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"Xtreme"
Chapter Twenty-one of a novel
by Claude Hall
How do you know when you're in love with someone?
Susan had pondered this since high school days when
she had too many freckles and was too skinny and later
in college when the freckles had vanished like an
afternoon thunderhead in a west Texas sky and she was
strong and tough. The muscles she had were not the
showy kind and she was not one of those Charles Atlas
types who pose and flex their biceps. But she was
steel wire when men wanted soft pudding, she was a
sharp intellectual when men wanted a giddy little
thing who knew how to cuddle, but wasn't quite sure
how to spell it.
Yet, all of her life she'd been driven to excel; it
may have had its roots, this enormous drive, in her
childhood or when her mother died and she realized
that you had to be very strong to survive sure death
or maybe the drive had been influenced by her father
and later accented by his death. She studied hard in
public school and later in college and after a while
found that studying came easily and the retention of
this body of knowledge something accomplished without
too much effort. Along with the physical aspects of
her life, the exercise, the fight training, her body
had become a combination of hard rubber and steel.
She had become both the hammer and the tong, capable
of tremendous physical acumen on parallel bars, the
exercise horse, the rings, the basketball court, the
track field, the soccer field. She soon discarded
basketball and soccer and baseball because they came
too easy to her and concentrated on personal
accomplishments rather than team accomplishments.
Along the way, various potential boyfriends fell like
shafts of wheat harvested by a grim reaper.
Loneliness became a way of life. She replaced this
lack of personal friendship with greater focus on
personal accomplishments. Thus, she grew even more
lonely.
She didn't mind all that much, she came to believe,
because quality male companionship was rather sparse.
Football players and basketball players were sometimes
quite physically adept, but they usually concentrated
so much on body that nothing was left over for the
brain. And then there were some rather impressive
brains among students at The University of Texas, but
these men she was afraid to touch for fear they might
crumble, wounded by a careless hand.
So, the loneliness had grown from molehill to mountain
and then, as if by some magic of the brain, tossed
away and forgotten. Loneliness became a wall as
strong and as far-reaching as the Great Wall of China.
No man and only a rare individual such as Nails could
invade her private domain.
Now, into this mess of her life, a life filled with
music and writing and the people that created and
exposed the music, crept a tall, stocky individual
named Bill Ferguson who refused to take rejection, who
apparently couldn't be hurt by her carefree words or
her careless hands. Suddenly, she was perhaps not as
strong as she had thought, nor as intellectual as she
had surmised. Perhaps here, for the first time, was
someone who might be her equal and might be even more
than that.
Regardless, she knew without question, without doubt,
that she cared for him and had begun to think of him
as someone she wanted around and wanted to be around
the rest of her life. He had grown into an icon as
well as an idol, someone to be revered as well as
admired.
Then, without question, she realized that her idol was
not all that he appeared to be...that, in fact, he had
other motives. That he, in cold hard terms, had been
hanging around her not out of love or even affection
and, perhaps, not even because he liked her, but
because she was a source of information. He was a
special agent and he had been using her. That was his
total interest in her.
She had never felt so sad in all of her life. Even
the death of her parents was nothing compared to this
pain! Her tummy hurt as if she'd eaten too many green
apricots, but it was a different feeling in a way and
she had difficulty breathing. She wanted to sit down
and cry. But, of course, she could not. And, of
course, some of this turmoil was probably her own
fault. You do not offer to fight a loved one. How
unromantic! She had without question contributed
somewhat to her own demise when it came to love.
Always had. Probably always would.
Numb, she agreed to help Bill Ferguson. No, she could
never tell on Suds Clark and she refused to even
mention how she knew the Songdust charts were crooked.
No, she would never say anything negative about Bob
Belser; if the man was trying to become legit, he
deserved the opportunity and, anyway, she sort of
liked the retired football player. But if Lee Brown
was mafia, then he might be the "black sheep"
mentioned by Bob and therefore was fair game. As was
Zeus McRae.
No, she did not know who killed the Mojo Man nor why.
In her own case, she couldn't figure out why anyone
would have bothered. You discard creeps like a pair
of nylons with runs, you didn't kill them. She told
Bill about Green paying $500 to someone on Songdust
for a feature article.
