronimo and Mike O'Meara.
To Don and Mike
Radio Gods
Thanks for the laughs when I needed them the most.
Um, what? Yes, I chose to salute a couple of guys on the radio. RED ASPHALT was a personal book about a guy who flips out while driving for a living, a job near and dear to my butt cheeks. Back in the 90s, my psyche had going through some rough terrain while on the road every stinking day. Fortunately, I had these two jamokes to listen to and laugh my way toward sanity, then writing a book to vent my frustrations at the world.. For that, they got a much deserved thank you.

In the introduction of NOW THAT'S FUNNY, my collection of comedy sketches, I was all over the map.

I hereby dedicate this collection to Rob Petrie, King Kong, Pollardville itself, that motley crew of talented performers and excellent people known as the Palace Showboat Players and to the patron saint of comedy itself, the chicken.

What a load. The chicken didn't even call.

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, all about my adventures in South Africa, turned out to be a story about family, therefore transforming it into something more than "What I Did on My Summer Vacation".

To my family

Past, present and future

So now we're up to date with my latest, SONG OF THE CANYON KID. I've dedicated this book to my friend, Goldie Pollard.  

I had been a cowboy in the Pollardville Ghost Town as an actor, sorta stuntman and writer and director. During that time, my friend Edward Thorpe and I wrote a melodrama for the Palace Showboat Theater called LARUE'S RETURN. I had yet to appear on that particular stage myself. When I finally did, I had helped Bob Gossett write new material for my first show DOWNFALL OF THE UPRISING. Since I was pretty hungry to add even more material to the show's vaudeville section, Goldie, as one of the producers, helped to champion my cause. The next show she co-directed with Bill Humphreys, GOODBYE TV, HELLO BURLESQUE, the two of them both asked me to write some sketches. I had written the next melodrama solo, LEGEND OF THE ROGUE, and Goldie gave me the highest honor possible. Not only would I have my name on the melodrama, but I would write and direct the olios section as well. Don't think this didn't go to my head. I was Orson fucking Welles, baby!
 
The problem was...I was in so far over my head I didn't realize I was drowning until it was too late. I was too young, too ill-prepared and too arrogant to ask for help. The show was virtually taken away from me and deservedly so.

A couple of years passed and I returned to the Palace Showboat stage, thanks to both D.W. Landingham and Ray Rustigian. I was ready to give it another shot and Goldie gave it to me. I wrote and directed three vaudeville shows in a row, a revival of LA RUE'S RETURN and a brand spanking new melodrama called SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE.

If it wasn't for Goldie's initial encouragement and her ability to grant me a second chance, I don't know what direction my life would have taken. I loved this woman. We lost contact after I left the Stockton area in 1999, but I am so grateful that we were able to have one last reunion at the Palace Showboat when that place closed once and for all. At that event, she addressed the crowd to say:

You all came here as actors, dancers, singers, dressers, writers and you ended up as entertainers. And you know what you are today? You are all my stars and I love you all.

No one shone brighter than she did. She was our beacon, our guiding light. For this, I have dedicated SONG OF THE CANYON KID to her.

To Goldie Pollard

For giving me my first chance, then believing in me enough to give me a second

This book is all about second chances and this is my last to say once more to my friend,

I love you, Doris June. And thank you from the bottom of my heart now and forever, 

Ray Rustygun

More than anyone else that trod the boards on the Pollardville stage, Ray Rustigian epitomized everything that was the Palace Showboat Theater. For over twenty five years, Ray wore almost every hat in the theater as a director, vaudeville performer, melodramatic actor and, of course, master of ceremonies par excellence, a role that made him the face of the Palace Showboat.

I first laid eyes on him during my first trip to the Ville way back in 1972. ALASKA was the melodrama with Ray as the villain. The place was packed to the rafters with a particularly rowdy group of patrons. Each time Ray as Rhinestone Fred entered, a single peanut sailed up from the crowd and struck him in the same spot every time, right on the chest. He'd follow the peanut's trajectory without flinching, remaining in character as he'd turn his attention to the offender to fire off a well-timed comeback to the audience such as: "This is what happens when cousins marry."

I think this was the show he and partner-in-crime Phil DeAngelo performed "The Italian Carpenter" sketch, a variation on "The Heckler" with Phil playing the straight man and Ray as the carpenter. It contained one of my favorite lines of all time.

RAY: You sing too loud! Stand back! Stand back!
PHIL: How far?
RAY: You gotta car?

A few years later, Ray directed the first melodrama script written by Ed Thorpe and myself, LARUE'S RETURN or HOW'S A BAYOU? He graciously allowed these two budding playwrights to sit in on rehearsals and provide input. After the mountain of notes we gave him each night, he probably regretted it. What did he expect from a couple of wise-asses in their early twenties?

Sometime later, I finally appeared onstage at the Ville myself and made my own directorial debut shortly after, falling right on my face. I thought I knew it all, but I didn't, It wasn't until Ray directed me in my first traditional old-school vaudeville show, HELLO, VAUDEVILLE, HELLO, that I understood what the hell Polardville and vaudeville itself was all about. I loved that show. It remains my favorite of the shows in which I appeared. It inspired me to direct once again with three back-to-back olios right after Ray's show.

Ray took a hiatus from his emcee duties and I was lucky enough to take over. There was no way I could fill his Capezios. Maybe it's because I didn't try to emulate his stage attire. That guy had the flashiest wardrobe this side of Liberace. We alternated stints every other month for a few shows until one glorious closing night performance when we co-hosted, one of the best nights of my life.

I got to write a couple of bits for Ray, particularly in my show IT'S SHOWTIME, FOLKS. Some of the dialogue of one piece went as such:
BOB: Name?
RAY: Ray Rustigian.
BOB: A rusty gun?
RAY: No. Rustigian. It's Armenian.
BOB: Oh, I'm sorry.
RAY: You're sorry?

Of course he wasn't. Ray was a proud Armenian American. Maybe that was the key to Ray. He took pride in himself, his heritage, his work and certainly the Palace Showboat, on and off the stage. He even stepped up to take over in its last few years until even he couldn't sustain it any longer. When we held our last reunion, the night Pollardville closed its doors for good, Ray donned a crushed velvet tuxedo from the Rustigian Collection and graced the stage as emcee for the very last time for our Grand Finale performance.

Ray loved being on stage and that love was returned by the audience. Maybe it was because he was the consummate salesman. He knew how to sell it and sell it he did. The crowd bought it every single time.

As we remember the times when we were welcomed to Pollardville and recall the day of long ago, Ray Rustigian was there. His legacy spans almost the entire history of the theater right up until the final bow.

