Category Archives: Truth

November 5, 2025 · 9:28 am

My First Novel: Chapter Three

Thanks, folks. Between my Facebook page and Blog we’re at a combined total of 50 “likes”, so here’s Chapter Three. Please note that on the right hand side of my Blog there’s a menu called “Landmarks”. There you’ll find a listing for “My Novel”. Click on that and you’ll see all three chapters in sequence. It’s easier to read that way. I’ll update “My Novel” as we go until the whole book is in there. Now, when we reach 70 likes, I’ll drop Chapter Four. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Three

Mike woke up in his parked car the next morning with a hangover from all his birthday beers. The storm had arrived just before sunrise and the rain was pounding on the roof of the car, running hard off the Spanish tile roof of his beachfront apartment building, streaming along the gutters and down the spouts, spilling over the drains, and flooding the courtyard. That’s southern California. No rain for months. Then you get clobbered.

Mike pulled his jacket over his head and ran up the steps to his apartment, getting drenched before he finally managed to open his door and collapse on the couch — soggy and sore-necked from snoozing behind the wheel. He hadn’t slept well. Drunken dreams of Gloria contended all night with nagging questions about the strange device he’d found and the meaning of “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

He took the mystery object out of his pocket and examined it. It was now Thursday morning, so if today was the Thursday in the message, maybe he still had time to learn something about this mystery before 8:00 that night. Nobody was paying him to work a case at the moment, so why not look into this weird device and its cryptic message?

But first, he was determined to buy that engagement ring.

He got himself cleaned up, put on one of his better suits, and got back on the road. The storm had died down, and the light rain falling over the bay in the morning sun created a rainbow, as Mike drove down to Santa Monica where he knew a jeweler he could trust.

Mike didn’t know a damn thing about jewelry or gems. He didn’t own anything more precious than a fifty-dollar Longines wristwatch. But he’d gotten to know Albert Borroni a few years ago when his store on Wilshire and Third Street was robbed. Mike and his partner nabbed the burglars trying to fence a dozen diamond rings. An accomplice they cut out of the deal ratted them out. Albert was grateful for the swift justice – and he and Mike had been pals ever since. At least as much of a pal as antisocial Mike had.

Mike stepped out of the drizzle and into Al’s jewelry store. He caught the proprietor’s attention, they exchanged greetings, and Mike got down to business. Al was thunderstruck.

“You’re looking for an engagement ring? You? Amazing! You mean to tell me the lone wolf has formed an actual attachment to another human being?”

Albert’s surprise and sarcasm were justified. He’d never talked to Al about having so much as a date. Fact is, Mike didn’t date much at all. There was nothing wrong with his sex drive, but Mike couldn’t make small talk to save his life. He didn’t want to talk about the war, his life as a cop, or his career as a private dick. That didn’t leave much to chat about over dinner and drinks. Professional girls didn’t require conversation. But with Gloria it was different. He wanted to tell her everything.

“You got a budget for this ring, Mike?”

“A hundred fifty bucks.”

“Wow. Big spender!”

“Too cheap?”

“Don’t be an ass! I can show you some nice rings at that price.”

Albert showed him a variety of rings, some with diamonds, some with rubies and other stones. “Look at this one,” he said, “It’s one of the rings those bastards stole, and you guys got back.” Mike took the ring and examined it — not that he had any idea what to be looking for. “It was made in the early 1920’s,” Al explained. “It has a nice little diamond, flanked by two blue sapphires. And the setting is classic Art Deco. She’ll love it.”

Mike didn’t know Art Deco from Art Carney. “I’ll take it,” he said.

“An excellent choice, my gumshoe goombah.” Albert rang up the sale. “Is there a date for this wedding?”

“Tell you the truth, Al. I don’t even know if there’s gonna be a wedding. But I’ve got the ring – so that’s a start.”

Albert put the ring in a box and handed it to Mike. “She must be a special girl. You, my friend, are not for all markets.”

“I’ll let you know how it works out,” said Mike, pocketing the ring as he strode to the door. “Wish me luck.”

“My wife and I will pray a rosary. Hell – we many even sponsor a novena!”

Al Borroni was chuckling to himself as Mike hit the pavement, pleased with his purchase. If his courage didn’t fail, Mike would pop the question to Gloria tonight. He wondered how she’d react. Would she be charmed — or spooked? Maybe it was too much, too soon. He wasn’t sure where he stood with Gloria, but he just wanted to ante up. To place his bet. He’d fallen in love with her, and he wanted her to know it.

But first, he wanted to settle the other matter weighing on his mind: the mystery of “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00”.

The Santa Monica Public Library was just a couple blocks away. The rain was only a mist as Mike made his way down the street, into the library, and straight to the card catalog. He couldn’t find a listing for “Murphy’s Ranch”. The librarian sensed Mike’s frustration. An older woman in her early 50’s, maybe she knew something the card catalog didn’t.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Maybe. You have anything here about Murphy’s Ranch?”

“Murphy’s Ranch?”

“That’s right, Murphy’s Ranch. Ring a bell?”

An odd look passed across the librarian’s face. “Murphy’s Ranch. You must be a local, right?”

“I grew up in Malibu. Why?”

She walked to her desk, motioning for Mike to follow. “It was a local story, about ten years ago.” She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a stack of folders. “It happened right after Pearl Harbor.”

The librarian found the folder she was looking for, opened it, and picked through a stash of old newspaper articles. “Here it is.” She handed the article to Mike. “Crazy as it sounds,” she said, “Murphy’s Ranch was a Nazi hideout up in the Santa Monica mountains. In Pacific Palisades not far up the coast from here.”

“A Nazi hideout? No kidding.” Mike scanned the yellowing Los Angeles Times article covering the arrest of some Nazi sympathizers on December 8, 1941.

“Most people around here have forgotten all about it, but it caused quite a stir at the time. Of course, it’s not exactly a source of local pride. But I’m Jewish, so it made an impression on me and my family. You don’t forget finding out you had some secret Nazi neighbors lurking deep in a canyon, close to where you live, plotting who knows what.”

The librarian told Mike everything she knew. After Pearl Harbor, the cops arrested some American Nazis in a hidden compound they’d built in Rustic Canyon. They were members of an anti-Semitic, white supremacist group called the Silver Legion of America. They built their hideaway at Murphy’s Ranch before the war as a base for Nazi plots in America.

“They were hoping that after Hitler conquered Europe, he’d invade America – and they’d be waiting to support him. They planned their compound to be self-sustaining,” she explained, “with a water storage tank, a fuel tank, a concrete bomb shelter, cinder block storeroom — the works. Ironically, the main gate was designed by the great Negro architect Paul Williams.”

“He couldn’t have known too much about his clients,” Mike mused.

“It was known as Murphy’s Ranch because the owner of record was a guy named Murphy,” the librarian went on, “The real owners were Winona and Norman Stephens. Some say the Murphy thing was just an alias. The place is still there. Or what remains of it. You’ve got to go down hundreds of concrete stairs to get to it.”

Wow. This was far more than Mike expected. American Nazis living and plotting in a hidden compound in the Pacific Palisades? Hell, Mike was living in Malibu and attending UCLA in Westwood in ‘41 when the cops broke up this crazy fascist fantasy. He’d driven past a secret Nazi camp every day — and he had no idea. But now that he knew a little something about Murphy’s Ranch, “Thursday night 8:00” became a lot more intriguing.

It was 11:15 am. Mike had less than nine hours to learn more about Murphy’s Ranch and find out what, if anything, might be going on in that old Nazi hideout.

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November 4, 2025 · 9:01 am

My First Novel: Chapter Two

Okay. 15 likes is more than enough to trigger Chapter Two. Thank you all very much! I hope you enjoy it. It will take a total of 30 likes to release Chapter Three. This process is a bit like one of those old-time movie serials like “Buck Rogers” or “The Perils of Pauline.” You’ve gotta wait for that next installment.

Chapter Two

Cruising north through Malibu on his way home, Mike glanced to his left at the ocean. Through the rain, the moon was bright enough to see the white caps of the storm-driven surf as it surged toward the beach. This coastline was where he was born and raised. He’d conquered an early fear of the water to become a damn good surfer. His dad owned a small landscaping business: trimming, planting, and raking the lush yards of the high rollers who lived in the low hills to his right, overlooking the ocean. His parents didn’t want their only son pushing a wheelbarrow for a living – or worse, becoming a surf bum — so they saved up to send their golden boy to college.

Mike’s thoughts went back nine years to the months after Pearl Harbor. At the time, he was in his second year at UCLA. He remembered how his parents reacted when he enlisted in the Marines. They weren’t thrilled that he was delaying his education, but his dad had survived the trenches in The Great War and was proud to see his son do his bit. Hi mother could only cry and pray. Cry and pray. So, instead of getting his diploma and moving on to grad school, he got basic training at Camp Pendleton, dog tags, an M1 rifle, and the opportunity of a lifetime to go island hopping in the Pacific. The term “island hopping” always pissed him off. It was too cute. Like it was game.

Mike remembered “island hopping” all too well: that series of savage battles waged to capture strategic islands from the desperate, dug-in Japanese. Mike was lucky enough to escape the carnage on Tarawa with no more than a gunshot wound in his right arm. The bullet missed anything vital, so the medics patched him up and threw him back into the meat grinder. Mike figured he must have done something good on Tarawa before he got wounded because the Marines gave him a Bronze Star to go along with his Purple Heart.

He healed up in time to join the bloodbaths on the Marshall Islands: shell-torn strips of coral, sand, and jungle fever with crazy names like Kwajalein and Peleliu. He was always wet, always on edge, always exhausted — always a stroke of luck away from death. While managing to stay alive, he was promoted to sergeant and command of a rifle platoon. The lieutenant who had the job before him was blown to bits by a Jap artillery shell. That’s how advancement works on the battlefield: next man up.

He was leading his platoon on Iwo Jima when a Jap grenade ended his military career. He had no memory of what happened before and after that blast, but he evidently led his platoon well during the battle because the Marines sent him stateside with a Silver Star to go with his Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts. His parents were proud to see their son come home a decorated war hero. But Mike didn’t feel heroic. He was just glad to make it out alive.

After recovering from his wounds at a San Diego military hospital, 22-year-old Mike went back to Los Angeles. On his first day home in Malibu, he got the Marine Corps logo tattooed on his strong right forearm in honor of his lost comrades — and looked ahead to the peacetime future.

All the beers he’d just downed at Zack’s made Mike woozier than he expected. Gloria had cut him off just in time. He prided himself on holding his liquor, but he wasn’t great behind the wheel right now, especially on the wet road. He sure as hell didn’t want to get stopped by the cops. That’d be a real pain in his ass. So, he pulled off PCH, parked on a bluff overlooking one of his favorite surf breaks, and continued to think about the past. 

For a while, he worked with his dad in the landscaping business, but his parents urged him to go back to school, finish his education, and become a doctor. Planting some movie star’s palm trees was no job for a war hero. Mike agreed with his parents, but he couldn’t wrap his head around going back to college. Not after Tarawa. Not after Iwo Jima. Plus, he’d seen enough doctors, hospitals, awful wounds, and deadly diseases to last a lifetime. Medical school was not for him. He needed to do something else. But what?

One night, Mike was drinking at Zack’s with a Marine pal he met while convalescing in San Diego. Eddie had been an MP in the service, policing the waterfronts on hellholes in the Solomon Islands. Eddie had lost some of his hearing when an enemy shell blew up a nearby ammo dump on Guadalcanal. But Eddie’s MP experience helped land him a job as a Los Angeles cop. Eddie assured him that, given Mike’s impressive war record and his time at UCLA, he was a shoo-in for the force.

Eddie was right. Mike made it through the police academy with the ease of a veteran who’d been through basic at Pendleton and commanded men under fire. Mike went at the job of being a policeman like he was hitting some Jap-held beach. Bold and fearless. Some would say reckless. Within a few years, he rose from beat cop to detective. Very few guys rose in rank that quickly. It ruffled some feathers — but promoting a bona fide war hero made for a nice article in all the papers. It was good press for the LAPD brass.

