Food, Glorious Food!

It's been 25 years since I left the old hometown of Stockton, California. Absence hasn't exactly made the heart grow fonder, but it hasn't grown weeds either. I can't deny that this is where I was born and bred and I never will. I've even stopped wincing when people ask me where I'm from. 

Even if it wasn't an entirely idyllic childhood, life was pretty damn good growing up in the semi-suburban bubble I grew up in. While I will never live there again, there are things I miss after all this time. Many of these involve food related items, be it a specific meal, dish, take out or what have you that fed both my stomach and soul (yes, really) making me long for just one more bite. These are the good memories. The others can take care of themselves.

Many of these establishments no longer exist but I feel the need to honor in the only way I know how by memory. I also can't vouch for the current status of the survivors. 

My list includes the following in no particular order:

Oyster burrito from SAN FELIPE GRILL

Love at first bite. Beautifully seasoned oysters deep fried to perfection with a bit of green cabbage and a simple white sauce (mayo and vinegar perhaps?), the simplicity of this beauty a joy to behold and better yet to engulf which I used to do almost week. The fish tacos were also quite good, but the oyster burrito is a craving I cannot satisfy to this very day because no one I can find serves them. Why? No please. I need to know. Did I do something wrong? Again? 

DOK SHOONS

Bud Bakalian was a great guy, a terrific host with side of snark who somehow managed to put up with me. I recall visiting his original location in Lincoln Center, the year I have no clue. His second location on the Miracle Mile became my home base when I worked in the area. For some reason, I was anti-mustard then, so I wanted to invent my own dog: tomato, ketchup and pepper. Bud's face turned to utter disdain as he reluctantly made my dog, but he made it anyway. I finally went back to the original (having come to my senses perhaps?) and he was glad I did. After he sold it to a guy named Jimmy Lee, a new item appeared on the menu: a meat loaf sandwich on white bread. The meat loaf had to be hot, not cold, damn you, and slathered with ketchup (again) and mayo. This became what I would I want for my final meal. 

Shrimp scampi from the WATERLOO

I love shrimp scampi. Such a decadent dish of shrimp saute' in garlic butter, white wine and lemon. Stockton Joe's made a mean scampi, but the king is the version at the Waterloo. Served with a gnarly pesto pasta, this could be a dying man's last request. However, what makes it an absolute classic are the leftovers you're bound to take home because they serve hearty portions. Mix the pesto with the scampi and this is absolute heaven on a plate. (By the way is it The Waterloo Inn or just The Waterloo? I seem to recall it was the former, but as always, I could be wrong)

YE OLDE HOOSIER INN

Everybody loved the Hoosier Inn. I never heard a bad word or review in relation to that fine old (or olde) establishment. The fact that it survived as long as it did on Wilson Way is astonishing. Breakfast ruled here as far as I was concerned. If you ordered steak and eggs, it came with the signature garlic butter melting over your meat. (sense a trend here?). Eggs any way you would want them and they were be stupendous. I'd choose scrambled, absolutely fluffy and off course the best hash browns in town. Top off your meal with a blueberry muffin and you were set for the day or even the rest of the week because you started it all with a trip to the Hoosier.

Enchilada Suizas from MI RANCHITO 

You know, I don't actually know if this sign is from the Stockton Mi Ranchito. No matter. The MR to which I refer was on South El Dorado I believe and served an enchilada I kill to have again. Well, maybe hurt someone's feelings instead. Happy now? A cheese enchilada covered in a creamy sauce with tomatillos and peppers. I hope my cardiologist doesn't read this. I obviously don't eat these anymore, but I sure would if I could.

Sausage and mushroom pizza from MICHAEL'S PIZZA

I've eaten a about a ton of pizza in my lifetime, though honestly, not many pies have stood out to be memorable or even craveable. The experiences in pizza parlors stood out more especially watching silent movies, mostly comedies, while chowing down at Straw Hat on Pacific. Then there was the live Dixeland music at Shakey's, one member of the bad being one of our teachers from Stagg High, Charles Koliha. But my favorite pizza itself cam elater, the sausage and mushroom at Michael's New York Stile Pizza on North El Dorado. Bonus points were given due to its close proximity to my house. Can't say that this was true New York style per se, but it don't matter to me. Love me some Michael's.

Deep fried prawns for POLLARDVILLE CHICKEN KITCHEN

Neil Pollard and friend

I would be remiss if I didn't mention Pollardville, my second home, but this time around, it's all about the food. As much time as I spent out there, I had a lotta of their famous fried chicken, among other things (including their signature breakfast A Square Meal. It said so right to the menu.) But I wasn't in love with it as many people were. I actually preferred (get ready to bail, half my readers) the chicken livers. Not the giblets, mind you. Those suckers were damn tasty. The stars of the show, however, were the prawns. Jumbo didn't even begin to describe their size. Deep fry these babies with the same batter and the results were juicy, luscious and succulent. I'm going to take a cold shower now.

Egg Foo Young from THE CHOPSTICK

Like pizza, I had more than my fair share of Chinese food in Stockton, the best in my book being Yen Du. What brings a nostalgic tear to my eye is the Egg Foo Young from The Chopstick. Yeah, it's supposedly inauthentic and considered a Chinese/American dish ala Chop Suey. Whatever. This satisfied my craving every time, the egg and bean sprout omelette slathered with that  brown gravy full of goodness. And it's still open for business! You go, Chopstick!

OTIS SPUNKMEYER'S OLDE TYME BURRITOS 

How can I consider this a guilt pleasure when I loved these so damn much? Yes, the stupidest name ever as well as a bizarre business model but someone, maybe Otis himself said "Hey! Let's open up a burrito joint right to where we sell cookies in the mall!" Hence, this place along with several others in the chain, found themselves appealing to stoners everywhere. Using the Subway sandwich approach, these applied an assembly line burrito making station to make them big fatties however you wanted. Talk about inauthentic, but hey, cultural appropriation never tasted so good. My burrito of choice was the beef w/refried beans and sour cream and, oh, I dunno, whatever else they had laying around. (but no cheese. had to watch my figure) The guac probably, though it was more of avocado like product, definitely not the real deal, but it was my gateway drug since avos still make gag but guac doesn't. I'm an anomaly. So were Otis Spunkmeyer's Olde Tyme Burritos, the "olde tyme" being in another dimension.

Manny Burger from MANNY'S CALIFORNIA FRESH CAFE

It's Manny's to me. It'll always be Manny's to me. I can't utter its "full and proper" name because it sounds affected and affects me enough to gag a little. That said, the Manny Burger is hands down the best burger I ever had or ever will have. It beats the Double Double from In 'n Out but a few lengths. It was pretty much a staple of my diet in my twenties. Now I could maybe have one a year, but it would be a highlight, that's for damn sure. Really good chicken, "broasted" for God's sake, which combined with what used to be known as Mojo potatoes and Portuguese beans made for a rollicking Friday night meal. Checking a recent menu online, I see where the name Mojo has gone the way of the Dodo. Here in Oregon, they call them Jojos and were supposedly invented here. What a claim to fame. Also the menu mentions deep fried oysters. Hmm... 

