Back in the early 1990’s, while I was living in Los Angeles, I joined a Wild West Arts Club. It wasn’t what you think. It had nothing to do with painting or sculpture. This club pertained to the performing arts that were practiced at old-time Wild West shows. One Saturday a month, about 50 of us would gather at one park or another to learn how to do rope tricks, crack a bullwhip, spin a six-shooter, or throw knives and tomahawks. There was still demand for these skills in our area because of the Hollywood movie industry, and several local Wild West theme parks and supper clubs.
The club was headed by a professional performer named Mark Allen. He could supply all the necessary paraphernalia through a company called Western Stage Props, in Las Vegas. Many of the people who came were professional stunt men and part-time actors who worked as extras in cowboy movies. They all wanted to expand their skill set so they could get hired for a wider range of parts. About half of the members would show up in costume, carrying knives and pistols. Each meeting was like stumbling into the secret hideout of the Hole-in-the Wall Gang. Just the kind of people you’d like to see in the park where you send your kids to play. “Gee mom; I just learned how to play mumblety-peg with Bowie knives.”
My interest in the club was mainly to learn how to use a bullwhip. In those days, we all wanted to be Indiana Jones. It turns out, when Raiders of the Lost Ark was being written, Spielberg and Lucas wanted their hero to expertly wield a bullwhip like the old-time cowboy movie star, Lash Larue. In fact, when Harrison Ford needed a bullwhip instructor, Spielberg hired the master – Lash LaRue.
I actually met Lash LaRue at one of our club sessions. In fact, I am currently the proud owner of a personally autographed photo of him; along with a couple of genuine Lash LaRue pocketknives (accept no substitute). One was for me, and I figured the second one would become valuable as a collector’s item. And, sure enough, 35 years later, knives like my $10 purchase were selling for $11 on eBay. Oh well, at least it’s doing better than my Beanie Baby collection.
We had several professional bullwhip coaches in our club. One of them, Anthony De Longis, taught Michelle Pfeiffer to perform her Catwoman stunt for the 1992 movie “Batman Returns.” In the scene Catwoman whips the heads off three department-store mannequins in quick succession and then skips off stage using her whip as a jump rope. There are YouTube videos showing her receiving a round of applause from the film crew after she completed the scene in a single “take.” I never achieved that level of proficiency, either with the whip or the jump rope.
Wielding a bullwhip is not all it’s cracked up to be. Even Harrison Ford admitted he wound up with a lot of self-inflicted welts and stripes when learning to use one. If your timing is just a little off, the whip can whack your arm or clip your ear. And if you tried too hard to make it crack, the backlash could swat you across the face.
In fact, I never felt comfortable swinging the whip unless I was bundled up in a jacket, hat and sunglasses to prevent serious bodily injury. When some of the club members would call me chicken, I’d remind them that Indiana Jones always wore a leather jacket and hat. I dared them to go call Harrison Ford a chicken.
Another club member was an old-timer who was the last professional bullwhip maker still working in California. I regret never having bought one of his whips. But let’s face it, how many bullwhips does one guy need? My wife was already a bit concerned when I showed up with my second one. Three could be grounds for divorce. Instead, I had him make me a custom braided leather guitar strap. It wouldn’t snap the heads off mannequins. But at least it never clipped my ear or swatted me across the face.
I remember one day when our club was meeting at a park in Anaheim. As was often the case, neighbors would hear all the whip cracking and think it was gunshots. If we were lucky, they would just complain to the park officials, and we wouldn’t be invited back. But this time, apparently somebody called the police.
Imagine the cops pulling up and seeing a park full of scruffy looking, pistol-packing cowboys cracking whips and throwing tomahawks. The sergeant asked us who was in charge, and a few of us sheepishly pointed at Mark. Nobody chimed in with, “I’m Spartacus.”
As the sergeant walked over to him, we all started packing up, figuring we were about to get the bum’s rush. But as their conversation continued, the cop pulled out his notebook and started writing. We began to worry that this could be more serious. Worst case scenario, we could all be issued tickets, be fined, and have our dangerous weapons confiscated.
As the sergeant headed back to his squad car, we all gathered around Mark and asked, “What’s the verdict?” It turned out, there was no verdict. Nobody had called the police. These cops just happened to be driving by and saw what we were doing. The sergeant just wanted to know if Mark had any videos of the old Lash LaRue movies for sale. Mark gave him a number of possible sources and sent him on his way.
“Gee, Mark,” I said. “I wish you’d told me he was such a big La Rue fan before he left. I might have been able to sell him a genuine Lash LaRue pocketknife and double my investment.” Mark grinned and started walking away. I called after him, “Hey Mark, did that cop happen to mention any interest in Beanie Babies?”
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