The 1972 Volkswagen Beetle eased slowly upward to 280
miles per hour. To be precise, exactly 279.3372 miles
per hour. No traffic ahead for 37 miles. No traffic
behind within reason and that lone Dodge pickup was
rapidly dropping back. No houses. Nothing much at
all on this stretch of the highway between Carlsbad,
New Mexico, and El Paso, Texas, except some low-slung
catclaw and small mounds of prickly pear cactus
scattered across the rolling Hueco Mountains. A
distant rabbit or two, a rattlesnake under a mound of
yellow, dead cactus resting in the shade.

By controlling the friction in the wheel bearings and
the engine's valves--simply by altering the molecular
structure of remains of grease and oil--the small
air-cooled engine was able to work at a capacity that
would have made the late Dr. Porsche extremely
excited. Other automobile designers might have gone
berserk.

Normal top speed for the Beetle would have been
somewhere around 75 miles per hour. Maybe.

If it could have run at all.

It couldn't, of course. No carburetor. Nor gasoline,
in fact, in the gasoline tank.

Xtery applied pressure mentally on the pistons, one at
a time, sequentially. The motor hummed a bit, but he
didn't bother this time dampening the sound. Before,
when he'd tried the complex procedure, his
concentration on the pistons had broken and speed had
dropped back to only 179 miles per hour.

As he was considering the possibility of increasing
speed to 300 mph, he was interrupted.

"Nice. But boring," said Muduud.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Xtery.

Muduud had popped into the front seat beside him.

"I thought I'd get a compliment. It's not easy to pop
into a vehicle moving this fast. Look--crossed legs,
arms folded, eyes closed."

"Petty pride," said Xtery. "Pure petty pride."

"You should talk. Playing with an old child's toy
that you stole from an El Paso wrecking yard."

Xtery grimaced. Muduud's criticism hit close to home.
He'd taken the car surreptitiously. Purloined it
from a wrecking yard. Not in El Paso, but in Brady,
Texas. Smoothed out the crumpled fender and crushed
hood it had suffered in some past accident, taken a
can of paint and threw it over everything, spread the
paint out evenly and hardened it, glossed it, polished
it. All this had required a minute or two.

The 30-year-old Volkswagen looked good. As long as
you didn't know it couldn't possibly run. Nor did it
have any brakes.

"Where's Bdudd?" he asked, not to change the subject,
but because where Muduud was, you usually found Bdudd.

"She's overhead practicing an Immelmann turn," said
Muduud. "Getting pretty good at it, too."

"At almost 300 miles an hour?"

"An exciting degree of difficulty," explained Muduud.

"I hope no one sees her," said Xtery.

"No way. Invisible," Muduud said.

"I would prefer we don't have another UFO incident
this month," said Xtery. "This year, in fact."

"No UFOs. Right. We agreed on that."

"Then tell her that someone's coming," said Xtery.

"You can sense that?"

He nodded. "Thirty-one miles ahead. An Olds." 

He slowed the Beetle to 90 miles an hour.

"I'm not leaving you until we settle the problem about
the earth girl," said Muduud. "However, I've
informed Bdudd and she has agreed to be careful; she
will stay invisible."

Xtery let his eyes stray toward the imposing mountain
to the east and north. El Capitan, a towering peak of
the Guadalupe Mountains. Laid down as a coral reef
hundreds of thousands of years ago. There were pine
trees up there. On a hot day in El Paso three years
ago, he'd popped up on top and spent an entire
afternoon laying beneath the shade of a towering
giant. The breeze had been soft and cool and the view
off toward the Huecos magnificent.

Many times after he'd met Starr, he'd thought about
popping her there on a picnic or down to Emory Peak in
Big Bend National Park. But, of course, he had not.

Now, he probably never would.

A pity.

"There is no problem with any earth girl," said Xtery.

"Yes, there is," said Muduud. "Both Bdudd and I have
discussed this at length."

"You've discussed this at length? My personal life?"

"You have no personal life," Muduud said. "Not on
assignment, and especially not on this assignment."

"I have no earth girl problem," insisted Xtery,
although he well knew that he more than likely did,
indeed, have a girl problem.

"We think you should let her go."

"What a dull idea," said Xtery. "Besides, she would
talk."