Spaghetti a la Caruso from STOCKTON JOE'S

Get ready for chicken livers to rear their ugly heads again. In the 90s, this was a go-to place in Lincoln Center. Really good chow came out of that kitchen. The aforementioned Shrimp Scampi was a highlight until I fell in love with The Waterloo version and didn't want to cheat on her. Excellent Bloody Mary as well. What put this over the top for me was the Spaghetti ala Caruso, named for the famous Italian tenor Steve Caruso (or was it Jeff?) Ol' Carso loved his chicken livers and wanted a dish to call his own. Combined the livers with sauteed mushrooms in a winey tomato sauce over pasta that made me say "Abbondanza!" which in English means "Goddamn it, I dropped my fork again!"

That's a pretty decent list. Some I had to leave off, so a sequel may be in order because I'm a completist. Some may argue otherwise, but that's another blog.

As for now, I think I need a snack. I'm a little peckish.

Special Guest Star: Robert Blake

 

It's been my inclination to always-or almost always-root for the underdog my entire life, perhaps because I can relate or the empathy I happen to feel for the individual. For the late Robert Blake, it was the latter. Sure, he had a show business career that spanned well over the half-century mark, earning Prime Time Emmy and Golden Globe awards along the way as the star of hit TV series and working with such iconic directors as John Huston, Richard Brooks, Hal Ashby, George Stevens and David Lynch. 

None of that really mattered in that end, for when he died this past year, most headlines read:

ROBERT BLAKE 'BARETTA' STAR ACQUITTED OF WIFE'S MURDER, DIES AT 89

So there's that too. 

I have no idea if Blake was guilty of the crimes he had been accused of relating to this case. This was the highest profile Tinseltown murder case that came down the pike post O.J. which the world at large had still not gotten over, but still seemed to have the blood lust enough to hash it out ad infinitum and nauseam for that matter. Therefore, I begged off on the judgment call, though I have a few opinions of my own that I'll keep to myself. 

I do know that Blake was one messed up individual having gone through alleged abuse by his parents, even while he was bringing home the bacon as a child actor in the final leg of the Our Gang comedy shorts at MGM and as sidekick Little Beaver in a slew of Red Ryder westerns. He survived drug addiction in the Fifties, dealing with every more demons. Television roles kept him employed until he landed a role, usually noted his very best, in Brooks' adaptation of IN COLD BLOOD. Stardom still eluded him until he landed the lead as BARETTA, the cop show that lasted four seasons in the mid 70s. 

During this period, he became a frequent guest on THE TONIGHT SHOW. Johnny Carson had a way with the volatile Blake, getting him to open up about his life to a superficial degree, allowing to be a rather entertaining raconteur about old time show biz and life in general. Carson gave him an outlet he never had before and Blake seemed to have the time of his life and less of a tormented soul, making several appearances over time. 

Following the end of BARETTA, he tried to kick start his film career again. One vehicle brought Robert Blake to my hometown of Stockton, California. The movie was COAST TO COAST, a riff on IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT with Dyan Cannon in the Claudette Colbert role with Blake as Gable, I suppose, in the guise of a trucker, a nod to the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT crowd. Since this was a road movie, it had been shot on several locations, many to mimic other parts of the country with downtown Stockton standing in for what I think was somewhere in the Midwest (Kansas City, according to IMDB).

KFMR radio station (which eventually became FM 100) had only recently debuted on San Joaquin County airwaves during this period. I had been longtime friends and former employee of the owners, Bob and Sue Carson  and had an idea to score a coup for the station. So I grabbed my cassette tape recorder and headed downtown to the set of COAST TO COAST in the hope that I could get the one and only Robert Blake to give a station ID for KFMR.

My friend Bill Humphreys and myself parked out by where the stars trailers and fabled Honey Wagons had been circled. Security was pretty much lax in those days, so I felt I would have no problem accomplishing the task at hand. It was long before shooting wrapped on the set and the actors returned to their portable sanctuaries. Dyan Cannon was first one out of the shoot, but I didn't even consider asking her as well. I would have made a complete fool of myself, probably more so than I usually did with women who weren't movie stars.

Robert Blake followed not long after and off I went. With the arrogance of youth on my side and no trace of a brain in my whole head, I had no qualms approaching this reportedly volatile Hollywood star and imposing on his valuable time just to get his voice on my cheap-ass cassette. He could have brushed me away like a mosquito or barked his disapproval, making me pee my pants and dash away with my tail between my legs all the way home.

I'll damned if he didn't comply. Maybe addressing him as "Mr. Blake" helped. I didn't give him any copy to read, just basically told him what to say. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR."

He repeated, sort of. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to...what?"

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KRFM."

"No, KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're...what?"

"This is Robert Blake. You know that part already."

"This is Robert Blake..."

"...and you're listening to KFMR.."

"...and you're listening to KMFR."

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR." 

He done did it. Graciously. Putting up with my wise ass self and not throwing my cassette recorder to the ground and stomping on it. Or me. I thanked him profusely and away we went in opposite directions. Maybe he had all along and was simply messing with me. Whatever the reason might have been, whether he was in a good place at the time or he was a consummate professional who dealt with the public the way he would like to be treated himself, even by the likes of a smart of a Stockton bumpkin like myself. 

That entire exchange ran on the station verbatim and it became my one and contribution to KFMR. An edited version without me also popped up between songs until both versions disappeared entirely when the station was re-branded as FM 100.

COAST TO COAST didn't fare very well at the box office or critics and after a couple of other misfires, Blake returned to television where he found his greatest success. At the turn of the 21st century, his

career was over and out, as was he, initially convicted and eventually acquitted for his wife's murder. The demons that chased him his entire life finally got the best and worst of him. When he died in the first part of 2023, an unfortunate punctuation to Robert Blake occurred due to his exclusion to the In Memoriam section of the Oscars only a few days later with no thanks to Jimmy Kimmel and a bad joke that has no business being repeated, at least by me. 

The point of the story? Merely another close encounter of the celebrity kind, a brush with someone famous who ended up, unfortunately and probably inevitably, infamous. I feel fortunate I was able to catch him in his prime time so that the memory I carry has a positive ring to it as opposed to what happened later when his life and career were over-powered by a horrific turn of events that would dictate his legacy from that point on. Such is the fragility of fame.

