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"Xtreme"
Chapter Twenty of a novel
by Claude Hall
She slept fitfully and once even woke up and just
stared at the ceiling until it disappeared in a fog of
sleep. Her arm didn't hurt. But she felt like she
had a twenty-four-hour virus when she awoke again and
dressed in her running togs. Well, not really a
physical ailment as such. But something was
definitely out of kilter. She performed some brief
stretching exercises. They didn't help matters.
The sun was just about to sweep into the valley and
dominate it with oven-inspired heat as she started out
on her morning run, proceeding slowly, running as if
through molasses.
The familiar dark car wasn't there, but after less
than a block a familiar figure dressed in Levis, a
blue teeshirt, and sneakers got up from a bus stop
bench and ran along beside her. Suddenly, and she was
surprised when she realized this, she felt better!
"Aren't you even going to say good morning?"
"No," she said.
So, he ran beside her, keeping pace, and once when she
tried a burst of speed he still kept pace. She gave
up trying to outrun him and counted, instead, on
stamina. Three miles later, he was still there. This
absolutely astonished her. There were only two kinds
of people who stayed in good condition: Those who
wanted to stay in good condition and those that had
to. As far back as she could remember, she'd
performed exercises. Maybe even as a baby. Somewhere
about the sixth grade, she'd began to take physical
conditioning seriously. And she loved to run. First,
there was a kick, a freedom, that you felt from
running and running well and running far, an emotional
high after you stopped and your blood didn't stop
pounding through your veins at extraordinary speed.
Second, the confidence of knowing that you could
out-perform just about everything not on wheels was
worth any physical pain or physical turmoil. In a
movie sometimes, you saw a guy chunk down a cigarette
and run down the block and you almost had to laugh
because you knew that sucker wouldn't make it in
reality past thirty yards before falling on his face,
exhausted.
Bill Ferguson was in good condition. Well, well! Now
the only thing to be decided was whether he ran
because he liked to run or because he had to run. For
some while, she'd suspected the latter. You don't
become a reporter and undergo the serious journalistic
training required for a Bachelor of Journalism degree
at The University of Texas unless, somewhere along the
way, you developed certain instincts. In the old
days, they referred to it as "a nose for news." The
genre was a little more sophisticated today, but the
concept was still there. Her fingers had never felt
greasy around Bill Ferguson. However, instead of
giving him the benefit of the doubt, she'd always
considered the fact that maybe her "thermometer"
wasn't perfect.
They were in the vicinity of Pierce College and, as if
by mutual consent, they had slowed to a mere jog when
three men came from behind cars. The men had business
in their eyes as well as in their hands. Their eyes
were cold and spoke of hard cruelties in the past and
even meaner cruelties yet to come. Their hands spoke
an even louder message. They carried baseball bats.
One of the men, a guy who wore his hair long about his
shoulders, swung his baseball bat from side to side.
Another had his baseball bat resting casually on his
shoulder.
Susan and Bill stopped. Both were breathing hard.
"Friends of yours, I presume," Bill said. She was
pleased to note that he had trouble getting the words
out clearly. Then thought, why should she be glad he
was more winded than she was? Right now, that was not
the optimum.
"Nope," she said and took care that the word came out
properly in spite of her hard breathing.
"In that case, you take the two on the right and I'll
handle the other one."
"Two?"
"I'm quite positive," Bill said, "that you're much
better at this sort of thing than I am. In fact, I
know it for a fact."
"We could run, you know," she said. "Those punks
probably would fade away in less than a hundred
yards."
"Maybe," Bill said. "However, I would sincerely like
to talk with these gentlemen."
"Talk at them now, for god's sake!"
"Hi," Bill said and stuck out his hand as he walked
toward the guy who swung his baseball bat from side to
side like someone operating a vacuum cleaner.
"Oh, fine!" said Susan as she stood there with her
hands on her hips. "I really don't think these creeps
want to be friends, Bill."
The longhair didn't have time to raise his bat.
Bill's offer to shake hands may have thrown him off
kilter. He was slow as Bill shifted from walking
slowly forward to a quick step that drew him suddenly
near. Bill didn't bother with a left jab, as a
trained boxer might, but instead drew his right back,
doubled his fist, and cracked the longhair on the
chin. It didn't appear to be a hard punch, but Bill
had rolled his shoulder with the punch and it packed a
deceptive amount of power. The longhair's head
snapped back and he dropped his baseball bat as he
felt to one knee. He knelt there, looking up at Bill
as if to ask why Bill had done that to him. Bill
didn't bother picking up the baseball bat. He just
stood above the man as if daring him to move.
