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My Name Is A.N.
Archy
Chapter Eleven
continued of a novel by
by Claude Hall
He was quite suspicious, of
course. I had expected
that. On the other hand, I seemed to have few
alternatives. The problem with being a scholar--the
major problem, in fact--is lack of proper sources of
information. Even the medical scientists with their
experiments have problems. They come up with a new
cure, but the new cure has various elements that are
not so pleasant which are called side effects. Some
of the side effects can kill you over a period of
time. As a communications research specialist, one of
the various disciplines I have acquired over my years,
you have mathematical formulas which may or may not
prove your point within certain parameters of error.
In my own studies, I have found that redundancy is a
better indicator of validity, i.e., the more
information, the better the likelihood of truth.
"Why should you trust anything I say?" he asked.
I decided to be truthful. What did it matter?
"I have few choices," I said. "Literally, there is no
one I can trust. I thought you might tell me what you
know, but I do not know this for a fact."
"And you will return me to earth regardless? Just as
long as I provide answers?"
"Yes," I said. "Even if I do not like the answers.
I'm presently in a desperate need for information.
All kinds of information. Even bad information."
"Even though I had been ordered to, uh, detain you and
interrogate you and may even be ordered to kill you at
some point in the future?"
"That's always a possibility, of course. My death. I
don't foresee it happening. Interrogation is one
thing. My death is another, I believe. At least
that's how I perceive the situation at this time."
He had been virtually walking at attention, like a
soldier on parade. Now he relaxed. Not much. Some.
"At least, you seem to know who you are now," he said.
"That's not exactly true," I told him.
"Then you don't know for sure that you're Dr.
Gottard?"
"Merely a logical assumption at this time," I
admitted.
"What makes you think that I know anything more than
that?"
"One of your men was checking a laptop computer during
my interrogation. Therefore, it's logical to assume a
considerable amount of data had been collected. You
would have been privy to this information."
"Not everything. A great deal, of course. On the
other hand, a great deal of information has been
gathered about you. None of it was classified
information. I suppose I can tell you what you wish
to know. For my freedom."
"Am I really Dr. Gottard?"
"Yes. So far as we know. At one point, considerable
information pointed to the fact that you might be from
somewhere in space. Thus the name Gottard could have
been an assumed name."
"Serious consideration that I'm an alien from another
planet?"
"Yes," Shep said. He appeared reluctant to confirm
the idea, as if worried he might offend me.
I thought about the possibility. It was quite
interesting. Might even explain certain things. For
example, my quite amazing IQ. For I knew with
absolutely certainty that I was more brilliant than a
lot of the people around me. Including some with
doctorate degrees.
"I don't think so," I finally said. For I had reached
the conclusion that, while I might be burdened, and
that's what it really was in the final analysis, with
substantial intelligence, I don't think I was really
from anywhere else but earth. Yes, I didn't know very
much about myself at the moment. Yes, I might have
been suffering from a nervous breakdown of some kind,
of some level. I might still be suffering from such
an illness. But, no, I was, all things considered,
nothing more disturbing than Dr. Jonathanic A.
Gottard.
"This idea was later discarded," Shep said.
"Well, whoever did the final deciding was correct.
I'm not from outer space."
"The reason this idea came about," said Shep, "was
that you seemed to have done quite a lot of space
exploration in your homemade space ship."
"My homemade space ship? You mean Doober's Big
Lizzie?"
"Your Big Lizzie," Shep said. "We know for a fact
that you invented the drive system for the space ship,
I don't care what it's called."
"Really?"
"Without question," he said.
"The fractionator?" I asked.
"We heard about it, but we were not able to learn
anything about it," he said. "Is that what sent me to
this god-forsaken hell hole?"
"To be honest, I don't know," I told him. "You'd
think that I should know. But I've been led to
believe one thing and then told another. First, it
was a ring that was used for transportation. I seem
to remember bringing a bench, a plain and simple
bench, out to this planet with Doober, which I once
thought was a teleportation device only to discover it
wasn't anything more than a location signal. Then I
was told this pen in my jacket pocket was used for
transportation. The pen evidently sent you here and
allowed me to come here to talk with you. It must be
real. Regardless, it seems to work."
"A mere pen? I thought about removing it from you. I
didn't. That was a mistake, I see."
"Yes. I see what you mean. Is the pen real? Is this
planet real? I do not seem capable of comprehension
about those matters at this particular time. Perhaps
if you'll tell me more about myself, that would help."
"You gave yourself up. That alone was suspicious to
me. You walked over to a soldier stationed on the
campus and told us you'd just blown up Yucca
Mountain."
"I did that? Literally confessed?"
"And you seemed proud about it when I talked with you
shortly afterwards. You were shaking. Nervous or
excited, I guess. But you held your head high and
appeared to be pleased with what you'd done."
"Is that why you hate me so much?"
