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The Music Convention
Chapter 5
of a mystery by Claude Hall
After a while, she
managed to say "I'll be seeing you"
to Paul and leave after she patted him on his balding
head and then kissed him lightly where she'd patted.
That drew a big faked sigh from the other men, who
immediately burst into laughter when Paul blushed.
The conversation had been raw and fascinating and she
realized that she was being included into a world
where very few were allowed, the guts of the record
business. Everything was strictly off the record
because they knew they could trust you. Paul once
mentioned to someone that what he'd just said would
make a good story. The man said, "Later, Paul." And
she knew that if and when the reality -- as opposed to
the dream and hopes -- came to fruition, the man would
phone Paul and set up a lunch and give him the
exclusive story.
The competition for hard news was fierce among the
trades. Variety had lost ground to Cashbox, then
Billboard, already more than six decades old and once
a magazine devoted almost entirely to the carnival
industry, came thundering back after the old staff
walked out to form their own magazine. Record World
was just an also-ran, though. And, frankly, when it
came to prestige, it was impossible to beat Billboard.
In the old days, carney guys only had one real
address: Box so-and-so at Billboard magazine. To this
day, there were tombstones hither and yon across the
nation that read something weird like "The Snakeman"
or the "Highwire Girl" and gave that personal and
quite permanent box number at Billboard magazine.
Everyone who was supposed to know who that particular
person was, knew.
Her would-be "customer," probably wishing to
proposition her again at a higher salary level, was
still waiting for her in the hallway. He leaned
against the wall, a felt hat pulled down over his eyes
as if to hide his face. The hat, black, was entirely
out of place and she thought out of style as well.
Not a lot of men wore such things these days.
She brushed on past before he could react at her
sudden appearance in the hallway.
But she studied him with rapt intent and she realized
with a sinking heart that he was one of those guys
with the crooked noses. Mafia. He didn't actually
have a crooked nose, of course, but he had that
strange look in his eyes that told her he was used to
getting his way.
Why Mafia? And why her? And if her, why all of the
nonsense involving a proposition? Unless, of course,
he merely wanted to get her alone.
A tiny shiver ran through her at that last thought.
Being fired was one thing. Being killed was another!
Without pausing, she quickly walked into the lobby of
the hotel and found a seat near the huge window that
looked out upon the driveway. Out there in the real
world, a car was coming, another car was leaving.
Here in the lobby there were only a few people; record
men tend to spend more time in the bar than in the
lobby. But a couple, obviously very married and
comfortable about it, were sitting on a couch across
the room talking. A man sat in an easy chair not far
from the elevator purposely trying to pretend that he
was reading a newspaper. He wasn't. He was carefully
watching everyone.
Under the pretense of powdering her nose, she was able
to see the man who'd propositioned her. He had
followed her into the lobby, but now was glancing
around if as searching for help. She studied him in
her compact mirror. Tall. Rugged. Far from
handsome. A square head with small ears and piercing
eyes from under heavy, dark eyebrows. Regardless of
what you saw in the movies, martial arts wouldn't do
more than slow a man like that down. Slightly. Of
course, he was probably more inclined to use a gun
than his fists. And his hands were huge. And he was
built of rock. Slowly, a puzzled expression briefly
crossed his face, causing a small crease. This crease
went away.
Finally, he turned and left.
However, she had a strong premonition that he hadn't
really gone anywhere and was hanging around much too
near.
For a moment, she thought about walking out of the
hotel, catching a taxi, heading to the airport, and
going home to Manhattan. Running! And fast! There
wasn't anything upstairs in her suitcase that she
couldn't easily replace, including that cute blouse
from Dilliards. And you could get lost in Manhattan.
It was a city of lost souls anyway.
Ah, Sharon, she thought, you gave up all of the peace
and quiet of Winters, Texas, for this?
In the 60s and deep into the 70s, teens fled from the
plains of Texas, the plains of Kansas, the plains of
just about anywhere. Most of these were young girls.
Towns in Texas like Winters and Baird and Comanche and
Coleman practiced boredom as a methodology of
survival. You graduated from high school and either
during high school or shortly thereafter you married a
football player if any were left over by the
cheerleaders and you had kids and went to the church
of your choice, but you had to have a choice, and then
you had grand children and they buried you in an awful
cemetery on the edge of town. The teens with an IQ
above zero escaped and a few went to the larger cities
of Dallas and Atlanta. Those with slightly higher IQs
went to New York City. Those even brighter went to
Los Angeles and San Francisco.
