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"Xtreme"
Chapter Eleven of a novel
by Claude Hall
She was even more stunned the next morning when she
found her office door slightly ajar again and
discovered the body.
The body was sitting in her office chair with the
handle of a K-Bar knife turned sideways sticking out
of his chest, his head slumped as if he was staring at
the knife handle and surprised to see it.
She didn't scream. Tammy said she did, but she
didn't. She knew that for a fact. She didn't even
touch the body or look closely at it. She knew it was
dead. No question about death; you don't have to see
it but once to realize what it is. And, quite
frankly, she was aware that if she stared at the dead
body too long, she might--as Bill Ferguson had so
quaintly put it--heave all over her office.
Very calmly, she turned and walked out into the lobby,
which suddenly seemed like a very weird lobby even for
a music trade publication, and told Tammy to phone the
police and tell them there was a dead body sitting at
her desk.
"For real?" asked Tammy as if Susan was joking. Then,
in what she assumed was the voice of KHJ's Robert W.
Morgan: "Anyone I know?"
It was not a good imitation. Robert W. Morgan's
voice, according to the industry term, had "balls."
Janis Joplin might have had balls; Tammy would never.
"I suppose not," Susan said. "Depends on how many
people you know and what kind of people you know. I
don't think you know this one, though. A stranger. I
hope it's a stranger, anyway."
"I know," said Tammy. "It's Dabney Stone!"
But it turned out to be the Mojo Man and he'd been
stabbed in the heart. Once. But once was enough,
according to the police who arrived while she was
having a cup of coffee in the lobby. Zeus stuck his
head out of his office to ask what was going on.
Susan just grinned at him. Like a cat, she hoped.
"Someone's dead," Tammy told Zeus.
"Who did she kill now?" Zeus asked Tammy just as if
Susan wasn't there.
Tammy, however, wasn't about to let him get away with
something like that.
"It's probably the first of a long list," she told
Zeus, who grunted and quickly returned to his office
after stating,
"I'm not involved. Leave me out of this."
The police were quite interested in the knife in the
dead Mojo Man and its twin, the knife in her purse,
and wanted to know all about both of them. The murder
weapon was the knife she'd placed in her desk drawer
yesterday, an identical knife also to the knife under
the seat of her MG.
"You always have a lot of knives around?" asked a
detective who was much too old to be her father and
seemed to be just as dead. His eyes carried no sign
of life. He wasn't even interested in the body
sitting at her desk. She almost started thinking
about her father, who'd died a couple of years ago
from cancer, but then jerked her thoughts back. She
did not want to think about her father just now.
Maybe later when she was reading something by Camus.
Not "The Myth of Syphilis" for god's sake. That
wasn't the title! What was the title of that book?
Well, anyway, that book was too heavy; you couldn't
think while you were reading that particular book by
Camus. "The Plague" again. Yes.
"Just since a couple of days ago when someone shot at
me," she finally said.
"Knives aren't much good against guns," the detective
pointed out. He handed her a business card. It
stated that his name was Raul Cardenas, detective,
LAPD, and there was a phone number.
"I also have a gun," she said. She thought she had
better tell him before he found out either by accident
or on purpose.
"Permit?" asked the detective. He seemed more alive
all of the sudden. She supposed it was because of the
gun. Probably, he was more interested it guns.
Frankly, knives interested her most. It's just that
she wasn't very good with a knife.
Detective Cardenas had gray hair and he, too, needed a
haircut. Actually, his hair was a pepper gray. Why
did everyone need a haircut?
"Yes," she said.
She quickly grew to like the detective. She wanted to
help him as much as possible. Mostly because he did
need a haircut. Come to think of it, her father
always needed a haircut. No, she wasn't going to
think about her father. Not now.
"Did you stab him?" the detective asked.
She shrugged. "If I were going to kill a creep like
that, I probably would have just tossed him out the
window."
"Thick glass," a detective said as he glanced out her
office window at the street below and the distance
beyond.
"He has a thick skull," she said. "I would have thrown
him head first."
"You know him?"
"He calls...called...himself the Mojo Man. That
wasn't his real name. Many disc jockeys use business
names on the job. I can't remember what his real name
was. If I ever heard it. He was not a major radio
personality nor even a very good one. From Memphis, I
think."
She told him about the girl the Mojo Man had sneaked
into her office a few days ago.
"One of those, eh?"
"Yes," she said. "Perhaps."