"No one would believe her," Muduud. "Merely another
outlandish National Enquirer story! Married to a man
she suddenly discovers is an alien!"

"She is very believable," said Xtery. "Someone might
believe her and come hunting us. It would be a witch
hunt like the old days of earth."

"Blank her mind."

"I couldn't do that," said Xtery.

Muduud sighed. Or, to be honest, it was as close to a
sigh as a Verdidiun could affect.

"Bdudd said you'd say that. She says you're in love
with her."

The idea disturbed Xtery. "Love?"

"That's Bdudd's opinion, not mine."

"I'm not sure a Tarrmellian can fall in love," said
Xtery. "I don't even know what love is. It's just a
word in their dictionary."

"Bdudd also says you've been out here too long. Earth
fever."

Xtery thought about that for a while. He had been on
earth four years. Perhaps that was a little long.

But he loved earth; it was a beautiful planet when
viewed from above the rim of the moon. And he
especially liked the southwest portion of Texas. The
dry air, the hard blue skies and blazing sun
throughout most of the year, the thunderstorms that
sprang up like popcorn and cooled off many a summer
afternoon.

He was also fond--and he admitted this to himself--of
earthlings. They were warm hearted, as a rule, and as
aggressive as cute, feisty Muzuud puppies.

The Oldsmobile whipped past toward El Paso. It was a
couple heading probably toward an evening in Juarez.

He especially was fond of Juarez, the Mexican culture,
throat-searing tacos from the little carts operated by
old women in dark lacy shawls, tequila with lime and
salt in the dimly-lit cantinas on the back streets
where young senoritas also plied their time-worn
profession.

Rather than speeding up again, he slowed the
Volkswagen even further, letting it roll of its own
inertia. A minute later, he pulled to the side of
the road and turned the vehicle around.

"Goody! You're going to pop us all back to the
ranch."

"I'm afraid not," Xtery told him.

"They said you could do things like that."

"They who?"

"They."

"Too much work," said Xtery.

"How good are you really?"

"I don't know," Xtery said.

"Could you actually pop us back?"

"I probably could. But I wouldn't. As I've mentioned
to you and Bdudd, you simply can't do things like
that. Creates too much attention."

"Like driving at 300 miles an hour?"

"I wasn't driving quite that fast. Anyway, I scanned
the entire area; no one would see me driving fast out
here."

"Why would you want to drive a car fast when you could
merely fly fast?"

"Just keeping in practice, I suppose. Like exercise."

"Bdudd keeps in practice by flying."

"The problem with Bdudd is that she usually flies in
the wrong place. That UFO incident a few weeks ago
was totally unnecessary. Too much radar attention."

"We are sorry," said Muduud.

"Okay," said Xtery. "It's okay."

He put the car into gear, slowly working the pistons
as he increased speed, shifted gears at the proper
time, increased the thrust of the pistons, shifted
finally into top gear. This time, he was content to
keep the speed of the small car at about 80 miles an
hour. Now and then, when he was sure no one was
around to notice, he popped the car a couple of miles
down the highway. The trick was to do it so smoothly
that Muduud didn't notice. This required acceleration
and deceleration in constant ratio.

Muduud continued to talk. Mostly about wishing to go
home to Verdidiun. Both he and Bdudd often talked
about the planet. They always talked about it
lovingly. Xtery knew better. Verdidiun had an odor
that nauseated him.

However, his own planet of Tarrmell wasn't much better
in his mind. The green skies made him feel tense last
time he was back. And the air was too heavy.

Perhaps he really had been out here much too long.

Just then, Bdudd popped into the rear seat of the
Beetle.

"Hi!"

"Good pop," said Muduud, noticing that her legs were
crossed and her eyes closed.

She smiled brightly. She always smiled brightly at
Muduud. It must have something to do with the psychic
bond between them. Their vocal conversation was
merely for his sake. Although they were individuals,
they literally operated with one mind much of the
time. At least, they seemed to always know what the
other one thought.

"I had to hurry ever so much. You guys were really
moving."

"We were only going 80," said Muduud. "I noticed the
speedometer."

"Maybe you were going 80," said Bdudd, "but this car
was going 180 miles, give or take a hoot."

Muduud glanced reprovingly at Xtery. "I wish you'd
teach me how to do that."

