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"Xtreme"
Chapter Twenty-three of a novel
by Claude Hall
The bullet hit her in the right leg as she stepped out
of her MG. Far away she heard someone laughing.
There's two myths about the .22 caliber pistol. One
is that it is the prized choice of mafia assassins.
The other is that it's a toy. In Texas, in fact, men
often present their sons with a .22 rifle at age 12, a
sign of reaching manhood. Just as if she'd been a
boy, her uncle had given her a Remington .22 caliber
single-shot rifle when she reached this age. Her
father had argued that she was a girl, not a boy. But
Uncle Charles pointed out that she was living in a
man's world and that was that.
The problem with a .22 is that it won't take a man
down unless you shoot them in the heart or the head
and even if you shoot a man in the heart, he might
still live long enough to grab you by the throat and
choke you to death as he died. If, of course, you're
close enough to reach.
>From a distance, you have to be a fairly good shot to
do much damage with a .22. This is why any mafia
assassin that daunts to use one usually catches their
victim off guard and shoots them from behind in the
back of the head. And from the back is good enough
for most mafia assassins; they never had any pretense
at being a John Wayne or Glenn Ford and giving the
other guy a chance to draw first.
When the bullet hit her, it clipped through the muscle
of the calf of her leg. She was wounded, but not
crippled. She even managed to place a shot toward the
dark corner of the apartment building, but realized
even then that she'd just shot a palm tree.
The possibility of shooting an innocent person by
accident prevented her from taking another shot in
that direction. Too, she thought she'd better check
the wound in the dim light thrown from a flood lamp on
the side of the two-story building. Wasn't much
blood. But by the time she ran toward the corner, the
person who'd shot at her was gone. A car sped away
down the street, going a little too fast.
Susan tied a handkerchief around her leg. Then went
into her apartment and poured some alcohol on the
wound and bandaged it properly.
She scattered some corn chips in a plastic bowl and
opened a can of Wolf Brand chili imported from San
Antonio on her last trip. Over this, she cut some
chunks of sharp cheddar cheese and put the bowl into
the microwave for a couple of minutes. After she took
the bowl out, she tossed several dashes of Tobasco
Sauce on top and turned on the TV and sat down for her
evening meal. Come to think of it, this was lunch,
too. She should have taken time for at least a salad
at lunch. Because you shouldn't have too much of this
stuff. The cholesterol was skyhigh. This was
definitely not the time to get fat. She took a fork
out of the drawer and went into the living room area.
There was nothing on the evening news about Chase
Dudley. To the media, and perhaps to most of the
world, he was a nobody. Nobodies don't make the Los
Angeles news. Maybe a mention in the Los Angeles
Times, but probably not.
The doorbell rang. She sat her bowl down on the end
table by the couch and answered it.
"Hi," Bill Ferguson said. "This is Mugs. But you'd
better not throw rocks at him. I think he bites."
He stood there with the ugliest dog she'd ever seen in
his arms. The dog was still a puppy, but so large
that Bill only held the dog with difficulty and at any
moment the dog threatened to wriggle free. Well,
maybe he wasn't exactly still a puppy. A little
older.
"What an ugly dog!" she said.
"I wouldn't hurt his feelings if I were you," Bill
said. "This is one dog that might retaliate."
He noticed her bandaged leg and shoved the door closed
behind him with his shoulder and set the dog down.
This satisfied Mugs very well and the dog promptly
jumped on the end of the couch and laid down.
"What kind is he?"
=
"Part elephant, I think."
"So, you've been listening to my phone conversations?"
"Yes," Bill admitted without showing even the
slightest sign of guilt. "Most of them were pretty
boring. Some of the things discussed, I didn't
understand. I understood about you wanting a dog."
"You didn't understand," she said. "I said I did not
want a dog."
"Same thing," he said. "But I didn't understand about
the cap. Cap on what?"
"That's perfectly okay," Susan said, "because I don't
understand about the cap myself."
She tried to pry her purse out from under the dog.
But the purse refused to bulge and the dog refused to
move. She tried to move him over with her foot, but
had forgotten about the bullet wound and the leg
immediately started throbbing and she stopped.
He looked at the bandage.
"You scratched yourself?"
"No," she said. "I got shot."
His face changed slightly. A bit whiter, perhaps.
She didn't know whether this was because he was
concerned for her or concerned that the incident had
happened without him knowing.
He lifted the dog up so she could get her purse. The
dog was a deadweight and put a strain on his facial
muscles.
She unzipped the purse in her lap and took out the
Giants baseball cap.
"Just a cap. See?"
Bill took the cap and examined it closely.
"Just a cap," he agreed. "Wonder what it means?"
"I have no idea. I was just told by Nails to keep it
clean and keep it handy until I needed it."
"Odd," he said. He knelt on the floor by the couch.
"Let me see your wound."
"It's just a bullet wound."
"Sure," he said. "Only a bullet wound. Nothing to
worry about."
He removed the bandage and examined the wound. Then
replaced the bandage.
"Told you," she said. "What do you feed this elephant
here?"
"Dog food," he said. "I have a bag in the car."
"You aren't thinking about giving him to me, are you?"
"No. Of course not. I'm just going to let you keep
him for a few years."
"What would I do with a dog, for god's sake?"
"I don't know anything about dogs," he said. "My
mother wouldn't let me have one when I was a kid. You
could ask her. She knows a lot of stuff about just
everything. Probably dogs, too."
"I can't keep this dog!" Susan said firmly.
"Too late," he said. "I've paid for him already and
the guy at the store said no returns. He was very
expensive, too. May not be a fancy dog, but he had a
fancy price."
"Well, at least tell him to get off the couch."
"He won't listen to me," Bill said. "I tried giving
him an order a while ago and it didn't work. I think
he wanted to do the driving. I finally had to push
him aside."
"Probably not even house trained," she said.
"I wouldn't know," Bill replied. "Not my problem. I
only have one problem, I've decided. And that's you.
Who shot you?"
"I think it was Lee Brown. But I don't know that for
a fact. He was in the dark. I didn't see him. All I
heard was a shill laugh and it sounded like the way a
guppy would laugh."
"Guppies have never been known to laugh," he said.
"My mother will tell you that."
"I don't think she knows much about this kind of
guppy."
"And you didn't chase and catch him?"
"I was just a little bit wounded," she said.
"Some excuse."
"Anyway, I have a hunch I know where he's going.
Guppies are creatures of habit. Left on their own,
they generally stay in the same bowl."
"I would prefer that you not go chasing this
particular guppy," he said.
"How can I chase him? I'm wounded. Remember? Will
you tell your cottonpickin' dog to get off my couch!"
"Not my dog," Bill said. "Tell him yourself."
He spun and quickly left the apartment, but not before
making sure that the door would lock after him.
She sat there looking at the dog and he lay there
looking back.
"You hungry?" she said. "Or thirsty or anything? How
about a glass of orange juice?"
The dog didn't say a word, but leaned over and licked
her hand.
"Oh, lord! Am I going to have to put up with this dog
licking stuff!"
She got up and scrounged and finally discovered a bowl
that was suitable for water and filled it and placed
it on the floor in the kitchen nook. Mugs, following
at her heels, just glanced at it and then sat down and
looked up at her.
"Then it's food you want, eh."
The front door opened and in walked Bill carrying a
huge sack of dog food.
"I thought the door was locked."
"They teach us classes about those things," he said.
"Oh, fine."
"Got a dog bowl, too. But you're the one who should
feed him so he'll know who his boss is."
"Just great. I think he already knows who his boss is
and, congratulations I guess, it's neither you nor
me."
The dog just took a sniff of the dog food and looked
up at her.
"I'm leaving again," said Bill.
"Good," she said, "and if you come back again, bring a
sirloin steak because this hound doesn't like dog
food."
"Not my dog," he said and locked the door behind him.
In spite of her leg, she got down on her knees and
looked the dog in the eyes. "Look, you're looking at
a poor, starving writer. I received this honorable
position in life just today. As the mutt of a poor,
starving writer, you're going to have to eat on the
cheap, as they say. That means, in dog vernacular,
doggie food. Do we understand each other?"
He replied, she surmised in agreement, by licking her
in the face.
"Good. I'm glad that we've got that settled."
She struggled to her feet. There was some pain in her
leg, but as long as it didn't get infected, she would
be okay. Might drop by some doctor's office tomorrow
and have someone look at it, but probably not.
A quick glance from behind the curtain of the small
window near the door showed no strange car in the
parking area. But how would she know a strange car
from a friendly car? Probably didn't matter.
After a quick check of her gun, she returned it to the
purse and zipped it up.
When she opened the apartment door, however, Mugs
seemed to sense what was going on and ran to her side.
