Author Archives: Zachary Klein

DECONSTRUCTION OF A POST

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I’d been having such a blast writing my INTERVIEWS WITH THE DEAD that I had begun considering using this space almost exclusively to develop and extend the form. Problem is, if I go by the number of readers who view Mondays’ posts, too many interviews too often, get boring. And the idea of boring is a writer’s worst nightmare. So I couldn’t put an interview on the docket for this week’s column.

Then what? This question usually pops up about twenty minutes after I’ve published my last post. I’m used to it and push the anxiety aside. I need the mind space to work on the fourth Matt Jacob book, TIES THAT BLIND. Also, if Mondays are publishing days, Tuesdays are music days. It takes me a fair amount of time to practice the sax, and prepare for my lesson and ensemble hours at MusicMakerStudios. That “performance” comes fully equipped with its own anxiety; what I lack in talent I try to make up for with work—which often isn’t terribly successful.

But Tuesdays are always fun days and nights, which is very much the calm before the storm. Wednesday morning, my Monday worries are in full bloom. This past week I struggled to engage, to find myself interested enough in a topic to write about. I thought about reviewing Hugo Chavez’s legacy, but everywhere I looked interesting articles about him–pro or con–were everywhere. I couldn’t imagine writing anything that could conceivably change anyone’s mind, so why bother? Felt like I’d be talking to myself.

I return to the newspaper and go through three days of ink but nothing jumps so I reconsider another interview. Desperation move, I think. Like I said, too much repetition makes for a drag. I tell myself I have plenty of time and that worrying won’t help my subconscious churn something out. After all, if an idea doesn’t come from current events, the arts, or other externals, it’s got to rise up from the deep. I’ve always believed that consciousness is the last stop for information, not the first—let’s hope it’s true this week.

Another two days pass and it’s Friday. The Northeast gets whacked with yet another snowstorm, while I pour over my copy of Baseball Prospectus, hungry for the season to begin. Ahh, an idea, perhaps? PLAY BALL!! A review of my Arizona trips to Spring Training? An analysis of the Red Sox? Uhh, I think not. Can’t imagine anyone interested in baseball after shoveling their cars out from another foot of snow. Even if the post is three days away. Around here, three days just means you’re no longer allowed to save your parking space with chairs or trash barrels.

Not a good idea to eliminate all my northeast readership. I just can’t count on Wyoming to flesh out the numbers.

Late Friday afternoon and head-banging time. The walls are moving closer and closer together and I’m scrambling to find a way out. I got to find a way to chill.

Break out the bourbon.

I’d like to say that one swallow opened the door but it didn’t. Two swallows though, cleared my mind enough to begin thinking. I considered a piece on Benedict’s abdication and the upcoming conclave. But we all know why Benedict really resigned and can only suspect which definition of damage control and conserving Empire the conclave will send up along with their white smoke.

It’s Saturday morning and too early for more alcohol.

Okay, Klein, you’ve been doing this for a couple of years now. You’re either all dried up or you ain’t thinking. I prefer the latter so I’m gonna either stare at a blank computer screen or beat this horse into talking. (Before animal advocates get too angry, the horse I’m talking about is me.)

The horse finally talked. “Write about the struggle you’re having this week with the column, but make it interesting!”

Damn horse sounded like Captain Pickard: “Make it so!” But in truth, the idea caught my fancy. Why shouldn’t you share my tsouris? Or, more writerly put, why not share my weekly process? This was an idea I could get behind. Just recount the truth. Write about the mishigas I go through every time I sit down to write my post. On top of which, this week was perfect since it was an “I got nothing” five days, a day of writing, then Sunday to turn this into a coherent article.

So here it is, my friends. A look inside my past week of writing—or nonwriting, as it were. I suppose I could finish by reciting various “Win one for the Gipper” homilies, but truth is, I’m left with only one head-scratcher: People want to know why writers drink?

