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"Hurt"
by Claude Hall
Chapter Eight
She didn't like it one bit when I told her I was going
to be out of town tomorrow night. I'd taken the night
off--J.D. had literally insisted even though I know he
hated working with Nap--and Doris and I had gone to a
concert by the Sierra Winds at Artemus Ham Concert
Hall on the campus of UNLV. They played something by
Beethoven that was quite good. I didn't know the name
of the song and was a little embarrassed and didn't
want to ask Doris. But I made up my mind right then,
during the intermission when we stood talking in the
lobby, that I had missed something dreadfully
important in my life--classical music. I'd also
discovered, rather much to my amazement because it was
so unlike me, that I didn't notice a lot of things
whenever Doris was around. Usually, this was because
I was either looking at her face or listening to her
almost continuous chatter. She seldom brought up the
same subject twice, and if she did she had another
point she wanted to make, but she seemed to have an
endless well of topics on which she could draw. That
evening, waiting to go back for the second part of the
concert, she even talked about the legends and
superstitions of Ireland. She knew an amazing amount
of information. Saint Patrick chasing out the snakes,
the real pot of gold you could find at the end of the
rainbow.
"Planted there by leprechauns," she said, a touch of
humor glinting in her eyes as she looked at me. "Do
you believe in the wee folk?"
"I might," I said. "Everything would depend."
"Depend on what?"
"Well, to be frank, I don't really know. But I do
know that a lot of things exist in this world which
are pretty hard to explain and you'd be foolish to try
to explain them away. I met a kid the other night who
may even believe in ghosts. A sensible kid, I would
think, about 14 years old. I've been thinking about
that. What caused him to believe in ghosts? Real
ghosts?"
"His parents, maybe," she suggested. "His mother
might have believed in ghosts."
"That could explain things, all right," I said, "but
it doesn't explain away ghosts. Are they really
there? See? I don't know. So far as I'm concerned,
the jury is still out. At least, with me."
We went inside, then, to hear something written by a
guy named Brahms. I noticed someone staring at us
with a strange expression on his face while we
strolled through the lobby. But when I glanced that
direction, he quickly looked away.
"Is this a business trip?" Doris asked.
"No. It's a getaway for a day or two trip."
"You need company? I could cut classes for a couple
of days."
She was looking across the room, not really looking at
anything, but not looking at me. I was a little
shocked and couldn't think of the proper answer for a
moment. I had realized, of course, that this was a
different world and that people my age usually had
"relationships" and "one night stands" were
fairly
common. Not for me, of course. Because my personal
situation was unique. However, the fact that she was
willing to sleep with me astonished me. I suppose I'm
naive, just like J.D. says. And, for sure, I'm a bit
old fashioned, if not more so.
"The idea of you being with me appeals to me very
much," I finally said, after choosing my words as
carefully as I could. "But this is something that I
have to do alone."
"A thinking thing? Get out in the woods and just
think things out. That what you mean?"
"The woods, yes," I said. "But I don't do much
thinking out there. Mostly, I guess you could say I
try to commune with nature."
"That's okay then," she said.
"Is it?"
She took my arm in hers and we went through the door
and down the aisle.
"But when are you going to ask me to spend the night
with you?" she whispered in my ear.
"I don't know just yet," I said. "Maybe soon."
She seemed satisfied with that answer for a little
while. But I wasn't. To tell the truth, I was
deathly afraid of getting into bed with her. I was
afraid of what might happen. What if I went sort of
berserk? Moon or no moon!
I didn't even know if I could have sex with a girl.
Well, I suppose I could. Maybe I hadn't changed all
that much because of the illness when I was a kid.
But I didn't know for sure.
I tried to brush all of that out of my mind and enjoy
the music. The Sierra Winds are quite good.
Afterwards, we walked across Maryland Boulevard to
Cafe Expresso Roma and had coffee. The coffee at the
Cafe Roma is good, hot, and strong and you can get
extra large served in a glass. Starbucks also has
good coffee. And a place called Jitters. A lot
better, in fact, than the coffee J.D. makes at the
hospital.
The guy who'd been observing me during the
intermission was at a distant table. I decided that
if I looked directly at him, he might get the hint
that I didn't like being studied. He was fairly tall,
had a slender build as if he was beyond exercising,
and wore a tuff of mustache as if paying homage to
Hitler.
All of a sudden he picked up his book bag and glass of
coffee and walked over and stopped by our table.
He sat his book bag in the middle of our table as if
he intended to stay whether we invited him or not. He
then tried a sly smile, but it was not the kind of
smile that wishes you good cheer; it was the smile of
someone seeking something and wondering if they will
be able to obtain it or not.
"I'm not going to throw out that old cliché about not
wanting to interrupt you, because that's precisely
what I intend to do," he said.
"Go away, Sylvester," Doris said without looking up at
him.
"I will not," he said. He immediately fetched a chair
from a nearby table and placed it at our table and sat
down.
"Don't talk to him," said Doris.
"I shall do the talking, then," said Sylvester.
"We do not wish to listen to you," said Doris.
"I can make him go away, if you'd like," I told her.
"He's a pest. Pay no attention to him."
"I am, indeed, a pest," said Sylvester. "All
scholars
and research scientists are pests."
"He is not a scientist," Doris told me. "And
certainly not a scholar. He's just barely a student."
He sneered at her in an offhand superior manner.
"A graduate assistant, actually. I delve in the
paranormal," Sylvester said. "That's why some
students treat me with a bit of disdain. It's not an
accepted discipline of study at many major
institutions. Some, yes. The more enlightened
universities. UNLV, unfortunately, is not all that
enlightened. In fact, the flashlight out in front of
Artemus W. Ham Concert Hall is entirely indicative of
the shining light of knowledge that prevails on this
so-called institute of learning where the common
textbook is not the preferred academic tome, but
Superman comics."
"What does he mean?" I asked Doris.
"I said not to pay any attention to him!" Her voice
had risen. Not in volume, but in concern. I couldn't
tell if she was afraid of him, but she certainly
didn't like him one bit. "Come on. We'll go
somewhere else."
"She's afraid of me," Sylvester said, "because I
sensed in her some while ago the same thing I sensed
in you earlier tonight. She's different in some way.
And, if you'll pardon me for saying so, so are you."
"You're absolutely right," I said.
"I knew it!" He became quite excited and immediately
opened his book bag and took out a ballpoint pen and a
notebook.
I reached over and placed a hand around his arm. I
didn't apply much pressure. Just enough.
The ballpoint pen fell out of his limp hand to the
table and rolled over the edge onto the floor.
He didn't seemed very concerned about the pen at the
moment, however.
I heard a little thud.
I don't think Doris noticed. She was staring at me
with a worried expression.
Suddenly, he began to cry.
I let go of his arm.
He grabbed for his book bag with his good hand, slung
it over his shoulder as rapidly as he could, then took
his arm in his hand and backed quickly across the
room, his eyes very wide and white. As soon as he
reached the door, he turned and fled.
"Guess he didn't want to talk to us after all," I
said.
"He's always seeing things that aren't really there,"
she said. She tossed her head. Red hair flew about
like a small storm.
"He's probably okay. Just a bit nuts or something," I
said.
