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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RED ASPHALT ON LULU.COM

Mask On, Mask Off

One of the last vestiges of the pandemic known as Covid has been lifted at long last, at least here in the Pacific Northwest. As of April 3rd, face masks are no longer required in Washington or Oregon healthcare facilities such as doctor's offices, clinics, hospitals, et al., unless of course you've got the Rona or some other nasty ass virus that could spew out of your mouth or nose like a disease loaded squirt gun. Since I am immersed in the healthcare industry (What? You thought I did this for a living?) this is a pretty big baby step in the direction of normalcy once again. I suppose we've gotten to the point of flattening that elusive curve and now for the most part we can see each other's faces again. For aesthetic reasons, some people should re-consider, but that's beside the point. I have been a frontline worker for quite some time even before Covid turned 19, masking and gloving up from Day One in the belief that I was protected from its spread into my fragile lil' system. The removal of said face protection is a relief but still nothing more than symbolic since I gave up wearing one in public long ago. On the job, I'm still erring on the side of caution, having cut back my maskings to about 50%, still donning them in urgent cares and pediatric clinics which are basically giant petri dishes with waiting rooms. In full disclosure, I am of a certain age and have a loved one who is also potentially at risk for whatever I bring home from the trenches, reason enough for me not to expose myself or anyone else for that matter to any airborne disease without personal protection equipment on my person. Of course them thar face coverin's, along with the vaxx, have been mandatory for my job. 

The mask itself has been the cause of many a heated debate since Day One and continues to be so. The mandate set forth requiring its usage in public places didn't sit right with a large chunk of said public. Wearing them restricted the rights of those who fear losing their rights the most as though they have the most to lose. After the lockdowns and vaccine requirements, small wonder why it's been such a hot button issue. In the early days of the plague, nobody knew anything, fumbling around in the dark to stop the spread of the bloody thing completely clueless as how to handle it. Most of the suggestions and/or restrictions were educated guesses for the uneducated masses. Washing hands seemed to be a fine idea for the great unwashed. Social distancing? Well, okay. I have personal space issues anyway, so it worked for me. (Back off, bozo!) Leaving your groceries outside for three days to kill the virus? Umm, sure. Anything leftover after the critters get into 'em is all yours...especially the perishables. 

Whatever they came up with was designed to make us safer or to give the perception of safety anyway. These government mandates were for the good of the public, not to exercise control just to see if they could. Well, maybe that last part has some truth to it after all. Look how many complied as opposed to those who resisted. The odds are in their favor unless this theory becomes fact. No wonder the nay-sayers went further out on the ledge of sanity, decrying the use of "face-diapers" as a rallying cry for the freedom fightin' few, the proud, the intolerant. 

On the other side, masks were felt to be necessary, no matter how irritating, especially in hot weather. Many tried to make the most of it by manning their sewing machines to create cloth masks for family, friends and foes alike, many creatively conceived , but eventually proven to be ineffectual. Of course, that information wasn't forthcoming at the time, so the gesture was deemed noble as opposed to ignorant. That this portion of the public was willing to help at all speaks volumes as opposed to the intolerant labelling them as "sheeple". Many of these "sheeple" were out risking their lives while you guys were sequestered at home in your Cheeto-stained Snuggies uploading endless YouTube videos about how Bill Gates flattened the Earth.

One of the very worst aspects of the mask mandate was its enforcement, making it the responsibility of businesses and operations that were struggling to remain open to the public in the midst of all this chaos. Those that didn't act in accordance to said directives were subject to fines and perhaps even closure in may cases. This forced us to fight among ourselves, a real novel way to take the heat off the Powers that Be. Essential workers: Heroes one minute, adversaries the next. Shameful.

The ramifications from all of this will be felt for the rest of our lives. There will be permanent scarring and wounds that may never heal, on physical mental, spiritual and practical levels. How are going to handle ourselves now that we're finally headed out the other side? And what's going to happen next time? In this day and age, nothing is more certain in this life than a sequel.

For now, the masks are off. So too are the gloves. Let the games begin...again.

Everything Oscar All at Once

For better and not for worse for a change, the 95th annual Academy Award presentation is behind us.

The Academy and probably the industry itself is touting that this is this year is a return to form which is fairly accurate. It resembled a ceremony from the pre-Covid era which made it one of the better productions of the last 5 years. Virtually drama free with lots of good feels for a change combined to make a better than average show or more accurately an average show which is better than it has been to be sure. Ratings were up so the Oscars live to fight another day before it too goes to streaming in a few years.

There were some clunkers to be sure. The lame-ass Cocaine Bear bit, for example, celebrating a modestly successful flash in the pan and a guarantee that fucking Elizabeth Banks isn't going away anytime soon. But the worst had to be the egregious promo for the live-action remake of The Little Mermaid that was shamelessly passed off on the live broadcast. Disney owns ABC which broadcasts the Oscars. Hence, Disney pimps away without an ounce of integrity. Hope they paid for that ad because otherwise, foul ball. 

But mostly, the show moved along quite well without the political speechifying that has drug down the proceedings as of late, not to mention whatever pass for comedy in the last decade. Lack of witty banter was displaced by sad ass fashion choices. (Really, Florence Pugh?) Jimmy Kimmel turned out to be in innocuous house once again making him pretty much safe for the masses and Hollywood in general. who can take a gentle ribbing, but the truth hurts these thin-skinned celebs, that's for sure. 

