Special Guest Star: Chuck Connors

“Who’s green and carries a rifle?

“Mucus McCain.”

That’s a dumb damn joke from my childhood that nobody under the age of 106 will understand. It sure cracked my ass up when I was a kid and I used it whenever I could, being the budding little stand-comedian I aspired to be until I actually became one.

Anyway the gag in question refers to the TV western character Lucas McCain, memorably played by Chuck Connors on the 1960s series THE RIFLEMAN. I loved that show and still do to this very day. It was a neat, compact little oater, as they used to be known, that told damn decent stories within the confines of a half hour format. It amazed me how many dramatic series of the fifties and sixties proliferated with that time frame, probably an extension of their roots in radio. Created by Arnold Laven and developed by Sam Peckinpah, THE RIFLEMAN had a lot going for it, including an iconic musical score by Herschel Burke Gilbert that ranks as one of the memorable from that era. But at its core is the relationship between a father and son, widower Lucas McCain raising his son Mark (Johnny Cartwright) in the Old West, a single dad storyline that echoed that of Andy and Opie Taylor. Connors and Cartwright were a believable pair, a testament to excellent casting and even better performances.

Like I said, I was a fan, even playing with the replica of Lucas McCain’s rifle, a modified Winchester with a ring lever around its trigger that allowed it to be spin cocked and shoot rapid fire. This period piece semi-automatic plaything was available for young ‘uns across the nation wherever toys are sold. Okay, it was my brother’s gun, but I played with it more than he did, even after the plastic stock broke off. Yes, I played with toy guns. Let’s not turn this into the burning issue of the day issue. The bottom line is: I turned out fine. Now shut up and pass the ammunition.

Long after THE RIFLEMAN left the airwaves to go into what seemed to be eternal syndication, Connors continued on with BRANDED, then a few other series over the years, none touching the heights of his first effort. Still, he was a working actor right up until the time of his passing with roles in SOYLENT GREEN, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL GUNFIGHTER, ROOTS and many a guest starring role on other TV shows. One of these was NBC’s THE NAME OF THE GAME in a 1971 episode shot in and about mein own hometown of Stockton, California.

It was during the filming of that show that my sister Valerie and I headed out to visit our dad at his job, running a snack shack on the 9^th hole at Stockton Golf and Country Club. (See also the previous blog: SPECIAL GUEST STAR: GEORGE C. SCOTT for another blast from my past) The shack provided grub for hungry golfers, even a small bar for those wanting a belt or several before heading back out to the links for the next 9 holes in one condition or another. After Val and I arrived, my pop fried us up a couple of burgers before the next golf cart pulled in. When it did, that when I first laid eyes on The Rifleman himself.

Chuck Connors ambled up to my dad’s shack, flashing a sincere but very Hollywood smile in the direction of my sister and I. Dad took his order then told him what a fan I was of his work. This prompted this superstar to stand before me as I sat rigidly before him, my mouth agape and probably with the chewed remains of my burger falling to the table. It wasn’t that I was star struck, even though I will most certainly cop to that. To say he was larger than life would actually diminish him. I would offer that life seemed too small for him, especially within the confines of Stockton. But he lived up to his on screen persona, very obviously a star, yet maintaining a down to earth everyman quality that didn’t appear false. Chuck almost seemed apologetic for being so overwhelming.

But that’s not what stymied me into bug-eyed paralysis.

It was what he was wearing, most specifically, his pants. They were garishly bright Starburst colored two-toned slacks, one leg cherry red, the other lemon yellow. Together, they illuminated Chuck Connors in all their neon glory as though he was on his way to rave. These pants were so loud, Sherpas in Nepal turned around and said, “What the fuck is scaring the yak?”

Historically, golfers have always lacked the fashion gene as if it's some requirement of the game that one must wear the most hideously insipid garb imaginable. Those goes back to the days of jodphurs and tam o'shanters right through to the present. But even back then in the Technicolor yawn known as the 1970s, Connors' pantaloons were a horror show.