If I'd hoped to surprise him with the question, I was
wrong. He merely nodded.
"I didn't appreciate your attitude one damned bit!
>From that moment on, I considered you not only a
traitor, but a terrorist of the worse kind."
"Shaking? Proud? I can imagine myself shaking
because of that particular incident. But proud? Not
in the slightest," I said. Then, because I was almost
afraid to ask, "How many people were killed in the
blast?"
"None. Strange. But none. They announced that 100
federal employees were killed. Government hogwash.
Nothing more. I was on the scene shortly
afterwards...before even the tech bunch told us the
area was highly radioactive and chased us out. There
were no bodies. It appears as if you warned everyone
to leave the premises and gave them twenty minutes.
Time to get the hell out of there. I think you used a
bullhorn. At first, we thought you were evaporated in
the blast."
"I don't remember the incident at all," I told him.
"But I'm glad I did something like that. Avoided the
death of those pour souls. I'd like to think that I
would."
"And yet you think that in other circumstances you
might not be so generous with human life?"
It was a curious statement. Obviously, there was
still a lot they hadn't learned about me.
"Yes. If that's a question. I've been often angry
lately. I don't know why. But when I sent you here,
you were quite fortunate. I thought I was killing you
at the time. I could easily have committed such a,
well, faux pas."
"Then I was merely lucky?"
"Yes. Luck. Pure luck. On my behalf, I'd like to
point out that I was more than likely still quite ill
at the time. However, whether it means anything to
you or not, since I feel a definite bias in our
relationship, I'm glad that I failed to kill you."
This was the point when he exhibited a certain amount
of intelligence. I was surprised. I hadn't expected
it from him. He was a Baptist type. Pre-set,
pre-determined ideas and ideals.
"If you thought I was dead, how did you know I was
here on this god forsaken planet?"
"Ah, Colonel Shep, that is indeed a mystery. One for
which I do not currently have a solution. Often, I
find that I know certain things. I'm not yet aware of
how I know these things, nor when I learned about
them. I find the entire matter very curious. For
example, I obviously had some kind of nervous
breakdown, but am I getting well? Or getting worse?"
"Don't look at me for an answer about something like
that," he said. "I'm sure I wouldn't have the
slightest idea."
"College? You went to college?"
"Yes," he said. "I learned football."
"Pity," I said.
"At the moment, I agree with you. I did not at the
time. In fact, I thought I was learning all that was
important to know."
"Strangely enough, although I majored in a more
academic discipline, I thought as much at the time
myself. All there was to know. And in retrospect, it
turns out to have been so very little."
He glanced once again nervously at the volcano. It
now spit fire and hurled black boulders like pebbles
into the air.
"Pretty, isn't it?" I said.
"Not to me," he said.
"That's because you're frightened," I told him.
"Of you?"
"Yes. Perhaps."
"Not a chance," he said. "I have worried about what
you might do. That is true. But I have not been
worried about you personally."
"What about my wife?" I asked.
He shook his head, although he seemed quite intent on
the volcano.
"No. She doesn't worry me either."
I was quite glad to hear this last statement, as you
might imagine. Doober gave indication that my
beautiful wife Barbara didn't exist. But now this
colonel, who seemed to have his wits about him,
indicated that she was, in fact, real as opposed to
something in my imagination.
I was quite relieved, of course. In my condition, I
honestly had problems discerning what was real and
what was mere imagination. But she did, after all,
exist! Beautiful beyond compare. Intelligent. With a
fine appreciation of art. A man could not acquire
anywhere in the world another woman like that. No,
what I really meant to say is that such women are
quite rare. Yes, that was what I meant.
There were still problems. I recall once telling the
colonel during the period when he was interrogating me
that she had taken the car and driven down into
Mexico. Had she? In that case, who was the beautiful
witch left behind? Or perhaps she did leave, but then
returned. And why drive a car when she could merely
have ringed herself anywhere she wished to go?
As you can see, I was still confused about the matter.
Did I have two wives? One, a girl somewhere down in
South America. The other, a woman companion that many
people believed didn't exist.
A mystery!
"Would you be willing to tell me more about the
information you have about me on computer?"
"I guess so. As I said, none of it was classified.
We know that you were born in Brady, Texas. That you
worked in an ice plant as a kid in Winters where you
went to high school and was manger of the football
team. That you then worked for a while in a feed mill
because there weren't many jobs available. You were
working as a leadman in a small aircraft factory in
Brady, however, when you were drafted. We also know
that you weren't particularly good material for
military service. Had a falling out with a first
sergeant in Germany. Once discharged, you headed as
fast as you could trot down to the University of
Texas. You thought about becoming a physicist.
Changed your major to journalism. Then you were off
the radar for a while. Magazine work. Newspaper
reporter. Then back to college where your grades were
trivial and you didn't seem to be doing a hell of a
lot."
"Yes. I remember all of that," I said.
