Wally George is the great coelanth of Southern California broadcasting, a show business primitive whose dogged refusal to surrender the spotlight defies evolution and human understanding alike. "I am always the ‘good guy,’ and I take on the idiotic jerks of the nation," he claims. His right-wing midnight talk show airs six times a week on Orange County’s unusually Hawaii Five-O-intensive Channel 56 (motto: "Jack Lord is our shepherd; we shall not bring in a whole lot of advertising revenue"), where he has been startling sleepless television viewers since 1982.

The Hot Seat with Wally George is notable less for its public-access production values than for its public-access guests. Those who are not mud-wrestling bikers invariably show up in windbreakers and uncombed mustaches, having clearly been pulled off the streets by desperate KDOC staffers. Most notorious among them was El Duce, the corpulent, perpetually shirtless thug-rocker who was run over by a train a few months after claiming to have been offered several thousand dollars by Courtney Love to knock off her husband. The indecent exposure-prone Duce was a Hot Seat staple in the ’80s.

Courtesy of Clarendon House Wally George and His Hollywood Twisters rock the house, the Casbah, the cradle of love, over London, on Chicago, and around the Christmas tree (at the Christmas party hop).

Wally himself wears white plastic Evangelist Hair (TM) and a star-spangled tie. His stock in trade is shouting. His favorite epithet is "bimbo"–as in "I will never sample your stupid bondage parlor, and you are a BIMBO!"–and his heroes are Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, and second-rate lounge singer Frankie Laine, whose stirring rendition of "Mule Train" is surpassed only by Lorne Greene’s.

This winter Wally finally unveiled his autobiography, Wally George: The Father of Combat TV, and it is better than the first five books of the Bible and The Valley of the Dolls put together. Chapter 16 is called "The Champagne and Bimbo Years."

Wally, alas, is held back not only by conservative politics but by a profound poverty of imagination. It is, however, that blunt stupidity–his transcendent cornball bombast–that makes Hot Seat so maddeningly, compulsively watchable. It’s clear that he’s putting on a show. What is so baffling is his notion of what constitutes a "show."

Last week he brought on two nondescript blonde women to debate whether or not a woman could handle the presidency. "Could not," said Wally. "Could too," said the women. "Could not, you bimbos," said Wally. "Could too," said the bimbos.

Tonight he is on sounder footing, having hauled in a pair of female "hot-cream wrestlers" for an in-studio demonstration. "This is OUTRAGEOUS!" Wally howls. "There is nothing SEXY about two BIMBOS rolling around..." He is momentarily overcome with emotion. "...ROLLING AROUND in HOT CREAM! Don’t you agree, audience?" The audience hoots back at him. Hooting usually indicates agreement, but this audience is full of college-age kids in Tesla t-shirts, and their positions on most issues of the day defy explanation.

Wally is not so easy to account for, either. According to ...The Father of Combat TV, he was born to a neurotic ex-actress who never believed in him and an English sea captain who left the family before his son was out of short pants. When he was 14 years old, he overcame a debilitating stutter to host his own radio show. Later, while simultaneously appearing in a recurring role as Wally the Delivery Boy on Ozzie and Harriet and volunteering part-time for the Republican Party, he began attending Hollywood Professional School, where teen stars-to-be like Piper Laurie and John Barrymore, Jr. abandoned their wacky hijinks only long enough to stage classy impromptu musical productions. "I learned that kids in show business are so different from regular, average students," writes Wally. "They would gather behind you and help you to succeed in any way possible." When he was fifteen he rode in a parade with kindly Vice President Richard Nixon, who smiled and "patted (him) on the shoulder." Several years later he had lunch with Marilyn Monroe. I do not know if he dreamed all this or what, but it is a much better read than that stupid McNamara memoir.

Courtesy of Clarenedon House "Alan used to have a different bimbo in his dressing room every night."–W.

How Wally ended up with a talk show is never made clear. The narrative skips around a lot, and his adolescence seems to drag on from the late ’40s until the beginning of the Kennedy administration. A black-and-white head shot labeled "Wally, 21 years old in Guam" is never explained.

But Guam or no Guam, Wally does not skimp on content. Juicy Alan Thicke gossip! Uninteresting and dishonest Bing Crosby anecdotes! Libelous Ted Kennedy rumors! And let us not forget the candid snapshots: Wally endorsing products with Fabian! Wally holding up a copy of his latest album (!) with beloved radio personality Rick Dees! Wally shooting white-hot invisible hate rays at blank-eyed ex-governor Jerry Brown! Avoid page 115, which details his deflowering at the hands of a lady hamburger-restaurant operator. "You may be amazed to learn that I entered my twenties a virgin," Wally writes.

More amazing revelations: Johnny Carson not only enjoyed the company of "bimbos," but also "loved to lap up that joy water," based on Wally’s observations from the opposite side of the restaurant. Jimmy Carter’s skin? Moist and clammy! Wally is not afraid to step on anybody’s toes. He is not afraid to alienate friends and family, either.

During his champagne-and-bimbo years, Wally sired Rebecca DeMornay of Risky Business semi-fame. They are no longer on speaking terms, and Wally’s book is not likely to win her over. First he notes (in Chapter Eight, "The Truth About Rebecca") that she is probably just jealous of the time he spends with his younger daughter (for whom Wally has composed numerous songs and poems, two of which he shares with us in a wildly disturbing chapter titled "Holly with the Laughing Face"). Then he shares various details of her romantic history. Then he offers advice on her now-stagnant film career, advice which boils down to, "You should be in more movies with Tom Cruise." ("I thought a good title would be Riskier Business," he writes. "It would be a smash!") Today Wally lives alone in a Garden Grove apartment with four sport coats and five pairs of pants.