By then, the other two men, both in bluejeans and
white teeshirts, were raising their bats in a menacing
manner and preparing to swing. Susan quickly stepped
to the side as if dancing some ballet. This caused
the men to have to change direction and brought them
toward her one at a time rather than side by side.
She jumped on the first man's instep with her right
shoe as hard as she could and let him feel the full
force of her shoulder in his midriff. He was limping
as he quickly jumped away, still holding the bat. By
now, of course, he was having difficulty in finding a
target because Susan had, almost in the same motion,
spun around and grabbed the second man's bat and used
his own leverage to swing him forward off balance.
She kicked him in the ribs and let the bat go so that
his own momentum carried him on forward and he landed
on his face several feet away.
"I knew you could take them both!" Bill said.
"Thanks, but I haven't taken anyone yet and I could
use some help."
"Not me. I'm busy," he said.
"Busy doing what!" she shouted because she was rather
busy herself at that point. The first guy, ignoring
his bruised foot, was rushing forward with his bat
held ready to swing.
"Watching, of course," Bill yelled back. Actually,
she saw out of the corner of her eye that longhair had
struggled to his feet and was charging head down at
Bill. She never saw what happened because her own
opponent was wildly swinging his bat. She ducked that
swing and hit him under the chin with her head. As he
was stumbling back, the other man was running forward.
She grabbed him by the teeshirt and, felt back,
kicking him in the stomach and using the man's own
momentum to carry him over her head and into a nearby
pickup truck. She heard something crack and just
hoped that it wasn't Bill's head from one of the
baseball bats. She guy she'd hit with her chin was
getting to his feet, so she jumped on him with both
feet. Her foot attack caught him in the chest and put
him out of commission. As she got to her feet, her
assailant was sprawling on his side trying to get his
breath and having difficulty.
Bill was standing near the pickup beside one of the
assailants who was holding his arm.
"Broke, I think," said Bill. "Poor guy. He didn't
realize with whom he was dealing. If he had given us
a minute or two, I would have told him not to mess
with you."
Longhair was sprawled unconscious at Bill's feet.
"It appears as if this guy down there didn't know who
he was dealing with either," she said.
Bill walked over and helped the other assailant to his
feet and flung him against the side of the pickup
without much ceremony. The assailant, still trying to
get his breath, doubled up and leaned over the back of
the pickup truck.
She noticed the assailant's hip pocket.
"Watch out. He has a gun," she said.
"I know. And he seems to be just stupid enough to try
to use it." Bill took the guy by his hair and jerked
him back and slung him against the pickup again. When
she leaned over to take the gun out of the man's
pocket, a hand from Bill locked hard around her wrist
to stop her.
"Fingerprints," Bill said.
"Screw fingerprints," Susan said. "I'm going to shoot
him with it."
"Now that's not very nice, girl. I know you wouldn't
really do something as cruel and vicious as that."
I wouldn't?" she said sharply. "This creep was going
to bash my skull with a baseball bat."
"Well, perhaps a shot or two," said Bill. "To heck
with the fingerprints. Pop him in the knee. That
will hurt something just awful and he'll never be able
to walk again without crutches or maybe one of those
little aluminum cart things that old people use in the
supermarket."
She took the gun, a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson
revolver, and checked the chamber. Snapping the
chamber back into place, she pointed the barrel at the
man's knee.
"What do you want to know?" He stared at the gun in
her hand. He was still having difficulty breathing,
but she understood his words..
"Nothing, really. Because, you know, I don't really
care. I'm curious, a little. But if you don't want
to answer, please don't because, you know, I could use
a little target practice. The only thing I'm curious
about is who hired you. That's just about it."
"Somebody who said he was with the mafia. That's all
we know. He didn't give out any business cards."
"What a pity," she said and cocked the hammer of the
revolver back with her thumb.
Bill reached over and placed his hand over her arm and
gently moved the barrel of the gun from directly
pointing at the man.
"Guess we'd better not shoot him after all," Bill
said. "I'll go call the police. Pay phone. Be right
back."
The guy she'd threatened to shoot was breathing a
little better now, but he kept his eyes on the gun.
"Lady," he said, "if I'd known you were this tough, I
would have asked for more money."
"Wouldn't have been enough," she said.
"You're probably right," he said. "Why are you so
important?"
