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"Xtreme"
Chapter eight of a novel
by Claude Hall
She was rather surprised when she heard a knocking on
her living room door at 4 p.m. and it turned out to be
Bill Ferguson. He wore blue jeans, a plaid shirt with
the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of white Reeboks.
And he still needed a haircut.
"I'll be damned!" Susan said. She had thought, after
her confrontation with his mother, that he wouldn't
show up. Now, she was slightly confused and somewhat
embarrassed after all of the things she'd said to Maud
and wondered just how much Maud had told him about the
conversation.
Susan had crawled out of bed about dawn and run three
miles--her usual morning method of catharsis--through
the makeshift jungle of what is called the "bedroom"
of Los Angeles, but is actually another world. The
San Fernando Valley is in reality a mess of various
communities, once towns in their own right. Tarzana in
the San Fernando Valley was, in fact, named for the
major creation of Edgar Rice Burroughs, a writer who
once lived there and was buried there.
The rest of her day had been spent washing clothes,
fussing with her short story, shopping at Trader Joe's
where she leisurely bought brie cheese, the spicy corn
chips that were a current passion with her, and
vegetable juice. She was still dressed in a sweat
shirt and some pink shorts. She was also barefooted
because she always took her shoes off in the house.
Somewhere during the day's activities, overwhelmed by
a phenomenal barrage of questions raging through her
mind, she'd forgotten about Bill asking her out to
hear Bill Monroe at Knotts Berry Farm. Strange, her
forgetting about the very man she'd calculated could
have been trying to kill her. She didn't know why he
would want to ransack her apartment, didn't know why
he would conceivably want to kill her, didn't know
why, in fact, he was constantly hanging around.
Thus, her hair looked about like it had looked
yesterday. Which was exactly how her apartment had
looked yesterday and still looked today. And,
considering that this was a man standing just inside
her doorway, she was embarrassed about these things,
too.
"Something wrong with the way I'm dressed?" he asked,
entering the apartment, almost pushing her aside to
enter. "I can go back and change into a suit and
tie."
"No, you're dressed fine. It's just that I never
expected to see you."
"Why not? We had a date, remember?"
"Of course," she said. And couldn't think of anything
to add to that simple statement which signified
nothing.
"And I'm not too early?" It was a question.
"Of course not," she said. "You said five thirty.
It's only four."
"So that's why you're not dressed." It was a
statement.
"I guess that's as good an excuse as any. Yes."
He glanced at her castoff clothes scattered over the
couch, the pair of running shoes on the coffee table.
"Well, I'll confess," he said. "I was worried about
you. I called a few times."
"The phone rang constantly. In the car, too."
"Yeah, that was me, all right."
"No one has the phone number in the car."
"They don't?"
"No one," she said.
"Well, I was pretty worried and so I tracked it down."
"I get it. You work for the phone company."
"Not exactly. But I'm not the major topic of
conversation here. My mother says you've been reading
an awful lot of Albert Camus. And she's worried about
that."
"Camus is my business," she said.
"Well, that all depends," Bill said.
"On what?"
"On what kind of business we're discussing," he said.
"She also told me that I've been accused of something.
She wasn't clear about what. Matter of fact, she was
sort of hysterical when she phoned me yesterday. I
came over immediately, but you weren't in."
She wasn't about to tell him that she'd been out
practicing shooting.
"Are you the one who searched my apartment while I was
out?"
"Not me," he said. "Guarantee you. I knocked on the
door a few times. There wasn't any answer. What time
did they break in?"
"I don't know. I came back here to pick up something
in the afternoon and didn't come back until after
dark. So there was a period of about three or four
hours available and they didn't break in, they merely
came in. Guess they had a key."
"What reason would someone have to search your place
and what were they searching for? Is there something
that you haven't told me about your life?"
"Lots of things," she said.
"I was afraid of that," he said. He waved a hand
casually at her, lifting a palm. "Does this mean you
don't want to go? I was sort of counting on a
diversion in my life this evening. Something totally
outside of the norm. Totally off course. And it had
occurred to me that Bill Monroe, in your presence of
course, would be the perfect thing."
"Just how much did your mother tell you about...about
Camus?"
"Not much. Only that you were quite disturbed. If
your apartment has been ransacked, I can see why you
might be upset."
"Did she tell you that I had been shot at?"
"No."
He didn't move. There wasn't even a nervous twitch in
his eyes. He'd absorbed the information with more
placid calm than she'd thought possible. He seemed
neither upset about the revelation nor surprised. As
far as she could tell, she could have been talking
about seeing a cloud and he would have had the same
reaction.
"So this means you don't want to go hear Bill Monroe?"
His question was almost a statement. His voice was
like his face; it revealed absolutely no emotion.
"I think some Bill Monroe would do me good," she said.
"I'll go change."
Her gun was in the case in the kitchen. She went in
there and took the case with her into the bedroom and
shut the door. Two years ago, she'd taken a pair of
black jeans to a tailor and had a small pocket sewn on
either thigh just above the knee with a zipper. After
she donned the jeans, she placed her loaded gun in one
of the pockets and a small notepad in the other with a
ballpoint pen. After putting on a black blouse with a
red rose on the shoulder, she fluffed her hair with a
blush, added just a small amount of makeup, and went
back into the small living room. Bill had picked up
some of her castoff clothes, folded them, and placed
them on the end of the couch. She sat down on the
apartment's one easy chair, took her Reeboks off the
coffee table, took out the dark socks and put them on
and then the Reeboks. She stood up.
"That's what I like, a girl who doesn't take a lot of
time in which to dress," said Bill.
"This is just Bill Monroe we're seeing," she said.
"Not Sammy Davis Jr."
"I thought we might grab a bit of Mexican food, if
that's okay with you."
"Okay," she said.
"Over tacos, you can tell me about this Camus thing."
But, of course, she evaded all of the questions he
threw at her. Along with the Twins and Zeus, he had
to be considered a suspect. Of sorts, anyway.
He wondered if Dabney Stone could be involved.
"Not likely," she said.
"Then what about this Mojo character. I've been
checking around. He's not a very admirable person.
Did something despicable, I heard, up in Chicago once.
I hope he's not a friend of yours."
"Definitely not," she said.
"He may also be wanted for transportation of a minor
across state lines for immoral purposes, among other
things."
"That wouldn't surprise me," she said.
"Some of these disc jockeys seem to be pretty wild,"
he said.
"Not too many of them and even then some of the women
that hang around them are wild, too."
"You going to cut off the radio?"
"No," she said.
"Just run up your electric bill to leave that thing on
all of the time."
"It's my electric bill," she said firmly.
"Right. Guess it is."
They went downstairs where he had a Harley-Davidson
motorcycle parked by her little MG. If he thought she
would be surprised, she was, but she tried not to show
it. He put on a leather jacket he'd strapped behind
the seat and a helmet. She took the extra helmet that
he handed her and strapped it on and climbed on the
rear seat behind him. His leather jacket smelled good
when she put her face against it. He had something
cold under his armpit and she realized that Bill, like
herself, was carrying a weapon in a shoulder holster.
That was quite interesting and another piece to the
puzzle that was the man.
She had never ridden a motorcycle before. Not as
driver and not even as a passenger. She was nervous
and determined not to let him know. After he wheeled
out of the parking lot, she became adjusted, though,
to molding herself to his body, her arms around his
waist, moving with his motions, as small as they were,
and in no time the ride exhilarated her! In the
fading of the day, the wind whipping by her, she
understood almost immediately why people rode
motorcycles. The machine offered a freedom that you
simply could not achieve, even in a sports car with
the top down.
They roared softly down the streets to the freeway
and, in the warm glow of the evening, reached the
restaurant much too soon.
The restaurant was the kind of restaurant that she
loved. It was made of bricks that resembled old adobe
and featured a rough-edge character like an ancient
building down along the Rio Grande she'd visited many
years ago. Towering plants with huge dangling leafs
pervaded the corners and the entrances. The ceiling
featured beams that may not have been as ancient as
they appeared, but gave the restaurant an exciting
atmosphere. A small fountain trickled somewhere.
The food was hearty, spicy, and good. The enchiladas
seared your tongue and the fire was there for a long
time afterwards.
"You like Mexican food? Good. I need a Mexican food
fix at least once a month or I go a little bit nuts,"
Bill said.
"I'm a Texican," she confessed.
"Is that like being born in Texas?"
"Of course not!" she said, just a little sharply.
"You say that a lot--of course not. Which means that
I still don't know the answer."
"Anyone can be a Texan...even if you move there...but
being a Texican, the old word that goes back to the
days of the Alamo, means having the spirit and the
soul of the original Tejas flowing in your veins. A
Texican, we like to believe, is different. Somewhat
superior. Somewhat tougher. Somewhat special."
"I can handle that," he said. "Just as long as you
don't lay too much of it on me at a time."
"Well, you're into motorcycles. Not just riding them,
but really into them. Only a real road hog or
whatever them call them would want a Harley."
