Fantastic Lies One Could Live With

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Peder C. Lund died last year. His company died with him.

I don’t expect many of you to know Peder (pronounced PAY-der). Only unless you’re the type that stockpiles nitro-glycerin and regularly dons camo fatigues on trips to the 7-11.

I didn’t know his name until recently. But many years ago, Peder and I crossed paths. I’ll go into that later. Right now I’ll (try to) describe the man and what he did in life.

Lund was the co-founder and owner of Paladin Press, founded in 1970 by Lund and a fellow Vietnam Green Beret, Robert K. Brown. This publishing firm, based in Boulder, Colorado, produced instructional books and videos with titles like How to Kill Tanks, The Revenge Encyclopedia, How to Shoot Your M16/AR-15 in Training and Combat, The Ultimate Sniper, How to Open Locks Without Keys or Picks

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Typical tacky Paladin Press book cover

You get the picture. Not long after the company’s founding, Brown sold his interest to Lund and started the comparatively tame Soldier of Fortune magazine (emphasis on “comparatively”).

Paladin Press specialized in how-to manuals about killing, in addition to more innocuous, garden-variety gun, ammo, and martial arts books. All were characterized by bad writing and tacky graphics. One of their more ivy-league and humorous publications is How to Get Rich as a Televangelist or Faith Healer. The author, one Bill Wilson (probably a pseudonym), claims his book teaches “how to tailor your message for maximum gain, and…weasel out of trouble when your lavish lifestyle or personal misconduct hits the fan.”

Snipers and televangelists. Like peanut butter and jelly.

Lund knew the makeup of his buyers, and he supplied their dope. Who were the buyers? Well, the government-phobic right wing, for starters. Venture to the fringe of this species, and you encounter a more dangerous sub-species. Insecure men; outsiders who find identity, acceptance, and machismo in paramilitary clubs… perpetually adolescent, excessively nationalistic, and probably racist; white males with survivalist obsessions, plagued with small minds and, if you believe some people, small genitals. And here and there, a few clinical sickos. Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh was a customer for Paladin’s Homemade C-4: A Recipe for Survival.

(I know what some of you are thinking: this pond scum seems to be everywhere these days).

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A skinny Lund trying to look macho on the cover of his buddy’s magazine

Lund did well as a publisher. He built an opulent man-castle in the Colorado foothills, complete with indoor fountain, his own forest in back (perfect for guerilla maneuvers), and an expansive view of downtown Boulder, a town populated by New Age hippies, health food junkies, and rock climbers. Lund went through four wives. He was an adored paterfamilias at Paladin, supposedly paying and treating his employees well, and each year he rewarded their loyalty with a free trip to Baja. On the outside, he cultivated the image of an average, common-sense, all-American small businessman.

Then in 1996, Lund and Paladin made national news. They were sued by a Maryland family who claimed a Paladin book called Hit Man: A Technical Manual for Independent Contractors was used by a contract killer, James Perry, in the assassination killings of three family members, including a quadriplegic boy, to get trust fund money. The case became a First Amendment cause cèlébre. The ACLU, New York Times, and Washington Post jumped to Paladin’s defense. The case went as high as the Supreme Court (which refused to hear it), and eventually was settled out of court, with the family receiving millions in damages.

Lund claimed he didn’t want to settle, but his insurance company pressed for it. Paladin destroyed all warehouse copies of Hit Man.

The author of Hit Man, who used the pseudonym “Rex Feral” (Rex is Latin for “king,” and feral means “wild”) was never implicated. Writer Karen Abbott was able to track down the real Rex Feral. It turns out she was a divorced mother of two who lived in a trailer park and got her ideas from TV, movies, and mystery novels… (Isn’t America great??). When Abbot pressed for a personal interview, the woman declined, saying she didn’t want to be a hero, “tragic or otherwise. I just want to sit on my rocker on my porch and tell my grandsons stories they’re certain are fantastic lies.”

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Paladin Press’s most notorious title

After the Hit Man case, Lund continued to publish his how-to books on killing, but the rise of web journalism gradually took the steam out of Paladin. He died on June 3, 2017 while on vacation in Finland. Paladin Press closed its doors this past December.