"I shocked you a few moments ago, didn't I?"
"Yes," I said.
"I was sort of wondering when you were going to get
around to asking me and you didn't and I began to
think you never would and so I asked you. But, if it
means anything, you're the first guy I ever asked."
"It means a lot to me," I said. I guess I seemed
nervous about my answer and, yes, all that concerned
me. But I was really nervous about the moon and I
couldn't tell her that.
"A lot of guys have asked me, though."
"I can believe that," I said. "You're very, very
beautiful and you have an exciting personality."
"Well, not all that many have asked me," she said.
"That is, I think some of them were going to get
around to asking, but I dodged the issue by changing
the subject. You aren't going to dodge the issue by
changing the subject, I hope?"
"Yes, I suppose I would like to. At the moment,
anyway."
"That's because I've embarrassed the shit out of you."
"In a way," I said.
"But you like me anyway? In spite of what that creep
Sylvester said?"
"Definitely," I said. "I think you're probably the
most beautiful thing I ever saw. And that includes
Marlene Dietrich in 'Blue Angel' and Marilyn Monroe in
'Misfits'. What's more, you're very bright and I
enjoy listening to you talk. And I enjoy being with
you. Doesn't matter where we're at or what we're
doing. I can think of nothing more exciting than
going to bed with you. I hope you believe that."
"Good," she said. "Then I can come home with you
and
spend the night?"
"No," I said. "I'm leaving tonight."
"That soon?"
"Right after I walk you to your car."
"But you don't even have a suitcase packed."
"The way it works is sort of like survival training,"
I said. "No coat. No food of any kind. No
sleeping
bag or tent. No gun. Not even a knife."
"Now I really don't believe you," she said. "There
has to be a girlfriend among the trees somewhere with
an order of French fries from McDonald's."
"My girlfriend lives in Spanish Trails. Her father is
a bigshot senator. Guarantee you."
"I wish I could figure you out," she said. "When
I'm
talking to you or we're just out walking, I have the
strangest feeling...a really warm feeling...that you
and I belong together. But I can't figure out
anything about you. It's exasperating! Really
exasperating."
"How could you possibly figure me out? I can't even
figure myself out most of the time."
"You're not gay, are you?" she asked quietly.
"No. But I guess you could call me old fashioned
about some things. Probably a lot of things."
"That's what J.D. told me."
Another surprise!
"You've talked to J.D. about me? Recently?"
I wondered what J.D. had told her. Come to think of
it, I didn't have a very good idea about what J.D.
thought of me. I think he liked me in a funny kind of
way, but that was about all I could figure out because
he was so doggoned odd.
"Well, who else could I ask? You simply don't know a
hell of a lot of people, Chuck. I tried talking to
Gertrude, but she clammed up and wouldn't say
anything. In fact, I believe I upset her something
fierce just asking questions about you."
"My god!" I said.
"So I shouldn't have talked to Gertrude?"
"Definitely not to Gertrude."
"J.D. said that, too. Told me never again. Said I
could talk to him and I could talk to you, but not to
talk with anyone else at the hospital and probably it
would be best not to talk to anyone else, period,
about you. He said it didn't matter much if I talked
about him, but he would be grateful if I didn't, so I
said I wouldn't and I haven't since. About him.
About you."
Cafe Roma doesn't believe in huge electric bills, so
the lights are kept fairly subdued at night which is
okay by me. The moon was just coming into view and it
was big. I could feel the backs of my hands beginning
to itch.
"What else did J.D. tell you about me?"
"That I should chase you around and around some
mulberry bush."
"That sounds like J.D.," I said. "Nostalgic for the
old days. I wonder if he ever had some pretty little
wench chase him about a mulberry bush. More likely,
it was a fig tree."
"Does all this stuff...this trip you're taking and
everything...have something to do with that virus you
suffered as a kid?"
I didn't want to tell her anything about all of that.
At least, not any more than I already had told her.
Yet, I've always had a natural adversion to lying.
I tried to hide behind my cup of coffee and when that
didn't help me escape those huge silver eyes with
their long lashes, I finally admitted, "Yes, I guess
it does to a great extent."
"Have you ever talked to a doctor about it?"
"It's not the sort of thing you'd consult a doctor
about and, anyway, I don't think a doctor would
believe me. This is something different. I did some
research in libraries here and there, including one of
the major libraries at the University of Texas in
Austin. I couldn't find anything about it. Not from
a medical standpoint. There was an interesting book,
now out of print, by a guy named Sabine Baring-Gould."
"What's the title? I'll check it out of the library
here."
"Doesn't matter," I said quickly, because I didn't
want her reading that particular book. "It wouldn't
be in this library. It was a very rare book."
She emptied her glass of coffee and sat it down rather
hard on the surface of the table. I was rather
surprised when the glass didn't break.
"I'm not going to put up with all of this secrecy crap
once we get married," she said.
That shocked me, too. Naturally, I'd done a lot of
research on werewolves; I was spending a lot of time
in libraries as I moved slowly across the deep south
from Alabama into Tennessee and then deep into
Mississippi and over into Texas. You can't find much
in many libraries, but over a period of several months
I was able to gather a lot of information. A few
words here, a paragraph or two there. And one library
had a computer on-line service and I was able to tap
into a databank somewhere else; I've never been sure
whether it was a databank at Case Western Reserve or
the New York Public Library. I'd never run across
anything about a werewolf getting married. For that
matter, nothing even about a werewolf having a
"fling." That didn't seem to be the sort of thing
werewolves did.
"Isn't this rather sudden?"
"Not for me. I knew the minute you came to visit me
in the hospital room that we were going to be married.
I don't know how I knew, but I knew. Because, you
see, not only have I always been extraordinarily
lucky, but I've always had sort of an ability to see
around corners. You know? Not really around corners,
but I can glimpse things that are going to happen
sometimes. And I glimpsed you."
The moon was growing brighter out the open doorway of
the cafe.
"I've got to be going," I said softly. And
reluctantly.
"So quick?"
"Yes. I'll walk you to your car."
As we stood up, however, a slender figure--quite
old--behind goldrimmed spectacles took me gently by
the arm. He was a weird-looking human being, bent
from countless years, no doubt, of pondering over
books. His balding head was framed on the sides with
large tuffs of white hair that resembled, I thought at
the time, wings of some white dove.
"Dr. Chadwick," Doris said as sort of an introduction.
"Doris and I are, indeed, friends. To some extent,
anyway," said the professor. "I mention this with
some haste in hope that you won't break my arm like
you did for Sylvester."
Doris glanced at me. "You broke Sylvester's arm?"
I tried to duck my head so I wouldn't have to look
into her eyes, but I wasn't fast enough.
"I wasn't going to tell you," I tried to explain to
her.
"He needed it, I assure you," said the professor.
"Could I talk to you a moment, sir?"
"Chuck, this is Dr. Jake Chadwick. He teaches English
at UNLV. Dr. Chadwick, this is Chuck Southheim, a
friend of mine who is thinking about taking some
courses at UNLV next semester."
I glanced quickly out the cafe window. The eastern
star was bright and hanging over the distant
mountains.
"We really do have to be going," I told Doris.
"I can understand your reluctance to talk with me,"
Dr. Chadwick said.