"You know where this girl went?"
"No."
"You think she might have killed him?"
"I don't know. I know she was scared of him," she
said, "but why would she have been prowling around my
desk? I think he was the creep, not her. I don't
think she did it. Not so far as I know anyway. She
just seemed to be very young and very afraid."
She described the girl as best she could. However,
she could only remember mostly that the girl was young
and wore a horrible print dress.
"Robbery? Perhaps the creep?"
"I doubt it," she replied. "You've got to be smart to
rob people, as a rule. A friend of mine said this guy
wasn't all that bright. When he came in the other
day...he sneaked in with some telephone people...my
fingers got greasy."
"What does that usually mean?"
"He was not only a creep, but a crook."
She told them everything that she knew and then a lot
of things that she wasn't sure about. As for the
girl, there were a tremendous number of groupies
always flowing into both San Francisco and Los
Angeles. They ran away from myriad towns and cities
in the mid-west and the east, towns they couldn't
stand, searching for excitement, a place where they
could "find" themselves. KMET, a local radio station
that featured a progressive rock format, broadcast a
list of crash houses at various times of the day.
Here, these homeless kids, male and female, could flop
for the night on the floor and maybe someone would
bring them a slice of pizza at some point. They lived
on sodas and French fries and hotdogs or hamburgers.
And pizzas. From where they came, no one knew or
cared and eventually they went away somewhere and no
one cared about that either.
The detective was interested in the shots fired at
her.
"You report the incident?"
"No."
"Why not?" he wanted to know.
"Because I'm a Texican," she said, "and you wouldn't
understand that because I don't really understand all
of it very well myself."
"Try me."
She stared out the window for a moment, her hands
clasped behind her. You'd have thought that Marilyn
Monroe would have lived in a better place than that
building down there.
"I was raised by my father back in Texas to handle my
own problems if and when I could because I had no
mother...that is, she died when I was quite young.
It's not just getting shot at, although that's
probably bad enough, it's actually a complex
situation. May involve a lot of people. Maybe not.
I think I can solve everything. Maybe I can't. But I
wanted to try first."
"Shooting people is against the law, lady. Doesn't
matter who fired the shots or why, you've got to
report things like that."
"I made a mistake," she said.
"Why were there no fingerprints on your knife?"
"Should have been some," she said. "I handled the
knife quite a lot, including when I placed it in the
desk drawer."
"Something wrong there," said Cardenas.
"Very wrong," she agreed.
She wondered if other detectives were talking to
anyone else, such as Tammy and Zeus. This detective
suddenly thought of something and he hemmed and he
hawed and had trouble finding another question. For a
moment. Finally, he literally took a step to the
side. He'd been directly in front of her in an
accusative stance. Now, it was as if he'd abandoned
his attack.
"I'm curious. Your father taught you how to use a
gun?"
"Yes. Well, not really. Mostly, my uncle, who had a
special gun made for me. My father actually didn't
like guns."
"He was a cop?"
"Not exactly. No. My uncle definitely not."
"Just for the record, was your father Walter James?"
"You knew him?"
"I mostly knew about him, of course," the detective
said. "I even met him once when he presented a guest
lecture at the University of Oklahoma. Good man.
Young. Full of crazy ideas."
"Yes," she said. "I guess I sort of worshipped him."
"Didn't everyone?" the detective said. He closed his
notebook. "Don't worry about reporting those shots.
I'll take care of it. I have the information. I'd
suggest that you be very careful, but I doubt that I'd
have to mention something like that to the daughter of
Walter James. Glad to meet you. Even under these
circumstances."
The people in white coats had already come and gone
and they took the body with them. They'd cleaned up a
spot of blood under the desk. Strangely, no blood was
on the chair. But she didn't want to sit there just
now.
It was amazing how tired she was! Obviously, a murder
can not only destroy your whole day, but drain you of
every last emotional drop of energy!
She found the copy she'd written yesterday and locked
her office door and dropped the stories and the Segway
column into the wire basket on Chase Dudley's desk.
As she started toward the elevator in the lobby, Lee
Brown stepped into her path.
"You can't leave now," he said. He took a comb out of
his hip pocket, just like the character on a now
defunct television series, and began to comb it. Why,
she had no idea. He had short, thinning hair, but the
hair went well with his face, which was also thinning
and slightly ugly. His mouth hung at one end and, in
combination with his spectacles, made him look like a
frog who'd just swallowed something bad. She often
thought about asking him how much gefilte fish and
horseradish he'd had for breakfast, but never did
because it seemed like an ethnic comment. She'd never
liked him, though, and thus always forced herself to
make an extra effort to be pleasant.
"Why not?" she asked. "I've experienced enough
murders to last me for the rest of the evening."
"I have something I want you to do," he said.
She shook her head. "Not today."
"Are you refusing to work?"
She faced him, legs apart, her huge floppy purse slung
over her shoulder. Didn't the little man realize who
he was dealing with? As of a couple of hours ago, a
murder suspect. No, not really, of course, because of
her father. No one could ever assume that Walter
James' little girl would ever murder anyone. Because
dear old dad, alive or dead, wouldn't appreciate it.
At least, not anyone as trivial as the Mojo Man. Or
even Toady Lee Brown standing in front of her.
"I've turned in my section," she said. "All of my
copy is in Chase's basket."
"That's not all you're suppose to do here, write about
those radio people."
She didn't like the emphasis he'd placed on the world
those. Perhaps she come to identify too much with the
medium. But she decided it would be best not to
provoke a long discussion about why radio was not only
important, but the people in radio were some of the
best and most important in the world.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"I want this done tonight. I want an article on
George Green."
"Look, I couldn't reach Green if I wanted to."
"I talked to him. He's at home waiting for your phone
call. Of course, perhaps it would be best to drive
out to his home and start the story in person tonight.
I need the article by tomorrow. A long article about
his entire life."
"I happen to know that George Green hasn't got a life
that he didn't invent as he went along," she said. "I
can't write that kind of fiction. You want an article
about Green, you'll have to do it yourself. If I
wrote the article, it would be less than two short
paragraphs."
The elevator arrived then. She was just about to
brush past Toady when Nails stepped out. Nails
immediately spotted Susan.
"Good," Nails said. "I was afraid I'd missed you. I
just heard about the murder and I came right over.
The rumor said it was Dabney Stone!"
"It was just some disc jockey," Toady said with a
slight sneer in his tone.
"Careful," warned Nails. "You might be talking about
one of my ex-husbands."
Toady stared at Nails. Susan wondered if Toady knew
who Nails was. Maybe he was pondering this very
question himself. Eventually, anyway, he decided that
it probably didn't matter.
"She has an assignment to do," Toady said to Nails.
"This late?" commented Nails, looking at her wrist
watch. "Does this magazine pay double time for
overtime?"
"I do not have any assignment to do," Susan said
sharply.
"In other words, you're refusing?" Toady said to
Susan.
She glanced quickly at him. For a moment, she'd
thought his face looked like the face of a guppy, the
mouth open, the eyes wide, cheeks fluffing in,
fluffing out.
"Of course not," Susan said. "It's just that I have
to prioritize all of my work in order to accomplish
the deadlines that I have to meet."
"You can't use words like that in this magazine,"
Toady said. "Prioritize is one of the taboo words on
the list I gave you. No stories with the world
prioritize. Didn't you read it? You're supposed to
read all memos. That's the rule!"
"I memorized your list," Susan said. "Right after I
prioritized it."
He looked around, as if seeking help, but Tammy had
left for the day; there was no one else in the lobby.
No witness.
"You're refusing to do the story?"
"No. I'm merely prioritizing it," she said.
"Uh," he said. However, he seemed to accept her
decision...as if this was precisely the response for
which he was hoping. His mouth drooped just a little
bit more and she was quite sure that he'd swallowed a
fly. She started to ask him that. But Nails took her
by the arm and led her into the elevator.
Nails pushed the button and a moment later followed
Susan to her car.
"That little man is not very pleasant to be around,"
she commented as Susan climbed into her MG.
"I think it comes from eating too much gefilte fish,"
Susan said.
"Careful. That reference might insult one of my
ex-husbands."
That caused Susan to laugh. She needed a good laugh.
There had not been much to laugh about lately.
"Oh, Nails. I can't believe you've had all that many
husbands. Not really."
"Well, at least I had one too many," Nails said.
"Now, who's insulting whom," said Susan.
"By the way, honey child, I checked out this Bill
Ferguson fellow and he didn't check."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. You ask around and you generally find
out something about somebody. But nobody knows
anything about this guy. He made good grades at
Harvard, evidently. Some lawdy or something like
that."
"Cum laude. It means with academic distinction."
"Don't make fun of me, honey child."
"I'm not making fun of you personally," Susan said.
"Just your husbands."
"So, he's smart," Nails said. "That's quite
interesting, you know."
"And he's cute in a rugged sort of way. And his beard
scratches."
"Ah, hah!" said Nails. "So, he kissed you. I can
figure that out pretty good. This Bill Ferguson is
not the only smart person around here."
"You want to hear something funny? Well, not funny,
but strange?"
"I'd prefer funny, but I'll take strange. Yes."
"I think it was sort of an accident."
"Honey child, no man in the history of man has been
known to kiss a girl by accident."
"Well, it was sort of impromptu. You know what I
mean?"
"No. But that's enough details for the moment. I
figure there are probably some things you shouldn't
tell me about this torrid love affair with which
you're involved."
"What else did you find out about him?"
"I told you about him and Harvard."
"Yes."
"That's it."
"What a strange, strange person."
"Must be something wrong with him," said Nails.
"You think so?"
"Honey child, things have changed and are still
changing. Take, for example, the Twins. One a
lawyer? You've got to be kidding! I just hope your
Bill Ferguson isn't involved with those people, lawyer
or not, Harvard or not."
"He doesn't look like them. Of course, even they
don't really act like them. Them whoever."
"You want to move in with me until this mess blows by?
That's what I really came over to ask you. Might be
getting just a dab dangerous where you're living about
now. You hear me?"
"Not just now, Nails. But I'm very appreciative of
the offer. And, who knows, I may take you up on it.
Suddenly."
"Don't pull too much of that macho Texas BS, honey."
"I won't," said Susan.
"Just get there alive and we'll bolt the door and
scream bloody murder until the cops come," said Nails.
Susan offered Nails a lift, but Nails, of course, had
her own car. In Manhattan, a car was a liability
because you had to park it somewhere and garage fees
were sky-high and you didn't use a car very much
anyway. The taxi first, bus second, subway if you had
to. In Los Angeles, you had to have a car. It was a
necessity.
The book by Camus was on the table in Maud's office,
which was not really an office, but an area with a
desk and comfortable office chair not far from the
front door.
"Someone wanted to buy it. But when I mentioned the
price of seventeen thousand dollars, they changed
their mind."
"Seventeen thousand dollars!" scoffed Susan.
"Hey, everything's for sale at some price. I could
have ran out and bought another copy for ten or twelve
dollars and you wouldn't have known the difference."
"True."
"Why Camus today? I assume there has to be a reason
for all of this Camus."
"I walked into my office this morning and found a dead
body in my chair."
Maud wagged her head. "A dead body will do it every
time. It wasn't my son. I know that for a fact
because he phoned this afternoon. Would you like some
tea?"
"No, I haven't killed your son yet. And, yes, tea
would be good."
"That's really kind of you not to kill my son.
Kindness toward an aging mother. I mean, after all,
he's my only son."
"And a very strange son at that," said Susan.
"Do we have to talk about how strange he is? I'm sure
he has other qualities...redeeming qualities.
Something. Somewhere."
"I think so," Susan said. "But I don't know that for
a fact. He seems to know a lot about me. I guess I'm
going to have to do some research myself. I'll put
search for redeeming qualities on the list and see
what comes up."
Maud put a kettle of water on a hotplate that rested
on the corner of her desk.
"He told me that you're the daughter of a cop."
This astonished Susan.
"He did?"
"I have some Green Darjeeling tea. Down to my last
box. It's pure green Indian tea. Will that do?"
"It'll do fine," said Susan. "But how did he know
about my father?"
Maud fetched two cups from a shelf behind her desk.
"You said he was strange," Maud said. "All of that
strangeness includes research. He's very, very good
at finding out things and tearing things apart. All
kinds of things. I suppose he correlated the fact
that you're from Texas and the gun thing and
extrapolated this and extrapolated that and made a few
phone calls. He was curious as a child about
everything. Once, I caught him with the alarm clock
that was in my bedroom. Completely disassembled.
Springs and thingamabobs all over the bed."
"I hope he put it all back together."
"Of course," said Maud. "I think he was almost six at
the time."
"Impossible!"
Maud nodded. "Yes. Impossible. Poor kid."
"Why poor kid?" Susan asked.
"A child like that has trouble fitting in. You know
what I mean? Frankly, no friends. Or very few. And
even those few friends thought he was strange. It's
very tough on a woman trying to raise a strange kid
like that. I felt very sorry for me, I assure you."
