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"Xtreme"
Chapter two of a novel
by Claude Hall
When Susan mentioned the rumor about Dabney Stone in
casual conversation at her "command performance" lunch
with Nails, she received an answer that surprised her.
It wasn't so much what was said as the cold tone in
which it was delivered. For a brief moment, a
different Nails Deuvall was exposed.
"It wasn't me," Nails remarked sharply just as if
she'd been accused of actually killing Dabney. She
sat like a queen on the couch in her office buffing
her nails. They were much too long. But the nails
were a particular passion of the older woman. If she
wasn't caring for them, she was looking at them. Or
using them to create some kind of weird sound.
"It was just a rumor," explained Susan. Then she felt
like kicking herself for her poor acting; she tried a
different gambit. "Oh, I forgot. Dabney was one of
your husbands, wasn't he?"
"How could you forget something like that?" Again,
Nails spoke in a cold, distant tone of voice.
Susan wished that she hadn't come. She didn't feel
like dealing with people at the moment. Especially
Nails. Facing them. Countering their myriad
accusations and creating her own as well as the
constant demands they made for what was psychological
"pecking order." Control of the conversation as well
as the "opponent." She was tired of being the
proverbial opponent in these games that they played.
Sometimes, the games were fun. But not today. The
confrontation with Zeus McRae, editor and publisher of
Songdust, had been no game.
Nails, too, was not your usual adversary. She was
Afro-American, but only a slight golden hue to her
skin revealed this characteristic. That and a
constantly different turban which hid any hair that
she might have. Susan had never seen her without the
turban. She suspected that the woman shaved her head
like Michael Jordan or Andre Agassi. One or another
of a myriad assortment of cloths and colors, some
decorated with jeweled pins, adorned her head. She
always gave the impression that she was "from the
islands" and thus not really Afro-American.
"I don't have a list," Susan told the older woman
before she could stop herself. But that response, of
course, was too quick and too unplanned. Careless.
She liked Nails. A little. But it was a strange
relationship based on mutual need, not mutual
admiration or even respect. And, true, Susan
sometimes enjoyed these vicious little tête-á-têtes in
which they indulged every time they got together like
this, out of view of the rest of the business world,
but she suspected her personal reasons because she
didn't know quite why she enjoyed them so much. Had
to be something macabre in her mental makeup. She
knew that much. And she considered this a weakness in
herself. But perhaps it was the business that she was
in. The music business was without question the
oddest business in the world. Strange people with
whom you probably wouldn't want to associate created
something that might have been music and stranger
people tried to convince kids and young adults that
this was something not only desirable to hear, but
worth buying. When young men and women got married or
decided to have a relationship, they first shopped
around for a music system even before they thought of
buying a bed. And when it came to a bed, they might
eventually settle for a mattress on the floor. But
the music system had to be the very best with
magnificent woofers and tweeters. Susan didn't even
know what a tweeter was. She didn't care. But she
knew that "Blue Moon of Kentucky" written by the
father of bluegrass Bill Monroe was the first record
that Elvis Presley recorded, not "That's All Right"
like everyone believed. Of course, there was that
little thing, never released, that he recorded for his
mother. That was really first. Then a bluegrass song
that he recorded in a much different way that, in the
early days of rock'n'roll, was called rockabilly.
Of course, sometimes kids bought albums just because
everyone else was buying that particular album. A
study of the music business a few years ago revealed
that young teenage girls were buying albums by Elton
John because all of their friends were buying that
particular album. Less than 30 percent ended up
actually listening to the album. This was just after
the head of MCA Records, Mike Maitland, chased Elton
John halfway around the world to get him to sign a
recording contract. MCA made a lot of money out of
Elton John during the next few years. He wasn't that
hot anymore, even if he was Sir Elton. But no artist
remained hot forever. Not Bob Dylan, not even the
Beatles or the Beach Boys. Even Elvis would have
cooled by now. Of course, come to think of it, he was
now really cool. That, too, was a macabre thought.
Sometimes, the gambit to make an artist "hot" didn't
work. One label invested almost half a million to
promote Warren Zevon as the latest and the greatest in
happening music; sales of his product never reached
the amount invested.
Susan sat in a padded office chair on the other side
of an immense coffee table on which you could have
played a game of pingpong. The lounge area of the
office presently served double duty as a brunch nook.
