Hillaryʼs AngelWHAT HAPPENED TO HILLARY CLINTON

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AGOThe McGovern Campaign in Dallas, Texas, 1972

Ross Nicholson

Published by: Nicholson Science

2604 W JETTON AVE

TAMPA, FL 33629-5325

TogetherinParis@gmail.com

Nicholson Science, Tampa, Florida

Published in the United States of America

BY Nicholson Science, all rights reserved

Nicholson Science 2604 W JETTON AVE TAMPA FLORIDA 33629-5325

© 2008 Ross Nicholson

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008900636

ISBN 978-0-9815226-0-9

Dedicated to George W. Bush, Barbara Pierce Bush, George H.W. Bush, Stephen Spielberg, Ann Richards, Bill Clinton, Ron Kirk, and especially Hillary Rodham Clinton

for believing.

First Impressions: Hillary Rodham 2

First Impressions: Steven Spielberg 2

First Impressions: Bill Clinton 2

Hillary as First Lady 2

The Clintons and the Bushes 2

9-11, I am David Nelson 2

1972 McGovern Headquarters, 5334 Lemmon Ave, Dallas, TX 75209, (The building is now a gay bar) 2

The Clintons 2

Leave it to Beaver 2

Stevenʼs Vivid Imagination & Wasted Talent 2

Carpenters Hall 2

The Round File 2

ERA for Homosexuals 2

Republican jokes 2

Poking Light-hearted Fun at Stephen Spielbergʼs Nose 2

Bumper stickers 2

My First Speech in the Office 2

Clinton Arrives amid Shriver stickers 2

Ann will be Governor of Texas 2

Demographics 2

Future President meet The Future Governor 2

Donʼt Stop Thinking about Tomorrow 2

Future President meet Future Movie Producer Billionaire 2

Other Options 2

Christ knows what all! 2

“Dare to believe, because believing makes it so.” 2

Hillary Rodham Comes to Dallas 2

Hillaryʼs Green Sweatshirt at Yale 2

Hillary Clinton 2

Standing for the Clintons 2

Another Hillary Suitor Bites Texas Dust 2

90% of politics is showing up 2

Danger on the Campaign Trail 2

Yoda Born 2

Tuskegee and Slavery Apologies 2

Separate Telephone Numbers 2

Clintonʼs concern over Spelling 2

Stephen Spielberg wants me to ʻdo itʼ to him, too 2

E.T. Calls Home 2

Slush Funds vs. Spielberg, Democracyʼs Champion 2

ʻMr. Presidentʼ I could remember! 2

Whoopi Goldberg 2

Daily McDonald's coffee 2

Spielberg the Magnificent Pagan God! 2

A Bad Time to Meet Hillary 2

Dates for Everybody 2

Steveʼs Nose Goes 2

Clinton Asks Me About His Going to Viet Nam and Gets used to it 2

Steve Remedies Indy 2

Virginia calling 2

My Pre-emptive Gratitude to Spielberg and Richards 2

Lines of Communication 2

Steve and Indy Fight 2

Foster Suspects 2

Star Wars, The Force and The Dark Side 2

Steven Spielberg NOT Going to College 2

President Clinton's Uncle's Hat 2

You look like a clerk! 2

The Voice of Ann Richards 2

Jedi Knights 2

For your grandchildren to read 2

Hillary loves the New York Yankees 2

I donʼt know! I'm just makin' this up as I go along. 2

And only the two of us know! 2

Steven pops out "of hiding" 2

Planning the Demise of European communism 2

Virginia again 2

Here comes your ANGEL now 2

Hillary apologizes to me 2

Deadbeat Dad Laws and Ann won't make up stories. 2

Big White World Book Bible scene 2

Twenty-five Trillion 2

Relic relic, nazi fires 2

Dividing Spoils 2

Look at me! 2

Father of Homosexual Rights 2

Steven Spielbergʼs policy initiative 2

Indiana Jones in Nepal 2

Flower Power, Spielberg Fights for Hillary 2

Ark of the Covenant 2

A Dream 2

My jacket and Steve's weird eye lights 2

The Indiana Jones hat 2

For Indiana Jones 2

OʼBrien's impressed 2

We're Lesbians! 2

I'm not like that 2

The Importance of Good Records 2

VW scene 2

In a Chinese restaurant 2

Freedom Speech 2

Bubba. Do you like to hunt!? 2

Do. Or do not. There is no try! 2

Wyoming 2

Jedi Training for Ann Richards 2

McGovern at Stirling Bridge? 2

Braveheart 2

Nothin' 2

Scottish War on England 2

Ann's pistol 2

You canʼt HANDLE the truth 2

A Third Way and Big Tobacco 2

And the scrollwork! 2

Are you sure? 2

Entering the Surreal 2

Spielberg saves my life 2

Safely back at the Office 2

Tiddledywinks 2

Brothers 2

Virginia Leaves Everything in HOPE 2

Family Leave Act 2

Inclusive Democracy 2

Leelee Sobieski 2

Steven's Goodbye 2

Ann turns Pro 2

Virginia the last time 2

Democratic Party Party 2

Saying goodbye to the Office 2

My letter of recommendation 2

Larry King Show Clips 2

epilogue 2

NOTES: 2

Book jacket text: 2

First Impressions: Hillary Rodham

Hillary Rodham, soon to be Hillary Clinton and eventually President of the United States, first appeared at my station at the reception desk of the 1972 McGovern presidential campaign office in Dallas: unkempt, chubby, and confused. She repeatedly dug in her big purse but found nothing in it but despair. She was a young woman, alone in a strange city and taking a terrible chance. She was clay.

“No ma’am, I’m sorry but Mr. Clinton is not here.”

She mocked my mispronunciation of my top boss’s name. “Well, I’m his, Mr. Clin-tin’s, girlfriend. I need his address, please.”

Now, Mr. Clinton had impressed me as someone nice, well-dressed, & a respectful person who did not need some disheveled groupie distracting him. “If this is William Jefferson Clinton’s girlfriend, then she doesn’t look the part. This one needs a lesson,” I thought to myself. She could see my wheels turning on that and seemed to anticipate my response before I could even get it out of my mouth. Dang, she was quick.

“I’m sorry ma’am. We can’t give out that information. He’s way off down south, ‘round the Rio Grande somewhere, due back in a few days though, why don’t you try back then?”

“I SAID, I’m his girlfriend!” Hillary Rodham insisted, dumbfounded. She tried to puff her bangs from in front of her eyes, but the big glasses got in the way. Or perhaps she had been traveling and not washed her hair recently? Republicans were caught breaking into democratic party offices, so being free and easy with personal information of big shots would no longer do.

Especially if I could get some good out of it. “And I said, I’m sorry. Mr. Clinton never mentioned having or expecting, a girlfriend.” My voice, exaggerated facial expression of con-tempt, and mannerisms suggested that I wanted to add AND CERTAINLY NOT ONE AS SLOPPY LOOKING AS YOU! It had the intended effect: electric! My challenging Hillary Rod-ham, hurt and enraged her. But I wasn’t done yet. Looking back on it now, I was lucky she didn't pull that pistol out of her purse.

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First Impressions: Steven Spielberg

Steven Spielberg wore a ‘burt umbrella’ hair style that never became popular. I saw something similar on a TV show, The Visitor, about an alien hostage who came back to earth in a space-ship that exploded into dirt particles on impact. The main character, Adam, wears Stevie’s old haircut. Here’s the synopsis from Yahoo: Adam MacArthur is a pilot who disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle 50 years ago. He resurfaces physically unchanged but graced with new and enhanced abilities and an almost mystical life force as he goes about on his mission to alter the course of human destiny. … Meanwhile, the Visitor is looking for specific individuals he knows can help him in his mission, and they find their lives for-ever changed by contact with him. The show’s by Devlin & Emmerich, who directed Inde-pendence Day for Steve.

Steven Spielberg is now a household word, but we became best friends many years be-fore a team of surgeons cut the great hideous growth off of his face. So in 1972 his appearance was a little shocking, more Pinocchio than Geppetto. Steve wore exactly the same wooden outfit every day, except sometimes he replaced the long-sleeve white shirt with a colorful Hawaiian shirt--on important occasions only (like when he was doing laundry). He wore high black top Keds. The most peculiar thing about him wasn’t his lack of any significant facial hair, his oddball clothing, or even his olympic ski-jump nose. The most peculiar thing about Steven Spielberg at twenty-four was his young ambitious lust for life, and for Hillary.

I wasn’t so much introduced to Steven Spielberg, as annoyed by him. The first thing I recall is him shocking me with his madcap antics. Since I was only eighteen and assumed that Spielberg was one, two, or even three years younger, jealousy seemed an unlikely explanation. The twenty-three year old hippy girl who had volunteered to show me around the office actually was his girlfriend, but such a thing was difficult to believe. Steve did everything he could to fix our attention. He invited me to leer at his girlfriend’s tush. Indy’s tush was very nice, but draw-ing attention to it was very inappropriate. Still “Good for him!” I thought, glad to see he was heterosexual after all. (You see, I’d played the flute in the high school band and about half my friends were homosexuals. Brilliant flutists, but they all had such chips on their shoulders.) While I was mildly but genuinely glad to see we were on the same team, I wasn’t prepared to believe him when my guide was briefly distracted and he could get a quiet word in. “That’s my girlfriend,” he whispered proudly. He looked at my disbelieving face and no longer whispered, “SHE IS!” In my defense, he was a scruffy-lookin’ stranger that talked peculiarly who looked fourteen.

Indy was a very nice, well-brought up young lady who loved hippy style and wanted so much for Stevie to succeed in life. He was such a failure in her eyes, all twitchy and cast away,

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no college degree and therefore no future. But Stephen was much smarter than Indy was; indeed, he was close to my own level.

And he swore. He swore and swore and swore and swore. People would call us up or he would call them, and sure enough, Stevie would start shrieking swear words at them, ending the call with a horrific slam down of the telephone. So if you were living in Dallas, Texas, during July and August of 1972 and remember being telephoned by some crazed liberal guy so against the war that his teeth hurt, that was Stephen Spielberg! And if you told him that his cowardly backside should have been shooting reds in a rice paddy, then surely you should remember him swearing at you so colorfully that you had to admire him for the creative genius of it.

First Impressions: Bill Clinton

When we first saw Bill Clinton as a 25 year old law student in charge of running Texas for the McGovern campaign, my new friend, Steven Spielberg, called him “Goldilocks” although not to his face, of course. Well, he was certainly a tall, skinny, well-dressed Goldilocks. Goldy’s hair was the entire basis for Spielberg’s initial negative impression. Unlike the Beatles, Clinton’s blond hair curled outward at the ends, instead of inward. So, we judged him by the curl of his hair, not by the content of his character.

The reason we took any notice at all, was Ann Richards. Ann believed; so we believed.

When Steven heard Clinton’s voice the first time, again the stereotypical knives were drawn. Goldy became Jed Clampett, an exaggerated and despised television character played by Buddy Ebsen in the show The Beverly Hillbillies.

run clip about here of Jed Clampett “Wuaho doggie!”

Hillary as First Lady

Hillary Clinton in the governor’s mansion and even in the White House early on, ap-peared to be loutish in her behavior toward members of her personal staff. Her mother-in-law, Virginia, was surprised by Hillary’s rather brusk manners, too. It was a coping mechanism, a very effective device, too, as I ought to know. I was Hillary’s first servant and set the pattern for her. It was the only way she could endure what was to come. There is a rhythm one needs to

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enter and I hope this book provides a taste of it. Hillary never carries baggage and requires con-stant deference and attention, but not inappropriate attention.

Hillary Clinton has a radar for inattentiveness, that you do not want to set off. She uses it to manage her life, and it works quite well. She has a genius for sensing dread or discomfort in other people and she can exacerbate it, so she can dig deeper and get to the truth. (It may have developed from her experience as a kindergarten teacher when she was a young teenager. Pity the poor beggar who tried to hide a cookie in that class!) It is entirely another matter when she feels personally threatened, as when treacherous hold-overs on her White House staff drugged and carried away a personal friend of theirs, Mr. Vince Foster. Well, it got her dander up pretty bad. She will not talk about Mr. Foster, because to her it is just a feeling, and there is absolutely no proof of what really happened. I admired, respected and remember Mr. Foster well and I’ve read the accounts of his supposed suicide. I also know the Bushes better than anyone still alive, that’s why I know George H.W. Bush ordered it, personally. But leaving them aside, let’s look more closely at Hillary Clinton then.

It is easy to see why Hillary Clinton, studious frumpy law student, would need a special coping mechanism in 1972. Hillary was an extremely beautiful and intelligent young woman when I first met her, but apparently her sexuality was slow coming on. That is not uncommon in teenagers who do not allow or encourage inappropriate social behavior. Puberty has been accel-erating earlier and earlier. The delayed sex appetites generally benefit us when it discourages unhealthy teenage pregnancies, such as the one Barbara Bush had (Georgie).

Hillary had been an unattractive child, not hideous, but certainly no angel. When she got to college unguarded by her drill-sergeant father, she did what many suddenly beautiful girls do, she dressed down to avoid unwanted attention. When that finally could no longer suffice, she needed harsh manners and even harsher words to maintain social distance and to maintain her privacy. So being mean was the only way she could get by in life after she became so beautiful. Had she been easy-going and friendly, she would have wound up barefoot and pregnant in no time. Her hard edge has now faded with her beauty.

Hillary Clinton was lucky in that she could have had any man she wanted, virtually. Be-ing her servant as well as her husband’s before they became intimately involved, quite naturally I observed highly aggressive men she did not know trying to “put the moves on her”. Indeed, it was a regular occurrence. Swooning young men can be distracting, especially for a young woman already deeply in love and on a passionate mission to help children before she was tied down with her own.

Hillary practiced with me. If she sensed unprofessional or peer-to-peer behavior, Hillary found tricks to maintain greater distance. She placed great value on professionalism among the

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law enforcement personnel protecting her. Reading an account collected from disloyal members of her personal guard, I can totally sympathize with their complaints. Although I only heard one swear word from Hillary for the six weeks I followed her and Bill Clinton around, I can see how she might very well have used swearing at her daily secret service entourage as a management tool. How could I think such a thing? Hillary Clinton will never be cowed or diminished. She will certainly not be intimidated. Hillary watched the secret service men abandon their posts protecting President Kennedy when he was shot. She has always known that she was vulnerable to being drugged and violated and that she would never remember anything, like Teddy Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. Her only protection was her wits. That young lady will not go quietly into the night.

That being said, she certainly has her charms, too. Hillary Clinton had a first rate mind, unlike poor John McCain who finished fifth from the bottom of his class at the Naval Academy, Hillary can understand complexity and fathom her way through.

The Clintons and the Bushes

I met and trained George Bush first, certainly not so thoroughly as Hillary and Bubba, but effectively. George W. Bush was forgettable as hitch-hikers go, chemically forgettable. I apolo-gize for not remembering too much about our long conversations. We spent one day and one night together and it was a long time ago. We didn’t have anybody but God listening, and we certainly didn’t have anybody like Stephen Spielberg writing down our every word for posterity as happened with the Clintons. It was also more than a year earlier than my work with the Clin-tons when I saved George for his mother, his step-dad, and America.

Soon after my second baptism, I remember being wakened unusually early on a Richard-son School District in-service morning and being sent about 500 miles down I-10, turning around and picking up a hitch-hiker. I thought I had killed him after coming across the median and veer-ing off the road. My memory is not the greatest, but my hitch-hiker certainly looked like young W, said he was an air-force pilot, dated Tricia Nixon, had graduated from Yale--and his real daddy was JFK. He bragged about a young filly named Condi, not Candy and promised to let me use her the next day. (I looked much older than my tender 17 yea rs.) Condolezza (Mona Lisa wasn’t good enough for her) who was just as smart as we were, smarter, she would still do everything asked of her. He figured that I knew Harriet Miers -- a republican youth leader and madam and it turned out that I did. We had met at a teen young republicans meeting at her home in Dallas. (A beautiful girl had invited me to her party, little did I guess it was a republican party.) My hitchhiker didn’t like to be called Georgie. When I talked to his parents expressing

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gratitude over the telephone to me, they both sounded eerily familiar. I also remember that I picked up George out of the low place by the side of the road (he didn’t want me to tell anybody that I’d picked him up out of the gutter), his name sounded like a drink but wasn’t spelled the same (Busch), and that I kidnapped George to take him back to his parents. I remember the month and year pretty closely because of John Denver’s Country Roads album just coming out. We loved it. “Country roads! Take me home! To the place I belong! West Virginia! Mountain Momma! Take me home, Country Roads!”

play John Denver song Country Roads about here

When I told my hitch-hiker he wasn’t going to New Orleans, but instead I was taking him home to Texas, to escape he tried to drug me while I drove down I-10 with clear fluid in a brandy snifter and spilled it all over himself. That’s when he told me about his proudest achievement--having his own whore house, raping hundreds of extremely young girls including one of my old girlfriends--the blond who’d invited me to Harriet Miers’ house, and about how his real father had been JFK and killed by his ‘dad’. OK? Is your head spinning, because my head was spin-ning, too. I told my George to forget all that JFK cargo, nobody would haul it. Then I told him I was there to get him to run for President of the USA.

OK, you pick up a hitch-hiker and let him admit that he’s raped a friend of yours and his step-dad is a serial killer presidential assassin and see what you come up with! I just did what Josephus did with Vespasian, so it was hardly unprecedented. Anyway, my telling him that God had sent me to him, had the desired effect. That got him a little confused, too. We talked about policy--so don’t blame him too much for the crazy social security scheme he offered the nation. After he told me he was republican, I told him it was a great idea. Inherited Social Security ac-counts? Give me a break! But republicans had been fuming in private about social security for many years. Sometimes having it out in the open as an issue benefits public understanding. My intent was to drive home to republicans that the people really wanted social security for peace of mind. Ditto for letting business make all the rules for eight years. That actually did some good for the Democrats. The country is still here, isn’t it?

When I spoke to his overjoyed mother who insisted to thank me on the phone, I recog-nized her voice, but somehow couldn’t place her. She was composed, but I could tell that she had been crying when she greeted George telephonically. I mentioned her boy said that she’d known JFK and she perked up excitedly with, “Oh yes! We dated!” The silence that followed nearly got me killed. In it was my realization that my hitch-hiker might very well be the prodigal son of a famous family, an air-force pilot, Yale graduate, serial rapist with a serial killer JFK as-sassin “dad”. And guess what? I was invited to dinner!

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Barbara Bush’s autobiography, noted her living five miles from JFK’s US Navy posting in high school and close to him again in employment and in college. Her leaving college sud-denly ‘for no reason’ and getting married to George H.W. Bush in a big dress made George’s story even more plausible. Barbara married George H.W. in January, (when her husband said in his book July). The couple’s unusual first few years peregrination would have allowed holding her baby back a year in school. Little Georgie’s three-year old behavior described by his mother at two years of age (missing his step-daddy) and Georgie’s looking three-years-old in a photo-graph when he was only two, strongly suggest that George spoke truth when he said he was JFK’s son.

At least, for George’s sake, Kennedy loved Barbara, because we know that JFK consid-ered changing his religion for her in the summer of 1943. Most men wouldn’t risk hell for some bimbo, generally speaking. Well, that didn’t come out right, did it? But you get the point. When you hazard abandoning your family for the sake of a girl, it is a gauge of a young man’s seriousness. At the end of July, Kennedy transferred to Chicago for six weeks while Barbara entered Smith College. Jack shipped out to the Pacific via Panama right before Barbara Pierce announced her engagement to George H.W. Bush, just like her parents wanted.

‘George Bush President? What was God thinking?’ you ask? OK, well, maybe that’s not what you ask, but that’s not our business, is it? It’s not up to anybody else either. Perhaps we should just get used to that. We should also get used to young Jack Kennedy being a nice young man instead of the sullied Lothario of Bush-republican hate-lore, too. In any event, God an-swered my prayer and I survived the episode unscathed.

The basic premise of this book is that two presidents Bush and two presidents Clinton, were sent by God to guide our nation. After all only God knows what perils we might have faced, but avoided with them at the helm.

My evangelical Christian religion allows visions rarely, and when I was a youth, I had them. I had them about George W. Bush who, everyone--even he--will agree, was probably the least likely person ever to hold the office. I had them about George H.W. Bush, W’s step-father and JFK’s assassin, too.

Let me give the nation a little closure about this. As I’ve stated, JFK got himself trans-ferred down to Charleston when he became smitten with his young friend’s girlfriend, Barbara, and the young couple eventually had little George. This book is not about the JFK murder. It’s not about the FDR murder, either.

FDR was shot by Lucy Mercer Rutherford at 11:30 am on August 12, 1945. That was the 38 magnum gunshot everybody in town heard, from the gun they found on the floor between them, with the bullet missing and fired into FDR’s heart. (When in doubt, ask the undertaker.) It

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was also why Eleanor didn’t want flowers, didn’t want a funeral procession, didn’t want a big crowd at the funeral, didn’t want an elaborate service, didn’t want FDR to lie in state, and for-bade any monuments to her husband while she lived. Mrs. Rutherford got away with shooting a president, GHW Bush and GW Bush-Kennedy both certainly deserve to get off if she did.)

I also had religious feelings about the future careers of both William Jefferson Clinton and Hillary Rodham Clinton, too. All in the early seventies. We’re on a roll here. So why stop there? I had the same second sight for Stephen Spielberg, that’s the household word Steven Spielberg; Texas Governor Ann Richards; Dallas Mayor Ron Kirk; Labor Secretary Robert Reich; Presidential Counsel David Kendall; and Undersecretary of State Strobe Talbot, too. They were all dumbfounded to hear it, too. In each case, I told them all way back there in the past. Vicariously, another presidential counsel Harriet Miers, secretary of state Condolezza Rice, and Florida governor John Edward Bush (JEB) were all picked out, too, at the same time. I told George W. Bush to see to it that they were ready. Only Harriet Miers failed to reach her destina-tion on time, but she got about as close as she could, one would suppose. Zell Miller waits in the wings, along with Julian Bond, but that’s another book.

Sure this all sounds pretty implausible, impossible even. Doesn’t it? I am not making it up, you may ask the principals, if you wish. One might ask why any of this took place and I have a couple of suggestions. About the time I was born, CIA developed a drug that subverted free will and caused amnesia at the same time. That allowed CIA people, like George H.W. Bush and the plumbers to become a power unto themselves with impunity. Their only fear of being apprehended is by the direct intervention of God Almighty. Hello, Boys!

The drugs that mixed together have allowed robotic assassinations and attempted assassi-nations of three presidents, three presidential candidates, thousands of rapes and robberies, and preposterously staged episodes by the republican death squad plumbers aiming to destroy the Kennedy family (e.g. Teddy Kennedy at Chappaquaddic, and Patrick J. Kennedy in his accident at the Capitol both being ‘drunk’ and losing the identical two and a half hours somehow, etc.) must be taken away from CIA and the republicans and listed as special controlled substances. Unfortunately, the Bush stocks will need to be taken from them (and from the plumbers and their raping arab sheik buddies)--by force if necessary as they’ve been unable to resist using the drug willy nilly. It doesn’t pay to rile God like that, boys.

There’s really no good time to do this. In addition to figuring out all those unsolved criminal cases, I’ve also found a cure for criminal behavior: human pheromones, masculine fa-cial skin surface lipid and some other science goodies. I hope this book will bring all to light and serve humanity simultaneously. It’s very convincing and works extremely well, but I can’t get anybody to believe that, either.

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Why me? Fair question. Immediately before I was needed (What? God couldn’t find somebody closer?) I gave God my word that I’d do whatever He needed doing and that I didn’t want any credit for it. How this turned into a bonanza for Hollywood, you will have to ask Spielberg. Anyway, apparently God liked what He heard. So basically, I’m just some lucky schmuck in the right place with the right offer when God needed a pathetic little fool to stumble around for Him and embarrass himself so thoroughly he could never get a job as a ditch digger. Maybe God didn’t have that many volunteers, because He had me plan 9-11, too. And no, I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel guilty about getting George W. Bush or William Jefferson Clinton into office, either. We’ll never know the kind of damage that their alternative leaders might have done, will we? Let’s just count our blessings and ask God to take care of us all, shall we?

It would be a good time to stop capital punishment, too. I’m sure the nation doesn’t want to see both presidents Bush hanging from a rope or strapped down for lethal injection, holding hands, side-by-side. I don’t want the children to see that. Sometimes justice is injustice to us all.

9-11, I am David Nelson

It seems that a glitch in US airport security is causing headaches for men named "David Nelson." For some unknown reason (supposedly if "they" discussed the matter it would breach security) security computers give a "no fly" or "potential terrorist" warning whenever someone named David Nelson at-tempts to board an airliner.

I would like to apologize to all David Nelsons who were inconvenienced while flying. As to 9-11, I have reported all to the FBI. I am the David Nelson that homeland security was looking for. I met these two Arabs at the Chicago Theological Seminary, they were both in Al Qaeda. We Americans can’t pronounce Al Qaeda very well. There’s a click in the middle of it. Likewise, in Arabic, Nicholson sounds like Nelson, so when they aroused my suspicions by try-ing to cheat me into buying them computers, I allowed them to keep their mistake. I then added the most Hebrew name I could think of when they came back for my first name, impressed with the plans. It was 1997, to me it was all talk, but I did ask God about it. I did the two Moham-meds’ (one a Saudi royal family member, the other a Kuwaiti) three projects (all finished now) right after M. Night Shymalan’s four films: Sixth Sense, Signs, Unbreakable, and The Village. Incidentally that last mess, Lady in the Water, was just Night’s doing. I hope he’s learned his les-son.

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1972 McGovern Headquarters, 5334 Lemmon Ave, Dallas, TX 75209, (The building is now a gay bar)

For some reason, we need to hear the names of new friends over and over. Is it because we don’t make an association, a mental link; or because of some other reason? Perhaps we don’t expect to ever see them again, or we don’t believe that they will become important in our lives. Even when we know in our heart of hearts that someone will do great and amazing things that will affect all of us for all time, that someone’s name, a name destined to live forever, that name doesn’t even register. Mary Pickford, John Wayne, Elizabeth Taylor, Tom Cruise, Britney Spears, Harrison Ford, (Who?) all names fast fading from famous status, yet always to be well-remembered were, on first hearing, unusual and oh, so unfamiliar. It is the life stories that these names make fa-mous that we remember. And those stories must be told and re-told to bring those names again to the fore. So, yes, I hung around like a dork with a few of today’s world famous people, for weeks on end, and had difficulty—even failure—in recalling their names. So I completely forgot about desperate, love-sick Hillary Rodham, then I forgot the name of the confident leader, Hil-lary Clinton, who replaced her. I forgot Ann Richards’ name, I never remembered the first names of adults anyway, except Ann would whine “Ann! Call me Ann!” So I forgot Vince Foster’s name. Mr. Foster probably never bothered to tell me his first name. Marybeth Rogers’ name, Ann Richards' name, Indy’s name, Stephen Spielberg’s name, Bill Clinton’s, Virginia Clinton-Kelly’s, Ron Kirk's name, John Pouland's name, Robert Reich's name, David Kendall's name, Strobe Talbot's name, everybody’s were a blank. Thirty-five years is a long time. So, how do I remember them all now and in such detail? Fair question is, that. I play many clips from various movies in this book, many of them were taken from real life, indeed, from my real life, beginning with Steven writing or copying them down, so that helps. There are many more snipits taken from stories I dreamed up for Steve’s friends over the years, because these events as described herein influenced me profoundly, they came up again and again in later cinematic musings. Most of my dialogs with Steve are only close to what was actually said, I admit. Steve was much funnier and wittier than anyone could ever give him credit for being after thirty-five years. The guy was a genius. It is only because he was thoughtful enough to write so much down that we have any record at all, even this one, for without his contribution, all this would have remained locked away in my head, forgotten dusty relics of far, far away and long, long ago, piled in a jumble. There were obstacles to overcome, for instance, the Clintons would have whole conversations I couldn’t follow, except to know that they were in English, because of my limited teenage vocabulary in 1972. Thus the Clintons will sound unnaturally simple in my rec-

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ollection. They were also unnaturally thorough, too, so many anecdotes are combined and short-ened. Speaking of vocabulary, my use of the 1972 word a day calendar got many unusual and therefore memorable lines into Steve’s movies, also, and those are pretty easy to recognize after so long. (Indeed, most of those words I haven't heard since.) Having the calendar did improve my recall, too, and almost every word provoked an anecdote. I left many pages of my notes to be boxed up in campaign papers, but those have never been made available to me and are probably lost. Over the years, I’ve written letters, poems, music, & lyrics used in many films, too. When I had Steve with me, I got him to promise to put into his movies the bottoms of my two boy scout canteens (where my name and address were scratched) (Saving Private Ryan), my E.T. character development drawings (Elliot's biology lab teacher shows them to the camera) and one of the Back to the Future letters all with my name on them, but they can’t be easily seen in the films. (Perhaps this is why Spielberg is so averse to high definition DVD sales for his old films!) Apparently, nobody remembers Indy, except me. Indy was Steve’s new pet name for Dee or perhaps Diana? Perhaps he was ‘in Dee’ or ‘in Diana’? We could be pretty juvenile, and that was the impression he left. Whatever the case, she did little to discourage that impression. Ac-cording to his confession to me, Indy was Stephen Spielberg’s first love. I recommended he find a girl more acceptable to his family. Indy hailed from Muncie, Indiana, so Steve said. He also told me his father was dead and that he’d met Indy in school in Indiana. In any event, my first story project together with Spielberg, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, started at her house. Steve must have named the film, because I have no recollection of it ever having a name. I remember it took us a long time to piece that story together. Glen Campbell’s Wichita Lineman inspired Roy Neary, the first character Steve modeled after me (one of many). My lineman story and Steve’s Frenchman story got twisted together with his baby kidnapping story using a technique Steve knew from his college film training. Roy Neary wears my LED watch in the film. The two canteens and an old ammo bag were worn by Captain Miller/Mueller in Saving Private Ryan. Looks like they fixed the holes in one of the canteens and in the canvas shoulder bag & restored the bag’s army insignia. My old leather jacket bought in Baltimore at a big Army Navy store in 1948 by my dad became the Indiana Jones jacket prototype. Indiana Jones was supposed to wear army surplus clothing to save wardrobe money. I added the leather jacket (with my name in a sleeve) & sug-gested some sort of satchel with anthropology tools. Spielberg couldn’t believe I’d worn a leather jacket to the office in August, but I assured him it was comfortable in all types of weather. So on the movie screen, there it is in deserts and jungles as well as mountain snows, fashion for heroes.

Insert photo of my dad wearing the jacket about here.

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Spielberg got Clinton to wear my jacket around the office, along with Clinton’s own fedora he’d worn in Russia blowing up an ammo train, so Spielberg could “get the look right.” For Jones, Clinton gave Spielberg all the hat gestures used in the films. How to put the hat on, how to doff it. Everything. I watched it happen. Spielberg watched Clinton for hours, literally, all the while taking notes and making drawings. I made a big deal about Clinton giving his hat to Spielberg, and the vignette jungle story that begins the first Indiana Jones film is Clinton’s own, “Arkansas Bob and the Alligators” that he wrote as a child—borrowing heavily from TV’s Jungle Jim.1 That hat of Indiana Jones was a Clinton trademark from his student days in Russia during the cold war. The whip carried by the character was also Clinton’s contribution (the weapon was allowed to foreign travelers in Russia when they wouldn’t let him carry a gun). The Nepalese bar scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark makes fun of the innocent mind of my high school girlfriend who loved that country after reading a modern heroine’s book about travel-ing there. She, Cheryl Williamson, modeled for the character of Marian Ravenwood. Bits of Cheryl--the nice bits-- also model for the nice bits of both Mary in Something about Mary, and the female lead in Titanic--Rose DeWitt Bukater. DeWitt was our junior high school in Dallas. Bukater was from my nephew’s nickname placed upon him by my overwhelmed, divorced sister, his mother: the Bucket, as in ‘Want to carry The Bucket for me?’ Later, Cheryl modeled some for Skylar in Good Will Hunting, since she attended Stanford. Incredibly, the real ‘Marian Ravenwood’, Cheryl Williamson, actually went to Nepal like she dreamed as a girl, with the lucky duck colored guy who became her husband. She is now a high-ranking World Bank offi-cial. I’ll bet she even kept some Nepalese coins.

The Clintons

In 1972, the future presidents of the United States, William Jefferson “Bill” “Bubba” Clinton, and Hillary Rodham Clinton were 26, and 24 respectively. Ann Richards, the future governor of the great state of Texas, was 39. The future billionaire movie producer/director, Ste-ven Spielberg, was 24, too but he looked 17. John Pouland was my age, but I thought he was younger. Ron Kirk was 18 like me, too. Talbot, Kendall occasionally in uniform, and Reich in his tweed sport coat with leather arm patches were in their mid to late twenties, about the same age as Clinton, they were his friends from college. After I came home from a trip to Tampa the summer after I graduated Richardson High School in 1972, I decided to volunteer for the Democratic Party. Indy, who was a plainly pretty girl in flat leather sandals wearing a leather crown over her long sandy brown hair showed me

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1 George Lucas claims to have written the story, doubtless with the aid of Spielbergʼs notes.

how to answer the telephone. I remember that she looked a lot like the statue of liberty in bell-bottoms. Young, skinny, beardless, and short, Stephen Spielberg could have passed for a four-teen year-old. Yes, he could have. He wore his trademark “burnt umbrella” long hairstyle, long sleeve white shirt open at the neck and sleeves folded, black pants and ankle-high black tennis shoes. There were 1972 pop songs playing in the background, over some sort of simple sound system. There were ten telephones on three long heavy oak tables. Each beige telephone had five buttons across their fronts, with about half of them manned by teens and old folks. It was shabby, the office equipment was old, even for 1972, but all the phones were new. "McGovern/Eagleton campaign!” chirped Indy as she demonstrated for me what to say. Amid the chatter, Steven crescendoed into screaming extremely colorful obscenities into the telephone he had been holding and speaking into since I got there. His conversation made him agitated and he slammed the phone down before he calmed down, breathing slower and slower. That really distracted me, but Indy must have seen his finger on the hook. Steve's next call be-gan calmly enough, then he started to argue sotto voce as my tour continued. Again, feeling my eyes on him, Spielberg worked himself up and suddenly screamed again at another caller. This happened repeatedly. The last time he smiled at me peeking at him and said brightly yet sarcas-tically, "I think I'm getting the hang of this!" Meanwhile the other phone answerers seemed also to have about a three to one ratio of fairly pleasant calls to disturbing calls. Nobody was having much fun. Indy (Steven’s eventual nickname for his girlfriend Dee or Diana?) used apologetic gestures about the office equipment and ended my tour explaining that we were not too well or-ganized, yet. She continued, "When we call the voter we're supposed to go by this chat sheet.'" I asked her, "What about when they call us?" "I don't know. Search me! Oh, yeah! Have a look at that. Ross is it?" She caught me examining a stack of republican hate sheets. I just couldn’t believe the venom! "Yeah, we find 'em under the back door every morning. Pretty grody huh?" She read some of it right out loud for all to hear, but only Steven and I were listening. I remember reading and being shocked, shocked repeatedly. "Wow. Boy, they're not just kidding around are they? My goodness! Who wrote this? This Theodore Bundy character?"

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Stevie slammed another caller & listened in. He abruptly twisted a corner of the paper to his eyes and read it out loud weirdly. "And the tooth fairy's a fag, too, I see." he declared mock-ingly, thrusting it back, straightening his arms stiffly. Steven Spielberg’s creative behavior shocked me as he knew it would. I asked Indy qui-etly, "Should he, that kid, be answering phones? I mean . . . " "You'll find out." Indy shrugged. "I dunno." Then with a sexy lilt in her voice. Smiling at Steve who was taking another caller so he couldn't hear, "He fights back." Then, more quietly she leaned over and admitted, "He probably won't last long. With all this" she pointed to a pile of hate sheets "I mean, I'm even quitting in a few days. Got summer school to go to, you know." I looked again, incredulously at the younger-than-me looking guy who clearly had the favor of such an ‘older woman’. I didn’t know what to think. Indy was a cradle-robber, apparently. It also never occurred to me that Steven’s behavior was just a jealous tirade. Ann Richards came into the office from an errand. "Hey Jude" the Beatles song came over the sound system. Steve promptly got up and Indy found him. They loved this song. The future governor of the great state of Texas was casually dressed, to say the least. She wore a tight gray sweat shirt and stretch pants over high heels. She was a chubby mousy blond, shy and serious, but happy about it at the same time. "Listen, everybody." Ann Richards drew everyone’s attention for an announcement, but she saw me and whispered to me while waving. "Hi new per-son!" She motioned that she must speak to the group and that we will talk later. Hey Jude fi-nally came to an end so Indy and Steve could give her their full attention, too. "The person re-sponsible for the entire North Texas campaign area will be coming here in two weeks to spend some time with us. You have all got to come and be here when he arrives on the third. OK.?" We all shuffled around. "Sure Ann!” Somebody offered without enthusiasm. Before she could go on, Indy introduced me to Ann and started to leave with Stevie. I was a little relieved, since Steven seemed so strange. About half the small group left with them. As a few stayed, Ann Richards continued in a high squeaky voice. "I have faith in this man, Clin-tin. He is going to be very important to all our futures. He's going to be President of the United States, that's what!"

Leave it to Beaver I whistled the Leave it to Beaver TV theme song in the bathroom, the next day and ig-nored Steven completely, thinking Steven was talking to somebody else. He had to be, since I didn’t remember him. When you’ve never really met anyone consumed by bitterness, ambition, envy, angst and love, responding in kind may not be the optimal response. Run clip about here Always. Ghost toys with happy sweeper in hanger

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tion. Steve’s face softened from malice to regret. The toilet flushed and an old man volunteer came out. The old man coughed and asked, "Didn't hear ya. You say something to me, Sonny?" I motioned to Steve. The old guy just smiled, so Steve smiled back.

Stevenʼs Vivid Imagination & Wasted Talent

A little later on in the evening, I was working quietly, and glanced at my word a day cal-endar, the word was Vivid.

Insert a photograph of word a day calendar page Vivid:

"Excuse me, sir?" I asked quietly while we were working across the table from one an-other. Steven seemed annoyed at my interruption, "What!" I had my eyes on the hate sheet, "Sir. Uh. This is well written." It was creepy to sense intelligence behind acidic hatred like that. Steve’s voice now had a tinge of respect in it. "Yeah. I thought so, too. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Said Steven quietly. "What a terrible waste. Isn’t it, sir?" "That's right. You hit that right. And who are they to waste talented people like that! You see that, don’t you? Ross, is it?" Steve and I were of one opinion about something it seemed. "Yes sir. I see, sir.” He ignored my thick Texas twang and responded. "You're damn right it does! And you can call me Steven." "I see Sir Steven.” I added. Spielberg laughed a little, then said, "No, just Steven.” He wasn’t used to my humor, yet. "Why thank-you, Steven. I'm proud of that. You think like I do, too." I had just read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People. "Why you're welcome, Ross. You do think like me." "You know what, Steven?" "I just can't imagine, Ross." "I’ll bet you can. You have a vivid imagination." I emphasized the word vivid. It was not yet a word in young Spielberg’s vocabulary, "Hey! Just what do you mean by that! I do not!" "Steven. Vivid means sharp, in focus. It's good!" I HAD just read the definition. "Oh Really? That's not what it means at all." A few minutes later I quietly found a dic-tionary and showed the word to him. "Yes I see. Well I was wrong. I'm sorry Ross. No I guess I've always just heard it said of bad guys you know like in the movies. I just took for granted,

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well you know." I didn’t say anything, but I enjoyed teaching. "It's not your job to teach words to me, Ross." "You're right." I admitted. "What no argument?" "No. You're right. You're right!"

Carpenters Hall

The next day, the lights lit up on all ten of our phones, but we only had six people an-swering. I was working beside Stevie Spielberg, the hard of hearing old tall man, and a chubby girl teen. I was having a "bad" phone call, but I felt comfortable there, like at home.

Run clip from Always Al & Dreyfus "You know what this place reminds me of?"

"Steven?" I began to ask as he was dialing his next cold call. "Yeah." Spielberg responded, deadpan. "Steven. You know what this place reminds me of?" "No, I don't know but I betcha five dollars you're going to tell me." “You loose." I won the bet and picked up my ringing phone. "This is 990-6753. Yes sir. This is the place where they're trying to help that Democratic candidate. Yes sir. Uh sir. Can you hold a second? sir? Hey Stevie, LINE TWO! Please hold, sir, someone else will be with you in a moment." I’d expected Stevie to take it out big-time on my obnoxious caller, but he just talked quietly to him. Ann Richards came in looking worried, "Can I have some volunteers to work late to-night?" Stevie was still on the phone but he waved that he was ready to go. Two others began leaving, so it was up to me. "I'm with you Ann." Then to Steven, "I'm so tired, I could drop." "Beep beep." Steve carried a load of telephone books past Ann who was still worried. "Just like the roadrunner! Oh that's my favorite cartoon!" Ann waddled off, but some serious kidding welled up inside me. "Meep meep. What's the matter wid you?" Steven was concerned again for my mental health. My bit in the bathroom ignoring him but listening to him must have haunted him. (He did put the bit in a flick, after all.) "Nothin. … Meat meat! Meat. That's a good word." "Huh? Look Ross, I'm trying to get something done here." Actually he was just curious. "Meat meat?" I asked in Martian. "O.K." Steve just laughed at me, again.

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This time it was I who spoke to air, "You know you are really a beautiful babe. How would you like to uh, meet meat?" "Oh, no. Round midnight O.K?" Spielberg joined in. Anything to break the boredom. "Stevie! You’re breaking my train of thought!" "Meet MY meat! There's a motel right down the road there." He laughed. "Steve!" "But only if your date doesn't turn out like you want!" He laughed some more, enjoying the joke. Neither of us cared much for bird-doggers hunting chicks in the street. "Stevie. You know you think just like me." This time he took umbrage, "I do not."

Run clip from Blues Brothers, Twiggy at the gas station bit.

“Oh be sure to come in next week on the third. You remember now. William Clin-tin is coming and it is very important everybody is here." "What're we doin' tonight, Mrs. Richards?" I asked innocently. "Ol' Ross ! I wish you'd call me Ann!" "Yes ma'am. What's on tonight?" I ignored Ann Richards! At the time, this was possible. Ann had something special planned for us. "We sew seeds tonight. Voter registration forms. Nobody much votes in this district (she held up a map for us to examine and put it on a table) but we think it's a Democratic area for sure. I've got to go downtown to get the forms. She looked back at us a little worried. African American voters had been beaten by the police at the courthouse downtown just two years before. That’s what she would get if they got wind. "Ya'll can just wait here while I improvise some transportation!"

Run clip about here Indy 3: after car is hit by nazi cannon shell, Indy says "organize some transportation"

(The word was improvise, not organize, Steve.) "I got my Volkswagen." I offered. "Thanks Ross. We'll meet here at six o'clock, then." and she left us two alone. We an-swered the phone for awhile, then there were no calls. Steve had some paperwork he could do so he stayed busy.

Run clip from Always Al slams down a fiver "Oh the heck with it!"

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“Oh the heck with it." I took out a five dollar bill from my wallet and plunked it down in front of Steven. "You know what this place reminds me of? It reminds me of Carpenter's Hall in Philadelphia. That's what. Look at this place! Will ya." Steven Spielberg quietly, calmly, put the fiver in his shirt pocket and didn’t say a word.

The Round File

Thumbing the hate sheets, I picked them up and walked out of our work room without answering Steven as he asked, "Hey, where you going with my toilet paper?" I walked over to Mr. Vince Foster’s desk and inquired, “Excuse me, sir." After having his attention, I asked him shaking my head in pity, "Look at this stuff! The republicans leave us this stuff every morning and well. I'm. Well, sir, I know a few republicans who are fine upstand-ing people in the community. My old Boy Scout leader for one, Mr. Thurmond Williamson." Mr. Foster played along. "OK." I found out later he was usually the one to find them on the back doorstep. "I could show them this scuddy stuff the republicans leave us every morning and well. I'm sure they would be upset by this filth; and they could maybe do something about getting it stopped." "Those the hate-sheets, you guys call 'em? That one says Mourine McGovern's a lesbian doesn't it. Yes. That's his wife all right." "OH MY! DOES IT?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “Here! Yes sir." "Uh huh. Look, Ross? File them there & go back to your work." Foster pointed to the corner, but there was nothing in the corner to put files into, no filing cabinet, so I just stood there confused. "Where sir?" I needed clarification. Vince Foster pointed again without looking up in a weary voice, “Just put that stuff in the trash can where it belongs.” "I just don't understand, I'm sorry, sir." This was valuable evidence I thought. "Let me tell you something, Ross. Those friends of yours are they very active in poli-tics?" "Yeah. Cheryl took me once to a teen function thing." "Young Republicans?" "Uh?" Mr. Foster was dead sure, so he said the words slowly. "They're the worst."

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"But uh. Well it was kinda weird. It made my skin crawl a little." His voice overlapped mine, "Look Ross. They all know what they're do-doing, the one's with any brains that is. And I'm not saying your little friends there don't have any brains or any-thing like that. Do you hear me?” I nodded fearfully. “What I am saying is that they are all per-fectly aware of this filthy tripe and they laugh about it. That's right.” He saw my innocent shock. “They think it's funny. But let me tell you something, Ross. We're Democrats." Vince Foster looked me straight in the eyes with fire in his. "We’re Democrats, and we don't TOUCH that sort of thing."

ERA for Homosexuals

"Marybeth! Ross thinks we should have an ERA for homosexuals!" Ann Richards thought I was wacko too liberal. I defended myself, "Ann! More than half the world thinks freedom isn't practical. If they've never had any rights before, how do you know they'll abuse them? They get no chance. Is that fair? Now, Ann, I want to ask you something." “What is it, Ross?” Ann responded. “How come we get mail here on Lemmon, but the address is uh, ...Dorothy?” “Dorothy? Well, I know the postman, Ross.” “But?” “Does it matter, Ross? OK, I see you sense the truth so I’ll tell you. Our party mail comes to Dorothy because it’s harder to intercept. See, there is no such address, but the postman knows me and brings it in here to us.”

Republican jokes

"OK. I got a joke for y’all. Ann” I called to her through her office door, “are you listen-ing?" Ann’s head bobbed into and back out of sight. “OK, here’s the joke: "How do you get a Democrat to like you? Be a good neighbor. Be fair to him and love him. How do you get a republican to like you? Stick a nickel up his nose." Steven Spielberg was always trying to work, it seemed. "Ross. I'm trying to work here." "OK. How do you make a republican like you and double his intelligence?" I continued derisively, "Ya stick in another nickel." I got a pained look from Stevie. Ann and Indy looked at each other worried. "How do you tell a far sighted republican from a nearsighted one? The far sighted ones can call the nick-els going in. You know, heads or tails?" There was a group moan.

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"OK. How do you get a Democrat's respect? Tell him the truth and treat him with dig-nity. How do you get a republican's respect?" There was twenty seconds of silence, "TIP! That's T-I-P. Tip him a quarter. twenty-five centavos, two bits, 5 nickels, one fourth of a dollar. Wow!" Finally a chuckle or two arose. "OK. How do you get a republican to attend his daugh-ter's wedding?" Their silence awaited my punch line. "Print an ad in the STOCK PAGES." Finally a joke scored. "Yeah. Make it look like a public offering, so he'll be sure to read it." "Steven! How come you never laugh at my jokes?" Steven Spielberg responded with absolute deadpan that I continue to admire, "What jokes?" "Ha ha ha hah hah hah!" I couldn’t help but laugh, but he kept up his straight main act. "You laugh like a donkey" he admonished. "I do not!" I complained and looked at Indy with a hurt expression on my face to get back at Steve. "Stevie! I heard that! You apologize this instant!" Indy’s was not the swiftest paddle in the stream. Steven was caught. "I will not. He does sound like a donkey. Listen to him!" I couldn’t help egging him on. "Yeah, Stevie. Apologize! Don't be such a squirrel." "Don't call me that!" Steve barked, but then he saw the abrupt surprise on Ross's face. "I can see you don't even know what it means." "Squirrel?" I watched Indy’s reaction. “A furry little animal, cute and cuddly and nice … " Then with my eyes on Steve, I spoke softly so only Steve could hear the last words "with a fantastically tremendous humongus nose!"

Poking Light-hearted Fun at Stephen Spielbergʼs Nose

Somebody switched off the lights, the phones were lit, but not blinking. "Hey! You hit me!" I complained to Steve. "I did not. Look. Just leave me alone. I don't need this right now. I got somethin' else on my mind." Was Steve egging me on? "You hit me again!" I complained. Indy spoke out in my defense, "Stevie! Quit hitting him!" Spielberg was completely and totally innocent of all charges. "What? WHAAAT!" Indy had said something, anything she thought was important to him, so Steve had to respond. "Yeah! Watch where you're swingin' that thing!" I complained again. "What? What thing?" Steve was finally game. The lights came back up and both Indy and I had our fists in line over our noses. "Oh! I'm gonna get you for this. You you squirrel-meister, you! Go on get outa here," he told us. We

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had to kid Stephen Spielberg about his nose. We certainly couldn’t just ignore it. He probably lost twenty pounds when they finally chopped it off of him.

Bumper stickers

There was sadness in his voice. "Ross. Help Ann take this to the dumpster." Vince Fos-ter ordered. "What's a dumpster? Oh yeah. All these boxes? Bumper stickers? Maybe better yet, take it and put in in the trash down the road?" "No use our dumpster." Foster insisted. "New ones'll be here in a couple of days." Ann comforted. As we poured out a couple of open boxes into the dumpster, I couldn’t help but point out something. "Gee. Mrs. Richards. These'll be worth something someday." With the same air of tragedy Ann Richards spoke: "Not to us they won't." In 2007 McGovern/Eagleton bumper stickers are on sale on eBay, three for six dollars. We were out in a lower-middle class neighborhood, Ann Richards was sitting in her little Toyota hatchback, counting out forms, busily. "Mrs. Richards, I got an idea. Why don't we hand out campaign literature at the same time?" "Ann. Call me Ann!" she responded, looking hurt. "Please Mrs. Richards. I mean how would it look? I'm 18, you're what 36?" She smiled at my underestimate. "Here we are out late to all hours of the night. You are not an unattractive lady, you know. I mean when, well, sex uh. You know. My point is that we must think of ap-pearances. We represent the campaign." "Oh all right." She frowned as I did have a point there. I wouldn’t have to call her Ann. "What do you think?" I asked again. "Of what?" She had forgotten my question. "My idea about handing out campaign fliers!" "Ol’ Ross ! We can't do that. You didn't listen to me. Remember. One thing at a time." "Oh yeah, but why not?" "I don't know why exactly. I just know that we can't register people and ask for their vote at the same time. It's a conflict of interest. You can tell 'em we're Democrats, but only if they ask. Now lets go! And stick to the rules!"

My First Speech in the Office

Back at the Lemmon Avenue office near the end of another long, lonely day, this time I spoke to them all, to everyone. "It's time to ask ourselves what we're doing here."

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Steve turned around and looked at me, ready for entertainment. "Come on Ross, cut it out." “It is time to ask ourselves what we're doing here." I spoke loud enough for everyone to hear me in the office. "Come on Ross. I am serious!" Staring at Steven and yelling kind of wildly I yelled, "SO AM I!" Steve was taken aback at my unexpected rebuke.

Run clip about here: Braveheart. The Bruce yells at table to nobles after 2nd battle. Same words as above.

"This campaign is trying to save the lives of ten thousand American men and women and we will never give up!" I let two minutes of uncomfortable silence pass, then I increased pitch by about two steps. "We are here to save those lives and those families and we will never give up!" Again I allowed about two minutes of silence, then again I increased pitch about two steps. Now I gradually accelerated my words. "We are all that stands between those, our countrymen, and death and we will never give up. We will never give up." Again, two more minutes of si-lence. Everyone was waiting to see where I was going with this. I increased pitch another two steps. "We will never give up." I let ten seconds go by added this with a crescendo: "We will never give up, we will never give up. We will never ever, never-ever give up!" Nobody said anything, we just kept on working.

Clinton Arrives amid Shriver stickers

Ann's favorite country radio station played overhead at the office. Ann walked in with a box. “Here are the McGovern Shriver stickers & stuff. One for you Ross." "Thanks Ann, when is the big whig guy coming in? Today?" "This very afternoon! And I expect you to be here." "Oh I wouldn't miss it. Not after your buildup." I told her. She suddenly became serious. "He is going to be very important to our future, Ross. He’s going to finish what Jack Kennedy started. There he is!" (Someone told me that Ann, who was an extremely ‘big’ girl through the thorax, was scheduled to meet Kennedy on the day he was shot.) "Ann." I said. The young man so important to our futures, Clinton with a 'goldielocks' haircut, passed into the front office. He gave no speech. He just went right to work, almost like he was afraid of us. He spoke with Vince Foster who greeted him warmly and then briefly with Marybeth Rogers. "Ann!" Ann Richards wasn’t listening to me, she was beaming at Clinton. "Ann!” I objected strenuously, “He's ah kid!"

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"He's a Rhodes Scholar!" she said proudly peeking at him. Her emphasis was on Rhodes, with that special Southern lilt at the end of her sentence. "Aren't there lots of Rhodes Scholars, Ann? Look at his hair! Are you sure he's going to be President of the United States?" "What? Well sure. You wait till he comes back next week. You'll see. Yes. I am sure." Ann believed. It was infectious, too. If we believed hard enough and worked hard enough, even this old earth would improve. That is still true today.

Ann will be Governor of Texas

At about 11:30 P.M. on a Friday night, Ann had finally called me back to her car, even though I still had a hand full of circulars left. "Thank-you Ross. If you hadn't stayed I don't think I ever could have finished it by myself." I recognized the sincerity in her voice. "That's what I'm here for, Ann. But uh. There's still a lot more in there." She looked, but she was too tired to do more tonight. "Ann. You know. I' been thinkin'. You know Ann. If he can be President of America, surely you could be Governor of Texas." To my surprise, Ann was clearly delighted. "Ol’ Ross ! You are the first person outside my family to tell me that!" From first to family, she spoke very quickly, as if in relief, it embold-ened me. But I thought to myself for a moment how crazy that was to say. I thought silently to myself doubting, "Sure Ann. You can be the first divorced Governor of Texas. You can be the first single parent Governor of Texas. You can be, what, the second woman Governor of Texas in history?" But when I looked at her angelic chubby face, working and working and working against all odds to enlighten her fellow citizens and bring hope to the world, to Texas, I got mad. “Why the heck not? Ann’s got the stuff! God! Sir, can you take care of that for me, as a per-sonal favor?” A feeling of bliss fell over me, and I knew it would be done. “It’s gonna happen, Ann. You WILL be governor of this state. I know it.”

Demographics

Back in the office I finally got nerve enough to approach Ms. Rogers and asked her, "Mrs. Rogers. Just what do you do here? I mean. I see you busy all the time. I just wondered what it was you spend so much time on?" Mrs. Rogers was unusually quick to take offense. But she took a few moments to present a technical discussion about mapping population demographics. Census data, income distribu-tions, "I had no idea. Wow!" Whatever she said went in one ear and out the other. By the next weekend, I had forgotten everybody’s name again. "Oh, Mrs. Richards"

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"My name is Rogers, Ann's my neighbor." Marybeth Rogers corrected me. "I'm sorry the names sound alike, I guess I just forgot." I excused myself. "That's OK,” she allowed. "Mrs. Richards." I began. "Rogers." She attempted a wrong correction. "No. Ann. You know. I think she's going to become Governor of Texas." I said. Ms Rogers was genuinely startled. "WELL! I mean. She's talked about it. But, well." "But you don't think so?" I looked up at her. "I don't know,” she spoke with an air of resignation, “Oh. I don't see how. I mean. She only what, graduated high school? She needs at least a masters degree to become governor, surely." I met Ann in a parking lot. Her Toyota hatchback was full, each packet was counted & packed neatly in her car. She spotted me and smiled. "Ann. What did you do? Did you work all night? You worked all night, didn't you?" "Late, but not all night. Marybeth came over & we finished it up together." "Who?" I didn’t recognize the name. "Mrs. Rogers. You know, the lady that sits over in front of me towards the door." "Oh yeah. Are ya'll related?" I asked semi-confused again, name-wise. "She's sorta my sister-in-law or she was. We ain't like that no more." "That's the big guy in the checkered shirt, the Texas Ranger. I saw his badge on his dashboard." I had almost said ‘the big ugly guy’ but her face lighting up forewarned me. Ann had a romantic thing for Texas Rangers. She always said the words Texas Rangers with awe and excitement born of excessive feminine sentimentality. Proximity to Texas Rangers was a prime motivation for her to seek the governor’s mansion. I do not exaggerate. Indeed, Hillary Clin-ton’s unrequited love of the New York Yankee baseball team drew her to perquisites of office similarly, as the reader will find out later. Ann's words caught in her throat. She remembered his visit the day before, and she re-membered a much younger redheaded woman sitting uncomfortably, but resolutely in the middle of the bench seat of the ugly ranger’s old pickup truck. I comforted her, "You're gonna do big-ger things now Ann. You gotta push that past behind you and think of Texas. Love Texas, Ann." She looked at me like I was crazy, again, and quickly wiped a tear from her eye and leaned her shoulder against mine for a second.

Future President meet The Future Governor

We were called to work in an auditorium setting up chairs, perhaps. Then someone called out from the pack of volunteers. The voice was that of the office manager, Vince Foster. “Bubba! Bubba! Can you come down here, please?! I want you to see this,” said Foster. The

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young law student in charge of Texas, William Jefferson Clinton, and I reached the foot of the stage together. Mr. Vincent Vince Foster scolded me, but Clinton immediately knew the truth, “So there is another Bubba!” He smiled, & introduced himself, as did I. “Your name must be Bubba, too.” “That was some speech you gave. I liked it.” Clinton had heard my speech from the back of the room! Where he was hiding, I could not say, but his mentioning it put me completely at ease. I noticed that Clinton now had a ‘normal-looking’ haircut--his English Goldy Locks were gone. From their interaction and gestures, it was clear that Foster and Clinton were very old friends indeed. "Thank-you sir, I uh." Clinton began, “you didn't know I was there did you?" We stood there silently for several seconds. I took it as an opening for confrontation. "You know sir, you have a youthful appearance for someone with so much responsibility ..." Clinton was ready for this one. He looked me straight in the eye and very seriously addressed the issue. "I am 26 years old. Age shouldn't matter. I can do the job. I hope you will give me a fair chance before making up your mind on me." Then he let me reassure him. “Oh. I'd never do that. I'm a Democrat. I believe in fair-ness and equal opportunity." I was working for him, after all. "How do you like working in political campaigning so far?" he offered. I had more im-portant matters, like advancing my boss, Ann Richards. "You know, sir, my boss thinks an awful lot of you." After my being confrontational, this was unexpected. "Really?" "Yes sir. She thinks you're going to be . . . Governor of Texas or even higher . . ." Loudly and in a really hokey accent that made you love him. "OH NO! I'M FROM ARK IN SAW!" He smiled so big, it was unbelievable. He was absolutely joyous. "Actually, sir, she's been telling us for weeks that you were coming and that you are im-portant to all of our futures. She thinks that you will be, will be . . ." "President of the United States of America." Said Ann as she walked up. Stevie was right behind her, too, along with Ms Rogers. Again the hokey accent, "Aw who!" Clinton was beaming big time. "May I introduce you, sir?" Clinton was thrilled, really having a good time. "Of course!" "You know we think a lot of her, too. She's going to be Governor of Texas." The president looked at me only slightly bewildered. Ann approached within three yards now, waiting anxiously, but happily. Clinton held Ann off, cheerfully. "Hold on a minute. He's going to introduce us." "Oh! A formal introduction then? How nice!”

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I was very nervous. "Excuse me sir. Uh. Please wait just a moment. This is a formal introduction and I want to do this right. I need a minute to, to get ready. Mr. President, may I have your full name, please. Oh. Perhaps I should write it down. Let me get a piece of paper and a pen." With Marybeth Rogers helping me I quickly gathered these and approached Clinton "Yes sir?" "William Jefferson Clinton. Two f's there." "Thank-you sir, I'm a little nervous. Oh." With an anxious and pained expression I asked, "Excuse me sir. Just for a moment." I moved into the other room and looked in the yellow pages for a professional photographer. Alone, my anxiety vanished. They were waiting in the other room, nervously chit-chatting, they were waiting for me and I would make the most of this op-portunity. Ms Rogers came in to hurry me up. "What are you doing in here? Can't you see they're waiting!" "Yes ma’am, I’m on the phone. We're going to need a photographer." I calmly told her. "What!" She whispered into the next room. "He says he needs a photographer! Yes that's right! What?" She pulled her head back, then pushed her head back in and whispered anx-iously. "OH! You don't need a photographer. They're waiting!" Oh I was in no mood for capitulation. "Ma'am. This is an historic occasion and yes we absolutely do need a photographer. Don't worry. I will be happy to pay for this one!" She’d al-ready pulled back out all flustered and incredulous. "Yes. I urgently need a photographer to take a picture please. Uh? Just five or" I stretched to count heads through the door past Ms Rogers. Mr. Foster was impatient, “tell him to put that up and get in here, we’ve wasted enough time already!” “He’s insisting on calling the photographer!” complained Ms Rogers. “He can’t insist on anything! Get him in here!” demanded Foster. Meanwhile, Clinton and Richards beamed in their first lime-light. They could endure it a little longer. Timing was everything, but it wasn’t my doing. “He’s adamant! He’s not coming without a photographer!” even Ms Rogers was amused. “I have a camera!” “So do I!” “Oh me too! Lemmeget it. Lemmeeget it!” Rogers’ head came back through the door. I anticipated her, "excuse me Mrs. Richards, fifteen or twenty or so people. Yes I'll hold." "My name is Rogers, silly. and I have a camera right here." Oh, she was mad, but she smiled because Ann was getting along great with Clinton. "I'll be glad to take the picture. Get in there!" I hung up only reluctantly.

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I clearly preferred having a professional, "Are you sure, ma'am?” She was excited still. "Yes! I'm sure. Just get in there. They're waiting!" Ann asked goodheartedly, "Ross ?" "Yes ma'am. OH! May I have your full name?" “Ol’ Ross. You know my name!" "Ann Richards. Ma’am. This is a formal introduction, may I have your full name?" "My middle name is 'Willis' but I don't use it. Just Ann Richards is fine." "I'm sorry. I didn't catch that?" "I said just use 'Ann Richards!'" She was adamantly louder and becoming impatient, but still smiling. "Yes ma'am." Ann and I took our places. "Are we all ready now? Please. This will just take a minute. Let me take a minute to practice." Ms Rogers couldn’t believe her ears, "he wants to practice?" "Ross!" Ann was getting a tad irritated, just a tad, but I moved off just out of earshot and went over what I had to say in my mind. “Future uh future President William, no. Future President of the United States of Amer-ica ..." This was a lot harder than I had anticipated. The excitement was too much. Indy piped up. "Oh if you have time can I get my cam-era, too?" Thank-you Indy! I thought. It gave me a minute to get everything straight. She came back with her instamatic camera and took up a position.

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“Future President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton, please meet, no. I have the pleasure, no. Honor that's it. Honor. Future President of the United States, William Jeffer-son Clinton, please meet, no. WRITE IT DOWN! Future President of the United States, Wil-liam Jefferson Clinton, I have the extreme pleasure, no, pleasure just pleasure "honor, dern it honor! Now slow it down!" "… to present the future Governor of the State of Texas, no Great State of Texas. O.K. There." "Future President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton, I have the pleasure, no honor to present the future Governor of the Great State of Texas, Ann Richards. That's awful!” I was under the gun and smiled quickly at the waiting crowd, then read "Future President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton, I have the honor to present the future Governor of the Great State of Texas, Ann Richards! O.K. once more "Future President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton, I have no honor to present the future Governor of the Great State of Texas, Ann Richards! O.K. then." The group was fraying at the edges, but all came back and we posed. They had been watching me. "Mr. President. Mrs. Richards. You stand here if you will ma'am! Ms Rogers. Can eve-ryone see?” Clinton felt an electric shock, being called ‘Mr. President’ for the first time--and no one said anything. Mrs. Rogers was at her limit. "Finally,” she said. I overrode Rogers, "All Right then. O.K. can everyone see now?” I took a last look at my written card one last time, looked up and then into the eyes of Clinton. A pause followed. Then slowly and deadly seriously: "Future President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton, please meet uh the future Governor of the Great State of Texas, Ann Richards!" "That was good Ross! And this is ... Oh!" Ann needed Ms Rogers to be introduced, too. Great, snap, but I made do. "This is the Governor-to-be's future chief of staff, uh." "Marybeth Rogers, sir. I am very pleased to meet you!" Marybeth helped me out. Timidly Ann spoke again. "Actually. we've met before. I, I guess you don't remember me. We met at the conference." "Well I shore will remember you now, Ann Richards, future governor of the Great State of Texas!" "Ann. Call me Ann!" "Ann. I will never forget you, ever!" and he gave her a big hug. So in spite of Mr. Foster’s and Ms Rogers’ disapprobation, I had begun a series of relig-iously inspired successes. Oddly we had three pronunciations for ‘Clinton’. I’d finally gotten William Jefferson Clinton’s whole name straight, but given that here began the candidacies, nominations, and administrations of three governors, two presidents of the United States (both Clintons), a US senator (Clinton), a secretary of labor (Robert Reich), an undersecretary of state (Strobe Talbot), a presidential counsel (David Kendall) and deputy counsel (Vince Foster), and a two-term mayor of Dallas (Ron Kirk), naturally I forgot Clinton’s name utterly and completely.

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I had schemed this out carefully. Very loudly, I got everyone’s attention. "LISTEN! EVERYBODY LISTEN!" I waited a few beats of silence. "Hear that!" The puzzled looks started, then a murmur "Shhhhhhhhhhhhh" Indy finally broke the silence, “Ross. I don't hear anything but the music." Others nod-ded in agreement. “LISTEN! Are you listening? Listen harder!” I insisted passionately. Before Ann could speak, stern Vince Foster approached the group from his area and both said nothing. “Nothing,” somebody said. I brought a little anger into my voice to hold them. "That's because you hear but you're not listening! Listen to the SONG!" "Yeah, yeah." Everybody started to shuffle off, tired of another of my jokes. I was committed to this now, and there would be no holding back. I had the flag and it was not going back down that hill. Pained and stamping my foot on the linoleum I insisted, "You're still not listening. LISTEN!!! EVERYBODY LISTEN!" Finally, they all started listening to the song wafting through it’s last chorus. “Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. It’ll soon be here. It’ll be here sooner than you think. Yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone!” As the song closed, it was time for Foster’s discipline. Ann broke in front of his march toward me. Foster was fit to be tied. Ann put her arms around me crossing her wrists in front of me, protecting me. He motioned us both to his office. "Now. Just what was that outburst about, young man?" Ann was a little jubilant but she let go of me and stood behind me. "I wanted everyone to listen to the song, sir." "You're telling me that you stopped the operations of this busy office so we could all lis-ten to that song together?" I could see Ann’s reaction, so I kept confident. "Yes sir." "Now you listen, to me, young man. This is a work place, not a playground." "No sir! I was not fooling around, sir." "You mean to tell me that listening to that song was that important?"

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"Oh! Yes sir! That was important enough to stop everything for. Don't you see, sir. That's the most important message I can think of." Ann used Mr. Foster’s first name for the very first time. “Vince, it was just for a few moments and you can see the boy's in earnest?" she pleaded for me. “Very well. However, this office doesn't need any further disruptions from you young man. Do you understand?" Clearly he was letting me off the hook because of Ann. She put her arm around my shoulder, protectively. The song came over the radio again and again, and each time, Steven Spielberg (who owned the boom-box/portable phonograph), would rev up the vol-ume and everybody would smile!

Future President meet Future Movie Producer Billionaire

The next day Clinton was in the office. Clinton came out with papers for me to type and was mildly amused over music--oh he’d heard something already, but he asked anyway, "So! What is all that about?" "I uh." I was conveniently confused to let Steve work a little magic. Steven Spielberg spoke with an incredulous laugh, "You’ll never believe it! The other day he made everybody in the office stop stock still just like that … And when we said all we heard was the music he yelled 'That's because you're not listening!’ He made us all listen to the song." Clinton was thrilled. “Naw!” Spielberg: “Yep. He did!” Clinton then turned to me: "You what!! Did you really do that?" Mr. President smiled and laughed. "Ross you are sumthin’!" Seriously I responded, deflating the mood a little, "Yes sir. I thought it important enough to make sure we all heard that message." Clinton: “I like it! Ross you’re an incorrigible. Who everybody?" He was laughing again in spite of my seriousness. "Everybody here?!" He shook his mane and began to head back into his office. Stephen Spielberg grabbed my shirt: "Psssst, Ross, Ross!" "Hi Steve. A little dignity, Steve?" "Ross , introduce me!" Spielberg begged. "Oh my. You haven't met the President yet? But you want to meet him wearing that shirt!” I teased, “Now?" Steve looked resolute: "Yes!" "OK. Mr. President! I can't believe this! Come over here Steve. Oh, Mr. President!" Stephen Spielberg asked me in a hushed voice, "Write it down. Write it down!" "What? Write what down?" I asked dully.

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Steve turned to me shocked, angry and a little hurt that I had actually fowled it up: "It's Steven!" "Sorry Steve. I wrote it down with a ph like you said!" Steve was set to make do: "Well spell it with a 'v'" to me. Then to Clinton who over-heard our exchange. Spielberg was genuinely honored and excited to finally meet Clinton.

run clip about here Independence Day Data introduced to President at area 51. “Steve works for Ann Richards, too. We have given out about a ton of those voter regis-tration forms. Mr. President, Steven Spielberg is going to make billions of dollars making family movies again as a movie producer. His name will become a household word in what, about 15 years?" “Wow, Mr. President! What an honor! As you can imagine, they don’t let us out much." Quickly, shaking the hand up and down. Steven was really thrilled. “I can appreciate that.” Said the future president eyeing Steve’s frazzled hair cut and strange luau shirt, shaking his hand. “Director, Ross!” Stephen icks-nayed. Then to Clinton, he put out his hand to shake Clinton’s, “I am a movie director, Mr. President.” Steve corrected. Of course, anybody can check Steven Spielberg’s resume here in 2007 and see that in his career, he has produced five movies for every one he has directed, so there! Stef-fan! OK, back to 1972: "Actually, Mr. President. Steve here keeps a notebook of movie ideas with him at all times so he can write down good movie lines as he hears them or as they come to him." Steve was still shaking the President's hand. He was really bowled over! But he finally let go, abashed. "As a matter of fact he and I just finished some ideas for two, no three?, movies this afternoon." "Really? I'd like to see it. May I?" Clinton took Spielberg’s notebook and examined them briefly. Steven was looking down again. “I I I" he sputtered as he reluctantly gave his notebook to the President, "don't let just anybody see this ..." "Its OK. Steve,” I said reassuring him. “I think I heard a little about it from Ann. Steven Spielberg (Clinton remembered his name--or perhaps he read it on the notebook) I'm proud of you for wanting to make family mov-ies again. America needs that. I think Ann talked to me about you. You are already a famous movie director. I want to help you. If you're looking for ideas, I have one for you." Clinton walked with Steven Spielberg putting his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders. They talked for 1-1/2 hr. I was surprised to see the President gesticulating as he seemed to crack a bullwhip.

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"Mr. President. You will have to keep track of Steven Spielberg. He will be a good source for campaign finance. He will earn billions of dollars, sir." "Thank-you Ross. I'll keep that in mind." Clinton simply dismissed another of my crazy ideas as he quickly stepped into his office. There was not a hint of disbelief in his voice. He might have been a bit irritated that was all, but not enough to offend me like anyone else would have. This man was like floating granite. After he took refuge in his office, I sat down at my desk which was right outside his door. He came back out. I immediately stood back up. "What did you two talk about? Martians?" "Who sir?" Clinton: You know that young film fella back there." "Mr. President. You must try to remember his name. He will be very famous one day." Meanwhile, I had forgotten his name myself. "Ross. Well if he is going to become a household word I won't have to remember his name, now will I?" (You see? Even the smartest people in the world can make idiotic assump-tions.) "Mr. President!" I pleaded with him but he would have none of it. "So what did ya'll talk about. Was it martians?" "Yes sir. When he wasn't swinging at me." Clinton was slightly alarmed, "Swinging at you?" I put both of my fists atop one another in front of my nose and move my head from side to side and said, "with his nose!" It was an old Boy Scout stunt. Clinton was put off by my child-ishness, so I got serious. "And you sir? You were back there a long time. We talked about ali-ens. Mind if I ask what y’all talked about?" "Archaeology" and Clinton looked toward the horizon.

SOUND: Theme from Indiana Jones by Williams.

Other Options

Steve and I walked in on the tail end of a conversation. We had come in from walking precincts to pick up another walk list. We heard outside Clinton’s office an impassioned ex-change. “I DON’T WANT TO LOSE HEART! I WANT TO BELIEVE, AS HE DOES!” “Well I for one do not want to be caught on the losing side again.” “With these kind of polling numbers, it’s time to discus other options.” I stuck my head through Clinton’s door but he wasn’t talking in there. “Other options? Don’t you want to try to barter a better deal from Nixon before you tuck tail and run?” I was bru-tal.

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Word a day word barter “We cannot defeat Nixon in Texas.” Shocked at the intrusion, everyone shook their heads, and the election was four whole months away. “WE CAN! And we will! We won in the primary, ten times as many Democrats voted for McGovern as republicans for Nixon when you would not support us. If you’ll not stand up with us now, you’re nothin’. Live with that. And if you’re Texans, I’m ashamed to call myself one!” Marybeth Rogers was aghast, “I’d say that’s rather less cordial than he’s used to Ross! Ross! Where’re you goin’?” “I’m goin’ to pic a fight!” The I smiled, devilishly. Clinton followed us out of his office, the others trailed out after him. “Ross, where’re you goin’?” “We’ve won the primary, but the republicans still have a chance, because you won’t stand together. I tell you we can win Texas!” “Win Texas? That’s improbable.” The prognosticator again. I lit into him. “Why? Why is that impossible? You’re so concerned with squabbling for the scraps from Nixons’s table that you’ve missed your God Given right to something better. There’s a difference between us and them. Republicans think the people of this country exist to provide them with positions. But those positions exist to provide the people with freedom, and I go to see that they have it! Come on, Steve. Get our stuff.”

word-a-day calendar word “Squabble”

Steven caught up with me. “Ross, you didn’t change their minds back there.” “Ha! Who cares what they think? I only care what you think, Steve.” You should have seen his face. “Ross! Ross! Wait up!” Clinton called after me and joined us outside, too, the others came out but held back. “I respect what you said, but remember that those men have jobs and careers--it’s much to risk.” “And the poor man that bleeds on the battlefield, does he risk less?” I asked. “No. But from top to bottom, this party has got no sense of itself. Our Southern con-gressmen vote with republicans, state parties at war with each other. If you make enemies on both sides, you’ll end up dead in the water.” “We all end up dead, it’s just a matter of how and why!” “I’m not a coward. I want what you want, but we need those men back there.” Clinton pleaded.

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“We need them?” I asked him, as we made eye contact. “Your title makes you our leader, but people don’t follow titles, they follow courage. Now our people know you, they love and respect you. And if you … would just LEAD them to freedom, they’d follow you--and so would I!” “Bubba, fighting these odds--it looks like rage, not courage.” “Oh, it’s well beyond rage!” I looked at them, helplessly. “Help me? For God’s sake, help yourselves. If you join, we can win. If we win, then we’ll have what none of us have ever had before--a really free country of our own!” I turned back to Clinton. “You’re the rightful leader and there is strength in you, I see it. Unite us. Unite US! Unite the states!”

Christ knows what all!

I later came upon the higher-ups having another little meeting. I learned later from Ste-vie’s hints, that they were discussing my 'outbursts'. All I heard was “Terminate him. Immedi-ately!” and Mr. Foster saying “...Kooks, fanatics, and Christ knows what all!”

run clip from Close Encounters of the Third Kind General says 'kooks, fanatics...'

This delighted Steven Spielberg, who had been included (and doubtless ratted me out), so he told me mischievously "They were all talkin' about you in there." "Me? What am I, in trouble?" I said.

run clip Indiana Jones from beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark “What am I, in trouble?”

"No" Steve’s normal calm returned. "I don't get it." "They want to know, Ross ..." Spielberg let a heartbeat tick off. "...just what is it you're doing here?" "Me? ME! This isn't about me." He couldn’t believe I was so dismissive. "Then what is it about?" Now it was my turn, and I told him equally mischievously, "You're very intelligent, Ste-ven. You’re so very close to my own level. So I'm surprised you haven't figured it out." I took another look at his flashing eyes and told him mysteriously, "You are the reason I'm here."

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That night, I figured if I was getting canned (from a volunteer job!) then I might as well go out with gusto. It was time for a ‘big speech’.

I spoke from the back of the room where I had told my republican jokes previously, so it caught everyone by surprise. The work was intensely boring, so different was good, nobody complained. "The time has come to consider the future and our part in it. What role can we play for the benefit of our country? "Today, the future, not just of Texas, not just of America, but the future of Democratic Civilization is under attack. Democracy is under attack by foes that would wreck her institutions and ruin all that we have long struggled to achieve. "So when will Liberty search for new leaders to defend and advance American Demo-cratic Civilization? When else but now, now when peril lurks hidden and felons ravage? “So if now, where will Liberty search out her champions, these new leaders-to-be of Democratic Civilization? WHERE ELSE BUT HERE? Here among us? Here the battle rages. Here her champions should stand. Here with us on the front lines. "So if now and here, who should Liberty call? SHE CALLS. SHE CALLS. SHE CALLS WHO WILL ANSWER. WE. WILL. ANSWER. HER. Who else but we? We who stand bravely here, now. We must lead Texas. We must lead America. We must lead our culture. We must carry Democracy to victory and rescue human civilization from those who would tram-ple it down for a few crummy bucks. Look around who else is here? Look around who else can hear? It is up to us. And we will not fail. Our generation depends upon us and no one else.” "When else but now? Where else but here? Who else but we? Have we fled? We have not! We stand our ground and we will not yield. We will never give up. We will never give up. We will never give up. We will never give up. We will never, never, never-ever give up!!!!!" Steve spoke low to Ann, but I could just hear him. "My God. What the hell is he on?” Ann saw I was in earshot and looked straight at me. "I don't know, but I WANT some!" Ann's eyes sparkled. She smiled and raised her eyebrows at the shocked Steven. Then she pooh poohed him and it was over. I had pulled it off, no mistakes, total victory. I still remember that speech all these years later, too.

Imagine yourself working one on one with the great genius, Steven Spielberg cooking up movie ideas. Not just once, but dozens of times over six whole weeks. Just you and the great Spielberg day after day, just the two of you. Now imagine you have seen all his films and you can go back to 1972 Dallas and guide the young genius. That was me and that is exactly how I felt. I felt I was guiding a genius. You could and would influence the lives of everyone in the entire world; through the tell-ing of stories. And not just your contemporaries, but generations and generations to come.

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Him as hard as you can, the frizzly-headed, beardless, heavy smoker, who drinks hard liquor (he was 24) is recognizably the greatest cinematic genius of all time. No problem. He will tell you that I never flinched, never wavered, not for an instant. I always knew. Stevie’s girlfriend at the time, his first, was somehow associated with Muncie Indiana.

Opening Muncie Indiana clip from Close Encounters of the Third Kind

and she was a relative of someone else working in the McGovern Campaign office on Lemmon Avenue. She loved him and was after Steven to make something of himself.

“Dare to believe, because believing makes it so.”

People paid a lot of attention to both of the Clintons, even then. He was, after all, run-ning the state’s campaign to get George McGovern into the White House, even if he was just an out-of-state law student with no ties at all to Texas. He was tall & thoughtful. Well-dressed in suit and tie every day; he drove a new station wagon. And she was, well, Hillary was probably one of the most beautiful young women I’d ever seen, eloquent, farsighted, and wise. Ann Richards drove a Toyota hatchback, as I’ve described. The richest guy in the office was Steven Spielberg who drove nothing & I carried him around in my 88 miles per hour top speed, light tan VW bug. I never saw Hillary drive, but when she showed up later, I do remem-ber she maintained her own residence and that at the end of the day, the Clintons left & arrived at the office separately. (They had different phone numbers, as Spielberg later gleefully noted from our office records. He literally danced a jig he was so excited about her not living with Clinton. He felt he might just have a chance with our beautiful ‘clever girl’. I would put a stop to that, however.) McGovern had wanted to bring in fresh out-of-state talent to avoid favoritism by picking a partisan from either the Yarborough or Briscoe factions of the Texas Democratic Party I found out later. Pundits suggest that instead the strategy backfired, alienating both camps. Endorse-ments were slow coming in. McGovern was unelectable, that’s why the republicans financed his campaign, I suppose. Flash! Flash! Flash! History made! History documented. July, 1972. Stunned yet de-lighted, a long-anticipated cheer went up. “Hooray! NOW can we get back to work?” asked Foster. Everyone lined up to shake hands. People were honored to be there. Thank-you! I was ignored. Only Spielberg would seek me out after Richards, cheeks flushed, quickly thanked me for herself and for Future President Clinton. I knew it would be a useful anecdote to both of them. “You know, I have to say, you have pretty good timing, there, Bud.”

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(Play Fanfare for the Common Man, by Aaron Copeland about here.)

“Yeah, about two seconds longer & it would have blown up in my face.” “You saw it, too?” “And thank-you, it’s high praise coming from you, I know.” “Sure, you’re welcome. What’s your name again?” Steven Spielberg and I had been sitting in the same room together for days answering the phones and calling voters. Sometimes we were alone there working side by side for Democratic victory in the approaching election. Steve’s girlfriend, Indy?, a hippy blonde about five years older than me, had already introduced us after she showed me around on my first day. It was my first day of my first job in politics and I had a destiny to fulfill. Naturally, I forgot Steven Spiel-berg’s name in my first minute, he would go on to become freedom’s biggest campaign contribu-tor, but I would recover and make good. How could I forget what he had said to people calling in? “You mother-blanking son-of-a-blank, I hope you rot in hell, c-word-blanker!” The agitated young Stephen Spielberg slammed his handset down on the old beige dial phones with push buttons in a single row on the front that. “Some old b-word just told me to join the f-word army!” That was the old Steven Spielberg talking. At 24, he had dreaded being drafted, so sure was he that his life would be lost in the steaming jungles of a far-away quagmire, before his own destiny could find the sunshine. Some drill sergeant would snag him and that would be that: oblivion. I was a good influence on Steven Spielberg. “Indy! Could you get that guy to stop curs-ing so much, please? It’s distracting.” He would blow smoke rings in my face. I didn’t mind, although sometimes I coughed a little. I earnestly did my very best. We began to get calls occa-sionally that asked for me or about me, complementary calls. Not like the torrid complaints about Steven, ‘Stevie’ to Indy. “YOU CAN’T CALL ME Stevie!” he was amazed at my offer of chips. “He certainly can! It’s your name isn’t it?” Indy’s smile would melt the hardest heart. Truth was, that I’d only heard him called Stevie up to that point & had forgotten our introduction days earlier. Spielberg’s high dungeon was all the more remarkable because he had the features of a much younger person. With no beard & thin frame, Spielberg looked 17, certainly younger than I at 18. “I’m 24!” “No way, Stevie.” “Well then,” he said sarcastically “would you say I could pass for 23?” “No way.” “22?” “Nope.”

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“21?” “Doubt it.” “20?” “Sorry, no.” “19?!” Again, Spielberg was getting his temper up. “You look about 17, Steve.” “But I could pass for 18, surely!” “OK, ok. You might pass for 18.” “And I could also pass for 19!!” “That’s a long-shot.” “BUT I COULD DO IT!” “At the outside, OK.” “THEN I’M 19!” and older than me, he had triumphed in his own way. It was a Phyrric victory because now we were contemporaries, not teen-ager and goofy-freak, California loner squirrel. I know it is hard for people today to imagine an immature Steven Spielberg. It’s one of the reasons that I didn’t connect the Stevie of my youthful summer with the great cinematic gen-ius. I did see that cinematic genius emerge. It took me about two weeks. The agitation, the profanity, screaming & anger quickness, these would be prototypical of the protégées Spielberg would send me over and over again. Hundreds of interviews would fol-low our series of long, long ago and far far away. Some solicitations would succeed, some would be thwarted, but all solicitors would bear characteristics like the great master, himself. The stream of visitors looking for advice, poems, handwriting samples, etc. were pushed, per-haps by Steven to start, or by successful supplicants, but money seeking low-risk returns sent the most. I must be the great font of Hollywood tradition, that’s where I find myself. But it is an unpaid position! OK, I got $1.00 and some replacement audio tapes for the saxophone cave solo/poem in Dead Poets Society (run sax solo clip from Dead Poets’ Society). BBC TV flew me to Boston & fed me once. CBC-TV flew me to Toronto, put me up in a hotel & feted me royally helping them make movies, unsuccessful movies at that, too. I often wonder at my own American & much more successful industry’s penury. Then again, poverty & I go way back. Steven wanted fame and the wealth of fame. He wanted to become “a household word.” I offered God my services, in exchange for anonymity & poverty and I got a better life for it, too, until I remembered. It was August of 1994 and I was between semesters at Ross University School of Medi-cine on the Island nation of Dominica, adrift in the Caribbean Sea. My computer had broken down, the library was closed, and textbooks for the next semester weren’t yet available. This staying on “the Rock” between semesters was an economy measure. The airfare to and from my home in Tampa was exorbitant. I busied myself by making & distributing maps of the campus & locale followed by guided group tours for the much larger entering class of wide-eyed medical

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students showing them the fruit trees, this one mango, this one passion fruit, lime, etc. With two semesters of rigor & travail under my belt, I was an “old-timer.” But once newbies were all tucked away and I was left with my thoughts, the still long nights of tropical breezes gave me pause to reconsider my life in my leisure to pass time longing too much for home. I started with my high school graduation, the SMU music scholarship I turned down, my trip to my grandmother’s from Dallas to Tampa. And then I remembered Ann. And Steve! I missed them both. Three months of reconsideration was as far as I got. Could my old Ann, “call me Ann!”, remembered fondly from 1972, could Ann be Gover-nor Ann Richards of Texas? And that interview given by president-elect Clinton two years ear-lier, the one where he talked about the kid calling him “Mr. President”. That, why he, he had been talking about me! I decided to telephone the Texas capitol and find out. “Oh yes! Ross! We’ve heard about you!” one staffer said as I was relayed again and again. “Do you want to speak to Marybeth Rogers?” I had not heard Marybeth Rogers’ name in twenty-two years. I couldn’t afford the cost of the call, I had my answer. It was true. I got a color photograph & a personal note from the governor herself remembering me. I summoned my courage & called the White House. I got a call back from the White House. They had been looking for me. Those left at the school were abuzz with the news. Of course, we had a simultaneous small revolution. A US Navy helicopter flew over our campus and resolved the political island crisis in favor of restraint & calm. Nothing like the U.S. Navy for calming fervor down back to discussion & compromise. That hlicopter crew saved our bacon. “Was another one coming to get me?” I wondered. Then third semester swallowed my concentration & filled my life again with study. Each semester was tougher than the last. I didn’t do as well as before, there were no professors thanking me for doing so well in their courses in my third semester. I made a couple of C’s I recall, the cost of distraction. The night I got home from 9 months on the rock, I remembered Steve again. Just Steve. No Spielberg yet, just plain Steve or Stevie. I missed my special summer friend and wondered what happened to him. I remember when he saved my life from that republican thug gang. I remembered our final tearful good-bye. Over the next few days of peace & calm the pieces be-gan to come together. What was Steven’s last name? It was hopeless. Try to remember, we told stories. Oh yes, what was that story about his name. Story city? No, play city! I got out my German text-book. Spiele—to play. Spielberg! That was it! Wow! That’s funny. His name’s the same as Steven Spielberg. I wonder if maybe they’re related? “God, is it possible?” No answer this time. In time, I began to figure it out for myself. I watched Schindler’s List for the first time and remembered the two of us in the Chinese restaurant. Moved to tears, especially by the film’s dedication, I telephoned Steven’s office in Universal City and spoke to his secretary. My old friend never returned my call, or if he did, my family didn’t believe him. They certainly didn’t believe me.

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Then I remembered 1983, at Christmastime. I found myself impoverished to the depths of utter despair in my own father’s employ. After a few weeks sojourn cleaning up a hearse for local delivery in Rockwood, TN, I returned to my father’s house in Winder Georgia aboard a Honda 75cc motorcycle. What do I find but a tearful step-mother and my grim-faced father. “Bubba! What do you know of Steven Spielberg?” “Why, nothing. The movie guy? Nothing.” I answered truthfully. “Son, have you ever met Steven Spielberg or had any dealings with him?” my father sternly inquired. “No sir. None I remember.” “Your daddy, I found a paper in the binding of your family Bible, and it has your name and Steven Spielberg’s signatures on it, but your daddy won’t show it to you! I say it’s yours. It has your name on it.” “Well, let me see it, maybe I’ll remember.” “No.” My father refused. He preferred to maintain control of the document and not to let me see it. He used it to extract a large fortune from Universal Studios, paying off all his ponder-ously great debts on marginal properties in which he had invested over the years. “OK then, well, I’m going to bed. Good night!” My father was always making my poor step-mother, Kate, cry. I didn’t want to watch anymore than I had to. A year or two later, my father showed the document to me, careful to show only my signature and that of my old summer friend. “Yes sir, that’s my signature, but Daddy, I never met Steven Spielberg! I think I’d re-member that! I’d say its not worth anything.” “Well here” -- he ushered me into the vault at the bank in Winder, Georgia, where he kept his valuables. He showed me the golden stacks of Krugerands he was getting from a vice-president at Universal Studios. When we left the valt, I pulled out my pockets to show them all that I had none of my myopic father’s gold. Even that did not bring the memory back.

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Mr. Foster had never really spoken to me before so I was surprised when he addressed me in the office kindly, "Bubba. We are going to move your desk in here. Give a hand." Mr. Foster helped me move the old desk just outside the main office where Clinton had taken up residence. I had the impression of being promoted. Marybeth Rogers seemed to think so, too, and it per-turbed her a little bit. Foster observed Ms Rogers’s reaction and rectified things. “Oh. You still work for Ann, of course. We need the workspace back there." I waved meekly at Ann who had been excited about the move. Rogers was placated. In an offhand sort of way and then smiling when he saw my elation, he continued: "You can also be available for Mr. Clinton should he want you to do anything for him." Ross Corby “Bubba” Nicholson was now the future presi-dent’s gofer! I HAD been promoted! And I took my job as seriously as any White House Staffer would twenty years later when it all came true. Indeed, my job was more important than any of theirs could ever be, and I knew it. For the next six weeks I would stand at semi-attention (standing legs apart, hands at my sides) whenever William Jefferson Clinton entered the room until he left or told me to relax. (He almost never did, we just got used to it.) Whenever the young law student asks me for any-thing or to do anything it was to me like a direct order from the commander-in-chief. I would jump to every task immediately and apply all my energy to completing it to the smallest detail. And Boy did I get in trouble . . .

Hillary Rodham Comes to Dallas

“Empty your pockets!” Hillary Rodham demanded sternly back in 1972 when she first arrived. Only Ann and I were in the office when she swung by the very first time. “Oh he has it all right! I can tell by that smirk on his face!” I had never heard the word smirk used in conver-sation before. This young lady was very intelligent, willful and commanding. I had known her all of three minutes and here I was showing her my empty pockets to prove to her that I was not hiding William Jefferson Clinton’s Rolodex card in my pocket. I had just finished refusing to give it up to her though when she popped in and asked for it. She could tell from my dim view of her appearance that I didn’t believe her when she’d announced that she was the big boss’s girl-friend. She was right to suspect me. “I’m sorry, but we don’t just give that information out to just anybody.” I’d told her. “I told you,” she said simply, “I’m his girlfriend.” “Yes, ma’am, I heard you. Uh. He’s never mentioned having or expecting ‘a girlfriend.’” She was in traveling clothing. She looked unkempt, dumpy, & frankly, scruffy-lookin’. On re-flection, I understand better now the plight of extremely beautiful young women. Dressing up too much to travel alone invited frisky attention from unwelcome admirers. “Who is your supervisor? May I speak to him, please?”

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“Wait here a moment, I’ll get her for you.” I looked back over my shoulder at Hillary Rodham too frequently and reveled non-too-secretly in her distress. If this was Mr. President’s girl, she was in dire need of a lesson. “Hi, I’m Ann Richards, I’m in charge here. How may I help you?” I lifted my head as if to say something, but two razor-sharp stares cut me off mid first syllable. I went back to what I was doing. “Do as she asks, Ross, give it to her.” “I—I can’t seem to find it!” “Empty your pockets!” Hillary had been a drill-sargent trained disciplinarian as a nursery school teacher and now treated me like a kindergardener. “Oh he has it all right! I can tell by that smirk on his face!” Hillary was determined. “Turn out your pockets!” Ann nodded assent and I complied. We stood there a moment, me holding my pockets for the women in front of me. Hillary wasn’t giving up, but she pulled it back a notch. I pulled out more pockets, nearly all empty, to demonstrate. “Well, we could stand here and undress the boy!” Ann whispered and they shared a be-mused raised eyebrow together. There I was, witnessing one of the most steadfast and enduring friendships in American political history take shape, as a sex object. At eighteen I was as hand-some as I was going to get in life, so I was ready. “But why don’t we share a cup of coffee? Ross! Make the young lady a cup of coffee.” “Right away, Mrs. Richards!” “It’s Ann, Ross. Call me Ann!” “Uh, yes ma’am! Coming right up. Uh, how do you do this again?”

How do I remember Hillary’s movements so well? I was not interested in an old (24 was ancient to my eighteen year old eyes), bossy girl no matter how gorgeous she was. For most of my time in the office on Lemmon Avenue, Hillary Rodham was my adversary. She objected to my calling Clinton “Mr. President” & my offering him the respect he deserved.

Run Terry Garr “WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT!” clip from Close Encounters of the Third Kind about here.

I built the myths, that kernel of philosophy & prophesy that built the careers of both presidents Bush, President Bill Clinton, Ann Richards, and Steven Spielberg. Hillary wanted no part of it, adamantly, in the beginning. She just wanted Clinton for her husband, to have his children & to live a modest life—she was a tiger for that. Hillary was incredibly intelligent. Focused & determined, she weighed the consequences of a plan of action so fast it made your head spin. What was that like?

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Run clip from Star Wars, Princess Leia rescue about here. “Aren’t you a little small for a storm-trooper?”

Sometimes it is very handy having Steven Spielberg around taking notes.

run clip from Indiana Jones III—Don’t you remember? I write things down so I don’t have to remember!” about herePrincess Leia Organa of Alderaan? Stevie’s momma’s name was Leah Alder. It is widely known that Spielberg collaborated with George Lucas (and others) on Star Wars. Giving Spielberg’s mother’s name to one of the main characters confirms the collaboration. But what was Spiel-berg’s interest in Hillary Rodham? In a word, sexual.

What is it about a young man’s life that distracts us so when we are young? I couldn’t remember right from left at eighteen (and even now occasionally it slips my mind), so how come all this detail now? I knew Hillary Rodham for about a month back in 1972. She was my oppo-nent in office politics & she disliked me intensely for intruding into her most intimate & private affairs, naturally enough. Of all of us back then, she was the one with her head on her shoulders, the one who knew reality & wanted to live in it. Pathos, mythology, destiny: she wanted no part. She was a material girl. I also didn’t like her very much, because she was so intensely hostile toward me. Re-member that it was 1972. Women were meat. Hillary was so beautiful, if she had been likable, she would have been barefoot and pregnant way before she was about to graduate Yale Law. Hillary was also much quicker than I was, so my outsmarting her on a daily basis was disconcert-ing to her in the extreme. It had probably never happened before. Of course, I had God’s help, so she never won any battles, except once when she saved all of our lives. I won the war, though. I was able to get Hillary behind Clinton’s career, to mend her fences with her future mother-in-law, and guide her future husband’s political future, all against her expressed wishes. Thus I drafted Hillary Clinton to become president of the United States against her will, kicking and screaming, literally--well almost. So why does and why did God Almighty want her to be president of the USA? What did He see in Hillary? (I don’t know about you, but in 2007 I see eight sure years of peace and pros-perity.) We’ll find out. She’ll get 90% of the vote & 95% of the re-election vote, that’s my pre-diction. Unrealistic? Wait and see. I know that God chooses based upon something other than how we make such judgments. Omnipotence, infinite knowledge, goes way over my head. Both Clintons had been stars aca-demically, especially Hillary brains. The Bush father & son both did well in school (painfully better than John Kerry) but they were sub par next to the Clintons. One of the biases that God has Himself introduced, is the protection and furtherance of Israel. God keeps Israel, and per-haps that is His main interest in the Clintons. I would ask Him now, except talking to God while

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expecting and getting Answers is worse than standing in a hurricane naked--not that I’ve stood in a hurricane naked, I’m just saying. Hillary eventually blossomed as a shy young woman in college. I think her stern up-bringing and lack of good looks as a child kept her out of too much trouble while she studied for her college education. To me, she was abrasive, sometimes way too loud, and she demanded discipline and perfection from everyone around her. She had no tolerance for slacking. Firm, decisive, in short, she acted like her drill sergeant father would have wanted her to act at all times. I never once saw Hillary engage in any public display of affection, other than long looks at Clinton, and perhaps one toward Spielberg. Hillary’s impatience and irritability were fun for her. She enjoyed taking control of a situation and leading a group in the proper direction she chose. That’s why I infuriated her so much, because I had the Force with me. Had she taken the interest, she could have observed that cultural change takes building, from many small changes, major changes could become ac-complished facts. This was no game, and she would either take a position at the head of the col-umn, or she would be left behind. To her credit, she fought me every step of the way. Objectively, Clinton would never find another girl like Hillary. Little did I know that girls like Hillary were far more rare than I ever supposed. This is odd to say now, but in 1972, Hillary was one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen, yet I never entertained a single sexual thought about her the whole time we worked in the same office. Odder still, though, she did en-tertain one for me, when prompted by Ann Richards, soon after we first locked horns. It was an unfair contest, thinking back on things. Hillary had clearly never felt warmth for anyone like she did for Clinton, and she fought like a tiger for his attention. Clinton promised his mother that he would never marry Hillary without her permission, and both women supervised him, Virginia being at a distance. Hillary’s presence was never distracting, except for Stephen Spielberg of course, but it did cast a possessive shadow over him that he felt comfortable wearing. Why did Clinton’s mother hate Hillary so much? The answer is the green sweatshirt story.

Hillaryʼs Green Sweatshirt at Yale

Virginia called on her son in his Connecticut home during examinations and Hillary an-swered the door wearing a green sweatshirt. For some reason, Virginia intimated that a young woman at home alone should not come to the door unless she was wearing more. Virginia had grown up in a family of men, with Southern sensibilities. Hillary had spent her college days at an all-girls college where strict dress codes during final exams were waived for practical reasons. Hillary was polite but pressed for time. She was annoyed to have to entertain her room-mate’s mother with her exam looming, and Virginia felt her presence was an unwanted intrusion, when Virginia was paying the rent. Well! Hillary was paying rent, too!

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When Hillary retired into Clinton’s bedroom to study, Virginia followed her and de-manded an explanation. “She told me that his room was bigger and more comfortable so she could spread out, his room had the common library in it, and--get this--she liked the smell of his sheets!” That last bit of information was more than Virginia thought ladylike, although she ad-mitted to me that it was technically, completely innocent. Hillary was self-assured, assertive, and she could even be abrasive when it suited her purpose. The picture that Virginia, Clinton’s mother, painted of Hillary was that of an unattractive girl. People placed under stress for long periods often do not look their best, but I readily changed Virginia’s mind, reassuring her that Hillary was indeed, beautiful. Hillary had burst upon the scene in Dallas as an ugly, unkempt thing--I remembered pulling out my pockets for her by then. Thus I could fully appreciate Virginia’s position. But I assured Clinton’s mom that it was a put on to avoid unwanted, distracting male attention. “She cleans up real nice, REAL nice!” I could tell Virginia with complete candor. It was something Virginia could not observe for herself. Hillary Rodham standing up for herself in just a green sweatshirt led to the family fight that threatened her boyfriend’s college tuition, which led to the HOPE Scholarship Program Pro-posal first implemented by Zell Miller in Georgia. The HOPE Scholarship Program has been emulated in twenty-three states and has led to millions of Americans being able to attend univer-sity since its inception in 1993.

Hillary Clinton

The first time I saw Hillary Clinton, Steve Spielberg saw her for the first time, too. I did not even remember Hillary Rodham’s visit of a few days before, because she was no longer the same person. We were all flabbergasted by Hillary’s loveliness. Dressed in a nice, flattering suit, every hair in place, perfect in every way, Hillary Clinton was a new woman and a true vi-sion of loveliness. She was Miss America, she was that stunning. Everyone’s seen her goofy old frumpy pictures, the big glasses pictures, so her secret is all the more startling here revealed. Hillary Clinton carefully and gracefully marched into our front door, taking no notice of Steven, some other volunteers, or me. She moved silently to Clinton’s office, opened the correct door to enter, and quickly slipped inside. “Clever girl!” I muttered. Steven came forward from behind me as entranced as all the rest of us were. “Why did you say that? I mean, I thought so, too, somehow.” I ignored him, concentrating on the moment, it took me another moment to gather my wits. “Have you never seen her before?” he asked. “She’s never been here before.” I responded. “Oh sure, then how did she know which door led to his office?” “It’s perfectly obvious where the big boss’s office is.” I pointed to the ceiling. “It’s wired.”

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(Run clip from Indy 3 finding dad’s cell.) “Oh, yeah!” Steve oohed. Perhaps I had better describe her entrance again. The fabulous beauty Hillary Rodham had marched (there is no other word to describe her gait) through the front door to our little office on Lemmon Avenue in Dallas, in July of 1972. Do you remember how Princess Leia marched (with her big breasts bouncing with each step)? Hil-lary Rodham Clinton invented that walk. Her father had been a drill sergeant, of course. Any-way when Hillary marched into our office, every male was thunderstruck. So before anyone could point the way, Hillary had seen her course to her future husband's office and marched in through the door after a courteous tap at the door. Steve rushed up beside me to get a whiff of her perfume. "WHAT was that? And what did you say?" "Huh?" "I said what did you say?" Steven asked me again. "CLEVER GIRL!" I said in a slow rumble. "I, I think so, too. I think, ... "

Run clip Jurassic Park, Hunter faces dinosaur "Clever Girl!" "but what made you think so? I mean I thought the same thing. I was just curious why, uh, how you picked up on that? Say. How’d she know where to go? She's never been in here before.” "Yeah. We'd a heard!" I replied emphatically turning to look at Spielberg, completely forgetting about our pockets episode a few days before. "So how'd she know that he'd be in there?" Pause "He must have told her!" "If he'd told her she wouldn't have searched around like that. Besides it's easy to see which door is the one to his office." "Oh Yeah? That door looks just like every one of those closet doors!" "Look again. It's wired." Points to telephone wires entering the top of the door

Steve quickly glanced up to see the telephone wires leading into the top of the office door. He then nodded his head in agreement.

Run clip from Indy3 Indy & Schnieder searching for Indy’s father "it's wired."

"Well that settles it. I guess I am in love." Spielberg admitted. "No, Stevie. I think I saw her first." Ron Kirk was there. “She’s way too old for you,” admonished Spielberg.

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“And even way too older for you!” I rejoined. With a weary voice, he replied, “Let’s not do that again.” Ann Richards moved, distracting us from staring at the door to Clinton’s office. "Ann, who ..." "I think she's his wife. I'm pretty sure that she is Mrs. Clin-tin."

Standing for the Clintons

Sometimes I would whistle the 7th calvary theme tune, or She’ll be comin’ ‘round the mountain, theme from Leave it to Beaver, 1812 Overture, Bach flute sonatas, you get the picture. It drove Stevie nuts sometimes, but he did use my whistling in Always, Dead Poets Society, and Close Encounters. Anyway, Steve and I were back working together when I first began standing up for President Clinton. Later, Stevie looked up annoyed but he usually decided against saying anything. I was getting away with way too much, but I had no choice but to push onward. The next time I saw Clinton, it was a complete surprise, he was in early, earlier than I was anyway. I didn’t know what else to do so I stood up quickly and nervously. "Ross. He's just going to the bathroom ya know." Steve said laconically, but genuinely amused. “Stevie, that doesn't matter." I was still scared about what to do so I just stood there un-comfortably. "Wa? Oh give me a little credit, please." "No you look.” I insisted. I had an idea. “Everybody stands for a traffic court justice of the peace of Podunkville. That man is going to be President of the United States. I think we should at least extend him ..." We heard the toilet flush followed by hand washing sounds, which only amused Spielberg more. I nervously and hurriedly sat back down. Then stood up again as Clinton passed. Clinton smiled as he passed amused, but not laughing. “Ugh!” Stevie was beaming, “I can’t believe you did that, man! S-word!” Indy came in and hugged Steve proudly.

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"Steven, do you hear anybody else around here swearing like that? You really are the only one doing it and I wish you'd cut it out. Well I just get tired of it that's all and that shirt, too. Why do you have to be so scruffy-lookin’?" Spielberg was outraged. He was always outraged. "Uh. You know my Stevie here is a real movie director!" Indy gushed. Steven Spielberg was taken aback a bit by my comment, but he ignored it, for the mo-ment "I am a director. Actually I've already made four movies, five actually if you count a Pepsi commercial. And I've directed them all in this Hawaiian shirt. One was on television just last October. Maybe you remember it 'Duel?'" (He told me later that the great movie director Alfred Hitchcock always directed in Hawaiian shirts and had told Stevie the shop in a California town where to get his. Steve was proud to have studied under Hitchcock, even though Steve’s movies are so much better.) "YOU DID A PEPSI COMMERCIAL?" Now that impressed me. "No! That was a figure of speech. But my film won a medal at a French Film festival last February for best direction. Perhaps you've heard of it, the Beaux Toe?" (I looked this up and his film got the grand prize in 1973, the next year after he told me he had won. He said he’d been to France and gotten $25,000.00 in 1972 money, too. Steve Spielberg was a cheapskate, even then, worst than Jack Benny; seriously.) "Yeah? Uh huh." Somehow, people doing what Stevie told them to do seemed implausi-ble to me. "Yes. That is right. Let him tell you about it. Oh Stevie ..." Indy chided him about something. Steve worked under the eyes of Indy's coaching, & flashed her a glance as she watched. "The crash scenes were really a lot of fun to shoot!" "Is that the limit of your vision?" Crashes totally turned me off. run clip about here Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade Mountain Temple cave Donavan asks Indy Is that the limit...? Steven was quick to rile. "I don't understand you, Ross. What are you talking about? … Again!" Exasperated, he looked at Indy in failure. "Do I detect a rebuke?"

Word a day calendar: Rebuke run clip about here "Do I detect a rebuke?" father-son chat Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, IJ 3

"A what?" He was off balance and took another look at Indy. Perhaps she had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?

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"All that's fine, Stevie, the award and all, but you didn't make a nice movie. Did you? If it'd been nice I'd of remembered it, or people, people would be talking about it. Because we just don't see 'em any anymore." Steve was flabbergasted. "You? YOU criticizing me??" I was paying no attention to his high dungeon, and spoke to him condescendingly which only infuriated him further. "You see Stevie, America needs nice movies, at least movies we can go to without being completely embarrassed. Right now going to the movies is kinda like hang-ing around you, with your profanity and all. You can just get tired of it." Steve was sensitive to criticism. "I can't believe this. You? YOU criticizing me?" "It's constructive criticism, Stevie. I think everybody's sick of the scrap coming out of Hollywood these days. Something must change. It's not just me. Look. Mrs. Richards!" "Ann, Ross. Call me Ann!" She spoke senatorially, Ann's was in charge around here. She smiled at Steve. "What?" The great Spielberg looked into space, at a loss, his arms lifted limply then fell. “Mrs. Richards. Stevie's a movie producer. Don't you think … “ "Director" he gently corrected. “I am a movie director.” I continued, corrected "Stevie's a movie director. Don't we need family movies on TV?" "Oh Yes! Of course we do! Did you know Steven's worked in the movies and, and I'm so proud to have him here with us! Didn't I tell you, Ross? We have a wonderful letter of rec-ommendation around here somewhere." I admit being taken aback a little by Ann's lavish praise of Steven. She was always gen-erous in her approbation. "Ann! Do you want to see more family movies out?" "Oh yes! It is such a shame not to have more movies to go see. Most of them I wouldn't dare buy a ticket for, they're so nasty! Now Stevie, you be ready to go hear?" Ann had another task for us today. "I don't believe this." Steven Spielberg loved to pretend indignation. "Oh. Don't you think so, too? What's wrong anyway? Everybody ..." "I don't believe this. I don't believe this!" He smiled. "Don't look at me, I'm with you. Steven. Don't take it personally. But Ross has hit the nail on the head about that. Oh I know you Steven. You are just the kind of fine decent young man to go back there to that Hollywood hole and make changes for the better. You ready to go to Garland?"

Word a Day Calendar den Word a Day Calendar hiverun clip about here: Word a Day Calendar 'den'

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"Into the lion's den?" I used the word-a-day calendar word in conversation. It got Steve’s attention. "Wha?" The Biblical reference astounded Spielberg. "Garland. What? That's republican ground?" Steve was stedfast, "It's all our ground, Ross!" “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy!” I quoted my word-a-day calendar. “We must be cautious.” “Come on, Steven. We need to go.” Ann advised. “No! You wait. I’ve got to write this down!” said Steve. But Ann was adamant: “Write on the way! Let’s go!” Run clip Indiana Jones after motorcycle escape about here.Run clip Star Wars 4, A New Hope about here. “You will never find a more wretched …”

Another Hillary Suitor Bites Texas Dust

Steve seemed tired this time. He was sitting at the front desk or maybe my desk, writing. A strange man dressed in a beautiful pen-stripe suit entered through the front door, which Hillary always used. Hillary never used the back door. He introduced himself to Steven Spielberg. "Excuse me young man. I had a little acci-dent in front of your office yesterday and I need a witness. That ... ...I thought I saw a blonde woman come in here ...?" Somebody should ask Pat Buchanan where he was that summer. It could have been he. Bush kept young republican whores near our office. Steve wheeled out of his office chair and tossed over his should "She's married, bub." The poor man was genuinely downcast. "Oh. Excuse me. I'm sorry." "So say we all. Good try, though." Spielberg was flippant and cruel. Steve looked at me, he stood up and puffed out his chest.

90% of politics is showing up

‘Mr. President’ was prepared to make allowances, after all, he’d promoted me. Hillary was another kettle of fish. 'Mrs. Clinton' walked in and up I stood unhurried as for when a lady enters the room. She paid me no special attention at all. (She was entirely accustomed to good mannered male deference.) She stood off with Foster while I resumed work seated. They were about eight to ten yards away. But as Clinton entered I immediately stood up to semi-attention hands behind my back, legs apart, eyes front. It took Hillary by surprise (as it was meant to).

50

Clinton handed me something & instructed me briefly. Clinton continued into his office for something & asked Hillary to wait. I sat down. Hillary looked annoyed at me, suspicious that I was ‘up to something nutty’. She pointedly stared at me, as I began to type in serious silence. "Mr. President?" she mouthed slowly and looked at Foster who rolled his eyes. As the future president rejoined the group, I stood up again, this time with her watching every move dead on. For a moment she didn’t know what to think, what I had done was unprecidented. As the three of them left Mrs. Clinton lingered and looked back at me, and yelled at me. "'Mr. President??' What is this bullshit!"

run clip from Close Encounters, Mrs. Neary yells 'bullshit!'

I know it comes as a shock to people to know that Hillary Rodham Clinton had command of such vulgar vocabulary. At the time, I had never heard a girl use the word “bull s-word” phrase, my-self (and I had three older sisters), so it was a complete shock to me, too. From my limited expe-rience, I’m confident Hillary Clinton could out-swear a coal miner--if one were unlucky enough to enter such a contest against her. Terri Gar’s performance in the film was more animated that Hillary’s real words. At the same time, looking great every day was clearly getting stressful for Hillary be-cause she garnered lots of attention that made her uncomfortable. Women can get tired of being oogled all the time, it’s one reason why I went with eyes front. Also at the time, Hillary was on the outs with Clinton’s mother, Virginia. Plus she was under stress because she was head over heals in love with Clinton and he just considered her a good friend that he admired a lot. That was my impression at the time early on because, like decent people, there was never any public display of affection between them, other than the deference of good manners. She made him smile a lot. Hillary was a very nice person, but she was twenty-four years old and she was clearly burning to be married and settled. All this explanation is from thirty-five years further experience, at the time, she just scared the living daylights out of me. Oh sure, I laugh now, but if you want to be intimidated, hang around that lady for a few minutes. Besides, Hillary is a thousand miles away in Iowa, I hope. Hillary refused to put blinders on. She knew exactly what I was doing and she objected strenuously. She was a formidable opponent; it was only by the Grace of Almighty God that I succeeded to bring her in to save the planet. Just because you’re in the valley of the shadow of death and God is with you, doesn’t mean you’re not trembling.

Danger on the Campaign Trail

"Why don't you do one side and I'll do the other?" Steve didn’t see the need for us walk-ing together house to house. There was no reason, he thought.

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"Wait! Look!" I pointed to a big hairy mass of caterpillars hanging from a rose arbor over our path about head high. "Asps! Very dangerous! You go first!" The closeness of the poisonous little beasts scared Steve. "Yetch ugh!" "Steven. I'm surprised to find you squeamish! That's not your reputation! Watch out. The sting burns like there’s no tomorrow. Go ahead. Go ahead!"

Word a Day Calendar: Squeamish. run Raider’s Squeamish, run Raider’s “Asps, very dangerous! You go first!”

Steve and I stayed together. But we started running to get more done, faster. I had rather more energy than Steve, so he lagged behind some. Here is my breathless speech: "We're from the Democratic party and we're registering voters today. Are you registered to vote? Would you like to take a voter registration form? Yes ma'am. Just fill it out and slip it in the envelope and mail it off. You'll get a postcard in the mail telling you where to vote. Thank-you!" Whereupon we would leave the form and run to the next house. An elderly African American man waved, smiling. Most of the houses were empty, but he was home. He opened his screen door a crack. "You bedda watch yo'sef around here. White boys should be careful of a night ‘specially around here." "Thank-you, sir. We will be. There's somebody following me, so it's OK." We ran from house to house to house to house, leaving circulars.

"Mrs. Rogers. Let's do this right. I'm sorry I haven't asked you your name yet?" "Ron, Ron Kirk." "Ron Kirk, future Mayor of Dallas, meet the Future Governor of the Great State of Texas, Ann Richards. Ann, Ron’s going to become the mayor of Dallas." Kirk was both irritated and apologetic, “I don’t even live here. I’m in town for an inter-view, so I thought I’d drop by and lend a hand. Say. Did he say you are going to be Governor of Texas?” “That’s right, Ron Kirk. I did.” I piped up. "No kidding! Ms. Richards?” Ann nodded, she didn’t know what else to do. "Pleased to meet you Governor Richards!"

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(Ann laughed it off, but Ron Kirk did become Mayor of Dallas, twice.) "Ol’ Ross ! I am pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Ron Kirk!" "Ann here will be Governor 10 or 12 years from now. Right now she's here today be-cause she can't be governor without these Democratic votes." I thumbed several stacks of forms. "This neighborhood will make that kind of difference?" Ron Kirk inquired. "Sure. This one and others like it." Oh, I was so sure. "That actually is true, Mr. Ron Kirk,” admitted Ann matter-of-factly. Ann had been studying demographics with Marybeth Rogers. "And when she becomes governor she will remember this part of Dallas," I surveyed the field. I felt like an eighteen-year-old caesar. I saw others cringe at my grandiosity, but it made no difference to me. I was sure. What I said, seemed to worry Ron Kirk: "Uh . . ." Ann Richards came to my rescue. "Garland, Ross. Dallas is six blocks that way. Don't worry Mr. Ron Kirk. I know where I am. And I won't forget either!" (Ann Richards selected Ron Kirk to become Secretary of State for the Great State of Texas in 1994.) “Everyone’s lost but me!” I admonished. I knew that. I knew as sure as I breathed. It turned out I was right, so how did I know that? I’ve already told you.

run clip Indy3 River says “Everyone’s lost but me!”

Ron Kirk became even more aggressive. "Look when you become Governor, I want to be Secretary of State, got it? Meanwhile, gimme some more of those forms!" He demanded, and he picked up six boxes full. “I want more.” Ann seemed somewhat alarmed, but we had plenty enough for Ron Kirk.

Ann took me aside and asked me jovially, but half seriously, "Ross don't you think you should stop talking that way?" "What?" I objected. She brightened, "About me being Governor, uh." "What,” it was a surprise to me. "They're gonna come and put you in the loony bin!" she warned. “That’s what!” "Why not?" I casually turned back to the work. "It's true isn't it." It wasn’t a question. "Steven!” I slapped Steven on the back as he came up to us out of breath from running (and smoking). "I thought I'd lost ya', boy!"

run clip Indy3 I thought I’d lost ya’, boy!

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“Duh!” said the future mayor, Ron Kirk, and Yo Duh was born. “Yoooh Dah! Yoda! I’m Yoda! Steve look, I’m Yoda!” I was so proud. I still am.

Tuskegee and Slavery Apologies

Clinton was interested in hearing Ron Kirk’s viewpoint. “Bubba here had the idea to compensate the survivors & families of the Tuskegee syphilis tragedy, with a personal presidential apology for the way the NIH behaved in the past. Letting folks just die like that, suffering horribly. It was wrong. What do you think?” “How about APOLOGIZING FOR F’IN’ SLAVERY! HOW ABOUT AN APOLOGY FOR THAT?! HUH?” Kirk was incensed that we had missed what was so unbelievably obvious to him. “But how? I mean who would I apologize to?” Clinton responded. “You? How about to every Black man and woman in this country? How about going to Africa & apologizing to the leaders of THOSE countries?!” firebrand Ron Kirk, the future mayor pleaded. “That’s a fine idea!” replied Clinton. He went into his office to write it down. “Mr. Mayor.” I spoke quietly. “You agin’ Yoda?” “Mr. Mayor, you just made it happen!” I smiled. “You mean to say, that that guy…” “Bill Clinton” “Yeah, Bill Clinton whoever, is going to be president of the United States and that he’s going to do all that apologizin’?” “Yes sir.” “Well, shit, I’d like to see dat!” He glanced over at Spielberg like I was crazy as heck. “You will.” I spoke with certainty. “Yeah, and you’re f’in’ crazy as hell. Yoooh Duh!” Spielberg nodded in agreement, and looking straight at me he said, “You’re certifiable.”

Separate Telephone Numbers It was late in the afternoon on a week day when Clinton wasn’t there and the four of us were getting ready to leave. "Ann, I thought you said they were married?" Steven whined to Ann. "Well I think so," Ann Richards meekly answered.

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"Ohhhh Ann! So how's come they got different phone numbers?" Steven Spielberg waved rolodex cards, one in each hand, like he was playing the symbols on a drum set. Ann took them from him and put the rolodex cards back in their places in the filing machine on her desk. "Let's just mind our own business?" she admonished. "OK. OK., I just thought it was funny, that's all." But Steve had other ideas as he turned away from Ann stuffing the cards back and turned to me whispering: “I don't care. I'm gonna call her!" "Stevie, show some sense. You can't just call her up. What are you, nuts?" He spoke with absolute determination. "Yeah, you should talk. I can call her and I will. That's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and she’s ready." "Stevie. You know she might have a different phone number for a good reason." I was searching. "Like what.” He felt he already knew the answer. "Like she might have a JOB!" I surprised myself here. Hillary was of working age, al-though she dressed too well and too formally (in high style but boardroom style, too) to work in jobs most young women took, i.e. as teachers or secretaries. She dressed like an executive. And right up to that instant, it had never occurred to either of us that she might actually BE an execu-tive or a lawyer of some kind. Now the great Steven Spielberg hesitated to mull over the possibility. "Hmmmm" "Go ahead, Stevie! Embarrass yourself, embarrass her, embarrass the campaign. Sure. Give'er a call!" I ridiculed him so harshly. It fostered resentment he maintains to this day, but we were lighthearted in our youth. Steve decided he needed more information. He asked Ann "How old is she anyway?" "I think she's twenty-four." Ann, eavesdropping, was convinced that Hillary's age has settled the question and went back to her work. “Sure!” I goaded, “She's only what, eight, ten years older than you are?" Steve objected, "She's twenty-four!" "OK, so in seven years you can ..." but Steve wouldn’t let me finish. "I'm twenty-four, too. We are the same age, exactly. I'm going to call her." Spielberg was adamant. "No way you are twenty-four." I derided him. I felt I had to weaken his confidence to prevent a disaster of historical proportions. It wasn’t easy. Mull this one over, reader. It was Steven Spielberg I was trying to manipulate, so it would surely take more than words. We would ultimately come to blows, where I had the advantages of weight, height, reach, youth, and non-smoking, non-drinking health. Plus, I’d never lost a fight in my life. On the other hand, Spiel-berg had suffered beatings in his life, lots of them, probably because of his gargantuan schnoz. (It was like he hung a pygmy on his face.) Ann Richards seemed concerned for Steve’s immortal soul for lying so blatantly, "You're not twenty-four! Are you Steven?"

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"Yes. I am twenty-four. I'm out of college three years ago." "Nice try little guy. There is just no way I am going to believe you are twenty-four." Steven was angry but in complete control of himself. "Would you believe twenty-three?" “Absolutely not. Steven are we going to do this again? Maybe at the outside oldest you could ever possibly be, OK. Maybe I could say you were twenty-three." I consoled him, or so I thought. "Very well then. I am twenty-three!" He was a bit bitter, surprisingly so. Somehow I knew that cooling his intense ardor for Hillary was in the future’s best interest. Little did anyone guess that we would struggle on the very floor we were standing on, all over Hillary Rodham.

Clintonʼs concern over Spelling

Clinton was the nicest boss I ever had but something was amiss. “Bubba, sit down." I sat. "Now here's a dictionary. I want you to retype this letter you typed up for me yesterday." "Oh that. Sorry about that. Did I make a mistake? I have some whiteout here." "It's the misspellings." Clinton was apologetic. "Which?" I was aghast. He showed me the one paragraph letter. Most of his letters were short. Clinton had marked my errors in red. I had thought I was correcting just one of his mistakes, but there were many, many lapses. "Here, here, here, here, here this one you just misread what I wrote." I interrupted him, "What word is that Mr. President?" "Gracious not gratious. Also here, here uh here, here, here. But there are more..." I was intensely interested in making every correction. In fact, President Clinton’s single admonishment stimulated me to learn to spell, as it turned out. "I know this is your first try but you are going to have to do better than this. Do you un-derstand?”

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“I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t read your writing, but I can see now that you spelled every word correctly. It’s like it leans the wrong way.” “Yes, I’m left-handed. Now, if you are unsure, look it up," he put his hand on the dic-tionary, "or if you can't find it come and ask me. I'll be happy to read it to you." “Thank-you, Mr. President. I don’t know what to say, except to say that I will try harder. This is a time for all of us to try harder to do the very best we can. I will do better, sir.” “I also want you to use carbon paper. I put some in your drawer for you. We need to keep copies.” I hummed absent-mindedly while I started to work. The letter went back into my type-writer and I painted white-out over a couple of words & retyped over one of them. Then I stopped humming. I deliberately pulled out the letter and opened the dictionary, studying it care-fully. Time passed on the clock. It took me almost a hour, but when I put the new letter on the Clinton's desk, it was perfect. Clinton kept a neat and clean desktop. I remember he had a beau-tiful new Cross onyx desk set. I imagine that desk set made it all the way into the Oval Office. "Your letter, Mr. President." "Thank-you. That'll be all." He was annoyed with me for calling him Mr. President, but as he was about to fire me anyway, he let it pass. I returned to my desk and after a few moments the President came back out to hand me his signed letter. "Always type the envelope with the letter, so you'll have the address correct. Attach it with a paper-clip like this. I will sign & seal it and put in the mail. I must say. This is much more like it." Clinton handed me the first letter I ever typed for him. “Mr. President, I'm sorry about the first one." "That's OK." He must have felt I had a mental problem that he was helping me with. Ever the do-gooder, he would later tell us Bible stories. (I am completely serious. Hillary would march in after church and slap her white gloves down like I was some kind of no-good, heathen troglodyte. It was if she thought I was keeping him away from his weekly obligation, and not the other way around. So I asked him why we were working all day long on Sunday if we were working in God’s Christian service. He told me without a second of hesitation, “Our ox is in the ditch.” After admitting ignorance of that parable, & since I couldn’t believe I’d been languishing in such ignorance all my life, he quickly found it in his Bible and read it to me (Luke 14:5). In truth, it wasn’t a story, just one line, but it was telling. He believed, as we all did, that we were literally on a life-saving mission.) So it was my turn to explain. "Yeah. It occurred to me, finally, that these letters will all be in picture frames and hung on the wall in museums & such. I am going to have to be extra careful!" The future president stood by me quietly for a few moments. Surveying the scene, he cracked a slight smile, but said no more, after all, I could type and he needed a typist. "Just be careful, Bubba, you don’t have to get elaborate with it. I will be working late tonight, but you can do me a favor?" Clinton asked.

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"What kind do you like?" He inquired. "Goobers, snickers, malted milk balls?" I suggested. "Hmm. How about Bit-a-honey?" he offered. "BIT-A-HONEY?" I scoffed. "What's the matter? You don't like Bit-A-Honey?" Clinton asked. "No. I like it fine, sir, it’s just that it’s just a little unusual. But you're going to be Presi-dent of the United States. I guess you can have what kind of candy you want."

Stephen Spielberg wants me to ʻdo itʼ to him, too

“You know. I've been watching what you've been doing with them, you know Ann and and him you know the boss guy, and its like they've changed somehow … " Steve observed. "Yeah? Then it's working all right then? And you’ve been a help, too." I praised. "Well. I’ve decided that I want you to do it to me." He saw me beginning to object. "Yeah! I want you to do it to me!" "In that shirt? Why?" "What's the matter? Is it too much trouble?" Steve said, bitterly. "No. No. I'll be glad to do it 'to you' Stevie but, well. I just didn't think … " "Well DO IT! Do it to me then! And I direct in this shirt! Dang it." "OK, Stevie. All right. You're sure you want this?" "I'm sure!" He spoke unhesitatingly. "OK. If you're sure. OK. We'll start tomorrow." I reassured him. "What do you mean 'tomorrow' I want to start right now!" Steven was impatient. "Well, Stevie, it's not just something, I mean. It’s a process. I have to go home and plan. And reflect on it." "You mean you won't do it!" Steve was already to give up on himself, his career, every-thing. "No. No. It's OK. I'll 'do it' to you, too, but you gotta want to because there’s no turning back." "I want to. I want to. So why can't you start me now?" "Because it just takes awhile, that's why. You'll have to wait. It won’t hurt you." I told him and we both got back to work, as I whistled.

Run clip from Close Encounters about here, Old man whistles 'Comin'Round the Mountain'

“Say, Steven. Let me ask you this. Stevie, uh, I'm afraid, I guess I forgot your last name? It's pretty distinctive. I'm so embarrassed."

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"Spielberg. You know how you can remember it? 'Spiel' is Yiddish for 'play' and 'berg' means what . . ." I interrupted "Means town." "City. Play city. Spiel berg. Spielberg. " There was a silence between us for a few sec-onds. "I like to build 'em and spiel with 'em. Ever since I was a kid." He demonstrated amazing dexterity by moving the ends of his fingers simultaneously on the table as though he were putting tiny buildings in place on the phone table between us. He stood there, animated. I sat. "What." I interrupted him again. "Yeah. I like to build model cities then make a play in or about it, you know, a story. It's fun!" I could tell that Stephen Spielberg had spent many hours playing alone developing his vivid imagination as a child. "Spielberg. Play city. Cool. I bet I remember that name twenty years from now. (It was twenty-two years and four months.) "I see your eyes light up there, Stevie. You really enjoy that don't you?" And he smiled. Having what I needed, we went back to work again for a time. I wrote down what I needed to say, mouthing the words to myself. "OK. I'm ready." My statement startled Steven Play City Spielberg . "What? I thought you wanted to start tomorrow?" he objected. I spoke to him seriously and deliberately, "Are you ready to begin?" "Well, yeah. I mean. Yes I am,” he was concentrating now. I took the piece of paper and referred to it, rising while Steve remained seated and busy. (He didn’t know what else to do, so he elected to stay busy and I didn’t stop him.) With solemnity, I began, "Perhaps its time to ask yourself, Steven Spielberg, what you believe.” I just looked at him for a minute. He started to say something, but I continued. “If you believe in God, America and Freedom, let your work reflect that belief. If not, not. One path leads to riches and immortality. The other to desperate poverty, compulsion and ignoble death. Choose!" I then sat down and went back to the job of cutting up newspapers. Then see-ing the blank, incredulous expression on his face: "That's it. That will be all for today." "That's IT?" he said suddenly. "Well, where's the rest of it? I don't feel anything differ-ent." I rebutted, matter-of-factly and a little testy myself. "What do you mean 'is that it?' You're the one who asked me, you know." "I ... That's it? ?" He just couldn’t get his head around it. "Yeah. That’s good. You’ve taken your first step into a larger world. Now you've got to go home and ponder what I've said. Sleep on it." I reassured him. "I can't believe that that's all there is to it." Steve admitted. I could tell he needed further reassurance. "Look Steven. I know what I'm doing, and I am doing it. OK.? You’ve seen Ann and uh, Mr. President. I know what I'm doing."

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"Yeah, but how do you know you know?" Steve was genuinely curious. I couldn’t help but be a little dismissive: "I don't know how I know. I just know, OK.? "But how do you know you know?" he inquired. What was he doing, studying me? I spoke with a pained and hurt tone. "Look I don't know how I know. Didn't I just say that? I just know. OK. You gotta trust me on this one." Simultaneously with my saying 'now’ "You said that, too."

run clip from Close Encounters about here 'But how do you know you know?'

"Now will you please, ... just let it alone for awhile? There'll be more tomorrow. I promise.” "I don’t get it. Just what are you going to do tomorrow that you can't do today?"

run clip about here: "I dunno, Think of sumpthin" from Indy2

"I dunno." I looked at him worried. Then, "Think of sumpthin’!" and gave him a wild smile like one I got from George W. Bush the year before. "You like that hideous shirt, don't ya, Steve?" "If it’s important I do it in this shirt." Stephen Spielberg was proud of his Alfred Hitch-cock Hawaiian directing shirt. "Yeah. Thought maybe I recognized it. Good thing ya’ got it on today, huh?" I told him. "What!? Oh! I don’t know what I’m doing here. We’re just wasting our time. You are so full of ..." Spielberg was about to throw it all away. Prayer works for me, so I opened a conversation with God. Naturally, I ignored Spiel-berg. "I cannot teach him. The boy has no patience.” This threw Spielberg into a panicked tizzy. From being dismissive, he became instantly wary, awed even. “MY GOD! Who the helk are you talking to?!” “Hmmm. Much anger in him, like his father.” I kept talking to God. “Talk to me, Ross.” Steve grew concerned about me, like I’d lost it. “See? He’s not ready.” I continued. Then he said, “Ross! I AM READY! Don’t give up on me, yet!” Steve must have thought I was losing my mind. At last I rejoined Spielberg in the room. “You are reckless!” I told him. “You can ruin everything. The past is a delicate thing, Steven. You must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind. Look away … to the future, the horizon.” Ann Richards walking by broke in. “Never his mind on where he was? Hmm? What he was doing! Hmph! Adventure! Excitement! HA!” Ann was rapturous. “See? You ARE reckless!” I informed him, placing the onus squarely on him.

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run clip from Empire Strikes back Yoda first talks to Ben about here.

The next day we resumed where we’d left off the evening before. "What?" Steve asked. "That" I pointed over his shoulder at the question he’d written in his constant companion notebook. "What that? Yeah, I guess I do. I want to make movies." "Steven Spielberg! MAKE SCIENCE FICTION MOVIES! I just love StarTrek! Heck yeah! You're going to make the greatest science fiction movies ever made! You already live in California, live close to Hollywood?" "Not too far. Hey what are you Jiminy Cricket?" How his mind filled with crickets is be-yond my memory. He was always singing to Indy, or maybe there was a bug in the wall? So I answered him, "No. My mom just got her Ph.D. She says that only the most crea-tive people build models. She says they think spatially so they can see the relationships better. It's easier to visualize things with a model instead of a flat picture."

Run clip from Close Encounters: Next time try sculpture.

"Since you think spatially and you like putting things together like that, you're one of the most creative people, a natural! Spielberg will be a household word. Everyone will know Stevie Spielberg!" "Steven." Steve corrected. "Huh?" "Yeah I prefer Steven. Indy likes to call me Stevie, so . . . Anyway, you really think my name could become a household word?" Spielberg was mature, self-assured. "I don't think so, I know so." I told him He was evidently pleased. "Yeah, Wow. A household word. I like it." He was young and full of vigor. The idea grew on him. He bobbed his head up and down, seriously. "I like it!" he said smiling broadly. "You gotta believe it to make it happen, Steven. Ever read a book by Dale Carnegie? How to Win Friends and Influence People? It's this old book. But Ann's read it. Some of my scout leaders put me onto the same stuff at a leadership conference a couple of years ago. To make dreams come true you gotta believe first, then it happens for you. If you believe in your dream, it will color not just your expectations but your actions as well. People follow people who know where they're going. Play City? See?” I instructed.

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On another day, “It's from the Latin, paenna insula, almost island. Get it?" Again I was teaching the great Steven Spielberg. I couldn’t believe it, it was so cool--that’s how it came out, too. "I don't speak Latin." Steven spoke dully, unemotionally. I looked at him slyly and said, "You don’t? Well that's something we'll just have to rem-edy, won't we?"

Word a Day Calender: remedy run clip about here: Braveheart: Uncle asks Wallace about Latin

"Now tell me, Steven. What kind of science fiction movie would you make?" "Oh I've actually got one sketched out. These scientists find flight 19 in the desert, then some other stuff, and then ..." "How long did you say you've been making models, Steve, you know with your hands like that?" Steve replied, "Long time, I dunno." "Gee, Steve I've been making models, too ... and my model looks just like yours!" I sangsong the theme from twilight zone. "Maybe its aliens trying to tell us something!" Steve was astounded. "That's a great idea! They want to tell us where they're landing & we have to meet them!" Then objecting "But why don't they just come out and tell us?" "They don't understand language. All they can understand is music." "WOW. THAT's a GREAT idea! So we all make models of the same thing, compel-lingly. Like we're drawn to it. I see." "He makes the model out of shaving cream. Dat ta dah, ta dadat dah." I sangsonged the striptease song, after a period TV commercial. "How 'bout he's sitting at the table and he starts putting mash potatoes on his plate. Play-ing with his food bigger and bigger until everyone starts looking at him, until he ...!" "Huh? Playing with his food? Gee, I don't know about that. I don't like it. Sounds too weird. Use the shaving cream, its better." "Well I like the mashed potatoes, better.” He insisted. Then he has to explain to his kids and falls apart."

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"Shaving cream." I insisted right back. "I'm writing it down as mashed potatoes." He was super-insistent. "Why not use both? Bigger and BIGger and BIGGER! Not just little models, big mod-els, heck fill rooms! I know this guy who turned his entire living room into a model railroad vil-lage. Like that." Steve laughed with glee. "Tell me about it? ... That's another great idea!" He scribbled and scribbled, giving me time to think. "Then we all converge on the place, but nobody knows anyone else." Steven was unusually excited, even for him. "And the Army's there first and won't let us in!" "No. We’re not going to fight our way through. What the heck have you got against the Army? No. Don't put the Army in there. What are they gonna do, shoot people?" Steve flipped his steno pad notebook thing with the rubber band around it. It looked just like the one Indiana Jones used in Raiders of the Lost Ark. "Yeah, I like it. What's wrong with it?" "Cause the American Army's on our side, that's why. Besides how would they know?" "OK. Well. They'll be trying to protect us or something. Maybe they'll have flying sau-cer reports or something. Hey. They can be with the scientists." "What scientists?" I said, assuming Steven was lost again. "The guys with the flight 19 and stuff." he said. "I thought they were gone. How would you put them in?" I asked. “You switch back and forth." Seeing my quizzical expression, he reassured me, "Relax. It can be done. It's something I learned in college." "No, take the Army out." I objected. "Whose movie is this?" he had me there. "OK. yours. Keep the Army. . . . But don't let 'em shoot anybody. The Army's on our side. Say, Steve. Why do you hate the Army so much?" “WHY DO YOU LIKE THEM SO MUCH?” Steve was afraid of being drafted into Viet Nam.

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I looked at Ann Richards as if to say “I got this one, Ann!” I looked straight at Steve who vehemently disagreed, “Because they stand on a wall and say, ‘nothing is going to hurt you to-night. Not on my watch.’” Steven Spielberg was bitter, bitter. “That doesn’t make any sense at all!” Ann just couldn’t resist. Ann just loved men in uniform. “Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded, by men with guns.” It was just a statement of fact, but it infuriated Steven. I don’t know how it got into this movie, but Steve was the only one writing stuff down constantly, and he even took my notes, too.

Run clip from movie “A Few Good Men” Demi Moore’s and Nicholson’s speeches.

“Steven, if this was a time of war, and the enemies of our freedom came crashing through that wall there. Yes, that one. I know that I could depend upon you at my side.” “Well you’d be wrong.” He said flatly. Ann looked at Steven hearing that. “No. Ross is right. I am sure I could count on you Steven.” “Well you’d both be wrong.” He said it low, so I don’t believe that Ann heard him. I didn’t hear that either.

After awhile, Steve found another problem. "How do they organize this?" "Huh? Oh. Why not like we're doing now?" I suggested. "You mean a couple of guys sitting around a table kicking ideas around?" "Bingo." "Or several! Got it." The mad genius scribbled, again giving me time. "Can you make the models be a mountain or something?" "Obviously. That's what I was thinking of . . . or some geological outcrop." "Hey, Steve. Can you make the mountains look like breasts!" We both started laughing. "Yeah, and I know whose, too!" Spielberg was referring to Hillary Clinton’s pretty anat-omy. This had never occurred to me, but demonstrated what was on Spielberg’s mind. Indig-nantly and flustered I told him. "Leave me alone. Good grief.” “But what mountains look just like breasts? Where am I going to find mountains like that?” “Steve, you have your whole trip back to find them. You’ll figure it out. How about the Grand Tetons? OK. Back to the movie. Then the guy gets in and flies off with 'em. The end."

Play "Wichita Lineman" by Glen Campbell about here. It was the tune that came in over the ra-dio.

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“That’s exactly what I mean, Steve!” “Ok, maybe. We’ll see.” Later I was eating from a box of dates that my father had bought. Steve brought it back up. “OK, the baby alien movie.” “What about it?" "So what'd he do here? Well he wouldn't want to come here, we're so primitive." "He'd have to be left behind." "Sure. He could meet some Earth kids and get left behind. What would he look like?" "He'd look like the ones in the first movie." "OK, what would they look like?" “We already decided that. Like regular aliens. You're in the movie business and you ask me? They've been making aliens forever." "OK. We'll just use 'em all!"

"Steve. If your home and career are in California, why did you come to Dallas?" Steven Spielberg pointed to Indy. “Indy’s my girlfriend from college. That's how. Vol-unteering here was her idea to help her cousin, or uh, some relative. I'm just here for a few weeks. I'm collecting ideas for movies to use the time.” "Oh how's the movie goin'?" I had almost forgotten to ask. "What movie?" "Have a date?" I asked giving him the box of Dromedaries. He looked at it without look-ing at it and declined. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t eat stuff. That’s OK, I’m sorry.” “Jews can eat dates,” he replied sullenly, picking up the box of dates in second curiosity. “Yeah, but they can’t GET one!” Steve wasn’t impressed with my humor. "The science fiction movie. The greatest ever made, remember? You know I had another idea. When I was a kid … ” “Say, these are good.” Steve said chewing. “When I was a kid, I used to dream about plugging a lot of stuff together and sort of mak-ing a flying saucer radio set." "Been done. StarTrek. Bones and Stones." Steve Spielberg had all the Star Trek epi-sodes memorized! "I thought of it first,” I asserted. “Sure you did. I believe you.” Steve was nonplussed. Indy breezed through asking “What are those? They look ugly!” “Uh. They're dates. Ya' eat 'em." I said, offering her one, but she refused and walked back to the bathroom.

run clip Raiders of the Lost Ark, “They’re dates. Ya’ eat ‘em!”

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E.T. Calls Home

"So what was this you did, did you use an umbrella for an antenna?" “Wha?" "The radio." "Oh. Yeah. No but that would've been ah great idea!" "That's what I'm supposed to say!" "I actually started to build one once, playing. Used my brother's princess telephone. That'll let our alien visitor to radio his friends to come and get him. Kind of like what you did with Play Cities.” "To call his parents up to come get him. To phone home! . . . And the Army's trying to get him and cut him up into little bits!" I groaned. "Dissect him? Steven, what is it with you and the Army?" "I won't talk about it. You know, Ross. This has made it all worth the trip." He slapped the rubber band on his notebook with his other hand. He then took a dour expression. "You want what kind of jack, for this, do you? I mean. This is enough for two, maybe three movies." "Relax Steve. I don't want anything," Steve looked relieved, and let down, too, so I added "uh, now." Now he looked a little worried, but happy again that I thought more of his sto-ries. "Say, maybe you can use this stuff when you run out of gas, to get going again? It's extra. And you gotta keep going no matter what, Steve. You've got to save what's left of the American culture. It's gonna be up to you, Steve." "Jiminy cricket!" Steve smiled. “There you go again!” "And what do you mean by that anyway?" I asked him. "Ross, you're always telling everybody how they can make their dreams come true. Giv-ing advice. You're like Jiminy Cricket." "It's excellent advice, Steven. You'll know that one day. Who's Jiminy Cricket?" "I can’t believe you, Ross. You don't know who Jiminy Cricket is? Walt Disney? The cartoon character?" "uh?" "Twinkle Twinkle little star?" He made me laugh. "Twinkle Twinkle?" In a role reversal, Steve Spielberg now seriously stares at me as he sings: "Twinkle Twinkle little star. Matters not just who you are. When you wish upon a star, Your dream comes true." If you want to be embarrassed, have Steven Spielberg sing you a song belonging to Dis-ney in front of a lot of important dignitaries. I started to walk away, but he followed me and sung the whole darn song. Lucky Ann didn't care what we did so long as we worked our behinds off.

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Run clips from Close Encounters Jiminy Cricket! Table music box

Slush Funds vs. Spielberg, Democracyʼs Champion

"Steve. Movies make money, right?" I asked my new friend. "Yeah. So? They cost a lot of money, too." Steve was defensive. "Well there's some other dreams around here that'll require some campaign contributions. That and commercials and stuff. Ann Richards, Bill Clinton, Hillary, Ron Kirk. You are going to help them out when the time comes, right? I mean, I can count on you, can’t I, uh we?" Steve was not looking at me but fixed his gaze straight ahead. Steve was tense and froze up holding out his arms stiffly and holding onto the table in front of him. Determinedly Steve hit his fore-arms and fists simultaneously on the table in front of him. "Oh no. I don't do that. I'm not going to make something and give it away. That's against everything my father ever taught me, all that's in me; the way I was brought up. No way. I’ll have a family to support. Sorry Ross." "I'm talkin' about after you've made your first billion." Steve relaxed some. "Billion? Ross, there’s I think what one billionaire on earth right now?" "Not a nickel till you've made your first billion, Steve." "Ross. Nobody's ever made a billion dollars in the movie business. It's impossible." "Nobody's ever been Steven Spielberg before." I gave him another pause. It broke his rhythm when I did that and kept him off-balance. "Mr. Household word. Some of your second billion. That's all I'm asking. We can not leave the future of our civilization to the extremists kooks, Stevie." For once, Steven agreed with me. "Hitler knew exactly where he was going!" "That's right. And we still hate the damn nazis. That's what I'm talking about. The G.D. communists, too. Look at them, the murdering savages. They have a f’ing plan, too." He agreed yet again. "Yeah. They got a plan all right, too. World domination. Workers’ paradise." "And so have the people who write this stuff." I picked up a republican hate sheet. Steve looks pained at the hate sheet. Then sad and nodded. "You want a future full of hate sheets, Steven? Intentional lies designed to muddy the water and confuse people, set by the most evil people the world has ever seen?"

run clip about here: Willie Horton republican ad from 1988, follow with Rush Limbaugh from 1995.

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-- and George H.W. Bush, Kennedy’s murderer, shooting Wallace and Reagan, killing RFK and MLK, and all those innocent witnesses, was a worse serial killer than Willie Horton ever could be. Ironic, huh? "Then we have got to have normal people in positions of power, and they're going to need finance. They are going to need you. The future is going to need you." I can do it without you Steve, but it would be easier with you. "Well, I am not normal." He clinched his fists again, elbows and forearms on the table. "Sure you are." I tried to reassure him. "No. I am not normal, Ross, Jiminy Cricket! That’s certainly one thing I am sure of. I am NOT normal." Spielberg knew himself well. "You're more normal than Hitler." Steve looked puzzled then started to get mad. "Ross. The village where all my relatives lived together, together. You know, in Europe. They, nazis killed em. They killed every one and soul of them. My father was in the city. I had cousins and cousins and cousins, all my aunts and uncles." Steve choked up. He hated that, too. "The slime of humanity." He knew I was talking about the nazis.

Run clip about here: Indy3 Sean Connery says "The slime of humanity." "Huh?" "nazis. My God, Steven. You lost your family?" I cried that I had hurt Steve’s raw feel-ings, but Steven appeared unmoved, stoic.

Run clip about here: American Tail: "Big cat cries "You lost your family?"

"So what's your point?" Steven was completely composed and razor sharp. "Oh no. You lost your whole family!" Seeing real tears in my eyes Steven softened just a little.

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Now he was less abrasive, sensing my sincerity, "What's the point of all this? Where is this leading?" Steven resisted feeling emotional about it. I wiped the tears from my face. This is hard to remember even now. "My point is that the crazies and fanatics are always going to get financed by other crazies and fanatics! It is up to normal people to do their part. We have to speak out or else all we'll hear will be them. The world mustn't stand by again, ever again." "Did you say million or billion? Films cost millions. I thought you said million. OK then." Now he paused, and then mischievously cheering me up, "household word?" Oh yeah, I started to snicker knowingly, "Household word! Rich people are gonna love putting their money with you Steven, you know why? Ha! Don't think of yourself as being crip-pled by compulsive greed." I laughed for an entire minute, OK, thirty seconds; he remained sol-emn, if amused. Then I got serious. "Really, you have got a great talent for thrift, doing things without throwing a lot of money at the birds. People with money will go ape over that. You are going to take their money and be stingier with it than they are, you'll be a hero to 'em. I'm tellin' ya' Steven, that compulsive thriftiness will take you a long way. You will always have finance 'cause of it. Don't lose that." "OK, OK, enough already." Steve could sense I was revving up. "Uh, Steve. What's the rate on a movie idea out there in California?" I asked. "You mean concept? It's standard. 2%, I think? I'd have to look it up." he replied. "I did the concept on the baby alien movie, right." I asked. "Well. Yeah. Sorda. Whadaya sayin?" he responded. "I'm sayin’ that that's about the fastest twenty million dollars I ever made!" “Ross, in the entire history of movies, all the tickets ever sold in the whole world from Edison to now, added up, it doesn’t make a billion dollars.” “Yeah!” I looked him straight in the eye. “Isn’t it amazing?”

ʻMr. Presidentʼ I could remember!

A two syllable word, Clinton. How I managed to forget it so easily seems cloudy in my memory, but forget it I did. “Mr. President” I could remember. The two words were electric, my pulse quickened and I got a lump of pride in my throat when I said them. Quite naturally I rose from my desk and gave him my fullest attention for anything he wanted. Marybeth Rogers asked Clinton if he wanted some office coffee. He declined & men-tioned his preference for McDonald’s coffee. The minute I heard this, I put my volunteer job as-signment away, walked out to my VW, drove to McDonalds & bought Clinton a large coffee. I guessed he would like it the way I liked my coffee. Oops. Clinton was surprised that I had brought him McDonald’s coffee, and he took my excuse in stride. “Sorry, I take it black, 1-1/2 sugars. I’m just particular about my coffee, but thanks

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The matter of my making a fuss over coffee came up in office conversation & I listened. “The man is going to be President of the United States. I think we can afford to get him the kind of coffee he wants!” Eyes rolled perhaps, but not in my head. So how did I get away with all this? The simple answer is that I was the kid who showed up. Steven showed up, too. We worked hard and for long hours, often late into the night. Ann Richards, future Governor of Texas, did turn to me with tears of gratitude in her eyes, saying, “Thank-you Ross! I could never have gotten all this done without you!” At 18 you have more stamina than you need. Drudgery was a small matter to one so young. So basically, volunteers were in short supply for the McGovern campaign of 1972. We were at 19% in the polls after the Eagleton fiasco. They had to put up with Steve and me. Most of the time, we were all they had. Now, I am proud of every second I spent on that campaign, every second. Steven Spielberg, Hil-lary Clinton, Bill Clinton, Ann Richards, and me, together we’ve accomplished more for Amer-ica and began more good than if we had actually won and put George McGovern in the White House. With God’s help and feedback, I jump-started everything and everyone. We would not lose the campaign. We didn’t get all dressed up for nothin’. We would not be ruled forever by criminals, nor would we become criminals ourselves in the process of winning the contest against them.

Whoopi Goldberg

We were slowly becoming a unit, with one resolve: to change the world. The reason Af-rican American people were not allowed on television had nothing to do with how their skin looked through a TV camera, but everything to do with prejudice. Spielberg was in movies and TV, so he took the heat, and responded with many ideas to force the bigotry out of his industry. Black people were always depicted as servants. Where are the African American judges, law-yers, leaders? Entertainment did not have to be about fighting racial prejudice for an African-American to be able to appear in the cast, either. Where are the extras of color? Maybe it is true that all the U.S. presidents have always been white, but their secret service details need not be! And how about future presidents? “The past need not prejudice the future, if only we so choose,” I told them.

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I got Steven Spielberg alone and told him seriously, “Look at me. I know it’s hard. Be-ing a leader is. What I tell you, you must do, not for yourself, not for your family, not for your industry, but for your country.” He didn’t object, so I asked him, “Do you know any really tal-ented African American people, Steven, someone who has no chance at all, despite being so tal-ented?” Immediately, he had someone in mind, “Well, yes, I do. But she’s openly lesbian. There is just no way she will ever have a career in entertainment. I was just thinking about her the other day, about how she didn’t have a chance in the world.” “Did it make you mad?” I asked gently. “Well, I guess so. But I mean, it isn’t my fault. I saw her perform at a dinner theater. An amazing talent, really amazing.” He spoke with real conviction. “You must adopt her, Stephen. Adopt her career and make sure she gets every chance that her GREAT TALENT deserves. You’re going to be known for doing that, Steven. And peo-ple will love you for it.” (HELLO, WHOOPI GOLDBERG! THANKS FOR THE BIT IN Eddie ABOUT ME, but I can’t ride a horse!) “And then, you must do more. When you can afford to, you must find more like her out, and adopt them, too. Your country, and the whole world, awaits.”

Daily McDonald's coffee

About fifteen minutes after 10 O’Clock in the morning. I was gathering up to go. McDonalds opened up at 10:30, and I liked getting the President’s coffee as soon as they were open. "Just where do you think you’re going?" Ms. Rogers could make a great cup of coffee. Why would anyone want to go out for special coffee? "Yes ma'am. I'm going to get the President some coffee." I felt very pressed for time be-cause Mr. President liked his coffee when he came in and he was nearly due in right then. Ms. Rogers was determined to keep me in the office: "Ross come back here a moment. No. It's all right, come back here." "Yes ma'am?" "Didn't you know. We have a coffee pot, plus there's coffee next door!" "Yes ma'am. I know that ma'am. He wants McDonald's coffee. Hey!" I was starting to get all worked up. "It's only what two miles! And if he's going to be President of the United States I guess he can have the kind of coffee he wants." I spoke like it was obvious and that she should naturally agree, but of course, she didn’t. I just smiled broadly and got out of there with my gums flapping as I walked. I’d missed his coffee the first time by putting in cream, then more than his prescribed one and a half sugars got me a “best coffee I’ve ever tasted” comple-ment, but titration to two and a half sugars had lost me some of his trust, nearly permanently, so I

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word a day calendar PAGAN usage: there he stood ... Run clip: 'Pagan god!' scene after gasless landing, Always

Steve walked in with Indy and some other volunteers. "Steven Spielberg! You magnifi-cent pagan god!" I had to say it really emphatically so it would work. "How are you this morn-ing?" I offered normally. "Fine. Uh. Thanks." He beamed a bit. Now that was an anecdote he could tell his Hol-lywood friends! I had the word-a-day calendar to thank. You’re welcome, Stevie. "Steve. Where did you get that shirt? It looks like one you'd wear to one of those Hawai-ian feast things." "Try luau." dryly "The word is luau, Ross." “OHHH! I FORGOT! Steven! That’s your directing shirt! You have to take care of that shirt! Can I have it dry cleaned for you! Seriously! It needs to stay wrapped in plastic.” Then I changed my tone, “because you’re going to need it. A LOT!”

A Bad Time to Meet Hillary

Another day, the President came out of his office and I stood up as usual. He gave me instructions and I said, "Yes, Mr. President!" in my normally serious, determined manner. He went back into his office and I sat back down. Hillary arrived and I stood up for her, too. She gave me a leery look as she marched straight into Clinton's office. Ann noticed my curiosity about Hillary, disapprovingly. Hillary just went in and sat down in a corner. "Now Ross, you have everything you need." Ann spotted me looking in on them. "This is so great!" I was effusive. Ann said, “You have everything you need so you go on and finish up." Steven showed up with some finished work for Ann. "This is so great. Nobody will ever believe any of this really happened." I had goose bumps. "Uh oh." warned Steve. "Ross. What's gotten into you?" asked Ann. "Again!" laughed Spielberg in a madcap manner. I walked over to Ann and Steven and looked at Steve's document. "Nobody's ever going to believe that I stood here between you two and just talked to you like, like, like GOD, like I'm just talkin' to you! And you, Steven Spielberg, wrote up this uh" I read it out loud to them "'election eve chat sheet with discussion and comments' and just handed it to Ann Richards." Steve spoke up again, against his better judgement. "Ross. Go home and get some rest?" "When? Just now?" Ann asked.

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"Right here, August 12, 1972, Dallas, Texas. This is so cool." "Ross. Now don't you go tryin' to change the subject." I laughed out loud. "he he he. No ma'am!" They marveled that I was so excited to see them. "Wow. Wow. Just wow that's all,” I told them. I believed it and made the ordinary into extraordinary. Soon it began to rain outside. Ann and Steve were joined by Marybeth who had gathered up their purses and rain gear to leave. Steve left using one of the hate-sheet newspapers over his head. "Maybe I should check with the President about that uh that?" I motioned at Ann toward Clinton's office. "Why Ross. You know you don't need to bother him with any of that!" Ann sensed something was up, but decided to leave anyway. "You better just mind your business, Ross." "Did I tell you Ann that you look like you normally look today? That's a very nice dress and the pearls look just so. Oh I know. Did you talk to the First Lady like I suggested?" Seeing Ann's displeasure I added, "I just want to meet her. Ann! She is going to be the First Lady of the country you know." "Don't you try and sweet talk me, Ross. You better mind out." She smiled, took a breath, then with a mellow voice she spoke to me. "Just mind out that's all. Marybeth had been listen-ing quietly, Ann spoke to her, "He's bound and determined." She shook her head. I considered that I might be intruding, but I needed to, too. I gathered my excuse stack of loose papers in my arm and cracked open the President's door, as usual when he was alone. "Excuse me Mr. President?" Wow, was it a bad time to meet Hillary! She was crying about something. Hillary sat seated in the President's arm chair and Clinton sat on his desk in front of her. Her eyes were moist from crying, her beautiful face, she gazed up at him & looked just like an angel. Her suit coat was flung on the floor. Naturally, Clinton was furious at my in-trusion, so I beat a hasty retreat. I got in my car and got a hamburger at McDonalds or something, I remember being still a little shaken when I came back. Hillary emerged from the President's office, put on a head scarf. and marched out the front door. (The rest of us always left from the back door.) Her normally perfect hair had been all askew. Lucky for me, Hillary didn’t see me. Clinton emerged after a few moments, grandly smiling. "Bubba! Are you still here?" apparently all was forgiven. I had not actually done any-thing, after all. Still any meeting of eyes with Hillary left me intensely shellshocked. "Uh, no sir Mr. President. I just got I mean I was just leaving. I'm sorry, sir, if I earlier ..." Clinton interrupted me, putting his arm around my shoulder like a big brother. Mr. Presi-dent was calmly delighted about something. He spoke completely at ease: "Let me tell you a joke I heard today. Two moles were diggin' in their back yard and what do you suppose they found? ..."

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Dates for Everybody

"Date, Mr. President?" I offered a palm fruit to the future president of the United States early the next day after he’d had his coffee. He came back with, "Bubba, isn't that just a little unusual?" It was an echo of my earlier Bit-a-Honey scene, but, once again, dear reader, it went right over my head at the time. "My dad got 'em. They're good." I was completely oblivious. Steven quickly passed by and toward the front door seeing the President and me, blurting to me, "Household word!" Steve started to get my attention for something, but then aborted his mission when the President happily and casually turned off into his office with a wrinkled brow and a smile. Steve started to leave again motioning to his package and almost bumped into Hil-lary coming through the front door. Impassioned, dumbfounded Spielberg and impatient Hillary Rodham danced a few seconds as Hillary tried to get around him. Finally he was faked out of her way, she rolled her eyes then turned, lifted an eyebrow and laughed, flattered, toward Spiel-berg who continued to stare, flat-footed and breathless with amazement as she glided safely into Clinton’s office. Hillary was an extremely pretty lady, but she was probably wondering what that seventeen-year-old wanted with her, huh? "Relax. Torro! Have a Date!" I chided. "Huh, burro?" Steve’s breath had been taken. Somehow I was never physically attracted to Hillary. I always thought she was a lot taller than I was or something. I was a virgin and didn’t know hot from squat. I laughed again and spoke to my friend, "Yeah. Have a Date." The reference was to beautiful Hillary, but another box of dates was on my desk. Steve was quickly aware that I was ribbing him. It was like a classmate going all gooey over a teacher, that’s how it felt to me, any-way, ridiculous.

Run clip about here: 'Relax. Have a date' scene from I.J. 1

"Yeah. ok." Steve looked at the box again. I decided to tease Stephen Spielberg. “The president had a date!" I looked at him mis-chievously and warningly at the same time. "What a hot date?" He spoke too dramatically, i.e. sarcastically. “You’re really taken with her, aren’t you?”

Run clip from movie Braveheart: You’re really quite taken with him, aren’t you?

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Steveʼs Nose Goes

"It has served its purpose." I informed Steven Spielberg his nose had to go. This made him very angry and he pulled back and away: "You know, Ross, sometimes I think you're OK. and then you say something like that. There is nothing wrong with my nose. What business is it of yours anyway? What do you mean 'served its purpose'? That's just weird to say something like that." "It's purpose was to isolate you, to make you strong, even powerful in the face of adver-sity. It's purpose was to get you here." Steven listened against his better judgement: "That doesn't make any sense." "Sure it does. How many people have turned away from you, Steven, with just one look? Besides all of the women of course." I took the opportunity to laugh wickedly, Steve was not amused. Steven Spielberg took a deep breath: "It happens. I deal with it." He was a little hurt. I consoled him now. "It's a good thing you had it when it counted." I examined Steven's face again. "Steven, you really are a very very handsome man without it. You could be a model or something. I'm not kidding. Think about it. Yeah, if you were schnozless you'd have wasted a lot more time with babes." "So I might have studied less, OK. But no way I am going to have plastic surgery on my nose." Steve stormed off for a minute or two, but realized he had nothing to do and came back. "Is that what they call it? Plastic surgery?" The subject was really annoying to Steven Spielberg. "Expensive, too, huh?" "You know it just occurred to me. You really are Jiminy Cricket! And I must be Pinno-chio!" The genius was both amazed and mad at once. I stood akimbo disapprovingly. "Promise me you will have that huge honker fixed after you've made your first hundred million dollars." He remembered my intemperate youth and smiled again after his rage. He looked straight ahead and put his elbows at his side with his arms parallel to his body at the midaxillary line on the table--his cheap stance. Spielberg was the only person I ever met in my life with a reserved posture for talking about money. "My first hundred million? OK. After my first hun-dred million? OK. I'll do it. After my first one hundred million dollars earned. Fine." It made me smile after Steve said he'd do it. Then after a minute or two, concern grew anew. "Steven. Meanwhile be sure you don't hurt anybody." "How's that?" Spielberg asked. "Huh? Oh. Just watch where you swing." "What are you talking about, now, again, now?" Steve complained. "You might hurt somebody." I admonished. “WILL YOU please explain yourself?” Steve fretted.

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"Yeah. You gotta watch where you swing that thing." I swung my head from side to side as though a great weight were suspended from my face. “I knew it. JEEEZE! I fell for that one!" We both laughed. It was a solvable problem. "Steve" I was genuinely concerned again. “What is it now, Ross?" I kept talking to him like he was seventeen. "Can you do it after you make your first fifty million? You really need to do it after you've made your first fifty million." With a small pause "Fifty million, one hundred million. Sure. What's the difference?" asked Steven Spielberg. I made him look me in the eyes. "Not very long!" Steven was pleased at my fortune-telling of his rapid accumulation of riches. "You know actually it would be even better if you could make it 25 million." "Shut up! You're not Oscar Wilde, bickering over price,” said Steven Spielberg making some academic reference. "Huh? Well, 50's OK., but 25 would be optimal." "I'm not talking to you." But he was listening. Spielberg was both pleased, yet annoyed. "When you have made 25 million dollars and you are flush with your first success, keep it in mind and consider it will ya'? It's for your own good, and your family's good." Steven was not looking up. "Yeah Yeah." Now it was my turn to be exasperated. "You know. I am completely unappreciated in my time." (Now, Steve. Think about this, was I right? I leave it to you.)

Run clip from Jurassic Park: Fat computer programming nerd in control room “unappreciated in my time.”

Clinton Asks Me About His Going to Viet Nam and Gets used to it

"Uh, no Mr. President. Commander-in-chief should be enough. That is military service, isn't sir?" "Bubba, may I have a word with you?" There was a short pause. The President seemed calmly apprehensive. "I want you to stop calling me 'Mr. President', standing up for me, and all that stuff. It’s just too much. I am not sure I can keep you here if you continue behaving so in-appropriately."

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Coldly but politely I looked at the floor: "Is that all, sir?" "Yes that's all." He looked down at his desk. He had had to say something. I noticed that Clinton spoke to me firmly. I thought at the time he had been ordered to tell me that by somebody higher up in the campaign that I had talked to on the phone or something. So I de-cided to take it out of his hands. This is what I did. I walked out of Clinton’s office, sat down at my desk and started counting off, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, then I yelled, but not directly at him, with every fiber of my being: "G E T U S E D T O I T !!!!" I used the loudest voice I had about on a par with the 'listen' episode earlier. My tone was edgy, emphasis was on 'USED' it was a very loud snarl, even though I was always such a happy person. Clinton was motionless for 2 minutes or so. There was no sound from the President's office, either. He made the calculations and de-cided he needed a typist more than he needed a confrontation. Plus he had honestly done his duty and I was harmless.

Steve Remedies Indy

Standing I watched Steve in conversation with Indy sitting close together in folding chairs, their hands in her lap, looking at each other under their eyebrows. Steven interrogated in a low voice, "so you don't know how to drive at all?" To Ross, then Steve Indy apologized, "Don't look at me like that. I just never learned that's all." "You really can't drive a car then." "No, Stevie, I can't drive." He spoke quietly, "Well. We'll just have to remedy that." Bursting into tears she threw her arms around Steven, "Oh Stevie!" Steven was a little taken aback.

run movie clip about here: Braveheart Wallace to girl. "We'll just have to remedy that."

Virginia calling

I was at my desk and on the phone. "Yes ma'am. Where in Virginia?" "Just tell him, Virginia called." "Please, please, please ma'am. Don't hang up." "I wasn't hanging up." "Please ma'am. You have got to tell me where in Virginia, you have to understand, ma'am. As you can imagine Mr. Clinton is very important, somebody like him gets lots of calls, many of them from Virginia, so he's not automatically going to know who you are."

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"Yes he will." "Ma'am please. Mr. Clinton is going to become President of the United States. It is very important that I take every call properly. Won't you please help me? Just give me your name and your telephone number!" "What did you say?" "I asked you to give me your name and telephone number." "President? Did you say President?" "Yes ma'am. So he deserves to have his calls taken properly, doesn't he? Now if you'll just..." "Well! I thought I was the only person who thought he would become President!" "Yes ma'am. It is rather apparent. Isn't it? Would you mind holding for a moment, please?" I didn't do anything, I just held the phone in the air. "Yes ma'am. Now where were we?" "What makes you say he's going to become President?" "Ma'am. We are very busy here. I guess my boss told me. Everybody knows. They don't tell me everything." "This is his mother." "WELL! Mrs. Clinton! This is indeed an honor. I mean, wow! Uh! How can I help you ma'am? I am here to serve you ma'am." "You can tell me more about what's going on down there." "Yes ma'am! You must be so proud! Just think. You're gonna spend nights in the White House! Aren't you excited?" "Tell me again how you found out about it?" "Ma'am. It's automatic now. He'll be President of the United States. And all we have to do is keep out of his way." "You sound like you mean me?" "Yes ma'am we can all help. But he will do it himself now. All we really have to do is stay out of his way." I told his mother. "What." She said over the phone. "He doesn't need any distractions, ma’am." "Is that girl down there?" she said, thinking Hillary his biggest and most dangerous dis-traction of all. “There's a million girls down here, ma'am, and most of em are in love with him. But that's not the kind of distraction I'm talking about." "What is your name what's your job?" Virginia inquired. "My name is Bubba. I get his coffee, ma'am. Family distractions, conflicts that sort of thing. All he needs is peace of mind and he'll get the job done."

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"I don't understand. What are you trying to tell me, son?" his momma asked. "Ma'am. When he makes his run and you get hurt or sick, even if you're dying, you mustn't worry him about it. We stay out of his way, he'll make it fine. He, uh, he may need our self-sacrifice if that's what it comes to. I guess. I guess that's what I wanted to tell you ma'am." There was a long pause. "I thought you were talking about money. We ..." she began, but I cut her off. "He may hit a dry spot and need a little help. Sure. But the key thing, the most important thing, is his peace of mind. That's all the help he needs." I assured her. Virginia considered what I had said in a long silence. "I'm glad we had this talk." Soon another call came in from Virginia. She wanted me to talk to her friend. "And are you the elder Clinton, sir?" I asked him. The gentleman on the phone answered, "No. I'm whatyasortasay a friend of the family." “Watching a president grow up is not something everybody gets to do in his life, is it sir?" "Why No. I guess it is a, a real honor, then, isn't it." He laughed a little light-hearted laugh. "Well you know now!" We were jovial, now a pause. Now I used a different tenor voice. "You know there is something that you could do for him that would help him and help America." "What's that, son?" Virginia’s gentleman asked me. "Let everybody else know there in his hometown. Help make sure everyone is behind him. Can you hold a parade for him? You know, when he gets home?" I knew it was a lot to ask. "Well … lll. I suppose we could throw him a party?" "A parade would be most appropriate, sir. I don't think an ordinary party ..." I was ada-mant. "Well we'll throw him a BIG party then." "I still think a big parade would be better. You all should get used to having parades for him." I advised. "Well, son. We'll just see what we can do!" “He needs a parade marshall. Get the police and fire department involved.” “Well I know somebody down there, maybe there is something we can do. We’ll be sure to give him a grand ride home when he gets here.”

My Pre-emptive Gratitude to Spielberg and Richards

Steven Spielberg: "What! are you talking about, Ross? Again."

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"It's just that I feel enormously honored here. For instance, it is an incredible honor that you both call me by my first name." Ann Richards returned the complement politely without even a hint of sarcasm, pander-ing, or patronage, "Awe, Ross! Well. I want you to know that it's an honor bein' here with you, too." "Yeah. It's a great honor, Ross." Said Steven Spielberg. I was speechless. “Ross?" Ann grew concerned, too: "Ross? Are you all right? What's wrong with you boy?" Spielberg raised the alarm. "He's crying. My God! He's crying! What did I say? Did I say something wrong?" "Thank-you!" I gurgled through my tears, I grabbed both of their hands and held them to my heart. "Thank-you!"

Lines of Communication

“Bubba. I see you took this message from my mother." My name is both Ross and Bubba. Bubba is my nickname and Clinton used it because he was ‘Bubba’ too. "Oh, yes sir, Mr. President. Should I have brought that to your attention!? From somewhere in Virginia, I think." He was not believing the somewhere in Virginia bit at all. "I just wanted to say, thank-you." But he looked into my blinking eyed innocent expression and changed his mind. "Thank-you for taking the call. She spoke to me about it and talked about you." "Did she, Mr. President?" "She thought you were very nice." And I smiled hearing that news. "However; I think in the future you should refrain from ..." "What, sir?" "Bubba. You are not to chat with the people that call me. Is that clear? Just take down the name and the phone number. Here I got some pads here, just fill them out. If you have any questions, we'll sort them out." “Mr. President. That's" (I was about to try to b.s. him, but I changed my mind) “clear, sir." "Look, Bubba. It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do for me. My mother thought you were wonderful to say the things you said about me. And it was kind of sweet in its way, but there's a larger issue here. You have good intentions but you can muddy the water." He edged closer. "Don't you think it is important for me to have clear channels of communication?" "Mr. President, I ..." would never do that! "I mean. What if you'd guessed wrong?" I smiled at this too. I knew what I was doing and wasn’t guessing about anything, but it was my own business.

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Clinton was not going to buy it, so I appeared to give in and looked pensive, like 'I see what you mean.' "It is crystal clear, sir. It was a mistake." How I got out of that one with my head still on my shoulders was a miracle. (Pope! Hey, Pope! Can I be a saint?)

Steve and Indy Fight

Indy rushed in obviously angry at and avoiding Steven who was following her. "You said!" she whined. Steven explained: "I never said I would teach you personally." "Don't you tell me what to do." Indy wailed. "What. What did I say!" Spielberg was befuddled by her reaction. "You said remedy! You said you would remedy!" Apparently there was some problem with vocabulary. "I never said I, I never said. You didn't listen,” Steven explained. "You got something between your teeth." She squinted at his mouth. "Ha ha ha, I'm not going to fall for that. You know I think that's pretty perverse, what-daya say?" Indy was mock boxing. "You know just for that one remark I may have to kill you." "Kill me! Oh boy." Spielberg looked at me helplessly out of his depth. I figured the skinny blond girl, Indy, could take him in about two rounds. "Don't you, donchew, donchew," Indy defended. Mock boxing back at her, "Don't chew? What!" With my Walter Winchell/Howard Cosell voice and making light of their situation, I in-terjected "can she take the wily scrapper, uh, no can she take the wily vet? Look out. Who knows? It's anybody's bet."

Word a Day 'wiley' "The wiley veteran Run clip about here Always. Walking from her landing "Ross. You're a poet. You’re a really bad poet, but you're a poet."

Run clip about here: Always Dreyfus to Al "You're a poet. ... poet."

Again with the Walter Winchell voice: "Look out." Normal voice "A poet and don't know it. Uh, thank you, look here Steve. You got something in between your teeth there." "Ha! Gotcha! Thanks Ross!" Indy retreated into the bathroom and slammed the door. Steve faced the door, pleading for a second. Then got riled himself, but said nothing. After two

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breaths, I then threw a date pit into the metal trash can, a very loud noise resulted in the silence. Steven stared at me, now fuming. In explanation, I asked: "Bad date?"

Run clip 'Bad date!" scene from Raiders of the Lost Arc, I.J. 1

"Ross?" "Huh? Yeah, Stevie?" "When'd ya get that ink on your face? I mean its" Steve put ink on one of my cheeks which I elected to ignore: "here. It's here. It looks terrible." "Where?" I touched my face smearing the ink all over and seeing it on my hand, I said "Gee thanks, Steve." I certainly wasn’t going to spoil his bit, after all, he’d really been generous to me up to that point. "Oh you're welcome." We both took a second to think. Spielberg took a deep breath: "She's a great girl isn't she?" Run clip from Always Dreyfus puts grease on Al's face

Foster Suspects

Hillary was addressing me with words from a day to be long remembered. “Listen! I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but from now on, you do as I tell you. O.K.? And would someone please get this roll of carpet out of my way?” Steve was dumbfounded as he started to smile, I was panicked. “Oh, that’s mine! Thanks.” I said snatching away my precious flute rolled in shag carpet with a zipper on one end. It was ugly enough not to be stolen and cushy enough to keep my goatskin flute case from getting beat-up. It was the same yellow-brown shag I’d used in my Volkswagen. Mr. Foster intervened: "What are you up to now, Ross ?" "Oh. I keep my case in the carpet roll. It's my Haynes flute, sir. I thought later ..." but I saw his stern look and my thought deflated. "that uh..." "Ross. I thought we had an understanding about all these ..." Freeze Mr. Foster He used a word beyond my limited vocabulary that that time. Resume Mr. Foster. "Yes sir." Whatever it was he said, it meant I wasn’t going to play my flute in the office. I apologized for putting my flute on the new table in Mr. President’s office, I didn’t think anyone would be sitting there, especially when there was plenty of room outside with me and Ann and Steven Spielberg and the rest of us. I remember Hillary sat at the small table once or twice, but she always sat at his big wooden desk with the beautiful onyx Cross desk set when he

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wasn’t there. She was always extremely busy and professional, although exactly what she was doing really wasn’t any of my business. I was there to run her errands, that was something I could understand. "You put that up and you are not to take it out. Do you understand me?" Of course, I un-derstood direct orders in English, too. "Yes sir. I understand. I am sorry sir,” but I was sorry for him. Clinton walked in loping along as usual. But that day I was not “in uniform” (long-sleeve white shirt, wide tie, and my dark blue pinstripe vest without arms and matching bell-bottoms; it was stylish but only for the period--exactly like the vests of the rebel fleet troops in Star Wars, come to think of it) and I did not rise to pay homage. "What's the matter, Bubba, you look a little down?" Clinton’s pun about my not standing up for him shot right over my head. "No sir. Everything's fine sir!" said I standing, belatedly! Clinton saw what was out of place; my black goatskin leather flute case stuck in a zip-pered roll of shag carpet, exactly the same color as my VW’s floorboard carpet, that laid on my desk. "What is that?" he inquired. My face brightened "This is my Haynes flute. I thought I'd play a little later but, but I'm uh … not to take it out." "So Mr. Foster spoke to you concerning this?" He saw me shake my head yes. "He's right, isn't he." Period. Not a question mark. Clinton moved like a toreador into his office. I re-sumed my work, holding my cased and silent instrument. President Clinton would never hear me play, but I was going to make up for that! (It had taken me two years to earn the money to pay for my French model solid silver instrument, working as a dishwasher at a restaurant and as a package boy at the Kroger store. I would sell it to pay for one semester at the University of Texas a year later.) Clinton eventually came out of his office with letters for me to type for him: “You know. I play the sax." He took my bait, I was happy, so I asked him mischievously in my best “Richardson ac-cent” i.e. snooty: "Really, Mr. President? Are you GOOD?" Clinton responded, "I would have to say yes, I am good." I stood my ground, I should have been all-state first chair flute. "Are you very good, Mr. President?" I asked with just a hint of snobbery and amusement. Clinton, sharing the moment and beginning to smile: "Yes, I'm very good." The compe-tition in Arkansas was half the white heat we knew in Texas competition, but Clinton had out-shown most of his crop of sax players in his home state as a youngster.

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"That's great! Maybe we have a band in here! Wonder what else we play in here? We're Democrats. We're alive. We make music! We should use our instruments campaigning!" “So you think I should play my sax on the campaign trail?” he asked. “ABSOLUTELY! Don’t hide it. Talent comes in bunches, Mr. President, people know that. When you need a lift and you’re behind in the polls, pull that sax out and wail the hell out of it!” “I’ll KEEP THAT IN MIND!” Clinton was surprised to hear me use a curse word. It was before curses trashed television and cinema. I did my best to stem the ebbing tide of our culture, but even standing on the high water mark, swear words do have their place, in emphasis. He needed to remember, and he did.

Run Clip from Arsinio Hall Show. Democratic Presidential candidate Clinton plays sax and his numbers rise!Run clip from TV series Indy Chronicles as a young man plays the saxophone

Steven Spielberg wearing his now famous luau shirt, carried his boom box radio and approached my area. run clip about here: "Don't stop thinking about the future." TV coverage at end of ‘92 Demo-cratic convention.

Steven’s sneakers slid across the floor as the song got started: "Listen, Ross! LIS-TEN!" Steve cupped his ear with his hand, Clinton saw him from inside his office and smiled. Steve turned up the volume on his boom-box thing or whatever it was so we all could enjoy the tune. I closed my eyes, thrilled, and swayed to the music for a few moments, getting psyched. Steve dropped the volume at a motion from Mr. Foster, who retreated back to his desk. He spoke low to me under music "Hey, what happened to you today?" he put his hands to his peach-fuzz and stroked it like a beard, enviously. Steve had never shaved in his life, so he noticed my five o’clock shadow. "I lost my razor." I told him unfazed. "That’s just something I can’t understand. I mean, how could you lose your razor?" Well, Steve, when you’ve been shaving as long as I had been (since I was eleven), you can get tired enough to lose your razor every now and again.

Play clip about here: Indy2 "Where's my razor?"

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Star Wars, The Force and The Dark Side

“Look, Steve. The Force is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us, it penetrates us, it binds the universe together. It’s what I use here. You, too, must learn the ways of the Force!” “You are so full of bullshit.” Steven told me, then he sat down and wrote a little, the he came back to me and asked, “So tell me more about this, this Force.” “Come on, Steven! Can’t you feel the Force, flowing through you?” “You mean it controls your actions?” “Partially, but it also obeys your commands. Steven Spielberg! Use the Force, Stephen. USE IT! Use the Force and and travel down the generations to your destiny!

Run clip about here OB1 Kenobe describes the Force to Luke Skywalker.

Steven Spielberg was going off with Ann Richards to run the gauntlet and get more voter registration forms. “Ann! Steven! Go! And may the Force be with you!” Yes indeed, I sounded odd saying that, but I did say it. Talbot heard me and invented. “Yes, but you don’t know THE POWER of the DARK SIDE!

run clip Empire Strikes Back, Vader says “power of the darks side”

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The life of William Wallace was Stephen’s favorite book as a youngster, mine was a no-vella entitled The Star War, published in 1963. George Lucas bought up all the rights to that work, the basis of The Star Wars sagas. Steve and I did parts of the first film. Huge spaceships for Star Wars and Independence Day. I set the Star Wars “Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away”, invented the Force, the Training, Yoda (although not the puppet concept as I had for E.T.), but that was about it. The second and third films were Lucas’ inspirations somehow. They came back to me for the stories for the earlier trilogy, too, and I painted them in broad terms and provided a few concepts and ideas. The bit I carved from a japorsnippid, was actually just a pen-cil sharpener that I found in my Blanca Heights apartment on the island of Dominica in the Car-ibbean. I had nothing to do with creating the various planets, cities, etc., although I may have borrowed the central “city-planet” from Foundation series. If I’m not mistaken, the galaxy cen-ter city planet Azimov borrowed that idea from earlier writers, himself.

Another time, as Steve and Ann were headed out to deliver voter registration forms to Garland: “IT’S A TRAP! ARE YE BLIND!”

Run clip from Braveheart about here: “IT’S A TRAP ARE YE BLIND!”

I got it from an old western on TV. It’s also a password or recognition code between me and Steve. We later planned that when he heard it he would recognize me, but he hasn’t yet. “Ross? What’s a trap? Is Steven in any danger? Just what are you talking about now!” Ann Richards was impatient to go, but she was the adult. “No, Ann. I just have a very bad feeling about this.” I said slyly. “Yeah. I think you’re right!” Steve contributed weirdly and slyly at the same time. I wasn’t going to b.s. Ann Richards long, “I’m feeding Steven Spielberg lines--you know, from his movies. Here! I’ll give him another one! Look, watch, Ann!” I looked intently at Steve, “Say ‘see ya’ later.” I asked Steve, who seemed disinclined to acquiesce to my request. “Indulge me!” “See ya’ later.” Spielberg’s arms flopped to his side as he looked at Ann who looked at me. “’sooner rather than later, I hope!’” Then my eyes came back to Ann, “See?” She gave me an understanding, patient look. “Uh huh!” Steve smiled wryly. “I gotcha.” “The Jesuits are extinct, their fire has gone out of the universe. You my friend, are all that’s left of their religion!” Good old word a day calendar! Steve just smiled, and stalwartly followed Ann Richards to seek his destiny. “Don’t call me a mindless philosopher, you overgrown gob of grease!”

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Steven Spielberg NOT Going to College

Yet again we were at the office late. Steve and I were correcting mimeographed litera-ture, one or two words we crossed out and another inserted by hand. We worked seated across from each other for hours just to save the campaign twenty-five cents worth of paper. "So I haven't exactly finished college. I mean do you think I should go back?" "You're kidding right?" I asked him. Steve was sincere: "No, Ross. I really haven't finished yet--I mean well this opportunity came up and I, I just didn't finish that's all. I need about 30 or 35 hours is all ..." I snickered at the thought. "No. Steve! I mean you're kidding about wanting to go BACK to college, right?" Steve replied: "No I want to go back. It'd be well, fun, I guess." I looked at him dead-on. "I can't believe this. Listen to me Steve." I took a more meas-ured tone. "You are Steven f’ing SPIELBERG. You have forgotten more about film making than any college professor will ever know." Steve was happy: "Oh! Then you think I shouldn't go back to college?" He wasn’t getting it, yet. "I didn't say that. You can go back." Steve was annoyed at my misdirection, "But you just said. Ross. I'm not following you, again." "Ha! You can go back to college, Steven, any time you want to. To TEACH!" "To Teach huh?” He took a second, then another to reflect, now he could face Indy with an alternative to fighting. “Thanks Ross." “Steven Spielberg? Are you kidding? They’d make you head of the department no ques-tions asked.” “Got it, thanks.” Steve was starting to know me well. "Hey. You're welcome." But I could see him anticipating more. "You know what? I would never have believed that I'd ever tell anybody not to go back to school to finish college. Your case is the one exception, Steve." "Thank-you, Ross. I got it." Steve kept working. Naturally, I wouldn’t stop: "It just boggles my mind that I would ever tell anybody not to go back to school. I mean. I even laughed about it. This is weird, Steve." Steven looked me straight on and said: "I've told you that!" "It's just that you've got so much talent, Steve. I mean. People like you with your kinda talent, I mean. It's just silly for you to sit at a desk and ..." "O.K. Yes. I agree." I knew I needed to make this point then, while I still could. "I mean it's just" now I em-phasized and exaggerated my point, "so stupid. I mean it just doesn't make any sense for a Ste-ven SPIELBERG to what? live in a dorm? Spend time in classes? I mean it boggles the mind. It just boggles the mind."

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I wasn’t ready. "It's just the incredible waste. I mean, you might make fewer Steven SPIELBERG movies and for what? For a college diploma?" then with sadness “A piece of pa-per!” I featured alarm now in my voice. "NO! Don't you dare go back to school, Steven. Don't you dare! No. Not even to teach, until much later. Promise me you won't go back to school." It was like I heard a whisper from God on this. "O.K. I promise." He comforted me. "Swear it." I was adamant. "I don't swear." "Huh? O.K. but promise again. Tell me you won't even think about going back to col-lege. You don't have a minute to lose!" Steve smiled to himself and didn’t look up: "O.K." "O.K. what?" I demanded. "O.K. I won't go back to college." He explained. "And you won't even THINK about it again, not for EVEN AN INSTANT!" He finally lifted his head from the work and turned to look at me. "You know, Ross. You're really a confidence builder." "Well, it's not YOU I'm thinkin' about, Steve." "What?" He was ready for my next misdirection. "It's all those poor unemployed people you're gonna give jobs to. It just isn't fair for chil-dren to go hungry so you can hang somethin' up on a dry wall somewhere?" Steve became cooperative, seeing my points. “I never thought of it like that." He spoke with an air of discovery. "Tens of thousands of people are gonna depend on ya, Steve, your talent. You're gonna have to keep their interests uppermost in your head. Do you understand? I mean. It's a lot to ask of a man, especially somebody like you! who loves to learn, to give up even a little bit of his education. But you just gotta see it that way and sacrifice something of yourself for the common good. You do understand, don't you Steve?" "Yeah, Ross. I'm beginning to." "I mean it just so incredibly stupid!" Steve didn’t like repetition. "OK! Ross!" I shook my head side to side rapidly, leaned over and struck my temporal area as if I were trying to get something out of my ear. "wohuwho." Steve: "What?" "I just had a chill. What if you hadn't asked me? Good grief! There's not something else to waste your time about that you haven't told me about is there?" "It's just Indy. She kinda wants me to go back and finish." "Speaking of Indy, what are you hanging around with her for, Steve? I mean, isn't she a waste of your time, too?" "Ross! Now that's harsh."

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"I mean. She's not Jewish. You're family would never accept her. So what's the point?" "She can convert. You sound like my grandmother. What do you know? You're Baptist aren't you?" "Steven. You're gonna marry a movie star.” (After a dream, he later insisted on marrying two, and I finally relented.) “Well. I guess you deserve it if anyone does, right?" Steve: "What are you mumbling about now?" I asked him, "Do movie stars marry producers?" "Directors." He corrected me, then he said with evident satisfaction: "Happens all the time!" "Billionaire producers? Gee. You are one lucky S.O.B. ha. Well if anybody deserves that kinda babe it has to be you, Steven Spielberg." Steve watched me shake my head up and down, then he turned back to work. The prospect actually frightened me again the next day. “Stephen Spielberg, don’t you DARE go back to college! You have already forgotten more about making movies than all of the professors in all the colleges on this planet will ever learn!” His poor girlfriend, Indy if I remember her name rightly (we were always forgetting each other’s names) had been a little shocked and disappointed when I had failed to support her efforts to “turn him around” and get his looser slack-butt back into school. I had been a good influence up to that point, she’d complained. I had been very helpful up to then, she was hard pressed to comprehend. But my passionate urging to him to work as much as he possibly could “so the world would have the fullest extent of the Spielberg legacy” buoyed his henpecked spirit. Tears welled in his eyes. And I meant it, too. I remember the absolute fierceness with which I insisted that he return to work as soon as possible “to save the movie industry in the United States.” 50,000 American families would get a nice living in life just because of him, his actions. Not only that, and here Steven tried to stop me saying I was going “way overboard here,” but the his-tory of the world would be changed and made much worse, without the fullest flower of Steven Spielberg’s genius. I just gushed and gushed. The more I said, the more important I felt it was in saying more, but I didn’t listen to Indy after that. Over the next few days, I recall that I reiterated the absolute necessity for him to continue working, begging him passionately & forcefully not to go back to college because the entire world future depended upon it. It took a couple of days for him to settle me down about the mat-ter. I could see the self-confidence growing behind his wizened eyes. I would absolutely panic if the subject ever came up. No evening classes! NO correspondence courses! “You should confer degrees, not them!” “Steven, you must NOT go back to college.” “I GOT it Ross. We’ve discussed this.” “I know how much you love books and learning, how much…” “I GOT IT Ross!”

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“…how much you would like to squirrel yourself away reading and reading and reading, but you mustn’t! You must give that up.” “For Jesus Christ’s sake, I GOT IT Ross!” “For us, you must make the supreme sacrifice. It will be hard, I know, Give up that aca-demic life and pleasure. I know.” “OK, you f’ing bastard, HOW do you know?” “What?” “I asked you, civilly, how do you know? I’m interested.” Spielberg regained control of himself. “What? I uh.” “Just tell me, your crystal ball. How DO YOU KNOW?” “You want to know why?” I asked quietly. “That’s right. How come, why? How do you know so much about my future?” “You want the truth, then?” “I want it.” “Can you handle it?” I asked. “Can I handle what?” Steve responded. “The truth. Can you handle the truth?” I asked him. Steve grew impatient again, “I THINK I’M ENTITLED. It is my life!” “You’re sure you really want to know?” I drew him out further, like my father taught me. “How do you know so much?” “How do I know so much?” “This is getting tedious. Are you going to tell me or not?” I took a second, then answered, “I don’t know.” “You don’t know--but you know?” Steve got up and walked around the table. “F’ you, Ross.” He went to the bathroom. He came back composed, ready for working on the campaign again. It was quiet and still in the office. “I don’t know, but I can tell you this. The family you lost in the holocaust, God is giving you their strength into your hand, AND MULTIPLYING IT!” “I don’t believe in God.” Spielberg admitted, infuriating me at his ingratitude. “WELL, HE BELIEVES IN YOU!” After my impassioned outbursts, he put his head in his hands, but I felt great. “Wow! I feel so much better!” It was like a burden had been lifted. “Thanks, Stevie.”

“Don’t call me Stevie, Elmer Gantry.” He said from beneath his hands covering his face. “I hate being called Stevie.”

“I’m going to McDonalds. You wanna come?”“Just get the hell out of here.”

Bright and animated, I practically danced out of there. I had saved the future, who wouldn’t be happy? When I got out to my car, the same VW that had saved now President

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George W. Bush from a life of dissolution and despair a year earlier, I said a little prayer. “Thanks, God, for letting me be a part of that.”

“You’re welcome!”

When God talks back, faith transcends mere belief, and reaches another plane: knowledge. People have asked me what it’s like talking to God. I always reverse the question. “What’s it like NOT talking to God?” Admit talking to God, like an admission of breathing air or pheromone reception, and people avoid you. They don’t want to know. The presumption is mental illness, and it is well-founded, too. People able to converse with The Almighty, even if it’s just to receive occasional instructions, have been few in number and generally reviled. Moses got exiled & dragged around in the desert, Christ got bopped. Look at all the saints with unhappy endings. Yet tolerance for those who presumed me crazy at eighteen was a whole lot easier on the spleen than hemlock, fire, spears, & death by slow desiccation. And it’s not like it’s a burden, either. I’ve never been called upon to do anything that I was incapable of. I’ve never lacked for means, and never suffered unduly. If God is in Heaven, Hillary Rodham-Clinton will become president of the United States of America. For me, this is watching inevitability unfold. Hopefully I can’t mess it up, and since I know about it in advance, there must be no chance, or very little chance of my influencing the outcome. Bush I, Bubba twice, and W Bush II twice and this is the first election I’ve known the outcome in advance? Yes, I told Bush I he’d have one term only in office, on my note to him & W. & Barbara back in May of 1971, but I remem-bered having told them that for all the time of about five minutes. (What was I going to do? Know about JFK’s assassin for 17 years?) I put it all out of my mind immediate-ly—it was too fantastic. (Hippies don’t become Air Force jet fighter pilots, Texas boys don’t go to Yale University, Yale graduates don’t hitchhike drunk, etc. I never really be-lieved anything George W. Bush told me so why believe his JFK-father killed by his step-dad story?) So Bush I’s election was completely unanticipated by me. I never dreamed I ever knew George H. W. Bush, much less that I’d had anything to do with his wanting the job. The same was true for his son, too, for reasons already stated. After Clinton was voted to replace the old Bush, the president-elect went on the air and described my behavior when he was asked who it was to first call him “Mr. Presi-dent.” Roughly, he said, “Back in 1972 this kid followed me around for six weeks calling me, ‘Mr. President’ every day. Yeah, he even stood up for me when I entered the room.” Larry King extracted a promise from him that I’d get employment with his administra-tion, “WOW! I’d say that guy gets a job, right!” Not! When I finally remembered my role in Clinton’s preparation, his poll numbers were at their lowest ebb and I was in a for-

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eign country studying medicine, simultaneously hounded for story ideas by the likes of Aaron Sorkin, with whom I had vicariously written “A Few Good Men”. The iron ring of right-wingers who laid siege to the Clinton White House doing their best to disrupt com-munications sunk my application anyway. It was nearly four years after Bush II’s election before PBS’s Frontline ran a spe-cial on the early & formative years of the 2004 presidential candidates. There was George, pilot, Yale grad, Harvard MBA & he looked very familiar. Only with that infor-mation, recordings of his voice at the time, & period antics did it dawn on me that Clin-ton was no fluke, but three out of three! Hillary will be four out of four, with at least a 75% probability! It looks like she will be giving me my personal White House tour that she owes me after all! She balked on the Lincoln bedroom for the summer, though.

Being handsome was unnatural to me. My life’s springtime lasted only a few months. Then I became again, the fat, pimply-faced young man that I’d been earlier; this time with bro-ken teeth, a big purple lower-lip hematoma & pattern baldness. Still, the experience of being ir-resistible to women grants rare perspective providing insight born of that experience. Girls couldn’t wait to get me into their bedrooms, beautiful girls—girls I’d lusted after for years, and more ordinary girls, too. Sensible girls, reasonable people, they weren’t worried about getting pregnant, they were worried about being perfect for me. It was bizarre, heedless. I’d get invited to a party, arrive to find myself the only guest, & be served gorgeous naked virgin in heat. I fancied myself a music teacher and four voluptuous girls signed up for lessons. You guessed it. They just couldn’t control themselves. I was shocked, repeatedly. Then I began to get used to it, but only just. I never palmed girls’ breasts in elevators like Arnold Swarzenegger did, but I could have if the perversion had struck me, I suppose. Handsome young men can get away with anything. I made arrangements to introduce Stephen Spielberg, my intelligent ambitious young friend, to two old friends who worked as waitresses at the Cattlemen’s Restaurant in Dallas. These two were the best of our best. Accelerated classes, exceptionally talented musicians, both daughters of the wealthiest families, and beautiful. I had loved the tall blonde since seventh grade. She had been a perfect goddess, never a pimple even. If she wore any makeup, fights would break out. Without doubt, she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen up close even to this day, when she was between the ages of eleven, that’s right eleven, and seventeen. She was the daughter of my scoutmaster, I met her like this:

Run “Mrs. Williamson?” boy at door having dinner with family Dead Poet’s Society about here.

The movie lacks the punch needed. It was a much more effective complement in sixth grade.

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Very young girls that seem to be too beautiful, curvaceous and buxom for their age de-velop from youthful exposures to male sexual pheromones. Cheryl had such exposures with her older brother, Randy, regularly since she’d been nine years old. Her older cousin got in on the act and a click of handsome young teens accumulated around her, eager for the special thrill she provided. She was a good girl, so she never let any of them touch her. She absolutely refused to kiss any of them. Fact is stranger than fiction. One by one she led them into a darkened room beside her on a backless couch. Cheryl had long experience in the art of feminine flattery, but over time, the time for moody, sexy talk shortened. Her hand knew just where to look. The boys enjoyed it so, and she reveled in their attentions to her, particularly the phallic horseplay at the pool, but she wondered whether she could ever experience the ecstasies the boys obtained from her hands and so much wished to reciprocate on her. She never felt anything much beyond a profound sense of accomplishment in her manual acts with dozens of boys and young men. Girls who manipulate boys are taught the skill, but it is only organized groups that exploit it to exhaustion as happened with her. Her extreme beauty exacerbated her appeal. Cheryl’s backyard pool parties for young republican boys lasted many hours on a regular basis, and she developed quite a strong grip. Cheryl’s sexual innocence was lost when she got the idea to kiss her own hand after she soiled it from the young men’s lust. It became her habit to retire alone to take her hand into her mouth and stimulate herself with the other. Success! They depended on her--all three dozen, now she depended on them, too. It was pheromonal. The stimulated penile pheromone releases that Cheryl’s body asso-ciated with male proximity were addictive. The urge to procreate provides this natural inclina-tion to become addicted to sexual secretions and for dependence upon them for sexual climax. The self-perpetuating system that George W. Bush had instigated seems to have broken down when Cheryl began to lose her goddess-like good looks. Generally speaking, all of us re-member young girls who were beautiful to perfection in youth, but marred by approaching adult-hood. Their faces grew distorted at the end of their teen years. So it was with Cheryl. Perhaps this common phenomenon results from pheromone excessive male penile pheromone exposure? In any event, she gradually began to resemble her less than beautiful dad. Her body was still beautiful, but her face lost its angelic perfection. She was now merely pretty. No longer able to stop heartbeats with a single glance, her older beaus lost interest in her, most went off to college. In her seventeenth year, her mood sank lower and lower. She even abandoned her brother’s phallus in her despair. She was determined to break out of her doldrums and reach out to new ground.

“Yeah, I took her out.” Glenn Lavender admitted. “She molested me.”

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Cheryl was more and more desperate but somehow maintained her habitual facade of aloof indif-ference for her classmates. She needed

Run clip “penis breath!” from E.T.

to get sexual release, but her sources had dried up with her face. “Steven Spielberg, I’d like to introduce you to Ellen Blanton.” “Uh, hello.” Ellen was perfunctory, then quickly took me aside. “Cheryl wants you to f’ her! You lucky duck! She wants you to take her virginity!” “Ellen, huh? What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d known her for years and had never heard her utter a curse word in my life. “She wants you to f’ her! You lucky duck!” she whispered. Getting back to my purpose I tried to introduce her to Spielberg, “Steven’s a movie direc-tor.” “Hello.” Said Steve politely, yet bemused and intrigued by the Billingsgate. “Hello.” she gave him short shrift. “You’re, you’re. What’s wrong with you? Oh yeah.” She’d managed to get me mad at her, even though she looked scrumptious in the tiny bunny costume. The pretty but plain next to Cheryl freckle-faced girl had blossomed. “Yeah, Ronnie told me. (Ronnie had been in band with us.) This guy is important and all you can say is f. f. f! And what on earth are you doing in that get up?” “Ross! Do you have any idea how much money I make wearing this get up?” She de-fended herself. “Do you have any idea how much it costs you when you wear that get up?” I shot back, more seriously, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Who was I, anyway, just some guy who would have married her if she’d had a speck of self-control. Of course, I’d been no prize when she’d known me before. Ellen became more serious, too. “Well, Cheryl’s my friend and this is important to her. She’s even talking about being in love. Ha! She wants you to take her virginity for God’s sake.” “Well, maybe I don’t want her virginity!” Cheryl had walked up behind us and heard that. I followed after her, but I literally never saw her again. It would be thirty years before we spoke again. She took exactly the path we laid out together. She quibbled that she’d not entered the foreign service, but being employed by the World Bank was pretty dang close. Anyway, this supposedly twenty-four year old, Steven Spielberg, got Ellen Blanton’s telephone number without difficulty as I hunted in vain for my tearful Cheryl the bunny-girl girlfriend. I’d never been to the Cattlemen’s restaurant, I’d thought it was a nice place to work, not some bar/brothel. Still, they were both just out of high school and I’d known Ellen many years to be one of the best and finest people I’d ever known. I figured her working as a bunny and giving her private telephone number to a guy in his twenties was a lapse on her part.

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“That was the fastest phone number I’ve ever gotten in my whole life!” Steven Spielberg confided as we got into my beige Volkswagen decked out with my ridiculous shag carpeting and eight-track tape deck. Steve thought even less of my eight-track, and he was right. “Well, get used to that. You’re Stephen Spielberg now. Can I see what she wrote for you?” He displayed it to me proudly. I took it from him as if to look at it closely, but “Oops!” threw it out the window instead. He smiled broadly and looked forward through the windshield. “I don’t care. I’ve got it memorized!” And he had, the cradle-robber. The next day, “I talked to Ele last night for four whole hours.” Spielberg bragged. (Ste-phen pronounced ‘Ele’ as ‘Ellie’. I’d known Ellen Blanton a long time, she was brilliant, and she’d finally blossomed beautifully by her eighteenth summer. I’d planned to marry Ellen and would have, if she’d had any self-control. Ronnie Newton was following her around, so perhaps her use of ‘Ele’ was purposeful. Appropriately, I turned her odd new nickname into the extinc-tion level event of Deep Impact. She later used ‘Peggy’ in Austin when I found her with poor, drug-addicted Lee Rudacil, but she switched to ‘Margaret’ Blanton when she relocated out west. Yes, I tried to look her up and tell her about Spielberg. She’d make an excellent witness if I could ever find a non-gutless attorney to sue the little weenie for breech of contract.)

run clip from The Simpsons Homer’s lawsuits are laughed off by the courts. “You must have made quite an impression!” “Yes, yes I think I did.” “But I didn’t leave you alone with her that long!”

run Braveheart meets Princess clip about here.

“She told me everything she knew about you.” “Me? You talk four hours with an intelligent beauty like Ellen Blanton and you chose to talk to her about me? Now I’ve heard everything.” “Well, you’re a mutual acquaintance. And I took copious notes. I call her Ele.” “E.L.E.? You mean like extinction level event? ELE? You know, Ellen is the very best girl in the county. Wealthy, highly intelligent, talented, beautiful.” “What was she thinking? Right?” “No. She’s got to really like you a lot, Steven. I suggest you never see her again.” “I suggest we double date them both and f’ their brains out in a motel room someplace,” he rejoined. “Stevie, they’re just out of high school.” “What am I? Nineteen?”

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“No and that’s the end of it. What about Indy, and we have bigger fish to fry, believe you me!”

President Clinton's Uncle's Hat

Another morning and President Clinton walked in while wearing 'the' Indiana Jones fe-dora. I stood up behind my desk as the President took his hat off. He even had some kind of hat rack for it. "Mr. President! I didn't know you wore a hat." I said admiringly. "Well Yeah. Bubba. What do you think of it? Wore it alot in Russia." "It looks just great on you, sir. It really has character, Mr. President!" “Here are some more letters to type, Bubba. I hope I'm not overloading you." "It is a real pleasure, sir. You don't know how much!" Clinton walked back to Steven's area, which I could see from my desk between the office and Ann's desk. Clinton came back and to get the hat. Steven followed him: "I'm glad for all your help, Will. I know you have lots of other work to do, for the campaign, I mean. But from what I hear, things aren't going so good. We haven't got a chance." "Are we going to loose? Maybe. But not today!" Steven gently confronted our future president: "Roger Mudd said we're, the McGovern campaign, us, we're just going through the motions now." "We may have lost this time, kid, but nobody says we have to like it." He placed the hat on Steven's head, it was a size too big. Steven complained: "It's too big!" But Clinton was ready, "You'll grow."

run clips of Hatting ceremonies from American Tail, I.J. 2, I.J. 3, Always, TV Jones Chronicles.

You look like a clerk!

In the office another day. I was surprised and a bit frightened as I stood up as Hillary ap-proached. Hillary Clinton spoke to me, finally: "Has the President been in yet today?" She spat out the word 'president' in an exaggerated fashion, like she always did when she was around me and I could overhear. But it had lost it’s sarcastic overtones with repetition, even she was getting used to it.

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"No ma'am. Uh. You are looking for him? Ma'am!" I said ma’am a lot to Hillary as it seemed to calm her down. She was all business, but she didn’t like me and she didn’t like fool-ing around, not at all. Hillary spoke as to a misbehaving servant that she couldn’t fire. "Yeah. Bingo Bubbie." Pause "Come to think of it. You know what?" "No ma'am!" "You know you look like a CLERK! I mean, that outfit!" Said so contemptuously that any actress would have trouble portraying her performance. She flicked an index finger at my getup and smiled semi-sarcastically, jerking her head in an exaggerated manner. She spun and walked away in her high heels. I was wearing my uniform, that 'suitlike' outfit of wide tie, bell-bottom navy pinstripe pants with a matching collarless seventies "coat-vest" to match. Somehow, by the Grace of God, I knew what to say. “Yes ma'am. . . . I am a clerk." When she took another look at me while I was speaking, she saw me looking straight forward in real fear of her. "ma'am!" I was dern proud of my job. It's not something she understood too well, at first. She was very very angry at me as much for talking back as for my proud yet fear-ful tone of voice. She became pensive, however, she stood silently watching me stand there just staring out into space for 80 seconds, mellowing. She shook her head a little. Then she turned aside without another word. I remember thanking God for His help, that I was finally getting through to Hillary.

The Voice of Ann Richards

"Ann. You're going to have to develop your voice." "Why Ross? What's wrong with the way I talk?” "Ann, Ann. You are going to be the Governor of Texas. You have to sound like the Gov-ernor of Texas! You'll have to speak more, I don't know, loudly." Ann whined, "Won't the microphones let people hear me?" Ross: "Thousands will jump to do your will, Ann. Your voice will need to, to, well ..." Marybeth Rogers leaned in, "Command respect." Ross: "Yeah. You have to project, like an opera singer. You have to use your diaphragm like this. Here it's easier if you lie down." Ann: "I will not! But you can, Ross dear" "OK. I'll show you what I mean." I climbed onto one of the tables and lay supine. "OK. This is something I learned from Mrs. J. (Clair Johnson, Professor of Flute at SMU), my flute Teacher. Where's a book? Give me a book." I lay supine waiting for a book for my abdo-men.

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Ann: "Oh. That's right. You do play the flute don't you. You'll have to bring it in and let us hear it sometime." Indy: "Looking up. You need a book? Here." Ann took it. Ross: "Ann. The microphones will break down. You have to be ready for that. You must use your diaphragm and support your voice so it will carry. Push on my tummy waaaaaa-WAA. You can make it do that yourself LIKE THIS. Now I'll get off and you try it." Ann: "No Thank-you. I think I'll pass." Indy: "Can Stevie try. Stevie!" Spielberg was reluctant, even irritated. Indy was hesitating. Ross: "Sure. I guess we all should learn." Ann hurried back and got onto the table while Indy hesitated. "K." Ross: "Listen to me, first. You are going to have to practice every day. OK?" Ann: "Where? Here?" Ross: "No Ann. When you wake up." Ann: "Wait a doggone min ..." Ross: "When you wake up, lie there on the bed for this part. Then when you can do it pretty good. Start using the bathroom. Watch yourself in the mirror. Turn yourself into the Governor of Texas." Ann: "But what do I practice?" Steven approached closer. Ross: "Governors give speeches all the time. Honorary this, awarding that and all. Graduation speeches. Do some research. You should have pat speeches for everything. En-dorsements, like when you go to see the President. OK. Ann. Put the book here. Now make it go up and down. Watch it." Ann: "It's hard to see." Stevie and a couple of guys snicker, her breasts were extremely large. "I see it now!" Ross: "Make it go up and down. No when you breathe. Bingo. Now talk when you breath out." Ann: "What do I say?" Ross: "Say Texas, Ann." Ann: "texas" Ross: "Push with your diaphragm. Say Texas, Ann." Ann: "Texas" Ross: "Louder, Ann. Louder." Ann: "TExas" I was getting excited, I motioned others over to hear. "Again! ... Again!!" Ann: "Texas." Ross: Oh come on Ann! Again!!" Ann: "TEXAS"

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Ross: "Bellow it out, ANN!!" Ann: "T E X A S ! ! ! ! ! ! " There was awed silence, but Steven cut into it prematurely breaking it wide open. He was fed up with what seemed like to him to be just another pointless spectacle. Steven: "Haven't you had enough of that? Look at you. What are you doing?" He turned his back as he spoke and walked off. Steven still had his back turned. My left hand clenched like I was holding something heavy with three fingers. My voice strained with self-aware incredulity and anger. Like, wow, I'm saying this, so dang it! I spoke their names too slowly, “Steven SPIELBERG! This is ANN RICHARDS! ANN RICHARDS! And I'm teaching her public speaking! This is so cool. Here I am on a first name basis with Steven Spielberg. We're friends. Steven Spielberg standing right here, just like a normal person!” Stephen Spielberg just stood there and laughed a little, then shook his head and retreated into the bathroom. Hey, Stevie! Thirty-five years later. Hello Mr. Household word. Now look at me! I’ve got all these cool memories, mostly about how wonderful you were. Don’t you wish I could tell the whole world about how generous you are, you cheap son of a gun! Hey! Now why don’t you write?

Jedi Knights “OH Shut the f’ up, Ross! What is this about? This isn’t some adolescent vacation. Is it about us following Goldylocks in there?” Steve was grumpy today. He pointed toward Clinton’s office. “Because if it is, I’m not here to follow Jed Clampett, I am doing important work.” “Oh yes.” I agreed. “It IS important work, Ross.” Steve reiterated. “Yes. I agree. But Steven.” My calm voice soothed his agitation. “Jedi are we.” “WHAT! What the hell?” “We are Jedi. Me and you, Steven, we are the very first of Jed. We are Jedi, Jedi Knights. What? Nobody’s told you?” “No. Nobody’s told me, but I betcha five bucks you’re going to tell me.” He just stood there, so I dug out a fiver and gave it to him. So I told him about the Jedi. One Jed, two Jedi. Jedi means ‘of Jed’. It was perhaps what he talked about with Hillary when ran into her, i.e. fol-lowed her, to the diner down the street where they each bought their own lunches, but sat across from one another, but at the same table together. That was as close as Spielberg ever got. I saw to that. She did like Stephen Spielberg. It looked to me like she liked him more than she liked Mr. President, actually, but of course, I was there to see that he didn’t get too frisky. It was later, perhaps that same evening, I was typing passionately. I always typed ardu-ously without any errors. Hillary was leaving and she marched right past my desk to the front

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door. She paused, came about-face and stepped back quickly to my desk and said, "You're strangely dressed … " Hillary boldly picked at my vest and flipped my wide paisley tie up into my face "… for a knight!" She smiled kindly at my reaction. Satisfied, she marched out the door. She must have given Steven a second look, because she was all he could talk about after that.

For your grandchildren to read

Back at my desk on another morning, from my seat at my desk talking to a woman a cou-ple of years older than the President, maybe, and dressed in a lady's gray business suit/skirt and hat. "Then this is your letter ma'am. The President asked me to type it for you. Here this will save a stamp." The lady in the suit took the document. "The President? Nixon?" She opened it. Looked at it. “This is from Bill Clinton.” "Yes ma'am. You know, that is a very nice letter. He hasn't written a lot of them that nice." The lady in the suit looked surprised, "You read it?" Men were seldom secretaries at that time, in fact it was virtually unheard of, especially in rural Texas from which she hailed. "Yes ma'am. Actually I think that's about the nicest one yet. He said a lot of complemen-tary things there, too. Like in that third paragraph." I gently touched the letter in her hand. "And you know because?" She was very correct, somewhat incredulous, but not un-kindly. Kind of like she was amazed to find a friendly idiot working here. I piped up, "I've had the honor of typing most of his letters for him." I sat down behind my desk and opened the letter file. "What I'm trying to warn you about..." The lady in the suit remained incredulous, "Warn me?" "Well, tell you about is that you should keep that letter ma'am. Don't let anything happen to it. Put it away for your grandchildren to read." The lady looked at the letter again but remained incredulous still: "Because?" I stood and looked at the letter and talked as though to myself. "Look! He even signed it 'Bill.' That's a first." Then to her, “Because? Because he's going to become President of the United States, ma’am." The lady in the suit was consistent, I’ll give her that: "He is?" "I see that you haven't met him yet." Suddenly I stood bolt upright & looked nervous, just like always. Clinton had crossed the threshold. He is in schmooze mode. He was abso-lutely fixed in his eye to eye contact with the lady in the grey suit. I was mesmerizing in a way. The lady gushed a little, but the President never took notice of it. Her change from somewhat arrogant with me to giddy girlishness with Bubba Clinton was pretty cool. I hoped that I had had something to do with her admiration, but I rather doubted it. They chatted in a friendly

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manner. He shook her hand, congratulating her. She was some hick county DEC chairperson. He introduced her to Ann Richards like Ann was the most important person in the world, then he excused himself, smiling. He withdrew to his office after thanking her warmly, but profession-ally. As Clinton finally entered his office and closed the door, I could at last sit down, relieved as usual. Ann talked to her a long time, congratulating her and they went over to her desk for something. Then Ann brought her back to the door, but she excused herself for a moment and detoured over to me just before she was about to leave. I didn’t know what to expect. "Young man." She made sure she got my attention and smiled warmly at me for the first time. "Thank-you, young sir. I'll put my letter away in a safe place" she started to turn, then she wheeled back to me and looked at me a few seconds then she finished with a deep breath "for my grandchildren to read! Goodbye!" She put me in tears, she really did. Dang. That was the very first letter ‘Bill Clinton’ ever signed as a Democratic official. It’ll be worth, what, $10,000.00 by now? I had had a big argument about it with Mr. Foster, since I wanted to keep the letter for posterity when I had typed the silly thing. Now we have to wait for it. A dated car-bon copy should be among Ann Richards’ papers, from that obtain the address and fetch the original. I’ve said it before and here I’ll say it again, It belongs in a museum!

run clip Raiders of the Lost Ark near the end “Fools”run clip Indiana Jones II, “It belongs in a museum!”run clip Indiana Jones III, “It belongs in a museum!”

Hillary loves the New York Yankees

Hillary Rodham-Clinton really throws her head back and lets off steam with a New York Yankees baseball cap. She was so totally at ease talking about how much she loved the New York Yankees baseball team, and she actually wore the cap that Spielberg had. I certainly wouldn’t have put that on my head, but she was unafraid. She didn’t care where that scruffy old cap had been. She wrecked her hair-do, she didn’t care. She pulled that thing all the way down and made faces, ... and noises. Mind you, this was a beautiful lady, always dressed to the nines. Yet she did this facial tongue and lower-lip inversion exaggeration of lips with childish talk and laughing. Her fan behavior was a real surprise. In Dixie, we really don’t have extremely happy, body painter type fans like that, to my knowledge, except perhaps fraternity boys at homecom-ing. She let herself be carried away with what I considered to be childish sports adoration. When Hillary Clinton unwinds about baseball, she unwinds all the way. So she stayed wound up way too tight, more than anyone of ordinary intelligence could tolerate, and then unwound very nearly too far. It wasn’t manic-depressive or crazy, but it was just within the bounds of normal behavior. It is quite possible that she decided to live in New York and become a United States Senator from New York, merely to get box seats at Yankee games. I am serious, OK, semi-

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serious. Heck, maybe I am serious.

I donʼt know! I'm just makin' this up as I go along.

"Mr. President how do you it?" I was thinking of the excitement he generated in people, like in that podunk county DEC chair-lady or Stephen Spielberg. I didn’t usually talk as I stood up for Clinton, so it took him aback a little. "What are you talking about? How do I do what?" Clinton seemed in a hurry, as usual. "How do you keep. How do you do so many things and. You know do all of this all at once? How did you plan all this?" He paused for a second. "I don't know. Bubba. I'm guess I'm just makin' this all up as I go along!"

And only the two of us know!

I was standing again another time, "Mr. President, I couldn't help but notice." Stopping, Clinton mused: "Hmmm?" The President was clearly thinking about some-thing else. "Yes, sir. I couldn't help but notice the way you signed that letter this morning, for that lady."

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Breaking into a warm smile as he gave me all his attention. "Sit down, Bubba. Yeah. I thought I'd run that by you and see what you thought. Kind of a professional name. You know? William's too formal & Bubba's too well, familiar, too family." "I like it Mr. President! I like it a lot!" Then my voice broke a little as I quietly repeated, "Bill Clinton, Bill Clinton, Bill Clinton!" I paused, stood up again looking into space and bowed my head to pray. "What's the matter, now Bubba? Are you all right?" He hated it when I scared him like that. I dropped to my knees and stared above Clinton's head. I was having a vision of the Al-mighty putting his cupped hands on Clinton's head. All I remember was that I was so afraid that I didn’t remember what was said. "MY God!" It was a prayer, not a swear, then afraid to tell the President what I had just 'seen', instead I told him: "This is such an honor. Here I am ... at the very beginning." "Get up off the floor." Clinton was concerned if not alarmed. "What are you talking about?" (Hey! Bubba! It’s clear NOW, isn’t it?) "Mr. President, this is the greatest honor of my life. Here I am at the very beginning ... of everything! Thank-you Mr. President!" I stuck out my hand suddenly and melodramatically. Clinton took it guardedly but calmly. Exaggeration was necessary to imprint the episode on his mind, I suppose. "Oh. I get you now. Yeah Bubba. I guess this is the very beginning isn't it?" It was amazing to have made him aware of the fact. I still get chills remembering. "Yes sir. It is." We just stood there looking at each other, Clinton smiled, but I spoke with anguish. "And only the two of us know!"

run clip about here: Close Encounters of the Third Kind, “and only the two of us know!”

Clinton became impatient with me. “Yeah well, I gotta go. Let go of my hand, Ross. Thanks.” I did and he left through the front door. I collapsed my face to one knee, exhausted. "My God, my God!" I drew a deep breath. "I almost lost him, Lord!"

Steven pops out "of hiding"

Steven had been eavesdropping: "Yeah. You came pretty close there." He sounded a lit-tle sarcastic and not himself at all. "Huh?" said I as my eyes hunted the darkness for the intruder. Steve piped up again, like he was directing a scene or something. "I was starting to won-der just how much longer he was going to take it. What are you going to do next?” "I don't know. I'm just making all this stuff up as I go along!"

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"Five more minutes would've been enough." I confessed. "If you know that he doesn't buy any of this B.S. What do you keep on with it for?" Was that really Spielberg in the shadows back in 1972, or was it satan? "Steven. Listen to me." "Uh oh." "I just saved the entire Free World, no actually the whole world." "OH YEAH. Commies, too I suppose?" In 1972, the communists were winning. "There won't be any communists then." I predicted confidently. "Then when?" Spielberg retorted. I answered matter-of-factly, "When Clinton takes office. He'll be the first or second af-ter" "WHAT! When Clinton takes office! You are not just kidding him, you are kidding yourself!" "You know Steven, I'm glad you saw us, the President and me, you peeping Tom, you." "Peeping Tom is something else. The word is eavesdropping and I wasn't eavesdropping! Hey.” He walked away some then used both hands to motion toward his desk. "I am working over here!" After yet another moment of reflection, "You know. You two were talking pretty loud. Oh God! Oh God" he mimicking me derisively, "heh heh heh." “You know why, Steven. Why I am glad you eavesdropped on us?" "I merely overheard you. Anybody would have, too." "You know why I am glad you merely overheard us, Steven?" Spielberg was uncomfortable, "No." "Because no one would ever believe it if it came from anyone else but you." There, I killed two birds with one stone. I just loved zinging Steven Spielberg. I was born for that job! (It doesn’t pay terribly well, though.) "Huh?" I was always surprising Steven. It’s like he was from another culture or some-thing. "Nobody'd ever believe it otherwise." I said. "How do you figure?" "The only way people will ever believe what happened here today is if it comes from your mouth. The mouth of the great, world famous Steven Spielberg!" Steven: "Oh, yeah. Uh. Ross." Ross: "Yeah, Stevie?" Steven: "Nice touch." Ross: "Thanks." We both laughed. "Hey. You asked for this you know! Do you re-member?" Steven: "Yeah. I remember."

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Planning the Demise of European communism

"OK." Steve was incredulous "I've got ya now. You said Clinton would be the first presi-dent after communism? What does it do, the Berlin Wall, does it just fall?" Ross: "Yeah. I think nobody get’s hurt even." Steven: "So the Iron Curtain does fall?" Ross: "YEAH! That’s the plan! We will see 'em gone in our lifetime." Steven: “That’d be nice, OK, how?” Ross: “I have absolute power. I guess I can do it now.” Steven: "What are you the Messiah? Hey! No way I'm gonna let you get away with that! Give me a date. When is all this going to happen?" "Steven, I don't rightly know. Mid to late eighties, if I remember rightly." "MAN! You are so full of it! Remember?" He became angry, like I was trashing his re-ligion. "OK. What year. The Berlin Wall's coming down, Whew! What year Jiminy Cricket? Oh ho!" "1989." Steven: "You're changing it already! That's not mid eighties! OK, OK. Give me a date then. Give me a specific date, dernit. If you know that the Berlin Wall is going to fall down, you can give me a date. I'll remember and then I'll know whether this is all just b.s. or not." Ross: "A test? I don't know. NovemberDecember." Steven: "A date!" Ross: "December." Steven: "A day date!" Ross: “What? The announcement? The party? The ninth! Or seventeenth? Uh. Uh. I can't give you a day date. It was the first half of the month. One big party on the wall, chopping it down. Lots of lights."

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With Steven’s urging, we decided to change the date to Crystalnacht, between the ninth and tenth day in November, named for the street glass after 1938 nazi hordes broke every Jewish shop window in Germany killing and burning thousands and thousands. Now there will be a real miracle for Germany to celebrate for Crystalnacht! Anyway, Steve wrote these into his note-book. He rewrapped it with a rubber band and gave it a loud pop. He must have lost it all. "That's how I am going to tell if all this is on the level or not. When that day comes I am going to check this and then we'll see! Absolute power, my ass!" Hi Steve! Has anybody ever said hello to you in a book before? Hello! Anybody home? Show me your family. Where are your sons? How come I haven’t seen your sorry ass since 1972? Huh? Explain that? “Yeah I'm gonna leave in a few minutes. Hey, uh. Stevie." Steven: "Yeah, what is it this time?" Ross: "Listen. You didn't see a muscular, gray-headed old man up in the air back there, with me and the President?" Steven: "When then? Just then?" Ross: "The old man put his hand on the President's head. Did you?" Steven: "Help no. What are you talking about, again?" Ross: "Just wanted to make sure. I guess I'm seeing things. Forget it." Steven: "You need to see a doctor, because you’re certifiable." Ross: "Steven. Maybe this is real?" Steven: "Just in your head, maybe." Later on I asked him, "Steve. Who was that guy who rubbed David's hair with oil? Was it Isaiah?" Steven knew: "Samuel. Isaiah was much later." His voice became sharp. "Why?" Ross: "Oh I don't know. Probably something I should remember, that's all."

Virginia again

Virginia spoke as I answered the phone on my desk. "Hello is this Ross?" Ross: "Yes ma'am, Mrs. Clinton?" Virginia: "You're an angel." I became serious, defensive, and suspicious, "Why ma’am, what ever made you say that?" Virginia: "It's true. You are an angel, aren't you!" Ross: "Well Mrs. Clinton." Virginia: "Don't try to tell me different. I know." Ross: "Yes ma'am. But I didn't think you were supposed to know. What is going on?" Virginia: "I knew it!"

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Virginia: "You know how I knew?" Her voice broke a little. "I was calling to tell him, to tell my son, that I'd been diagnosed with breast cancer! That's the only way you could have known to warn me not to tell him." Ross: "Oh. I am so sorry, Mrs. Clinton. I did not know!" I was now moved instead of guarded or amused. Virginia: "But I thought that? How else did you know to ..." Ross: "Oh Mrs. Clinton!" I was crying. "I am so sorry!" I sobbed, my heart really went out to her. "All I knew was what to say I don't know why!" Virginia: "But" Ross: "Oh Mrs. Clinton! Nobody tells me anything. I don't know what I'm saying my own self half the time!" Virginia: “Well, I just want to ask for one thing, special.” I swallowed. “What is it?” “I just want to meet Barbara Streisand” “Well, you’re going to be the mother of the President of the United States of America. So Barbara Streisand will just be tickled pink to come see you and be your friend.” “Will she still be alive? Movie stars lead hard lives.” “I see what you mean. We’ll I’ll put in a special word for her and we’ll just keep her safe, just for you. How about that?” Hello, Dr. Streisand. Virginia says ‘hi’!

Here comes your ANGEL now

The future first lady, New York Senator, and President of the United States had her high heels off and her legs tucked under her skirt in a winged armchair in the corner of Bubba Clinton's office. Hillary saw me and hailed me, too loudly, in welcome. "WELL! Here comes your ANGEL now!!!" Hillary spoke melodramatically in high dungeon. No kidding, she talked like this. When reading she also pronounced "the" as "thee" and "a" as "ay" instead of using the soft pronunciation the rest of us learned in grammar school expressive reading. We noticed it, and told her to keep it, so you hear it in her It Takes A Village talking book where she does the reading herself. She is ever mindful of the elementary students who might be listening, I think that was her logic, her remembering her kindergarteners and doing it for them. There is no doubt at all that Prin-cess Leia of Lucas Star Wars fame took lessons from Hillary Rodham as a brave and very determined young woman. Anyone greeted in such a manner would feel immediate consternation, but my comeback was both adroit and quick. "Why Thank-you ma'am! I do try to behave my-self!" Then I turned to the business at hand, "Mr. President, here is Ann's roster for Sat-urday. I've typed it for her as she asked. Her original is attached."

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"Thank you, Ross." Clinton was sincere, but not overdone, like a judge about to hear a trial. I spoke to both of them, "Funny. You know that's the second time this week I've been called that." Hillary was fuming! "I must be doin' better!" Clinton was incredulous and admiring, "Before you go, Ross. I want you to an-swer me something." "Yes sir. Anything, Mr. President." I answered forthrightly. "How do YOU do it?" he asked simply, clearly. He was returning my same ques-tion posed earlier to him before Hillary arrived. His answer got into Raiders of the Lost Ark. This time, Stephen wasn’t around to record it. I know it disappointed him and Steve, and Hillary and all of them that I didn’t pick up on those references. They thought my intelligence quotient was about average. Of course, I figured out the cure for crime, so? Maybe remembering it thirty-five years later will impress them? No, maybe not. "Well." Here I was worried and looking at my amused boss, then I slowly swung my gaze to Hillary, livid in the corner, well aware that every nuance was being watched by two of the sharpest prosecutors around. "It is kind of a miracle isn't it?" I said, looking straight at Hillary. I looked back to Clinton and continued, "I mean. Well sir. You are both so much faster witted than I am, yet I always have just the right thing to say, some-how. Don't I? Especially with Mrs. Clinton here." Hillary may have been electrified by being called Mrs. Clinton, perhaps she wasn't yet sure about marrying Bubba Clinton and only knew she liked being around him (or his sheets, actually, according to Virginia). "I've really got to be on my toes around her!" I motioned with my right hand opened up-ward toward the future first lady, senator and president, naturally. My speech was matter of fact without affectation, this time. The President looked at her pleased. Hillary stared back only at Clinton now, big-eyed, intent and happy in a childish yet mature and know-ing way. It was clear that I was no longer in the room for Hillary. She was a woman in love, deeply in love, and she looked at the man she loved knowing that she pleased him with her deportment. She cared about nothing else, least of all me. “Oh, and while we’re all here,” I looked at beautiful Hillary, transfixedly staring at the love of her life, “you need to send Mrs. Clinton a gift, ma’am. I, I can take care of that for you if you want.” Hillary stood up. “Who is this person who speaks to me as though I needed his advice?” she inquired in high dungeon. Clinton hesitated but announced, “I have made Ross, my secretary.” “Is he qualified?” Hillary inquired politely and she guided me to the door of Clin-ton’s office. “I can type thirty words per minute, ma’am!” I chimed as she walked me back toward my desk outside his office.

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“Tell me, what advice would you offer on our … PRESENT SITUATION?” SLAM! Before she could finish her sentence, I’d been pushed out of his office by the door shutting behind me leaving the two of them alone on the other side of the door. Everybody laughed and applauded at Hillary’s cleverness, but there I was, down a peg. It was extremely funny, regal, and a little peculiar, so it broke the tension. “You’re lucky she didn’t throw you out a window, Ross!” Ann added to my em-barrassment. I joined in, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! SPLAT!” Just like a roadrunner cartoon, I sat down, I was safe. Spielberg laughed the hardest, mimicking with so much joy he almost couldn’t finish, “Who is this person who speaks to me as though I needed his advice?”

run clip from Braveheart King throws high counselor out the window.

Right after the furor had died down, Clinton quickly opened the door again and acknowledged the well-wishers, Hillary came to the door and curtsied to a standing ova-tion, then she sat down on the sofa and Clinton stood almost in the doorway with his back to me. (He had to cross that threshold before I was triggered to stand up for him, so he was careful to stay on his side. Either that or he just didn’t care.) Still I could hear them talking. “I don’t think that woman would ever accept any gift of mine,” Hillary said to Clinton disapprovingly. “Say, what kind of gift did you have in mind, Ross?” Clinton interjected over his shoulder. I lifted my voice up, now fully redeemed. I spoke with a clear, confident voice. “An Emersonian gift, Mr. President. Food and flowers. A token, that’s all.” I said, knowing that Hil-lary’s eyes must have almost popped out of her head with incredulity. “And you’re sure my momma will accept it?” he asked.

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“Yes sir.” I told him. “Well, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it? Maybe he’s right?” Clinton offered to her. I spoke past him, or tried “I could see to it personally for you ma’am, if you like…” but Hillary cut me off with exasperation as she emerged to leave. “No. I’ll do it.” She said with an air of resignation. She wasn’t talking to me, but I got half a glance from her. “But tell me Ross, what has America got to do with his mother?” I looked straight at Hillary Clinton in August of 1972, “Because you will be president of America.” “Why is he looking at ME like that?” queried Hillary Rodham about to be Rodham-Clinton becoming annoyed. “I’m not getting sucked into this game of his!” “No ma’am,” I looked at Clinton defensively, “uh, yes ma’am. I mean, you will become President of America after he does, ma’am.” I just couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth. Hillary often used words that I couldn’t understand, but I do remember the BUSTER part quite well. “OK, THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD ABOUT ENOUGH OF YOUR UNSOLICITED(?) COMMENTS, BUSTER!” Hillary rose, and I took instant flight, I’d already scoped out my exit routes as I spoke. I ran out of the building, to my car, and sped off. I didn’t dare look back. Hil-lary inspired awe and respect, even as a twenty-four-year-old love-sick puppy. She also inspired something more, at least for me: cold fear. I went back and finished my typing later, AFTER her car was gone. Funny, I don’t remember what kind of car she drove and I never saw her drive. Clinton drove a new station wagon. Ann’s Toyota hatchback was a couple years old (I told her to ditch it and buy American. It was her one regret, because she really liked that Toyota. It would crank and get out of there when you were being chased by nuts with guns.) Speaking of guns, the adults all armed themselves, except Spielberg. Ann kept a long barreled pistol locked in her desk. Talbot played with somebody’s semi-automatic pistol, and Ann told me that Hillary carried something in her purse for protection.

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Hillary apologizes to me

When I got back from my McDonald’s coffee trip, Hillary had come in to help and she was in Clinton’s office when I handed him his morning coffee & receipt. She looked back at Mr. President for reassurance. “Ross. I sent his mother the gift you suggested, and all is well now. So there you have it. OK?” I didn’t get it, in fact, I had forgotten the entire earlier incident. I smiled, said nothing, and withdrew. The President prepared her and he came out in a few min-utes to get me. Electrically, I stood up in respect. “Ross, come into my office, Hillary has something she wants to tell you.” I followed the President into his office. Hillary sat pleasantly on the cloth couch. She was perfectly composed, beautiful and generous. Of course, she did not get up, but addressed me from the seated position appropriately. I did get it now. It had worked, and I had saved America. She was calm, steady, well-mannered, regal, “Ross, you have done me, you have done us, a great service. I am now welcome into my husbands” her eyebrow lifted “family. Yes. You have performed a miracle.” “Oh, I didn’t do anything!” “Well perhaps not, but I’m very grateful to you in any event. I want to know if there is something I could do for you in return for your help?” “Well….” I stammered. “ANYTHING!” Clinton humorously interjected excitedly as if with relief. “Not anything, anything within reason.” Hillary quietly corrected. “What is it you want, Ross?” “Well, ma’am. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble …” “Speak up, Ross.” Hillary Clinton’s patience quickly wore thin with theatrics. “Well ma’am, it would be really nice, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a person-ally guided tour of the White House.” “I beg your pardon?” She flashed a look at Mr. President, but remained composed. “Oh! After you become President, I mean.” I asked timidly looking at both of them, so I wouldn’t get chased again. Hillary looked both amused and perhaps a little dazed. She picked up her half full bottle of Coke and swilled it down in one gulp, shrugging. “OK. Sure! Now, is that it?” Clinton stepped in smiling broadly, “What are you thinking, Ross. Yeah. Right now?” “I’m thinkin’ I’m the luckiest young man on God’s green earth, to have such an honor bestowed upon me like this.” Later, Clinton approached me in awe, with a hugh stack of work to type. I stood up in-stantly. “You think a lot of her, don’t you, Ross.” “Well, sir, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever known, by quite a ways, but …”

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Ross: “Put them in Huntsville!” (Huntsville, Texas, was the location of Texas’ harshest maximum security prison in 1972). Ann: “I was just kidding, Ross.” Ross: “WELL I’M NOT! You have it, Ann! Paying divorce payments …” Ann interrupted “alimony” Ross: “Paying alimony and child support, if they don’t do it, throw them in Huntsville. That is so important and here the state does nothing about it! They drive nice, big, new cars, divorced wives drive 1950 Studebakers." (My divorced grandmother was driving a 1950 Stude-baker Champion at that time.) Ann laughed, "If they even drive at all." I was serious, "A man abandoning his family is responsible for putting his family on wel-fare. Here is a man ordered by a state court to provide support, but the state of Texas does it for him and he pays no penalty, no fine. He is free to drive our roads, do business with the state and take state services. He even enjoys good credit while his family faces starvation because of his meanness. That's wrong. There's a wrong that needs righting for you, Ann. Wow. And prison. Don't forget the prison. Men who skip out like that really belong in Huntsville." Ann: "Oh. I don't know about going that far. You can’t throw somebody in prison for being a deadbeat." Ross: “The HELL You can’t! Who will you stand up for, Ann? I’ll tell you. You’ll stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, women and babies impoverished, forced onto welfare, victims of our indifference. Is that why you're going to be governor, Ann? It is isn't it, sure it is." Ann: "Ross. Uh Oh. You've got that faraway look in your eye! Maybe we should talk about something else? What were you boys talking about back there yesterday?" Ross: "Well. It sure is an important reason. Just think of all the Americans your idea will affect; through generations and generations." Ann: "Oh its not my idea. I think every woman who's been through divorce has similar things cross her mind." Ross: "But you will carry it through." Ann: "Me?" Ross: "Who else could do it, but the hero, Ann Richards?" “Are you serious?” “YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT I AM!” and I struck the table. “Well, we certainly couldn’t fill up the prisons with debtors, Ross.” “Prison? OK, maybe just for the worst ones, the ones with three abandoned families, driving Cadillacs, country-club members, just to set the example.” “Well, it would sure get everyone’s attention pretty quick.” “That’s the spirit, ANN! You know you never disappoint me, ever!” “Oh Ross! So! What were you boys up to back there. Y'all were so excited."

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“Be sure you write it up and show it to Clinton. Back there? Oh, Stevie knocked me out." Ann: "What?!" Ross: "You didn't hear about it? Oh just for a few seconds. (minutes, hours?) It's noth-ing Ann. Really." I tested my jaw for her, exaggerating, then checking my teeth with my tongue. "Still you could ask him not to do it again. I think I got a loose tooth." Ann: "Let me see!" I opened my mouth and tried to say 'this one' 'no this one' 'no this one' maybe this one?' I laughed like I'd fooled her. Ann: "Oh Ross. You exaggerate so!" Ross: "We were making up stories and that was all part of one. You know Ann you should help, too." Ann: "Sorry Ross. I am just not good at makin’ up stories." I was disappointed, “But! You put him up to it!" Ann: "I did not!" Ross: "Well. You helped. You told him everybody wanted to see family movies again. Now here's your chance to actually contribute. The President has helped him, too. Bigtime. Comemon, Ann. These movies'll make hundreds of millions of dollars!" Ann: "Ross" She held my shoulders and looked straight into my eyes., and spoke sin-cerely: "I don't doubt you, Ross. I am just not good at makin’ up stories. That's all." Ann let a few seconds tick off. "Ross. Let me have your attention. How's he doin'?" She motioned to-ward Steve's area. "I noticed you workin' on him, too." Tears came to my eyes as my voice broke. "Ann. He's gonna do great!" Ann put her arm around me and hugged me. Just then Clinton walked in and saw us. He came over to us. Ross: "Mr. President. Come here, sir. Yes sir. Ann Richards! has something to share with you, sir!" Ann told him about our little plan for deadbeat dad state laws. Clinton came up with interstate compacts to track out-of-state deadbeat dads, I think, but his first contribution was: Clinton’s eyes lit up, “HUNTING LICENSES!” He just knew that withholding hunting licenses from deadbeat dads would give them the incentive to pay up. Bill Clinton, sad to say, was a gun nut/hunt nut, and so was Ann as it turned out.

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Big White World Book Bible scene

"This what I would look for.” I showed Steven the Bible illustration of the Ark of the Cove-nant.

run clip from Raiders Jones shows G men old book picture on table "and have him dig it up right under their noses!" I said contemptuous of nazis.

run Raiders of the Lost Ark clip of Jones and group digging under the noses of nazis.

"That is not it!" Steve exclaimed. “Whats the matter Stevie. Didn't you ever go to Sunday school?" Steven indignantly indicated no. "Sorry. Hebrew school? Well look it doesn't matter. Here. This wasn't the ark you were talking about? Then you know the one in The Ten Commandments?" I began to laugh "You wanted him to look for the big boat! Oh please." Steven: "Why would Hitler want it? He hated Jewish things, didn't he?" Ross: "No. I thought he was fascinated by religious relics? I'm pretty sure he was some kind of a nut on the subject. Yes. And imagine what Hitler would have done with this!" Steven: "What?" Ross: “An army that carries the ark before it is invincible. Why, the armies of darkness would have marched all over the face of the earth!" Steven: "It wasn't a weapon." He spoke almost dead pan, in two words, like 'idwaznt aweapon' Ross: "Arc of the Covenant, and what are these laser shots?" Steve: "This is so cool. Wow that's right! Only that's not a laser beam. They didn't have lasers back then. It'll have to be lightening." He thumps the picture. "Lightning? Does that look like lightning? Look Stevie. Hey. God does what he wants. He has absolute access to any technology any time; and it's not limited to our feeble imagina-tions. And this is a Bible so don't hit at it. Uh!” Steven intently held the Book up and looked at the spine then he roughly turned the pages to the beginning frontispiece. "Now what are you looking for?" I asked. Steve: "Oh. Sorry. The title page, if it even has one. Aha. Here." Ross: "What for?" Steve: "I need the publisher and library of Congress number so I can find this book again." Ross: "They do that for Bibles? I know for regular books, but." Steve: "A book is a book."

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Ross: "O.K. but Bibles are special. We have to take care of them." Steve: "O.K. A Special Book is special, but it's still a book." Steve wrote on the paper held inside the open Bible. Ross: Seeing Steve put the piece of paper on top of the Bible "Steven. Don't do that! We have special rules for Special Books. Out of respect. Don't look at me like that. We must never put anything on top of it, whether it's closed or open. And we must never handle it roughly!" Steve: "Really? Wow, no kidding? Say, I'm sorry! I didn't realize, that's all. You know we have special rules sorta like that, too. That's right. For instance, say! Wait ahminit, I see you guys writing in Bibles all the time!" Ross: "Huh?" Steve: "You guys write in them with colored pens and marker pens! I've seen it!" He was a little hostile Ross: "I am not 'you guys'. I am telling you what I know. Every Word is Precious and must be treated with dignity and respect. And you don't put anything on top of Bibles!" I pushed the paper off and retreated off to go back to work nearby. Steve spoke again after a few moments reflection. "You know why they made that rule, don't you? About not putting anything on top of the Bible?" I turned from my work to look at Steve whose closeness freaked me a little. "Oh. Uh huh." Steve: "It just occurred to me. If you don't put anything on top of it, it stays in view, ready to be read. At all times." We both smiled at each other and nodded in agreement.

Twenty-five Trillion

"Yes Ann. I do have a big mouth. And its going to get bigger! People are watching you now, Ann." Ann: "I'll play along! Where?" Ross: “Say hello, Ann."

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Ann gave a little wave and she looked away at the corners of the ceiling, a little delighted wondering. "Really? How many, Ross ?" Ross: "Hard to say, Ann. I guess there's twenty-five trillion or so looking at you right now. Take a bow, Ann." Ann: "A bow?" she curtsied. "Why?" I gave it to her in a weird slow halting voice, "They're cheering you, Ann." "Hear them?" I stiffened my right arm and hand like I was holding a bowling ball, I lifted it up, higher, higher, higher, as if encouraging cheers! Ann: "Me? I don't hear anything!" Seeing my motions which I pretend not to be aware of myself "Oh Ross. You are a crazy sort of wonderful. Why are they cheering? I haven't done anything." Ross: "They know you from your time in office, Ann." I said in the same voice. Ann: "They're cheering? Are they all cheering? Are they all cheering?" Ross: "Almost all of them." I make a gesture toward the blank wall like I'm chiding audience holdouts. "They want you to succeed, Ann. They want you to succeed, Ann." Ann: “How?" Ross: “My big mouth. I guess they see you through my eyes, Ann." Ann: "Awl Ross ! You are crazy. But its a good kind of crazy." She bear hugged me.

Relic relic, nazi fires

Ross: Holding my large white family Bible open to the ark of the covenant color painting. "May He who illuminated this, illuminate me." Steve was smiling "Ross. Wassamadda? You need a light bulb? How about a fluores-cent tube?" Ross: "Illumination has more than one meaning, Steven. For instance, I've just used two that you obviously don't know."

Word a day calendar illumination about here. Ross: "Penitent, penitent, penitent." Steve: "What are you mumbling about now?" Ross: "Do you have any idea what the word 'penitent' means, Steve?" Steve: "being humble before God." Ross: "I thought it has something to do with kneeling.” Steve: “Uh. I don't think so. But maybe." Ross: "I know that a penitent man kneels before God." Steve: "Oh? Yeah. Commere. I got something me and Will cooked up."

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We spoke over each other, I said, "It's your movie." He said, "It's my movie." Ross: "Just one thing, Steve. I want you to do me a favor which I'd really appreciate." Steve: “What." I spoke again with evident hatred, "When the nazi touches it make sure it burns his hand." I thought it would be some sort of Jewish religious or sacred artifact. Like crosses burn vam-pires.

run clip about here Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy1 Nazi burns had on the Egyptian amulet.

Dividing Spoils

Steven sat while I stood at my desk talking to the President in a staccato voice: "Mr. President. It is a LOT of money, Mr. President." I felt agitated again. Clinton spoke calmly. He was used to my fits and overlooked my behavior because I typed well & he liked the coffee I’d gofer. "I don't think we ought to ask for anything in return for our help. After all, we all want to see a return of movies that the whole family can go to the movies and see together. If that concept is as important to you as it is to me, I'm sure you'll see the wisdom of it. Steven here is willing to take the risk and spend many weeks of his time ..." Steven interrupted, "Months even years." Then he looked slyly at me. "WHAT! Actu-ally, it is about ten months work." Clinton: “...this represents a small effort on our part which I for one am willing to forego remuneration." Ross: "Its millions and millions AND MILLIONS of dollars, Mr. President." Clinton: "Huh?" He looked at me like I had a screw loose, even a little irritated and then to Steven: "How much is he talking about?" But Spielberg knew how to keep his mouth shut. "A couple or three percentage points." It was my turn to get a little upset. “Mr. President. Is this fair?" Clinton turned to me "Huh? Is what fair, Ross?" a little more irritated, then slacking off he looked at Steve who shrugged his shoulders.

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"I mean, sir. You are going to be President of the United States. Hillary is getting a Grammy. Steven here is going to make movies all by himself." Clinton reacted doubtingly while Spielberg reacted like 'right on!' "I mean think of me. I mean, I'm not going to get any-thing out of this. Not even a memento like that really nice letter you wrote for that lady. She'll be able to keep that all of her life. I'm not going to have anything and, well, all this money would be ...." “Hillary gets a Grammy?” Clinton asked, incredulously. “Stevie, you tell him.” I said. Steve just looked bewildered. “Um, sure!” he stammered. “We talked about it.” I resigned completely, "Very well. Steven Spielberg. We give this to you freely. We expect no compensation whatsoever. Look the President of the United States will be your wit-ness." Clinton felt this matter was resolved and slipped back into his office to compile more work for me to type up, with the emphasis on ‘pile’. I looked at Steve, "Steve?" "Yeah?" he came back as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Steven I want you to know something." I looked again to see his door shut and that the President was safely out of earshot. "OK," he said sipping. I waited for his full attention, then “SCREW HIM!" Steven Spielberg almost spilled his coffee "What?!" It was time to cut up: "SCREW HIM, I WANT TO GET PAID!!! Millions and Millions and Millions! SCREW HIM I WANT TO GET PAID!!! Yehaw! Yes Yes Yes YES YES!" "Good grief, Ross, calm down." He was first alarmed then wryly pleased, his faith in human greed restored, "I thought you were on his side?" "Who? Clinton? I got no loyalty to him. Not when its this much money. You are gonna pay me, right?" My words quietly spoken, I looked at him anxiously. He played right into my hands. “OK. Sure, Ross. I'll pay." He was surprisingly nonchalant, standing there drinking cof-fee. I took a gigantic breath, “Its just so much money, wow! Oh ho ho ho oh OH OH OH! Wheeeeeee. I'm gonna be rich. I'm gonna be rich. Rich! Rich! Rich! Rich! Sonofavich! Moneeeeeey!" I danced around making a fool out of myself. "You see Fiddler on the Roof?" he asked. I ignored his question, "Cash. Greenbacks. Moolah. Huh?" (I might have seen some commercials for it, though.) Steve felt he had reason to be unconcerned. After all my share was miniscule next to his. “I don't see what you are getting so excited about. Hey I mean. My share is something like 37%." "Yes." I looked into his flashing eyes. It was so cool to be able to do that, repeatedly. I am amazed even now, "But I'm finished!" I told him & smiled in place.

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"That’s right! You work and I earn, I don't have to worry about retirement, saving money, any of that and I don't have to do anything else but wait. You have to work for your money and I don't!" I finally started to calm down. Steve was amused now. Maybe he just wanted another show. "I tell you what. Since he doesn't want it. I'll give you his share, too. How'd you like that?" We looked at each other, both knowing that now I was really going to have to put on the same show again and here I was exhausted. Steve was clearly testing me. My eyes closed, Steve began his escape. "YES!" I sat down in a daze, stupefied at my good fortune. "That's what I thought." Said Steve finishing his coffee. "OK. What's what?" "About what?" Steve scored two points with his empty styrofoam cup. I needed more information here. "What has he done for the effort? Tell me what he's done. Hey. You want me to collect don't you. You're not trying somethin' here!" Steve was obviously offended at first, then wryly admiring "Why I wouldn't dream!" Noooo. "Steve, you listen to me. I am not going to have any trouble collecting my millions and millions of dollars am I? People kill for that much money, Steven. Less." Steve warmed up, "Believe me, Ross, you will have absolutely no trouble getting paid. I will pay you everything I owe to you." "No hassles. It may be a long time." I was apprehensive. Steve reassured me that he was a man of his word, "Absolutely not. You will get all of your money. Every penny." I felt reassured, "OK. I want his, too. Just like you promised?" Rubbing my hands to-gether greedily. “He he he he!” "Absolutely!" "OK. Write it all down for me and give it to me later." Steve knew that Ann had asked us to do something else and we were short of time, so this was a test. "What about now. Why don’t you write it up? You’re the one with the typewriter." That struck me as a good idea. "I was in the prelaw club. I think I can. Let's get some paper. Where are you going." "No handwritten is better, I think, more authentic.” He offered. “Steve, when you make a deal, make sure you have two law firms at the uh?” “Closing.” “Yeah, deal signing, whatever. So one can watch the other for you. Got it?” “Got it.” He responded. “I want his share, too, you know." I smarmed greedily. "You'll get it. You'll get it all!" Steve was happy for me. He put an empty pipe in his mouth.

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Steve saw a snag, "Hey. These things don't have titles yet. We gotta wait till we think of titles first else nobody's going to know what we're talking about." I spoke condescendingly, yet with amazing prescience, "Steven. You are not going to change your name; I mean you will be the same Steve Spielberg, right? The genius that's making billions of dollars with these? Everybody's going to know about these movies." "But 'The baby alien movie'? No way that’s a title. Maybe a working title, but..." Steve was uncharacteristically unsure. He fiddled with his pipe. "Absolutely. Trust me on this one. The whole world will know what you're talking about." I told him that almost sarcastically. It was a rhythm, sort of. "OK. Ross. What can it hurt. I mean it won't affect me any." Steve offered. "Hey. I thought you said you wouldn't give me a hard time getting paid!" I complained. Steve was a model of surety, "NO! No. Of course not. I was only thinking of your wel-fare." I was smiling again "Good! Now let's see. This one is what?" Steve responded matter-of-factly: "Two and a half percent." I gushed. "TWO AND A HALF PERCENT. TWO AND A HALF PERCENT!" "Hard to believe isn't it?" Steve smiled around his pipe. "And this one?" I pointed gaily. "Five percent." Steve said, shaking his head in assent. "FIVE PERCENT. FIVE PERCENT!" I said, amazed at my luck! "Five percent. You helped write it. I came up with the concept." Steve said, pointing with his pipe. I defended myself, “Hey I wasn’t complaining!” Then orgasmically "oh oh oh!" Steve looked on, "I'll give ya 7-1/2% of that one." "Awh! It's a turkey anyway." Steve: "How do you know?" I ignored him, but I was right. Kids building a spaceship? "This one? hmmmmm?" "I'll give ya 7-1/2% of that one, too" He offered generously. He was looking for a reac-tion, too. “7-1/2% of that one. 7-1/2% of THAT ONE!" I clutched the paper to my heart in grati-tude. Steve was all business. "Well he helped me a lot on that one. Hey I said I'd " Abruptly, I interrupted him, "God has brought this wealth to us, Steve. We must use it in his service." Steve was always uncomfortable when I talked about religion, because he didn’t have much, "Leave religion out of it. Let’s stick to business, Ross." "You know it just like I do, Steven. Sorry I didn't mean to offend." I amended. "What do I have to do, sign it?" Steve asked, innocently. "And print your name." I continued.

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Steve saw another snag. "But I've got two signatures." He tapped his pipe. "Come again?" I asked. Steve explained, "Yeah. I've got one sorta flashy and my everyday signature." Yet again I looked him in the dark of his eyes: "You better just use your flamboyant sig-nature from now on, Steve." I didn’t say flamboyant, but I should have. Steve: "What! On everything, checks? No way!" Ross: "Steven. You wouldn't want to deprive ordinary people from having your signa-ture as a souvenir. Besides it's more appropriate now." He kinda stared at me some. "Now I'll sign. There. Now your copy. Hey I got an idea." I carried the paper over to Ann (or Ms Rogers?) "How do you get something notarized?" Ms Rogers whirled her chair towards us, "I'm a notary. Whatchagot?" She tooks the paper happy to be in on things. "Hmmmm. Maybe this should be typed? This needs a date on it. There. You forgot to say who pays whom." Ross: “Steve pays me. Isn't that right, Steve." Ms Rogers looked at Steve, “You are Steven Spielberg ..." She looked up from the paper "and you agree to this? You both agree to this, I mean? This bearer language is a bit unusual." Steve: "Yes. I agree. We agree." "OK." Rogers signed and sealed the agreement and gave copies out and we went back to work. This was further cause for celebrating, in singsong out of Ms Rogers' earshot but in Ste-ven's "Richrich, richrich. Rich. Rich. Rich! Steven. Let me give you a piece of advice. Never. Never. Never ever sign anything especially something worth millions and millions and millions of dollars without seven lawyers looking it all over first! Oooh ha!" Like a bad guy. Something in my celebration set Steve off. Steve became visibly frightened now "Uh. Maybe we should put a time limit on this?" I was defensive, "What! Time limit!" Steve reached for my copy, "Fifteen years." I turned away holding it to my chest, "What for?" “You’re far too trusting,” Rogers admonished the overly distraught Steven Spielberg. "I just realized. This, I mean, this will be hanging over my head." Steve motioned for me to give my signed, notarized copy up to him to amend. I wouldn’t let him, "No way!” I said. Steve was miffed. "NO? I'm writing fifteen years on my copy." "To heck with your copy. I got the notarized copy right here!" I gotcha’d him. Steve pleaded with Ms. Rogers, "Marybeth. Is that right? Can't I put on a fifteen year limit?" He was miffed and walked back toward her. Marybeth responded. "Not if he doesn't agree to it. Look here you boys have nothing else to do but fool around with this nonsense? I have work to do."

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After we were busy for awhile, I dug at Steve. “Hey. Stevie. You know I would have settled for 0.025%!" Then I laughed and laughed at his discomfort, but he soon took it all in stride. Steve explained. "It's just that moviemaking is a really risky business. You don't know how risky." Then over my next line he complained to me: "You laugh like a donkey." "Not when you're making them it's not! Next time, two law firms, OK? and keep the long term rights.” "Ross, this isn’t fair. I mean, one movie fails and you're wiped out." Steve explained, lurching for my copy. I was ready and avoided him, "Can I share the risk?" "Huh?" he said. I explained, "Look. This money will pile up over the years in heaps and heaps. There's no reason you can't use it. Look. Invest it in yourself! When you are into a project a little bit, I want to be into it a little bit of your little bit. When you are into a project all the way, I want to be into that project with you, proportionately, all the way!" Steve: "but" "YES. I WANT THE RISK!!!! I WANT ALLLL THE RISK. I WANT TO BE IN IT A L L T H E W A Y !!!" My emphatic appeal both shocked and pleased him. "OK!" He seemed proud of me, again. "OK! Let me write it down on your copy so you won't forget,” I reached for his copy. Steve pulled it away defensively, just as I had: "I won't forget." I admonished, "When you invest, I invest. You invest a little, I invest the same percent-age. When you invest all the way, invest me all the way, in proportion. Like a minor partner." Steve: "OH NO. You're not a partner." "Just invest my money like you would your own. That's what I'm asking!" I was thrilled at the prospect. Steve: “What are you going to do with that?" He pointed to my notarized copy "You gotta have that to collect! I'm not paying you if you don't have it when you come to collect." I wish I could look in his eyes again, but I told him all then: "Oh yes you will, there's such a thing as a contract without the paper, but I'll keep this baby. Look. It'll go in here!" Just to be safe, I put it in the binding of the Bible in which I'd shown Steve the Ark of the Covenant. Only a step-mother would sell or donate off a family Bible and I didn't have a step-mother at the time. Eleven years later, though …

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Look at me!

"Look at me!" Steven Spielberg looked at me and answered. "What. You're standing in Clinton’s office. So what?" "Look at this!" I looked at him incredulously. “OK. You're sitting in his chair? What’s with you, Ross?" "JUST LOOK at the access we have! You want to talk to the future President of the United States for an hour? Here he is! You gotta know nobody is ever going to have this much time, this much opportunity as we have now. Most people are simply passing through history. Steven. This, what we are doing here, now. This is history. We should use our opportunity to strike as many blows for freedom and justice as we can!"

run clip from Raiders of the Lost Ark on secret nazi island base, “This, This IS history!”

Father of Homosexual Rights

Clinton was perturbed: "Well if they needed some help I'm sure we would have heard from them by now." He was a little uncomfortable talking about homosexuals, perhaps espe-cially with minors? "Mr. President." Upon getting his attention, I stared at his eyes, one then the other. "We are Democrats, sir. We stand up for those who can not fight for themselves. A homosexual stands up to complain and what happens to him? His head gets cut off, that's what. No sir, we can't wait for a call for help. It is up to us, now." Steven weighed in, "Help the fags? That's a laugh." I turned on my friend, mercilessly. "Oh! I see Steven. And there are no super-talented homosexuals in Hollywood whose help you won't have to have? Do nothing to help them. Face it Steven! You are going to work with homosexuals every day for the rest of your life. If you can't respect their rights and treat them as equals you will loose that. You will loose everything!" Steven became convinced, I could see it in his face. Steven sat down, staring straight ahead. "Gee, Ross. You're right. No. You're really right. I guess I just didn't think about it before! I guess I'm sorry. And I really am." Spielberg looked at me gratefully, because his life would be totally different now. Clinton: "Well just what kind of rights do homosexuals need that other people haven't got?"

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Ross: "Mr. President. THAT'S WRONG! Don't you see? Our federal government, the one for all of us, intentionally hurts people who have committed no crime." Clinton: "But they would if they could." But I would not yield. "Whereupon they would be punished, but not before. Preachers are always telling them to have self control, to blot that sickness out of their minds. There will be strong-willed homosexual men, honest men who follow the rules. Should they follow the rules and be punished anyway, hunted down, cast out, disgraced? For what? A feeling they don’t act upon? That's dead wrong! What could you do about that?" Clinton: "A President could write an executive order outlawing that discrimination if I saw the need." Ross: "It would be best to do that early, sir. Get over the flak right way." Clinton: "Wait a dang minute here. I haven’t said I would help homosexuals. Good grief! The country would want me lynched." Ross: "Mr. President. You are strong. No one else will be stronger. Better you, sir, than innocent people who have broken no law." Clinton considered the case, and after a short pause, he said: "All right, Bubba. If I be-come President I'll write an order allowing law-abiding homosexuals to serve in the military pro-vided they behave themselves." He smiled. Ross: "Is that fair? Everybody serves provided they behave themselves, sir." Clinton: "Bubba. What on earth made you think of this?" Visibly relaxed now I answered him: "Thank-you Mr. President. Don't you see, sir? We have just touched the future!” I sat down to type, but before I did, I looked up and spoke in an offhand manner. "Its going to happen now." Then with relaxed and resolute voice, I said: "Be-cause of what we did just now, just now, we are all going to live in a better, fairer future. You see how it is up to us? It will be a slightly better world than we would have otherwise had and we did it here, now, twenty or thirty years in the past. May God help us to do this again tomorrow." “Don’t stop thinkin’ about tomorrow, right Ross?” Clinton smiled.

Steven Spielbergʼs policy initiative

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Stephen Spielberg wanted to join in. He’d heard about ‘inclusive’ and ‘HOPE’ and ‘deadbeat dad laws’, so he wanted to make a contribution, too. I asked him what it was that he most wanted to see changed in America, BESIDES the draft. “Well, they could stop playin’ those God damned Christmas carols!” It was the first injus-tice to come to Spielberg’s mind. “You watch your language,” I admonished. “YOU don’t like Christmas caroling? THAT’s the first thing you would do?” Ann asked skeptically. “That’s right.” “What have you got against people going around singing, Stevie?” asked Indie. “It’s not just neighbors singing on our porch although I don’t like that much, it’s in the stores, government buildings, everywhere. I get so sick of Silent Night I could just f’ing scream!” “I’m serious, Steven!” “SO AM I!” Spielberg yelled at the top of his lungs.

insert clip Braveheart about here “I’m serious, Robert. SO AM I!”

“Consider it done.” Ann agreed with Spielberg. “Ross, states shouldn’t approve one re-ligion over another one, even with Christmas carols. Stephen, I’ll talk to Clinton about it and get things squared away federal, too.” “Now wait a minute, Ann! People should have the right to sing, and talk about religion where they work as well as at home or in school. This has to be a free country, everywhere, not just in the private sector.” I was still hung up on carolers, for some reason. “Every Christian is tasked to proselytize on their own time at work or anywhere.” “Well, what if I’m a government worker who doesn’t want to be proselytized on the job?” “Then you should be free to object, and say no.” “Yeah right. I can just see that at the water cooler. Me screaming at some church lady, telling her to go f’ herself and take Jesus Christ with her. I’d be out of that job in ten seconds.”

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“Then we will defend you, Steven.” “You would?” “You’re absolutely right. Ann, we need to write this down. You got the Christmas car-ols?” “I got the Christmas carols. Tunes, too?” Ann asked. “YES! Toons, too!” Steve objected. As we wrote everything down, we remembered the statuary and religious pictures we’d seen in the houses of Spanish-speaking Americans, and decided to include ‘desk shrines’ and Bi-bles at the desks of Federal employees, water-cooler yelling should be allowed, too, in defense of religion, because religion could be such a hot topic. We wrote it up and gave it to Clinton. Hil-lary reviewed it for us and made some important changes. She explained that the government’s duty to be even-handed preempted private religious rights of federal employees, but only in pub-lic places. People employed by the government and working with the public in public areas would need to be restricted from proselytizing patrons of the government, or displaying religious icons, but otherwise, the new rule was constitutionally acceptable. Clinton, himself said that public prayer was allowed in schools under certain conditions, and that as President, he would write a letter to the school boards informing them specifically of those conditions. That would put more prayer back into schools, and improve education, generally. We all looked at each other, and knew it. We were making progress.

Indiana Jones in Nepal

Stevie was making another movie, this time with Clinton as the hero: "I'm going to put this girl in it. He was the first man in her life and he's found her again. She's mad at him for ru-ining her life. She says 'I was just 14!' What do you say to her?" I yelped "Steven she can't be fourteen, make her eighteen!" Steven: "What?" "Fourteen was criminal back then. You better make it eighteen." I advised. Steven protested. "I thought 14 was too OLD! He smiled knowingly & mischievously." "Stevie, the rest of the world doesn't think like you people out in Hollywood. This movie will be seen all over it," I explained. "No, Ross, you are just naive. Fourteen is plenty old enough. Believe me." He was un-movable. I shot back, "Oh yeah. Who's going to cheer for a rapist?" "Fourteen is not rape," he corrected, (oh yeah, like HE knew! Mr. repulsive nose!) "It was then!" and it should be now. These rules should be posted somewhere. Steven: "OK. 16 then." Ross: "Sixteen was rape, too."

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"I dunno. Working in a bar." Perhaps he was thinking of my two band girl friends who were working as “bunnies” at the Cattlemen’s Restaurant? It was just so out of character for them. They were both straight-A students. Librarians, sure, but bunny-girls? Anyway, Steve was evidently trying to get another rise out of me. He managed it. I was horrified, but never made the connection until thirty-five years later. "Working there? No she owns the bar! In Nepal! That's where all my old girlfriends usu-ally wind up!" We had a devilish masculine spirit going. Stevie got into it with me. "Drinking goat-herders under the table! Ones that look like Ann's special friends." We both laughed way too hard remembering the huge ugly men in Ann Richard’s life. Ever inclusive, I added, "With midgets! And they're taking bets!" We both laughed wickedly. "Chickens! Don't forget chickens! GAGOLK! GAGOLK! GAGAAKK!! Loose chickens everywhere!" I almost choked. My hysteria put him off, so he said his next words oddly quietly, "No they keep the chickens outside. In pens." Steven maintained his composure. He was the adult, after all, even if sometime he forgot. "And goats!" I mimicked slowly, using a frustrated female voice: "'Get these AN-imals OUT OF HERE!' Ha ha ha. 'Look at THIS MESS!' Oh ho ho ha" Naturally, I made like I was slipping on the floor with a girlish yuck face. We laughed until we were breathless! Stevie was writing and laughing. "Ross. Sometimes I think ... Don't laugh so much. OK? OK. The betting goes one way and then the other! OK. You see all this and what do you say? Hello. How are you. She's mad. And then?" Ross: "Steven, you should get Ann in on this.” Ann interjected, “Oh no! Leave me out!” “She’s been a great help already. Let’s get back to it. OK. Then he says? 'Don't you play innocent with me! You knew exactly what you were doing and you're just as guilty as I am!" Steven laughed in spite of himself. "That's a good line!" Ross: "See. It works better with eighteen." Steven: "OK. I'll consider it. But you don't know how life and Hollywood works. We chew up beautiful young girls all day long every day out there."

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"WELL MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T!" I chided forcefully. In 2007, I am happy to report that my old friend, Stephen Spielberg, personally led the fight to change the Hollywood culture of sexual child abuse and he helped write the laws to protect young actors and actresses. For those in his employ, he did more than anyone else ever had, paying full medical benefits, hiring on-site tutoring, and providing the best psychiatric care money could buy. He told me a lot about this. At first he was ambivalent, but I convinced him. He worked alone, from the inside, when all around him were against him, when his own best interests were in conflict, still he toiled on the side of right and good. For his faith and his steadfastness and goodness in the face of un-speakable evil, Steven Spielberg is universally admired and genuinely loved both by Hollywood and the world. OK, Back in 1972, a little time went by after our laughing stopped, then I asked, “Steve. I been thinkin' about something else." "Yeah?" Steve was engrossed in his little note-book writing. "How are we gonna look Ann in the face if we trash this girl like that. The girl in the bar. Maybe she should go with him." I continued, but Steven was dead set. "NO! She's got a business to run. Besides this is gonna be a guy movie." A man of his time, Spielberg still had much of the pre-Spielberg Hollywood mindset. "A guy movie?" I asked. "Yeah. A guy movie." Steve knew what he was talking about. "No way you're making it just a guy movie. Appeal to all." I advised. Steve was now exasperated, "OK. What's she gonna do with the bar? Huh? Sell it?" I told him, "I don’t care. Burn it down! Just let her go with him. They can rescue each other or something." Steven’s eyes lit up. "Why would she burn her own bar down?" "I don't know. Let the nazis burn it down." I was searching. “They’re always burning and torturing people …” "They don't know about him yet. Why would they be there?" He felt distracted. "Nazi spies. Their trailing him.” “From America?” “I don't know. You know, those thugs were at war with us long before we went to war against them." "No way. They'd have to have a reason. Nazis don't do anything without a concrete rea-son."

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“Oh. Steven." My voice caught in anticipation. "Yeah" "Burn some nazis up in the fire! Ouch ouch ouch!" I laughed wickedly, but it took Spiel-gerg a second to see any humor in it. "More and more fires and burn some of the slime-balls in every one of them!" Ross makes a comic burning nazis-creaming noise. "Burning nazis! Now that's entertainment!" Steven suddenly tired of this and walked away. I walked over to him again. "Steven. I really hate those guys. He tried to turn away, but I held his shoulder and brought him back around. "No Steven you gotta understand. I really hate nazis." Steven looked at me and pulled away, slowly.

Flower Power, Spielberg Fights for Hillary

Hillary was marching along the sidewalk and up to our front door with Stevie on tiptoe trotting alongside, attentively. She opened the door for herself. With a white flower between two fingers, Stevie begged, "Permit me?" Hillary snapped harshly and loudly. "I USUALLY DON'T!" They entered the front door, and I stood up slowly, as for a lady. The electric, eyes front routine I saved just for Mr. President in the interest of self-preservation. Hillary came in first and she marched toward the President's office. Steven looked hurt and pathetic calling after her crestfallen, "I usually don't ether?!" The President came to his door smiling so I stood more stiffly. Seeing that Stevie was downcast and meant no harm, Hillary looked at Clinton (like 'I'll show him!'), turned, marched over to the future billionaire, whisked the dangling bloom out of his hand, and patted it on her suit lapel. She then took off her hat and disappeared behind Clinton's door. But before she let it close, she crouched into a corner with fear in her eyes as she looked at Clinton.

run clip Star Wars Princess in her cell about to be questioned by Darth Vader

Bang! The door closed. I just sat down and leaned back, surveying the scene. Steven was look-ing back at the door and all around, bewildered, but heck, he was used to it and it didn't bother him that much. He thought he was making progress? With his nose, it was as close as he’d probably ever gotten to a really beautiful, smart girl. She did give him, what, one good look of surprise and delight. I got the impression that Hillary really liked Spielberg’s attention to her, a lot. He was brilliant, and he had a peculiar way of staring right at her that seemed to flatter her. Maybe she liked him too much! "Oh yes. Give them a flower and they'll follow you anywhere!" I laughed, I couldn’t help but laugh. Then I got serious. "Stevie. What's wrong with you?" At that instant, Spielberg finally realized he was being tested. The question was, would

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Steven looked at me, “I’m going in there after her” he announced. “Oh NO, YOU’RE NOT.” “Watch me,” he announced. He rose up and I sprung into action. I grabbed his little chest and held him. We struggled and somehow we dropped to the cold linoleum floor. “That’s once,” I announced. He struggled to break free and he nearly did, but my 100% weight advantage told, plus my wrestling team experience didn’t hurt my chances, either. Again, we went to the floor. “That’s twice!” I told him confidently. Spielberg became Squeal-burg, “LET ME GO! Look! I won’t go! I won’t go!” As soon as I started letting him go, he lunged for the door! My God, was I going to have to kill him? “OH, NO YOU DON’T!” I took him down for the final time and held him on the floor with my chest holding down his. “That’s three.” I smiled at him stupidly. He stared back at me with defiant black eyes. Even now he struggled, but I let him go, standing up then taking my chair like I didn’t have a care in the world. My attitude change left him befuddled as he caught his breath. “You stopped fighting? Why’d you stop fighting?” He asked. I just smiled. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a chance anymore. You missed it. It’s over. Go on in! Because now there’s nothing you can do to get her away from him now.” Steve was a little downcast, "Don't look at me like that. If you had been in my place you would have done exactly the same thing." "Well I'm sorry you think so!" I admonished.

insert Clip from Indiana Jones 3 “I’m sorry you think so” at Hitler rally.

Ark of the Covenant

We were waiting for Ann to get back and cart us off somewhere, so Steven pulled out his notebook and made use of his time. "OK. Suppose you're this archaeologist. What would be the greatest thing, the greatest relic ever? The Holy Grail, or maybe Noah's arc?" Ross: "Um. Funny you should mention that. I was just looking at a picture of the ark in my family Bible. I'll bring it tomorrow. Let ya' look at it." "Uh. Naw. That's OK." Steve said nervously. "Relax." I told him, after all Bibles don’t bite. Steve: "I am relaxed." Ross: "It's the same as yours. No really it is. It's a history book, just goes on a little longer that's all. It doesn't stop." Steve: "The Torah & Talmud." Ross: "What're they?" Steve: "The old testament. But you know the Bible stops, too."

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Ross: "Jewish history went on. You guys kept a log after Christ up ‘til, I don’t know, ... when?" Steven spoke with evident satisfaction. "Uh. NOW!" And he walked away. I followed and Steve stopped to face me. "See there. The Bible just ends when the Jew-ish history loses relevance to the wider audience. That's all." Stevie: "Jesus Chri-" My slap across his face interrupted his train of thought. I used three fingers across his jaw just hard enough to get his attention. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR!" Spielberg was incensed!

run clip about here: Sean Connery slaps Indy in I.J. 3 Ross: "That's for blasphemy!" "But I'm JEWISH!" Steven objected vehemently, sarcastically, and with astonishment. I told him keenly "All the more reason not to blaspheme!" "You have a nerve!” Spielberg had the self-control not to retaliate. “Don't you ever touch me again!" Ross: "I made my point." Steven: "Shut up. Screw you!" "Thousands, many thousands, millions of people will look up to you and depend on you. You will set them a good example!"

A Dream

“This is all just a dream to you, isn’t it, Ross?” Steve just told me that I was finally get-ting through to him. “I want a home & children & peace, but that’s all for nothin’ if you don’t have freedom.” “Your dream isn’t about freedom, Ross. It’s about HILLARY! You’re doin’ this to be a hero because she sees you!” Spielberg had me all figured out, ha! “Well, what have we been doin’ all this time? We’ve lived that dream!” “And she does see me! And your Father sees you, too!” God and Hillary, Clinton, Rich-ards and Spielberg. What more could anyone ask for, but to breath the sweet air of youth in such company? Thanks, God!

run clip Braveheart rain pow-wow about here.

The Murrahs were my next door neighbors on Mount Paran Road in Atlanta when I was a child. Their last name, distorted a little by our discourse, became the name of Wallace’s wife in the film. I would often just let Steve keep whatever his thoughts landed on. Perhaps he was so

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hard of hearing because he liked his own ideas better than using mine straight. ‘Ditchy’, my lit-tle sister’s nick name became the character known as ‘Gertie’ for E.T. It’s a good thing I couldn’t find her little Casper the Friendly Ghost doll when we came to my house at 2976 Golf-ing Green Drive scrounging for props. My sister was less generous than I.

My jacket and Steve's weird eye lights

“Hey. I gave my old leather jacket to you! Not HIM!!” Steve was yet again amused at my feigned outburst. "Relax. He's just wearing it today." Seeing my quizzical look he went on. "I wanted to see him in it, walking around in it with the hat on so I could, you know, get the look right. You see ..." "Uh oh. You've got that weird light in your eyes again, Steve." I said warily. "What! WHAT? Look Ross will you stop telling me that stuff. There's nothing wrong with my eyes." He said, coyly yet demandingly like somebody at a gypsy fortune-teller. "It's gone." I told him lightly. “What!” he was upset. "It's a good thing, too. Cause that is spooky! We're talkin' real spooky, there Steve." I shuddered. Ann had overheard, "Yeah. Hey. I was worried there, too." She spoke nonchalantly in passing. Steve was at last enjoying the tete a tete, finally. "OK So I won't do it again!" He looked around as if to secret cameras, and he was happy. Time for another of my announcements, "Hey everybody! Stevie's gonna stop doin' that weird light stuff with his eyes! Boy that's a relief, huh?" I tried demonstrating for the two or three inquisitives. "You know." Indy was gullible enough to ask: "Really? You mean that spooky look in his eyes when he gets another great idea? Glad to hear it." Ann had enough for today, “Yeah. So now maybe we can all get a little work done around here?" We all nodded or shook our heads or whatever.

The Indiana Jones hat

Ross: "Mr. President I haven't seen you in your hat lately!" Clinton: "What hat? Ross: "The ..."

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Clintons words overrode my own, "Oh that hat. I gave it to him. You know. Your friend, the kid." Ross: “Steven?!" Again, I was alarmed, animated. Clinton: "Yeah. He asked for my old whip, too, but I don't have that down here with me. You know that he made me describe that old whip in every detail. He has a genius for detail doesn't he? He still wants me to send it to him. Told him I would." Ross: "But Mr. President. About the hat. You can't just give it to him, the hat I mean. He's seen it and that should be enough?" Clinton became impatient, or as impatient as he ever got. Remember I was keyed up and keenly attuned to any inflection. "Bubba. Why not? He appreciated it and has a use for it. Be-sides I really don't need it anymore." Ross: "Mr. President. That hat will become a national, an international symbol of American heroism. You can't just let it go like that. You don’t know what use he'll make of it! He has seen it and by golly that should be enough!" Clinton patronized me. "Oh I see. But I'm sure I'll be able to recognize it all right." He moved away. The future president could take only so much of my tomfoolery. But I was insistent: "How, sir?!" Clinton: "Well you are really concerned about that old hat, aren't you Bubba? Well. My initials are in the back of it. I think. Let me see. Actually they're my uncle's, too. He gave it to me." Ross: "Your uncle's initials! And was it your grandfather's before that, sir?" Looking at him hopefully. Clinton sensed something and smiled: "Mmmmmmyeah. I think my grandaddy may have bought it for my uncle." The President saw my awestruck relief and smiles, broadly. "Sure." Note to President Clinton: I was correct in this matter, sir.

For Indiana Jones Ross: "Steven I want you to give that hat back." Steven: "Well I don't have it. It's at home." Ross: "Well bring it back in tomorrow and give it back to the President." I felt relieved.

Steven: "Skip the hat. What else would you wear as an archaeologist?" Steve was tak-ing more notes. Ross: “Oh. The bag, Steven." "Just be sure to bring that hat back. It's very important."

Steven: "OK, Ross. What's up this time?"

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Ross: "Nothing's up. Stop looking at me like that. That hat has been in the President's family for three generations!" Steven stares, a little stunned. "Ah ha! You didn't know that did you? Anyway I think he made a mistake giving it to you, that's all." Steven: He wrote for a few minutes then came back for more. "Oh The bag? What is that?" Steve was on a roll, going from skeptical to interested. Ross: "Huh? Oh. We used to kid around about it in Boy Scouts. Kempe used to talk about it all the time, and Smiley. It's just something we'd say. Oh dang blast it! Oh the bag!" Steven was oddly interested "Describe this bag to me." Ross: “Well it's this canvas thing I used to wear on camp-outs and stuff. You wear it on a strap across your chest like this. Good for samples, specimens and stuff you need to carry." Steven fetched out his notebook with the rubber band around it. "Would you say it’s about how big?" Ross: "yea by yea." I watched Steven scribble "Stevie. Don't ever tell me I'm weird." Steven: "It's for Indiana Jones." I inquired quietly, "What?" Steven: "That's my name for my archaeologist hero: Indiana Jones. What do you think? Or Indiana Smith if you like." I painted the horizon with my sweeping hand, like I was seeing the name in lights "IN--DI--ANA JONES! It rings! Steven! It really rings! INDIANA JONES! INDIANA JONES! That's a name. That's a name that will ring around the world!" Steven was deadpan, “So, you still have it at home?" I nodded. Ross: "I just can't get over it!" I sat down abruptly, ker-plunk! "Indiana Jones." Steven: "Or Indiana Smith? Smith or Jones, you know a common name." Ross: "Indiana Jones!” I exhaled. “I don't see how you can reveal that to me without being excited. Hey, everybody on this planet will know the name Indiana Jones!" Steven: "Sure. Sure. I want you to bring the bag in here, tomorrow." Ross: "Steven. It's just a canvas bag. I've described it to you. Just use that vivid imagi-nation of yours." Steven: "Well I'm just trying to get it right. You really do think I have a vivid imagina-tion?"

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Ross: "You're kidding right? Who has a more vivid imagination than the great Steven Spielberg! WOW!" Steven: "Sure. What kind of a strap was that? Leather?" Ross: "Yeah. OK. Leather strap! Nobody's every going to believe this!!!" Steven again, was scribbling: "Oh I almost forgot! You know once Indiana Jones gets the ark of the Covenant back and the government takes charge of it?" Ross: "Uh. what, Yeah?" Steven: "What they do with it? Ross: "Yeah. Oh yeah!" Steven: "Well. Will" Seeing my quizzical expression "you know. Mr. President? Well." Ross: "Its Bill, not Will or Well." Steven: "Just shut up and listen” he snapped. He reminded himself by looking and read-ing from his black bound notebook/steno pad thing. "He gave me this great idea for the last scene of the movie. When the government gets it, they put it in a warehouse." Ross: "I don't get it. I think they put most everything they get into warehouses, at least temporarily." I watched him slap the rubber band around his notebook. Steven: "Ross! Will you just shut up and listen. Jesus!" Ross: "Please do not use that word. Not in that way." Steven: "Oh, Jesus Christ!" Ross: "OK Steve. Let's just talk about something else!" Steven stared at me and stood silently for a moment, waiting for me to settle down. Then he resumed quietly. "The warehouse. The warehouse they put it in is this huge government warehouse! The scene shows a worker marking the box top secret and slowly rolling it into this huge, huge warehouse filled with a million other boxes, identical boxes, marked in exactly the same way!" Ross: "They lose it! Oh ho ho ho! Of course!" Steven: "Yeah! Isn't it great!" I just kept laughing. "Its so perfect. It was Will's, Bill's, idea. Its really perfect. Really perfect." Ross: "It even explains how we won World War II!" Steven: "I really got to hand it to Bill. It is a perfect ending. That guy's a genius." Ross: "What? Ya’ think? Like us?" Steven: “Heck No. Like me!" Ross threatens Steve mockingly, Steve ducks. Ross: "Funny thing, Steve." Steven: "Wha?" Ross: "Funny. That's what he said about you, too. The President said you were a genius, too. Um." Steven: "Umm. What?" Ross: "Why do you have to write everything down? Can't you just remember?"

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We both worked some distance apart. I rose from my desk and approached Steven. Ross: "Steve." Steve: "What now?" Ross: "Well you know I volunteered for this!" Steven looks impassively. "Never mind. It's about Dr. Jones." Steve: "I never said he was a doctor." Ross: "All archeologists are aren't they? I just assumed." Steve: "Never mind. What is it?" Ross: "Well. As a scientist I would never want to do anything that might PREJUDICE my experiment." Steve: "Another vocabulary word, Ross?" I turned around and was walking back, "No. I'm gettin' 'em out of your movies." Steve: "What WHAT! did you say?"

Spielberg and Clinton wanted to set Indiana Jones in the 1950's (with Jungle Jim?), but putting his anti-nazi loathing during the brief Hitler-Stalin pact period of the 1930's made him a better tool against communist oppression and tyranny. I knew that then-current communist propaganda equated America with nazi Germany for their citizens. Making our hero's personal war against adolf & company (declared by them) during that time would belie and vitiate com-munist distortions. My argument carried the day in 1972 and helped carry the cold war to it's successful conclusion.

OʼBrien's impressed

Somebody had called the national campaign and left messages with high-ranking staffers that our Clinton would be running for president in 20 years and for them to be ready. That would have been me. Perhaps visitors to the campaign office in Dallas on Lemmon Avenue confirmed that strange things were going on with us. In any event, an investigation was launched. O’Brien was dispatched.

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A dignified, well dressed man of forty-five walked into our office and would make it clear that he was there to get to the bottom of this. Yes, I had made a few dozen telephone calls to officers of the campaign, speaking to their secretaries mostly, that Clinton would be our president in the future. From other accounts of the Texas campaign (that got it all wrong--Clinton got run out of Houston and never went to the Rio Grande valley--they just said that be-cause we did well there), I believe that the party’s investigator was Don O’Brien. At eighteen, I thought that he 'looked like an important politician.’ Whoever it was, it was clear from the ex-pressions on the President's face that this man's opinion was important to him.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the McGovern/Shriver campaign office. Are you here to see someone or may I help you with some literature?" O’Brien: "Uh huh. No I'm here to see Clinton, Thank-you." “The future President of the United States?" I offered. O’Brien looked at me with some astonishment, but also with an ‘I gottcha!’ look. I was used to astonishment, though, and I was brave and true. I knew the future, not they. "I can let him know you are here ..." "No. I'll wait here." Sitting and crossing his legs, he looked at me intently. I went back to work, typing. The President came to his office door, saw the pol and swal-lowed hard, like he was looking at the American flag on Decoration Day. When he came to the door, I stood bolt upright and stood straight up. The President spoke to O’Brien out of earshot. Clinton withdrew into his office and I sat back down, like always. Then O’Brien followed Clin-ton, looking at me as if puzzled somehow. I followed them them in with the typed letter I had just finished. After I entered the open door to the President's office. Ross: "Here is your letter, Mr. President." Clinton: "Thank-you. I'll look at it later." “Yes, Mr. President," I said and withdrew. The exchange with the President is rapid enough so that it was clear that we were working routinely. Within about a minute or two O’Brien came out alone & sat beside my desk. I was pointedly seated throughout. O’Brien: "You don't really believe he is the President do you?" Ross: "Of course not." matter-of-factly "and who are you sir?" O’Brien: "Nevermind that. I want to know what you're up to around here, young man!" Ross: "We are not up to anything, sir. We are running a simulation here that's all. These people over there, Mrs. Richards and Mrs. Rogers," they were listening and there were nods from each in turn, Mrs. Rogers taking her lead from Ann "work 18 and 20 hour days. Its a di-version. The work is tedious. It is good for morale." This seemed to satisfy O’Brien that I wasn’t some kook and he rose to return to Clinton's office. Ross: "Besides, uh, he needs the practice." O’Brien was suspicious again, "Practice for what?" The man spoke with evident malice, sarcastically. Clinton was president of the United States for eight solid years. Dan O’Brien has

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I stood on my rickety chair and got off onto the floor again. I just had to do something! I started to panic. "I must help him! I must help my President!" I stood again on my chair, it wiggled badly, then stepped up onto the solid desk top. My God, I was so scared. But at least now I held the high ground. I wasn’t going to be bushwhacked twice in one day! "My President needs me now and I will not fail him!" I said it several times. Everybody came up front to witness this, standing behind Ann Richards. I started to get down twice, but stood up straight and waited two minutes, five, TEN--an eternity! Wow, those pipes, wires and fixtures on our ceiling were REALLY dusty! Ann cau-tiously walked over to me standing up there alone on my desktop. I did not look at her, instead I stared straight ahead. There was no way I was going to lose this confrontation. There was just too much at stake. Ann tried to talk sense to me. "Ross. Ross, you better get down from that desk or they really will put you in the loony bin." "I will not. I will stand for my President!" Determined, feverish, I glanced quickly at her, pained. Ann retreated back to her desk, looking back up at me, standing there! Ann decided that this just wouldn’t do. She had another idea, one that would save my potatoes. She got up and walked over to me (which took forever), then she said quietly and softly "It's all right, Ross . . ." 10 seconds passed in silence. "I'll stand with you." Elated and relieved now that success was assured, I smiled pleasantly and came down quickly, deliberately and sat down. She asked me how to do it, but everybody knew my routine. They’d seen me stand up silently for Clinton hundreds of times. But I explained it so everyone could key on her. Speaking matter-of-factly, like I'd expected this outcome all along, I said: "OK, let's do this right, Ann. I usually wait till he crosses the threshold, but you had better watch me and stand on my mark." I decided to get back to work. Ann staggered back to her desk and sat down. It was painfully obvious to everyone that Ann Richards was throwing in her lot with Clinton, no matter what. Alarmed and bravely they spoke to Ann and in their tears. "Oh Ann! Can we stand, too?" Excitedly they spoke. "We want to stand , too! Oh Please! Yeah. We all do!" Stevie Spielberg, himself, also announced slowly and with determination "I am going to stand!" He smiled confidently. Ann in responding to the girls, said; "You girls had better ask Ross." "Ross. Can we stand?" Choked up, my voice breaking, I looked at them said "Yes!" I regained composure just in time. O’Brien emerged from Clinton's private office. He turned and demanded of the President "WELL. Are you coming?" O’Brien just looked at us all sitting there quietly looking at him with wide expectant eyes. Perhaps O’Brien felt a little uncomfortable in front of so many freightened faces. After twenty seconds the Future President of the United States of America

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crossed the threshold of his office. All of us stood up silently. Ann even coaxed a reluctant Ma-rybeth Rogers, with a face. The thrill was like listening to Hail to the Chief. It was great! O’Brien’s jaw just dropped to the ground. He looked at us, he gazed at us. Then he turned to look at the future President, in awe, and said "Ooooh! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." After silently begging pardon, the President returned briefly to his office through the open door not noticing O’Brien’s stunned expression or the scene, maybe two seconds. All of us re-mained standing. You could have heard a pin drop. O’Brien stammered again, "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes." Nobody said a word. It was a ghostly minute. O’Brien delayed a bit and now opened the front door of the office for the President as they were about to leave. O’Brien said in a hushed voice: "Huh huh How do you feel about...?" Clinton: "You get used to it. Come on. Let's go get some of that Barbeque."

The room was silent now for about two seconds. All looked to me. We had won a victory for the future, there was no doubt. Quietly I told them, "Well then." But with them all watch-ing, I breathed deeply and began the general cheer! "RAWH! breath RAWH!" over and over until I was drowned out by everyone else.

run clip about here Mel Gibson rises to cheer victory at end of the battle of Stirling

"Hurrah!" We gave fifty seconds worth before they elected to come back in through the front door from which they had just left. In tears yet again, I sat down at my station and went back to work. I motioned futilely for everyone to sit back down, but nobody paid me any further atten-tion. As the cheering finally subsided a little, the President entered alone, followed shortly by the now timid O’Brien. Clinton: "I just wanted to say, Thank-you. I will never forget this." Then the President gave a beautiful speech off the cuff. Oddly enough, it sounded like he'd been giving that speech all of his life. He never faltered. It went something like what follows here. I decided to stay at my desk, out of the way, while everyone else gathered around Clinton. Clinton spoke for a few minutes. We cheered till our lungs collapsed. Clinton looked everyone individually in the eye. "You have believed with Ross! NOW BELIEVE WITH ME!" Unlike the Bruce at Falkirk, Clinton continued speaking for quite some time. You have honored me today with this demonstration of your confidence in me. And so I pledge to you, that I will do my best to be worthy." Everyone cheered! "We have worked hard here. But when this campaign is over we will have new challenges, new opportunities and new responsibilities where we can apply our energies. We must never forget why we were here and what did. We set goals here. We have now set goals for ourselves, for our communities, for our

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nation, and, yes, even for our culture" Clinton nodded to Steve who was shaken with gratitude "and we must fixedly determine in our own minds that we must reach those goals no matter what the obstacles placed in our path." A now timid O’Brien opened the door from the outside. He peeked in as if afraid to come in. Clinton saw him and waved him on in here and welcome! Clinton: "Well we have made a beginning. Setting goals is always only the beginning. There is much work yet to do, but I know that we here, we here are up to that task and any other set before us, for we have vision. America needs a Democratic vision to aspire to the higher greatness of our vast potential. Our communities, our states," he nodded to Ann Richards "our nation and our very civilization” another smile to Steve? “depend upon a Democratic vision to grow beyond the confines of today. Some will oppose us, those with select privileges granted at cost to the weakest among us, they will oppose us, but even they will see the right, even they will find the justice, even they will learn the wisdom of our Democratic vision. And we will partici-pate all our lives, so long, as we ... don’t stop thinking about tomorrow!" Spielberg had appar-ently bought a recording of Don’t Stop and played it full blast on his boom-box with phonograph player on top thing. Everyone wanted to shake Clinton’s hand and complement his speaking skills. Everyone but Stephen Spielberg. Oh Steve cheered, he just had his reservations. When Don't Stop Thinking about Tomorrow finished it was all over, everyone cheered again, and Clin-ton was on his way out with O’Brien. Said the future President, his arm around the shorter man, “I’ve got a joke for ya!” “OK.” Obrian responded, reticently. “A republican’s favorite granny has died & gone to heaven. How do you get him to go to the funeral?” “That’s easy, trick question. Narrow is the way and straight is the gate, republicans don’t go to heaven.” O’Brien came back in surprising deadpan. “Let’s stick to the joke. Say ‘how?’” Clinton instructed. “OK, How?” said the old pol, warily. “You gotta put it somewhere where he’ll notice it. You gotta putta ad in the STOCK PAGES!” O’Brien laughed heartily but this time he hurried to open the front door, for Clinton. (That was so cool to have the President use the joke I’d told earlier. George Stephanopolos even used it in a televised confrontation with a republican during the first presidential campaign of 1992.)

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When things had died down, as they had to, Steven came forward to my area, "I couldn't believe that he made such gross grammatical errors in his speech, man!" He made a face of dis-gust, then another of disappointment. "Oh come on Steve. I didn't hear anything wrong with it." "You come on! He should have said BLED, not BLEED." "Stephen? What are you talking about? Here let me see what you got there." I was look-ing at Steven Spielberg’s transcript of the Clinton speech. "Steve, he didn't say 'you have bleed with Ross now bleed with me'. He said BELIEVED. (Bah leeve, no Bah leed!) It's 'you have believed with Ross, now believe with me.'" (Incidentally, Steven, you’re the only one who bled with me, everybody else believed. Didn’t they?) "So it was his stupid hick accent, eh? I'll fix it later." But he never did. How do I know?

Run clip about here Braveheart The Bruce's speech at Falkirk

“Say, what was it like up there, anyway?” Steve asked motioning to the top of my desk where I’d been standing for twenty minutes before Ann got me down. “IT’S FANTASTIC! YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE ALL THE STUFF UP THERE YOU CAN SEE!” My description got Steve excited, so he asked if he could take a look. “Sure you can! I’ll come with you!” We both stood on my desk and observed all the cool ceiling stuff nei-ther of us had ever dreamed existed. “WOW, THIS IS COOL!” Spielberg could be really enthusiastic, too. Soon we drew a crowd, everybody wanted to check it out from ‘on high’! Yes, even Ann Richards got in line.

run clip about here Dead Poets Society walking off the top of the teacher’s desk.run clip about here Dead Poets Society standing on desks.

We're Lesbians!

Ann: "Well Ross, do you think we impressed that fella!?" Ross: “Who gives a dern what he thinks, Ann? He's just some guy. It isn't what he thinks that matters. It is what the President thinks, and what you think that matters." Ann was stunned "What me?" Mary Beth Rogers moved within hearing. I spat out with conviction and determination, "Because you're gonna be Governor of Texas!" Ann spoke with renewed incredulity, "You do really believe I'll be Governor, don't you?"

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I laughed among the now dwindling crowd, "You will, now!" I turned back to my work and looked back again to see Ann is staring into space and I smiled, knowingly. Ms Rogers: "Wait a minute, Bubba. How can she become Governor of Texas? Look at us, really! Neither one of us has been anything but a housewife and now, well, nobody'd have us!" Ross: "The people of Texas will have you. I know they will. You know. I looked into Ann's eyes when I first told her she could be Governor of Texas." Marybeth Rogers interrupted me, affectionately, "She told me." Ross: "And I knew she could build up, she could grow, she could mature and she could be deserving." And following a long pause as I saw my words being absorbed. I moved next to tears again. "DERNIT I AM NOT TALKIN' ABOUT Ann. . . . I'M TALKING ABOUT TEXAS!" I walked over to my desk & got a tissue. They both followed, but only Ann grasped what I’d said. Marybether sounded desperate, "But she needs an advanced degree for that, Ross, she didn't even finish college." Ann: "Oh, I did, too. I got a degree!" Mary beth looks like she didn't know and apolo-gized to Ann. "That's doesn't matter. That's what night school's for! Don't look discouraged. Think how many of America's greatest have done it. It's not impossible. Far from it. You can do it as easily as they did. Nobody but republicans would hold it against you and who cares what they think?" Ann chuckled "Well, My Mama did say I could always stay with her in Waco if I wanted to go back to school." Ann looked hopefully at Ms Rogers as if seeking her approval. Ross: "There you are! What experience do you have Ann, work-wise?" Ann spoke sheepishly--she had obviously skipped speech practice up to then, "Well, I've done a little bookkeeping." Ross: "Where Ann?" Ann: "I worked for my brother." Ross: "You were in charge?" Ann: "Well, yeah." Ross: "And your brother's company?" Ann: "Plumbing supplies." Ross: "Was his business incorporated?" Ann: "I think so." Ross: "And how much was it worth. Tell me now." Ann: "Oh he was very successful." Ross: "Was it worth a million dollars, lock stock and barrel?" Ann: "Oh several!"

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Ann: "Uh. That would be eleven years, I think, yeah." Marybeth Rogers: "Again I ask. Where is this taking us?" Ross: “Please be patient. Ann?" I looked at Ann again and resumed. “Did your brother ever consult with you about the business, where it was going?” Ann: “Well sure. He was my brother!” Ross: “Well then,” I turned to Marybeth Rogers. “Ann Richards here has for more than a decade, been the chief financial officer and member of the board of directors for a multimillion dollar Texas Corporation! That's experience Texas needs, Ann. How many people can say that? Very few. There you are! You can run for controller & from there you can run for Governor." Ann looked happy at this. Mary Beth looks a little sullen. "She will need a strong right hand, Ms Rogers. You will have to work to keep food on the table and when she's elected controller you will probably have to work for nothing, because she's gonna have to do a HECK of a job of it." Ann was beaming, I spoke to her. "Course you're going to have your work cut out for you, Governor Richards. You're going to have to get big in the party around here & do the same in Waco to get the nomination. That is where the President comes in. Y’all must help each other over the coming years." Ann: “Oh how?" Ross: "I don't know. He'll be in office, you'll be in office. You can visit each other. Speak at meetings for each other, that sort of thing. Hey, wouldn't it be nice to have the hand-some, young Governor of Arkansas come to a state committee meeting and give a speech about how wonderful you are? And you could do the same for him. Don't think he wouldn't appreciate it and reciprocate, either. ‘Cause he would. I know he would." Marybeth: "Plus contributors, introductions to people we need to know?" Ross: "That's it. That's the spirit. That interstate cooperation could be very helpful." We started to walk away and Mrs. Rogers caught up. Ms Rogers was suddenly desperate "But Ross. … We're lesbians!" She moaned, think-ing that was some real and insurmountable problem.

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Ross: "Really?" I looked at them with mild surprise, then in earnest again, but Ann wouldn’t look at me, with knit eyebrows and closed eyes. "Well you're our lesbians." Ann made a pained face. "Democrats, Americans, Texans. That won't make any difference." Ross grabs both their necks and hugs them tight. Ann struggled and I let go. Ms Rogers stole glance at Ann marching off to leave. "But they'll know. They'll find out! We'll have to tell everyone." “You won't need to keep anything secret because it doesn't matter.” I reassured. Mary-beth looked after Ann who lit out for the bathroom. “Of course--it being a private concern--you won't need to advertise it. I mean . . . republicant's will use anything, even a person's own hu-manity against them. Just don't go out of your way to mention it at every campaign stop. If somebody asks, you can tell 'em ... if it's any of their business a' course." "Oh, Ms. Richards, Marybeth! It will be up to you, ma'am, to protect Ann." Ms Rogers looked quickly for Ann’s reassurance, "What do you mean by that?" Ross: "Well, she's not going to wade in there into the mud with those slimeballs in a statewide race. She'd rather lose." Who me? Look from Ms Rogers "Don't tell me that." I now sounded mean "You! Are going to have to do it! You have the strength. Use it! Stir 'em up! Keep 'em off balance. Don't worry, Ann will find her feet! The riffraff won't!" Then a sly look took over my face. "You know. Kinda like what happened just this afternoon!" A guilty look and air escaped loudly from Ms Rogers' nose. Marybeth had ratted on us causing the sur-prise inspection. Ms Rogers: "Ross." Ross: “Yes, ma'am?" Ms Rogers told me then with a mean expression of contempt, "Ross, you must be certi-fiably insane." Ross: "That's pretty good! I like that! But you can do better!" Ms Rogers smiled oddly at Ross. "Ma'am. Can't you see? You are working for Ann, but you're also working for something higher, a higher good. God forgives those working in his service."

I'm not like that

Ann: "Ol’ Ross. May I have a talk with you?" Ross: “You are going to need her, Ann." Ann was trying to put her hand on my shoulder "Ross. I want you to know something. Dern it Ross listen to me! I want" Ross: "I know Ann." Ann: "you to know something. You just think you know! I want you to know that I am not like that!. Look at me Ross. Give me your attention."

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Ann looked sick, then determined, "I have more than myself to consider here." Ross: "I don't think she can help it, Ann. Common Ann. You must have known that else you would've said something." Ann groaned, "She is my best friend. My very best friend, but I ..." Ross: "Yet, you did just about have a cow back there. I wondered how long you could keep quiet." We walked a little together across the room. "She really doesn't like me much, but she's loyal as an old dog. You can't refuse her help. She's smart as a whip and so what?" Ann: "So what am I going to do, ignore that, that ..." Ann shuddered. Ross: "Clear to see she's real fond of you" I said delicately. "Hey. I was a flautist in high school. I know" Ann: "A what?" Ross: "lots of 'em. A flute-player, flautist, flute-player, in the band. Most homosexuals I've seen seem to play really, really well. And as long as they haven't broken the laws of Texas, I think we can include them, too. Don't you? The laws of Texas are what you'll swear to uphold, Ann. More than that is up to God. Better get used to that." Ann: "She so wants to work for this ..." Ross: "Sure, Ann. Uh huh, Kickin and screamin! And so what?" Ann looked settled and convinced. "No. She really does." "Well Ann, you were pretty easy to convince there." I said half laughing, nervously with a hiccup. "Besides, don't you read the newspaper?" and I motioned toward the hate sheet stack which is really high now. Ann laughed then said seriously, "Oh Ross. Sometimes I think you're a knucklehead, Ross. But, well, I'm 'specially glad you think like I do on this." Ross: "Ann. You will be the finest governor Texas has ever had or ever will have. Sam Houston, all of them, Austin, you're on that level and even higher." Ann rolled her eyes a little and smiled a "yeah sure" smile "Don't you think you're not! Ann. There'll be about 50 people holding this world together by that time and you will be one of the fifty. Everyone on the planet will know the name, Ann Richards. Everyone will admire you because you are worthy of admi-ration, Ann. And so what about these people?” I held up today's issue of the republican vitriolic hate sheet. "Having an innocent, non-practicing homosexual on your staff won't make any dif-ference ah tall." Ann: "Oh?" Ross: "Yeah, Ann." I looked again in her eyes and twisted my head and smiled funny "Yeah. They're gonna call you a lot WORSE than that anyway!" We both laughed. Hesitating, misty-eyed, Ann grabbed my neck and gave me a big hug.

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The Importance of Good Records

As I gave him his delicious McDonald’s coffee one morning, I had a chance to give Clin-ton a pep talk. Here’s one I got out of my boy scout Order of the Arrow leadership training, “Mr. President, one of the goals you must achieve in this campaign is good record keeping. You need to remember everyone in this campaign, their addresses, phone numbers, family members, every-thing.” “Oh! That’s good! Ross, I’m very busy now can you come back later?” Clinton was in no mood just then. “This will only take a moment longer, sir.” I put the three package of 3 X 5 index cards on his desk and walked back out to my typing. He came out of his office with one of them, and I stood up electrically, eyes forward. He tapped the cards in his hands, almost said something, but put them into his pocket and left. I noted in “First in his Class”, a biography of Clinton, that he used the cards I gave him, just as I asked him to. I imagine the cards again came in handy when they both wrote about their Texas days. I got my best ideas as a penitent young man, in prayer. If I thanked God for every blessing, every little victory, each and every help in my life, I’d spend the rest of it writing them down.

VW scene

Run Close Encounters clip about here "Old man whistling She'll be Comin' Round the Mountain .....

Steven was matter-of-fact, “That is the weirdest whistling I have ever heard. Don't you know whistling inside a building is rude? Come on Jiminy Cricket. You and me gotta go out today." Ross: "Two selfless martyrs?"

Word a Day calendar: martyr Steve: "Huh? Ann'll meet us." Ross: "Common Stevie. Get our stuff!" We walked out to the car and got in. My VW took us into a built-up area. "O.K. Where are we going anyway?" Steve: "Corn something, it's up here." We drove awhile. Steve opened my glove com-partment, "What's in here?" “Hey!" I objected as my privacy was callously invaded.

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gia Oil Company. (They would be my first customer when I started out in business.) I later gave it to Steve, only to see it burn up in the castle fire for Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I gave him a watch. I gave him a belt. I gave him my old Indiana Jones leather jacket. I gave him my obsolete digital watch. I gave him two canteens and my boy scout US army ammunition bag with the hole in it that Captain Meuller used in Saving Private Ryan. I gave him, some broken jewelry that he fixed for Deep Impact, and I gave him Captain Frank Taylor’s insignia, too. (Frank Taylor--the first guy back in Close Encounters--was my mother’s fiance’ and died on a training flight. He’s buried in Houston, Texas.) I almost gave Spielberg my little sister Ditchy’s Casper the Friendly Ghost doll, too. (Ditchy not Gerty, Stevie.) And I gave him, too, embroi-dery from my chest-of-drawers used in Braveheart--the pledge of William Wallace! While it’s fun to see my old stuff in Stevie’s flicks, it’s dry, too. And my stuff in the movies of his later em-issaries, my handwritten notes like the one in E.T. (with my name on it), Good Will Hunting, K-PAX, my gold and green leaf broaches in LOTR, my sweaters in Cast Away, but it’s all just junk really. Truth be told, I miss my old friend. Ross: “I thought it was up here?" I kept driving, but eventually I just stopped in frustra-tion. "I am so lo ha hah lost! Cornbread? Where the heck is Cornbread?" A driver pulled up beside us and complained, "You are stopped in the middle of the road ... Jackass!" He had obviously read my McGovern bumper sticker. "Can you tell me where cornbread is? TURKEY! I'm sorry Steve. Couldn't he see the maps? I thought he was trying to help." Steve: “Don't think about it. Ross." He looked at me with tight lips and wide eyes. "You know I'm going to use that." There was that weird determination in his voice again, more eye lights too.

Run clip about here: 'So lost' in truck scene from Close Encounters Ross: "What?" Steve: "You don't mind do you?" Ross: "You honor me, Steven Spielberg. You honor me."

Later, we were still in the car

Word a Day Calendar: Intolerable

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Dallas’s new highway without exits was frustrating to a driver accustomed to easy free-dom on the road. "This is intolerable!" I turned around in my seat as the car on a four lane toll way in north Dallas passed yet another main throughway without the expected exit. "That was where we were supposed to turn! There are no exits on this silly expressway. How does one get off this thing?"

Indy3 Dad "This is intolerable!" as plane shoots; on tank "How does one get off this thing?"

In a Chinese restaurant

Steve just couldn’t believe it, "You mean to tell me that you have never had Chinese food, ever in your whole life?" No, my dad had sent me into them several times to get cigarettes, but I was game. "What's this red stuff? Gooey, look! Thank-you Steve. This..." "Some items of experience I just take as given. I just can't believe this.” he laughed wholeheartedly. "That’s the point, Steve. Nobody else will either. Uh. Hey! I’m just eighteen. How in the world do you eat such tiny corn!" I complained. "You eat the whole thing." Steve answered completely at ease. He was the master now. "Cobs too?!" I said, horrified. Steve nodded yes, smiling. "Wait a minute. Nobody will believe this is your first time in a Chinese..." I stared at Steve, smiling "Nobody'll ever believe that in 1972 I sat across from Steven Spielberg in a booth of a Texas Chinese restaurant having the conversation we're about to have." Our waiter timidly approached our table. Steve was about to object, "Ross." Ross: "Do you have something simple, like soup?"

run clip about here "Something simple, like soup? palace scene Indy II

Steven Spielberg’s imagination produced a vision of eye-ball soup which he explained to me in a “wouldn’t it be cool if” scenario. It lightened our mood, but I told him HE was weird. A few minutes passed and we were again in earnest conversation. "Steven. Do you believe in your wildest imagination that God Almighty with all His in-credible power would let them win?"

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Steve felt like teaching history, he must have been getting used to my profound igno-rance, “They didn't win." He said that with the assurance of every history book written since the event. "They have all that land, their descendants have it--safely cleared of Jews. Looks like they won to me." Steve gathered that I didn’t need a history lesson, so just for argument’s sake, he began, "Look Germany's much smaller ..." "I'm talkin' about all of em. Yeah. Europeans. The nazis couldn't have done what they did alone." I sat back. "But its gonna be O.K." Steve: "Sometimes I follow you Ross and then sometimes you just go off all on your own." "Frustrating isn’t it? It's gonna be O.K. because of you, Steve." Steve discovered another turn, “What? Like that! You just head off somewhere!" I knew Steve could follow me now, though. "Were there talented, smart people among the Spielbergs the nazis killed?" Steve: "They weren't Spielbergs, they were on my mother's side, but." Ross: "They're Spielbergs now, or 'til you learn their names." Steve: “Yeah. Uh. no. They were… They were Alders, Alders and Horowitzes, I think." Ross: "They're your family Steven. They're Spielbergs." Steve: "Yeah, oh! You're twisting things." I chuckled over his objection. "I'm straightening things out! Answer my question. Were these members of your family, dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens were they smart peo-ple, sharp people, talented people?" Steve: "Sure there were. Of course they were! What am I talking about?" Ross: "They helped make you. Right?" Steve’s face reddened. Steve: "O.K. So what? They're dead." Ross: Slamming the table, startling Steve "NO. THEY'RE NOT. God would never let them win. God would never let those animals mess with your family and get away Scott free. Don't you see?” I said looking around in the air. “All that talent, all those smarts. It's alive AND MAGNIFIED, IN YOU!" Steve: "Eat your soup. Just how would you know what God wants anyway?" "Hey this stuff is really really good! Isn't it?" I spoke lightly. "You mean that, you say that all their smarts and talent I've inherited? Yeah. O.K. I'm their descendent, " Steve conceded making an uneasy truce, but not a peace. He never made peace with me. He was no fool. He certainly knew better than to listen to some ignorant, ob-sessed, blasphemous, kid. The Jewish people have not held onto their traditions of faith for thousands of years without running into fanatics and they had time-tested methods. Ask any rabbi.

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"MAGNIFIED!” I smiled and came back. “Are you supposed to add anything to the soup? Maybe some yellow stuff here?" Steve vigorously shook his head no to my adding Chi-nese mustard to sweet and sour soup. "Oh no. You don't get it. All the intelligence and talent that they would all have today and their children. You've got that. All of it. Then multiply it by 3 or so." Steve dislike misdirection. “The yellow and pink stuff are for the egg roll. Waiter! Can you get him a couple of egg rolls please? Now. You think ..." "You think?" Initially, I balked about egg rolls, squeamishly, thinking they were some spicy egg salad stuffed bread roll. "I exaggerated. Actually its about 2.1 X's or 1.3 depending how you do it. Just enough, but a lot." Steve: “Don't worry. Egg rolls never hurt anybody. Meanwhile, you can eat your soup." Ross: "Look. It's all gone. Why do you tell me to keep eating it?" Steve: "Huh? Oh." He laughed lightly, like he had just caught himself . "Somethin’ my father used to say to me. … I read this book once." Ross: "That's the book you will use." Steve was flustered "Look! You haven't let me finish. How would you know?" Ross: "I am a messenger from God, I guess." I spoke profoundly with absolute convic-tion. That’s what I said back then and that is how I felt. The message was special. I was ex-pendable and still am. "WHAT!! OK, then make me an invisible man!" Ross: "Done. You know what will hurt 'em the most?" Steve was mortified, "I'm not going to hurt anybody! Waiter! Check please." Ross: "Now you listen to me Steven Spielberg. Those nazis f’ed with your family. You gotta hit 'em back." Steve: "Check please. Are you psycho or something? Check!" Ross: “They f’ed with your past, Steve." Steve: "CHECK!" Ross: “You gotta f’ with their future!" Steve stared at me, holding up his hand. "CHECK. CHECK! CHECK!!" Ross: "They can't hear you Steven." Steve: “Apparently not. CHECK!" Ross: “You’re invisible.” Steve got up from the booth and jumped up and down. He screamed, “GIVE ME THE F’ING CHECK!” A Chinese cook walked right past him, brandishing a meat clever and yelling in Chinese to the hostess, who yelled back vociferously in passionate Chinese coming right after him from the kitchen. As Steven crept around them, he looked back at me, tantalized, but skepti-cal. “How come I can see myself then?”

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“Be careful!” I yelled. You’ve never heard such an argument in Chinese! Wow! No one paid any attention to Steven until I made him visible again! Then we worked on Schindler’s List. Those are some of my dad’s cufflinks at the beginning of the film. It was difficult talking to Steve about the story, but we did the best we could. I contrib-uted the train picnic, the villa sniping, and convinced Steven not to tell the complete truth about the young Jewish girl the camp superintendent took for himself. What really happened to her was just too horrible to show on any film, even stag films. Likewise the Hebrew gravestones were not buried face down and paved over in the movie, but were used as cobblestones in the film since that wasn’t as nearly as bad. Steve thought the stones would look good in black and white. That idea clicked him into it. We chose black and white because locations were behind the Iron Curtain at the time, he was unsure of their labs, and it was movie normal back then to use black and white. I guess we figured he would get around to it sooner than he managed, but his getting the groundwork started helped move things later. I got color for the little girl’s coat of many colors and for the flames of faith, since Steve said he could do it pretty easily. The film begins where Steve’s relatives come back to their village and find it empty, with candles for a Jewish holiday, still burning brightly. The smoke of the candle was supposed to blend into the smoke of the train engine after a scene Steve had loved from somebody else’s earlier film, but it didn’t work in the film. I used the same color/black and white analogy in Pleasantville, years later, too, to help move America out of the fifties. “And Steven, when you’ve slapped those f’ing nazis so much you’re just sick of it and want to stop because it is just too much, remember something for me. They shot my father in the leg. So pop ‘em one more time for me, eh?” I begged him. “You are certifiable, Ross.” “Thanks Steve, you too!” Steven Spielberg generously picked up the tab.

Freedom Speech

Everyone was leaving except Ann Richards and me. There were piles of stuff everywhere, obviously much work remained. Ann was unpersuasive, "Now come on now people! You can't just let go!" But they did go and we sat in silence. "Well, Ross. It looks like it's gonna be up to us. I wish you could work your magic and do somethin' about that!" "Um. O.K." There was no insoluble problem if God is on your side. After a few mo-ments consideration I sat opposite Ann, and spoke clearly, matter-of-factly, then excitedly, "You know Ann, you'd think everyone would want to stay here with us around the clock. Look what we got here! Ann Richards is here. You are here. You are ANN RICHARDS here, right here with me, chatting! And it's 1972! And we're talking casual. Nobody even knows you! This is so great!” Ann looked away, busy with the work, but listening. "And Bill Clinton, himself!,

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spends most of his time here on week-ends. Good grief? Even Steven Spielberg's here! You'd think that'd be enough for anybody!" [Excitedly] "If they only knew what I do." "Ol' Ross!" Ann suddenly hugged me and held my bewildered head in her arms. "Oh Ross. You are a special young man!" She patted my head and examined it like I had a screw loose. I struggled free, "Common Ann. You got a reputation to live up to." While Ann looked amazed at me, my look back told her that she should cut out play-acting and get on with it. She got up and walked off, but over her shoulder she caught me celebrating--revolving myself on my chair. Next night, every one of Ann's high school group was leaving exactly as the night before! Again there were piles of stuff everywhere, obviously much work remained, again. Ann shrugged, "Welp. There they go again!" “You know, Ann, I’ve been thinking. I see my note here to talk to you about it. You will need to keep in touch with President Clinton after this election is over.” “Oh, I don’t know about that, Ross. He’s going to a whole other state, and we’ll have plenty to do here,” Ann doubted. People were gathering their things, finding keys. “You will have to invite him to Texas, Ann. To speak to your people and say amazingly laudatory things about you, that’s what!” I could see Ann smile at my dreaming. “Not only that, he will need you to go to his state and tell his audiences amazingly laudatory things about you, too!” Her get serious eyes began to ponder my words. “And then when you’re governor, or whoever is first, you’ll have to be sure to campaign for each other! Imagine, here’s Ann Rich-ards CFO of Texas and THE GOVERNOR OF A WHOLE ‘NOTHER STATE comes to town just to say nice things about you! And then return the favor!” “Ross! You don’t really think that? I mean, what would I say? What could I say? And who would listen to me, anyway,” she was letting herself down. I just could not allow that to happen. “OF COURSE HE’D JUST LOVE TO HAVE YOU come and talk to large audiences, because you’re ANN RICHARDS and he will be honored!” I looked her right in the eyes. “Honored.” She blinked and started to fuss, and I felt the need to go further. “And when you both become governors, you can join with other Democratic governors and get organized to in-fluence things on the national scene, a new Democratic leadership council for moderate Demo-crats.” “You say the darnest things, Ross!” Ann’s wheels started turning. “Besides, nobody around here will ever call me MODERATE! I’m a liberal liberal Democrat!” “You’re not as liberal as I am,” I told her matter-of-factly. Her eyes said ‘got a point there’. “But with the country moving away from the racist right-wing past, by the time you’re both governors, you will be. Shove the country towards the future, towards freedom, Ann. You can. You must.”

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Bubba. Do you like to hunt!?

Three tweedy looking guys the same age as the President were sitting around for a few minutes in his office. One of them was pretty short, but no beard, i.d.'ed later as Robert Reich, the other two were Strobe Talbot and David Kendall. The President, casu-ally leaned on the front of his desk and addressed me as I approached with a pile of pa-pers. Our exchange blew these guys away, the President, his entire attention on me like always when he talked to somebody2, thus he ignored them completely. However, out talking had an electric effect. Clinton's friend from college, David Kendall sat closest to us while we were speaking on the office threshold. Steve Spielberg must have been eavesdropping or heard a report because some of what we said was so impressive that it made it into Braveheart. Clinton: "Oh Bubba. I am glad I caught you. I want Utah tell me something." I was both eager and respectful, "Yes, Mr. President. Anything." "Bubba. Do you like to hunt!?" There was a passionate fire in his eyes but not his voice. "Well, Mr. President, I don't guess I've ever been on a real actual hunt." It made me very nervous at disappointing a future president of the United States. Ann walked up with more work for me, smiling, she'd overheard, "Mmmmmm. I smell venison!" Clinton smiled back at Ann and then incredulously at me, his left eyebrow below his right. "You mean to tell me that you've never been out ta' hunt?" Then disappointedly "I'd a thought surely." I shrugged and teetered my head no, but I recovered. "Uh, sir? My brother hunts! And I've been on lots of camp-outs with the Boy Scouts." Clinton was hopeful: "An' I was hoping you would maybe know somewhere around here where we all might get some hunting in. After this campaign of course." "Mr. President, I could check around some?" Then with the fearful determination of a Presidential aide which I certainly was, "I am sure I could arrange such an outing, Mr. Presi-dent." I looked down at my hands enumerating "Let's see, sir, you will need attire and supplies. Do you have weapons? and uh, bullets?" I was excitedly anxious to please, like here is the President of the United States making a request! Since we talked just like this on a daily basis, we were unusually good at it.

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2 Clinton got hearing aids after he found me in a crowd in Tampa during the '96 campaign but couldn't hear me. Apparently Clinton had just been a little deaf all along and needed to concentrate extra carefully just to get the true sense of what someone was saying.

Clinton, sensing I was out of my depth and perhaps noting his colleagues: "Just a 4-10." I wondered what that was. It wasn't a brand, but a gauge. "The word is ammunition. But no, no. That's all right." I had to have been visibly relieved. "We can take in a Cowboys game instead!" "Why! That is a great idea, Mr. President!" I offered. Jim Kendall couldn't contain himself any longer: "IS it?!" He snarled so loudly, it star-tled me. They must have been Redskins fans.

run clip about here Braveheart "IS it?" (Longshanks) plans assassination

Do. Or do not. There is no try!

Telling stories that change history, conveying policy initiatives that uplift entire popula-tions, and standing up for those who could not stand up for themselves, that’s what I did in Dal-las, Texas, in the summer of 1972. I spent only a short time with Clinton’s close friends who’d been to school with him in England: Strobe Talbot, David Kendall, and Robert Reich, but they each questioned me thoroughly. I told each of them that they, too, were destined for history. When the happy day came, none of them called to congratulate me, either. I’m easy to find when one of Spielberg's Hollywood friends want a good new free story, though. Steven Spielberg (Steven with a “ph” is the real spelling) gave me the association that finally allowed me to remember his name twenty-three years later. “’Spiel’ is German for play, and ‘berg’ means city, so I’m Steven Play-city. When I was a kid, I used to spend hours, creating cities and dreaming up plays about getting out of the city, etc.” After another lull in the campaigning, “Ann! Your golden boy here has forgotten my name again! It’s play-city! Remember?” Steve asked. “P” I started. “Oh I give up!” This gave me another idea. “Never give up, Steve. Never, never ever, give up!” I assured him. “It’s just a figure of speech,” he replied offhand. “We are what we listen to, and we listen to ourselves most of all. Choose another figure of speech.” I advised seriously. He blinked and got right back on track. “Spielberg. It is hard to remember. I know. It’s in a foreign language,” Steve conceded. Doesn’t that sound odd today? Spielberg is now the most American name there is besides ‘smith.’ “It’s American, Steve, and one day your name will become a household word,” said I confidently. “You really think so?” he asked me incredulously. Ann didn’t seem so sure, but I was. “Many people will limit their movie-going only to Spielberg films,” I predicted.

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“Wow, household word!” He smiled saying it. He allowed himself the enjoy the thought. “Play city!” I congratulated him. “Spielberg!” He said with satisfaction. He turned to me and smiled, big-time. “Which reminds me, I need to get your autograph! I want the very first Stephen Spiel-berg autograph.” (Today, I sometimes wish I had something with everyone’s signature on it, like my HOPE Scholarship Proposal for Zell Miller in the Georgia Archives.) “Too late! I already gave it out in France at the festival, but you can have the second!” “Here sign my driver’s license. This way people will believe me.” “Why wouldn’t they believe you? Eh. OK, I do my signature two ways, the ordinary way like for checks and things, and the one with flair, you know, for important occasions.” “Only use the important signature from now on, Steve.”

Wyoming

Wyoming, of course, was Steve’s landing pad destination for Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but in 1972 Clinton had a friend who owned ‘a spread’ near Jackson Hole. The words conjured up special magic for Clinton: ‘Jackson Hole’. I was keen on him visiting the state often when he became president in a bid to engage the state’s overwhelming republican ma-jority. He looked upon his trips there as a means of maintaining his hunting addiction. When I heard that a plane went down that carried Clinton’s baggage during his administration, the lives lost weighed heavily on my shoulders. I was relieved to hear that no large animal carcasses were among the baggage overloading the ill-fated Hercules. Their families should take consolation knowing that they gave their lives to maintain the American unity that so many before them died to preserve. The Air Force and the Secret Service identified the crash victims as Capt. Kevin N. Earnest, Capt. Kimberly Jo Wiel-houwer, 2d Lieut. Benjamin T. Hall, Staff Sgt. Michael J. Smith Jr., Senior Airman Michael R. York, Senior Airman Ricky L. Merritt, Senior Airman Billy R. Ogston, Airman Thomas A. Stevens and Secret Service Agent Aldo E. Fras-coia, 57, of Washington. The Air Force personnel all were based at Dyess Air Force Base in Abilene, Tex. New York Times, August 19, 1996

Jedi Training for Ann Richards

Ann Richards helped me train Steven Spielberg and the Clintons. She did it because I believed in her. “Ross! You’re the first person outside my family to think I could become gov-ernor of Texas!” “Ann, when you came to my house the other day, I asked my mother who it was. Do you know what? She couldn’t remember your name. I asked her what you looked like and she said ‘just some lady’. That must not happen again.” “Huh? What? You don’t want me to go to your … house?”

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I looked at her for a moment, then pleaded with her, “You are Ann Richards. You are go-ing to be governor of Texas, and you are going to stand up for people who cannot stand up for themselves! When the P.A. system gives out they are going to call you up to the podium because you will be the only person everybody can hear. 10,000 people are going to listen to you and do what you tell them to do and you must be ready! One day, you will be governor, and you must open your eyes!”

insert clip Braveheart about here “One day you will be a queen, and you must open your eyes!”

“I’ve always talked like this, Ross. I, I’m thirty-nine years old. Can I change just be-cause you say I can?” “Lie down on this table Ann, and put these books on your tummy.” I instructed. Mary-beth Rogers, alarmed as usual, came over to watch and fidget. Steve turned around from what he was doing, too. Rogers protested to Richards, but Ann allowed it. “I’m going to teach you to speak to 10,000 people Ann, but first you must learn how to breathe, with your diaphragm.” “Well I never used one for that.” Rogers protested and Steven Spielberg was contemptu-ous. “What in the name of Jesus Christ are you doing?” he asked. I ignored them and carefully placed the books on Ann Richard’s tummy, as she lay supine upon the table. I bent over to whisper in her ear. “Say Texas, Ann.” “Texas” she sighed meekly in her usual tone. “Now watch the phone books & pull them down with your tummy, say Texas, Ann!” “TEXus” “That’s right! YOU’VE ALMOST GOT IT! SAY TEXAS, Ann!”

She was as loud as a fog horn: ”T E X A S” Spielberg stepped past us. “This is just b.s., man. You’re not doing anything useful for anybody with this crap.” I stepped past Ann and a marveling Marybeth Rogers to confront Spielberg in the back room. I laughed, “Remember this moment for the future. You are Steven Spielberg! I said with emphasis, “And that, that woman is Ann RICHARDS!” A joy settled in over me, as Steven Spielberg began to believe in his destiny. Personal note to Steven Spielberg: Nobody’s going to believe any of this unless you substantiate it’s truth, the Chinese restaurant, either, just like I said, remember? Ann is dead now, but she believed in you, too. Do it for her, Steve. Admit the truth of this. Do it publicly. Do it here.

(obtain clip of Steve talking about ‘the training’ we did in Dallas in 1972.)insert clip about here Dead Poets Society Walking in lockstep

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“OK, Ann, now that you’ve found your voice, you have to practice.” “Oh, Ross! I have no idea what governors say! How could I practice?” Ann Richards moaned. “Practice in the bathroom. Ann. Use your diaphragm muscle to control your breath, and make every word count. Watch yourself in the mirror. You’ll have to practice for many hours to get it right completely.” “But practice on what?” “Listen to them at first, then say what’s on your mind. But always, Ann, speak to 10,000 people!” “There are transcripts of speeches in the newspapers sometimes. There are books of speeches, too” Marybeth Rogers offered helpfully. “See! You can do it!” “I’ll try. Ross. I’ll really try.” I looked at Ann Richards seriously. “Thousands, millions of people will depend on you, Ann, to change things, to make this place better for all of us to live in. With millions of future lives at state, Ann, trying is not enough! Do. Or do not! There is no try!” “I’ll DO it, Ross!” “You’re God damn right you will. You’re Ann Richards!” I walked back to my desk and pretended not to hear the following exchange between my friends. “Again, WHAT! Is that guy on?” Spielberg was back. Ann Richards, future governor of the great state of Texas, smiled at him and devilishly confessed, “I still don’t know, BUT STILL I WANT SOME!”

McGovern at Stirling Bridge?

“Ross, the unions have agreed to help us on Sunday, but I can’t get eight thousand signs ready with just eleven volunteers.” “Why not, Ann?” “Because they’ll leave after an hour.” “Don’t worry, Ann.” I told her confidently. “I’ll show you how to give a speech tomor-row. Leave it to me. They’ll work ‘til their hands bleed.”

I gave Ann a crazy smile, then spoke past her in a loud supported voice. "May I have everyone's attention please? They stopped unsure to hear such loud talking, and I began to move them along. “You all can just stop and quit. Go home and we'll be safe and nothing will happen to us, PROBABLY. You know who we’re up against (Nixon & his burglar/murderer henchmen), they killed Martin & Bobby & John. They just shot Wallace. Yeah, y’all go home & leave this

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to just Ann. You all know Ann will stay, so go home. You’ll be safe, maybe not Ann, but you’ll be safe, at least for awhile! But many years from now, When you're old and grey and dying at home in your beds HOW MANY of YOU WOULD GIVE ALL THE DAYS FROM THAT ONE TO THIS ONE FOR ONE CHANCE, JUST ONE CHANCE! TO COME BACK HERE, WITH BILL CLINTON & ANN RICHARDS AND TELL OUR OPPONENTS THAT THEY MAY TAKE OUR VERY LIVES BUT THEY’LL NEVER TAKE, OUR FREEDOM?”

Recognize the speech, reader? It’s from the movie, Braveheart. It’s also the one that Benedict Arnold gave his troops right before the battle of Saratoga, because I got it out of my senior Eng-lish text book at Richardson High School. All stood openmouthed at my latest passionate out-burst, specially prepared by me for this regular occasion of shirking volunteers Enthusiastic cheering began spontaneously, doubtless led by Spielberg. So, a dozen slacker McGovern volun-teers cheered their lungs out & worked like a hundred, late into the night ‘til break of day. Amidst the din, on the stairway above us at the other end of the room, Robert Reich led David Kendall, Clinton, and other friends into Ann’s basement. Clinton’s cadre had heard the cheering as they came in, evidently. Clinton maintained his dignity and said nothing. When I noticed them, Reich had just enunciated in a bright, cheery English accent, "Well! They sound rather optimistic to me!"

Run clip of English Sterling commander from Braveheart. “… optimistic to me!”

Robert Reich, Clinton’s first Secretary of Labor, had returned from Oxford after his Rhodes Scholarship with a put-on English accent. It was soon to be lost, though. Clinton also arrived to hear the end of my speech, so he smiled confidently. The place became frenetic with energy.

Indy clapped and jumped up and down like at a football game. "Woohoo way to go ROSS! That's your best one yet!" Wow. Everybody stayed! I couldn’t believe nobody left. Amazed Ann reorganized the group again. Ann just couldn't contain herself now. After seeing everyone back to task she came for her hug. "Ooooh, Thank-cue Ross!" "See Ann. Ya' just gotta ask 'em right. It's all in the wrist. All you'll have to do is ask." I demonstrated conducting.

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Steven Spielberg came over to me with his congratulations, too, "Ross. I gotta hand it to ya 'boy' that was electric! But I gotta go anyway, bye! Just kidding, I'll stay! After that, what? I'm gonna leave?" Spielberg looked helplessly at Indy as she slinked past nodding to go anyway. "I'm gonna stay long enough to copy this down, anyway," he said, scribbling again. Helping Steve, I told him, "Oh. And I meant to say dying, not lying … there." Steve speaking like a true journalist, "But you said lying." Then seeing the paper in my hand, "Oh, My God! You had it written down!" He looked at me with surprise as if I’d cheated somehow. “Yeah. Uh.” I stammered guiltily, “J’ya like it?” He took hold of the paper in my hand slowly reading it, “Can I have this? I’ll give it back. I just want to copy it.” He looked down at the paper again: "Besides, what you wrote down here sounds way better!" "Well. You have an eye for talent, I see. Well next time I'm by that-away I'll let George Washington know how you liked his speech." (It was actually Benedict Arnold's speech given before his assault on Fort Ticonderoga that produced the canon that allowed the cannonade threat that broke the will of the redcoats occupying Boston in 1775, but, because of his later treason, that name wouldn't do to be mentioned in the presence of an American hero like Steven Spielberg.) He was writing and paid me no heed. "Yeah. But look I didn't say that last part. Steven? What are you doing? Who's an enemy? Taking our land? Homes? Republicans aren't trying to kill us. Not yet, not all of us, anyway." Steve looked up, "They just work slowly, Ross." Half jokingly. “Steven.” I released the paper to him and waited for it. “Yeah? OK?” he said still writing. I waited. As he was finishing, and just starting to look up at me, I told him: “Earn this.” “What!” he dropped his hands beside him to look up at me. “Earn this. EARN it.” And I looked long and deeply down into his deep sparkling eyes. It was for him. It was all for him, his genius. I watched his realization dawn across his face. (Thanks, God. Yeah, I can settle for that.) “Strobe Talbot had heard the whole thing. “Great speech. Now what’ll we do?” “Just be yourselves.” I went to the bathroom & heard behind me … “Well, we didn’t get all dressed up for nothing. Pass me a hammer!” And Clinton committed his personal guard into the fray, night to day. They left only after all the signs were done, the victory won, With red-eyed exhaustion and bruised & bleeding fingers. The unions got their signs, Some of them stained With our blood. The next day after rest and after my talented performance the evening before still on his mental scoreboard, Steve tasked me to write a speech for one of his movies, his remake of War of

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the Worlds, which eventually morphed into Independence Day. I was thunderstruck at the honor he did me. (I still can’t believe it today. Thanks again, Steven.) He would have me do the same for Armageddon and Deep Impact, too. At home on my family’s old kitchen table where I had taken all my meals since my baby days (there were still dried turnip greens crammed into its crevices), I wrote the tarmac Independence Day speech for Spielberg’s Independence Day/War of the Worlds re-make. My first draft ended weakly. I was tired and at a loss & I took it in to Steve for polishing the day after that. Spielberg was anxious to read it. He agreed with my assessment and pumped it up with “persecution,” and “with a fight. We’re going to live on. We’re going to survive.” And here’s the result:

Insert clip from Independence Day ID4 tarmac speech by Bill Pullman.

Steven let me name the movie, “Independence Day” and set that day to launch it. I also named a few others: Good Will Hunting--a good deal later, The Star Wars (from a 1963 novella, The Star War, my favorite science fiction book up to that time, even though it ended halfway through the book) and Armageddon. Our generic titled “baby alien movie” got changed to E.T. Apparently I named it, too, since the E.T. logo is just my handwriting. For Deep Impact, Spielberg actually got Clinton to write part of one speech, dealing with technical detail. The emotional stuff he got from me. I copied the story shamelessly from a book I’d recently read, just like I did for Star Wars, but I guess I never expected that he would do ALL of the movies without asking somebody else about my ideas first, so my forgetfulness about attribution cost Stevie a lawsuit and he had to change it. Clinton shown when he helped Steve write the presidential moves following the sudden appearance of an alien invader from space, especially when he remembered the Emergency Broadcast Network. We all paused to look at him, just like the actors do in the movie, when he heroically stated his intention not to leave the White House to set a good example for the nation, not to panic.

Run clip from Independence Day Scene with Bill Pullman “I’m staying”

For Armageddon, most of my speeches are one-liners (much to Steve’s disappointment), but my president’s speech turned out fairly well. Ricky Stamper was a kid I knew at DeWitt Perry Junior High, but Ann Richards chose the name for a great oil-man she knew. I’m ashamed to report that the escape velocities that I gave so confidently to Steve were incorrect. The sheets of paper with what reward we might expect if we saved the world were used in that movie as props. On my sheet, I wanted to stay in the Lincoln bedroom--for the summer. (Hillary nixed that one, real quick.) Ron Kirk would recognize his, I’m sure.

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For Independence Day, Ron Kirk modeled for the character of Captain Stephen Hiller. He and a girl who came to see him at our office gave us much of the dialog used in the film. It was the only way we could make sure Hiller didn’t sound like some Oreo. Ron Kirk vehemently dismissed the very idea at the time. Ron Kirk would become His Honor, Mayor Ron Kirk of Dallas, Texas. It turned out that my youthful judgement was correct as to his career, too. And both Ron and Steve were right that no one would see anything wrong with the hiding alien mother ship casting a shadow on the surface of the moon in sight of the earth in the first scene of Armageddon. If I may explain, that was the point of approaching the earth from the other side of the moon, in order to be hidden by our lunar satellite. I knew that people would see the ship’s shadow move across the face of the moon and be an obvious alien tactical fau pax to give their position away. “Stupid aliens!” people would shout, but screenings were quiet, except for my voice screaming, “stupid aliens!” Radar imaging would hardly be necessary if the ship moved between the earth and the moon, but no one griped about it at all and it was indeed a great open-ing, just as Spielberg said. Anyway, Spielberg’s wheels were turning constantly. One wheel turns another, so he got my drums rolling as well. “I was thinking ‘Indiana Smith’ or ‘Indiana Jones’. What do you think, Ross?” Steve asked me about Clinton’s Arkansas Bob and the Alligators story idea. He wanted to name it after his girlfriend, plus she was from there, as I learned while we put Close Encounters together. “IN – DI--ANA JONES!” I said with animation. Thus I got to choose between them. Oh, and of course, Indiana was not a dog.

Run clip of We named the dog Indiana! From Indy III)

Steve came at me from behind, "Ross! Listen Ross. If you lived in ancient times and were about to be executed in front of a lot of people what would you say?" [Chidingly] "Steven! Why do you want that for? Steven. You've got enough! What are you doing?" Steve had a new project: "Well I was thinkin of this hero, a Scot, who saved his country, it was my favorite book that I read as a child, you know, like Star Wars3 was for you and ..." "You never made that movie, Steven. I mean, I don't think working on that ... That doesn't sound like a very good movie to me. Does it to you?" Steve spoke over my objection, "Huh? Why worry then." He smiled awkwardly. "Common Ross. Imagine you are this Scottish hero and you're up on a stage." "About to be spitchcocked," I offered.

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3 novella published with another in one binding in 1963 "englobe them!"

Word a Day calendar: To Spitchcock

Steve: "That's right. In front of everybody, and they hate you! What would you say?" "Hmmm. Let me think. I'll tell you tomorrow?" I offered. Steve was a bit perturbed, "Common Ross. Look there's Indiana. I need to talk to her. Hold on a second. Be right back." David Kendall, who would become Clinton's White House Counsel, walked up suddenly and rudely pushed my shoulder demanding, "How'd you get all of them to listen to you like that? "I don't know.” I admitted, “I guess I just had something to say." Kendall was dis-satisfied with my answer. "You're not in charge here!" he charged. He must have been under the impression that my free speech was somehow inappropriate at a political gathering. Clinton, perhaps aware of some violent tendencies in his loyal friend from college was alarmed and con-cerned enough to hustle his friend away from me and back with the others of his group casting around for tools to make signs. "No I'm not." I said as Kendall turned away, then with my eyes uplifted: "You're absolutely right about that." God was in charge, of course. A slight smile emerged from my face. Now I found Steve interrupting his talking with Indy, "O.K. Steve. I got it."

Braveheart

Steve: "Got what? OHHH! The uh. Yeah the hero. Now. He took drugs for the pain." Ross: "Never. I'd need all my wits about me. This is what I'd do." Steve interrupted me, “No, Ross, it’s in the history books that William Wallace took drugs to dull the pain ...” I returned the favor and interrupted him now, “And histories are written by those who have hanged heros!” Steve became intensely interested, pen in hand. "First I'd let 'em do their worst, then I'd ask to speak a word to the crowd." Steve: "A word, to plead? What word? What word! You know they did that to us during the Spanish inquisition." “What did they do, Steven?” I asked him sympathetically. “They would make us kneel and kiss the seal of the church,” he said with emo-tion. The humiliation still stung after nearly five hundred years.

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“On behalf of Christians, on behalf of Christianity, I want to offer our apology to you and yours for what you suffered from our fools’ hands, Stephen Spielberg, with deepest regrets. I can put it in writing for you if you want.” “Don’t mock me, Goddamn you!” I said no more about it, but after a moment or two of silent respect for his pain, I took up the task he presented to me. "When the torturers had done their worst and I had born all in silence. Then, when all became quiet to hear me confess all and take quick death with my last breath, then I would take all my strength, every ounce of breath, every uh..." Steve: "Will you get to the point, Ross." Ross: "I am, Steven. I am. … When the crowd'd settled down and had become still to hear what I had to say. You see it's important to let your enemies know that they may have you, but they haven't beaten your brave heart, that they have no hope of beating you and, should quit themselves." Steve: "Like the speech. So what would you say? The one word?" Ross: "Huh? Ok, the last final word. Well, with my last breath and all my strength, I would gather it up. It hurts the pain it hurts so bad! While closing my eyes, I turned my head and open my mouth in slow motion, then I silenced the yacking crowd with a yell. "FREE--DOM! … see?" Steve started shaking his head. "OK Ross. Thanks." He paused, then he put his pen in the binding of his notebook and snapped the rubber band around it. I am going to need more detail. Where would your eyes go?" "Eyes? I would pick out a little one and fix my gaze on him" "Ross. Nobody brings children to executions." "Sure they did! It was a family picnic, it's where all the vegetables came from." "Vegetables, Ross?" "That they threw at the convicts!" "What. Like vaudeville?" "It passed for public entertainment back then. Look Steve, give this one to some-one else." Steve: "What? Oh. Like who?" Ross: "Like someone you want to help, that's who. I don't know! Somebody you admire," I grinned a big grin, "somebody you can PAY with screen credit instead of MONEY!" The idea grew on him until I could see Steve loved the idea. He also finally realized that he had to be generous and spread his talent around among the studios, and not play favorites. His generosity should be legendary in Hollywood, but he recoiled at the thought, until I pointed out that the people he would help already had plenty of money. They wanted his talent, and he had to be generous with it and stay busy always. Basically, this approach seems to have been very successful.

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He spoke to me about some studio executives who refused to see him or talk to him, this shocked me. How could any executive be so short-sighted as to slight the great-est cinematic genius of all time? Crazy things happen in Hollywood, so I went back to How to Win Friends and Influence People, by Dale Carnegy. We decided to send the poor fellow little gifts, similar to my prescription for Hillary--which also worked out ex-tremely well. Carnegy’s book was also the source for for using Lincoln’s letter to Mrs. Lydia Bixby in Saving Private Ryan.

Executive Mansion,Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.Dear Madam,--

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.

I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,

A. Lincoln

Nothin'

Our office started being busier one day. It was quite a change from our usual hurry-up & piddle, slow-paced plodding. I would walk around looking past and over everybody. The President's friends and a new crowd of younger teenagers moved around as Ann directed. So Ann helped shush everybody as I began to speak. It was amazing how people got used to stopping and listening to me. Wow. I must have been even fuller of myself than I've been since. Ann didn't make a sound, she just used hand signals. She signal a couple of younger kids, one elbowed the other, knowingly. Clinton's friend, David who had insulted me earlier kept on talking pointedly, but even he gave up and be-came quiet. "This is America! Don't be afraid! Are we going to stand by and let those repub-licans push us around? I ask you this. Are we going to stand by and let them wreck our homes, our businesses, our very lives?!"

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"Steven, what will happen if we fail? Do ya' know?" Steven lit up and smiled, he shook his head a couple of times and was genuinely sheepish. "What will happen if we fail? Does anybody know what will happen if we don't do what we have set out for ourselves? Ann! What will happen without Ann Richards, Governor of Texas!? Mr. President! There's greatness in you. I can see it in ya! If you'll only lead us, to free-dom!" Steve got excited like a kid and spoke to me in a loud whisper] "Me, I uh, want to be Mayor!" Quietly aside with an air of a carny's 'get away from me boy--you bother me' "Mayor? Of what?" I asked. "Uh. Of Dallas!" Clearly Spielberg had not thought this through. He was just fishing for movie ideas again, but now in the middle of things. I knit my brow in disappointment. "Steven. You're not gonna make movies? Ron Kirk's called that one. You remember? The Black Guy. War of the Worlds, excuse me, Independence Day?" Steven: "Uh, yeah." He admitted sheepishly looking side to side, ashamed and all around him miffed.

run movie clip about here: Brave Heart says 'nothin'

"What will happen if we do not save our state" I looked at Ann "if we do not save our nation!" I found Clinton’s eyes. He made no motion, just looked back and heard me, "and our culture." I looked for Stevie but he had run off. Oh there he was! Ann and Clinton looked at Stevie now, who beamed and kinda snarled back at the people he both-ered just a few seconds ago. Everyone gave me their attention now. "What will happen? What will happen if we ignore things and don't do anything?" A quiet space of twenty seconds' silence as my expression rose in rage. "Nothin." The word was spoken quietly, but all heard. Strangely, many were disappointed. Perhaps I should have dug up another Benedict Arnold speech? John Pouland, the lowest level teen volunteer was angry, he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me around to face him. "Just what was all that about? That made no sense. You know, you have no right to ..." Steven, Indy, and several others, all his friends, pulled the young man away and shushed him. I quietly returned to work. John's friend helped him out, "It made sense, plenty. Common John. Get off it." John was not jealous of me, but it was sad to see he needed a concrete explanation. For instance, Pouland made a point to ask me if he could see Clinton and then just strode in on him and treated the future President like some nobody. Clinton tolerated his bad man-

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ners patiently. DEC Chair for Dallas County, John Pouland had a splendid career as a legislative aide in Austin.

Scottish War on England

I was helping Steve figure out how the Scots won at Stirling without ever having read an account of the battle. “Or make spears, hundreds of ‘em, twice as long as a man!” Steven couldn’t help himself, “Some men are longer than others.” “Yo mamma’s been tellin’ stories about me again!” joked Ron Kirk and we all laughed. One of Clinton’s friends finally approached me and knelt before me. “I’ve come to fight and to die for you” he told me. I knew what he was up to, so I went with, “Stand up will ya’ I’m not the Pope!” Ever had somebody feign at your feet? I just accepted him with a handshake. Oh no. These weenies wouldn’t break me that easily. Certainly not to schlepp the pizza I’d brought in. Now it was Strobe Talbot's turn to try. Talbot became one of Clinton's undersec-retaries of state. How this clown got Clinton’s full confidence astounds me to this day. But it wasn’t my decision to make. He was certainly intelligent, talented, and colorful. It seems odd that he's never once apologized, either. He must have seen his own outlandish behavior mawked in Braveheart and wondered. Anyway, he just laughed and announced back to Clinton, Steve, Ron, me, Ann Richards, Marybeth Rogers, Indy everybody, “HIM? That can’t be your Angel Ross! I’m prettier than this man! All right Father, I’ll ask him! If I risk my neck here with you, will I get a chance to fight republicans?” “Is your father a ghost, or do you converse with the Almighty?” Ann Richards posed the question quite reasonably. “In order to find his equal an Irishman is forced to talk to God. YES FATHER! The Almighty says ‘don’t change the subject just answer the foockin’ question.” “MIND YOUR TONGUE! There are ladies present.” Anybody could have said it. “Insane Irish.” Ann commented and moved over to her desk. "Yes, are you one of the President's college chums?" I interrogated back. Strobe: "That's right." He panned glassy-eyed toward the President's office where the others had gathered to watch my latest tormentor come to the joust. Clinton dutifully joined them, confident in the outcome. He knew I was up to the challenge. "We did some college together."

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'Oh did you now?' I almost said. That 'did some' was strange usage for Texas and probably for Connecticut, too; something a doper would say maybe. I wondered why Clinton felt the need to have such street tough SOB's around him all the time. Of course, Hillary was the toughest of the lot by a wide margin. She made Strobe Talbot seem like Gold E. Locks, though less flamboyant. I complemented him. "You choose your friends well. He's a good friend to have." Strobe: "Yes he is. That much of what you say isn't bullshit." I decided to overlook that scatological rebuke and tried to continue pleasantly like I knew Clinton expected. Even for eighteen, I was only a bit rattled. After all, there were eighteen year olds just like to me in Vietnam up to their necks in gore, so I continue reso-lutely. "So do you expect a cabinet job?" Strobe: "You listen to me, fella. You can pull that cock and b.s. over everybody else's eyes but don't you try it on me. I'm not going to stand for it." I had no other choice but to ignore his mixed-metaphors and carry on. "You can reach that high, you know." Strobe Talbot was less diplomatic than Hillary, too. "F’ you pimple head." He said, but he was back on his heels. I had his wheels turning, and I knew it. At last I'd made him aware of the possibility, for him, of greater responsibility if only if he could possibly extend his reach to find what I had just grasped for him and put into his head. "But you must become the very best at what you do." Strobe was in my face. "You don't know anything about me." After such a great start, he was losing, rather badly. He rushed back to the watching group and fetched a holstered pistol from the hands of the someone in the group of Clinton's friends near the President's office. He was determined to get my goat, but he nearly lost his life. God makes some spectacularly unlikely choices, and poor Strobe (like George W., Condi Rice, and super-reluctant Hillary herself) was going to be one. “Well, I know you have to be pretty smart!” I admitted, resolutely STILL GAME. “Smart enough to get a pistol past your guards, old man.” Strobe hefted the hol-stered pistol in his hands, menacingly and used it dangerously to motion toward the President on 'he'. "The only way he is ever going to be president is over my dead body." Staring right at him, I spoke sadly, slowly and with real remorse. "I am very, very sorry to hear that." No, I wasn't smiling, either. I glanced quickly at the President who was 20 feet away watching, talking to Steven Spielberg who has just joined the group. Great! Spielberg gets to rub shoulders with future high government officials while I get tormented for entertainment value. I just couldn’t believe he was over there schmoozing like that, oblivious that my life was again in grave danger. Here I was under attack, ag-gressive attack, with the fate of the world hanging over my head.

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Strobe had been looking back at the others, too, now he became more agitated. "And YOUR dead body too, if you want!" Sure, he got my heart action going, but I was ready to take his bullet now. Was he ready to die, too? I thought not, I suppose. It happened too quickly. Loudly and more shockingly, I almost shrieked right back at him: "THEN WE'LL DIE!" Strobe was a brave young man, if a little screwed up back in 1972. So in a mean , slithery voice he moved us both even closer to death. "You wanna see God?" He took the holstered pistol in his hands and turning around to put the muzzle firmly into my neck, he said, "I've got nothing better to do. Let's go see him together!" Ann quietly pulled her bigger pistol out of her drawer and cocked it loudly. What do you do when the soul of your nation is at stake and an insane man has a gun to your throat? I screamed defiance. "MY SOUL IS PREPARED. HOW'S YOURS!" I was deadly serious. Finally, he pulled back, puzzled. Clinton must have seen Richards’ pistol and signaled an end to his stragetem. His 'joke' had gone too far. He was nearly a big mess on our floor, too, but we never told him about that. (Hello Strobe! You were almost a jackass memory there, pard. Read on.) Clinton finally came to my rescue, “That’s my friend, Irish, and the answer to your question is yes, if you work with us, you’ll get to fight against Nixon.” “Excellent! Talbot is my name. I’m the most wanted man, on my island, except of course, I’m not on my island, more’s the pity.” “Your island? You mean Ireland?” Clinton wondered in jest. “Yeah! It’s MINE.” Strobe thought he was taunting me, but he was just putting a minor character into Braveheart. “You’re a mad man?” I inquired. That explained a lot. “Then I’ve come to the right place then, huh!” And so did that.

Run clip from Raiders IJ1, Indy and Belloq have a drink. Run clip from IJ3, Kazim & Indy at the propeller

Ann's pistol

ANN opened her middle drawer showing Steven and me the engraved chromed six-shooter pistol with white grips and extra-long barrel. It was the biggest pistol I'd ever seen. Steven got me to look at Ann's drawer. "NO I'm not kidding." I was shocked to see yet another firearm. What were we? An arsenal of freedom? Ann was deadly serious. "Nobody's gonna hurt you, Ross. Not while I'm around anyway." Ann then looked sternly at Steven Spielberg, essentially threatening the great

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Hollywood legend with death! Steven had knocked me out with a friendly punch earlier. Steven shrugged shoulders and, flabbergasted, gestured his innocence! Ann laughed, reassuring Steven, who yet look around worried. "Ann, aren't you afraid of hurting somebody?" I asked. "Ross. If that fellah's (Strobe Talbot, who would become Clinton’s undersecretary of state) finger had touched that trigger I would have hurt somebody--him!" but seeing my sad, pained look she allowed, "Ross, maybe you're right, but I feel my having this helps keep us safe, what with all the break-ins and who knows what else those people are up to. You know what kind of people they are by reading those newspapers they leave us every week! They're a whole party of criminals!" Ann twisted the key to lock her pistol back in her desk drawer. See-ing my continuing disapproval she said: "Ohhhh, only the ones at the top I'm talkin' about. The dirty lowdown slime-ball weirdo crackpots that lead those ninny sheep around by their noses." Ross: "GO ANN! GO! Whewhew! Hey everybody! Ann's got SOMETHIN TO SAY!" Ann looked at me and took a breath. It was now her turn. "Money didn't make this coun-try. This country made the money possible. We, er most of us, all got off the boat broke. We started out with nothing, tired and wet from the trip! This country was built by hand, our hands, and by simple ideals. Things that had never been done before. Democracy, free public educa-tion, public health, fire and police! Roads and schools and free churches, uh and synagogs, and public hospitals and colleges open to all who qualify. And we get along good, mostly. Look at Europe, fussin' and fightin.' We have got to be fair to each other. We have got to love each other. Just like I love each of you. The fairer we all are, the better we'll all get along, and the longer God will keep us all, and hold our country, safely in the palm of His Hands."

You canʼt HANDLE the truth

“Now Ross, we want the truth this time, OK!” David Kendall was taking his shot at moot court with me, an uncooperative hostile witness. “I always tell the truth. You just don’t always understand it.” “We’re well aware of how smart you are. Don’t play around with me, this is serious business and your future work here is at stake.”

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“I wouldn’t play with you, sir. I really wouldn’t” I looked over at Clinton who was in the gallery with his friends, he seemed carefree, so I relaxed and grew more assured. I was sure that I had the future president’s confidence that I would perform well under pressure. “I want you to tell me where you are getting your information, these ideas, this, this stuff about Clinton’s future over there.” “It’s not just him. You’ll be in his administration, too. I guess all of you will. It would pay to be prepared.” Kendall interrupted me rather rudely. “OK, Ross, cut the crap. Who sent you here?” “I’m not sure I can tell you that without …” “self-incrimination?” “Huh? What?” I didn’t understand the word. My vocabulary was not conversational yet, but I was trying to improve. That’s why I tried to use word-a-day words every day by working them into conversations. It had lulled them into overestimating me. Maybe. “Well I can’t really tell you the truth.” I offered with hesitation. “Don’t be afraid, Ross. We aren’t here to judge you, you won’t be arrested. You’re safe among friends here. So just tell us.” “No.” “No what?” “No, I won’t tell you.” “Why? Why won’t you tell us? We’re here to try to help you, Ross.” “Well I have a very good reason.” “OK, that’s fair, what’s the reason?” “Well, I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom?” I said meekly. “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that? Why don’t you just let us know now what the reason is that you can’t tell us the truth in this matter?” “You want the truth, the reason … “ “YES. Why, Ross. What is the reason. Yes, do tell us. We’re all waiting.” “OK, the reason is this.” I took a deep breath and yelled it out. “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH.” There I felt much better. I could even smile after I said that. “So there is a truth, something you’re not telling us and … you won’t tell us because we can’t handle it. Is that what you’re saying?” “Precisely.” I told him and we both smiled. Kendall threw up his hands and they all laughed.

A Third Way and Big Tobacco

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Somehow, after the experiences of our working closely together, Clinton, Ann Richards, and the people with them, even Hillary Clinton, got the idea that I could offer good advice. “Very well, Ross what would be your priority assuming I got into office?” Clinton asked. I had an audience, I believe Hillary, Kendall, Talbot, Reich, and Richards and perhaps Spielberg were all present. “There is a liberal way, there is the conservative way. Two alternatives in perpetual con-flict. Sometimes, there is a third way, a way neither liberal nor conservative that allows progress. Mr. President, you must seek that third way.” “That’s very interesting, Ross. Now what do you see as the most important task of a Clinton Presidency?” “You must decide what it is that is hurting the health and life of our people the most, and start with that. Then …” “TOBACCO! CIGARETTES!” Clinton interjected excitedly. I had thought he would have said highway safety, but I went with him. “Exactly, sir.” Clinton turned to his group. “What can we do, people?” “Tax the s-word out of ‘em.” “Ban exports” “Can’t, commerce clause” Clinton knew that was unconstitutional. Southerners get a pe-culiar education, steeped in Eli Whitney and state’s rights. “Ban smoking in the Capitol Building. Stop Federal purchases of tobacco products. Quit giving cigarettes away to servicemen. More Surgeon General reports, facilitate class-action law-suits. Halt tobacco farm subsidies. FDA regulation...” They went on and on. Eleanor Roose-velt said, “The Future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” Five years later, when I was taking the toughest course in management at Georgia Tech from our resident ‘Big Tobacco’ professor, I stood my ground, saying we needed to discourage tobacco consump-tion with high taxes, social stigma, and child abuse laws! That was a great F. With an A+ in the class and the only person who had to make two presentations, I remembered my Texas days and offered my own little profile in courage. A ‘C’ would be fine.

And the scrollwork!

Steven and I were running from house to house handing out voter registration forms in a poor neighborhood of Garland, Texas. “Say, Stevie! Look at his place will ya’?!” The old home’s porch we were standing upon impressed the heck out of me, Steve had the opposite reac-tion. “Look at the artistry of these carvings! And the scrollwork!” I told him with animation.

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run clip Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in the knight’s tomb, “and the scrollwork!”

We were running to the next house, “What are we doing? This isn’t the Olympics you know!” Steve complained, winded. I looked at him firmly, “That’s right. In this kinda’ race, there’s no silver medal for fin-ishing second!” Even though he was tired, even though he was out of breath, Stephen Spielberg took up his burden and trudged onward, up that hill.

run clip about here Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade “...no silver medal”Word a day word Scrollwork

“No, maybe you could give me some of those and I can do the other side of the street.” He ex-plained after the next empty house. I agreed, gave hims some, and sent him across the street.

Are you sure?

John Pouland rode in and stopped his motorcycle on the street in front of my next house. I didn’t have glasses then, so I didn’t see him motioning to me, plus my name is Ross not Russel (He must have heard me being called Ross and misunderstood my name to be Russ--we had a lot of trouble remembering each other’s names) “Russel! Russel!” John yelled. I just ignored him and spread my arms as if flying from one house to the next. He was impatient because he thought I was intentionally ignoring him as I finished the next house and joined him and Steve out of curiosity.

“We’ve already done this area, you idiot! You’re supposed to be on the other side of belt-line!” said John.

I tripped over something in the yard as I approached. “Are you sure?” I asked innocently. John just rode off in a huff.

run clip from Independence Day about here, Russell sprays the wrong field from his biplane.

“You know, I’m gonna use that.” Steve’s wild eye lights blinded me. “But I’m going to make you drunk, so it will be more believable, Russel.”

“MY NAME IS NOT RUSSEL!” I corrected. “It’s Ross. Come on, let’s keep going.”

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“Steve? What difference does it really make?”

Entering the Surreal

As we stood there on that corner, and contemplated our move up the hill, “Steve, we have cross some sort of boundary here. The world has taken a turn for the surreal.” I announced.

Word a day calendar: surreal

Spielberg was so keen, he actually had a comeback for that. “Clearly but the question still stands.” Of course, there was no question. “I don’t know.” (and I didn’t) “What do you think?” I asked looking up at Steve as I sat resting on a low wall. “Oh! You don’t wanna know what I think!” he warned. “No Steve. I do.” I asked him again. Steve had had time to collect his thoughts, or perhaps he had taken some time for reflec-tion because it came to him. “Well, what if by some miracle we stay and actually make a differ-ence in this campaign? We might change the course of our nation, but even if we loose we can say that we at least helped some people to vote and participate. Someday we might just look back on this God-awful silly mess and decide that this was our finest, shining hour.”

Spielberg saves my life

The two skinny blond teenage guys stood off from me at a distance of fifty yards. They called back down their side of the hill for reinforcements and backed away keeping me in sight. I moved from house to house to house, Stephen was lagging behind as usual. This was why we were always supposed to keep each other in sight at all times. I had gotten about eight houses ahead of Stevie when he had to go around some brick walls and climb stairs that my side of the street didn’t have. The gang of thugs continued to aggregate and approach me warily as I ran up to a house ever closer to them and rang the bell. They waited until I got where they wanted to ambush me. The house had a low chain-link fence around the two grass plots of it’s front yard bisected by the front concrete walk to the sidewalk, so I was at the end of a fenced isle on the porch. It was on a steep hill, so the garage and driveway were a half-story down from where I was on the porch. The other side of the fenced yard had a wall on it, too. I was in a box canyon and I was dead meat.

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“What the hell do you think you’re doin’!” One of the blonds yelled at me, now with a bat in his nervous hands. There were twenty of them now. They all started yelling. Turning around, I just rang the doorbell again. There were more taunts behind me that were unspeakably vile and despicable. I knelt down on that man’s doormat and prayed to God to save me. OH! I KNEW HE WOULD! With that weird confidence I had, after leaving the vot-ers registration card in the screen door, with tears in my eyes, I wheeled on my tormentors and smiled at them, eerily. I looked at one of them and pointed, “Hey! I know you from Demolay!” (And from Cheryl’s back yard! They were there on George W. Bush’s orders, out to get me, to hurt or even kill me and pin the blame on the poor people that lived in that neighborhood.) Be-fore I could finish, one of them launched a brick to my right toward the garage as if to say, ‘don’t try getting away that way!’ BLAM! THE THROWN BRICK HIT THE GARAGE DOOR. The metal door wasn’t wood like we’d expected it to be, it was metal and WOW did it make a big noise. It even scared me. Well, if I was going to be beaten to death for passing out voter regis-tration cards, I was going to die right. As loudly as I could, I began to SING! I didn’t know the words to ‘We Shall Overcome’, so I went with, “ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS, MARCHING AS TO WAR! WITH THE CROSS OF JESUS! GOING ON BEFORE!” I could hear the band in my mind. (Steve later disapproved of my hymn choice, but it worked. It con-fused them, just enough.)

run music Onward Christian Soldiers about here

At that moment the most horrifying yelp you ever heard in your life, louder than anything I’d ever heard, hit us! I was a kid, they were kids. What do kids do when they break a window and hear a loud alarm noise? That’s right, I started running, STRAIGHT UP THE PATH RIGHT AT ALL TWENTY OF THEM! Instantly they ran, too! Most of them dropped bricks and sticks. I just couldn’t believe it, but I was too scared and followed them out of there. I was so scared I caught and passed one of ‘em, George W. Bush, ring-leader. “Psstt! Hey, Ross! Remember me?” my year-before hitch-hiker asked. “NOOOOOO!” I answered convinced he was some awful harpy, and cut into a yard be-hind a honeysuckle bush.

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run clip about here OB1 Kenobe approaches Luke Skywalker StarWars

“Waterloo still … running floor!” I had heard it faintly behind me and he repeated it. It was nonsense, Steve Spielberg was running behind us up that hill, yelling nonsense and thought he’d chased me over the hill with them. He was completely out of breath. From the safety of my honeysuckle bush I waved him over as Steve came running up. He just stood there--out in the open. “Get behind me! Get behind me!” I begged him, my eyes shut tightly, absolutely paralyzed with fear! We obviously needed to hide from whatever devil in hell had made that awful scream! (From a look at the site later, I realized what had happened. Ste-ven’s amazing whoop had been down at the bottom of the street with high brick walls behind him and on both sides. His voice had been amplified by a giant brick and stone megaphone that he stood in the middle of when he shrieked. Dang! He had lungs! However, God put him there at just the right moment to save my potatoes. It was the miracle of God that I’d expected. I just didn’t expect to become so frightened I couldn’t move like that.) “Why? Look, they’re running away!” Steve’s reassurance calmed me right down. “Steven, I know the good Lord is going to get me out of this, but I’m pretty sure, YOU’RE F’d!” Then I made a mad laugh. Steve was calm. I couldn’t believe it! He seemed proud of himself. He also had his breath back suddenly. “And I’M GOIN’ AFTER ‘EM!” and Steven Spielberg ran at a trot over the crest of that hill chasing all those thugs away from me. I’d never been so proud of someone’s bravery like that. I called 911 after hearing a gunshot at a bus stop in Washington DC and a young cop arrived instantly, we told him the building where we thought the shot had come from, he drew out his revolver and charged. That was the second time.

run clip about here “Get Behind me, get behind me!” Starwars A New Hope.run clip about here Han Solo and Chewy run after storm troopers, then the troopers turn and start chasing them.

Ann Richards parked her Toyota hatchback down the hill and got out, looking for us. I ran down and told her excitedly what had happened. “What happened? Are you alright?” Ann asked.

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“We, uh, ran into some old friends,” I informed her what was going on. We got in her car and she started driving the wrong way, away from Steven! “Ann! Steve’s the other way!” I complained. “Let’s just ask God to take care of our friend. He’s an adult, Ross. Right now I’m getting you out of here.” Ann Richards was an adult, too, and she wanted to get me out of there, out of danger. “Ann! WAIT! Here comes Stephen Spielberg!” I was so proud I remembered his name. They were chasing him, George W. Bush in the lead now, those tables had turned. Heck it was 22 or so to one, but Steve must have chased them all half a mile further before they turned and started chasing him. Ann backed up, I opened the door, and Steven jumped in the back seat. “FLOOR IT!” Steven screamed and we were off! There was a gunshot, then another. Ann’s little car was anemic to say the least. They looked like they were going to catch us. “I’m hit! We’re hit! Must go faster, must go faster! Exit EXIT LEFT LEFT!” I exhorted with emotion. Ann corrected and admonished: “You’re not hit. We’re not hit! STOP SIDE-SEAT DRIVIN’!” run clip from Independence Day, David and Captain Hiller in alien space ship escape pursuers.

Safely back at the Office

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“Rest easy son. You’ve had a busy day. You’re fortunate to be all in one piece!” said Mr. Foster sounding sympathetic as he emerged from the Clintons’ office. He had just debriefed Spielberg and Richard along with the Clintons. “I, I just couldn’t let them beat the shit out of him! So YES I chased them!” Steven al-most wailed in his own self-defense. His interrogation had been less sympathetic. He’d been giving testimony to the Clintons, who seemed more interested to know if we had shot first at them or had weapons or threw rocks, but we hadn’t. They had peppered Steven Spielberg with questions, making sure he hadn’t been aggressive toward the toughs who’d nearly beaten me to a pulp. No, I hadn’t been touched. None of us had a scratch on us. Yes, I recognized one of them from Demolay, but I wasn’t sure I could pick him out of a line-up, no. It wasn’t as if I knew him personally. He’d also been one of the naked boys in Cheryl’s pool when my sister and I had found out her little secret, the summer before. I forgot George W. Bush altogether. These guys weren’t after us for handing out voter registration cards like we thought at the time. They’d been after me. It didn’t occur to me, but now I realize why we were attacked like that. Clinton went into his office to confer with Hillary. No, we wouldn’t be calling the police, since we had no evidence. Steven Spielberg was still shaking after being interrogated so closely. “I just couldn’t let them beat the shit out of him! They were going to beat the shit out of him!” Steven used the s-word a lot, and, I’m sorry to say, emphatically, especially when he was scared to death.. “Steven, relax. You’re a hero!” I re-assured him. “Sure it is that God sent me to watch your back?” “I am? Well, what could I do! I had to run at them like that. They were going to beat the shit out of you!” Spielberg shook for quite a while. Perhaps the incredible luck he’d had escap-ing so many angry republican thugs who were out for blood, had just dawned on him. Getting shot at changes people, perhaps, but Steven Spielberg was eager for more. Clinton came out of his office and I explained again how Spielberg had saved my cookies and hadn’t hurt anybody, but just scared them off. I told him about the singing, and Spielberg nodded it was true. Clinton put his arm around Spielberg. Steven finally calmed down a bit. “Well, tomorrow we’ll be better prepared. Tomorrow I’ll be there with you!” The three of us looked at each other, eyes to eyes, tomorrow we would march into battle, together non-violently, armed only with our precious pure souls!

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"Oh, yes sir! I'm starting at U.T. this fall." (I would make phi eta sigma that semester, despite a bout with spinal meningitis.) "Bubba have you ever thought about trying for a Rhodes Scholarship? And going to Eng-land?" Clinton noticed my sense of incongruence "to study I mean. The scholarship pays your way: food, travel, books everything you name it. And I can help you get an inside track on doing it, too. You should start in your second year of college. If you'll let me I'll write you up some tips on just what to do. You'll need a recommendation and I'd be glad to make you one. One that they'd take heed of and pay attention to." His description of the Rhodes Scholarship would come to my mind when I started think-ing about my HOPE Scholarship Program that I proposed to Clinton and later to Zell Miller of Georgia. "I'm not interested in that sort of study now, sir. Not that it isn't a wonderful opportu-nity, Mr. President. I thank you for it. I only wish I could make some use of it. I don't know how, and I may kick myself later, but I know that my destiny leads along a different path from yours. So for now that way isn't for me." Steve came over to listen to Clinton who continued, "Bubba you can't just not let me do anything for you. I wouldn't feel right about that." "Oh, Mr. President. You are not obligated to me in any way, sir! You’re gonna save eve-rybody includin' me!" My words were not the reassurance he needed. Steve was in a good mood: "Hi Will, Ross. What are you guys doin'? Hey Ross. Where's your getup. You know, your uh outfit?" He was referring to my pinstriped outfit, my 'clerk' suit as Hillary had put it. “I got to clean it sometime, you know." I told him, chuckling. Clinton chimed in, "We're just sittin' here chewin' the fat a little. Ross, there, won't let me recommend him for a Rhodes Scholarship." Steve was suddenly and completely shocked, "HOLLY JEES Ross! You better think about that! You'd be a natural! You really would." Stephen doubtless remembered how he forewent his University of Chicago acceptance. (That’s why we put Indiana Jones in graduate school there--out of gratitude. You should have seen the look on the old secretary’s face at the University of Chicago’s Anthropology building when I informed her of that in the 90’s.) Ross: "No. That's just not my road. Wrong road." Clinton was only half joking, "What is your road, Ross? Why for instance don't you want to be President? Like Stevie says, you're a natural for it."

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Clinton had been superficial, but Steven Spielberg zealously picked up on it. This was no joke to him. He asked me seriously. "Yeah Ross. How come you don't want to become President? If anybody could do it, you could." (Who could do better than having BOTH Presi-dent Clinton AND Stephen Spielberg say stuff like that about you to your face, and mean it? Sure it lasted only a minute or two, but boys, my life hasn't been without thrills.) I felt I owed them an explanation. Who could look up into their concerned faces and say nothing? "Well fellas, I was going to be." Now they were both a little taken aback, foremost by my familiarity and my relaxation, neither of which they were expecting. I just looked up at President Clinton and smiled at Steve. Then looking up into the President's face using a tired, breaking voice, I told him: "but now I pass it to you, who vanquished me."

Run clip of Indy3 Knight "… but now I pass it to you, who vanquished me." Steven looked at Will, Bubba, Bill Clinton questioningly. Clinton explained: "In tid-dledywinks." Lighthearted but not laughing the President took a breath returned to his office. He could get enough of me, sometimes, but Steven was still game for more. "Ross. You look really tired. What's the matter?" Amazingly Spielberg had real concern for me. He was every inch a hero now, and I knew it, too! Ross: "Well, Steve. Traveling does that to ya. These last four days have been brutal." Steven was incredulous, "But I saw you yes-ter-day! You were in the office all day! … Whistling!" Ross: "Where here? Oh yeah, yeah." It was apparent that I was trying to hide some-thing. "What am I sayin! No I haven't been anywhere."

Run clip about here: Back To The Future: any similar denial

Brothers

2007 note to President Bill Clinton: I’m sorry Bubba. I didn’t know there were only two year terms in Arkansas. Civics in Texas just didn’t consider it significant enough to put into high school text books.

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In the office on Lemmon Avenue, again in the evening, Clinton called me in: "Bubba. Come into my office. I want to share something with you. Relax." He puts his arm around my shoulders a moment as we walked into his office. He sat. I stood, by force of resumed habit. "No, sit down, Bubba." Ross: "Yes sir. Force of habit. Before I forget, sir. I wanted you to know that uh you know you said Steve was a genius, sir? Please try to remember that back in 1972 Steven Spiel-berg said you were a genius, too." The President nodded, like he'd do it. Odd thing. He never shrugged his shoulders nor rolled his eyes again after the Richards introduction. Clinton: "Thank-you, Bubba. I will try to remember that. Now what I wanted to share with you are my plans for the future." "Wow." Reverently I spoke, too. Clinton was promoting me again, this time to senior advisor for his whole political career! Who wouldn’t say “wow”? Clinton stood up behind his chair, then he sat down more characteristically, "Understand that these are tentative plans. Speak out if you see anything differently." Seated comfortably, he spoke, "Please do not hesitate. This is what I have planned. First as soon as possible I will run for Attorney General, then Lieutenant Governor, one term, then Governor and Governor again, until . . ." I interrupted him immediately. "No sir." Clinton looked a little surprised, since he’d only just gotten started. "No sir. You should NOT run for Lieutenant Governor, Mr. President. “First attorney general, fine, but you must not then run for lieutenant governor, Mr. President.” "Elaborate." Clinton saw my quizzical face, rightly assumed that ‘elaborate’ was not in my spoken vocabulary and calmly he repeated his thought for me. "Tell me why you are against the Lt. Governor's race in more detail." “Because if you don’t win lieutenant governor, you can’t run for anything else. No. Run directly for governor, then bide your time for the presidency. The country can’t wait. You can-not afford to waste time" I stood and moved behind Hillary’s corner desk chair, like I was tak-ing cover. "Run for Governor after being Attorney General. Since Attorney General is a state-wide office, everybody will know you. That's first of all. You see sir, an Attorney General can be elected Governor as easily as a Lt. Governor can. More important: You can loose a Gover-nor's race and still run for Governor or Senator next time. If you run for Lieutenant Governor and lose that race, you can't run for anything but Lieutenant Governor and you'd be less likely to win on a second try. No. Run for straight for Governor. You'll be the youngest Governor ever!”

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"Well I considered running early, like you suggested. But I realized that I would not be 30 years old early enough to qualify for the office. There is a constitutional age provision for Governor in Arkansas, and you have to look closely at the wording. The Constitution of the State of Arkansas can not be taken lightly, nor would the People stand for it. The people of Ar-kansas can count. 30 means 30, I can just wait'll I'm 32." “Couldn’t the People of Arkansas accommodate you somehow? Mr. President. Tell me this. What do they do in a situation like that, when constitutional issues like that arise?" I was genuinely curious. Clinton smiled knowingly. I started to smile, too. The President spoke slowly. "They ask for a formal opinion from the Attorney General!" I smiled, holding my palms up and shrug my shoulders. This transpired so fast, I wondered ‘why is he smiling?’ and also, 'why am I shrugging like this? "And I will be the Attorney General of Arkansas?" The President smiled in that ‘no, you’re wrong’ kind of way that we all know and love and then shook his head. He cocked his head sideways a little bit, still smiling. "Uh. Ross. I'd decide against me." "Huh?" I asked automatically. Clinton’s mind was faster than mine, and it was discon-certingly so. I like to assume that a few people can think faster than I can because I’m using more levels of my brain simultaneously, and given my elucidation of crime, love, hurricanes, and global warming that nobody else in history has ever done, I surmise my assumption about my brain’s functioning is correct. Nevertheless, it is humbling to me, and enabling to the few others who can pull it off (Clinton, Hillary and their bright friends) who see a dimwit when they look at me responding to them in conversation. I’m in good company. The professors at Princeton booted Einstein off their campus at first because they figured he was a dim wit, too. Clinton admonished me seriously, “No. Too clever. Bubba, the people of Arkansas can count!” I’m surprised at you. I really am. I hoped you would have better judgment than that. You know this means I will not be asking your advice ever again." “32?" I asked, astonished. Clinton: "It's a two year term in Arkansas." I sounded embarrassed, but I was really only confused. What, without an internet did he think I’d found a copy of the Arkansas constitution? I barely remembered that he was from Ar-kansas. "Oh well that's not so bad then. Just don’t run for Lt. Governor, sir. That’s all I’m ask-ing.” “Bubba, I’ve thought of you as my little brother. But what you just said indicates to me that you have poor judgment. Good judgment is something, I’ve found, that a person either has or doesn’t have. It’s not something you can learn. Bubba. You do not have good judgment. I’m sorry, but there will not be a job for you in my administration.” Ross: "PLEASE, MR. PRESIDENT! I . . ." talk about being mortified! Clinton: "That'll be all, Ross." Ross: "Yes Mr. President." After a few minutes, the President came out of his office. "Ross . . . Bubba . . ."

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Clinton: "No Ross. The truth is you, probably won't." He looked me straight in the eye while saying that. Then as conciliation: "... God gives us all the same time. Maybe you will, but you probably won't. I just know that you should have good judgment at your age if you are going to develop it. I had good judgment when I was 20." I pleaded with him. "I'm eighteen! Mr. President! Please Mr. President. Give me an-other chance!" Clinton: "Well. I don't know then. Maybe you will." He lifted my chin with a tap of his fourth digit on his other hand. "Bubba this is a serious business and I can't take any chances. You will have to do better than this. Still. I liked what you said about that Lt. Governor's race." He smiled and I instantly brightened a little. "I wanted to tell you more, Bubba. I want you to know that you've, well, you've been like a brother to me here. The little brother I've always wished I had." "Whoa, Mr. President!" I was a bit tickled, my tears dry up some. "I have a big brother already!" Clinton: "Well, I have a little brother already, too, but, well. I just want you to know that I am going to want you there with me. Maybe not in office, but I want you to be there with me every step of the way." I had to disabuse him of that notion, pronto. "Mr. President. This isn't about personal loyalty, sir." "It's not?" Clinton was puzzled. "No sir. I've done this for God, for Democracy, for Liberty and Fairness, for Freedom, for America and Texas and all the things I've been talking about." We stared stupidly at each other. The President again began to smile and laugh haltingly. "yeah. I'm praying so hard when I drive in to work in the morning, I've almost wrecked my car a couple of times." My car ap-peared to be at least as important indeed to me at the time. “I want you to know that I understand your position, Mr. President. It’s a lot to take in. You will need people with sound judgement around you, and chances cannot be taken lightly.” I didn’t make sense all the time, even to my-self. Clinton offered consolation, “But, but! I’m sure that there is something I can do for you. Have you given thought to scholarships? I could help you with the application process.” “Thank-you, Mr. President, you mentioned that before, but Stephen Spielberg will be helping me out financially. We’re making up stories for movies, you know.” “Martians? I know. Ann told me.” “You could give him a hand yourself, Mr. President, he needs all the help he can get.” As I look back on it, I really had to babysit Bubba Clinton (and Hillary Clinton required kid gloves). The other Bubba, Bubba George Walker Bush-Kennedy wasn’t faster thinking than either of the Clintons, but he could keep up and I liked him better, too. George W. Bush-Kennedy seemed much easier to train, although I had about the same total amount of time with both of them. Sure, Bush did a lot of terrible, nasty things, even to one of my best friends in high

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school, but truth be told, those republicans did deserve (and they certainly wanted) George’s nasty fanny inside their little teenybopper girls and boys. George did get permission slips to rape them like he did. And George, if he did ‘investigate’ me, he did so discretely. I’ve often won-dered if the gang of boys who were so intent on attacking me in the street weren’t set on me, ei-ther to kill me and keep me quiet about the Kennedy assassination, or to get me out of the way so George and his friends could maintain their nasty relationship with beautiful, intelligent Cheryl Williamson. I know I thought I recognized several of them as being among Cheryl’s pool boy fanny jackers, her brother’s sister-sharing explorer post, or Shriner’s Demolay. The former rea-son would have required drugging too many people, George W. Bush would have had to put them in showers to affect so many at once, so it’s likely he just drummed them up against us with lies. Lies or drugs, what difference did it make? Threatening voter registrars was treason in my eyes.

Virginia Leaves Everything in HOPE

It went something like this, but no, Ann, the message was not for me: “Dearest Bubba, I am going to my relative’s house. I will leave your books and funds for your Yale tuition in Hope. God bless Virginia.” To me, the message taken by Ann Richards for Bubba Clinton during the week reeked of doom, and I had caused his trouble! Clearly my meddling had cost Bill Clinton his family’s sup-port for his Yale law career! I was completely devastated and downtrodden. Now Clinton would have to drop out of school, work at whatever temporary job he could find until he earned enough for tuition at Yale; that was the prospect ahead of me, so I knew that would be difficult, if not impossible for him, too. And what was so horrible that his family would abandon him? Why was that, pray tell? Because he had been so unlucky to have me for his gofer. Then I realized that young men and women like the Clintons should not be beholden to their families for support as they attended college. What happens if the household income sud-denly falls, or their savings wiped out? Or if the student didn’t have any family at all! Why must he or she be punished? It was unfair. The state was the prime beneficiary of a more en-lightened electorate, with higher incomes, paying higher taxes, creating more jobs, better teach-ers, the improvements would echo down the generations forever. I felt the state should expand public educations to be free for everyone, not just through high school, but through college as well. But with so many private institutions of higher learning, how could that be accomplished? The HOPE Scholarship Program was born.

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I pitched the idea to Clinton, and he shot it down, immediately. Then I gave him his mes-sages, but he just glanced at his mother’s message. I asked him if he had seen it, and offered condolences for his lost law school career, but he disabused me of the notion I had taken. Hope was a place, just a little town in Arkansas. “Oh you thought I was out on my can?” and Clinton laughed, “That’s why you wrote this up, then, Bubba?” I argued that young people at the beginning of their lives should not have to pay for their college educations and have that burden immediately after graduation. It was unfair to ask junior people to shoulder the entire burden, but Clinton demurred. He explained to me that the opportunity to attend college should be matched with the responsibility to pay for it. In-deed, the very next day he pitched the Americorps Program back to me, giving college students free education, but enlisting them in public service servitude for three years after graduation as payment. Three years later, when I was Georgia Lt. Governor Zell Miller’s aide for student and university affairs and after I had taken an office sponsored tour of most of the colleges in the state with a student government group, I pitched the HOPE Scholarship Program to Miller. I had it notarized just like we had with Steve and my movie contract, and had every person in Zell’s office sign it, even the secretaries. It was the only document with everybody’s signature on it, so it finally got Zell Miller’s attention after the session. (I also sent copies of my HOPE Proposal, with just my signature, to the Georgia Archives and the National Archives.) Americorps and the HOPE Scholarship Program both were enacted into law in 1993, essentially unchanged. By 2007, more than 400,000 people have used the Americorps Program according to their website, so Clinton’s vision is a resounding success. However, I cannot miss the opportunity to gloat on the relative greater success of my own brainchild, the HOPE Scholarship Program. More than one million students have obtained HOPE Scholarships for college tuition, and that number is from Georgia alone. It is a deep source of pride for me knowing that my efforts early in life helped to many people fulfill higher destinies. My HOPE Scholarship Program has been emu-lated in 23 additional states in addition to my home state of Georgia. Certainly, by the numbers, HOPE seems preferable to a dead-end three year internship with some boring government entity!

Family Leave Act

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An article in the Dallas Times Herald enraged us all at the Dallas McGovern Headquar-ters. Some poor man’s child became dreadfully ill. Distracted, the father had attended his child at the hospital never dreaming that his unscrupulous employer and his insurance company would take advantage of his grief. When the man returned to work he found himself not only fired from his job, but the insurance paying for his child’s healthcare was canceled with it. Thrown out of the hospital, the child died. Overcome with grief, the father took his own life. It was in August or July of 1972. We all felt that we had to do something to prevent such circumstances in the future, but somebody beat us to it. I was all set to brainstorm it out the next day when who but Hillary offered America the new hope of the Family Leave Act. “Let that be the very first piece of legislation you sign, Mr. President.” I advised and it was.

Inclusive Democracy

“Ann, the republicans like to go to exclusive country-clubs and shop at exclusive stores like Neiman Marcus, right? The entire republican party is exclusive, would you say? Exclusive means it’s good, right?” I often belabored points. “Well it isn’t good. It’s evil. All I ever hear from them is “majority rule”, well Democracy isn’t “majority rule”. Democracy should be IN-CLUSIVE, inclusive because we include people, not EXCLUSIVE. Exclusive government ex-cludes people, and we never want to exclude anyone, even republicans. As Democrats, we must seek to represent everyone, not just Democrats, but Democrats, republicans, independents, non-voters, poor people, rich people, everyone, children, too.” I’d gotten the terminology from set theory. “Ross here has come up with a good idea, Mr. President.” Ann had gotten into my act. “Tell him about it Ross!” Clinton was all-ears.

Leelee Sobieski

“Yes, Ross surely we can do something for you?” begged Ann Richards. “No, I don’t want any of that, Ann. Steve. You’ve helped my father, that was enough.” “OH COME ON! WELL WHAT DO YOU WANT, ROSS! There HAS to be some-thing.” Steve was exasperated. “OK, If you really want to do something for me, Steve, help me get married.” “WHAT! Hey man, there are limits.”

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“NOT FOR YOU!" I perked up "Yeah, give me the star of Joan of Ark!” “WHAT! I can’t just give you an actress! That’s crazy!” “You’re Steven Spielberg. All things are possible.” “What like, ‘How much for zee girl! Your daughter! How much you vant for her?” “Both of them!” I sneered in fun, joining in. Ann looked at Marybeth Rogers and decided to withdraw and get back to work. “And her little dog, too!” Steven Spielberg howled with glee.

run clip about here The Blues Brothers restaurant scene

“Hey, you asked. Seriously. Will you do it?” I brought us down. “OK, but why on earth do you want me to?” He wiped away the tears of joy. “Because it’s really the only way I’ll ever get married. Nobody else will have me.” “SO YOU’LL JUST SETTLE FOR THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTIFUL ACTRESS!” he laughed his backside off. We both remembered Ingrid Bergman. “Well! You get first pick! Look at YOU! TWO wives! You’re the one who ought to be ashamed of himself!” I laughed right back at him. “Besides, she’ll be a nice girl. You’re going to see to that, aren’t you Steven? No more exploitation of young women, remember?” “Yeah, yeah. Look, Ross. I’ve seen ‘em, these actresses. Well, some of them can be not quite right, in the head.” “Then hire her a psychiatrist! Just don’t intentionally hurt the vulnerable people who come to you for help in their acting careers. Is that so much to ask?” “Just force them to marry somebody they don’t know!” He laughed again. “Don’t force anything. Offer her movie roles. She’ll be good in them.” I made it sound reasonable. “OK, Ross. I’ll do it. But you will have to meet her half way.” Spielberg was prophetic. “Well! Sure!” I agreed. Now the details. “Oh! Uh? What kind of girl do you like?” “The female kind?”

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“I mean what do you want, oh, wait. Blond? Blond! Smart, tall, I know your taste, don’t I?” “Better than anyone.” I assured him. He’d seen the girl I gave up for him, Cheryl Wil-liamson, at the Cattlemen’s restaurant. She was the last girl I had any real chance with. Stephen Spielberg was true to his word, he was just a couple of decades too late, that’s all. Leelee Sobieski, the beautiful girl who played our Joan of Arc, even fell in love with me, at least for a few days. As we talked online, it freaked her out when I used an unusual line on her that she’d seen in one of her then unreleased films. “WHO IS THIS! WHO ARE YOU!” she’d said. She even agreed to meet me and we did meet, but my dream of home, wife, children and peace, ended there. Sometimes broken down old romantics can appeal to youth. Sometimes, well sometimes it’s just totally ridiculous.

Steven's Goodbye

Steven had invited me over to his house and sat me down in Indy's kitchen to wait. The table had a built-in sewing machine next to the wall with a lamp on it. There was also an oval wooden full-length mirror which rotated about a mid-horizontal axis. I took a bottle of wine (Mateus?) out of the refrigerator and already had a corkscrew in it, twisting. When Steve came back in. "Yeah. That's right. Hey! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Steven Spielberg was always absolutely delighted whenever I did anything unexpected. "Uh. That's our refrigerator!" He was wide eyed, but smiled big. Indy, brushing her long hair, rushed in to see what was the matter, hitting Steve with her right elbow and whining "Why you stop that! I heard you. You know that's not true!" Steven looked amazed and innocent, but then smiled when she looked to me and flipped me a couple of raised eye-brows like Groucho Marks. Indy looked too and saw me popping their bottle of wine, "Oh. Uh. We were actually saving that."

Run movie clip of Jurassic Park owner visiting dig trailer opening wine "When? For NOW?"

I stood next to the opposite counter. "When? ... I let the silence run for a couple seconds for ... now?" POP! The cork had finally had enough and relented. Steven looked on as I fiddled with the bottle "You know, uh Ross. I don't think we should cut Will out of things. I mean, he's done a lot more since, hey where are you going?" he called after Indy who withdrew still brushing her long blond locks. Then I flipped the mirror over, hitting Steve square on the nose. He howled way too loudly. Indy poked her head in like a sheepdog quietly "Whadyasay? Hmm."

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Steven gave up. "Hey how come you carry a lighter if you don't smoke?"

run clip from Raiders: 'My luckey charm' scene from IJ 3

Ross: "You asked me that. It's my lucky charm. My brother gave it to me. But here I want you to you take it as a going away present, to remember me by. Steven: "I remember and I couldn't! What is this? Ivory?" Ross: "Uh yeah." White enamel? "You can and you will. and Steven!" Steven: "Yeah?" Ross: "Start some fires with it! and Steven." Steven: "Yeah?" Ross: "ROAST nazis in every fire!" Steven was horrified. "Look those schlizt did a lot to hurt you and your people because of religion. OF RELIGION!” I emphasized with disgust, “Time to get back at 'em. You know what I mean. I mean you can never get even, but, within all your means, try. I slugged down the rest of my wine "You don't really see it that way. Do you Steve. I can see it in your eyes. I know you'd like to live and let live, skip the past. But do it for me. Steven. When your heart tells you enough, think of me and try and do more, for me." Steven: "And you told me that already. At Brownlee Park." Ross: "So I did. And RIGHT HERE WITH GOD WATCHING I meant it, too."

run clip of Last Crusade, castle fire scene in Indiana Jones 3 about here.

We walked outside. Indy would follow running in a moment. We looked up and saw a big shooting star streak across the sky, one of the Persiads.

run clips of the shooting star scenes from I.J. 1,2,3, American Tail, Always, Schindler's list, E.T., Close, End of Independence Day

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Steven: "My Dad took everybody, the whole family out to see these stars. Steve. There's something else I wanted to tell you. I, I've decided to start my own production company." Surveying his laden station wagon, "He'd called me by his own name, as had Clinton and young George Bush before him. Steven! So! you look packed. Are you driving? I didn't know you had a car. What is this, a Rambler? What's a production company?" Steven: "It's very risky. It's like David and Goliath. I...I've decided to call it 'Amblin' En-tertainment.' I was going to do it. Well I'd decided against it but, well I named it for my Pepsi commercial and also after something you said." Steven showed Indy his new old lighter and she smiled. Ross: "David and Goliath? Oh ho. You hope so! That was set up, man. When do you start? Now? Do it as soon as possible." There I was suddenly anxious for Steve to get to work on this. "Right away!" Steve: "What incorporate?" Ross: "Uh. yeah. Whatever. Get everything done as soon as possible." Steve: "Oohoh kay! I guess you think that's a good idea then." Ross: "Just do it as soon as you can. Do it, do it do it!" "Well OK then!" Said Steve, skeptically. Like sure, uh huh, that settles it! Ross: "When are you going to do it? As soon as you get back to California? Why not do it here in Texas?" Steve: "Hold your horses. I'll do it when the time comes." Ross: "Just so long as you do it, and soon! It's important." Steve: "O.K. O.K. How the Hell do you know anyway?" Ross: "I don't know, I just know." They both smiled at this. I'm sure Steve thought I was some kind of a wakoh. Steve: "And what did you mean about David and Goliath?" "You said it not me. Oh uh. Yeah, David had a lock on that one." I told him. Steve objected, "But it was hopeless odds, a child against a giant man of war! How could that be a setup?" To Indy "Can you believe this guy? He sounds like he just came from there." Ross: "Yeah it was, oh ho ho. O.K. Just think about it. Ever had a huge rock thrown at you by a man? Pretty easy to avoid. Try to escape a smaller one slingged uh slung by a real ex-pert! David worn lion-skin, for a reason." Steve: "O.K. so I get your point." "I don't get it." Indy admitted. Steve spoke to her quickly & offhand "I'll explain later." Indy: "Oh yeah. She stared at him." She left the impression with me that Steven had to explain a lot of things later that he never bothered to get around to explaining. Steve became a tad irritated, "Look it's not important." I was quieter now. "You are going to have a wonderful life, Steven. I know this from the bottom of my heart."

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"Now I want to give you something." She repeated. "Really. What?" I asked nervously and she took up a position directly in front of me. Indy had learned something about making a lasting impression. She spoke to me calmly and sweetly "This is for fire." She kissed my right eye. Ross: Nervously "and water?" Indy again calmly and sweetly "This is for your children." She kissed my left cheek "and this is for you." She kissed me lightly on the lips. She stepped back and held on to Ste-ven's arm. “Well, Steve, it’s been educational.” I told him. Steven Spielberg: "You really believe I'm going to do all this. I mean. You really be-lieve it, don't you, ... Steven?" "Steven?" I at last acknowledged. Steve: "I know your name, now. I'd bet everything I know it now." Great, now I had yet another nickname: "How? What my last name?" Steve: "Ha! I knew it! I got it off the contract. That's right, a little detective work. You know the paper you signed." Ross: "And from that contract you found out that my real name is Steve Ross? Well." I let our hearts beat as one. "You're right. I am Steve Ross." Steve: "Hey, you don't sound too sure." Ross: "I AM Steve Ross!" I spoke with intensity and emotion, that startled him. This was not the time to correct my friend!

run clip about here Braveheart. Wallace before Sterling "I AM WILLIAM WALLACE!" I was resigned, and emotional "You gotta believe, Boy! You gotta believe!" Steven Spielberg wanted reassurance, "Everything Steve?" Indy: "Say. You wanna say goodbye with me? Stevie's going now." For some reason, Steven did not kiss Indy goodbye. They just held both hands together. She got in the car with him and it backed away, blinding me with its headlights. "You will. Some day. You will!" I said. Steven Spielberg watched me as Indy backed the car out past my VW. In the half-light of early morning, I held up my arm up, still, as if tes-tifying, then I raised it slightly in farewell.

Run clip from Indy3 Knight in the crumbling temple waves goodbye

I cried my eyes out when I remembered that, watching that stupid videotape. Penitent was a Word a Day word. A penitent man kneels before God, even with the definition, I thought peni-tence meant kneeling. I know better now.

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Ann turns Pro

Ross: "Ann, well congratulations. That's wonderful news! You are already turning pro on us! When do you start?" Ann: "Ol' Ross ! I am supposed to start Monday. But I want to stay here a just little longer, at least another week." She grabbed me and gave me a compulsive hug. "Ol' Ross !" Ross: "Well Ann, your resume starts with this new job, you know." Ann: "But I started here with you all!" Ross: "Ann you haven't drawn a paycheck here. You can't put volunteer work on a pro-fessional resume." We both started to get misty. "Besides its better to start off with a successful campaign. We both know this one's not going anywhere anytime soon." Ann hugged me again and cried just a single tear "Ol' Ross !"

Virginia the last time

The telephone in the office rang, it was Virginia: "Hello is this Ross? Bubba?" Ross: "Hello Mrs. Clinton. I can put you right through to him." CLICK, then after a few seconds, the phone rang again. Virginia: "Hello Ross?" Ross: "Yes ma'am. Didn't your call go through? I'll put it through again. That's odd." Virginia: "No Ross, I wanted to talk to you. I, I, I wanted to hear your voice one last time." "Oh Mrs. Clinton!. You're gonna do just fine!" I told her bursting into tears. To this day, I do not know any other good reason for me to have talked to Clinton's mom the way I did. Had it not been true, had it been for naught, it would have been a terrible guilt to carry. Yet, I never felt even the slightest guilt for anything. Virginia was also crying and being cheerful. "You're sure he's not going to need any ex-tra money now?" Ross: "No ma'am. Not that he won't ask, though!" We both laughed heartily. "When it does cross his mind, you remind him about what I said and how he wouldn't need any of your money and why you would!" Virginia was suddenly somber. "For doctor bills." Ross: "Huh? No. You you have insurance! You DO have insurance?" Virginia: "Yes." Ross: "No. There'll be un, un ..." Virginia: "Un-reimbursed bills to pay."

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Ross: "Well they don’t payroll the President's Momma! Sure there'll be expenses and such, out of pocket. Dresses. You know. For balls and all. Won't there?" Virginia felt better, "And all he'll have to do is go out there and he'll find campaign fi-nance money?" Ross: "Every nickel is already planted right where he can find it. He'll still have to, uh, you know?" Virginia: "Beat the bushes a little?" I laughed out loud, presciently as it turned out, "How did you know? Actually, they'll both just have to beat the Bushes, but basically everything is going to fall right in his lap. He won't ever have to promise anybody anything, he'll be beholding to nobody. Just let him use his own sound judgement. It's all planned out, right there in front of him. Tell him to just put one foot in front of the other. If he loses an election, tell him I said to go get right back on that horse the next day." Virginia gushed with sudden emotion. "Oh Ross! Will I see my great-grandchildren?" Ross: "Now, Mrs. Clinton. That's so long from now." Virginia sounded a little panicked, "But I will see him in the White House!" Ross: "Yes'um. I think I can promise you that." Virginia: "But no more." Ross: "Now look, Mrs. Clinton, your son's gonna be President of the United States and you know all about it ahead of time. I think that should be enough to ask for, I mean, so you want to live forever, too? Virginia laughed gaily.

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Democratic Party Party

There was a big band playing in the background. We were at the Dallas Civic Audito-rium. I remember because it was the same place where my motion to have a Texas primary in-stead of caucuses had passed unanimously a few months before. The future First Lady and President, completely at peace, sat with her arm around her husband-and-President-to-be's waist. His right arm was on her shoulder. They liked to be very close. It was the only time I saw them doing anything affectionate and they were both looking at me. Manners have changed since the 1970’s. Clinton: "Bubba, I'd like you to meet my wife, Hillary." She had a double-take at him and immediately started to blubber. Mrs. Clinton looked at me sheepishly, evidently embar-rassed. She smiled but did not speak, she just sobbed a couple of times. Ross: "Ahhh. The Future First Lady of The United States of America. (I didn't add the part about her running for Senator in New York and becoming President in her own right again, because I wanted to live.) You know it is not going to be easy, especially for you, ma'am. You know that. They will throw everything at you and more! So you are going to have to be ready for them. You WILL be ready, won't you?" She fought back tears. It was all she could do to nod her head yes. "And you're going to have to stick with him no matter what, because he can not do it without you!" She nodded at me again, and broke into a quick smile, then she looked up at the object of her desire. I withdrew. The President hugged her shoulders and breasts to his stomach twice as he said. "Well you know I'm gonna want you there with me, too!" He was talking to her, of course. (I reviewed many policy and position differences in Clinton's eight years and discovered to my delight, that Hillary advocated the position I would have, every single time.) I spoke to a well-dressed lady, "Do you see that man over there?" Lady: "Yes" I pointed to the President, who seemed to be watching me proudly. "That man is going to be President of the United States of America. Do you want to meet him?" The lady said, "Huh?" And looked at me, then she looked where I pointed. "Yes ma'am. Wouldn't you like to meet a future President tonight? Well then, just walk right on over there." The lady gathered another lady to go with her and they walked over to the Clintons who remained square in the middle of the stage. They hadn't moved. The lady looked back at me and I encouraged her with a nod. She spoke to the couple, "Well! YOU CERTAINLY LOOK PRESIDENTIAL! How do you do?" Clearly Clinton was 'used to it.' They exchanged greetings and small talk for a moment or two, but Clinton's eyes searched for mine, finding them one last time. "Ethyl, Martha! Come over here! There is a couple here you want to meet!"

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My letter of recommendation

Ann Richards knew where I lived. Apparently they missed me right away, because there I was back in the office again. (What were those people, gluttons for punishment?) "Aw! Ann. You came to my house! And met my Momma! Thank-you so much Ann!" "Oh Ross !" Historical note: She forgot to make an impression. My Mom didn't recall her coming. "It wasn't much," Ann said. "Well! It's going to have to be ‘much’ from now on. People will want to remember you, Ann! My mother couldn't describe you to me, Ann. Next time and every time, try to make an impression!" Clinton let me finish and handed me an envelope. "Here's something I wanted you to have. It isn't much, but it was the least we could do." (It certainly was. It would have been a great letter of recommendation if I were seeking a career in a typing pool.) Ross: "You typed this Mr. President? But its two paragraphs long!" Clinton flicked his head sideways an instant, and smiled. "I can type." He held up two fingers, then all of them. "There's a check, too, see?" (When I later got in my car, I was a little furious that he could type. He could've typed his own letters and saved me the trouble. After all, typing was faster and perhaps less painful, than his writing all of them out in longhand.) I read the letter. "Oh Mr. President! I can't take this sir. I can't take this now. It is too valuable! Ann, can you save this for me?" Ann took the letter and eventually handed it to Clinton, who then handed it to Hillary, who promptly dropped it in the trash can and had to get it out when Bubba gave her a dirty look. "Why Ross ? I mean I will, but why?" Ross: "I'm 18, that's why." Ann: "Oh." Clinton: "It's hard to keep track of things when you're moving around all the time? I un-derstand." Ross: "I'm 18. I'm going to be living in dorm rooms and more dorm rooms for the next four years while I'm at college. Its going to get lost probably, or soiled! I mean I'd leave it at home but I think my family's about to move and nobody'll recognize this document's value."

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Clinton understood firmly. "All Right Bubba. We'll keep it for you to come get it when you need it." Ross: Looking down "I see you understand, sir." Clinton: "Yes I do. You can take the check though, see its $45.56, its the money you spent for your gas and ... coffee." Clinton had been a stickler for receipts, even for his morning coffee. (I was about to go off to college where I couldn't afford to study. I needed the money. I would soon be selling my Haynes flute to stay in school. I cashed that check.) I chuckled, too. "It may be awhile until I'm able, Mr. President." Clinton: "Like I say, it will be waiting for you." Ross: "It may be years, Mr. President." Clinton: "All Right." There was a pained expression on his face, then a proud one.

I am still waiting to get my letter back. Maybe they'll find it in Hillary's administration?

Larry King Show Clips

Play the actual clips from the Larry King Radio Interview about here. I have tried to lo-cate these, recorded during the interregnum between Bush I and Clinton I, and the earliest King interviews with Steven Spielberg, but to no avail. One guy at CNN remembered hearing this, but he doesn't remember where. Maybe a special or a newscast? The following dialog is only ap-proximate. It would be nice to hear the early clip of Spielberg’s radio interview with King, too, where King found the initials B.C. in the back of the Indiana Jones hat (and perhaps my name in the Indiana Jones jacket sleeve lining?) Of course, that in that show Spielberg said he’d laid away millions of dollars for his two collaborators (Clinton and me), so nobody will be hearing that clip anytime soon. If it isn’t completely lost, insert it about here. Larry King: "Who was the first person to tell you you could be President?" President-elect William Jefferson Bubba Bill Clinton (Clinton I): "That would be Ann Richards." King: "The current Governor of Texas?" President-elect Clinton: "Yes, Larry. It was she." King: "Hey. I know her. We've had her on several times. Ann Richards, huh. No kid-ding? What a lady she is, huh?" Clinton: "That she is. We worked together during the 1972 McGovern Campaign out of an office in Highland Park, Texas." (It was in Dallas, sir. You lived in Highland Park, though.) King: "What were you both doing there?"

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Clinton: "Well, Larry, there was this kid there at the same time who followed me around for six weeks calling me "Mr. President" every day and standing up for me whenever I walked into the room and such." King: "Zowie! 1972? WOW! WHO WAS THAT GUY!" Clinton spoke deliberately. "Larry. I don't remember his name." King: "Wow. uh huh. I bet that guy's got a job waitin' for him if he want's it!" Clinton: "Yeah. . . . I'm sure we could find something for him to do." King saw something there in his studio, a misty-eyed remembrance of his long-lost gofer, perhaps? "Those were magical times, weren't they?" Clinton: "That they were, Larry. That they were." King: "We'll be right back with The President Elect of the United States, Bill Clinton, in just a moment, but first . . ."

run clip of Spielberg's Schindler's List dedication and photo of Steve holding oscars.

run clip, Blues Brothers "We're on a mission from God." photo of Clinton/Gore as the Blues Brothers, run clip Indy3 Knight speaks. "I am the last of three brothers."

epilogue

run clip Back to the Future 3 "Are you completely out of your mind?!" Fox (McFly) meets Doc in the old west who doesn't remember him.

Winder, Georgia, December 1983 Ross: "Yes-sir. That's my signature, but I don't remember signing this. What is this, Dada? a joke?"

Syracuse, NY 1986 Tall heavy-set detective fellow with short red hair and mustache just can't believe it. I was returning a letter addressed to Steve Ross "What is this? Look, Mister. I'd really like to help you but hey." Detective: "But, but! You have got to be Steve Ross! It's worth a million dollars!" Ross: "And even more to me, right? You know it's not worth anything if I'm not the guy, right? I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, but I am just not the guy."

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Detective, looking at my writing sample and another one in his pocket: "YOU ARE THE GUY." Ross: "Well. Tell me who is it? Mr. Spielberg? Tell him that I don't remember him." Walking away "Hey wait a minute!" pause "Uh. Nope no just tell them I'm sorry. Thank-you and goodbye." walked into my room and closed the door. I came back out of his room, preoccupied "Are you still here?" Detective: "Come on Mister. You know you're Steve Ross! You came back from the fu-ture!" Ross: He was amused, so was I. "Well. You know that could explain a lot. Like how I could come up with some of these discoveries and inventions here." Suddenly "NO! Out of the question! Goodbye." Detective "Come on Mister! Think!" I hustled him toward the door. "O.K. That's it. Thank-you, Mister uh, sir but I am, I have no more time for you today. I am a busy man. Thank-you and good day sir!"

NOTES:

Many times facing obstacle or danger, I recall listening in my mind to Carmina Burana by Carl Orf, a piece Cheryl and I played in high school band. Ann always wore sweat shirts and stretch pants at first. After the President got there her looks really improved. But, she was chubby and extremely heavy chested. MaryBeth wore a curly red wig and ugly, homemade or otherwise inexpensive dresses, again in the beginning. Marybeth Rogers had a cartoon of a big cow head & shoulder on the front of her sweatshirt get-ting started. She really looked better after talking to Hillary Clinton some. I remember one of her early dresses in particular that had a cartoon of a big cow head & shoulder on the front. The President always wore a great suit no matter what. O’Brien wore a slick gray pinstripe with a pink rose in his lapel? Hillary was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She al-ways had every hair in place (except as noted and at the party where she was incredibly relaxed (perhaps having had a beer, I think. I chided Clinton about drinking a beer there. He had one half of one beer.). Hillary always marched with good posture, again except at the party on the stage of the Dallas Civic auditorium, of course she was seated the whole time. She wore expen-sive suits and European fashions, nice girl clothes, never daring or anything but somewhat bright. Mrs. Clinton could stop traffic walking down the street. This is not an exaggeration. I wore black zip-up the side dress boots and my pinstripe vest suit (without collar/lapels, without sleeves) long-sleeve white shirts and wide maroon tie. The girls wore bellbottomed blue jeans and Indy wore sandals and a leather "crown of thorns" w/occasional flower in it. We all got better dressed as time went on, as I recall. Making history in a noble effort does that to

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people.

Book jacket text:

Refer to movie clips from ALWAYS, Indiana Jones I, II, III, Braveheart, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Blues Brothers, Back to the Future, Schindler's List, E.T. the Extra-terrestrial (with my name in my handwriting clearly on the concept drawings used as a prop in Elliot’s frog biology lab), Oh God!, American Tail, Jurassic Park (3 scenes, “an aim not devoid of merit” De-void word a day word, the wine scrounge scene and pop, “clever girl” scene) Jaws (Styrofoam cup scene), Saving Private Ryan, Independence Day, Armageddon, Deep Impact, TV shows The Visitor, The Simpsons, Morning Edition and Touched by an Angel, And a continuation with movie clips from Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting, Cast Away, Gladiator, Crouching Tiger Hid-den Dragon, Here on Earth, Joan of Arc.

There’s an excellent reason 9-11 played like a move—it was hatched like one, exactly like one in fact. M. Night Shyamalan and his wife, I believe brought the two Mohammeds to me. Night was then under the wing and protection of Stephen Spielberg. He was sent to me, as many before him, for my help in developing movie ideas. I got him to do cameos in his films.

Night was then the last of a long and since continuing line of story-hunters and writers. They all came my way to pitch their concepts, to get my suggested modifications, approval or disapproval. Being the big shot unpaid story consultant for my secretive big shot ultra-cheapskate old friend, Stevie Spielberg, it developed naturally, like a hobby. Part of my life, a familiar part of it, was helping people with their “projects.” I would move into student housing, empty or half-empty, and soon the place filled up with nascent movie types anxious to sit down with me to get my opinion on this or that despicable ball of puss they were working on.

My opinion was worth a lot. I re-named projects—made material changes, drastic, ex-pensive changes, gutted whole concepts entirely, all this was often intensely irritating or even insulting to my counterparts.

And they took revenge. The very first supplicant (after Spielberg) had arrived at my of-fice in Tucker, Georgia, where I was a recent graduate of the Georgia Institute of Technology, Georgia Tech for short. He had ingratiated himself with my boss, perhaps my company’s own-ers, too. Anyway, he got permission to take us all out to dinner. He skillfully culled me out from among my associates, paying their restaurant & bar tabs, but dining alone with me. I was flat-tered. Here was this well-dressed, well-respected, well-heeled up and coming type intensely in-terested in everything about me and all he wanted was my help on a project.

I began by giving him samples of my handwriting. We talked about DeLorean cars (the Pontiac dealership nearby was carrying them). He offered to buy me one if our “deal” worked out. I laughed the offer off. I drew him a “flux capacitor” for my time machine on a napkin

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from that restaurant in the hotel across the street from the Tucker-Lavista Perimeter office park just off I-285 in Atlanta.

What was I thinking? Gladly offering to help strangers I just met without getting a con-tract for payment for services? I was only too happy to help. Who wouldn’t be?

Stephen Spielberg was into tokens of our long-ago association. It had meant so much to him to have mementoes of our friendship that he displayed them in his movies. That’s my LED digital watch on Roy Neary in Close Encounters. That’s my dad’s old leather jacket on Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Those are my canteens in Saving Private Ryan, my notes, equa-tions, & chemical diagrams in Good Will Hunting, all of which I was oblivious to.

“Do not open until 1985” and letters from Back to the Future.

Dear Sean,If the Professor calls about that job, tell himI had to go see about a girl.Will

So I wrote two “letters to the future” warning Doc about “The Libyans” terrorist crazed atom bomb seekers, shooting up small-town America in search of missing plutonium. In the film, one differs slightly from the first. I “spoiled” the first letter by signing my real name in-stead of “Marty” as asked. There was something about writing a letter for some stranger on phony, prop stationery that seemed a little suspicious at the time. He soothed me and took my signed letter since he was sure he could use it, anyway. The next exemplar was an improved ver-sion, which I signed for him as he wished. Here they are from the film Back to the Future.

Place stills of new and old letters about here Back to the Future.

So I gave the Simpsons their name, put them in Springfield (close to Pleasantville), plot-ted their first movie, set the guidelines that have given the TV show life for decades on American screens. About a quarter of the shows are modeled on me and my life. Since I don’t go to Rock & Roll camp, I suppose others also model. Lisa Simpson was kind enough to run my “fear” pheromone hypothesis experiment.

Run Simpson’s episode about pheromone induced bullies and nerds here.

The earth is still waiting for it to be taken seriously, although the army paid some nitwits to ex-haust themselves flailing away at wrong-headed nonsense. Somethings I think that nothing I do

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or say is taken seriously now, except by Hollywood idea thieves. Homer Simpson sues to re-cover his ideas from Hollywood types and everything he does is stolen for great art collections.

Run Simpson’s episodes here

And I face his predicament. Every once in a while, I get something in; like the idea for giant bal-loons in orbit to counter global warming, or inflatable space station walls that can stop microme-teors, the superconductor in proton atp-ase, the mag-lev muscle idea or wind generators to power Martian robots. If I could have my good name and reputation, my old friends being glad to see me instead of shunning me out of jealousy and resentment, I wouldn’t be everybody’s victim anymore. It’s too much to ask. This past Spring, one of the Hollywood syndicate hires following me around asked me point blank why I’ve never insisted on contracts or payment in advance and I told him why. Sometimes the job that needs to be done is too important to quibble over price. Whether it’s de-feating European communism (Indiana Jones), or creating a new basis for faith (Star Wars flicks; Matrix flicks) in God, defeating racism (Bush episodes, Forrest Gump, Independence Day, Armageddon) halting or at least slowing down state sanctioned cruelty & execution (The Green Mile, Catch Me if You Can, Shawshank Redemption) or giving hope to those who have none (Crouching Tiger/Hidden Dragon, Braveheart, The Patriot, Passion of the Christ, Cold Mountain, Mystic River), or new heros (American Beauty, Good Will Hunting, A Beautiful Mind) or new inspiration even for faithless people (Cast Away, Gladiator, Titanic, Galaxy Quest, Va-nilla Sky, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E.T., Borne Identity movies) or building alliances and chiding adversaries of American Freedom (300, Enemy at the Gates), righting old wrongs (Touched by an Angel, Schindler’s List), or fresh ones (The Terminal)—Where? Where is there room to risk the new basis of human civilization that my stories, ideas, poems, song, whistling, tokens, and inspirations have built? Which group of suspicious, jealous, arrogant near-do-wells could I have taxed for the worth of my contributions? Each and every masterpiece of American Cinema and all the combined high art of my culture, which do I choose to burden? These pro-jects were carried off by failures, incompetents, rejects with dreams of wealth and status. Every one of them was near-miss, close shave deals, hanging by a thread. How could I, how could anyone put that at risk? Suppose I had asked $1,000,000.00 for my Jedi idea, a fair price, no? Then Stephen Spielberg would have been worth a minus 1 million dollars and that idea would never have made it into the film. Where would America be today without StarWars? Think 1976 and you might get the picture. In spite of increasingly ruthless hatreds born of air pollution, corruption and malcontent, America leads the world as a beacon of hope for the future, for the better new world all humanity hopes to achieve. Without the Jedi, the Force, the Training, that rebellion long, long ago and far, far away would have had meager success as a forgettable B movie. I would not have

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been paid anyway, and humanity would have lost a significant source of inspiration, hope, and joyful anticipation for the future coming to us, just over that hill, yonder dare. There are two more reasons for me to contribute uncompensated. The first is the tradition already successful and established. Having a “read” with my fresh, unbiased ears avoids formu-laic doldrums, and the oppression of yes-men in the creative process. I honestly do not know the formal academic formulas, so no adverse consequences are felt for violating convention. Plus, compensated writers are satisficers.

Furthermore, deviation from past success entails financial risk in addition to creative risk. The money in any industry, the capital that finances projects, draws together the highest and best talents in diverse fields from different, often competing companies into the joyful undertaking that is the known path in Hollywood, money flows via established arteries, it doesn’t grow new vessels for each project. Also its less risk to just anticipate & settle a justified lawsuit than to change what has become Hollywood’s most successful formula. Perhaps the last and best reason to go without reward for re-establishing American movie and entertainment dominance for the last quarter century is for my own creativity. Poverty is the breeding ground for artistic merit. Van Gogh is the prime example. Impoverished all his life, the Dutchman remains the world’s ultimate painting wonder. He’s not alone, either. Great business ideas, revolutionary thinking leading to breakthroughs in commerce, industry, and the arts & sciences all found root in the fertile soil of utter despair and absolute crushing poverty. If the training, number & fees of physicians were unregulated or less restrictive, revolutionaries might thrive in those fields, too. As it is, medicine is slowly being squeezed out by chicanery. I am the ultimate outsider. Refused my M.D. degree after four years of successful study in medicine, I dwell in poverty, but not in poverty of thought and discovery. The heart is not just a pump—the special cardiac muscle electrifies the blood in the QRS, releasing bis-phosphogluterate and CO2 from hemoglobin, and again in the damped, driven oscil-lation that is the T, U, V and J waves. This is why the blood turns yellow in the heart. It’s why the blood effervesces in an electric field, and why I can make all the waves from QRS, T, U, V, and even J in a bucket of any polar fluid with two stimulating and two recording electrodes. The transient electric field of the QRS lines up all the dipoles of the polar fluid, then they oscillate back as the T wave. Physics now tells us that initial conditions are key to solving the long QT syndrome malady, because a damped driven wave formation depends solely upon initial condi-tions. When the rate increases, QT shortens, as predicted. Tune the heart wrong and the vessels accumulate electrodeposited crystals of atheroscle-rotic plaque. What else causes adjacent crystals to be deposited at body temperature? The funny things that affect electrodeposition are the same funny things that affect atherosclerosis. Inner-vated vessels only (arteries, no veins or capillaries), nicotinic (smoking) stimulation, vessels to electric organs attacked (heart, kidney, mesentary: electricity needed. Diabetic propensity: sugar improves electrodeposit adhesion. Areas of turbulent blood flow: turbulence improves electro-deposition rate. Even short fat people being more susceptible than tall skinny people, is covered.

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Of course the root cause is pheromonal, because central lesions in pheromone reception and as-sociation areas cause immediate systemic atherosclerosis. The kidney is an electric scrubber device not just a simple filter--how else would the JG cells regulate, after all, the kidney has an electrical pacemaker, and distal and proximal tubules intertwine with a large potential difference of their lumens. This is why charge is needed to ex-pel chemicals in the urine. All the intricate chemical theories to ‘explain’ waste transport are garbage. Now, we can build artificial kidneys. Motor neurons transmit action potentials via saltative conduction between Schwann cells that wrap the axon of the neuron. Schwann cells act as capacitors, with the neuronal core induc-ers as well, and transmit action potentials by serial capacitance discharge between Schwann cells. This is why the Schwann-ensheathed neurons emit more heat than predicted from their oxygen consumption, why Schwann cell wrappings are so tightly wound with the best insulation and most conductive layers available to the body (capacitors do not rely upon resistance, but they do heat without oxydation), and why all Schwann cells are the same size and have exactly the same unrolled area on a particular nerve (formula for capacitance on a circuit optimizes on same ca-pacitance for each circuit element) and why the neuronal axon hillock is without organelles. Similarly, oligodendrites wrap many neurons to allow coordinated movements by shared capacitance switching, such as walking or grasping. In the past, gullible neurologists and physi-ologists took the word of an ignorant painter, Ramon Y Cahal, who proposed the absurd theory of myelin acting as insulation, but looking in cross section exactly like capacitors! The skin and linings of osculation, respiration, digestion, and reproduction communicate with other people using pheromones, deciding fates of those people and nations. The upper res-piratory tract is covered with pheromone sensory brush-border microvillar cells, human scent glands are the largest of any animal, and tears contain dissolved protein ionic sequestration and release devices for pheromone reception4. Prisons, juvenile detention centers, jihad, Guantánamo, drug rehab centers—all will close. 150 mg of male facial skin surface lipids on chewing gum vehicle (ten to fifteen pieces of chewing gum rubbed to saturation on a man’s face over two days) cures runaway, delinquent, and criminal behavior instantly. The next day the former delinquent ASKS to do chores around the house. Chemoreception is also the key to regenerating Central Nervous System (CNS) nerves after spinal cord injury. In my first year in medical school, I watched mice that were lesioned at various times of life and allowed to heal. It was striking that the earlier the time in life that the spine was cut, the better the eventual recovery. Nerves respond to electricity and to scents when they re-grow. From my work with pheromones, I knew that chemoreception leads to electrical discharges. Thus there was something in the body that prevented or turned off CNS recovery after injury. What could that be? There were 40,000 proteins in the body at last count, which

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4 Nicholson B. Pheromones cause disease: pheromone/odourant transduction. Med Hypotheses 2001 Sept;57(3):361-377.

one(s) was it? Well, we could look in the blood and see which ones change from fetus to adult at the appropriate times to block CNS recovery. We could also figure out why. Babies have too many nerves, it’s why human offspring are so helpless at birth. The nerves gradually die back mostly during the first two years and only the strongest survive into elementary school. So whatever is causing the resorption of those nerves in babyhood is causing the CNS not to regenerate. That’s a hypothesis that may be true or not, but it’s a reasonable place to start. Where would such a die-back protein exist? Well, let’s try the blood. Take a look at the blood, it slowly changes composition during the period, too! Indeed, the major proteins of the blood all change, even hemoglobin. So how to proceed? If we were to use fetal blood to completely replace the circulation, the CNS should repair itself like it does in fetuses with cut spinal cords. That’s a reasonable hypothesis since lesioned spinal cords in fetuses regenerate. Of course, it is hard to get mothers to donate the blood of their unborn babies, perhaps hundreds of them, so that is why we ask experimental animals to help us out. With their help, we can find the proteins in adult blood that keep CNS tissue from regenerating after injury and take them out or deactivate them temporarily until connections are remade. We know how to do that pretty well. I venture that my logic here will cure quadraple-gics and save the lives of many wheelchair bound people. God’s grace has provided us the science, the intelligence, and the courage to rescue our civilization from the threat of global warming, too. We have to think of our earth as a heat sys-tem with inputs and outputs. We are surrounded by a vacuum that does not conduct heat very well. Some of the normal inputs from the sun are usually reflected off into space as infra-red ra-diation, but that is being blocked more and more by greenhouse gases. If we find another way to reflect off the extra solar radiation back into space, we will solve our problem of global warming. We can launch into orbit, very large balloons to turn back the extra sunshine, and thereby dimin-ish incoming solar radiation. Less than 2% of the sun’s rays need be reflected away from our atmosphere. That doesn’t sound like much but it is a tremendous area. The best way to reflect off sunshine from many square miles out in space is to orbit very large inflatables. Just four space shuttle flights carrying balloons similar to the old Echo 1 satellites would suffice. Effects could be titrated and aimed to cover areas of special concern: melting ice sheets, glaciers, de-serts, and tropical hurricane spawning nurseries. Because eclipses cause circular air movements around the umbra or central shadow, we can move moist air laden with rains over the deserts of the Australian outback, the sands of the Sahara, or the parched and arid lands of Asia and Amer-ica. We can protect our planet, but only if we have the vision and foresight to plan ahead and do what needs to be done. God has had us make the needed investments in science and technology, we must use the tools He has provided us. Placing Echo 1 satellites into orbit above hurricane spawning grounds would slightly lower the tropical water temperature, discouraging hurricane formation. Another way to deter hurricanes from forming is to fly through them with airplanes to prevent the vertical organization necessary for powerful hurricanes. Airplanes fly horizontally. If you look at a hurricane from

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space, you can see down it’s middle eye all the way to the ocean, so obviously it is vertically or-ganized. Horizontal meets vertical and chaos ensues. What would have become a hurricane if left to itself to organize naturally in the atmosphere now becomes disorganized. Disorganized rainstorms form instead and hurricanes do not form. This has been why hurricanes never strike America anymore. Our scientists study the baby hurricanes to death. It’s the Heisenberg uncer-tainty principle writ large.

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• Somebody HAD to inspire Hillary Clinton, so why not the same guy who inspired Steven Spielberg? Ann Richards? Dallas Mayor Ron Kirk? Why not indeed.

“Earn this! Earn it!”

run clip from “Saving Private Ryan” about here.

This book might be entitled Saving Steven Spielberg. “Steven, earn this! Earn it!” It is uncanny watching a movie to hear back at me those words of mine long ago urging the great household word, Spielberg, to win his fame and due regard in life coming. Who else can know the tingle of gratitude to God’s power in the life of my old friend and confidant? Only I, but per-haps you, reader, can feel it too? I gave young Steve Spielberg those words. He had come to my side to congratulate me for inspiring dispirited campaign workers in a lost cause—the McGovern campaign of 1972. I took the speech from my English literature textbook from Richardson High School. The original speech was by Benedict Arnold to his men and given before their successful attack against the British garrison at Fort Ticonderoga in one of the first victories of the American rebellion. Steve dutifully copied it down & attributed it to me instead of the old patriot I robbed it from. The same speech was used in Brave-heart, ghost-directed by Steve. The story of William Wallace was a favorite book of his youth. The turkey who bought screen credit for all my speeches in Braveheart tried to take credit for writing Arnold’s speech, too. They almost gave the fraud an Os-car.

Run clip about here: “You may take our land, you may take our very lives, but you’ll never take, our freedom!” clip from Brave-heart movie.

Speaking of passwords, TogetherinParis is my email and username. It comes from two identical medallions from the Texas State Fair site in Dallas during the McGovern campaign in July or August of 1972. It was with these that Clinton and Spielberg were supposed to recognize each other much later in life. With a little prompting from me, by all reports they had a grand reunion. It was the rebirth of the Clinton administration, in 1995. Now who woulda thunk?

Published in the United States of America

BY Nicholson Science, all rights reserved

Nicholson Science 2604 W JETTON AVE TAMPA FLORIDA 33629-5325

© 2008 Ross Nicholson

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007012345

ISBN 978-0-9815226-0-9

Dedicated to George W. Bush, Barbara Pierce Bush, George H.W. Bush, Ann Richards, Stephen Spielberg, Bill Clinton, Ron Kirk, Robert Reich, Strobe Talbot, and David A. Kendall

for believing.

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Leave that to me.

Damn fool I knew he was going to say that.

Whoʼs the more foolish, the fool or the fool who follows him?

Your destiny lies along a different path from mine.

The Force will be with you, always.

Where did you dig up that old fossil?

Lock the door

That isnʼt very reassuring.

This is not going to work.

Why didnʼt you say so before?

I did say so before.

Arenʼt you a little short for a Texas Ranger?

The jesuits are extinct.

Their fire has gone out of the universe.

You, my friend, are all thatʼs left of their religion.

Oh yeah, you want to go in but you donʼt have a plan for getting out?

Heʼs the brains, Sweetheart

Somebodyʼs got to save our skins.

It could be worse.

Itʼs worse.

I got a bad feeling about this.

326-3827

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If they strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

Didnʼt we just leave this party?

What kept you?

We, uh, ran into some old friends.

You know, sometimes I amaze even myself.

That doesnʼt sound too hard.

I ainʼ in this for your revolution

and Iʼm not in it for you, princess.

I expect to be well paid.

Iʼm in it for the money.

You neednʼt worry about your reward. If money is all that you love, then thatʼs what youʼll receive.

Your friend is quite a mercenary.

I wonder if he really cares a bout anything or anybody.

I care!

So what do you think of her, Steve?

Iʼm trying not to, kid.

Evacuate? In our moment of triumph?

I think you overestimate their chances!

“I sense something, a presence Iʼve not felt since …”

That isnʼt very reassuring.

Get in there, you big furry oaf. I donʼt care what you smell.

207

What an incredible smell youʼve discovered.

It could be worse.

Itʼs worse.

Donʼt just stand there try and brace it with something!

One things for sure, weʼre all going to be a lot thinner!

Get on top of it!

Iʼm trying!

Will you shut up and listen to me?

Weʼre alright.

You did great!

If we can just avoid anymore female advice we ought to be able to get out of here

Letʼs get movinʼ

Come here. Yaʼ big coward. Come here!

No wait, theyʼll hear!

You came in that thing? Youʼre braver than I thought!

Nice. Come on!

I think we took a wrong turn.

Thereʼs no lock.

That ought to hold ʻem for awhile.

We think they may be splitting up.

Where could they be?

Iʼve been waiting for you Obi-Wan.

208

The circle is not complete. When I left you I was only a learner, now I am the master.

Only a master of evil.

Your powers are weak old man.

You canʼt win.

If you strike me down I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

You should not have come back.

Didnʼt we just leave this party?

What kept you?

We, uh, ran into some old friends.

It seems OK, if we can just get to it.

I canʼt believe heʼs gone!

Come on, Bubba, weʼre not out of this yet.

They let us go! Thatʼs the only reason for the ease of our escape.

What are you lookinʼ at? I know what Iʼm doinʼ.

Evacuate in our moment of triumph? I think you overestimate their chances!

Itʼll be just like Beggarʼs canyon back home.

Where am I? I must have taken a bad step.

This is our most desperate hour.

Help me Steven Spielberg,

youʼre my only hope.

I need your help, she needs your help.

209

Learn about the Force, Steven.

You must do what you feel is right, of course.

We are vulnerable.

Theyʼre more dangerous than you realize.

A useless gesture.

Donʼt be too proud of this technological terror youʼve constructed.

The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force

Donʼt try to frighten us with your sorcererʼs ways.

Your sad devotion to that ancient religion

has not helped you to conjure up the stolen data tapes

or given you clairvoyance enough to find the rebelsʼ hidden fortress.

I find your lack of faith disturbing.

This bickering is pointless.

Crush them with one swift stroke.

Watch your step. This place can be a little rough.

Iʼm ready for anything!

No questions asked.

Thatʼs the real trick, isnʼt it?

Someoneʼs beginning to take an interest in your handiwork.

Sorry about the mess.

The final check out is completed.

210

All systems are operational.

What course shall we set?

Perhaps we should respond to an alternative form of persuasion?

I think it is time we demonstrated the full power of this station.

Lock the door.

I would much rather have gone with Ann than stay here with you.

I donʼt know what all this trouble is about, but Iʼm sure it must be your fault.

You watch your language!

Itʼll be enough.

I know a few maneuvers, weʼll loose ʻem.

Hereʼs where the fun begins.

Charming to the last.

The more you tighten your grip,

The more will slip through your fingers.

Since you are reluctant …

Commence primary ignition

Donʼt everybody thank me at once!

Pull arms out of their sockets when they lose.

Let go your conscious self and act on instinct.

Your eyes can deceive you, donʼt trust them.

Stretch out with your feelings!

You see? You can do it.

211

In my experience thereʼs no such thing as luck.

Terminate her, immediately

She lied. She lied to us!

You canʼt win, but there are alternatives to fighting.

William Clinton is a great man.

Yeah, great at getting us into trouble.

I sense something.

That isnʼt very reassuring.

This is not going to work

Why didnʼt you say so before?

I did say so before!

I wasnʼt notified. Iʼll have to clear it.

Everythingʼs under control. Situation normal.

Steve, weʼre gonna have company!

What an incredible smell youʼve discovered!

It could be worse.

Itʼs worse.

Get back to the car!

You came in that thing? Youʼre braver than I thought!

Nice.

He certainly has courage.

What good will it do us if he gets himself killed?

212

I think we took a wrong turn.

Thereʼs no lock.

Lock the door and hope they donʼt have canons.

Here they come.

If they strike me down I shall become more powerful than they can possibly imagine.

Didnʼt we just leave this party?

I got one! I got one!

Great kid, donʼt get cocky!

Laugh it up, Fuzz-ball! (Peach fuzz.)

I hope you can hear me because I know this is true from the bottom of my heart how good your life is going to be. Can you hear me? Brush your hair out of the way if you

can hear me.

THERE HE IS!

You magnificent pagan god!

Howʼd you get that oil on your face?

Where?

Well, itʼs here, itʼs here, look at it. Itʼs terrible!

Thanks.

What are you so happy about?” I ignored him completely.

I think youʼre a pretty silly looking guy.

Whaddaya think of that?

213

Like Iʼd overheard a snippet of somebody elseʼs conversation, I looked in the bathroom mirror and frowned in resignation, disheartened. Steve stared at me out of the corner of

my eyes and I never said a word.

214