Curt

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 10

MESCAL, AZ -- Viewers of "Tombstone" may recognize this cottage as the residence of Kurt Russell. My wife certainly did, posing behind the picket fence for a quaint, must-have photograph.

I know the rustic home was her favorite area of our visit to the movie location. She said as much. We've been married long enough for me to interpret her guttural "poxes upon Goldie Hawn" as "Golly, that was the swellest!"

I, however, take the opposite view. I've felt an affinity for Miss Hawn since high school, so when our guide mentioned she had visited the set, I perked up. I whipped out my emergency tin of pomade and nearly broke a tooth on the trusty GEM pocket comb while trenching a coiffure part in my newly and neatly paralleled flaxen locks.

I ran up onto the porch and posed myself in provocative moods in case Miss Hawn returned. I thought the styling with my back to the door, palms on the woodwork, and left leg bent at the knee, discount sneaker on the knob, was especially alluring.

When the flimsy door flung open, I flew through the house, landing light as a heifer with my head thrust inside the spring section of a moldy, threadbare sofa. Yet -- like all good men of the west -- I was still on my feet.

Although stooped and stuck, I kept my dignity, persuading myself Miss Hawn is a hiney woman.

I held this stance for a quarter hour, waiting for Goldie.

I spent the interval feeling a bit guilty for telling folks my hair is flaxen. True, it has grayish tones. The blondness disappeared in boyhood. I decided she'd never know the difference under all the goop, now festooned with chicken feathers and mites.

Fifteen minutes was also how long it took for the fireworks display to end inside my head and seat cushion.

I don't know what Donna sees in Kurt Russell. What is it with women and him? Donna, Goldie, and ... and ...

We met during my first real job, selling candy at a movie theatre. I was a natural for the business, eagerly grasping the trade. I was on my way. I was 14. Time for a spouse.

There was a pretty cashier my age who I yearned desperately to notice me. She adored Kurt Russell. He's all she talked about.

"Kurt. Kurt. Kurt. He's so cute. Cute Kurt. Cute Kurt. Cute Kurt."

Cute Kurt flirt. Cute Kurt flirt. Cute Kurt flirt.

That's all she was. It was very off-putting and took away from my valuable time learning how to water down Cokes.

Cute Kurt flirt hurt. Cute Kurt flirt hurt. Cute Kurt flirt hurt.

When we showed his picture, Walt Disney's "Follow Me, Boys," I think the girl simply melted away because there was someone else selling tickets by the end of the week. The replacement lady was older, droning on about Fred MacMurray this, Fred MacMurray that.

I wasn't so much bothered by her chatter, as I had, gallantly, moved on, busy mastering how to serve drinks with my thumb in the cup.

It's always fun to reminisce, but I HAD TO GO! Donna insisted I return to the tour, which I did, after jogging out to the car to grab the metal detector. Miss Hawn might have dropped an earring in the dirt. If and when she materialized, I aimed to please.

Sure, it had been 10 years since her visit to "Tombstone." I reckoned she was due.

I never did find any jewelry, but I did come up with a rivet used to weld Jack Palance's smirk together.

Alas, Goldie stood me up. Our group would be globetrotting to the highway shortly thereafter.

As I shuffled over the Mescal grounds, I cursed Kurt Russell for what he did to my girls. I even remembered the first time I saw him. I was in the front row at a 1963 flick, "It Happened at the World's Fair." He's the bratty kid who gives Elvis Presley's leg a swift boot.

And now, honest to goodness, just this moment, as I'm writing, I surfed over to The Internet Movie Database to check a date. There, in Kurt Russell's filmography for "It Happened at the World's Fair," he's listed in the role of "Boy Who Kicks Mike."

Some things never change.

Next: Chapter 11 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett. All rights reserved.

Holy Roller

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 9

MESCAL, AZ -- The church is the only movable building on the film lot and has been wheeled into various positions around the acreage for productions reported to include "Little House on the Prairie."