"It's not that," I said quickly. "It's just that I
have, well, an appointment that has to be kept."
His eyes blinked rapidly behind his spectacles. There
was a faint smile around his lips, as if he was trying
to be friendly and this was about the extent of the
gesture.
"Some other time, please?"
"I suppose so," I said.
"One thing before you go," he said. "My hobby is
modern mythology, I suppose you could say. I consider
myself an authority in certain aspects of life that
others might find upsetting. I believe, without doubt
and without question, that many unusual phenomenons of
life exist and must be protected with the same
passion, the same zeal as the environment and our
endangered species. Everything in nature is valuable.
Possible, yes. And valuable. Do I make myself
clear?"
"No, sir," I said. "I really don't know what you're
talking about."
"Then we must talk again. Please. But I assure you
that I'm not like Sylvester and I would treat anything
you said with utmost confidentiality."
"Okay," I said after a brief pause. Because the
moonlight was already causing my arms to tingle and I
had to be leaving and I didn't want to have to hurt
him.
He let go my arm.
"Good. I would be grateful," he said. He nodded.
"Go with God, my friend."
"Thank you," I said.
Doris and I left the Cafe Roma quickly and cut across
Maryland Parkway, jaywalking like just about every
college student attending UNLV.
"Is that guy back there for real?" I asked.
"He's a very nice professor. Good teacher, too. I
took a class under him a semester ago."
I made an abortive attempt to walk under the few trees
scattered here and there on the campus, but it didn't
help much. I was a nervous wreck by the time we
reached the weathered old Jeep that her parents had
bought her.
"When will I see you?"
"I'll call you the minute I get back from my trip," I
said.
"You'd better," she said. "Or I will come looking
for
you big time."
I kissed her goodbye. The taste of her lips lingered
for quite a while. But not long enough. I'm not
really pleased about it, but I forgot Doris
O'Connor...her pouty lips, the swell of her breasts,
the tight curve of her hips in blue jeans...everything
about her, at soon as I drove over the Pahrump Pass
and took a narrow dirt road off into the mountains.
A few minutes later, I parked the pickup by a small
grove of cedar trees. The keys and a few other
belongings, I placed in a plastic bag from a grocery
store behind the seat of the pickup. My teeshirt and
Wranglers, I rolled up and placed on top of the other
stuff. My Turntec sneakers, too.
I had not been entirely truthful with Doris. Because
I do have a few camping items tucked away behind the
seat of my pickup, including a small propane burner
and a frying pan. Several cans of chilli with beans,
too. But I didn't need any of that stuff tonight. I
took out an old quilt from behind the pickup seat and
spread it over a small grassy spot. It was a fairly
nice bed. It was slightly chilly up this high. But
I'd slept on worse and I'd slept colder.
A couple of hours later, deep into the night, I woke
up and began prowling off over the mountain side.
Down there in the canyon, the wind rushed like a shot
up the slope, over the boulders, whipped at the tops
of some pines and then tried to find me in the lee of
a small hill. The strong cold gusts yanked at my
beard and flung my long hair about.
But I didn’t mind. It was just cold enough to let you
know for sure that you were alive. And the yelling
wind kept the air fresh and good in your lungs.
A few scattered clouds now and then fell across the
face of the moon. A high weather pattern pulled them
quickly away.
The moon was almost full and felt exciting!
I ran over a high, grassy meadow chasing a small
rabbit, but he was much too clever for me and I
couldn’t catch him. He dodged to one side or another
and when I lunged at him, I missed. After a while, he
tired of the game and bound up a small hill and, for a
long moment, looked back at me with probably a great
amount of curiosity, before leaping down the other
side out of view.
After that, I went among the pines and hunted a deer
for a while. But it was too dark and even a little
scary in the pines and so I came back out and ran
across the meadow again. The grass felt very pleasant
under my bare feet.
Something told me that I was going to end up very
hungry this night. But it didn’t matter. I had a
frozen pizza in the refrigerator back at the
apartment. It would taste good. Even for breakfast.
They came suddenly from down wind and I didn’t know
they were there until someone shouted. The voice was
raw and hoarse on the wind.
“Over yonder!”
Several dark figures flooded out of a grove of trees
higher up the slope and swept toward me. With a
full-thrown moon behind them, the men had the
appearance of monsters. In sudden fright, because
this had happened once before in Missouri or Tennessee
when I was still quite young, I fled.
This time, there were no dogs. But rifle shots rang
out and one of them came close just before I darted
behind an outcropping of rock.
I continued running. There was a narrow draw to the
left. Since I didn’t seem to have many alternatives
at the moment, I ran into the draw and proceeded along
it, stumbling in the dark over some of the rocks.
Once, I scraped my hand on a boulder and realized that
I was leaving a trail of blood. Not much. Just a few
scattered drops. But I had heard no dogs. They never
brought dogs.
The walls of the draw straightened out and climbed
higher. Not even the moon penetrated down here. Even
with my unusual vision, I found it increasingly more
difficult to see where I was going.
When I came around another bend in the canyon, for it
had grown far too large to be called a draw anymore, I
paused for a moment and tried to find a way to climb
the wall. There were a few cracks caused by erosion,
a foothold, a handhold.
I quickly began to climb up the sheer face of the
cliff.
Barely in time, I flung himself over the edge and
rolled to my feet as assorted figures, some carrying
flashlights, ran past in the gloom below.
Suddenly, they stopped.
“The tracks have disappeared,” said one of the men.
He directed his flashlight at the sandy floor of the
narrow canyon.
"The son of a bitch was barefooted!" someone said, his
voice taut with amazement, in the darkness below.
Without planning it, I had stopped in the middle of
the canyon, then leaped onto some rocks at the side.
But my footprints obviously made it appear as if I had
suddenly leaped into the air or simply disappeared.
“Can they do that?” asked one of his companions.
“I didn’t think so...until now,” said his friend. He
was panting rather hard because of the chase.
“Musta been a vampyre.”
“Naw. It was a werewolf all right.”
“Werewolves don’t suddenly sprout wings.”
“Did you see anything flapping out of here?”
“No.”
“Then it was a werewolf.”
“Did you see the hair on that thing!”
“Fur, more than likely,” was the response.
“You mean you’ve never seen one up close?”
“No. And I’m not sure I want to,” he said. “There
was a story I heard about some guys almost catching
one down around Sweetwater, Texas, but it may have
just been a tall tale. You know those Texans.”
“I’m from Texas.”
“Doesn’t change anything,” he quickly replied. “The
way I heard it, these guys were hunting deer down in
San Saba County and they saw this thing moving through
the brush and chased it for miles. Some said they
caught up with it and shot it. But none of them knew
about having to use a silver bullet on a werewolf.
Anyway, they didn’t have any silver bullets. So, if
they shot it, big deal. I guess it may have been some
old wolf, maybe, because it got away.”
"Maybe this thing tonight was something else."
The man snorted.
"What else is there?"
The question was almost lost on the breeze that
shifted uneasily in the canyon below.
"Nothing, I guess."
And then the voices faded completely away as the men
drifted on down the canyon hunting for me.
I turned on my back and stared at the stars. I
wondered what they were doing way out there. No
cares. No problems. Just twinkle the hell out of the
night sky.
