The Future Mrs. Wiley

As a gift to you, the Etc. reading public and anybody else that cares to weigh in and click on, I am hereby offering up an ages old short story of mine.

This tall tale, I hesitate to admit because I'm in denial about my age, is 40 years old. It was submitted and subsequently rejected by Playboy magazine as well as another publication that fortunately escapes me, probably some other lower-case stroke book like Adam or Dude or Nugget or Gent. Whoever it was gave it pass as well. 

Here it is once again in all its failed glory and yes, based on a true story, I give to the world.

THE FUTURE MRS. WILEY by Scott Cherney

And/or check out my website at www.scottcherney.com , click around a bit and see if there's anything else you like. Thanks for playing.

More Yin, Less Yang

Here we are at the mid-point of summer already. Time flies when you’re not paying attention.

Prop from THE PERILS OF FRANCOIS

Life is a funny thing with that yin, yang and the whole dang thang. On one hand, it’s a nightmare of apocalyptic proportions…Malaysian airliners shot down or just disappear altogether, Iraq is back, my hometown of Stockton turns into a sequel of the film HEAT adding much tension and chaos to natural disasters such as fire season, drought and hey, are the locust on stand-by? Mix this up in a blender with the stresses of everyday living in the 21^st century and you’ve got the draft of a suicide note ready to be posted in your Facebook status.

Then…there’s the good stuff, the things that fortunately are weighing in on the good side to provide balance in this cockamamie world-family, friends, home and everything that floats our collective boats

AND…THE BLESSED EXTRAS…

For me, it’s been the production of my plays this summer, something I’ve been striving for since the dawn of the planet of the Cherney. 

THE PERILS OF FRANCOIS just wrapped up in Nashville TN for the Mel O’Drama Theater company. My thanks again to the cast, crew and especially producer Melanie Roady for this unique opportunity. I’d never written a script on spec before, let alone a murder mystery. It was also a challenge trying to collaborate from opposite sides of the country, but apparently, it all came together.  Me in Nashville…who da thunk it?

Andy Pollock and Christine Arnold in SOTCK, Oceano style

Then there’s SONG OF THE CANYON KID at the Great American Melodrama in Oceano, CA that is currently running through September and has picked up three…count ‘em…three great reviews.

REVIEW#1

REVIEW#2

REVIEW#3

The fact that I’m not mentioned in any of these write-ups is beside the point. However…

SONG OF THE CANYON KID WAS WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

So there
.

What was really nifty, keen, cool and boss-o was that these two shows were running at the same time. Never happened before, but hopefully will happen again.

In the meantime, the same show, SONG OF THE CANYON KID under its original title SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE or POEM ON THE RANGE is set to open August 29 in Jamestown, CA for the Footlight Theatre Company at the same time the Oceano show will still be playing. In fact, they close on the very same night.

Quite a coup, eh wot?

It would be even sweeter if I could just garner a few decent sales for the novel version of said play, SONG   

OF THE CANYON KID, a western comedy romance. This sucker has FLATLINED.It’s a goddamn shame. I think it’s a good piece of work and I haven’t been able to even give it away. (That’s not true. There is a giveaway for a free copy on Goodreads. See below.) It even got a good review all by itself.

CANYON KID BOOK REVIEW 

See?

There’s that yin and yang again.

So there’s been a lot of yin this year, but far too much yang. I’m grateful any yin I can have or can get, but to provide balance and that I don’t go sliding into a big steaming pile of yang…

MORE YIN PLEASE!
That goes for the rest of y'all too. Be good to each other. And for corn's sakes, be good to yourself too.

SONG OF THE CANYON KID is now playing through September 20 at the Great American Melodrama and Vaudeville in Oceano, CA 

SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE opens August 29 at the Footlight Theatre Company in Jamestown, CA

SONG OF THE CANYON KID, the book, is now on sale at Amazon

Vanity, Thy Name is Cherney

I'm so vain...
I prob'ly think this blog is about me...

A brand new interview with the guy whose name is above the title of this here blog has been posted on the Awesome Gang website.Please go forth and check this out.

INTERVIEW W/SCOTT CHERNEY

Awesome Gang is a great little promotional site for authors. Their services range from free to inexpensive. Those of you with books you want to shill but have tight budgets will want to give them a look-see.

AWESOME GANG WEBSITE

I just found another interview from a  few years ago that I did with my friend Thomas Amo, author of FOREVER ME, AN APPLE FOR ZOE and the forthcoming horror anthology MIDNIGHT NEVER ENDS, this from Blogtalk Radio.

