Long John Nebel

by Way Out World

  Unfortunately, not all healers are quite so sincere as Edgar Cayce, because no matter how much I think his bit was all in his own mind I can’t argue that he believed in all he said. But an entirely different case was the greatest of all the pseudo-medical men ever to arise in this country. His name was Dr. John R. Brinkley, and he was fantastic.

  Brinkley’s beginnings are somewhat vague, since he himself claimed, at one time or another, that he was born in Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, and Florida. But wherever he happened to decide it had been, at the moment he was describing the great occurrence, the event always took place in a log cabin. Before he was twenty, he had developed a driving ambition to be a doctor—any kind of doctor—so long as he could lay claim to a pew in the exalted church of medicine. He did a little elixir pitching here and there, and then he got hold of twenty-five dollars and entered the Bennet Medical College. Eventually he dropped out of this esteemed institution for want of money for fees. At one time or another, the charlatan claimed to have attended several schools and/or universities, but all indications are that his education was mostly self-acquired.

  By 1913, the good healer had acquired a wife and produced three children, all of whom he left in Chattanooga. Not long after he married again, the daughter of a legitimate physician, and took in as a partner one James E. Crawford, who later ended up in the penitentiary for car theft. These two gentlemen opened offices in South Carolina, calling themselves “Electro Medic Doctors.” The entire treatment, which was one that was supposed to increase sexual power, was a hypo shot of colored water. The charge for this: $25.00. After a few profitable weeks of this, the operation skipped out—leaving a pile of unpaid bills behind. The partners went in opposite directions.

  Over the years Crawford and Brinkley met from time to time, once being when they were housed in the same jail. But they never hit it off together again. Actually, Brinkley never needed the less talented man’s aid again.

  By 1915, John R. had a diploma to practice medicine (at least in eight states), from a diploma mill called the “Eclectic Medical University.” The Professor Alexander who operated this gaff dealt out similar credentials to soda jerks, salesmen, chauffeurs, photographers, and just about anyone else who came wandering by with a hot little buck in his hayseedy little hand.

  In 1916, this same professor of medicine, so-called, assisted Brinkley in getting a license to practice in Kansas and Arkansas. Soon after, the slippery pseudo-physician was accredited to conduct his operations legally in Texas, Tennessee, Missouri, and Connecticut, too. It was not long before the doctor went to work for a famous meatpacking concern, handling minor cuts and bruises. It was at this time that the great healer had an opportunity to discover extraordinary and mysterious truths about the glands of animals. It was here that he began putting together the theories that were later to make him a fortune and the possessor of considerable personal power.

  Then came The First Great War, and our hero leaped into the medical corps as fast as he could, getting first looie’s bars to sport about. Although it was Brinkley’s claim that he was practically worked to death, dealing with the physical problems of over two thousand rookies at a camp in Texas, the real facts seem to indicate that he was only in active medical service for one month. Also, for all but three days of his duty time he himself was too physically ill to perform any functions. He soon was out of the army and settled in a rather shabby little town called Milford, Kansas, where he set up an equally shabby little practice.

  Plodding along, Brinkley attended the usual general sicknesses until the great plan came to him. A patient came in with the complaint of having lost his sexual prowess. The doctor didn’t have much to suggest, but remarked that it was unfortunate that he couldn’t give the patient the vigor of the ram and goats he recalled from the meatpacking company days. When the patient asked why he couldn’t perform such an operation, the opened-to-almost-anything-minded scientist began to wonder about that himself. Although he had always been taught that there could be no medical traffic between lower animals and human beings, he didn’t remember that his professor had said—positively. After some book, but very little soul, searching, he agreed to perform the transplant on the gentleman in question. The operation took place in the beat-up back room of his office. Two weeks later the patient, the doctor always told listeners, had an almost complete return of his lazy libido. A year later, Brinkley would top off the tale, his wife gave birth to a ten-pound baby boy. Of course, all this proves is that the patient trusted both his doctor and his wife, and there was plenty of room to doubt the integrity of his doctor.

  And that was the start of the most fabulous of all the quack careers to flourish in the history of this nation. Of course, he had picked a tremendous symbol psychologically. The goat. The animal which, throughout history, has been thought of as the classic symbol of over-sexuality. The money began to roll in with the usual charge being about $750, sometimes even up to a couple of thousand dollars. Brinkley added the charming little touch of letting the subjects pick their own goats, and also there was the added advantage of an operation which took only a few minutes.

  The pitch prospered, even boomed, as he invaded other territories, including Chicago, Los Angeles, Shanghai, Singapore, and other remote places. This was a big-time, round-the-world operator, by now.

  Everything continued to grow, and in 1923 the Brinkley hospital in Kansas established a radio station with the call letters KFKB, the “home of gland transplantation.” The power was 1,000 watts in a day when the biggest stations used only 500. Its signal could be heard for a couple of thousand miles. And the amazingly transparent bubble continued to grow. His public relations were phenomenally successful, but opposition was beginning to shape up. There were those who saw the great fake as just that. But more money than ever was pouring in and he had not a worry in the world that it would continue. He had found an almost perfect gimmick.