No, she would not become an uncover agent because she
intended to quit the magazine tomorrow. Her career as
radio-TV editor of Songdust News was over. Time to
move on. No, she did not know precisely where. She
had a little money. Maybe she would drive up to Pismo
Beach and spend a few days. The Sea Crest in Pismo
Beach was within walking distance of the village and
she loved the clam chowder at the Splash.
Thanks for the job offer, Maud, but no thanks.
Almost the split second she walked out of the Mind's
Eye, however, she determined that Lee Brown, mafia or
not, and Zeus McRae, crooked or not, were not going to
get away with this sort of thing. She was born a
fighter and she would treat herself to one last
battle.
But, of course, this was a different kind of battle.
Instead of going home, she drove back to the offices
of Songdust News. Dark had rushed in upon this part
of the city. Tonight, however, the wind came from a
different direction and it was warm on the roof where
she parked her MG. And scary. There was no one
around. It seems as if the entire world had gone home
but her. The offices of Songdust News were deserted.
Someone else might have felt quite nervous. Well, to
be honest, she had to summon a bit of bravado herself.
This was not exactly where she wanted to be at the
moment.
Her office, as had become usual, wasn't locked.
Didn't matter, although she was very cautious as she
pushed the door back with her left hand, her gun in
her right hand. There was no one behind the door. No
one behind the curtains of her window wall.
She shut the door while she wrote what would be her
last story. It was a nice piece of fiction writing,
she thought, although it was written as a page-one
news item. She had the story in her purse and she
could have turned that in. But she wanted to
embellish everything just a mite here and there. And
this she did. If Lee Brown read this...Zeus,
too...they would squirm like worms on a hotplate!
When she finished, she placed the cover back on her
typewriter, paperclipped the three sheets of paper
together, and walked, gun in one hand, the story in
the other, to Chase Dudley's cubicle and dropped the
story into his wire basket so that he would find it
first thing in the morning.
She felt strange, but also relieved, as she walked
over to the elevator and pushed the button for the
rooftop garage. She wasn't afraid, but she kept the
gun handy. At the garage level, she stepped out of
the elevator and walked out to her car. There was no
one on the parking level. But she didn't place the
gun back into her purse until she was out of the
garage and onto Sunset Boulevard and driving toward
the ocean.
In the morning, she would walk into Zeus' office and
resign. But tonight she wanted to be alone to think
about her life. Sans Camus, sans Bill Ferguson, sans
Bill Ferguson's mother, sans Nails, sans job.
It is a strange thing about being a section editor of
a magazine; you tend to identify with it after a
period of time and you become part of the magazine and
it becomes part of you. Songdust News had been around
many generations; now and then while working in
Manhattan she bumped into some of its alumni, people
who'd worked there. One of the most colorful was
Aaron Sterman who went skiing in the Alps and never
came back. But the men and women who'd worked on the
magazine were legendary and some had been or became
quite important in the music business. A guy named
Steinbiegel was mentioned, a guy named Ovens.
She had always thought that she would be part of this
history and that people would remember her name and
wonder that old cliché "whatever happened to..." but,
of course, that would never happen now.
Oddly, she slept well. She had thought that she
wouldn't, but she felt asleep as soon as she crawled
under the sheets and awoke feeling quite cheerful in
the morning. Even her orange juice tasted good.
The dark car wasn't there as she left her apartment
and no one came running from a bus stop bench to join
her as she ran. She had to remind herself that Bill
Ferguson wasn't around anymore because he no longer
had to be there. Well, she wouldn't be running these
streets again soon. Maybe she would move to Seattle
and find some job, any kind of job, just to keep from
using up her savings. Or maybe she would find some
little apartment near the water in Redondo Beach and
become, really, a writer. Lay it on the line, as they
say. Go for it big time! She had enough money to
last a while even if she didn't sell anything. Might
be fun. Change her whole lifestyle. Let her hair
grow long and tie it back in a pigtail. Wear
short-shorts and sandals. One of those funny little
pieces of cloth they called a halter. Create some
wows as she ran down the beach on the hard-packed
sand. And she wouldn't let herself think about Bill
Ferguson. Never!
