The man was older than the hills of El Paso del Norte
and covered with almost as much dirt.  At first, Xtery
didn't see him.  Couldn't see him, in fact, in the
blackness of the alley--the nearest streetlight was
several yards away--but perceived that a sick, old man
was sprawled like a rag doll amidst the newspapers and
cans and bottles, pieces of old garbage bags, and
litter that couldn't be identified.  The garbage
smelled.  Or perhaps the overwhelming odor came from
the man.  It was a sour-sweat smell both pleasant and
acutely unpleasant at the same time, reminiscent of
the deep alley ways of Juarez.  Only a bearded face
appeared in the gloom, floating like an amorphous mess
on the surface of the litter, and this face, carved
with crevices, was framed by a scrawny tumbleweed of
hair and beard, white in spots and dull gray in other
areas like the surface of a distant sea.

The voice that came from this ancient face was not
very strong, but very clear and reminded Xtery of
distant church bells.

"You must be the lizard they're hunting," said the old
man, staring at him with soft blue eyes.

"Ridiculous," Xtery said.  It was a weak response.  He
had searched for a better reply, something that would
be more convincing, but couldn't find anything else to
say.  He stood there staring down at the face among
the garbage, accused and, for some strange reason,
feeling guilty even though, of course, he was far from
being anything close to a lizard.  Not, in fact, in
years.

The old man merely nodded.

"Doesn't matter," he said.  "Nothing matters anymore."

He turned away to face the brick wall and his face
disappeared with a rattle among the cans and cardboard
boxes.

Xtery still didn't move.  He could hear the old man
breathing like the noise of a harsh file on metal and,
far away and somewhere further down the alley a cat
complained into the night.  There was no other sound. 
No one else was near.

Meeting the old man was no accident.

Scientists on Tarrmell theorized that there was no
such thing as a random number.  Instead, only a series
of numbers unknown.  With chilling logic, they felt
there was a reason for everything in the known
universe, but often the reason was unknown.  To wit, a
cause for every effect.  Therefore, a logical reason
for a supreme being.  Therefore, no accidents but
planned events by a supreme being.  Several hundred
years ago, this theory had virtually become a
religion.

Why he'd popped to this particular street on this
particular night, he didn't know.  But, of course,
there was a reason.  He hadn't been thinking about
exploring graffiti nor searching for a useless human
being in a forgotten alley of the city.  Perhaps his
present location had to do with Max Brand and the
small plaque on a building down the street which
stated that particular location had been where the
Acme Saloon existed in the old days...the place where
the outlaw John Wesley Hardin was shot in the back.

All of that didn't make much sense, he realized.  Yet,
there had to be a reason for him to be standing here,
that scrawled threat on the wall, this old man amidst
trash at his feet.  Logical probability.

After a moment, he asked, "What makes you think
someone is hunting me?"

"I saw them," said a voice obscured by the rubbish. 
"Little buglike things."

The face appeared again.

"Men that looked like bugs?"

"Nyah.  Tiny little things about a foot high.  Of
course, that might have been the tequila.  I often see
things, you know, when the cactus juice gets me good."

Xtery sighed.  He stepped back.  "I knew this was
going to be ridiculous.  Tequila!  You're drunk!"

"Of course, I'm drunk, you fool!  But, nope, not just
the tequila," protested the old man.  "I did...I did
see something scrawl 'em words.  And they may not have
been bugs because of tequila, but they certainly
weren't human for the same reason.  Swear.  You got
any liquor on you?"

"No."

"Pity," said the old man.  "This conversation's over."
 He turned over again and the face once more
disappeared.

Still, Xtery didn't move.  The old man was very sick. 
Acute alcoholism was just one of his many physical
problems and probably the least of those.  Cancer.  So
simple to repair--for it was merely a genetic injury
to a few cells--and yet a major killer among humans. 
That and problems of the heart.  The man's heart was
also weak as his system fought against the cancer.  It
was a losing battle.