You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.— Dean Martin

LOOKING FOR MR. O

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  I’m not a detective, though I have made one up. But this week I’ve been re-reading the Oscar tweets and Matt Jacob (http://zacharykleinonline.com/matt-jacob-ebooks/) invaded my head. Who the hell was this Oscar fellow?  Was there a real man behind the little gold? Since this year was the Awards’ 85th birthday, Oscar Sr. would no longer be with us, but that’s no problem for the man who interviews the dead. Or so I thought.

My first call went to Louis B. Mayer who initiated the awards in 1927.

Me:  “Mr. Mayer? My name is Zachary Klein and I have a series…”

Mayer:  “You think I’m stupid? Word gets around. You interview the dead—and it’s about damn time that you finally fucking called.”

Me:  “I’m sorry but I didn’t call to interview you—today, that is. Of course you are on my list.”

If I had a list.

Mayer:  “Then why the hell you bothering me? You think I got gornisht to do?  Down here, we’ve always got deals to make and people to fire!”

Me:  “I’m looking for the person the Oscar was named after and thought you would know.”

Mayer:  “You dug me up to ask that?”

Me:  “Mr. Mayer, I haven’t dug you up. It’s a telephone call.”

Mayer:  “Not that big a difference when you’re busy or sleeping, dammit!”

My temper got the better of me.

Me:  “Fuck it, I’ll find someone else.”

Mayer:  “Don’t get your shwartz twisted. It was either Bette Davis who said the damn statue looked like her uncle or columnist Sid Skolsky who claims he stole it from an old music hall joke with the tagline, ‘Will you have a cigar, Oscar?’  Frankly, I don’t give a damn and don’t know why you do either.”

I thought about explaining but his attitude continued to piss me off.

Me:  “Well, I appreciate the information and will let you go.”

Mayer:  “You coming back?”

Me:  “If you’ll let me.”

Mayer: “We’ll see.”

I guess what people say about old time movie moguls is true. They are pricks. Still, I had two leads and I didn’t need a weatherman to tell me who I was going to contact first.

No easy do. The administrators at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood Hills were a tough crew to get past and it took my interview with Richard lll before they accepted my bone fides as an interviewer of the dead. Or maybe they were just impressed that I flew out there despite their repeated refusals. No matter, I was finally sitting on the flat stones in front of her grave-site monument. 

Divas aren’t an easy get either. But if I learned anything writing novels and chasing dead people, I’d learned persistence.

I started off with my usual calling card but nada. Then tried raising my voice. Worse, the afternoon was creeping toward 5 o’clock, when I had agreed to leave. Then I remembered going with my grandmother to her first husband’s grave-site. She’d find a few rocks to tap on his stone. Although I kept a “safe” distance, after a few moments of knocking, Grandma engaged in animated conversations.

Why not? But even finding stones was difficult, given the care the groundskeepers gave these VIPs. Once I finally wedged a couple of pebbles from the ground I began tapping away like a woodpecker. That is, until I heard a throaty voice chuckle, “Not so loud, Darling. You’re waking the dead,!”

Me:  “Is that you, Ms. Davis?”

Davis:  “Who else were you expecting?”

She emerged from the white marble and I caught my breath. Don’t know what I expected—perhaps it was because I had recently interviewed Richard III—but she was drop-dead gorgeous. Tiny, flashing blue eyes, in a striking black and grey dress, black gloves and hat.

Davis:  “Where are we going, Sweetheart?”

Me:  “Actually I promised to leave and have you back inside by five.”

Davis:  “But I began dressing when you first shouted. You do have an awfully loud voice.”

Me:  “Just trying to get your attention.”

Davis:  “Well, you have it—though apparently not for long. What is it you want?”

I knew she was upset about not leaving the grounds so I quickly explained why I’d come and told her what Mayer had recounted.  She burst out laughing.

Davis:  “Louie. What a pip! Was he smoking one of those foul smelling cigars?”