She would resign this morning, drive to Pismo Beach
for a few days, get fat on clam chowder and San Luis
Sourdough Bread, then decide what to do with the rest
of her life.
But she didn't have a chance. As soon as she walked
into the reception lobby of Songdust News that
morning, Tammy, wearing a worried frown, told her that
Zeus wanted to see her first thing. And three minutes
later, she was without a job and Tammy was sniffling
as Susan walked past her switchboard with a tiny
little wave.
"You're just not working out," Zeus had said, puffing
furiously on his pipe, trying to hide.
To some extent, Susan enjoyed herself in this little
vicious interplay because she felt she had the upper
hand. She intended to quit this job anyway. Thus,
she toyed with him.
"After three years? Don't be absurd! I worked out
fine! Radio circulation, the major and most important
circulation of this publication, has zoomed. This
magazine makes enough money from circulation alone to
absorb all costs. Every page of advertising is
strictly profit."
"Not working out, I said! You're bad news. First,
there was this disc jockey...I can't remember his
name. Now, Chase. Guilty or not, I simply cannot
tolerate this on my magazine. Investigations all over
the place! We have our image to uphold, you know!"
"What happened to Chase?" she asked, a cold feeling
hitting her in the chest.
"If you came to work on time," Zeus said, "you'd
know."
And he disappeared in a cloud of smoke so dense that
it made her cough and she had to escape.
She went to Chase's office. He wasn't there. Her
story was gone from the wire basket where you placed
such things.
Had Zeus also fired poor old Chase Dudley?
There was not many personal items in her office that
she had to claim. A framed picture of her mother and
father on her desk. A framed letter on the wall from
Gordon McLendon of McLendon Broadcasting. A scribbled
note from Tex Ritter that she'd framed alongside a
photo of him on his horse during his western movie
days. Grab these things, take a last look around and
walk out with a strong stride, she told herself.
Don't bother to glance back.
But she was delayed in her office much longer than she
had expected. Detective Raul Cardenas was waiting for
her. Sitting in her chair behind her desk.
She saw him, she knew. The heavy feeling in her
stomach suddenly got much heavier.
"Chase Dudley is dead," she said.
The detective nodded.
"He was found by his wife this morning sitting in his
study. She'd gone to bed. He was alone. Someone, it
appears, forced him to gulp down some pills. Of
course, he could have taken them himself. Committed
suicide. But the current opinion is that it was
murder."
"Why?"
"That's what I was hoping you could tell us."
She shook her head.
"He was the kindest guy, the sweetest guy, the best
guy you could ever hope to meet," she said. "He was
loved by everyone in the music business. Or at least
by more than the norm. And to the best of my
knowledge he had no enemies. Not one. Not even half
of one."
The reason I think it was murder," Detective Cardenas
said, "is that he looked like he didn't want to take
those pills. Some had fallen out of his mouth. Some
were still in his mouth. Wouldn't have taken many.
There'll be an autopsy, of course, but I figure it's
just a waste of time."
There were a lot of questions. She told the
gray-haired detective about her trip back to the
office and the story that she wrote.
The story, it appeared, had disappeared. And, no, she
didn't have a carbon copy because no one on the
magazine kept carbons and, in fact, the magazine
didn't even have the typical morgue of most
publications; all of the yesterdays and yesteryears of
the music and radio industries were in the memories,
such as they were, of the various editors.
"Well, it doesn't make a lot of sense," said the
detective.
"None," she agreed.
"What was the story about that you wrote?"
"Under the circumstances, I'd rather not say," she
said.
"Don't think you've got a choice," he said. "It's
either now...or later under oath. Maybe both."
She sat down in one of the chairs across from her
desk. She told him about someone buying positions on
the Songdust News charts and telling this several days
ago to Zeus McRae and him denying it. But that wasn't
what the story she wrote was about.
"The music business, and especially this magazine, is
being investigated by the government for payola," she
told the detective. "Someone on the magazine is a
member of the mafia. I don't really know who, but I
got the information from a person who would definitely
know something like that. The Mojo Man, that creepy
disc jockey who was stabbed with one of my knives, was
being paid off. I think. Of course, I'm just
guessing about that part. He wanted more money, bribe
stuff, and came to collect and someone lured him into
my office and killed him, hoping that I would be
blamed. They probably offered him my job and
suggested he try out that chair you're sitting in.
