The world's most deadly weapon had a headache that
aspirin couldn't cure.  Not now, not ever.  It had
attacked suddenly and viciously as he watched King
walk away.  The pain was immense.  But it wasn't a
physical pain.

Without question, the mythology of Snake was becoming
out of hand.  It was no longer just myth, it had
become fantasy, bordering on the comic book.

The short incident with King, whose real name on his
driver's license was Kareem Washington, had revealed
it with blazing impact to Snake.

King had wanted it known that he couldn't be bought. 
But he could.  He wasn't aware of it, of course.  And
the price was nothing as trivial as a pair of
basketball shoes, a tee-shirt, and jacket.  The price
was permission, granted or not and wanted or not, to
hero worship the legendary Snake.  And, as much as
King might consciously avoid "that heavy philly
nonsense," the psychological truth was that he had
immediately bonded to Snake.

Snake wasn't sure he wanted this type of association,
if he wanted any kind of personal relationship at all.
 Relationships were dangerous.  There was too much
responsibility involved.  And it was nothing you could
walk away from.  All of his life Snake had walked away
when the going got a little too personal or a little
too close.  The Greek belly dancer who'd slept with
him under a table in the outdoor cabaret in Astoria
had awakened to find him gone.

That was the way he was.  It had, mostly, to do with
his lifestyle.

The problem was that once you were imprisoned by this
kind of life, you could never escape.  It was like the
gunslinger in an old western movie, always hounded by
the newest gun come to town.

His major trouble: Snake wasn't hounded by others as
much as by himself.  That's why he had a headache.

He walked across the street and entered the post
office.

"You picked up your package just a few minutes ago,"
the clerk at the general deliver window said.  He held
up a pad.  "Signed for it right here."

"What did the man look like?"

"Like you, of course."

"Are you sure?"

"I handled it myself."

"That's absurd!" Snake said.  "I haven't been in this
post office in several days."

"Look, buddy.  What are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing," said Snake.  "Forget it.  I guess I'm just
having a bad day."

He stood there for a long time, just looking at the
clerk, absorbing his appearance, his facial
expression.  The man didn't blink.

But Snake realized that wasn't a true indication of
whether he was lying or not.

The clerk-under Snake's stare-quickly picked up a
stack of envelopes and began to sort through them. 
Once, he glanced up and seemed a bit perturbed that
Snake was still standing there.  But that was
understandable.  Snake's examination didn't waver.

Suddenly, the clerk turned and went to a telephone at
a desk clearly in view, but beyond hearing several
yards away toward the back of the room.

He made a short phone call and hung up.

Instinctively,  Snake knew trouble was on the way. 
The clerk had obviously called for help.  What
irritated Snake was that the clerk had been so
blatantly open about it.

No sign of respect.  And certainly no sign of fear.

Well, maybe the mythology of the snake wasn't all that
ferocious after all.  Not so much of comic book
stature, but merely comic.

He stepped outside the post office.  To the right was
a small grocery store.  Down the street was the diner
where he'd had breakfast earlier.  A block away was a
pocket park, a few yards of concrete space with a
small bit of sand and a concrete bench and a leafless
tree in a town that was falling down around it.

The wind had picked up.  As a result, the air was
clear and clean and felt good in his lungs.

He knew there was a battle also riding the wind and
that also felt good.  He preferred outright combat to
this mickey mousing around.  Spies, traps, telephone
calls-all of these gave him an itch between the
shoulder blades in a place where he could not scratch.

The Spider Lady, Mary Sue, had indeed spun a
phenomenal web.

In order to keep as many people as possible out of the
potential line of fire, Snake walked down the steps in
the front of the post office and moved down to the
pocket park.

The park had been constructed, although, of course,
there wasn't that much actual construction involved,
in the corner carved by one building and another.  A
corner building, obviously, had been demolished in
order to make way for the park, probably a condemned
structure.

The one bench in the small park was against one of the
building walls.  A right goodly spot, totally
indefensible from the front, but you'd have no problem
from the back or the right side.  Unless, of course,
someone tossed something off the building.  In that
case, you'd probably never know it.  If it hit you. 
If it was large.  If it was a brick.

He searched the edge of the rooftops.

The greater danger would be from the rooftop across
the 
street.

Snake unfastened his belt and withdrew it from the
belt loop of his Levis.

He sat down on the bench and stretched out his legs
and relaxed.  It occurred to him that he hadn't rested
since waking up before dawn and the only time he'd sat
down was while having breakfast and that just for a
few minutes.

Fatigue wasn't a factor; he stayed in excellent
condition.  Usually, he became tired only after a very
strenuous, highly tension-filled scene like the one
that was soon to take place.  But during the action,
he lived on a high that was a supreme state of
exaltation.

Before the action, he usually felt like he did right
now-calm, collected, thought processes in high gear,
everything moving around him in slow motion.

A man came down the street.  He seemed to be walking
in molasses, very slow.  One hand was in his pocket.

Another two men got out of a car that drove up and
stopped near the corner almost a block away. They
seemed reluctant to get out of the car; one stood
there holding onto the edge of the door.  One man
crawled out of a taxi that stopped near the post
office.  He looked slowly around, first up the street
and then down.  He looked, finally, in the direction
of the park.

The two men who'd arrived by car began to walk in the
direction of the park.  One wore a funny-shaped hat, a
Russian fur hat shaped like an upside canoe.

After paying off the car, the man walked up the steps
to the post office, stopped, turned and stood there
trying to not look in the direction of the park.

Only four?

No.  Three men now came from the other direction. 
Seven.

Now nine.

A good number.  Respectable odds.  Nine against one. 
The mythology of the snake would reach stratospheric
portions after this.  If he survived.

The problem with several men going after one is that
they have a major disadvantage.  They tend to get in
each other's way.

The man at the post office couldn't possibly risk
taking a shot at Snake; he might hit one of his
comrades now nearing the park from that direction.  As
for the others, the two closest men were blocking the
view of three others behind them by several yards.

That left, effectively, three men.  Two from the left,
one from the right.

Even here, in Harlem, a hard part of Manhattan that
King called "a problem place," the three men hesitated
at drawing guns.  There were a few people on the
street.  The truth was that most of them probably
wouldn't have frowned at the sudden appearance of a
gun.  Maybe not even at a killing.

The two closest men stopped on the corner of the park
a dozen yards away.  They stared straight ahead,
waiting for help to arrive, trying to make it look
casual and unrelated to what they planned to do, not
looking at Snake.

"Are you guys waiting for someone?" Snake yelled.

"What?"

As they turned toward him, Snake burst from the bench,
darted to the right, and ran toward them.  The
concrete provided good traction.

Both men made desperate grabs for their guns.

But a man in good condition can run with terrible
speed.  The two men had expected him to try something
and they were alert.  Snake, however, was at them with
a terrible ferocity in his charge.  It was like a
cheetah springing at a pair of wolves.  Except the
bite of these two wolves snapped uselessly in empty
air and the cheetah didn't miss.

The reason was that Snake had coiled his belt like a
whip, with the heavy belt buckle at the end.  As he
leaped across the remaining two or three yards, he
cracked his makeshift whip at the first man, causing
him to instinctive try to avoid the heavy buckle on
the end.

The buckle hit him on the shoulder.  He was thrown off
balance, mostly by his attempt to dodge.

Snake grabbed the gun hand of the man, pulled it past
him and broke his arm, then used him as a shield to
take the bullet from the other's gun.  The bullet went
into the man's side.  It wasn't a killing wound, but
with a broken arm and a bullet wound, he was done
fighting for a while.

Snake shoved his limp form into the other gun man,
stepped quickly in front of him. and slapped the gun
out of the man's hand.  His elbow caught the man on
the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

Two other gun men were now closing in from the
direction of the post office.

Just for fun, Snake picked up one of the fallen
pistols and popped a shot at the guy still standing on
the post office steps.  It was a good 75 yards, but
his bullet winged close enough to cause the man to
quickly dodge for cover inside the post office.  Snake
dropped the pistol and shifted his belt "whip" from
his left to his right hand, ready to charge again.