Some guys on the force thought Mike was too aggressive, too inclined to act on his own, blind to department politics, and quarrelsome with his superiors. Mike knew they were right. But the only guys on the force he truly respected were the ones who fought and bled in the war. Guys like Eddie. To Mike, everybody else was play-acting. Hollywood cops. It wasn’t fair, maybe, but that’s how he felt. At least most days he felt that way. Most nights he drank.

And on this night, he’d guzzled down a few too many beers. Mike stuck his head out the car window and took a deep breath. The chill air and rain on his face had the right effect. His head was beginning to clear, but not enough to drive home safely. Not yet.

Beer – and before that, bourbon — helped to dull the pain in his hip, but that’s not why he boozed so much. He started drinking hard during his first year as a cop. It helped him deal with the fact that he’d traded one war for another. He was just wearing a different uniform. But this time, the killing served no higher purpose, and the end of the war was never in sight. Fighting crime in L.A. was like trying to root out the last of the Japanese dead-enders still holding out in caves on those bloody islands. Mike took another deep breath of ocean air.

God, he loved the water. The surf. The peace.

When Mike was feeling particularly unsettled, angry, or weary of seeing the worst side of postwar Los Angeles, he would head to Malibu to visit his parents and surf. But after his dad dropped dead of a heart attack while lugging a bag of peat moss up to some rich asshole’s hillside garden, Mike checked in with his mom less frequently. Her sorrow bugged him. What could he say to her? He’d seen thousands of young men in the prime of their lives die miserably on blasted specks of jungle in the middle of nowhere. He’d seen far too many innocent young people murdered on the streets of L.A. His dad was a 65-year-old man who died doing the job he loved: an Irish immigrant running his own business in America. Where was the grief in that?

Feeling like he was now just two sheets to the wind, Mike started his car and drove back out onto Pacific Coast Highway. After a few uneasy minutes driving in what was now a pelting rain, he managed to make it safely into one of the parking spaces below his apartment. Not a cop in sight. He’d gotten away with it tonight, but the last thing he wanted was to give his old colleagues on the police force the pleasure of the putting the big hotshot war hero in the drunk tank.

The rain drummed on the car roof as Mike leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes, his head swimming with beer and memories.

He’d been a cop for only four years when, after far too many run-ins with the department brass, his standing as a rising star gave way to a well-earned reputation as a hard-headed know-it-all with a stubborn streak and an unhealthy disregard for danger. When he got demoted from detective back to beat cop, he read the writing on the wall. He saw that, like his dad, it was better for him to run his own business. So, he quit the force in ‘49 and hung out his shingle as a private investigator. He swore off the bourbon and switched to beer. It was time to clean up his act. At least a little.

Young as he was for a private eye, Mike’s chest full of wartime medals and his detective experience kept him in paying customers among the Hollywood elite. But he soon found that tracking down missing rich kids, staking out cheating spouses, and fixing indelicate problems for folks with scads of money was even more soul crushing than battling domestic battery in Encino, gang warfare in Boyle Heights, and unsolved murders in Burbank.

He started taking fewer cases, avoiding the ugliest ones. He spent more time riding waves.

Two years after leaving the police force, disillusioned 29-year-old Mike was living in Malibu, more surf bum than private investigator. When he wasn’t working the occasional case that didn’t offend his increasingly prickly sensibilities, he was sitting on a stool at Zack’s Oceanside Dive, knocking back beers and mooning over a barmaid named Gloria: the one shining, unsullied light in his life.

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November 3, 2025 · 11:20 am

My First Novel

I’ve written in a variety of formats over the years: plays, comedy revues, poems, songs, sitcoms, documentaries, screenplays – even Bazooka Joe comics. But never a novel. Until now. I recently finished my first novel. It’s unlike anything I’ve written to date. I don’t intend to shop this novel. I’d just like folks to read it. So, I’m presenting the first chapter here. If, and when, ten people “like” this post – I’ll post Chapter Two. And so on. Enjoy.

MALIBU NOIR

A Novel by Paul Barrosse

Dedicated to my darling Victoria

And to Peter Barrosse

My Dad & Veteran of the Korean War

Chapter One

From where Mike Delaney sat on his stool at Zack’s Oceanside Dive in Malibu, the Pacific Ocean looked anything but pacific. A storm was building, howling hard across the Santa Barbara Channel.

The surf slammed into the jagged rocks and wooden pilings below Zack’s waterfront deck, yet the gal working the bar wasn’t concerned. The crashing waves shivered Zack’s timbers, but 20-year-old Gloria polished her beer and shot glasses with no hint of concern. She was cool. And she was hot.

Gloria and Mike had been flirting for a few months now. At least Mike thought she was flirting with him. He normally did pretty well with girls. He was tall and good looking. Ever since The Asphalt Jungle came out the year before, he sometimes got compared to the movie star Sterling Hayden. Guys would call him “Dix” just to needle him. Yeah, he did okay with the ladies — but Gloria wasn’t just another chick he was looking to score.

Gloria was nice to Mike, but it was hard to tell how much she liked him because she was so damn nice to everybody. Still, he sensed she was extra nice to him. Gloria was the best thing Mike had found since he got back from the war six years ago. Since he survived the war. Swiveling on his bar stool to better track Gloria’s movements, a sharp, painful twinge in his hip reminded Mike how narrowly he survived.

Gloria’s mother, Barbara, owned the joint. Her late husband Zack was an abalone diver who cashed out, sold his boat, and bought the bar from the original owner who moved back East after a Malibu wildfire swept down the hillside and nearly torched the place. Gloria planned to go to college, but when her dad suddenly died of a brain aneurysm, she began helping her mom out at the bar.

Gloria was no typical barmaid. She was special. And Mike Delaney was falling hard for her. He wished he could tell her how crazy he was about her.

He wished he felt better about himself.