  But he wasn’t satisfied with the tens of thousands he was grossing each month—he wanted more. More money, and from it, more power. And so he began to zing his own bit to a special very wealthy mailing list, asking why they should have the operation and become half goats. Instead, it was offered, these selected millionaires should not receive the glands of a young goat, but those of a young and virile man. Sexy boy-glands that Brinkley was prepared to produce and install. Naturally, since he would have to relieve one human being of them so that they would be available to his special patients, they would be extremely expensive. The price would range between $5,000 and $10,000—but then the patient could look forward to being not only all man, but all human.

  As things progressed, the master took over complete charge of the radio operation, programming himself as the star. And to his audience, he was far and away the star. Not only of that show, but of most of radio. However, the gentleman had not reached his peak of audacity. In September of 1930, Dr. John R. Brinkley announced that he was a candidate for the office of governor of the state of Kansas.

  At first the professional politicians paid no real attention to him, but as the campaign moved along both the Democrat and the Republican (he claimed he was neither) began to take another look. It became obvious that he was more than just an issue—he was a serious candidate. At first it was thought that he might pull in about twenty-five thousands votes in the entire state. Soon this was upped to 50,000, and then to 75,000 votes. Then his opponents began to worry. To block him, and insure that one of the two legitimate (?) office-seekers would win, the state election law was to be rigidly enforced. This meant that all ballots for the pseudo-scientist had to be marked exactly: “J. R. Brinkley,” and an “X” in the box that followed the name. Any variation, such as “John R.,” or adding a “Dr.” before, or a “MD” after, disqualified the vote. Brinkley conducted a tremendous campaign, using his radio station, KFKB, to great advantage. With all the professional politicians in the state on the other side, the result was pretty inevitable. The Democrat received 217,171 vote
s, his Republican opponent 257 less, and Brinkley got 183,278. The doctor and his followers always insisted that if all the votes that had been written in the wrong places or in a technically incorrect way had been counted he would have received just under 240,000 votes; and he would have won almost by a landslide. Almost no professional participant or observer denied, privately, that he would have won easily if his name had been printed on the ballot with his two competitors. But all of his write-in votes, and that, along with the “throw-outs,” killed his chances and kept him from becoming governor—or more.

  With the loss of the election, he began to lose power otherwise, and by 1932 it was obvious to him that he could no longer get away with practicing medicine in Kansas, or even with running his radio station. But as he withdrew from his adopted state he moved into a Mexican town, just across the border, where he bought the second most powerful radio station in the world—one with 75,000 watts.

  Brinkley was not yet ready to give up the political ghost. In 1932 he ran again as an independent for the governor’s mansion in Kansas. During the campaign he wore a bulletproof vest. He seemed to think that it was a question of ballots or bullets. Although he polled 244,000-odd votes, Alf Landon won handily. He tried again in ‘34, but with even worse luck. There was no doubt about it. John R. Brinkley’s political career had sunk into a permanent oblivion. He had a small revival in a couple of later contests, but they were even less than token in value.

  His final glory was in his return to radio. The Mexican station, XER, which he had bought, had been given special permission by the federal government to boost its power enormously. When Brinkley got through, he had a nearly incredible 500,000 watts.

  But, as was inescapable, the whole operation began to disintegrate. Brinkley began to sue, the government came after a half-million dollars in back taxes, then about a dozen suits were instigated against the doctor…back and forth it went. Back and forth went money, but far more was going forth than was coming back. Brinkley got involved with a number of very unsavory people in an attempt to save his failing fortunes, many of them professing and pitching strong racist and hate philosophies. Then came the back-breaking blow. His magnificent radio station was torn down by a demolition team of the Mexican army, while he was away. He became quite ill when he heard the news. And that was the end of his radio career once and for all.

  After that everything just dwindled away, leaving behind only a shadowy memory of the man who was the greatest charlatan doctor America ever produced.

  CHAPTER 8—THE HEALERS AND PHILOSOPHERS

  “He who would distinguish the true from the false must have an adequate idea of what is true and false.”—Ethics Benedict Spinoza

  VARIOUS KINDS of people claim to have the power to heal, and they claim it in various ways. However, considering only the unorthodox of the breed, one sees that they tend to fall into two major categories operating with either of two general approaches. Those who fall into the first group seem to be really convinced of their “power,” those of the second class are obviously simply using their “power of the pitch” to promote and sell their services and products for whatever they can get for them.

  Another place where the “healers” separate is in their approach. Some offer to cure all of the ills of man through the flesh with potions, salves and machines. Some through the mind with psychologies, mysticisms and rites. Many have all techniques available to the paying client, others specialize in only the “most effective methods” of restoring or elevating the body, mind or soul to its “natural state of well being.” It’s among these subtle distinctions that you might find the line that divides the “healers” from others who might more accurately be called “philosophers.” Generally speaking, the latter are content with dabbling with the health of the mind, while the competition is promising dangerously absurd cures for cancer and brain tumors. I don’t have to point out that there are millions of people who believe in this kind of nonsense.