Michael Landon's previous television program, "Bonanza," also captured scenes at Mescal.

Coincidentally, I'm working on a spin-off of Landon's series, "Highway to Heaven." It's about agnostics: "Uncharted Path in the Dark to the Roundabout at the Fork in the Road."

Next: Chapter 10 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett. All rights reserved.

Newman's Own Sauce

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 8

 
MESCAL, AZ -- While making "The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean" (1972), Paul Newman took a bath on this porch.

Gee, you'd think a big star like that would have his own trailer.

Next: Chapter 9 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Mescal Judge Roy Bean building photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett; Mescal Judge Roy Bean tub photo copyright ©2003-2004 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved.

Tummy Trouble

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 7

Email is buzzing today. It so happens my travelogue is attracting interest. Folks want to know more about my paunch. Several requested a blowup, yet I don't see how that is quite necessary. I am, however, delighted to learn I'm such an enthralling spokesperson for the scenic Old West.

Alright, first a disclaimer: In this OK Corral photo enlargement, objects may be hungrier than they appear.

As with my hair, I'm also sporting my first zany stomach of the trip. Collect the whole series. I call this one: "What Happened?"

When this pot shot was taken, I weighed 190 pounds, wet. That's another story. I'll never chug a Big Gulp and sneeze again.

As I write this entry, I've ballooned another five percent. The good news: I'm 200 pounds of chewy, nougat center.

I may have to curtail Happy Hours at the all-you-can-eat Mars Bars Bar.

And might I interject, I think it's rude -- and redundant -- for people to snicker when I'm Snickers snockered.

*sigh*

And all these young cameras today! With their wild technology and tight chips. Look at 'em, tiny, very tiny. You can't hide behind these young punk cameras anymore. I need one of those humongous "King Kong" cameras from the '30s with the gigantic flashbulb attachment. Those things were two-fisted, hernia-inducing huge! I could hide my flab behind a "King Kong" camera for sure. And a bottle of Pert and some thumbtacks to fix my Ed Grimley hair. There'd be plenty of room to stash away that stuff, maybe a KitKat. Life would be swell. Delicious.

Young punks.

Next: Chapter 8 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Photo copyright ©2003-2004 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved.

Ranch Dressing

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 6

MESCAL, AZ -- We resumed the sightseeing with me leading the charge to the centerpiece for the famous gunfight, as seen in "Tombstone," The OK Corral.

Not to be negative, but "OK"?

I don't think so. That's a stretch. The more appropriate name would be The Feigning Adequacy Corral.

Oddly enough, in the reverse view, back here where I'm standing, it's known as The KO Corral.

In addition to the reproduction of the legendary shootout of 1881, another important moment was captured by a camera on this spot. Look closely, I do believe this day was the very last time I ever tucked a T-shirt into my pants.

I'm a slave to the fashionistas. I admit it.

I've been eyeing one of those Jethro Clampett rope belts. Mmmm, gee, I dunno, maybe. Christmas is coming. We'll see.

Nevertheless, ever since, my extra-large tees and polo tops flow loosely, allowing me comfort and contemporary styling. I can also permit myself to be seen in profile, as the slimming effect is amazing.

Children no longer run to mommy claiming the mean old man poked their wittle eyes out with his stomach. I look sharp and legal fees are nil.

I'm also sporting my first zany hairdo of the trip. Collect the whole series. I call this one "Ed Grimley: The Senility Years," I must say.

There's more to gaze on this 60 acre tract, but all I know is it's hot and I'm parched. My kingdom for a Slearpee.

Next: Chapter 7 | Rewind to Chapter 1

OK Corral photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett; photo with Mike copyright ©2003-2004 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved.

The Goods, the Cad, and the Buggy

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 5

MESCAL, AZ -- I limped and wobbled and crawled to rejoin my group. I like to mix it up.

