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"Snake and the Spider Lady"
Chapter Two of a novel
by Claude Hall
In memory of Bill Randle who once mentioned
to me that his ambition was to become
the world's most deadly weapon.
Snake & the Spider Lady
The snow fell in a curtain that obscured portions of
the street, now whisking away the sign of a small
grocery store, now hiding the windows of a corner
candy shop. In some fashion, the softly falling snow
tempered the bitter cold and made it warmer. It may
have been a psychological trick of the mind.
At first, Snake thought it was the two punks from
Times Square trailing him, hunting for revenge.
But these were not punks. Professionals. Very good
professionals who knew their business. He never saw
them. In fact, he only saw a flicker of a shadow
once, a faint glimmer against a store window another
time. But they were back there behind him. One on
the other side of the street. They moved only when he
moved and only then when they were absolutely sure
that he wouldn't notice them.
It was nice to be associated with professionals. For
a moment, he thought about going back to them. Saying
hello. Talking to them. He did not. Too busy even
though he was extremely curious about why they were
trailing him. Something to do with that affair last
month in Rio de Janeiro? The hunters had picked him
up at Susman's condo; something to do with Susman? If
so, strange! More likely, something else.
No matter. He lived in a predatory world and was used
to it. He let them follow him until there was an
alley.
Snake stepped sideways into the alley and, with the
grace of a large cat, his baseball cap pulled tight to
keep it from flying away, ran down the alley until he
reached the end and turned left. He kept running
around the block and, within a couple of minutes, was
behind them. The hunters had quickly become the
hunted. Only they hadn't realized it yet.
For amusement, he trailed them back down the alleyway.
They stopped at the end and carefully surveyed the
scene around each corner. Finally, they spoke for a
moment. One raised his voice as if blaming the other
for losing their prey.
Suddenly, as if some deep instinct had warned him, one
of the hunters quickly looked around and then dodged
behind an empty crate near the distant alley entrance.
The crate that hid him was fairly large. Large
enough to hold a man who wasn't too particular about
where he slept.
The other stood for a moment in confusion, then he,
too, darted out of view.
Snake laughed aloud, making sure they heard him. The
snow damped his laughter just a little, but the tight
walls of the alley amplified each sharp burst and the
overall effect, he thought, was chilling and intensely
somber. It would shake their nerves. That kind of
laughter would shake up the nerves of anyone.
Then he turned and walked back down the street. He
was in no hurry. By the time they realized he was
gone and crawled out from behind those wooden crates,
he'd be blocks away.
He paused for a few minutes at the counter of a cafe
that could have been called a greasy spoon if you were
trying to be nice. He ordered coffee and then added a
packet of instant from a coat pocket; the result was
coffee so strong that most men would have been unable
to drink it. Snake held the cup in both palms,
letting the heat from the cup warm his hands. Then,
when the coffee was at the right temperature, downed
it in a gulp. He also asked for one slice of rye
toast and when it came, nibbled it gently, savoring
even the tiniest of bites, until the toast was gone.
The waiter was surprised to find a $5 bill left for
the coffee and toast. Usually men who looked like
that, men with dim eyes under dark brows, seldom even
left a tip.
The door swung closed behind him and Snake walked
quickly north along Madison. By 9 a.m., he was
standing in front of an independent dry cleaner. When
the owner himself opened the door, Snake introduced
himself.
"Just a few questions," said Snake.
"You can't be a cop?" It was half a question, half a
statement because of his worn blue jeans, his denim
shirt, his denim jacket. "Not dressed like that."
"No. Just a friend. We were in the army together."
"Something happen to Susman?"
"I hope not," said Snake.
"Me, too. Come on in."
Susman had worked there for a couple of years. He was
always showed up on Thursdays, spent three or four
hours at work.
"Nothing strange to report," said the owner.
"If he shows up this Thursday, I will be very
pleased," said Snake.
"You've got me worried," said the owner. "Susman is a
nice guy. Dependable."
"I'm worried, too," said Snake.
The second place where Susman worked also turned up no
useful information. The general manager of the repair
shop seemed rather nervous, but it was more because he
feared that Susman wouldn't show up Friday and he had
no one else to do the bookkeeping.
"Did he ever receive any phone calls here at work?"
Snake asked.
"No," said the manager.
"It was a dumb question anyway," said Snake.
When he returned to the street, the two men were there
again and this time someone had joined them. The
third person was a thin-faced woman in a black fur cap
with ear flaps. She stayed further back.
He stood there in the doorway a moment.
"I shouldn't have laughed," Snake said to himself.
"What?" asked the manager.