Johnnie Ray was crying on the jukebox as Mike tried to get his mind off Gloria by paging through a leftover Los Angeles Times. There wasn’t much news out of Korea lately. The war had ground to a stalemate after Heartbreak Ridge. That was the Army’s show. And a bloody show it was. Mike had found out just a week ago that he knew a couple guys who bought it in that useless battle. He knocked back the rest of his second beer, then waved to Gloria for another.He turned to the sports section to get his mind off war and death.

Mike was a baseball fan, and a pretty good player himself. He started in center field for his high school team and played some ball in the Marines before he was wounded. But a makeshift diamond on a shell-blasted island in the Marshalls was nothing like well-groomed Gilmore Field, where his favorite team played. The Hollywood Stars had ended the ‘51 Pacific Coast League season with a record of 93 wins and 74 losses, but they only finished in second place. Mike soon tossed the paper aside. Winter was the worst for baseball news. There was nothing new on the Stars.

By now, Mike was into his fourth beer — with more to come. Nothing specific drove him to drink. He came out of the war better than a lot of his buddies. He was alive after all. But he didn’t feel settled. He wasn’t over it. Any of it, really. Zack’s was the one place where, gazing at Gloria, he began to feel he was in the right place at the right time. He was dealing with a lot of stuff. It was about Gloria, sure. But it was about a lot more.

By the time Patti Page was singing “The Tennessee Waltz”, Mike was two more beers into his evening. It was his birthday, December 10, 1951. When you’re born between Thanksgiving and Christmas, you learn life doesn’t revolve around you. You get lost in the holiday hubbub. From as early as Mike could remember, he tried to let things roll off his back. He tried not to sweat the small stuff. He practiced being easygoing.

It wasn’t always easy. And he didn’t always succeed.

Most private dicks were anything but easygoing — but the hardboiled thing wasn’t Mike’s bag. Not that his 29 years of life experience didn’t justify cynicism. Hell, total nihilism was an appropriate reaction to what he’d seen and done. But Mike wasn’t wired that way.  He signaled Gloria for another beer. He wasn’t into the hard stuff anymore. Mike and strong booze didn’t get along.  

Not very long ago, they got along too well.

Gloria handed Mike a new bottle of beer. “That’s number five,” she noted with a smile, before whisking away his empty and moving on to her other customers. Mike felt she served him with an attention she didn’t pay to anyone else. She was even counting his drinks. That proved Gloria cared about him. The goddess Gloria.

For Mike, it was just he and Gloria at the bar that night. Everyone else was a bit player — like extras in the movies being shot all over town, like some rookie on the far end of the Hollywood Stars bench. When the right time came, Mike would be up to bat, he’d knock it out of the park, and Gloria would be his!

With these thoughts in mind, Mike fumbled in his pocket.  

It was still there.

He’d found a strange object earlier that day and didn’t know what to make of it.

Mike had been surfing the storm-driven swell off Point Dume and was walking back to his car when he saw something odd lying on the shoulder of Pacific Coast Highway. It was a black rectangular thing about five inches long, three inches wide, and maybe a half-inch thick — heavy for its size. One side of it was metal and the other side was glass. On the metal side it had an image that looked like an apple with a bite taken out of it and “iPhone 3G” written in small letters. On the right side was a button. There were smaller buttons on the left side. Mike tried pressing all the buttons – and must have hit the right one because the object suddenly lit up!

A message appeared on what looked like a tiny television screen. The message was written against a light blue background in German. “Murphy’s Ranch Donnerstagabend 20:00.”

Then the screen went dark.

Mike tried to turn it on again — but no luck. Maybe its battery died. Did the thing even have a battery? What the hell was it? Mike tucked the thing back into his pocket and with an instinct born of detective work, he took out his small reporter’s notebook and wrote, “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

Lucky for Mike, German was basically a second language to him. His mother’s family left Hanover just before the First World War, and growing up, German was spoken quite a bit in his home. At UCLA, he majored in chemistry, but took some German classes for an easy ‘A’. When he enlisted, he played down his fluency, afraid he’d be sent to the European front as a translator. A surfer boy from Southern California, he preferred to serve with the Marines in the Pacific. Not that he ever got a chance to surf on Tarawa.

As Mike sat at the bar, mooning at Gloria, he ran over in his mind whether he should show the strange object in his pocket to her – whatever the hell it was. Would she think he was nuts? It mattered a lot to Mike what Gloria thought of him, if she ever did think of him. He decided it was best to keep the damn thing to himself and not mention it. At least not yet.  

Mike was just getting to know Gloria. Weeks ago, he dared to ask how old she was — and was stunned to learn she was only nineteen. That she was so much younger than him, — and so innocent — made him nervous. She was just nine years old when the Japs hit Pearl Harbor! What could they possibly have in common? Was she too young for him? Are six bottles of beer too much? Was he too drunk to woo her? His vision of Gloria puttering behind the bar was getting blurry. It was time to go home.  

Mike got up, trying not to appear drunk. He didn’t want Gloria to think he was a lightweight. As he got up off his barstool, the old pain shot through his hip, sharp and searing: a too-frequent reminder that the Marine medics didn’t get all the shrapnel out. But six years after a Jap grenade almost cost him his leg, Mike wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. The shrapnel lodged in his hip was a pain in the ass – but it was also a reminder of the injury that punched his ticket off Iwo Jima. Lots of guys didn’t make it off those eight square miles of hell. Sometimes Mike wondered if maybe some vital part of him got left on that volcanic slagheap.

“Hey, Mike!”

He turned to see Gloria advancing with a pot of coffee. “How about a cup of Joe for the road, cowboy?” She was playfully implying he’d had too much to drink — but Mike was thrilled to think she even cared. He drained the cup his goddess offered. Was she sweet on him, too?

Mike set his cup down and Gloria picked it up saying, “Happy birthday.”

“How did you know?”

She smiled. “You told me after beer number one.”

Mike was hoping she didn’t see him blushing as she pirouetted with the coffee pot and put it back on the burner. She glanced back at him for a moment. “Drive safe, Mike. See you tomorrow?” 

