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MIDNIGHT RIDE OF BOORTZ/DUPREE 6/25/2011 5:58:30 AM
In fantasyland, were I somehow anointed an unlikely head guru at WSB (Cox Broadcasting) in Atlanta, my first assignment would be to arrange for Jamie Dupree to co-host the Monday thru Friday 8:30 AM to 1 PM slot along with the current conservative big mouth Neal Boortz.
I would set up Dupree in a lavish studio on Capitol Hill where he could do alternate hours, starting with Boortz from 8:30 to 9:30, Dupree from 9:30 to 10:30, and so on — with the two of them wrapping it up in tandem from 12:30 to 1.
There is a profound method to my madness. At the present time Boortz is the sole star of the show, a conservative muck-raker who rants and raves on two basic themes: his neurotic hatred of all things Obama and the intrinsic worthlessness of the public school system. If neither of these things existed, Boortz’s show would be little more than a mild diversion from the usual Fox News uninformed drivel.
Jamie Dupree, on the other hand, would provide a voice of reason, an educated view from the terrace of American idealism that is sorely lacking on “talk radio.”
Under the present format, Mr. Dupree is utilized daily from 12:05 to 12:20 and occasionally during regular newscasts to discuss honest interpretations of the day’s most pressing Congressional issues — a sadly restricted relief from the usual one-sided and misstated facts on the table (or floor.)
This is a tremendous waste of genuine talent. I am not at all certain how much Mr. Dupree is recompensed for his meager but perspicacious services, but I am sure it is nowhere near Boortz’s 6-figure income.
I would have our legal department draw up a contract for Mr. Dupree equal to Boortz’s, and I’d be willing to call the 4 ½ hours “The Boortz/Dupree Show” — providing Neal Boortz agreed to drop the ‘Talk Master’ and ‘High Priest of the Church of the Painful Truth’ phony and deceptive nomenclatures, and further agree to remain totally silent and/or absent during Mr. Dupree’s on-air stints — except during the final half hour.
The result would be a journalistic coup designed the garner the highest ratings locally and through syndication. The show would evolve to a national radio (and eventual TV) entity that would dwarf all imaginable competition. Neal Boortz would achieve the acclaim long denied, and Jamie Dupree would become a household name nearly was revered as Edward R. Murrow (not to mention the accolades and promotions to which the Cox innovator — me — would be heir.)
Speaking of “revered,” I was recently became curious about all the fuss over Paul Revere and his fabled midnight ride from the befuddled obscurity of history to today’s misinterpretations by one of our non-candidate’s candidacy for recognition as a possible bidder for the presidency of the United States, or something thereabouts, whatever intentions exist — if, in fact, any do.
Except for Edgar Guest and Ogden Nash, my favorite American poet by a long shot is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. His A LANDLORD’S TALE: THE RIDE OF PAUL REVERE is a prime example.
Of course, most people call it THE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE (thanks to what Boortz calls “government schools,”) but Longfellow never labeled it such. I suspect the poet involved the silversmith solely because his name was more easily rhymed than the other two protagonists: William Dawes and Dr. Samuel Prescott (“Billy Dawes, no kin to Santy Claus, and Prescott’s wry Sammy, a double whammy” were perhaps discarded as a bit of a stretch.)
In any event, in April 1775, the embryo of a revolutionary war was incubating, and Revere and his colleagues were dispatched from Boston to Lexington (Concord was an alternative) to alert the residents the Regulars (as the Brits were called) might be en route with designs on Americans’ guns and ammo.
“One if by land, two if by sea” was the proposed signal, originally planned as lantern(s) placed in a handy church steeple. Obviously overlooked by Longfellow and astute historians was Revere, Dawes and Prescott’s membership in the Antioch Congregationalist Church of Boston where all three, trained as accomplished musicians, performed each Sabbath as featured “classical bell ringers.”
Each man was responsible for half a dozen polished chiming hand-bells, ranging from the pure tones of middle C all the way up to C above B, including D flat, E flat, F sharp or G flat and A sharp, plus a few hybrid flats and sharps they were assigned for special occasions. As all three were adept musicians with sight-reading capabilities, especially in the treble clef, the parishioners anxiously anticipated Yuletide renditions of the HALLALUAH CHORUS.
“I don’t think we should rely on lanterns,” Dawes said, sagely. “What if the wind comes up and blows one of ‘em over? We could burn down the whole church!”
All three suddenly recalled Longfellow’s immortal ditty: “While the organ peeled potatoes, Lard was rendered by the choir; While the sexton wrung the dishrag, Someone set the church on fire! ‘Holy Smoke!’ the preacher shouted; In the rain he lost his hair — And now his head resembles heaven, ‘Cause there is no parting there!”
“Good thinking!” good Dr. Prescott concurred.
“I know what we can do!” Revere offered. “Why don’t we just ring bells? We could do JUST AS I AM or THE OLD RUGGED CROSS. The citizens would be alerted the Regulars were coming, and they could hide all their guns and ammunition, like under their beds!”
Dawes thought that was a super idea. “And just to make sure, we could fire our single-shot muzzle loaders as we ride into town playing our musical bells! That oughta get their attention!”
“Yeah! Better than a couple ol’ lanterns!”
“And a lot safer, too!”
Of course, as with all great plans of mice and minutemen, this may have looked better on paper than it turned out.
Even before they hit the outskirts of Lexington, the British captured them. Dawes and Prescott, after paying their ransom with several flagons of Sam Adams Lite, were released, but Paul Revere (a tee-totaler) was detained for a few days and finally sent home to Boston on foot, minus his mighty steed, Stainless, which had been confiscated by the Regulars.
A few years later Longfellow received a note from his publisher: “We’re really short on epic historical sonnets, and G. Washington wants you to read something dynamic at his Second Inaugural. See if you can come up with a few lines about how that guy John Hancock managed to keep his insurance records out of George III’s hands. Didn’t a cobbler, a doctor and a frying pan salesman have something to do with this? Would you mind taking a whack at it?”
So much for fractured history — unless the non-committed candidate finally decides to run. .