Before the day of graduation from high school fell
upon her like a consuming blanket, she'd packed a
small suitcase and took her savings and asked her
current boyfriend to drive her to the bus station.
"Write me," he'd said.
"Never," she'd said back. Not that she hadn't liked
him; he was just part of an old life that she was
shedding.
And she hadn't written anyone but her mother once she
got to San Francisco...just to let her know that her
darling daughter was safe. She'd never gone back to
Winters.
More and more, everyone began to think of the movie
"The Last Picture Show" featuring Ben Johnson as a
cult film of ultimate high quality and perception.
She and others like her from the towns scattered over
those mid-western plains, however, considered the
movie a horror film. It was too real.
Winters, Texas, was about 45 miles south of Abilene,
Texas. It consisted of a main street called Main
Street and the main preoccupation of the youth was
driving down the street from one end to the other and
turning around and going back. It was a distance of a
little more than a mile. To break the monotony of
this, you parked at the Dairy Queen on the north end
of town and had a soft ice cream in a cone. Or you
could park at an angle in front of the drug store in
the center of town and go inside and have a cherry
Coke underneath ceiling fans that could put a mess on
a good perm.
West and north of town, if you kept on going, was
Sweetwater. West and south, if you kept on going, was
San Angelo. Abilene and San Angelo were the two major
cities in this part of the world and you could even
find a building or two in San Angelo five and six
stories high.
Winters was a farming community. Like San Angelo and
other towns, farmers waited on the rain and the
churches had prayer services for rain when the rains
didn't come. It was sometimes quite exciting to see a
thunderhead in the sky. For two reasons: The
possibility of rain and the coolness that fell upon
the afternoons after thunderheads boiled across the
sky.
Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco.
She'd left her maidenhead. Not that there were many
virgins in those towns on the Texas plains. But she'd
thought of herself as different, as committed to a
better way of life. Maybe the Methodist Church had
gotten to her. However, once she reached San
Francisco and crawled off that bus, she'd become a new
kind of person. Now that she peeked at old memories,
she couldn't actually pinpoint precisely what kind of
person she'd become, but she was damned well
different!
In retrospect, she'd "reinvented" herself several
times since those days. After her groupie days, she
had attended a business college and learned how to be
a secretary and became a secretary and then decided
she didn't really want to be a secretary. Myriad jobs
had flipped past after that...teller in a bank, clerk
in a shoe store, record promotion person for a record
distributor in San Francisco. This latter job
eventually led to her being offered the job with
Seagate Records, mostly because she got along with
people fairly well and was fairly good at solving
hang-ups before they became problems. Ostensibly, she
was director of promotion for the record label. But
the reality was that she had no staff, per se.
Seagate Records hired independent record promotion
people such as the highly respected Tony Richland in
Los Angeles and others. These were the people who
approached the radio stations with the 45 rpm singles
of Seagate Records. Once you had a hit, jukebox sales
could be pretty good as well as sales to the general
public. But now that James Taylor and others were
opening the doors, the albums frequently came first
and you hoped for a hit single mostly to create sales
for the album than to sell. Some were a new kind of
music that bordered on the edges of both rock and
blues and jazz. The Beatles had even gone that
direction and a good example was "Strawberry Fields
Forever." But the leaders included Jim Morrison and
the Doors, Janis Joplin, Frank Zappa, and a few
others.
A new breed of FM radio station, once the bastion of
classical and jazz music, had sprung up to play these
albums and Tom Donahue in San Francisco seemed to be
reeking in the glory of this off-the-wall format,
along with Murray the K, a former Top 40 radio
personality, in New York City. In its fledgling
stages, it was called underground radio, but then,
slowly, the name progressive rock took forefront.
She wondered what would happen if she returned to
Winters, Texas, and told them she was in the record
business. Probably some people would merely shrug,
wondering what the record industry was, and perhaps
others would pray for her in church because they had
their own ideas.
No, she could never go back to Winters, Texas. Not
really. And it had nothing to do with Tom Wolfe. She
hadn't actually outgrown the place; often she felt it
was part of her psyche. It's just that she really
knew no one there anymore, including her mother. One
day she might wander through. But she could never
stay.
She wondered if the music business might be a stage of
growth and one day she would advance beyond it or out
of it. She couldn't conceive of something like that
at the moment; the music business was too exciting.
But one can never predict what will happen to you in
life. Human nature always had a surprise waiting just
around the corner.
Thinking that she might as well be the person with a
surprise, she got up suddenly and walked across the
lobby to the hallway that led to the ballroom. The
man in the black hat was not in view. A small group
of people waited outside of the men's room. None of
them looked her direction.
She suffered an immediate emotional letdown, of
course. Because she'd sat there in the lobby thinking
about Winters and about her mother and got all steamed
up to confront her nemesis, whoever and whatever it
was, and the potential enemy had disappeared, even if
just temporarily. She stood there for a moment,
frozen, wondering what great action she'd planned
against such a formidable opponent. Maybe she'd
planned to kick him in the balls and run like hell.
Had she really intended to do something like that?
"You look like a little girl lost," said William
Pearson as he approached.
"That, I am," she said.
"Coffee?"
"Definitely," she said.
The coffeeshop of the Fontaindeux Resort Hotel at
Miami Beach was adjacent to the lobby and the only
difference in the view from its huge windows is that
you only saw part of the hotel's driveway and part of
the hotel's swimming pool. This time of day, early
afternoon, there was probably more business being done
at the swimming pool with its bar on wheels than in
the hotel bar. The bar featured topless waitresses.
But the women festering the swimming pool were also
virtually topless. It was just a matter of an inch or
two.
Regardless, these men around the swimming pool were
more interested at the moment in business than in
breasts. Not that Pearson didn't pause to admire a
very nice looking blonde wearing a string bikini.
"How does she get into that thing?" he asked, but it
wasn't a question as much as a statement. He shook
his head in admiration, before adding, "What utter
gall."
"No horrible puns, please," said Sharon.
"Me? Stoop to mere puns?"
"Whatever those things are," she said. "Don't forget
you're a married man."
"My wife allows me to look on an occasion such as
this, but not to touch," he said. "And I'm a very
henpecked man, it seems. On the other hand, I've been
married a very long time. Years and years. So, I've
gotten used to it, I suppose."
They sat down at the same table she'd shared earlier
in the morning with Johnny B. Dollar and, temporarily,
with Fyfe Collins.
"Heard you're looking for a new job," said Pearson.
He continued to look out the window at the swimming
pool. Earlier, when she'd had coffee with Johnny, no
one was at the pool. Now, it seemed to be a very
popular place. She noticed Beatrice out there, but
Beatrice was like a bird dog on the hunt for quail.
She looped the pool, then darted down some steps
toward the beach. Sharon wondered if Johnny had made
his escape yet. Or was he still hiding out in her
hotel room?
"You probably heard about it before I did," she said.
"I wasn't actually looking for a job, I think, until I
reached this convention."
Pearson was a record promotion man from Detroit and he
specialized in rumors as a tool of trade. He seldom
carried a vicious rumor further than his memory could
take it, which was to forget it fast. But he was
welcome everywhere he went because his rumors often
carried a spark of news and disc jockeys and program
directors were always starved for news. They read all
of the trades and the tipsheets and they were always
on the telephone. But still, information about people
and even about records was part of the job and they
felt defenseless without it. Thus, they were always
eager to find out the "latest" from Pearson.
"This is a crazy business," Pearson said.
"That's what I heard this morning. And I'm beginning
to believe it. Shows how quick I learn, I guess."
"That wasn't the reason I wanted to see you," Pearson
said. "The reality of the matter is that I need help.
I'm moderating a 4 p.m. panel session this afternoon
in the room adjacent to the ballroom, whatever it's
called. Dawson in Seattle can't make the convention.
An illness in the family. Not only would you be
perfect for the panel, but you never can tell where
something like this might lead. Anyway, I think a
woman on the panel would be great. At the moment,
it's a bit too male."
"I'll do it," she said. "Although I think someone
like Jan Basham at A&M Records would be much better."
"I'd be embarrassed to ask her to fly in at this late
date," Pearson said. "And, frankly, you will also be
great. I consider you a very intelligent person and
quite knowledgeable about the music business."
"Am I supposed to say thanks?"
"No. You just never tell my wife that I was looking
at a woman like that out by the swimming pool."
They discussed the topic of the panel session. It was
about the value of reliable information from the
trades, tipsheets, and record promotion people.
