Screenwriters. You can’t make a great movie or TV series without one. They are the spark which ignites the creative flame.
The image we screenwriters have of ourselves and our trade is an almost holy one. Dedicated. Ethical. Seekers of truth and lucid communicators of the human condition. The smartest guys in the room. But quiet about it and not at all stuck up.
We are the reason everybody else works.
Steven Spielberg steps onto the stage at the Academy Awards and intones, “In the beginning there was the word…” and the rest of the auditorium silently nods –- and we know he’s giving us the props we deserve –- and hope our quote ticks up, when that mantra is repeated at our next meeting.
We attend endless seminars and conferences where those with recent credits or a bundle of past triumphs speak in hushed tones about “the craft” and “passion”.
We laud those fellow scribes who were blacklisted for refusing to water down their vision. We toast those who never gave up no matter how often they were put into turnaround or had their series cancelled before it was given a chance.
We’re all about courage and determination and not going home until it’s perfect.
And several times a year one of us writes “Sharknado”.
I’d include all the Canadian films Telefilm has pumped tens of millions of your tax dollars into, but I wanted to mention titles somebody has actually heard of.
As Screenwriter William Goldman, a worthy role model and, let’s face it, pretty much a God to most of us who share his trade, said in his inimitable “Adventures in the Screentrade” -- No studio executive ever goes home to his wife and says, “Guess what, honey! We decided to make ‘Megaforce’!”
Except that one of them did.
And some screenwriter wrote it.
And likely got a development deal for “Megaforce II – The Return of Ace Hunter”.
And I’ve always wondered who these guys are. Where do producers find them? And what makes development execs fall under their spell, never asking the tough questions they level at the rest of us?
Who decides to park “craft” in a drawer for the weekend and churn out “Identity Thief” or “The Last Exorcism: Part Two”?
Who’s the guy pissing on Dalton Trumbo’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, muttering “Paddy Chayefsky was a hack” in Starbucks and not wearing their cardigan over their shoulders with the sleeves tied in front?
Well, I think I’ve found him. And he’s all too real and unsettling.
In the Somalian city of Barawe this week, the terrorist group Al’Shabaab sent trucks with loudspeakers into the streets ordering people to turn in their televisions and satellite dishes, deeming that watching TV shows harmed their spiritual lives.
Halfway around the world in North Korea, 80 people in 7 cities were rounded up and executed by firing squads. They had been found guilty of watching TV shows beamed from South Korea, such programming having been determined to “cause changes to people’s mindsets” by the government.
One of the programs designated as most harmful in this regard was “Desperate Housewives”.
Luckily, nobody’s confiscating flat screens or frog marching audiences into soccer stadiums in Canada for public dispatch –- at least not yet. But everywhere you look, somebody here is throwing up even more barriers to prevent you from seeing all kinds of new programming.
Last Friday, Amazon, purveyors of books, DVDs, music and just about anything else you might want to buy online, debuted two new sitcom series for those who subscribe to their “Amazon Prime” delivery service.
Two things before we go any further:
One –- we need to come up with another term to describe TV series that you don’t necessarily have to own a television to watch.
In the same way that you can’t call Netflix a broadcaster because they don’t program or schedule anything, just letting you initiate the process and get what you want when you want it like any video store or Vegas hooker; we need a term for shows never intended to run first on Global and then on every fricken Shaw owned channel forever or until people stop believing everybody still drives a 1989 Ford Focus and has never heard of a cellphone.
And Two –- somebody needs to explain to me how “Amazon Prime” in the US gets you same day free shipping plus monthly free downloads of movies and music as well as specially produced “shows” –- while “Amazon Prime” in Canada gets you same day shipping if your entire order is in stock and it isn’t a statutory holiday.
Anyway.
Friday, Amazon debuted “Alpha House” written by Doonesbury cartoonist Gary Trudeau, which stars John Goodman and (Canada’s own) Clark Johnson and “Betas” featuring Joe Dinicol (also Canadian) and some guy in the writers room with a wonderfully twisted string of dark one-liners.
But you can’t see them in Canada.
Amend that. You can see the pilots by going to Amazon.com (not .ca) and clicking Amazon Prime. But if you want to follow where those shows go from there –- well, you’re outta luck.
And you’ll be further out of the pop culture loop a few months from now when Amazon debuts the first of its dramas –- “The After” the latest creation from Chris “X-Files” Carter.
And there will be many more since a company that’s basically a big mail order warehouse currently has more original drama and comedy pilots either shot, shooting or about to go into production than all of Canada’s broadcasters put together.
Almost daily now, I get email reminders from the CRTC (Canada’s Al Sha’baab and Kim Jong-un wannabees) that they need to hear what I think about the state of Canadian television. Well, how about this…
“IT’S OVER!”
And not only has the industry been smothered to death because our over-protected broadcasters never felt the need to actually make very much content, let alone content desperate to attract an audience; but it’s going to have a tough time reviving because we can’t even watch what other countries are making that we have to compete with.
It won’t be too long before we’re as behind the times and out of touch as Somalia and North Korea.
Check out “Alpha House” here. And watch “Betas” here. And do it before they come for your screens or suggest something’s been done to alter your mindset and you’d best hurry over to the soccer stadium.
Canada is notorious for ignoring its heroes. There’s something about the national psyche that strives for anonymity. We don’t want to be noticed, singled out or made a fuss over. And we go out of our way not to tell the stories of those among us who would be celebrated in other cultures.
Tomorrow is Remembrance Day. And if any Canadian broadcaster programs a movie about our war veterans it’ll probably be that inexcusable piece of shit “Passchendaele”, which has little to do with history and even less relationship to the real Canadians who fought in the First World War.
But our participation in WWII, when we took a larger and more important role is even less a subject of Canadian films and TV. The fact that the dwindling number of warriors from that generation have never seen their stories told onscreen is nothing short of a national disgrace.
It leaves the impression that we might have been there and maybe did our part and all. But it wasn’t like we did anything anybody else couldn’t or wouldn’t have done.
And while we smugly snigger at Hollywood’s war heroes, the cornball patriotism of John Wayne, the undefeatable heroes portrayed by an endless stream of stars; the truth is that there was one among us who would make even Chuck Norris hang his head and whisper, “I’m not worthy”.
You’ve probably never heard of Leo Major. And once you have I guarantee you will feel two emotions:
1) Disbelief that this man’s name never came up in any history class you ever took.
2) Disdain for anyone who claims to have programmed film or television in this country and did not fight to make his story known.
What follows is a simple list of Leo Major’s character traits and accomplishments on the field of battle. As you pin on your poppy tomorrow morning and partake in the eleven o’clock moment of silence, let those acts of remembrance note that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, just like him.
Men and women whose blood may flow in your own veins, who once walked among you as teachers, storekeepers or that quiet nondescript guy who caught the same bus home from work that you did.
They might even be one of those frail and bent 80 year olds nearby struggling to make it through one more Remembrance Day ceremony.
But their lives and their stories have been denied to you -– and you have been made lesser people because of that not knowing.
Maybe the story of one man you’ve never heard of can spark the change we need in finally beginning to tell our own stories to ourselves and realizing that we are worth telling stories about.
All over the free world this morning, people who believe in honesty, accountability and a certain level of decorum from their elected officials are beginning to wonder if there’s anybody worth voting for anymore.
In Toronto, a mayor who apparently embraces the “high” part of higher office, apologized for royally fucking up by promising to stop doing whatever he was doing, hire a driver and stay in his basement when he drinks.
South of the border, a President who won the Nobel Peace prize a short while ago is overheard bragging to aides about how good he has become at killing people.