 

The Great Bijou Theater Robbery

Many moons ago, I, along with three other chaps, were robbed at gunpoint at the legendary-or infamous, as the case may be-Bijou Theater in Stockton, California. Instead of coming down with a case of the night terrors and PTSD from the incident in question, I got a half-way decent story out of it that I related in my chapter about my days at the Bijou in my book, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, adapted here to fit this format.

“Down on the floor!”

Like an ornery desperado from the pages of a western dime novel, the robber barked out this command after drawing his revolver and pointing it at the four of us. The small caliber of his weapon-a .22-was irrelevant because, after all, a bullet is still a bullet no matter what the size. Of course, it carried more weight when backed up by the sawed-off shotgun his ski-masked partner held beside him. In that instant, life as we knew it changed, as the distinct possibility suddenly existed that there might very well be four dead people in the Bijou Theater that winter’s night.

My brain had been thrust into a fogbank of confusion. Which way was up? Which way was down? If there had been anything on my mind at all, it was this: Every seat in the small auditorium had been filled that evening except for one and I knew exactly where it was located. All I had to do was get inside, slink down into that single, solitary chair and hide out until this all blew over.

Besides, I hadn’t seen the movie yet.

About a year and a half before that fateful encounter with Butch Cassidy and the Ski Mask Kid, an amazing occurrence happened in my hometown. An actual honest-to-goodness repertory cinema opened just off Stockton’s version of the Miracle Mile, Pacific Avenue and, coincidentally enough, not very far at all from my own house. I was positively flabbergasted that anything this fantastic could ever exist in a place like Stockton, a town I considered to be a cultural desert. Movie theaters of this type that features an on-going parade of vintage classics, foreign and avant-garde experimental works operated in more sophisticated urban settings like New York, San Francisco, even college towns like Berkeley. Not in Stockton, for Christ's sake. These people snorted peat dirt! But, lo and behold, I gladly accepted the fact that my snotty, cynical teenage self could actually be proven wrong for the grand and glorious 

Four friends got together in the early seventies and transformed the space into a movie theater, on the cheap. They set up 16mm projection equipment and added some used seats from a torn-down theater, created a combination box office/concession stand and voila! Instant Bijou! Their hopes were to appeal to the tastes of University of the Pacific students and hipper members in the community, filling a niche that was certainly apparent to my eyes.

Well, that lasted about a year. Unable to maintain a steady flow of customers, the business was sold to new owners, Bob and Sue Carson. They maintained the repertory element of the Bijou for as long as they could until converting into a second run house with occasional forays into Stockton premieres that the other cinemas in town had passed over. Thanks to a low overhead, admission prices were kept down especially on the popular 99-cent Monday and Tuesday night specials when change for a dollar took the form of a Tootsie Roll instead of a penny, no one's favorite coin, except for maybe Abe Lincoln completists. 

I came into the picture almost right from the start of the Carson era, acquiring what I considered my dream job at the time, a job in a movie theater. I ran the box office and concessions during the evening and janitorial duties in the daytime, the last part certainly not as "glamourous", but I had unlimited free admissions to all showings when I wasn't working of which I took full advantage.

Soon, the Bijou became a viable, however minor player in the Stockton movie theater scene. Times were so good for the Carsons that they were able to save enough for a European vacation over the holidays a little over a year after they took over the theater. They sub-let the Bijou to George Westcott, a true Stockton character who fancied himself to be the local version of Walter Winchell with his entertainment newspaper column, Entertainment by George! (yeesh…) Westcott could have been Oscar Homolka’s stunt double and chain-smoked almost non-stop, often not taking the cigarette out of his mouth and the ashes would drop off onto his charcoal encrusted stomach. Small wonder why he wore so many gray suits. With a crew of Dan Foley, who was basically second-in-command of theater operations, and myself, George became the captain at the helm of the S.S. Bijou in the Carsons' absence. 

Westcott had managed to book the Christmas attraction-the area premiere of WALKING TALL. Starring the inimitable Joe Don Baker, the saga of Buford Pusser had been a sleeper hit across the country. The ad campaign was spectacular in its simplicity. It began with a shot of a full movie theater audience beginning to rise to its feet as the narrator asked, “When was the last time you stood up and applauded a movie?” Well, it worked because audiences responded to this redneck vigilante minor masterpiece all across the country. George secured the rights for the theater just in the nick of time. The result was fairly phenomenal. WALKING TALL out grossed several higher profile holiday releases that year in Stockton and the theater drew the steadiest stream of customers in its history.

On the first Tuesday of the New Year, that grand Bijou tradition of the 99 cent special was in full swing, filling the theater with Joe Don Baker fans from the far reaches of San Joaquin County. (I always imagined the star of WALKING TALL to have a big ass monogrammed ring with his initials spelled out backwards in diamonds. That way, when he punched a guy in the jaw, he’d also brand him with a JDB-Joe Don Baker!) Five of us ran the show that busy night: Dan, myself, George-forever bitching about “these goddamn Tootsie Rolls”-and Les Fong, Danny’s friend whose father had been the Bijou’s landlord at the time. The fifth wheel, Butch the projectionist, kept to himself as always up in the seclusion of the projection booth.

George had actually made a generous contribution to the theater by donating a piece of indoor/outdoor carpeting he had for the purpose of covering the plywood ramp at the entrance. The second feature that week, THE LAST AMERICAN HERO, a Jeff Bridges Nascar biopic, had just started and it seemed to be as good a time as any to lay some carpet. George supervised the operation from behind the counter, hooving butt after butt while Dan and Les went to work. I stood by and observed as well, not because I didn’t want to help. It just wasn’t a three-man job, that’s all. That's my excuse.

Being the middle of winter and all, we had closed the front door so as not to freeze our huevos off . Suddenly, it swung open and two gentlemen had begun to enter.  We were prepared to inform them that, unfortunately, we were sold out at the moment. One of them had one of those knit caps with the brim, a look popularized by the Jackson Five if I’m not mistaken. His friend wore a full-face ski mask.

That’s funny, I remember thinking. It might have been cold outside, but was it really ski-mask cold?

Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) pulled the door closed with one hand and his pistol from his belt with the other. Ski Mask whipped out his sawed-off shotgun.

“Down on the floor!” Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) growled.

Les and Danny, already on the floor, didn’t have far to go. George muttered and sputtered his way out of the box office. He held his hands in the air until he lowered himself onto the new indoor/outdoor ramp rug. While they complied, Ski Mask’s shotgun popped open momentarily. He snapped it closed, hoping nobody noticed.

“Hey!” Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) barked at me, pointing his pistol in my direction. “Where you goin’?”