Mike managed an unsteady, “For sure” and imagined himself blowing Gloria a gallant kiss as he floated out of the bar. The pain in his hip was dulled by the beer — and the pounding of his heart.

“Bobby Thompson got lucky!”

Abe and Iggy sat at the end of the bar, getting into it again. Abe Shatz was a Yankees fan. Ignatz Kalicky bled for the Giants. Ever since the World Series, they had the same argument at varying volumes. They were zealots. If Abe and Iggy weren’t arguing about baseball, they were arguing politics and the Korean War. Peace talks were underway in Panmunjom — but not at their end of the bar. Peace was impossible with those two. Mike was a big fan of peace. The brutal battles to liberate all those islands in the Pacific convinced him that peace was the only answer.

As he walked to his car, Mike could hear the ominous pounding of the surf.  His mind wandered to the day, coming soon, when he would summon the nerve and declare his love for Gloria. He’d ask her to marry him — crazy as that might seem. In fact, he’d buy an engagement ring the very next day. He’d do the whole thing first class. She was, after all, the classiest girl he’d ever known.

But should he talk to Gloria’s mother first? Or was that old fashioned? Was he being an idiot? Did Gloria even share his affection? Wasn’t she sending all the right signals? Or did she see him as just another barfly? Should he ask her out on a date before declaring his love? A clap of distant thunder punctuated that thought.

His reverie broken, the shooting pain in his hip returned.

By the time he reached his car, he’d almost forgotten about the odd black object in his pocket. He climbed in behind the wheel and took the thing out to examine it again. The screen was still dark, but he remembered: “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

He took a last look through Zack’s window and caught a glimpse of Gloria shutting the place down for the night. Tomorrow, he’d get that ring and find his courage.

Mike’s apartment was less than a mile north of Zack’s, one of three small units in a rundown beach house along Pacific Coast Highway. As he drove home in his beer-fogged state, he pondered how he’d gotten to his 29th birthday in such an unsettled state. He wasn’t always this way. He used to be more certain of himself: certain about what he wanted and how to get it.

He felt like he was at the beginning of a turning point in his life. It wasn’t just about whether he’d ever marry his glorious Gloria. It was the mysterious thing he’d stumbled on. The strange black brick in his pocket. It was “Murphy’s Ranch Thursday night 8:00.”

Drunk as he was, he was more excited about tomorrow than he’d been in years.

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October 26, 2025 · 12:32 pm

A Report from the Front

CONFRONTING ICE AT BROADVIEW DETENTION CENTER

In these distressing times, it’s important to show up, to bear witness to injustice, to blend your voice with others in protest. Fascism has come to Chicago, wearing a mask, showing no badge, carrying no warrant, riding in an unmarked car, hidden behind smoked glass. 

Yesterday, Saturday October 26th, my wife Victoria and I made our second trip to the Broadview ICE Facility, 12 miles west of downtown Chicago and a 45-minute drive from our home in Evanston. After the elation of being among the 250,000 American patriots at the “No Kings” rally in Grant Park the week before, we felt the need to return to the place where Kristie Noem’s brownshirts were committing their ongoing crimes against our Constitution.

These are the buses in which our unfortunate neighbors will be transported — to where?

On the drive to Broadview, we talked about the ton of money that Trump and his sadistic sidekick Stephen Miller have poured into their mass deportation regime. We wondered how many pardoned January 6th felons, Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, Three Percenters and other right-wing militia thugs jumped at the chance to reap a $50,000 bonus and get paid to brutalize and terrorize marginalized, powerless immigrants – especially black and brown folk.

The ICE goons are in the distance, wearing masks. The County and Broadview officers are in the foreground. It’s an uneasy, forced partnership.

The ICE yahoos get to wear masks, carry guns, use tear gas, hit people with batons, break down doors, and do things no real cop can do. Due process? Not for our American Gestapo. Probable cause? How about just the color of a person’s skin? Show us your papers? I could go on…

When we got to the Broadview ICE facility, the protest location had been changed. The last time we were there, protestors lined one side of the driveway where the masked ICE thugs drove their unmarked cars into the detention center. We were able to confront the ICE goons as they came and went.

We couldn’t see into the various vans, sedans, mini-buses, and all the other smoked-glass vehicles to see who they’d snatched off our neighborhood streets. Transparency? That’s just something Republicans talk about when investigating Democrats. But when Trump, Miller and Noem want to make thousands of people disappear without a warrant? Move on. There’s nothing to see here.

This time, the protest zone had been moved to a spot about a hundred yards from another facility entrance. We could see the ICE vehicles enter and leave – but they didn’t have to drive past us. They didn’t have to look at us. They didn’t have to hear us. They didn’t have to feel our rage. But we expressed ourselves anyway.

Some of our fellow protestors expressed themselves in creative ways. There was the guy with the bald eagle head who wore only his red-white-and-blue underwear and a pair of boots on this cold, autumn day. Three handmaidens stood silent witness. There were lots of funny costumes. How threatening could a man in a pink conical cap riding a unicorn be?

The folks in the middle were the County sheriffs and the Broadview cops. They were there to maintain order – especially the Broadview mayor’s 6:00 pm protest curfew. We tried to remind them that our First Amendment rights to assemble and engage in free speech do not have an expiration date – or hour. We asked them why they don’t wear masks, but the ICE goons do. We asked them if they knew what was going on in the detention center. We asked them, as professional policemen, if they were comfortable protecting guys who were arresting people without a warrant and affording them no due process.

The cops that stood between us and ICE answered none of our questions. But, boy, did they look uncomfortable. They could hear the constant honking as car after car passed nearby, blaring their support of our protest. The people in those cars are their constituents, their fellow citizens — the people they are sworn to serve and protect. Small wonder those cops looked uneasy.

It was well past 6:00 pm when Victoria and I left the protest and went home. I’m not sure how long the stalemate lasted. There were still hundreds of protestors in no mood to leave quietly. Next time, we’ll stay to the bitter end.

Go to Broadview and see for yourself.

Democracy dies in darkness.