"You can't go," she said and closed the door in his
face. This immediately prompted one of the most
dreadful, piercing, loud howls she'd ever heard! It
sounded as if all of the banshees of hell had been let
loose upon the world. And it didn't stop! When the
dog ran out of breath, he grabbed more air into his
lungs and the shrieking began again! It seemed even
louder than before. Someone three apartments away
opened their door and looked out. Stared at her as if
she were some culprit.
The howling gave way to a horrible moan as if someone
was killing some animal. Then the howling began
again.
Reluctantly, she took out her keys and opened her
apartment door. The howling immediately stopped once
the dog saw her and he sat down on his haunches and
seemingly smiled.
"Boss! I knew it. A boss dog from a bossy guy. Had
to be."
She didn't own a dogleash, of course, but after a few
minutes of scrounging, she opted for the bullwhip, a
leftover artifact from her father's belongings.
"I knew this would come in handy some day," she said,
tying the end around the dog's collar. "Mugs, I have
a feeling you and me are going to make great enemies
hither and yon and maybe even including you and me."
The dog ran along at the end of her "leash" and found
her car without any trouble, just as if he knew it
personally. Well, perhaps Mugs actually was part
bloodhound. The dog seemed to be part everything,
come to think of it. Without hesitating, the dog
leaped clear over the door of the car into the
driver's seat. However, when she said "scoot," he
seemed to know what she meant and moved to the
passenger's seat and sat there looking out like the
master of some domain waiting for his chauffeur.
She managed after some labor to free the Mexican
blanket from beneath the dog. She folded it and
placed it in its usual position behind the seat. Mugs
watched all of this with interest, as if in a hurry to
go for a ride.
The car seemed to be running a little ragged, she
thought after starting the engine. Might be her
imagination. She'd take it into the shop for a tuneup
one of these days. Could poor, starving writers
afford automobile tuneups?
Susan got a kick out of the dog, though she was still
a little confused how her discussion about hating dogs
caused her to end up with not only a dog, but a dog
with a face like some prize fighter who'd fought and
lost too many battles. Mugs seemed to enjoy the ride
immensely, often placing both paws on the window sill
and watching the world go by, his large ears tossed by
the wind. He barked once at something he saw in the
distance, probably a cat.
Benedict Canyon wasn't crowded this time of the night
and as she peeled off Mulholland and took the winding
road down toward Sunset Strip, she felt a brief surge
of envy at the people in the nice homes who seemed to
be having a nice life. This was probably an illusion,
of course. They, too, were more than likely concerned
with matters such as children not doing well in
school, husband not doing well at the office, wife not
doing well on the tennis court. Ordinary rich and
famous people with ordinary rich and famous lives.
Not like her--shot at, thugs trying to beat her up,
fired from her job and career literally destroyed.
She was feeling quite sorry for herself by the time
she reached the office building and plunged her little
sports car up the ramp to the second-floor parking
area on the roof. There were two lights on the roof
and neither shed more than a feeble glow. She didn't
mind the gloom; the darker the better. When she
opened the door, Mugs leaped over her onto the
pavement. That was her life, all right, an obstacle
course for an ugly dog.
With her purse slung over her left shoulder, her left
hand holding onto the handle of the bullwhip, and the
gun in her right hand, she walked over to the
entrance. Mugs, at the end of the bullwhip, led the
way. He was having a great time.
Unlike what happened with Clive Davis when he was
fired as president of Columbia Records, no one had yet
bothered to change the lock on the door that was the
entrance from the parking area to the building. Mugs
rode up in the elevator just as if he'd been using one
his entire life. A year maybe? How do you tell a
dog's age, she wondered.
The lobby of the Songdust News office was dark when
she stepped out of the elevator. Dark and very quiet.
Like her own office, the wall of the outer lobby was
glass so Susan managed to find her way by the weak
glow cast off by the outside world.
He was in her office. She saw a flickering light
underneath the door as Mugs pulled her near. He was
in there, with the lights off, but she'd known that
this was where he would be. Where else did he have to
go?
She opened the door cautiously and with almost no
sound. However, Lee Brown had stopped his prowling
about and now sat behind her desk. Some of the desk
drawers were open. Two had been pulled completely out
and sat on the floor. The curtain was drawn to reduce
the possibility of anyone on the street realizing
someone was in the office. A flashlight was sitting
on her desk on end, pointed at the ceiling. This
caused his aquiline face to appear even more
pronounced, his eyes larger. He stared at her, eyes
protruding, disturbed that she had invaded his peace.
His gun, an ornate target pistol just like mafia hit
men use in the movies, was pointed directly at her.
"Good!" he said. "At this distance, I doubt if even I
could miss. I have found it extremely difficult to
believe how lucky you are. You have managed to dodge
both bullets and men with great finesse. But I
seriously doubt that either luck or finesse will
matter much at this distance."
"You forget that I also have a gun in my hand."
"It's not pointed at me, I'm afraid. While my gun is
aimed directly at your heart. I may be a bad shot.
True. Might hit you in the head. Maybe in the
stomach. Therefore, I shall make sure to fire twice
if you dare to move. Maybe even three times."
"What about me?" said Bill Ferguson as he stepped
inside the room.
"Oh, drat!" Lee Brown said. "Interference from you.
I don't even know who you are. That Dabney fellow, I
suppose. Always around causing trouble. It was you
who defended her from those men that I hired. I
suppose now that I'll have to kill you, too. Blood
everywhere. I shall have to have the floor cleaned
properly when I move into this office."
"You were following me!" Susan said to Bill.
"Nope. I was following the dog."
But Susan, suddenly, didn't believe him. Things were
a little more clear at the moment than they'd been in
a long, long time. Well, maybe not exactly clear, but
perhaps a little less muddy.
"What were you searching for in my desk?" Susan asked
Lee.
"Your last story, of course. The one about me."
"I haven't written that one yet."
"That story, you foul creature, you'll never write,"
Lee said. "I'm talking about the story you wrote to
make me look bad. Payola investigations! Hah! I
know you're just out to get my job."
"So you're behind the payola," she said. She knew
this, of course, but it would be nice for him to
confess it in front of Bill.
"It's not payola in any way, shape, or form," Lee
said. "The charts have always taken into
consideration so-called Kentucky windage. I'm merely
adjusting it, so to speak, for a consideration.
Nothing wrong with this."
"Certainly a very non-astute observation," said Susan.
"And you were picking up a little extra money on the
side by selling features to people such as George
Green. You've had a nice little business going."
"Yes. Just business. That's what it is. Good
business."
"You made a big mistake, though, when you took those
pills out to poor old Chase and left the article I
wrote there on his desk."
"So that's where it was!"
"You must have showed him my article and handed him
the pills and said, hey, take a few of these and
you'll solve all of your past problems."
"I didn't expect him to kill himself right there on
the spot. It was an uncouth gesture on his part."
"A lot of people are a bit unhappy about you taking
him those pills," Susan pointed out. "Specifically,
the mafia."
"Mafia! I'm mafia," Lee said.
"He must have flipped his wig," Susan told Bill.
"How dare you!" shouted Lee, rising from the desk and
aiming his gun. "You can't mess with the mafia, you
know!"
This was too much for the dog. With a growl, Mugs
broke free from her and leaped in the direction of
Lee. The gun in Lee's hand went off, sending a bullet
into the far wall.
Susan almost fired a shot at Lee, but then got a
better idea and fell carefully on the floor, slipping
her gun into her purse out of sight. At this point,
Mugs was trying to take a bite out of Lee's leg. Lee
was screaming and swearing and trying to aim his gun
at the dog in spite of the high probability that he
would shoot himself in the leg if he pulled the
trigger.
Bill swung at Lee's jaw with his right fist and this
connected with a loud crunch. Lee immediately slumped
to the floor in a dazed condition. His gun went
skidding away out of reach.
Mugs let go of Lee's leg and jumped on his chest and
dared him to even think about moving.
Bill picked up Lee's gun and put it in his pocket,
then reached for the phone and dialed the police.
Susan, by now, was struggling to her feet and
purposely not doing very well at it. She made it a
point to groan just a little. Bill, as soon as he
hung up the phone came over and helped her to a
sitting position on the couch.
"Are you hurt?"
He seemed very concerned.
"My leg," she said.
"I'd better check it," Bill said. He switched on the
light. Lee was trying to sit up against the wall.
Mugs growled at him and Lee stopped trying to sit up.
"So, Lee was mafia after all," said Bill as he checked
the bandage on her leg.
"Him? Nope," said Susan. "He might have thought so,
but he's really not big enough."
"Zeus?"
"He's not big enough either," she said.
"Then who was it?"
"Dabney Stone, perhaps."
"There's no Dabney Stone on the staff of Songdust
magazine."
