Forget Super Tuesday: Republicans MUST STOP Donald Trump

By Peter Rodman

I don't care how many states he wins on "Super Tuesday."

Donald Trump cannot be the Republican nominee for President.

After deflecting literally dozens of potentially career-ending statements he's made, Trump has finally tripped over his own arrogance.

He couldn't even find the words to answer Jake Tapper on Sunday morning. 

When asked if he (Trump) would disavow David Duke and the Ku Klux Klan, Trump answered, "Just so you understand, I don't know anything about David Duke, OK?"
Tapper pressed him on it--something rare in the press these days--and gave him every opportunity to knock this softball question out of the park.
He made clear he was only asking if Trump would "distance himself" from the Ku Klux Klan, but still--Trump wouldn't answer the bell, for an easy call. 
Instead, he weaved and bobbed, like a stunned boxer, always on the defensive:
"I don't know anything about what you're even talking about with white supremacy or white supremacists. So I don't know. I don't know -- did he endorse me, or what's going on? Because I know nothing about David Duke; I know nothing about white supremacists." 
Something's not quite right with this guy.
The other day, New York Time columnist Timothy Egan surmised "lack of sleep" is affecting Trump's judgement on a daily basis. No, really. ["A Unified Theory of Trump"~ New York Times, 2/26/16  ]
Whatever the reason, Trump has now officially gone beyond the beyond, in terms of unacceptable behavior.
It's over...or at least, it should be.

Here's how the GOP can still save their party:
1. Chris Christie should immediately RESCIND his endorsement. The taint of bigotry is about to stain him, too--and despite all he's been accused of, Christie has never had "racism" in the mix, that I know of--but he's about to...unless he immediately disowns this lunatic.  Plus, the power of rescinding might actually bolster Christie's own badly damaged credibility--so for him, it's a win-win, to simply say, "I can see now, I made a mistake with this guy."
Not only would it seem courageous, it would actually give pause to the millions of minions out there, thinking everything's still hunky-dory.  In other words, it would have an even greater impact than his endorsement did, or for that matter, Christie's candidacy itself.

2. Jeb Bush, George W. Bush, Mitt Romney, Lindsey Graham, and Bob Dole need to hold a press conference, announcing they will BREAK from the party, unless Donald Trump is stopped. 

3. Jeb should probably re-enter the race after Tuesday, as many more delegates are there for the taking on March 15th, and by that time Trump will be seriously damaged goods. 

4. It would help if Reince Priebus were fired.  This guy has overseen more damage during his tenure than any previous Republican National Chairman in history. (Remember his big "Autopsy," after the 2012 election, detailing where the Party went wrong, and how to change it?  You know, the one wherein he swore they'd be more "inclusive" of minorities, going forward...and of Hispanics, in particular?)

People are slowly beginning to realize something central to

the problem:

This man, Donald J. Trump, is actually crazier than he is smart.

"The curious thing," said Republican strategist Nicolle Wallace today on Morning Joe, "is that he's not getting better.  You'd think after this many months, he'd learn not to keep making the same mistakes." 
Said Joe Scarborough, who'd been heartily cheering Trump on, until this weekend: "Even if you disagreed with it, you could understand why people supported the 'ban on Muslims' thing--if only because it related to national security.  But this (Ku Klux Klan thing)?  This is disqualifying." 

(Note: Predictably enough, Scarborough--a former Republican congressman--walked back his comments later on in the show, suggesting Trump could actually redeem himself with a "heartfelt apology" today, something so foreign to the man he couldn't do it, even if he wanted to.)

But that's not the problem at all.

The core problem is who Donald Trump is--not what he says.
As egregious as the litany of debasement is, the real problem is that he just can't help himself.
At this writing, Trump won't even disavow the Klan...though within an hour or two, he'll remind everybody that he did that Friday, if somewhat sarcastically: "Okay, you want disavow?" he shrugged. "Fine.  I disavow."
He's taken to imitating a B-movie mobster, from behind the podium. "Yeah, you're really tough," he sneered in one so-called debate.  "Little Marco!" 

This is clearly a rich kid who never gained any measure of maturity, beyond schoolyard taunts...because he never had to--he's been insulated by Daddy's money all his life.  
He literally can't help himself.
 

Even more pertinently, this is not actually that smart a man.   It's a hustler, who figures he can gild the rope line to the White House, and shake things up with sheer guile--a little shifty stuff here; a little security thuggery there.
He's openly encouraged his rabid supporters in New Hampshire to beat up any hecklers, even hollering "Take his coat!  Take his coat...it's ten below outside!  Take his coat!" from the podium.

Ask yourself....who does that? 

Even Richie's hair looks familiar.