"Nothing else," he said.
"Nothing?" I couldn't believe him.
He just shook his head.
"You're a very strange person, Dr. Gottard."
"It appears you're absolutely correct," I said. "Does
your information tell you when I got married? The
name of the woman?"
"No."
I immediately felt depressed. This could indicate
that I wasn't married after all. No marriage, no
Barbara.
"But you mention a few moments ago that you weren't
concerned about my wife."
"I'm not," he said. "You're the only real terrorist I
know anything about. There were some other names. A
history professor who was shot during a demonstration.
A woman somewhere down in Costa Rica that we haven't
been able to locate. Gibbs, I think was her name.
And a guy named John Forbes killed in a skiing
accident. This guy you called Doober. A professor
named Bullware, which we think is an alias. Same with
a Dr. Huetter. We are, of course, still researching
your organization regarding terrorist activities. All
of this has been rather sudden. I'm sure you're aware
of all that."
"Those people you mentioned are all so very, very
innocent," I said.
"Are they? What about all of those students you've
enlisted?"
"There is only one real terrorist. Me. And perhaps
my wife. If I have a wife. My viewpoint on this
seems to change from moment to moment of late."
"I think a man would know something like that," the
colonel said.
At first, he seemed almost afraid to tell me something
so personal. Then, his shoulders braced, he appeared
to be pleased. A faint little smile in the corners of
his mouth. As if he'd said something important.
"Yes, Colonel Shep. You'd think so," I agreed after a
moment's thought. For I was more concerned with what
was in his mind rather than the mere words. Sometimes
a person tells you what they think you wish to hear.
But what do they-the words--really mean? Ah, that's
always the more interesting. Finally, I added: "But a
man who has been sick and may still even be sick might
not know it."
"You have a wife," he said. "You married one of your
students."
"I did?"
The information startled me. A professor, of course,
naturally meets quite a few women students over the
years. Some of them quite pretty. Some even fairly
bright. You have a tendency, of course, to remember
the ones that standout in some way, especially
stunning beauties such as my beautiful wife Barbara.
At the moment, and this distressed me immensely, I
didn't remember any student named Barbara. However,
after a certain period of time their faces blend
together. Nothing you can do about. They are a blur.
A matter of mental self-preservation, I've always
thought.
I remembered only my wife Barbara. No student
Barbara. Strangely enough, at the moment I couldn't
recall her face. I couldn't see it. I wondered why.
"Anything else you wish to know?" the colonel asked.
I realized that I had been standing mute for several
seconds. The volcano in the distance had momentarily
become dormant. A mere mountain stretching toward a
sky that it would never reach.
"You're quite sure that Doober, Dr. Huetter, Dr.
Bullware exist? Even under different names?"
"No. We have never been able to discover who they
are. No pictures. No sightings. Just names that
you, in fact, mentioned to us. We have never seen
this spacecraft Big Lizzie." He paused and glanced
around. "I assume that I'm on another planet, but I
have no idea if this planet is real or just a figment
of my imagine. Or how I got here. I could be just as
crazy as...."
He hesitated.
"As me? That's what you mean to state, I assume. I
doubt that anyone could be as much of a lunatic as I
am at this particular moment," I said. "No, I take
that back. I'm not really crazy. I believe that with
great fervor. But I seem to be rather vague about
many things that have happened to me recently. I
suppose that's a form of insanity. I don't think so
in my particular case, however. And, anyway,
incidents and people are coming back to me. Slowly."
"Maybe I'm suffering a nervous breakdown, too," he
said. "It's rather absurd, you realize, to find
yourself on a hell-forsaken world such as this. At
some point, I shall look back and think it was all
just a nightmare."
"Nightmare. Yes. It is exactly that to a great
extent, Colonel Shep. The war in Iraq. The other
silent wars. The dead mounting like dung heap signal
to the world that we intend to become emperor to those
left living. By request and if not, then by
insistence and if not, then by force of the bullet and
the bomb. Everywhere that mankind walks."
"That is not my affair," the colonel said. "I'm just
following orders."
"Following orders, Colonel Shep? Soldiers have used
that as an excuse for murder since the Nurnberg Trials
after the last World War. That's what the Nazis said
for sending men, woman and children to the gas
chambers of Buchenwald."
"We must rid the world of terrorists," he insisted.
"Killing them, of course, will do that. Then you have
to kill the terrorists who become terrorists because
you killed their brother or their sister. It becomes
the old Hatfield and McCoy cycle. There will always
be a terrorist to kill. Terrorism is a mental
attitude. Don't you realize that? A mental condition
on the part of the terrorist and the person who will
kill the terrorist."
"You should talk," he said, his voice sharp and
defiant.
I suddenly found myself shaking with rage. It had
fallen on me without warning. My face must have
reflected my emotions. The colonel stepped away as if
he'd been shot. And if I'd had a gun, I might indeed
have killed him in that instant.