  I say it’s all ridiculous—operators roaming the country offering health, happiness and eternal good fortune where regular doctors, psychologists and business instincts have failed. Naturally, it’s possible that I’m wrong, possible that everyone mentioned in this book is a great whatever-he-claims-to-be. However, unfortunately, it’s more likely that I’m not.

  Appropriately, or at least not unexpectedly, one of the powerful health movements of our time was the invention of an imaginative science fiction writer by the name of L. Ron Hubbard (Lafayette Ronald Hubbard). His supposed new science of the mind went under the name of “Dianetics.”

  It more or less began when the founder brought out his first book on the subject in 1950, although it was his claim that he had originally discovered the basic principles of his “science” twelve years before. This is a claim that has been doubted by a good number of people involved with the bit; these take the position that it got under way in 1948.

  When first writing on the subject, it was Hubbard’s modest estimate that Dianetics was one of the greatest discoveries in the history of mankind, ranking right beside the invention of the wheel and the use of fire. He further took the positive position that his mental panacea would “invariably” cure the patient. Not once in a while, or often, but always. The reason for this, Hubbard insisted, was that Dianetics was an “exact science” based upon simple engineering principles, operating in the same manner as pure math. Therefore it was never wrong. It could not make a mistake.

  Somehow it comes as no great surprise that one of Hubbard’s first patients and promoters was John Campbell, Jr., the science fiction editor who was so helpful in introducing the miraculous Hieronymous Machine to the not-ready-for-it public. But exactly what was it Hubbard and Campbell were trying to sell?

  The fundamental Dianetical approach assumes that all psychological problems are based upon one, or more, of the following three conditions. First, a great physical pain. Second, great danger—either real or imagined. Third, “a non-analytic state of the brain.” This last condition creates what Hubbard calls an “Impediment.” By this he means that there’s a block in the mind. A blank. An area where the conscious mind doesn’t function properly, doesn’t include something. Dianetics is designed, among other things, to fill in the blank, eliminate the block, make the thought sequence of the mind continuous in the area where the problem is.

  Hubbard calls these aberrations “engrams.” He calls the conscious mind “analytical,” and the unconscious mind “reactive.” The unconscious mind has no power to evaluate, according to him; it merely, but exactly, records all sensory perceptions—but only when the conscious mind is not functioning. It’s the disorders registered by the reactive, or unconscious, mind—which he calls engrams—that cause all the mental problems in the world. Neuroses, psychoses, common colds, maybe even cancer, are caused by these troublesome engrams. And Dianetics is the cure-all and the all-cured. Remember, it works for everyone.

  Hubbard has taken the position, in print, that psychiatrists are “the extant mental charlatans,” and that psychologists are “the professional dabblers in abilities.” This unqualified contempt for these two areas of evaluation and therapy led him to believe in the need for, and proceed to create, an operator called an “auditor.” If you want to know what an auditor is, it appears that it’s someone who has read Hubbard’s books and can answer questions later. Providing they’re about Ron Hubbard’s books, and not about psychology, psychiatry, psychoanalysis, or the human mind.

  It’s the contention of Dianetics that “life” is fundamentally divided into “ability” and “mechanics.” If you go a little further, you discover that “ability is demonstrated by the handling of matter, energy, space, and time” and put all those things together and they spell “mechanics.” Things, like motors and mountains, are made up of matter, energy, space and time, and are affectionately called “MEST.” As a matter of fact, neighbors, the entire subject is pretty MEST up.

  Now, when you understand things like this, you
realize that only “life” can “create.” However, when it gets started, “life” really pulls out the stops. Take for example a process Hubbard calls “the remedy of havingness”; this bit is “capable of increasing a man’s weight by thirty-five pounds—without changing the diet, or way of living. Fortunately, if you go overboard with the action you can do a reverse process called “perfect duplication.” Easy come, easy go.

  However, to go back to the basis for all the mental problems of the world, “engrams,” the reader should be aware that these go far, far back in the subconscious memory—that is, in the “reactive” mind. Not in childhood, not in infancy, but before birth. Possibly even before the fertilization.

  As the system goes, anything—or possibly it should be everything—has a profound effect upon the unborn babe. If Daddy yells at Mommy, it produces an “engram”; if Mommy had a stomach ache it produces an “engram”; if little brother-to-be bounces up and down on the bed Mommy is lying on, it produces an “engram”; if Mommy listens to syncopated music it produces an “engram”; if Mommy goes to the bathroom, it produces an “engram.” But worst of all, if Mommy and/or Daddy try to abort the baby it produces an “engram.”

  One of the great difficulties for the unborn is the terrible way Daddy may treat Mommy. He may beat her, punch her, slap her, yell at her, curse her, and all this has a decidedly negative effect upon the baby of tomorrow. Unfortunately, Hubbard seems to feel that this is the normal relationship between Mother and Father, or at least the usual one. Once old wives and young mothers believed that the great danger lay in looking too long at a pumpkin, or being caught in the rain. Such things would cause a future offspring to be fat or tearful. Today, however, the fear is in the unkind word or slug in the head. These are liable to produce “engrams”! Things seem to have slipped from bad to not very much better.