I was stunned. I was aghast. I was embarrassed. All I could think was, “What the fuck is he wearing?” This wasn’t The Rifleman. This was a giant Popsicle. Who dressed this guy…Sid and Mart Krofft? My heart sank as I witnessed this childhood idol of mine become a walking advertisement for Starburst.

The worst part of this was that Mr. Connors could not have been more amiable and gracious to the rude little bastard he was greeting. In truth, he embodied Lucas McCain himself at that moment, walking out of the TV screen to shake my hand, sign an autograph on the back of a scorecard, then with a friendly nod, return to my dad’s shack. Valerie and I left at that point. In my case, I would say I cowardly slunk away. Once in the car, my sister observed in her inimitable sarcastic way, “Mmm, baby. Nice pants.”

I felt like three kinds of dogshit all rolled into one. The pain of this missed opportunity

hurt, but not as bad as the disappointment I felt in myself. I had suddenly become aware of the shallowness of my fifteen year old soul, confusing and frustrating me even more than before as the onslaught of hormones raged about my pubescent mind and body like the Daytona 500. Awkwardness had become a way of life and incidents like this didn’t help. Angst for nothing.

This incident must have embedded into my self conscious years later as I was conceiving a screenplay called ME AND MY SHADOW about a man haunted by a spectral bully that is a dead ringer for Chuck Connors. In one scene, the man falls asleep on the couch and is awakened by the opening of THE RIFLEMAN, scaring the living hell out of him.

Since I abandoned this gem of an idea eons ago, I don’t remember what happened. I think the protagonist mistakenly kills Connors and the ghost ends up taking the actor’s place in the final scene. Like I said, a real gem. Look for it never.

One can only have so many regrets in this world, so I’ve given my 15-year-old self a break on this matter. I got a chance to meet Chuck Connors and thanks to him being a stand up guy who knew how to deal with the public, especially a dopey teenager, it was actually a positive experience, a close encounter of the decent kind. It almost made up for those scary-ass pants.

Almost.

Special Guest Star: George C. Scott

Back in the halcyon days in the last half of the century known as the 20th, the old hometown of Stockton, California and surrounding area played host to many a major Hollywood production. Several times a year, film and TV crews from the Land of LA congregated in our backyards to shoot a damn impressive array of titles over time.

One of those was 1973's OKLAHOMA CRUDE starring George C. Scott, Faye Dunaway, John Mills and Jack Palance. Produced and directed by Stanley Kramer, who also shot RPM with Anthony Quinn and Ann-Margaret at the University of the Pacific, CRUDE is a rollicking, unjustly forgotten Depression era saga of a wildcat oil well. It's nowhere near the caliber of THERE WILL BE BLOOD, but it's a damn decent piece of entertainment in the old Hollywood tradition. The Ospital Ranch northeast of Stockton stood in for the Oklahoma countryside.

At that time, my dad, Adam Cherney, ran a concession at Stockton Golf and Country Club. It was basically a snack shack on the 9th hole where Pop would flip burgers and pour drinks for players who took a break at the half-way point or those who just played 9 holes and didn't want to head back to the clubhouse. Since celebrities love their golf, many of those shooting in the area spent their downtime taking in a round at SGCC and most stopped by my dad's place.

One gloomy afternoon, Adam looked up looked up from his work only to see the only one and only George C. strolling up to his shack, all by lonesome, just like the other George. Gobel, that is. (Look him up, young 'un) On a midweek day off from filming OKLAHOMA CRUDE, George thought he'd kill a few hours on the links. After the first nine holes, the lure of an adult beverage or two proved alluring enough to put the game on hold for awhile. Being a slow day, he was my dad's sole customer that afternoon.

