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"Murder
at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 19
We returned to Los Angeles the next day and I took Jo
home. Not to her place up Benedict Canyon, but home
to her parents.
Her parents were ecstatic to see her. After a barrage
of hugs, an onslaught of tears and then more hugs from
her mother amidst the excited chatterings of at least
two maids, her mother whisked her away for clothes. I
heard someone say Jo's hair was "a mess." It was not,
of course, but women never pay any attention to men
about those things.
I'd telephoned Jesus Sawyer earlier before leaving
Agua Caliente State Park at a pay phone. As we had
pulled up to the gate of the Travoti estate, a couple
of unmarked police cars were already parked
unobtrusively on the street. Her dad had noticed
them, too.
"The police out there," said William Travoti. "For
my
daughter?"
I looked at him with a direct stare so he would not
mistake my meaning.
"Her, too," I said.
"Oh," he said softly. He nodded his head slowly.
"Jo
said your specialty was research."
He continued looking at me, obviously wondering how
much I really did know.
"In this case, after a few facts, it was more a matter
of intuition," I said. "I didn't think the real
estate business was that tough."
He took a couple of deep, audible breaths and let the
air out slowly before responding. The news distressed
him; I don't think he'd suspected.
"The real estate business can be tough," he said, "but
not this tough. This obviously goes back years before
I got into real estate. New York City, I would
surmise."
"I figured as much," I said. "Jo said something
about
a condo in the Bronx that you never used."
"In the old neighborhood," Travoti said. "I bought
it
years and years ago. But I didn't keep it out of
sentimentality. If I'd tried to sell it, they would
have been able to track me down."
We walked into a study off the living room. He went
behind a huge oak desk, reached into a drawer, and
took out a .38 revolver. "I haven't touched this gun
in years. Guess I'd better oil it down and keep it
loaded."
"I don't think that will be necessary," I said.
"You don't know these people," he said.
"Davidson and Jones, two that I've met, are barely
bright enough to come in out of the smog."
"That may be true," he said. "But they probably
follow orders well. Most of them do. They will,
therefore, be persistent. The others are somewhat
brighter, I assure you, and they will see that this
Davidson and Jones stay persistent."
"Do you know who is giving the orders?"
"No," he said. "The old crowd--my generation--is
dead. Although I never went back, I followed the
stories in the newspapers from time to time. They are
gone. Some, believe it or not, of old age."
"Someone who didn't die of old age, however, packs one
hell of a grudge against you."
"Looks that way."
He flipped the cylinder out on the revolver. The
chambers were empty. He searched momentarily in the
desk drawer, but couldn't seem to locate any bullets.
Giving up the search, he glanced at me with a slightly
sheepish smile.
"This detective I know, Jesus Sawyer, would like to
talk with you," I said.
"Does he...?'
"He knows everything that I know."
He put the revolver away.
"I guess it can't be helped," he said.
"Not if you want to stay alive."
"Oh, I could stay alive rather well, Buddy. It's my
daughter that I'm worried about."
"Me, too," I said.
"Well," he said. He looked out of the window at a
lawn that drifted off among a few palm trees to a tall
wall. Except for a steel gate to the right, the wall
provided a rather strong defense against the world.
"After all these years, I had assumed they'd given up.
All I ever wanted was to be left alone."
"Let me invite Sawyer over," I said.
He nodded after a moment. It was not, evidently, with
great eagerness. I made the phone call from the
cellular he'd loaned me. I now carried the phone like
a security blanket.
"Lunch," said Jo, poking her head in the doorway.
"She speaks my language," I said. We had not stopped
for breakfast, but had pulled out of Agua Caliente as
soon as Jo had run her obligatory three or four miles
and bathed in Indian Pool. While she was out running,
I'd telephone Sawyer and soaked a while in Indian Pool
in the hard chill of the morning air. Our breakfast
had consisted of a couple of apples.
"We'll be along shortly," said Travoti. Then he
turned to me and raised one finger as if to emphasize
the importance of his words. "She doesn't know about
New York."
"I gathered that," I said.
We were having soup when Sawyer arrived. A servant
immediately placed another plate on the table and he
joined us. Instead of wearing sweats, he'd come
dressed for the occasion; he now wore loafers, slacks,
and a sweater over a dress shirt. That was better
than I was dressed; I still wore blue jeans and boots.
Jo, however, had changed into a print frock and
looked lovely. She'd tied her hair back in a
ponytail. She looked young enough to get me arrested
for robbing the cradle.
The asparagus soup was quite good and slightly spicy.
The conversation was also good, but within parameters
that didn't venture as far as the background of the
family before it settled in Los Angeles, stayed away
from unpleasant aspects of the record industry,
avoided discussion about Jo's kidnapping. It was as
if there were only certain topics that qualified for
conversation with soup and fish; these were doled out
carefully and moderately throughout the meal.
Sawyer was quite pleasant. He talked about a new play
he'd seen at UCLA and Mrs. Travoti was into plays,
especially with new, promising actors. She had hoped
that Jo would "explore the field of drama."