For a moment, Xtery was tempted.  Yet, he knew better.
 Every time you became involved, you changed things as
they were.  Everywhere in the known universe, some
kind of god existed.  No culture contained specific
information about this being, although most assumed
that the being was good and had a plan of some kind in
operation.  The major question--also on every
planet--was whether or not that plan should, or could,
be altered.  Students in training often spent hours
debating the question.

The general consensus, regardless of the planet or the
culture, was that it should not be changed even if you
could and felt like doing so.

His own underlying fear, and Xtery admitted it even if
others did not, was that you suffered the probability
the other culture would become dependent on you,
whoever you was at the particular moment.  He,
himself, was here on earth merely to observe and feed
information into a galaxywide cultural data bank.  He
did not want earthlings hanging on his arm, seeking
handouts or cures or whatever was available from an
advanced culture.  He did not want to turn anyone into
a beggar.  Neither a person nor a planet.

Yet, without question, this old man was already a
beggar.  Hadn't he just asked for something to drink?

A dying beggar, of course.  Drunk and dying.  He
probably had less than a month to live, give or take a
day.  Such matters as life were difficult to estimate.
 You were able to perceive possibilities, but never
the time and place.

He leaned down and shifted a cardboard box to the
side.

"Can't you describe whoever scrawled the graffiti
better than that?"

His only answer was a grunt from beneath the rubbish.

Xtery stood up.  He started to walk away.

But then he turned and faced the pile of rubbish once
again.

"I asked you politely," he said, but the tone of his
voice was not polite.  Not even kind.

"Kids," mumbled a voice.  "It was just a bunch of kids
with nothing else to do and nowhere else to do it. 
That's all.  Now go away."

Before, Xtery hadn't really been able to discern
whether the old man was telling the truth or talking
from a drunken nightmare that was perhaps real to him,
but actually just vivid imagination.  Now, however, he
knew without question that the old man was lying.  It
had not been kids with a can of spray paint who had
scrawled the graffiti.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he
reprocessed the blood flowing in the arteries and
veins of the old man.  This didn't necessarily require
strengthening his heart, but Xtery did that, too.  The
tumor in the liver was a simple problem.  He removed
it and did some patchwork with the surrounding cells.

His excuse?  He needed information.  The old man had
information, in all probability, that would be useful.
 It was difficult to talk to a person who was drunk
and sick.

Nothing happened for a moment.  Then the old man
jerked.  Empty cans rattled.  He suddenly sat up and
leaned against the brick wall as he realized that he
was, all at once, sober and didn't even have a
hangover.

He stared at his hands as if they belonged to some
enemy.  They trembled like leaves.  His right hand
grabbed his left hand and tried to stop it from
shaking, but he could not.  He let his left hand go
and both hands seemed ready to fly away.

Then, suddenly, he began to cry.  Tears flowed down
his face, creating streaks that glistened in a soft
light that peeked into the alley.  His whole body
shook.  The cans rattled as the old man staggered to
his feet, one hand anchoring himself to the brick wall
of the alley.

The crying surprised Xtery.  He didn't know what he'd
expected to happen.  But not this.

"I didn't do nothin' to hurt you," the man accused,
staring at Xtery with sad eyes.

"I haven't hurt you," Xtery protested.

"I'm hurting something bad," the man insisted.

"You're just sober.  That's all.  And you're suffering
withdrawal pains.  They'll fade away in a few minutes.
 You're going to be okay."

"The hell you say!"

"Yes.  The hell, I say."

"I'd rather be drunk," the old man said.

"Yes.  I guess you would," said Xtery.  "From
appearances, I'd say you'd been drunk for years.  Or
longer."

"Well, I've got a reason!" shouted the old man.  "I'm
dying, you know!"

"You're not dying," Xtery said patiently.

"Am, too!  Cancer."

"Who told you that?"

"A doctor," he said.  "One of them clinic fellows.  A
month ago.  Gave me eight weeks to live and I decided
that I'd spend them with some tequila.  It's my
business if I want to die drunk."

"Doctors are sometimes wrong," Xtery said.  "I assure
you that you're not going to die.  For a while anyway.
 Unless you get hit by a truck or have some other kind
of accident."

"Rather have cancer," he said in a voice that was
growing stronger by the moment.  And, with a terrible
noise, he sank back into his small sea of rubbish, his
back propped against the brick wall.

"Forget cancer," said Xtery.  "At the moment, you
stand to live a long and quite healthy life.  If you
so wish.  Now tell me about that graffiti on the wall
over there."

"There is nothing to tell," the old man said, looking
straight in front of him at the other wall of the
alley.  "Kids. I've already told you that."

"And you lied."

"I lied?"

"Most definitely," insisted Xtery.

"How'd you know something like that?"

"A lucky guess," said Xtery.

"You sure you ain't some kind of lizard?  Something
strange from Mars?"

"I would sincerely doubt there were ever lizards on
Mars.  Worms, perhaps.  Lizards, never," Xtery said
quietly.  "Except maybe in the movies.  Quit trying to
avoid the subject.  I want to know about that
graffiti."

The old man grinned ruefully and rubbed a dirty hand
through his mop of hair.  "You don't believe all that
stuff about kids, eh?"

"Of course, not."

"How about the little foot-high bugs?"

Xtery paused.  He hated to admit anything.  Finally,
he said, "Maybe.  Describe them."

"Wings," said the old man.  "They had wings."

"Bugs with wings?"

It was a silly question because he thought he'd
already guessed who the "little things" actually were.
 Muduud and Bdudd.  But why?  He had always assumed
that the tiny golden Verdidiuns were here on earth to
assist him in his job.  Of course, he knew that they
also in a sense watched him and reported everything
that he did to someone.  For a while, he'd thought
they were reporting back to Xtarso Divhuud, his
controller on Cyrreen.  But during the past few months
he'd come to believe this was not so and he didn't
actually know their controller was.  Perhaps someone
on Verdidiun.  It didn't matter.  He was
actually...what was that term here on earth?  Yes, he
was actually the boss.  Muduud and Bdudd might report
to someone somewhere out there among the myriad stars,
but they followed his orders here on earth.  Well,
most of the time anyway.

But why these spurious, almost savage attacks on him
with the graffiti?

They knew, certainly, that everyone on Tarrmell had
evolved millions of years ago from something akin to a
lizard here on earth.  Not really a lizard, of course,
but a being with a somewhat scaly skin.  A skin that
had become less scaly over the eons.

"Bugs with wings?" he asked again after a silence that
had filled with tension when the old man didn't
immediately answer the first question.

"Ah, you've got to throw in the effect of the
tequila," said the old man.  "How can I be sure what I
really saw?  I've seen bugs before, you know.  Things
that crawl up the walls.  When I had a wall.  Many
times."

"Right," said Xtery.  And he said it again, "Right,"
although much weaker this time.  He hated it when he
repeated himself like that.  But he seemed to be doing
it quite frequently these days.  It was a rather
annoying habit.  An earth habit.  He'd never repeated
himself on Tarrmell.  Never.

Maybe the pressure was getting to him.  Outworld
service was supposed to be easy.  Talk to people. 
Gather notes.  Report the notes to someone such as
Xtarso Divhuud.  Spend a few years here, a few years
there.  Retire after a dozen different, all quite
interesting worlds back on Tarrmell.  Take up some
kind of hobby.  Accept a mate, perhaps.  Nothing, of
course, as interesting...make that fascinating...as
Starr, but someone, certainty, who would be a lot less
trouble.  Give boring speeches at some institution of
learning about this world and that world.  Live out
one's years in relative peace of comfort.

He shook those thoughts out of his head.  There was
little possibility of that happening now.  First,
there was Starr.  Second, there was the graffiti. 
Third, he didn't know what to do with either problem.

"You can't just leave me here," the old man suddenly
whined.

Xtery, wrapped up in thought, hadn't realized that
he'd turned to leave.  Now that he'd realized who the
"bugs" were, he had no reason to stay.  For a moment,
he contemplated whether he should return the creature
here in the alley to its former condition.  It would
be simple to do.  That, at least, would eliminate one
problem; in his former condition the old man didn't
have long to live.

Xtery stopped, turned, and stared down at the old man.

"Why not?"

"Because I was doing fine until you showed up.  And
now I'm hurting.  I don't know what you did, but you
caused me to hurt somehow.  I'm hurting bad."

"You're not in pain.  If you're hurting, which I
doubt, then it's all in your head.  Imagination."

"Yeah, that's right," the old man said.  "My head is
hurting real bad."

Xtery conducted a quick sensory probe.  There was
nothing wrong with the man's head that a good shave
and haircut wouldn't solve.  After a bath first, of
course.

With a short laugh, Xtery turned and walked quickly
down the alley way back to the street, only to be
pursued by a rattling of cans and rubbish and the
noise of the old man plowing determinedly to his feet
and slinging trash out of his way as he followed.

Xtery stopped again.

"Stay away," he said firmly.

"I don't know what you did," the old man said, "but I
ain't me no more.  You got any money?  You oughta buy
me some whiskey or tequila.  That would make us even."

"Don't be absurd," said Xtery.

"I'll tell you some more about the bugs for a five
spot," said the man.

"Ridiculous."

"Little things with wings.  They musta had wings
because they flew all about.  Like sparks.  The ones
who made those markings on the wall."

"I no longer care about the graffiti," Xtery said. 
And the reason, of course, was that he knew without
doubt who'd written the graffiti--Muduud and Bdudd. 
He just didn't know why.  But that might be made clear
once he confronted the two Verdidians.

"Well, at least give me money for some beer.  A dollar
will do.  I can't get drunk on a couple of beers, but
my throat's awfully dry."

"No," said Xtery.  "You'll get nothing from me."

"After all you did to me, a man ought to at least show
some kinda mercy."

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with you at the
moment that a good bath and an aspirin couldn't
solve," said Xtery.

"You did something!" he yelled out harshly.  "I was
drunk as a skunk.  Then you did something.  To my
insides.  My guts!  I know it!"

"You were really dying...just like you said," Xtery
told him, thinking rashly that the information would
cause the man to flee in terror.  It wasn't so much an
explanation about why he'd cured the cancer infecting
his body, but merely a rationalization about the
situation.  But then Xtery realized that he'd made a
serious mistake.

At first, the old man just stared at him, fog in his
eyes, a puzzled expression carving crevasses in his
face as he frowned.  But the fog quickly vanished and
a sharp cunning flashed in eyes that had been
previously dull.

"What gives you the right to say something like that?"
the old man asked, his head tilted to the side. 
Slowly, as if afraid that he might be discovered, a
long bony hand reached slowly out and grabbed Xtery's
suit sleeve.  "How do you really know?  You ain't no
doctor."

"Just a figure of speech," Xtery said quickly.  It was
a cliché that he'd heard somewhere and it seemed
appropriate just now.  An escape mechanism.

Unfortunately, the old man refused to accept the
response.

"I ain't going to die!  You sure about that?" he
snarled.

"No.  Of course not."

"Huh, huh, huh.  That wasn't really a statement," the
old man said, his voice changing quickly to a crafty
tone, sounding a little like a fox.  "It was more like
a question."

"I understand that," said Xtery.  "Now please let go
of my arm."

"For five dollars," said the old man, his voice
changing again.  This time, he sounded just slightly
desperate.  Something was in his voice.  Xtery
couldn't decide whether the old man really wanted the
money or was, in some fashion, hoping that he would
refuse.  What would the old man do if he denied him
the five dollars, Xtery didn't know.  He certainly
didn't have the strength to put up a fight and Xtery
knew that the old man didn't have a weapon on him.

But Xtery finally shrugged and reached for his
billfold.  He thumbed out a $20 bill.

"Here.  This will keep you drunk for a couple of
days."  He handed the money to the old man.