Yet, Susan's salad in a container fetched in from a
local restaurant remained untouched on the coffee
table along with a plastic fork and knife and a couple
of paper napkins. Nails, too, had not touched her
food. In these impromptu lunches,
"business"--otherwise known as fun and games--always
came first even though, quite frequently, the business
discussions were rather subtle and sometimes an
outsider would have sworn that the two women were
playing some kind of verbal cat and mouse game. Often
Nails was only pushing an interview with a client, but
she used every dodge in the book until Susan,
frustrated, would suggest interviewing the person
herself. Until that point, their conversations
usually drifted from topic to topic and usually became
quite catty when they were talking about someone they
both knew. Neither took the conversations, however,
too seriously. All of it was business talk, in a
sense, though today's conversational "appetizer"
appeared to be more serious. Susan didn't yet know
why. Nor did she understand why she, herself, was
being more vicious than usual. How could she have
taunted the older woman about husbands. List, my eye!
"Of course. Somewhat briefly, I'll admit," said
Nails. She appeared to have recovered her aplomb; her
voice grew less chilled. "But it is a well-publicized
fact that I loved them all. Each and everyone. Quite
intensely. It was said so in all of the tabloids and
the trades. All of the time. I planted those stories
myself, of course. Wrote half of them. Made up the
rest of the top of my head in phone conversations."
Susan, too, tried to change the drift of the
discussion into calmer waters.
"Then, of course, it has to be true if it was
mentioned in Star or the National Inquirer and you
really loved him much too much to have shot him," said
Susan with what she hoped was a casual, but slightly
mocking sneer. She knew that Nails had the skin of a
rhino and almost nothing hurt her feelings. Although
that mention of a "list" had come, perhaps, too close.
"Marriage is a fine tradition in my family," said
Nails deliberately, paying no attention to Susan's
attempt at humor. "My mother was married, they say,
seven times. We have, however, only five marriage
licenses so I've always been a bit suspicious about
those other two gentlemen. They were pretty nice
gentlemen, though, so it's okay. You ought to try
marriage some time."
Ah! Nails, too, it appeared, was venturing into
dangerous conversational waters.
"One of these days," said Susan quietly, trying to be
very calm and precise with her words. She realized
that Nails was moving now into control of the
discussion. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have minded.
But today, of all days, she didn't want to be last in
their verbal pecking order. "If I ever meet the right
man, of course."
"There's no such thing as the right man," Nails
insisted. "You take what the market gives you. For
the record, I'm still prowling around the market for
one that's even half right."
"Dabney wasn't even that close," Susan said,
attempting to resume control of the discussion.
"Remember, he was more like, well, a figment of my
imagination."
Nails glanced at her fingernails once again and Susan
realized it was a defensive gesture. By staring at
her fingernails, she could hide some of her emotions
from direct view because you couldn't see her eyes.
"Ah, not lately, I'll admit," Nails said. "But you
should have known him a few years ago. Dab changed
when the record industry changed. I'd like to point
out that this happened to a lot of the people you and
I used to know and some we still know. Remember Wes
Farrell? Of course, I don't really know him anymore.
Came to the West Coast. Dumped his wife and married
Tina Sinatra, one of Frank's girls."
"And when he screwed up that marriage, the word is
that Frank put the word out on him."
"Such is the power of the word," said Nails.
"So you really think Dabney is dead? It was just a
rumor. I swear. And not from a close source, per se.
In fact, I don't know who the call was from because I
seriously doubt that Dab himself would phone me."
"Heavens no! A dear, sweet man like that never gets
killed. And if he dies, someone paints the body like
a statue and stands him in some park."
"He was not a dear, sweet man," said Susan. "I don't
care if you were married to him. And his statue would
only attract bird crap, not admiration from those of
us who'd met him."
"But that's exactly what I will tell the National
Inquirer when they call me about his obit. I shall
lavish praise and glory on the sneak and pipsqueak."
"If they call you. They won't call you. No decent
publication would even think about printing an obit
about one Dabney Stone. Not even the Songdust."
"The one I might have killed was Charlie Minor who
once worked for A&M Records," said Nails. "With
particular passion, of course."
"You were not married to Charlie Minor, were you?"
asked Susan. Since she'd only been in the music
business, per se, a few years, she didn't quite know
everything and sometimes an odd little fact, new to
her, crept to the surface. Information, in this
business, was ammunition and she knew that she needed
all of the ammo she could accumulate because of her
impending war with Zeus. And there would be a war.
She had decided to fight. That bastard was not going
to sweep her under the carpet of his payola deals!
"No. Just one of his swan songs. Anyway, somebody
else beat me to it. Did you see that documentary on
television about his murder?"
"Yes," Susan admitted. "A little of it. What I could
stand of it, perhaps. If the documentary had told the
truth about Charlie, I might have watched all of it.
But, then, maybe not. It was too depressing, fiction
or non-fiction. Were you really one of his swan
songs?"
"Almost," admitted Nails. "At the last second, I got
one of those headaches."
"Ah hah!"
"Not ah hah. I really had a headache. I was at this
party and we were doing a thing on the couch and he
asked and I suddenly realized I had a headache."
"Ah hah again," said Susan.
"No, a real honest-to-badness headache!"
"What if you'd been the one in his bedroom that night
when one of his former girlfriends hid in the closet
downstairs? You might have been shot, too!"
"It's lucky to get a headache now and then," admitted
Nails.
"I've had a headache for more than two years," said
Susan.
"Really? Oh, you poor thing!"
"No, I don't think so. Some men are so trivial.
Especially the men in the music business. They're
just as bad as the disc jockeys and the program
directors at the radio stations. Fickle and trivial.
I was told about a certain morning personality in Top
40 radio who never came to work from the same
direction twice. He worked for David Moorhead once.
Or David worked for him. I was never really sure
about that part of the story."
"Well, there's always that Bill you've mentioned."
"Bill Ferguson? No, he's just a friend," Susan said.
Nails clacked her fingernails on the surface of the
coffee table.
"People have been known to marry friends," said Nails.
"Not in the music business, of course, but in those
other worlds that are said to exist beyond the great
song and dance in which we currently survive, if not
really exist."
"I don't think Bill's the marrying type."
"Gay?"
"No. I don't think so," said Susan, being careful
with her answer because, for some reason, it upset her
slightly that someone would think that about Bill.
"Then you haven't slept with him yet?"
"Aren't we getting a little too personal?" she
responded.
"Well, you tossed that list thing at me."
"I apologize for that. I don't know what's gotten
into me lately. I've become as vicious as a cat.
Last night at Martoni's I chased Tom Clay away and he
was just trying to be friendly."
"I heard that you chased more than just Tom Clay
away."
"Who? I don't remember because I had too many
drinks."
"I don't have a list," said Nails in a very biting
tone of voice.
"Touch Chevy," said Susan. "Anyway, I'm focusing on
my career just now. Too busy for marriage. Too busy,
it seems, even for a man in my life. I think I am
anyway, true or not."
"That's what I wanted to talk with you about," said
Nails. "Your career. It just ended."
"What?"
"Songdust, honey. Zeus McRae is already searching for
your replacement."
Susan was stunned by the information and, in her
confusion, opened her salad and began dabbing at it
with her fork. She'd realized, of course, that Zeus
would eventually fire her, but first he had to come up
with an excuse. Maybe he'd decided that he didn't
need an excuse.
"Where did you hear this? I only confronted him
yesterday afternoon!"
"Rumor. Just a rumor. Remember our experiment? Of
course, this particular rumor is probably already all
over town by now. I heard that he has been talking
with Mike over at R&R and somebody named Mojo Man."
"The Mike?"
"The Mike."
"Fast," said Susan. "I thought I might have a few
days. Maybe a couple of weeks."
"Just what did you do, honey, to upset the man
something fierce like that?"
"Naughty, naughty," said Susan, shaking her plastic
fork at Nails. "I don't feel like adding to my own
rumor just yet."
"Well, of course, it's your business, but you know
this industry...everyone's business is everyone's
business. Anyway, I thought you ought to know about
Mike. And you probably do have a few days. Should I
start scouting around for you?"
"No. Definitely no, Nails. It's only a job, but I
haven't given up on it just yet."
"Only a job? I know people who'd kill to get into
this business. It's the most fascinating business
that exists in America, if not the world."
Susan looked up, as if studying the woman. But, of
course, she was actually looking through her. It was
a trick she had so she didn't really have to face
people all of the time.
"It's the people I find fascinating," said Susan
eventually. "Not the work, per se. But you don't
meet people like Gary Owens and Clive Davis every
day."
