TRANSCRIPT:
Hi, this is Knox Bronson at The Secret History of Frisco podcast. I have a great episode for you today featuring one of the most wickedly intelligent and delightfully roguish writers ever to grace the pages of a San Francisco Newspaper: Bob Patterson. Bob wrote a column under the name Freddie Francisco for the San Francisco Examiner in the 1940s. He did another stint there in the sixties and seventies.
He was, for a brief time, the most powerful newspaper columnist in Northern California with his dazzling, erudite, and irreverent insights into the the upper crust of San Francisco society. His newspaper career came to an abrupt end in 1949, when a tattle-sheet, Hollywood Life, exposed him as a shakedown artist and a convicted criminal who had done four stints in prison, among other things.
I chose the word roguish for a reason and when I double-checked in the dictionary to be sure it was appropriate, it was even better than I had hoped, for there were two definitions:
Number one: characteristic of a dishonest or unprincipled person as in “he led a roguish and uncertain existence” and
Number two: playfully mischievous, especially in a way that is sexually attractive as “he gave her a roguish smile.”
Both definitions would apply perfectly to Bob Patterson who was born Robert Lawson Preston in Berkeley, California, on March 7, 1907. Bob used a number of aliases over the course of his life. There was Freddie Francisco, of course, but that was just a legitimate nom-de-plume.
In 1924, at seventeen, he ran away from home, never to return. A year later, he was arrested in Tucson, Arizona, for the first of more than 40 resulting arrests he would commit in his lifetime under a number of aliases. One of many police rap sheets identifies him as “Maximillian Carlton” (you will remember that the first name of the Count of Monte Cristo was Maximilian), charged with ‘passing bad checks” and sentenced to 60 days in jail.
One year later, he made his way to San Francisco and got a job as a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. Another year passed and he decided to go to New York City. By this time he had enough experience to easily find employment at a newspaper in any town in which he happened to be. There were a lot more newspapers back then.
Criming came as naturally to Bob as breathing: it was simply in his DNA, as was writing. He was a rococo stylist who wrote for a number of newspapers across the country and around the world. Any number of famous or, more likely, infamous luminaries hired him to ghost-write their memoirs, among them Attorney Jake Ehrlich’s memoir, “A Life In My Hands,” and San Francisco Madam Sally Stanford’s memoir, “The Lady of the House.”
As I mentioned in the first episode of “The Secret History of Frisco,” I was lucky enough to have known Bob Patterson in the last two years of his life. He was a friend of my father’s and was working at the San Francisco Examiner when I got hired there as a copyboy.
[elevator noise]
The first time I met him was on the elevator going up to the City Room. He knew who I was and introduced himself. He also took credit for getting me the job. It was a slow elevator. As the doors opened on the second floor, I thanked him and he made a little joke about whether or not he had done me any favor at all. I instantly liked him.
In an interview with Burton Wolfe of the San Francisco Bay Guardian, Bob said, “I was working for the old New York Graphic, mostly on the police beat. One day I ran into Owen Madden, one of the three top bootleggers in the country, all of them working out of the New York-New Jersey area. We got to talking and he asked me how much money I was earning at the Graphic.
I said, ‘$47.50 a week and what’s it to you?’ He said, ‘Don’t get mad-that isn’t much dough. How would you like to earn a hundred a week?’ ($100 would be about $1800 today)
“Well, I didn’t have your conventional morals and I was interested in money, and that was a lot of money in those days, So I asked him what I had to do. He said all I had to do was keep my eyes open on my job and call him to let him know when the prohibition officers were about to leave the station.
“So, that’s what I did.”
“Madden could have washed his hands of me, too, but he felt sorry for me, so he put me on his payroll as an ‘escort’ on his booty trucks, and then later he hired me to write the story of his life. That’s when my career in crime really began.”
Owen Madden, known as “Owney,” was an Irish-American top gangster in The Big Apple during Prohibition. Also nicknamed “The Killer”, he had a brutal reputation within the underworld. He ran the infamous Cotton Club in Manhattan. Bob’s involvement must have taken place between 1929 and 1932.
I cannot find Owney Madden’s autobiography anywhere, so I guess Bob’s work there never made it to print.
In 1928, Bob, alias Gerald Blair, was sentenced to six months in the House of Correction at Chicago for playing a “confidence game” and for “larceny” (no further details were found in the rap sheets).