 

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October 21, 2025 · 12:52 pm

My Life in Sketch Comedy: Part Two

Produced, written, and performed by students, The Mee-Ow Show was established at Northwestern University in 1974, two years before my arrival on campus. In those two years, Mee-Ow underwent a swift transition from a wide-ranging, multi-media variety show to a sketch comedy show in The Second City tradition.

I went to McCormick Auditorium at Norris Center in the fall of my sophomore year to see the 1977 Mee-Ow Highlights Show: a collection of the best sketches from the previous two years’ worth of Mee-Ow revues, Spirit My Ass and North by Northwestern. Among the cast were Stew Figa, Jeff Lupetin, Betsy Fink, Suzie Plakson, Tom Virtue, Kyle Hefner, and Dana Olsen. It was the coolest, funniest live performance I’d seen since I hit campus.

The buzz at Norris Center’s McCormick Auditorium that night was electric — and response to the highlights show was wildly enthusiastic. Mee-Ow was the hippest scene on campus – fast-eclipsing the popularity of The Waa-Mu Show: the traditional Northwestern student musical comedy revue first staged in 1929. Waa-Mu seemed crafted to entertain an older audience – something your parents could comfortably enjoy. But Mee-Ow felt more edgy, more subversive, made by-and-for the student body. It struck a resounding chord in me.

Maybe the popularity of The Mee-Ow Show had something to do with the fact that it shared the fresh, irreverent spontaneity of NBC’s new late-night hit Saturday Night Live (then known as NBC’s Saturday Night) – which premiered in 1975, just a year after Mee-Ow made its debut. But I didn’t make that connection at the time because I wasn’t watching much TV. And I had yet to see a show at Second City.

All I knew was that these people, these fellow Northwestern students, were very funny. And polished. And cool. And I was wanted to be a part of that scene. So, I auditioned for the 1978 Mee-Ow Show, directed by North by Northwestern cast member, Kyle Heffner.

I arrived for the audition at the Norris Center student union and met an incoming sophomore, Rush Pearson. Rush, for some reason lost to memory, was walking with a cane — but we vibed right away. He was damned funny. Kinetic. Offbeat. And short like me. We were both full of what our parents would have called “piss and vinegar.” We didn’t know it then, but after the auditions were over and the cast was announced, Rush and I and a taller guy from the Chicago suburbs with one year of Mee-Ow under his belt, Dana Olsen, would form the core of the next three Mee-Ow Shows.

The 1978 Mee-Ow Show: “In Search of the Ungnome.”

L to R: Jerry Franklin (hidden), Jane Muller, Dana Olsen, Shelly Goldstein, Bill Wronski, Ken Marks, Tina Rosenberg, Rush Pearson (obscured) & the author.

Directed by Kyle Heffner, the 1978 Mee-Ow Show was the very best thing about my sophomore year – and established the template for much of what I would do for the next decade – and beyond. Kyle set the standard for how an improvisational sketch revue should be created. We’d brainstorm comic premises, then improvise scenes based on those premises, record those improvisations – and then script our sketches based on what we recorded.

There was total freedom as we brainstormed the premises. No idea — no matter how absurd or esoteric or tasteless — was rejected out of hand. Then, Kyle would send us out of the room in groups for a few minutes to work out a rudimentary idea of how to structure a scene from one of these premises.

In our groups, we’d hastily assign characters, devise a basic framework for the scene — and maybe even come up with a button to end it (which was rare). Then, we’d come back into the rehearsal room after ten minutes or so to improvise our scene for the rest of the cast and production crew. Those semi-structured improvisations were recorded and formed the basis for the first-draft scripts of each sketch – which would go through several revisions as we refined each sketch throughout the rehearsal process.

Sketches were living things: always growing, always progressing, getting tighter, more focused in their intent, more streamlined, leading up to a punchier, more trenchant, laughter/shock/surprise-inducing ending.

If a sketch doesn’t end well, then the next sketch starts from a deficit. It must win back the audience after an awkward moment — and that can kill a running order. That’s why, from those days forward, The Practical Theatre Company has never rested until we’ve done our best to satisfactorily “button” a sketch. (Alas, we don’t always succeed.)

But let’s get back to 1978.

Improvisation is where it starts. And where it ends. But there’s lots of disciplined work between the beginning and end.

We’d commit our scripts to memory, so we had the confidence to overcome mistakes. In fact, reacting to mistakes was always an opportunity for a moment of unexpected, improvised fun with the audience. Confident in the through-line of the sketch and the final button, we could have some improvisational fun when the moment called for it.

Kyle also had his Golden Rules. Knowing that too many improvisations ended with a knee-jerk reliance on violence and death, he declared that violence had to happen offstage. That edict, alone, would set our work apart from so many improv groups that would follow. Death and violence were no quick and easy way out.

Kyle also encouraged us to seek laughs above the belt – and not play to the lowest common denominator. Cursing and vulgarity were employed at a minimum. These were lessons I took to heart. And have tried to observe ever since.

That year, we were also blessed to have a genuine musical genius in our cast: piano virtuoso, Larry Schanker. Larry was just a freshman – but his talent was otherworldly. When Rush and I knocked out some chords and lyrics – Larry turned them into a Broadway anthem. And his pre-show overtures were worth the price of admission. Okay, so tickets were only two bucks. Larry’s talent made the show a hit before the cast came onstage. And he’s still doing it today.

Rush and I shocked the crowd with a sketch called “Biafran Restaurant”. It was a moment in time. We were clad in our underwear, performing a sketch that juxtaposed a terrible African famine with a middle class American dining experience: balancing precariously on the comedic edge as we reminded the audience of an ongoing tragedy. These weren’t easy laughs. And it was glorious. We felt like we were pushing the envelope. And maybe we were. We were college sophomores – just starting to explore our comedic horizons.

I loved everything about the Mee-Ow Show process: the music, the comedy, the late nights scripting sketches at Rush or Dana’s apartments after rehearsals. And when we performed the shows and the packed crowds laughed every night, I was hooked. I was home.

I wanted more. And luckily, I got it.