"Were there, well, special schools around?"
"Oh, sure. But we tried one of those, me and my
husband, and they kicked him out. Bill was too bright
even for them, it seems."
"It's 'The Myth of Sisyphus'," Susan said.
"What?"
"The title of a book by Camus that I was trying to
remember."
"And you couldn't think of it for the life of a
turtle," Maud said. "I know. That happens to me now
and then."
"It was while the detective was asking me questions.
I kept thinking the book was 'The Myth of Syphilis'."
"Very close," said Maud and laughed as she pour some
hot water into the two cups. She set the kettle down,
cut off the hotplate, and handed Susan her cup of tea.
"I wonder what that has to do with the murder?"
"Nothing, of course."
"Well, I'm a strong believer in the subconscious,"
Maud said. "You never can tell. I had a copy of that
book, but sold it a week ago to someone who wanted to
impress his fellow professors at USC. Did you know
the victim?"
"A disc jockey. A very horrible disc jockey.
Possibly a pervert. At the very least, he was quite
obnoxious."
She told Maud about the Mojo Man sneaking into her
office with a phone repair crew, the young girl with
him, kicking him out, his threats to get even."
"He got even, all right," said Maud. "Got you accused
of murder."
"Oh, the police don't think I did it. They're
probably hunting for the little girl right now."
"You think she did it?"
"She was very scared of him. I could tell. But, no,
she didn't do it. When Bill took my gun away from me,
I bought three hunting knives. Actually, they were
shark knives with serrated edges. Well, call them
combat knives, to be precise. Driving a knife that
big into a man's chest would take a pretty good arm.
Not only an arm with muscle, but someone who probably
knew how to use a knife. That knife was driven into
the Mojo Man, whoever he really was, up to the hilt.
Took a heavy hitter."
"A man, then?"
"And more than likely someone who had plenty of time
to prowl around my office and come across the knife.
It was in a bottom drawer of my desk with some other
odds and ends. Finding it wasn't an accident. Took
some hard searching."
"Someone in your office?"
"Maybe," Susan said. "Maybe someone who wanted to pin
the murder on me. But why kill an obscure disc
jockey? Hardly seems worth the effort."
"Thus, Camus," said Maud.
"Don't bother getting a copy of 'The Myth of
Syphilis'," said Susan.
"I promise," said Maud, sipping at her cup of tea and
laughing.
How long Susan read at Camus, she didn't know and,
quite frankly, couldn't remember a single word of what
she'd read. But, of course, that was never the point
with reading Camus. The French writer provided a
blank screen upon which she could lay out the puzzles
of her life and, once they were all out there in the
open, hopefully began to put some of the pieces into
place.
She told Nails a day or two ago--no, a thousand years
ago--that she was going to fight to stay at Songdust
News. Now, it was increasingly apparent to her that
the job really wasn't worth the effort. Especially
under the present circumstances. A dead person! And
her idea about marching over to the Twins and
confronting them? Balderdash! There was a rumor that
the head of the charts of another trade publication
had overstepped his boundaries, whatever they were,
and on a hospital visit was injected with some kind of
serum meant for horses. He almost died. Was in the
hospital for weeks and at home a long time after that
recovering and never completely recovered and always
walked with a limp. Her confronting the Twins? Out
of the question!. Fighting Zeus McRae? Maybe. That
was a strong possibility. She could always threaten
him with exposure. That might scare him and, again,
it might not. Might get her shot at again. This time
for real.
There was also the strong possibility that Zeus had
killed the Mojo Man. His toady, Lee Brown? Probably
not. And Tammy and the others, no. Chase? Never!
Too kind, too gentle. No reason.
But why had the Mojo Man returned to her office? Now,
that was a good question! Granted, he was probably
very stupid. But even stupid people usually have a
reason for doing the things that they do. The door
was probably unlocked; she'd found it unlocked before.
Maybe the Mojo Man had interrupted someone prowling
through her desk and they'd killed him. Invited him
to sit at her desk and then said, "Wait, let me stab
you in the heart, will you?" and took the knife from
her desk and ran at him, jumped over the desk, and
accidentally hit the right spot on his chest; the
heart was not that easy to find.
Now that was a pretty silly idea.
Was it perhaps the same person who'd fired those two
shots at her at the corner of Doheny and Sunset? She
had thought yesterday--that, too, was a million years
ago--that those shots had been only to frighten her,
which they had done rather well. Now, she wasn't so
sure.