"Gary Owens is a nice guy. I've never heard that said
about Clive Davis. It's funny that you should lump
those two together when they're so different."
"I didn't lump them together. I could have said Joe
Smith and Herb Alpert or Neil Diamond. I could have
said anyone."
"Well, you just let me know when you're ready for
another job, honey. I know a few people, including
Herb."
"I'm sure you do," said Susan. She smiled. Nails
claimed that she was in public relations. The truth
was that she dealt in people.
"So, what did you do with the gun?" Nails asked.
"What gun?"
"You said that Dabney was shot. Assuming, of course,
that it's not just a rumor. I just figured that,
regardless, you know more than you're telling. And
maybe, just maybe, you might have killed him because
he cheated you on that loan."
"Don't be silly!" said Susan with a twisted little
smile. "I wouldn't have killed him just for a few
dollars."
Nails shrugged. "Seems like as good a reason as any
other. Of course, it's just a rumor...about him being
dead."
"Well, the way you're talking, it's not a rumor,"
Susan said.
"I always talk like this about my ex-husbands.
They're all past-tense to me."
They were back to mishmash conversation now. Almost
ready to eat lunch. Susan stared at her salad. A
salad seemed so dull. Especially in comparison to a
ham on rye at Musso and Frank's.
Nails put her fingernail board away and stood up and
drifted, that was the way she always walked, soft like
a cloud floating by, to a mirror on the door that led
into the private bathroom. She flexed her fingernails
against each other in a clacking noise that was a bit
irritating, then ran her fingernails down the mirror;
this noise was even more irritating.
"Why are you doing that, for god's sake?" Susan almost
screamed.
"Revenge," said Nails very sweetly as she turned to
face Susan. "For bringing up that list thing."
"Well, if you'll give me a list of them, I promise not
to insult your husbands in the future, including
Zeus."
"Eat your salad. I was never married to Zeus," said
Nails sharply. "I do, after all, have some taste
where men are concerned."
"I don't feel like salad," Susan said.
"Well, I hope you don't feel like more martinis at
Martoni's," Nails said. "The Bird will never forgive
you, you know."
The Bird was a weird creature that worked as an
executive at one of the record companies. He wasn't
very bright and he had little or no education. No one
knew what he really did at Zambo Records; he was just
there and he was always floating around at parties,
media conferences, gatherings in bars. Susan had
never liked him and never hesitated in letting him
know this. Her fingers felt greasy in his presence,
which was her "thermometer" for recognizing a crook of
one kind of another. Just how crooked the Bird was,
she didn't know and didn't care to find out. She
avoided him whenever she could.
"Did I accuse him of having a list?"
"Not just a list. You told him that he had a list and
you knew everyone on it."
"Oh, lord!"
"The lord can't help you, honey, when it comes to them
mafia cats."
"He's not a major family. In fact," said Susan, "I
really don't think he's a member of any family. I
think he just pretends all of that nonsense."
"Now that would be absurd," said Nails. "But what an
interesting idea."
"The Twins. They're definitely mafia. But modern.
Custom-made suits. Football player. Lawyer. Figure
that one out."
"You're weird, Susan," said Nails. "But I suppose
that all reporters are somewhat weird. Comes with the
turf."
"You think I'm weird and you wear those horrible
artificial fingernails?"
"Now you have made me mad," said Nails. "These are
real. I don't care whether you believe that or not,
which merely proves that I'm highly confident of
myself. I can't, at the moment, say the same about
you. You've been throwing up defensive shields since
you walked in the door. List!"
"I said I was sorry about that."
"Not sorry enough," Nails insisted. "But, regardless,
I could never forgive you for something so
outrageously catty. Forget, yes. Forgive, no."
"I'll settle for forget."
"Good. Eat."
"I would rather have a pastrami on rye."
"So would I. But if you really do want to catch a
husband and accumulate your own list over the years,
you're going to have to compromise in life and make do
with coffee for breakfast, salad for lunch, and a
saltine cracker for dinner."
"Is that all you have for dinner, a cracker?"
"And someone willing to go to bed with me."
"Under the circumstances, I'll take pastrami on rye,"
Susan said. She was not going to get into the men
collection business like Nails. To her, it seemed
that collecting bed partners, too, would grow boring
in a matter of time. Something steady. A husband who
would be a rock she could lean on, someone she could
talk to, someone she enjoyed being with all of the
time. A guy who was here and gone didn't interest her
very much.