Why was I so angry? Was it because he'd attacked a
sick man? Me? No. Truth is truth. It was merely
the truth. Unfortunately.
After several deep breaths, almost choking on the
acrid fumes that now wafted our direction from some
unseen volcanic activity, I nodded at him.
"Where would you like to go, Colonel Shep?"
"You're actually going to let me go?"
"You doubted me. I can understand that. I'm not so
far gone that the question eludes me entirely. Yes,
I'm going to let you go free. To kill again, as a
soldier does? I hope not. But I have no control over
that. You, as you said, are a soldier. Regardless,
the fault is not with you, it's with leadership."
"Whose leadership?" the colonel asked. His tone was
quite curious. I glanced at him to see if he was
making fun of me.
"Mine, of course," I said. "I'm of the opinion that I
have failed."
I was frank about the matter. I was, indeed, the one
at fault. Not old Buchenwald, that flimsy old
mealy-mouthed self-imposed dictator. Me. One of us
did, after all, need a vone. I didn't know which one,
though.
"Not Las Vegas," he said.
"Good decision," I said. "Soon the ground water will
be contaminated from the problems at Yucca Mountain.
The entire city will have to be deserted. As well as
many other cities in the area."
"Los Angeles?"
"Probably not," I said, "although I do not know that
for sure. It's going to be a problem, however, for
Phoenix and Tucson and that farming region down the
Mexican border. I'm sorry for the problem. But not
sorry for causing the problem. It was a statement,
you know. Us terrorists are always making statements
like that."
"Are you planning other similar statements," he asked.
"Colonel Shep, I simply don't know. Not at the
moment, surely. That is, I don't have anything
planned, but I cannot assure you that I will not make
similar statements in the near future. First,
however, I have other problems that need solving.
Primary is my own health. Therefore, I suppose I'll
send you to some place where you can rejoin your...."
"Mallorca," he said quickly, interrupting me.
"They will charge you with desertion if you go to
Mallorca. The army has done that before. A soldier
disappeared from Iraq and showed up, I think, in
Lebanon. He faced court-martial charges."
"Mallorca," he insisted.
"Why Mallorca, if I may ask?"
"Because that's where you're going, I have a hunch."
"Mallorca," I said.
We stood, suddenly, on the edge of the cliff at the
villa, looking out upon the blue of the Mediterranean
Ocean. The sun, just rising over the horizon to the
east, flung a far shadow of the island off over the
water, but the water was blue beyond the shadow. Some
clouds hung off yonder and they were bathed
startlingly white in the sunlight.
"Beautiful," he said.
But when we turned away from the ocean, we faced only
a pile of rubble. The explosion had destroyed the
villa as if some god had spat down from heaven. Rocks
were strewn over the plaza. A gaping hole was all
that remained of the beautiful home that had once been
a proud monument on this peak above the ocean.
"And this is quite interesting," he said. "You had
mentioned that the villa had been reconstructed, I
believe. Where is it?"
"It was merely destroyed again," I said.
"You're deluding yourself again," Colonel Shep said.
"It was wiped out by the Navy. It has not been
rebuilt. You might as well face the truth."
"You and I were just a moment ago millions of miles
out there in space." I swung a hand at the blue sky.
"You still doubt that, too?"
"Hypnosis," he said. "Or some kind of drug. I don't
know what. It was never real. This is real,
however."
"You were frightened enough out there," I pointed out.
"Because I had not yet comprehended what was going
on...what was being done to me."
"Nothing was being done to you," I said.
"So you tell me," he said and glared at me defiantly.
"I could send you back. That would be proof.
Especially if I left you there. However, I have a
better idea. I once spent a horrible year or so in
Enid, Oklahoma. It's a town full of people with whom
you'll have a lot in common."
"I'd rather stay here," he said. He studied the scene
with great intensity. Just as if he would have to
make a report about me and about the villa. And he
would. No not soon. He would first have to explain a
lot of things about Enid.
"Yes. And once you've experienced a while in Enid,
I'm sure you'll even long for that view of the volcano
out yonder in space. There's a church just waiting
for someone like you. Goodbye, Colonel Shep. And
good luck!"
Whether it was the ring on my finger or the pen in my
pocket, I do not know. But there was a faint noise of
air rushing into a vacuum and the colonel was gone.
I sat down on a bench along the pathway that led off
the plaza and waited. It took them the longest time,
of course, because it was early morning here and most
of them were more than likely sleeping late. I felt
tired. I had not slept in quite a while. Nor ate. I
hoped they had some food available. With graduate
assistants, you never knew. They seemed to survive
and even thrive on pizza and French fries and now and
then a chocolate chip cookie.
I wished I hadn't thought about the chocolate chip
cookie. I could do without pizza for the longest
time, but a chocolate chip cookie was another matter.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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May 22, 2006
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
From left: Rick Frio, vice president of MCA Records in Los
Angeles; Ricky Nelson, promotion man Pat Pippolo of MCA Records,
Vince Cosgrave, vice president of promotion for MCA Records.
Circa 70s. Rather an historic picture. But Ricky Nelson lived in
an even more historic house before his death. The former home of
Errol Flynn. I was there a couple of times. When it was owned by
singer-songwriter Stu Hamblen. The first time was shortly after
seeing a TV pilot under production at, as I recall, Metromedia's
TV facilities in the Hollywood area. It was one of those
half-hour things intended mostly for syndication. I had been
invited by Ken Griffis, the world's greatest western music fan.
At this very moment I have a copy of Ken's 1974 "Hear My Song:
The Story of the Celebrated Sons of the Pioneers" beside me.
Great book. No, you cannot borrow it. After the show, Ken said
everyone was going up to Stu's house off Mulholland Drive and
did I want to come. I said yes and could I bring my wife and he
said of course. So, I drove home (we lived just off Mulholland
Drive in those days but further west). Among those at the casual
get-together (wasn't really a party, per se) was Marty Robbins,
who'd been a guest on the TV pilot; Bob Nolan, writer of "Cool
Water" and an original member of the Sons of the Pioneers; Lloyd
Perryman, then leader of the Sons of the Pioneers, Stu Hamblen,
fiddle player Harold Hensley, maybe a church children's choir
visiting Stu and his wife Susie, and that's just about all I can
recall. Oh, yes. Bill Ward, then general manager of KLAC in Los
Angles, was there. He shot a color photo that I still have
somewhere. In some cardboard box amidst the myriad cardboard
boxes tucked here and there in this house. At some point, Marty
Robbins picked up Stu's guitar leaning against the wall and
began strumming and Stu said, "Wait a minute, let's record this
for posterity" and I went out and got my Sony CRS 500 cassette
deck (wish I still had it; it was stolen in Enid, OK, by
burglars along with a Goya G10 guitar that could never replace).
Harold Hensley went and got his fiddle out of his car. The first
song we put on that tape was "Out on Those Texas Plains" written
by Stu when he was still around 19 and living in the Dallas-Ft.
Worth area. I had grown up thinking that was a folk song! They
also sang "Cool Water," of course, and Marty did some of his
environmental songs such as "Man Walks Among Us." Can you
believe this: Marty Robbins on lead vocal and guitar and his
backup singers Lloyd Perryman, Bob Nolan, and Stu Hamblen? With
Harold Hensley on fiddle? Great stuff! And I later gave copies
of that cassette to people from England to Australia. The second
time I was there at Stu's home was to interview him on cassette.
Great interview! He was going mountain lion hunting the next day
in Zion. I don't know, incidentally, just where those cassettes
are at the moment. They may be among the 16 or so I mailed to
Lou Dorren to transfer to CD. Anyway, the famous bedroom
mentioned in David Niven's book (either "Bring on the Empty
Horses" or the "Moon Is a Balloon") was at that point a sort of
study for Stu. This is the room with the two-way mirrors for the
ceiling. The place was then owned by Errol Flynn when Niven
wrote about it, of course. Seven and a half acres on Mulholland
Drive. Wonder if Stu's horse is still buried there? (Photo
courtesy of Vince Cosgrave)
Dan Cutrer, Dallas,
dancutrer@gmail.com: "I
don't want
to get a pissing contest started...but I knew Couzan
Dud when I did mornings at WYNK, Baton Rouge, in the
mid-to-late 60s, he was still a State Senator. My
Grampa had to have a hefty swig of it every morning
when I was a lad in SE Louisiana, naturally I had a
taste with him. I've never heard of Col. Tom Parker
being involved with Hadacol before your column. I
probably know a bit more than most, in the summer of
'82 I formed a group that bought Col. Tom's
'autobiography' and 'memorabilia', warehouses of it.
I quickly learned that every time I went to see him I
had to bring him another statute of an elephant, by
then his wife was in a nursing home in Palm Springs,
he had...hundreds of 'em in his home in a low-rise not
that far from the RCA Building, where his office plate
had "RCA Tours" on it. The "Col." came from Jimmie
Davis, twice Guv of the Pelican State, initially from
'44-'48, giving Parker (and half the state) a
commission as a 'Colonel in the State Militia and
Aide-de-Camp on the Governor's Staff'. I collected a
couple of them myself from various Governors, only one
of whom landed in the Federal Pen. Just a rumor that
one of his fellow inmates told him 'The food here was
better when YOU were Governor'. <g> (Parker had
warehouses full of 8mm film, show cards, letters,
Elvis concerts, etc. As I recall, his heirs were a
couple nieces; I hope they had the good sense to
preserve it. One guy in our group got greedy, I
killed the deal after he did a power-play.) By the
way, Parker denied the story Bro. Dave Gardner told me
about the 'dancing chickens'. Miss Millie and Bro.