The gang had disappeared into the dense, wavy heat lines beyond a vacant 19th century storefront, the one with the "Coming Sluggishly: KINKO'S" sign in the window.


I discovered the lost trio of associates all giggles in the parking lot hidden behind the livery stable. They were surprised to see me, quite busy themselves, rummaging through my suitcase.

My wife and friend explained that much like we were interested in perusing Mescal's western movie sets, our guide was fascinated with historic Fruit of the Looms and sport shirts of the east.

"Hand 'em back," I said.

The stranger gave me my fancy togs and narrowed his gaze at Donna. "Hand 'em back," he said.

My devoted spouse unclutched a wad of bills and costume beads onto his outstretched palm.

"Do you miss the pirate's plume and shoulder parrot?" asked Stan, faithful chum.

"No," I whispered, for today I was a man. Who knew what a shower and tomorrow would bring.

The tour guide unclutched a wad of bills and costume beads onto Stan's outstretched palm.

In profile, Stan resembled a cartoon Road Runner in the Arizona glare and swelter. Donna removed the enormous blue feather from his rear pocket and stuck it in the piping of the guide's black Marshall's hat. For a makeshift crow's nest, she crammed the parrot plush doll into his holster.

Happy with this frontier trade, he went off double cocked towards main street, one hand on his piece, the other on his bird.

As he scurried away, almost lost in the sounds of the desert, I heard a hearty "Aargh. Avast, ye Rykers."

After a pow-wow beside our vehicle, we pardners came to an understanding.

--No, wait, after Donna dusted me off with a weathered barn plank, we came to an understanding.

--No, wait, after Stan attempted to drive away with my lass and Ralph Laurens, dumping me in a crumpled heap in a handicapped parking space without a valid sticker, we came to an understanding.

Donna kissed me tenderly.

Stan offered me his hand and unclutched a wad of bills and costume beads onto my outstretched palm.

I smiled at our new beginning and at these two, who anticipated my exhibition of the van key, tucked safely inside the pouch of the historic F. O. T. Looms I wore this bad day.

Let them stew. I wasn't ready to get the Dodge out of hell.

Next: Chapter 6 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett. All rights reserved.

Mean Street

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 4

MESCAL, AZ -- A pleasing, ebullient breeze fluttered the prop western movie town. We strolled amongst celluloid memories, snapping film to remember films.

These double hotel doors were familiar. I envisioned Val Kilmer in profile as Doc Holliday against the wall, drawing a cigarette, coughing a lung. I had to stop and get a picture for you kids.

Seconds later, Tombstone was under siege.

As I passed the alleyway leading to the Blacksmith's dilapidated shed, that aforementioned nemesis tumbleweed swirled through a second story hotel window, hit the porch rooftop, and bounced directly into my face, recently repinked, but now white with fear and bent for revenge.

I clutched the beast with a fierce determination to end his rampage here and now. We tossed and turned, turned and tossed. Once, we shimmied and arabesqued.

Pity. I could have grown to love this brute.

It was a nice beating you can dance to.

I tripped on a horseshoe. It occurred to me it had been worn by a pony. The training wheels were rusty.

We collapsed. The feverish battle advanced into the hot dirt. Our worlds forever changed, a waste of a perfectly good sponge soothing.

"I'm gonna kill you, Ryker," I said, soft and raspy. My spittle morphed bruised lips and grit into mud.

Special Added Enhancement! Listen Here!

We continued to fight, a beautiful day slipping by. Desperate and most frantic to regain my edge, I employed a medley of wiles to free feisty fingers, thatched and tangled within the attacker's relentless mass of roots. Progress was within reach, if only I could rescue a thumb. Yet, which one? It was Sophie's Choice.

But without the Nazis and Sophie.

But with a tumbleweed and thumbs and no Streep-throated accent.