"I caught someone in a vicious game," she said.
"Shouldn't have called for a killing. But there's
been a killing already. What did this mafia guy look
like? Did he smoke a pipe."
"Can't say," he said. "But he didn't seem to be the
pipe kind of guy. I'll tell you that much."
"Thanks," she said.
When the police came, she found it rather curious that
they all took Bill Ferguson for granted. He stood
around, ignored. Yet, this was the same man about
whom Detective Cardenas had asked questions.
He leaned against a nearby pine tree, arms crossed.
He was very interested in everything that was going
on, watching closely as the police cuffed the three
assailants and placed them in individual squad cars
and drove them away. At any moment, as the police
briefly questioned the three men, she felt that Bill
wanted to whip out a pad and ballpoint pen and take
notes. But, of course, he did not.
They asked if she knew any of the three assailants.
No, she did not. Did she know what they were after?
She thought that murder might have been one of the
goals. Did she know how they found out her route?
No. Had she had other such problems? Lots, she said.
She suggested that they confer with Detective Raul
Cardenas.
The police were kind enough to drop them near her
apartment. No, she told Bill, he could not take a
shower at her apartment. Yes, he could phone later.
No, she did not want to go to lunch. Nor dinner.
Because she had some things to figure out.
After she showered, she had some orange juice and a
slice of rye toast. She phoned Tammy at Songdust and
pleaded illness; "I won't be in today." Then she
dressed and drove out toward Vallencia and found, once
again, the house beyond the shooting range and had
fifteen minutes of HCX. It took just a few seconds to
realize this was not exactly what she needed and she
was black and blue from bruises by the time the
instructor stopped, on cue, and offered her some
coffee.
"You know, if you don't stay focused, you could get
the hell beaten out of you."
"Thanks for the advice," she said. "I think I just
did."
The coffee didn't help much either. But an hour later
she was sitting in Mind's Eye with a book by Camus in
her hands and a very excellent cup of tea.
There was no one in the shop with the exception of
herself and Maud Ferguson. She thought it strange
that people very seldom entered Mind's Eye, but, of
course, Maud had explained that most of her business
was with interior decorators or an elite clientele.
Regardless, there was a feeling of comfort here, as
if, at least for a while, she was safe. Soft music
spun in the background and soft, musty odors of
ancient books prevailed and filled the rows of shelves
and the little alcove where she sat in a comfortable
chair with a comfortable book.
After a while, Maud came over with a fresh cup of tea
and pulled over a chair.
"The Camus isn't working," she said.
"You noticed that, huh?" replied Susan.
"I also noticed a bruise on your forehead. You
collect that this morning?"
Susan sipped at her tea.
"Does your son tell you everything?"
"No. Matter of fact, he seldom talks. And never
about business. But I gather this morning had little
to do with his business and more to do with your
business. So, he told me everything."
Suddenly, for no apparent reason that she could think
of, Susan began to cry.
Maud quickly handed her a box of Kleenex.
"Did they hurt you? Bill said you took out two of
them all by yourself."
"No. I got this bruise, and a few others, from
exercising."
Maud touched the blue area on her head. "Some
exercise!"
"It's like judo," Susan said, trying to explain a
little of HCX without explaining enough that would
make her sound absolutely crazy.
"Did my son make one of his stupid verbal blunders
then? Is that why you're crying?"
No. In fact, he keeps asking me to marry him."
"He asked you to marry him?"
Maud acted surprised at the information about
marriage.
"Several times," Susan said, trying to keep the tears
wiped away.
"Is that why you're crying?" Maud asked.
"No. I don't know why I'm crying. Maybe it's an
accumulation of everything. A year ago, I was one
happy little mud hen. I liked my job. I could deal
with most of the people with whom I came in contact.
I could accept most of the rest. I used to be fairly
intolerant. I don't think I'm that way anymore. At
least I try to keep an open mind. But now everything
and everybody has turned sour on me. I don't think I
know one single person that I can trust, including
your son. That's a pretty piss-poor situation, if you
ask me."
"I think you can trust my son."
"No, I can't," Susan sobbed. She grabbed a few more
Kleenex tissues from the box. It was strange about
her crying. She never cried. Not even as a kid when
her mother died and certainly not later when her
father passed away; he'd told her not to shed any
tears over him because it was his time.
When was her time? Her father had known his time.
Would she know?
My son is a good person," Maud said.
"Good for him," said Susan. "But I wouldn't trust him
further than...whatever. He lies, you know."