INTERVIEW W/THOMAS AMO ON BLOGTALK

After that, I had a lovely chat with the cutie pie known as Ashton the Book Blogger.

INTERVIEW W/ASHTON THE BOOK BLOGGER

I've also got a page on AuthorsDen where I have a couple of choice items including a short story and a long essay.

SCOTT CHERNEY ON AUTHORSDEN

I'm also on Goodreads where a chapter from all of my books are waiting for you.

SCOTT CHERNEY ON GOODREADS

Finally there's the matter of that website o' mine.

WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY-THE WEBSITE

And that's the name of that tune.

Don't You F*** with New York!

I find it hard to believe that it's been a solid year since I was in New York City, a trip so magnificent that it seeped into my bone marrow. Not a day goes by that I don't think about New York and at times, I can't help regret that I didn't reside there in my lifetime. But reality is not exactly my specialty. for one thing, I was on vacation and certainly in a different frame of mind. For another, I'm at the age where it's not exactly feasible. When I had youth on my side, New York was still a helluva town, but also a helluva lot different. My first trip to the Big Apple scared the living shit out of me. Talk about your mean streets...

In honor of last year's redemption vacation, here's a piece from IN THE DARK, a little slice of biographical history from me to you, here is the New York Cherney Journey v.1 


There are eight million stories in the Naked City. This isn’t one of them.

Like many people, I always had a fascination with that town that is so great they named it twice-New York, New York. With its legendary status in modern times, it became necessary for me to experience this place that many believe to be not only the greatest city in the world, but perhaps even the center of the universe. Therefore, at the adventurous, youthful age of twenty years old, I followed through on this wanderlust and made plans to take a trip across the United States of America with a final destination point of New York City.

Being a young man of so very few means in the world, my choice of transportation was, once again, my old friend, the Greyhound bus. I purchased a 30-day all access excursion fare called the Ameripass after saving every shekel I could for the trip. By August, the world was my oyster as I boarded the Silver Dog on Wheels and headed for the Apple they call Big. Weeks later, after several adventures of an R rated nature later, there it was it all of its glory…New York City, the Final Frontier. When I got my first gander at the awesome skyline of the city, it occurred to me that I had one little problem. Once I set foot in Manhattan, I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do.

In the Port Authority Bus Depot, I stored my luggage in a locker and got ready to venture out into the wilderness beyond. A decision had to be made. Which way, Jose? I spied a sign stating that the subway was just downstairs. As I descended the steps, it became crystal clear that if I got onto a train-any train-could I really make it back? Stymied by my lack of preparation, another sign caught my eye-an arrow pointing upstairs to 42nd Street.

42nd Street? Where I could hear the beat of dancing feet? The avenue I am taking you to? Finally! A decision had been reached! Without a moment’s hesitation, I breathlessly climbed the stairs in anticipation of the things that dreams are made of only to be greeted with…

What the hell was this?

This, my friends, was pre-Guiliani Manhattan.

As far as the eye could see were adult bookstores, pawn shops, porno theaters, strip clubs, gift shops with signs that read, “WE LOST OUR LEASE! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS TONIGHT!” (Of course they’d always reopen the next morning. One could only assume they found their lease.) Then the people...hookers, pimps, junkies, drunks, crazies, lowlifes…hey! This all looked very familiar to me. This was Market Street in San Francisco…to the nth degree! Where the hell is Ruby Keeler? Oh, there she is turning tricks in the back of Travis Bickle’s cab.

Here I was, twenty years old and I might as well been wearing a diaper. I was no bigger than a cotton swab as it was but somehow I felt the size of a flea as I wandered wide-eyed down to the corner of Sodom and Gomorrah. Up ahead, there was a refrigerator with a head on it heading my way. He looked as though he would crush me in his path and, by the expression on his face, that is exactly what he intended to do. Thinking fast, I turned the corner and…

Everything went quiet. Had I just stepped into an air pocket? The hustle and bustle of 42nd was suddenly muffled and all was very weirdly calm. A handful of pedestrians occupied the sidewalks compared to the flotsam and jetsam that I had just swam away from. I was thankful for the apparent sanctuary I had just discovered. Halfway down the block was a poster for A Chorus Line, the biggest Broadway show at that time. Wait a second… Broadway? Nah, it couldn’t be that close…could it? Treading lightly, almost warily down the street…oh, my sweet Lord…

Times Square! I found Times Square! Way to go, Magellan!