The coffee came, as did several other people
performing the habitual modus operandi of "working the
room." This included Chuck Chellman, a record
promotion executive from Nashville; Bill Gavin, editor
of the Gavin Report out of San Francisco who was also
going to be on the 4 p.m. panel, Don Graham of New
York City, Harold Lipsius of Philadelphia, and Don
Ovens, head of the charts at Billboard who was also on
the panel.
Working the room, whatever room it might be, was a
traditional practice at such conventions and she had
performed this ritual many times herself, especially
at the big country music convention in Nashville that
was known as the WSM birthday celebration.
However, she was not so gross as to have her name
announced over the hotel's paging system. Many did
this, tipping the hotel phone operator five or ten
dollars to have them paged for "an important phone
call." At some hotels in Los Angeles, they paged the
names of movie stars who didn't even know where the
hotel was located so that their regular customers
would think the hotel was the hangout of so and so or
such and such.
"What other rumors have you heard lately?" Sharon
asked. "Anything to do with the Mafia?"
"About you? No way."
"One of those guys who need a nose job tried to
proposition me earlier in the morning. A while ago,
he seemed to be stalking me."
Pearson stared at her to make sure she was being
serious.
"I'll check on it," he said.
"How?"
"I may know a couple of people. And then, again, I
may not."
"Appreciate," she said.
"I should know something by the time of the panel
session," he said.
"Or not know something," she said with a grim little
smile.
He smiled back, also grim.
"Very true," he said.
"Now I think I'd better do some scouting around," she
said. "Maintain some high visibility just in case the
job rumors are true."
She drank her coffee. The hotel had good coffee. She
nodded to Pearson and returned to her room and put on
a bathing suit. It was not as skimpy as the string
thing that Pearson had admired, but it was pretty
cool. Lots of skin. Her skin was creamy in color,
just as if there was some genetic mistake or hanky
panky among her distant ancestors. But it looked
good. Over this, she tossed a light lace cape with a
hood that she never used, but which she supposed would
come in handy if you were trying to hide from someone.
She was no dummy; she wasn't trying to hide from
anyone at the moment. Didn't matter who. A
high-profile babe, that was her to a tee. To prove
it, she wore high heels. Women in bathing suits look
great in high heels. She'd heard this from more than
one male. And she also wore a hat with a brim the
size of Texas. Her attire for the panel session, she
folded neatly into a large floppy bag with handles to
take with her to the pool.
A few minutes later, she was at the swimming pool, had
found a lounge chair with a view toward the ocean
where waves were rather high this afternoon, had
tipped the pool boy a dollar for a towel, and had
already searched the parameter for potential trouble
as well as potential solutions.
(continued next week)
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com
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February 25, 2008
Commentary
by Claude
Hall
This boot's a hoot! I put seven songs
on laptop in
order to listen to them with some definitive
attention, but may not keep any of them. John Hall,
esq., bought it at some swapmeet in Los Angeles. And
it's worth buying, believe me. History. The fabulous
Johnny Cash. Title of the CD: "Black Stud in the
Sky." Check This Out Records, I suppose. Tracks
range from "Sunday Morning Coming Down" performed live
somewhere to "Redemption Song" as performed by Johnny
Cash at the Montreaux Festival in Switzerland in 1994.
Good quality audio on most of the 24 tunes. Must be
decent money from these boots, because this boot has a
list of the tunes, cover, colored pix inside and the
CD is a photo CD. I mean this project was done with
love!
John usually buys boots only when they have some
historic value. Such as this Cash boot. But usually
he buys airchecks of Los Angeles deejays, many of them
dead. He also buys an enormous number of CDs at
regular stores. For example, the Loretta Lynn CD that
just won a Grammy. Both sons John and Andy are
deadheads. Guess Barbara and I didn't raise them
right. Now Andy, our "baby" who is now earning a
Ph.D. at Illinois State, he loved KMET-FM. So, he's
forgiven somewhat. Just FYI, Andy has had two of his
poems accepted for publication by Red Fez. Anyway, in
spite of Grateful Dead, John and Andy have fired up an
interest in music again for me. For which I'm
grateful. And John fetched along a couple of dozen
CDs for me to listen to over this past weekend.
My compliments to producer Jack White with his Loretta
Lynn CD produced in 2004 called "Van Lear Rose."