I'll tell you who:  The schoolyard bully.  Richie Rich.  But unlike the affable comic book character, in reality those kids were usually the cads nobody liked--mediocre minds, who flaunted their money and taunted the weak, knowing they simply couldn't fail, because they didn't really need to earn anything--including respect. 
And this is not just 'old news.'
Even today, as I write this, another such item has surfaced, which you'll be seeing on tonight's Nightly News: 
Time Magazine Photographer Slammed to the Ground by Donald Trump's Security at Out-of-Control Va. Rally  

 

Now imagine, if you can, a candidate who actually argues publicly with the Pope--then suggests, mock-sheepishly "I dunno, maybe it's because I'm Christian," that the IRS is auditing him. 

This guy is so delusional, he thinks we'll believe it's his faith--let's say that slowly now:  Donald Trump's "FAITH!"--that's causing the IRS to watch his finances a little more closely than the rest of us.
Even so-called "evangelicals," when polled, have acknowledged they don't believe he's the religious sort, but they overlook that, because they say they like his "strength."

But nobody believes the guy who mangle-quoted the Bible so badly he drew laughs at Jerry Falwell's Liberty University is religious. "Two Corinthians, 3:17," he said gamely, to the crowd of born agains, "That's the whole ballgame."
 

The real ballgame is a con game.
Trump actually believes he's fooling us all; that's why the brazen attempt to become a Bible quoter was floated so audaciously, in front of a crowd of people who've memorized the thing from beginning to end--he believes he can fool 'em all!
On Celebrity Apprentice, even famous contestants far more accomplished (or older) than him (like Joan Rivers or Geraldo Rivera or Nick Nolte)  were told (as a condition of participating) to always address him as "Mr. Trump."

He believes he's the smartest guy in whatever room he's in, because life's been easy for him--and these people must be a whole lot dumber than him, because he's got the dough. 
If that sounds like I'm going too far, consider the first thing he ever did to impress the people of Iowa--one of his earliest acts as a candidate:              

"Free helicopter rides, for all the kids! 

Go on...get in there!"

That's a guy who thinks he knows what it takes, to win over all of us hicks.

There'll never be enough room to detail Trump's every wince-worthy remark, in this lowest-of-the-low affair.  

And I promise, I won't try...but it's important not to leave out the fact that he's insulted women at every turn, for decades--from repeatedly calling Rosie O'Donnell "a pig, with the ugliest face I've ever seen," to implying that Meghan Kelly's period ("...she's got blood coming out, everywhere!") caused her to ask him a legitimate question about his ongoing habit of insulting women. 

(See what happened there?  He couldn't help doing it again.)
"Look at that face," he said, of Carly Fiorina. That, he found disqualifying; but her miserable record in business?  Not so much.
 

We all know by now, Trump says he plans to round up 11 million immigrants and deport them; that John McCain wasn't a war hero, because he got caught; that Marco Rubio has big ears, etc.
Trump belittles and bullies everyone, almost like a kid who's seen Scarface too many times.

The overriding message that's beginning to get clearer each day?

He's just not. all.. that... smart.

Leave aside the fact that the puerile, all-night Twitter rants are not indicative of Presidential timbre. (Not even close.)

This MYTH that he's "teflon" or even that he's "conservative" is foolish, on its face. 

Trump's actually a very simple animal: 

He wasn't wrong there!

a meglomaniac, literally consumed by his insatiable desire to be powerful, famous, and "win."
He's blissfully unaware of how many of his own followers roll their eyes during his endless fits of bragging onstage about his "fantastic" business, and his "unbelievable" poll numbers.

Think back a couple years:
When was the last time you heard someone so boldly and persistently refer to themselves as "winning?"
BINGO.
And he's no less delusional than Charlie Sheen was, at the height of his crack addiction.

Mr. Trump has suggested--within the last 48 hours--that "new laws be passed, so the press can be sued, if they say bad things about public figures"...like him.

Summing it all up, this man is a monster. 

He must be stopped--and the Republican Party does not have to accept that Rubio or Cruz are the only alternatives to Trump! 

Not only is Kasich still running and qualified, but--as I mentioned earlier here--nothing's to stop Bush or even Christie from "un-suspending" their campaigns.

There's still plenty of PAC money to go around, and while Trump has a serious head start on the delegate count, he's still gonna have less than half of the delegates he needs to take the nomination after Tuesday, even assuming he wins all 11 contests in a clean sweep. 

         This is from February 28, 2016. It's a quote from 'Il Duce,' meaning
          WWII Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, re-tweeted by Donald Trump.
    Said Trump, "I don't care who said it--it's a good quote!"

The only reason not to challenge this--balls to the wall--is a glaring LACK OF COURAGE within the Republican Party. Yes, the numbers look bad, delegate wise. But make no mistake: They could still save themselves (and our country) from going down a terribly dangerous road, reminiscent of 1938 Germany.

