'Wolf Files' Hits Bookstores

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Dracula, as he likes to be called, embraces his legacy, and as a renowned bloodsucker, harbors political aspirations and volunteers for the Red Cross. Rest assured, he wants your blood for a very good reason. Legendary "Gonzo" journalist Hunter S. Thompson has often said, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro," and I often question whether this applies to me or the people I've written about. I sometimes suspect my continued employment at is based on being a convenient place for other reporters to forward crank calls. I'm also reminded of words of Kurt Vonnegut Jr., who noted, "We are what we pretend to be. So we must be very careful what we pretend." All I can say is that these things really happened: One day the NHL lent the Stanley Cup to me and let me parade it through Central Park as a social experiment. Another time, I got to sit in a synagogue with Michael Jackson, to witness his first experience with Judaism. I noted in a 1999 installment of The Wolf Files that the King of Pop had the whitest skin in temple — and he loves bagels. Other experiences have been a mixed blessing. John Wayne Bobbitt called one Saturday night to brag about the cosmetic surgical enhancements on his one claim to fame. Your God is probably not my God — a 60-year-old out-of-work radio personality who was born Terrill Clark Williams and legally changed his name in 1980. The striking new sobriquet failed to inspire a following, even when he flashed his California driver's license and American Express card, both of which bear the name G-O-D. I earned God's wrath after he announced he was planning to sue the Los Angeles Times for taking his name in vane. After admitting that it was all a ploy to get some attention, I documented the incident in a February 2000 edition of The Wolf Files: "God's PR Scheme." God then proclaimed he was suing me. For weeks, he called relentlessly. No lawsuit emerged, and he eventually let the matter drop. God only knows what he's doing now. My dealings with Bozo were no laughing matter. When I first spoke to the man known as TV's most famous clown, a.k.a. Larry Harmon, he told me he regretted that he didn't become a doctor. A year later I found that Harmon was indeed a bozo, but certainly not the original Bozo — and you should never clown with history. Harmon had a disturbing practice, on occasion, of neglecting to credit Pinto Colvig, the clown who first appeared as Bozo on records and TV. His status at Milwaukee's International Clown Hall of Fame has subsequently been downgraded.