"Never," said Maud. "Except about one thing. He
sometimes lies when he says he's lying."
"A riddle? See what I mean? I can't even trust you!
You tell riddles about a son no one can understand and
you operate a bookstore with only one regular client,
me, and I haven't bought one single book because
they'll all outrageously priced! Whoever heard of a
book being worth six hundred dollars! Whoever heard
of a son that can run six miles and never gets a hair
cut!"
Maud was quiet for a while and after a while Susan
stopped sobbing uncontrollably and a while after that
stopped crying altogether. She had no real idea of
why she had cried and she had no idea of why she
stopped. But Maud seemed to have an understanding.
"Honey, I will tell you one thing for sure and this
isn't any riddle: You ought to quit that job. You're
much too honest and nice for those people with whom
you're working. They don't deserve someone like you.
Get away from them. Let them fester in that sewer
they've created. It would serve them right."
"I need a job. You can't live in this world without
some kind of job."
"Work here," said Maud. "I can probably pay you as
much as you're earning."
"How can you afford to hire an employee when you don't
even have customers?"
"I had one customer this morning. She bought a
library of books worth twenty thousand dollars for
some actor who'd just landed a television contract and
moved into a new home in the Hollywood Hills. I don't
need all that many customers. The Mind's Eye does
pretty well and if I hire you I'll be able to take a
longer vacation."
"I wouldn't be much good for you, Maud. I'm really a
writer."
"There's a desk and typewriter over there," she said.
"You get bored reading Camus, write. You get bored
writing, read Camus. What more could you ask?"
"I'm not going to marry your son, Maud."
"The really great news is that you don't have to marry
my son in order to work here."
"I'm not kidding."
"Good! It's probably for the best," she said.
"Someone who reads Camus was not exactly what I had in
mind. I can't fathom my grand children being raised
by someone like that."
Ah, criticism at last regarding her son from big
mother hen!
"I'm curious," said Susan. "Who do you personally
have in mind?"
"Someone interested in Alexandre Dumas," Maud said.
"Ah, 'The Man in the Iron Mask'."
"Exactly," said Maud. "And here he comes."
Bill Ferguson opened the door and walked into the
bookstore. He appeared to be irritated and, it
appears, he was.
He walked over and confronted Susan, who personally
didn't believe she could stand much confrontation this
afternoon. She had reached her confrontational limit,
so to speak!
"You weren't at your office and they said you were
sick. First, I phoned your apartment and there was no
answer, so I drove all of the way over to your
apartment and you weren't there. Just where in the
devil have you been all day?"
"All day?" She raised her eyebrows. Or at least
tried. Her eyes were quite sore from crying.
"Well, forget this morning," Bill said. "But I've
been worried completely out of my skull trying to find
you."
"Why?"
"Because," he said, "those three idiots this morning
aren't the only idiots floating around in show
business."
"Hey, I handled two of them. I could have handled all
three."
He grunted, glanced at his mother for support, but she
wasn't giving any. She held up two hands, palms
forward, as if to ward off any such foolish notion.
"Yeah, I guess you could have," Bill said. "But I'm
glad that I was there anyway. Just in case."
"I don't even know why you were there!" Susan said.
"I had a right to be there," Bill insisted.
"Mind the Mind's Eye," said Maud quickly, jumping into
the conversation. "I've got to run down the street on
an errand. I'll be right back."
"You stay right here," Susan ordered.
"Get!" Bill said, waving at hand at his mother.
Maud looked wildly around.
"This is not my debate," she said.
"Yes, it is!" said Susan.
"No, it isn't!" said Bill.
"Tea!" Maud said rather loudly. "I will go fix tea.
Anything to get me out of the line of fire."
"And, as you for you, little girl, I'm not the one who
is pushy. You're the one who's pushy."
"I'm not a little girl and I'm definitely not pushy,"
Susan said angrily.
"May I suggest that both of you discuss something
sensible such as Albert Camus," suggested Maud from
the vicinity of her office. "Maybe Henry Miller?"
"You want to fight about it?" Bill demanded.
I can whip you!" Susan said.
"Watch out, honey," cautioned Maud. "He has a blue
belt or something."
"A black belt, mom."
"I've whipped black belts before," said Susan. "I can
whip a blue belt, too. Dress anyway you wish."
"With honors," said Bill. "And I don't care who your
father was or what he taught you!"
"You really don't want to fight me," Susan said.
"Although I resent that remark strongly. Yes, my
father taught me quite a lot. But it was my uncle
Charles you want to worry about. He's the one who
taught me how to fight dirty."
Bill laughed and stepped back, suddenly quiet and very
calm.
"Have you got the tea ready yet, mom?" he asked.
"Watch out, Susan," warned Maud. "He's at his most
deadly when he's like this. He's really not so bad
when he's shouting, believe me."
"Doesn't matter to me," Susan said. "I can whip him
any way, any time, any place."
"Don't worry," Bill said. "I'm not going to fight
you."
"I'm glad we got that settled," Susan said. She was
breathing a little hard and wondered if she really
wanted to fight him or was that just a show of some
kind of bravado? Why was she always trying to get the
upper hand? Why was she so different from most women?
"Me, too!" said Maud, bringing them each a cup of tea.
"Herbal. To soothe a few nerves around here."
"Tell me about Lee Brown," said Bill, flopping into
one of the easy chairs with his cup of tea.
"I'd rather fight," said Susan.
"Did you know he may be mafia?" asked Bill, only it
was more of a statement than a question.
"Don't be silly," said Susan.
"Either Lee Brown or Zeus McRae. Has to be one of
them."
"Neither one could mafia their way out of a wet paper
bag," Susan insisted.
"Sit down, Susan," said Maud. Then she went over and
placed a hand on her son's shoulder and said: "You'd
better tell her or I will."
First, he sipped at his tea, making a face because it
was still too hot to drink. He looked at his mother,
then looked out the window.
"How do you know Lee Brown or Zeus McRae might be
mafia?" asked Susan when Bill continued to stall.
"Bill is a special agent and he has been investigating
the music business," said Maud.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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July 19, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
ABOUT BILL
Jim Labarbara,
jimlabarbara@fuse.net: "claude im
still on wgrr oldies in cinti. doing afternoon drive.
i was up for radio & records air personality of the
year a couple of weeks ago but lost to ron chapman
from dallas. i just signed a new 3yr contract. i love
being on the radio this is my 45 yr. i have fond
memories of chauffeuring you & bill randle around
cinti. i found your commentary on the internet & had
to add this. bill randle just passed away. i always
thought he was going to be with us forever. one of
those few people who are bigger than life. in 1966
while working on wkyc in clev i gave one of my music
professor intros to a record & my engineer record
spinner said thats something bill randle would say. he
used to engineer for bill at were. i said ive got to
call him ive always wanted to meet him. the guy
laughed & told me randle wont give you the time of
day. it took me 10 years to make that phone call. in
late 1976 early 77 bill was named head of the
broadcasting sch at the u of cincinnati. i called to
wish him well & mentioned i had taught at wixy sch of
broadcasting etc. he knew all about me. we got
together the next day & he made me an offer. i would
teach 2 courses 8am classes for him. in return he
would give me a scholarship to work on my masters
degree. eleven months later i received my masters
degree. that yr 1977 was my bill randle yr the most
memorable of my life. i had the highest ratings ever
for my wlw afternnon show and my son jimmy was born. i
did around 100 apparances for the station that yr. i
spent everyday around bill randle not only did i learn
academics but so much about life. i had so much
energy. he had a way of making you push yourself to do
more.my masters thesis was a 24 hr audio history of r
&r from elvis to the beatles. i used my own interviews
jackie wilson, bill haley, jerrylee lewis etc. i got
him to sit down and tell me the elvis story etc etc.
we went thru alot of tape. he gave me the master tape
of the entire dorsey tv show where he introduced elvis
for the 1st time on national tv. after evening classes
we'd often hit one of the college bars for a couple of
beers & great conversation. bill showed me the record
company statements for songs he found for artists,
groups he discovered, studio work etc. thousands of
dollars it was a business. radio was a business to him
& nobody did it better. he taught me several
techniques he used they are timeless. i had my friend
marty brennaman reds hall of fame broadcaster guest
lecture one of my classes. we stopped by bills office
after class bill gave him an antique gold pocket watch
and chain. bill insisted he take it because it would
look good on him. it was just something he wanted to
do. bill randle & i went to the 77 billboard
convention in new orleans we were part of a discussion
group. bill said wed fly down in his plane weather
permitting. we ended up taking a commercial flight.