The voices never came back up the canyon. There was
probably an outlet down slope somewhere.
Still, I didn't move. I was no longer tired; I was
breathing normally again. Nor scared. I just didn't
feel like moving.
Patches of snow on distant rock heights gleamed in the
moonlight like ghosts, but I don't think that was the
kind of ghosts the kid had been talking about. A
breeze fell off the snow and dropped on me. After a
while, the cold ate into my arms and legs and I knew I
should be on my feet, running down the mountain. A
man could eventually develop hypothermia here in the
mountain peaks. And there was always the chance that
the hunters might double back.
But I hated to move. I could understand so clearly
why the Greeks had worshipped the moon. There were
very few things more beautiful than a moon hard gold
and full in a dark cloudless sky.
But the moon was more than a beautiful symbol to me.
More than a goddess. Since the time of my sickness
years ago, I'd drawn some strange form of energy from
the moon, especially on nights like this when there
were no clouds.
True, the hair on my arms and legs used to bother me.
But not so much any more. And I used to have the
overwhelming instinct to howl, especially just after
seeing a new moon filling up a dark sky. But over the
years I'd learned to suppress the urge. Most of the
time.
The energy of the moon, however, always caused a
strange sensation. Like warm fire running through my
nerves. Not all of the time. But most of the time.
Tonight, some switch had been thrown in my body and
the excitement that I'd felt earlier when I chased the
rabbit around the meadow had suddenly faded away.
Maybe it was because of the hunters. Maybe because
they were hunting a werewolf. Maybe because the moon
was already low in the sky and several clouds had come
up to give it something to hide behind.
After a while, feeling very depressed, I rolled over
and got to my feet and, keeping low and out of sight,
began the long walk to my pickup parked by some low
cedars in the low foothills of the mountains.
The cedars saved my life.
The men were waiting by the pickup, some hidden in the
dark among the cedars and a couple near the pickup
itself.
I almost stumbled over one of the men crouched by a
low shrub. Even my eyes didn't spot the man until the
last moment. Fortunately, the man was looking down
slope toward the pickup and bare feet don't make that
much noise.
I quickly backed away. I stopped under a low hanging
branch of a cedar, almost invisible in the dark
depths.
It was miles back to Las Vegas. Too far to walk. And
I shouldn't leave the pickup behind. They might be
able to trace me through the plates, and, of course,
probably had already taken down the number, but there
wasn't anything I could do about that.
I didn't want to hurt the man crouched by the shrub,
but I had no choice. I groped around on the ground
until I found a rock about the size of a baseball.
This time, I sneaked quietly through the shadows
thrown by the trees. I tapped him right behind the
ear with the rock.
He didn't know what hit him. He'd wake up in a hour
or so with a hard knot on his head, but would
otherwise be okay. I bent down to try to see his
face, but I couldn't make out any features in the
dark.
His odor, however, was that of a chicken farm I'd
passed one evening in Mississippi. It was a very
faint smell, but there was no mistake about it.
"You hear something up there?"
"Quiet," said another voice. "We'll never trap that
son-of-a-bitch with all of the noise you're making!"
The man squatting near the front fender of my pickup
didn't realize it, but he was making an awful lot of
noise anyway. Now that I was aware of him and his
friend, I could hear their shuffling of leather-soled
shoes in the dirt, their hard breathing. One of them
was more nervous than the other; his breathing was
sharper, faster.
I had to do something quick. The men on the chase
higher in the mountains might give up and double back
this direction.
So I kept low and circled around the pickup and
approached from the lee side. One of the men must
have heard me coming, even though I'm usually fairly
quiet. He was turning to face me when I hit him with
my fist. The noise brought the other man racing
around the rear end of the pickup. He hurried to
bring a rifle up to a firing position.
I sprang at him, tackling him around the legs. We
rolled across the ground, over some rocks, and into a
pile of brush.
The man was strong. He had muscle like whipcord,
obviously acquired through long, hard hours in some
gym.
But I ended up with a hammerlock around his neck and,
for a long moment, stood there wondering what to do
with him. I'd been lucky to get the hammerlock; it
would be dangerous to let him go because I might not
have a chance to knock him out with a swing of my
fist.
There was only one thing I could think of. I walked
him over to the pickup and banged his head against the
front fender. The blow knocked him unconscious.
It took me about a minute to drag the two unconscious
men into the brush. I took off their belts and
dropped them into a gully. Their weapons, I took and
placed behind the seat of my pickup.
In another moment, I was dressed and driving slowly
back down the narrow dirt ruts toward the main
highway. Once on the pavement, I drove about two
miles and pulled off the road by a restaurant in the
Pahrump Pass. I parked out of view and waited.
About half an hour later, a white Ford Bronco and two
cars loaded with men came by. I started my pickup and
pulled out behind them, keeping some distance.
The two cars turned onto Interstate 15, heading north.
The pickup crossed the overpass and turned on left on
Las Vegas Boulevard South. I followed as the Bronco
went east on Sunset, then south on Eastern. In the
Green Valley area, I cut off my headlights and stopped
five blocks up the street as the Bronco pulled into
the driveway of a white stucco house and parked.
Someone got out. I couldn't see him at this distance,
but I would have bet a can of turtle soup that he had
pepper-white hair.
I wasn't thinking very clearly, you must understand.
Maybe I wanted to get even, maybe I wanted to teach
him a lesson. I don't know.
One of the rifles behind the seat of my pickup was
definitely GI issue. Probably an M16. But, to tell
you the truth, I don't know much about guns. The
farmer back in Alabama when I was younger had taught
me how to shoot a .22 rifle so I could hunt squirrel;
he said he liked a mess of squirrel now and then. I
don't recall ever shooting a squirrel for him, though,
so I suspect he went hungry for squirrel during the
time I lived with him and his wife.
I placed several shots into the engine area of the
Ford Bronco--the explosions causing my head to
ring--and then, just for the heck of it, several into
the roof of the house. It seldom rained in Las Vegas,
but if and when it did rain again, someone in that
house was going to get awfully wet.
This only took about a minute. At the end of the
minute, feeling rather pleased with myself in spite of
the small headache caused by the noise of the bullets,
I had turned my pickup around and was heading north on
Eastern just as a police car, roof rack going nuts and
siren screaming, raced the other direction.
(to be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
December 8, 2003
New York City
1964-71
A journey by Claude Hall
Part Five
Joe Smith, then a vice president of something with
Warner Bros. Records in Los Angeles, once said at some
record industry meeting that you and I are alive in
one of the best periods in the history of earth...that
just about all of the major inventions have been made
in our time...that some of the greatest people ever to
grace the earth have lived in our time...and many
major events happened while we were on this planet.
Looking back, I wonder: How could Joe have been so
astute? For he proved absolutely correct.