"Maybe there is," she said.
Bill replaced her bandage with a small sigh. Then
looked up at her. For the first time, she had the
time to notice that he'd gotten a haircut. Maud must
have mentioned her comment to him. He really looked
good with a new haircut. The sideburns were a little
too long. She might be able to fix that. Give her a
few weeks.
"We're a lot alike after all," Bill said with a grin.
"You may not lie outright, but you misconstrue like
the very devil! You said you were not going to chase
Lee Brown, but that's only because you'd surmised
where he was hiding...a guppy in his fish bowl, the
Songdust office. That's the same as lying in a way."
She couldn't think of a comeback, so she merely said,
"How ridiculous."
"And I've come to the conclusion that while you may
not need a man around to protect you, you certainly
could use a partner. I need a partner, you need a
partner."
"That makes sense."
"However, I want you to know that I refuse to be some
kind of game," he said.
"Good. I don't play games."
"Yes, you do. I finally figured it out. I know all
about Dabney Stone. It was Dabney Stone who set off
all of the events that happened these past few days,
in my opinion. So everything that happened was
Dabney's fault in a way."
"How nice of you to think so," she said.
"Anyway, I've had enough of these games."
"I guess I've had enough, too," she said.
"When it comes to personal relationships, I don't play
games," he said. "Only the real thing will do with
me."
"Me, too," she said.
"My mother thinks you're very bright because you
didn't go to Harvard," he said.
"Nonsense," she said. Again, a dumb statement. She
couldn't believe that she was saying these things.
Whatever happened to the witty Susan she used to know?
"And I think you may be too tough for me."
"You're right. I am too tough for you," she said.
Seeing that Lee was not going to move for a while,
Mugs came over to the couch and sat down near her on
the floor, keeping a careful eye on Lee. Susan patted
Mugs on the head.
"Isn't this the cutest dog you ever saw," she said.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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August 9, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
The hi-tech world is a little awkward for an old
man.
In the good old days, I had a camera that was quite
good. Once, a Contax IIa with a Schneider lens.
Another time a Rollei 34mm, also with an excellent
lens. You carried a little light meter and measured
the light. Then you decided the f stop, the light
aperture of the lens (the Schneider lens was
phenomenal; made in Bad Kreuznach, Germany), you
focused the camera. You took the picture. After you
shot a roll of film, you took it to a drugstore or a
camera store and had it developed. Viola! In a day
or a week, you had pictures.
I had to sell the Contax IIa to pay college tuition
one year at The University of Texas; I attended
college on the G.I. Bill and it was just barely enough
to starve on. I still miss that camera, though. It
was like owning a Cadillac. I had a Braun flash so
powerful that it would light up the entire street.
Couldn't sell it. Liquid batteries. Braun had gone
to drycell batteries. Eventually gave the flash away.
For several years at Billboard, I carried a little
Vivitar flash in one coat pocket, my mini Rollei 35S
in the other. I would take out the flash, snap it
onto the camera, take a picture, then put flash and
camera back in their pockets and continue taking notes
for a story. I've thus taken pictures of George
Wilson, Sam Phillips, Marty Robbins, Ron Jacobs, Bill
Stewart, Bill Randle, Joe Smith, John Mayall, Flip
Wilson...countless others. All on the fly, so to
speak. My photographic life was rather simple.
Not so now. I'm still studying how to operate the new
H-P digital camera that I bought a few days ago. Thus
far, I've learned how to take a picture and transfer
it to my laptop computer. Viola! Slide show! This
is just a simple procedure that only required two days
of intensive study. The book with the camera speaks
of mode, capture, sharing, video clips, audio. This
is obviously going to take a while, folks. I will
probably never learn all that it can do. But a lot of
the stuff is unimportant to my life these days. I
think.
My laptop computer is also an adventure. I still
haven't managed to get it hooked up to the Internet.
I'd better hurry. This Power Mac 6500 continues to
crash on me. Microsoft Word now crashes frequently.
I don't know why. I've spent around $150 on this
computer the past month or so. A repairman at Fry's
simply blew out 10 or 12 years of dust and said,
"It'll operate better now." It didn't. A guy at Mac
Clinic here in Las Vegas put in a new fan. Horrible
noises went away. So the computer still operates.