"As for me, I'd hoped she'd learn to cook. Cooking is
a very useful skill for a woman," said her husband.
Jo's mother merely frowned disapprovingly at Travoti.
It was easy to see that they were not on the same
wavelength about their daughter.
I almost mentioned that Jo made excellent apple
pancakes, but realized that perhaps there were a few
things her mom and dad might not understand about
modern relationships.
After desert, we men excused ourselves and retreated
to comfortable over-stuffed easy chairs in the study.
It was all very old-fashioned and pre-women's lib.
To some extent, I could understand why Jo wanted to
get away from all this. Not that anyone can
completely escape their background.
"But I have tried," said Travoti. "My name was
Brunini before I legally changed it. Does that mean
anything to you?"
Sawyer admitted that it did not.
"Even in the old days, it was not much of a name. But
I worked for one of the big names among the Scillian
crowd. Giancana. He was a godfather. Or thought he
was. So many years have passed that I no longer have
a proper perspective on those matters. When I told
him I was quitting, he said that no one quit."
The families were different in those days and things
were different. "He threatened me. Muscle," he put
a
snap to the word. "I would think that such things
have been replaced by finesse, education, business. I
would hope that is the case."
Travoti had merely gone home and he and his wife had
thrown a few clothes into a couple of suitcases and
grabbed their small daughter.
The godfather, however, arrived with a couple of his
men.
"I shot first," Travoti said simply.
"Did you kill them?" Sawyer asked quietly.
We sat almost facing each other. A soft light came
through a huge window behind Travoti, throwing his
face into shadows except when he turned to look at me.
Travoti shrugged. "I don't know. I was never that
good a shot. Certainly, I wounded all three. And
then my wife and I ran for a taxi. We took a plane to
Bermuda and many planes after that. We eventually
came here--after we ran through our savings--and
started a new life. I worked in a lumber yard in the
day and took courses at UCLA at night. Got a better
job. Built an entirely new career. In case you're
wondering, as I'm sure you must, my real estate
endeavors are totally legit. I was an agent first,
then manager of the firm. Then investments."
"I checked on that," said Sawyer. "Your reputation
is
excellent, Mr. Travoti."
"Under the circumstances, I think the name William
will do fine," Travoti said. "I have never cared for
the name Bill. Yes, I have a good name these days,
but it's the old name that is my present concern."
"I've never been worried too much about the past,"
said Sawyer. "Neither mine, nor anyone else's."
"Good. Good." Travoti's face took on a little more
light. A servant entered with a tray and poured us
each a cup of dark, strong coffee. "You men seem to
know a great deal about me. Now tell me everything
that has been going on."
He had read the newspaper stories, of course, about
the slaughter at the Busted Bird Cafe. He merely
grimaced when I mentioned the possibility that I'd
been targeted by a hit man and frowned intensely when
he learned of our theory that his daughter had been
the major target all along.
"A modus operandi," I said, "to get to you."
"Obviously," Travoti said, deep in thought. "In the
old days, we would never have used children. Even
though I sought to escape my own culture, I believe
quite firmly that the old ways were best. It was a
way to get things done. Now, nothing gets done. But,
of course, all of us over the age of 50 believe the
world was better in the old days, which may have not
been entirely the case. Regardless...the families
have now degenerated. They are no longer families."
"Do you have any connections that would help us track
down these people?" asked Sawyer.
"I have no connections," said Travoti and his voice
carried a certain sense of sadness. "Absolutely
none."
"Then we will have to use today's ways," said Sawyer.
His voice carried a touch of firmness. To him, the
old ways had not necessarily been all that great and
certainly not all that noble.
"Who is this Wesley Bird character?" asked Travoti.
"Is he from a good family?"
"I would doubt that sincerely," I said.
"I didn't really mean good, per se. I should have
used the term big, I suppose."
"He's just your basic everyday creep," I said.
"That tells me everything I need to know," said
Travoti. "Now, what about this society?"
"We obtained a search warrant and went back to the
place in the valley yesterday. They'd moved out,"
said Sawyer.
"Of course," said Travoti.
"They said they were a government operation...and we
believed that for a while. We now believe that it's
some kind of Mafia group. We don't know what kind,"
said Sawyer. "They use a computer. They do research.
They seem to have capabilities to get warrants,
things like that. There are a lot of things here we
simply don't understand."
"The lady who heads the group. She is bright?"
"Extremely bright," said Sawyer. "A blonde named
Rizzo. About 40 years old."
I didn't bother explaining that she was not actually
blonde. I didn't think it important at the time.
"I do not recognize that name," said Travoti.
"We will find her," said Sawyer.
"I would like to talk to her," said Travoti.
Sawyer nodded his head in acquiescence.
I thought he was promising something that he could not
deliver.
A few minutes later, Sawyer left to return to work.
I enjoyed talking with Travoti. After a while, Jo and
her mom joined us. Her parents were planning a
two-week trip of the Caribbean next month. I sort of
gathered that they wanted Jo to come along with them
and Jo was a little embarrassed about it because she
didn't quite know how to respond.