Me:  “We were on the phone.”

Davis:  “He took your call. I’m impressed. You really must have a knack for this line of work.”

Me:  “Not a lot of competition. So, was Mr. Meyer accurate about how Oscar got his name? That you said the statue looked like your uncle?”

Davis:  “Ahh, I guess we’re all growing old. Louie always remembered everything but not anymore. I never had an Uncle Oscar. That comment was made by Margaret Herrick, the Academy librarian. You tell me whether you’ve ever seen a statue named after a librarian’s uncle?

Now, my first husband’s middle name was Oscar, but all I ever said was that the statue’s ass looked like his. Ham was a wonderful musician, but nobody ever named anything after his behind.”

Me:  “What about the Sydney Skolsky story? Do you know whether that was true?”

Davis’s lips curled in obvious contempt.

Davis: “‘Will you have a cigar, Oscar?’  Please. Louie must be losing it cooped up for so long. He probably offered mini-Winchell one of his.”

Me:  “‘mini-Winchell?”

Davis:  “A nasty small minded man who used Schwabb’s for an office once he came out here. He’s nothing but a self-serving liar. Just look at his Times Square Tintypes.”

Me:  “So no cigar, no uncle, and not your husband. His middle name is just a coincidence?”

Davis:  “Just a coincidence. Frankly, Darling, nobody really knows why that award is named Oscar and nobody ever will.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was time. Ms. Davis noticed.

Davis:  “You’re ready to leave, aren’t you?”

I saw Security walking in our direction.

Me:  “I promised and they’re going to hold me to it.”

Davis looked over my shoulder with a half-smile.

Davis:  “I’ve been known to cause a fuss, but today I’ll just go for the dramatic exit.”

I left Forest Lawn and debated hunting for Sydney Skolsky. I asked myself what Matt Jacob would do and a voice crashed through my head. “Some mysteries are better left unsolved! You just heard Bette Davis tell you that a statue’s ass looked like her husband’s. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

 

MR. OSCAR’S TWITTERVERSE

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RED CARPET E TV:

ME:  Has a mani-cam which allows celebrities to show their fingernails.  Why discriminate against foot folks?  Where is the pedi-cam?

Tristan ?@TristanAriel:  Bradley Cooper mom is a real philly chick talking bout “hi philadelphia” on the red carpet lol.

Vulture ?@vultureThe @fuggirls: “The nipple darts on Hathaway’s dress are INTENSE.”Henry Schulman ?@hankschulman:  If I were on the red carpet and was asked “whom I was wearing” I could honestly say, “Why, this is from the house of Kirkland.”

Adam Goldenberg ‏@adamgoldenberg: The #Oscars are about to be overrun by millions of dogs, all drawn to the sound of Kristin Chenoweth’s voice.

THE OSCAR’S:

Kyle Challancin ‏@itsapear: IT’S HAPPENING. IT’S STARTING. I CAN’T BREATHE.

ME:  This ain’t your father’s Oscars. Which actresses showed their boobs in movies? A flying nun tonguing Sally Fields??

@HuffingtonPost: “I got a bottle of wine and some Boniva..” Seth MacFarlane as Flying Nun hits on Sally Field #Oscars” Funniest line so far.

Beth ?@thecoolbeth:  My mom just called me and asked “who is Seth MacFarlane.”

Thomas ?@thoscarpenter:  Tommy Lee Jones’s face looks like a relief map of the ocean floor.

Diane Sharp ?@DSharpie:  Bob DeNiro for pretending to be an Eagles fan. Even Philadelphians can’t do that anymore.

Michael J. Listner ?@ponder68@MarsTweep:   Better to watch #thewalkingdead. At least the zombies are fiction unlike those at #oscars.

Roger Ebert ‏@ebertchicago:  My four stars for the breath-taking vision of “Life of Pi.” http://dld.bz/ckhJM

erica ‏@futt:  who decided it would be a good idea to play off the “life of pi” team with the “jaws” music?