One of the things that happened in my New York City
days was even parodied in "War and Peace in the
Global
Village" by Marshall McLuhan. After we moved to
Hartsdale, I read books on that daily train ride into
Grand Central Terminal. All the great masterpieces,
including "Red and Black," "Madame
Bovary," the great
Russians, etc. The most valuable book I read was "War
and Peace in the Global Village." If you ever get a
chance, buy McLuhan's book and read it. It's a
masterpiece of a different sort. It will change how
you view not only America, but yourself. Tough book,
but worth the woe. Probably the most important book
you'll find outside of the Bible. After reading "War
and Peace in the Global Village," I became unashamedly
a McLuhan groopie. On one page is a copy of the front
page in reverse of a newspaper reporting that big
blackout of the east coast during the 60s. The page
is black, the letters are white. A very humorous man,
McLuhan. Yes, they've since had another blackout, but
the one that affected me was that one in the 60s. One
night at the office while I was talking on the phone
with a radio guy up in Connecticut--it may have been
Charlie Parker at WDRC or maybe Woody Roberts at
WPOP--I noticed some lights going out in the Times
Square area below me. I had a superb view of Times
Square. It was pop-pop, blink-blink going dark. I
told the guy on the other end of the phone. He didn't
believe me. But he had the scoop if he used it. When
power went out at the all-news station, an automated
system at the transmitter in New Jersey switched to
beautiful music on tape. WABC went off the air,
period. The evening disc jockey at WMCA, Gary
Stevens, one of your basic bright fellows who later
made a fortune as a radio station broker, ran out of
the studio and down to a mobile unit as soon as the
power began to fade and thus he was able to keep
broadcasting, though at reduced power. Gary
immediately began to cover the event. Thus, it was
Gary Stevens on a rock'n'roll station who actually
broadcast the first news of the blackout.
All of the lights went out. Our office, dark.
Broadway, dark. We hung around in candlelight and the
light from a flashlight, thinking the power would come
back on. It didn't. No one panic'd. But you
couldn't work. We talked, laughed. Herb Woods and
one of the girls who worked on the magazine later got
married. After an hour or so, Lee Zhito and someone
else, as I recall, went downstairs and got some pizza
and beer and brought it up. Still, no electricity.
Some hour or so later, maybe longer, I figured I might
as well go home. But how? Hal Cook, the publisher of
Billboard, had already tried to rent a car and failed.
By then, hotel rooms throughout Manhattan were booked
solid. He lived in Ardsley, maybe 20 miles to the
north of Manhattan Island.
I figured the subway to Riverdale where I lived
probably wasn't working, but I could tell from my
window that an occasional bus was going by a block or
so away--one of those long Manhattan blocks--and these
were heading north.
I walked down the stairs in the dark and over to
Eighth Avenue. An awful lot of people were waiting
for the next bus. Maybe 200. Maybe many more. Maybe
a thousand. A couple of buses went on by, their
headlights plowing through the dark. A bus that was
completely full stopped to let someone out. However,
I noticed a kid sneaking in the back door and I
followed him, squeezing in. There was just barely
enough room on the steps.
As we headed uptown, though, some people eventually
left the bus and I could breathe. Later, I changed to
another bus recommended by the bus driver.
Eventually, I got up into Riverdale and walked in the
dark to the apartment building where we lived just off
the Hudson River. Barbara and the two boys John and
Darryl were fine. She and the wife of Ira Hutter (a
partner in Tepper Galaries) who lived next door and
some others had got together and were using candles.
At some point, we went to bed. By morning, the
problem was over. But the blackout had affected a
vast area of the east coast. And for years I think it
affected all of us in some way.
Being on Billboard magazine definitely had privileges.
In addition to the press parties and the other
parties and the Broadway tickets and the free albums
(I once carried 40 albums home to review over the
weekend for the magazine). A couple of times, I was
invited to appear on television. I was once one of
the fakes on "To Tell the Truth" and received a
check
for a little more than $60 for the "work."
Linernotes
for album jackets were being phased out as artists
gained control of their own product (one of the first
was James Taylor who took over Studio B in Miami and
ran up a huge recording bill and literally blew the
minds of several record executives with his label; of
course, they looked like heros when the album sold a
million or so), but I was asked to write two or three
of these and was paid, as I recall, $50 each. One was
for Nina Simone. I tried to do a good job.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to write a novel. Good friends
from my Fawcett Publication days were Bill Mason (he
wrote under the name of William Molloy Mason Jr.) and
his wife Rigmor. Bill had been on True magazine, I
had worked on Cavalier. One evening when they were
visiting our apartment in Riverdale, Bill offered to
look at my novel in progress. His comment: "Well,
you've got a novel here." I started the entire novel
over again the next day; I'd wanted him to jump up and
down with excitement and he hadn't. Earlier on my
first venture in New York, I sold a few short stories
to some of the cheaper slicks such as Caper and
Gentleman. Payment ranged from $75 to $150. One of
these short stories was pretty good, a fantasy about a
television game show; the manuscript is probably in
some cardboard box around this house and I wish I
could find it just to see if it really was as good as
I remember. But I had decided on my second time in
New York City that a novel was the way to go. I wrote
on one novel, rewriting and rewriting, for all of my
14 years on the Billboard magazine; it's over 350,000
words. About Texas. I always had this fantasy, you
see, of being a very successful and quite popular
novelist sitting on the verandah of a bungalow in the
Caribbean...writing...looking out to sea some...but
mostly writing. I can see that sea and that verandah
just as if it were yesterday, but the truth is that it
never was.
Writing for Billboard was probably the second-best
thing to writing bestselling novels. You were around
fascinating people and you were usually writing about
fascinating people. These have ranged from Gordon
McLendon and Bill Stewart to Don Imus, Joey Reynolds,
Gary Owens, Bill Randle...well, the list is virtually
endless. A good friend--Ron Jacobs--mentioned to me
via email the other day that Phil Yarbough still
doesn't give interviews. Heck, I remember on two
separate occasions me and that sucker trying to drink
each other under the table! He won both times, but I
was in there doing my best for the world of
journalism. Guarantee you! I don't think he liked
me...I'm not quite sure whether he liked anyone or
not...but he did let me interview him from time to
time.
So, I really enjoyed those years on Billboard. I
worked hard, because that was the nature of the beast.
When radio people talked about our charts being slow,
I countered with the statement that we strived more
for accuracy. Yes, I did a heap of public
relations...now they call it "spinning"; I think
this
gave me a little edge and the competition was so
fierce that you needed all of the edge you could get.
True, we also got lucky at Billboard. Somehow, the
idea came about to do a tribute in the magazine to
Frank Sinatra. It was written by a freelance writer,
a guy who knew the industry and was fairly well-known.
No, I can't remember his name, but I'd recognize it
if I heard it or saw it printed somewhere. It was a
large special section and damned good and it was
enormously popular. Then and now probably the best
thing done about Sinatra. First thing you know, we're
running a special tribute of one kind or another about
once a month. Then it got to be once a week and
sometimes there would even be two special sections in
a single issue. We didn't make any money off the
Sinatra tribute. We netted a small fortune a year out
of the others and they soon had to be slated in
advance with a guarantee of so many ad pages from
whomever. Then, too, there were special magazines
such as the World of Country Music, etc. All of these
were staff written, so the cost to Billboard was just
the production, paper, and ink...i.e., they were
goldmines!