"Please. It's not just wanting a Harley, it's having
to have a Harley because nothing else will do."
"That's like being a Texican," she said.
"And no one who drives a Harley should ever be
referred to as a road hog. Not even a hog."
"Okay," she said.
"My! Aren't you the agreeable one this evening."
She looked him in the eyes and smiled.
"I figured I might as well be agreeable."
"Anything, eh, for the sake of Bill Monroe?"
"Something like that."
"Well, I would be much more comfortable," he said, "if
you didn't smile like that when you said it."
"Smile like what?"
"You're teasing now, aren't you?"
"I wasn't aware of smiling in any particular way that
would provoke attention," she said.
"That kind of smile with those kinds of eyes would rip
the heart out of any man," he said, looking at her
steadily and not smiling.
She knew he was playing a game, now, and it was not so
difficult to smile back. Games, she understood.
She stood up.
"I would hate to miss Bill Monroe," she said.
"Especially after all this trouble."
He nodded. But it seemed to her that he took an awful
lot of time making up his mind before nodding
acquiescence. For a moment, she felt as if he wanted
to do something else, but she wasn't sure just what it
was.
"We wouldn't dare miss Bill Monroe," he said.
It's impossible to talk on a roaring Harley, but she
noticed that Bill didn't say much later as they
entered the amusement park filled with mothers,
fathers and kids.
Los Angeles is actually a major city that engulfs
southern California like some gigantic blanket from
outer space. They call this area Oxnard and that
Pasadena and yonder Redondo Beach, but it's all one
city and extends almost all of the way to the Mexican
border. Northward is Six Flags and the only major
amusement park beyond that until you reach San
Francisco is the one owned by Michael Jackson, but
it's very, very private. Around Anaheim is
Disneyland. And there's also the much smaller, less
intrusive Knotts Berry Farm, which she thought was
named after a jelly. Everyone goes to Disneyland and
a great many go to Six Flags. The rest go to Knotts
Berry. Today, it was Nashville Day at Knotts Berry.
The Nashville that others may see exists, like a hit
song on a jukebox sung for the moment and then
forgotten, only briefly. The city isn't real. They,
the ones who buy the records and fester around the
artists, never realize the real Nashville and the real
people there. The gods, however, don't all wear
halos. Chet Atkins is one of the major gods, but he's
also the older man in the plaid shirt playing the
pinball machine in the local bar that no one
recognizes and Eddy Arnold is the unknown man
strolling along the river wondering why his daughter
prefers the records of the Everly Brothers to his own
million-selling "Make the World Go Away."
The greatest gods such as the late Hank Williams, the
late Patsy Cline and the late Hawkshaw Hawkins were
already dead. She still loved the records of Hank
Williams and Patsy Cline, but considered the movie
about the life of Hank Williams fiction. Everyone in
the music business in Nashville knew the truth. She'd
met a guy named Bill Williams, no relation, who'd told
her countless tales about Hank and these were added to
by a disc jockey on a Top 40 music station in
Nashville who called himself Captain Midnight but was
really Roger Scutt. The most tragic of the stories
was about friends of Hank Williams sitting him down in
a chair in a hotel room and having more than two dozen
men walk in and tell him about his wife Audrey. This
included a couple of local policemen. No wonder the
poor man drank/drugged himself to death! Although, of
course, you'll find those who thought that Hank fooled
around quite a bit.
Some in Nashville are lesser gods. When Wesley Rose,
head of Acuff-Rose Music and son of the legendary
songwriter Fred Rose, went to the Ryman Auditorium to
receive the annual Metronome Award, the guard didn't
recognize him and didn't let him in; he hears his name
announced on the radio as he's driving home.
Acuff-Rose owned all of the copyrights of Hank
Williams and Wesley once confided to her that they
were earning almost a million dollars a year in
royalties.
The worse thing of all about Nashville, is that the
city sort of treated the country music business as
something that had to be tolerated, but which very few
of the people who ruled the city really appreciated.
The aristocratic element looked down on the country
music crowd; the singers and the banjo pickers and
guitar plunkers were not welcome at many homes.
Didn't matter how rich they were. And even among the
country music business itself, there were outcasts
such as Willie Nelson, banished to Austin, TX. Those
in country music on the west coast were entirely
alienated from Nashville, who probably never heard of
Stu Hamblen, a man who could have been elected mayor
at one time in Los Angeles.
However, the man who stepped on the small stage at
Knotts Berry was definitely a star. Bill Monroe wore
a suit and tie and a Stetson. He acted like a star.