***

Earlier, I said that I once met Lund. Here’s what happened:

I was just out of school, confused about what I wanted to do, and living in Boulder. Back then, my road map was the beat classic On the Road, so I did a lot of tramping. I was returning to Boulder from Cheyenne, Wyoming. I was dirty and beat and just wanted to collapse on my bed in the boarding house. But my extended right thumb was getting windburned.

Just as the sun was dropping over the spires of the Rockies, a shiny Porsche passed, then eased into the gravel in front of me. I ran up, opened the door, and hopped in with a relieved “Thanks!” The guy looked about 40, with thick black hair and bushy eyebrows. Memory is fuzzy, but I think he was wearing several rings as big as halogen lamps. My impression was a conceited guy who liked to flaunt his wealth.

I’m reconstructing the conversation, but these are the basics:

“How far you headed?” he asks.

“Downtown Boulder’s fine,” I answer.

“I’m headed to a club about eight miles ahead,” he says. “Is that good?”

“Sure, that’s great,” I respond, inhaling his aromatic cologne. “Thanks.”

Then a brief, awkward silence, the kind that inevitably follows introductions between a driver and hitchhiker.

“Where do you work?” he asks.

“At Häagen-Dazs,” I respond sheepishly. “I just graduated, so I’m still trying to break into my field. Not easy with this recession.”

“What did you study?”

“Journalism.” More awkward silence. Then it’s my turn to break it.

“What kind of work do you do?” I ask.

“I own a publishing company.” My body sinks deeper in his bucket seat.

“Wow, imagine that!” I respond nervously, with thoughts of a possible job interview, but also feeling embarrassed that I scoop ice cream for a living.

The guy’s now smirking like he knows he’s hot shit. “Journalism, huh? My company’s called Paladin Press. Ever hear of it?”

Yes, I had. Only a few years earlier, I’d read a story by popular syndicated columnist Bob Greene about this controversial publishing company. Greene was relentless in his criticism. He basically eviscerated Paladin, but only after drawing, quartering, and decapitating.

“Actually, I think so,” I reply, maybe hoping he won’t ask where I’d heard about it. At this point, I’d snuffed any idea of a job interview.

“Where’d you hear?”

“Uh, Bob Greene.”

This response shatters Lund’s previously cool exterior. No longer James Bond, he becomes a raging Bill O’Reilly on amphetamine.

“That f#@*ing liberal bastard!!” he yells. “He came out here to interview me and $#!*#!$!@#…”

(I forget what all he sputtered, but he went on for a while).

After he quiets down, the remainder of the ride is silent. I can now smell perspiration and a little seething mixed with the cologne. He lets me out in the crowded parking lot of Boulder’s premier discotheque. I thank him, shut the door, and walk the rest of the way home.

***

Paladin Press may have had a Constitutional right to publish its death porn. The Supreme Court never rendered a verdict, so by now it’s a moot point. But there’s another law besides U.S. Constitutional law. A child pornographer may be innocent of rape when one of his readers rapes a child, but isn’t the pornographer an accessory? If not legally, then morally?

Like I said, memory isn’t foolproof. However, impressions and feelings are. And my feeling is the same now as on July 30, 1983, when I thanked Lund for the ride then slammed his car door.

I’m damn glad that I ruined his evening.

 

Denver Post

(photo by The Denver Post)

Cleveland Browns Finish Season at 0-16, and Fan Relocates to Cave in Patagonia

I don’t normally write about sports. I still remember that managing editor in Florida who informed me “Sports is to journalism what masturbation is to sex.”

But the post-holiday, mid-winter funk has left me without any intelligent material.

This post isn’t technically a “vent.” A venting implies that one is frustrated by something and needs to let off steam. But I gave up on the Cleveland Browns a long time ago, so there’s no steam left in the boiler.

Ah, yes. The Cleveland Browns. For those familiar with American football, even the name brings a chuckle.

The Browns just finished the 2017 football season with a sterling record of 16-0. Sixteen losses, zero wins.

Combined with last season, the Browns are 1-31 (the San Diego Chargers mercifully let them win by three points in their last game of 2016). Over the past three seasons, the Browns have compiled a record of 4-44. A team needs to put in a lot of overtime to produce a stench that toxic.