"So, what are you going to do about Zeus?"
"I don't know yet. As they say, I'm contemplating.
I'm contemplating my possibilities. I'm also
contemplating the consequences."
"You're going to make a scene?"
"No. One, I don't think I could hurt his feelings.
Two, I don't think it would do any good. Three, I'm
not very good at that sort of thing."
"But you're irritated at the man? Why should you
allow yourself to be irritated at him. Waste of
time."
"More like disappointed at the moment. Later, I may
be irritated or even firmly aggravated. At him. But,
no, I may not think much or him, though I'm thinking a
lot about him. Whatever. It'll all work out. I just
don't know how it'll work out. Yet."
"Eat your salad," said Nails.
"No. I've decided that I don't want any salad. I'm
going over to the Musso and Frank Grill for a pastrami
on rye. With mayonnaise."
Musso and Frank had been a tradition in Hollywood for
more than 80 years. Rumor was that F. Scott
Fitzgerald had eaten there. Leigh Brackett, too, who
worked on "The High Window" with William Faulkner as
well as one of the Star Wars movies. Dalton Trumbo,
once one of Hollywood's best-paid writers until he was
put on the so-called black list of communists, later
earned an Oscar under an assumed name; he ate there.
Ring Lardner Jr. Lots of famous writers.
"You are definitely upset," said Nails. "No one eats
pastrami on rye with mayonnaise. They won't even sell
it to you that way in any decent New York deli."
"No. I'm not upset. Not with Zeus, not with anyone.
I'm just fed up. Fed up a little."
"Right. Upset. I'm also wondering why someone named
Dabney called. No, the truth is I don't care why he
called. But you must admit that it's quite strange."
Susan stood up. Then turned to face the woman.
"How did you really find out about Zeus seeking
someone for my job?"
"Knowing everything that there is to know, especially
in this business, is not only my business, but 90
percent of my business," said Nails. "Why should I
tell you?"
"Right. No reason at all. None."
"You want me to go with you?"
"No."
"Good. Musso and Frank is much too loud. I can't
stand the noise."
"I want some noise," Susan said. "One can hide very
well in noise."
"Look, girl, everyone gets fired. It's not a stigma
in this business. You should know that by now. And
getting fired by some firms is almost like a merit
badge. Girl Scout sort of thing. Getting fired by
Songdust might just fit into that category, you know."
"I'm going to let you in on a new rumor, Nails."
"What's that? You know I love rumors."
"I'm not getting fired," Susan said.
"Oh, honey. You try to fight this sort of thing and
you'll probably just create a bigger mess than you can
handle."
"Good. There are those," said Susan, "who think I'm
already just about the messiest person in this
universe."
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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March 14, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Over the years, I've heard a lot of people try
to
explain radio. Usually, they weren't "in" radio, per
se, but looking on from the outside and they didn't
know what in hell they were talking about. I can't
say that I know what radio really is either,
naturally, but I think it was in a suite on the 20th
floor of the Bellagio in Las Vegas Saturday, March 6,
2004. Barbara and I met Jay Blackburn and Bruce
Miller Earle there and the nebulous world of radio
began happening once again for me. It was great!
Chancey Blackburn had sneaked out earlier to get
pampered as only the Bellagio can do. She soon
returned. By then, we were all eating eggs bennedict
and they were good. The best place in the world for
eggs bennedict used to be that restaurant at the
Beverly Hills on the Strip in Los Angeles--the Polo
Lounge (you could see such as Mike Curb in there on
occasion and I remember meeting Jerry Wexler in there
with his first wife Shirley outside at a table under a
tree) and second best is an indoor-outdoor restaurant
in Laguna Beach, CA. I think it was called the
Beachhouse or the Beach Inn. Third, any Celebrity
Cruises ship. The Bellagio would be behind these
three. I may not know radio real well, but I do know
eggs bennedict. Bruce soon had to leave to go "fix" a
radio station back in Texas and Jay and I and the two
ladies left to drive up to Red Rock for the view. But
we got a lot of good radio done before Bruce left and
before just about every story Jay would remark, "You
can't print this," and since he paid for the eggs
bennedict, I won't. But names flew about the room
from George Wilson, John Walton, Art Holt, Chuck
Blore, Mike Dorrough, David Moorhead, Tom Campbell,
Harvey Rees, Jim Gabbert, Gary Smithwick, Scotty
Brink, Larry Lujack, Ron Jacobs, Lou Dorren, John
Barger, Gordon McLendon, Buzz Bennett. On and on. I
can't remember who said what about whom. I can't even
recall all of the names we talked about. Chancey,
cblackburn@satx.rr.com,
was a little pissed off at me
because I mentioned Alison Steele and Raechel Donahue,
mizrae@netvip.com, and
forgot to mention her; she goes
back to KFM, Dallas. Now she's a bigshot in cable TV.