I stood transfixed, soaking it all in. I felt as though I was in one of those 360-degree camera shots in a Brian DePalma movie. Never had I ever been so overwhelmed in my entire life by the sheer majesty of it all. I turned to face the Winston cigarette billboard. A smoke ring the size of a hula-hoop blew out from this now-dead giant smoker’s mouth, welcoming me to the city. Holy smoke indeed.

Once I gained my composure, a time worn cliché became a very stark reality. It wasn’t the heat all along. It WAS the humidity. Holy crap! Sweat was gushing out of every pore on my body. According to my astute calculations, the calendar read August, hence the goddamn heat wave. Since I was beginning to cook in my own juices, I thought it might behoove me to find something perhaps a bit cooler. I entered another of my natural habitats-a bookstore. Immediately, every open pore on my body froze over by the most incredible air conditioning system I’d ever encountered. I didn’t last two minutes before stepping outside again to thaw out, which happened instantaneously.

What the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t keep that up all day. Wandering around aimlessly, I finally stopped next to the statue of George M. Cohan to figure out my next move. All I had to do was look across the street for the answer for there stood the DeMille Theater, a legendary Times Square establishment that was currently showing Norman Jewison’s Rollerball. With my mind made up. I gave my regards to Mr. Cohan with a quick salute and set off in the direction of the theater.

To my pleasant surprise, I discovered that the next showing of Rollerball was just about to start. I paid my admission and took my place in a sparse audience, a good location far enough away from everyone to be able to relax and enjoy the show.

After the lights lowered, the first thing on the screen was a NO SMOKING spot. As if on cue, whoever had ‘em, smoked ‘em because they all fired up at the same time. Not wanting to be left out, I joined right in. Something about this blatant defiance of authority really appealed to me. For some reason, I found it rather comforting. It allowed me to loosen up and just sit back to enjoy the show.

Rollerball was only okay as I recall. Norman Jewison certainly directed better pictures in his career as this seemed like it was all paint-by-the-numbers. One of the few things that stand out for me is John Houseman referring to John Beck as “Mooooon-pie”. However, what became memorable about Rollerball had less to do with the film itself and all about location, location, location.

Near the halfway point of the movie, there is a post-game celebration when a Rollerball coach stirs his team up with a pep talk. “We’re going on to Chicago and we’re going to beat Chicago,” he tells them. “Then we’re going on to New York and we’re going to beat New York!”

A tough yet proud voice from the back of the theater exclaimed, “Don’t you FUCK with New York!”

I smiled at this. Damn right. I’m with you. We watch a movie together. We smoke together. Damn it, I’m a New Yorker now. Don’t you FUCK with New York.

Then, at the end of the movie, James Caan as Jonathan is the only Rollerball player left standing after an ultra-violent game that has left bloodied bodies strewn around the track. He holds the ball in his hand but refuses to make the final score. All is very silent in both the arena and the theater. That same voice, the one I had admired so greatly several minutes before, spoke up once again. This time, he didn’t sound so angry, but no less serious.

“Hey! I’ve got a good idea! Why don’t all the black people in the audience go down and kill all the white people in the audience?”

My inner voice said, “Whuh…?”

Near the front few rows below me, someone agreed with my friend in the back by seconding him.

“Right on!” came the retort.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t move. I could only stare at James Caan rolling around that stupid track as the onscreen crowd began to chant, “Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!” Jonathan my ass! I thought. What about me? Oh, my brothers. Things did not look good for your humble narrator. My bug eyes were darting back and forth to see if there was any movement at all in my general direction. I tried to listen for any sounds about me, but all I could hear was, “Jonathan! Jonathan!” Fuck Jonathan! I’m in danger here! He’s got a metal ball in his hand. I ain’t got shit! I held my breath and began to act without really thinking about it. Slowly shrinking in my seat as though I were melting, I slithered out of my seat ever so gently with all the cunning of a ninja. No sudden moves now. The chant grew louder and louder. “Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!” Freeze frame on Jonathan. I chose that moment to duck out of the auditorium to the safety of the lobby. I exited out the doors of the DeMille in seconds flat. I had no desire to catch the end credits, then or ever.

After spending a whopping eight whole hours in the city, I was back aboard a Greyhound bus westward bound with my tail between my legs. I admit it. I got skeered. There wasn’t any massacre of white people at the DeMille Theater that day nor was there ever going to be. Chalk it up to Stupid White Boy Paranoia. Or you could call it a little lesson in humility for a dumb little hick from California from some teachers who weren’t even aware there had been a class that afternoon. They were just being themselves and I couldn’t handle it. The bottom line was that I felt that a big bully had picked on me and I wanted to go home.