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October 13, 2025 · 8:24 pm

The Practical Theatre Presents a 2025 Year-End Revue: Classic Comedy, Music & Cocktails

The Practical Theatre Company Presents its Annual Year-End Revue at Studio5 in Evanston, Shows December 26, 27, 28 and January 1, 2, 3

The Practical Theater, the Evanston-based sketch comedy group that launched the careers of “Saturday Night Live” veterans Julia Louis Dreyfus, Paul Barrosse, Brad Hall, and Gary Kroeger in the 1980’s, is still hard at work in the Chicago comedy vineyards. This holiday season, The PTC will be staging their latest comedy revue in their inimitable style at Studio5 for 6 shows only: Dec. 26, 27, 28 and January 1, 2, 3.

Their new revue, entitled “Quick! Before We’re Cancelled” satirizes a wild and volatile 2025 with razor-sharp sketch comedy ripped from today’s headlines, as well as a fun-filled, satiric look at various aspects of contemporary life, love, and the pursuit of happiness in an increasingly crazy world. Their new revue is infused with an improvisational spirit and backed by a stellar combo of talented musicians who support cast members Paul Barrosse, Victoria Zielinski, and Dana Olsen for a night of smart laughs — and a cocktail or two. (Did we mention there’s acres of free parking?) Tickets range from $40 to $55.

“Quick! Before We’re Cancelled” is a merry mix of sketches and original songs touching on everything from wacko conspiracy theories, the bittersweet romance of Don & Elon, artificial intelligence, Tarzan & Jane, the new Chicago-born Pope, ICE raiders, and a musical salute to the late, great Tom Lehrer.

Multi-instrumentalist Steve Rashid leads the Studio5 All-Stars, featuring guest keyboard virtuoso and PTC veteran Larry Schanker and the popular Chicago jazz vocalist Paul Marinaro, who will put his own soulful spin on some holiday classics while also serving as the show’s announcer.

“We’re all in need of some good laughs after this crazy, maddening year,” says PTC co-founder and Artistic Director Paul Barrosse. “Going through a year like this, we’ve got a lot to work with comedically. Reality itself feels like satire. It’s also great to have Paul Marinaro and Larry Schanker back onstage with us. They added so much last year. And Steve Rashid and the band make every revue we do as much a great jazz concert as a comedy show.”

The Studio5 All-Stars include the great Jim Cox on bass and passionate Robert Rashid on drums.

Alcoholic beverages are available for purchase at all shows.

The Practical Theatre Company was founded in 1979 while its founders were students at Northwestern University. Three years later, after producing a string of new plays and comedy revues in their 42-seat storefront theatre on Howard Street in Evanston, they joined with Second City owner Bernie Sahlins to open The Piper’s Alley Theatre (now The Second City E.T.C. space) — where the entire cast of their first comedy revue in that venue, “The Golden 50th Anniversary Jubilee” was hired by “Saturday Night Live.”

In the years that followed, The PTC followed up with the long-running “Megafun” at the Piper’s Alley Theatre and their longest-running show, “Art, Ruth & Trudy” at the Briar Street and Vic Theatres — which teamed Barrosse and Zielinski for the first time. Four years later, Paul and Victoria were married.

After a two-decade hiatus from the stage while Barrosse and Zielinski produced television, and a family, in Los Angeles, The PTC was revived in 2010 when Vic and Paul joined with fellow Northwestern alum Steve Rashid to stage comedy revues in Los Angeles, Cleveland, and Chicago. The trio then joined in 2015 with veteran PTC drummer Ronny Crawford and comedian Dana Olsen, a Northwestern pal, fellow Mee-Ow Show veteran, and screenwriter known for writing comedy films like “The Burbs,” “George of the Jungle,” and the current hit Nickelodeon series, “Henry Danger.”

EVENT DETAILS
Friday, Dec. 26 at 7:30 p.m.

Saturday, Dec. 27 at 7:30 p.m.

Sunday, Dec. 28 at 7:30 p.m.

Thursday, Jan. 1 at 7:30 p.m.

Friday, Jan. 2 at 7:30 p.m.

Saturday, Jan. 3 at 7:30 p.m.               

Where: Studio5, 1934 Dempster St., Evanston, IL 60202
Info: http://studio5.dance/calendar

Tickets: $40 for theatre seating, $55 for cabaret table seating

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The PTC is Back for the Holidays!

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September 11, 2025 · 8:33 am
December 7, 2024 · 9:09 pm

My Life in Sketch Comedy

When I wrote a brief history of The Practical Theatre Company for this blog some time ago, I finished by saying, “The Practical Theatre in Chicago in the 1980’s — that was Brigadoon: a magical place that existed for a brief time and vanished. And I got the girl.”

That was true. I did get the girl.

And because I emerged from that life-changing experience with Victoria Zielinski as my wife and collaborator, the Practical Theatre was ultimately due for a renaissance.

But, alas, the PTC revival would take more than two decades.

The PTC had to wait as Victoria and I tended to our three wonderful daughters. But by 2010, the year of our 20th wedding anniversary, with the girls old enough to spare their parents for a few hours a day, Vic and I began to wonder if we were still comedians with something to say.

We decided it was time to write and perform sketch comedy again — and bring back The Practical Theatre Co. 

Thus, was born The Vic & Paul Show.

But that was a rebirth built on a comedic foundation 35 years in the making…

Note: The following autobiographical material is offered to those for whom it may be of interest. But even if you’ve just stumbled upon it — and don’t know anyone involved – you might learn, within this narrative, something about the art of improvisational comedy and the sketch revue format.

Or not. 

I was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. A lot of funny folks came from there. My father always said that the reason “Cleveland” was so often a punch line in TV and film was because a lot of comedy writers moved to Hollywood from Cleveland. (I eventually proved Dad’s explanation true by doing that very thing.)

I owe my love of comedy and music to my father, who was born and raised in New Orleans. Dad was a jazz and vaudeville fan. He loved old movies, too – especially the comedies. He’d tell me all about how Bob Hope, Red Skelton, Jack Benny, and other comics worked in vaudeville before the movies started talking — and stage stars gravitated to Hollywood.

