Long John Nebel

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Long John Nebel Page 23

by Way Out World


  That evening I got to the studio a little before any of my staff checked in, and was on my way down the hall to my office. In this short journey it was necessary for me to pass the open rear door to Studio Six, where I broadcast from. Usually, this entrance is open, for airing, but the room is dark and empty—that is, until one of my gang begins setting up for the evening session. This time it was different.

  The studio was completely lit, all the switches were in the “ON” position. Everything had been pushed back. Chairs, tables, standing mikes. Everything. There in the center of the floor was a red silk balloon. At least that’s what it looked like. Actually it was a fat little woman, on her hands and knees, wrapped in a billowy, flowing scarlet robe. Shooting off from her in all directions was an enormous diagram. With several pieces of chalk, she had drawn circles within circles within circles. These various sized chalk donuts were cut up into squares, and these were full of numbers and far-out symbols. It was an insane mess.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I asked, astonished.

  The little woman looked up for the first time, and leapt to her feet.

  “Oh, my dear man, you must be John, Long John Nebel, that is. How do you do. I’m your guest for the evening. What am I doing? Why, what I’m doing is a multiple reading. Stars, you know. Well, more the planets than the stars, but everyone thinks that it’s the stars, so why upset them. Of course, the main point of the…”

  “Hold it. Just one moment, please,” I insisted. “Why have you messed up our floor? Who told you to do this?”

  “Why, no one. It was my pleasure. You don’t understand, though, do you. More’s the pity. I will explain. On your floor you have the interlocking horoscope of you and your, if I may say so, your distinguished guest of the evening.”

  “Meaning you?” I guessed.

  “Meaning me? Why yes, of course. After all, I was invited.” She babbled. Positively babbled.

  “But not to mess up the floor,” I tried to point out.

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that I’ve messed up your floor. This is a beautifully designed and executed chart. It is the interlocking…”

  “I’m afraid that I’ll have to cancel the show for tonight,” I decided. This was a really wild weird one. She could be very difficult if she got out of hand, and she was out of hand already. Square count, neighbors, it was almost impossible to get her to stop talking. It took some persuading, but eventually I was able to convince her that I was serious and that I wouldn’t do an astrology program that evening. As she was departing our premises, she made a remark that I thought was kind of strange.

  “I knew this would happen,” she snapped, “it was all in the chart. It said I should just up and leave. Bad luck, that’s what it showed.”

  “But if that’s what the chart and your astrological knowledge told you, why didn’t you leave?” I asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snorted and disappeared down the hall.

  Of course, all people who are interested in the zodiacal have a slightly different point of view regarding it. Some consider it a form of religion, some a personal philosophy, some a parapsychological phenomenon, some even claim that it’s a science.

  Recently a young man appeared on the program to “prove that astrology was based on science.” His specific pitch was that the orthodox (?) occult explanation was too direct, on one hand, and too vague, on the other. That is, it’s too direct because it claims that the individual is influenced directly by the action of the planets; and that it’s too vague because there’s too much superstition involved. Now, if that’s clear up to that point there’s not too much anyone can do for you anyway. Actually, this young man had it all worked out. It all depended on the ions. Some were good ions and some were bad ions, and when you add them all together they make up a new version of astrology that makes the old styles seem simple.

  To be honest, astrology is a pretty difficult thing to try to define. The word means the “study of the stars.” The results of this study is usually a chart or a horoscope, which means “hour picture.” That is, it’s a diagram of the solar system at the moment of your birth. This picture consists of a circle divided into twelve wedges called “houses,” and quarters called “quadrants.” And then there’s the “sign” under which you’re born. And on it goes, getting more complicated by the moment, until the astrologer comes up with a reading which tells you nothing very definite. Of course, if you dig vague generalities, it’s the greatest.

  However, don’t get the wrong impression. Although my scepticism “runneth over,” millions of people buy this nonsense. There are stacks of newspapers, magazines, and books which are dedicated to the bit of explaining and proving the accuracy of the stargazing gaff. Of course, that involves only a quarter, or at most a few dollars. But if you want to spring for real loot, you can go for a fin or five hundred for a first-rate horoscope, depending upon how elaborately you want yours drawn, how fancy you expect your personal kookery to be. It’s a fast-turnover, newspaper-columned, money-making business—so what else can I tell you?

  Numerology is another long-time gaff that has been sold all the way from the gypsy tent to the royal court, and back again. It’s not as organized a gaff as some of the other cons around, but it has its occasional tip, too. There are dozens of versions of the numbers game, but in general they function in similar ways. Basically, the numerologist believes that each numeral has a special value, and that this can be found by investigating the numbers in a person’s name, address, and so forth. Problems of all kinds can be solved by consulting the numbers.

  In one popular book on the numbers racket, we find that the number One is a “pioneer number.” This means that the “creative lines,” combined with “foresight, intuition and initiative” make Number Ones decisive. Among the professions of this type are included creative artists in music, opera, stage, radio, writing, illustrating, designing architecture; or they may be neurologists, psychiatrists, surgeons, diagnosticians, character analysts, lawyers, politicians, aviators—and there are others, many others. The writer points out that Alexander Graham Bell, Winston Churchill and Albert Schweitzer are all Number Ones in good—I might even say excellent—standing.

  Actually, you’d be amazed at the influence these routines have on some people—even the guys who pitch them. I remember one character who wanted to be on the program, so he wrote a letter to my office. The first two pages told how great he was. It related his profound powers of numerology. It was a real strong bit. But the last page was the blow-off. It was a schedule we would have to follow if he was going to appear with me on the air. He wouldn’t be able to arrive in the studio before midnight, since he must remain as physically inactive as possible between 11:26:12 and 12:26:11—both A.M. and P.M. Also, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but nod (!) on the one-minute every quarter hour, and it would be necessary for him to leave before 4:38—here he didn’t specify the seconds.

  I was so skeptical about the entire pose that I decided to give the kook a call. After the operator had assured me that the time schedule was essential, I asked him if these were all of the conditions required for his gracing us with his presence. This was his reply:

  “Well, Mr. Nebel, of course I couldn’t appear with Al Lottman” (one of my regular guys).

  “And just why is that?” I asked.

  “I am assuming that his first name is Albert.”

  “So?”

  “Well, that put him in the thirteen-fourteen series, with which I am completely at odds,” he explained.

  “What is the thirteen-fourteen series?” I inquired.

  “Albert equals 58; five and eight are 13. Lottman equals 95; nine and five equal 14. And, what is almost as bad is that his inclusive phase is 27, which of course he is inescapably caught in the nine field.”

  “How’s that?”—I followed into the trap. I was really fascinated by this nonsense.

  “Two and seven are 9. Three nines are 27. That’s four 9’s, which a
re 36. Three and six are 9. I mean, Mr. Nebel, it’s as plain as day. Poor Mr. Lottman is just all nined up. That’s all there is to it. He’s caught and there’s nothing I can do.”

  After thanking him and saying that we might be in touch with him some time, I hung up and tried very hard to forget the whole thing. I haven’t succeeded to this day.

  Naturally, I don’t mean to imply that all people who believe in numerology are quite this wild. As a matter of fact, one of America’s greatest orchestra leaders is a very famous astrologer. His name is Vincent Lopez. This top musician has appeared very frequently on a show run by a fine gentleman—Hy Gardner, famous syndicated columnist for the New York Herald-Tribune—and on these sessions he has explained all of the intricacies of the numbers bit and made some amazing prophecies. According to Hy, whom I’m proud to call a friend, Vincent Lopez’s forecasts have been very, very high in the accuracy department. Of course, by this I don’t mean to say that Hy buys the bit—I don’t know. But he obviously has been impressed with the results.

  However, with all respect to Vincent, I can’t help being convinced that the most important numbers to me are found on checks and chicks.

  For many years palmistry—nowadays sometimes called chirology—was an active occult occupation. Although it’s been passed down from hand to hand for a long time, it’s probably much more recent than the cruder forms of hypnotism, astrology, or even numerology. Of course, along with card reading, it’s always thought of as being a gypsy gaff, but a lot of other people have succeeded in having their palms crossed with a little silver for finding a little malarkey in someone else’s hand.

  Essentially, the sell is fairly simple. According to the spieler, the hand is a built-on life indicator. The life line, the heart line, plus many other heavy and light, definite and feathery markings on the palm, the sides and the back of the hand, are supposed to reveal to the handy man what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen in the months and years to come. Now this kind of turn can be pretty impressive, but the real con goes even further. He examines the various mounds, such as the one of Venus; he traces the shape of the fingers, the roundness or pointedness of the tips; he checks the pliability of the fingers and palm; he investigates the texture of the flesh, the lie of the down on the back of the hand; the wrist; and anything else he can conjure up, including the nails. If he operates strong, he goes through this entire kooky performance on each hand, because each one reveals different things. Finally, he adds up the sum total of his “observations” and gives a reading. The bite may be anywhere from a buck for a fast look to possibly twenty-five for the full treatment.

  I remember one time everyone on the program was caught red-handed in a palmist pitch. I had invited a mitt camp operator up for a show, and we were well under way. Part of the gaff was for her to read my hand and the palms of all of my other guests. Unfortunately, she had dreamed up a new gimmick. Instead of merely looking at the mitt with the naked eye, she had a big pad of red ink, and another big pad of white paper. One by one, we all had to plant our hands down on the ink pad and transfer the scarlet impression to the blank paper. Of course, the palmist had made certain to have highly washable ink on her little red pad. After the impressions were all collected, one by one everyone went to wash his hands. Shortly everyone returned. The great tragedy had occurred. The mystic had made a mistake. The ink was indelible. For weeks each of us wandered about with closed fists, occasionally startling someone with a brilliant open palm greeting. Of course, eventually it wore off. But I always thought there was something kind of symbolic about the whole thing. But just what, I’m not sure.

  Some branches of the occult have just about faded out. One of these is called phrenology. But occasionally, on some dim side street of a city, or off on the edge of a small Southern or Mid-western village, you’ll find an old crone still peddling this childishness. Some almost forgotten die-hard hanging on by a local head or two.

  Phrenology was the art, or so-called science, of reading the bumps—I believe they called them “conformations”—of the skull. It was generally conducted in a dingy back parlor by a creepy old woman. Quite often this crone would also pitch a little astrology or card reading to keep things active in the loot department. Once in a while, some smoother operator would set up a pseudo-medical office and wear a white coat. In this type of action, all of the mysticism was dropped in favor of “clear cut cold science…statistical fact…the new discoveries of the mind…what Freud does on the inside we can tell from the outside…” and similar claptrap. Either way, the actual examination was about the same.

  The phrenologist would run his fingers along the skull, under the hair, feeling the shape of the top and the sides and the back of the head. He would examine the temples and the frontal bones, the occipital bones, and whatever they call the rest of them. When he had completed his examination he was able, he assured the mark, to tell very informative things about the personality and the future of the patient. As a matter of fact, these phrenologists used to use a model of the human head to explain all of these wonders to their suckers, and some of these were really great gaffs—beautifully made, and all divided up with kooky labels. Square count, friends, I’d love to have one of these heads—they were really wild pieces of merchandise.

  Eventually, as science moved forward, people began to realize how phoney the whole bit was. They were far more interested in what went on inside than what surface information could be discovered about the outside, and so this great field of investigation faltered and, by now, has just about failed. It’s very rare to find anyone nowadays who buys the bit, let alone someone who actually tries to palm it—no, that’s something else—who actually tries to get ahead (!) with this kind of con.

  Tea leaf reading, to look in a different direction, still has its followers. In New York alone there are a great many “rooms” where you can have this service. Of course, it’s exactly what it says, the reading of the arrangement of the tea leaves left at the bottom of a cup, and generally it’s another of the offbeat bits which is strongly associated with the gypsies.

  The locations where readings are available usually fall into one of two kinds of fronts. Ground floor stores with wide display windows, where brightly colored, if rather soiled, curtains hang, are one kind. Often there are artificial flowers in the window and a couple of chairs. Towards the rear is a curtained doorway, through which you sometimes have to go to get your fortune told. From time to time it’s quite obvious that more than fortunes are available to the tired traveling man.

  The other tea rooms are up one long, badly lit, flight of shaky, or at least slanted, stairs. These setups are often fairly large and actually have facilities for the customer to sit quietly and have a cup of tea. The tab is likely to run a little higher here, but it’s also possible to name your own fortune in some of these operations. However, most of them cater to the slightly dopey or bored housewife who thinks that this sort of little “adventure into the unknown world of the occult” might brighten up a pretty dull day—or life.

  The final touch in some tea rooms is the offer of “any three wishes” you want. This is a bonus. And, let’s face it, you don’t hardly get them kind of offers no more. I regret to say, however, the wishes are almost never guaranteed.

  In a similar department to tea leaf reading, but more esoteric, is the occultism of the cards. Preferably tarot cards, although the bit is also sometimes done with ordinary playing pasteboards.

  The tarot deck consists of seventy-eight cards which are divided into two sets called the “minor arcana” and the “major arcana.” The first series is supposed to be the oldest version of our regular playing cards; the second is claimed to be “the leaves of the oldest book in the world”—which would be pretty difficult to disprove or prove, unless you employ the tarot cards, of course.

  Miss Eden Gray, actress, author and proprietor of the well-known offbeat book store in New York called “Inspiration House,” has been with me on the air close
to a hundred times. On several of these occasions, we’ve talked about the mystery of the tarot—a subject in which she is a recognized expert and teacher. One of the experiences she relates concerns the time she was giving a reading to an elderly lady. As Eden commented on several revelations, the woman agreed as to the accuracy of the indications, when two particular cards turned up—the Four of Pentacles and the Queen of Swords. The combination signified contention with a woman over money. Her guest denied any understanding of this reading, but shortly recalled that it did have meaning. An invalided woman friend whom she had been supporting had recently taken the money the benefactress had given her for her rent and opened a charge account in a prominent Fifth Avenue store. She then ran up a considerable bill her friend would have to pay. Miss Gray’s guest had forgotten this affair for a moment, but it was in her subconscious mind.

  As a matter of fact, Eden Gray attributes a great deal of the “magic of the cards” to the stimulation of “buried thoughts and emotions.”

  There have been many, many other forms of prophetic analysis. At one time, oriental-looking gentlemen could be found on carnival lots or in fortune-telling parlors, who sifted sand into a tray and read in the patterns that lay there your entire future life. But I imagine all of these are gone now. Of course there are many, many other versions of prophecy, of life reading, of offbeat sciences, arts, and what have you, but they’re becoming more and more rare. However, this is not to mean there are not several million people at least—if not five or ten times that many—who still think there is basically something to one or more of these strange studies. Probably we’ll always have one or another version of them with us. Certainly there are an enormous number of people who consider them perfectly natural beliefs of Americans today.

  CHAPTER 13—THE ON-BEAT RESEARCHERS OF THE OFFBEAT

 

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