I was getting to know more and more people. And radio
stations. At one point, I could name at least 250
call letters, cities, formats, general managers on
those stations, program directors, and sometimes even
one or more of the personalities and stop in the
listing merely because I had something else I needed
to do. This was nothing and certainly pales in
comparison to some of the people I knew. I was once
at a party when Ted Atkins and Mike Curb, then head of
MGM Records, were not only describing the artist and
the label, but the color of the label distributed to
radio stations and the record number. I think one of
the major attributes of anyone in either radio or the
music industry was this desire--make that DESPERATE
NEED--to compete. And just about everyone was bright.
And some such as Jack McCoy and Lou Dorren were super
geniuses. Jack McCoy was the first, so far as I know,
to use a computer in programming analysis. I always
had to tape our conversations and write the story from
the tape. But I seldom understood him, per se. As
for Lou Dorren? When he started tossing out "L
minus
R" I always dodged and ran for cover.
Tommy Noonan along the way left Billboard to join
Columbia Records as head of promotion. Mort Nasatir
left MGM Records and was with Billboard for a while.
A few others came and went. But Billboard magazine
didn't change much except that a lot of the stuff that
wasn't about music began to disappear. No more
stories about pool tables. Anyway, I was
concentrating on radio.
New York City in those days had some of the best radio
personalities in the world. A lawyer friend of mine
in Hartsdale got up to WOR's John Gambling Jr. and
left for the train station to Manhattan every morning
when Gambling played a march. Saul Kramer probably
oversleeps these days, no Gambling there to wake him.
A pity. What did WOR-AM do that was better in the
morning once they dropped the Gambling icon? And you
had Art Ford and Bruce Morrow and Big Wilson. One
evening I bumped into Dan Daniels back stage as he
"emceed" a concert by the Beach Boys up in
Westchester. I always enjoyed the on-air quips of Dan
Daniels, but one of the best radio personalities,
period, had to be Dan Ingram of WABC, who once made
$34,000 (he told me) by reading four words for a
commercial. Other disc jockeys would fly into
Manhattan, take a hotel room and study the Ingram show
on their transistors. Years later, I interviewed Dan
Ingram and was surprised a few months back to find it
circulating on the Internet. Very few trade
interviews survive two dozen years! I just checked.
I've no need to be modest about it; damned good
interview. If you've never read it, I would track it
down.
New York nights were filled with Bob Fasse on the
Pacifica station WBAI-FM (mono) and other weirdies.
You're going to tell me that Long John Nebel was sane?
And how about Gene Sheppard? One night I stayed up
three hours after midnight listening to Fasse play
church bells because I knew he had to stop at any
moment and there was probably a purpose to those
bells. If there was, I never figured it out. But it
was Fasse who also played "Alice's Restaurant"
by Arlo
Guthrie long before it was a record. And he used to
play basement tapes, too, by Bob Dylan. Once, he
played a basement tape sequel to "Alice's
Restaurant"
called "The Solid Gold Cockroach," but so far as
I
know Guthrie never recorded it for release. I hope
Guthrie is doing okay. I hope Paul Butterfield and
those others had good lives. I know what happened to
Felix Pappalardi and regret it immensely because he
was an absolute musical genius (I was at the birthday
party for him in the Bitter End in Greenwich Village
and got to meet his parents).
So many of the record people that I knew in those days
were really behind the music...loved it...not
somewhere off to the side or even in the next county
like many are today. Business men, yes; they had to
be this of necessity. But they loved music.
Absolutely loved it. I remember Decca's Jack Kapp,
once king of Nashville, telling me and Paul Ackerman,
the music editor of Billboard, that if he found a good
song, he headed immediately to the studio, grabbing
any artist he might meet on the way. I hope I've got
his name right. I also remember a plaque on his back
wall that read: "Time Wounds All Heels." But
I think
many in the record industry loved music. Ahmet
Ertegun did. That's a fact. Clive Davis. Jerry
Wexler. Joe Smith. You could probably tell me the
names of a dozen more.
One of the problems I face now, these 35 years of
distance, is that I can't recall everyone. My better
memories happened after we moved the headquarters of
Billboard to Los Angeles. Well, "better"
is not the
correct word. Perhaps, clearer would be more
appropriate.
Yes, I can remember interviewing Bill Randle, then a
god in radio, atop the Loews by the swimming pool.
After swimming, we ate sandwiches by the pool,
showered, dressed, and he went to his hour program on
WCBS and I returned to my office. Yes, I can remember
interviewing Morris Levy, head of Roulette Records, in
his office in the Brill Building and him answering the
phone and suddenly his voice changing to a Damon
Runyon growl and him demanding someone on the other
end of the phone call pay him the $10,000 owed. When
you’re sort of new on Billboard, you get assigned the
smaller record labels as your news beat. Roulette may
have been a small record company, but Big Seven was
one of the major music publishing companies in the
world. Most of the time when I telephoned Levy, he’d
just say there was nothing new. This was more than
likely true. I would call him for a quote now and
then for a roundup story just to keep his name in the
magazine, but I don’t think he cared one way or
another whether he got any publicity or not. Morris,
without question, was quasi-bad news. His brother had
been shot down in Birdland, the legendary jazz
nightclub that they owned and operated on Broadway.
And Morris was rumored to have been part of the
so-called Jewish Mafia; I don’t know this for a fact.
A record man named Morris Diamond told me once that
Morris Levy had cheated him out of $60,000. But I
never heard anything else negative about the man. And
I remember him telling a story about catching a record
bootlegger in New Jersey and saying he got some boys
and went over they “and broke a few legs.” Later, he
said, they heard that the same guy was back in
operation. “As we’re going across the George
Washington Bridge, I noticed this long, black
limousine behind us. We turned around and came back.”
I guess the real Mafia was evidently bigger than the
Jewish Mafia. Levy bragged to me about his dairy farm
in upstate New York and buying his kid a snowmobile.
When the B’nai Brith honored Morris Levy as music man
of the year, they reaped the highest financial
benefits of any dinner they’d held. Incidentally, my
fingers--the old barometer--never felt greasy around
Morris Levy; so far as I know, he was as honest as
anyone else in the music business. Yes, I know he did
some time in a federal pen. This has also been the
situation with several friends. For example, I had
the four books, two for television and two for radio,
issued by the government regarding the legendary
payola hearings and, yes, some people I knew were
mentioned. I never let this influence me; the past
was better left in the past. I even have a manuscript
somewhere around the house that Tom Clay gave me of
his involvement. My "barometer" never went
off
regarding these people. In my mind, they'd done
little wrong. With Morris, I might have been
mistaken. But I believe not. Not then and not now.
I can remember interviewing Bob Crewe in his office
and him showing me the same kind of ordinary two-track
tape deck on a cadenza behind his desk like he'd used
to record "Sherry" by the Four Seasons. I
can
remember Bud Praeger telling me about taking the label
off of "White Room," already a big hit
nationwide, and
taking to Nat Tarnapol, who turned down "this new
acetate" because he thought it was a piece of crap.
One guy who probably doesn't like me very much even to
this day is Herb Helman, head of public relations for
RCA Records. He wanted to turn out a news release
about everything and I usually managed to get the
information and print it in Billboard first. He
eventually had organized RCA Records so that even if I
phoned the mail room, the call was automatically
switched to his office. For some reason, I've always
thought that the executives of RCA Records were afraid
of Herb Helman.
Some interviews: Don Pierce, Starday; Audrey Williams,
one of the "widows" of the late Hank; Hank
Williams
Jr. at his home when he was 14; Sam Phillips, Sun
Records; Eddy Arnold in Nashville just as he was
making a comeback with "Make the World Go Away."
Now and then, I was also interviewed. I think there
were two J. Paul Emersons floating about in radio for
a while. At least, there was one whose real name was
Jim Coleman. My father, Johnnie Jefferson "Red"
Hall
was then an electrician in Carlsbad, NM, a smallish
town on the Pecos River and there's still an adobe
building in the middle of a salvage yard where Billy
the Kid walked in one day, according to local stories,
and said, "I'll shoot the first man that
breathes."
Of course, in those days it was a saloon and
supposedly a bordello. Today, the random rains eat
away at history. Back before Barbara and I got
married, I went home for a couple of days and my
father said there was a disc jockey in town who wanted
to meet me. My father knew Jim's father, who operated
a small bicycle shop in Carlsbad. I really didn't
want to meet anyone. I needed rest. My work days
were never eight-hour days nor five-day weeks. Not on
American Druggist (Hearst) not Cavalier (Fawcett) and
certainly not on Billboard magazine. But in a small
town like Carlsbad, just about everyone knows everyone
else and my father sort of insisted. Hell, for more
than a dozen years I sent mail to my brother Johnnie
Lee Hall to the wrong address and he never missed
receving a letter because, as he said, "I went to
school with everyone at the post office." So, here
came Jim Coleman trotting up to the place where my
folks lived for coffee. I don't remember the
conversation, but became good friends with Jim. When
he was "between gigs" elsewhere in the United
States,
he came home and worked usually on one of the radio
stations in the market. At that time, he was on KBAD,
I think. Like my brother, he knew everyone in town.
I think it was Jim who set me up for an interview on a
radio station that broadcast from a local furniture
store. The "studio" was in a room off the
side of the
main display room and, yes, there was a price tag
hanging from the table where the mike set and the
chair on which I sat. I don't remember what I said
during the interview. A year or so later, I do
remember criticizing baseball as a tepid sport on the
air. I was guesting on Jim LaBarbara's show on WLW in
Cincinnati at the time and the Reds had just won the
pennant or whatever that thing is they win in
baseball. Me, I always thought baseball was just a
little above tiddle-de-winks as a sport.
(to be continued)
OTHER MATTERS
Some of the letters mentioned below refer to an email
I sent out regarding "The Book of Five Rings" by
Musashi. However, Lou Kasman is into "The Art
of
War," a book also mentioned by good friend Jay
Blackburn along with the book by Musashi. I guess the
major aspect under consideration here, regardless of
the book, is the acquisition of more knowledge...i.e.,
a more efficient modus operandi for career and life.
Louis P. Kasman, CMC/APR/CBC, kasperson@comcast.net:
"Hope you and yours are well. Managing professional
staff of over 500 and consulting clients such as Hyatt
Hotels, Pepsi-Cola, GM, etc., I have distributed 'The
Art of War' by Sun Tzu continuously. Similar, but
much simpler than Five Rings, Tzu's Chinese thesis
written over 2,500 years ago lays out how to go to
strategies from your life and how to develop your own
tactics. Many professionals--doctors, lawyers,
architects, consultants, etc., didn't grow up to be
business developers. They don't know how or have a
desire to sell. To be successful in any of the above
areas you MUST sell and The Art book motivates and
demonstrates how to go use the tactics of war in their
own careers. The honor of exposure to you since the
60s and now again in the 00s is the recognition of
your non-myopic view and Renaissance Man intelligence.
You have made connections between radio--a variety of
voices and 'soundtrack of one's life'--plus the
written word that opens other portals with a large
dose of inquisitives is superb. I, too, believe I
bring that arsenal to the party. Working in Record
Promotion, radio with Rick Sklar @ WABC and the
WPIX-FM, WPAC, WVNJ, WLEE, AFR, WJR, CBS, Sr. VP - Campbell-Ewald
Adv. (Chevy Ad Agency) etc, and then
on to senior management consultant with major players,
I am always dumbfounded by radio management being so
myopic and not using the best-in-class techniques to
take the business to the next level. I guess they
don't think like you and I."
James Davis, davis-james@webtv.net:
"I have saved the
web page for the Musashi book in my Favorites for
study at leisure. At the risk of carrying coals to
Newcastle, I will mention a few facts about the great
warship that was named for Musashi. Built in secret
and completed after World War II began, the Musashi
and its sister ship, the Yamato, were the heaviest
afloat in the world, displacing 63,000 tons or half
again the weight of the heaviest U.S. battleships.
Their main batteries of nine 18-inch guns were the
largest in any navy. Neither of these great ships met
U. S. forces in battle until the U.S. threatened to
invade the Philippines in 1944. In October 1944, both
the Yamato and Musashi sortied in powerful battle
groups to repulse the U.S. invasion fleet at Leyte
Gulf. In the Sibuyan Sea, the Musashi came under
heavy attack from U.S. carrier planes, taking 10
certain (and four probable) torpedo hits and 16 bomb
hits. The Musashi became the first Japanese
battleship to be sunk solely by U.S. air attack.
While the Yamato escaped the Sibuyan Sea battle, in
the spring of 1945 that ship sailed from Japan with a
greatly reduced crew, enough fuel for only a one-way
trip, and a small escorting force. It was essentially
a maritime kamikaze mission. The Yamato was
subsequently sunk by U. S. carrier aircraft. Neither
of these great ships, which had been built
specifically for fleet-to-fleet engagements, ever
brought their 18-inch guns to bear on U.S. capital
ships."
James mentioned that his information came from "The
Battle for Leyte Gulf," a definitive book on that
huge naval battle by noted historian C. Vann Woodward,
first published in 1947.
Roger Carroll, rckcr@yahoo.com:
"Claude, being a
long-time student of Japanese art and culture, I am
familiar with Musashi. I have a very nice collection
of Japanese art. Hope all is well with you."
My son John is into Japanese animation, which many
consider a very valid artform. In that regard, my
greatest claim to fame is that Don Yee once slept on
my living room couch. How's that for subtle and quite
nebulous oneupsmanship! This is anything but a droll
column, eh.
Would you like to hear something fun-knee? I emailed
that note regarding Musashi to about 600. Yes, the
same one I sent you. I heard back from L. Perkins
Associates, lperkinsagency@yahoo.com,
a literary
agent (I guess), that he didn't think the book was
quite right for him. Musashi is going to be quite
disappointed I'm sure because you certainly need an
agent these days in order to get published.
On the other hand, Felicia Eth, Literary
Representative, FeliciaEth@aol.com, thanked me for the
"heads up" on the Musashi book and said, "I
will look
into it." So, I guess some literary agents do know
what they're doing. Good on you, Felicia!
Mark Driscoll, DriscollMD@aol.com:
"Claude, you are
and always will be the best! Just had lunch with Ken
Wolt, we talked about you for some time, specifically
musing on the Billboard convention (my first) in
'68... Frank Zappa was there, Murray "the K,"
and some
of my most special and long-lasting mentors..whew!
