It’s not as if there were no clues. And today he says? “Clues don’t buy a donut.” In about 1959, my maternal uncles said, “The doctor said he’s healthy as a horse.” How did they know about a stressed-out Howard Hughes Jr. having been ordered to run up and down flights of steps? It was in the newspaper? No sir! Did you say, Howard Hughes, you little D.O.D. puke? He invented the “stress test.” He invented “palimony.” He invented modern birth control. He re-invented the whorehouse. He did not invent the airplane; he flew them.
In 1966, I said, “Dad, you sure go to Washington a lot. How come we don’t have any money?” When mom held a .45 pointed at Charles Hughes that same year, I now realize it was merely parental theatre so Billy would recognize the Mormon bodyguard’s favorite handgun when the time came. When I threw at the heads of big kids crowding the plate, “dad” said, “Don’t do that any more.” That’s parenting! [Not really, Charlie] TICK-TOCK. TICK-TOCK. Is my flying Saab here yet? Mormon Temple = TARGET. Meanwhile, you can Christmas shop at the store where I’ve long said, “It’s easy to find (overpriced) stuff.”
The poisoned Target popcorn fiasco? Hey, I need some oil money! The end of that story finds the receipt for a “spiked” bag of popcorn on my seat in the hospital lot. I was not a mental patient, I worked on Ward H. You know you are Howard’s son when your head feels like it is going to explode, and blood starts to trickle down your upper lip from a drug that spikes blood pressure. Tastes like seasoned salt, eh Pentagon kook? Your funny shaped building still there? No new hole in it? What I did was go write in a medical chart, to see who stared at me. The foreign-born doctor present that day they still won’t let me find. Where is Rebecca, Jay Nixon?
Hey, y’all want 9/11 truth? No, you don’t. In late 2001, oh the interrogatories! (As if I’m in charge of where Air Force One goes!) Gather around Hughes as he may explain again that when there is big trouble, the president should go “In the hole,” or fly around way above your day-ruining, well-deserved nuking. I’ve got a not JOHN LENNON feeling Howard R. Hughes thought up the “Doomsday Plane” concept, and was never destined to fly in it, or did he? He really did design the L.E.M.? That’s what a Zip Code 91362 old lady said, and they generally know what they are talking about. As for “Yoko” scribbled on cocktail napkins (2004), I’ll take that up with her later. Possibly much later.
As with Howard, nothing pisses-off this Hughes like the moonscape spinning around. Got enough gas, Houston? “Contact light,” not with E.T., MethBrain! So bored am I these days, I critique the descents. Now, let’s FOIA nasa and ask why there is a big WHOOP (Shout) when 14 reported it was on the Moon. This writer thinks that 12 involved three fatalities, and 13 was Howard…and who? Who was in that room?
BANG – Let’s show them it’s dangerous.
BANG – Let’s create some drama.
BANG – Don’t tell the rookie engineers. Let them sweat.
Now, it’s time for the backchannel nasa video of:
BEEP “Houston, it’s getting kind of misty in here. We’ve got droplets on the windows.”
BEEP “Roger that, and, uh, stand by.”
The duct tape? Plastic tubes? Almost killed three more!
Eating and staring directly into Howard’s camera lens? Apollo 13 survivors, Bill knows what it means now (Unfortunate as that is). [The HP “i” key has died again, soldier]
And the Space Shuttle? Nobody died in the Pentagon’s space truck! Nobody!!
How long ago did this Hughes sit in a Southern California public building at the appropriately named “Puzzle Table” studying a diagram of that Apollo 13 tank with a problem? Too long! And? The hole in the spacecraft was larger than expected. Did you steal my image of it yet? I can get another one, sailor. The download failed? I can walk to the library. Don’t shoot the cop while I’m in there, please.
Back to my youth and HOWARD K. SMITH, I was repeatedly asked, “Why do you like that one?” (ABC). HARRY REASONER? ERIC SEVARIED? Why not kill young people one by one who do not know who these people were? e.g. “Who was Chet Huntley, or you die!” I knew WWII correspondent names, dude. Your flat top tattooed meth-fired ass does not know a thing.
The nasa coffee cup? Sam old, same old. “Why do you like that one?” And, let us hear my detractors, with their incessant excuse-making, such as, “Well Bill, that was a popular coffee cup on the Mission Control station with less RAM than a throw-away cheap-o fone today.” Do I have to depose a TWA retiree for, “Yeah, we rocked him around a little bit.” Ah, my fond memories of looking at the “overhead compartment” expecting it to burst open and be hit on the head with some bastard’s mid-1990’s very slow laptop. Blessed I was to hear aircraft tires upon concrete, with the final holy BANG of the front set of wheels concluding another commercial thrill ride. I was not “scared,” but I stated to mental health colleagues I’d much rather be flying the plane. Man, did they look at me funny (2006).
Now, we have no “steady-cam” yet for “Bill the Pitchman” like that Remington guy. How about, “I liked red and white so much, I painted a plane.” No? I’ve been practicing my line as: “Where ‘ya goin’?” Magically, not so cheap fares appear on a TV screen of the future. Later, when we rescind all FAA rules, the sacred door will open with that wretched stinkhole LA out the windows on a clear night. Like the old dude in Contact, I’ll say, “Aw c’mon guys. No one will snitch.” The straight men flying your plane free of box cutters shall yell, “Hughes, shut the door!” I can’t make money on an airline? With Super Bowl Sunday ads, in this culture, you could sell shit to a soldier digging a latrine. As a female said about my potential playboy status late in life, “Who says you can’t?”
Can’t alter the playbook, but no one seems inclined to drive me to the 1988 Chevy with no rust for sale cheap. 1993 GMC van? 1998 Suburban? 2003 Tahoe? Now we’re looking wealthy, girls! The latest clues from decades past are astounding, and what could top, “Why don’t you put a motor on your bike?” (1967). I’ve newly discovered they can’t seem to put the same name on a tombstone and the paperwork in my family, it seems, and the number “14” has great significance, but not to me.
What does the 32 years refer to?
8 years of REAGAN
8 Years of CLINTON
8 years of GEORGE W.
8 years of B.O.
Man, it stinks, but now I’m a businessman, so who cares about those guys?
Why not 2 year terms for the president?
Shhhhh…he’s talking politics again.
The answer to all hobo transportation dilemmas is: