Geoffrey Gray's Blog, page 6

Symposium day is here

Ninety minutes to go folks, getting in the shower. Already, Cooper sleuths are arriving. See you soon.

Happy 40th!

Who would of thought Cooper sleuthing could turn into fine wordsmithing?

Presenting "Leap of Faith," by the infamous dropzone.com poster known to many of us as 377. Here more from him at the Symposium at the Portland Hilton this Saturday.

Two choices,

not four.

Useless reserves,

on the floor.

NB8 or old Pioneer?

To one in the know,

The choice is clear.

Door to hell?

Or stairway to heaven?

A pull from the step,

And he rolls a seven.

Goddamned rigger

Such a hard pull.

Good old C9

Opening full.

Something wrong,

Cords are straining.

A snap and a pop,

Twenties are raining.

The poem to beat is in…

Presenting "Nun of the Above," by Farflung.

Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, today is folklore,
Last year is history, like forty before.
So stop what you're doing, give your brain a long rest,
Hear a tale of great daring, from the Pacific Northwest.

He dressed all in black, with a long skinny tie,
He looked just like anyone, a regular guy.
He asked for a ticket, a twenty in hand,
One way to Seattle, my first name is Dan.

Off to the gate, he would blend with the crowd,
Sit and have a few smokes, back then that was allowed.
His eyes were quite dark, and filled up with hate,
Northwest just announced, his flight would be late.

It started to gust, began pouring rain,
It would only get worse, for that three engine plane.
Now chiseled in history, not some dark archive,
Is a skydive of infamy, from Flight 305.

He sat in the back, the very last row,
He gave his instructions, and wouldn't ya know.
The Stewardess ignored them, this killed the whole plot,
She thought he was flirting, because she was hot.

He stood from his seat, took off his raincoat,
Said to her flatly, you should read that note.
All right sir she said, with an audible hiss,
It said I've got a bomb, come sit next to me miss.

He showed her his package, thoughts raced through her head,
What are all those things, and why are they red?
He said I'm in charge now, this is my last stand,
Get four parachutes, and two hundred grand.

She went to the galley, the note she would show,
To another Attendant, named Tina Mucklow.
She was blonde and soft spoken, and now a subplot,
Cuz Tina is gorgeous, I mean smokin' hot.

She talked to the stranger, he said what to do,
Now go to the front, and tell all the crew.
Tina went to the cockpit, to see Captain Scott,
I hope that I mentioned, that she's scorching hot.

Now land in Seattle, and pick up the chutes,
Tina will get them, in her Go-Go boots.
Then outside again, to pick up the money,
This also was done, by 305's honey.

She brought him a drink, and lit up his smokes,
He sipped at the bourbon, and took a few tokes.
Now Tina was stuck, in the worst of nightmares,
When he said, OK miss now open those stairs.

She did as instructed, and did it just right,
For the pilots could see, the small flashing light.
They stared at each other, not one word was spoken,
That light said it all, the aft stairs were open.

Now Cooper just jumped, into the cold air,
The first to have used, those little known stairs.
Some blame it on Nam, or President Nixon,
The answer's much closer, with 305's vixen.

She turned down his money, when he offered some,
Would soon join a convent, and be a hot nun.
What can be learned, from this history and lore?
Even with two hundred grand, some guys still…just can't score.

Mr. Cooper—yet another poem for you

This submission in from Heather Myers, entitled simply Mr. Cooper. Two days left to submit your entries to the official 40th anniversary D.B. Cooper poetry contest.



Mr. Cooper, what is your real name?

Did you know that when you jumped that night

You would parachute to fame?

That your legend is celebrated even today?

That your name, the one we know, meets my lips when I pray?

And I know in my heart you got away

It can only be said and it can only be now

How one man turned this country upside down

It rained that night but he took flight

Who knew what he felt before taking that step

I wonder if he worried he'd lose the bet

But he didn't bat an eye

He fell into the sky

It can only be then but it can never be now

I wonder how life would have turned out if he had never been around

I wonder if he counted the stars up in the sky

I wonder if the moon provided enough light

But he pushed all those worries aside

He fell into the sky

It can only be soon because it used to be now

I'm sitting outside immersed in the dark

Watching the swings move at my favorite park

And just for tonight, I'm going to help you hide

And you can be mine as the stars shine bright

Now it's clear you're really here

Special Cooper 40th Anniversary Presentation Tonight!