At 3 p.m., I left for the radio station and Jo left to
visit her dog in her parent's Mercedes.
Dude Daniels was not all that enthusiastic to see me.
"I'd hoped you'd wised up," he said, following me into
my office. "I'd hoped you'd gone to Acapulco or back
to Texas. Somewhere anywhere else. Sometimes, Buddy,
I believe you aren't really all that smart."
"I.Q. isn't all it's cracked up to be," I said. "I
surmise that I was burdened with a fairly high IQ at
birth. The problem is that I've never recovered from
it."
"You didn't have to come to work today, you know."
>From the tone of his voice, I got the impression that
he didn't want me around at all. And not just today,
but for several days and maybe several years.
"I realize that," I said. "Actually, I didn't come
to
work to work. I came in for just a few minutes to
look up something. Then I'm cutting out."
Good. Stay gone a few days, will you?"
"I'll be back to do my show Saturday," I said.
"Not even that."
"Sorry. I insist. My public, you know."
"Your public wants to kill you. Didn't that pickup
thing tell you anything?"
"Yes. Never buy another Ford," I said.
He wagged his head back and forth. "Virginia will
kill you if no one else does the job. You didn't show
up for breakfast the other day and she'd cooked eggs
benedict."
"Tell Virginia I'm sorry. I got...involved in a
couple of things."
"You know Virginia. If your arm begins to ache, she's
probably stuck a pin in a doll made in your image."
I grabbed my arm as if it was suddenly hurting.
"Tell your wife I'm going to sue!"
He finally left to tend his office plant and I could
do what I'd come to do. I went into the studio. I
couldn't remember the name of the disc jockey
presently on the air; I'd only met him once and only
briefly then. He didn't even look around.
The reel-to-reel deck was still hooked up. The
take-up reel had filled up and the machine had cut off
automatically.
I took the eight-inch reel and slipped it into an
envelope. I returned to my office, slipped the
envelope between several record albums, and closed up
shop, which was easy since I'd barely opened up shop.
I hadn't even cut on the computer.
"You? Taking work home?" the receptionist remarked.
"I'm turning over a new leaf. Make that an entire
tree," I said. "Actually, I'm behind in my ear work
and hope to catch up tonight."
One of those albums is Buddy Holly," she said.
"Okay. You caught me. I'm starting my own radio
station. It's going to feature a Buddy Holly format.
Nothing but the Crickets."
"Sure," she said. "Sure."
With my mind on other things, I made a mistake and
walked out the front entrance to the radio station.
A newspaperman tried to catch me as I came out of the
door of the radio station. I did the Spanish two-step
around him. He tried to grab my collar. When he did,
I slugged him in the nose. His nose immediately
started gushing blood. The sight of the blood
distressed him immensely.
"I was just trying to get a story!" he said.
"You've got one now," I said.
"My lawyer will be contacting you."
"I hope he's better at dodging a right cross," I said.
I walked down the street and around the corner. He
didn't follow. But just in case I turned my pickup
around in the street and went the opposite direction
and checked in the mirror a couple of times to make
sure.
Several blocks away, I stopped alongside the street
and telephoned Jo on the cellular. It's funny how
necessary the damned thing was becoming to me and I
don't even like phones. When I explained what I
needed, she said she would meet me at Mike Dorrough's
studio and gave me instructions on how to get there.
I found the tape highly interesting. It hadn't been
Jo who telephoned during my show last Saturday; it had
been Wesley Bird. The conversation had been about me.
That didn't concern me much. Except that Wesley Bird
seemed to know Dude all too well. And my relationship
with Jo seemed common knowledge. There was mention of a
"network" and Vosberg being "set." And
Sherbert.
But they weren't concerned with his death. They
talked about CDs being shipped to the record stores
nationwide.
"Boy talk?" Jo asked.
She was extremely agitated at the conversation about
her on the tape.
"I don't do boy talk," I said.
"Then...?"
"I don't know," I answered.
I couldn't reach Sawyer. He didn't answer at either
number.
Dorrough had let us use his tape deck as a favor to
Jo; I asked him to do another favor--messenger the
tape to Sawyer via Music Express.
I wrote a brief note to explain what the tape was
about and stuck it in an envelope.
We dropped the Mercedes back at her parent's place. I
tried to drop Jo, too, but suddenly she couldn't
understand English and got into the front seat of the
pickup.
"I will kick you out," I said, "if you don't get!"
"You? You're forgetting that I workout three times a
week in a gym. I can whip you without even raising a
sweat, Flubby Coffee."
"No, you can't. Because I'd cheat," I said.
"And
it's Muddy, not Flubby. I'm changing my name."
"I prefer Basil."
"I do not answer to Basil," I said. "There are only
a
few people in the world who even know about the Basil.
The less the better."
"I think it's cute."
"It is not cute. It's a form of humor that Texans
practice when they have kids. One governor named Hogg
named one daughter Ura and the other Ima."