"Just talking at myself. Pay me no mind," said Snake.
"Somebody after you?"
"Do you see anyone after me," Snake said. He moved
slightly to the side so the manager would have a
better view. The streets of New York are usually
thronged at this time of the morning, especially in
the mid-town area. Cold weather had only reduced the
crowd by a few thousand. An older woman shoved her
way past a man in an overcoat. She almost knocked him
off the sidewalk. She didn't look around. He didn't
look up.
"No," said the manager. He leaned out the doorway and
looked both directions.
Snake left the manager of the repair shop standing in
the doorway and walked casually toward the closest of
the two men.
It was an impromptu thing. Only generals plan war or
combat. Privates and even sergeants, if they have a
chance to think about it or a choice, would never go
into combat. If they have a choice, they will hide
out in the nearest bar behind a bottle of beer and
once they get behind such a dark brown bottle not even
the stiffest order can force them out of hiding.
He had long ago discovered that it was best not to
think in a situations such as this one. Act. And
after the first action, everything else usually became
one kind of reaction or another, regardless of your
first action.
Three young women, obviously from out of town and
obviously just thrilled all to pieces to be in New
York City because of their constant glances skyward at
first one building and then another, moved past him.
Snake was in no hurry. He knew that the hunter saw
him coming toward him, but as yet had no idea of
Snake's purpose. Snake didn't even know himself.
The man wore a dark green overcoat that reminded Snake
of old lettuce. The collar was turned up against the
cold. On his head, he wore a knit cap the same color
of his coat. His hands were bare in spite of the
cold, but he tucked one into a coat pocket now and
then for warmth, alternating hands ever minute or two.
He was, without question, a professional. Not the
kind you buy with a couple of bills for a temporary
assignment, but one you pay an awful lot of money and
is on some payroll.
Snake milled behind a pushcart and a short man selling
chestnuts, then moved on down the sidewalk. Now and
then, as he noticed the three girls, he wondered if
he'd been that naive, that unknowing, at one time in
his life.
The hunter, more out of concern that he might be
noticed than anything else, moved into a doorway of a
narrow, walk-up apartment building in order to be out
of view.
That was when Snake stepped into the same doorway.
"Hi," Snake said.
The man merely uttered, "Oh, my god!" and stood there,
afraid to make a grab at this point for his
gun-knowing it was already too late for that-afraid to
assume even a more defensive posture because Snake
might suddenly pull the trigger by instinct.
Then he slowly became aware that Snake had not pulled
a gun on him.
"Gun?"
"Never touch the stuff," said Snake and smiled. There
was a faint odor of something stale in the apartment
entrance. Far too many people had passed through this
short hallway over far too many years. A little bit
of them all had been left behind. Was it the odor of
old apples? Or the sweat of some ancient woman?
The hunter seemed embarrassed.
"What can I do for you?" the hunter asked.
"Nothing much," said Snake. "For one reason or
another, I was beginning to think you might want to
talk to me."
"Not me," said the hunter.
"And I suppose the matter of your employer is beyond
discussion?"
"You know how it is with an employer," he said. "If
you talk about them a little too much, you soon find
you're unemployed. Sometimes permanently."
"Then, the matter is settled," said Snake. "I've
grown a little bored with this game. I want you to
disappear. If I see you or your friends again, I will
kill you. Both of you."
The hunter grinned slightly.
"You mention killing, yet you're not even carrying a
gun?"
"I never carry a gun. But only a fool would make the
mistake of thinking I wasn't armed," said Snake.
"I see," said the hunter. However, Snake watched his
eyes with hawklike intensity and he could tell that
the hunter didn't understand. For a moment, Snake
thought the man was going to draw a gun and go for him
right there in the doorway in daylight. His hand
moved slightly toward his coat label, indication of a
shoulder holster somewhere beneath his coat.
"Don't," said Snake.
The grinned faded. His hand froze. After a moment,
the hand moved carefully on up to rub at his brow.
"Is it true what I've heard?"
"Probably," said Snake. This time, he let a small
amount of venom creep into his voice.
"They say you're faster than a rattlesnake."
"I've never thought much about speed," said Snake.
"The good ones never do," said the hunter. "How did
you catch on to us back on 47th Street. If that's not
too much to ask."
"Since I will never see you again-or at least I will
only see you one more time, briefly-I will tell you.
A glimmer in a store window. A shadow."
"I must be losing it," said the hunter.
"Even the good ones do," said Snake. He tried to make
his voice pleasant so the hunter would know he had no
intention to be unkind.
The hunter nodded. "I'll be moving along then. If
that's okay with you?"