Oddly, the title tune isn't that much good, but Jack
has brought fresh air to a great, appealing country
music legend and the majority of the tunes on this CD
provide great listening. "Portland Oregon." "Women's
Prison." "Mrs. Leroy Brown." "Have Mercy." "Little
Red Shoes." I'll bet the so-called country music
stations had trouble with this one! Not me. A great
musical tribute to a great country music lady. Good
on you, Jack White!
Wish I could say the same for "Honky Tonk Angels"
featuring Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, and Tammy
Wynette. Great songs, great women, boring CD.
Someone should have been tarred and feathered on this
one. Waste! Utter waste! No effort, no emotion, no
passion. Sorry ladies, this will not do. You tossed
me off, I'm tossing this off. All three of you ought
to head back to the studio and earn your keep. Bet
Jack Rubin or Jack White could come up with a
mastepiece.
One group I love absolutely love is Los Lobos.
Strangely enough, I like them doing Mex more than
doing English. But one of the CDs I've just heard,
"The Neighborhood," is quite good. Recommend "Down on
the River Bed," "I Can't Understand," "Take My Hand,"
"Be Still" done with a Mex flavor (my favorite on the
CD). I'm astonished that some people do not consider
this group one of the elite groups. Another of the
Los Lobos the packages John fetched over featured
quite a few Mexican tunes. Some, I already had. Wish
they'd do a better version of "La Bamba." Yes, I know
they did it in the movie. But it's a weak attempt and
doesn't treat the song with the respect that it
deserves. Ah, but I miss, dearly miss, Cuco Sanchez.
Now there was a real Mexican singer! Sanchez and
Virginia Lopez are the reasons I'm still known as El
Colorado Grande in certain places not far from the
home of Tom Russell.
John also brought over a couple of Grateful Dead CDs.
The Grateful Dead are now back on my B list. Worse
version I've every heard of "El Paso." The Grateful
Dead killed it! My B list also includes Bruce
Springsteen, incidentally. Bruce is an icon, but the
only decent music I've heard out of him is when he and
a couple of other "names" backed Roy Orbison. He's
certainly no Tom Russell. Best version I've every
heard of "El Paso" (sorry Marty) is by Tom Russell.
Got to admit that I loved "Skin" with Melissa
Etheridge. Try "The Different." Viola! The lady
deserves a crown of Brasilian gold. You are great,
Melissa.
The Eagles? "Long Road Out of Eden?" A masterpiece.
Loved it.
BASKETBALL MATTERS
I've seen a lot of basketball in my life. High
school. College. Pros. Including the Knicks in the
old Madison Square Garden. Never saw a game like the
one Duke played Sunday night against Wake Forrest at
Wake Forrest. The entire starting lineup of the Duke
Blue Devils fouled out! This is basically absurd as
well as virtually impossible. Someone ought to
investigate that particular game. In one case,
Demarcus Nelson of Duke was shoved out of bounds by
two Wake Forrest players. So the refs gave the ball
to Wake Forrest. That's reffing? Not hardly.
But, yes, I follow Duke and I follow the Texas
Longhorns. And the Phoenix Suns and with Jason Kidd
in Dallas, I will once more probably be a Dallas
Mavericks fan.
OTHER MATTERS
Chuck Chellman, Nashvile: "Thanks for remembering
Bill, Claude. While the Gavins were beginning to put
a country music section together, I met with them here
in Nashville and again in their San Francisco office
and suggested the initial reporting stations, which
later became the "Gavin Stations" to promotion men
dealing with Country across America. I was happy to
help. I can also say that Bill Gavin was among the
top true gentlemen in our industry. Janet was just as
gracious in her way. Best wishes to you and yours,
Claude."
Jack Gale, Tampa Bay, FL: "Claude, Read your post about
Bill Gavin saying some nice things about Vince
Cosgrove. It really brought back memories when he
said 'The last time I got a flash like that from
Vince was about 'Oh Happy Day'. That had to be
November 1952. I produced 'Oh Happy Day' by Don Howard
while I was in Cleveland at WSRS. Billboard and Cash
Box both picked it, and we sold it to Dave Miller to
be released on Essex. The rest is history.
Incidentally, I still have the GAVIN AWARD for
Program Director of the Year in 1969 that I won at BIG
WAYS in Charlotte. Best to Barbara."
Bill Young: "Thanks for your commentary about Bill
Gavin. He was a wonderful human being and I shared
many great times with him as a friend and a
contributor to his passionate and honest efforts on
behalf of our industries."