"You're much too young," said Xtery.

Actually, both Muduud and Bdudd, soul mates since
birth in that strange cultural ceremony conducted for
millennia on Verdidiun, were not young by any
standards except their own. On earth, the pair would
have been about 300 years old.

However, to him they always seemed more like earth
teenagers. Make that freshmen college students.

"Huhh," said Muduud--about as insulted as he would
ever get--and popped away immediately. Just as quick,
Bdudd was gone.

And that was just as well. Xtery did not want to talk
anymore about Starr.

Without the pair of them, however, it was a dull trip
back into El Paso. Was that, perhaps, their overall
purpose on earth? To keep him from getting bored?

The line of cars was quite long at the border. 
Traffic was stop and go as he waited his turn to cross
the international bridge into Mexico. Evening odors
of cooking pinto beans and tortillas filled the air.

Young earth boys ran from car to car, hawking wares. 
Their voices almost blended into a strange, collapsed
song. A sporadic car horn from an impatient driver
served as a non-harmonious drumbeat.

In the distance, the beautiful bells of Our Lady of
Guadalupe called the faithful to evening services. 
One cool day of a winter night, he had obeyed the
command of the bells and wandered into the lovely old
church. The Latin of the priest enchanted him. He
had planned to go again, but hadn't. Starr was not
Catholic.

Funny, but he didn't know what faith she practiced. 
Many earth people, of course, had no formal faith. 
Most of them believed in a god, but the god was a
vague symbolic entity that he did not understand and
he often thought that many of them didn't either.

Perhaps Starr's god was like that.

A small Mexican child--three or four years old--beat
with a tiny fist on the door of the Volkswagen.

"One dollar," the child said.

"A dollar?"

"Si."

"A dollar then," said Xtery.

It was bad, of course, to reinforce the habit of
begging in the child. But he sensed that the child
had no parents and lived in a cardboard box behind a
shed by the Rio Grande. One of the so-called "rats"
that flowed back and forth across the small trickle
that was called a river. They grew up more like
animals than humans.

One day, in spite of the rules, he was going to do
something about those children. He did not know what
he would do. But the idea to do something, anything
was there in his mind.

The mass song of the Mexicans as they chanted their
wares--pottery, dolls, flowers, tacos, straw hats and
floppy wide-brimmed sombreros, pretty sisters who
would sleep with you for a few dollars, crosses of
silver with beautifully-carved figures of Christ
hanging so sadly while waiting for death and glory,
hotels, taxis, restaurants, nightclub shows, candy
made from cactus plants, thin scarves that almost
floated in air, paintings on black velvet of
bullfighters and paintings of wolves howling in the
night at a golden moon.

A year ago, Xtery had purchased a funny Mexican clown
puppet for Starr from one of the hawkers. She liked
that crazy thing.

Three days ago, he'd found it in the trash can in the
kitchen.

Finally, bored from the tedious waiting, he bought a
copy of the Mexican newspaper from a youth with huge
sad eyes and bristling black hair who approached his
car.

The headlines, as usual, focused on the troubles in
those nations bordering the Mediterranean.

"You could do something about those scuffles," said
Muduud, who suddenly appeared in the front passenger
seat. Of course, the Verdidiun did not really appear;
to everyone but Xtery, he was invisible.

"I thought you were mad at me."

"Am. But we have not, Bdudd reminded me, finished our
discussion regarding the earth girl problem."

The line of cars moved a few feet. Xtery manipulated
the Volkswagen ahead, keeping pace. Since no one
would notice, he didn't bother shifting out of high
gear...just rolled the car forward as he continued to
glean the news of the day from the newspaper.

He tapped the newspaper headlines.

"I'm afraid these are not scuffles. They are wars."

"You could tell them to stop. They would stop."

"Don't overestimate our powers and don't underestimate
the aggressive characteristics of the people involved
in these conflicts. They are, in effect, jousting for
a socio-economic cultural pecking order. Except in a
country or two where the jousting has deep religious
significance."

Muduud snapped his fingers.

"Like that. You could stop these petty bickerings."

"I can't," said Xtery. "I honestly can't. These
bickerings--which I wouldn't exactly call petty--have
to be bickered out. That's the only way earthlings
can grow and mature. It's an educational process."