Her thinking was interrupted by Maud.
"Closing time," Maud said. "Are you aware that you
forgot to open the book?"
Shaking herself from her reverie, Susan noticed that
her tea cup beside her on the stand was not only
empty, but the cup was cold. And she was stiff from
sitting far too long without moving; her chair was
soft and she had literally melted into it, the book,
unopened, in her lap.
"I'm sorry," Susan said. "I wasn't aware of the
time."
"When's the last time you ate?"
"I think it was this morning. Some orange juice
before I ran."
"Ran where?"
"Just ran."
"A health nut? I can see now why my son wanted to
take you to hear Bill Monroe the other night. I have
one question: Did he take you in his Chevrolet
convertible?"
"Harley," Susan said.
"Wow," Maud said in a low tone of voice. "I don't
think he has ever let anyone even touch that noisy
machine."
"Are you into Bill Monroe, too?"
"Heavens, no! I had to look the name up. How was the
concert?"
"Great. Bill Monroe is always great."
"I'll take your word on it," Maud said. "But I'd bet
a stale donut that my son had difficulty in sitting
still. He's more of a jazz fan. Chico Hamilton,
Monk, Coltrane."
"I guess I didn't notice."
"Hey, you really are into this Monroe. Either that or
you hate my son."
"I love bluegrass music," Susan said. "But, no, I
only dislike your son intently. I do not hate him."
"Well, I have a huge pot roast that I'm going to heat
up as soon as I get home. Take about twenty minutes.
Why don't you join me for dinner? My son's coming
over. If you can stand my son, you'll love my roast."
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
May 17, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Here's the best way to end the war peacefully:
draft
Bush's two daughters and the lesbian daughter of
Cheney and send them in uniform to Iraq. Front line
combat position. The war would be over before you
could sneeze.
How's this for an idiot move? The Republicans ran a
series of ads on television three or four weeks ago
that, if elected, Johnnie Kerry would tax gasoline by
fifty cents a gallon. Hell, the price of gasoline has
gone up more than that since Bush stole the office.
In Las Vegas, the price is around $2.25 a gallon as I
write this. Way I figure it, if Kerry gets elected, I
might save money on gasoline. Anyway, I'd rather pay
taxes on the gasoline than have Bush's buddies steal
all of that money. Taxes benefit the entire
population in some way, shape or form, i.e., schools,
roads, hospitals. Bush's tax cuts went into the
pockets of a select few; the general population was
screwed.
I wonder why no one is investigating the price of
gasoline? Absolutely no one! The media is content to
let the White House administration's lies about
supplies, etc., serve as an excuse. They report the
rising prices, but they don't contest them. They
don't ask why? No uproar. Is the American public
affraid to protest anything anymore? Or perhaps the
public is protesting and television news isn't showing
it. Someone ought to protest. Have you noticed the
enormous profits of the oil companies?
The White House is trying to "spin" the rising costs
of gasoline by claiming that I'm paying just about the
same percentage of my earnings on gasoline today that
I paid back in 1950. That's not the way the price of
gasoline should be judged. It's against Bush's
present earnings and Cheney the werewolf's present
earnings that gasoline prices should be weighed.
Anyway, I was only earning about $1.50 a week in
1950...sweeping out a variety store in Winters, TX,
every other morning while going to high school. A
year or so later I was a buck private in the U.S. Army
making big dollars, living well and eating good. It's
indeed a pity that Bush nor Cheney ever enjoyed this
experience. Today, they wage war from a pedestal.
You don't see the blood and the gore very well up
there.
What I'd definitely like to see printed is a track
record of what is happening to the oil now being
tapped in Iraq. How much is being pumped. Where is
it going? Who is getting the money? Now this would
be highly intriguing. Someone must be keeping track.
But so far, not one whisper from what I believe is a
controlled media. I suspect another scandal brewing
over Iraq oil. Why isn't CNN and those other
counterfeit news people exploring this?
Of course, considering how things are shaping up in
the Middle East, high gasoline prices may be the least
of my worries. What a mess! Someone in the Bush
administration must have taken some courses on how to
anger friends and make serious enemies! Americans
have become so hated under the Bush regime that not
only are the Iraqis killing our soldiers, but anyone
seen talking to an American. I know someone working
there for Halliburton (he couldn't get a decent job in
the states because of the Bush economy). Lives under
armed guard, goes to work under armed guard, works
under armed guard. And the other day the Iraqis
launched some grenades at the hotel where workers
live. One American had his head chopped off.