Billions in tax dollars gets blown on gas plants that don’t get built and dysfunctional websites that do. And every day some new whistleblower is coming out of the woodwork to reveal how much we’re secretly being used and abused by those we elect to look after our interests.
Is there nobody left you can trust?
Well –- I’m picking Brent Butt and the comic brain trust behind the Canadian TV series “Corner Gas”.
There’s an unwritten rule that every successful Canadian TV show has to let a few politicians have cameo appearances.
It’s actually a requirement buried in the incomprehensible boilerplate in the contracts we producers have to sign in order to get money from Telefilm.
To be honest, it’s a win-win for everybody involved. The politician gets to appear human and the media turns up on set for the day, guaranteeing at least one mention in a Canadian newspaper during your run.
But a wily showrunner or subversive scribe can use these guest appearances to let the Public know what kind of person they’re really dealing with.
Last week, an RCMP investigation into Senatorial expenses alleged that Senator Pamela Wallin mighta been cookin’ her books. And while many in her home province gasped “Not our Pam!”, a few folks recalled Pamela’s cameo appearance a while back on “Corner Gas”.
Art imitating Life or vice versa? You be the judge.
One morning last week, I popped into my local coffee spot for a brew and strapped into the car for a long commute. An hour later, I was still in the parking lot, mesmerized by an interview on “The Howard Stern Show”.
It’s a shame many people still avoid Stern, feeling the self-appointed “King of All Media” is just another potty mouth radio shock jock.
Truth is, the title has stuck for a reason. There is simply nobody better at getting to the heart of the subject at hand.
The interview I didn’t want to risk missing a word of in rush hour traffic was with former Van Halen lead singer and distiller of a superb line of Tequilas –- Sammy Hagar.
Hagar was there to promote a new album. But he and Stern immediately took off on a tangent, discussing how creative inspiration comes about. That led to a wonderful insight for anybody making film or television as well as music in what makes artistic collaborations work.
Lately, there’s been a lot of discussion among Canadian TV types about if/why/how come the current “Golden Age” of television might be passing us by.
Those with experience in the business have tagged everything from risk averse network executives to non-writing showrunners and a lack of time and money as the culprits.
But one issue we seldom mention is a fairly rigid “way of doing things” that has begun to permeate how we go about the production process.
Take scriptwriting as one example.
I’ve never been able to get my head around writer rooms continually located a thousand miles from or working months prior to where or when the actors and directors turn up; or those that seem predetermined to take a Marxist Collective approach to what is released from the room to the production.
TV production is by its very nature chaotic, chaos created by those collaborating adding to or subtracting from the original intent to create something seldom fully envisioned on the page.
As Nicholas Ray once noted, “It’s never all in the script. If it was, why bother making the movie?”.
Yet, this latest “Golden Age” has seen the deification of Showrunners and the sense that Mathew Weiner’s attention to detail or the writing approaches taken by Vince Gilligan or Kurt Sutter are the only keys to their series’ successes.
It’s like some kind of writers’ revenge for the Auteur theory and the possessory directorial credit. But I’d bet all of the guys mentioned above would be the first to tell you how essential the nameless background singers, roadies and groupies attendant in their bands were to what it created.
Yet. My social media feeds are rife with scribes bitching about intransigent directors and thespians who don’t thesp as expected, those respective jurisdictions being everything from bumps in the road to an IED that has blown everything to pieces.
Oh, the other Creatives are online weighing in as well, bemoaning their own problems in making the scripts they’ve been delivered work.
On one hand, all this signifies an industry with too little shelf space and far too few opportunities for the size of its creative community. But it also illustrates a system built to maximize efficiency while insuring the impossibility that a real chemical reaction might happen.
If there is one characteristic of virtually every TV series produced in Canada, it is this –- they’re predictable. You always know where the story is heading and how the lead characters will be affected.
But predictable doesn’t make for excitement or leave the door open for the surprises that keep audiences wanting more or becoming inspired to alter the way they think about things.
All great bands, just like all great TV series, are the result of several disparate elements combining in just the right amounts. But here it often seems that efforts are made to keep a critical mass from sparking anything not tightly pre-formulated into life.
Sadly, there’s just no basic recipe for making television. And the necessary chemical reactions can’t even begin to happen when the artistic ingredients are isolated from one another or not influencing and restructuring each other on a daily basis.
That’s hard for an industry built on copycat product to comprehend. And trying to explain the often subconscious decision-making that determines how one artist determines which hill is worth dying on and when’s a good time to step back and let another artist take point is hard in the best of scenarios.
But Hagar explained the process brilliantly and taking his cue, Stern drove the interview into all kinds of uncharted artistic relationship territory.
What’s most striking is that given the history of “Van Halen”, Hagar and fellow interviewee, bassist Michael Anthony, have every reason to be as cynical about the music business as most Canadian TV people are about their industry.
But what they serve up instead is a cheerful and accurate assessment of how artistic temperaments operate when creating something truly unique.
In a lot of ways, TV series are just bands with the various craft Creatives being its assorted players. Yes, there’s often a dominant voice or multi-level head-butting, but in the best of them, the overall power of the final product is the result of a unique chemistry being nurtured and allowed to evolve.
Maybe if we got that part together, the roadblocks arrayed against innovative television in Canada might be easier to get over and around.
Please give Sammy and Howard an hour of your time. I believe you’ll find it very worthwhile.
And… Enjoy Your Sunday.
And a taste of what comes from finely tuned collaboration.
With so much to be frightened of in the world, it’s nice that we set aside at least one day to make fun of our fears.
But apparently not everybody enjoys the joke.
I’m not going to whine about “Black and Orange” days or what all that free candy is doing to kids’ teeth or their struggles with adolescent obesity. I’m just going to tell you a story.
This morning, while walking the dog, I ran into a costumed girl about 9 or 10 years old.
She was wearing a shredded black and white dress, a tiara featuring a skull and make-up that wouldn’t look out of place on “The Walking Dead”. And she was crying.
I also noticed that despite carrying one of those ubiquitous “kid on the way to school” back-packs, she was travelling in the opposite direction to the rest of the kids.
As she passed, I asked if she was okay. She said, “No!” struggling not to lose it completely. So, I asked what had happened and she poured out her story.
She’d worked all night on her costume, got up early to put on the make-up and still get to school on time. But the minute she arrived, her teachers turned her around and sent her right back home. Seems she might scare the other kids and that wasn’t allowed.
Now whether her teacher was well-meaning, following some prescribed School Board code, or just some crotchety old stick-in-the-mud, I don’t know.
Maybe she’s even one of those teachers you always meet in bars on the weekend closest to Halloween, tricked out in her sexy nurse costume and making you remember all over again where Eddie Van Halen got his best ideas.
But whatever her motivation, I knew she’d just tramped down hard on somebody’s creative instincts. And no matter what element of a positive nature she was hoping to accomplish, she’d succeeding in doing exactly the opposite.
I did what I could to make the kid feel better, saying how great the costume looked and how she’d scared the crap I was now scooping off the nearby lawn right out of my dog. But she wasn’t having any of it. She seemed inconsolable.
As she walked away, past all the pirates and clowns and superheroes in their store-bought outfits, I tried one last time, calling after her, “Hey, who’re you supposed to be anyhow?”.
She whirled back around, spitting out the words, “I’m the Princess of Death!”
And in that moment, I knew she was probably going to be okay. Her teacher’s attempt at making her heel to the acceptable mores of society, of moulding her to be just like everybody else had gone terribly wrong.
Instead she had sparked the kind of defiance of convention that every truly creative soul needs to survive.
I don’t remember exactly where and when I met Jay Cochrane. I think we both had the same agent at one time, or he was a friend of my agent, or whatever.
But he was one of those people who immediately caught your attention. Not because there was anything particularly striking about him, but because he made a point of taking an acute interest in you.
My first memory of him was at one of those cramped, smoky and quickly drunk gatherings that greet actors when they step out of their dressing rooms on opening night. We’d barely said, "Hello” when he began a detailed grilling of my performance and what he’d gleaned from the show. And when he’d finished with me, he did the same to the next performer and the next.
This was a guy who wanted to know everything about what you were doing as well as how and why you did it. For some reason, each tiny detail was important to him.
When he told me what he did for a living, I kinda dismissed him. He was a tightrope walker. Seriously? How could you make a living doing that in Toronto in the 1970’s?
Although he’d performed in Circuses, Jay said he didn’t do that anymore. He was determined to follow the path of another daredevil of the era, Evel Knievel.
A comment like that ranked up there with all those guys playing guitar for quarters on street corners who were going to be the next Paige or Hendrix. Only Jay’s dream was a little harder to comprehend.
Not much later, I was walking past the downtown corner of Yonge and Bloor on a sunny, Summer day when I heard somebody call my name. I turned to see Jay move from a gaggle of reporters and news cameras wearing a sequined suit.
I was both surprised that he remembered me as well as seeing him in the outlandish get-up. Turned out he was about to go to work, hired to walk the distance between the twin 40 storey towers of the newly erected Hudson Bay Centre on that corner.
I glanced up, spotting a thin thread of wire barely discernable against the blue sky.
“Stick around!” he said, “I want to know what you think. I’ll be down in a minute.”
And with that he and the reporters disappeared inside the complex.
I’m sure the event had been heavily promoted, but it was news to me –- and apparently most of the rest of the city, because the street didn’t seem any more crowded than usual.
A few minutes later, Jay appeared on the ledge atop the first building, picked up a long balance pole and stepped into the void.
From the street level he was little more than a speck in the sky, the wire he was walking barely visible. But anyone watching was immediately aware that there was no net to catch him if he fell – and he wasn’t tethered to any kind of safety harness.
I’m pretty good about heights, but for a chunk of the walk I had to look away. Although this was a guy I barely knew, the enormity of what he was doing and its possible consequence was overwhelming.
And his obsession with detail suddenly made sense. In his occupation, everything had to be taken into account. Nothing, no matter how inconsequential, could be overlooked. His life depended on it.
After what seemed an eternity, he reached the second tower, waved to the crowd below and disappeared. I wasn’t sure if I should wait for him like he’d asked. What do you say to a guy who’s just done something death defying? Nice work? Wonderful show? Nothing seemed adequate.
So when he finally did arrive, still sequined and smiling, I had to be honest. “I gotta tell you,” I said “I didn’t really believe you did this.”
He laughed and shrugged. “I know. I get that all the time. It’s not a normal way to make a living around here.”
Walking home later, I realized those words applied to me as much as they did Jay. Who becomes an actor in a country with no history and little understanding of show business?
But then what makes anyone with a talent or a calling think they can make others believe they are worth the investment of time or money it will take for their potential to be realized?
But we do it. Despite everything around us either insisting it can’t be done or dismissing the effort as pointless.
Jay Cochrane died today after a long and illustrious career as a Skywalker. He remains the holder of 7 Guinness World records including the longest and highest skywalks as well as a historic blindfolded walk in Las Vegas.
Never dismiss anybody with a dream. You have no idea what powers lie within them.
Another week of writing lies ahead. And Monday is like climbing on that first machine at the gym, scanning the other machines that await and realizing how much pain stretches out before you.
Writing can be that hard.
One of the best descriptions of writing I’ve heard is: It’s like trying to remember stuff that hasn’t happened yet.
But in remembering, we always forget the pain. And with the forgetting comes the inspiration to write again.
Something special to inspire your Monday –- and maybe the rest of the week to come.
From Poet Shane Koycsan and accompanist Hannah Epperson.
About the worst thing that can happen in life is having somebody else define who you are for the rest of the world.
Yet so many people diligently work at making their version of those they dislike for one reason or another the accepted narrative, never considering what it will be like when (inevitably) Karma kicks in and it’s their turn to be painted as something they really aren’t.
Most Media thrives on the shorthand that comes from calling up a quick stereotype and letting the audience draw the requisite picture in their head. It makes the hard work of understanding who that person or group is so completely unnecessary.
Slacker.
Gay.
Doper.
Jihadist.
Republican.
Right away you not only know who they’re talking about, but a good chunk of what you’re supposed to think of them.
Take Redneck.
Where I grew up, we were all pretty much rednecks. Officially, the term describes somebody who works outside, the sun baking that body part un-shaded by a hat or shirt collar until it’s burnt red.
But it’s come to mean those who are rigid and insensitive, probably racist, most likely opposed to abortion and Gay marriage, disrespecting of free-thinking women and clinging to their bibles and guns.
These are the people who killed Captain America in “Easy Rider” and made “Deliverance” more fact than fantasy.
And they’re addicted to Country music…
And yet, the hottest song on the Country charts these days is a reminder that most of those so quickly defined and pigeon-holed don’t really belong in that simplistic box, nor -- as I’m sure you’d agree, do the others for whom we’ve found one word containers.
Nothing pure is ever simple. And nothing simple is ever pure.
To understand that, all you have to do is “Follow Your Arrow”.
A couple of weeks back, I expressed my reservations about the way the Obama administration was responding to the Federal government shutdown in America. Specifically, I didn’t see the benefit of making the situation worse than it already was.
I took a lot of flack for that from “True Believers” backing the administration and that’s fair. Everybody has an opinion and God knows I don’t have a lock on the right one.
But something happened this morning regarding the rollout of the Affordable Care Act that appalled me, and might cause at least a frisson of concern from even the most ardent True Believer.
Earlier in the week, an operator at one of the Health Services call centres set up to help enrol people in the program took a call from Right Wing radio host Sean Hannity.
She was friendly and polite, carefully answering all of his questions. The full 10 minute call is available here.
And for that she was fired.
Now most of us who deal with the media on a regular basis, know that if there’s push back from an interview you’ve done or statement you’ve made, it’s unlikely the media outlet will have your back.
Oh, they might do a follow up on how shabbily you’ve been treated or buy you a drink and give you a shoulder to cry on. But that’s about all.
Hannity did something very different.
Something that could positively alter this young, single mom’s life in a profound way.
For those of you who make a habit of pissing on or name-calling those who don’t share your world view, I hope it gives you pause. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll make you begin to question whether those you unquestioningly support are truly worthy of such devotion.
Governments going broke, shutting down or simply not working. Terrorists at the mall. Massive unemployment. Dollars that don’t stretch as far as they used to. Somebody’s to blame for this.
Somebody must be. My daily Facebook feed is solid with depredations committed by both the Left and Right and even those who refuse to commit one way or another.
Are we in the “End Times”?
Is the civilization we know collapsing?
Are the frantic, Cheerleaders of Doom on CNN and Fox sensing an inevitable future or panicking because they might get unbundled from our cable packages?
Or maybe it’s something else.
Something in us as a species that we’ve never come to terms with, tried to evolve from or had the courage to face head on.
The following full-length documentary has been a major selection at film festivals world-wide. And now you can watch it at The Legion.
It might even explain why there is a “New Golden Age of Television” and/or why you’re not part of it.
But it ain’t pretty. So watch it now. And then try to…
I was in my first year of high school when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and like many who still remember exactly where they were on that terrible day, I’ve never lost the desire to learn what really happened.
That has led to reading many of the books written about the assassination, all of them offering differing facts and contradictory theories of who or what was behind it.
Like most people, I’ve never fully accepted the official “lone guman” story. But I’ve also never found an alternative truth I can completely accept. Cubans. The Mob. The CIA. Lyndon Johnson. Texas Oil Barons. Vietnam War Hawks. Even in convoluted combinations, they never seem to logically add up.
But almost 30 years after the fact, I had the chance to meet a man barely mentioned in most accounts of what transpired in Dallas, Texas on November 22nd, 1963. The beat cop who captured Lee Harvey Oswald.
In 1990, I was writing the CBS series “Top Cops”, a show in which real police stories were dramatized, hewing as closely as possible to recreating the actual events of our police cases.
The series was heavily lawyered, with network suits always worried about potential lawsuits from the dozens of real life people we were portraying each week.
That meant that final cuts were often tweaked to eliminate moments, sometimes entire scenes, that might get us into tricky territory.
Thus, we faced the very real possibility of ending up with an episode that fell short of our required running time.
The solution was to create a series of mini-documentaries of three to five minutes that could be plugged in to fill out our already multi-story shows.
One of the first subjects we found was Officer Nick MacDonald, a low-key, publicity shy and retired Dallas police officer, who had arrested Kennedy’s accused assassin Lee Harvey Oswald.
Nick flew up to Toronto to narrate his story and we spent a day going over what he would say about his involvement in the aftermath of the Kennedy killing.
He clearly had accepted the Warren Commission’s Official version of the events of that day and retained a veteran beat cop’s attention to detail. He didn’t care about theories or possibilities. His was the classic Jack Webb, “Just the facts, ma’am” approach.
This is what he saw. This is what he knew. Everything else was spin or speculation or something that happened somewhere he wasn’t.
But after we’d shot his narration, something he’d said kept bugging me.
The tape of Nick’s appearance on “Top Cops” appears below. It’s a no nonsense report from a pretty ordinary guy who just happened to be dropped into an event of historic proportions.
But there’s a moment –- at the 50 second mark –- where MacDonald describes being sent to scene of the murder of Officer J.D. Tippett, beginning the chase that would quickly lead him directly to Lee Harvey Oswald.
Why Tippett had confronted Oswald and why Oswald had shot him remain two of the unsolved mysteries connected to the assassination.
While Nick had made reference to police dispatchers for his prior radio calls, at this point he says, “Suddenly, I heard an unfamiliar voice on the radio. He said a policeman had been shot…”
Maybe it was nothing of import. But it was odd that in a small, close knit police department, he’d never been able to identify the voice that sent him to his unique place in history.
When I asked Nick about the voice, he became quiet for a moment, then in the same casual manner he’d told his story he said, “You know, there is one thing about that day that’s never made sense to me…”
It seems that in 1963 all the Dallas police dispatchers were women. Civilian employees who knew the city backwards and in an era with few if any female officers couldn’t be confused with other cops or detectives in a chaotic or emergency situation.
But when Nick got to work on the morning of November 22nd, he happened to walk past the dispatch office and noticed all the ladies were quite excited.
They had all arrived at work to find envelopes waiting at their dispatch stations. Envelopes containing invitations for the banquet to which Kennedy’s motorcade from Love Field was taking him.
Therefore, the women who best knew the city, the police units and Dallas police protocols weren’t on the air when shots were fired in Dealey Plaza and all hell broke loose.
All the voices on the police radios were unfamiliar that day, and well-trained cops like Nick MacDonald just did what they were told and went where they were directed.
Maybe that’s of little consequence. Maybe it’s just another in a confluence of unexpected events which usually have to coincide to precipitate a tragedy.
Or maybe it’s something more.
Today, I noticed both a new set of revelations about the Kennedy assassination in my morning news feeds, as well as one previously accepted set of facts being debunked.
The silly season preceding the 50th anniversary of the assassination has begun.
And at this point I’ve come to believe that there’s so much confusion, constructed conspiracy and self serving drivel that we’ll probably never know what actually happened or be able to discern the truth if we actually heard it.
But Nick MacDonald’s “Just the facts”story remains refreshing and worthy of repeating.
