Cheney, Halliburton Connection Under Close Scrutiny

uestions raised in the past week about the conflict of interests between Vice-President Dick Cheney and contracts awarded to his former firm Halliburton and its subsidiaries have given Democrats a weak spot in criticizing the information. The controversy rose to attention upon revelation that a 2-year contract with Halliburton subsidiary Kellogg Brown & Root to put out oil fires, repair the Iraqi oil infrastructure, and clean up oil spills could mean as much as $7 billion for the company, which Cheney was CEO of for five years before becoming the president's running mate.

The company denies any impropriety, despite senior Democratic Congressman saying the lack of any competitors and the multi-year nature of the contract is highly questionable. Halliburton spokespeople say the $7 billion return is a cap, and the real return will be as little as $490 million. The distinct sound of giggling was possibly in the background.

Deeper investigation has raised more issues with the Halliburton-Cheney connection. Subsidiary company Orlando-Dawn is the leading maker of yellow ribbons, and had been going out of business for nearly ten years before the Bush administration began its military efforts against Iraq, leading some Democrats to claim Cheney's manipulation has again resulted in increased profits for his former company.

Other beneficiaries of the Iraq war have been Keymint, makers of pro-Bush picket signs; Igog, makers of the "Dunk Saddam!" online video game; and the Stubborn Jackass country, which makes American flag-themed apparel and T-shirts reading "These colors don't run"—all Halliburton subsidiaries.

"It's hardly surprising our interests would match those of the Vice-President's," defended Halliburton spokesperson Mitchell Weeze, a tall oily guy on the thin side with a mysterious lazy eye. "Vice-President Cheney and Halliburton made for a mutually beneficial alliance because we believe in the same things—America, the military, and imposing justice on other countries. It doesn't mean anything improper occurred in the administration's decision-making or the contracts awarded our companies."

Harder to explain were other revelations later in the week, such as the contract proposed that Halliburton would paint the White House a new off-white eggshell color over the summer. The contract, which was discussed and had not been awarded yet, was even more questionable since none of Halliburton's subsidiaries are involved in professional house painting. An administration insider said the exclusive contract would have been for $120 million and would have required Halliburton executives to paint the White House over a series of weekends off the company clock.

The same insider, a man who identified himself as Donald Rumsfeld's brother Sammy, said perks of future contracts would include extra keys to the White House doors and the privilege of crashing in spare White House bedrooms whenever board members were in town—or on the floor, if that's cool with them.

Cheney responded quickly, with Cheney-grade antagonism.

"All of those purported benefits are completely, utterly fabricated," said Cheney in a press release Friday. "The deal was they could stay in the guest bungalow out back. If they think we're giving up White House bedrooms for less than 7-figure campaign donations, they're out of their corporate mind."

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I must say with one-cup astonishment, two cups of mistrust, I'm doing perfectly well this week. That's right, Rokophiles, Mama Finger's boy has no outstanding bones to pick or societal ills to attack. Oh, sure, I imagine there's plenty of bad things happening in our world—there always is—but at the moment none seem to concern me.

No, I'm not in love—at least not in love with anyone new; just my lovely wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, our cat Makeshift, and maybe the commune stockboy—he does freshen your paperclip cup even before it's empty, that charming fop.

Nor is my cheerful demeanor the by-product of any dangerous mind-expanding new drug. I can assure you good people I'm on nothing stronger than good ol' black coffee, Tylenol, and the Cannabis prescribed for my foot pain.

I can't explain why, I'm just happy. Oh, to be sure, I've got things to be unhappy about—by the barrelful! But at this time, I'm just having a good day.

At this moment the President, what'sisname, could pop up on my screen and announce that the race war has just broken out at long last, and my response would be: "Eh." I kid you not. I'm just generally doin' fine.

I'm not sure how my wife's doing—I should ask her. I suppose she's just fine, though. She's always been fine even when I've not been so fine, she just leans toward finality, I think. I'm sure Makeshift has no feline worries—perhaps feline leukemia, if he's a particularly worrisome cat, but if he is he sure puts up a brave façade. I should really talk to him, get to know him better.
Maybe it's the fact it's Wednesday; I've always liked Wednesdays best. But even if I can't explain it, I know I'm doing fine. Hope you're doing fine.

Wait… now it's starting to wear off. Feeling less fine even as the moments erode. Becoming genuinely pissed off now. Try figuring that out! No… seems to be fading itself. Generally retreating to fine now. Deadline is approaching, so I'll keep you informed on the fine/not-fine issue as details become available in the next column.