The old man suddenly let go of his jacket sleeve and
jumped back.

"I don't want your money," he said.

"Why not?"

"There's something funny going on here."

"Yes," said Xtery.  He nodded.  "Yes, you're
absolutely correct about that."

Then he turned and walked quickly toward the alley
entrance only to find that the old man wasn't as
decrepit as he'd surmised.  In fact, the old man kept
up with him, stride for stride, as neatly as you
please!

Xtery walked faster.  But the old man merely increased
his pace.

"Go away!" Xtery said again.

"Not me.  I'm going to stick with you as close as a
pig on a snake's back!"

They stopped on the main street.

"That's a very odd expression," Xtery said.  "I've
never seen or even heard of something like that.  I
don't think anyone, in fact, has ever seen a snake on
a pig's back."

"Little you know," said the old man.  "That's why you
ought to let me tag along with you.  I could help you
a lot.  You should be grateful just to have me
around."

"Right now," said Xtery, "I don't need anyone and
especially I don't need someone following me around."

"I'll bet you do!" thundered the old man, his voice
surging like drum beats.  "I can tell you've got
troubles."

"How would you know?"

"Old age.  I'm quite old, you know.  Experience builds
up over the years and us old people know a lot more
than you youngsters.  Experience is an awfully good
teacher."

"That's an unproven statement," said Xtery.

"Yeah, but it sounds logical.  Especially to me."

"It would," said Xtery.  "How old are you?  Really? 
How old?"

"I think...well, I must be somewhere around fifty
years old.  That sounds about right anyway."

"But you don't really haven't the slightest idea."

"I can explain that," he said.  "Tequila."

"Some explanation."

"How old did you think I was?"

"Precisely forty-seven years and three months, give or
take a day or two."

"You sure about that?"

"Fairly sure," said Xtery after pausing a moment.  He
wondered if he should tell the man that he also knew
the days and the hours.  He decided that he'd been
close enough.

"Well, I lived a couple of those years rather hard. 
Especially the last year or so.  That's why I feel a
bit older, I don't care what you say.  So, I'm
probably really fifty.  Maybe even fifty-two."

Xtery nodded.  "Probably.  Now go away, would you?"

"Not me.  You may not have liked the phraseology, but
I meant that about the snake."

"Phraseology?"

"A word I picked up somewhere."

"The question is where."  Xtery paused to contemplate
the word.  Ordinarily, he would have hid his
suspicion, but the problem with the graffiti had
unnerved him.  He admitted this to himself.

"Everywhere.  Anywhere," mumbled the old man.  "Us
homeless people get around."

"I'm sure you do," said Xtery.  "But whether you're
the snake or the pig doesn't really matter, following
me is out of the question."

He thought for a moment about just popping to another
section of El Paso or maybe popping over to some dark
adobe saloon in Juarez.  Better yet, popping the man a
few blocks away.  But popping was usually something
that he didn't enjoy doing necessarily and especially
didn't consider it a wise maneuver in public.  It was
a more difficult feat to perceive things in a
populated area than out in the desert.  One never knew
who might be watching.

Also, popping did something to the nervous system if
you weren't used to it.  The old man was not well,
within certain physical parameters.  However, he'd
been a down-and-out drunk for a considerable time; he
wasn't precisely in good health yet.  That would come
with decent food, rest, proper exercise.  And, in all
probability, he would see few of those attributes.  It
wasn't a matter of time, it was a matter of
availability.  Not many of the vast abundance of this
world's productivity dwindled down to the homeless
culture, which this old man personified.  Under the
circumstances, popping him was out of the question.

"I won't cause no trouble," the old man insisted.

Xtery whirled to face him.  "Don't you understand? 
You've already caused a lot of trouble.  Period."

"What'd you mean?  I didn't scrawl them words about no
lizard!"

That wasn't what Xtery had meant, of course.  But then
he suddenly realized that the old man was not
essentially to blame for any of the problems that now
confronted Xtery.  And, in a way, neither were Muduud
and Bdudd.

"I did not mean to infer that I thought you were
responsible for the graffiti," Xtery said.  "I just
was trying to state, as clearly as possible, that
having you around at the moment would be troublesome
to me.  I have an enormous list of things to do.  I
don't need any help.  Matter of fact, you'd be rather
much of a bother just now."

"Not me.  Quiet as a mouse.  You wouldn't even know I
was around."

Xtery reached for his billfold.  "Look.  Forget the
twenty dollar bill.  I'll give you a hundred dollars. 
Just take it and go!"

But the old man shook his head.

"It ain't the money no more," he said.

"Why not?"

"I've analyzed the situation," said the old man, "and
I think you're in trouble."

"That's absolutely true.  And you're part of it."

"No, I ain't had nothing to do with your trouble and
I'm not your trouble now, either.  But I'm beginning
to see things a little bit more clearly, moment by
moment, and I think you've sort of helped me in some
way.  I don't know how.  But, yes, I think you've
either helped me or have tried to help me.  Maybe I
can do the same for you."

Xtery stared at him, lost in thought.

"That is not only unlikely," he finally told the old
man, "but highly improbable."

"No, it ain't."

"I assure you, it is.  It definitely is."

Just thinking about the situation, this old drunk
rescued a few minutes ago, if only briefly, from a bed
of trash suggesting the possibility of offering help
caused him to burst out in a huge guffaw.  At the
explosion of laughter, the old man jumped back as if
he'd been attacked.

Xtery's laughter, almost uncontrollable, grew louder.

"You making fun of me?" demanded the old man.  His
eyes flashed quickly bright just as if he wasn't
accustomed to this kind of treatment.  And that quick
glimmer, just as quickly gone, was all the more
suspicious to Xtery.

"No," he told the old man in a gentle tone of voice,
"No, I wasn't making fun of you.  But yes, you did
make me laugh.  And the idea, to me, that I was
laughing, for the first time in a long time, caused me
to laugh that much harder."

"You aren't crazy, are you?" asked the old man and his
tone of voice indicated that he would need convincing.

Instead of attempting to calm the man's fears,
however, Xtery quickly admitted that he was, indeed,
crazy.

"I'm crazy," he said.  "Really and completely crazy."

The old man thought about this new turn of events for
a few seconds.

"Well, that's okay, I guess.  Because I am, after all,
a little bit crazy myself and, more than that, I
suppose I'm already committed to this project."

"What project?"

"You," said the old man firmly.

(continued next week)

Down at the Cafe au Go Go in Greenwich Village in the
60s, we used to hangout backstage a lot.  Talking. 
Big act could be out in the performing area.  Talk. 
Talk.  But when something good was going on
"musically" out in the small music area, you'd find
people rushing out to catch it.  Didn't matter who was
performing.  Rush.  Then back to talk and just hangout
when the music cooled.  Everyone was interested in
good music.  Something new.  Something good.  I don't
know if most people are "into" the music anymore.  We
were then.  Everyone I knew.  It was our life.  But we
were also having fun.  And not above a joke now and
then.  Like the time "White Room" by Cream (produced
by Felix Pappalardi) was already a giant hit and being
played on all of the Top 40 stations in New York City.
 Bud Prager, a partner with Felix Papparlardi, took a
copy of the 45 rpm single and took off the label and
went over to see Nat Tarnapol, who headed a small
record label at the time.   Don't remember the name of
the label.  Tommy Noonan would remember.

"Just finished this at A&R," Bud told Nat.  "Haven't
even done the final mix yet.  Thought you might want
to consider it."

Nat played the single and told Bud that he thought it
was a piece of crap and he'd never put that on his
label.

Don't think Bud ever told Nat the truth.  Why spoil a
good joke.