They just need to find the courage to create a dramatic 'national moment' (like the large press gathering suggested above), wherein they can get the nation's attention all at once, and spread the word:  

'The madness is over. We will not accept Donald Trump as our candidate for President.'  

Problem is, longstanding Republicans of conscience would need to unite to do this, and risk alienating their rabidly out-of-control radio talk show base, for the good of our nation... something the "Party of No" is no longer used to doing.

______________________________________________

This opinion column is Copyright 2016 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

HBO's John Oliver had this to say-- quite marvelously, I thought!... 
John Oliver dissects Donald Trump's Bluster
 

My Sunday Morning Adventure

By Peter Rodman

This morning I got up early, and went down the road to treat myself to a Sunday NY Times. On the way home, I saw a MAPCO gas station that said "$149.9."
"Hmmm," I thought, "...good enough for me!" So I pulled in to top the tank.
As I tried to pay the guy (in advance, of course) he seemed distracted. Finally he said, "Just a minute," and next thing I heard was his Indian accent, scolding someone. "You got to leave now...I told you before!"
Apparently a lady had fallen asleep on the floor, off behind where you fill out your Lotto tickets. "She's been here for over an hour," he complained. I only got a glimpse of the matted hair and a tattered overcoat, from behind. "Okay, I'll move," she said. "...I'm sorry."
As I pulled out, I realized the short walk to my car was absolutely freezing...and even though she'd moved to another section of the store, the guy would probably kick her out

soon. I had no cell phone with me, and quite frankly decided it would be easier to just get her some hot food now, than to try to 'save the day' by putting her in my own car.
To go where, anyway?
So I drove to a McDonald's down the street and ordered an Egg Mcmuffin, and a hot chocolate with whipped cream. Mine was the only car there, but apparently both ladies there are in training...and it took nearly 10 minutes just to get the two basic items ordered, and another 5 minutes for some reason, to get my twelve cents change back!
I raced back toward the MAPCO store--and as fate would have it, there was a Nashville Fire Department SUV just in front of me at a red light, so I actually jumped out of my car and knocked on his driver's side door, explaining to the fire

guy that this lady there obviously had no shelter, and was about to get kicked out on the street.  He seemed non-plussed, but because it was only a block away he agreed to follow me there.
When we got to the MAPCO, she'd already been kicked out...but they figured she'd gone across Nolensville Pike--a six lane thoroughfare here, to yet another convenience store. The fireman reluctantly followed me there, and sure enough, the guy in there behind the counter said, "She's in the bathroom."
I asked him to go get her. 
One wonders how many of these situations happen all over Nashville, each and every night.
 
Meanwhile, the fireman pulled up in the SUV, impatient now--in all fairness, he was probably on his way to work when I sidetracked him. 
He leaned out the window. "...is she drunk?"
"I don't know, I didn't even get a look at her...but..." I spread my hands out and motioned in the pre-dawn air, and looked up and around us, to emphasize the cold; it was 29 degrees. The time was 5:55 a.m.
"Even if it were 8 o'clock," I said, "it'd be too cold for anyone to be outside here, for very long..."
She finally emerged from the store, looking for all the world like someone who had donned Bette Davis's outfit in A Pocketful of Miracles.  
Yep, it was 'Apple Annie'--but without an apple, and without a home, and without much hope at all.  

Bette Davis as 'Apple Annie' in
A Pocketful of Miracles (1961)

Only thing is, the grime here was real; jokes about 'Central Casting' won't keep anybody warm.
The fire department guy leaned out his window.
"Where are you trying to go?" I could see him looking at me as a possible driver, so I handed her the food, and jumped in my car.
"I'm trying to get to a woman's shelter," she replied. 
Good answer!, I thought--now he'll have to get her there!
I took that as my cue to split.
"Thank you," I said to the fireman, and pulled away.
 
He did not look happy about this situation being dropped in his lap. And after all, he personally didn't "deserve it"...but wouldn't police-and-fire be charged with scraping up the body, if the lady expired outdoors, in the bitter cold?
Which is better, taking preventive measures and slightly delaying your appointed Sunday morning rounds, or possibly dealing with a dead person, later on?
And by the way...
Just how many convenience stores here in Nashville double as shelters for the homeless on a cold night, completely unbeknownst to the vast majority of citizens who patronize them? (It all seemed fairly routine, to those guys behind the counters.)
I'm not telling this story to try to come off as any kind of angel, either. Believe me, I can be pretty hard-assed about these things myself--and occasionally I run out of compassion, just like anybody else. (For example, I've grown

sick and tired of being accosted at every intersection by people walking between lanes or obstructing my view while driving as they wave a newspaper at me, even if 'The Contributor' serves a function. Basically, let's be real: It's just legalized begging. And yes, I give 'em money sometimes, if it's handy--and safe to do so--which it all too often ISN'T!)
But here's the thing:
When I was growing up in the '60s, every single town in America had some sort of public mental health clinic. I know this because my Mom worked at one, for nearly 20 years. There, you could walk in off the street, and get top notch psychiatric help--either free or very cheaply, depending on your income--and resources were in place to get you whatever help you needed, if your problems were immediate and severe enough.
Today, no such system even exists. 

Photograph © 2015 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.

That is the legacy of 'government cutbacks' and the whole 'right wing talk radio' notion that government is intrinsically bad and taxes are always too high, so let's just dismantle everything we do as a public, or strip it bare and 'privatize' it.
(Next up are public schools, already being drained to death by funds now being siphoned away to so-called 'charter schools.')
The issue of homelessness is directly related to the fact that we no longer have a system to deal with mental health issues.  In many cases, it's either prison or the streets. 

And THIS is 21st Century America?
Our generation has failed miserably, to build upon the marvelous stuff our parents (the 'Greatest Generation') put in place.
Now we're content to leave the homeless out on street corners, waving newspapers around that nobody reads and hardly anybody even takes...even if they sometimes buy 'em.
And on very cold nights, until or unless they get arrested, we figure it's good enough to let 'em sleep in convenience store bathrooms.
Hey, at least they've got Twizzlers and Slurpees there.
______________________________________

This opinion column is Copyright 2016 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

In the Wake of Scalia's Death, the GOP Opens its Own Coffin

By Peter Rodman 

As I write this, in the wake of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia's death, his body is barely even cold (let alone buried)-- but already, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell and others are threatening to block any potential Supreme Court nomination by President Obama, preclusively  suggesting, "We should let the new President do it."
Huh?
Wasn't this President duly elected, and then re-elected (by the largest majority votes in three decades!) precisely to do stuff like this?
It ought to seem utterly shocking that the GOP would attempt to thoroughly disenfranchise this President, except we're used to it by now.  That's been their stated mission since Day One, back in January of 2009.
But to claim that because he's entered the last 25% of his current term, this somehow disqualifies him from executing his Constitutional duty to nominate a new Supreme Court Justice?  That really takes the cake.  

I cannot recall any presidential candidate ever saying, "We're gonna do such-and-such for the next seven years!"

Mitch McConnell~ The Classic Obstructionist

Can you?
Last I looked, Mr. Obama was elected to serve two full terms--totaling eight years in office, as the President of the United States of America--the duties of which clearly include nominating judges to fill any Supreme Court vacancies that might arise. 
Again, that's eight years...not seven!
 
Check out the latest GOP junior high school 'debate' this very night, and (again, before Scalia's even in the ground) you'll see the hopefuls

lining up in 'lock-step,' to act like denying our current President his constitutional role is somehow "the right thing to do."
...I guarantee it.

They'll all try to outdo each other in the next few weeks, to declare that no nominating process should even begin under Obama.  
And when he finally submits a nominee, in a month or two--a perfectly ordinary thing, for any sitting President to do--these crafty right wingers will paint the nomination itself as 'divisive,' as though President Obama is so illegitimate, he should simply step out of the way, hang his head, and sit on his hands for the next 11 months in office! 
It's as if they're saying, "You never even belonged there, in the first place."  Hmmm. I wonder why...?


The Republican Senate leaders have the power to block any vote on a new nominee, though it would be outrageous (if not unprecedented) for them to do so.  
I'm already reading online comments from my liberal friends, in despair at the prospect of that scenario.  

...but I say "let 'em."

Because if the Republican Senate succeeds in pushing this issue out into the fall election season, suddenly the whole nation will once again be confronted with just how RADICAL their anti-progress "social" positions are, on the

whole basket of issues the Supreme Court adjudicates: abortion, guns, Planned Parenthood, gay rights, etc. 
Think about it:
That's the very stuff they've been attempting to *downplay* in recent general elections, as the changing electorate has grown way past the GOP's antiquated views, demographically.

In my opinion, having that discussion--
in effect shining a
bright light on the importance of Supreme Court nominations-- would be an absolute gift any Democratic Presidential candidate could never have anticipated, politically speaking.

It would bring into high relief a dirty little truth, obscured by gerrymandering: 
Republicans have a small minority of support in this nation for their outdated 'social views,' which is literally dying off, day by day.
In fact, even as the GOP's shrinking base has drifted way to the right, the nation itself has become less white, less morally strict, and less conservative. (The only reason the House of Representatives still ends up ruled by the GOP has to do with the above mentioned gerrymandering --which means "drawing up voting districts to isolate your opponents and boost your consituency with contorted maps," designed to magnify your minority.) 
If the Republicans were truly savvy (instead of being perpetually blinded by their unique hatred for this President), they'd actually let Mr. Obama bring a Supreme Court nomination to the Senate floor, before rejecting it out of hand. 
It's the right thing to do.
But I'm betting they won't even wait for that; their blood boils bright red.

Judging by tonight's debate--as well as the statements issued by McConnell and others just moments after the news of Scalia's death broke--the Republicans seem united in their resolve to once again block this President from doing his job.
Not only is this a stark reminder of their ongoing intransigence (at a time when they didn't need it), but it's also a clear reminder to the voters, of just how badly we need to avoid having Republicans pick 'conservatives' to direct the highest court vacancies, for a nation much more liberal now, than they are.

All the focus this fall will now be on their outdated "moral" views, left over from the Nixon era...and I suspect America will respond accordingly, at the ballot box.
The way I see it, that would be a win-win...not just for the Democratic Party, but for the nation at large, which long ago moved into the 21st century.

___________________________________
This opinion column is Copyright 2016 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

Under All Those 'David Bowies'...A Regular Guy

Being a personal memory of the man...and how 

he reshaped my whole view of him, in under 24 hours.

By Peter Rodman

"Do you remember a guy that's been  

in such an early song?

I've heard a rumour from Ground Control... 

Oh no, don't say it's true..."

He was as big, in his time, as Dorothy Parker or Hemingway ever were in theirs--and in my little world, needless to say, David Bowie's passing is a pretty monumental loss. 

I say "little" because the full time interviewer lives and breathes their work alone--with little if any time to soak in what just happened, let alone share any of the personal stuff about it with friends or loved ones, before the next one comes along. 
Only now, 4 decades later, have I really taken time to re-live and enjoy the essence of what's on all those tapes, and what went into each one. In David Bowie's case, the lasting impression is the openness he so freely offered both on and off the air, during what I'll call my Bowie weekend, way back in 1980.  A little background, first:

Phoners (telephone interviews) were never my preferred

method for interviews, but in a few rare cases--either to do a favor for some rock promoter, or if (as with Bowie) it was simply the only way to get an interview--I'd acquiesce, and do one.  Everything from the sound quality to the distance between you usually conspired to make phone calls sound like...well, phone calls.  Less interesting.   Less spontaneous.  Less dynamic.  Less able to have music edited in.
Less everything.  
More pertinently, they could be iffy for a multi-media freelancer, income-wise. 
Those who strictly write for newspapers, no matter how big, predominantly use phoners, to ply their trade; but balancing both print needs and the exacting audio standards of a radio program pretty much demanded that nearly all my interviews be conducted face-to-face.  
My advantage over each venue was the other. My advantage over them all was that I retained full ownership of every tape I ever made, not being an 'employee.'  My work was licensed for a single use, and could be sold elsewhere as I saw fit. That still holds true.
So I knew I'd be selling each story to two or three print outlets, but if the sound quality didn't pass muster, it couldn't run on my radio

Tools of the Trade: the living room rig
...circa 1980

program, and even if it did, an abbreviated phone call (using my suction cup 'microphone' at home) wasn't exactly optimal. (Then again, that's still the best phone sound I've ever heard on the radio--and...it was in stereo!  I still say, they've never improved on that gizmo. ) 
But the point is, I had lots of time to fill, on my weekly radio interview show... and phoners just wouldn't cut it.  So, again: Phoners?  
Not my favorite.
But, an exclusive David Bowie phoner?  From an artist who only did a handful of interviews every few years, at most?
Sure.  I'm in.
In scoring interviews, many times the greatest 'in' was simple hustle.  If I could devise an angle no competing music or entertainment outlet was using, I'd be far more likely to gain access to my target subject.  Better still, if no other writers were paying attention--for example, not thinking a highbrow play might be a great place to score an interview with a worldwide rock star--well, all the better for me!  

A brief digression about radio:

99.9% of all radio stations won't do an interview, unless the artist comes to them. (I call those lazy affairs 'drive by' interviews. "So...uh...what's next for you guys, on this tour?" "Oh...uh...Kansas City. I think it's Tuesday.")
Literally nothing about such an interview will ever be of any interest, beyond the fleeting moment in which it happens.  Mine, on the other hand, could be re-used and repackaged forever--depending upon how well I could steer the questions and answers toward slightly less time-sensitive topics. (I avoided phrases like "your new album" or "last night's show" like the plague.)
What made my mission easier was the fact that in all my travels during the '70s and early '80s, I never saw another radio personality luggin' 40 pounds of recording equipment around to venues or hotels, the way I did. 
I wasn't a "DJ" at all; I was a reporter--something I took seriously, 24/7/365.  The biggest advantage I had in Colorado during all that time was that nobody else in my vicinity was doing anything even close, as a full-time gig. 
The best interviews don't just come to you; you have to go get 'em.  Even Howard Stern's interviews would be better, if he left the comfort zone of his studio and went to them. 
This aspect of my job was completely unknown to my family and friends. I don't know how they thought all this happened...but it didn't just happen.
Oh, and one more thing: Nobody "hires" you, for this kind of job. You invent it.

~ END OF BRIEF DIGRESSION~

The occasion for our encounter was Bowie's brief touring

David Bowie onstage, as The Elephant Man ~ 1980

stint as a dramatic stage actor (in the title role of The Elephant Man), which seemed an obvious 'in' to me, as I figured no other rock writers would probably spring for a ticket, or even have much interest in it --though some have since corrected me, on this point. Still, it offered a much better likelihood for actually connecting with Bowie than would any 'large hall' concert tour he might mount, as one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. 
Many remember it as a Broadway play, but in fact it debuted (with Bowie in the lead role) at Denver's Center for the Performing Arts, from July 29-August 3 of that summer. Then it was on to Chicago for a month, and the show finally hit NYC in September, where it ran through January 3, 1981. 
Meanwhile, a week or two out from the Denver debut--as per usual--was when my real work was gettin' done: 
Buy a ticket; befriend the venue and theater people; contact

A couple archived cassettes
from the time period--
including the Bowie phoner.

David's management, by 'long distance' telephone to London (remember, there were no cell phones back then; my monthly home phone bills in 1980 were routinely upwards of $400!), including several repeat calls and unreturned messages, etc. 
My other work spoke for itself; I'd sent out bound books with hundreds of articles and feature stories, clearly documenting my 'reach' in regional newspapers and magazines.
Even past interviews--particularly one on the plane with Keith Richards, Stanley Clarke and Ron Wood (for a side project of theirs, 'The New Barbarians')--helped cement my credibility with David's reps, some of whom were actually shared with the Rolling Stones.
The whole idea was to erase any doubt:  If he were going to do any interviews in the Rocky Mountain time zone, especially if it was only one--it had to be me. That was the pitch, always.  (Now, it can be told!)  But it was true:  The combined print and broadcast circulation I could generate from just one interview could not be duplicated by any single print or radio outlet in the region, at that time. 

By the time I actually saw the play, I'd already set up a phoner, for the following afternoon...even though I secretly hoped for more, if possible.  And by poking around the unfamiliar neighborhood (40 miles from my home) after the play, I found my way to the only nearby bar, where the actors slowly trickled in after me, to informally wind down for the first time all week, celebrating their first few full-dress, paid-for shows. Good guess!
Lo and behold, after a couple beers with the supporting cast, exchanging notes about everything but their lead player...in popped a very casually dressed David Bowie.  After awhile he was jumping into, and initiating the conversation.  He soon indicated he was already aware of our forthcoming on-the-record chat, and even said he was looking forward to it.  The boy was more than willing to throw down (well, sip) a beer (at least, I think it was beer) and joke around a bit, in advance of our formal Q and A, the following afternoon. 
Perhaps each of us was sizing (or buttering) up the other, I dunno...but a more delightful night I cannot imagine, and could never have expected.  And perhaps it was the sheer exhilaration of having gotten a couple performances under his belt, but David was positively ebullient.
On top of that, I'd never have guessed he was as outgoing, virile, down to earth, and quite frankly "one of the guys" (in a decidedly hetero way) as he was...but he was! 
For what it's worth, this was a thespian--not a lesbian.
That came as something of a jolt to the musicologist in me, who'd carefully studied his albums for a decade, believing full well that the pan-sexual, otherworldly 'being' he'd sold himself as, was exactly what he would be like.
But that wasn't anything like the casual dude joining in on some already snappy repartee.
Easy to laugh, quick with a quip, happy to ask about our 'American football' team (the Denver Broncos, whose footage was on the bar TVs pretty much non-stop, even in summer), he was almost so 'low key' that when we waved goodbye about an hour later, it was as if ol' Dave was just one o' the gang, and you'd be seeing him again, any ol' time! 
Surely this couldn't be the 'concept' icon who symbolized

Bowie, in his beloved adopted hometown, NYC.

'high art' the whole world over, recording electronic music in Berlin, or hangin' with William Burroughs downtown, while his rock counterparts flitted about, up at Studio 54. 
Surely the guy I'd  just chuckled back and forth with about life, and bars, and girls, for God's sake! wasn't the androgynous minx on the cover of 'Pin Ups' or the Spaceman from Mars--nor even the hobbled and deformed character he'd so deftly portrayed onstage, less than two hours earlier. 
But he was.
He was all those things; all those 'Bowies.'
In listening back to our phoner now, I always cringe when I hear myself pronouncing his name as David "Booey."  The whole world says "BO-ee,"

This was actually a fairly light week; my normal taped load
was more like 6 or 7 taped interviews, almost always face-to-face.

and in truth so did I...until my various contacts at his office clearly and repeatedly used "Booey," and so--for the first time since I began collecting his music in 1971 or so, I jumped onboard.  "Booey" it would be.
A year or so further into the '80s, as he rode "Let's Dance" and "Modern Love" to whole new heights, I noticed that his reps had themselves jumped the pond, back over to his audiences' preferred "BO-ee."
(...now you know.)

The next day--as with so many other days back then--I waited at the appointed time, for my phone call...most likely in my pajamas.
That old "dial" phone (pictured near the top of this page) was RED for a reason:  It was called the 'hotline.' Everything important either happened or began, on that phone.  It could never be tied up for anything else.
So when it rang--as always, not a minute early or late--I was sittin' right there, counting the seconds.
"Hello?"
(female voice, businesslike) "Hello, is this Peter Rodman?"
"This is he..."
"Alright--could you hold on just one moment please, for Mister Booey...?"
(brief pause)
DB: "...Helow?!"

PR: Hello, David!
DB: Hi!  How are you!

It was as if we'd never left the bar--but now it was on to business, for me--and I'd taken enough notes at the play to quote a few lines I thought might apply to Bowie himself, or at least explain what drew him to the play--while still

shedding light on his overall thought process, as it might apply to music, painting, poetry, or any other kind of art.  The hope was that if I didn't overdo the analogies, we might get some insights hitherto unavailable in his (decidedly guarded) "rock" interviews.
I won't recount the body of it here; I may post it or share it again another time.  But when asked about the 'chameleon like' persona everyone had always ascribed to him, Bowie chuckled, countering that in fact he thought of himself as "rather grasshoppery," instead. 
As each question came together, he put me completely at ease (and hopefully I did him, as well) resulting in a conversation somehow good enough to entertain and engage us both, to the point where our defenses evaporated, the rapport from the night before kicked back in.
Suddenly, there it was again--the easy laugh, the self-effacing manner, the "aww shucks I'm just a regular guy" thing, juxtaposed ever-so-gracefully with his earnest appreciation for his lot in life, which was to make, appreciate, and LIVE "art," in all its various forms. 
Maybe it seems odd to dwell so much on "process" here, or that I've declined to rewrite the interview for you, in this blog (I promise to unearth it later and include it here)--or even that I'm still so surprised at the Bowie I encountered, that weekend. 
But it's been my experience, with notoriously elusive subjects (like say, Frank Zappa) that you'd better expect the least, and just take what they give you as a bonus. Don't just assume they'll be cagey--but don't expect them to bring you roses, either.
None of my hard-earned knowledge applied to David Bowie at all.
David opened right up and gave me lots of stuff I'd never even heard from him before, as if to say, "I'm an open book...go ahead, I'll answer anything!"
Not what I expected at all.
I've interviewed everyone I ever wanted to meet, and then some. Fame never got to me, and still doesn't--and Bowie was no exception. But probably because his attitude was so unexpected, I still can't get over what a 'regular guy' he was!  It was like looking down inside an active volcano, and seeing a very calm man there, seated in lotus position, beckoning you.  "Come on in, the lava's fine!"

David Bowie...and his famous eyes

I had looked straight into the eyes of a man with two different colored souls--or was it straight into the soul of a man with two different colored eyes? 
You choose; I'll never know, really.

All I know is that today, I grieve for the guy I saw on the stage, and met at the bar--and the grace with which he welcomed me, for however brief a moment in time, into the center of his actual self--even giggling along with me, about his wild array of previous onstage characters. 
"I had to leave Ziggy behind," he confessed at one point.  "He was killing me!"  
Our official interview came in just under the 10 minute time allotted.  The print version will appear elsewhere in this blog, within a few days (I have to dig it out!); the audio version might just turn up elsewhere, later this week.
As my own career went on through the '90s, I still never liked phoners, but I'd have to say I cannot think of a better one than David's, which is probably my favorite interview in the 'phoner' category. (Unless you count the time I played the parrot singing "I left My Heart in San Francisco" for Tony Bennett.  Nah...I'll stick with the Bowie phoner.)

I just wish I could have another toast with the guy, or some Hong Kong barbeque, maybe. Heck, I'd even settle for another phoner--though I doubt we could ever top the one we did, back in that summer of 1980.  
It wouldn't matter much to me now if we ever met up again, as long as he was still around.  But I have to say, it just feels really wrong that David Bowie's gone.
All I know is, this death hurts more than most of 'em--even the biggest ones, celebrity wise.
His personal generosity towards me is always the first thing that pops into mind--like a neurological reflex--whenever I hear his music.  I honestly never anticipated feeling that way, prior to our first encounter. 

That rare glimpse of the man's true essence--just some guy his local bodega owner knew, or a recording engineer, or an elevator operator--is something I'll always consider a personal gift he didn't have to share with me, but did. 
Some people--even in this business--collect autographs; I collect memories. (Okay, and a couple thousand tapes...)

In which the REAL David Bowie (2013) makes a statement, by
defacing one of his own album covers, and getting you to buy it.

I can think of only two career events in Bowie's life since 1980, that really evoke the unassuming chap I got to hang out with, and later interviewed.
The first is his 2013 album cover--pretty much erasing the 'celebrity face' as art, acknowledging the death of album art as we once knew it (in 12" form), and challenging the listener to really toss out all the marketing appeal, if music is truly "all we care about" anymore, as everybody in the MP3 generation likes to say it is.  Brilliant, brilliant...and oh, so subversively street-Bowie!
The other instance was on October 20, 2001...when Madison

Square Garden darkened, and the shadows of two towers faded behind an oriental rug, as a simple man sat--in lotus position, with no introduction whatsoever, and opened the most difficult all-star rock concert in history: the post 9/11 'Concert for New York City' at Madison Square Garden, broadcast LIVE on literally almost every channel in existence.    
There he sat, casually launching into not some Ziggy Stardust-fest of self aggrandizement, but a complex Paul Simon song-poem from '68, about seeking and finding "America"...and love...just as David himself had. Before he followed it up (with "Heroes"), Bowie spoke of "my Local Ladder," a firehouse he'd visited many times--both before and after 9/11.  Those were the first spoken words in the whole show.
This was the real David Bowie. 
Humble, affable, thoughtful, always artistic, and finally ready to show us all his true self--just another guy in that godawful moment, confused as hell like the rest of us, but giving his all, on that dopey but poignant sounding Casio in front of him, set to sound like a carousel calliope; sans makeup, and with only the dimmest pin-spot; sorting through life's commotion, which always returns to ashes; but never (we all hoped) this way again.



"Ashes to ashes, funk to funky; 
we know Major Tom's a junkie..."
 
I like to think he's at peace now.
The ashes are all sorted out; he knows full well, he left all who knew him with a smile. 

Angels eavesdrop on the random humans below--including Lou Reed--
in the 'Berlin' of Wim Wenders' amazing film, Far Away..So Close!

I imagine him sitting atop a gargoyle over a forgotten building, beneath the grey skies of his beloved Berlin, happily listening to all our transient thoughts, and marveling at all this hysterical social networking about him... ("...about me!") in much the same way as those wistful angels did, in Wim Wenders' transcendent film, Far Away...So Close! 
His own ashes casually sift through his fingers, and float casually toward the Earth below.  
He hears the random

An angel surveys all that lives and
breathes below him, from high
atop a statue of an angel in the
film 'Far Away...So Close!'

thoughts of passersby, above and below--including Lou Reed, whom he long ago produced.
He sees me typing this, and sees you reading it; glances toward his old building in NYC, and smiles down at the elevator man; he drifts by the studio to see who's manning the board, one more time; remembers a homeless man he once slipped some cash to, and checks in on him from his perch in the sky, to see that the guy's still okay...(he is); Bowie turns toward home, and sees Iman, sitting alone at a desk there, holding his picture; he wonders how they ever got so lucky...but knows she'll be fine.
He looks up, and humbly thanks his maker; then looks down, and humbly thanks us.
"My," he says to no one, sighing whimsically. "They are a busy lot, aren't they?" 
He's still David Bowie.
...just a regular guy, takin' in a whole new view.

___________________________________________________________
This Opinion Column is Copyright 2016 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved. 

About Peter Rodman: 
"Sunday Night with Peter Rodman" was a weekly radio interview show, which aired during the '70s, '80s and '90s...first in Colorado, and later in Nashville. Peter Rodman's feature work and columns were featured regularly in the Colorado Springs Sun, the Rocky Mountain News, the Boulder Daily Camera, Colorado Daily, Audience Magazine, and others, both regional and national. He also hosted a TV interview show ('Who's On 12 with Peter Rodman?') on KBDI-Channel 12 in Denver, for two seasons (totaling 47 shows) in prime time.  Peter is currently working on a memoir, as well as a book of photographs, to include portraits of some of his best known interview subjects.
'The Peter Rodman Radio Archive' controls the rights to literally thousands of original radio, print and television interviews and images, to this day.