The rain began to fall, enough to cancel the remainder of General Patton's game entirely. Instead of calling it a day, George stayed put at the shack to consume a few more highballs and pound down half a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes. He passed the time away with my pop, chatting about this, that and the other thing. Since Dad was an experienced bartender from the old school, he undoubtedly treated Mr. Scott like a regular Joe and I'm sure he appreciated the normalcy of it. At that time, he was still riding on that PATTON gravy train and one of the biggest movie stars in the world. Flying solo and under the radar as it was that day, he probably wanted to feel grounded. And there was nobody that was more down to earth than my dad.

When the rain subsided, George decided to call it a day and hit the muddy trail.

"Besides, the wife's making soup for dinner," he told my dad. "You know you've got yourself a good woman if she can make you a good bowl of soup."

With that, he shook my dad's hand goodbye and tottled off to the house the studio rented rented for him while on location. That evening, my dad presented me with an autograph signed by the one only George C. Scott and relayed the soup story.

The wife Scott referred to wasn't Colleen Dewhurst, the great stage and screen actress he married twice back in the 1960s ala Liz and Dick. At this point in time, they had been divorced for good. I always felt that George and Colleen had to be one of those hard-drinking, hard-brawlin', hard-ballin' legendary show biz couples. They probably smoked each other's Lucky Strikes. They also sounded so much alike that calling them on the phone must have been difficult.

"Hello?"

"Is that you, George?"

"No, it's Colleen."

"Sorry. Can I speak to George?"

"George!"

"What?"

"Telephone."

"Hello?"

"Is that still you, Colleen?"

"No, it's George."

But alas, they were no longer meant to be. At the end of marriage, round two, they made the film THE LAST RUN. George fell head over heels for his younger co-star Trish Van Devere. Months after he divorced Colleen, he married Trish. They too made several films together including THE CHANGELING, DAY OF THE DOLPHIN and George's directorial boondoggle known as THE SAVAGE IS LOOSE.

Even if their relationship didn't hit the Shakespearean level of his marriage to Dewhurst, George and Trish stay married up until his death in 1999.

It could have been the soup. After all, you can buy the best ingredients, use the most sophisticated equipment and employ the finest skills known in the culinary world, but nothing tastes better than when you cook with love. Maybe George knew that, but he was just a newlywed back in 1973. On the other hand, he and Trish stay married for an impressive 27 years.

My wife is a fantastic cook and makes a helluva soup. I always tell her where she fixes me a bowl that somewhere, George C. Scott and my dad are both looking on and smiling.

It's a Bankrupt Life

This week came the awful news that my hometown of Stockton, California has declared bankruptsy. Once again, Stockton makes national news for all the wrong reasons. For the past few years, it’s made the top ten list of worst cities in America, but now it holds the not-so-coveted title of Loserville, USA. A place that used to be known as Fat City has been chewed down to the bone with its marrow completely sucked dry.

The last couple of times I visited Stockton, it resembled Bedford Falls if George Bailey had never been born. What I witnessed was the 21st century version of Potterville (and in some places, downtown Fallujah). Stockton was dark, foreboding and, in certain areas, downright fucking scary. It certainly wasn’t any vacation destination in the last years I lived there back in the late 90s. Many a night, the sweet sounds of semi-automatic gunfire echoing from the other side of Oak Park would lull me to sleep. But these more recent trips were positively-or should I say negatively-eye-opening, maybe because I had been away for so long I could get a fresh perspective and I could see how bad things had gotten. Absence hadn’t made the heart grow fonder, but gave me palpitations instead.

Alas, the Frank Capra WONDERFUL LIFE analogy didn’t end there. Stockton had always had its share of Mr. Potters robbing the populace blind and grinding them under their greedy thumbs. It has also had its share of stupid Uncle Billys fumbling and bumbling their way through local government and generally screwing things up for everyone concerned. And for the most part, the good people of Stockton just bend over and take it, letting these bastards have their way with them like the opening ceremonies at the annual meeting of the Ned Beatty Fan Club. Stocktonians have always been their own worst enemies especially in the victim department where they have become regulars and everyone knows their names.

It’s a tragedy what’s happened to my old stomping grounds. It won’t be the last American city to hit rock bottom nor is it the first. However, it is the most recent and that’s what made the news headlines. If it bleeds, it leads and Stockton is a hemophiliac. It sure would be great to read something positive about Stockton and not in the past tense. Hindsight in the golden glow of nostalgia can sometimes be blinding.

But instead of wallowing in your misery or living in denial, Stockton, why not turn it around? Embrace your horribleness. Mock what you are. Be in on your own joke. Deliver the punchline before anyone else can. Take the William Shatner approach. Back in the day, I used to say that instead “Someplace Special”, the town motto should “Welcome to Stockton…Duck!” Put the city limits sign in the center of a target and market the damn thing. Contact Mark Burnett and pitch the idea of SURVIVOR: STOCKTON. You’re bankrupt? Have the world’s biggest bake sale. I posted a smart-ass comment on Facebook that said that maybe Stockton should consider using Kickstarter. Run with that. Give the city council cardboard signs and put them on freeway ramps. This isn’t a if life gives you lemons, make lemonade affirmation. This is survival, people. No one is going to help you unless you start to help yourselves, Besides, smell the contents of that glass. That ain’t lemonade.

I hope for the best for you, Stockton. You will always be a part of me and not just because I still have family and friends there. Stockton is the place of my birth and somewhere I called home for most of my life. But you ‘d better wake the hell up. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they do. And don’t get looking for Zuzu’s petals. There’s nothing in your pockets. But there might be something up your sleeves. All you have to do is look.

Special Guest Star: Peter Breck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I should talk.

“The show must go on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CLICK HERE FOR MORE SPECIAL GUEST STARS 

Never Can Say Goodbye

I don't have much to contribute to the tribute of Michael Jackson, even though I recognize the significance he had on the world. Anything I would add be would redundant since the blog waves and the rest of the Internet are buzzing about trying to compete for viewing time. I will, however, relate this one story, reprinted from an earlier post after Michael beat his last child molestation rap:

Back in the late 1980s and about three blocks from where I grew up, some sick bastard (who shall forever remain nameless as far as I'm concerned) armed with an AK-47 walked onto the campus of Grover Cleveland Elementary School and massacred a bunch of school children. Their bodies fell right in front of where I used to attend Mr. Padovan's sixth grade class. The killer then turned the weapon on himself, blowing his own worthless life away as well. Naturally,this was the lead story of the national news that night. The whole world had its eyes on Cleveland School, its victims and its survivors. The media circus had hit Stockton with a vengeance as everyone mourned the death of these children and tried to figure out how this could have happened. Michael Jackson learned of what occurred in Stockton and, at that time, he was the self-proclaimed champion of children everywhere. So he came to Cleveland School one afternoon not long after the massacre to offer his support and comfort a bunch of traumatized kids. That didn't stop all the major news networks from returning once they knew the King of Pop was in town. However, Michael didn't allow any reporters to follow him inside the auditorium (what we used to call the "multi-purpose room") where the children gathered to meet Michael, so only they and the faculty knew what was said. 

I couldn't help but wonder if those stressed out kids freaked out all over again once they heard the helicopters circling overhead just as they had before and the crowds began to scream for Michael upon his arrival.Was Michael up to no good even back then? Certainly not at that moment. This gesture wasn't just a publicity stunt either. I believed he actually wanted to do some good. I wonder what those kids, now all grown up, are saying today. After all, they lost their own innocence in an entirely different way-at the hands of a gun-toting maniac.

But that day, Michael managed to do something very good and totally unselfish, yes, for the children.

The Divine 99

Ah, the drive-ins! Not only were they great places to see movies, but also fine institutions of learning. Why, one's sexual education could be formed for all time in a single evening, on and off the screen.

From the pages of my first magnumopus, IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER, a sweet summer memory from my hometown of Stockton, California.

Then, there was the 99 Drive-In. Oh. My. God.