To paraphrase Ray's send-off at the end of each show:

No matter where you go, there he was.

Okay, Ray. Five minutes to curtain. Let's Hidey-Didey.

"Good evening, ladies and gentleman and welcome to the Palace Showboat. Here he is, your master of ceremonies for this evening, MR. RAY RUSTIGIAN!"

Special Guest Star: Peter Breck

The recent death of actor Peter Breck prompted me to finally chronicle this tale from the days of my youth (also known the Dawn of Man). Of course, I realize that many of you may not recognize the name Peter Breck anymore than you would, say, mine.

Peter Breck was an actor who worked almost exclusively in episodic television in the Fifties and Sixties, mostly in the western genre, a very popular genre back in that era. Nowadays, a TV western pops up once every ten years. (Last decade it was Deadwood, now it’s Hell on Wheels.) Back then, cowboys were all the rage and dominated the airwaves. Breck starred in 1959’s Black Saddle, but his big claim to fame was The Big Valley portraying the often hot-tempered Nick Barkley. That show, undoubtedly inspired by the huge success of Bonanza, was another family oater saga starring Barbara Stanwyck in the Lorne Greene role. Her kids were Nick, Jarrod (Richard Long), Heath (Lee Majors in his first major role) and introducing Linda Evans (Audra). If you’ve ever seen Airplane!, this will explain the reference of the gag “Nick! Heath! Jarrod! There’s a fire in the barn!”

The Big Valley of the title referred to California’s San Joaquin Valley and, in particular, the one and only birthplace of yours truly, Stockton-famed in song, story and foreclosure notice. The show was one of the last of the big westerns and aired on ABC from 1965-1969. It was only natural the Barkleys of Stockton past should visit Stockton present, that present being 1967.

Two stars from the show were set for guest appearances at a Stockton Ports home game, the hometown minor league baseball team. The Ports had played in Fat City in one form or another almost sine its inception, all the way back to the 1800s, ironically the Barkley’s stomping grounds. Legend has it that Stockton could very well have been the Mudville that Ernest Thayer created in his epic baseball poem Casey at the Bat. (Holliston, Massachusetts makes the same claim. They even have a damn statue) And that is what Peter Breck and Richard Long would be performing at a pre-game show with Long narrating the poem and Breck at the bat as The Mighty Casey.

In those days, the Ports played right down the street from my house at Billy Hebert Field, a baseball diamond in Oak Park. I had seen many a game there, mostly after the seventh inning when they opened the gates for free. I also shagged foul balls, standing outside the front gate and chasing them down in either the parking lot or Oak Park itself. The Ports paid fifty cents for each returned ball, major bank back then (We’ve already established that I’m old. Shut your hole, young ‘un.)

On this epic Sunday, the stands of Billy Herbert filled to the brim, but without me. I wasn’t interested in seeing another Ports game. I just wanted to see some celebs and certainly didn’t want to pay a jacked-up admission just for that privilege. So, I opted for the old school approach: peeking in from the left field fence. The pre-game show wasn’t due to start for awhile, so I decided to wander over the clubhouse just behind center field and an easy access from the softball field right next door to see what I could see.

As I approached, I noticed a limousine parked right by the clubhouse entrance and sitting in the back seat, I spied Richard Long. Holy cannoli! A real TV star right before my twelve year old eyes! I had seen this guy for years on all kinds of shows, not just The Big Valley. He was on Bourbon Street Beat, Maverick, 77 Sunset Strip and some of my favorite movies from way back then like House on Haunted Hill and Cult of the Cobra. Long always had that well-bred, prep school look about him, the kind of guy who always wears a pullover sweater under a sport coat and knows all the lyrics to “The Whiffenpoof Song”. It was only natural that he had been cast as Jarrod, the Barkley family lawyer, kind of a Tom Hagen of the Old West. And now there he was, live, in person and not four feet from me.

We locked eyes; mine being star-struck but also a little confused. Wasn’t he getting out of the car? Was he leaving? Long, in turn, seemed startled to see this kid gaping at him disappointedly as the limo drove off and he avert eyes in apparent embarrassment. My pre-teen brain put two and two just like that. THAT was the look of a guilty man and probably, a coward. Who did he think he was? How dare he duck out on his commitment? If I had my druthers, would have broken his saber over my knee like Chuck Connors in Branded. But at that age, I didn’t know what druthers were so I didn’t know if I had any or not. I didn’t have time anyway. Besides, I had to find a spot at the fence. Casey at the Bat was about to start.

Standing with the rest of the neighborhood freeloaders who didn’t want to pay admission either, I found a peephole just as the pre-show began. Players from the Stockton Ports took the field, portraying the opposing team in the Casey saga and pantomiming their actions as the poem began, narrated by some unknown substitution for the missing in action Richard Long. Then the star of the show (now pulling a solo since Long took it on the lam), Peter Breck in full 1800s Mudville regalia stepped up to the plate as The Mighty Casey, garnering very loud cheers from the stands. His portrayal of Thayer’s immortal character was spot on, burlesqued with great restraint as only a professional could. At the climax, Breck as Casey swung in slow motion, and then froze in position. The Stockton Ports walked to home base, picked his stiff body up and carried him to the dugout as the narrator read: “There was no joy in Mudville/Mighty Casey had struck out.”

The crowd inside and outside the stadium laughed and cheered Breck’s performance. He was our hero, our very own Casey who did not strike out that day, but hit a grand slam home run.

After a fashion, I wandered back to the clubhouse to see if I could get a glimpse of the star of the show. If I got a chance to actually meet him, I had a message for him to deliver when he got back to the set of The Big Valley. I had no problems walking right inside the locker room, security being very lax in those days. Seated on a bench and stripping off his Mudville baseball uniform was Mr. Peter Breck himself, all sweaty and disheveled not unlike his character in the grips of insanity in Samuel Fuller’s Shock Corridor. Then again, he had just finished a performance in the hot Stockton sun.

As a representative of the Ports organization spoke to him, he flamboyantly bellowed, “Right, baby!” and gestured toward him, pointing his finger at him like a gun. As he removed his cleats, there were mutterings about what happened to Richard Long, prompting him to exclaim in exasperation, “Oh, that son of a bitch!” Catching himself, he looked at the small audience that had gathered in the locker room and apologized, “Pardon my French, everybody.”

While others looked about awkwardly, I saw an opening and went for broke. Stepping right to him with a head full of immature righteous indignation, I said proudly, “Mr. Breck, when you see Richard Long again, you tell him the show must go on.”

Yep. That’s what I said all right. Feel free to roll your eyes at any time.