The lack of what passes for controversy this time around served to benefit the proceedings, no matter what you read on social media, though the rallying cries still echo. The call of "Oscars So White" rang hollow in 2023 mainly because it's already a tiresome cliche' to this Hollywood elite. No women directors again? C'mon, folks. Women Talking, directed by Sarah Polley, should have been a shoo-in at the very least. At least she got a writing trophy out of the deal. And the supposed Angela Basset snub? They still ain't tossing big awards out to the MCU no matter how much money they're still pulling in. As far as losing gracefully, so what? She bought into the hype, believing she was a lock. Didn't happen. Hey, at least she didn't walk out like Eddie Murphy did when he lost for Dreamgirls. These supposed outrages are all so typical of what flotsam and jetsam floats on the waves of the Internet, though I think many of them are perpetuated and drug out by publicists to keep the Oscar dialogue going long after the broadcast in a too desperate attempt to remain relevant as the rest of the world is on to the next pile of nonsensical bullshit with a sweep of their phones,

What was telling about this year's Academy Awards was the story of redemption all around. All four winners in the acting category or either comeback stories or validations of one sort or another. Brendan Fraser and Ke Huy Quan both had resurgences after long droughts in their careers. Jamie Lee Curtis proved she belonged at the table after years of peaking below the surface of stardom. And of course Michelle Yeoh made everybody stand up and listen to the fact that age doesn't matter especially for a woman in Hollywood. You'd better listen to her too or she'll kick your bleedin' ass. The Oscars itself had to redeem itself as well after last year's fiasco not to mention the doldrums it's been under for the past decade. The Everything Everywhere All at Once sweep brought a slew of fresh faces to the foray, all of them wanting to be there and to belong to this community that wouldn't have welcomed them a few years back. Their enthusiastic and genuinely emotional wins were infectious and ruled the night.

I'm frankly pleased that the Big Show (not the wrestler) was as decent as it was since this is my Oscars swan song on this format. (Okay, don't get all weepy on me.) After the last few years, these post-game wrap-ups of mine have felt more and more obligatory rather than anything heartfelt because frankly, my dear, my heart ain't in it no mo'. This year, I approached the Oscars with an near-sense of dread and geared up for another 3 and 1/2 hour hate watch. How insipid is that? My lifelong passion for all things film related have turned me into this grumpy old asshole who picks apart the proceedings like a scavenger bird launching into a corpse buffet. So this is it. I mean it this time. Honest. Even though I stated in last year's post featuring Slap Happy Pappy Will Smith's inglorious day in the Oscar sun was to be my own not so grand finale, this was meant to be a postmortem more than anything else.  So I'm packing my troubles in my old kit bag and backing away from the keyboard from what used to be my favorite time of year. It's rather similar to when I quit smoking. I swore I would give up cigarettes when they stopped tasting so damn good and I did. Same thing here. It's not like I'll stop watching. I just stopped caring.  Looking behind the curtain is a bittersweet proposition. That the 95th Oscars went out on a high (well, higher than usual) note takes a lot of the sting away for me and that is enough.

So Booyah for Hollywood once again. For me though, this is my last Booyah. They're playing me off.

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-Happy Trails

The Final Chapter of the Tule Flats Saga

Preparation for the 30 hour marathon weekend, the grand finale of the first season of the Tule Flats Ghost Town, were well on their way. We didn't add much more than we already had entertainment-wise, and, in retrospect, we should have done a lot more. Live music should have been an option and since it was Halloween, we could have had some sort of haunted attraction. But we had the rides, such as they were, movies in the hotel and of course, we had the gunfights scheduled to going we into the night. The thought of an after-midnight show really appealed to those of us who would have been partying heartily ourselves.  

For the last street shows of the year, I came up with a couple of newbies, the first written specifically for Grant-Lee Phillips as the Russian gunfighter character Two Gun Boris. ("I am Two Gun Boris"  "You on have one gun."  "Ha! Joke is on Boris!") It was a perfect showcase for Grant and I knew he would run with it. (I used this same character in my melodrama Song of the Lone Prairie, now Song of the Canyon Kid) The other was called The Return of the Gunfighter, a Halloween themed piece that had a pair of bullies picking on some town folk including a little kid whose father was a gunfighter who had been shot down a year before. When the kid cried, "You wouldn't do this if my pa was here!", that dead pa in question rises from the grave and shoots the two bullies down. He kisses his daughter goodbye and exits into the night. Now we needed a spectacular special effect for his entrance and subsequent exit, so Bill Humphreys came up with an idea that involved a line of gunpowder on a pair of 2x4s on either end of Main Street. When ignited, the first looked like a curtain and the zombie gunfighter (Jim Cusick dressed all in black as always) stepped through the smoke. When he left, the pyro went off after him, closing the curtain behind him. Awesome. Perfect for an evening performance. The main problem was that there wasn't a completed script because, given the time constraints, I ran out of time and felt the show could be an improv since one of our regular shows, The Boss, started that very same way. After a couple of rehearsals, I was confident enough that it would work. 

Another factor in this marathon weekend was the acquisition of a temporary license to sell beer in the town. It seemed like good idea at the time and certainly those of us that enjoyed a brew or several had no qualms about it. But when you're dealing with the general public, hoo boy. Watch this space.

That Saturday, the gates opened and we were well on our way. Attendance was way up and things went smoothly right up until about sundown. The debut of The Return of the Gunfighter went off with a lot of hitches. I was dealing with a pair of non actors in the roles of the bullies, one of which had a snoot on from dipping into the beer supply, a right he believed he had since he was one of the town's partners. As a result, the both of them had no clue what to do, jumped in far too early and basically made it a confusing mess, a major error on my part. The only things that saved it at all were those bloody special effects which got a rousing cheer from the large crowd but wasn't enough to appease my anger, mostly at myself for not being better prepared. 