Wah.

This vacation of mine, one of many over the years that I’ve referred to as a “Cherney Journey”, must seem to have been nothing but a series of missed opportunities. Au contraire. Leave us not misrepresent ourselves here. I did everything I set out to do. No regrets about this have I. This was a true Cherney Journey, one of self-discovery, enlightenment and a pretty damn fair amount of whoop-ti-do. And, on top of everything else, at least I can always say that I’ve been to New York City.

What did I do while I was there?

I went to a movie.


IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER (SPECIAL EDITION) is available on Amazon Kindle

It's All About ME.com

I am the master of my domain..
No, not in a Seinfeld sort of way.
Perhaps I should word this differently.
I am the master of my domain name.
Finally there exists on the Internet (aka Al Gore's greatest invention before The Climate Controlatron), the one and only scottcherney.com Yes, my very own website is up, running and ready for your perusal-or whatever comes to mind as check out this bloody thing that has been too damn long in the making. I know I'm late to the party, but at least I made it before websites go the way of the dodo. And while the creation of a website is a baby step for most folks, for me it's a giant leap for Cherneykind.
The title is simple: Written by Scott Cherney. In its description, it states that it is: "The works, written or otherwise of writer/actor/raconteur Scott Cherney" I know it's self-serving, but isn't that the point? It's all true. This isn't the movie CATFISH. Am I an author? Yes I am. My books back up that dubious claim to fame. Actor? Yep. Just because I haven't trod the boards ot stepped in front of a camera for awhile doesn't mean I still don't have it in me. Raconteur? Okay, maybe this is a wee bit pretentious, but what the frig, I can spin a pretty damn good yarn, so there ya have it. Would you prefer that I call myself Scribbler/Goofball/Blowhard Scott Cherney? I could just simplify it to Bullshit Artist, but sure as shootin', someone will ask "But is it really Art?" I think I showed great restraint. Of course I'm going to put myself in the best possible light. This is all about me, man. I yam what I yam.
It all began with the word and that is why I focused on my books, scripts and anything else I've jotted down in the last little while. They're all here-RED ASPHALT, PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, IN THE DARK, SONG OF THE LONE PRAIRIE, NOW THAT'S FUNNY!-with excerpts and other pertinent information I've decided to include.
Written by Scott Cherney also coincides with the second edition of my first book (yes, you read that right) IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER. It's chock full o' updated material including something IN THE DARK V.1 didn't have: an introduction. (Yeah, I know. Duh and d'oh) IN THE DARK is also available as an e-book for the very first time with a paperback to follow very soon. For the uninitiated, IN THE DARK is what I call my movie memoir, the misadventures of a film geek who grew up watching movies at the same time the movies were growing up themselves. (Whew! I've got that line to a fine science!)
While I bitch and moan incessantly about Modern Times (not the Chaplin movie but the Here and Now) and all of its ramifications, I really am grateful to be living in this day and age, especially when it affords me the opportunity to fulfill some long-sought dreams. Now I have a showcase for all my works that I can show to the world and that means, well, the world to me. See? Even a computer illiterate, technologically ignorant, mechanically inept nincompoop like me can find his own place in the sun...even if it's in the virtual world.
Go forth to Written by Scott Cherney, please. The URL is as simple as pie: http://www.scottcherney.com/
Remember, this is a work in progress.
Just like me.
Would this face lie?

Ashton the Book Blogger

Ashton the Book Blogger likes me! She really likes me!

(I'm really wearing out this Sally Field reference. It even annoys her now...and she was The Flying Nun)

Anyway, I just gave an interview to the nicest lil' book blogger on the Internet the other day and she posted it this morning, just a couple of days after she reiewed RED ASPHALT.

Please go forth to discover why she so graciouslyawarded me this beautiful cake.

Tell her I sent ya.

Ashton the Book Blogger's address is: http://ashtonthebookblogger.blogspot.com

Mmmmmm.....cakey.......

One on One with Scott Cherney (Literally)-Part Two

Continuing with the first bloggerview (interview blog, whatever) with Scott Cherney, author of the brand spanking new novel, RED ASPHALT.


ETC: You mentioned that Calvin (the main character of RED ASPHALT) believes he has a great gift to give to the world. What might this great gift be?

SCOTT CHERNEY: Calvin is under the impression that he could very well be the next George Lucas. He has been working on a novel for almost a decade, one that considers has the potential to explode into a major phenomenon with unlimited franchise potential. He's so convinced of its success that he is staking his entire life on it, pretty to the exclusion of everything else.

