Yes, there was a time before fandom. . .-
- I came into the world April 4, 1947; in Long Beach, California; part of the advance guard for an entire generation spawn from the seed of horny servicemen and a force the world had never seen: “The Baby Boomers”. Harry Truman was in the White house, "Gentleman's Agreement" had taken "Best Film of the Year" and Aleister Crowley would soon be kicking the bucket.
 My earliest remembrance was having tonsils removed at age 2. Laying fitfully on a gurney with a nurse looming above asking softly "Would you like to smell something pretty?" to which I responded "NO!". She pushed a mask over my face - cut to: waking up in an elevator some time later, mission accomplished "Here's some ice cream".- I followed my father’s footsteps; trained for tap, simple gymnastics and by the time I was five, in shows at the Shrine Auditorium. Alas, my father was too much the drunk to keep it together and my day care was behind the bar at one saloon or another.
 On summer days he ran a hot-dog stand on the beach and by night tended bar - anywhere, but particularly the infamous, boozy dive “Wheeler’s” on 4th street. Ahhhh, but the boardwalk, right off “The Nu-Pike”; amusement park backdrop to many movies when a scene of seedy jubilation was required. His hot dog stand, parked in front of the Tracy Theatre bristling with muscle-bound youths preening on the beach, accompanied by bathing beauties to make the eyes of a young fan bulge with quizzical glee.- My father was the original party animal and women loved him. The bars, the booze and the babes sent mom filing for divorce. Daddy, on the other hand, scurried to Las Vegas leaving her stuck with his accumulated carousing tabs. a dorky kid and older institutionalized sibling.
 We relocated to a one room shack on 7th Street, across from Edison Elementary School where I languished while mom toiled. Otherwise, childhood was merely a series of blurs. I would spend hours at the corner market reading - well, looking at pictures in comic books. One cover image remains; that of a tormented man’s face into which devilish imps busied themselves hammering nails. A defining moment in my eventual world view. Thus we lived until she met. . . Archie!-
- Archie was one of those “any ports in a storm" but was not without charm. He owned a parking lot in downtown Long Beach spending his day in a shack, charging .25¢ to park your car. A paltry sum now, but in 1953 you could buy a new two bedroom home for $3,000, and that’s what happened.
- The back of the house opened to the the future San Diego Freeway (405). By day, great machinery would clatter along the path to San Diego. At night I would bury toys, particularly dinosaurs in the path of the construction. Soon the concrete and asphalt trucks came, sealing all those toys under the highway for future generations to explore and wonder.
- On weekends, I would bus to Archie’s parking lot. His little shack a beacon for street people and characters; a never ending source of entertainment. Many of the bums (bottle in hand) on the far side of vaudeville and as I sat in shack-shade, Coke in hand on a hot afternoon, they would dance to music blaring from a radio and concoct stunts to keep me amused. Special occasions found the derelicts proudly showing me walls of their flophouse rooms; some completely covered with postage stamps, another with girly pictures or old circus posters. Even then, I thought it sadly peculiar someone's entire life could be summed up by what was stuck to their walls.
- There was something comforting in the lobbies of these smoky, old, threadbare hotels. A warm summer day, sunlight streaming through open doors and windows; fly fans spinning lazily above over-stuffed comfy chairs inhabited by over-stuffed old men circled for protection from the outside world while they read their newspapers, played checkers and waited, with dust bouncing on sunlight, for the end to come.