He looked proud and he was proud and he was the
so-called father of an entire spectrum of music, one
of the few original kinds of music that the Americas
can really claim even though purists know its roots
are in the Irish reels and jigs that came over to the
"colonies" way back when and was transformed into
something entirely new on the steps of the log cabins
and amidst the impromptu dances in the barns that
dotted the rolling valleys and the hills. His band,
following behind him, also wore this same "uniform" as
did Bill Monroe and they, too, carried a proud look
about them. Monroe played a mandolin so old it
featured a hole carved by the constant picking. You
thought that surely Mr. Monroe could have afforded a
new mandolin or one of his countless fans might have
presented him with one or even made one especially for
him. But this was the one he played and it was a
treasure both to him and those who came to listen
virtually at his feet. For, although the stage was
small and only raised a foot or so above the level of
the ground, she sat near, down front, on a few rows of
wooden benches; it was a choice position in which to
listen to music that was acoustic.
The music was wonderful. From "Uncle Pen" to "Blue
Moon of Kentucky" in that high tenor voice that many
spoke of as a "whiskey tenor." Jazz is somewhat
improvised, however, the music of Bill Monroe was
pure, yet quite complex. Almost like classical music.
She was surprised when Bill Ferguson got up and left.
Several people were standing. One came and took his
place.
When Bill Monroe finished, Susan was among those who
gave him a standing ovation and he enjoyed that and
did another song that she loved immensely, "Footprints
in the Snow."
Then the song was ended and the band left the stage
and the people standing in the back on the grass
wandered away, leaving room for those who'd been lucky
enough to get a seat to rise and find their way from
the area.
"Your Bill Monroe is quite good," Bill said, greeting
her, taking her hand.
"I needed a good dash of Bill Monroe," she said. "A
good dash of bluegrass. There's little better than
bluegrass when you're in a hard funk."
"We've got to talk about that funk," Bill said.
She stopped.
"There's nothing to talk about," she said.
"Then why are you carrying a gun?" he asked. "You
bumped into my leg while we were sitting. It could
only be a gun."
"Someone shot at me yesterday."
"That's what my mother said."
"So, she did tell you about it? I told her not to
mention it."
"I've known her a lot longer than you have," he said.
"She has, in fact, told me everything that she knows.
Unfortunately, it's not much. I can visualize a
psychological need now and then for Camus. It's
strange, but not too strange, I guess. I cannot
visualize a need for a gun. May I see it?"
"Here?"
"No one's watching us."
"I don't think so," she said.
"You don't think what?"
"That I'll show you the gun."
"Show me the damned gun!" he said in a low, sharp
voice that said he must be obeyed. Or else!
She didn't exactly know why or what else, but she felt
compelled to show him her gun. She sat down on a
bench and unzipped the side pocket on her leg and took
out the little special-make .22 caliber pistol.
"You good with something like this?" He popped open
the clip from the handle, then checked the chamber to
make sure it didn't already have a bullet ready to
fire.
"Yes," she said.
"Professional assassins use .22 caliber guns," he
said.
"Not a gun like this."
"No. Not like this. I've never seen a gun quite like
this," he said. "You have a permit?"
"No."
"You were carrying a concealed weapon. You need a
permit to carry a concealed weapon. That's the law."
"Screw the law," she said. "Someone shoots at me
again, I'm going to shoot back."
"Maybe," he said, "but not with this gun. I'll
protect you."
"You? I'm still convinced that you may be the person
trying to shoot me."
"Never," he said. "I would never shoot at you. If
you believe nothing else, believe that."
He placed her gun in the pocket of his leather jacket.
"You have no right to take my gun," she said coldly.
"I'm bigger than you," he said quickly, looking her
directly in the eyes. "That gives me a lot of right."
"And I'm a lot meaner than you are," she said just as
quickly.
"Maybe," he said, but he didn't sound very convinced.
"And, again, maybe not. I can get pretty mean when I
have to. Let's go."
"I'll take a taxi."
"No, you won't. I brought you here and I'll take you
home." He grabbed her by the arm.
Suddenly, she realized that she hated him. Her jaws
was tense and the muscles in her arms seemed like they
would snap in another moment.
"I'm not getting back on that motorcycle," she said.
"It's not a motorcycle. It's a Harley," he said, his
jaws clenched just as tightly, she thought, as her
own. His eyes weren't as nice as before. They were
ugly with a weird kind of shine to them. It's funny
how she could have once thought that he had nice eyes.
"I want my gun back."
"You're not getting that gun back," he insisted.
"I'll sue if I have to."
