From here, you could see the lights of Triborough
Bridge and a good chunk of distant Astoria twinkling
in the night on Long Island.  On the other side of
Astoria was an outdoor Greek cabaret down a long
street that heads north for the bay.  He'd gone there
one summer night, enjoyed the nerve-tingling bazoukee
music, and stayed until closing time and then slept
under one of the outdoor tables.  One of the belly
dancers had stayed with him.

That was months and months ago.  Two years?  Three? 
He could not remember.

Somewhere along the way, he had become a myth.

This afternoon, he had added to the myth.  Stories of
the incident in the park would spread from one end of
the island to the other by the underground
communication system that exists among the low people
in the alleys and the dark streets.  There would be a
few lies thrown into the stories and they would grow
further in the telling.  And eventually the lies would
be larger than the truth.

Because the Snake had become a myth, he didn't know
himself anymore.  It was as if he were two people. 
Perhaps that's what Caraboo had noticed.  The other
person that lurked in his soul.

The New York Strip arrived and he sat down to eat at a
table placed near the window.  The steak was perfect. 
Just as you might expect in this place.  Eisenhower
had lived in this same tower.

The trimmings included broccoli, an indication that
someone had looked him up on computer before placing
the order for dinner.

The thin-faced girl had evidently looked into that
same file.  She would know that he was probably eating
broccoli tonight.  She wouldn't know about the New
York Strip.  Nor the Waldorf Towers.  This type of
luxury was totally different for him.  But he would
have to be a different kind of person from now on.

If Caraboo thought he was predictable, Snake would
become unpredictable.

He poured the bowl of dry-roasted peanuts into his
trail mix pouch.  His next New York Strip with
broccoli might be a long time off.

The waiter also brought wrapping paper.  After eating,
he carefully wrapped the cellular phone and the
revolver he'd taken from the gunman earlier in the
afternoon.  He called room service.  A room clerk took
the package away to be mailed tomorrow to a factory on
the south side of Chicago.  An employee at the factory
would intercept the package and the telephone would be
taken to a lab for fingerprints.  The possibility of
being able to track the goon's fingerprints was a long
shot.  Snake had more hope for the gun.  He wasn't
interested in fingerprints.  He was more curious about
where the gun had come from and how.

For a long while, he sat by the window reading the
rest of the Max Brand pocketbook.  The gunman's bullet
had wiped out a few words, but he still enjoyed the
book.  Max Brand wrote about men who weren't really
heroes.  They just got involved in things beyond them
and fought through.

And always won.  Max Brand was good about letting his
heroes become real heroes in the end and win.

He'd just finished the book and was sitting in the
dark by the window, the closed book still in one hand,
looking out at the lights of New York City when the
phone rang.

He thought it might be Caraboo or, maybe, Neva. 
Perhaps they'd found Susman!

"This is Mary Sue," she said.

There went his new modus operandi of unpredictability
out the window, Snake thought.

It was the thin-faced woman!

"I'm rather disturbed that you were able to find me."

"Wasn't easy.  I hope they're treating you well."

"Well, you know how the Waldorf is," Snake said.

"Not my kind of place," she said with considerable
tartness in her voice.

"I sort of fancied you for a Bergdorf-Goodman girl,"
Snake said.

She laughed.

"You're pumping, Snake."

"Caught," he admitted.  "But I really would like to
get to know you better."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Snake."

"Why?"

"You're going to be dead."

"You mean I'm not going to get a good night's rest. 
And here I am in one of the most comfortable places in
the world.  Utter luxury."

"Oh, you can sleep well tonight, Snake."

"Thanks."

"Just because I'm out of playmates for you at the
moment."

"Sorry to hear that," he said.

"And what you did to my brother yesterday wasn't all
that nice."

"Your brother?"

"He wanted to take you on.  So I let him.  My mistake.
 But I've got a good one for you.  He'll be along
shortly."

"Thanks.  I appreciate that."

"Tomorrow, I wouldn't hang around the Waldorf-Astoria
too long."