I headed straight for Martoni's in Hollywood. This
would be the bewitching hour at the hangout and all of
the outs would be there hanging in. And maybe a few
ins hanging out.
One, specifically, I wanted to see. If he wasn't
there, perhaps Freddie could tell me how to find him.
Going-home traffic slowed us down along the Strip. I
wondered if anyone ever came here anymore looking for
77 Sunset Strip. There was no such address, of
course. And never had been. Hollywood was like that
because of the movies and television: A lot of places
that used to be and some that never was.
"He didn't!" said Jo in what I immediately took as
feigned disgust.
But I was eager for any kind of reaction, good or bad.
"Did, too. Then he build an auditorium on the campus
of the University of Texas and named it after one of
his daughters. Still there today. If you like
Shakespeare, you do not see it in the Old Globe or the
New Lightbulb, you see it in Ima Hogg Auditorium."
"How cruel."
"Just Texas humor," I insisted. "One governor left
the state on business. While he was gone, he was
impeached and his wife made governor."
"Texas humor?"
"Right," I said.
I parked the pickup on Argyle just a few feet from the
building owned by Chuck Blore, once a legend in radio
programming and now one of the most successful
producers of radio-TV commercials in the world. Chuck
had programmed KFWB back in the days of Al Jarvis and
Peter Potter. One of his contributions to Top 40 was
"Color Radio" as a methodology of combating the mere
black and white television programs of the day,
including "77 Sunset Strip."
We walked the short distance to Martoni's.
Everybody who was still a nobody was there along with
a lot of somebodys. Freddie and Jo practiced that
hugging fad that had swept into California several
years ago to replace the "high five" which had
replaced the funny handshake. All of it was funny to
me, but since there was a counter between him and her
and there was nothing I could do about it anyway
without appearing too possessive, I ignored the whole
thing. I very seldom shake hands and I don't "high
five" and I will never hug. It's all part of my
religion. Druids burnt people at the stake, they
didn't hug them.
I explained this to the reporter I'd slugged in the
nose a few days ago when he came over.
"Hey, I'm just trying to be friends."
"I don't 'high five' and I don't friend either," I
said.
"I've got to get a story," he said.
"Do a story on Freddie. He's great material."
"I'm working on the Busted Bird caper," the reporter
said. His voice carried the tone of a small bulldog
without a hell of a lot of sense and almost no
manners.
"It was not a caper," I said. "It was a capon.
Everyone was killed except Sherbert. He was spotted
in a supermarket the other day talking with Elvis."
"Is that the truth?"
"Sure," I said.
The reporter finally retreated to a place by the wall.
Last I noticed, he was talking to a disc jockey from
Santa Barbara; both were looking my direction. I
suddenly realized that being famous--or infamous as it
were--was not as great and wonderful as I used to
think. That record producer Johnnie Lee had the right
idea: Lukewarm success was best. Except he had to
live with the flux and influx of the situation; his
career depended on it. After considerable musings
about it, especially in the last day or so, I'm not so
sure that mine did.
Martoni's was crowded. The booths were full. Bob
Wilson, founder of R&R, had set up shop in one of the
booths and an entourage you wouldn't believe was
paying homage. The presidents of at least two records
labels were sitting with him; I didn't know the other
guy.
Jo and I found standing room one row of people off the
bar and Freddie quickly fetched a can of Diet Pepsi
for each of us.
"Who ordered this?"
"I did," Jo said.
"Great idea," I said. "But I had my heart set on an
Elephant."
"Tough. Freddie gave me orders to keep you on Diet
Pepsi for a while."
"Freddie gave you orders?"
"Right."
"You huggers had better get your stories straight," I
said.
I sipped at the Pepsi while continuing to survey the
crowd.
Wesley Bird wasn't there.
Freddie gave me his phone number. He didn't know
where Bird lived.
"Do you talk to him much?" I asked.
"When he's around," said Freddie.
"I need to know this, Freddie: Did you mention
anything to him about Jo performing at the Busted Bird
Cafe?"
Freddie's face, ordinarily just a mask, became active.
"Come to think of it, I may have. Bar talk."
"Bar talk," I said.
His face took on even more action.
"What's coming down, Buddy?"
"This is just bar talk, Freddie."
"Okay. I can dig it."
"Do you think Bird might have known Jo's real name?"
"Hell, Buddy, you know this business. Everybody knows
everything about everybody else. The business is
ninety-nine percent gossip. The first day that you
brought her in here, showing her off, people started
talking."
"You know about her father?"
"Some rich dude who changed his name. Trying to hide
something. That's all."
"My father?" asked Jo.
"Hush," I said softly, not wanting to offend her, but
on the other hand to let her know that right now was
not the time.
"How did Starwarp Records hear about Jo?"
"Bird, I guess. He sort of works for Starwarp.
Independent promotion, I understand. Actually, he's
half a bag man."
He didn't have to explain what a bag man was. That
was a promotion man who carried dope and was willing
to give you whatever buzz you wanted if you had the
capability to play his record on the air.