Then walked around behind him and plunged my knife
into his chest and that's why he looked so surprised
when I found him. Now, it appears as if someone read
my exposé and killed Chase Dudley, afraid that he
might have read the story."
"How come they didn't just kill you? Your name was on
the story."
"They've been trying. Just haven't succeeded yet,"
she pointed out.
The detective thought about the idea.
"Just a bit weak," he said. "I don't buy it."
"Does sound ridiculous, doesn't it?" said Susan.
"Did you know Chase Dudley very well?"
"Just here at the office. To be honest, I don't even
know where he lives."
"The valley," Cardenas said. "Not too far from where
you live. An older frame house. Been there quite a
while. Tell me more about this big investigation."
"I don't know much more than what I've just told you."
"Your source?"
"Sorry."
"I could haul you into court, you know, and stick a
contempt order on you. Force you to tell who your
Deep Throat is."
"Yes, but I still wouldn't tell. Reporters today
don't get the training that I did at The University of
Texas from Dr. Dewitt Reddick, Norris Davis, Thompson
and that crowd. They taught us to protect our
sources. Regardless."
"Are you keeping anything back about Chase Dudley?"
"No."
"What about this Lee Brown and this Zeus McRae guy?"
"You know as much as I do."
Cardenas crawled out of her chair, placing both hands
on her desk in order to help lift his weight. She
thought about telling him the value of orange juice
for breakfast and a morning run, but then realized
that it was probably too late. Good physical training
should start early in life.
"I'll keep in touch," he said.
Then she told him about being fired and her plan to
take a few days off.
"Leave word now and then," he said.
"Hah. You were going to stick me with a contempt of
court and now you trust me to just call in now and
then?"
"Just wanted to see what you'd say," the detective
said. "But I'd like to mention one more thing at the
moment: Watch your back. One of these guys is
probably itching real bad to kill you."
"I, too, have an itch I can't scratch," she said. She
was thinking, of course, about Bill Ferguson. But
already she was working out details in her mind to
scratch somebody, itch or not. Hard! It wasn't so
much because of frustration as embarrassment. How
could she have let herself become such an emotional
baby! This girl? This bundle of steel and hard India
rubber that could beat ninety percent of the men she
met in some way, shape or form. Didn't matter whether
it was a game of chess or a track meet. And now?
After the detective left, she gathered her things and
placed them in a paper sack. Then she phoned Nails
and told her the news.
"What are you going to do?" Nails wanted to know.
"Perhaps you should come over here and talk it out.
I'm a good ear and a good egg. No games this time."
"But I love games," Susan said.
"That, honey child, may be the root of all of your
problems."
Susan started to tell Nails about Pismo Beach and the
wonderful clam chowder at the Splash just up the
street from the fishing pier. Then she remembered
that the phones were tapped and she made up some mumbo
jumbo about hiding out in a cabin without a telephone
down in Redondo Beach and wearing a bathing suit all
day long and rollerskating up and down the miles of
sidewalk.
"Also, I'm thinking about getting me a guard dog,"
Susan said. "A real ugly dog. I'll call him Mug,
short for Mugwumps, the Greenwich Village group
started by John Phillips with Felix Pappalardi. And
I'll throw rocks at him when he barks. Make him
mean."
"You will not!" insisted Nails.
"I can throw rocks at him if I want to," said Susan.
"No, you can't!" Nails said. "Remember the baseball
cap."
"I thought that was a football cap," said Susan.
"It's a goddamned cap, honey child! You're among the
special people who don't throw rocks at dogs. Not
ever!"
"What's it good for?"
"You'll see," said Nails.
So, that conversation ended and Susan couldn't help
but think that a lot of her own life had just faded
away. If not that, then it certainly had made a left
turn.
She took her paper sack of the remains of her
journalistic career and walked out, said "see ya" to
Tammy, who was sniffling again, and hit the elevator.
By the time she got to her car, he was there.
"Mug is a horrible name for a dog," he said. "But why
would you want to throw rocks at a dog just because he
barked?"
"I thought you might be listening," she said.
"Rocks?"
"I hate dogs," she said.
"Nobody hates dogs. Maybe cats. Not dogs."
"I like cats. I hate dogs. No, I don't particularly
like cats either. Llamas I might like. And, again, I
might not."
"That's dumb," he said.
"Right! And right now, I feel dumb. I don't
understand why I'm even bothering to talk to you."
"You said you would help. That's why."
"Okay. Right. I did say that. I wonder why I said
that. Must have been a weak moment."
He seemed different. No grin. All business this
time. Some of the other times, she had felt he was
joshing. Not joking. Joshing with her. Sort of a
flirtatious gambit, like in a chess game. But now the
pattern was all business.
"Detective Cardenas is en route here. I'm going with
him to make an arrest. You want to go or not?"
"Depends on who you're going to arrest."
"Your fish-faced friend."
"For what? He couldn't fix the charts of Songdust
News if he had a hammer."
"For the murder of Chase Dudley."
Susan thought about Lee Brown killing Chase and
wondered why he'd do something like that. Might be
possible, but not practical. Lee, for all of his
faults, was more or less a practical person.
"Do you have proof?"
"Lee Brown bought the pills that killed Chase Dudley,"
Bill said. "Cardenas has traced the pills."
She shook her head.
"Doesn't sound like much fun. Arrest him without me."
"I would like you to be there," Bill said.
"No. I'm driving over to see Mrs. Dudley. I only met
her once. But I knew Chase pretty well and liked him
and I think I ought to go over there in case she needs
a good shoulder on which to cry."
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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July 26, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
I can't cook chili worth a fiddler's monkey. I
wish I
could. There is a certain feeling of macho pride
regarding the cooking of a chili, which, of course,
is naught but a modern version of the old sonofagun
cooked by the cattle trail chefs of days of yore.
However, chili comes out of a can rather well and I
like Wolf Brand chili better than the others. You
can't get it in Las Vegas, so I settle for Armour's.
I have to be sort of hungry to eat Denison's or
Hormel. Generally, I cook about a pound of ground
round, pour off any grease, and then add a can of
chili on top and stir it up good. Sometimes chili
with beans. Often not.
There's not too many things better than beans and rice
at a restaurant in New Orleans. In my Times-Picayune
newspaper days, some of us reporters would wander over
to a restaurant we knew for lunch once a week. Think
it was on Tuesday. And we always had red beans and
rice. I don't know how they cooked it, but it was
damned good. A substitute is to cook up a cup of rice
like it says on the box and add a can of chili with
beans. Not as good as New Orleans. But if you're
thinking about New Orleans this substitute will keep
you alive until you manage to get down there. And
while you're there, stop at the Central Grocery Store
down in the quarter for a sandwich. It think it's
called a muffalato, but I could have the spelling
wrong. Order two. You can't eat but one, but you'll
want one for tomorrow.
Joe Nick Patoski,
joenickp@yahoo.com, informs me that
"Central Grocery. It's called a muffaletta, and it
provided the blueprint for the Schlotzsky sandwich
from the Austin fast-food chain of the same name."
In Albany and Troy, NY, the natives eat corned beef
and cabbage once a week. Thursday at lunch, I think;
it has been many a year since I was there and ate this
manatory dish. I can't cook that either, but I ate
some pretty good corned beef and cabbage this past St.
Patrick's day at the buffet at Terrible's casino here
in Las Vegas. It was specially prepared. I'm sort of
eager for next St. Patrick's day. No, I do not miss
Albany or Troy.
In Rochester and Buffalo, NY, they eat Buffalo wings.
A whole bunch! I don't know why. But I remember
Kevin Metheny coming to town once and first thing he
did was head for some Buffalo wings. Forget shaking
hands and saying hello.
The thing I can cook, however, and it's so damned good
that I can't cook enough of it, is Manhattan clam
chowder. I've got a big Corning dish and I'll cook
that full about once a month and I'll be lucky if
there's any left for the second day. Barbara loves
the stuff!