ETC: Sounds like a "do-or-die" situation.

SC: As a matter of fact, it is, in more ways than one. The book becomes an all-consuming obsession for him. It's a romantic notion to say that...to quote yet another movie because that's what I do...there's a line in a great film witten and directed by John Milius called THE WIND AND THE LION when Sean Connery says "Is there not one thing in your life that is worth losing everything for?" Being a romantic, I understand that. So does Calvin. His "one thing" is his book. But just because it's romantic doesn't make it any less impractical.

ETC: What is the name of this magnum opus in question?

SC: Say what?

ETC: What's this here book he's a'writin'?

SC: It's called ABRACADABRA, a massive, colossal fantasy epic that mashes sword and sorcery together with science fiction and world history into one big ass casserole. ABRACADABRA is an old concept of my very own that goes back to the late 1970s. Just like so many pieces I've worked on over the years, it sat in storage ready to be shit-canned, but I ended up saving it by sticking it into RED ASPHALT when I turned Calvin into a writer. I'm really pleased that I gave
ABRACADABRA one last chance because it ended up taking on a life all of its own. It also ended up being an integral part of the main story.

ETC: How so?

SC: At one point, Calvin says, "Without magic, life is nothing." Later on, he's convinced that there is no real magic, only tricks we play on ourselves. Abracadabra. It's also a better title than PRESTO CHANGE-O.

ETC: Is he right?

SC: There is no right or wrong. It depends on your perspective. I don't want to get into a debate about faith vs logic. Again, I'm a romantic. I think miracles can happen and that's not religious dogma, just goofy optimism, something I tend to balance with bitter cynicism. It makes a nice cocktail, don't you think? On the other hand, Calvin feels duped, especially by himself. When he realizes what his delusions have cost him, he thinks it was all just a trick. There's a big difference between delusions and imagination. Calvin doesn't realize that until it's too late.

ETC: How does a "big ass casserole" taste?

SC: With the right ingredients, not too shabby. If you cook it right, it hardly has a trace of ass.

ETC: It sounds yummy. Is Calvin a good cook?

SC: You mean a good writer? He could be. He has a lot of good ideas, but he's never completed anything, nor has he shown any of his work to anybody. He tells his wife about the book. He even discusses its progress with her. But he's never shown any of it. He wants to wait until until it's finished and it may never be done. ABRACADABRA represents a sanctuary for Calvin. He's safe when he's working on it. Since he's been beginning lose a few marbles, it's always been there for him. Once it's done, he'll have nothing else, nowhere else to go. He'll have to deal with the reality of getting the damn thing published and therefore, out of his control. He wants to succeed, but only on his own terms and it don't work like that. Somebody's going to have to read the damn thing eventually. It keeps it to himself, how will he ever succeed? Does it make ABRACADABRA a book at all? It's that hoary old cliche of the tree that falls in the forest making a sound or not.But that's not even Calvin's biggest problem. Time's a wastin' and he damn well knows it.

ETC: What does that mean?

SC: He's been working on ABRACADABRA for so long that it's starting to fade away from him and he knows that. He hasn't even begun to assemble a workable first draft, opting to just work out the story details first. After seven years, it's getting tired before he's even begun. Time is constant. It doesn't stop for anything. It's certainly not going to wait for Calvin or anyone else for that matter. Time is big theme in RED ASPHALT-the lack of time, time running out, the passage of time, no time, overtime and, like I just said, wasting time. I guess it all boils down to mortality. But with writing, as time zips on past, there's always that possibility that the wonderful idea you have been slaving on for so long will someone else's as well. They may beat you to the punch, even if you came up with that brilliant idea first.

ETC: Explain.

SC: This has happened to me more times than I'd like to admit. My next novel, the one I alluded to earlier, has been my own dream project almost as long as ABRACADABRA was. In that time, I've seen two different things appear on the horizon-one, a movie the other, a TV series. Both derailed my book and forced me to make changes, else it looked like I was ripping them off. The movie was GHOST, the TV show, SIX FEET UNDER. Now that some time has past, I feel confident enough to move ahead.

ETC: This is the second time you've made some connection between you and Calvin

SC: For good reason. I based a lot of Calvin on myself. I've been a lab courier just like Calvin. I also taught traffic school. Calvin lives in the same house where I grew up...I take that back. I lived in the house next door. I'm also a writer with many of the same frustrations and conflicts Calvin has had.

ETC: So RED ASPHALT based on a true story?