Who? Me? What does he mean where am I going? I’m not going anywhe…oh, shit. My feet WERE moving. Where was I goin’? It had been a subconscious reaction; maybe a survival instinct took over. Then, in a nanosecond, my mind caught up with my body and flashed inside the auditorium. 234 people sat inside in an auditorium that sat 235 at that very moment. One seat, in the middle of the back row was all that was left. If only I could just slip inside, I’d be safe. They wouldn’t have come to get me, would they? I could have just run out the back exit too. So many thoughts in so little time but…the shock took over. The entire room had all the life sucked right out of it. It was a complete vacuum and a hyper reality took over. That .22 pistol of his grew to the size of Harry Callahan’s .44 Magnum and could blow my head CLEAN off. I had only moved a couple of inches so I had not problem getting back to my starting point.

“I said DOWN ON THE FLOOR!” 

He did say that, didn’t he? No problemo, sir.  My body and soul caved at the same time as I hit the ground and spread out flat like a skinned beaver.

Dan suggested that the two lock the door behind them so that no one would walk in on them. Later, he told us this was an attempt to get a fingerprint. After complying, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) hopped behind the counter, grabbing everything in the till.

“Where’s the rest of it?” he demanded as his partner’s shotgun popped open a second time. It took two tries to shut it this time. Somehow, it didn’t appear to be loaded, but I wasn’t going to be the one to test that theory. I could have been wrong, you know.

“Sir, the money’s in a drop safe. I don’t have the combination,” George offered. 

Oh no. Shut up, George. Your lies could get us all fucking killed. There was no drop safe. The night’s take had been stashed in its usual place, upstairs in the projection booth crammed into a popcorn box.

At this, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) began to grab our wallets.

“Don’t you look at me!” he snapped.

Who? Me? Was I looking? Not anymore. I scrunched my eyes closed and mashed my face to the floor as I felt his hand in my back pocket, removing the contents. I saved my watch by sliding it up my wrist and under my sleeve when he was taking the box office receipts, the only time I had been grateful for a skinny wrist. I heard the door open and nearly passed out. Had someone just walked in? Nope. It was Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) and Ski Mask taking it on the lam.

Immediately, Dan flew to the phone as Les took off after them. In no way, shape or form was I about to follow. I yelled out the door for him to come back. Quivering on the shakiest legs I have ever seen on an old fat man, George struggled to his feet and over to the big wooden spool that sat in the corner. Oddly enough, he did not light a cigarette. Just then, Les reappeared with everyone’s wallet…except mine.

Remarkably, not one member of the audience knew what happened that night for no one ventured out that entire time to even use the bathroom. THE LAST AMERICAN HERO must be one HELL of a picture! As it turned out, an off-duty policeman had been a member of that audience. He greeted his fellow officers when they arrived on the scene at intermission. They all had quite a good laugh about it. Ha ha ha. One other person didn’t realize that the Bijou had been robbed. Butch the projectionist, who wandered downstairs after the show to get a Coke, unaware of the drama that had just unfolded beneath his very feet.

The two perps, Tito (or Marlon or Jermaine) and his ski-masked partner didn’t get away with much that night, but they did get away. Are you guys still out there? Just wanted to give you a shout out. 

Can I have my wallet back now?

Copyright 2011 by Scott Cherney

EPILOGUE

In the years that followed, the Bijou became, as many other cinemas had in the mid-1970s, an "adult" theater, eventually purchased by the Pussycat chain. When that finally dried up in 1993, it evolved into the Valley Brew, the oldest brew pub in Stockton where it remains to this very day. End credits.

IN THE DARK:A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available on Amazon in both Kindle and paperback form

Red Asphalt: Road Rash

Haven't done this in a blue moon of Sundays. I wrote this here novel about twenty years ago and, blimey, it's still here. While you're waiting to finish another (Don't hold your breath. You'll turn blue) check this sucker out, m'kay?

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.

So it's put up or shut up time. Aty long last, here's an excerpt from the magnum opus in question, RED ASPHALT, written by moi. This is from the chapter called "Road Rash".
An exclusive excerpt from my novel RED ASPHALT entitled 

ROAD RASH


Due to the intensity of this revenge scenario that had played out on the main stage of the theater of my mind, I had inadvertently driven way off course and ended up on the
northeast side of Stockton. I had locked myself into a trance and, quite honestly, put myself and anyone else on the road in potentially great danger. In my anger, I had blanked out.

My old traffic school lessons popped into my head. I could hear myself lecturing my students on the subject of maintaining one’s cool.

“You must take responsibility when you are behind the wheel of an automobile. You are the captain of the ship. You are in charge. You are in control. Therefore, you must keep yourself in check. Don’t let your emotions get away from you. It can definitely affect your driving. If you lose control of yourself, how can you expect not to lose control of your vehicle?”

Forty pair of attentive eyes would be focused on me as I’d continue my dissertation on road rage.

“You have to understand that you do not have a right to drive. No. In the eyes of the law, it is a privilege and as such, can be taken away from you if you abuse that privilege.”

Oh, my. How sanctimonious can we get?

“But, look, we’re all human beings. We all have bad days. There are times when we are simply P.O.ed. Your boss yelled at you. You and your significant other are not getting along. The IRS is breathing down your neck. There could be a million and one reasons and sometimes, all of them at the same time. BUT you have no right to take it out on the rest of the world with your car...or your truck...or your van...or whatever you drive. That, my friends is assault with a deadly weapon.”

There would actually be a hush in the room after that monologue. Maybe I got through to them. Maybe they were just embarrassed for me.
Obviously, I had never taken one of my own classes so these words fell on my deaf ears. Do as I say not as I do, I’d rationalize. This just made me another hypocrite in the world. With this truth staring me in the face, my short-lived career as a traffic school instructor has just been negated, just another zero to make my life continually add up to nothing.

I needed to get back on track, so I took Highway 99 heading toward Modesto and floored it, still stewing in my own angry juices. Attempting to blow off some steam by driving it off was a total contradiction of what I used to teach, but that was not my concern. I had a raging mad-on and I had to get rid of it somehow.
Unfortunately, the road ahead of me had not been clear. In the fast lane, being the wrong place at the wrong time was an elderly gentleman in a Mercury sedan, traveling way below the speed limit. Semi trucks occupied the other lanes and there was no way around him. Naturally, in the crazed state of mind I found myself in, this brought me back to the boiling point once again. It became necessary for me to encourage him to pick up the pace, right on his rear bumper.

“Excuse me, sir? Sir? You are in the FAST lane. You’re supposed to drive FAST. Why are you driving SLOW? LET’S GO! TOO SLOW! LET’S GO! Would you like a PUSH, HMMMMM????”

I slowly accelerated my vehicle so that it could kiss the rear bumper of Old Man Driver. From fifty to fifty-five to sixty to sixty-five to seventy in mere seconds, I could see him grasp his steering wheel in a death grip. We locked fenders and I pushed the outside of the envelope even further as I took Chuck Yeager here for a blast from the past.

“Mach one!” I cried.

The sound barrier broke as we screamed down Highway 99.

“Mach two!” I bellowed as the glass from the instrument panel exploded into a thousand shards.