In November of the same year, using his real name, Robert Lawson Preston, he stole a $1,500 automobile (about $28,000 today, but back then, that was a lot of car) from two men held at gunpoint and was accused of assaulting one of his victims, according to records from the Court of General Sessions in New York. He was charged with robbery, grand larceny and assault, and was sentenced to 15 years in the Elmira, NY Reformatory only on the first two charges. On July 2, 1930, he was “paroled to New York City but absconded soon afterward.”
In February 1932, Bob was impersonating a prominent San Francisco socialite, Niles Larsen around The Big Apple, hanging paper, writing bad checks, that is. (The impersonation was clearly Bob’s form of a joke: as we shall see over and over, Bob had the Trickster’s natural disdain for the upper crust). He was arrested and charged with “attempted forgery” and was sentenced to six years in Sing Sing Prison. He served a couple years before being paroled.
Other aliases I’ve been able to uncover are:
Robert Kendrick Lee
Robert Lennon
Michael O’Connor
Lloyd Patterson
Nils Larsen
Robert Lennon
There are more, I’m sure.
Here’s an excerpt from one of many of Jimmie Tarantino’s diatribes against Bob in his anti-communist celebrity-shakedown gossip tabloid, Hollywood Nite Life in 1949:
Will Freddie Francisco, former Inmate of Sing Sing, he permitted to sit arrogantly upon a throne of pen and ink and splash spiked words that cause tears and unhappiness to S.F. business men and their families?
Freddie Francisco, alias Bob Patterson, once posed as a member of royalty. He assumed the title of a Count, under the name of Maximilian B.H.M. Carlton as the son of a British Marquis and as a subaltern in the Black Watch regiment of Scotland, also known as the Royal Highlanders, and as such was arrested in Tucson, Arizona and on Jan. 27, 1928, was arrested for grand larceny by the Chicago Police. (Can you picture columnist Francisco as a count?)
Bob and Jimmie’s rivalry ran deep and they wrought much devastation on each other in later years. We will certainly delve deep into their tango of mutually-assured destruction in future episodes of the secret history of Frisco.
On August 10, 1975, City of San Francisco Magazine, a short-lived but very high quality local weekly, gave us “Forget Herb Caen—This Is The Real Mr. San Francisco,” an article about Bob Patterson, written by none other than Mr. Freddie Francisco himself.
And here we step into a small mystery. Bob Patterson died on June 11, 1973, a little over two years before the article was published. I know that Bob was a good friend of the magazine’s editor, Warren Hinckle. Both had an enormous flair for storytelling, facts be damned. Both were brilliant and charming and funny and cut a wide swath across the city in saloons, cafés, nightclubs, and all the best parties. I have no doubt that Bob himself wrote it, due to both the factual detail, or the approximation thereof, and his own inimitable writing style. I can only assume that Bob wrote it and perhaps his widow Kaye found it among his papers after he died and passed the article on to Warren.
Here is what Freddie Francisco wrote about himself:
Bob Patterson, erstwhile San Francisco Examiner newsman, China expert and scoundrel, is a very misunderstood man.
He is misunderstood by his critics, by certain law enforcement agencies, by two former wives, and by at least one god-fearing and red-blooded former employer who recently fired him on the front page.
I can describe these misunderstandings with authority because I know Patterson well, probably better than anyone on earth.
Bob Patterson was bad from the start, you might say, as many people have.
He was born more years ago than his good friend Freddie Francisco cares to tell, of simple Sunset District peasant stock.
(You may recall that just a few paragraphs back, I said that Bob was born in Berkeley. This is just the first instance where Freddie Francisco’s telling of Bob Patterson’s life, strays from Burton Wolfe’s exhaustively researched Bay Guardian article. At some point, we will have to discuss the relative veracity of each narrative, for Burton had an agenda just as surely as Freddie did, but now is not the time. I will say this: Bob seemed equally capable of lying or exaggerating things big and small with alacrity.)
Back to Freddie’s article in the City of San Francisco Magazine. He writes:
Respectability did not suit him, and neither did the routine at Hitchcock Military Academy in San Rafael (this makes Patterson a schoolmate of William Randolph Hearst, Jr., according to Patterson).