Kid Blurry and Sheriff Max after hours (honest!)

As the night wore on, the brewski on tap was taking its toll on the patrons as they swiftly grew a little too rowdy and overbearing for us to wrangle.  When we staged our 10pm gunfight, the streets were packed with suds swillers left, right, over and above. We had to yell our lines at the top of our lungs to be heard, not by the audience but each other. Once that debacle was blissfully over, the decision was made to break up these boozehounds and even close to town at midnight, ending the 30 hour marathon concept. Most fols left peacefully, but the saloon was packed with inebriated owl hoots and had to be cleared.  This meant all hands on deck, so every cowboy available was ready to rustle this herd out the front gate, easier said than done. Ed Thorpe, now wearing Sheriff John's badge, thought it best to get everyone's attention by firing his pistol inside the building. Well, it sure brought everything to a halt alright until someone made an announcement along the lines of "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. It's closing time!" But once Ed holstered his weapon, a drunken yahoo behind him confiscated it. Cocking it, he waved the six-gun at everyone grinning like the goon that he was and backed out of the saloon onto Main Street, many of the cowboys stalking him, particularly Ed who seemed like he was ready to pistol whip this hombre once he retrieved his weapon. I had slid out behind this dipsy desperado, realizing like everyone else that this was spinning out of control fast. I have no idea what got into me but once he stepped out of the saloon and onto the street, I jumped onto his back pinning his arms to his side. He flung me back and forth, trying to throw me off but I held fast. Yee=ha! Ride 'em cowboy! This gave the other gunfighters enough time to finally snatch the gun away once and for all and said varmint was escorted off the premises along with the rest of his boozy compadres. The gates were locked for the night we went into lockdown until the regular opening time of High Noon for Day 2. 

A good steady flow of (blissfully sober) customers entered through the front gates of Tule Flats that last day of 1979. All went swimmingly after the near-boondoggle of the night before. The street shows in particular were going beautifully, especially the one (and only, for some reason) performance of Two Gun Boris. The success of that gunfight more than made up for the mess of the other new show the night before. That one may have had some spectacular fireworks to make up for its lack of anything else, but Two Gun Boris had Grant-Lee Phillips in the title role, the best special effect of all.

The last gunfight of the day and season was to be Saddle Drop, a gunfight that had been performed since day one of the original Ghost Town. I thought it was time to give this show a decent burial, a chestnut that had pretty much worn out its welcome as far as I was concerned, no matter what we added to it over time. For example, we added a bit when the sheriff gives his adversary a fighting chance by allowing him three free shots, knowing full well that he would miss which, of course, he does. The gags were usually a bell ringing for shot number one, a rubber chicken falling into the middle of the street for number two and a cowboy falling off the hotel onto a rigged wagon behind the bad guy for shot number three. But for the final shot that afternoon, bodies fell everywhere, the rest of the cowboys who weren't in the show and a few spare Ghost Town employees as well, one end of the street to the other all the way down to the hotel where, of course, somebody fell off the balcony one last time. Then everyone, the entire cast and then some, gathered together in the middle of the street in a circle, arms around each other and sang the great Roy Rogers classic "Happy Trails" for the audience, for ourselves and for the Ghost Town itself. 

And with that, Tule Flats Ghost Town rode off into the sunset after season numero uno. And while it reopened the next year, several changes had come down the pike. The four partners basically split up and a few key cast members had moved on, so the magic of 1979 had worn off, settling back into the way things used to be once again. Eventually, the town reverted back to the ownership of Neil Pollard, changing the name back to the original Pollardville Ghost Town as it remained until finally closing down altogether in 2007.  

The inaugural season of Tule Flats was actually a coda of my Freshman year at Pollardville University. So much of what I learned on the dusty streets of that town gave me the necessary tools to move on to the next chapter of my "academic" life including crowd work, comedic timing, character building, not to mention Writing and Directing 101. If it wasn't for the Ghost Town, I wouldn't have been able to accomplish what I did going forward. I still have my hat, holster and six-gun stashed away to remind me of who I was and always will be, a weekend cowboy through and through.

Happy trails to you until we meet again in the Ghost Town of my memory

The first five chapters of the Tule Flats saga, as well as other Pollardville stories from the Ghost Town and Palace Showboat can be found at:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

or individually:

THE BEGINNING

IN THE SUMMERTIME

THE ELECTION

I SHOT THE SHERIFF

OH, BLACK WATER

Toodle-loo, '22!

This year, a show called Reboot premiered on Hulu. It's quite good actually, all about a revival of a supposedly beloved TV sit-com and I highly recommend it. However, the concept pretty much sums up the year 2022 for me. It all felt like a reboot. Look what happened. Inflation, the overturning of Roe v. Wade,  another uselessly overblown mid-term elections which don't mean thing since neither side got much swing, the Russians taking a u-turn for the worst as our favorite villains of the modern age and bringing with them the threat of nuclear war and so one and so frigging forth. Yep, a reboot...and like most of them, not as good as the original.

I suppose it's what we should have expected as we struggle to find our way out of the Neverending Story known as the bloody Pandemic. We lost so much ground and haven't gained much back in return. Two steps forward, one step back. (Thank you, Paula Abdul) More often than not, the numbers are reversed. When are we ever going get back up where we belong? (When am I going to stop referencing pop songs to make a point?) The world is wound so tightly that it's a only a matter of time when it breaks down altogether. Again.