"I'm thinking about leaving immediately after this
phone call."

"No need, Snake.  Rest."

"I won't be able to rest," said Snake, "until you let
Susman go."

Susman?  Who's Susman?"

"A friend of mine."

"Never heard of him," she said.  "I don't know
anything about your friend."

"I wish I could believe that," Snake said.

"Well, believe what you want.  Doesn't matter."

"I'm curious about something, Mary Sue.   Why am I
getting all of this attention?"

"That's a hard question.  Perhaps I'll tell you some
day.  If you survive, Snake."

"Looking forward to seeing you again, Mary Sue."

"I doubt it, Snake."

She hung up the phone.

He didn't believe her, of course.  Several of her
"playmates" were probably already heading for the
Waldorf-Astoria, if not outside the door of his suite
right now!

But the meal and been good and sleep wasn't all that
necessary at the moment.  He'd had time to finish the
Max Brand novel.  He was grateful for even that much
rest.

He had nothing to pack.

Instead, of going down the stairs, he took the
elevator.  Might as well.  If she'd lied about being
out of gunman, they would be watching the stairs and
the elevator.  So, it was easy to make the easy
choice.  If there were no gunman around, it was just
as easy to choose the elevator.

He saw no one even remotely suspicious.

Reaching street level, he walked east to Broadway and
down to 42nd Street.

42nd Street in New York City is the armpit of the
universe, whether there are other people in the
far-flung reaches of space or not.  Conversely, Snake
loved the atmosphere-the cheap movie houses where
movies were always the second or third entertainment
available, the pickpockets, the drug addicts to whom
drugs had become a way of life and a way of death and
they existed for a while somewhere in the never-never
land in-between.  The homeless came here after
everywhere else had kicked them out.  Others came here
because, while it was an armpit, it was also one of
the most exciting places in the world.  You could get
killed and not know who did it.  And the person who
did it wouldn't necessary have a reason.  Or he could
have killed you because his puppy had been run over by
a car when he was a kid.  It didn't matter.

Snake drifted slowly among the crowd.

An old lady had parked her shopping cart in front of a
bookstore.  A man with hair like a forest and a beard
with streaks of gray was trying to take it away from
her.  She pulled a baseball out of her cart and begin
swinging at him.

He paid and went in a movie house-appalled by the
odors of sweat and misery in the sparsely occupied
room-but took the fire exit and came out in a
passageway.  A moment later, he was on another street.
 He dropped soon into a subway near the building that
would always be known as the Times Tower Building by
the people who'd lived most of their lives in the
city.

He spent the night in the same crate in the alley near
Susman's condo.  It wasn't quite as cold as it had
been the other night.  He had a good night's sleep in
spite of Mary Sue.  She'd thought to shake him up. 
She had failed.

Had that been her only reason to call him?

The odd thing was he had believed some of their
conversation.  Not about letting him have a night of
restful sleep at the Waldorf.  Not that.  But he, for
some reason, thought she was telling the truth about
Susman.  Would she have known the name of the person
her men kidnapped?  Certainly!  She would have known
his name and, in fact, probably would have planned the
kidnapping.  If she was involved in it at all.

But she had to be involved!  Otherwise, why hound him
all over town?  Susman was the only possible
connection.

Who had paid Susman $17,000?  What was the payment
for?  Susman, god bless him, wasn't worth that much
money.

Yesterday, or was it the day before, Neva had
mentioned that Susman didn't smoke.  Who had left the
pipe in Susman's condo/apartment?

And, of course, there was also the question:  How had
Mary Sue discovered he was staying at the
Waldorf-Astoria?  Had she been able to tap into the
new setup that easy and that quick?  If so, it would
indicate that she was into some almost scary high-tech
capabilities.

Shortly before dawn, he was up and going through the
door of Susman's apartment.

The pipe was gone.

A cursory examination turned up nothing else of
interest.