The 99, so named because it was just an exit off Highway 99, was the strangest location for a drive-in ever. It sat right next door to 99 Speedway, the local racetrack featuring stock cars, midget racers, modified hardtops and even the occasional destruction derby. These were usually run on Friday nights and sometimes Saturdays thrown in for good measure, which were also generally the busiest nights for drive-ins. Isaw a lot of movies at the 99…Speedway, that is. We Cherneys were auto racing aficionados and I caught many a silent movie, silent only in the sense that the roar of the engines would drown out the soundtrack. The screen was in full view of the grandstands.Anybody who was sitting on the other side of the fence trying to enjoy a nice, relaxing night at the movies would have had to have been incredibly tolerant, deaf or just plain stupid…that is, if it was any other drive-in.

But, this was the 99 where sound was, basically optional anyway. It specialized in exploitation with a capital X. Rude, raunchy and rowdy were the only criteria for this  place. It featured a lot of early splatter works like BLOOD FEAST, 2000 MANIACS, THE UNDERTAKER AND HIS PALS and THE CORPSE GRINDERS. The latter dealt with some fine lads who ground dead bodies up into cat food, giving kitties a taste for human flesh. When Granny ran out of Purina Dead Chow, her starving pussies ate her instead! Fine motion picture entertainment.

Just to add more fuel to the fires of their patrons, the 99 also booked an array of big giant booby movies from the 1960s. These epics had proportions to match, especially those of the incomparable Uschi Digard and her Mammaries Dearest. The 99 had noqualms whatsoever screening these whenever they felt like it and that included during race nights. Was it any wonder I grew tired of racing? How the 99 got away with this I’ll never know. Were they trying to drive the speedway out of business? As far as I was concerned, it became the main attraction.

During one particular race called the Trophy Dash, the four cars involved were circling the track getting into formation before taking the green flag to begin. Suddenly, the drivers caught a glimpse of two enormous breasts peaking over the south wall on the screen next door. All four of them parked against the wall in a straight line, one right after the other and watched the movie for about a minute. When those bombastic boobs disappeared, they started the race. Who won? Everybody.

Copywright 2002 by Scott Cherney

Alas and alack, the 99 Drive-In (aka the 99-E) is no more, just like 99% of all drive-ins. The 99 Speedway is gone now too. Both have been swallowed up by the onslaught of progress. Both the Speedway and the Drive-In on 99 represented the sights and sounds of summers gone by and memories that live on in the hearts, minds and even loins of those who were fortunate enough to experience them back in the heyday.

Living here in Oregon, it fills my heart with sweet joy to know that in the nearby town of Newberg, one of the last drive-ins in the nation is still in operation. Its name? The 99W.

And for more swell stories about movies, theaters and, well, the wonderfulness of me, check out IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER at Amazon

IN THE DARK in paperback and Kindle at Amazon

To read another excerpt, go to my website
 WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

Displaced in Dis Place

Back in the winter of 1999, the love of my life who is my wife and I made like Lewis and Clark (that is, if they were a married couple, but who really knows? Maybe they were. It was a long journey after all) and migrated to the great state of Oregon. We settled in the sprawling megalopolis known as Beaverton, knowing full well it was a hop, skip and a jump away from Portland and I could use that geographical advantage to impress my friends…not that Beaverton doesn’t take one’s breath away in and of itself.

It took me a little time to adjust to my surroundings, to say the least since I was more than just a little homesick. Everything seemed so...foreign to me. What I really wanted to do was throw a temper tantrum and cry, “ I WANNA GO HOME!” loud as a bastard.

Therefore, in order to head that childish outburst off at the pass, I felt it might be a more mature solution to compose the following.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE STATE OF OREGON

Dear Oregon,

I guess I just don’t fit in.

That’s nothing new. I’ve felt this way my entire life, in one form or another. One big legal alien. That’s me all over. Blame it on the stars and chalk it up to an atypical Aquarian trait.