SC: Sort of. I prefer "inspired by true events". I took a lot from my own life as inspiration, but it's not a biography. It's not supposed to be. It's a work of fiction. A lot of the people and events are true, but not all. Keep in mind that everyone and everything is seen through Calvin's eyes, a very skewed vision of the world to say the least.

ETC: What's the percentage of fact to fiction?

SC: I'd say about 60/40. That's 60 fact-40 fiction.

ETC: What was your reasoning for doing this?

SC: It's the old chestnut of "write what you know". I actually thought it would be easier. Once I jumped into the deep end of Lake Me, it became a lot more difficult. I began to see the real reason that I had for writing this story to begin with-to exorcise a lot of my personal demons. A lot of this book was written out of pain. Back in the early nineties, when I first conceived of this story, I was on quite a rocky road myself. Much of what I wrote came from a dark place that got even darker once I started digging. I ended up not delving into some of my real issues and instead embellished others in their stead. I didn't begin to see the light until about the middle of the second draft, realizing that this form of cheap therapy was actually working. I used to consider acting a form of therapy, but since I had to put that part of my life on the back burner, I needed another outlet or else I was going to end up a babbling baboon for the rest of my born days.

TO BE CONTINUED
STAY TUNED FOR THE EXCITING THRILL-PACKED CONCLUSION OF
"SCOTT CHERNEY:FACT OR FICTION?"

FOR MORE RED ASPHALT INFO, VISIT MY WEBSITE 

One on One with Scott Cherney (Literally)-Part One

On January 26, 2008, RED ASPHALT, the very first novel written by Scott Cherney, was published and released to the world. Some might say it escaped. (Not me)

RED ASPHALT concerns a week in the life of a troubled medical courier whose life takes a nasty sharp turn into the harshest of realities. When his marriage, job and dreams simultaneously implode, this distant runner-up in the human race suddenly feels empowered for the very first time when he becomes a nightmare on four wheels.

It's not surprising that Scott finally got around to finishing his novel. After all it has been a dream of his since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. You see, I've known Scott all of my life, so it's only fitting that I be the first to interview him on the arrival of RED ASPHALT. This may also be his ONLY interview as well, but only time will tell and as yet...he ain't talkin'.

But Scott is talkin'. I sat down with the author for this exclusive interview that you will see here only at ETC.

ETC: Welcome to Etc.

SCOTT CHERNEY: Thank you. It's a pleasure to be here.

ETC: The pleasure is all mine.

SC: I know. I just said that.

ETC: Oh. Huh?

SC: Skip it.

ETC: RED ASPHALT is your first novel, but not your first book, am I correct?
SC: Right. I have a couple of other published works under my belt. The first was what I like to call my "movie memoir", IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, which came out in 2003.

Then I compiled a bunch of comedy sketches that I had written into a collection called NOW THAT'S FUNNY.

And technically, RED ASPHALT is my first completed novel. There's another unfinished "masterwork" sitting in storage as we speak that I hope to finish before I croak.

ETC: Is it true that RED ASPHALT started out as a screenplay?

SC: Yeah, it did. Just about everything I come up begins as a movie. I look at everything cinematically. Everything's a movie to me. It's just the way I'm wired. I originally conceived RED ASPHALT as a film even up to the point that I wrote a first draft screenplay. Then I said to myself, "Hey! Why not write this up in book form, finish the screenplay and that way you can make two sales instead of one." So I used the first draft as an outline and proceeded to write my own novelization. But it soon became much more than that. The evolution of this material was quite amazing. Now when I return to the screenplay, there's going to be so much more to work with. I'm really happy with the result.

ETC: Speaking of movies, the title of your book sounds vaguely familiar.

SC: Yeah. It should. I stole that baby outright from an old driving training film about road safety, probably the CITIZEN KANE of the genre. RED ASPHALT was produced by the California Highway Patrol and featured a lot of gnarly real life car crash scenes-very gory and very graphic. A real splatter film-perfect for teenagers, especially after lunch. In fact, I just found out there is an entire series of RED ASPHALT movies, I think about five in all. The latest is from 2003. I'm sure they're all over You Tube. To tell you the truth, I've never seen RED ASPHALT or any of the sequels. I did see BLOOD ON THE HIGHWAY in high school though.

ETC: The cover of RED ASPHALT almost looks like the opening titles to one of those films.

SC: Yeah, by design. I think it gives it kind of a retro look. I always envisioned the opening credits of my RED ASPHALT in the same way, except a daytime shot. Anyway, I call my book RED ASPHALT as sort of an homage to those movies as well as an allusion to the traffic safety classes in the story. But it's also a better title than I ever could come up with, so there it is.