"Big deal," he said.
"Let go my arm."
He let go. When he did, she walked quickly toward the
entrance of the amusement park and hopped into a taxi
that was just letting someone out. The taxi sped
away. When she looked back, he wasn't in view.
Evidently, he hadn't followed her.
The taxi fare was expensive, but she always carried a
couple of hundred dollars in cash. As a trade
reporter, she got a lot of freebies from the music
industry, but on the other hand was expected to treat
a lot of people in radio. Some places took a credit
card. But in other situations, especially in the bars
and taverns of the radio world, you were expected to
pay with cash and tip with cash. Martoni's was the
major industry watering hold in Los Angeles. In New
York City, it was Al and Dick. San Francisco, too,
had its hangout. Cash was king. Once, Barry Fiedel,
an independent record promotion man who also operated
a tipsheet, took her to lunch at an outdoor restaurant
in the valley and pulled out a roll of bills three
inches across. His credit card bill also ran $12,000
to $14,000 a month, he said.
The taxi let her out in the parking lot of her
apartment and was pleased that she actually did have
that much in cash on her, including the tip.
She stared up at the dark window of her bedroom which
she could see from here, and decided she wasn't going
to spend the night there. Not without a gun. Or some
other weapon. She got into her MG and, soothed
somewhat by the pom-pom of the twin carburetors and
the dark air combing her hair, headed to the Highway
101 and north towards what she hoped would some day be
home.
Traffic eased off as soon as she climbed out of the
San Fernando Valley. Then she was speeding down the
mountain toward Oxnard and Ventura and within a couple
of hours was in Carpinteria, the poor man's version of
Santa Barbara. This was where she intended to settle
permanently one day. In a house just a block or two
from the ocean; they were, of course, much too
expensive, but maybe she'd write a novel and sell the
rights to a movie firm and have enough money to buy
any house that she wanted. She loved the cute little
shops of the city and the state beach just beyond.
The ocean air felt good in your lungs. And the
weather was always just precisely as if you'd ordered
it from a catalog.
Instead of trying to find a room in a nearby hotel,
she parked in the lot near the entrance to the state
beach and pulled her blanket around her. This was not
the first time she'd slept in the car, nor, she
suspected, would it be the last. That little house on
the beach that she dreamed about was a long time and a
long way off. Much closer, she feared, was a man
shooting bullets at her from some alleyway or rooftop
and now she had no protection. No hero to come to the
rescue. No gun. Absolutely no way to fight back. A
few days ago, she was an important facet--hell, she
was successful and getting more so--of an important
media industry publication, Songdust News. Now,
suddenly, here she was on the run. Helpless. No one
to whom she could turn. She felt very alone and very
vulnerable.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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April 26, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
It dawned on me a few days ago that one of the
major
problems with radio today could be that the oldtimers
are not there. Oh, one may still be doing a radio
show in Dubuque...probably an oldies show. But the
other day when Rick Dees was ushered out of KIIS in
Los Angeles, I think it was symbolic of an overall
problem. Radio today has put too many of its sages
out to pasture. I'm speaking of the men and women who
did it, who built radio into what we have today...or,
more accurately, what we had. Not only the
personalities who were really personalities, but the
creative program directors and the general managers.
Most gone from the scene...of necessity working at
other jobs.
When Mikel Hunter died, he was selling real estate.
What a crime! This was one of America's greatest
radio program directors. I know of one excellent
program director who is today involved in marketing
casinos. And the great radio sage Ron Jacobs is
watching tall waves lap the shores of Hawaii when he
should be consulting a radio chain. He has not lost
his enormous cognitive perception, his logic, his wit;
he knows radio better than 99 percent of those
involved in it actively at the moment. I will qualify
that statement by saying "in my opinion," but I think
I'm correct.
Since Larry Shannon of
Radiodailynews.com presented me
with this website, I've heard from a good number of
radio people who are doing things other than radio,
yet who still love the medium with great passion. I
gather that many would still be in radio if the
opportunity presented itself. Instead, we have
conglomerates who have gobbled up the stations and
they're all the same when they should be, conversely,
all different. It was the differences that made
radio. Different people, different programming,
different approaches. Sameness breeds mediocrity.
When George Wilson told me that Jack McCoy was living
on a boat docked in San Diego, I immediately thought:
What a waste! Not that Jack doesn't deserve to live
well and I'm very pleased for him, it's just that he
was without question one of radio's greatest minds.