"You know much about Bird, Freddie?"
"As much as I need to know, which is a lot more than I
want to know. He's not a nice person."
"How much not nice?"
"He's not into booze, you know what I mean? And he's
not into women or men, you know what I mean? I tell
you, Buddy, when he tips, I give the money to charity.
Even when I could use the money."
"You think he's connected?"
"If he is, ain't no family going to admit it," Freddie
said. "And I don't think it would matter much anyway.
I don't wish no one any ill will, but there are some
things in this world that the world don't need."
"I need a favor, Freddie."
"You've got it."
"You see him, tell him that Buddy Coffee knows."
"Knows what?"
I smiled at Freddie. "I don't want anybody to know,"
I said.
"You mean you don't know, but you want Bird to think
you know."
"Only the Shadow knows," I said.
"Radio!" said Freddie with a grimace. "One day I'm
going to get out of this business."
"Never," I told him. "Just like me, you live on
ratings. Maybe it's not the ARB. Maybe it's tips or
maybe it's the power that comes with being king of
Coors in a place like this. Ratings, Freddie.
Ratings."
He glared at me. "Sometimes I feel that you've got
too much sense to be in radio, Buddy."
"And sometimes I wish you were right," I said.
(To be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
September
15, 2003
Why the Ordinary Man (and Woman) Are Out of Work
--And Why the American Government Should Do Something About It!
By Claude Hall
Too many people have the wrong idea about the American
dollar...or any other dollar or peso or pound, yen,
denarius, or doubloon. And I'm quite positive
President George Bush doesn't have the faintest idea
what money is really for.
George Washington, that sage of the three-pointed hat
era, probably had the right idea when he tried to
chunk a silver dollar across the Delaware River; it's
best to keep those things moving. When they're
sitting still, you see, they aren't doing anyone any
good. Money, unless you stumble across one of those
rare denariuses or doubloons mentioned above and sell
one to a collector, usually has no value of its
own...it only has an imagined value. Not even a bank
can stay in business hoarding money; it has to loan it
out in order to make money.
When you get right down to it, you've sort of got to
consider money as a "flow." Like the human blood
stream. If your blood stops circulating, I suggest
you make a reservation for the next pine box off the
assembly line at the coffin factory.
Well, when money stops flowing, you've got a nation in
a whole heap of trouble.
It is literally dying because the old ticker ain't
working properly. In this case, the old ticker is the
government.
The problem I think our government is making now is
the same the government of Spain made back in February
1540 when it sent a loose-legged cat called Francisco
Vasquez de Coronado stumbling around what is now known
as New Mexico and Arizona hunting the city of
gold--Cibola. Those Spaniards, up at the top of the
pecking ladder when it comes to decisions, thought
that the pursuit of money--gold--was what keeps things
going. And it did. For a while.
But, when you come right down to it, the pursuit of
money is nothing but another name for greed. And
greed eventually ends up eating all that it feeds
upon; it is the first cousin of gluttony.
Michael Harrington in his "The Accidental Century"
postulated that "...the abolition of work, as Western
man has defined the term, has become a technological
possibility."
The modern West...meaning America...distinguished
itself from other cultures and peoples down through
time by the "reckless ambition to remake the very
world," said Harrington. "In the matter of a few
hundred years, this drive created an industrial
civilization and a standard of living that became the
envy, and model, of the entire globe."
Eventually, the computer is going to make a lot of the
things we do today that are called work totally
unnecessary. But this doesn't mean that humankind
doesn't need something to do. We've got to keep busy.
It's part of our nature. And money is--or should
be--merely the tool that keeps us busy.
The pursuit of money, however, is not the real answer
to economic prosperity. Because some people are just
naturally able to pursue it better than others and
we've got our Rockefellers and Vanderbilts still
hanging around the necks of every man, women, and
child in America to prove it. The inherited rich are
an albatross that is black and smells of death. Not
for them, but for the homeless and the hungry, for the
child in the ghetto, the aged living on incomes that
never reach the next social security check.
Ex-president Reagan coined the "trickle down" theory.
There may actually be a trickle down. But it seems to
be less than a trickle by the time it usually gets to
my pocketbook. In fact, about as close as I usually
got most of my life to money trickling my direction
was a couple of sights of somebody else's river
flowing past.
And watching a pretty mountain stream may be awfully
nice, but it sure isn't as much fun as soaking your
tired feet in cool water after a hard day's work or
going all the way skinnydipping on a warm moonlit
night.
I call my own economic theory the "splash theory"--I
would like to get all wet. I'm tired of smelling the
damp breeze.
You see, I believe a government by, of, and for the
people has to serve as sort of a pump...an economic
pump...to keep the money flowing. If it flows strong
enough and far enough and long enough, everybody is
going to get some of the action. Supposedly, via
taxes, the government tries to balance things
out--take some of the money away from Rockefeller and
give it to somebody else. But I've noticed that taxes
never seem to do a good job of equalizing things and,
too, there are too many tax holes and tax shelters and
tax dodges and tax-manipulating foundations for this
and that and the end result is that taxes are no fair
way to equalize anything.