But crashes. Several programs on this computer are no
longer being made or supported. A pity. There was a
certain comfort in some of the programs. I did not
want to upgrade my Microsoft Word when I bought the
laptop. The newer versions, I never liked. I stayed
with Microsoft Word 5.1 all of these days. Lou Dorren
said it would work on the laptop and he was right. I
went through the tedious process of copying each
little thing on a floppy 3.5 (which isn't very floppy,
you know) and finally got everything over to the
laptop (for which I had to buy a plug-in floppy 3.5
drive). I don't know if I'll be able to printout
anything in Microsoft Word yet via the laptop. Thus,
I have mysteries in my life. I shall not transfer
over Pagemaker. They tell me Pagemaker is dead.
Hi-teched out.
I bought a printer for the laptop, but I haven't
hooked that up yet either. Bill Pearson has
volunteered (well, I didn't have to twist his arm too
much; he can still use it) to illustrate a children's
novel I've written called "Dark Castle." I've printed
off a copy, somewhat faint in spots, on the old Apple
Color Stylewriter 2500 hooked up to my Power Mac.
Bill won't mind if it's a little messy here and there.
They don't make this printer anymore. Lou Dorren
bought me a used one on eBay for $25. A gift. But
it, too, is a collector's item.
I'm surrounded these days by collector's items. My
computer. Clothes. Books (what value does a book
called "Superjock" by Larry Lujack have?). More than
160 pocketbooks written by Max Brand. Old memories.
But at least I get a haircut now and then. I wonder
why Don Imus is still wearing his hair like some
ancient hippie. Then I realized...hey, it's probably
a wig! Larry King, of course, doesn't have much hair
these days. Both men probably haven't been hi-teched
yet. That, too, is sort of a pity. Might give them
something important to do with their lives.
OTHER MATTERS
Bill Ward died at his home in Sherman Oaks area of Los
Angeles Sunday, Aug. 1. He was 65. Born and raised
in Texas, he joined KBLA in Los Angeles in 1967,
became manager in 1970; as I recall, he changed the
calls to KBBQ right after he joined. His son Cameron
was named for the owner. Bill picked me up once in
the Camaro the station gave him to drive. "Can you
believe this?" Ward was a humble person, but he was
also damned good at radio. Ward later became general
manager of KLAC in Los Angeles, and eventually
president of Golden West Broadcasters for Gene Autry.
He worshipped Gene Autry and, in fact, worshipped all
old western movie heros. He knew and loved country
music. Ward was also a good photographer; probably
had a collection worth a heap of money. Sent me a
photo he'd taken of Gene at a baseball game once. I
also have a color picture of me and Marty Robbins and
Bob Nolan and Stu Hamblen and others that Bill took.
Greg Bear is in the photo. Who the hell is Greg Bear?
What was he doing there? Yet, a great, great
collector's item. And a personal treasure. Ward
retired in 1997 when he sold Gene's last station, an
FM operation. He told me that Gene "took care of me"
in the sale and it was evidently enough to raise fancy
show dogs. He had a website called Daily Dogs. I
won't miss the website, but I will miss Bill. He and
his first wife Tippy were good friends in my
pre-college-professor days. Tippy was one of those
bright Texas gals. The kind that used to scare the
devil out of me. I was quite surprised when she and
Bill divorced. I later saw a newspaper picture of her
on a boat with Denver Pyle. I think they later got
married and she ended up back in the southwest. Bill
wrote me a while back that he and Tippy were still
friends. But that whole situation between Bill and
Tippy just reminds me that radio sometimes does
strange things to families. I could name a dozen
examples without trying; you could probably name more.
Barbara beats me over the head now and then with a
broom, but so far she hasn't run off with a
boat-owning movie star.
My son John Hall,
johnalexhall@hotmail.com: "The LA
TImes sports TV Radio column reported that Bill Ward,
former GM of KMPC was found dead last Friday,
apparentlly had suffered a heart attack at age 65. I
thought that you should know. I remember when Gene
Autry sold off KSCA-FM, he allowed the format, Adult
Alternative, to leave the air with a lot of class.
The station had a farewell month and the last night
gave all the DJs opportunity to say good-bye."
Artie Kornfield,
rtkornfeld@aol.com: "Claude, Since
WOODSTOCK I have managed, produced and promoted over
one hundred Billboard no1 records. Ask Neil Young or
Tracy Chapman how much shuck and jive. A lame,
unknowing statement from you. Also managed and
promoted Survivor to # 1 single in Columbia History It
was called Eye of the Tiger and sold 11,000,000
singles."