So what to do, kids? Well, it is that time of year (you know, the end?) when we think that a change of the calendar will wipe the slate clean and we can start fresh once more. And after a few weeks, sometimes merely days, we come to the realization that we're just fooling ourselves. Why else do we make resolutions that we don't keep? Sunday ain't gonna be much different than last Sunday, let alone the day before. It hurts to be futile about the future.

Is it hope? Is this all we have left to hang everything upon? Faith? Are we so obstinate that we won't give in no matter what? Or, plain and simply, are we all clueless?

All of the above. And I'm right there beside you because I'm guilty of the same. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me every single time...aw, leave me alone...

But right when I'm ready to surrender to the onslaught of negativity and find myself searching for a permanent home amongst the downtrodden, I slam on the brakes, dropping all pretense and recall the words my four year old granddaughter Athena bestowed upon me on our last visit to Denver.

"Whenever I have a bad time, I tell myself to get over it and I move on."

Four years old. 

Yesterday on my drive home, I listened to a song from someone I am proud to call my friend, the brilliant singer/songwriter Grant-Lee Phillips  That tune, "Walking in the Green Corn", the title track from the album of the same name, sums it all up for how I am entering 2023. Yep, another song reference, but this time with a purpose. 

I'm going in, ready to combat whatever comes my way with every bit of optimism and hope that I can muster up. After all, in order to thrive, you first have to survive and I'm in it for the long haul. 

What do I think will happen in 2023?

Who knows? I sure don't.

Time will tell.

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-Oh, Black Water

Following Sheriff John's passing after the Fourth of July, the summer season of Tule Flats Ghost Town flew by basically without incident. Attendance didn't seem to grow though it did level out to an acceptable fair to middling. Unfortunately, without substantial and sustainable financial growth, some amenities had to go by the wayside such as the ice cream parlor and the hamburger grill (aka Fine Victuals). Fortunately, these were the only two casualties of the first year.

A new character entered the fray, not exactly a carpetbagger but a gentleman that promised more than he could actually deliver. Since I became wary of this guy from the git-go, I dubbed him The Wiz, not because I felt he was a nefarious sort but I had my doubts. Then again, it wasn't my money he wanted to throw around. He pretty much led the four ghost town partners to believe he could provide a variety of small carnival style rides to coincide with the only real attraction that we had, that being the train. As it turned out, he only came up with a pre-existing rowboat that he tossed in the mossy pond, operating it as one would a gondola and the notoriously litigious piece of carnival history known as the Swinging Gym, also known as The Flying Cage. This apparatus required no electricity, solely operating under the power of physical exertion. A rider would enter the cage and rock it back and forth in hopes of sending it over the top. Pretty cool if you could do it, though stopping it was another thing entirely. With no padding, it was an all heavy metal experience and injuries were a definite possibility thanks to the laws of gravity and, you know, physics. This beastly contraption ended up sitting in the back corner by the costume shop and was only used by the likes of us. That wondrous boat ride lasted only a couple of weekends itself and became memorable thanks to Grant Phillips. Unbeknownst to anyone, he and a friend slipped into the pond and snuck up on the boat with their t-shirts over their heads, looking like creatures from the deep in a cheesy horror film. Basically, they scared the crap out of a couple of kids not to mention The Wiz himself. Maybe he actually Wizzed himself. 

DW Landingham, gunfighter

I still felt optimistic about the town since our gunfighter group contains an array of talented individuals including our newest member John Himle who remained maybe even longer than I did overall. There was an energy, creative and spiritually that was undeniable that really put everything in perspective for me as though this were indeed The Way. The extended family atmosphere also nourished and nurtured me, further giving me not only a purpose but a sense of belonging. I discovered actually wasn't alone in this world after all, a revelation that was a total switcheroo from the first part of that year. There is where I wanted and needed to be. When I physically wasn't, my thoughts remained even I took a weekend off to attend a friend's wedding in Philadelphia. I became distracted in my duties as Best Man when I noticed the time and wondered what gunfight was being performed at that point on the other side of the country.

Fall arrived and the first season was coming to an end soon. It had been decided the last weekend of operation before the onset of winter turned would be Halloween weekend. A major extravaganza had been planned to finish off the year. Tule Flats was going to remain open for 30 hours straight from opening at 12:00 noon Saturday up until 6:00 p.m. Sunday night. It was an ambitious undertaking with street shows going well into the night, though with some necessary restrictions. Blazing guns after midnight wasn't exactly in the cards let alone logical. However a midnight show was indeed possible and definitely scheduled.

For such an event, the word needed to get out beyond traditional means, so a promotion was arranged on a local morning TV show shot in at KOVR's downtown Stockton studio. A few of the townspeople, myself included, were due to appear along with Bill Humphreys and Grant Phillips performing The Doobie Brothers classic "Black Water" live on camera with the rest of us on backup. First of all, it made total sense for these two to take the lead, being the only real singers of this group with Bill also doing double duty as spokesperson for the town. But the rest of us? Yikes. All we had to do was echo the chorus, but in rehearsal it didn't get above a tuneless murmur.  It reminded me of that old SNL sketch with Tonto, Tarzan and Frankenstein singing "Deck the Halls". I decided to bring a tambourine even if I have all the rhythm of a garden snail. I figured anything would help. And another thing, we weren't planning any music for the big extravaganza, so wasn't this, in a way, false advertising? Whose idea was this, The Wiz

And of course, after rehearsing the number the night before, we fell into our increasingly bad habits of partying hard into the night with some not very serious libations. It was enough to give this group of buskers a collective hangover, except of course, Grant, being the young 'un that he was and professional he was certain to be. We arrived at the studio in a fog, totally low-key for our segment that Bill and Grant knocked out of the park while the rest of us murmured our parts and I pounded my tambourine on my leg inexplicably in time with the music, its irritating cadence ringing through my pained skull like the bells of Notre Dame, not to mention anyone else, suffering as I was from the Brown Bottle Flu. That was some funky Dixieland, that's for sure. 