just before we were leaving new orleans he tells me
we'll refund our tickets because hes flying us back in
his plane. picture this. he had his pilot fly his
plane from cleveland to new orleans so he could fly us
back to cincinnati. i asked him why he said i told you
wed take my plane. we had a near miss on the takeoff
but a most enjoyable flight. when i graduated with my
masters degree he gave me a cufflink set that he had
made, a record with a microphone. my wife sallys
favorite color is red.so he gave me an unused ticket
from the 1st beatles press conference framed with a
red background. i admired an old erla radio with a big
horn . he said you really like this & he gave it to
me. bill & i were inducted into the radio television
broadcasters hall of fame class of 2000. it was a
great honor for me to be on the same stage with him.
he told me im only here because they told me you were
going to be here. he didnt like that stuff. the next
yr he did the presenter speech for my old boss at wixy
the great norman wain afterwards bill & i sat around &
talked for over an hour until they closed. if he would
have stayed at u of cinti i would have gotten a law
degree. a couple of yrs ago he asked me what if
somebody paid for law sch would you go. i was too
busy. he kept after me. i was very fortunate that he
was my friend & that he let me into his life. he was
very generous and a loyal friend. .he had a tremendous
influence on so many people. we lost a legend. claude
i didnt mean for this to turn into a book. thats
another thing bill would ask me write a book about r&r
you have the interviews. i just wanted you to know
when you were with us in 77 besides being on wlw.i was
one of his grad students & a teacher at the
university. i enjoy reading your work. claude if youre
ever in cinti please lets get together & share some
bill randle stories."
Jim LaBarbara, the music professor! I'd been trying
to get in touch with Jim for years. Without question,
one of Bill's closest friends. When I receive a note
like the one above and a note from J. Robert Wood as
well in one single week, I began to believe that the
work of doing this website is all worth while. The
doubt that I might be wasting my time vanishes. I'm
grateful to you men. I feel blessed to know both of
you.
Just FYI, I also I emailed about 20 guys that I
thought would be interested in reading my tribute on
Bill. This came from Bob Dearborn,
TheMagicOfRadio@aol.com:
"Thanks for thinking of me,
Claude, and for remembering the radio pioneer, Bill
Randle, to whom many of us who've roamed the hallway
he first illuminated owe our lasting gratitude. Take
care!"
John Hall,
johnalexhall@hotmail.com: "Mom told me
about Bill yesterday. My condolences. I read your
commentary and it made me wish that someone would do a
Freedom of Information search on Bill Randle. I think
it would be fascinating. As for Bill, I only met him
a couple of times while living in Enid. I guess that
I would have met him more often if I spent more than
the summers there. Still, he was quite impressive.
The fact that he went to law school at his age is
amazing. Then, you consider that he was working at
the same time at Phillips and it is even more amazing.
Then, you consider that he would have to commute to
Law School from Enid to Oklahoma City and it becomes
unbelievable."
John sent me a link to an Australian website that
deals strictly with Elvis Presley and, yes, they
carried the Bill Randle obit. John also sends me the
columns written by Jimmy Breslin that are printed in
the Smirking Chimp website. Breslin wouldn't know me,
but in the days when I was as associate editor of
Cavalier magazine, he would occasionally borrow my
typewriter and knock out an article. One he wrote on
Bob Cousy, as I recall from all of these years, was a
classic. Breslin is now a columnist for Newsday. If
he says it, you'd better believe it. Great writer.
Great reporter. In many of the Mickey Spillane
novels, Mickey mentioned the Blue Ribbon. Hey, me and
Jimmy and Bill Mason and Bob Curran also knew that
place pretty well. It's gone now. The whole block is
gone now. Like the Greek cabarets where I hung out
with Jim Houtrides and the belly dancers danced on my
table and tossed their scarves at me, like the Blue
Ribbon, some things just aren't there any more. Last
time Joey Reynolds phoned, I asked him about the old
Italian places and he said, yes, many of them were
still there. Guess those people who tear down
buildings are a little nervous about tearing down some
of the old Italian places, eh. I remember one place
where you could get fresh-made strawberry sodas and
baba au rums. Don't remember the name of the place.
Raul Cardenas might remember. One night in the old
days several mobsters were machine-gunned down while
having dinner there. Ah, but New York City was a
fascinating place back in my Cavalier days. And
probably still is if you just know where to look.
Ted Marvelle, shazam@mvdsl.com:
"The easiest time I
EVER had getting a new gig was through George Wilson
but, it started with you. I'd called you, at
Billboard, to see if you knew of any openings, as you
seemed you always did. You gave me George's number.
George didn't know me from Adam, but when I explained
that you said to call, he told me to call a Detroit station he
was consulting at the time. I did, mentioned that
George said to call and got the job. No tape, no
resume. I was just told to be there in a week."
Heard from Raul Cardenas, Ph.D.,
EnviroRaul@aol.com,
an old college buddy who has quite a few more combat
medals than Buchenwald. Does Buchenwald have any?
Cowards and babykillers don't earn too many medals as
a rule. I'd mentioned in a recent email to Raul that
some radio guys I used to know had decided they didn't
know me anymore because of my political views. Here's
what Raul commented: "This morning I got pissed off
at an article in the NY Times and wrote a nasty letter
to the editor. Glad to see you are still tellin' em'
like it is...It's good to have so many enemies, makes
you feel so wanted."
Raul's letter to the editor: "I am amazed but not
surprised that President Bush continues to defend the
war. He is an emperor who had steadily lost his
clothes. He has yet to face up to admitting error for
leading the U.S. in a shameful and shrill, flag-waving
charge claiming eminent threat based on exaggerated or
distorted evidence of WMDs and bio-weapons in Iraq.
He then stampeded us into a pre-emptive war based on
what 'we thought they might do', because 'he (Hussein)
had the capability of producing weapons of mass
murder...' (NY Times, 7/13/04). This was done entirely
on his own, despite overwhelming evidence and world
opinion to the contrary, and the mass protests of
multimillions. This cowboy tactic has seriously
damaged our historic, public image of the U.S. as a
freedom-loving, peaceful, democratic, and decent
people. Now, having turned most of the Arab and Muslim
world against us (and the Europeans), we are engaged
in a shameful occupation that he has characterized as
a struggle of 'good' vs 'evil'. With the Americans
dying at a rate approaching those at the end of the
Korean war, it seems delusional that this President
should claim that we or anyone else in the world is
safer. It is quite the opposite. It is even more
obscene that he should now posture as our protector.
Has this man no shame? When will the emperor admit
what we already know: that he is down to his Texas
longjohns."
Friday, July 16. Saw Dick Gregory's talk at the NAACP
convention on C-Span. Amazed that he's still around
and still good. What a great talk! I felt like
standing up and cheering. The NAACP honored Gregory.
And rightly so. He has done a lot to help make the
world a better place in which to live.
PERSUASION
Writer Albert Camus once said: "You know what charm
is: A way of getting the answer yes without having
asked any clear question."
Persuasion, according to Charles U. Larson, is a
process whereby decision options are intentionally
limited or extended through the interaction of
messages, sources, and receivers and through which
attitudes, beliefs, opinions, or behaviors are changed
by a cognitive restructuring of one's image of the
world or of his/her frame of reference. (10)
In addition to the constant treats of terrorism
proffered by the Buchenwald administration, this week
the media is carrying the threat that the November
elections might be postponed because of terrorist
threats. In other words, Buchenwald may try to
manipulate you for his advantage. If the polls aren't
in his favor, delay the elections until his bullyboys
can think of a methodology of improving him in the
polls. Or cheating on the election as was done in
Florida. If Buchenwald tries something like this, I
hope everyone in America rises up in protest. My fear
is that a great percentage of Americans have come to
believe the Buchenwald lies, either out of stupidity
or lack of caring.
Larson also believes that in order for persuasion to
operate effectively, there is needed a properly-tended
atmosphere. It doesn't happen automatically. (7)
In this particular situation, Buchenwald and his
bullyboys have the threat of terrorism. Instead of
making friends, the White House obviously intends to
kill all that stand in their way. No compromise. No
idea or ideal of peace. You, they must change or die!
Four basic conditions affect the ability for a human
to filter messages: Informational, physical,
psychological, and cultural.
In other words, other lies must exist. I.e., the
economy is getting better, more people are getting
jobs, prescription drugs cost less today, our children
are receiving better education than any time in
history. Lies upon lies.
We, as human beings, are concerned, of course, with
the psychological and physical wellness of the
receivers of our messages. I.e., the better the lie
is tailored to the needs of the intended population
target, the more that lie will be believed. There is
a tendency for the uneducated and the less intelligent
to not only believe a lie faster, but stronger. Thus,
some people ignore the fact that women and children
are being slaughtered in Iraq in belief that a "common
good" is being performed. In a mistaken opinion that
Buchenwald is president and thus must know what he's
doing. Buchenwald, of course, may have adopted the
title. However, he is certainly no elected president,
never has been, never will be one.
But the conservative who believes in the Buchenwald
lie, regardless that it is gigantic and horrible in
reality, overlooks the death of the women and
children. For example, when American troops raided
the home where Saddam Hussein's two sons were, they
did not call upon the men to surrender, but, instead,
blew the hell out of the house with round upon round
of bullets and rockets. The conservative quickly
"forgets" or purposely ignores the fact that the
children and wives of the two sons were also murdered.
I will not...I cannot...honor any soldier who fired a
single bullet at that house. These were not the kind
of soldiers I knew in the army. I would not have
wanted a single one of these murders who hide behind
the American uniform standing beside me in combat.
The soldiers I knew were of a better breed.
The problem with a lie is the propensity for the lie
to be eventually discovered. If not soon after it is
proffered, then at some point in time to come. But it
is a hard thing for a person now suffering to wait for
the justification of history. I'm not sure that
America can stand four more years of Buchenwald. I'm
not sure the world can stand four more years of
Buchenwald.
We, as public relations scientists, must be extremely
conscious, however, of at least three of these
conditions mentioned earlier: Our information must be
clear, precise, accurate. We must customize our
messages to the psychological condition of the target
audience to a great extent. We must take into strong
consideration the cultural backgrounds of target
audiences. This encouragement is offerred for the
days beyond Buchenwald...the days when he is no longer
a plague on the public.
There are some tools you can use to further a better
world. It's helpful if you have some basic
understanding of human nature, i.e., what makes people
tick. There are many things that motivate people;
these were best described by Dr. Abraham Maslow, who
studied human nature for more than 30 years. His
research showed three significant points about a
person's physical and emotional needs:
1. Some needs are stronger than others and thus more
difficult to fill or gratify;
2. The filling of these needs has a definite order or
sequence--that is, some needs must be dealt with first
before others can be achieved; and,
3. As a need becomes fulfilled, the person
automatically seeks gratification at the next highest
level.
Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs
These "needs" are stepped, i.e., No. 1 needs must be
filled before the target person or population will be
able to handle No. 2.
5. Self-actualization needs--self-fulfillment of
potential; doing things purely for the challenge of
accomplishment; intellectual curiosity and
fulfillment; creativity and aesthetic appreciation;
acceptance of reality.
4. Self-esteem needs--recognition and prestige;
confidence and leadership; achievement and ability;
competence and success; strength and intelligence.
3. Love needs--acceptance; feeling of belonging;
membership in group; love and affection; group
participation.
2. Safety needs--security and safety; protection;
comfort and peace; no threats or danger; orderly and
neat surroundings.
1. Physical needs--food and thirst, sleep, health,
body needs, exercise and rest, sex.
Essentially, we're talking about using people, places,
and things to the benefit of yourself, your client, or
your client's product or service. Roy Blumenthal, one
of the better public relations counselors of our era,
was hired by a large textile corporation in New York
City for an ordinary job.
In a conversation, the president of the corporation
told Blumenthal about his family and the burden of
raising a child who suffered from cerebral palsy.
Blumenthal suggested a national cerebral palsy
organization that would not only research causes of
cerebral palsy, but would also develop courses of
therapy and care.
"There were a few statewide organizations that were
trying to do this exactly, but because of their
limited fund-raising activities their efforts were
improperly supported and never sufficiently
publicized," Blumenthal said.
Blumenthal felt a national drive with press support
could arouse enthusiasm for the cause as well as
remove the cloak of secrecy about birth defects.
"At my suggestion, an international conference, which
represented 23 countries, was convened at the Hotel
Statler in New York City. Two thousand parents of
cerebral palsied children and 400 physicians anxious
to tell about their experiments and experiences with
corrective therapy and to learn whatever they could
elicit from their colleagues attended.
"In the first session in which the doctors and parents
met there occurred one of the most remarkable
phenomenons I have ever witnessed in my career. It
took less than 10 minutes for the doctors to realize
that the parents knew more than they did and had
become, by trial-and-error methods, the experts in
therapeutic treatment and devices. It was a four-hour
session and those who attended it never forgot it.
A national cerebral palsy organization resulted, as
well as a successful fundraising campaign throughout
the world. (66-67)
Blumenthal discovered the psychological "button" of
the textile executive and used it. To enormous good,
without question. To the benefit of his client, even
more without question. And, needless to say, to the
benefit of Blumenthal as well.
Sources
Larson, Charles U. "Persuasion: Reception and
Responsibility." Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1973.
Blumenthal, Roy. "The Practice of Public Relations."
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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