Tom Storch ‏@TomRStorch:  Best Bond: George Lazenby. So good he only needed to do one.

Anuya J ‏@boozeandshooze:  Wow that Bond montage was as long as Les Mis.

Sabrina Kalliope ‏@SawBreeNah:  I want to be a Bond Girl. I’m doing lunges right now.

jess. ‏@JessWolfy:  is it sad that i only like watching the #oscars for all the #prettydresses?

michael epps ‏@michael_epps:  Dame Shirley in the house!

Mark Estano ‏@mje1986: The Bond retrospective just proved that Daniel Craig is the sexiest Bond girl ever.

Ben Bavalia ‏@ben_bav:  Enjoying the use of #Jaws soundtrack to force the winners off!

mazie jacoby ‏@mazmaxjac:  I’m only alive to watch the #oscars and Olympic gymnastics. And listen to Bob Dylan.

El Jefe ‏@jefesural  Best Doc or ‘life is far more horrid than you know so we’re making a movie about it’.

Brit Tait Kellogg ‏@BTaitKellogg RT @WINonline: RT @WSJ:  The median age of an Academy voter is 62. They are 94% Caucasian and 77% male. http://on.wsj.com/WkLaju 

Gregg Pavone ‏@LimelightSignCo:  If he doesn’t win best director, Ben Affleck should get an honorary Oscar for overcoming the J-Lo years.

Alex Fitzpatrick ‏@alexleefitz:  I’m an asshole and even I think the Jaws playoff music is a little much.

Steve Hofstetter ‏@SteveHofstetter:  Sacha Baron Cohen went from Borat and Bruno to kicking ass in Les Mis. I’d like to see Larry the Cable Guy try that.

George-Anne A&E ‏@GeorgeAnneAandE:  Poor Marky Mark was in “The Departed” a few years ago and is now having to pretend to be standing next to a teddy bear.

Shelby Taylor ‏@ShelbyxPwns:  Not gonna lie, Ted is fucking my mind right now.

Love My Ice ‏@harglo123:  Jesus, couldn’t get a tux to fit, Wahlberg??

Tyler Vivian ‏@tylervivian:  even Bud Selig is appalled that the #Oscars can have a tie.

Brendan Andrew ‏@BrendanDarr:  Dudes with long hair haven’t gotten this much run since Almost Famous.

Joy Noelle ‏@JoNoSo:  Soooo if you have a long speech you get eaten by a shark?

Konrad Johnson ‏@KonradJohnson:  The last #oscars tie was in 1969, when Barbra Streisand and Katharine Hepburn tied for Best Actress.

Mitch Kinard ‏@mitchkinard:  One day, Tarantino will be 80 years old, and there will never be a more terrifying underbite to receive such acclaim.

Charles Mayaka ‏@TheMayaka:  Are we that sensitive to our history that we can’t even have a clip of Django?

Jordana Stein ‏@jordanastein:   All the old people at our oscar party just died over Babs performance.

On The Red Carpet ‏@OnTheRedCarpet:  That was the first time Barbra Streisand performed at the Oscars in 36 years.

MT @waitwait:  I know there’s probably a rule or something, but don’t you wish the tiger from Life of Pi was there in a tuxedo?

Zandile Blay Amihere ‏@zandile:  i will always be profoundly confused by renee zelleweger’s face. always.

Dennis Lawson ‏@gr33nazn:  Just 2 more Botox injections and Renee Zellweger’s eyes will disappear forever.

Tom + Lorenzo® ‏@tomandlorenzo:  Chicago is now the frontrunner to win Best Picture.

Tom Bodett ‏@TomBodett:  I’d like to go up to bed, but my legs are asleep all the way to my ears.

nick kroll ‏@nickkroll:  Ladies and gentlemen, the academy would like to recognize one of everything!