So, I thought I'd give you the recipe. Actually, it
was Andy Hall's idea,
hallawayjoe@hotmail.com. He
said that I should talk about something other than
Buchenwald all of the time. Anyway, Molly Ivins has
done Buchenwald up good this week, to wit: "Total
number of Americans killed so far is 901, but the new
line is: What War? We turned it over to the Iraqis,
see? Presto, it disappears, just like magic. It's
their problem now. Doesn't have anything to do with
us. Bush is out campaigning by calling himself 'the
peace president'. Honest. 'He repeated the words
'peace' or 'peaceful' many times, as he had done
increasingly in his recent appearances', reported The
New York Times from Iowa this week."
I call my chower "Lazy Man's Chowder." First, get two
cans of chopped clams and empty them into your cooking
pot or whatever. They're a dollar a can at most
99-cent stores or $1.39 at Trader Joe's or you can buy
the same brand as sold by the 99-cent stores in
Albertsons for $1.59. I use a half-stalk of celery,
two cans of diced tomatoes, an onion, a small handful
of French fries (the frozen kind in any supermarket),
two or three slices of bacon for seasoning, two or
three carrots. I cut up the celery, the fries, the
onion, the carrots, and the bacon. A little salt.
Some ceyanne pepper (careful!). Cook for three hours
or so. Viola! It's even better the second day, but
don't think about that because it's not going to last
that long.
Best huevos rancheros? Raul Cardenas,
EnviroRaul@aol.com. Now
Raul is a Ph.D. and an
authority on water and air pollution, a veteran of
Korea, etc., etc. And so far as I know he can't cook
anything else worth a damned. I don't think he even
knows the recipe, but ad-libs all of the way on the
eggs. Phenomenal! Never order huevos rancheros in a
restaurant. I've tried. In the United States and in
Mexico. They just don't know how to cook 'em.
Best grilled pork chops? Bobby Vee,
rvelline@aol.com.
Bob and Karen invited Barbara and me up one day when
they lived in Los Angeles and those were the best
chops I've ever had. Once back in the 60s, a soul
food restaurant in the basement of a building in
Nashville did pretty good chops, but then it burnt
down and Nashville ever since has been one of those
places where you need to brown bag it.
Best salads? Joey Reynolds,
G1boney@aol.com. He
almost drove me batty one day in Los Angeles, driving
here for some ingredient, driving there for something
else. He and wife Caroline were renting a mansion out
on Palos Verde at the time. But it was a great salad.
His sister in Buffalo can also make a great salad.
Joey is now in New York City. On WOR doing the
all-night show. His sister is still in
Buffalo...probably still shoveling last winter's snow.
The night Barbara and I had pasta and salad at Joey's
sister's home, we'd driven over there to catch a show
by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons at some famous
theater downtown. Joey did the intro on stage. Fun
evening. Great salad.
Best hamburger? Ernie Farrell and I used to drive
almost into downtown Los Angeles to Cassels now and
then. You stood in line. Yelled a number from a menu
on the wall. Picked up the meat when it was done and
made your own hamburger with the ingredients on a
counter. Ham and cheese on rye was also good there.
You sat at wooden benches. The place was much less
than plain. But people drove for miles just to eat at
Cassels. Ernie got mad at me a few years ago and
hasn't talked to me since. He still talks to George
Wilson, keokiwc@aol.com.
So far as I know, that's
about it. But I will never forget Ernie Farrell and I
will always consider him one of my greatest friends.
Just realized that neither George nor Ernie can
probably cook and they shouldn't properly be in this
list, but I wanted to mention the hamburger and
Cassels and they're my excuse.
One guy who could cook and, in fact, was a gourmet
chef was L. David Moorhead (KMET, WOKY, etc.).
Barbara and I spent a couple of days one Christmas
with him in Los Angeles at a place he'd rented in the
San Fernando Valley. He cooked for two days! Would
you believe three kinds of yams? When I mentioned
that meal to Tricia, daughter of the late Moorhead,
she said all she knew when she was growing up was
takeouts. Such, unfortunately, is the nature of the
radio business.