"Then why are we out here? Seems to me a waste of
time."

"We're more like observers," said Xtery.

"I'm tired of observing," said Muduud. "Bdudd and I
want to return to Verdidiun."

"The ship will be here soon."

"You call six months soon!"

Muduud popped away again, without having approached
the matter of Mrs. Starr Laidlaw-Smith. Actually,
they had approached it in the typical manner of a
Verdidiun...they had let him know they were deeply
concerned. They respected him just enough to know
that he would now handle it to the best of his
ability.

Smith. A good, typical earth name. Common in many
places of earth under one spelling or another. He'd
told Starr that his last name was Smith. And,
naturally, that's what was on his birth certificate.

The line moved forward again.

"Good evening, Mr. Smith."

"Buenas tarde, Mr. Garcia," Xtery told the
international agent at the border and handed him a
dollar bill. Garcia made the change in Mexican coins.
They had become friends a few months ago when traffic
at the bridge was light.

Xtery's duty required him to make friends with
everyone. That was his job. Some of it.

Unfortunately, he hadn't done a very good job with
Starr Laidlaw. She was deathly afraid of him! Afraid
of Xtery Xudd!

Those who knew him personally back on Tarrmell would
have a good laugh at that. How could anyone be afraid
of Xtery Xudd?

Perhaps the movies, the science fiction magazines, the
cheap supermarket tabloids, the television programs
had caused his problem.

And, though he didn't want to face it and had gone
"driving" in order to get a different
perspective...actually to simply not have to think
about it, he had one huge hoot of a problem.

Once over the border, Xtery sped through the downtown
streets of Juarez, out Calle de Luna, arrowed onto the
side road between low adobe buildings at the edge of
town beyond where the old race track used to be.

In a few moments, he was on the dirt road that led
southeast from the town. He could not drive fast
here. Shawled women walked arm in arm with
straw-hatted men in the growing gloom of the evening. 
An old man led a burro. Several children ran across
the road from some lantern-lit adobe buildings and
disappeared into a similarly-lit doorway of another
adobe.

Far out of town, out beyond all of the scattered
adobes, he increased speed a little. It took him
about half an hour to reach the hill with its perched
enclave that he called his "mountain home." In
Spanish, it was Casa Mesa Grande...big mesa house. It
wasn't really a ranch, as the Verdidiun had stated. 
Just a few acres. Most of it rock and catclaw bushes.

An electric light threw a soft circle in front of the
grilled gate. On the stone wall beside the gate, he
could see some graffiti written by passersby from the
nearby village. One of the words was "gringo."

Gringo!

If they only knew.

He opened the gate without leaving the car. Earth
people could do the same thing, but they used an
electrical device. Instead, he moved all of the atoms
of the iron gate slowly to the left.

After he moved the Volkswagen through the gate, he
closed it again and locked it, merging some of the
atoms of the iron gate with those of the rock wall.

Xtery parked the Volkswagen at the top of the hill
beside the swimming pool and reluctantly crawled out.

In the distance, he could see the random lights of the
town, its criss-crossed patterns of streets etched
weakly, but defiantly by the lights. It was a nice
little village. Almost as much Indian as Mexican,
almost as much Spanish as Indian. He liked the people
and he thought they had accepted him.

Who had written the graffiti?

Should he take it off? Perhaps not. Perhaps they
would just write more and it would become a useless
seesaw of place and displace.

Wearily, he walked across the parking lot and entered
the house.

Starr, his wife, was sitting in a chair directly in
front of the door.

(continued next week)

I know you've heard that old cliché "You can't get

there from here."  It's true.  My beautiful bride of

more than 40 years would like to go to Banff at some

point this summer.  However, my old van has a rebuilt

this and a rebuilt that and I'm leery about driving it

beyond the city limits sign.  True, the city limits

sign in Las Vegas is sort of nebulous because they

keep moving it every other day or so.  This town is

growing faster than a rumor in radio used to do back

in the 70s.  But my van is getting sort of nebulous,

too.  So, I thought, heck, we'll just go by train. 