However…

In this particular case, that being my struggle to adapt to my newfound digs here in this off-world known as Oregon, USA, I honestly cannot blame myself. That’s quite a psychological breakthrough for me since I am basically a masochistic martyr at heart who really does want to be punished for his crimes. Perhaps there is some mental health in my future after all. So, it is with all due respect and whatever humility I can muster up to say that this time, it is just not my fault.

It’s y’all.

Let me get this out of the way right here and now so that we understand one another. I hereby accept any consequence resulting from what I am about to confess. The truth is going to set me free, though it’s guaranteed to piss all of you off.

Here it comes.

Ready…Aim…

I’m from California.

FIRE!

Go ahead. Do your worst. Roll your eyes in disdain. Sigh in exasperation. Throw your hands in the air dramatically and utter the inevitable phase that pays, “THAT figures!” Now hock up the slimiest, chunkiest phelegmball you can and aim it for the bull’s-eye that is this letter. Try to aim for my name if you can. Hell, why don’t you release all that pent-up prejudicial rage that you feel toward your hated neighbor to the south and rip this whole thing up into so much confetti with your superior Pacific Northwestern upper body strength? I’ll just wait here until you’re done.

There. Feel better now? Good.

Now, sit the hell down, hazelnut breath. Let me tell YOU a few things.

There is something wrong with you people, I don’t mean just off-putting, I mean inherently. Quite simply, it’s your attitude. You wear a chip on your shoulder so blatantly that it’s almost a friggin’ fashion accessory-an out-of-date one at that and not enough to be retro just embarrassing. It’s a designer ‘tude with big gaudy “O” emblazoned on the front for all to see. You seemed to have acquired this attitude because you feel it’s necessary to help define the identity you so desperately desire. Observing this and trying to understand it all has led me to the conclusion that this attitude is just not real. It’s a put-on. It’s faux, y’know? But, you’ve maintained it for so long that you’re beginning to believe in it yourselves, much like an actor consumed by the character he’s created. The amusing thing is, you don’t seem to care very much for it either, thereby creating a mutant strain of attitude. You might call it “Attitudes in Collision”. In dissecting it all and placing everything under a microscope, I’ve discovered that its main property is, of all things, irony. Irony! The very lifeblood of the city of Portland alone! Why, how…ironic!

You guys have this territorial thing going on. So, you hate Californians, eh? Get in line! You don’t have the market covered just because you happen to border the Land of All Evil. How do you feel about Washingtonians? What about them Idahosers? Yeah, I’ve seen the sign at the state line. “Welcome To Oregon. You Won’t Be Staying Long, Right?” If the Statue of Liberty sat off the Oregon coast, she’d probably be waving boats away with her torch and the inscription on her base would read, “JUST KEEP MOVING”.

So many imponderables…so little time to decipher them all…and all of your liquor stores close early.

What the hell is with all the BENTO? I get it already. Bento is a Japanese box lunch. Everybody seems to be selling it. Bento here. Bento there. Bento everywhere. Coffee and Bento. Pizza and Bento. At McDonald’s, there a McBento Happy Meal. It has a Bento action figure. Have it super-sized and get a free side of Bento. Hey, Bento THIS.

Pop. That’s what you call a carbonated soft drink. Pop. Want some pop? Whatcha gonna do with that pop can? I’m gonna get me a bottle o’ pop. What is this- freaking’ Mayberry? Call it “sodie” if you have a mind to. Call everything a brand name. “Gimme a Coke.” “What kind?” “Root beer.” I don’t give a hot Pepsi what you do as long as you STOP THE POP! And say hello to Thelma Lou for me.

In regards to driving, I have only one question: When the bloody blue blazes are ever going to learn? Here’s a tip: MERGE is an action verb. Want another? Try looking up the words FLOW OF TRAFFIC in a search engine. That seems to be the only engine you’re able to operate effectively. I have a theory that everyone else can drive, but every third car contains a native Oregonian and, alas, there lies the problem. You can’t help it. Driving is just not indigenous to your culture.