Halliburton is paying some high prices for employees
in Iraq. The real job though is surviving long enough
to get paid and get the hell out of there. We are
fighting a war we cannot win.
OTHER MATTERS
Ron Nickell,
RNICKFIVE@aol.com: "I CAN'T BELIEVE
YOU'RE STILL KICKING, you old reprobate. How the hell
are you? Check out
www.radiocoloradonetwork.com. I
am still a Broadcast Consultant with my own company
RNP Productions & Broadcast Consultants, plus, I am
part of a team that owns, and runs the five stations
covering 87% of Colorado. Let me hear from you, but
check us out on the website, be sure to look at the
RCN Tech at the top of the site, and see how much we
cover, 1060 is 30,000 watts heading for 50,000 watts."
Jack Forsythe,
jachitz@comcast.net: "I've had to think
about this for a while, I worked for people like Buzz
Bennett, Bill Tanner, Joel Denver and some of the
people on your email list like E. Alvin Davis and
Dwight Douglas. These were all great PDs, but I'd
have to also offer Paul Drew as a candidate here,
while I only worked for him for a short time, for many
years I admired his knowledge and professionalism in a
business that did not always value those things. As
for DJs my vote goes to Jack Armstrong as the best
overall."
John Hall,
johnalexhall@hotmail.com: "I am currently
waiting for a box set of Jerry Garcia CDs that I have
ordered from his website. It is seven CDs of his
music. They have taken his solo CDs and added a lot
of live music from the same time. The website also
plans to release a series of concerts, too. I read
your website earlier. First, I am enjoying your
novel, though I am a couple of chapters behind.
Second, regarding your discussion of best people in
the music industry, I think it is important that to a
child and teenager growing up in the 50s-70s, their
favorite DJ and station was the best. I remember as a
kid loving the two ruling Charlies of LA. Tuna and Van
Dyke. I loved stations like 10Q and KHJ and shows
like 'American Top 40' with Casey Kasem. As for
Dorothy's husband, I am obviously very worried. I do
not think they should allow any civilians in Iraq
right now as they are not safe. It will be easier for
the famillies of the tortured victims to get at some
of the civilians than the military. I do not think
they will be in any mood to differentiate between
them."
Jack Gale,
jackgale@adelphia.net: "Thanks for
mentioning me as a 'hard working' DJ. To be mentioned
in the same paragraph with Gary Owens, Dan Ingram and
Charlie Tuna is really flattering. I really did lots
of pre-production. Need to add one name in the 'great
promoters' paragraph. That would be Stan Kaplan.
Don't you agree?"
And I forgot Ken Parker, Denver, who once, when
ferocious competition in the market gave away a new
car, countered by giving away a whole used-car lot!
But I surmise we've left out many radio people.
That's the problem with any kind of "list."
Gary Allyn Hempstead,
gallyn@adelphia.net: "Glad to
see your mention of Frank Ward. I had the pleasure of
working for and with him at WSAI in Cincinnati. What a
talent. Frank came up with the idea of standing up
while doing your show, and using a lavalier microphone
around your neck. He elevated the turntables and
control board for standing. Only trouble was, Frank
was about 6' 5"...I was about a foot shorter! It was
fun trying to cue records uphill or at eye level. His
idea was that you talked better standing, and were not
as prone to getting sleepy or lazy like when you sit.
Standing made your diaphram free to speak more
naturally on the radio. It made sense to me...plus it
gave you freedom to walk around and not be
'chair-bound' to the control room. I always thought
Ward was one of best-sounding DJs I ever heard. He
came from that 'Buffalo School' of DJs like Tom Clay,
Hap Hopkins, etc., who were soft, smooth, and tight.
He( and they) used a 'beat system' to silently count
over the intro to hit the opening vocal on a record.
Phenomenal! These guys were exciting without screaming
at you. I had the great good fortune to work with
many of the best, but...Frank Ward in a
word...BRILLIANT!"
James Rose,
rosekkkj@earthlink.net: "The good old
days of 1967 bring to mind an interesting chain of
events after I left KPCN in Dallas. I called WFAA to
check with CHARLIE VAN about an opening I heard about.