But the train does not go up to Banff.  First, you

take a bus to the Amtrak and then go over to Los

Angeles and then up to Vancouver, Canada, and then

easterly on a Canadian train up there that goes

coast-to-coast and ends up way to hell in the east, a

never-never land for me these days.  Be one really

great trip, if you had a lot of money and a lot of

time and loved trains.  I do not know if I love trains

or not.  I haven't been on one since my days in the

army.  Take that back.  I once sneaked out of a

convention in London and trained down to Brighton

Beach just to see what was there.  It wasn't much of a

ride and neither was the beach.  I know now why all of

the Britishers go to the Mediterranean as soon as the

sun breaks from the clouds down around Crete.  I would

do the same.  Have you ever watched a slow moon in a

dark sky on the isle of Mallorca?

So, now we're thinking about renting a car (a pickup

camper costs too much) and making the trip with a tent

and a couple of sleeping bags.  Am I still young

enough to do a jaunt like that?  Good question.

Just about an hour north from Las Vegas is a beautiful

thermal pool under a rock cliff surrounded by palms. 

The Mormons own it.  Rudolph Valentino still lurks

among the low willows.  To keep Methodists from

screaming bloody murder, Mormons let other faiths use

the pool one afternoon a week, Monday, for a couple of

hours.  So, Barbara and I could leave about noon on a

Monday and stop at the Mormon Pool to ease our weary

bones, then drive on up to Mesquite to spend the

night.  Head out the next day.  Campout here, campout

there.  Hamburgers on the run.

This, of course, is just a nebulous idea at the

moment.  I shall probably take my own music.  Laptop,

more than likely.  All of the radio stations would

only sound the same.  The same music, the same voices.

 Bad radio on tape or from some fencepost beyond the

sky.  No personality.  God, but I miss someone like

Tom Clay!  Or the Jimmy Rabbitt of yesterday.  Charlie

Tuna.  Gary Owens.  Dan Daniels.  Georgie Woods.  Dan

Ingram.  Some of you probably remember ancient radio

when each new station you dialed up might have an

exciting personality playing different records.  Maybe

even a new record.  Maybe not always a great

personality, but a personality who was striving to be

unique, to entertain.  He's not there anymore.  Sad. 

New music is gone, too.

As you get older, you get a lot of nebulous ideas. 

Crazy, some of them.  For example, I got to wondering

about music the other day.  I heard Joe Smith, then

with Warner Bros. Records, comment at a meeting once

that you and I are alive in one of the greatest

periods on earth...that just about all of the great

inventions and discoveries have occurred while you and

I were hanging around.  Joe, God bless him, was right.

 First music I ever heard, just as an example, was

"Pop Goes the Weasel" on a cone record player.  First

big hit record I recall was "Pistol Packin' Mama" by

Al Dexter on shellac.  Heard it on a Rockola at the

swimming pool in Sonora, TX, back when I was 9 years

old.  One of the first records I ever bought was

"Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" by, I think,

Xavier Cugat on a 45 rpm single when I was processing

to get my discharge from the army.  I also bought a 45

rpm player that plugged into my old Philco clock

radio, which I replaced a couple of years later with a

Transoceanic Zenith that was heavy, but one of the

greatest radios I ever had.  Period.  About this time,

I discovered Elvis Presley on Sun Records, then Johnny

Cash.  Later, I bought one of the first stereo

albums--Louis Armstrong on Audio Fidelity Records

(great music).  Hey, you know the rest of the story. 

Music became important to me.  Always the songs.  Not

the system.  Whatever the system, it was merely a

transportation device to bring me the greatest music

of the time and place.  I can still listen to "Folsom

Prison Blues" by Johnny Cash with the same fevor,

almost, as in the 1950s when I literally wore the 45

rpm single out on that plug-in device whatever it was

called.  I remember that I paid about $14.95 for it in

the PX.

Later, on Billboard magazine, I became highly involved

in the various systems, including quad.  Broadcast and

record.  Still am.  Still feel cheated because quad

didn't happen.  I sincerely regret that the stupidity

of RCA Records and CBS Records; that "quad battle" was

ludicrous!  In retrospect, very few people heard real

quadrasonic music.  Never knew what it was.

A good friend of mine who was highly involved in quad

in the 60s and 70s, Lou Dorren, is unveiling a new

music system about now.  Because I've known Lou a long

time, I'm interested in just about everything he does.

  Other systems?  XM?  Sirius?  iPod?  I just don't

know.  Frankly, I'm still much more interested in the

music.  Or would be if it were worth sharp ears.