He became a dedicated disciplinary problem and at seventeen he engraved a fist tattoo on his stepfather and took off about the country, in search of glory. He found journalism instead. The process of discovery made him familiar with the mattresses of several formidable hoosegows.
I want to take a moment to reread this paragraph: He became a dedicated disciplinary problem and at seventeen he engraved a fist tattoo on his stepfather and took off about the country, in search of glory.
He found journalism instead.
The process of discovery made him familiar with the mattresses of several formidable hoosegows.
Pure poetry. Freddie continues:
He worked for the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Diego Sun, the Denver Post, the New Orleans Times-Picayune and a women’s department writer named Maude, to whom he lost an early decision. They were married. She fired him early in the first nuptial year. This was in 1955.
Now, this 1955 date makes no sense. Jimmie Tarantino mentions Bob’s wife Kaye and how her wealthy parents disowned her in the 1949 article, “Freddie Francisco: Embezzler, Thief.” There is no question that Kaye remained his wife until 1973, when he died, so I am not sure if this was typo or a Freddie Franciscan exaggeration for reasons unclear.
Patterson then worked for the New York Graphic, the Chicago City News Bureau, the Boston Transcript and the Camden Courier-Post and in support of two ladies named Marie and Henrietta, but nor simultaneously or until death did them part. He also attended Sing Sing and the Cook County Jail (the offense had something to do with “Correspondence Courses” for the North American Academy of Criminology) as well as The Tombs in Manhattan, although not necessarily in that order. (He was also by repute for a time in an establishment on Devil’s Island, where he was enrolled as Captain Alfred Dreyfus. A pen name, you might call it. Some French writer named Zola did the story.)
In New York, in addition to his newspaper duties, Patterson was employed by Owen Madden, who was in the pre-repeal liquor business and very successful at it.
For a short time, through his good offices, Patterson worked in a gambling casino in Uruguay, where the croupiers were not encouraged to have pockets in their tuxedos for one reason or another. Your handkerchief was carried in your sleeve.
The Owen Madden employment involved a rather curious way to qualify as a member of the underworld in the long-gone period when the Volstead Act did better than the subsequent WPA as an employment-assist for young men who otherwise might have gone wrong.
While working as a reporter for the New York Graphic, Patterson was assigned to cover an early shift of the police beat at the Spring Street headquarters.
Madden, a Liverpool Irish liquor merchant and Prohibition entrepreneur, wandered into the press room one winter morning. He was probably the last man Patterson ever knew who wore buttoned shoes, pearl buttons against fawn-colored uppers.
He had a proposition pretty hard for a $47-a-week reporter to get indignant about—for an unbelievable $100 bucks more a week would Patterson telephone this number every time the Prohibition agents charged out on a raid? Patterson told Madden he had no way of knowing where they were going when they set out with their axes, battering rams, blank warrants and cheap tailoring. No matter, said the lean, dour Irishman. He had interests everywhere, he said
About six months later, Patterson’s city editor commented favorably if acidly the superior quality of his raiment.
Striped silk shirts were very large that year. Patterson told him he had successful investments. “Successful owlshit,” he said, “you’ve been taking Madden’s money and you’re fired.”
That night Patterson told Owney about it and commented that he figured he was unemployed with him too, no longer being able to provide the needed intelligence.
“I’m no stinking squarejohn,” he replied. “You’re aces with me until the cows come home,” he added. With the big depression just starting to nip at the asses of young men in the square world, this was a pretty pleasant response. Patterson didn’t have to sell apples.
He worked for Madden as a dispatcher, escort and general technician. He was a helluva man and Patterson was to know him all the years until he died, in bed and unpunctured, as a semi-solid citizen of Hot Springs, Arkansas, where the better hoods used to take the waters.
Most of the underworld types Patterson met in those days he liked and learned to admire for one reason or another. Yesterday’s underworld, that is. He wouldn’t trust one of today’s antisocial, types with the far end of the Atlantic cable. They are totally without couth.
I asked Google Gemini AI to parse the last two sentences. I know what the last sentence means. Bob was sometimes too ornate in his writing for his own good. I love his use of language and, if I were just reading instead instead of researching a podcast, I would have just kept reading, but here we are.
Actually, this is good moment to mention a very important aspect of the Secret History of Frisco. None of it is being written by AI and I hope you can tell!