Peter Breck looked at me with kind of woozy startled expression on his face at this declaration. He smiled slowly and said, “I will. I’ll tell him that. Come over here, son.”

I walked over to him, expecting a handshake, but instead Peter Breck sat me on his knee. Now I was twelve yeas old. I hadn’t sat on anyone’s lap or knee since I visited Santa Claus for the last time maybe five years before. But I figured it was okay. He wasn’t a priest or a scoutmaster and besides, there were witnesses. What could be the harm? While basking in the privilege of having some quality time with a major TV star, something else began to waft in my general direction-the distinct odor of alcohol tainting his breath and perhaps even his pores. While I sat on my new Uncle Peter’s lap as he exhaled the fumes of Bacchus upon me, his voice grew very solemn as he confided in me some words of wisdom.

“Now, I wanna tell you something and I want you to remember this. Your mommy and your daddy…are always right. Okay? You remember that now, alright? You’re a good boy. Now GET on outta here!”

On the word GET, he hauled off and spanked my butt so hard it propelled me off his knee. I grabbed me stinging cheeks and wailed an “Ooh!” as I jumped to my feet. Some polite, but not necessarily gregarious laughter filtered out from the others in the clubhouse. They seemed uneasy at best. Somebody mentioned the time to Breck and he answered loudly with another “Right, baby!” and resumed undressing. Those who didn’t belong at that point were ushered out of the locker room right then and that was last I ever saw of Peter Breck. As for his words of wisdom, well…he was on the spot. And hot. And bombed. I didn’t care. This was better than an autograph.

As I left the clubhouse, I saw my friend from school, Ronnie Carter on the way out.

“Your mommy and daddy are always right!” he mocked with that stupid half-smirk he always had on his mug.

“Shut up, Ronnie,” I told the little asshole. He was just jealous. And a little asshole. It was his nature.

I should talk.

“The show must go on.”

What the hell did I know about it? What did I know about anything? I had no idea what made Richard Long travel all the way to Stockton, only to flee the scene of the crime before it even began. To my twelve year old mind, this was a moral issue and for this man to run away made him a creep in my book for years to come.

But as I grew older, I finally began to doubt my perception of that day. I had to wonder what happened when Peter Breck returned to the set of The Big Valley.
“Hey, Richard! I gotta message for you from a little boy up in Stockton. He told me to tell you that the show must go on!”

“Really, Pete? You and that kid can go fuck yourselves. Maybe you shouldn’t be so shit faced when you make a public appearance….especially with me.”

It might not have been the first time, but I’ll bet that as far as Richard Long was concerned, it was the last. But again, who knows? He could have shown up to Billy Hebert, assessed the situation and made a snap decision. Unfortunately, in avoiding possible embarrassment that day, Long ended up embarrassing himself by running away. His co-star, while in his cups, ended up pulling it off. Breck turned out to be the conquering hero while Long became the goat. How could he know that? It was pretty much a lose-lose situation for him to be placed in and over the years, I’ve learned to cut the man some slack.

When The Big Valley ended its run in 1969. Richard Long went on to star in the sitcom Nanny and the Professor and guest starring on several other shows. He died of a heart attack in 1974.

Peter Breck also appeared on a lot of episodic TV series over the years, though he never landed another regular series role, having moved to Canada to open his own acting school, The Breck Academy The last time I remembered seeing him on screen was in the 1980s swashbuckler The Sword and the Sorcerer wearing an unfortunate hair perm or unfortunate curly wig. Either way, it was unfortunate. He passed away on Feb. 6 of this year from complications due to dementia.

In the 1980s, the Stockton Ports asked the Palace Showboat Theater, another place near and dear to my heart and soul, to help recreate Casey at the Bat at Billy Hebert Field once again, which we did for about three separate years. When I directed it, I added Peter Breck’s piece of business to the ending. That final freeze after Mighty Casey strikes out then is carried off by the other players worked as good then as it did in 1967. I put it because it was good. Maybe sub-consciously, I intended it to be an homage to the TV star I met at that very baseball stadium doing the same exact show.

While our version was also well-received by the audience and the Ports organization, Casey at the Bat was a tough show to play on a Sunday afternoon in the summer after two performances of our own production-and the hard partying that followed. (You see, the moral fiber of that self-righteous kid began to unravel soon after puberty) But we sucked it up and performed like champs because there was one thing we at Pollardville understood, just as Peter Breck did:
The show must go on.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE SPECIAL GUEST STARS 

The Doctor is In

About a year ago, I had been introduced to a co-worker’s grandson as “This is Scott. He writes books.”

“What kind of books?” the pre-teen inquired.

“Oh, they’re about me,” I told him. “I have to write about myself. Nobody else will.”

One look at my bibliography validates that statement. However, now I can make another literary claim to fame that I had nothing to do with. Scott Cherney is a supporting character in my friend Thomas Amo’s paranormal novel AN APPLE FOR ZOE: THE FORSAKEN and I am just tickled pink. Don’t believe me? Look.

ZOE (a proposed trilogy in which THE FORSAKEN is the first chapter) is one crazy-ass roller coaster read concerning the investigation of a series of occult murders that link with movie stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood and the greatest hits from the Serial Killer Hall of Fame. Once it hits the ground running, Tom’s book is positively relentless. I had barely enough time to catch my breath in between chapters before the action and horror crank up all over again. Best of all are two of the best characters I’ve run across in this genre-the insane Russian twin smoking-hot female assassins known as the Baranova Sisters, Tarista and Devonia. I can’t wait until the next installment to see what bat-shit mayhem they’ll be up to next.

As for me, I turn up about 2/3 of the way through AN APPLE FOR ZOE. Well, at least Tom’s version of me. Doctor Scott Cherney, at your service. It's funny because there actually is a Dr. Scott Cherney, an ophthalmologist who lives just down the state from me in Eugene, Oregon. I discovered him when I Googled myself one day. (Yes, I Google myself. I'm a consenting adult) But what kind of doctor am I? I’m a gopher doctor. If somebody gets sick, I gopher another doctor. Ba-dump-bump! (You can take the boy out Pollardville, but you can’t take Pollardville out of the boy) Actually, Scott is a police psychiatrist extraordinaire. Good ol’ Doc Cherney gets to utter the phrase that pays, “Billy Bob No-Nose here isn’t your typical Ned Beatty rapin’ hillbilly.” Sounds like something I’d say. Tom had also observed me when I used to smoke and added that to the character.

In a matter of three moves, he had a single cigarette from the pack to his lips and lit.