ETC: What's the story of RED ASPHALT?

SC: RED ASPHALT is about a guy named Calvin Wheeler, a dreamer who is in denial of his own reality. He feels shackled to his everyday life, a seemingly normal existence that he considers a prison. It's all because he aspires to greater things. He believes that he was put on this earth for a very special reason. Unfortunately, because he has to co-exist with the rest of the world, he thinks that his potential is being squandered and this great gift of his is slipping away from his fingers the longer he has to conform to a society that he wants nothing to do with. When he finds that is his only choice, Calvin goes all the way around the bend he had been heading for quite sometime. He's a guy who's splitting apart at the seams. Unfortunately, when he pops his last stitch, he just happens to be behind the wheel at the time because he drives for a living...and as Clint Eastwood says in THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES, "Dyin' ain't much of a livin', boy."

ETC: So Calvin has road rage.

SC: Yeah, among other things. But RED ASPHALT is not about road rage, per se. It's not a diatribe on the subject or even what you might call "a cautionary tale". Calvin isn't meant to be an Everyman figure. This is just one man's story. That's not to say there aren't more guys like him out there in the world, let alone out there on the roads. Who knows what's really going on in the heads of everyone else who's stuck in traffic with us? We can only hope that they're in their right minds and don't do something incredibly stupid out there on the freeway or city streets or even through our neighborhoods. We all have the capability to turn our vehicles, whether they're Mini-Cooper or ten-ton semis, into goddamn guided missiles out there. The vast majority of us don't because we're not nuts. But there are a lot more crazies than there used to be. That's not just because the population has increased. I think the percentage has gone up as well.

ETC: But you don't have to be crazy to have road rage.

SC: No, you don't. And it's really not difficult to see why it's become so abundant. It's an increasingly frustrating world and it can compounded behind the wheel of a car when you're stuck in traffic, dealing with shitty drivers and torn up roads that are constantly being repaired. That's a situation we have here in Portland. This is NOT a car friendly area and it's getting worse by the day. It really wouldn't be so bad if so many people didn't take driving for granted. Like Calvin says at one point, "It doesn't cost anything to pay attention." Aren't there enough distractions both in and out of the car without creating a bunch of new ones? We have the attention spans of fleas, like those nimrods who have a cell phone in one hand, a latte in the other and a rat face dog in their laps, just weaving all over the road, driving way below the speed limit because they are so wrapped up in their conversations to give a shit. How the hell is this twit steering? With her knees? Her elbows?

ETC: Maybe that's what the dog is for.

SC: You could be right. It's like the last thing on their minds is driving. It's an after thought if it's any kind of thought at all. And, from my observation and I am on the road more the average commuter, as far as cell phone offenders go, it's mostly women. This isn't to say guys don't talk on their phones too, but women seem to be more inclined to get involved in their phone calls than men. Guys, on the other hand, make up the vast majority of road ragers. Guys flip out in their vehicles because they think they can, as if cars are the last refuge for Manly Men. It's all about the illusion of power. They use their vehicles to intimidate and bully other drivers. Their competitive natures come to the forefront and the evening commute suddenly turns into a big dick swinging contest. More often than not, gasoline and testosterone turns into piss and vinegar. Again, from my personal observation, this seems to manifest itself predominantly in white males.

ETC: You talk about the Angry White Man Syndrome in your book.

SC: I do. I've noticed the influx of Angry White Men for quite some time. They're popping up all over the place. They used to be just Stupid White Men, but now they're just plain pissed because they consider themselves endangered species. They feel threatened by the changes in the world and that they'll no longer have the dominance they believe they have. They oppose diversity whether blatantly or secretly because that means they have to share the world instead of controlling it. So they hold all this tension in because they can't just lash out whenever they feel like it. Pretty soon, they're going to blow off that steam somehow, some way and it's going to be at a most inopportune time. In the book, Calvin is deathly afraid of becoming an Angry White Man and that fear is becomes one of his biggest obstacles in preventing that from happening.

ETC: "The only thing we have to fear... is fear itself."

SC:Was that supposed to be FDR?

ETC: Yeah.

SC: Sounded more like Katherine Hepburn.

TO BE CONTINUED

NEXT UP: FANTASY V.S. REALITY: THE FINAL BATTLE

RED ASPHALT NOW ON SALE EVERYWHERE, BUT ESPECIALLY HERE AND HERE

FOR MORE INFO VISIT MY WEBSITE

Go Google Yourself

In a combination of both vanity and insecurity, I Google myself at least once a week.