I apologized to Artie in a personal note (I can't
remember what I said initially that raised his ire,
but heck I'll apologize to most things at least once)
and explained that I'd always used the term in its
more colorful sense. I also explained that
"Woodstock" will be the one thing for which he'll be
known in history. The event is still a major topic at
academic communication conferences, i.e., a
sociological phenomenon. Isn't that humorous to some
extent; who'da thunk? Just FYI, I probably did the
first major story about Artie and his partners for a
Billboard publication called SoundMakers. More than
35 years ago!
Raul Cardenas,
EnviroRaul@aol.com: "The election
grinds to a deadline. This is the first election
where I have sent real money to the Democrats and feel
very anxious about democracy and freedom and see these
monkeys stealing all the social advances since
Roosevelt and pretending to care about most of the
population around me and having the propaganda machine
start grinding out nonsense trying to convince me that
they care. I fear facism from them, polarization of
people and a government run by industry and the
monied. Delighted to hear that Richard is voting
anti-Bush. I hope that they do not ruin it
permanently for the real Republicans that this right
wing has driven out. I am enclosing a poem
(LiesLies). I dashed off as I thought evil things
about the Bush gang."
Lies and More Lies
by Raul R. Cardenas Jr.
(with apologies to Calvin Trillin and The Nation,
spring 2004)
Lies and more lies coming out of the blue,
Tall tales of Osama, Hussein and their crew,
All wicked and evil, our war agin the night!
And the black book nearby to make it alright.
But repeating a lie just does not make it right,
Or pre-empting a war, just to show off our might?
These pieces of fiction now seen from afar,
Are really the lies that sent us to war.
Yes, George Bush and Dick Chaney and all of their
crew,
Seem convinced that repeating a lie makes it true!
But now we are facing a horrible plight:
Killing good men in a false, senseless fight.
Remember the world where we were the light,
Honest examples of freedoms and defenders of rights?
Now we've stumbled and fallen-because of these lies,
That continue to pour from the mouths of these guys.
No, they can't explain all the prison abuse,
Let the non-coms be guilty-Of course, they're the
excuse!
No one at the top knew much of this game,
The Reserves and the Guard? They're no doubt to blame.
And the lies just get bigger and more painful to me,
And then there's the weapons that we've yet to see,
And visions of more attacks yet to come,
The lies just get bigger, but we're not yet done.
In a world that was once our friend and ally,
Is now much more distant because of these lies.
And me? Im embarrassed and hurt by this rap,
Yes, once we were nice,but now we are crapp.
Yet none at the top will take on the blame,
The deeds are of others. Not them; not their shame.
Nor will they admit that they told us these things,
It's not of their nature: in an empire, they're kings!
But more: Now the Bushies would have us believe
Its a war against evil, and for Adam and Eve.
But this wars great big impact, and the one I deplore:
The Muslim world hates us, and they didnt before!
But elections are coming and soon we will know,
If the people have had it with all this fake show.
Yes, repeating a lie does not make it so,
Even coming from leaders we've gotten to know.
We're tired of deceptions, and taken for louts,
It's time we got wise, and kicked all them out.
Why the fuss and the fury and all of my smoke?
Vote, Vote anti-Bush! All the rest? It's a joke!
FYI: Raul Cardenas, Ph.D., is one of the nation's
leading scientists in the disciplines of water and air
polution. He served in Korea during the so-called
Korean Conflict. He later taught in some of the
nation's major universities, operated his own
research/development firm, and is still involved in
the field of research and development.
Sam Hale, MTACMT@aol.com:
"Thank you for remembering
Jerry Wexler. Compex indeed! A man who could, and
did, relate in depth to the rhythm-and-blues and rock
and roller generations; while at the same time
commanding respect as a true 'man of letters'. His
euologies for Joe Galkin and Paul Ackerman were simply
brilliant, as was he. The last I communicated with
him (about five years ago) he
was spending winters in FL and summers in East
Hampton. I sincerely hope he is still leading a
joyful and fulfilled life."
Me, too, Sam. Always liked Jerry Wexler. And always
regretted that I couldn't attend Paul Ackerman's
funeral. Billboard wouldn't pay the way and Billboard
didn't pay me enough to go on my own. But I'm sure
that Paul knew I wanted to be there. I was one of the
few who knew that Paul, a man of extremely rare
integrity, would stoop any day of the week to steal a
clipping from a camellia bush that he liked. I find
it amusing even now to recall the clipping he stole
from the gardens of Ralph Peer in Los Angeles. Ralph,
a legendary music man, had long been dead. Monique,
his widow, was showing Ralph's camellia gardens to
Paul. Snip, snip!