Tom said he noticed I did that every single time without fail. I had no idea. Sounds pretty cool to me, even if I haven’t smoked in over fourteen years. The only thing he changed was that the good doctor smokes non-filtered Camels while my brand of choice was Camel Light. Filters were always better otherwise you’re spitting out tobacco after every puff.

So I am humbled that my friend has chosen to honor me in this fashion. Tom has also stated that his dream cast for the film version of AN APPLE FOR ZOE, Dr. Scott Cherney will be played by…wait for it…Robert Downey Jr. Yes, really, but it's only because Bob Denver is dead.

In all sincerity, this really starts out my year on the best note possible. My friend Tom Amo made me part of his dream. Thanks, mate.

NOW WHERE THE HELL IS MY ACTION FIGURE?

AN APPLE FOR ZOE is now available from Amazon in paperback and Kindle versions. Go forth and buy a copy. Do it for me. Do it for him. Do it for Robert Downey Jr. He needs the work.

Tom’s Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Thomas-Amo/e/B004NIZCM6
Tom’s blog: http://authorthomasamo.blogspot.com/

Elfis Has Left the Building: An Xmas Tale from the Ville

When Andy Williams announced that it was “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”, the Palace Showboat Players wholeheartedly concurred.

The holidays meant a two-week hiatus for our year round theater and as a result our annual Christmas soiree could be held on a rare Saturday night off  (two, actually, counting New Year's). Once we produced our own “Special Holiday Episode”, an adaptation of A Christmas Carol directed by Steve Orr and starring Bob Gossett as Scrooge. (My favorite casting was our resident bass player A. J. Joyce as the hippest Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come ever.) I myself played Bob Cratchit, the Cratchitiest Cratchit who ever Cratched a Cratch. It was a rare opportunity for us to flex our theatrical muscles outside the realm of melodrama and vaudeville.

During this holiday break, we also took the opportunity to rent a mountain cabin for New Year’s a couple of years. Oh, the times we had. (Drunk UNO, anybody?)The first trip was when I actually saw it snow. I had seen the frozen white stuff on the ground many a time, but not fall from the sky as it did magically on New Year's Eve just before midnight. Therefore, I had experienced not only the noun, but the verb. I felt blessed and as a result, we were blissfully snowbound for much of the next week.

The Cratchits at home, minus Tiny Tim

Best of all for the rapscallions, scalawags and ne’er-do-wells that occupied our fair theater, Christmas meant seasonal employment in the guise of a Santa Claus photo booth managed by our very own Cory Troxclair. While many at the Ville were upstanding citizens with decent paying jobs, there were those of us whose only source of income was whatever we made every Friday and Saturday night at Pollardville. This opportunity to make some easy Christmas cash-or any cash for that matter-was a welcome shot in the arm and a total kick in the ass.

Yes, we were indeed Santa’s little helpers Monday through Friday from the week before Thanksgiving right up until Christmas Eve. During the Monday through Friday daytime shift, Greg Pollard cashiered and I operated the camera, an extremely easy-peasy Polaroid system. I found that I had an aptitude for taking these mini-portraits, using a stuffed monkey to distract the kids from the imminent horror of Santa’s lap and even managed to render many a smile. The Winter Wonderland set had been staged dead center in the mall and I felt like I had been the main attraction. Santa supported me, not the other way around. I’d hoot and holler, giggle and snort, do whatever I could to get a good picture. My best trick was to toss the monkey straight up to the mall’s ceiling as the ever so young subjects of the photo followed it with their eyes. When it fell, I’d snap the shot just as I caught it. My success rate was not bad if I do say so myself.

That first year, we were dressed rather dapper in our white dress shirts, red vests and black tuxedo pants. We could have passed for waiters at swank holiday buffet. We even gave ourselves aliases. Greg, deep into his Elvis phase, became (naturally) Elfis. I, on the other hand, named myself Elfalfa. 

With Cory as Santa, the three of us were the A Team, if that title could actually apply to anyone who worked in a mall, especially on a temporary basis. However, Cory couldn’t don the Santa suit every day since his managerial duties got in the way, so he also hired Bill, another friend of his who wasn’t part of the Ville, for the role of jolly St. Nick. Honestly, Bill seemed a little smarmy to me. Certainly not a bad looking guy even camouflaged in his Santa disguise, he incessantly flirted with every woman in the mall. His striking blue eyes were straight out of House Atreides and twinkled from behind that white beard. Any female that passed by our booth received all-too-obvious winks and blatantly blown kisses. Santa was quite the playa.

During a late afternoon lull when no one seemed to be visiting Santa, Elfalfa left jolly St. Bill propped in his chair to chat with Elfis. He was deep in the throes of Song Hits magazine, Elvis edition, memorizing the lyrics of one of the King’s hits for the special show we were putting together for the upcoming Ville Christmas party.

“Uh oh,” Elfis said as he looked toward Santa. “Looks like Santa’s finally hooked one.”

Elfalfa turned to see an apparently lovely young lady speaking with Santa from outside the Winter Wonderland. She had actually been the first woman we noticed that actually stopped when Santa Bill blew her a kiss. It appeared to be a very animated conversation.

“And she’s headed this way,” Elfalfa noticed as this filly sauntered forth to the cashier’s station. She seemed very familiar to me.

“May I borrow your pen?” she asked with Elfis complying as she scribbled down a phone number on a napkin from her purse. “Could you give this to Santa please?”

“I sure will,” Elfis agreed and we watched her glide away. On the napkin, she had written the name Monique and her number.

“Monique. I knew it,” Elfalfa said.

“You know her?” Elfis asked.

“We both do,” Elfalfa answered and proceeded to remind his fellow elf who, where and well, what.

In the spring of that year, the Ville became the venue for that year’s local Closet Ball. Drag queens from all over the San Joaquin Valley and beyond converged on the theater that Sunday night giving it the appearance of a stopover in Cher’s farewell tour. The evening turned out be, to borrow a word, fabulous, certainly one of the most memorable in that theater’s history. A couple of years later, the same group returned to host one of the first AIDS benefits in the area that I was honored to emcee.

But it was at that first Ball that we first encountered Monique. A fellow Palace Showboat Player told us he had gone to Delta College with Monique before she was Marty. But in all honesty and stacked up against at least half of the attendees to the Closet Ball, Marty made a fairly convincing Monique. He wasn’t exactly Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, but he wasn’t Rob Schneider as The Hot Chick either. Let’s just say there might be a gray area that would exist outside the confines of the Closet Ball.

And that’s where we were that holiday season. The question was: Should we tell Santa Bill?

The answer to that would have been “Of course” if Santa Bill wasn’t so obnoxious about the whole thing. He wouldn’t shut up about it from the moment he met Monique and lorded it over our heads like he was the original American Gigolo wearing a mistletoe belt buckle.

