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byob #8 may become part of a series titled "Red America: Profile of a Small Town"

As regular followers know, real people are sometimes replaced by initials to protect the not so innocent.
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BYOB February 6, 2003
The Surreal Life

Imagine an 82-year old Sylvester Stallone in a traveling variety show that plays middle-of-nowhere venues to small crowds. Imagine him on a scuffed stage showing Rocky clips on a VCR, talking about models he bagged, doing some soft-shoe and impressions of his famous, and mostly dead, buddies. Now imagine yourself sitting in the small audience a few feet from the white-haired Stallone - no security, no bodyguards, no horde . . . just a couple of rows of seats and scratched hardwood between you and Rambo.

Weird, huh? Well no one seemed to think so when 82-year old Mickey Rooney, calling himself the "Rambo of his day", danced, sang and joked his way through a 90-minute set last weekend at the Opera House in Elgin, Oregon (population 1,710). In fact, no one thought it out of the ordinary enough to dress up, come early, or even talk about before the show. The buzz was mainly concern about where exactly the $40 seats were. Most of the 200 plus crowd who shuffled into the 6:00 show in the Opera House -- which doubles as a movie theatre, currently showing Catch Me If You Can -- bought some popcorn and sat down. "Well, we're here… what time is this thing supposed to start?"

It started at 6:10 after a taped intro from Liz Taylor. A natty Rooney, clad in a sharp-creased tux, breezed through "Nothing Can Stop me Now" then announced "This is what's left of Mickey Rooney". It was a loaded remark. There's a lot left, if, understandably, less. The former "Rambo" played two shows for a little over 300 people - none of whom worried about parking, lines or crowds. Most of who casually snacked throughout, and at least one who was either snoring or fighting a nasty nasal condition. No limo pulled up back stage to whisk anyone away - Rooney and entourage stayed at the Stampede Inn just across the street. And more than a few people in the cozy crowd were there, no doubt, to see what exactly is left of Mickey Rooney.

He's been performing for 80 years. A good chunk of that draped in super-sized glamour - in luxury's lap. He was Hollywood's biggest star. He married Ava Gardner. He golfed with Cary Grant. Walt Disney named a mouse after him. He made and lost more millions than Enron. Little Rascals, Andy Hardy, Judy Garland - he was Mickey Rooney, for crying out loud!

So to see him in Elgin, Oregon, in a theatre where a local once fired his pistol at the bad guy in a movie, where jean jackets and flannel shirts are pret-a-porter, where grips walk on stage mid-show to adjust the mike. To see him sitting on a scratched wooden school chair while clips of a feistier, younger man played behind him, was a bit surreal. He delivers a cutesy blend of stand-up shtick, song, and dance. And midway through the show, to blow any lingering nostalgic haze from the air, he brings out wife #8 - a big, booming, beautifully charged woman who kicks it all up a notch. She has a stunning voice and Mickey sits stage right bopping and weaving to a few tunes before they pair up Sonny and Cher-like for some odd-couple serenades. Those are a little embarrassing -- they're a visually unappealing match and Mrs. Rooney looks a little too motherly when she pats him affectionately on the head, but you get over it. You're in Elgin after all. Nobody else in the world even knows you're here.

It's an emotional show. There are touching moments, tender moments, and a few slightly awkward moments. Like when Mickey stumbles over a line, or chokes up on Memory Lane, or looks, every so often, confused. I clapped a little harder then, beamed a little broader, because I thought maybe he needed me.

Not so. There's a line between Average Joes and Movie Stars. It's not meant to be crossed. Mickey drew it sharply when the lights snapped on. His movie clips reminded us how big his star was - how rocket-powered his talent - and his stageside manner drove it home. A star's a star, and the rest of us aren't. A cranky Rooney, 82 years or not, had no time for chatty fans. He grudgingly posed in the lobby, but was impatient and curt. Still, I lingered side stage hoping to catch him as he exited. I did, and threw out my sultriest "great show Mr. Rooney" -- arched eyebrow, cocked head and all. I wanted a quote. He grunted without eye contact - his tuxedoed legs stomping away from me. At a safe distance, he paused for his wife. "Go save her" he barked to the young man next to him, his entourage. "These people are crazy!"

He was married to Ava Gardner. He golfed with Cary Grant. He was the biggest star of his day. He's show biz. And don't you forget it!

[Photo courtesy of Janis Bozarth]

byob is a vignette on life, love and disorder. It's mostly about me and mine so probably uninteresting to some.

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