CHARLIE told me to "come on down!" He asked me if I
had a tape. Didn't have one. Hadn't needed one! I
had already been hired by three Radio Stations with no
tape. CHARLIE gave me a stack of 45's, records not
bullets, and a reel of tape. He took me to the huge
WFAA Production Studio. EVERYTHING at WFAA in those
days was HUGE! CHARLIE told me to put together an
audition tape. I was still rather new to Radio,
hadn't quite learned about the importance of a tape to
get a job in Radio. Hadn't needed one so far. CHARLIE
hired me for all-nights on WFAA-570. Its Control Room
looked almost like an afterthought compared to the
rest of WFAA! It was nice enough and very well
equipped, but tiny! WFAA-820's Control Room would
hold an orchestra! This was during the Legendary
Frequency Sharing days of WFAA-Dallas and WBAP-Ft.
Worth! Each owned 50% of 570 kc, which was 5000
watts, and 820 KC, which was Clear Channel 50,000
watts! WFAA and WBAP had similar MOR formats. WFAA's
was brighter, more up tempo. WFAA set the guidelines
for 820. WBAP did the same for 570. MIKE MARSHALL was doing
8p-midnight on WFAA-820. MIKE preferred all
nights. CHARLIE said it was all right if we switched.
BOY! I had never done all-nights before! I would wake
up with a 45 r.p.m. record skipping along in the final
groove! So, the change was quite fine with me. DJ'ing
8p-midnight on a Clear Channel 50,000 watt Radio
Station was something I'll never forget! Charlie told
me the 820 signal covers much of the United States
and that I would get offers from other Radio Stations.
I thought he was kidding. A guy from Chicago would
call often for MARTY ROBBINS' 'El Paso'. I liked the
song but not as much as he did, plus it was
long...around 4 minutes! WOW! All tunes are 4 minutes
now! A woman from Mayfield, Kentucky, called every
single night wanting to carry on a conversation just
as if we lived next door! She sent me pictures!
Some girls at a college in Cape Giradeau, Missouri,
wrote, asked me to MC a dance! Once, a truck driver
called from up North headed South. He said his wife in
Alabama also listened to me! He wanted me to play her
a song, mention he'll be driving into Alabama in just
a few more hours. Another night, a guy called who
said he was listening from an island in the Caribbean.
I didn't believe him. He sent me a piece of paper
money from the island! Similar calls came in each
night. This was REALLY NEW AND EXCITING! Never knew where the
next call was going to be coming from. One
night, out of the clear, a guy called who said he was
General Manager of a Radio Station in San Antonio. He
said the owner had heard me and instructed him to HIRE
me! WAIT A MINUTE! Where in the world would I want to
go? I had hit the BIG TIME! Any other Radio Station
was very much below where I was at WFAA! He called me
almost every other night trying to lure me to San
Antonio! Dallas was my home! I don't want to live
ANYWHERE ELSE! We got to talking money. It increased
with each call! When dollars reached an interesting
figure, I threw out a figure high enough, thought this
would rid me of him once and for all. HE BIT! OH MY!
WHAT HAVE I DONE? That's how I became Program
Director of KBUC FM-AM in San Antonio. I stayed at
KBUC from about 1968-71! This is just one of many
reasons that makes RADIO so EXCITING, TREMENDOUS and FUN! I MISS
IT GREATLY!"
Ah, those great signals! I once sat in with Bruce
Miller Earle and another jock on XEROX, Juarez.
Night. I later heard from someone listening in
Turkey!
Ed Salamon,
ed_salamon@crb.org, was kind enough to
invite me over to a conference he's holding in Las
Vegas May 24-25. I wrote back, "Ed, Thank you for
the invite. I'm quite flattered you even remember me.
However, I guess I'll take a pass. More and more I
tend to the theoretical rather than the practical.
However, I hope you have a very successful, very
phenomenal meeting." Ed responded: "Not remember you?
Not to make you feel old, but before I got into the
biz, you were the first radio teacher I had, via VOX
JOX--whenever I could score a Billboard. I will always
remember and appreciate your contributions. I think
of what we do today with the Country Radio Seminars as
an outgrowth of the substantive communication that you
and Bill Gavin, in his own way, started. Check out
the agenda at the link below, and should you change
your mind, my invitation to you is still open."
http://crb.org/CRSLV/agenda.html
Don't know if this is the same meeting, but I think I
presented the keynote address to the first one in
Nashville many, many years ago. I musta said
something good, because the meeting is still around,
eh!
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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