“Oh, man She is just smokin’ hot. We’re going a drink after work. Monique. Moan-nique. She’s gonna moan alright. Oh yeah. You guys you could do as well as Santa. Well, Santa’s gonna find who’s naughty or nice. If Monique’s naughty, that’ll be nice!” On the set. Off the set. During lunch. After lunch. Between kids sitting on his lap, for crying out loud. “Hurry up and take that picture. Let’s get this line moving. The lady’s waiting for me. Ho ho ho, Mo-nique!” He wouldn’t shut up about it.

So did Elvis and Elfalfa tell Santa Bill the secret of The Crying Game?

Nahhhhhhhhhhh.

The next day, Santa Bill returned to the Winter Wonderland a changed man. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t blow kisses. He didn’t say a word about his date with Monique. Something had dulled Santa’s claws. From there on in Santa Bill just went through the motions and, by season’s end, we never saw or heard from him again. But hopefully, an angel known as Monique finally got her wings.

Don’t think we didn’t come out of this unscathed. When Elfis and Elfalfa returned the following year, Weberstown Mall management dictated that we wear white smocks, sock hats, red sweat pants, green tights and felt booties over our own shoes. Needless to say, I didn’t need the monkey to make kids smile anymore. All they had to do was look at me. Elfis and Elfalfa were no longer the cool elves. We had been put back in our places as Santa’s little helpers, only now we had to dress the part.

Sometimes a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking is just a metaphor for karma, balancing out the universe once again, one elf at a time. 

Ho Ho Ho indeed.

Tales from the Ville-Hi Yo, Silver!

In honor of the debut of NOW THAT’S FUNNY! The Comedy Sketches of Scott Cherney on Amazon Kindle (on sale here), I hereby present this excerpt for your edification concerning a very pivotal time at my dearly departed Home, Sweet Home-The Palace Showboat Theater at Pollardville. It all revolves around what was my best produced piece, The Lone Ranger Rides Again. 

Nostalgia’s a funny thing. It usually puts a warm golden light on our memories to conveniently make our past a lot more significant than it really was. That really doesn’t apply in this case. It’s hard not to look back at Goodbye TV, Hello Burlesque as a pivotal moment in time for everyone and everything involved with the Palace Showboat at that point. GTV, HB, the vaudeville The Lone Ranger Rides Again was written for, set the standard for just about every show that followed it. For one thing, it represented a definite changing of the guard at the theater. Many of those who had been responsible for the development of the standard Pollardville formula decided it was time to move on. That’s when the new kids on the block moved in and with them (or us, as the case may be), a new sensibility. As a result, the bar was raised for on what this theater was capable of with just a little bit of imagination and throwing off some of the shackles of the past.

Bill Humphreys, who conceived and directed this show with Goldie Pollard, brought some of his professional experience in stage and television production to the Ville and turned the olios into a full multi-media experience combining both film and video elements with live-action for the very first time on that stage. Like moths to a flame, this show, as well as the melodrama that preceded it, Seven Wives for Dracula, a better than usual script by Tim Kelly and directed by D.W. Landingham, attracted pretty much what I would call an artists’ collective of actors, writers, musicians and, well, artists. We all congregated in a harmonious convergence in what I unashamedly refer to this as our “Renaissance period”. (Whew!) Okay, maybe some of that is nostalgia speaking again, but the truth of the matter, or the proof in the pudding, was what ended up on that stage and that end result was sensational. We all went to the next level. The music was better. The choreography was better. The makeup, the costumes, the sets-painted by an actual artist, Karen Van Dine…all better than they ever were before. And the cast matched them every step of the way. On top of all that, it was the first show to not only utilize original material but also actually encouraged the creation of such material. That’s where I came in. It all stemmed from the previous production when I helped Bob Gossett punch up the melodrama The Downfall of the Uprising or Who Do the Voodoo? with a bunch of new gags. I tried to do the same with the vaudeville, but, with one exception, was shot down every time. When GTV, HB came along, I was welcome with open arms by both Bill and Goldie, the rest being history.

Goodbye TV, Hello Burlesque traced the world of entertainment back in time from the television age through radio and ending up in the burlesque era. The Lone Ranger Rides Again obviously fit into this middle section. As far as the origin of this sketch, I honestly do not remember. It’s the only one that I’m a little hazy about how it actually began. Perhaps it had been the result of just another idea jam session. I don’t know. But, a few years ago, I caught a rerun of an old Dean Martin Show on TV Land or something. On this episode, Dean and Orson Welles were recreating a radio show. Orson read the script leaving Dean with all the sound effects. Now this must have stuck in my head because I remembered seeing this sketch as a kid. In case you’re wondering, the only thing I retained was a variation of the stairs gag, so I didn’t really steal anything.

Everything clicked on this sketch and it evolved into something even more wonderful than what existed on the page. It began with a kid listening to the radio and changing the channel as a medley of radio show themes and commercials played. When it ended up on “The William Tell Overture” (AKA The Lone Ranger Theme), the audience went nuts every single time. Then the curtain opened on that great set of a radio soundstage from the 1940s and that superb cast took my words and spun their own magic for the next ten minutes. I can say without hesitation that this was the best sketch I had written and certainly the best produced.

The cast-Bob Gossett as The Lone Ranger, Ed Thorpe as Tonto, Cory Troxclair as McGuirk, Lisa Smith as Annabelle, Paul Stolberg as Zorro (who originally came out of the bathroom in the end, a gag I never liked which is why I changed it) and Bill Humphreys as the Director all contributed to its great success each and every performance. Of course, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the real star of this bit. Jim Walsh became an absolute superstar in my eyes as the Sound Effects Engineer. His timing was immaculate and his energy non-stop. When he got to the aforementioned stair gag, he ran in place, counting down with each finger. The biggest laugh of the night. This was Jimmy’s best show all around from his performance as Renfield earlier in the Dracula melodrama to singing “Hot Patootie” (from The Rocky Horror Show and the very first rock ‘n roll number at the Ville) to just about everything he contributed to this production-on and off the stage. Small wonder why we used to call Jimmy “The Hardest Working Man in Show Business”. Never mind no James Brown.

Without a doubt in my mind, Goodbye TV, Hello Burlesque remains one of the best experiences I’ve ever encountered in this business we call show. More than that, it solidified for me that Pollardville was more than just a theater, but a way of life. It became a surrogate family not only for me, but pretty much for all of us who stayed there throughout the years: One big nurturing, often dysfunctional but ultimately supportive family.