Sparks sprayed from all sides of our conjoined cars and I laughed as only demons can. Old Man Driver was frozen in fear. It was all he could do to keep his Mercury in control. The stupid old fart! Didn’t he know that I was in control?\

“Mach three!” I cheered as I slammed on the brakes, separating our vehicles and Old Man River was set free.

As if shot out of a cannon, his car was propelled on its own and at even greater speed, veering off to the right and onto the off ramp of an overpass. Up it flew like a raging comet as Old Man Driver and his Mercury ignited into a giant fireball and launched into space, sailing into the heavens like an authentic Mercury astronaut. Jetting skyward toward the edge of the earth’s atmosphere, Old Man Driver suddenly exploded into a Fourth of July display.

Observing the spectacle from below, I led the crowd in a chorus of “Ooh! Aah!”

Copyright 2004 by Scott Cherney

For more information on RED ASPHALT, visit my website:

WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

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Fish Story

In the film, ANNIE HALL, Annie (Diane Keaton) tells her boyfriend, Alvy Singer (Woody Allen), how much she enjoyed his stand-up set, then added:

"I think I'm starting to get more of the references too."

So stop me if you've heard this one...

What did the blind man say when he passed the fish market?

"'Morning, ladies!"

Yeah. You've heard it before. If you haven't, it's new to you.

Back in the 90s in my hometown of Stockton, California, I was driving down Wilson Way, a thoroughfare on the east side of town that was absolutely notorious for streetwalkers, prostitutes, hookers, hos or whatever you'd to call them. One summer's day, I found myself on that strip when I came across this sign and damn near stood in the middle of the block to applaud the grand gesture of this editorial. I felt the need to get a picture to chronicle this event. Since these were the days before cell phone mit out cameras, I actually bought a used camera in a thrift shop and hoped like hell the sign wouldn't change overnight. Lo and behold, I got the shot the very next day.

The fish monger probably had enough of his deteriorating neighborhood and needed to express his frustration somehow. He used the form of communication at his disposal. The sign outside his shop, normally reserved for specials or the catch of the day, carried his message to the world, couched in the punchline of a crude joke.

To me, that statement read loud and clear. And obviously, I got the reference.

That's important in life, getting the references. Sometimes, it can make you feel that you're not alone in the world and that your voice is not only being heard but understood..

And it helps if you get the joke. There are few things more frustrating than the question:

"WHAT'S SO FUNNY?"

Number One with a Bullet

 

Forbes Magazine announced the "winners' of its annual top ten list of America's Most Miserable Cities. Coming in at the number one spot this year...

Stockton, California!

Yeah, the old hometown took the crown this year after last year's second place between Michigan's two finest-Detroit (#1) and Flint (#3), making it one big miserable sandwich. Yeah, good ol' Stocktonville pulled an upset over Chicago, Cleveland and even Miami. Woo-hoo! The ghosts of Victoria Barkley and Charles Weber are smiling from above.

Forbes’ criteria for this dubious honor was based on violent crime, unemployment, income tax rates and commute times. It’s also Ground Zero in the housing market with the highest foreclosure in the country.

I’m not gloating. Just because I hauled my ass out of Fat City twenty years ago doesn’t mean I wish ill on the place. As a matter of fact, the whole thing saddens me to no end. I may have severed my ties with Stockton, but I’m not in denial either. I was born there. I grew up there. I spent most of my life in that town.

But the truth hurts, baby.

Stockton has never taken care of its own. It’s like one of those smokers who’ve been puffing on three packs a day for the last fifty years, despite all the warnings, then threatens to sue Big Tobacco because he gets lung cancer. Then when he wins his lawsuit, he still continues to smoke because now he can afford to buy more cigarettes.

When I visited the ol' home town last year, I barely recognized the place. It was though I was driving in and about Greater Kabul after a rocket attack. To this day, I still haven’t shaken the feeling of dread I had while I was there. I was watching a relative on life support dying a slow, painful death.

And I also thought about my family and friends who are still living in Stockton and wishing I had the resources to airlift them the hell out of there once and for all. For now, I can only hope for the best and that they’ll come out of this okay.

Hey, Modesto, just down the road from Stockton, placed fifth on the Forbes list, more than likely since it is the car theft theft capital of the country. Well done! How proud do you think Modesto's favorite son, George Lucas, is at this moment?

You can't go home again because sometimes, you just don't wanna.

Heaven on a Saturday Afternoon

Ah, the Good Ol' Days! Remember when we actually went to a building where we sat with a bunch of other people to watch a movie? Those places were called cinemas. Can you say cinema? I knew that you could. I wonder what happened to them.

Here's some real nostalgia about those swell days of the Kiddie matinee, an excerpt from my book      IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER.

One of the ancient rituals of youth that I was fortunate enough to have experienced was the Saturday afternoon Kiddie matinee. Kiddie is an archaic term for child; therefore this was a special movie show just for kids, not cats. (If cats had their own matinees, what would they watch?) 

I used to attend these every single week without fail at the Stockton Theater, the last of the classic style movie houses built in my hometown of Stockton, California.

What a bargain this was! For the astronomical sum of twenty-five cents, you would get three to four hours of non-stop pre-pubescent entertainment. This was the spark that ignited my love for all things celluloid for this weekly underage Cannes Film Festival was a crash course in the World Cinema. It was like a day-care run by Leonard Maltin.

For starters, the matinees I remember were always jammed packed to the rafters with tons o’ cartoons. I’m talking GOOD cartoons too. Early on, I was able to recognize the quality of any given cartoon by the company that produced it. Warner Brothers delivered guaranteed goods-and those goods were great, featuring the likes of Bugs, Daffy and The Road Runner (the original Mad Max). If it was MGM, you’d score big time with Tom & Jerry, Droopy and anything by Tex Avery.  But, if it was Universal…Woody Woodpecker…Andy Panda…or (shudder) Chilly Willy…The horror…the horror…

Intermingled in that animated buffet was one or two live action comedy shorts. Once in a great while, they starred either Laurel & Hardy or The Little Rascals, but for the most part-The Three Stooges. This was my first exposure to the boys before I could bask in them on a near-daily basis on television. On the big screen, they took on a whole new dimension by their sheer size alone. Maybe as a kid, I subconsciously imagined them to be gods, albeit gods that beat the crap out of one another.

