THOUGHT YOU COULD USE THIS!

from http://skypilotclub.com

2 3 4 5 6 7
That's my fuckin' goddamn password to HEAVEN.
Give me that & I'll be gone from here
On the way to meet St. Peter.

One time I got to the Pearly Gates
& Peter said, "Just wait."
I waited in line longer than I could figure.
An old gray man came out dressed like a doctor
He examined me & made me shiver.
St. Peter asked me," What's the matter?"
I told him about the doc in the beard
& he said, "Oh HELL! That don't matter.
That's just GOD!
HE THINKS HE'S A DOCTOR!
-- Robert R.

-----------------------------------------------------

Zounds like an RX for something, Robert, but I don't know about releasing your password on the internet. Very dangerous.

-- KapnKen

---

THURSDAY, MAY 3, 2007

Sheesh, time is fugiting faster all the time. Before you can get over the hangover from MayDay, here comes Four Dead In Oh High OH trampling on the toes of Cinco De Mayo.

It was an April morning in 1976. I knocked on the door, and Howard Hunt opened it. It was the door to the Hunt ranch house southwest of Dallas. It was a combination of a working cattle ranch and a deer hunting ranch. I was there to discuss my retention as architect for an office building project in Houston backed by Hunt money, and therefore controlled by Howard Hunt.

"Mr. Hunt, I am Bill Wheatley," I said. He looked me up and down, then opened the door wider.

"Bill Wheatley, Come on in." he said. I had been referred to Howard Hunt by another client, Walter Fondren, the grandson of the founder of the Humble Oil Company, which now is known as Exxon. I had done several projects for Walter. Howard led me down a hallway leading from the entry hall to the kitchen. The kitchen was a country kitchen, nothing pretentious, but big, roomy, and with a table in the middle that would seat eight in comfort. The table was covered with a calico tablecloth. In the middle of the table was a bottle of Jack Daniels, and on each side of the table was a whiskey glass. A porcelain pitcher sat on the table beside the bottle of whiskey.

"Have a seat and make yourself comfortable," he rumbled. He had a deep bass voice that reverberated in the room. I sat, and he took the seat facing me. He picked up the bottle and poured some for me and some for himself. "I like a little branch with my whiskey," he said, pouring a little water from the pitcher into his glass. "How about you?" I nodded and held my glass up for him to pour. He poured about a shot of water into the glass.

"So, Bill," he said, "I understand from Walter that you should be my architect. I know you came all the way out here to talk about that, but we're going to sit here and get to know each other first." He took a sip from his whiskey. "When the bottle is emptily we can talk business."

For the next two hours we chatted about his family (dysfunctional); my family (dysfunctional in a different way); my kids; his kids; his ranch; my home remodelling project; and his deeply felt Baptist faith. Baptists frowned on drinking, but as Howard explained, they had to be wrong on that count because St. Paul wrote in the Bible that it was good to drink a little wine because it was good for the stomach. We didn't drink fast, and we didn't talk fast. We got to know each other. Ultimately, we talked about politics.

"What were you doing when Kennedy was shot?" he asked. "Everyone I know remembers exactly what they were doing then."

"I was sleeping off a hangover," I said. "I was in college at the time."

"I was at home with my family. I didn't hear about it until that evening. I just couldn't believe it," he said. "What kind of pervert would do such a thing? I don't believe for a minute that it was Oswald all by his lonesome that did it. He was too much of a fruitcake to plan that out properly."

"Who do you think did it?" I asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was the Klan. Maybe it was the Mafia. You know Robert was gung-ho against the Mafia. Maybe it was Castro. You know he tried to hire the Mafia to make a hit on Castro. Maybe it was the Russians, but I don't think so. I think it was conservative Americans who were worried that he would lead our country into Socialism."

"Did you like Kennedy?" I asked.

"I liked him and I hated him. He had -- what do they call it? -- charisma. He was a wonderful leader. I just wish he was a Republican, or at least a Southern Democrat. I was worried about the direction the country would take under his leadership, especially with a socialist dreamer like LBJ as his vice president. But I believe in Democracy. The nice thing about Democracy is that if one party heads off too far in its direction, either left or right, the voters yank their chain and vote in the other party. I was worried, but I wasn't really worried. American voters have too much common sense to allow any extreme to take over."

"What do you think of LBJ?" I asked.

"I know LBJ," he said. "He's a devious bastard. It wouldn't surprise me if he rigged the whole thing so he could become president without having to be elected. You know he'd never get anyone outside Texas to vote for him."