Oh, Black Water, kept us rollin', Mississippi moon smilin' down on us all the way toward the Grand Finale yet to come.

Next up: The Final Chapter-HAPPY TRAILS

FOR PREVIOUS POSTS OF TULE FLATS OR RELATED POLLARDVILLE STORIES,  PLEASE VISIT MY PAGE: TALES FROM THE VILLE

Goodbye, Dummy!

 This is a reprint of a post from 2017 that should have gotten some more eyes, in my not-so-humble opinion, which carries a lot of weight here because, well, it's my blog and I'll re-post if I want to.

Mr. Warmth has passed away at the age of 90 years old.

To many of you, especially in this golden age of ageism, the only acceptable form of prejudice left in the world, his death is insignificant. "So what? Another old fart croaked. What's on Netflix?" But since the majority of you have no sense of history beyond five minutes ago, you have no idea that there has been a major shift in the timeline as the end of an era has occurred.

But who cares. right? Time passes. So does wind.

The bottom line is that Don Rickles made me laugh longer and harder than anyone for my entire life. It's rare to find someone, especially in comedy, that you found funny when you were young that could still have the same effect years later. Look at Jerry Lewis. I was a rabid fan as a kid, but as I grew older myself, not so much. Maybe my perceptive would have changed if I was French. "Mon dieu! That voice when he yells 'Lady!' Magnifique!"

But Rickles fractured and slayed me every time. His appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson or The Joey Bishop Show were major events that I anticipated with as much excitement as I would if The Beatles showed up on Ed Sullivan. (the show, not the man) Years later, he was just as hilarious on Letterman, Leno, Kimmel or anywhere for that matter. Sure, he was slower, but his mind hit more cylinders than you and I will ever have. His insulting shtick was spontaneous and in the moment, relying more on improv than set material.

With Rickles gone, so too is the age of Show Biz Classic, a performer that wears a tuxedo un-ironically and gives 100% to an audience each and every time. Some of it came with a layer of schmaltz, but that was to soften whatever ill will that be be conceived from his act. The man had a work ethic that wouldn't quit, right up until the very end, just like the late Joan Rivers. Rickles has a talk show series in the can, did voice work for the next Toy Story and had bookings in Vegas as well as across the country he won't be able to make, but would if he could. Now THAT's old school.

Don Rickles represented show business how I always wanted it to be, though I know full well the reality is a lot starker beyond the lights, tinsel and gloss. But so what? It kept the fantasy alive and the laughs right on a-comin'. And for me, that meant everything and always will.

So long, ya hockey puck.

For more about Don Rickles, check out the Emmy winning documentary directed by John Landis,
Mr. Warmth: The Don Rickles Project
and the fantastic book, The Comedians: Drunks, Scoundrels and the History of American Comedy by Kliph Nesteroff

Of Mice and Me

So much for the best laid plans. 

I've come to the decision to bring my unfortunately short time as a playwright representative to a close. Therefore I am no longer handling Michael K. Young's CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS CRAVAT or Terry Smith's trio of scripts MURDER ON THE BRITISH EXPRESS, PROPOSAL IS MURDER and MOONSHINE MURDERS. These two gentlemen have been very accommodating and patient throughout this process and I tip my non-existent cap to them. 

So what happened? Or should I ask what didn't happen? In recent years, I've had some success marketing my own scripts independently basically one theater at a time, a time-tested method that worked for me, hence the two dozen productions that I've had for my work. However it didn't translate very well with properties that were not my own. Try as I might, I was spinning my wheels and not gettin' nowhere for my clients. It wasn't that the entire enterprise was a total botch. I was able to score Mike a couple of productions in that time, but in the past year, it's quite frankly been a struggle. What started as a side hustle had devolved into a side hassle. My times at bat became a series of walks, fouls and complete whiffs, so if I felt it best that I bench myself and set my two fellow scribes free. It's a damn shame because I wanted to do this for some time, hopefully growing this into a self-sustaining business in these, what I hesitate to call, my twilight years. (Now what? A greeter at Wal-Mart? I hate blue vests!)

My own work was suffering as well. I have several projects sitting on an metaphorical shelf, collecting dust bunnies in the hutch that is my mind. My already established properties have also languished, taking a backseat to my agent responsibilities,  a perceived conflict of interest, though my plays have always been part of what I pompously called "my catalog of titles". Even though three of my scripts have been published by Off the Wall Plays, sales have never got beyond the flatline and I find the need to continuing to market these suckers myself for the honor and privilege of legitimacy. And my long-gestating book has already turned from a lifelong obsession into an albatross the size of a emu around my neck.