How could we not? After all, we had a place to call Home.
And that ain’t nostalgia talkin’ neither.





Now THAT’S Funny! is available on Amazon Kindle for just 99 cents. Also available in paperback and download . For more information, head on over to http://www.scottcherney.com/ . Tell ‘em I sent you.

Dig A Little Deeper

So here I am at the beginning of August and I didn’t have a summer anthem for this year. like I always do. This has been one of those half-assed traditions of mine that I’ve kept to myself for so long that it has ceased to be an amusing eccentricity and is now just a nervous tic. Eh. Keeps me off the meth. These songs of summer underscore the spirit of that particular year and serve as kind of a mental bookmark, a sense memory if you will. These tunes have run the gamut from Mungo Jerry to Loverboy to Nick Cave to Billy Joel to Kings of Leon right up to Katy Perry. What can I say? I have eclectic tastes.

This year it’s been a bit of a struggle.

I haven’t been able to embrace Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” like the rest of the free world apparently has if you’re to believe the playlist of every radio station on the dial. Talk about Hot Rotation. This thing hasn’t just been played to death. It’s become some sort of zombie siren. I don’t think it’s a bad song. It just feels manufactured for focus groups and demographics, an assembly line power ballad that comes off rather soulless. But hey, this is from a guy who just name-checked Loverboy.

However, there’s no reason Song of Summer 2011 has to be from this year. As the saying goes, if you haven’t heard it before, it’s new to you.

Recently I scored a copy of Moonshine Willy’s 1998 release of Bastard Child. If you’re not familiar with the Willy (at least this one), they were an alt-country band out of Chicago back in the Naughty Nineties. Don’t let the handle “alt-country” throw you, even though it does sound like some sort of too-hip-for-the-room musical category from those most ironic of times before Y2K. The Moonshiners combined elements like bluegrass, rockabilly and even a little folk with 1990s sensibilities into a well-balanced fusion that respected the old while embracing the new.

With full disclosure since I don’t want to sully my reputation as a blogger (we do have strong moral fiber, don’tcha know), I should note that my initial interest in anything by Moonshine Willy is due to the fact that the lead singer/songwriter is Kim Luke (formerly Docter as she’s credited on the album) Kim is a friend and former partner in crime at our days back at the Palace Showboat Theater at Pollardville. Kim appeared in a show I directed called Lights! Camera! Action! and also served as my choreographer on another, California Follies. Knowing her may have prompted me  to purchase Bastard Child in the first place, but the quality of the music is what prompted me to write this piece. Besides it took me 13 years to finally hear this dang thing. I may be late to the party, but at least I showed up.

Bastard Child opens with the delightfully snarky ditty “Burn in Hell” and closes with a rollicking and hilariously countryfied cover of Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me”. Sandwiched in between is probably the sweetest tune I’ve come across in a month of Sundays (which is what…7 months?). “Dig a Little Deeper” is such a lovely little love song about a couple not realizing that they’re on the same wavelength in their feelings for one another. It begs the question: “How long can one heart ache before two hearts break?” But Kim’s message in the chorus to these two is clear and concise:

Dig a little deeper
And find what brought you here
Dig a little deeper
And find out what holds you near
The love you sought for all your life is
Staring back at you
And all you have to do is
Dig a little deeper.

Dear Abby couldn’t have said it better herself. I choke up every single time I hear that last line. I particularly love that ever-so-brief hesitation she makes before she sings “Staring back at you”.

I’m crazy about this song and that’s why “Dig a Little Deeper’ is this year’s model for my Song of Summer. I found it on Amazon. So can you as well as the rest of Moonshine Willy’s catalog. This one tight-ass band playing in a genre I don’t normally embrace. I guess the sauce they put on their cornpone made it more palatable for me.

I’m really proud to have known so many talented folk intimately in my life. Kindred spirits that find each other in the world is really a blessing and helps us along the way down this freeway under construction known as Life. Therefore it gives great pleasure to trumpet the achievements of my friends, colleagues, peers and pals o’mine. It’s high time I gave Kim her due. Singer, actress, writer, Roller Derby Queen and so much more, Kim Docter Luke really is a Renaissance Woman and I am privileged to have made her acquaintance.
Here ya go, kid. This one’s for you.

SA-LUTE!

A Guy Named Lou

Lou Nardi was the closest thing I ever had to a mentor in my life.

I've said that so often since I heard of his passing that it's becoming a combination of a mantra, catch phrase and sound byte. That doesn't make it any less true. It's just that I didn't wanted to trivialize Lou or how I felt about him in any way.This is why I feel compelled to write my own tribute to a man who I respected as a teacher, admired as a director and loved as a person.

Back in 1975, I returned to Stockton after a year in the San Francisco Bay Area where I was lucky enough to be cast in my very first professional production, an abomination entitled ADAM KING. I lasted all of two months in this show before I was unceremoniously let go and spent the next eight months in vain attempting to nab another gig. My naivete eventually got the best of me, so I regrouped-or retreated-back home to enter Delta College for some much needed stage training before I ventured out again. (Yes...definitely bass-ackwards...)

Delta turned out to be a mixed bag for me and ultimately unsatisfying, though the chip on my shoulder that I brought back with me from SF didn't help matters a bit. Couldn't teach me nothin', no sir...'specially if I din't wanna learn...

That is, of course, until I met Lou Nardi.

Lou was the only teacher in the Delta theater department that talked to me straight. More of a guidance counselor than a teacher (I actually only had one class with him: Film Appreciation), Lou disarmed me immediately with easy going charm and seemingly unflappable nature. He made me face the harsh reality of my time at Delta, to not have that be the be all and end all of my expectations and that the chip on my shoulder was easily removed, even if my other teachers kept picking it up and putting it back. Just like rehearsal, I had to do it myself until I got it right.

These lessons didn't occur in the classroom, but rather in the Delta cafeteria when my friend, Glen Chin, brought me along to spend some quality time with Lou over many coffees and cigarettes. It was there that I listened to my newfound hero pontificate about school, theater, show business and even life itself. On one particular day, we talked about childhood friend, San Francisco mayor George Moscone, right after he was shot and killed along with Harvey Milk by the psychotic Dan White. Along the way, I felt comfortable enough to go to Lou with my own problems and he would listen with quiet grace, then dispense some sage wisdom that I soaked up like a thirsty sponge.

While I never worked on any of his Delta shows, I did produce a 5 part radio series for KUOP-FM news about the making of his production of THE MUSIC MAN, following it from auditions all the way to opening night. As I stumbled and bumbled my way with microphone in hand, trying to figure out which end was up, Lou was patient and helped me through my process at the same time he was facing the over whelming task of directing and choregraphing a very large musical production. THE MUSIC MAN DIARY was the best thing I ever turned out during my time at the radio station and I had Lou to thank.