Not just good music.  Great music.  Bring it to me

good...the best system you have...but the music had

better be worth listening to!  Linda Rondstadt with

"Los Laureles."  Grateful Dead with "Deep Elm Blues." 

Roy Orbison with "In Dreams" or "Leah."

Because I wanted to put a few good tunes on my

laptop--and because of subtle pressure from my sons

John and Andy--I returned somewhat to music just a

little these past few weeks.  It was an interesting

trip.  Enlightening.  But boring overall!  The record

industry may complain about the copying and the

bootlegging and all of the other negative aspects

about the industry these days, but my major complaint

is that most current music stinks and this has brought

a certain odor to many radio stations as well.  If

anyone is copying most of this crap, they've got to be

very, very stupid.  From Enid, OK.  Whatever happened

to innovation in music?  It all sounds the same today.

 Doesn't matter whether it's country music or rock. 

Or anything else.  When music consists mostly of a

wardrobe error or the lack of decent attire on stage

or in a video, a grotesque movement, you've just

vacated the most valuable reason for the music in the

first place.  Music thus becomes no longer an artform.

 It becomes a mess.  I see, occasionally, one of the

videos and think:  That would not induce me to buy

that particular record.  Most of the videos don't sell

the music and many don't sell the artist either.  What

they sell is the video producer.  Some form of vanity

I'd rather not think about, but definitely a mistake

for the music industry.

It is indeed a pity when you have to listen to a Jimi

Hendrix record to hear a nice guitar riff.  Hell, he's

dead!  Chet Atkins is dead.  Johnny Cash is dead. 

Elvis Presley is dead.  Jerry Garcia is dead.

Perhaps new music still exists.  Perhaps even exciting

music still exists. Somewhere out there.  Some garage

band.  Some kids fussing around with a 12-string

guitar and a set of bongos and a couple of empty

coffee cans.  A panpipe perhaps.  Some funky little

kid who wants to save the world.  And will.  At least,

I hope so.

OTHER MATTERS

Just received yet another royalty check from Dan O'Day

at danoday@danoday.com.  For "This Business of Radio

Programming."  It amazes me that the book is still

selling.  Be nice if someone rushed out and bought 300

or 400 copies.

How many of you remember when Paul Drew, then head of

programming for RKO Radio, tried to force record

companies to produce only singles two and a half

minutes long?

Speaking of rumors, as in my diatribe earlier, how

many of you remember the album of the Beatles that

claimed Paul was dead?  Three cents to the person who

remembers the name of the deejay and radio station

that first broadcast the news.  Another penny for the

title of the song.

This, from George Pollard, gpollard@ccs.carleton.ca,

went out to a couple of people and while I don't

ordinarily concern myself with blanket stuff, it's

rather interesting and concerns a website that might

interest you: "Dave '50,000' Watts sent this along.

The site is jam packed with pics, shift schedules and

who knows what. What a blast! There were two better

stations than CHUM-AM, in its heyday, but no station

ever sounded (as in engineering) as good as CHUM-AM.

The other two? Consider the source, me.  Can only be

CKLW, Windsor, and KTNQ, Los Angeles, in the late 70s.

The site is well done, simple and thoroughly

enjoyable.  We're hoping to have voxjox.ca up and

running on 1 April. Already in search of links,

stories, pics and whatnot."

That news about a voxjox website is pretty

interesting, eh?  Just guessing, but I would think I

churned out a couple of thousand words each week for

about 14 years under that banner.

The news about the CHUM website came from Dave Watts, 

dave.watts@videotron.ca, who got it from Steve Gregory

and the web is

http://www.billdulmage.com/people/chum/01.html.

 Jack Gale, jackgale@adelphia.net: "Just a note to

tell you that our favorite program  director George 

Wilson has a very interesting interview with John

Quincy posted on the WTMA site. George followed me

into WTMA back in the late fifties. Log onto

WTMAMEMORIES and find the interview. He reveals some

interesting things."