Jay, radiojdb@satx.rr.com,
and Bruce,
ingbme@hotmail.com, and
I go back to an NAB convention
in Washington, DC, when they brought in a case of Wild
Turkey and set it in the middle of the suite I was
operating for Billboard. That was in the 60s. Just
FYI, I've known some pretty good radio engineers in my
day. Lou Dorren, of course, is an acoustic scientist
and one of the best. But when it comes to putting a
radio station on the air and making it stand up and
bark, Bruce Miller Earle. He has no peer. I'm proud
to know Jay and Bruce. They've been a major part of
my life.
During the conversation, Bruce Miller Earle mentioned
the possibility of my phone being tapped because of
some of my previous Commentaries. Since I seldom talk
to anyone on the phone, that idea is a bit amusing.
In the past several months, I've talked with Tom
Campbell, Jay Blackburn, and Lou Dorren. I can only
imagine the expression on the face of a secret service
man who has listened to Barbara talk. She can do an
hour or more flat without stopping for breath and a
lot of the time she's running down Bush first rate.
Anyway, Bruce also said he thought Jim Gabbert had to
be CIA. So, I thought I would ask.
Jim Gabbert, JGabb@aol.com:
"You have to be kidding!
Just finished a weekend in Palm Springs and back to
Sausalito. Thursday, we meet Invader in Huatulco, MX,
and head to Costa Rica and then the Canal. Recently
did quite a few fill-ins on KGO...talk radio is really
fun! I did kind of beat up on Infinity and Clear
Channel. Can you imagine, they now own K101 with
125,000 watts, the best signal in the market, and they
only have a 2.7. Clear Channel also now owns KBIG in
LA, the best signal in the market and they suck.
While as prez of NRBA I pushed for deregulation, I
never pushed for multiple stations in a single market.
The great days of competition are gone. The public is
the loser in this case. Oh, well! At least, I lucked
out. I will never get credit for what we did because
in the days of the big 610 we did manage to split
their total audience. Nobody at that time saw what
we were doing. I remember meeting with Jack Masla,
our rep, and he wanted me to describe our format...I
told him it was comtemporary for adults...he
exclaimed: Adult comtemporary!! Claude, we pioneered
so much more than anybody in those days and yet
because it was out of the norm nobody figured it out.
The Tom Donohues got all the credit yet even at KSAN's
peak they never beat us in any demo. That's why at the
time we got 12.5 mil for K101 which was a record for
any market. We did the same in TV...way ahead of our
time! More later."
So, I guess I can't blame Jim if my phones actually
are tapped. Maybe Tom Campbell, eh. He hangs out at
the White House. Just FYI, Jim Gabbert built K101,
known as KPEN-FM when he built it. So far as I know,
he was the first to go to a number in the states.
Think he got the idea from his experience in Spanish
radio.
A followup from Bruce Miller Earle: "Although much too
brief, I really enjoyed seeing you and Barbara. How
neat to see that the two of you are still the same
down-to-earth folks after all of these years. When
you make your trip down to Texas next year we must get
together here in Wimberley. I know that Jay and
Chancey are excited about having you all make a trip
down this way. I had a chance to fill Cynthia in on
our visit and she looks forward to meeting my friends
Claude and Barbara soon. You guys take care. As
always, I look forward to hearing from you soon. Si
Dios Ben Diga!"
OTHER THINGS
I have been invited the afternoon of April 8 to the
Lied Library at UNLV where a tiny plaque for the
University Library Society will be "unveiled"
alongside the entrance to a Group Study Room. This is
the honor bestowed on me and several others for years
of devoted service to the UNLV library system. The
University Library Society no longer exists. We
helped select the new dean of libraries, Kenneth E.
Marks, and as soon as he got comfortable, he did away
with us and formed a new group of which he is in
control and which, he expects, will raise or give more
funds that we did or could. Well and good. God bless
him. But I'd like it known that the newish, quite
fancy, modernistic library at UNLV was the brainchild
of the former University Library Society and I would
commend especially two people--Flo Mlynarczyk and
Helen Mortenson. They were the driving force for the
new library and the granting of the larger portion of
monies from the state as well as the Lied Foundation.
God bless them more. Flo, incidentally, is also being
honored with a Flo Mlynarczyk Art Gallery on the third
floor. A special blessing for you, Flo. I expect
some of her artwork will be hung there. If you're
ever in Las Vegas, you'll be welcome on campus to
visit the library and I would recommend you stop by
and see one or more of Flo's paintings.
DETAILS, DETAILS
What a country we live in. It may be one of the best
in the world, but it's far short of where I think it
should be. And where it could be. Too many things
running amuck at the moment that no one gives a damned
about fixing. The sick, the hungry, the uneducated,
the poor, the homeless abound. I sit and wonder how
America allowed this to happen. What's wrong with us?
We're a better people than this!
On the other hand, this is, to the best of my
knowledge, the first time we've ever had a coward for
a president. When Bush went into the National Guard,
it was a hideyhole to keep from going into combat.
Thus, he's a coward. Clear and simple. Proof
positive. In those days you could flee into the
National Guard or flee to Canada. I would suspect,
watching him on TV, he has no shame. He should. But
he does not.
Meanwhile, gasoline prices are racing to the
moon...$2.07 and up here in Las Vegas. The government
says the reason is a shortage of gasoline. That is
strictly BS. We just pulled a Hitler in Iraq and
there's a shortage? Would someone please explain that
to me? Mario Cuomo on the Chris Matthews TV show this
past week described Bush as "simplistic." What he
really meant was.... Regardless, we can grow enough
corn and soybeans cheaply enough to produce enough
ethanol to force gasoline down to 50 cents a gallon.
Or lower. If we had a decent leader. He wants to go
to Mars. What he means is that he wants someone else
to take the trip. What he really wants is a "smoke
screen" to hide the troubles he has created in
America. We're paying farmers not to grow crops; let
them grow soybeans. Good, healthy crop for personal
consumption, good crop to produce ethanol. Ethanol
creates less pollution. And cars would run cleaner.
This crumpbum we've got trying--and failing--to lead
this nation is probably going to blame the high price
of gasoline on Clinton. He has blamed everything else
on Clinton. That's because he's a weasel wart. You
know the kind. He can't possibly tell the truth
because he only knows how to lie. And the first words
forever out of his mouth is always: "I didn't do it."
A good example is the reason d'etre for invading Iraq.
Faulty CIA? Hogwash! Second: "I ain't gonna do it."
Like find jobs for the 8-plus million or more CNN's
Lou Dobbs said were jobless a few days ago. Men and
women, literally, that Bush put out of work by trying
to change a peace-time economy to a war-time economy.
Now, Bush is encouraging firms to place jobs overseas,
which means that there are going to be even more
people soon out of work in the United States. Very
soon now. People who have enormous oil stocks will
live well in the United States on products made in
China, etc., however, you will have more Americans
walking the streets and begging for apples than any
computer can count.
Meanwhile, Bush is dodging responsibility for the
babies and women killed in Iraq (we still don't know
how many) and children killed in Afghanistan. A March
10 Associated Press story stated the U.S. military
insists nine Afghan children killed last Dec. 6 died
following "appropriate rules of engagement." In other
words, it was okay to murder children. The children
were killed by an A-10 ground-attack aircraft as they
played. A man was also killed, but the military
admitted that a suspected Taliban militant targeted in
the raid escaped. The military apologized and a Lt.
Col. Bryan Hilferty said, "You can follow all of the
laws of land warfare and still, unfortunately, have
tragic incidents.'' Since when is killing children an
incident? This colonel should be courtsmartialed.
And Bush, you haven't yet explained all of those
months missing during your National Guard duty. Tell
the truth, Bush! The GOP forced Clinton to tell about
a soiled piece of woman's clothing and spent more than
$40 million of the taxpayer's money to investigate the
situation. Surely, you have the same responsibility
to the American public. I want to know about those
missing months!
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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