It's not exactly something I'm proud of, but I can't feel too much shame either. After all, no hair has grown on my palms. I don't think I'm going blind, though my eyesight has been getting worse. (That could be a sign of advancing age) And to tell you the honest to God truth, I don't think it's a sin.

Actually, typing your own name into a search engine and watching it pop up on various sites on the Internet can be rather satisfying in an extremely narcissistic way. (yes, I need this sort of validation in my life. This is true especially if you aren't the only one out there who bears your name. I can't help but be a little tickled pink to know that my stuff dominates the Scott Cherney listings. There are the numerous sites where my books appear for sale (Target.com is a recent example, as is Loot.co.za, a South African site) in both English and foreign languages. Of course, this all pissing in the wind since I just received an In the Dark royalty check for a whopping $2.01. Isn't that amazing since there are so many bargains out there, like Shop.com, offering In the Dark , originally priced at 17.95, now at the rock-bottom price of 17.94! Ka-ching!

Then there are numerous ways to find this here blog (this format being another just another form of narcissism) as well as a bunch of others concerning Pollardville, especially after this last year. I found an article in which my name appeared on my hometown newspaper website (Recordnet.com) concerning movies filmed in the Stockton area and the locals who became part of the production in front of and behind the camera. I'm proud as punch to say I'm on the Internet Movie Data Base (IMDB).

I also found this on a German website from what I think is a high school. From what I can gather, one of the sketches I wrote (and included in my book Now THAT'S Funny) entitled
Monkeyshines was performed at some comedy revue at this school. Hoo-fucking-ray for me. Here's the posting:

E.T. - English Theater am Alex
Unter dem Motto „Witty, Wicked & Weird – Gewitzt, gemein & einfach nur schräg“ präsentierte „E.T.“, die im Herbst 2004 neu gegründete englischsprachige Theatergruppe am Gymnasium Alexandrinum unter der Leitung von Herrn Weese, ein Potpourri des anglo-amerikanischen Humors. Vertreten waren Klassiker aus dem absurden Repertoire der Monty Pythons ebenso wie Rowan Atkinson („Mr.Bean“), aber auch in Deutschland weniger bekannte Sketche aus dem englischen „Pantomime“-Fundus sowie – aus Anlass von Peter Jacksons Neuverfilmung des „King Kong“-Stoffes – the big gorilla himself in dem Sketch „Monkeyshines“ von Scott Cherney. Schüler der 8. bis 13. Jahrgangsstufe unterhielten das Publikum mit zehn gespielten Witzen, in denen essenzielle Fragen wie diese geklärt wurden: Wie unterscheidet man einen toten Papagei von einem, der einfach nur seine Ruhe haben möchte? Wie holt man King Kong gewaltfrei vom Empire State Building? Was macht ein Unsichtbarer im Pendlerzug, wenn ihn die Langeweile quält?

Can anybody translate this for me? Am I a hero in Germany or will I be arrested by the state police? Whatever. I'm international now.

So that's who this Scott Cherney is. The other Scott Cherneys include a "self-described computer geek" who also owns some hunting dogs in Wisconsin, an opthamalogist in Eugene, Oregon (little too close for comfort), an expert on the subject of stress (that could be me as well) and some schmuck in Oklahoma who has had his parental rights taken away. There seems to have been some impropriety involved with his children. This is NOT, I repeat NOT me. Oh, and if I can add: Ew.

There is another Scott Cherney too that this woman (or girl) wrote a poem about. Here it is:

First Sight by Tessa Eichorst

The first day I ever saw you in my life, I was hooked on you.

From your eyes to your smile I saw everything I've dreamed of in a guy.

Even though I didn't know you or even meet you, I was hooked at first sight.

Then a year later I finally saw you again, and I finally met you.

To me there is nothing wrong with you, except for the fact that you make my knees go weak whenever I see you.

You're smart, funny, sweet, and kind; now I just can't even seem to get you out of my mind.

I tell we've grown closer as friends; your little winks and comforting hugs makes every time I see you never end.

Whenever I lay my eyes on you its just like that first sight all over again.

This poem is about a guy that made me realize one summer that the outside appearance doesn't always matter.

He made me become a better person, so Scott Cherney thank you for that.

It's not about me. I don't know this person, but I post it here because it's kind of reassuring to know that there is someone in the world who shares the same name as you has been able to touch someone's heart like this guy did. Way to go, Scott.

Don't like it?

Fine.

Then Google this, sucka.