(*At the ripe old age of 18/19...with the next stop
being USN and, thankfully, no harm)...did my duty and
got right back into radio. You were always so helpful.
I'm writing a book--I wonder how many times I'll
mention your name. (Someone pointed out the number of
mentions of me (thru 1977) in your classic "This
Business of Radio Programming"...(which there needs to
be another--you would be a hero)!"
Jack Gale, jackgale@adelphia.net:
"George Albert died
several years ago. We were very close when I had
Playback Records and an office in Nashville. Cashbox
had an office in the United Artist Tower in Nashville.
When he died, his son and a promotion man named Chuck
Dixon took it over, but it shut its doors soon after."
My son, John Alexander Hall, Esq., Johnalexhall@hotmail.com,
also informs me that he read
the obit on Fred Neil some while back. "I recall that
the LA Times gave him a lot of space. Second, I do
recall your delight when we kids told you that we
wanted to name our new dog after Popsie. I think that
you wanted to have the pleasure of telling him about
this 'tribute'. Third, I recall you serving as judge
in a talent contest back when we lived in NY. During
the contest, there was a concert by Oliver who was in
the middle of his 15 minutes of fame. I do not
believe that he was a contestant. Oliver had two big
hits, 'Good Morning Starshine' and 'Jean'. To me, he
was an early example on how fleeting fame was in the
music industry. One moment, king. The next
moment,
just a pawn. Finally, I just received 'Burn, Baby!
Burn!' by the Magnificient Montague via Amazon.com. I
plan to read it by the end of the holidays."
Jim Long, jim@onemusic.com:
"Loved the stories about
Sam Phillips...got to spend a day with him (my hero)
about four years ago. If he hadn't changed the world
with music, he could have been a fabulous preacher.
Thanks for all you do."
A/K/A ROBERT DALE "ROOSTER TAIL," A/K/A
ROBERT DALE BALLARD, robertdaleroostertail@hotmail.com:
"Wondering if this email address is still good. I was
a friend of Bill Stewart's and I did some comedy
impressions in regard to your mesquite rodeo." HUMOR
IS OUR SURVIVAL KIT -- HERMAN WURLITZER
I really didn't understand the above message, but I
wrote Robert Dale that Bill's daughter Sharon is
collecting information about her father for a book and
gave him her email sharpecommunications@msn.com.
Russ Simpson, cariboocanada@yahoo.com:
"A short note
to first say thank you for the E re: Musashi which I
will follow up on. It sounds more than just
interesting. Second, to let you know that I still
have the very encouraging words you had for me in my
battle with lung cancer. Happy to say at the
year-five mark of having the right lung removed am
still here. This past summer I spent the better part
of seven weeks in the hospital. Seems that I now had
developed pancreatic cancer with a prognosis of 6
months to one year. Swell...I just beat back one
devil...to find myself facing another. It was then
that Stan Klees, co-founder of the Canadian Juno
Awards and co-publisher of the now-defunct RPM
Magazine, brought to my attention a report in the
British Medical Journal (Sept. 10/03) on the results
of a double-blind trial done exclusively with
pancreatic cancer patients. Some 200 were involved.
Ninety-five were given what is called Omega 3 fish
oils (essential fatty acids) along with Vitamin C and
Vitamin E and fed a high-protein/calorie diet. The
main problem with cancer of the pancreas is the
'wasting away' syndrome (Cachexia). I myself was down
to 105 pounds from 145. After a period of eight
weeks all 95 had stopped losing weight and in some
cases some gained a few pounds. With my doctor's
blessing I have been on the regimen for almost 12
weeks now, have stopped losing weight and actually
gained some. My hemoglobin count has stabilized and I
feel fantastic. For the record I'm not selling
anything here and have nothing personal to gain other
than the satisfaction of by spreading the word about
this that I may help someone. As you well know,
Claude, a lot of the 'good news' sometimes gets lost
or ignored by conventional media. If you care to
check out the press release here it is
http://hon.ch/News/HSN515033.html.
Apparently UNLV
Las Vegas is also doing a lot of research into Omega 3
and with equal success. Thanks."
Russ, I really appreciated your note...and I
immediately forwarded copies to two close radio
buddies who're presently fighting cancer. At the risk
of appearing maudlin, I'm proud of you for fighting
the good fight. Details would be boring, but I've
been knocked down a few times and I'm still here. I
don't know why; I figure that someone bigger than me
has a reason. I believe it is always safe to assume
such.
A great many of you know Jonathan Fricke. He and his
wife Nancy are good friends and while I don't
ordinarily place personal notes in Commentary, I
thought this one was a must though I don't quite
recall being as sage as this might indicate.
Jonathan, a veteran radio programmer among other
experiences, and Nancy have been working on various
cruise ships selling paintings. Traveling the world!
"Almost a year ago you wrote: 'Dear Jonathan and
Nancy, there's no question but that I envy you, this
move to paradise. But I have also a warning. Adam
and Eve didn't really get kicked out of Enid. They
left. Eager to do so, in fact. Because paradise for
those like us is boring. We may run to it and enjoy
it immensely. But just for a while. Then, sword in
hand, shield held high against the foe, we must seek
something (anything) competitive in nature. And thus,
so believe scientists, we wandered out of the Great
Rift of what is now Africa to roam the world'."
Jonathan Fricke, studio2812@msn.com,
emailed me this
week: "You were so right! Nancy loved the sea
life,
but to me, it got to be very, very boring and
confining. Couple that with the fact that even though
we were setting sales records on the ships we were on,
we really weren't making that much money. Time,
effort, and benefits didn't seem to balance with the
amount of income. So we have completed our last
cruise and now we are back in Nashville. We returned
just in time to enjoy Thanksgiving with our son and
daughter. Jonathan drove in from Houston for the
occasion. Heather, Nancy and I will join him in
Houston for Christmas. We enjoy reading your emails
and articles. Hope that all is going well with you.
May you have a truly enjoyable and memorable Holiday
Season."
Hal Smith, halsmith@starstream.net:
"Just a note to
tell you how much I enjoy reading your material on the
internet. Please keep it up. Happy holidays."
Kevin Metheny, KMetheny@aol.com,
regarding the Musashi
book: "Last year for Xmas I received as a gift from a
programmer/close friend with whom I work. A photocopy
of a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy, etc,
etc, etc. Fascinating reading!"
Pat O'Day, patoday@interisland.net:
"Thanks for the
tip, Claude. I will get the book. I'm now the owner of
a real estate franchise and spend each day trying to
sell houses and dirt. God do I need strategies. P.S.
Happy Holidays to you, my friend!"
Don Whittemore, donwhittemore@yahoo.com:
"Bad news
about Jan Basham and Larry Douglas. Jan about two
weeks ago from cancer and Larry last night (Dec. 2)
from a stroke. Steve Resnick, the45king@aol.com,
called today with the bad news about Larry. I'm so
out of the loop. Jan's passing was told to me last
week. Condolences to her husband, Roger, and the
family. You often talked about them in Vox Jox; the
many superlatives about these two special people are
best remembered by you. Would/could you do your prose
on them when you have the inclination? Thank you on
behalf of their friends."
Ah, but you've said it very well, Don.
(to be continued)
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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