No matter. It isn’t as if anyone can find where they’re going anyway. No one will give you coherent directions because they just make it up as they go along. The engineers who designed the roads here must have been a vicious pack of angry crazed alcoholics taking their drunken rage out against the world. We are all but rats in their endless maze and there is no such thing as a short cut in Oregon. If you’re lucky enough to reach your destination, you won’t be able get in for you will discover that every potential entrance is an exit and vice versa. You want to keep us all out, even it is only a parking lot.

Your solution to this rant ‘n rave of mine will be all too predictable.

“Well, why don’t yew jus’ go on back whar yew come from?”

First off, I know full and well that no one up here talks like that and, even if they did, they’d be from out-of-state, which to you means out-of-mind. Secondly, I can’t jus’ pick up ‘n git. It’s not that simple, Simon and it’s not of your goddamn business why. I’m here and here is where I’m going to stay, at least for the time being.

Besides, as much as I love California and always will, the area I am from is certainly not the land of Milk and Honey. In the Big Book of American Cities, my hometown of Stockton, California would be classified as nothing more than a giant speed bump. One of its claims to fame is the yearly Asparagus Festival. Ah, there’s nothing like a celebration that somehow involves foul-smelling urine. I have friends in Stockton that I care for very much and will visit whenever possible. But, I really wish they would all move because believe me, I don’t feel homesick for the town itself. I do not pine for its peat dirt or long for its dense, blinding fog. Do I miss hearing gunshots in the middle of the night? Well, gee, I’m not THAT unsentimental. Who wouldn’t? I have roots in Stockton to be sure, but they’re not unlike those of a bleached blonde badly in need of a dye job.

There are definite advantages to living here in this state of confusion. The lack of a sales tax and the abundance of great beer are both tremendous luxuries, though I’d really rather pump my own gas, thank you very much. Considering my place of origin, the change of scenery alone is damn near worth all of the hassle I’ve had to endure.

Aha! Did you notice or were you too busy sneering? I just said something positive. So, you see, it’s in me. Is in you? This is a period of adjustment for all of us.

With the influx of new arrivals here on a daily basis, I can understand your trepidation and sometimes, believe it or not, even your disdain. Really I do. Have you seen the latest bunch of muttonheads around lately? I’m talking about those clowns who walk down the street reading books, oblivious to any form of traffic or the world around them like they’re the Book People from Ray Bradbury’s FAHRENHEIT 451. Talk about moving targets. Why don’t you read your way toward the front of MY car?

So, what do you say we make some sort of a pact here, here? I’ll give in a little if you do the same. Let’s have a truce and maybe within it all, we can both practice a little tolerance. I don’t expect to meet you halfway but...MERGE, DAMN YOUR EYES! MERGE!

C’mon, give me that much at least. You owe me.

After all, in this whole diatribe, not once did I ever mention the rain.

Sincerely,

Your new pal,

Scott

EPILOGUE

It’s been almost three years now and the dust has finally settled. We’re still here. Recently, I made a trip down to Stockton and found that as soon as I got there, I couldn’t wait to leave, regardless of the great time I spent with old friends. All of the reasons why I left were crystal clear in a very short amount of time.

When I returned to Oregon, I drove back to Beaverton from the airport and found myself actually smiling when I saw the skyline of Portland by night. To my left was the snowcapped wonder of Mt. Hood, looking like the logo for Paramount Pictures. Below was the murky Willamette River, lit by that big spotlight known as the full moon in an uncharacteristically clear sky above and garnished with sparkling stars. What a welcome this was. That’s when it hit me.

I was home. This is where I live now. To quote an old Teamster friend of mine, I was proud to be here. Suddenly I grew anxious and really wanted to get back to my wife who was waiting for me in Beaverton. I missed her and wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I also wanted to let her know that for one of the very rare moments in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere and this is where it was.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. The freeway slowed to an annoyingly hesitant crawl. Something was holding up traffic. It wasn’t long before I discovered that it was, once again, a classic case of a slow driver in the fast lane.

Probably some stupid goddamn Washingtonian.

What's up with THOSE people?