Dave said they worked Florida carnivals with him in
the 40s, earliest 50s; he'd put a record on a
Victrola, open the little curtain, the chickens would
start dancing. Dave swore there was a hot plate under
the cage. 'I was a dog catcher in Florida, I love
animals, it's a great idea, but not something I'd do'.
'Dud did the Groucho Marx show in the early 50s,
Groucho asked 'This stuff do you any good?' 'Hah, it
done me 'bout $12-million good just this past year!'
I fell for one of Dud's favorite lines, 'How did you
come up with the name?' He was a short, squat man,
would put his arms around you, pull you in close,
'Danny, I hadacall it something, now didn't I?'
Parker might have helped promote the last great
medicine show that had everybody from Bob Hope to Hank
Williams on it, helped with the PR, but Couzan Dud
didn't need much help with marketing. He sold Hadacol
to a bunch of rich Yankees just before the checks
started bouncing. While there was a significant
alcohol percentage in it, wasn't nearly as high-test
as most folks now claim. Dud told me the 'thing that
worked' was a heavy dose of a power laxative. 'Danny,
a good bowel movement will do a man more good than sex
most of the time!' The older I get the more I
understand that theory. One confirmation of how well
Dud promoted was 'Hadacol Boogie', a hit song back
then. 'Makes you boogie-woogie all night long'. Dud
used to read the Sunday newspapers in French on a
Lafayette, LA, station, studios in a hotel in the
40's. The management didn't speak French, Dud always
slipped in a few extra tidbits about folks across the
fence from him politically. 'Dat man stay home wid'
him wife and kids, the way he should, he wouldn't have
to go see Dr. Plaisance in Ville Platte and take 'dem
shots the way he do!' One dj from that era said the
folks who'd been insulted would way-lay Dud and his
boys when they come out of the station, guests at the
hotel were treated to a regular fist-fight that
usually drew blood most every Sunday."
This is my note back to Dan: "Thank you! Great
information. And the way I heard that chicken story
is that Eddy Arnold was sick one night during a series
of tent shows. Parker wasn't about to give everyone
their 25 cents back. So, he got a hot plate and tied
a couple of chickens by the legs and they 'danced'. I
don't remember who told me the story. Been too long
ago. Might have been Eddy. But maybe not. Eddy was
sort of a gentleman when I did the interview...just
starting a comeback mostly in MOR. I don't think he
wanted to talk about Parker. Someone told me that
they'd had a fist fight. And I, too, had heard about
Hank Williams being on one of the trains. Way I heard
it, there was a country music train and an MOR train.
But who really knows at this point. Still, fabulous
story!"
Just FYI, Dan sent me a copy of "Hadacol Boogie" by
Bill Nettles and the Dixie Blueboys. He also
indicates that Mrs. Parker has died. I have an email
address for her somewhere. Thought it was
contemporary, but..
Dan later wrote: "Bro. Dave (God, do I miss him.
Think of the fun he'd have had with Bill Clinton...)
swore it was gospel. As a 'trier of fact', I'd have
believed Bro. Dave before Col. Tom. Parker did
wonders for Eddy, then Hank Snow (who got the idea he
owned half of Elvis...)...then Elvis. The Yahoo great
country discussion group has tackled the 'Elvis
without Tom' what-if...a couple times. My take is
that Parker earned every cent he got from Elvis, a
couple times over. Without the Col. Elvis would have
been a good supply clerk for the electrical company in
Memphis. 'Course, he would probably still be alive.
Somewhere, and I think it was from Parker, I heard a
story that in his files was a letter signed by all
four, 'We are a new singing group. We would like you
to be our manager. We will be known as The Beatles'.
As I remember the story an onion-skin of Parker's
reply was clipped to it, 'Thanks for your interest.
Only handle one act at a time'. Best wishes from
Dallas!"
Just received an amusing, unsigned note. I have to
assume, of course, it's from a real redneck as opposed
to one of those artificial things. Nothing worse
than an artifical redneck, you know! From
swankville@yahoo.com:
"Don't lecture us about
Mexicans. Write about radio."
Radio? What's that? While I will confess to writing
about radio as a medium.at some point.now and
then.mostly I didn't write about radio.I wrote about
people who worked in radio. Among other places, too,
now and then. Loved these people.most of them. Even
worshipped some of them to some extent, I guess. Felt
grateful, even, to bask now and then in their glory.
But these days I write mostly about what I want to
write about and if you, swankville, don't wish to read
it, may I suggest you select something more fitting
your personal approach to life? I don't know how many
people read this website, but believe that the quality
is pretty good. These may not all agree with me.
Agreement has never been required from me for
readership. Be a damned dull world if everyone agreed
with me!
For the record: I'm desperately opposed to building a
fence or a wall between the United States and Mexico.