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It's a question that I get asked on a nearly daily basis, and understandably: just what in the hell was wrong with American music in the 1950's? History has it that the 1960's were the decade of recreational and experimental drug use, citing such examples of delusionary flakery as Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit, The Beatles' I Am the Walrus and Gregg Allman's hair. And while I wouldn't argue against these as prime examples of pharmaceutical excess, they pale mightily in comparison to the near-psychotic mutant trend of late-50's doo-wop music. John Lennon may have envisioned Mean Mr. Mustard dripping from a dead dog's eye, but even this game of Clue gone horribly wrong looks downright pedestrian next to a jabbering psychopath questioning who exactly put the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong.

Like a drugged-up visitor from deep space, doo-wop appeared seemingly out of nowhere, holing up in the chests of America's great pop stars in the late 50's and early 60's. From this parasitic enclave it communicated with the world through a bewitching combination of di-dits, bompa-bomps, ding-dangs, shooby-doos and doh-dohs. Why did it come, and what was it hoping to communicate to us? Nobody knows, though our best guess is that it had to do with seeking therapy for a stuttering problem.

The earliest known recording of the mutant doo-wop style was the Orioles' 1948 tune It's Too Soon To Know. During the recording of what was, by all reports, a fairly normal song, lead singer Sonny Til suffered the massive variety of nervous breakdown and began singing rhyming gibberish vaguely related to his ex-wife winning custody of their home and the recent transmission failure of his Oldsmobile. Fearing for their own lives, the band continued to play and discovered to their dismay that when they had finished the take they were at the end of their studio time. As was a common practice at the time, the record company had only secured them ten minutes of recording time to record and mix the song, and they'd had to sell bass player Johnny Reed's virginity in the process as they were obligated to pay for the studio time themselves.

Low on options and wary of bat-wielding record company thugs, the band played it cool, acting as if the recording session had gone fine. The record was released as-is by record company execs who were so outside of the loop that they once released a recorded armpit fart as a single, snookered by an engineer with a sense of humor. Back in that day all of the record companies were so desperate for a hit they would release anything, sometimes even recordings of other records held up to a microphone, as the execs in charge all listened to marching bands and had no clue what the record-buying teens of the day were into. They seldom listened to the records they put out, which led to the infamous "My Ding-a-Ling" scandal of 1972.

It's Too Soon To Know wasn't a huge hit, but it sold surprisingly well considering the totally bugshit nature of the vocals. It also proved to be heavily influential for a young aspiring songwriter named Richard Lewis, who crashed his car into a grocery store the first time he heard it on the radio. Many say Lewis never recovered psychologically from the incident, but he did go on to form The Silhouettes, and pen the 1957 mega-hit Get a Job. That song introduced the stuttering, nonsensical vocal stylings that came to be known as doo-wop to the world.

Some purists and historians have argued that Get a Job was only a hit because Lewis' uncle owned the Junior Records label and made sure the song was played on Dick Clark's American Bandstand, which guaranteed it would be a hit among the easily-led youth of the day. Others might disagree, but the success of the 1959 hit Dog Barking in the Back Alley seems to lead credence to the theory, since the rare sound-effects single likely would not have reached #1 if it had not been featured on American Bandstand earlier that year.

Whatever the reason, Get a Job was a smash single, and Americans were quick to concede that if it's what everyone else was listening to, then they were into lyrics like "Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma" and colossally embarrassing bass singers, too.

Other bands smelled the money train and were quick to follow, solidifying doo-wop as a legitimate musical movement and a bad name for a hair salon. Not long after, The Marcels released the doo-wop manifesto Blue Moon in 1961, daring America to make sense of their statement of purpose: "Bom bom ba-bom ba-bom ba-bom bom ba-dang a lang lang a ding a dang ding Blue Moon…"

But by late 1961 doo-wop was beginning to lose it's luster, beginning with Barry Mann's hit Who Put the Bomp?, at which point fans began to suspect that the magic was gone and that doo-wop artists were just bullshitting them now. What began as a street movement had been exploited to the limits of credibility, and all of the bomps and sha-na-na's had begun to ring hollow.

By 1964 doo-wop was a mere ghost on the American musical landscape, as record-buyers turned away from the bubblegum of their youth and embraced the British Invasion of more vital artists, replacing their embarrassing Shep and The Limelites platters with the more mature pleasures of Manfred Mann's Do Wah Diddy Diddy. The rest, as they say, is history.

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