OFF THE WALL PLAYS

The time has come to revert back into my previous incarnation as a Charley Varrick wannabe (aka Last of the Independents). So I have to concentrate on my first, but last remaining client-ME.  My other sites-MURDER, MELODRAMA AND MORE! will remain as I add more content of my plays 'n stuff, not to mention but I will anyway, the mothership, WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY and the FB page of the same name.

MURDER, MELODRAMA AND MORE!

WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY FACEBOOK PAGE

Should an interest in Mike and Terry's interactive murder mystery scripts, feel free to contact me at: writtenbysc@gmail.com and I will forward your information to them.

As a personal note to Mike and Terry, thanks again for allowing me to be your playwright representative for the last little while. I hope you wish me the best of luck in my future endeavors because, unironically, that it what I wish for you guys.

Adios, amigos.

 

Tales from the Ville: Tule Flats-I Shot the Sheriff

Photo by Edward Thorpe

Back in that first year of Tule Flats, we played fast and loose with the age-old gunfights we performed for the semi-masses out, on Main Street. One of these known as "Poker Chip" had the main antagonist gun down the sheriff. Aghast, the Storekeeper cries out:

"You shot the sheriff!"

Someone, I'm not sure who only that it wasn't me, adlibbed, in song:

"But I did not shoot the deputy!"

I don't think Sheriff John Hoffman got that joke. Then again, he was on the ground anyway and probably for the most part, didn't get a lot of what we tried to pass for humor that year. And it didn't mean a damn thing to him anyway.

Such was Sheriff John. As long as you didn't mess with him, try to throw him off or try to give him something to do that would alter his well-worn character, he went along with it. 

John was such an iconic figure that it seemed like the whole town was built around him. But as the story goes, Neil Pollard had visited Frontiertown amusement park at the Big Oak ranch in El Cajon, California and stopped dead when he saw John for the very first time. He couldn't get over how much he looked like Richard Boone, starring at the time in Have Gun, Will Travel and couldn't take his eyes off him. According to John, he thought Neil was perhaps into cowboys, but in a different way if'n y'all catch my drift. (Actually, John was more blunt than that.) Neil finally approached him and wanted to hire him away to be the sheriff of his own place up in Stockton and the rest was Ghost Town history.

That Town Bum was Neil Pollard

When I met him, I got the same impression as literally thousands of others that passed through the gates of the town did: Sheriff John scared the crap out of me. I chronicled this in an earlier post:

THE VILLE-PART TWO

Once I became a gunfighter and fixture in the town myself, John wouldn't admit it, but he was kind of fond of me in his own inimitable way, calling me "Knucklehead" (pronounced Knuckhaid in his drawl). For awhile, there were only the three gunfighters in the town-Sheriff John, Fast Fester (who ran the saloon) and me. Since we didn't have any set schedule of when to perform, I always wanted to put on a show no matter if what size audience we had, sometimes as low as five people much to the chagrin of the other two. I came up with a gunfight where I did all the talking, pitting the two of them in a showdown for my amusement. In the end, they both gunned me down, stole my money and went into the saloon together for a drink. They loved this show...obviously. It became known as "The Quick Show" and it became to go-to as far as John and Fester were concerned. What did I care? I got to be the star of show. Once the three of us were asked to attend a Girl Scout day camp at Micke Grove. As for what show should we do, the majority-my two pals-ruled. "The Quick Show!" Since I was all of maybe seventeen at the time, skinny as a rail and cute as a button (if you consider clothes fasteners attractive), I somehow became a teenage idol, at least to this gathering pre-adolescents. Once The Quick Show had finished and I lay on the grass shot by the other two, I found myself surrounded by a swarm of Girl Scouts. Suddenly, they became a bit aggressive and I did the only thing I thought I should do-run for my life. They gave chase immediately, screaming at the top of their lungs. I felt like all four Beatles wrapped into one with their rabid female fans in hot pursuit. I called out to John and Fester for help, but they were too amused to lend a hand. 

My favorite Sheriff John story was during "Poker Chip" when I played the Storekeep. Neil had just that day given me a new straw hat (made out of styrofoam). At the end of the gunfight, Fester shoots at my feet and runs me into the saloon. As he did, he broke a board in the porch and down he went down hard. Fester being a large man of considerable weight, should not having been doing any sort of stunt work whatsoever.  I rushed over to him to see if he was okay when he just laughed at me.  I thought he hit his head on the way down and was delirious, but he said, "You better start laughing too because here's your hat" as he pulled my crushed bonnet from under his enormous ass. Shocked I went to the sheriff and bawled like Stan Laurel. "John! Look what he did to my hat!" John snatched it away, stuck it on my head and consoled me. "Oh, it's alright." Then he pulled the brim down on either side over my ears, destroying it once and for all. Neil did not give me a replacement.

When I returned to the town for the Tule Flats resurgence, John seemed relieved that both Ed and I were part of this "new" crew as well as DW since he wasn't one for change. When I took over as Entertainment Director, I felt it best, just like Dennis did, to allow John to be John. Let him do his own thing as well as his same roles without variation. That left it up to the rest of us and try some new things. Doing the same bits over and over, I loosened the tethers probably a bit too much to allow for some variation and experimentation. Grant and Bob Gossett found a couple of paper mache bird heads from the Showboat to become a pair of chicken cowboys in "Saddle Drop".  A line of dialogue they added was: "Who's your favorite composer?" "Bach-Bach-Bach!" Another time Grant (once again) and I crammed a bunch of clothing in the back of our pants to give us giant butts, maybe as a homage to my old friend Fester, for the same gunfight. It was purely a visual, but it went over well. Not everyone thought so, particularly Ed. We got into a heated argument over this, he being more of a purist at that time, unwilling to improvise at these curve balls we threw. But John was another matter. After the "Big Butt Saddle Drop", he held up his hand to me and said, "Don't even talk to me." I was momentarily crestfallen as I watched him amble  away to sit on the porch of the Assay Office. He then looked up at me, began to chuckle and shook his head as if to say "You fuckin' kids..." 