And I believe that radio misses his creative genius
muchly. About Jim Gabbert, a radio man I know
remarked to me the other day that in his opinion Jim
always lived/worked on the cutting edge of radio. Jim
is now playing with airplanes and yachts, sailing the
south seas, flying the north territories at will. But
I guarantee you that a Jim Gabbert cannot be replaced
when it comes to radio. And the same might be said of
Gary Allyn and several others that I know.
In my opinion, radio is not at the moment measuring up
to its potential. Its local potential. Satellite
broadcasting, when you think about it, is naught more
than the station we listened to as a kid back in Texas
from Clint, Texas. About as personalized as mud. The
great value of radio has always been localization.
Wouldn't it be nice to have a summit meeting of about
two dozen of the leading people of radio--whether
presently engaged in the media or not--to discuss the
matter...let those who attend come sans ego and with
only the desire to offer input...perhaps videotape the
event for posterity? Yes, I realize the National
Association of Broadcasters has a radio programming
meeting, but....
Closing thought: Radio needs its gurus. Experience
cannot be replaced; it is not sold in the
supermarkets.
OTHER MATTERS
My sons John and Andy attended a Phlish concert
Saturday, April 18, at Thomas & Mack in Las Vegas
where the UNLV Runnin' Rebels play basketball. Said
the stadium was full (20,000) and that Phlish sold out
three concerts. John claims the Phlish are this
generation's Grateful Dead and the children of
Deadheads love them. Ah, but there will never be
another Jerry Garcia...sorry about that Phlish.
Sunday, April 19, my wife Barbara and I were treated
to dinner at Tillerman's in Las Vegas by Gary
Smithwick (a former DJ) and his wife Peggy. Both are
attorneys. Gary is quite well known in broadcasting,
his major legal realm for more than 30 years, and
Barbara and I knew him "back when." As for Peggy,
Barbara and I fell in love with her immediately; she
was an instant long-time friend. She is bright,
charming, pretty. All of us at the table have been
major participants on the hard playing fields of life.
So we had many things to discuss as well as Gary
Stevens, Ed Christian, Bruce Miller Earle, the
Magnificent Montague, Bill Randle, Jay Blackburn, Gary
Owens, Rick Dees, and life itself and the conversation
was something akin to an Oklahoma whirlwind and
Barbara, anyway, is a talker and a half so many
sentences ended up chopped but that didn't matter
because we were among friends and we knew, as Paul
Harvey says, "the rest of the story." It was a very,
very pleasant evening.
During my Billboard days, I was always, as Bill Randle
used to say, "qualitatively and quantitatively," aware
of all aspects in which I was involved in the
industry. My personal belief was that unless you were
ahead of the game, you were behind in the game. There
was no such level as even. So, I acquired a certain
body of knowledge and constantly made strenuous
efforts to improve this particular condition...add to
the body of knowledge. My primary methodology for the
acquisition of information was the phone, of course,
which may be one of the reasons why I have no great
affinity these days for what has become for me Ma
Bell's torture device. But now and then I would send
out questionnaires. Some of these, of course, were
just for fun. I remember sending out about 30
questionnaires regarding the best-known Top 40 radio
personality in America at the time. I sent the
questionnaire out only to Top 40 program directors.
Charlie Tuna was picked by just about everyone...maybe
28 or 29 of those surveyed. But when I mentioned this
tidbit in Billboard, I qualified the results...that
is, explained how and where the survey was
accomplished. One of my major complaints these days
is the surveys flashed on TV. Especially those on
CNN. I feel personally that the results of these
surveys have all of the validity of a bowl of used
dishwater. At this point, I might explain that I've
taken several research courses at the graduate
university level. So, in effect, I know a little
about what CNN and their cohorts, whether it's USA
Today or Time or anyone else, is doing. They do a
quick callout on about 900 people, phone numbers
selected at random, and ask you believe the opinions
of these 900 or so people represent the current
feelings of the American public. Such results are, of
course, utter hogwash. One of the minor reasons for
this statement of fact (fact, anyway, as far as I'm
concerned) is that I don't do phone. Another reason
might be that most people today screen their calls.
But there are countless reasons why phone research
these days is basically absurd, regardless of who does
it and why they do it. In addition, the "random"
aspect is not really random for obvious reasons. So,
here were have these "surveys" about who's ahead of
whom in the presidential race and they mean nothing,
if not less. However, we have an election coming up
in November that's going to be interesting. G.W. Bush
didn't win the election before. The only question at
this point is by how much less he's going to not win
it this coming November. This "fact" is based not on
questionnaires, but on the observation that my next
door neighbor hasn't yet found a job that fits her
career (she was laid off by American Airlines several
months ago), but is still working at two jobs that pay
far less than what she used to receive when Bill
Clinton was president. Meanwhile, there are some
people buying new SUVs. Obviously, something is wrong
in America. Yes, Bush screwed up royalty on Iraq and
I think he should be charged with the murders of not
only the American soldiers who died for his horrible
and mistaken passion to invade that country, but the
deaths of women and children in Iraq. In my opinion,
he's a very poor leader of America. America deserves
better. America needs better. America must have
better.