I have found AI to be a useful tool in my research, for the most part just for background information. I will ask it, “What was the changing nature of organized crime in San Francisco from the end of Prohibition to the early 1950s?” And a get a mostly accurate, if somewhat wordy, summary. Gemini has been horrifically wrong several times in my researches.
In this case, I am going to recite Gemini word-for-word. If and when I use AI verbiage, I will always attribute it.
Remember that Freddie/Bob was referring to underworld types: outlaws and criminals.
My query was: “What does this mean: He wouldn’t trust one of today’s antisocial, types with the far end of the Atlantic cable. They are totally without couth.”
Gemini responded: This vivid expression means he wouldn’t trust them with anything, not even the simplest or most remote task.
Here’s a breakdown:
“Antisocial, types”: This refers to individuals who are seen as uncooperative, perhaps unreliable, or generally not good with people. The comma after “antisocial” suggests a slight pause or emphasis, perhaps implying “you know the type.”
“The far end of the Atlantic cable”: This is the key to the idiom. The Atlantic cable was a monumental engineering feat of its time, connecting continents. However, “the far end” implies the part of the cable that is already laid, secure, and requires no special skill or effort. It’s essentially the most inactive or inconsequential part of a massive undertaking.
So, saying he wouldn’t trust them with even the far end of such a significant (but in this context, inert) object emphasizes a complete lack of trust in their competence or reliability for any task, no matter how minor or seemingly foolproof.”
“They are totally without couth” means they are lacking in good manners, refinement, or social grace.
Essentially, it’s a way of saying someone is boorish, uncultured, or behaves inappropriately in social situations.
In the last two years of his life when I knew him, Bob’s manners were impeccable. One could not pay for one’s drink at the saloon while in his company. He always insisted on picking up the tab for the table. He was a gentleman in all aspects of his life.
Let’s get back to Freddie’s article about Bob.
Probably one of the most engaging thieves Patterson knew was “Doc” Louie Joe Winthrop. Doc was a box-man, or a pete (explosive using) safe-cracker. He was also a very rare gentleman, the owner of an exquisite library, and something of an authority on fine Irish and English chinaware.
He’d been a schoolteacher in Malden, Massachusetts, and couldn’t figure out why he was so unhappy. He finally thought things over and found out that he hated kids (“they love to fink on each other, the little bastards”). He had also the misfortune to marry a woman with piles, an endless mistrust of the Democratic Party and a vast desire to convert Winthrop to Christian Science. The combination of all this was too much. He left his wife and the thirty-five eighth-graders without as much as a goodbye wink (although he did lick the meanest kid on his last day in his classroom), took a course in chemistry and started blowing safes.
According to Burton Wolfe, the arc of Bob’s journey was somewhat different.
He writes:
But respectability and local society admiration did not suit Bob Patterson in those days. At 17 he beat up his step¬father, dropped out of school and began tramping across country.
In the 1920s it was common to find transient reporters on daily newspapers: men who stayed in one town a few months or a year, consorted with loose women and drank in the local bars, then moved on to another town. Most lacked a college education, formal journalism training or any of the requirements for newcomers on today’s papers. They were hired because they demonstrated a knack for writing a story. That’s how Patterson got a job at the now defunct San Diego Sun and worked his way across country on other newspapers such as the Phoenix Republic and the Denver Post, and others.
At least that’s what he told me over bourbon and soda drinks in the barroom of his home.
I don’t know why Burton felt compelled to mention the consorting with loose women. If one is an expert and dedicated tippler of the Bob Patterson variety, as I once was, consorting with loose women is one of the great benefits and charms of the dive bar life.
At least he acknowledged that Bob could write a story.
Bob could drink with the best of them, of that there is no question.
Bill Boldenweck, an old-school scribe at the San Francisco Examiner in the seventies and eighties when I knew him, reported to the gathered at the M&M Tavern at Fifth and Howard after the paper’s afternoon deadline had passed, that he had answered the phone at his desk earlier in the day and a strange voice had rasped, “Are you a friend in need?”
Bill said, “What?” Not recognizing Bob’s voice.
“Are you a friend in need?” A little louder, but still raspy.
Now Bill realized who was on the other end of the line and said, “Yes, of course. Hi Bob, what can I do you for?”
“Whiskey, whiskey. I’m in the hospital and I need you to bring me whiskey,” gasped Bob.