We had many an after hour get-together once the town closed with beer and booze a'flowin', so much so that it became a regular part of the day. At first, John didn't indulge and let us be as long we didn't keep him up at night when he claimed he'd shoot our asses, but as  time went by, he joined in. Sometimes maybe a little too much. His health, particularly his ticker, wasn't in the best working order. His chain-smoking of Bull Durham cigarettes, the gnarliest, nastiest tobacco on the planet, sure as hell didn't help. And long as I had known him, John took nitroglycerin pills. Whenever I saw him pop one, I'd wonder if he'd emit a little puff of smoke.

The weekend after the Fourth of July blowout, he wasn't feeling too perky, so he took that Friday and Saturday off  from the town. I visited him up in the apartment Neil built in the hotel, just as I had several times before in the off-hours. He'd tell me stories about his time in Missouri where he grew up and the various ghost towns he worked in like Silver Dollar City in Branson and the like. I even asked him some advice about women which became nothing more than really "Quit worryin' so much and just have some goddamn fun." For 24 year old me, that was sage stuff. That was the last time I saw him.

The following Friday morning, John's body was discovered on the floor of his apartment and, yep, it was said that he died with his boots on. That evening was a rough one. Ed was pretty much beside himself, going off on John's ex-wife who claimed was there to pick over his belongings like a hungry vulture. I ventured up those hotel stairs in pretty much of a daze myself, not believing this Rock of Gibraltar had come tumbling down.

We arrived as we always had to open the town the next day, though nobody's heart was in it. The decision was made to stay closed until the next weekend, but nobody left. We sat on the porches in silent mourning. I took a walk out back to collect my thoughts, all the way to what we called the back 40 when I saw what looked like smoke. Upon investigation, the brush out by the KWIN radio tower was indeed aflame and heading our way.  I ran back to get help from the pack of sad cowpokes in the town and together, we put that sucker out. The whole time, I kept thinking what John used to say some days in frustration. "I'll burn this goddamn place some day." Was this the day? Turned out, it wasn't.

The decision to bury John in Missouri didn't go over too well with us. We were denied the chance to say goodbye, no funeral, memorial or even a viewing of the body. It left a bitter taste in our mouths which we tried to wash down with too many pitchers of beer. Inebriation always brings out the best laid plans of drunken men, so of course we came up with a solution to satisfy our selfish grieving souls. Much like what happened to the corpse of John Barrymore, we'd steal John's body from the funeral parlor that was used as a way station before he was transported to Hannibal, Mo. and, what? Bury him in the Ghost Town? Where, the graveyard at the edge of Main Street? The Back 40? Backstage at the Showboat?  It obviously wasn't very well thought out beyond the body snatching, though it did get as far as Greg Dart and I going on a reconnaissance mission to the funeral parlor to scope out a way in and, hopefully, out. We weren't very lucky in our efforts and abandoned this stupid idea when we returned, a good thing because, as we discovered later, John was long gone. His body had been shipped off that morning. Level heads didn't exactly prevail. Fate took pity on our dumbass selves.

To compensate, we had our own memorial soon after.  We dug a an empty grave with a beautiful marker Jim Cusick with the words "Shoot straight and cut the bullshit" emblazoned on the bottom. A few of us spoke, then placed some items to commemorate him. I tossed in some of his nudie mags and the little tin badges he'd hand out to the kids. Two sides of the same coin. The original marker was apparently stolen over time, replaced by another that kept the bull but deleted the shit. At least they named a building after him-Hoffman House-in the town next to the Gazette office, which housed the same teardrop trailer he brought with him from El Cajon, a place mainly of us utilized that became the stuff of legends. 'Nuff said.

Sheriff John was larger than life, ornerier than shit and definitely one of a kind, at least in my lifetime. The memories I have of him roll through like the tumblin' tumbleweed he truly was, the one real cowboy out of all the poseurs we had in Pollardville/Tule Flats Ghost Town and that includes myself.  He had big boots to fill when he passed and no one was could quite fill them. Don't know why they ever tried. 

On my final visit to the Ghost Town, I sat by myself on the bench outside the saloon. I swore that I could hear his growling drawl spouting dialogue from one of the gunfights. Maybe I wanted to hear him so I did, the remembrance of a true character that reverberates to this very day and undoubtedly always will mainly because I want to and always will.

Don't think I could say the same about the deputy.

Next up: Chapter Five-OH, BLACK WATER

MORE STORIES OF TULE FLATS AND POLLARDVILLE STORIES AT:

TALES FROM THE VILLE

Not on This Night

As I watched NOT ON THIS NIGHT, the latest offering from Stage Wright Films, it brought to mind a time when plays were a mainstay on television screens and, therefore, more accessible to the public eye. While the Golden Age of Television with its Playhouse 90 presentations, among others, featured A-listers before and behind the camera honing their craft in a new medium, was before my time (a claim I can still make, thank you very much), I do recall later shows like the Hallmark Hall of Fame which did the very same thing, albeit in color. Stage Wright brings that format back and updating it in the process with its emphasis on the fusion of both theater and cinema rather than a filmed performance of a play. 