Walls create enemies. It has been thus throughout
history. I am also desperately opposed to sending
troops to the border of Mexico. Having carried an
M-1, I know how easy it is to pull a trigger. Having
studied the psychology of the human being in uniform,
I know there will be killings. Innocent people
killed! Hitler realized that you put someone in a
brown shirt with a black armband, they became
different. Especially, rednecks in uniform become
different. They become less human. This has always
happened. Since the very day Napoleon created the
so-called nationalistic concept of difference. I once
taught a soldier. In fact, was invited to see him
commissioned. I attempted to teach him to act with
reason. That there's another way than a gun, usually,
to solve a problem. And I would believe that he does
so wherever he is in the world at this very moment.
Most soldiers, however, are taught not to reason. To
act without thought. This is especially so with
Marines. They are intended to be nothing more than
the cannon fodder that is expendable during an attack.
Don't think! Attack and die (75% first wave on the
beach, 50% second wave, etc,). Blind obedience cannot
be, of course, with most humans. Except, perhaps,
with a redneck. For a sense of guilt will always
remain with the intelligent being when he or she acts
without just cause and without valid reason, no matter
what the circumstance, no matter what the "uniform"
(and, yes, a suit and tie oft become a uniform,
especially in metropolitan business environments).
Those soldiers going to the border have not been
psychological conditioned. Trained for something more
than pulling a trigger. That's all most of them know.
And they will pull the trigger. Death looms! A lot
of bad deaths. For those people coming across that
border are, to a great extent, mere kids. Kids
seeking a better life. Killing them would be a crime
against God, I assure you. Instead, I suggest
investing the money that's being used in a 700-ton
bomb-yeah, that same one that's going to be tested
this June just 40 miles from where I sit-and send them
to school. For the price of a mere 700-ton bomb, you
could build a university in Cuidad Acuna with housing
and send all of those kids to school. Then, and only
then, they might not need to come to the United States
just to irritate Lou Dobbs.
Ah, June! Boom! A disc jockey friend has asked
permission to come see me. I certainly wouldn't want
to invite him out in June. As for you, swankville,
come on out.
George Wienbarg,
george.wienbarg@cbs.com: "A dear
friend of mine who became a country recording star was
a former funeral director by the name of John Conlee.
He made the hit song 'Rose Colored Glasses' for ABC
records when I was doing morning news at WLAC on the
Pat and Dick Show. He was the morning man on WLAC FM
(forgot call letters) in 1977. It was such a thrill
for that song to go to #2 (1?), have John quit the
station and go on the road with another news guy at
LAC, George Baber. I hope you are taking good care of
yourself, Claude. You are becoming a cultural icon.
Since radio's change, I guess we WERE in on something
special."
George, if you ever touch bases with John Conlee
again, tell him that "Old School" is on my laptop.
Great song. Great rendition on it. My compliments to
him. Paul Ackerman, late music editor of Billboard
magazine, would have loved this song. I believe the
song would sort of personify Nashville to him.what he
thought Nashville was all about, i.e., the creation of
songs such as this. A great line of Paul's was that
country music songs were about "sex, sin, and
salvation." Paul loved Nashville and a lot of people
there loved him. We did a lot of stories together for
"The World of Country Music" special magazines each
year. I will never, never forget the interview we did
at Mario's over lunch with Audrey Williams. Wonder if
Mario's still exists. They should have given it
historic monument status after that interview!
David Hinckley of the New York Daily News reports that
Art Vuolo has produced a DVD documentary about Joey
Reynolds, who does the overnight show on WOR and radio
stations hither and yon via satellite. You can find
more info about the DVD via
http://www.officialjoeyreynolds.com/.
Bob Levinson, bless his soul, has invited me to the
reception for his newest novel at Dutton's in
Brentwood (Los Angeles) at 7 p.m. May 31. Wish I
could go! The reception is for "Where the Lies
Begin." Bob's books ride the New York Times
bestseller list. Two of his books were "The John
Lennon Affair" and "The James Dean Affair." If you're
in hiking distance of UCLA, I'll get Bob wouldn't mind
you attending the reception. As long as you bought a
copy or two of his book. Really glad to see Bob's
success.and jealous as the devil!
Jack Gale,
JGALE5@tampabay.rr.com: "Enjoying your
written thoughts every week. Just an added note on
Juggy Gayles. First met him when I was morning man at
WSRS in Cleveland in 1954. He was the first promo man
to visit me at the station at 6AM one morning. I'm
sure you know he was partners with...of all names.JACK
GALE. Not me, but another with the same name. They had
United Music and were pushing their song 'The
Hucklebuck'. His partner, Jack Gale, ran Comet Music
for Nat 'King' Cole. As your column stated, he was one
of the best and nicest in the business. You also
mentioned Capitol's Al Coury. When I was at WMEX in
Boston as FENWAY IN THE MORNING in 1964, I emceed The
Beatles Concert at The Boston Garden. I was denied
admission because I had no ID as Fenway. After trying
five doors and being refused admission, Al Coury came
down to the rescue and let me in. Also let's include
prayers for George Wilson, who I believe is in the
hospital as I write this."