Crazed thoughts like these shrieked through my head, while my whole life flashed before my eyes, except shown in VistaVision retakes starring Ken Weatherwax, TV's Pugsley.

I was nuts with the gnashing and the social faux pas. Truly, I did not know the tumbleweed's name. In a town like this, "Ryker" seemed a safe choice. I'd speak of it with the parson.

An upswing in the downwind propelled our intertwined forces to roll along in a kinetic, snowless ball to the end of the block. We came to a halt in front of the undertaker's shoppe, all spent and tattered. I choked for air. There was silence from the unholy mess resting on my nose, wrasslin' and pinning my thumbs.

I opened my eyes.

"Oh, my god," I gasped.

I've had dramatic training.

The tumbleweed was not a tumbleweed. It was unspeakably horrendous, exactly as seen in MGM's "Dirty Dingus Magee," shot on this very same turf. I was looking into the roots of Sinatra's wig, one of the worst of all time and, certainly, the most vile and vicious.

Ryker the Toupee had been left behind decades ago to forever revolve across this desolate earth.

If a hairpiece could talk, there would be stories of the Rat Pack, and dames.

And Jack Daniels, and chicks.

And Marvy combs, and Old Blue Eyes' Old Salmon Scalp.

What a cruel existence. A discarded clump of hair, while breathtakingly ugly, has feelings, too. I flipped him to a bird.

Between searing newfound back pain, skinned elbows, and 34-year-old The Dry Look fumes, I struggled to rise.

My camera was unharmed, fortunately, packaged in a protective casing. I removed it from the pouch and took this exposure of The Mean Street.

In the right foreground, a prominent image from "Dirty Dingus Magee." That's the bordello, as I recall.

Down the road at the far left, the Tombstone Saloon.

On the horizon, three figures.

The tour guide, my gal, and the friend -- who left me for dead.

Next: Chapter 5 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Street photo copyright ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett. Hotel photo copyright ©2003-2004 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved.

'Stoned

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 3

MESCAL, AZ -- My travel companions explained our whereabouts and the space-time continuum to me. I should've consulted the itinerary.

We were not, as I had originally suspected, at the Tombstone Saloon in 1881 (which was good because, well, try getting Chex Mix and, for that matter, a bendy straw).

Stoked I was, nevertheless, to discover we were in the fresh 21st century at the Mescal movie location, a completely phony cowboy town near Benson, Arizona. The false buildings were designed to resemble the legendary pioneer 'burb o' Tombstone, where chaps in chaps and (insert politically correct varmint term here) with savage intent once roamed -- at least, on the silver screen.

A soothing, damp sponging and a Roy Rogers on the rocks later, I was ready to proceed with the tour. My delirium downgraded to Code Orange: Wild and Woozy.

A kindly friend, Stan, helped me to sit up on the saloon bar, but not before my li'l missy, Donna, untied my restraining wrist ropes and snatched the makeshift pillow.

Ever rugged, I bit hard into a lemon, swallowed the bottom gulp and the Gummi Worm, then shuffled out into the bright, picturesque street.

As I wondered if the brightness of the noonday sun was fake, too, I began to recognize snatches of the surrounding real estate and dust. I'd been here numerous times via the movies.

Constructed and first seen in a fine 1970 Lee Marvin western, "Monte Walsh," the Mescal spread is recalled today as the setting of "Tombstone" (1993), starring Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer, and "The Quick and the Dead" (1995) with Sharon Stone and Gene Hackman. Television viewers may recognize "The Young Riders" (1989-92) and "The Magnificent Seven" (1998).

Others believed to have walked this barren corridor: Frank Sinatra, Danny Glover, Jack Palance, Steve McQueen, Sam Elliott, Clint Eastwood, and -- grab a loved one -- Marie Osmond in "I Married Wyatt Earp" (1983). The place is big on Earps.

Next: Chapter 4 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Street photo ©2003-2004 Mike Durrett; sign photo ©2003-2004 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved.