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Text originally published in 1961 under the same title.
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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.
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THE WAY OUT WORLD
BY
LONG JOHN NEBEL
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS 3
MYSTIC BARBER 4
GENTLE READER…. 5
CHAPTER 1—THE BIRTH OF A PITCHMAN 6
CHAPTER 2—FLYING SAUCERS AND UFO 18
CHAPTER 3—FIVE-INCH BLONDES AND THREE WILD GEORGES 29
CHAPTER 4— SATURNIAN LOVERS AND VENUSIAN MISTRESSES 42
CHAPTER 5—THE $20,000,000 TICKET TO THE MOON PLUS SOME IMPOSSIBLE INVENTIONS 52
CHAPTER 6—A BACKWARD LOOK AT BRIDEY MURPHY AND REINCARNATION 65
CHAPTER 7—EDGAR CAYCE, PSYCHIC DOCTOR, AND JOHN R. BRINKLEY, KING OF THE QUACKS 74
CHAPTER 8—THE HEALERS AND PHILOSOPHERS 84
CHAPTER 9—DEROS, DEVILS, AND SNOWMEN 98
CHAPTER 10—HAPPY MEDIUMS AND THEIR NOT-SO-HAPPY CLIENTS 109
CHAPTER 11—TALES OF MAGIC AND THE OCCULT—SOME WITHOUT ENDINGS 121
CHAPTER 12—THE PROFESSIONAL ENCHANTERS 137
CHAPTER 13—THE ON-BEAT RESEARCHERS OF THE OFFBEAT 148
CHAPTER 14—PROPHECIES, PHILOSOPHIES AND A WRAP-UP 157
REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 166
MYSTIC BARBER
His name is Andy Sinatra—and he can’t sing a note. Usually Andy prefers to be referred to as the “Mystic Barber,” but on my show he’s better known as the “Mystical Tonsorial Artist from Brooklyn.”
To describe the Barber as unusual wouldn’t be giving you the full picture…Andy is in touch with other worlds. He’s visited by Martians, who are identifiable because of their having no reflections—a point he’s noticed when they come to his tonsorial parlor for a trim or a shave. Usually, his contacts aren’t so direct, but are accomplished via telepathic communication. To make telepathy simpler, Andy insists that all beginners should have one of his inventions—a headband, a couple of inches wide with a pair of weird, bouncy antennae on it, for tuning in on the Venusian sending frequency. I’ve tried it, and nothing happens. But, you have to admit, it’s kind of wild stuff.
GENTLE READER….
This is the Introduction—or, if you prefer, the Preface to the book. It was completed about two hours ago; I reread the last chapter, made a few minor corrections, typed out the label, put it on the envelope, and after I complete this little bit it’ll be on its way to the publisher.
To say it was a challenge is certainly an understatement. I’ve learned a lot—and, of course, this is pretty easy for me, because I know so little. I’ve learned that writing a book is not the easiest thing in the world. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition—but I’ll continue to. Dr. Edward Spingarn Professor of English, has many times told me that there’s no such word as “enthused,” but I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m very enthused about the possibility of writing another book; but this time I hope, if some publisher will accept it, it’ll be about “Hate Mail.”
I’m indebted to literally hundreds of people, and naturally space does not permit the acknowledgment of all of them. Certainly Phyllis Rosenteur’s, Stuart Daniels’, and John Gudmundsen’s encouragement was of great value. Jim Donnelly, “The Old Crusader,” and Virginia Belmont of the Belmont Bird and Kennel Shop, were indirectly instrumental in helping me gather material. Monte Feuerstein and Hal Fleischer of Cheers Steak House made it possible for me to have a restful place to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee or a cocktail while attempting to get some off-the-air material from guests. And Barney Boyle of WOR-TV certainly deserves a word of gratitude for his help and encouragement. In the WOR family, I just couldn’t fail to thank Ed and Pegeen Fitzgerald, Arlene Francis, John Wingate, and Galen Drake for the guests, material and suggestions they supplied to me—to say nothing of my pleasant memories of being a guest on their shows. George Brown, Director of WOR’s News Department, has many times been a source of information about interesting people or exciting current topics that made interesting discussion material. And certainly Dorothy and Dick—in private life Mr. and Mrs., he being the noted entrepreneur (You’re right; I got that word from a guest on my show) Richard Kollmar, and she the famous columnist Dorothy Kilgallen—have on many occasions earned my gratitude and respect.
And, of course, I could go on and on…but space is limited, and the memory is not what it used to be. So, to those whom I may have missed, many, many thanks also.
Well, that just about wraps up the opening pitch. I don’t know if you’re a letter writer or not, but if you are I’d certainly appreciate your opinion of the book—whether it’s good, bad or indifferent; just send it to me, Long John Nebel, WOR, New York 18, New York.
And Anna is calling me, because I have about three minutes before show time. So long…and happy reading.
LONG JOHN NEBEL
CHAPTER 1—THE BIRTH OF A PITCHMAN
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”—Sherlock Holmes in “The Sign of Four” (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
“HI NEIGHBORS, this is Long John Nebel. Tonight, I think we’ve got a really great one for you…”
And out there in the night they listen. Lying in bed, curled in a chair, driving a car, swinging on a porch—in every likely and unlikely place—the restless, the workers, the insomniacs, or just the “night people,” wonder who will bring another fantasy to entertain them during the sleeping hours. Because that nightly greeting is an introduction to the most fantastic, fabulous and amazing people on earth, and I’m the lucky guy who plays at being their host. My guests come from a billion miles away, or a million years ago. They’re the women who walk through walls, the men who raise the dead, even the children who read minds. The unbelievable is my business, and I always try to make it your pleasure.
Every midnight I sit down before a hot mike, twenty-four floors above the Square known as Times, and begin a conversation with a guest who has his own unique tale to tell. In much less than a year these round table discussions will total well over a thousand hours, and that’s a lot of talking to do with some of the world’s strangest people.
You might think that it would be more than enough for anybody, but the weird truth of the matter is that I switch over to television every Friday evening and do a full hour of the offbeat for the cameras. Sometimes the addition of the picture dimension proves very valuable, especially when the guest is an inventor of an “aurameter,” or has pictures of “authentic and genuine flying saucers” to display. For the most part, however, I prefer the wide range of five hours’ air time to sit and listen to the full, and usually remarkable, story. By the end of a conversation of that length every last bit of the story can be told. Although, I must admit that this is not
always true. Not infrequently I’ve had to invite a guest back two, four, even a dozen times before the entire extraordinary “truth” was completely revealed—well, almost.
Everyone has his own bit, and this is mine. Curiosity about people, places, and, most of all, ideas. I have a mountain flooded with 50,000 watts of light. If you have a story, if you have something really interesting to say, no matter how strange, you can come to the top of my mountain, stand in the light, and people uncountable will hear you.
On good days, it seems like a million years ago; on bad days it seems like last night. Chicago, I mean; a number of decades ago. That’s where it, and I, began. In Chicago, a pretty long time ago. Of course, that was when I was a kid; later I got older. I get older today, too, but what can I do—I don’t smoke, drink (anything unless it’s liquid), or run around with fast women (I’m a walker); so I get older. Except on those days—then I get younger. If any of this is confusing just hang on—that’s the kind of book it’s going to be.
My father was an advertising executive for a large candy firm and my mother was a dermatologist; I was a kid who ate a lot of chocolate creams and had a great complexion. My parents were fairly comfortably off and I had no serious complaints during those earlier years. As a matter of fact, sometimes I even had fun.
A couple of years rolled by, and by the time I was ten I had gotten into merchandising. I peddled hot firecrackers to cool friends. Later I was with my grandmother at Wisconsin Dells. This was one of those cases of being in the place, right or wrong, at the time, right or wrong.
My grandmother was a strict Methodist and a member of the WCTU; maybe I’d better enlighten you—that’s Women’s Christian Temperance Union. If I’m not mistaken, at one time she headed that organization in Wisconsin Dells—possibly heading a membership that totalled four, including Grandma—because, as I remember it, Grandpa was a man who always knew that herbs, barks and berries were of great value to the body…if they were properly fermented. As far as Grandma was concerned, card playing, dancing, attending carnivals or circuses was “worldly.” And the devil promoted all of these things. Frankly, the card playing was of no interest to me; girls were nuisances (I was about twelve at that time—at the present writing I like to sit down and play a little poker, and the more nuisances the better). And I think at this point I should make certain that no one is under the false impression that my life has been devoted to body-building hobbies such as bar-bell lifting, swimming, tennis, boxing…in fact, there have never been any strong men or fighters in my family; I come from three generations of lovers.
However, let me hasten to say that a carnival was a big thing to me as a youngster, and a circus…well…at that time my idea of Heaven was a tremendous arena topped with beautiful striped canvas, with trapeze artists swinging, tight-rope artists walking, and wild animal trainers entertaining twenty-four hours a day. Being a boy from the “Windy City”—or as the Chamber of Commerce of Chicago preferred in those days, “The City of Go”—I was, if I may say with great deference to the kids of my age in Wisconsin Dells, a little “hipper.”
All the kids had been talking about the circus that was coming to town. And these kids knew all the answers—such as meeting the circus when it arrived on the school lot that was rented to carnivals, circuses, chautauquas, etc. In those days the onering circuses were motorized; they didn’t come into town by railroad.
On the morning that the circus arrived, I was over at the school grounds with the other kids at about five in the morning. Some kids were hauling water for the elephants, others were helping to unroll sections of canvas and to lace these sections together, while yours truly was over at a cat wagon. And you know, there was something friendly about that moth-eaten lion. As I was standing there admiring it, a rather young, unkempt and in general dirty-appearing man climbed into the cage and, in a rough voice, hollered out some obscenities which caused the lion to move over to the other end of the cage. He then proceeded to sweep out the cat’s living quarters. Later I was to learn that the chair, whip and gun manipulator—ballied on the colorful signs that could be seen in the windows of the barber shop, pool room and the combination furniture dealer and mortician—was the world’s greatest wild animal trainer. Yes, they were one and the same: the wild animal trainer and the chambermaid to wild animals. And it might be interesting to note that all of the signs ballied “wild animals.” It should have been “animal,” because there was only one—and he wasn’t wild. In fact, I know he wasn’t wild because some thirty minutes later I had my hand in the cage, petting this lion’s paw. And, minutes later, I opened the door to the cage and went in—minus chair, whip and gun. And this wasn’t a matter of courage on my part…just plain, unadulterated stupidity. As far as I was concerned this was just a nice, friendly old giant cat.
In those day, circuses had parades; and in wandering around the lot I learned that one of the clowns was ill; this was about 12 noon. Being a pretty tall guy for my age, and a fair conversationalist, I approached one of the owners and suggested to him that I would possibly be. the ideal temporary replacement for the sick clown in the parade and opening spec. Mind you, there was no loot involved in this—just glory. And as I look in retrospect, I don’t think there was enough loot in the world to equal the glory and satisfaction that I received as I stood in my bright, shiny, red chariot, decorated with 24-carat gold leaf, controlling the reins of a beautiful white horse, as I became a “with-it” participant in that wonderful circus parade that went down Capitol Street in Kilbourne, Wisconsin (that was the name of Wisconsin Dells at that time), some 38 years ago, on a beautiful, hot, sunny afternoon in June.
That was the extent of my duties as a clown, and for the evening performance I drove the chariot again in the spec. When the performance was three-quarters over that night, they were starting to strike the top for the ten-in-one show. The tops that housed the various concessionaires and the grease joint were also being sloughed. By this time I had removed my make-up and I started to cut a jackpot with one of the owners, and learned that the next town they were to play was about 15 or 20 miles away; Baraboo, Wisconsin.
It’s interesting to note that Baraboo was the original home of the Ringling Brothers. The story goes that the good white fathers of that community taxed Mr. Ringling and his winter quarters right out of town.
After some ten or fifteen minutes of conversation, I sold him the idea that I should take over the clown’s part in Baraboo, because by this time we knew he would be unable to work the date. I contacted my dad by phone in Chicago. He granted me permission to go with the circus for the next two weeks—naturally against the wishes of a lovely lady, my grandmother.
Instead of spending two weeks, I stayed with the circus for the balance of the summer. It’s pleasant to remember that after my first week I was able to get on the payroll. I also became cognizant of at least one of the strange beliefs of Americans then, and possibly for centuries before, as well as today: the phenomenon of telepathy.
In the ten-in-one show, I became greatly impressed with a lady performer who had all of the beauty and charm of a Lillian Russell, and the fully-developed power of telepathy. And it seems like I’m hearing the talker make that introductory pitch for “Lady Ester” again…right now:
“Ladies and gentlemen. I’d appreciate it if you’ll now gather over to this platform. Thank you. Will you be kind enough, please, to move in a little closer. Those ladies over there, would you please move in just a little closer. It is a rare privilege and a great honor for the Lamont Brothers to have this season, as a star attraction, Lady Ester. Lady Ester can read your mind without the aid of any mechanical or electrical equipment, or personal contact.
“She was the seventh born in a family of seven children. She was born on the 31st day of October—a day that we celebrate as Halloween. At the age of seven, Lady Ester was able to answer her mother’s questions and execute her mother’s desires prior to the time that they were orally stated. At the age of fourteen, she had com
pleted her high school education. On her graduation day, she was giving the valedictory speech when all of a sudden she stopped. For a period of time that seemed hours, but evidently was just a matter of seconds, there was complete silence in that high school auditorium in Ashtabula, Ohio. Members of the audience began to feel sorry for this little youngster who evidently had forgotten the rest of her speech. And just then little Ester said, in a quivering, faint voice, ‘There’s a bad wreck that’s going to happen at the railroad crossing in a few minutes.’
“A very large percentage of the audience in that high school auditorium had heard reports of Ester’s telepathic ability. This startling announcement therefore caused great unrest and concern for everyone. Seconds later, a blanket of silence covered the auditorium. In the distance could be heard the roar of an oncoming train. And then…a tremendous crash was heard!…the whining, screeching sound of the engine and the freight cars coming to a halt And, rather than give you any more of the gruesome details, let me say that Lady Ester, as a child of fourteen, had predicted, minutes before, one of the most tragic train wrecks in the annals of railroad history that occurred in that small community in Ohio.
“Yes, the lady whom I will have the pleasure to introduce in a few minutes…the lady who has amazed kings and queens, and three former presidents of the United States. Scientists in our major universities and colleges throughout the world have been unable to fathom this remarkable woman’s ability. And now…I proudly present to you…the world’s greatest mentalist—Lady Ester.”
After this beautiful opening on the part of the talker, Lady Ester’s husband would go among the audience and, by using a verbal code, would send back to this marvelous, mystical, mysterious marvel of mental mysteries the birthdates and questions of members of the audience who had sprung a quarter to test the telepathic abilities of Lady Ester.
Ester’s real name was Dianne Underwood, and her husband…well, I wouldn’t want to be unkind and say that he was an alcoholic, but it was as unsafe to let this man remain unguarded, without alcohol in some form, as it would be to take a car out when it’s two below zero without alcohol in the radiator. I was always amazed and wondered why this lovely lady would bill herself as Lady Ester when she had such a beautiful name as Dianne. If I had anything to do with the act, I possibly would have billed her as Divine Dianne or Dianne the Divine.
Long John Nebel Page 1