It was always a crapshoot to find out who the third Stooge would be that particular day since that would either add to-or subtract from-your potential viewing enjoyment. Moe and Larry were constants, permanent fixtures, if you will. Moe was the boss, the head guy, the Mack Daddy Stooge. Larry was…well, Larry. He was the guy in the middle, the foil for the other two who rarely flew solo. Larry was a buffer. Now when the Columbia Pictures logo appeared, you knew right immediately that it was The Stooges. Then their theme song, “Three Blind Mice”, played and, suddenly, everything banked on how the music was arranged. If it just charged through without stopping, JACKPOT! You got Curly, everybody’s favorite. But, if the theme was more staccato with some pizzicato strings, that meant one thing and one thing only…SHEMP! There would be a moan of disappointment throughout the theater. Then you’d see his stupid face mugging at you with his greasy hair and every kid in the place just sank in their individual seats and grumbled that it wasn’t Curly. Once Moe smacked Shemp in the face with a frying pan, all was well in Matineeland again.

In retrospect, Shemp got a bum rap. One of the first Stooges I saw was SING A SONG OF SIX PANTS when Moe, Larry and Shemp ran a dry cleaners and it’s always been a sentimental favorite of mine. (I loved the way Moe made pancakes on the pants press.)  Let’s face it. Shemp may not have been Curly but neither were Moe or Larry either. And Shemp was certainly preferable over Joe Besser, the last stooge in the cast of short subjects, those that began with the three of them repeating their patented “Hello…hello…hello. Hello!” routine. It was enough to want you throw something at the screen…like another kid. El Crappo del Stoogero. However, it was it was a feature, that meant it was Curly Joe and that would fool into thinking Curly was back. Then, Joe DeRita as Curly Joe would pop up and that would be just cause for a full-scale theater riot. Joe Besser was freakin’ Charlie Chaplin next to that pantload. Curly Joe was never, ever funny, the absolute antithesis of comedy. So, in order of appearance meant in order of importance: Curly, Shemp, Joe and Curly Joe. Such is the evolution of the third Stooge.

Following a few dozen more cartoons came another exciting thrill-packed episode of an adventure serial complete with cliffhanger, the only pictures the studios produced specifically for the Saturday matinee market. I ate these things up with a spoon. My best friend at the time and I would re-enact what we saw in those serials in the park or the vacant lot around the corner, calling them “chapters”. We weren’t playing cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. We were having “chapters”.

My very favorite serial was a science fiction saga that featured your three basic protagonists:  the square-jawed, no-nonsense hero, his hot, yet strangely non-sexual girlfriend and, for comic relief, his dorky sidekick whose name probably was Dorky. I was riveted each and every episode for several weeks (most serials contained 12 to 15 separate parts). 

During the showing of the next-to-the last chapter, the Dark Side of my young personality emerged for the very first time, which is not a proud moment in my biography. Slumped in my chair and engrossed in my “chapter”, I had my feet up and over the seat in front of me. This was wrong to begin with, but it gets worse. There were a couple of girls sitting there who were annoyed by this and one of them let me know it. My feet weren’t on her chair, just next to it so I ignored her. “Put your feet down,” she demanded again. I told her no, so she repeated herself once more. I had had enough and kicked her in the head. Now, I didn’t kick her hard and only with the side of my shoe, but it was enough to startle the hell out of her and make her cry. 

I wasn’t a rotten kid. This really was an isolated incident. Honest! But, man, what I did was horrible. I’m sure I traumatized that kid for life and she probably hasn’t been to the movies since. Whoever that little girl was that I bopped in the noggin with my foot at the Stockton Theater back in the early 1960s, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Don’t try to sue me for it now though. There is such a thing as a statute of limitations, you know.

I didn’t get in trouble with the theater management like I should have because the girls didn’t report it. However, my mom found out, thanks to my sister ratting me out. Her punishment, while not physical painful, was devastating to me. She took away my movie privileges for a month. That meant I could not see the last chapter of my “chapter”, the same one I had invested three months of my young life. The last image I recall of this serial was two spaceships, one carrying the hero, the other, the villain, colliding head-on in outer space with a title card that read “TO BE CONCLUDED”. To this very day, I never found out what happened because I don’t know the title, so I couldn’t track it down. Maybe I blocked it out as a result of that viciously stupid bratty act of mine. Did the punishment fit the crime? You decide for yourself. Just remember, I’ve got a shoe with your name on it.

Several cartoons later-as I said, there were tons o’ ‘em-lead up to the main feature which was usually of questionable quality. Sometimes there might be a Tarzan or Jungle Jim (not the inventor of the playground) or Lone Ranger movie. Very rarely was it something like THE INVISIBLE BOY, the only starring vehicle for Robby the FORBIDDEN PLANET Robot. The “main attraction” was more likely to be a snoozer like THE LITTLEST HOBO, all about a German shepherd on the run or SNOWFIRE. I saw SNOWFIRE twice, fooled by its title both times. It sounded cool to me because I took it literally. “A fire…in the snow!” I thought it might be some kind of war picture. Nah. Snowfire was a white horse and not a very interesting white horse at that.

In the long run, it didn’t matter one iota what the feature was. It was just a piece of a very large whole and that whole was the Kiddie matinee, which I considered to be a slice of Heaven for a quarter.

Copyright by Scott Cherney All Rights Reserved

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is on Kindle on Amazon and paperback from Lulu.com

See you at the movies...one of these days.

Special Guest Star: Joey Bishop

As I sat next to my parents in an upper section of Stockton Civic Auditorium that late winter evening in 1969, only half-listening what was transpiring on the stage below, I focused my attention on the main attraction. After all, he was the real reason the majority of this capacity crowd attended this event in the first place. What he was promoting took a backseat for regular folks like me and my folks next to feasting our eyes on a gen-u-ine Hollywood celebrity. I clutched the contents of my coat pocket, handwritten pages of a document as valued to me as a treasure map. Once I presented them to the man on that stage, he'd have my whole world in his hands, he'd have my whole wide world in his hands and my destiny would be at the end of a paved, golden road to the fame and fortune my destiny had decreed for me. The miracle man who would soon make this fantasy a vivid and valid reality was...
comedian/talk show host/ Rat Pack member Joey Bishop.

No. Really.

When evoking the sacred name of the legendary show biz group known as The Rat Pack, the name Joey Bishop isn't the first face that immediately springs to mind. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and even to a lesser extent, the modestly talented  Peter Lawford stand far above Joey in the zeitgeist pecking order. Yet, Joey was an integral member of the group, serving as MC and ringmaster for their Vegas shows that built their legend and even writing special material that tied them altogether, no matter how loose that appeared. As a RP member in good standing, he became the fifth member  of OCEAN'S ELEVEN.

While Joey's stand-up act was much like his demeanor, low-key to the point of being almost non-existent at the outset, it proved to be subtly deceiving when he'd switch gears and win the crowd over with sharp timing and old fashioned showmanship. Bishop parlayed his deadpan persona into a career that spanned nearly four decades with a sit-com bearing his name that lasted five years on the air and a talk show that went head-to-head against Johnny Carson's TONIGHT SHOW. Joey had been Carson's frequent substitute host prior to this, but Johnny never held a grudge against Bishop as he had Joan Rivers when she dared to challenge him. Maybe JC didn't see Joey as much of a threat or he didn't dare piss off a friend of Frank's. This is a moot point at best since THE TONIGHT SHOW regularly trounced THE JOEY BISHOP SHOW.