OTHER MATTERS
Years and years ago, I rode around Nashville one
evening with Captain Midnight, whose real name was
Roger Scutt. He was doing the late evening or the
all-night show on the No. 1 Top 40 station in the
market. Filled me in on all of the city's gossip.
Now, Wendy Magner,
wendy@rayberk.com, writes: "I am
looking for Roger Schutt...do you know his where about
and could you get a message to him for me?" Ask Roger
or anyone knowing Roger to contact Mark Magner,
615/496-9504, or Richard Magner, 615/477-3858.
Roger knew all of this stuff about Hank Williams (not
junior...the real one) and Audrey. Between Roger and
the late Bill Williams and the jailed Huey Meaux, I
learned more about Hank and Audrey than you really
want to know. Oh, yeah; Paul Ackerman, the late music
editor of Billboard, and I once interviewed Audrey at
a restaurant called Mario's or something in Nashville.
Like the food, the interview was forgettable. I
would still recommend brown bagging it in Nashville.
Novella Smith Cromer,
novellasmith@yahoo.com: "I'm
Novella Smith. You found me. Or rather I found you,
when my husband Googled me and turned up your article
(above link). Its has been a long time ago and I
can't remember a lot of what happened but sent you
looking for Dick Gregory maybe to save your life?
Because the gangsters came to take over (The Fair Play
Committee, the ones in robes) and all white people
were in trouble! They were looking for Jerry Wexler!
All I really remember is saving lives by sending all
white folk as far away as possible from the Awards
Program?? By this time NARA was NATRA (national assoc.
of television and radio announcers) This message is
kinda garbled because I'm trying too hard to remember,
however, Clarence Avant can add some light to this
story also. That was a LONG time ago. I later moved to
Memphis (where I am now) and worked as a producer for
STAX Records. After STAX folded, I did a few things
and ended up becoming a minister. I have been an
activist for the disenfranchised here (prisoners, AIDS
victims, underprivileged children...). Here is a
recent picture of me and my new husband (been married
two months), a documentarian."
Novella! I could never forget you. And God bless you
for your involvement these days in the
disenfranchised. Too many people in America ignore
the ungiven today. I don't know why. But something
that happened here in Las Vegas Saturday night gave
proof to a feeling that I've had for some while: The
American population is more polarized than ever
before. During a performance at the Aladdin Saturday,
July 17, a casino that has long had an image problem,
Linda Ronstadt dedicated a song to Michael Moore, the
producer of the movie "Fahrenheit 9/11" and said from
the stage that Moore is "someone who cares about this
country deeply and is trying to help." (Fink, Jerry.
"Aladdin expels Ronstadt after controversial show."
Las Vegas Sun, July 19, 2004. p.1) First, the
headlines: A statement like that is "controversial?"
Second, the president of the Aladdin ordered security
guards to escort her to her tour bus and had the
belongings in her hotel room delivered to her. Said
she was no longer welcome at the Aladdin. How
ignoble! How insulting! I'm sitting here as I write
this, feeling like crying. Whatever happened to free
speech? The Dixie Chicks. Now something as
abominable as this? God forgive America! There's a
rumor some partner might buy out the stupid one and
invite Linda and Michael back. Send the stupid one to
eat in Nashville. Serve him right.
Just FYI, Novella's husband found the Commentary I
wrote for Sept. 1 last year:
http://www.firststrategy.com/claudehall17.htm Amazing
how whatever you do on a website seems to live on.
So, I'd better be right and right on.
But the indication is that we, the American public,
seem to be growing further and further apart. There
is evidently little "love thy fellow man" spirit left
in this nation. A guy can steal $34,000,000 and then
steal the vice presidency of the United States. And
one word against him and his cronies and you're
accused of treason, of creating controversial, of
trying to undermine the president of the United
States. The honest truth is that we have no president
at this time. No vice president either. Just a
couple of nogoodkadinks in the White House. They send
American troops to fight a battle they dodged when it
was their day and now praise "heros" who are only
dead. Have you noticed how Buchenwald and his cronies
never cry over the American-Iraq dead?