After the 2015 season, both the head coach (whatzizname) and general manager (whozit) were fired, after they posted a 3-13 record. I’m scratching my head why the current coach (dat udder guy) can retain his job after posting a 1-31 record. In the real world, he’d be polishing his LinkedIn profile and watching “Leave it to Beaver” reruns. But this is the National Football League.

Fans of the Browns are affectionately known as the Dawgs. I’m still not sure if the misspelling is intentional or not. For years, these fans have promulgated all sorts of reasons for the illness on Lake Erie. “We need a franchise quarterback.” “We need a new head coach.” “You build your team around the offensive line.” “The front office sucks.” “The owner cares more about soccer than football.” “It’s all Modell’s fault.” “We need to change our colors.”

The only solution that came close to working was after visionary owner Art Modell 🙂 moved the team to Baltimore in 1995 (where, of course, he won the Super Bowl). The city of Cleveland filed a lawsuit against the National Football League. It was then rewarded with a spanking new team, and three years later the Browns squeaked into one playoff game.

Playoffs?? Did I say playoffs?? That was 16 years ago, the longest playoff drought in pro football history. Essentially, the Browns are in the 19th year of a three-year rebuilding program.

The Browns at one time had an enjoyable rivalry with the nearby Pittsburgh Steelers. But you can’t sustain a rivalry when, since the dawn of the millennium, one team amasses a record of 32 wins and only five losses against the other team. That’s not a rivalry, it’s human bondage.

Since I’m not a fan anymore, I feel I can offer a refreshing outside opinion as to how this team can once again return to the playoffs (forget the Super Bowl… Donald Trump will win a Nobel Prize before the Browns ever reach the Super Bowl).

Boycott.

That’s right. History has numerous examples of how boycotting and civil disobedience lead to results. The big problem in Cleveland isn’t the Browns owner, front office, coaching staff, or players. It’s the fans. They’re sports whores. They’re loyal to a fault. Browns fans are maybe the best fans in all professional sports. But that’s not necessarily a good thing. They continue to buy tickets and merchandise despite the product being seriously flawed. It’s like driving around in an old Chevy Corvair long after the car has been declared a road hazard.

It’s time Browns fans ceased this perverted game of “Thank you, ma’am, may I have another?”

I live in Cincinnati, Ohio, which also has a professional football team (the Cincinnati Bengals sprouted from the Browns 50 years ago after Modell fired legendary Browns coach Paul Brown, who then drove down I-71 and started his own team). Unlike Cleveland, Cincinnati is a “fair weather” sports town. In other words, the fans are smart. They’re frugal and won’t purchase a flawed product. After 14 losing seasons, Bengal fans threw up their hands, then threw up, and stopped coming to games. So the owner, Mike Brown (Paul’s son), started investing in quality personnel, not long after he blackmailed the city into building him a new stadium.

Since then, the Bengals have reached the playoffs seven times. Of course, being the Bungles, they’ve lost the opening playoff game every time. But at least they’re not a punch line like their noodlehead neighbors up north.

Unfortunately, I don’t think Browns fans will ever follow Bengal fans’ lead. They wear their sports loyalties like Keith Richards wears eye liner, or Elton John wears a toupee. It’s a part of who they are. Without their beloved football team, they’d be lost. You can only visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame or troll for walleye on Lake Erie so many times on Sunday afternoons.

Earlier, I said I was no longer a Browns fan. Let me qualify that: I still have a place in my heart for that goddawful franchise. It was once a champion, in a faraway time, before many of you were born. The greatest athlete in history played for the Browns (running back Jim Brown). Best of all, they had northern Ohio native at quarterback (Bernie Kosar) who threw side-armed and ran like a drunken giraffe.

But I can’t watch them anymore. I’m even embarrassed to be seen in public wearing orange and brown (and this is a masochist who wore Browns clothing when Cleveland was without a team). I’d prefer to devote my loyalties to the meaningful things in life. Sports are fun, but hardly meaningful.

So I guess you could label me a “fair weather” fan. Which means that, these days, I’m not only closer in attitude to Cincinnati than Cleveland, but I’ve been waiting for torrential rains to stop for a long, long time.

Does it rain much in Patagonia??