"Certainly," said Snake. "And you'll take your
friends with you?"
The hunter hesitated. "Me and Rabbit will probably
see you again, you know."
"I understand," said Snake.
"Just part of the business," said the Hunter.
"Just business," agreed Snake.
The hunter nodded, stepped quickly out of the doorway
and immediately disappeared into the crowd that moved
past on their way to work in the giant concrete
outhouse called New York City. Snake stepped forth,
saw the hunter darting across the street between the
taxi cabs and a lone limousine heading south. The
hunter said something to a figure hidden almost behind
a street corner telephone stand. Both of them walked
quickly on down the street and were soon gone.
They had forgotten the girl. She was almost a block
away looking into the display window of a clothing
store.
As he watched her, he was aware that he needed another
pair of Levis. A hole had appeared a few days ago in
the right knee of the pair of Levis he had on. Why
was it always the right knee first?
He was undecided what to do about the girl. Did the
hunter and his friend Rabbit think him that naive?
As if she'd suddenly become aware of his stare, she
turned and entered the clothing store.
Snake threaded his away among the people moving up and
down the sidewalk and, from another place further down
the street, stopped and watched the entrance to the
clothing store. After a few minutes, he almost
changed his mind about her. But not quite.
However, he decided that he'd reached a point of
diminishing returns about the thin-faced woman in the
black fur cap.
He stopped at a telephone stand and dialed Caraboo's
office. The secretary gave him what little
information she found in Susman's file.
"There isn't much. I'm sorry."
Snake thanked her and hung up.
He was astonished at the rather trivial evidence that
Susman, alive or dead, had lived at all. Years ago,
he'd run across an old photo of Susman, himself, and
Caraboo. Someone had once seen the photo and
remarked: "The Three Mesquiteers." The photo had
gone into the trash along with other mementos as Snake
pared down for the live he was to lead...the raw,
bare-boned life that he still led today.
Except for an apartment with a cold pipe in an ashtray
and a television set still on a classic movie channel,
a few marks in a checkbook, there wasn't much to show
that Susman existed at all. For Caraboo's secretary
had offered Snake only a couple of trivial facts:
weight, height, color of eyes, his address.
The thin-faced girl in the black fur hat had not yet
appeared from the clothing store. Why was it taking
her so long? Was she buying something, trying on a
dress?
With casual strides of his long legs, Snake walked
across the street and up the block-long sidewalk to
the clothing store. Though he only hesitated for a
brief instant at the edge of the display window, he
didn't see the girl inside. She could have been in a
dressing room, of course, trying on a dress. But, for
one reason or another, he suspected that she wasn't in
the store.
The snow had slacked off. A hard-blue sky edged
between low gray clouds. Now and then, the sun
managed to sneak through, causing shadows to perform a
strange slow dance along the peaks of the buildings.
He turned right at the corner and headed for Central
Park a few blocks away and further north. There
weren't as many people on the sidewalks now. Or maybe
those that were going to work were already at work and
these were only the stragglers. As the pedestrian
traffic thinned out, he was able to walk faster. His
legs moved in a motion like a person skating. His
feet never left the concrete except for an inch or so.
He wasted little effort. It was a style of walking
that he'd developed over the past few years; it had
been very uncomfortable for a while because of the
unusual strain on certain muscles of the leg. But he
had persisted and today could walk at a very strong
pace for hours and still have strength at the end to
break into a brisk run if necessary.
She had somehow anticipated his actions, his
direction, his destination. The thin-faced girl in
the black fur hat was standing a hundred yards away
near the Plaza Hotel as he crossed the street and
entered Central Park on Fifth Avenue and Central Park
South.
But he only discovered this when a bullet crashed past
his head.
Snake reacted instinctively; it was something that he
practiced a few times a week, repeating the maneuver
until he worked up a sweat, then altering the angle,
altering the roll, coming to his feet in one flowing
choreographed motion.
Reality, however, was somewhat different, just as the
performance of a play is always different from what
has been done in rehearsal.
As he flung himself down on the ground in a patch of
snow already splattered with mud, rolling rapidly in
order to avoid becoming a still target, he saw her
near the famous Plaza Hotel fountain preparing to fire
again.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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August 30, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
George Wilson,
KeokiWC@aol.com: "Claude...Blore's
website is up
www.Chuckblore.com. If he told you
before me I'm not answering his questions...I wanted
to be first even if he said you would be first to
know...oh well. I still like Barbara...yours...not
Streisand...best Wilson...Jackie likes you anyway."
Ah, but wait until next week!
Just FYI, I tapped into Chuck's website. Couldn't
locate the interview with George. Will try again, of
course. When George Wilson talks, even the wind must
pause to listen to his great wisdom.
Joey Reynolds, G1boney@aol.com,
called. This coming
December, he will have nine years on WOR in New York
City. His show is also carried via satellite on a
baker's barrel of radio stations around the nation.
Among those who drop by the radio station on a fairly
regular basis are Les Paul, the inventor of the rock
guitar (do you know how much one of the earlier Les
Paul's is worth these days...hell, even Les Paul
probably can't afford one!) and Sid Bernstein, the man
who brought the Beatles to the United States way back
when and placed them first in Carnegie Hall and later
a couple of times in Shea Stadium. Barbara and I saw
one of the Shea concerts. Saw is the appropriate
word. Couldn't hear the Beatles because of 50,000
screaming little girls! Lou Christie also visits on
Joey's show from time to time. Got to be honest with
you; mostly we talked kids. Ah, yes...the legendary
Joey Reynolds once changed diapers. Now, of course,
his two daughters are grown. Neither of us understand
where the years went.
Bob Madigan,
bobmadigan@mindspring.com: "So nice to
come across your website. You were very supportive of
my dreams in 1972 when I came to you looking for help
in getting the word out about the comedy service I had
started to write. It was called Trends and thanks to
things you said, and the ads in Billboard, it was a
nice little going concern for several years. It
helped supplement the GI Bill while I finished college
and it gave a more creative outlet than the part-time
radio work I found in San Diego. This summer I
celebrated my 40th year in radio. And I still love
it. Keep up the great writing."
Janet Miller,
rmiller@bfree.on.ca: "Don't know why
but Tom Clay's been on my mind lately, I must've heard
someone on radio or TV mention his name. I remember
being awed by one of his narratives back in the early
to mid-sixties, sitting alone in our basement
listening on my Dad's shortwave radio. I often
wondered what happened to him. I decided to go on the
web and find out but wasn't having much luck until I
found your site. Now I know he died. I didn't know
that. Too bad. How old was he and what happened?
Does anybody have any pictures, I can't seem to find
anything via the internet."
I dropped Janet a personal note and suggested that
Janet touch bases with Don Barrett at
www.LARP.com.
Ah, Tom. Many of us miss you, old man!
Just FYI, Tom gave me a copy of his autobiography. He
tried to get it published. Couldn't. Then he rewrote
it as a novel and couldn't get that published either.
I still have the autobiography somewhere around the
house. Some cardboard box. You ever notice how our
lives have jelled down to a series of cardboard boxes
that never seem to get unpacked?
Mike Anderson,
mike@pickeringonline.com: "Claude: As a
Jew, I find your 'clever' use of the name of one of
the death camps as a reference for the name of the
U.S. president highly offensive. Presumably you want
it pronounced as 'Booseh-en-wald' and not in the
original German, 'Book-en-wald'. This wordplay is not
clever, nor is it meaningful in any positive way. I
may or may not agree with the policies of Mr. Bush,
but I certainly do not align them with policies of the
Holocaust. Twelve million people, including six
million Jews, were murdered in Nazi death camps in
WW2, including Buchenwald and other locations.
Thousands of Jews have been murdered since then by the
hands of Muslim terrorists, in Israel and around the
world. And, of course, thousands of U.S. citizens
were murdered on 9/11 by Muslim terrorists. The
elimination of Jews and Christians worldwide has
become a major project of Fundamental Islamics.
Presumably this genocidal effort by them matters to
you."
Mike, when you tell me, first off, that you're a jew,
you place a burden on me. I wonder why you tell me
this. Are you telling me from the standpoint of
practicing a religion or from the sense of being one
of the biblical "chosen ones?" If the latter,
conversation must arbitrarily terminate. Because of
my own cultural upbringing, the environment in which I
was raised and any acumen I might have acquired along
the years, I cannot accept anyone being either
different enough and certainly not unique enough in
any aspect to warrant exceptional treatment nor even
an atmosphere of acquiescence. I.e., I have come to
believe that everyone is no better than me, no
less/worse than me. This is a lesson I learned the
hard way. Life's bruises and contemplations of
necessity.
The guy who lived across the street told me a few
years ago that he was a mormon. I wished he hadn't.
Don't know why he had to tell me. Was he giving me
this information just in case I had something against
mormons? Was he expecting me to treat him differently
than anyone else? I still don't know. I decided to
hell with the information. He had to accept me, not
the other way around. His being a mormon meant
nothing to me. I was not seeking a friend and anyway
do not require that my friends be this or that simply
because many are this or/and that. I have a very odd
mixture of friends, I assure you. He was expected to
be just a neighbor and that was all I wanted or
needed. I shared my apricots in season. He shared
his ladder in season. He helped me with a flat tire.
I kept an eye on his townhouse when he let me know he
was going to be out of town.
My dentist is a mormon. He didn't tell me that. I
gleaned it from conversations between him and his
staff. Damned good dentist. I doubt that being a
mormon helps one way or another when it comes to
dentistry. Frankly, I could care less about his
religion. And somehow I have a feeling that he
doesn't care whether or not he's working on an
unorthodox spiritualistic heathen when I'm in his
chair. I sort of like the guy and I believe he sort
of likes me.
To this day, I find it ironic that I was considered
christian enough to teach at Oral Roberts University.
Ron Jacobs, Joey Reynolds, Ernie Farrell understand
why. However, I was grateful when kismet ordained
that I teach instead at the State University of New
York at Brockport. Oral Roberts University had a
guard on the library door to make sure its students, I
suppose, didn't steal the books. This seemed in
conflict with the university's primary purpose to me.
Of course, perhaps I merely wasn't completely aware of
the real primary purpose of the university. I say
this not as a negative reflection on the person Oral
Roberts, because I believe he has done more harm than
good...or at least tried to do so. But I would have
thought that the majority of the students entering the
university were somewhat above stealing and especially
stealing books. In fact, it might be better if they
did steal some of those books! Someone ought to read
them.
I gave a little girl from Greece a D in a journalism
course I taught at the State University of New York at
Brockport. She quickly accused me of racial
prejudice. I laughed, of course, and told her to the
best of my knowledge Greek was not a race. In
essence, she was as much a mongrel as me...just from a
different time and place. Just FYI, I had two best
men when I married. One was an old college buddy who
just happened to be of Mexican descent. The other was
a Greek. I am a devoted advocate of both cultures and
not just because I love the bazoukie and the taco.
You're aware, of course, that the jew, too, is a vast
mixture and comes in many varieties. If you were to
decide you are among the chosen, you'd have to select
which brand and I'm sure some of the other brands
might object that you were mistaken.
Basically, they, whoever they are, have decided via
DNA we all fell out of the same tree. You, me. The
people living in China. The baptist in Georgia. Even
Oral Roberts, though he might deny this.
One of my sons belongs to a Japanese animation society
in Los Angeles. He has invited Don Yee, an
illustrator/designer who is known in some circles,
home a couple of times. Once, I thought it was my son
John (6-foot-four, etc.) sleeping on the living room
couch...that he'd given Don the guest room. Not so.
Don is a far cry from his ancestors. Even his
parents. Milk, pizza do those things to you. I
believe this could be considered indicative of changes
occurring in us all. Perhaps changes for the better.
I know of no person who resembles Lucy; was that
really her name? Was she really capable of cognitive
conception? We do not know. We hope so.
I have certainly changed. From redneck to at least
enlightened redneck. You cannot escape all of your
culture and, to tell the truth, some aspects I still
savor, but I have tried to eliminate many of the
negative characteristics of my youth. Or at least
rise above them. I even enjoy some aspects of the
jewish culture these days although I think gefeltafish
ought to be outlawed.
Enlightened, yes. Am I still prejudiced to some
extent? I do not know. I watch myself very
carefully. Not because I believe I'm prejudiced, but
because I have a big mouth. Once at a Christmas party
when I was working for Fawcett Publications, one of
the sons of Capt. Billy Whizbang himself, upon
discovering that I was from Texas, remarked that he'd
hunted javalina hogs once in Texas on horseback. I
remarked, without thinking, that only sissies hunted
javalinas from horseback. Which was absolutely true
in my day. But....
Am I still intolerant of things I find personally
distasteful? Again, I watch myself. Basically, I
believe that there are a lot of things that are none
of my business, including many things that I feel are
my business; so I try to be careful. I have a friend
who says that he has to ask himself many times, "What
would the master do?" He, of course, is referring to
Jesus. Many years ago, while engaged in some
extensive research on religion, I came to the
conclusion that Jesus probably existed and was
probably a great man and probably his memory has
accomplished a lot of good in the world. As well as
enormous crimes. I was once in the cathedral in
Trier, Germany; they claim they have the nail that was
driven into Jesus' foot on the cross; sent 20,000
crusaders to the so-called holyland to get it and
killed man, woman, and child in its acquisition. This
was not an enormous crime?
But the father-son concept lifted from mythology
didn't set well with me. Inherently illogical. A
real god wouldn't need a son. I've come to distrust
organized religion. I arrived, for good or bad, at a
spiritual program on my own. I've written about it.
Don't believe I've published it. Sent the article to
a couple of friends. Essentially, I've placed my god
on a higher order. A good god. But letting us do our
own "thang." Which, of course, would be one of the
greatest gifts of all. As well as, individually, one
of the greatest burdens.
The bottom line in a concept like this is that
personal freedom means a great deal in my particular
spiritual program. Thus, when a government that was
not elected robs me of certain rights (i.e., the
Patriot Act), it cannot possibly be a valid government
nor a government which I can respect. Regardless,
Cheney walked off of the Halliburton job with a bonus
of $34 million. This places him in the realm of the
greatest bandit of all. Makes Jesse James look like a
Boy Scout. I suppose that some of that money belonged
to me and my wife. Stocks. Why has no one questioned
its acquisition? Dan Rather may have been a reporter
at one time. Not lately; sorry! The news ignores too
many things these days; we're not getting the full
story. This morning, there was a crawl on CNN that
three unarmed men had been killed "accidentally" by
American soldiers in Afghanistan. This is not the
first time. As before, the U.S. apologized. This is
very nice of the U.S. However, I'm literally tired of
us killing innocent people in a foreign land. Sans
guilt. Sans trial. Sans retribution of any kind
whatsoever except, of course, our public image
continues to take a nosedive. Hell, we don't even
have a public image anymore. And what right do we
have to invade in the first place without just cause?
Buchenwald speaks of "brave boys" serving in Iraq.
Hell, how brave do you have to be to kill a kid?
Anyway, it's rockets and gunships against AK-47s. You
take a man off a horse to fight javalina hogs, he not
only has to be brave, but a bit foolish. But that's
the way you hunt the hogs. And you don't hunt those
hogs with an M-16. Thirty ought six.
How many women and children have we actually
slaughtered in Afghanistan and Iraq? The figures are
hidden. Not discussed. I'm against the killing of
woman and children. Regardless! There is no excuse.
I'm also against the israelis killing women and
children in Palestine. Especially with American guns
and gunships. Do the Israelis deserve their own
country? I find the idea of a religion having a
nation illogical. Especially in an area so fraught
with religious significance to a vast number of people
practicing other religions. And, anyway, I'm
concerned what might happen one day if a heathen like
me wandered down there to explore biblical sites.
Jews--and everyone else--do, however, deserve the
right to live and work in peace anywhere they wish to
live. My reason for this opinion is that it is
conducive to fostering that "chosen ones" attitude to
consider otherwise. Anyway, mongrelization is more
advantageous to the gene pool. Of course, I'm
speaking from the viewpoint of what has to be
considered a genetic mongrel.
Regardless, Israel is actually just another social
experiment and human kind has been fraught with such
experiments. I suppose it's part of human nature.
The tendency, regardless, seems to be failure when
anything approaching genetic isolationism is
concerned. Just FYI, children of friends went down
there to participate in the great experiment, but they
had the distinct advantage of coming home when they
grew tired of experimenting. I haven't checked
lately, but I think all of them--all--came home.
You could propose that the israelis require such a
separate nation because of persecution. In my
research, I found that the israelis have done
considerable persecution themselves, i.e., the
so-called land of milk and honey. And they are still
persecuting like crazy! Or perhaps it's a case of
those persecuted persecuting those persecuted.
But such isolationism tends to foster persecution, not
reduce it. In my opinion. But that's because I
believe in the "global village" concept. Separatism
is at the other end of the spectrum where this concept
is concerned. While it is true that ghettos and
barrios exist here in America, I'm against their
existence. I think they tend to evaporate over time.
Hopefully. The entire town where I was born and
raised, incidentally, was nothing but a ghetto in the
final analysis. It's somewhat better these days. Not
much.
You disavow my right to use of the term "Buchenwald."
Said it offended you. Good. I hoped to offend
someone. Not necessarily you, of course.
My wife Barbara says I shouldn't add to your obvious
pain. Pain? After almost 60 years! Were you there?
I know someone who was. She doesn't have this pain.
In fact, she's damned glad to be alive! Such
experience, of course, was not a positive thing in her
life. But she has moved on.
You toss the number 12 million at me. That, I
believe, is not correct. Regardless, it was a
horrible number. I cannot and will not forgive the
perpetrators of those deaths. But most of them,
themselves, are dead. Regardless, Buchenwald was
merely a site where a great many of these deaths
happened...just as Galveston was the site of many
deaths from a hurricane around 1900. The site was not
to blame for the deaths. People. Wind!
I especially would hope that Buchenwald, too, is
offended. The person, not the place. North Korea
referred to him this morning as a "political
imbecile." Earlier, I referred to him as a Hitler.
Thus the tie-in to a death camp. For, in my opinion,
he's nothing less than a death camp. He has ruined
America by turning the U.S. Army into a killing
machine; gunships and rockets against guns and
handmade bombs. Using the term "collateral damage"
when what is really happening is the slaughter of
innocent women and children without slightest concern.
An unfair war at best. Not even sure that a real
president could straighten things out, but I hope
someone gets the opportunity. We cannot continue
along our present political pathway. Disaster alone
awaits. Buchenwald is fostering isolationism instead
of a global village concept. Or perhaps he has
decided what the global village concept should
be...just as if he were god.
We don't really know what he's doing, this Buchenwald.
He says one thing, does another. He's a vicious
lier. He says the economy is growing, yet another 1.3
million people fell below the poverty line this year,
the third year in a row of increase (CNN, Aug. 26,
2004). CNN also said that 12.5% of Americans
currently live below poverty level, including 18% of
children. And 45 million Americans have no medical
insurance. Buchenwald is a horror story akin to the
worse nightmare ever had by anyone! If I could think
of something worse than Buchenwald to call him, I
would.
My wife says I shouldn't offend you. Okay. I
apologize if I offended you. But this will not stop
me from using the term Buchenwald to refer to that
creep who sits in the White House because some of his
father's old friends gave him the position.
I, of course, can never forgive Nazi Germany for the
death camps. Nor, come to think of it, what Americans
did to blacks in the early days of our history and
even now, what Americans did to people of Japanese
ancestry during World War II, what Americans did to
the Indians. Humanity is guilty of many crimes
against humanity, but, yes, the hands of Americans
here at home are, too, tinged with blood. Am I
personally guilty for what happened to the Indians,
the blacks, the American-Japanese? I would hope guilt
is not inherited.
I was stationed in Germany right after the war. Long
story, but me and a couple of buddies saw the Signal
Corp. films. Including the death camps. I recall
quite vividly bodies still twitching being buried in
mass graves. (A British doctor on the History Channel
said today, Aug. 25, 2004, that there was nothing that
could be done at that particular time.) Maybe they
were as good as dead. Could one more have been saved?
The crime is that no soldier tried. At least not in
the films I saw. I suspect that the American soldier
had become tired with death. This happened in Korea
and Vietnam. It will happen in time in the middle
east. I believe it is already taking place and we're
not being informed. The suicide rate among American
soldiers is too high for it to be otherwise. The
horror of death has a vicious parameter. In Florida
this past week, Marines came to tell a father his son
had been killed in Iraq. He ran and got a can of
gasoline and threw it in their van, jumped in, set it
afire. The Marines pulled him out, but he suffered
bad burns.
After a while, unfortunately, death has a tendency to
become psychologically boring. A person who has
killed finds it easier to kill again. From experience
I know that a person in "uniform" is a different
animal. Example: Something as simple as a brown
shirt and a black armband changed a nation. The good
news is that it is not a permanent condition. Take
away the armband, take away the gun and the person
involved often becomes human again. And, in fact, may
eventually abhor murder. If they are rational human
beings in the first place.
My major concern is that something similar to the
armband philosophy seems to be happening this very
moment here in America? I can't pin it down. I just
feel it. The brown-shirt syndrome again? I have a
good friend who laughed when Saddam Hussein's two sons
were killed in what was obviously a
no-chance-to-surrender, overkill situation. American
soldiers literally blew the house apart! My friend
did not consider the two wives and the children also
murdered (for Hussein's two sons were actually
murdered, you know, without opportunity for trial).
This crime is unforgivable.
Just FYI, the Associated Press in a story dated Jan.
3, 2004, stated: "Recent U.S. methods in Iraq
increasingly mimic those Israel uses in the West Bank
and Gaza--house demolitions, setting up impromptu
checkpoints, keeping militants on the defensive with
frequent arrest raids and, in at least one case,
encircling a village and distributing travel permits."
Many things going on in Israel and Iraq are contrary
to the Geneva Convention, the story said.
Does this answer the points you raised? Of course,
not. Good answers are hard to come by. Maybe even
impossible to come by. Essentially, I try to keep an
open mind, but too many things about Bush bother me of
late.
My wife has closed her mind to Bush. She is working
for the Democratic Party here as a volunteer. And
this is the woman who once invited major New York City
Republicans to our parties, including one guy who
became mayor of the city. The first time I ever wore
a tux (rented) was to a party of Republicans of the
9th A.D., the so-called Silk Stocking district. On
the other hand, my wife's dad was a close friend of
Saul Friedman, six-time vice presidential candidate on
the Socialist ticket. Friedman dined with us one
evening when I was working for Billboard in Los
Angeles. Poor guy, the only thing we had kosher to
feed him was scrambled eggs! What was humorous to
some extent was that he was married to a Mexican lady
and he insisted she keep a kosher kitchen! Now that
is funny! Kosher tacos?
But what a great mind! What great political and
social experiences!
I think the process of thinking, the process of
acquisition of information and knowledge, the process
of acquiring a comfortable view of humanity, the
process of accepting others based on the quality of
their humanity...these things are more important to me
than race, creed, religion, and all of the other more
or less artificial aspects of human kind. Race?
Artificial? I've heard it said that in 20,000 years
there will not be a black-skinned person in the United
States. The things that make a person have a darker
skin than me are already vanishing. I haven't heard
any such remark regarding people with freckles (like
me), but I've heard that freckles were acquired from
some passing viking(s) a few centuries ago. No one
has seen a viking for a long, long time. If you see
one, tell him thanks for the freckles, but no thanks
and please mind your own business next time.
What this diatribe of mine boils down to, essentially,
is that eventually mankind is going to have to put
aside many of the elements that cause us to be
different and cherish the elements that make us alike.
Because when you create enemies, they seem to
increase rather rapidly in number and you can't kill
them all; you kill one enemy and suddenly there are
two, then three, then dozens. The Buchenwald crowd
have discovered this (I hope they're aware enough to
realize we can never actually win the war in Iraq).
The israelis, too, hopefully, are beginning to find
this out. When the only way you can win a war is to
eliminate all of the enemy, you have already lost the
war. On the other hand, one can never have too many
friends. They're much harder to come by than an
enemy. However, the benefits of friendship are
without boundaries, without limitations. The benefits
of enemies are few indeed.
ONWARD!
Mike Anderson and Dan Kelley,
dkelley98@yahoo.com,
also commented about the Dixie Chicks. Two slightly
different versions. Just FYI, I accused Clear Channel
long ago of various infractions; I did not say a
company policy was in effect, but the upstairs
permitted these infractions thus are obviously just as
guilty as the idiots who did the banning and burning
of the CDs. Mike says: "Chicks? It was not the
company that 'banned' the group, but rather a few of
their stations and only in certain markets. There was
never at any time, regardless of what you may want to
believe, a 'companywide' ban on the 'Chick' music. A
few of CCU's stations refused to play their music.
But not all of them. No corporate conspiracy.
Sorry." And Dan says: "It wasn't Clear Channel that
'banned' the Dixie Chicks - it was Cumulus
Broadcasting." And Dan referred to:
http://www.usatoday.com/life/music/news/2003-03-18-chicks-chart_x.htm
Jim Kleist, kleist@myvine.com:
"Was doing a search on
my friend Ken Griffis and your site popped into view.
There was a story about Susan visiting the party with
Ken, Nolan, Perryman and a whole lot more. In talking
with Griffis tonight, it occurred to me to mention
your site. He asked me to email a response to you and
to give you his phone number. Ken is one generous
man, loyal friend and cancer fighter/survivor. Ken
can be reached at 303-450-1667. Please give him a
call & remind him of the interview he said you two had
with Bob Nolan. I think he would like that. If Ken
asks a man to call, that person must be ok in his
books. My best to you, Claude."
Ach! Jim, thank you for the note. My problem is that
I don't do much phone. One guy couldn't believe, via
email, that I would turn down a chance to be
interviewed for R&R. I told him that I would be glad
to do the interview via email. No phone. It's a long
story. I still talk to Joey Reynolds and the
Magnificent Montague. Joey calls once every six
months. Montague doesn't call at all. But please
give Ken my best. You're right. He's one damned nice
guy. I remember him fondly. Appreciated him muchly.
We had some good times in those days. Ken pushed
through an album featuring the Sons of the Pioneers
produced by Cliffie Stone. Ken knew western music
better than anyone I ever met. Wrote a book about the
Sons of the Pioneers. And guys like Bob Nolan, the
man who wrote "Cool Water," considered him a great
friend.
ONE LAST THING
I emailed--at the request of ex-Billboard staffer
Diane Kirtland--a message wishing Bill Littleford,
former head of Billboard, happy 90th birthday. Bill
sent out a blanket note and in the note he mentioned
that Jerry Hobbs had taken Billboard to an $8 billion
industry. Whew! Good going, Jerry! And I thought
the magazine had dwindled after I left. Ego run
rampant, eh! And I used to think I was perfect.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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