George Wilson, KeokiWC@aol.com:
"Claude and
Barbara...Haven't talked to you in a while, hope you
and yours are well...we had 15 kids and grandkids for
my 75th birthday and then the following day we had
them all plus 40 old radio listeners from the station
here in Albuquerque...it was a wonderful 3-day
weekend...Jackie and I have been gone for the better
part of a month...we were in Laughlin for a couple of
days, went to Vegas for one day to meet George Jr.,
then off to LA to see Terry and Rob Moorhead and get
Jackie's hair cut--tough to go all the way to LA for a
haircut, then we went to Santa Barbara and then to
Solvang, it was delightful, Terry went with us and we
stopped at a Casino for 15 minutes and she won $250
and we left...we spent most of her money for a great
soul food dinner with Rob, and then we left for a few
more days in Laughlin...then home for a couple of days
to wash clothes and pay bills, and see Bobby Vinton at
one of our Casinos....Ed and Charla were there along
with 4,000 other folks and my son Vince and Lauren,
Vinton's God children, I probably have seen Vinton 50
times and never saw him any better, five standing
ovations and NBC filmed it, we spent a pleasant hour
and a half after the show, took a bunch of pictures,
told a few lies and went on our merry way, then off to
Milwaukee to see my close friend, Vince Gleason, who
is recovering from a heart attack...we had a wonderful
breakfast with Bob and Nancy Barry, Bob was the rock
for WOKY and one of my favorite Bartell employees, he
is now in the Wisconsin Broadcaster's Hall of
Fame...we went to Usinger's sausage company, bought a
bunch of junk to be shipped home, spent a couple more
days with Vince, then off we went through Minnesota to
South Dakota and more great food and a trip to Mt
Rushmore and then went home...a pleasant thing
happened, the greatest Program Director of all time,
Chuck Blore, invited me to be the first programmer
interviewed on his new Web Site, which should be
coming up next week...I am sure you must know about
it...by the way, how the hell could that kook that
messed up the Imus and Thayer deal write about LA
radio and never mention Blore or KFWB --the daddy
rabbits of them all....oh, well, some of it was
fun...may the good Lord smile on you and your
family...watch out for the arrows coming from behind
that Bush...much love to y'all, Jackie and George."
Bob Barry. Wow!
Everyone get ready. Chuck Blore is coming your
direction! And with George Wilson, no less! Don't
know the website address yet. Run a Google on Chuck
Blore next week.
Jim Rose,
rosekkkj@earthlink.net: "Our friend CHUCK
DUNAWAY surprized me with three of my stories last
week! One was the one I told you about Al Dexter that
you put in your column awhile back. He must read your
column. The other two must have been from one of my
two sites or 440:satisfaction or something I may have
told LARRY SHANNON a few months back. It really
surprized and somewhat dazzled me! Haven't written
CHUCK in two or three months. He wanted some details
about my Houston 'Play Misty for Me' stalker that went
on for about five years! So much happened so often
with her, difficult to funnel it down to a few
sentences. So, I never sent anything to CHUCK. Maybe I
should. Boy, CHUCK DUNAWAY was one of the very best
and most dynamic voices I ever heard on Radio! I
listened while a Dallas school student. Never dreamed
that one day I would also be in Radio and on KLIF!
Now that I have crawled out of the cocoon in February
after being dormant for a few years, it's astonishing
to.see JIM ROSE must not be dead, yet! So much
happened at so many Radio Stations in so many cities
in nearly 40 years. When I start typing, it all comes
to mind. I could keep on typing until doomsday and
probably still not tell it all. It seemed like I was
a magnet drawing format, management and owner I just
got very tired of moving around so much! That's why I
have remained in Houston for over 25 years! My love of
Radio drew me back the second time to KILT FM and a
little on KILT AM in the nineties. (Was there in the
eighties before and after the format change to
Country!) Pretty good the first year or two, then,
big changes began and continued after I left. Most of
the people that were there then are gone. Things seem
to have settled down now at KILT."
I always considered Chuck Dunaway one of the nicest
guys in radio, Jim. And I've yet to change my mind.
Yes, he may have gone through some awkward times.
Haven't we all? Sometimes these things change us. I
know that I'm not the person who existed yesterday.
But among radio personalities, he has to be placed
among the very best. And one of the most popular with
listeners.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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