For some inexplicable reason, Joey's show was my mother's late night choice, thus becoming the household's as well. Mom found Carson "tiresome", an atypical Phyllis Cherney dismissal and a view I never shared. Maybe it was an East Coast vs West Coast state of mind with Carson representing New York, his base of operations at that time, and Bishop the West in Hollywood, USA. My mother always sided with the home team. Even with my pre-adolescent sensibilities, I recognized the superior show, but since I wasn't allowed to watch any show at all, this beggar couldn't be a chooser. .I had no say so in this matter given my age, barely into my second decade on the planet and that pesky school night clause. (But when there's a will, there's a way...)  My dad didn't have a dog in the fight since he usually shuffled off to bed around eleven o'clock each and every evening to read himself to sleep with a spy novel.

Ma would  sprawl out on the couch and nod out usually during the news, but if not, no later than the middle of Joey's opening monologue. I'd delay my bedtime as long as I could to watch the opening salvo, then feign my way down the hall to my room. At the last second, I'd make a hard right into the kitchen and out into the dining room with a clear view of the TV at the far end of the living room, out of sight from my dozing mother. If I saw her stir, I'd dash out long before she'd catch me. A couple of times, my pop would catch me when he got up to take a midnight leak and upon seeing me in the shadows, he'd bellow, "TO BED!"
Mom would awaken with a start. "Jesus Christ, Adam! What the hell's the matter with you ?"
"It was the boy."
"Well, did you have to scare me half to death?"
"Aw, blow it, would you?" he'd grouse and slam the bathroom door behind him..
This confrontation proved distracting enough for me to scamper off to the safety of my bedroom unscathed, pondering if I could sneak out again to catch Pat Morita's stand-up set or whoever later in the broadcast.

Even though I might have preferred THE TONIGHT SHOW, I still ate Joey's program up with a big ol' spoon. This was the swan song of old time show business, all covered with schmaltz, glitter and cheese. On one hand, I recognized the jive, but on the other, it worked its chintzy hocus pocus over me mainly because I allowed it to happen. I found the whole charade comforting, inviting and extremely appealing. Hell, in those days, the life of a carny seemed to be a glamorous lifestyle.

But this type of entertainment was on the wane because the times they were a'changin'. The latter part of the Sixties had caused the world to hit the fast forward button and this razzamatazz had one foot out the door. Some elements of life outside this bubble crept in and, through the gauze, manifested into uncomfortable, yet innocuous absurdity as when Joey, his boy sidekick Regis Philbin and Sammy Davis Jr. modeled the latest in Nehru jackets with optional love beads. But in the worst of times, the pretense had to be dropped entirely such as the double whammy of the MLK/RFK assassinations. Bishop's post mortem programs seemed to be earnest attempts to help ease the pain of the times, though they were placebos. At least he didn't try to sweep it all under the rug. I'm not sure what Carson did on his network, but I don't imagine he dealt with these issues in the same manner.

Soon after, Joey Bishop became an advocate and unlikely celebrity spokesman for lowering the national voting age, 21 at that time, down to 18. He used his talk show as a forum to promote this cause, something Johnny wouldn't have touched with a ten foot Libertarian. This movement, which began at Stockton's University of the Pacific, was known as L.U.V., the acronym for Let Us Vote, using the hippie-dippy colloquial spelling of the the word love in attempt to appeal to the young 'uns. To promote L.U.V. further, Joey, as the National Honorary Chairman, would turn his entire show over to this one topic and televise from the city where it all began: Stockton, California.

Upon learning this, I heard a knock at the door. Why, look who's here...it's Opportunity! Yes, I saw Joey Bishop's Stockton sojourn as a means of self promotion, a lofty ambition at best, a shot in the dark at worst, but if there was no denying that it was certainly the stuff that dreams were made of...my dreams, anyway.

I had been writing stories for a few years, ever since I learned how to put a sentence together on paper. This was a fairly prolific period for me, cranking out short stories left and right. I had built quite a collection by 1969. In my young head, the sure volume of these alone qualified me to try my hand at writing a screenplay without knowing a damn thing about the process whatsoever.What was to know? I like movies. I could write. Pish posh. I'd fill in the blanks later. It's magic time!

Many big screen comedies of this era were based on the IT'S A MAD MAD MAD MAD WORLD formula, a simple situation with an all-star cast such as THOSE DARING YOUNG MEN IN THEIR FLYING MACHINES and to a lesser extent, IF IT'S TUESDAY, THIS MUST BE BELGIUM. Bishop had just been featured in an even lower-rent knock-off called WHO'S MINDING THE MINT? Not wanting to create a heist story, I took my story from the day's headlines. The skyjacking of airliners had been occurring on a fairly regular basis, so much so in fact that the world had actually become blase about the whole enterprise. I found this to be excellent fodder for my movie, the title of which being DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAY OUR PLANE WAS HIJACKED TO CUBA?

I even "composed" a theme song that was to have a bossa nova beat and these lilting lyrics:
Do you remember the day our plane was hijacked to Cuba?
That was the day that I fell in love with you.    

Tasteful, no? No. But in retrospect, what the hell did I know from sensitivity at my age? In my defense, Neil Simon must have felt the same way, ending his own screenplay for THE OUT OF TOWNERS with a hijacking. (I wonder where he got that idea. Hmmm... )

My "full-length" screenplay resulted in nothing more than an elongated comedy sketch, lots of dialogue with a fair amount of slapstick action,  probably fifteen to twenty pages altogether. But as far as I was concerned, this was my ticket on a rocket to stardom, destination: Hollywood. All I had to do was present this potential cinematic blockbuster to one Mr. Joseph Bishop, Esq. and the rest would be history.

The Friday night Joey Bishop and his crew hit Stockton, Mom, Dad and myself all shuffled off to Stockton Civic Auditorium. The folks weren't exactly supporters of lowering the voting age. Being good Republicans, they were probably opposed to it. Their reason for going, as I would say the majority of this Stockton audience, was simple: It was a FREE SHOW. As I said, my mom liked Joey, but my pop couldn't have cared less. Neither one of them had a clue what I had up my sleeve that evening...or in my coat pocket either, the hee-lary-ous script of DYRTDOPWHTC? (Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?) That's okay, I told myself. When I became the youngest and most highly paid writer in Hollywood, I'd take care of my parents. That was a guarantee. I'd even let them visit me in my palatial Bel-Air mansion once in awhile.