Dad also explained how some of the biggest comics in early TV were vaudeville stars: headliners like Milton Berle, George Burns, and Gracie Allen. 

Dad was a big Sid Caesar fan and spoke with reverence about Your Show of Shows and Sid’s writers, among them Mel Brooks and a young Woody Allen. 

Note: Victoria saw Sid and Imogene Coca (pictured left) perform in 1990 at the Briar Street Theatre in Chicago. 68-year old Sid was still doing his sketch comedy thing. Imogene Coca was 82. She wore a bow in her hair that she tossed to Victoria. I like to think Imogene was passing the comedic torch.

Later, when dad worked the night shift at Reliable Springs, my mom would stay up to write down all the best jokes on That Was The Week That Was so she could fill him in after work. I was only 5 or 6 at the time, but something about that show thrilled me: the sketches, the funny songs, the topical satire – most of which flew right over my head. I was lucky my mom let me stay up late to watch it. A few years later, Laugh In had the same effect on me. Only this time, I understood more of the jokes.

I owe my love of theatre to my mom. An elementary school teacher, she made sure her family were regulars at The Cleveland Playhouse, one of the oldest repertory theatres in America, founded in 1915. 

She also made sure I saw my cousin star as Helen Keller in her high school production of The Miracle Worker, and my big brother play leads in our high school’s productions of Oliver! and Anastasia. Mom had a teaching colleague who made a keen impression on me as a leading man in summer playhouse productions of Man of La Mancha and The Fantasticks. 

For me, live theatre was magical. And live comedy was even better. The give and take with the audience, the emotion, the surprise, the laughter. The stage was calling me – and I answered as best I could. 

But my first sketch comedy revue was not a high school production. 

Juggling high school football, wrestling, and the stage, I played roles in classic musicals like Finian’s Rainbow, Li’l Abner, The Music Man, and George M!

In the summer of my Junior year, I was lucky to have my drama teacher and our Li’l Abner musical director cast me in Good Times! — a cabaret comedy revue with original songs and sketches staged in a space at a local Catholic church as a benefit. Good Times! was my first sketch revue — with music! I would embrace that format for the rest of my life

Note: There I am, first row right, wearing the white tux jacket I’ll wear in comedy revues for the next five decades. (Though I can’t really button it now.)

I was the only teenager in a cast of talented and experienced adults. They were pros and I was honored to be among them: rehearsing, performing – and enjoying the laughs. It was an eye-opening experience. I loved it. It was the greatest experience of my life up to that moment.

But I didn’t yet see sketch comedy as my future. My plan was to be a serious actor on the regional theatre stage. To paraphrase John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Like many theatre hopefuls before me, I headed to Northwestern University to hone my acting chops. In my freshman year, I was fortunate to be cast in a musical, 110 In the Shade, a comedy, Catch-22 (pictured as Doc Daneeka, with Stew Figa as Yossarian), and a dramedy, Moonchildren. 

That summer, buoyed by semi-success in my first year of college, I summoned the nerve (ignorance and/or naïveté) as a 19-year-old to audition at the Cleveland Playhouse. For some reason, the artistic director honored me with his presence at my tryout. At the time, I took it for granted. In retrospect, I’m shocked. Was it because I was a hometown boy?

I never considered how few parts there were for 19-year-olds in a Cleveland Playhouse season. Or how many 20-something actors fresh from Yale, Juilliard and The Actor’s Studio were up for those few roles. I knew nothing – and ignorance was my strength. I did my best and the Playhouse director let me down gently with a practiced, professional promise that my theatrical future was ahead of me. 

But, within a year, I would find that my theatrical future was not as a “serious” dramatic actor. The comedy muse would soon be calling me. 

In my sophomore year at Northwestern, I auditioned for the campus improvisational sketch comedy revue, The Mee-Ow Show. And serious regional theatre’s loss would be improvisational comedy’s gain.

How could The Cleveland Playhouse possibly compete with free beer and a one-hour slot on Thursday nights at Sylvester’s Comedy Club?

H.W.A.T (Humorous Weapons and Tactics). L to R: Jeff Lupetin, Me, Rush Pearson, Dana Olsen, Bill Wronski and Shelly Goldstein. Free beer and funny business in the early 1980’s Chicago comedy club scene.

To be continued…

And, in the meantime, skipping 5 decades ahead…

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October 8, 2024 · 5:45 pm

We’re Back.

Tickets on sale now. https://buytickets.at/practicaltheatre

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January 20, 2024 · 5:08 pm

One more time, it’s The Practical Theatre Company’s “Ho-Ho-Holiday Revue!” One Night Only, February 4th – and on Live-Stream!

Due to popular demand, The PTC is bringing back its “Ho-Ho-Holiday Revue” for one night only, with a performance on Sunday, February 4th at 7:00 pm. This event will also be available for remote viewing via Livestream. Tickets range from $25 to $35 for theatre and tables seats, with Livestream available for $10. 

The “Ho-Ho-Holiday Revue” is staged in a classic variety show format in the PTC’s inimitable style: a throwback to the TV variety shows of the 1960s and early ’70s, featuring sketch comedy, improvisation, stand-up comedy, and music in an evening of sophisticated adult fun. The show touches on everything from the current political scene to mother-daughter relationships, the Greek gods, the Titan submersible disaster, the Supreme Court, Judge Judy vs. Donald Trump, and some classic PTC sketches. Plus, lots of upbeat, soulful, music from Steve Rashid & the Studio5 All-Stars.

Alcoholic beverages are available for purchase at the show.

The show stars Barrosse, Victoria Zielinski, and Dana Olsen — backed by a jazz quartet led by the PTC’s longtime musical director Steve Rashid. Adding to the fun are vocalist Ms. Maura and veteran stand-up comedian Emilia Barrosse, whose TV writing credits include HBO’s “VEEP” and TruTV’s “Tacoma F.D.”

Tickets are now on sale at: http://www.studio5.dance/calendar

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