NOT ON THIS NIGHT is a fine example of this, shot within the confines of a theater stage (in this case, the Rochester Opera House in Rochester, New Hampshire) utilizing cinematic techniques that go beyond the fourth wall of the theater. Primarily set at the end of World War II, an opening battle sequence best illustrates this style, both minimalistic and impressionistic, making the experience much more personal and dream-like-or rather, that of a nightmare. 

The plot of NOT ON THIS NIGHT, adapted from the play by Evelyn L.Y. Jones, is simplicity personified yet is almost secondary as the underlying emotions and philosophic ramifications give it a complexity that lies underneath the entire piece. In the midst of the Battle of the Bulge, two soldiers from opposing sides-one German, one American- are separated from the units and confront each other in the home of a young French woman, living alone amidst the horrors lying outside her door.  The night in question is Christmas Eve and the grace shown to these two by the woman cause them to lay down their arms for an ad hoc ceasefire, finding solace in the heat of battle and, eventually, regain their humanity in the process. These three represent the casualties of war, each experiencing the loss of innocence, comrades and loved ones, disillusionment and witnessing events that would bring them to the breaking point until, in the calm, they find the hope to not only survive, but to thrive. 

Director Bill Humpheys combines these elements together to create a piece that lingers long after its telling. At one point, Jacqueline, the French woman relates a tale to the two soldiers that occurred on a similar Christmas Eve during the First World War when enemy combatants came together as one just as they had that night. Unfortunately, the fighting resumed the next day as though it never happened. The question of whether history will repeat itself in this instance lends a subtle element of suspense, adding yet another layer that sustains throughout. The strong cast of Judith Feingold, Preston Mead and CJ Voteur all shine in individual moments while ably supporting each other to make this an exemplary three-hander. Production values are exceptional all around, elevating the film even higher.

There are a few bumps along the way, primarily in the last third. A transitional montage begins with an unnecessary recap of previous scenes. There is also a time-jump in the story that is not reflected in the actors or set dressing. But if its purpose is to avoid unconvincing age make-up, it's a pretty fair trade-off.

The strengths of NOT ON THIS NIGHT override those quibbles with its compassionate storytelling and convincing portrayals to delivers its message in a profound, touching and humane manner, one that transcends its time period. Its subject matter is as current as today’s headlines and could be transplanted anywhere in the world since war is still a way of life, a way of death and peace that can be achieved anytime of the year, not just on Christmas Eve. NOT ON THIS NIGHT could have been a perfect fit for a Golden Age of Television anthology program and perhaps could have been a perennial offering, though it can-and should-be viewed anytime of the year.

To buy or rent NOT ON THIS NIGHT, please visit STAGE WRIGHT FILMS

And if I can't convince you, check out how many accolades NOTN has thus far.

Twenty Years of Thumbs

I first heard the phrase "please hold thumbs" from the South African would be my son-in-law.

Since I had never heard this before, he told  me it was "something we do for luck". In other words, it's the equivalent of crossing one's fingers. Does it work? Well, as the expression goes, time will tell. In this case, that time is ten years long.

Two entire decades has passed since my wife Laurie and I took the definitive adventure of our concurrent lifetimes when we traveled to the other side of the world just to attend a wedding. Of course, it wasn't just any wedding, but that of my brilliant and beautiful daughter Lindsay to that South African triatheletic motormouth love of her life, Chris.

That 11 day long saga going from here (Portland, OR) to there (South Africa) became the basis of my book,  PLEASE HOLD THUMBS, a tome I am proud to call my very own. This is the tale of the ultimate Cherney Journey, one that included an honest-to-garsh safari (with amorous lions and pissed off elephants), air travel troubles I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies (well...maybe) and The Main Event, the most extraordinary nuptials ever. For a place I wasn't sure I ever wanted to be in the first place, South Africa got under my skin and into my soul.

What started out to be a mere vanity project (What I Did on My Summer Vacation zzzzz....) evolved into something else entirely over time. I came to realize that PLEASE HOLD THUMBS at its core was a love story. Naturally that included Lindsay and Chris' whirlwind romance, but also the love I have for my wife, family and even finding a way to love myself, probably the toughest pill of all to swallow. I finally came to terms with my place in the world and discovered that it's all a matter of perspective. I also realized that the journey ain't over 'til it's really over.

So what about that "luck" thing? 

At the end of July, Lindsay and Chris will celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary, a milestone that must be shouted to the heavens. Their union has produced their best collaboration possible, the loves of my life, our granddaughters, Aefa, my theater girl with the golden eyes and the fierce warrior peanut herself, Athena. The love story continues.

Consider this a biased testimony, but as far I'm concerned, holding one's thumbs works.

I should do it more often.

Me in Kruger Park back at the turn of the century

I have several excerpts from said book on this here blog, all gathered together on the page I cleverly called CHERNEY JOURNEYS

Individually, they are:

OH, THAT'S NICE!
The first chapter in full

HURRY UP AND WAIT

The painful three day trip from Portland to Johannesburg

A DEMON MARCHES TO PRETORIA

A little something called a Tokoloshe visited me in my dreams

DOWN MEXICO WAY

A side-trip to Tijuana when I was a young 'un

BAD KITTY
The amazing safari in Kruger Park

For anyone who has an interest in reading the whole story go to:

PLEASE HOLD THUMBS ON AMAZON KINDLE

But, most importantly, because without the two of them, this grand adventure would never have transpired...

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, LINDSAY AND CHRIS!