Ron Bacon,
ronbacon@esedona.net: "I do not dislike
Liberals. I was born in 1930 and suffered from the
symptoms of Liberalism until I was about 35. This
unfortunate disease is rather infectious among young
people. The good news is that it rarely is fatal and
usually disappears after early adulthood, thus
supporting the theory '.we get wiser as we grow older'
and giving hope to all. The idea that: 'Caring for
your fellow person; Caring for the world' is somehow
the sole province of liberalism is a bit arrogant,
don't you think? Or did I misread you? All great
thinkers from Socrates to Einstein have realized that
all ideas ultimately fail. The finite mind simply
cannot comprehend the infinite possibilities inherent
in any idea. That is why political, scientific and
religious beliefs always have unintended consequences.
Yes, we must function in infinite reality with our
finite minds, but we should realize that there are no
real permanent solutions to any problem. We live on
shifting sand. What is relevant today may be
devastatingly incorrect tomorrow. What is good for
one person may be bad for someone else. I believe it
is good to be 'caring', and, indeed 'loving' of
everything and everybody in this imperfect world. It
also helps to be humble and realize that your ideas
and perceptions are no better than anyone else's."
Arrogant, Ron? I suppose so. I came to the concept
of liberalism late. Of tolerance late. I was born a
redneck and the Bible was forced down my throat early
as a child. And racism. And a lot of other isms that
don't stand up under the threat of logic (true, valid
logic is the killer of all isms, in my opinion). To
my credit, I believe these days that I, at least, knew
some of these isms were wrong (but I do know now this
as a fact). Regardless, long after military service
(although this may have contributed to the whole),
long after college (although this, too, may have
contributed to the whole), some while, in fact, after
I arrived in New York City, my concepts began to
change. Or perhaps just completed the changing. They
began to focus not on the all, but on the individual.
I find nothing wrong with owning a gun for sport
except that the gun a person who is nuts can get hold
of a gun much too easily (i.e., the concept of a
certain right to own a gun is not logical or has
merely become outdated; the Constitution regarded
raising an army, not owning a weapon per se). I find
nothing wrong with the religious fantatics and even
the so-called "priest" who let himself be bitten by a
rattlesnake in an Easter religious ceremony recently
and refused treatment; he had every right to do so.
But no right to tell me how to think or how to act or
to insist that I be religious. Of course, I could
extend this philosophy beyond boredom. Essentially, I
believe in individual rights, but also individual
responsibility. One thing I believe absolutely:
Government exists for the primary purpose of helping,
not hurting. Conservative or not; liberal or not. To
the extent that government results in the hurting of
the individual in any way, shape, or form, it is a
poor government--inefficient and certainly
ineffective--and should be changed.
The above doesn't explain my statement regarding that
I'm proud to be a liberal. I would rather not be
anything, in truth. I have long refused to be a
"joiner." Yet, I was a member of a group that helped
UNLV in Las Vegas gain its new library on campus. I
am still a member of a group that hopes to preserve
Frenchman Mountain in Las Vegas as a recreation area
for the public. I suppose you could say that I am
only a liberal because all else seems illogical.
Liberal attitudes and ideals fostered most of the
public projects of today. The TVA, Boulder Dam which
supplies water and water from here to Los Angeles and
elsewhere. But actually I believe my ideals are
beyond liberalism. I consider myself progressive yet
rooted in the values that fostered America. I
consider myself aggressive yet compassionate. I
consider myself determined, but realistic.
When I taught public relations--and I taught all
aspects of the genre--I let the students know I was
providing them with "a loaded gun and a loaded gun
doesn't care who pulls the trigger." Conversely, I
encouraged them to use the knowledge wisely because
this is one earth and one chance..."don't foul up your
own nest." Yet, the oceans are poluted, the air is
poluted, fish in the rivers are contaminated, a vast
number of people are poluted (i.e., lack of education,
lack of basics for survival--food, shelter, medical),
the government is poluted as well as contaminated. We
have problems upon problems. Unless we fix some of
these fast, this world is going to become a much
larger mess than it is now. Unless we fix all of
these things that currently affect humanity, our world
has the strong probability of passing into a history
without people left to read it.