"You really think so?" I asked.

"Naah. Nobody trusted him well enough to conspire with him. Whoever killed Jack was part of a conspiracy. A deep, dark conspiracy. A fundamentally un-American conspiracy. It had to be Communist based. Jack really yanked the chains of the Communists -- Castro and Khrushchev. Khrushchev didn't do it. He would have been afraid of the consequences. Castro, however, had nothing to lose. I think it was Castro."

"Did you vote for Kennedy?"

"No, I voted for Nixon. Who'd you vote for?"

"I was too young to vote." I said.

"Pity. If we gave the vote to everyone old enough to serve in the army, we'd have a different government now."

"You're probably right," I said.

At that point he turned the conversation to the project. After much discussion, he decided I was the architect he wanted for the project. I designed the world headquarters building for the Transocean Oil Company, but it never got built. The company almost went bankrupt, losing Howard Hunt and its other investor/stockholders millions, and then they sold it Mobil Oil Company.

It is possible that Howard Hunt was part of the conspiracy that killed Jack Kennedy. Personally, I don't think so. On the other hand, LBJ might well have been involved.

William Wheatley

http://wheatleyus.com/pages/672346/index.htm

FROM THIS SITE
http://educationforum.ipbhost.com/index.php?showtopic=9798

St. John Hunt, eldest son of Howard Hunt, has offered significant evidence further implicating his father in the assassination of JFK. The recent Rolling Stone article has been discussed on other threads, but the full importance of St. John Hunt's new revelations has not yet been absorbed by the JFK community, and certainly not by the community at large.

St. John bears witness to things he dared not speak about while his father was alive. I am referring here not to the conspirator's list his father wrote, which has little evidentiary value, but to the things that St. John himself perceived, with his own eyes.

From the Rolling Stone article, here is the key testimony:

"One evening in Eureka, over a barbecue meal, St. John explains how he first came to suspect that his father might somehow be involved in the Kennedy assassination. "Around 1975, I was in a phone booth in Maryland somewhere, when I saw a poster on a telephone pole about who killed JFK, and it had a picture of the three tramps. I saw that picture and I ####ing -- like a cartoon character, my jaw dropped, my eyes popped out of my head, and smoke came out of my ears. It looks like my dad. There's nobody that has all those same facial features. People say it's not him. He's said it's not him. But I'm his son, and I've got a gut feeling."

When I first studied COUP D'ETAT IN AMERICA, by Canfield & Weberman I was dubious about the authors identifications of Criswell & Sturgis, but I was immediately struck by the resemblance between Howard Hunt and the Oldman Tramp. I made multiple photocopies of each photo of Hunt and each photo of the Oldman Tramp. I matched both halves of Hunt's face with halves of the tramp photos and repeated the experiment in every combination and permutation I could think of, whether vertical, horizontal, or crosswise. I examined all these combinations under a magnifying glass, the only piece of technology I had readily available.

I was frightened by what I saw. Howard Hunt was the Oldman Tramp as sure as God made little apples. Like St. John Hunt, I knew it in my gut. It was 1986 and I knew that Howard Hunt was very much alive.....

I was not a qualified expert in facial recognition and I never discussed the tramp photos, or the opinions of the HSCA experts in any detail with other researchers. I found that there was plenty of other evidence to be studied, and that none of it to me seemed inconsistent with the theory that Howard Hunt was arrested in a boxcar, masquerading as a tramp, in the railroad yard behind Dealey Plaza. There have been pretenders to the title, Chauncey Holt, et al, but to my eyes none of them comes close to matching the Oldman tramp. Howard Hunt was there.

But what of Hunt's various alibis? It seems that every alibi Hunt proposed has collapsed under scrutiny, with one exception up to now. That exception is his claim that he was home with his family that evening. Here is a further extract from Rolling Stone:

"He chews his sandwich. "And then, like an epiphany, I remember '63, and my dad being gone, and my mom telling me that he was on a business trip to Dallas. I've tried to convince myself that's some kind of false memory, that I'm just nuts, that it's something I heard years later. But, I mean, his alibi for that day is that he was at home with his family. I remember I was in the fifth grade. We were at recess. I was playing on the merry-go-round. We were called in and told to go home, because the president had been killed. And I remember going home. But I don't remember my dad being there. I have no recollection of him being there".

Does St. John's inability to remember his father being home that day constitute direct evidence that Hunt was somewhere else? Further questioning of St. John will probably help clarify that, but I think the truth is obvious.

I was in boarding school on November 22nd, 1963. I was 13 years old, whereas St. John I think was 8 years old. My most vivid memory is of the two teachers who were on study duty that night (it was about 6.45 Pm GMT, and already dark when we heard the news). As kids we all looked to our authority figures at such a shocking moment. I am quite certain that if I had been home that evening, I would remember my father's presence, if not the actual words he spoke.

I think we can thank Rolling Stone for bringing this new evidence to light. The question is what can we do with it.

http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story...e_howard_hunt/4

In the enjoyment of life they [the Cubans]
are artists, be it some ardent form of love dalliance, martyrdom for an ideal, or merely the sipping of strained pineapple juice. They dote on the pleasurable waste of Time,
who is no stern enemy to them as he is to the ambitious Northerner.
About themselves they are frank, humorous, and even caustically critical. They have a quick, original, sometimes almost grotesque sense of humor. They might be called realistic romantics, for they well know how to make use of their cool, inherent vein of satire to check romantic excesses of passionate feeling.

HUDSON STRODE in his forward for THE PAGEANT OF CUBA


He didn't take his eyes off her face. Even after she had slid back again to her seat beside his knee, he tasted his memory for the sound of her voice as it had been, warm and flexible, clear as the morning call of a quail. Slowly, then, he stood up and put both hands on the mantelpiece and leaned his head between his arms, staring down at the hearth. He tried to catch the words again, trying first one and then the other, as he had seen his mother fit bright scraps for color and shape in a quilt. Liquor, love or fights, the words would come and nothing would follow but confusing memories of corn whiskey drunk from a common dried gourd near the boiling spring with its dancing grains of sand- or Lota, and he'd grasp the mantel harder to keep from turning to touch her- or fights; that time he'd broken Coot Harper's arm. Then, timidly, the words began to shape themselves into patterns and fall away until he could get the meaning, and slowly an undertone began to beat in his brain- "they fasten their hands upon their hearts."

"There never was time before," he said, suddenly, huskily, in the silence. Lota didn't answer. He turned around and leaned his back against the mantel, feeling for it with his shoulder blades.

Pages 321 & 322 of DEVIL MAKE A THIRD


It's knowing that your door is always open
And your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag
Rolled up and stashed behind your couch
And it's knowing I'm not shackled
By forgotten words and bonds
And the ink stains that have dried upon some line
That keeps you in the backroads
By the rivers of my mem'ry
That keeps you ever gentle on my mind

It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy
Planted on their columns now that binds me
Or something that somebody said
Because they thought we fit together walking
It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing
Or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find
That you are moving on the backroads
By the rivers of my mem'ry
And for hours you're just gentle on my mind

Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines
And the junkyards and the highways come between us
And some other woman crying to her mother
'Cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face
And the summer sun might burn me 'til I'm blind
But not to where I cannot see you walkin' on the backroads
By the rivers flowing gentle on my mind

I dip my cup of soup back from the gurglin'
Cracklin' caldron in some train yard
My beard a roughning coal pile and
A dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands 'round a tin can
I pretend I hold you to my breast and find
That you're waving from the backroads
By the rivers of my mem'ry
Ever smilin' ever gentle on my mind

http://www.johnhartford.com/index.cfm


From DEVIL MAKE A THIRD page 122:

"Damned jackass weather. Three days till Christmas and winter still ain't headed up."

The weather never did make up its mind in Aven. Most places in the world had four seasons of the year. In Aven, though, God had given them only two seasons, summer and winter. Spring couldn't be called a season proper because spring frolicked right into summer so sweetly it was like a twinkle in a child's eye just suddenly being
a smile. And autumn! Autumn was a faker in a red and yellow jacket whose flaunted colors faded and ran in the first winter rain. Then winter wouldn't make up its mind until it was almost past time for it. December would come along and the calender would say it was time for frost to sweeten the persimmons, but the soft winds from the Gulf would tell the possums to wait a little longer near the burdening tree on the fence line, and the hot sun would say there wasn't much use in hilling your sweet potatoes. The farmers would come in the store all out of heart, eyeing the meat block and growling, "By killin' time, the hogs'll 've et up all the corn an' there won't be no meal to eat with the meat."

GIT YOU A COPY OF
Devil Make A Third
& ya might learn something 'bout yo'self!

Best,
RR http://myspace.com/robertoreg

HEY Y'ALL:

Whew!
EBAN A MULE DON'T WORK ALL DAH TIME!
Celebrating my 57th birthday was some hard work!
My birthday party Sunday night consisted of listening to the juke box and drinking beer at The Pub with Kathy & Paula.
Kathy, the owner, recounted the trials and tribulations of owning the only bar on the island while Paula described her life as chief bartender and the favorite subject of the island's gossip grapevine.

I want to take this opportunity to say that Kathy and Paula are two of the toughest gals on the coast from Key West to the Rio Grande and either one of 'em would fight a circular saw!
I LUV
BOWFE UV 'EM!

Unknown to these two was the fact that I was sitting there rapping with them while celebrating my birfday & all the while reflecting upon almost 40 years of hanging out on Dauphin Island.

Now whut's up wid a bartender wearing an "ORAL SKILLS" t shirt?!!!!
{ my favorite T-shirt this weekend was "THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES!"}

The whole affair now reminds me of that Natasha Bedingfield song "UNWRITTEN":
http://www.natashabedingfield.com/audio/index.html
Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in you
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips x2 (twice)
drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

You know being in temptation is kinda like having a chronic illness.
You don't what you'll do until you get in that situation.

Despite all the headaches:
bartenders without personalities; bartenders with expensive habits; bands that charge too much; nosey landlords; rich-ass self-important aristocratic Mobile yacht owners who wanna mooch by bringing their coolers up on your dock;

Hey, you're doing business at the beach.
Sugar 'N Spice & EVUHTHANG NICE!!!!


It's an island
VERY EXTREMELY CLOSE TO THE MAINLAND.
What do you expect?
Something different?

Reminds me of Segar's SUNSPOT BABY:

She left me here stranded like a dog out in the yard
Charged up a fortune on my credit card
She used my address and my name
Man that was sure unkind
Sunspot baby
She sure has a real good time

I looked in Miami
I looked in Negril
The closest I came was a month old bill
I checked the Bahamas and they said she was gone
I cant understand why she did me so wrong

But she packed up her bags
And she took off down the road
Said she was going to visit sister flo
She used my address and my name
And man that was sure unkind
Sunspot baby
Im gonna catch up sometime
Sure had a real good time

The whole time I was out of Tuscaloosa I was studying DEVIL MAKE A THIRD.
CHECK OUT PAGE 186:

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Buck stood on the rear platform of the train and watched the grey-black ribbon of the roadbed shape behind him into a pattern of crossties and cinder as the wheels slipped and jolted and grunted to a stop.

He sniffed the air shortly, once, then he breathed deeply, throwing back his head and holding it a long time. He wrinkled his nose as he let the breath out.

"Well," he said, out loud, "I reckon even a pogie boat smells good to a man who calls it home, but doggone if Aven don't get right high in hot weather."

He leaned over the railing and looked forward along the train. Up ahead, the engine panted and suddenly spewed live steam into a shallow ditch. Four small Negro boys flushed out of the ditch, running, laughing, falling and rolling and laughing again.

Buck waved to them an sniffed once more as he straightened up.

"Fish at the depot," he thought. Funny about Aven. Eighty miles to salt water and none of the close-by creeks big enough to cause such a flux of fish, and still it always smelled like fish.
Something from the sea the year round. Winter time, there'd be speckled trout seined from the warm-water bayous and creeks and slews where they schooled to fight the cold. Mullet in winter,too. Mullet herded with cast nets into small slews or onto the shallows. Winter time.

"Oyster," Buck said out loud and grinned to himself. Lord, the the way they used to bring 'em when September rolled around. Before the new road inched through to the coast. Wagon trains with croker sack and canvas coverings wetted down at Big Creek, Spring Creek, Econfina Creek, all the streams than webbed the land and drained Alabama into the Gulf.

His mind didn't say the words, but he could see them: Apalachicola oysters with big white clean shells and taste like they had fed on fresh water; Indian Pass oysters, small and muddy on the outside and as tight against an opening knife as a turtle's mouth, but clean inside and tasting wild with the bay and the brine; North Bay oysters, small & muddy, too, on the outside but darker and sweeter on the inside and friendlier to the knife.

He could see in his mind the old wagons, dusty on top but dripping with water underneath, rolling onto the outskirts of Aven and up Oak Street and one block east to the Wagon Yard. He could see the black dust-rimmed mouth of the wagoner yelling, "A dozen free to the first pretty girl!" And he could see again, plodding along under the tail gate, the slack hound bitch that kept the cats away.

Now, though, in hot summer, with the trains on a three-hour run, he could see the huge casks, baggagemen rolling them casually on a single rim, guiding with one hand and rotating with the other until they thumped them upright into place. Now, the barrelheads with tight caulking of croker sacking dripped ice water off red snapper, that Florida fishermen had pulled out, unprotesting, often in meek clusters of three. There'd be king mackeral horsed out of the Gulf with a line as thick as a child's finger and flung over the shoulder of fishermen to a helper who removed the fish and rebaited the hook. There'd be largemouthed bass and bream, either seined from the fresh-water creeks and lakes or dynamited, or poisoned with black walnut or limed upcreek and harvested dead downstream. And, now in summer time, there'd be smaller casks, set aside for hard-shelled crabs, red as the devil and as stubborn to crack, with a salt sweetness inside. Or there'd be shrimp, still tucking their feelers inside the curl of their bodies for protection. Or, the boneless throats and jaws of snappers, wrapped separately from filets of mackerel or trout and sometimes pompano caught from the surf.

"Hey Lord," Buck said, suddenly, and stretched both arms as high over his head as he could, "another mile and there it'll be, smellin' like a field hand eatin' sardines, but smellin' good to me just the same."

DEVIL MAKE A THIRD is a masterpiece. NO DISCUSSION!!!!

Today I axed Archie, "Do FOLLOW THE NINJA BRICK ROAD {my masterpiece} beeze a HATE CRIME?"

Archie replied, "Yeah,I reckon it is!"



FOLLOW THE NINJA BRICK ROAD!!!!
http://www.alafarmnews.com/0205archive/0205bird.htm

'Bout the nicest thing that happened over my Birthday Weekend was going to the Grand Reopening of Playground Recording Studio in VP. Jim Lancaster put together this killer CD called SOUL RESURRECTION volume 1 & it has a sixteen page insert that includes "SPECIAL THANKS" to Robert Register. Whut's kewl to me is that's the second CD this year that's thanked me & not only that I got credited in Greg Haynes' HEY BABY DAYS OF BEACH MUSIC, so slowly but showly me be making it!

Best,
RR http://myspace.com/robertoreg
http://myspace.com/paulbearbryant

J. Oliver Wintzell http://www.wintzellsoysterhouse.com/in_history.php

"My town-
is the place where my house is found, where my business is located, and where my vote is cast. It is where my children are educated and where my neighbors dwell, and where my life is chiefly lived. It supports me and I should support it.
My town wants my citizenship, not my partisanship; my friendliness, not my dissensions; my sympathy, not my criticism; my intelligence, not my indifference.
My town supplies me with protection, trade, friends, education, schools, churches, and the right to free, moral citizenship.
It has some things better than others.
The best things I should seek to make better.
The worst things I should help to suppress.
Take it, all-in-all, it is my town and it is entitled to the best there is in me."

J. O. Wintzell, Sr.
author of OYSTERS & POLITICS




http://www.myspace.com/alisonheafner

ALISON HEAFNER plays the Memphis in May Beale Street Music Fest
http://www.memphisinmay.org/bsmf2k7/home.htm
on the BIG stage in front of 100,000 plus
NEXT SUNDAY May 6th!!!

KS:

I almost called you yesterday.

I had my birthday meal at Wintzell's Oyster House on Dauphin Street in Mobile. Got back to the beach house and before taking a nap, I started looking at J.D. Weeks' book of old Panama City postcards & I got an idea for how Dougie came up with the name "Harrison House" for the fictional name of The Hotel Martin. The original post office in Panama City was called "Harrison" and there was a famous hotel on the bay there called "Holloway House".

Kewl, huh?!!!!!!!!!!!

Best,
RR

Opera House
This charming theatre is Dothan’s second oldest building and was built by a renegade, Buck Baker for $53,000 back in 1915. This beautiful and ornate building was best known for hosting Vaudeville on the Chitlen (black) circuit, and despite its perfect acoustics, it has yet to host an opera!

Graves in the Baker Plot of the Dothan City Cemetery

Joe Baker Sr.
Born March 16, 1836
Died December 8, 1900

Jane Baker
Born April 12, 1849
Died May 6, 1918

Joe Baker Jr.
Born March 21, 1869
Died March 26, 1920

James Baker
Born July 17, 1877
Died July 5, 1899

Colie Baker
Born May 7, 1886
Died September 24, 1937

Cyrus F. Baker
Born November 11, 1882
Died October 27, 1930