Last week, I asked for prayers for a friend, but
didn't mention George's name. Thought he might get
irritated. But, yeah, George has been doing the
medical tango that many of us have done or will likely
get the opportunity to do somewhen. I thought he was
due to hit the hospital on May 22. And "hit" is
probably the operative word. I emailed him orders to
follow orders. But, like me, I guess, he has never
followed orders; he was too used to giving them!
It just dawned on me that I've spent just a dab more
than 40 years trying valiantly to keep George Wilson
from getting mad at me. And have not always been very
successful in my attempts. Sometimes, these have been
amusing. My politics have irritated the hell out of
him. Again, amusing to me. Saw him dance around a
swimming pool in Laughlin once because of something
I'd said about Buchenwald. He certainly wasn't
pleased about my story of how we met, but it was the
truth and, at least to me, amusing. But that incident
at the Plaza Hotel wasn't amusing and the truth really
didn't matter much. By this time, L. David Moorhead
was helping me with the International Radio
Programming Forums, as they were called. I spent
almost that entire conference putting out brush fires.
I mean, by the end of those three or four days, I was
one whipped turkey! We had a broad-daylight robbery
and some money was stolen and I'm running around the
lobby looking for this guy. Someone's room was robbed
and their clothing stolen. Yeah, this was THE Plaza
in New York City. Things like that just didn't happen
the in the Plaza.
The worse thing that happened, however, was what I now
refer to as the George Wilson incident. I made one
heck of a mistake. You see, there were always "other
things" going on at those conferences. Purposes.
Going back to the very first Forum at the
Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan when Art Linkletter
was a keynote speaker. We didn't mention these
"purposes," but we did them. At several, we had Do It
Now people around. I remember a preacher, too. They
just circulated. At one conference, we had a doctor
from a free clinic in Haight-Asbury talk. But mostly
we just kept these things low key. At the Plaza Hotel
conference, David Moorhead and I were striving to
bring along an Afro-American program director from a
Los Angeles radio station. He was bright. He was
good. We thought he was great management material. I
can't remember his name.perhaps I've purposely
forgotten it.but I had great hopes for this guy. So,
prime position at the conference. Major audience.
And this guy got up and knocked Top 40 radio and
George Wilson, then and now a god in Top 40 radio,
walked out. Stomping! Smoke coming out of his ears!
Awwk! Another brush fire! I ran out into the hallway
and he wouldn't even talk to me! And I didn't blame
him one damned bit! I was embarrassed out of my
gourd. I think my wife Barbara even burst into tears.
Well, L. David Moorhead tried to calm me down. Said
he'd take care of it. And he did. I don't know
whether he talked with George or not. He later (a
week or so) wrote an article for Billboard promoting
Top 40. Sort of wish I had the article now. Anyway,
a few months later things were more or less kosher
between me and George again. And I've always been
grateful for that.
Another brush fire at that Plaza conference was
because I'd talked Clive Davis into making his first
public appearance. When he was fired from Columbia
Records, he went into hiding for months and months.
And here he was, coming out of hiding. Pre-Arista, by
the way. He got to the Plaza on time. Everything
was ready for him to walk out on stage. And the guy
talking in front of him about news kept talking. And
TALKING. Overtime! I don't remember his name either,
but I would surmise he wasn't in Top 40 news. And
Clive Davis begins to pace back and forth. I couldn't
just hook the news guy off stage. But I think Clive
Davis was extremely close to walking out on me. Came
close, I'll bet. I'm trying to keep him calm. And
failing. Eventually, the news guy gave up or
something and Clive got on and.whew! I would guess
that I've never had many peaceful moments doing one of
those conferences. And I did 10 of them over 10
years. About the nicest thing at that particular
conference (maybe the only nice thing with the
exception of seeing Reggie LaVong again and hearing
that great voice) was when Bobby and Karen Vee (Bob
had guided a panel session on music with some
heavy-heavy artists) came up to the suite where
Barbara and I were staying and the four of us sprawled
flat on the living room floor. Talking. Hours.
Don't think we were drinking. Just talking.
I've had people tell me how much they enjoyed such and
such Forum. I suppose that I had fun a couple of
times. Mostly, though, they were draining of body and
soul and after one particular conference, I found it
difficult to even put two words together that made
sense. Utter fatigue! I took a week off and Barbara
and I camped out at Sand Dollar off Charleston, SC,
with our kids. Until I was kosher again. After
another conference, L. David Moorhead and George
Wilson were kind enough to use tradeouts and provide
Barbara and me with a few days at a hotel in Acapulco.
Plane fare, too. Sorta saved my life that time.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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