 Just a few blocks west at waters edge was “The Nu-Pike”. For an 8 year old kid, this turn of the century amusement park filled with 70 years of thrills, excitement and amazement. Hopping off the bus on Ocean Blvd. to find yourself, high on a cliff overlooking the expansive beach and wonderland below. You would descend into the Jergins Subway, a white tiled hallway lined with shops, opening on the boardwalk and daylight where you were greeted by the dings and clangs of arcade machines, whoops and hollers from inebriated revelers and sailors on leave; played before an endless stream of country music pouring from a bar near the entrance. The smell of all things gloriously fried; hot-dogs, shrimp, popcorn and burgers permeated the air, mingling with the heady aroma of fresh urine. Gaudy displays of corn dogs on sticks, ears of corn dripping butter and burgers filled the windows of shotgun shops lost in clouds of cigarette smoke and skinny, tattooed, tubercular old men laughing, coughing and stumbling about. Hysterical mannequins, men in gorilla costumes, the come hither barking of pitchmen tempting you to try your skills at tossing coins, darts, baseballs or firing rifles in the shooting gallery.  Then came the rides. The Cyclone Racer - “The World’s Fastest Twin Roller Coaster“. I never had the nerve to ride the thing, but was thrilled as the ground rumbled as it flew by overhead! There were boat rides and the most amazing thing ever - a diving bell! Clamoring up the stairs into the huge metal bullet, the heavy door would clang shut and the handle would spin ’round. A klaxon would sound and the bell would plunge into the deep where the captain explained whatever chose to swim by the portholes. Then up with a whoosh it would come and we disembarked as giddy as if we had been to the moon. There was also an indoor swimming pool called "The Plunge", a perfect hideaway for a hot Saturday afternoon.- There was the tent of human oddities; a collection of people with things gone awry. “The Ossified Man“ (The Man Who Turned to Stone) I haven’t forgotten. For 25¢ you could walk into his trailer and see him laying in a glass case. A man whom they say was literally turning to… (shudder) STONE! For another 10¢ you could touch him if you dare (but I didn't)!
 Photo by Lou Mellenkamp (1959)> Another fascination was the man that handled cobras bragging complete immunity to their poison. The last time I saw him he brandished two fresh fang marks on his hand for the audience to oooh and aaah. The next day he was dead. There were also funhouse rides and walk-throughs, miles of arcade games, pinballs and the like. Spending a rainy afternoon in Lee Roy‘s tattoo parlor was an education in itself; marveling at the art covered walls, reading The Police Gazette while his needle buzzed and the drunken sailors boasting “…didn’t feel a thing!”- The park bristled with life, particularly sailors and their dates out for a night on the town. One of the old theaters had been turned into a dance hall where you could jump and jive to live big-bands. From dawn to the wee hours, I would hang out and explore. There were moments then. . . the lights, oppressive noise, smells of impossibly greasy food and dizzying motions of the rides when things seems strangely right with the world.
- The magic of the Nu-Pike was continually captured in movies. You could ride the Cyclone Racer, then nip into a theatre and watch it being destroyed by a monster in “Beast from 20,000 Fathoms”. By the mid-sixties, the Nu-Pike had seen better days. Many of the rides collapsed or burned to the ground. The public pool had long since dried up, the Cyclone Racer was plagued by drunks throwing bottles on spectators, a gal tossed her baby from the thing and once a rider’s head was liberated from his body by a sign that read “Do Not Stand Up”. My last ride on the Diving Bell revealed an assortment of plastic fish tethered by strings to the bottom amid a flurry of popcorn boxes and debris. And thus, the park disappeared in gasping chunks over the coming years and today has disappeared into memory.
- A genuine corpse had been found among the scary mannequins during filming of an episode of a popular TV show. Turns out back in cowboy days dead gunfighters were routinely put on display and one such ne'er-do well made his way to Long Beach and exhibited till the novelty wore off. The ever prudent owner, not wanting to lose his investment, gave the corpse a coat of shellac, a few jaunty decoration and took his secret to the grave. Following owners of the attraction had no idea until they discovered the well preserved, mummified corpse which turned out to be that of a Mr. Elmer McCurdy.
 Elmer, thief, scoundrel and bad planner had sights on robbing a baggage car he believed carried $400,000 in indian tribal payments from Kansas to Oklahoma on October 6, 1911. In a comedy of errors, his gang stopped the wrong train, netting them only $46 and two jugs of whiskey. Liquored up and resenting the blunder, Elmer was promptly ventilated by his own men who proved to be bad drunks and sore losers. His body found its way to the Johnson Funeral Home and since poor Elmer had no next of kin, Mr. Johnson, seeing dollar signs in them bullet holes, embalmed McCurdy and put him on display.- Elmer traded hands frequently, winding up at the Nu-Pike until Elmer got his 15 minutes of fame on Pearl Harbor Day, 1976. The "Six Million Dollar Man" crew was preparing to shoot a fun house chase scene when a mannequin hanging from a gallows interfered with a shot. When an assistant went to move it, Elmer's fragile arm broke off in his hand. A horrified director phoned police. When the truth was discovered, McCurdy returned to Oklahoma for burial. Rest in Peace, Elmer; you deserve it.
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- But I digress. . .
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