In honor of the fortieth, I'm going to be giving a special pre-Symposium presentation tonight at Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle. Starts at 7:00 pm, and will feature, among other things, some never before seen photographs taken by FBI agents on the Cooper hunt. See you there!

Another Ballad, for Mr. Cooper

Several Cooper poetry contest submissions in this morning—this one from Rod Harman. The deadline for the poetry contest is Friday, 5:00 pm. E-mail your submission to me at gg@huntfordbcooper.com. Now, without further ado, Harman's poetry.



DB. Or can I call you Dan.

Perhaps you are a Richard, a Donald or a Stan

Regardless of a name…many called you the Man.

Put everything in perspective; you were one gutsy

Guy with one hell of a plan, you meant no real harm to your passengers, crew, or fellow man.

With four parachutes on your list of demands, it made the captain, crew and FBI question the motive of the plan. Was this man a real danger, a crazy or nut…

Tina would later tell us… no, he seemed rather nice… perhaps… just in a rut.

Captain Scott took his orders. Vector 23 is where I want to be… steady she go's and you'll all be free.

The steps go down, there's no turning back and You're all along on the aft rear track. Your mind is racing and you must come to grips,

The plan has been executed without a hitch.

You calm yourself with one last wish…

Please God, I meant no harm

Land me safely near that farm.

Pre-Symposium Report

I've been in Portland two days now, prepping for the official, only-five-more-days-to-go D.B. Cooper Symposium, and expected to find this city not prepared to embrace what this Thanksgiving really is: Cooper's 40th anniversary.

Truth is, the Cooper current is here is white hot. Yesterday I attended "D.B. Cooper Night," an event thrown by Doug Kenck-Crispin, a historian who was accused on stage of "rescuing history from history books." Rocking a flamingo pink blazer, Kenck-Crispin drew a hundred or so Cooper fans by my count to Mississippi Studios, a bar-burger-performance space.

Along with two bands, t-shirt sales, raffles of Cooper-themed gear like attaché cases stuffed with paper money, a fine black tie, not to mention a chance to take your photo with Cooper, Kenck-Crispin also featured a handful of lectures.

One was a satirist's exploration of the hijacker's roots in Oregon dating back to the 1600's and the family of "Dominique Bartholomew Cupiere." Another revisionist take was from historian Katy Barber, who assessed the hijacking through the eyes of the three young stewardesses who maintained their calm throughout the flight.

"Here's to you, Tina Mucklow," Barber said, raising a glass.

In honor of the anniversary, Kenck-Crispin also lined up what may be another first for Cooper events: a burlesque dancer, who started her routine slugging a Bourbon like Mr. Cooper did forty years ago and left the stage wearing nothing at all—well, almost nothing.

Squint and take a peak at what I managed to capture on my phone.

Bottom-line: expect more of the unexpected. And if you haven't already, send your Cooper poetry contest submissions and RSVP's to gg@huntfordbcooper.com

Our First Original Cooper Ballad

This just in: a new submission, edited for length.

Happy 40th, Dan.

by Rick Ganci

What's in a name—it was Dan wasn't it?

The question's the same.

But that name is not the name,

You own the prize

Some seek for fame.

That name too,

A clue so many missed for so long after you said so long.

But clue upon clue has not led us to you.

Dan Cooper, so bold.

Your trail already cold, before it grew old.

Your story's the thing, how large can it be? As large as it is, the scope we might'nt see.

If not now halcyon, your mystery stays more sweet than bitter.

And better and better and better.

D.B. Cooper Symposium

November 26th, Portland, Oregon.

Portland Hilton, 9:00 am.

Sunday morning Cooper poetry

To go with your morning coffee, the next poetry submission.

"What's in a name?" by Robin Mattos.

An old English word,

For a barrel maker,

Is Cooper.

Full of cash,

A Cooper man

Made himself a barrel roll.

By jumping out of a plane,

Not wishing to be shot

Like a fish in a barrel.

Got a Cooper poem to send in? Get writing. There are now 13 days left until the Symposium! Send to me at gg@huntfordbcooper.com