The two men coming up the sidewalk had their guns out.
 One had stopped in order to take aim at Snake.  The
other was still approaching and, as a result, was
getting in the way of the guy preparing to shoot.

The other four men, still some distance away, found
shelter behind parked cars and began shooting in
Snake's direction, uncaring whether they hit one of
their own or not.

Snake changed his mind about charging anybody and
flung himself to the ground  to escape the hail of
bullets.  He quickly rolled among the cars parked
along the street.

There were now shots from behind him.  He crouched out
of sight near a Ford as bullets splattered its front
windshield and shots began thudding into the Honda
parked at his back.

The men shooting from behind him were still at least
four dozen yards away.

The two closest men were now having to dodge bullets
from their friends that, although aimed in Snake's
direction, were coming too near for comfort.

Because both groups of men, front and back, were on
the sidewalk, Snake was out of view as he scampered
along the street side of the car.  His makeshift
"whip" wrapped around the ankles of one of the gunmen.
 A quick jerk from Snake and the man was sprawled on
his side.  He had dropped his gun, but a man who has
just suffered a collision of his head with a concrete
sidewalk doesn't feel like using a gun for a while.

The other gunman, in spite of the bullets and the
broken shards of car windshields flying through the
air, tried desperately to bring his pistol up to get a
shot at Snake.  But he was too late.  Snake lunged,
picked him up by the arm, and slung him completely
over one of the parked cars.

He had no time to see if the gunman was out of
commission; already, others were beginning to run fro
 car to car in his direction.

"Hey!  He doesn't have a gun!" one of them yelled.

Immediately, they showed more bravado and didn't
hesitate as they came forward.

One of the gunmen, to his dismay, showed entirely too
much bravado.  He suddenly discovered that Snake did,
after all, have a gun.

The gun thrown by Snake hit him flat on the forehead. 
It didn't knock him unconscious, but it dazed him.  He
fell against a car and struggled to remain on his
feet.

The other three, realizing that something had happened
to their comrade but not knowing precisely what,
hesitated just long enough for Snake to charge from
behind an Oldsmobile.  He hit one of the men from
behind with a leg block, wrapped his belt around the
neck of another and cut off his breathing, slugged the
last man with a thunderous blow of his fist.  The
gunman who been blocked from behind was struggling to
climb to his feet, using the door handle of a car as
leverage, when Snake kicked him in the groin.  He
immediately fell on his side and doubled into a tight
ball.  With a few seconds of extra time now, Snake
walked over to the man who was attempting to pry his
belt from around his neck, caught the end of the belt,
and pulled.  The man stumbled forward.  Snake chopped
him with the side of his palm against the neck.

That was eight.

He looked toward the post office.  No one in sight.

He unfastened his belt from the body on the sidewalk.
He hadn't intended to break the guy's neck.  But those
things happened when you're in a hurry.

>From the other side of the car near him, he heard a
groan.  It was the man he'd thrown over the car. 
Good; at least he was still alive.

The gunman who'd been shot when Snake had used him as
a shield was dead after all.

Another had been hit by a stray bullet and was
bleeding profusely.

The street, which had been deserted during the battle,
began to come back alive.  The owner of the diner
looked out.

"Would you call an ambulance for this guy?"  Snake
asked.  "Tell them to hurry."

He leaned down beside the bleeding gunman.

The gunman looked in fear at him.  "You aren't going
to kill me?"

"Not yet," Snake said.  He picked up the guy's hand
and placed his thumb on his wound. "Keep that finger
right there and you may make it."

None of the other gunmen seemed too active at the
moment.  One gunman was leaning against a car, but he
was being sick.  The owner of the car would have to
wash it.  Of course, it also needed a new windshield
and several windows.  And the side was dotted with
bullet holes.  A little vomit wasn't going to hurt it
all that much.

Snake walked quickly in the direction of the post
office.

Several people, curious as to what had happened in the
park, ran past him in the opposite direction, talking
excitedly.  Most didn't notice him.