Bill snuck a pint of Jack Daniels into the hospital and gave it to Bob to tide him over. Needless to say, we had a good laugh about that. It only added to the Patterson legend.
A couple years later, after Bob had passed away, Bill ran into Kaye, Bob’s widow. She may have been his second, third, or fourth wife. I haven’t been able to nail it down, but I would lay money on the third. At the time of his death, she had been with him for twenty-five years. A beautiful, petite American born Asian woman, Kaye came from a very wealthy family. She was twenty-one. He was forty-six. Her parents disowned her. She didn’t care.
At the party . They exchanged pleasantries. She said, “You know, Bill, I discovered the strangest thing when I was going through Bob’s stuff after he died. Do you remember that fancy straight-handled cane he always had with him?
Bill said yes.
Kay said, “I discovered that the handle was threaded and could be unscrewed. The cane was hollow. It was a flask for booze! I never could figure out how he always managed to get fucked up even when we were attending some do where there was no booze served. Now I know.”
The legend.
I think you must by now have a pretty good sense of who Bob Patterson was. A runaway at seventeen, an autodidact, a great writer and spinner of tales. A charming rascal, a trickster, a charmer, a lifelong criminal. A drinker, a ladies man, always dressed to a T. He and Kay lived on Nob Hill with butler in residence. He consorted with the high-born and low his entire life.
We are going to have to return to more of Bob’s stories in the future. There are too many for one episode, but I wanted you to get a sense of him so that I could share a portion of his Freddie Francisco column from late 1946.
Right before the end of WWII, Bob had been released from the US Penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia, having arrested and convicted under the name Richard C. Gordon for stealing a motion picture camera and other photographic equipment from the Puerto Rico Reconstruction Administration in San Juan, Puerto Rico. In prison he became the warden’s personal assistant and the editor of the prison’s in-house magazine. Bob was released on August 24, 1945.
Bob claimed to have worked for Time Magazine after his release. Time has no record of Bob Patterson working there, but Bob attributed this discrepancy to the fact that he wrote under the alias of Richard Jordan.
In any case, Bob wrote to the Examiner on Time Magazine stationary and identified himself as a correspondent for the magazine. He got hired and moved to San Francisco.
After ten months as a reporter for the Ex, the managing editor of the paper, Bill Wren, told Bob that “the Chief,” William Randolph Hearst that is, wanted to a column about the oldest and most prominent San Francisco families for the women’s section. Wren thought Patterson to be the ideal man for the job. Delighted with the assignment, Patterson
called himself “Freddie Francisco” and began writing columns about the upper crust of San Francisco society. His beat stretched down the Peninsula and across the bay, wherever the money was.
I imagine that you now fully understand what a charmer Bob Patterson was so it will come as no surprise that he was a master at ingratiating himself into the upper echelons of society and gaining the confidences of the easily bored socialites and unearthing their shallow peccadilloes, their secret embarrassments, and, sometimes, their crimes.
Journalism was different then. Newspapers were different then. Newspapers were everything. There was no television. There was no internet, no google, no Facebook. Radio was fragmented and regional. There were four newspapers in San Francisco and Freddie was the king of the mountain, the most powerful journalist in Northern California, writing for the Examiner, the flagship of the Hearst empire, the Monarch of the Dailies.
Was Bob still criming? A silly question. Of course he was, it was in his DNA. We’ll talk about that later, but for now I want us to focus on this remarkable column.
September 26, 1946. The song of the day was Perry Como’s schmaltzy ballad, “Prisoner of Love.”
The big movies of the day were Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious, Starring Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, and Claude Rains, and Howard Hawks The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall.
The San Francisco 49ers, the first major league professional sports team in the city, had just opened their first season on September 1 at Seal Stadium on the edge of Golden Gate Park. This was an exhibition game and 45,000 fans attended. Their first real season game, a week later, against the New York Giants, drew 35,000.
I want you to listen carefully as I read this. Remember that Bob ran away from home at seventeen. I don’t know if he finished high school. There is nothing to indicate that he ever pursued any further education, beyond the school of hard knocks, and prison, and learning how to write on the job at newspapers around the country.
I’ve read it many times and its literate poetry never ceases to amaze.