Regarding his coming website, Chuck Blore,
BloreGroup@aol.com,
comments: "I know the
anticipation is driving you wild. Me, too. I think
it'll be this week. You'll be the first to know, not
because it means anything professionally to either one
of us, but just as kind of a salute to our friendship
of well over a quarter of a century."
Lord! Has it been that long? I must be getting old!
Diane Kirkland,
kirkland@dcwis.com: "Hi, Claude! My
gosh, it's been ages. I think about the good ol'
Billboard days rather frequently and fondly. When who
of all people Mike Littleford called last night trying
to find all the old Billboardians, I went online to
try to find a few he hadn't mentioned. Here I run
across your Dec. 2003 column with scads of BB
memories. I still remember the day in NYC when Hal
Cook threw everything away off your desk because you'd
never clean it off. Hah! Mike is looking for
remembrances and well wishes for his dad Bill, who
turns 90 today (family party this Saturday,
apparently, and he's trying to get a lot of old
Billboard people to say 'hi' via emails as a
surprise). After reading your Dec. column about
Littleford, I'm not sure you'll want to write anything
(!) but just in case, here's Mike's e-mail:
TheWolf1@charter.net.
Do you know where Don Ovens is?
I don't think Mike had been able to find him, or Mort
Nasatir, or John Halloran (can ANYONE find John
Halloran?). Glad to get back in touch, Claude, and
maybe we'll be in touch again!"
Diane was a secretary to publisher Mort Nasatir in New
York, then moved to Los Angeles as office manager,
promotion manager, secretary to Pete Heine, assistant
to Lee Zhito, then finally conference director 1970
through 1980. As I remember, she also wrote articles
for Tiger Beat, the teen magazine. A very talented,
capable lady! She informed me in a subsequent note
that Mike Littleford told her Don Ovens and Radcliffe
Joe had died, among others such as Irv Lichman, once
editor of Cashbox and then of Billboard after my era.
And Bill Wardlow, once head of Billboard charts after
the regime of Don Ovens.
Had a non-named email from a
Rusty7739@aol.com: "Hi,
I hope you can help me. Do you know what the songs
were that was sung in the movie 'Tender Mercies'
especially the song that robert durvall. Thanks for
your help and time."
I don't do phone and I don't do library work. Look
'em up. Just as soon, of course, as you learn to
spell Bob's last name right.
Tom Quigley,
tomquigley2@yahoo.com, "Emailed Roger
McGuinn of the Byrds Happy Birthday a couple of weeks
ago and he answered me back! (I've emailed him three
other times about different things and he's always
responded -- was told by a guy I know who wrote a book
about the Beatles' instruments and who interviewed
Roger in doing research for his book that he's like
that -- very appreciative and in touch with his fans).
Bobby Vee is the same. He talks to everyone. All of
the time. I've seen him spend a couple of hours after
a show just talking to fans. And the unique thing is
that he usually talking about them, rather than
himself. He seems to be interested in everyone. And
this is probably one of the reasons that he still
packs venues of the 3,000-4,000 capacity size and fans
will drive a hundred miles just to catch his show. In
the old days of country music, people like Sonny James
and Tex Ritter and many others knew heaps of fans by
name. In town after town after town! Sonny James is
one of the world's most pleasant, most friendly
people. I remember once I mentioned his address in
the Nashville area and he said that home was just for
the tourist route while he and his wife lived
elsewhere and gave me his real address on some
mountain top. And Tex was what we used to call "salt
of the earth." He and Wally Schwartz, once head of
ABC Television, had the phenomenal ability to remember
your face and name. While working on my master's in
Oklahoma, I once walked into a broadcaster's meeting
in Oklahoma City and Wally yelled, "Hi, Claude!"
Fear
To be fed fear, as bread, all our days
And nothing done, but dogs and guns
And more guns amidst cries of terror
To slaughter those who do not think
As you and I, but hide our own dead
As if ashamed they shout mean audacity
And would taint the image of a man unelected
Who mistakenly thinks he was anointed
Thus admits no wrongs though bright light fades
I don't believe in hell, but heaven is not for all
Some crimes too vast, even God turns away
From he who does foul deeds for foul needs.
c. hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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