Bill Cooper’s singular vision spanned the full gamut of American strangeness. Each of Cooper’s passions—extraterrestrials, secret societies, the militia world—opens its own rabbit hole. Such underground exploration requires guidance.
I must first thank Doyel Shamley, current Apache County (Arizona) District Three supervisor. Along with his cohort at The Hour of the Time, Rob Houghton, Doyel opened the Cooper archives to me and put up with a million questions, which he often wasn’t all that keen on answering. Doyel and his fantastic partner, Eva Wilson, welcomed my wife and me into their home in Eagar and showed us a heck of a good time. Plus, Doyel taught us Brooklyn liberals to shoot, a skill that might come in handy when the jackbooted storm troopers Cooper always feared come for us.
Members of Cooper’s various families, including his ex-wives Janice Pell and especially Sally Phillips, a grand soul, were kind enough to share their memories of the man. Thanks to Tony Pell, Cooper’s only son, who spoke forthrightly about the father he never really knew. I am most indebted to Jessica Caulboy, the daughter Cooper had with Sally Phillips. Jessica and I spent many hours talking, and it was always an interesting and rewarding experience. She has a lot of heart. You go girl, because no matter what happens, you remain all aces to me.
I must acknowledge Cooper’s last family, his wife Annie, and daughters Dorothy (Pooh) and Allyson. I know you only through the lens of what Bill said about you, but like many Hour of the Time listeners, I feel close to you.
I spoke with many people about Bill Cooper’s uneasy passage through this world. All were insightful, no matter how they felt about the man whose life I was chronicling. Let me express my gratitude to Apache County residents Dr. Scott Hamblin and his lovely family, Glenn Jacobs (keep those e-mails coming, Glenn!), Nolan Udall, Deke Robart, and former Apache County Sheriff Art Lee. Thanks, too, to the people of the Safire Restaurant, the Round Valley Public Library, the Springerville Heritage Center, and the great Sugar Shack restaurant in Concho. Also thanks to Western Drug in Springerville, for having everything any sane person might need to buy.
In the ufology community, many people offered highly amusing, if bitter, memories of their onetime fellow traveler. First and foremost is John Lear, one of the most fascinating people in the world to talk to about almost anything. Great thanks to my friend Jeremy Kenyon Lockyer Corbell, filmmaker and modern-day Renaissance man, who provided the lay of the extraterrestrial landscape.
Additional commentary came from the always-thoughtful Norio Hayakawa as well as Linda Moulton Howe, Jacques Vallée, Stanton Friedman, the great raconteur Bill Birnes, Timothy Green Beckley (a prince), Jack Womack, and Don Ecker, whose outraged tales of Cooper were most damningly hilarious.
Thanks a ton to rapper William Cooper née Andrew Kissel, a man with a fierce intelligence and gentle soul. He and his producer, BP, are the sort of artists worth seeking out. The testimony of Killah Priest of the Wu-Tang cosmos, was illuminating. Thanks, too, to the late Prodigy, one of the all-time-classic New York rappers, whose insights into Behold a Pale Horse and its meaning were invaluable. This is not to forget the unforgettable Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
Thanks to those who gave me their time, including the estimable Steven Hager and Busy Bee, who inducted me into the Pot Illuminati; Allan Weiner, the classic pirate radioman; former FBI agent Steve Fillerup; patriot chronicler Gary Hunt; and Paul Krassner, one of my all-time heroes. The late composer Philip Lambro was kind enough to speak with me about his friend Cooper.
Let me give special shout-outs to Bro. Nova and the booksellers of 125th Street; the historians of the Five-Percent Nation; podcast maestro Chris Murrow; Melody O’Ryin Swanson, the publisher of Behold a Pale Horse; and especially Anthony Hilder, to whom I could listen to all day long.
I’d also like to extend best wishes to the crew at the Skills and Research Conference held by Doyel Shamley. Mike V., Scott G., Chris R., Stephen, Jesse, and the rest: It was a time. Big thanks to the late Jerry Etchey. RIP to Fred Otero, the greatest backwoods caterer ever. Thanks also to Tom Lasala, who will always send up a joyful noise, however dark and raw.
As for the compilation of this book, several people need to be mentioned. These must start with my agent, Flip Brophy of Sterling Lord, and continue to my longtime friend and coconspirator David Rosenthal, who originally signed the book up at his Blue Rider imprint. At Dutton, John Parsley, Brent Howard, and Cassidy Sachs were key in bringing the project to light.
But, in the teasing out of the original manuscript, one man stands alone. That is Will Blythe, aka Roy Tarpley. Our weekly conversations were certainly among the highlights of this entire process. As you know, Roy, be you buried in Siberia or lording over City Island, you are my kindred spirit, always.
No book by me could ever exist without the presence of my family and friends. It was a lucky day when I married my wife, Nancy Cardozo, in 1980, on the historically dense date of April 20. Our three children, Rae, Rosie, and Billy, now all grown up, offered much trenchant commentary on the writing process. They know more than me now, which is the idea. This is not to forget the new granddaughter, Alice.
It is always good to know who your friends are, and in this case, my buddies remain steadfast. The evening that the great NYC man of letters Michael Daly and godfather Jonny Buchsbaum came over to read through parts of the manuscript on deadline night will forever touch my heart. Photographer James Hamilton, truly a friend indeed, came through, as he always does. Carl Gettleman offered amusing advice on Cooper and the whole “conspiracy” genre. Shout-outs to Captain Christina Brown and Mike Bell for friendship and a sweet writer’s retreat, ditto to my sister Paula Jacobson, always the greatest. Thanks also to Carol Cardozo for explaining outsider electronics and Claire Curtis for the pulp UFO book collection. Ditto George Cardozo, the artist. That’s not to forget Dan Christian and “conspiracy corner” at the KGB Bar.
In the end though, the greatest debt is to Milton William Cooper himself, the biggest rabbit hole of them all. Brilliant, tortured, prescient, duplicitous, lover, and hater, he was what he always wanted to be: an American.