The name of the column was Freddie Francisco Observes and the title of the day’s column was:
‘Bad’ Women, but They Make Good Company
FAR BE IT from us to get involved in a corny defense of women whose reputations have become somewhat fouled up at their own hands, or at the hands of their contemporaries, but something has come to hand which requires a few well chosen words from us, and these are they.
A lady writes in on very proper stationery:
“… and though I read your column with great interest. I am sometimes offended to see mention of those that most of us know to be bad women. The society page, which is usually reserved for the activities of those of us who have been careful to preserve our reputations, is certainly no place for …”
And the writer mentions the names of some whom she regards as “bad.”
That Old Unanswered Question
WHAT IS A bad woman!
That is a question. We are not asking. We are exclaiming. What is a bad woman!
There are indiscreet women and impulsive women.
There are sick women and unkind women. There are fools and chiselers and women who are selfish or irritating. All of them interesting copy, like their prototypes of the other sex.
But none is so radically different from the others that she cannot be mentioned on the same page of print.
One phrase from the lady’s letter is revealing: ” . . . those of us who have been careful to preserve our reputations…
And thus the difference may be a matter of “care” rather than actual Integrity.
SARAH ALTHEA HILL, the famed claimant in the Sharon case and one of those to whom our correspondent referred, was apparently guilty of wanting security and luxury that she didn’t possess, but for which she had bartered much.
Her purpose and her method brought her notoriety and opprobrium but her design and its effect were certainly less “bad” than those of
(a) a woman who spent her daughter’s inheritance exploiting a second marriage,
(b) woman who maneuvered her lover into criminal responsibility for a crime jointly committed,
(c) a woman who enjoyed an affair with her husband’s father, or
(d) a woman who connived at her underage daughter’s sterilization.
All of the latter group enjoy no small degree of social prestige and are eligible for the society page. But pseudo Shavian philosophical utterances from this writer are strictly from hunger, and we will quickly return to more commonplace reasons for not being stuffy about “good” and “bad” women.
And there we have Bob Patterson, aka Freddie Francisco, in action. As I mentioned, the Trickster’s disdain for the upper crust and its hypocrisy. Can you imagine what that society matron, the one who complained about so-called bad women he referred to in his column, felt when she read that column? He was telling her that he knew their secrets, hers and her friends, the ones who graced the society pages on a daily basis.
The ladies who have stepped across certain lines are good copy; warm, human, colorful souls who bit into life as if it were a steak, instead of licking it like it were an ice cream cone.
They are people. Not mere names. We don’t seek to condone their efforts to embroider the plainer tapestry of life with blue or scarlet silk. We merely tell the story. Nor do we become lofty or critical, for to each tale there is often the salt of unhappiness, neatly a part of the pattern.
Bad women! Who’s bad? Who’s good?
Mention of Sarah Althea Hill reminds us of Morgan Hill, who was the almost unknown brother to this beautiful, red headed thorn in Senator William A. Sharon’s side. Sarah, as most San Franciscans will remember, was the sultry southerner who was not content to be merely the girl friend of the millionaire owner of the Palace Hotel, but tried to have him declared her husband.
Morgan Hill for whom the peninsula town was named was something of a would-be social hot shot and he was quite distressed by his sister’s little deal. In fact, he stayed as far from her as he could after the matter hit the newspapers
From there, Freddie Francisco veered into the very strange tale of how Morgan Hill had married into great wealth and how his sister Sarah’s lawsuit against the estate of the notorious Nevada Senator William Sharon had sabotaged he and his wealthy wife’s attempt to scale the heights of San Francisco society.
We will revisit Morgan Hill, his wealthy wife Diane Murphy, his Sarah Althea Hill and her benefactress, Mary Ellen Pleasant, the first self-made millionaire of African-American heritage in the United States, and Senator William Sharon, in future episodes.
Freddie’s quip about pseudo-Shavian philosophical utterances, a reference to playwright George Bernard Shaw, was his elliptical way of dismissing the idea of judging women as good or bad.
Can you imagine a newspaper column like this being written today? I’m not even sure there would be room for a rascal like Bob Patterson in today’s journalistic landscape, although he might do quite well on YouTube, come to think of it.
I’m sure you will be happy to hear that we will encounter Bob Patterson many times in the future.
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Once again, I’m your host, Knox Bronson. Thank you for listening. Until next time, please get a little crazy and call it Frisco.