No one trailed him as he left, but he went down the
back stairs and let himself out into an alley just to
avoid the possibility.  He took a subway up to Harlem
and found a restaurant and had coffee and toast.  It
was clean and pleasant in the small diner; the owner,
if he was perturbed at having a white customer, didn't
show it.  Afterwards, Snake hung out on a corner near
the post office for a while, waiting for it to open.

"You lost?"

"Been lost for years," Snake admitted.  "How are you,
King?"

"Kosher," said King.  His new tee-shirt could be seen
in the open collar of his jacket.

Without discussing it, they began to walk north,
dodging a trash can here, an empty beer can, broken
whiskey bottles glinting in the early dawn sunlight.

"Does that mean you're okay?"

King laughed deep in his throat, as if it wasn't
really funny, but he wanted to be pleasant.  "I guess
it could mean anything you want it to mean.  In this
case, it means everything is going well.  I sort of
thought you'd like to know."

"I did.  Thanks for telling me."

"We've already got six basketball teams signed up and
several other guys are digging up teams right now. 
Montague is handling any permits needed.  Rudy is
handing the organizational details."

"Fast work."

"Promised the winning team a set of Air Jordan's, all
autographed personally by the I wanta be like Mike man
himself."

"Hey, I may put together a team for something like
that.  Can you really deliver Michael Jordan?"

That's your job."

"Whups!  I'm in more trouble than I realized," said
Snake.  "I don't exactly associate in those circles,
King."

"You can do it, Snake.  I've got faith."

"I see.  How did you find out my name?"

"It's everywhere," said King.  He waved a hand at the
air above their heads.  "You've become a fever on the
streets."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You can say that, but that ain't the word we hear. 
Me and the guys figure you enjoy getting in deep shit.
 Like other people enjoy going to an opera or a
Broadway play.  Or a basketball game."

"And you figure I'm in deep shit now?"  It was more of
a statement than a question.

"Pretty deep," said King.

Snake nodded.  "Everybody keeps telling me that.  I'm
beginning to believe it myself."

"Need a place to cool out?  I know a good hideyhole."

"Don't get involved in my troubles, King.  Might be
more than you can handle."

"You got involved in mine."

"Bit different.  I don't want to put you down, King,
but a pair of Reeboks won't solve my particular
problem."

"Mine either," said King.  "This is a problem place,
Harlem.  Everyone here has problems.  Goes with the
turf."

"Let's walk," said Snake.  They had drifted to a stop
in front of a building that had once been one of the
grand homes in Harlem back when Harlem was a grand
place to live.  But its grandeur had peeled slowly
away over the decades and at this stage in its life
the building deserved a peaceful death.  Instead,
several families made a home in the building, like
birds building nests in corners, and it fell slowly to
pieces around them.  "How did you know I'd show up
here this morning?"

"I didn't.  Sort of thought you'd come around sooner
or later.  That's all.  Me and Montague and Rudy have
been taking turns waiting."

"Thank you," said Snake.

"More than anything else, I guess, I wanted to let you
know you had some friends.  I figured you didn't know
that."

"I need friends."

"It has nothing to do with the Reeboks, you
understand."

"Never crossed my mind."

"Screw that heavy philly nonsense shit," King said. 
He seemed embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it," said Snake.

By now, they had circled the block.

"The hideyhole is a small bicycle shop up that street
about six blocks.  On the corner.  You need to get
away for an hour, a day, a week, just bang on the
door.  Day or night."

"Thank you, King."

"Rudy's mother operates the place.  Rudy's pretty good
with bikes."

"Good-bye, King."

King turned to leave.  Stopped.

"You going to be able to handle the Spider Lady?"

"Is that what they call her?"

"Yeah.  That's the name on the streets.  They say
she's got a web you wouldn't believe.  The whole
city."

"I'd believe it," said Snake.  "What else is on the
streets?"

"Word is that you whipped the asses of 70 or 80 men
yesterday."

"That's nonsense, of course," said Snake.

King grinned.  "I told Rudy and Montague it was
nonsense.  Told them it was probably only 20 or 30."

He turned and started away again and stopped again.

"You need anything?"

Snake thought for a moment.

"Yes.  There's a little candy shop on a corner off
Fifth Avenue about a block.  Maybe on 85th Street,
maybe it was 86th.   A little Jewish guy owns it. 
He'll be getting out of the hospital today or
tomorrow.  I would be grateful if you'd sort of look
after him."

"Done," said King.  He waved, turned, and was soon
gone.


(continued next week)

I was raised to consider lying wrong.  Very wrong.  I
have told a lie once or twice.  That's about it. 
Once, I told a lie in order to not hurt someone's
feelings--the coach's wife, Mrs. Ruth Holiday who
taught drama and speech at Winters High School in
Texas 50 years ago.  I can't remember the other time,
but I'm not perfect and probably there was, indeed,
another lie somewhere in my life.  Maybe even more of
which I'm not aware.  Perhaps God will forgive me
these things.  Known and unknown.

The Republicans are adept at lying.  It has become a
way of life (they mistakenly think they are
governing ... i.e., keeping the public under control). 
They lied about the reason for attacking Iraq.  They
now lie about what's going on in Iraq.  They ignored
our dead flowing through Dover (which is a form of
lying), meanwhile speaking of brave soldiers doing
their patriotic duty.  Especially Buchenwald.  His
eyes do a rapid blinky-blink, a dead giveaway of the
current lie.  And he insists he is right.  Never made
a mistake.  Lie, lie, lie.  His idea of morality is
focused on himself.  That is, he wears blinders.  I
wish I could say that I at least admired his audacity
for he lies with a straight face and a blinky-blink
about how good the economy is doing when people are
getting fired and the DOW has dropped below 10,000,
and the deficit has become a Stephen King novel.  He
talks of no child being left behind when he can't even
drive the school bus.  He talks of health care when
he's really too sick to care about anything except
himself.

I predicted much of what we now find.  Lies.  I
predicted no weapons of mass destruction, no mass
graves, that we would lose the war, that Buchenwald's
tax cuts were a sham to hide what were literally
payoffs to the wealthy.  Etc.  That he is, in effect,
mass failure.

Do Ken Dowe and Chuck Dunaway still believe that the
war in Iraq was in any manner whatsoever justified?

A pity.

Regardless, America is losing heart about Iraq.  The
dead through Dover are too many.  Now, troops mutiny
in Iraq.  In my day, the army would have stood them
before a firing squad and shot them down.  Can
Buchenwald get away with this today?  Many in Iraq
were "play soldiers" in the National Guard.  Not real
soldiers like the men I used to know.  There are few
"movie type John Wayne soldiers" left, indeed. 
Anyway, the number of leading Republicans who served
in combat wouldn't fill a thimble.  Cheney copped out,
period.  Buchenwald copped out.  Rummy was nothing
more than a flight instructor.  These who led us to
war, good people, don't know what war is!  Refused to
fight.  Never saw blood.  My son Andy just provided me
with a list of the combat experience of the leading
Republicans.  Ain't none!

And they try to smear Kerry's combat record?  Lord!

No wonder our soldiers mutiny!  But who, anyway, would
wish to fight for crooks?

Crooks who make Watergate look pale.  Yeah. 
Republicans.  In Las Vegas an organization hired by
the Republicans have been tearing up new registrations
of the Democrats ("Democrats accuse voter registration
group of fraud."  Kirsten Searer, Las Vegas Sun, Oct.
13, 2004).  Now this is a crime.  But putting
Buchenwald in prison for his multitude of
crimes--lying, war, killing--is probably not going to
happen for he controls even the Supreme Court, his
daddy's buddies.  He should have been put in prison
anyway for that election fiasco in Florida almost four
years ago.  He was not.

The result is that an awful lot of people who
registered to vote will not be allowed to vote.  They
don't know it yet.  When they go to the polls, they
will be turned away.  In my heyday, we would have had
one hell of a protest that would have made the
protests against the Vietnam war look like a tea
party.

But things are afoot, perhaps.  My son John Alexander
Hall, johnalexhall@gmail.com, notes about the voting
crime: "Dad:  The  story got coverage in the LA paper.
 Mom was right about the funny business.   My guess is
that the GOP are truly worried about losing."  Will
the public find out in time the real truth about
Buchenwald?  He's a man with a man-made record; mostly
lies.

My personal concern is that it appears Buchenwald is
perhaps trying to steal another election.  The signs
are there.

Now here is a varmint that refused to fight for his
country and he sends others to their death with a
smirk and with aplomb and he even questions the
actions of John Kerry not only in combat in Vietnam,
but after he returned to the states.  Absurdity
rampant!   And Sinclair television stations are going
to air some negative stuff against Kerry because he
protested Vietnam?  Hell, half of the people I know
protested Vietnam!  Including a long line of recording
artists.  It was the in thing at the time.  And the
rich folks seem to dislike a fat guy who goes around
proving their lies; they try to stop him from speaking
in public; they try to keep his movie with proof of
their crimes off the air.  They call him names, but
none is as foul as the name I've affixed to
Buchenwald, i.e., Buchenwald.  Foul and despicable,
indeed.

I do not like what has happened to my country.  The
creeps seem to be in command.  And they are perhaps
intent on destroying America.

OTHER MATTERS
Jay West, Jay West Productions,
Jaywestproductions@consolidated.net: "Your idea of
creating a book involving not ONLY big time radio
jocks...but also lesser known DJs of the past, struck
me as a genius idea. I consider myself one of the
'lesser knowns' (but a legend in my own mind) and
would like to be considered (or menstioned) in your
publication, if you ever partake in completing the
idea.  You see, I had a career in Top 40 radio from
1960-1976 all in TEXAS. Eleven of those years spent at
a medium-sized market  station in the Rio Grande
Valley (K-RIO, McAllen). Six of those years as 
Program/Music Director. Credits include nomination of
Disc Jockey of  the Year in '71 at Bill Gavin
Convention in 1971. And, this year (2004) was
nominated, but not selected to the Texas Radio Hall of
Fame. I'm sure you know about that!!  I can even say I
met (shook hands with) Claude Hall at a BILLBOARD
Radio convention in NYC in 1968...the weekend Bobby
Kennedy's body was arriving in NY. It was complete
mayhem at the time...but the convention went on as
scheduled. Claude, you told me you were brought up in
Corpus Christi, Texas...and was familiar with South
Texas radio. You even mentioned my name in your column
a couple of times. One of those times was when I was
hired away from KRIO by Bill Young to work work
mid-days at  KILT-Houston. I lasted five years at KILT
before I started up my own business  (Jay West
Productions). A recording studio(s) catering to the
production of Radio Commercials and TV voiceovers AND
Industrial Narrations. AS of TODAY, I am still at it
BUT scaled down to a small digital studio working out
of  my house. (Who isn't, these days).  Enough. Just
had to acknowledge your article...as I  am, like you,
VERY proud of the REAL RADIO DAYS from the '50s thru
the  '70s...and a huge fan of Vox Jox." 

Jack Gale, jackgale@adelphia.net:  "Just read your
stuff on Radio Daily News. I am quite honored to be in
the same paragraph with such names as Gary Owens and
the other legends. A lot of us are still around,
although the list gets  thinner everyday. We all long
for the good old days of getting The Billboard each
week and immediately turning to Vox Jox to see what's
happening with who? Now, I look forward to Mondays to
see what you're writing and who's writing to you. The
new guys may not know you, but to us, YOU are a
legend. Thanks for everything. Best to Barbara."

Frank Absher, fabsher@swbell.net: "I can really
empathize with your desire to create a 'who's who',
and you were one of the few in the earlier days who
had a nationwide forum to which all of us in the
hinterlands could turn for info on all the other djs.
I would call to your attention the work of a few
places where volunteers are working to preserve info.
In Buffalo they have a radio hall of fame with info
available online. Los Angeles has a terrific website
of all their jocks' histories. Here in St. Louis we've
created a media archive at the city public library
with close to 500 airchecks dating back to the '30s.
On my website I have an alphabetical listing of every
announcer I could track down along with his/her
personal market history. (http://www.stlradio.com) We
believe, like you, in preserving the memories of
people who played an important part in the lives of
their listeners. Keep up the good work."

Good on you, Frank!  Proud of you.  What a great idea.
 Just wish Atlanta, Boston, Seattle, and other cities
would do the same.

I received a note from Jim Kleist, kleist@myvine.com,
regarding Ken Griffis, who evidently now lives in
Denver.  I've subsequently written Ken a snailmail. 
If God wills, maybe Ken will write.  I don't think
there are very many people in this world who loves
country music more than Ken Griffis, especially
western swing.  One of the greatest evenings in my
life was the evening I was at a taping of a TV pilot
at some television station in Los Angeles and Ken
said, "Come on, Claude, we're all going up to Stu
Hamblen's."  In our business, most people did not
spend enough time with their wives.  I tried.  I told
Ken that I was going home to get Barbara and he gave
me instruction on how to reach Stu's place.  Place,
incidentally, is the correct word.  Stu then owned an
estate alongside Mulholland Drive atop the mountain
above Hollywood.  Errol Flynn owned it before Stu and
you can find it mentioned in the book, as I recall, by
David Niven titled "The Moon Is a Balloon."  Ricky
Nelson owned it after Stu until he disassociated
himself with living.  Well, Marty Robbins was there,
Lloyd Perryman, then leader of the Sons of the
Pioneers, fiddle maestro Harold Hensley, Greg Bear (I
never saw him again, but always wondered who in the
devil he was and why he got invited); Bill Ward, then
general manager of KLAC.  Bob Nolan.  Ah, Bob!  His
first public appearance, I understand, in years!  I
don't do phone.  Bob didn't do public; he hid behind a
high hedge at his home in the San Fernando Valley. 
Well, that evening at the subsequent interview with
Bob Nolan I've written about in an article.  Some of
you may have seen it.  If not, I ran across a copy the
other day and I could reprint it here.  Anyway,
Barbara and I had a fun, fun time at Stu's place that
evening and I owe the evening to Ken Griffis as well
as the wonderful interview with Bob Nolan.  And if any
of you wonder who Bob Nolan is...shame!

Andy Neill, andy@andyneill.com: "I spent over 35
years on the air in various roles in Canadian radio,
and I am the third generation of my family to have
been in the business. My grandfather and father are
both in the CAB Broadcasting Hall of Fame in Ottawa,
Ontario. But it stops here, at least so far. None of
my kids is in the business or shows any sign of
wanting to be. I just read your piece about legends in
the biz. There are three who impressed me and who
created in me an urge to be on the air. They are, in
no particular order, Joey Reynolds, Larry Lujack and
Charlie Tuna. I didn't get to hear Charlie until much
time had passed in my career, which began in 1963.
But listening to the fabulous 20-40 minutes of
hilarious radio that went on as Joey Reynolds changed
shifts with Danny Nevereath "around" 7pm evenings
on the very famous and excellent 'KB radio in Buffalo
NY, cemented my urge to be on the air and try and do
what they did as well as they did it, which, of
course, was impossible for most of us mere radio
mortals. Charlie Tuna had...sorry, HAS to be one of
the best prepared jocks! (He's one of the very few
from that period still active.) I think he scripted
his breaks! I remember, from one of his air checks,
the line that went, "If the teachers in LA County go
on strike on Monday, the students in the county will
be in a class by themselves!" Genius! I still feel
that Super CFL in Chicago was one of the greatest
stations in North America, which, of course, invented
Top 40 radio. In Canada, although there was some
invention going on, a lot of what happened in that
period was a stab at duplicating what had already been
invented in the States. I listened to 'CFL in 1074-5
and Lujack was "hot", followed by 'Big' Ron O'Brien In
The Nighttime! The 'CFL top hour ID's were the best
even when compared to Drake...at least that's my
opinion. One of my very earliest big influences was
Charlie Greer on 77WABC MusicRadio in NYC. Listening
to the fabulous reverb and the girls yelling 'Swing
Charlie Swing' would keep anyone up! There were those
great live spots for the men's clothing store in NJ I
think that he did all the time. It always sounded
like he was in the middle of Carnegie Hall. I think
the store had a great jingle as well. Growing up in
New Brunswick in Canada, we didn't get any good radio
except on the 'bounce' from the US. That's what kept
me going, until I managed to get to the majors in
Canada, Montreal and later Toronto. I remember people
from the East Coast of the US like Larry Glick and
Dick Summer on WBZ. I actually remember Herb Oscar
Anderson on 77WABC, and of course who could forget one
of the greatest voices in radio...period...Chuck
Leonard! I also remember when there was a W-MGM! And
a W-NBC! Also from Boston, I grew up listening to the
WMEX Tunedex with Arnie 'Woo Woo' Ginsberg.   My
friend Chuck Buell and I have spent a fair amount of
time remembering people and stations that are in the
past and wondering if radio will ever again be the
force it was in those days...when whatever the 'jock'
said was pretty well "gospel" to teens. Now, with
Stern moving to satellite, will radio kinda 'peter
out'? By the way, there's really no rhyme or reason or
chronology to the people or stations I've mentioned,
it was sort of, free form! There were some great radio
people in Canada, don't get me wrong, but as the Real
Don Steele (whom I had the pleasure of meeting when he
was still doing PM Drive at K-Earth 101 not too long
before he died) put it, "we were at ground zero, man!"
I had a good time in radio and I was always there
because of the music, but I sure wish it sounded as
good now as it did then. I also remember reading your
column...lots!"

It has slowly been growing toward dawn here in Las
Vegas as I write/compile/touchup this material on a
Saturday morning.  Was reminded by Andy Neill's
comments--which I really enjoyed, Andy--that Joey
Reynolds emailed about coming out to visit.  No, I
don't do much phone, but, yes, I still do public.  I
saw the segment Joey did with his daughter about a
week ago on prime time Fox television.  The segment
was the best thing on the hour program.  And Joey's
daughter has become an exotic beauty!  Bright, too.  I
remember when she was a baby.  Joey, by the way, was
just as good at changing diapers as he is on the air.

Hans Torv, htorv@hot-tomato.com.au: "Hi, Claude.  
Hope you can help clear this one up. A local paper
recently ran a story about stunts gone wrong and the
'famous' turkey drop got a mention. As I remember I
read about it in your book (which is somewhere in
storage as I move house). A few of us older radio
heads have discovered that Chinese whispers have now
got the turkeys falling out of planes all over the
USA. I found the version below on a website, and there
are plenty others. I have a recollection of it being
at a radio station in Decatur.   Can you clear up
WHERE the first thanksgiving turkey was pushed out of
an aircraft? And any other details.   Thanks."

I emailed Hans Torv what I knew and a bit more from
meeting Steve Bellinger, general manager in those days
of WDZ, Decatur, IL.  This is the "mention" that Hans
sent me: "Based On Reality  Oddly enough, this famous
WKRP episode was loosely based on a real event! Back
in 1946 (some sources say 1945), Yellville, Arkansas,
inaugurated the 'Turkey Trot Festival' which included
a wild turkey calling contest, a turkey target shoot,
a Miss Drumsticks Pageant and oh yeah: a live turkey
release from the roof of the courthouse. After a few
years, someone thought it might be fun to actually
toss the poor gobblers out of a low-flying airplane
for the event. This repeated for a number of years
until 1989 when a national animal-rights protest cast
the event in a bad light and the National Enquirer
splashed a photo of the event across the nation
forcing promoters to abandon the turkey drop."

When I wrote about the turkey drop, I received the
information from a pretty good source, but even so
phoned WDZ to make sure the event happened.  I didn't
actually meet Steve Bellinger until years later at a
radio meeting of some kind.  He was on a panel.  He
started his bit with, "Yeah, I'm the one."  Laughter
exploded!  The story was legend long before I wrote
about it for "This Business of Radio Programming"
(publisher: danoday@danoday.com).  There may have been
something in Arkansas.  But for one reason or another,
I don't think Steve lifted anyone else's idea.  He was
a natural for such stunts, including, as I recall, a
wristwatch drop and a ping pong ball drop.  Too, I
don't think he did the turkey drop again because that
first time cost him $10,000 in roof repairs for a
local dry cleaner.

Funny how stories grow.  Guys taking credit for
someone else's idea.  Program director of an FM here
in Las Vegas once tried to tell me "Rocktober" was his
idea.  Hey, I know where L. David Moorhead (general
manager, KMET, Los Angeles) stole the idea from! 
Australia.  But Moorhead never took credit for the
promotion nor lied about where he got the idea.  Dick
Starr once told me that he stole the ping pong ball
drop and tried it for Miami.  Didn't work too well,
though.  The balls were dropped at the beach.  Wind
blew the balls into the water.  Someone broke a leg. 
And look what happened to George Wilson when he
"borrowed" Chuck Blore's "amoebae" promotion.  Funnie!
 To me.  Not so much, however, to George I'll bet!

Stacy Richardson, stacyr@usa.net: "I've been reading
your stuff for many years, but I believe this is the
first time I've contacted you. I was brought to full
wakefulness on this sleepy, rainy evening in Tulsa, by
this statement on your web site:   Another project I
desperately wanted to do was a Who's Who of Radio. 
Not just the big ones. Everyone that I could find
anything about. An impossible chore, of course, but
I've had this in my mind since my early days on
Billboard magazine in the 1960s.   Claude, as far as I
know, this is the kind of project the Internet was
made for. You start this encyclopedia online, and add
to it a little at a time. No, it will never be
finished, but it will become far more comprehensive
than any book you could have possibly written. You
get it started and lots of people will help you get it
written. And you'll find you have forgotten less than
you feared.   I'd like to help, somehow. I write a
little; I copyedited Chuck Dunaway's online biography;
I've been in-and-around radio for more than 30 years. 
Let me know what you think about the idea."

Stacy, I'm afraid that I no longer have the vim for an
endeavor of that kind.  Too old.  Suggestion:  You and
Jim Hampton, jim@greenhousemg.com, do it.  Maybe some
others would be willing to help.  It would be a
massive task.  Here's a note from Jim: "Claude, why
don't you start the book and let others help you write
it?   Everybody out there remembers a number of djs
that they grew up to or were influenced by.   Sounds
like a great promotion to me! I know that most of the
radio community will back you.   When can I start?" 
Jim Hampton, Greenhouse Marketing Group, Dir# 
310-344-1601, Fax#: 323-651-1498

I ran across a fly-in community in Florida called
Jumbolair where John Travolta lives and emailed Jim
Gabbert, JGabb@aol.com, about it, to wit his
response: "You should see the home!  We just got back
last night from a weekend in New Orleans. I donated
the 727, crew and fuel to the Lukemia-Lymphoma Society
Cure-a-thon on KGO.  Six couples bid $76,000 for the
trip with me and Gene Nurns from KGO. We had Paul
Prudhome (Sp?) actually have us at his home and then
he opened the restaurant for us that night. It was
fabulous!!"

It just dawned on me that some of you who read this
might not know who Jim Gabbert is.  Better yet, was. 
Jim was one of America's first FM radio station
owners, programmers, and in those days, engineers and
janitors.  He built the radio station himself. 
Quickly successful in days when most owners were
writing their FM sides off.  They had them.  They
didn't use them.  Gene Autry gave his away in Los
Angeles to a college.  Jim, owner of KPEN in San
Francisco, made money with his.  Changed the calls to
K101 to match a nearby highway.  Stereo early.  First
to broadcast quadrasonic on a single station.  When he
sold the station for $12 million, he actually made a
mistake.  But he bought a U TV and after a while
turned it gold and sold it and now lives on two yachts
instead of just one and has all of these airplanes,
including one of those flying hotels.