Well folks, my legs are working but, in my attempt to bring you an overview of pop culture, I was able to watch this mind-numbing exercise until 11 P.M.–one hour longer than last year.

Must have been the naked breast song at the beginning of the show.

 

“MAKE IT WORK!”

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It’s an understatement to say I’m not a fashionista. It’s an overstatement to suggest that I spend any real time picking my clothes. I may know about Dior and Michael Kors and Lagerfeld, but my real designers are Champion and Fruit Of The Loom. My daily wear consists of sweats and sweatshirts unless I have to leave the house–in jeans and a variation of a t-shirt.

So what’s a schlub doing watching Project Runway for ten years? Certainly not for Heidi Klum’s Auf Wiedersehen as she thins the herd of wannabe clothing designers. Tim Gunn’s warmth has started to feel pro forma and his wardrobe choices bizarre. Worse, I really don’t like Nina Garcia, the longest lasting judge.

There’s more to dislike. The fact that producers have input on who stays and who goes, based, I’m sure, more upon the personality of particular contestants than merit. That’s a big one. Also their decisions about who stays and goes based upon that single week’s showing as opposed to a body of work over time—or so they say.

What draws me to Project Runway is my opportunity to watch the creative process. Sure, I can read a great book and marvel at the author’s creativity. Same with movies, plays, art, and good TV (which is not an oxymoron). But those things are done deals, finished products to admire and analyze from the outside. Following the process of creation—complete with its ideas, false starts, aha moments, adjustments, is endlessly fascinating—be it designing clothes, cooking (The Iron Chef), house renovation (Property Brothers), or even the art of the sale (Selling New York, etc) continues to be one of my greatest pleasures. It makes me feel better struggling with my job of channeling it from within.

Another example: Tuesdays I go to Music Maker Studios (http://musicmakerstudios.com/) for my sax lesson followed by a session playing in an ensemble. There are times when one or the other of our group really gets it going and improvises the hell out of a song. Just listening makes me incredibly happy. It’s as if a muse is in their head. Which it probably is since my best writing occurs when I’m just scribbling down the movie in my mind.

Somewhat similar, I remember watching a YouTube clip of a policeman in the middle of a crazy busy intersection on his box and using his arm signals and body motions as if conducting a world class orchestra. Perhaps he was. What is certain is everyone who passed him by caught at least a glimpse of “performance art.” Call me crazy, but I find moments like that spiritually uplifting.

The point? Exposing myself to others’ creative processes is nourishment for my own. My Tuesday nights will never turn me into a Stan Getz, but I’ve listened and learned to play better. And more importantly, write better.

Years ago, I wrote a post, “Writing From The Heart,” (http://zacharykleinonline.com/personal-experience/writing-from-the-heart/) which was an attempt to identify the place my best writing comes from. That column still holds true, but I’ve learned through music, the cop (and Heidi) that immersing myself in other peoples’ creativity enhances and informs my own.

What’s nice about this realization is its compatibility with my political beliefs. We really don’t stand alone as individuals but are interconnected to others. We build upon and are inspired by people who came before or work beside us in ours and other fields. Seems like a simple idea, but in these Randian times even simple gets blowback.

Sadly, all too many in the arts would vociferously defend their work as theirs. And it is, though from where I sit, never only theirs.

So fellow writers and artists, musicians and policemen, and everybody who gives a shit about being creative—you are not alone. It makes sense to remember that. Makes all the solitude a little easier to take.

“Your chances of success are directly proportional to the degree of pleasure you derive from what you do.” Michael Korda

“…MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE”

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The telephone woke me out of a deep sleep so I was annoyed.

“Who the hell is this?

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m calling from Great Britain and, due to circumstances, had to ignore the time difference. I do so apologize.”

“Who are you and what’s so important?”

He told me his name, asked me not to publish it, but to refer to him as a representative of The Richard lll Society.

“What does anyone from The Richard lll Society want with me?”

“Mr. Klein…”

“Zach, please.”

“Zach. It’s not just anyone who wants to speak to you. Indeed, no one from the Society, actually.”

“Then why the wake-up call?”

“Mr., excuse me, Zach. You must have read about the recent discovery of Richard III’s remains.”

“Yes?”

“His Majesty has requested that we immediately fly you to the University of Leicester for an audience. An interview, if you will.”

That got me off my back and sitting up as Sue cocked her head quizzically.

“Me?”

“His Majesty has enjoyed your Interviews With The Dead Series and believes you to be fair, and willing to present his words accurately.”

“It’s going to take some time to make arrangements…”

“Everything has been taken care of. In fact, your plane to Birmingham Airport leaves at 6 A.M. There will be a car at your house in about, about an hour and a half. I’ll meet you at Birmingham and we’ll drive directly to the University.”

After I hung up, I felt a wave of annoyance at his, their, presumption that I’d be willing to just pick up and leave.  It quickly passed as I realized how right they’d been. It’s good to be the King–even if you’ve been dead for 528 years.

THE INTERVIEW:

Exhausted from a five-hour transcontinental cram of British history, I sat in a quiet room  in one of the University’s libraries. Then the king was wheeled in on a cart.

Richard lll:  “Thoust form appears as I feel–bone tired.”

Me:  “You’re worse for wear, I’d say. Will we be able to conduct the interview in modern English? It would make it much easier for me and my readers.”

Richard lll:  “Of course. I’ve spent many years quietly listening to the world change above me. Though I must warn you, I might slip into a few ‘thou’s’ and other common phrases used during my lifetime. Centuries old habits are quite difficult to break.”

Me: Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ve certainly been following your excavation with great interest…”

Richard lll:  “They really did a marvelous job. Just their persistence was quite amazing–especially given my reputation. Or, the slander of my reputation, that is.”

Me:  “All of it?”

Given who/what I had as an interviewee, I had no facial expressions to help decipher emotional undertones. I’d have to rely on his voice to glean what his feelings might be.

Richard lll:  “That’s actually quite a difficult question. ‘Tis true I was forced to kill to acquire the Crown, but it truly was my Crown to acquire. It wasn’t I who decided that the True and Honorable King Edward lV’s marriage to Elizabeth was illegal. Nor was it I who declared their children illegitimate and barred from succession.”

Me:  “But you did murder several people on your way to the Crown.”

Methinks I hear a royal chuckle.

Richard lll:   “And all the wars, assassinations, ‘regime building’ since?’ Is that not murder to wear a Crown? Truly, I did kill four people. Hardly a slaughter and faced no other opposition to my crowning. It was that damnable Shakespeare, or should I say Edward de Vere, that frightened Earl who wouldn’t even disclose his name, who truly turned me into a monster. Which, of course I wasn’t. I repeat, four people. ‘Tis thus a slaughter? Dost that suggest mass opposition to my Kingship? How is it that few will acknowledge that my ascendency halted a potential civil war?”

I was still stuck by his calling Shakespeare Edward de Vere.

Me:  “The Earl of Oxford?”

Richard lll:   “The 17th Earl of Oxford to be precise. Of course it was de Vere who turned me into a deformed hunchback with a withered arm. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.’ My Posterior–if I still had one. Lies, all lies, though well written lies, I must admit. Surely you don’t think an uneducated minstrel could write about me–scurrilous as the writing might be. Or perhaps you believed it to be Marlowe?”

Clearly Shakespeare, or de Vere, touched a royal nerve. If he still had any.

Me:  “I’ve never had a horse in that race.”

Richard lll:   “Thou means?”

Me:  “I was never concerned by who wrote Shakespeare’s work.”

Richard lll:  “Perhaps if you had been subject to hundreds of years of relentless attacks due to de Vere’s vicious fictions, you might have had, as you say, ‘a steed in that race.’