The liberal, at least, tries to rectify the problem.
They may not succeed, but they are concerned and they
make an effort. I believe the conservative cares
mostly about him or herself.
Some interesting tidbits from Steve Warren,
cpp80143@centurytel.net,
the other day, including
this: "The GOP Hack Blasting Kerry's War Record
john o'neill is his name. you've seen him in the past
36 hours on fox, cnn, msnbc, et. al., insulting
kerry's war record. who is he? a party hack spanning
generations. he did dirty work for nixon. was a clerk
for rehnquist. is a partner in a houston law firm with
deep connections to the bushies. his law partner
worked for vinson & elkins the houston firm that
helped Enron screw the world. now there's some
credibility for ya'. i expect it from fox, but why is
CNN giving this ass any airtime at all?" Warren
mentions
http://www.dailykos.com as his source.
I sent the above to an old college buddy, Raul
Cardenas, Ph.D, a Korean vet, and one of the world's
leading authorities in water and air polution,
EnviroRaul@aol.com, and
got this response: "How dare
anyone from the Bush gang question the war credentials
of Kerry -- None of them ever served and were busy
dodging the duty that most of us met, or were in the
next step up from the Boy Scouts, they joined the
National Guard (the worst officers I ever met were
from the Guard). I tend to believe the pundits who
plainly state that Bush simply was not around most of
the time. So, in the name of patriotism, flag and
motherhood he would have us all become Lemmings, 'stay
the fight', not 'cut an' run' and march over the cliff
for him. He stays the course, of course, behind us.
Shame enough that to date more than 700 young men and
women with over 4,000 casualties have suffered for a
baseless war of lies, for which the world hates us
over and that has by now turned the entire Muslim
world against. Bush in his stupid Christian,
Bible-reading, fundamentalism suggests it is a holy
war 'from' (or is it 'for' God). The war has become a
huge blunder, a stupid mistake, Bushes' folly, and
hopefully it will cost this gang the election. I
shudder to think what could be if they are reelected.
I prefer to believe that the American people are too
smart not to see through all the smoke and mirrors the
rich fundamentalists continue to flash. And yet they
try to tell us that 'democracy' will be brought to
Iraq...when under Bremmer and his plans the Iraqis
cannot even make laws, cannot have an Army and take
their orders from us and remain occupied for years.
They cannot even have a free election. And, anyway at
this point the Iraqis are so pissed at us that they
would probably willingly fly into the arms of the
Muslim fundamentalists if this means getting us out of
there. As the newest imperial world power we are a
flop and Bush has laid an enormous turd that can be
smelled all over the world and no one wants to touch
it, especially the UN and NATO. After a lot of
thinking about this matter, at the bottom of all of
this, I believe, has been the Israeli-Palestenian
conflict and our willingness to view this with biased
eyes. We have refused to take a stand against Israel
when they terrorize the Palestenians (with troops and
tanks) and only speak out when Arab women and children
kill themselves to get even or make a point by giving
their lives. No doubt that by now Israel has to stay.
Its roots from back from World War I (Balfour and
Weismann) are too deep and the fact that they forced
themselves on the previous occupants of this land with
the assent of the Brits and the French is forgotten.
But we, as a humane, democratic, reasonable nation
must force a settlement between the displaced and the
displacers now that they are permanently ensconced.
By now the Arabs will accept Israel, and it is
imperative that the continued killing and polarization
brought on by its formation at the expense of
Palestine come to a halt. Draw a line, put up a wall
if you must, but stop the killing and growing hate.
We must back away from allowing it to be an an
anti-Arab-pro Israel, us vs them, Muslims vs
Christians, etc... stupidity (similar to the Irish,
Basque, Catalan, Kosovo, Hundu vs Muslim, crapp). We
must begin to try and understand one another,
including Israel, and Palestine and Iraq, and this may
take years. Let the counting of the years begin. My
blast from the east: Vote anti-Bush...it is more
important than ever that we get this gang out of there
and get back to reclaiming out nation and joining the
other humans of the world."
SATURDAY!
Just finished another novel. To date, I've written 14
novels, including a 300,000-word monster that I worked
on at home during my Billboard years and two that I
wrote while teaching at the State University of New
York. Since retirement in September 1997, I've
written 11 novels. This includes "Xtreme" and the two
other novels previously on my website. I thought that
"Xtreme" would create a lot of flack. Guess I was
wrong. As GO would say, "Oh, well!"
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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