The show, such as it was, started without much fanfare. Joey Bishop took the stage to thunderous applause, but this was a real bare-bones production because I don't recall bandleader Johnny Mann, his orchestra or even Regis Philbin accompanying their boss to Fat City USA. Joey told a few jokes to soften up the crowd, but other than that, there weren't any deviations from the issue at hand. This was all L.U.V. all time. As a result, what a snoozer.

The only entertainment value, other than the chance to see an honest to goodness TV star in Stocktonia, was provided by the singer/songwriter team of Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart ("Last Train to Clarksville", "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight"). At the end of the program, they performed an acoustic version of the L.U.V. anthem they had written. In true 1960s fashion, they encouraged an audience sing-a-along with the chorus.

L-U-V
Talkin' 'bout you and me
Changes made peacefully
So let us vote

My song was.better The audience must have thought so as well if that halfhearted ad-hoc hootenanny was any indication. I admit to singing a little under my breath, but as I did,  I had to sneak a peek at my pop who sat stone-faced waiting for this whole painful ordeal to come to an end. Mom might have hummed along though, just to be a good sport.

When the show came to its logical conclusion, I asked the folks we could go behind the auditorium when Joey left. Mom asked if I wanted to get an autograph. "Sort of," I replied. I'm sure my dad sighed in exasperation as this night not only got longer for him, but now he had to contend with cold and damp weather conditions because his dopey kid was star struck. To make matters worse, it began to sprinkle out in this dimly lit loading dock, a film noir scene if there ever was one. As for me, I was burning hot with anticipation. my adrenals were pumping into the red zone as I waited for The Man himself to appear, standing poised and ready along with several other onlookers.

Fortunately for all involved , it wasn't long before the back doors flew open in  and out popped Joey Bishop, looking rather dashing and dapper in his off-white trench coat flanked by a couple of what I assumed to his handlers, but could have been his goons. I propelled myself forward, ignoring these mugs and headed right for Joey, my nerves causing to move at a rapid pace. His eyes widened at the approach of what could have been a skinny underage lone gunman and almost popped out of his skull when I removed the contents of my coat pocket and thrust it toward him, now all rolled up. Was it the barrel of a gun? Worse. Look out! That kid's got a script!

My voice quavered and cracked as I uttered my one and only line.

"Joey, this is something I wrote and I want to give it to you."

Suddenly relieved but no less dour, he stammered, "Uh...okay...uh..thank you...."

He took my script rather unceremoniously and strode away with his guys double-time to his waiting limousine, undoubtedly chewing them both out once inside for not stopping this punk kid from scaring the crap out of him. I must have seemed like Jack Ruby's nephew to him,  popping up the way I did n the dark like that, ready to take out Joey Bishop in the name of Johnny Carson, NBC and opponents to lowering the voting age everywhere.

My ma asked if I got my autograph and I told her no.
"Why the hell not?" she demanded.
"Can we go now? I'm freezing my nuts off out here," Dad interrupted and off we went. Ah, nothing like another night out with the folks.

My job here was done. Now, all I had to do was wait for Monday's next show. I wondered if I should start packing or wait until Tuesday morning.

At eleven thirty Monday night, I perched myself front and center before the TV, all primed and ready for the latest edition of The Joey Bishop Show. I didn't have to hide out in the back of the dining room this go around since I had gotten permission to stay up from my mom even though it had been another school night. Earlier that evening, I pleaded my case before her, telling her that Joey would certainly bring up his trip to Stockton (the braggart) and, on the off-chance, might even mention me. She had no idea what I presented to him since I had kept my cards close to my chest from the word go She accepted my rationale for reasons unbeknownst to me. Perhaps Ma was patronzing me or in her case, matronzing.me. No matter. I had a reserved seat this night. It's too bad I didn't rent a tux for the occasion.

Alas, as if that word isn't enough of a clue, it had been all for naught. From the opening monologue to the final sign off, I hung onto every word, syllable and gesture as if I would fall into the abyss. When the credits rolled, that's exactly what I did. Joey mentioned Stockton on in passing and never said a word about the creepy little snot-nosed bastard that popped out of the darkness to hand him some wadded up pieces of paper containing some illegible drivel scribbled in some demented childish scrawl. So, no, he didn't even say that. I didn't let the absence of this shout-out of this get me down. Maybe Mr. Bishop hadn't gotten around to reading my script yet. After all, he was a very busy man, the host of national talk show, his charitable responsibilities and we can't forget about his personal life. Give him time, I told myself and I did.

Then came Tuesday's show. And Wednesday. Thursday came next. Followed by Friday, exactly one week later. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then the next week. And the next. And....oh, never mind. Three weeks turned out to be my limit, so I gave in and stopped monitoring his broadcasts.

In my haste to submit my work to Joey, I neglected to put any contact information upon it. No phone number. No address. Just my name. Without that pertinent data, there would be no way for the Bishop organization to find me. I had put all my chips on a personal on-air message that would never come. At that age, I sucked at gambling. Without telling anyone what I was planning to do,  I relied solely on myself for not better, but for worse. Therefore, I had no backup or anybody to make sure all the Ts were crossed, Is dotted and perhaps a way of getting a hold of me just in case. In effect, it wasn't Joey Bishop who disappointed me, but myself because I didn't think it through.

But even if I had put my address and/or phone number on my script, would that increased my odds at all? Unlikely, though I might have gotten a copy of Joey's country and western album or even a signed 8 x 10 of he and the gang that would read:

Scott-Your script sucks. Better luck next time, you son of a gun-Your pal, Joey Bishop

One can only assume he tossed my script in the trash as soon as he could. I like to think that he at least perused it, however briefly. Maybe he even gave a little smirk as he did. Yeah, I like to think that alright.

So began a series of unrealistic expectations in my life fueled by dreams of sugarplums dancing in my head, chronic naivete and a standing reservation in Neverland as Peter Pan's personal assistant. In essence, I suppose this could be my origin story, a stowaway on a rocket to stardom. But while my delusion of grandeur can be written off as immaturity, it sure as shooting wasn't the last time it occurred.

Not to be so hard on myself, I should forgive the error and applaud the effort.. It never felt like a gutsy move to confront a major celebrity in this manner, but more of instinct. At this key point in my formative years, I aimed for the stars. The fact that I used a BB gun is beside the point. As I reflect on this time of my life, who's to say that I really missed?

THE JOEY BISHOP SHOW came to an end at the end of that year. On his last night,  Bishop walked off the program right after the monologue, leaving Regis to host the rest of the program. Joey never achieved that major star status again, though he continued in show business for next thirty odd years. He outlived his fellow Rat Pack members, passing away in 2007 at the age of 89.

In March of 1971, the 26th Amendment to United States Constitution lowering the national voting age to 18 was passed by Congress.

For the next several years until I left Stockton in 1974, I would scan the weekly edition of Variety at the Stockton Public Library for any mention of a film in production entitled DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAY OUR PLANE WAS HIJACKED TO CUBA?