Our paths crossed a few times over the years, Stockton being a small world after all as I had become a full-fledged Palace Showboat Player. He was the very first person in the Stockton theater community to not sneer at the very mention of Pollardville. Lou was always supportive of whatever theatrical venture anyone took on, regardless of the stage because he knew it was all THEATER.

In the mid '80s, Lou even turned up at the Palace Showboat to choreograph the second half of one of our shows called ROCK'N VAUDEVILLE. It was a blast to work with him at long last and his style fit the Ville like a glove. In fact, he brought out the best in all of us because he made want to be that much better.

About a year later, Lou called on Thanksgiving to ask me if I wanted to collaborate with him on a new Ville show. He said he had a revue already put together featuring highlights from various musicals called BROADWAY MELODIES and how well it might fit into the Pollardville vaudeville format. He wanted me to write and direct some comedy sketches to fill in the gaps. It absolutely floored me that this man that I admired so much would even consider me to assist him on any theatrical endeavour, even one on my home turf. I have never been so honored in my life.

BROADWAY MELODIES showed the Palace Showboat Players in a different light, one where we could crossover into the "legitimate" theater world and hold our own against the best in the entire area. Lou thought so too. He knew what kind of talent pool we had at the Ville and utilized us to the best of our abilities.

This was the show where he convinced that I could carry off a straight solo. I had a stigma about singing ever since high school...a bad DAMN YANKEES rehearsal croaking through "You've Gotta Have Heart" and getting an assholish response from the musical director. Lou just assuaged my fears with a shrug. "I've heard you sing," he said simply. "You can pull it off." The number was "Try to Remember" from one of my least favorite musicals THE FANTASTICKS. Opening night, I went up at end of the second verse.

"Try to remember, the...bluh..muh...nuh..wuhwuh...and follow..."

Yes, I forgot the lyrics to "Try to Remember".

The following show we
collaborated again, from scratch this time called BACK TO THE THIRTIES. In this show, Lou had another number in mind for me to sing: "Thanks for the Memories". I think he was trying to tell me something.

The years following BACK TO THE THIRTIES, I didn't see very much of Lou at all, probably not until the first Pollardville reunion we had in the early '90s. After that, I lost contact altogether and I eventually moved out of the area altogether and made my way north to Oregon.

At the last Pollardville grand finale reunion in 2007 before a demolition crew flattened the place into just another parking lot, I was so happy that Lou and his incredible wife Nancy were able to attend. That night was so magical. People I never expected to see were there and the Nardis were just the icing of that fantastic nostalgic cake. But somehow I knew in my heart that there were several people there I would never see again. It was true of Goldie Pollard. It was true of Dennis Landingham. And it was certainly true of Lou Nardi. I seized the opportunity that night to tell Lou how I really felt about him and what he's meant in my life. I feel so fortunate to have been able to do so. It wasn't that I was tyring to preemptively bring closure to our relationship. I just felt it needed to be said because the opportunity would never arise again. And for the last time I would say, "Thank you, Lou, for being part of my life."

As I think back on the years that I knew Lou Nardi, the one memory I have that stands out in my mind occurred during the aftershow following what I guess was the closing night of THE MUSIC MAN. Lou had his own number, a little softshoe arrangement where danced his way across the Delta College stage with the style and class that he was known for. He had a look of total bliss on his face, tripping his own light fantastic in the spotlight he deserved his place in.

Dance on, my friend. The stage is all yours.

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.

At the End of the Decade

And so it ends as always with a CNN re-broadcast of the ball falling in Times Square to signal the beginning of the New Year...and in this case, decade as well. What an odd and somewhat pathetic manner in which to chronicle the passage of time, but this is how some of us mark this event in other zones other than Eastern Standard. What better way to end an era than a celebratory rerun. Kind of a bastardization of the space/time continuum, isn't it? No wonder Dick Clark stayed looking so young for so long.

The last ten years began ever so auspiciously at one second past midnight in 2000 with the Y2K boondoggle (AKA The End of the World As We Know It) It should gave us all a big damn clue of how the rest of the decade was going to be. We were at the brink of DOOM...until we weren't. We breathed a big sigh of relief and went about our business, not learning a damn thing about the major disaster that never happened.

By the end of the year came the Endless Presidential Election that signalled the beginning of the next Civil War, the Reds vs the Blues. This battle that keeps escalating day after day turning as the flames of hatred keep getting fanned by a bunch of mental media midgets in the name of higher ratings with zero accountability and Internet snipers with even less credibility or even souls.

The following year came the real Day the Earth Stood Still...9/11. The worst thing that could have happened did and in the most absurd manner possible. The Kamikazes of yesterday had become the airline terrorists of today. Suddenly we came together as one in our grief and in that shock and sorrow came a glimmer of hope that we might just get through this as one. It wasn't meant to be since united we stand, divided we fall and the Powers that Be found that is was easier to keep us in line if we fought amongst ourselves instead the ones who got us there in the first and last places. And if that doesn't do it, they'll make sure they make us live in fear. If they keep us cowered, they can keep us in line.

If that wasn't enough, we went to war...somewhere else. Many of us bought it at the time since we still had vengeance in our hearts and minds. But we got sidetracked. Iraq was a divergence so we missed the sleight of hand trick that became the longest running practical joke in the history of futility and we looked for ways to find the nearest exit until it became as fruitless as trying to get out of a gym membership. Hey, I hear we're finally getting out of there...only to go around the corner to Afghanistan.

Then Mother Nature went on a drunken tirade and sent her nasty ass bitch daughter Katrina to lay waste to a chunk of the country. Just to make matters worse, the aftermath became one of the most shameful events of modern times. 9/11 was an example of what evil forces from the outside could do to our country. Katrina was an example of what evil we could do to ourselves.

The collapse of the economy, global warming and the denial of gay rights...oh, my what an obscene mess the world has become in ten short years. That glimmer of hope many of us hoped for in the guise of a new administration has dimmed to a small burning ember that isn't enough to even light your cigarette, but that's okay since there's no smoking anyway.

For myself, my mother died two months after 9/11, ending a long illness that took her mind and body long before she eventually passed. Some good friends were also lost in those years as well the final decimation of my beloved Pollardville. Two jobs went by the wayside along the way making everyday life even more of a struggle than it is already especially when that goddamn Sword of Damocles keeps waving to and fro, ready to lob over its next innocent victim in a cruel game of chance.