Me:  “So you deny murdering your nephews too?”

Richard lll:   “Deny? Of course I deny! Think, please. History is in the eye of who writes it and it was that ever-scheming Henry and his minions who did the writing. The Tudors’ rumoured and schemed and plotted throughout every day of my reign. Who would you expect to be accused?”

His bones began to rattle as his fury mounted.

Richard lll:  “Think! Why would I kill them? They were no threat to me; I was the legitimate Monarch. I was close to their mother Elizabeth throughout my entire reign, my entire life! Now, think again! Who were they a threat to? To Henry! Is it not surprising that no formal accusation was ever made? Henry never even produced the bodies of the dead princes for public mourning and a state funeral. Why not, if they had been slain by my hand? Because it was Henry’s henchmen who murdered them! Yes, Henry VII even brought a Bill of Attainder against me, yet no mention of the princes was made. Curious, n’est pas?

Me:  “How could Henry have killed them, King Richard?”

Richard lll:  “I would most certainly suggest that those who want the truth, and can handle the truth, take a close look at John Russell, my oft disloyal Chancellor. The mistake I made was simply ridding the Court of his person–instead of the earth!  But then de Vere and all his eloquent lies…”

Me:  “You certainly hate him, don’t you?”

Richard lll:  “Of course! He turned my hunger of justice, my reformation of our legal system, my love of country so grand I was willing to die for it into a distortion of me and my life. Even a cursory glance at my short reign will show my losses, sacrifices, my attempt to keep peace that went for naught. No English Monarch has died on the battlefield since I!

Me:  “There certainly has been a distortion about what you looked like, if this facial reconstruction is at all accurate.”

Richard lll:  “It’s quite accurate. As is the fact that while my posture was not true, I was certainly no hunchback. But I really must return to the ugliest stain upon my reputation. The princes. While true that recent historians at least argue about the truth, it took a mystery writer to discern it. Yes, The Daughter of Time, though incorrect about the murderer, speaks to my complete innocence.”

Me:  “You read The Daughter Of Time?”

Richard lll:  “Listened. A book on tape, as the moderns say.”

Me:  “Well, I certainly understand your concern about those murders if what you’re saying is to be believed.”

Richard lll:  “If!. If? If I were still among the living I’d…Dammit, man, read Sir Clements Markham. Read Horace Walpole. Read Jeremy Potter. Yes, read Josephine Tey!  If you still have doubts, return and again we shall talk.”

I could hear his weariness and decided to respect it.

Me:  “If I might be permitted one last question?”

Richard lll:  “Most assuredly.”

Me:  There seems to be a fight brewing about where to place your remains. Leicester wants to re-inter you in the city’s cathedral, but York is petitioning to have you there. Do you have a preference?

Richard lll:  “After all this time, how could I not? Though I can’t blame modern Leicester for my horrific squashed burial box, and the University did take the time to find me, I prefer York. It is my homeland and where I belong. Though I imagine they’ll do with me what they wish. I’m used to that.”

Me:  “Thank you for this interview King Richard. I never expected it.”

Richard lll:  “‘Tis a pleasure Klein, if only for an opportunity to stretch my legs. I do fervently hope you’ll be clear about de Ville’s monstrous lies. They have kept me awake for half a millennium.

‘The caricature of the last Plantagenet king was too grotesque, and too grossly opposed to the character derived from official records. The stories were an outrage on commonsense…My own conclusions are that Richard III must be acquitted on all counts of the indictment.’  Sir Clements Markham (1906)

‘Richard proved himself an energetic and efficient king’ with a proper concern for justice and the impartial administration of the law. ‘No one familiar with the careers of King Louis XI of France, in Richard’s own time, or Henry VIII of England in his own country, would wish to cast any special slur on Richard, still less to select him as the exemplar of a tyrant’. Charles Ross (1981)