The nationally syndicated radio program, "The Joey

Reynolds Show," will originate nightly broadcasts from

Hawaii the week of Jan, 24, 2005.  The programs will

be heard locally from 8:00 p.m.-midnight, Monday

through Friday, over Visionary Related Entertainment's

KUMU-AM 1500 on Oahu, KAOI-AM 1110 on Maui and KQNG-AM

570 on Kauai.  Shows will alternate broadcasts between

the KUMU studios in Honolulu and the KAOI studios in

Wailuku.  Aloha State listeners will be able to call

in to the show at 800-321-0710.

Joey, G1boney@aol.com, sent me this news release

mentioned above.  I immediate emailed him back that

it's certainly nice to get a ripoff vacation now and

then.  I also forwarded the news release on to Ron

Jacobs so he'll see who is invading his domain.  Hope

Joey asked permission.

By the way, I just received a diatribe from Ron Jacobs

that was one of the funniest things I've read since

Ken Levine sent me something.  Isn't it a pity that

Ken doesn't have a hit Broadway play on?  Isn't it a

pity that Ron doesn't have a best-selling book out? 

Don't know if Ron intented his item for public

consumption.  But anyone who asks, I'll forward it to

them.  Ron Jacobs at full wit is chillingly

delightful.

One guy who does have a best-seller out there is Bob

Levinson.  Just received a copy of "The John Lennon

Affair" from Robert S. Levinson, Leviinc@aol.com, a

pocketbook published by Tom Doherty Associates. Guess

everyone in this family will want to read it,

especially my wife Barbara who's a huge mystery fan,

and my son John in Los Angeles, who literally reads

every book on which he lays his hand and is so well

known in one San Fernando Valley bookstore they often

have given him cornnuts to send to me. John Hall, 

johnalexhall@gmail.com, says his favorite store is

named A & M Books.  It is owned by a couple named

Alice and Marty Massoglia  They are old-time SF fans. 

In fact, Alice is mentioned in the afterward of 'For

the Living', Robert Heinlein's first novel that was

published a year or two ago.  The store focuses on

paperbacks but does have hardcovers.  They also sell

on the web. Books, not cornnuts.  Now that may not

make a lot of sense.  Cornnuts?  Well, at least they

were pretty good.  Something that will make sense to

you, I'll bet, is the fact that Bob knows George

Wilson.  And both worked on a Bill Gavin Conference

many years ago.  This is, indeed, a small world. 

Bob's latest book is "Ask a Dead Man" and he tells me

that the first press run has sold out and the

publisher is heading back to print.  Bob's website is

www.robertslevinson.com just in case you'd like to see

what this is all about.  Don't know if A&M Books has a

website, but I suppose we'll know about that pretty

soon.  Thanks for the squiggles in front, Bob.  I'm

jealous as hell about your success, but really happy

for you.  As we used to say when I was a kid,

"Sic'em."

Kent Burkhart, RADIOKENT@aol.com, says, "Claude,  I

think it would be great to have a CD of Bill Stewart,

Gordon McLendon and the rest you mentioned in today's

column."

I've found three cassettes interviewing Ron Jacobs and

two interviewing Bill Drake.  Still seeking the

others, Kent, though they're in a cardboard box here

somewhere.  Let's see how the interviews with Jacobs

and Drake turn out.  The buddy who's changing them

over is probably one of the best audio people around. 

But these cassettes go back 30 years!

Pete Battistini, AT40@aol.com: "It looks like my

'American Top 40' book is a go and is now available. 

I'm expecting my copy soon, but I still don't have

it.  If you'd like to have a promo copy, please let me

know and I'll get one to you by the first of February.

 At this point in time, it is available at the

publisher website (link below) or by calling the

publisher at 1-888-280-7715.  It will eventually be

available on amazon.com and other on-line retailers by

mid-February.  And some retail book stores (brick and

mortar) may be carrying it before mid-March.   Hope

all is well with you."

http://www.authorhouse.com/BookStore/ItemDetail~PagePK~ca31dc34-28a5-46b8-9312-db9cf8178e3f~q3~yfO%2brejFLfc%3d.aspx

I don't know if you watched the inauguration on TV,

but I thought at the time "just like Hitler's

demonstrations" in that big damned plaza in Berlin

with the swastikas and the soldiers all marching,

music playing, soldiers saluting the king of the

vaterland and found the whole thing very difficult to

watch because I'm so afraid for this nation and this

world and so I turned the TV off.  He can celebrate

his dictatorship without me.