Thus, I've come to the decision that only a heavy dose
of my "splash theory" will fix the terrible economic
mess that America is in.
What mess, you ask? The homeless are growing. The
government is not telling us the truth about how many
people are unemployed (after you are no longer
collecting unemployment benefits, you aren't counted).
The sick are increasing in numbers and hospitals are
increasingly refusing to treat anyone without
insurance. Bankruptcies are expected to climb above a
million this year; they were up above 800,000 last
year. And this doesn't include the 70,000 businesses
that went bankrupt.
This is how my "splash theory" works:
First, once you've assumed that the government is not
supposed to hold onto money or regulate its
availability like the Republicans are doing now,
you've got half the problem solved.
Under the "splash theory" of economics, in fact, the
government is supposed to spend money. Not so much on
welfare, although I see nothing wrong with honest
welfare programs, but on projects.
To start with, these:
1. A gigantic nationwide superfast railroad project.
Extra-wide tracks support train cars 10 yards wide in
supreme safety at speeds of 200 miles an hour and
more. Using nuclear power and every possible
engineering marvel, these computer-guided trains will
carry passengers in ultra-splendor on moving hotels.
You merely drive your car into the parking lot on the
train, register, attend a movie, or visit a nightclub
on the train, go to your "hotel" room, and the next
day wake up at your destination. Goods, produce,
equipment--all would ship via supertrain. A trucker
would drive his rig onto a train in New York and drive
off in Los Angeles and then head to his or her
destination. For I see the first of these train
projects linking Los Angeles and Dallas and Dallas and
Atlanta and Atlanta and New York. Fares, of course,
would be reasonable because of the volume of business.
Produce would arrive fresh in a day rather than
"ripened in the box" and half stale. And,
naturally,
there would be other benefits gained from this train
system. But, of course, you've probably missed the
major point, which is: People would be suddenly
working again! Right? Because someone is going to
have to build the equipment to build the railroad and
someone else will need to design the railroad and a
whole bunch of people will build the tracks and
operate the trains. And people are going to have to
grow more wheat, which they can now afford to buy, to
feed all of those working people. And some factories
will have to make the clothes they wear...and now can
afford to buy. True, this kind of railroad initially
represents a huge outlay of money. But remember:
Money should be just a flow. The government taxes
everything from wages to the products and services via
sales tax; it participates in the "pumping" action.
2. New schools. Most of America's grade schools and
high schools are 20 years or more old. Many of the
public school buildings in Winters, TX, were built by
the WPA! The same is true in city after city in
America. Asbestos isn't the major problem with those
schools; they are booby traps. In any case, most
public school buildings are not build for education.
They do not facilitate it, they hinder it. The rooms
are poorly lighted. The seats are so uncomfortable
that it's no wonder America is turning out a bunch of
idiots. Of course, considering the dropout rate, not
everybody even gets to that level. Construction
people nationwide could be kept busy 20 or 30 years
building new, modern school buildings that have
purposely been designed to help a child learn.
Buildings that are spacious, comfortable, pleasant.
3. Hospitals. I'm literally scared to walk into most
hospitals in America. Do you know how old Mt. Sinai
Hospital is in New York? In two more years, it'll be
older than the great pyramid of Gizeh in Egypt. Why
aren't hospitals new and modern and surrounded by
gardens with bubbling fountains and meandering
streams? How come getting well from a sickness has to
be done is such sick atmospheres?
So, put more people to work building good hospitals
and pay more taxes and the unemployment numbers in
America drop to less than one percent. Maybe down to
less than a thousand people coast-to-coast.
Bosh! A fantasy, you say? Not so!
The real economic idea behind my "splash theory" is
that it's better to pay people to work than to pay
them to be unemployed. And this idea that has been
floating around about taxing the wages the government
is paying the unemployed is the most ridiculous thing
I've heard since someone came up with a beer named
after Billy Carter and other people were dumb enough
to actually buy and drink some of it.
There are, of course, dozens upon dozens of projects
that need, desperately, to be done in America. Enough
to keep all of America working for generations to come
and eons into the future.
And what I can't understand is why we aren't working.
Oklahoma has the worse highways of any place I've ever
been, including Mexico. Why? Why isn't the
Interstate Highway System finished? President John F.
Kennedy promised that it would be completed by 1970.
He has an excuse for copping out on his promise; he
was shot and killed in Dallas. But why didn't the
government continue the project?
What's wrong with the American government?
Why isn't the American government doing anything?
Why are we electing presidents who represent nothing?
Why are we allowing them to continue in office without
accomplishing anything?
What's going on in Washington other than scandals and
Watergates and other nonsense like the Iran-Contra
mess?
I keep thinking that the Republicans and, who knows,
maybe even the Democrats, are probably all fine
fellows. And all of them other weird little political
groups that dance and sing in the odd circus arena of
Washington may also be okay. I don't really know.
I probably wouldn't enjoy knowing many of them. And
that's another sad state of affairs about our American
government--we're governed by people we don't know,
people who advertised their supposed skills on
television like a bar of soap.
All I know for sure is that nothing is happening in
America these days and whatever is happening is
happening bad.
Then some idiot-faced politician comes on TV and tells
me that the plight of the homeless is their fault and
the plight of the hungry is their fault and the plight
of the unemployed is their fault. After all, it is
said, anyone who wants to work in America can find a
job.
I resent it when a politician tells me that we're
going to have to cut back and tighten our belts and do
without.
I believe that, on the contrary, it's time for the
American people to stand up for their God-given rights
and spend.
I still believe that there is inherent in the
capitalistic system an economic flow--if the
government would get up off its duff and prime the
pump--to put everyone in America to work and keep them
working and allow them to buy for themselves the
basics of life--food, shelter, clothes, health care,
and a new giant color television set with a built-in
computer for games and figuring out the monthly
checkbook, a built-in vision phone, a built-in
microwave oven so I don't have to run into the kitchen
to fix a TV dinner and miss the next Jim Kelly
touchdown pass or the next Michael Jordan floating
dunkshot.
Let me add: And...and...and....
There are so very, very many things I want. And could
have. And could enjoy.
And there's no reason why I shouldn't have these
things. The technology is there. The capability is
there.
The wonders of the world are all within our grasp and
I think our government owes them to us.
- 30 -
FYI: I wrote this article as you see it about 1983
when I was doing public relations for Phillips
University in Enid, OK, and studying for a master's
degree. It was published in a weekly tabloid
circulated, albeit sparsely, nationwide. During that
particular period, I had to pay more dues than was
necessary. Yet, someone was getting rich. Robert
Bryce in an August 2, 2000, published on the Internet
(merely search for the words Dick Cheney and you'll
find the article), stated that "since George W. Bush
named him as a running mate, Dick Cheney has been all
smiles. And why not? Cheney has led a charmed life.
His political career included stints in the White
House, Congress and the Defense Department. Then he
went into the private sector and got rich. But just
how Cheney got rich deserves some scrutiny. As
secretary of defense, Cheney oversaw one of the
largest privatization efforts in the history of the
Pentagon, steering millions of military dollars to
civilian contractors. Two and a half years after
Cheney left his federal job, he began cashing in on
the very contracts that he helped initiate. Root
Services $3.9 million to produce a classified report
detailing how private companies--like itself--could
help provide logistics for American troops in
potential war zones around the world. BRS specializes
in such work; from 1962 to 1972, for instance, the
company worked in the former South Vietnam building
roads, landing strips, harbors, and military bases.
Later in 1992, the Pentagon gave the company an
additional $5 million to update its report. That same
year, BRS won a massive, five-year logistics contract
from the US Army Corps of Engineers to work alongside
American GIs in places like Zaire, Haiti, Somalia,
Kosovo, the Balkans, and Saudi Arabia. After Bill
Clinton's election cost Cheney his government job, he
wound up in 1995 as CEO of Halliburton Company, the
Dallas-based oil services giant--which just happens to
own Brown & Root Services. Since then, Cheney has
collected more than $10 million in salary and stock
payments from the company. In addition, he is
currently the company's largest individual
shareholder, holding stock and options worth another
$40 million."
Like father, like son, like close friends.
No wonder Bush Jr. and Cheney wanted to invade Iraq!
Current questions: Why is the United States spending
money on the infrastructure of Iraq and Afghanistan
and virtually none on the United States? We just had
a blackout again in the northeast. Why?
Why is gasoline so damned high in spite of invasion of
Iraq?
Why are people who merely tried to defend their nation
from the aggressors now being charged as war criminals
when they perpetrated no conflict and pulled no
trigger except in self defense?
Why haven't we found the real "evil ones," although
I'm beginning to doubt who Bush Jr. was really talking
about, when we can read a license plate from space?
How many children were killed and maimed in Iraq
(media never mentioned this) merely to get a
Haliburton a sweetheart construction deal?
Are you aware that Dick Cheney is still on the payroll
of Haliburton in addition to receiving a $34 million
bonus?
* * *
>From Gary Allyn, gallyn@adelphia.net:
"Interesting
essay about QUAD sound. I remember much of what you
are saying. The only thing I ever wondered was, how do
you listen to QUAD with earphones? You only have two
ears...left and right. Perhaps four speakers in a
room would give you more separated sound to hear. If
that's the case, why not QUINTAPHONIC or OCTAPHONIC?
Just posing a question here...I never noticed that
much difference from good stereo separation. Also,
back in the 60s, most people still had MONO or AM
radios in their cars. Maybe the time is now for this
new sound technology. I'd love to hear it, however."
During those years, Gary, I went out and bought a
fairly expensive set of quad earphones. As you've
guessed, I never noticed any four-channel separation.
So, there were obviously a lot of problems hither and
yon. I had a 4-track Teac deck. Discs I played
through a decoder for SQ or a decoder for QS or a
demodulator for discrete discs. The demodulator was
stolen from me in Enid, OK, but before he died Brad
Miller, the record producer of Mystic Moods, etc.,
sent me another one. All this, of course, is merely
historically significant. My JBLs deteriorated and
were tossed. My Sansui needs refurbishing, but I
can't discard it because I still love what it used to
be and, frankly, I don't think today's equipment is
quite as good although I may be wrong. Lou Dorren's
new system, from what he tells me, may be quite
flexible and quite appropriate under many
circumstances.
>From Woody Goulart, wg@netbox.com:
"I really enjoyed
reading your September 8 commentary about quad. James
Gabbert is someone I always really admired, and it's
good to see you refer to him. In the 1970s, I was on
a visit to his San Francisco studios of KIOI and heard
a real-world demo of quad there. While it is true
that the FM signal on KIOI was incredible--I still
remember today how it sounded!--the quad stuff seemed
unnatural and hokey to me. I believe, however, that
although quad died as far as radio and records is
concerned, there is an offspring that survived.
Today's home theater systems play DVD audio with 5.1
sound that provides an amazing experience spread out
over 5 speakers. This is a totally affordable
technology. I got mine at Radio Shack. It affords
the opportunity to enjoy sound from DVD replays of
motion pictures in very natural, yet stunning format.
It makes the stereo soundtracks from motion pictures
seems very old-fashioned."
Woody has a website at www.bossradioforever.com
that
you might checkout when you have time.
>From Jay Rudko, jrudko@webtv.net:
"I just read your
latest column at RDN and have to throw in my two
cents. Like you, I also have a large collection of
quad records. I've been recording many of the matrixed
discs to CD, and I also happen to have a Sansui QS
encoder given to me by a former employer. So, I have
managed to encode some of the CD-4 records into QS.
But you asked what killed quad. My feelings on the
subject are that there were many factors. Yes, the
systems to put quad on LP were mutually incompatible.
Philips refused to allow the cassette to be used with
all four tracks playing in the same direction. There
was the lack of WAF (wife approval factor). You know,
the old "not in MY living room you don't!!!"
outine.
But what really did it was the fact that the
technology of the day just wasn't up to the challenge.
Four channels in the two groove walls of an LP?
Something's gotta give! What gave was the degree of
separation and fidelity that was lost in trying to
shoehorn in these extra channels. Sure, the QS, SQ,
and EV systems could retain most of the fidelity, but
required complex decoders to get the separation
anywhere close to the original. Those matrix systems
also claimed compatibility with regular stereo
systems, but the phase shifting needed to steer
signals to the rear speakers made stereo playback less
than stellar. CD-4 sounded better in stereo than it
did in quad, because to get the best results,
everything from the arm and cartridge and demodulator
had to be set just right. Any variation made the sound
muddy and distorted. Combine that with some really bad
pressings from RCA, WEA, and the other American labels
that produced CD-4 quadradiscs, and you had a true
formula for failure. Enter digital. Now it was
possible to encode more than just two channels onto a
CD with relative ease. DTS did just that, with an
ample release of CD's using their algorithm. But if
you didn't have a DTS decoder, all you got was noise.
Not a problem nowadays, since most every home theater
receiver and processor features DTS. Sony jumped in
with their high-resolution SACD format. The DVD-Audio
format also made its debut, offering some still
pictures along with high resolution surround sound and
backward compatibility with DVD-Video players. SACD,
DVD-Audio, and DTS CD's fulfill the promise of quad,
but do it better than quad ever did. I'm in the audio
business. I tell customers that surround sound isn't
just for movies anymore, and then I prove it. You'd be
amazed how many systems I've sold that way.
Incidentally, Dolby Pro Logic II does a very nice job
of "decoding" SQ and QS. Try it some time."
David Green, davidgreen777@msn.com,
is searching for
David C. Croninger of the old WNEW, WIP, KMBC fame.
"He was a mentor-boss of mine. Great reading your
memories." Green evidently worked in Indianapolis as
well as Kansas City.
>From John Gorman, gmanusa@comcast.net:
"Doing well.
I'm writing and working on a book about WMMS and FM
radio in the 60s through the 80s. I'm also doing a
little media consulting with stations that prefer to
remain independent (not many remaining). We're the old
war horses now. Came across this article from
Business Week."
The article John sent was "Moveable Feast" by Thane
Peterson in the September 8 issue that essentially
calls for the resignation of Michael Powell, chairman
of the Federal Communications Commission. For as long
as I can remember, the FCC has always had a flake or
two. Among the communisioners, not the everyday
workers so far as I know. John, as well, wrote an
interesting article about media for a local Cleveland
publication and he might share that with you if you
asked nicely. John, you and John Rook,
jhrook@earthlink.net,
ought to compare notes; I think
you guys are operating on about the same wavelength.
Bill Young, BeYoung95@aol.com,
is seeking data, etc.,
on Bill Stewart for a presentation at the Oct. 18
dinner of the Texas Radio Hall of Fame in Houston.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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