Bill Young also passed along the information that Bill
Weaver died Feb. 17, 2008. Weaver was a teasipper, a
WWII veteran, and a veteran of the McLendon Stations.
We come, we do, we go.
Vince Cosgrave: "Just a quick note; I was shocked at
the lack of response to your call for remembering Bill
Gavin. Yes, we come, we do, we go; but why do we
forget? By the way, I was recently diagnosed with the
early stages of dementia: but an old guy I met in the
waiting room told me it is not so bad. He said he
looks forward to Easter because he can hide the eggs
on Saturday and spend all day on Easter searching for
them. Stay tuned. Vince."
Just FYI, folks: No one is going to forget Bill Gavin
as long as I'm around. I have a story that I will
probably tell in the next two-four weeks about Bill.
Maybe.
POLITICAL MATTERS
I've mentioned heretofore that I'm a bleeding heart
liberal. I've even written about my economic
theory that money is merely a cultural and
environmental tool for people maintenance and
growth, specifically that money in the hands of the few
is a cultural handicap and, within certain limits,
shouldn't be allowed. A person with too much money is
a person who is holding back America and the world.
He, or she, is without question and without doubt, as
much an enemy of America and the world as the most
dastardly villain. And could justly be accused of
slowing the growth of humanity. I recently asked a
person with a godawful lot of money to help a mutual
friend from long ago. A friend down on his luck at
the moment. Will he help? I do not know at this
point. And, yes, I'm curious. I wish that I was in
such a position as to be able to help this person
myself. Prayer is about my greatest contribution so
far and, though I'm somewhat spiritual in nature,
prayer does not necessarily fit the bill when one is
hungry.
Isn't it a pity that we have no institution for down
and out radio people like they do in the movie
industry? No source of resource. And, to a great
extent, because of Buchenwald, a great many of us have
reached the status of victim. Some have no hope.
They have lost their jobs and lost their homes and all
too few in America can afford to care for these
victims at the moment for they, too, have problems.
I've been watching the election extravaganza on
television. Barack Obama is coming on strong.
Hillary Clinton might have more experience about
guiding a nation and helping a people (quien sabe?),
but Obama offers more hope and we, as a nation, are
virtually at the desperate level. All because of
Buchenwald and his bandits. Old Chitchat, you know,
has enough millions that he'll merely go to Paris and
avoid the debris he has helped create here.
Buchenwald will retreat to his hideout. Ask for
another Secret Service man to chase away the beggars
who come knocking, knocking at his door.
We are desperate for hope. It is food for our
screaming brains.
Can Barack do the job? If he's smart.
I've long felt that the presidency of the United
States is too large a job for a single person, I was
there when Lyndon B. Johnson presented his famous
step-down speech. I believe that, in effect, we
should eliminate the borders between the United States
and Canada and Mexico and become a United Nations of
America. A single money. A single goal: People.
Three key leaders making the decisions for that goal.
And none of these three assuming dictatorial powers as
did Buchenwald, all three, in fact, aided with constant
research and advice from the major facets of life -
education, business, medical/health, transportation,
state government, etc. Become people facilitators as
much as people leaders.
We've obviously come a long way in America. I was a
reporter covering the integration struggles in New
Orleans when there were separate bathrooms and even
separate water fountains. The city was a horror story
in those days for much too many people. And, because
the American government has not helped efficiently nor
effectively since Katrina, still a horror story,
according to someone I know who was there recently.
As far as New Orleans is concerned, the American
government is a failure. In many ways, our government
has failed you and me as well.
Barack cannot afford to be a failure. He fails, we
fall and all of the wars and misery we have instigated
and continued in one shape and another around the
world will fall upon us. Some may even consider it
justice. And that may be the truth. But it's not a
truth that I wish to face and which we should avoid if
at all possible. We need to make amends, yes. But
without the punishment some people might wish to
afflict. So, Barack is going to have one hell of a
problem on his shoulders day one. Can he handle those
problems better than Madame Clinton? I think so. And
the reason? I believe that he has a more-open mind.
And I think he's more open to suggestions, doesn't
think he's god all mighty.
To tell you the truth, though, I feel sorry for
Barack. But I will pray for him.
Forget John McCain. Good man. But with too many
flaws and, quite simply, the job is too vast.
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