Okay. Enough of a purge already. That was the Worst of the Double-Ohs. Amazingly enough, we have been resilient enough to withstand even the most devastating of times and even manage to prevail in many situations, driving around the potholes in the road and maintain our journeys.

Since this is my damn blog, let's talk about me some more. I have managed to have 5 of my works published in a ten year period, an accomplishment I may not be able to match in volume but still plan to surpass in substance. I appeared on stage twice, once in a local production of ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST and another at the last Pollardville show ever. I've had a life changing trip to South Africa. and I've found a home here in Oregon surrounded by like minded weirdos along with a family that has taught the true meaning of unconditional love for the very first time.

So I end the Double 00s sad about the nature of the world but oddly optimistic about myself. I say oddly because it has never been part of my nature to feel comfortable in my own skin, kind of like an old shoe. Just call me Hush Puppy. Maybe the aging process it having a positive effect on me after all.

Then again, I could be in denial. Now THAT'S comfort!

Next up: The Best of the Decade

Yeah, like you care...

Blogtalk Radio-Live!

You can't keep a good man down...or me either for that matter.

This Saturday-May 9,2009- at 12 noon Pacific Standard Time, I will be the one and only guest on BACKSTAGE PASSwith my friend Tom Amo, airing on Blogtalk Radio. This is indeed an internet radio show, so if y'all just follow this here link:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Thomas-Amo

To hear it live, you'll have to register at the site (for free)

The call in number for the show is:

(347) 884-884-8983

While this will air live Saturday, it will be archived on this site and available for podcast.

So what in the name of Conrad Bain am I going to talk about?

Well, for starters, how about RED ASPHALT? I've still got plenty to say on that subject, especially since it involves not only the subject of road rage, but also writing, creativity, love, fantasy, reality and even mortality itself.

I'm also going to plug SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE, the best melodrama I ever wrote that I just recently published. This will also give me an excuse to discuss about the late, great Pollardville with Tom, a magical, mystical place where we both met many moons ago. (That sounds a wee bit like BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, doesn't it? IT'S NOT!)

Then I'll pimp IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER so that I can talk about movies, TV and everything else I blather on about in this here blog o' mine.

In other words, y'all will get to hear me ramble on like a methhead on Red Bull about this, that and the other thing.

If that's your idea of a good time, listen to Tom and myself Saturday May 9 at High Noon (PST) on Backstage Pass at:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/Thomas-Amo

You may not be glad you did, but I will. And that's what counts.

That is SO Last Year-Part One

Hi kids! Ed Barbara, Furniture USA! We wanna get you started in the credit world!

(Anybody remember this relic from the Guido museum in 1970s late night TV?)

Yeah, it's time for me to pontificate on the year known as Two Thousand Seven or as some tools might say Twenty Oh Seven. I used to have a boss that called 2001: A Space Odyssey
"Twenty Oh One". It really irritated the shit out of me. (Honestly. I had the cleanest colon in town back then.)

Personally, 2007 represented a time to move on (and I don't mean dot-org). Much of what occurred last year pushed, coerced and even encouraged me to wake the hell up and get on with my goddamn life. My own mortality seems to have awakened from a restless sleep and hasn't been in a very good mood since. It's kicking my ass to cut off a lot of dead weight that has been distracting me and holding me back. But it's also allowed me the freedom to embrace what is good and important from my past, present and what I still maintain will be my future if I don't fuck it all up. The clock is ticking...and it doesn't give a shit.

The biggest personal events of the year revolved around the loss of two great loves of my life-Pollardville and its Queen Mother, my beloved Goldie Pollard, one of the best friends I ever had. I was blessed with opportunity to say goodbye to both before the end came, but I can't help but want more. Still I am grateful for what I was able to accomplish in my trip to the Pollardville reunion, especially for the chance to see the best people I've ever known-the Palace Showboat Players. The Ville saga continues, not only in this blog, but also in the website, http://www.showboatreunion.com/ which includes a lot of new material about that wondrous place. Confronting the demise of that wonderful institution has caused me to love that much more and cherish its memory forever, just as I will Goldie and all my Pollardville family.
The celebrity gravy train finally derailed, making casualties of us all. Anna-Nicole, Britney, Paris, Lindsay...my, what a wonderful world we live in. Once upon a time, the downtrodden masses could look to the stars and dream to live their lifestyles of the rich and famous. Now we can't wait to see how they'll fuck up next and hope to God it's worse than one of our own. And, golly, it wasn't gender-specific either. On the female side, we had Ann Nicole, Britney and Paris. For the guys, here's Michael Vick, Don Imus and the grand return of one Orenthal James Simpson. (Side note for Rosie O'Donnell: If Britney is this country's Princess Di, they you must Idi Amin.) For me it didn't get any worse than receiving US Weekly as a substitute subscription when Premiere Magazine went out of business. Each week was worse than the next, shaking my head until it almost fall off as I scanned each issue, nearly at the exploits of what passes as a star in Hollywood these days and as a media outlet "reporting" it all. But they're complient. CNN, CBS, NBC, ABC, FOX each and every one of them no better and often worse than The Star, National Enquirer or the new pretender to the throne of shit, TMZ. As far as I'm concerned, the whole kit 'n kaboodle began once the National Enquirer was considered a "legitimate" news source before the eyes of the American public. We've never been able to wash the smell out of the media since then. And those of you-including myself-who have wallowed at this pig trough of humanity: Shame on you too as well. What the hell have we become-or even worse-what are we becoming? To borrow a quote from David Simon, co-creator of THE WIRE, "While the American empire slipped off its pedestal, what the fuck were we paying attention to?" (For an even better rant on this sad state of affairs, watch Ricky Gervais' EXTRAS finale on HBO. )

Has the writer's strike changed how you watched television? Not me. I haven't watched a network work in the traditional sense in over a year. Maybe they've been forever altered by cable TV to begin with. But the networks had totally screwed themselves by their arrogance a long time ago. They have no respect for the audience, playing havoc with their schedules, doubling up on popular shows until they burn out and cancelling others prematurely before they've even had a chance and depending almost solely on "sweeps" periods during November and February. You know the ol' sweeps, don't you? That's when the networks drag out the "BIG GUNS"-the uber-specials, the extravaganzas or more often than not these days, four new episodes in a row. Then come December or March 1, it's back to reruns again, usually in the middle of a continuing storyline as is the norm with nighttime dramas. Maybe this why CSI and LAW AND ORDER survive while almost everything else struggles. Continuity occurs when the powers that be allow it. The networks are dinosaurs and deserve all the harm they are getting now.
So enough of this mishigoss for now. Stay tuned for what I considered to be the best of 2007.
Bye kids!