Someone came running out of the front of the post
office and leaped into a car that pulled up.  It
looked like a blue Mustang.  The car sped away,
burning rubber.

Snake wasn't able to make out the license plate
number.

His glasses were smeared.  He stopped and cleaned them
with a handkerchief from his right hip pocket.  He was
slightly nearsighted and the glasses corrected the
problem.  But sometimes they were a pain.  Especially
in combat.

Without hurrying, Snake walked up the steps to the
post office, went through the swinging doors, and
walked over to the general delivery window.

The clerk had obviously watched some of the battle
down the street.  He was frightened so much that he
was quivering.

Snake reached across the counter, grabbed the clerk by
the collar, and yanked him clear over the counter and
flung him against the wall.

The clerk let out a terrified scream that froze
everyone in the post office in their tracks.  A
towering black man checking his mail box down the
corridor turned and stared at them as if wondering how
they could dare interrupt his morning chores.  But he
made no attempt to interfere.  It was a conflict
between two ofays, evidently, and he didn't care.

Snake reached down and locked his right hand around
the man's throat and lifted him to his feet and braced
him against the wall.

"You said earlier that the person looked like me?"

The clerk had trouble getting the words out. 
"I...lied!"

"What about my package?"

"She took it."

"Who took it?"

"I don't know her name.  She...she paid me.  She held
a gun to my head and said I would do it or else.  I
did...did it."

"Thank you for cooperating," said Snake.

He released the clerk.  The clerk immediately slumped
to the floor of the lobby, gasping for breath.

"She'll kill me," the clerk said, looking up at Snake.

"Probably," said Snake.  "She has a tendency to do
that.  What did she look like, if I may ask?"

"I don't really know.  She wore one of those business
suits women wear these days.  Slacks.  Made her almost
look like a man."

"Tell me, was she pretty?"

Somewhat.  A bit tall.  Long face."

"Ah," said Snake.  "The Spider Lady."

The clerk's face, which had been flushed with a sudden
rush of blood, went white.

"Oh, my god!" said the clerk.  There was a sick whine
in his voice.


(continued next week)

They are crazy.  They don't know it.  Only a few may
have begun to suspect it.  People here at home will be
the last to find out.

War does something to you.  It changes you.  Even if
you like war and death.  Even if you enjoy holding
someone's guts in your bloodied hands as he dies, eyes
staring at a sky he cannot see anymore.  As he is
changed, so you are changed.  And those around you. 
Changes known and unknown.

They called it the Gulf War Syndrome a few years ago. 
It's not that in this case, of course.  This is
something else.  Something maybe worse.

The guys who experienced heavy combat in Korea were
sometimes a little nuts.  I'm writing something about
one sergeant I knew in Germany who'd just got out of
Korea.  He was crazy.  Not so much you'd notice.  But
he was crazy enough, okay.  I'd started the piece when
I stopped to write the novel I'm working on now.  But
I'm going back to it.  It's not fiction.  Those things
need to be said.

We didn't call the stuff from Korea anything much. 
But when I was studying for my bachelor's degree at
The University of Texas in Austin, a guy went around
the campus area tossing bombs.  Maybe, over a period
of a few weeks, as many as a dozen bombs.  He had a
fascination for tossing these flash bombs onto the
lawns of the frats and the sororities.  Once, he
tossed one under a car in front of a sorority and a
boy and a girl were necking in the backseat.  Luckily,
the boy and girl were only shook up and the car's
gasoline tank didn't go off.  They never caught the
guy who tossed all of those bombs.  But many of us GIs
knew it was one of us.  He eventually stopped.

After I left the campus, a former soldier took the
elevator to the top of the tower on campus and hauled
out a foot locker full of stuff, killed the kind old
lady up there who was there to answer questions, then
began shooting people down on the streets.  Just like
a private shooting gallery.  Harry Chaplin wrote a
song about it for one of his albums.

There were cases of "combat fatigue" and whatnot
during World War II.  But there was a cause for that
war.  American soldiers weathered it fairly well.  A
lot died.  The ones that lived didn't talk about it
much.  For each and every one of them, it was more or
less a private war.

After a while in Korea, however, many of the soldiers
began to wonder what their cause really was.  And it's
funny because we didn't really win any war against
communism; it eventually wiped itself out.  Blood
didn't have anything to do with beating communism in
Russia.

When it came to Vietnam, soldiers discovered real
quick the cause was a mistake of some kind.  One guy I
met somewhere along the way told me that you couldn't
figure out who the enemy was.  The little girl who
sold you an ice cream during the day came at you
during the night with an AK-47.  They all looked
alike.  There were many "incidents" on the part of
Americans.  The swift boat vets protest Kerry's
statement against Vietnam in 1971.  They have
forgotten My Lai and all of the other "incidents." 
Maybe they're trying to make themselves look good and
what they did right.  I do not know.  They blame Kerry
when actually he was not the cause of their suffering;
he was protesting the cause of the war itself and it,
frankly, can never be justified just as the Bush
fiasco in Iraq can never be justified.  To blame Kerry
is merely to give credence and validity to Vietnam. 
Personally, I always felt that we had no right to be
in Vietnam.  And we didn't win in Vietnam either. 
Like Korea, we eventually got up and left.  That's
all.  Everything--including lives--was a waste.  Not
one thing was solved.

Any war is nothing more, in the final analysis, than
failure of negotiation.  We might have saved a lot of
lives in Korea and Vietnam if we'd tried harder to
negotiate.

When I was at Phillips University working on my
master's degree, the late Bill Randle and I knew one
of the students in his class was "trip-wire."  I knew
something was wrong with the guy.  Randle told me that
the student had been in Vietnam.  "Stay away from
him."  A lot of the men back from Vietnam were
tripwire.  Some you could tell.  Some you could not.  

It's funny how we've forgotten about the trip-wires. 
How we've forgotten about the movie "First Blood" with
Sylvester Stallone.

In Iraq, make no mistake.  The enemy is everyone who
can't be bought.  Buchenwald and his buddies thought
the citizens of Iraq could be purchased with death. 
So, the American military, through rockets and
gunships, tanks, and rifles, have slaughtered more
than 28,000 men, women and children (the number is
probably quite larger by the time you read this).  If
Buchenwald had read something other than Archie comic
books, he would have realized the purchase price of
death in an untangible.  He should have read, instead,
books about the Russian defense of Stallingrad against
the Nazis.

The publicity boys in the White House have tagged the
Iraqis who're fighting back as "insurgents."  How
stupid!  The insurgents are everyone in Iraq and no
doubt various friends who've come to help them out. 
They don't have the gunships nor the fancy missiles. 
But they know how to make a bomb.  These bombs are
everywhere.  Tension grows.  You can't avoid them. 
You don't know where they're at.  Boom!

And the people don't like you.  You see it in the
faces of the people who pass by.  Their eyes are angry
eyes.  Their eyes say: I don't like you.  Kill me and
I will still not like you.  And forget the Hershey bar
or package of Juicy Fruit.

Tension continues to mount.  Like flame in a dark sky.
 You probably aren't a real soldier, you were a
weekend play soldier.  A little war is okay.  Not a
long, bloody continuous bombing.  Bombs you never see.
 Now they tell you that you can't go home yet.  It's
not going to be over any time soon.  And the bombs
continue to be a surprise.  And you develop a nervous
tick in the right eye.  Someone you know is found
dead.  You walk down the street, wondering which one
of those people have a bomb.

Meanwhile, here in the states, you need to prepare the
public for what's happening.  Have you noticed the
heavy number of war movies lately on cable?  "Twelve
O'clock High."  "The Shores of Tripoli."  "Sands of
Iwo Jima."  A flood of heroic war movies.  Patriotic
propaganda.  To paint a picture of war as gungho.  To
help you accept the continuing war, a war which
doesn't have an end and, in fact, cannot end now.

Many American soldiers in Iraq, however, have begun to
suspect the real truth about war...let someone else do
it.  Usually, however, there's no one else.  And you
have go on out there where the bombs are.  They drink.
 They smoke dope.  After a while, there's not enough
booze or dope.  They jump at even the slightest noise
whether they actually heard a noise or not.  Some
begin to pray to be sent home.  To stay alive along
enough to be sent home.

The term for this new malaise?  I do not know.  But it
is not just a malaise, is it?  It is something
horrible.  It is something far different from the
so-called Gulf War Syndrome.  It is trip-wire and
beyond.

And soon they will be coming back.  Many yet in
coffins at Dover that Buchenwald refuses to
acknowledge.  Hundreds yet to come that will be as
good as dead.  An arm or a leg missing.  Maybe both
arms, both legs.  And then there will be those who
know all too well how to kill and who don't care
whether they kill or not or who or not and when or not
and it could get a little scary around your
neighborhood and my neighborhood.

OTHER MATTERS
Don Beno, program director of WMRR and a couple of
other Clear Channel stations in Muskegon,
DonBeno@ClearChannel.com: "Always enjoyed the BB
column Vox Jox and now your writings on the web. Saw
your idea about a DJ directory, surprised no one
pointed you to this one: 
http://440int.com/440sat.html

Thanks, Don.  I knew about 440 and god bless those who
keep it up and keep it going.  But there's little of
the human side at 440.  I don't quite know how to
explain what I really mean, but George Wilson, to me,
has always been a person first and a radio man second.
 I can't remember all of the calls where George
worked.  But I thought he should be mentioned, so I
sent his name in and a few of the calls...like
WOKY...hoping George would supply the real data later.
 To date, nothing on George in 440.  Anyway, I think a
description of achievements is in order.  I remember
when Todd Thayer told me he was sweeping the floors of
the radio station in Lompoc, CA.  Radio life in the
unfast lane, eh.  And Charlie Tuna appearing in the
movie "Rollercoaster" and M.G. Kelly in that movie
with Clint Eastwood.  A few calls, too, of course. 
Radio has always been, at least to me, more than just
calls.  What I'm most concerned about is history
passing us by.  Me?  Who cares?  You?  I care.

Joe Ford, Joefordsho@aol.com: "Your idea of a book
about all of us who invested our lives in the business
of radio is brilliant! Great way for all of us to keep
up with where everybody is these days. You continue to
be the best source for all of this stuff. VOX JOX
lives!"

Pat Walsh II, patwalsh2@comcast.net, in Little Rock,
writes:  "You are/were correct on the Arkansas start
of the  turkey drop. The reason that it made it into
the WKRP shows was that 'Herb', the sales manager was
from Malvern, Arkansas, and he passed the story idea
along to the writers. If you ever get a chance to view
any of those very funny old shows you will see that
'Herb' has a Razorback coffee cup either in his hand
or on his desk. Old Razorbacks never die they just
collect residuals. There were several parts of the
show over the years that were recalled from his youth
and the  radio stations he had listened to in this
area."

Dr. Roosevelt "Rick" Wright Jr., rrwright@syr.edu, at
Syracuse University, writes: "I really enjoy reading
your fantastic radio broadcast history stories.  You
are the greatest.  Well I am in my 30th year on the
faculty of  the S. I. Newhouse School of Public
Communications at Syracuse University.  This  semester
I am  teaching two sections of Radio-Television
Announcing and  Performance, and a  course in
Radio-Television Commercial Writing.  Now for the 
really good news, I  have a weekly radio show that is
being aired over WPHR-FM,  Power 106.9, on  Sundays
from 12noon - 6pm.  It's called Old School Sunday and 
I feature Guest DJ's who are various types of people
from the  community...plus I play all of the great R&B
Hits of the 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s.  I try to  put a
lot of all of the great sounds of Real Live Radio that
was made famous at WRAP,  WWRL, KGFJ, WNJR,  WYLD,
WLLE, WSRC, WANT, WDAS, WOL. WOOK, WAOK, WHIH, WVON,
KPRS, WDIA, KDIA, and all of the great R&B stations
that aired in the United States.  The program is
ranked #1 - 25+ in the time slot when I am on air, 
and I am having fun trying to keep radio alive!  Power
106.9 is a class B FM facility, and I cover your 'old
stomping ground' of Central New York...Syracuse,
Rochester, Utica, Oswego, Ithaca, Auburn, Elmira, and
the Great Finger Lakes.  The studio phone  number is 
315-428-1069, and I just love hearing from 'Great Old
Friends in Radio' so that I might interview them on
the air.  Please pass the word for me, you have a 
Wonderful Radio Contact Network. Claude, you are the
greatest...I am still using 'This Business of Radio
Programming' in my classes here at Syracuse
University.  Love you and Barbara."

I walked out on the patio where my beautiful bride of
more than 40 years was sweeping up fallen leaves from
the apricot tree and told her, "Honey, I just heard
from Rick up at Syracuse and he's still using your
book on radio."  She said to say, "God bless you,
Rick."

Dennis Burns, CDB@Lubrizol.com: "440:Satisfaction at
http://440int.com/440sat.html already has a wonderful
start on your DJ project. They've at least got the
table of contents (a listing of DJs big and small). 
They're starting to charge for the listings, but I'd
be willing to bet they could be convinced to offer a
bulk discount if there were to be a large number of
submissions coming from you or your readers."

Jim Rose, Houston, rosekkkj@earthlink.net,
"Tremendously enjoyed the comments that flowed from
the radio population this week about your legendary
Billboard VOX JOX post. Throughout America, we deejays
tuned in VOX JOX weekly. You were our only real
contact with what was going on in the wonderful world
of radio and deejays' activities. You even saw fit to
mention me a few times.  The radio who's who, or
whatever it might be called, which was brought up in
your train is an extremely interesting idea. There is
an abundance of us out here who were successful in our
own little radio realms, who paid our dues, but
remained not very vocal about our achievements. We
went about our endeavors quietly. Some chose to make
everyone aware of their tour de force. A choice few
became famous for their GOD-given talents. Those are
the ones we hear about all the time. But there were
many, many more of us grunts out in the field who
toiled and labored without any fanfare. The radio
who's who or something similar would be a fine idea if
it comes to fulfillment. Push for it!"

I may have an idea about how to do a "Who's Who in
Radio."  It would take someone with a website who
would act as a collection point.  All radio people
would submit their own bios, limited to less than 500
words.  At top, radio name known by.  Below that, real
name.  Below that, email address if any, phone number
if any.  Then the bio.  To cut down work, the website
operation would run the bios, as is, in alphabetical
order.  I don't know if Larry Shannon is willing to do
this.  So, each jock, program director, news director,
general manager would be responsible for his or her
own bio.  Everyone...absolutely everyone...welcome to
submit.  He is, in my opinion, currently the major
national focal point in radio.

There are, of course, a lot of men and women who have
gone on.  Friends.  I could write something about Jack
Thayer.  Of course, Jack had an awful lot of friends
who might wish to write his bio.  Whatever.  But one
way and another, we would see that a lot of the people
who've gone on were mentioned.  And not just with
calls for Jack Thayer, but with the fact that he
contributed vastly to the careers of such as Don Imus.

The project would never be completed.  And it would
take years upon years.  But there would be a "place"
where someone someday could look back and remember
such as Tommy Carl (Dr. Tom Durfey) and quite a few of
the others who fell in love with radio and were a
vital part in radio even if they never became famous.

Had a note from Iris Bernard, Advanced Date Concepts,
Chicago, IBernard@adccorp.com, who wished to know who
Peter Potter was married to.  I referred her to Don
Barrett, saying "the 'expert' on that might be Don
Barrett, a radio guru in Los Angeles."  Barrett
replied: "Berryl Davis."  The man darned well is a
radio guru of the first water!

I suppose that I should point out Don Barrett has much
of a Who's Who regarding Los Angeles radio people.  A
book, in fact.  If you've worked in Los Angeles, he's
probably got you down pat.  Maybe Don has enough
energy to do a national site.  He's certainly better
qualified than I am at the moment.