One time, the joke was on me.  This was after we moved
the headquarters of Billboard to Los Angeles.  A lot
of people knew that while I liked a lot of different
kinds of music--you name it--I was especially into
country.  One night during the heyday of KLAC as a
country music giant, Corky Mayberry invited me up to
guest on his show.  My deal was that I could bring my
own records.  And I fetched along an album by Jerry
Jeff Walker and played "Up Against the Wall, Redneck
Mother."  How'd I know the record was not appreciated
on the station?  Actually, I realized the record might
not be appropriate just about the time it was halfway
through.  Too late!  But then I rationalized that the
record was actually innocuous.

Later, memos flew fast and furious!  I think the late
Bill Ward, the general manager of the station and a
good friend, defended Corky and that's the reason
Corky didn't get fired.  No one told me about the
memos.  Hey, I went way back with George Duncan, head
of Metromedia Radio that owned KLAC.  Don't even know
if my name was mentioned in the fray.

Everything died down eventually.  And Corky got fired
for something else.  Always liked Corky.  Hated it
when he got into trouble for something that a lot of
deejays did (Corky liked women just a little too much
and forgot to be discreet about it).  In fact, I knew
about worse.  Other people.  Including some good
friends of mine.  A lot of people I know thought
Humble Harve was justified.  Funny, but I'll bet just
about everyone in radio in the 70s and 80s knows the
Humble Harve story.  Radio has always been, I suppose,
a funny business with a lot of fairly odd people in
it.  Music business, too, come to think of it.

The joke is that a couple of years later I was back in
Los Angeles on summer vacation and heard "Up Against
the Wall, Redneck Mother" by Jerry Jeff Walker being
played as an oldie on KLAC.

JACKIE & GEORGE
Anyway, I thought about Corky after listening to "Up
Against the Wall, Redneck Mother" by Jerry Jeff Walker
on the compilation that George Wilson and his wife
Jackie, KeokiWC@aol.com, sent me.  One of the songs on
this particular CD, which George seems to have blended
(good job, too) much as if doing a radio show, was
"Jambalaya."  I told my son Andy that I'd just heard a
damned good uptempo version of "Jambalaya" and he


George Wilson, left, circa 70s, and Ron Alexenburg, 
record label head. George rose through the ranks from 
disc jockey to become head of Bartell Broadcasting. 

said, "Van Morrison."  I said, "I'll be damned." 
Andy, my youngest, and John, my oldest, are into
music.  They know this stuff!  Van Morrison, according
to Andy, was influenced by Bobby Vee.  I asked, "How
do you know that?"  "Go back and listen to his early
stuff.  Bobby has always been very big in England.
Listen to 'Here Comes the Night' by Van Morrison." 
Andy, hallawayjoe@hotmail.com, pulled out a cassette
and, yes, I could hear Bobby Vee bigger than the devil
whether Van Morrison realized it or not.  But
"Jambalaya," of course, is not anything like anyone
except Van Morrison and certainly not like Hank
Williams.  Linda Gale Lewis supports Morrison on the
song.

Another song I saved--I mean, I'm going to save the
entire CD, of course, unless one of my sons Andy or
John steals it, but this one I saved close by on my
laptop--was "When Rita Leaves" by Delbert McClinton. 
Great record.  Don't know and don't care if it was
ever a hit.  Great record.  I bumped into Delbert
McClinton one day at KLAC in Los Angeles.  If this is
the same guy, he wanted to be a country star in the
worse way back then.  Hung out.  Probably paid a hell
of a lot of dues.  Don't think the deejays at KLAC
appreciated him as much as they should have.  But,
after all, they were associating with Marty Robbins,
Snuffy Garrett, and you name them.  At the time,
Delbert was still in there trying.  I've been out of
music a long time.  Andy says Delbert got well known,
but never reached the status of Van Morrison.  Pity.

And then, George and Jackie put on a Ruth Brown cut on
the blues CD.  "If I Can't Sell It, I'll Keep Sittin'
on It."  Gawd!  Bit risque, but great!  Andy reminded
me that she lives in Las Vegas and that most real
blues and even jazz singers were oft risque.  Then I
remembered listening to the late Jack the Rapper
Gibson one Sunday on his radio show here in town and
she phoned in and even Jack was impressed all to hell.
 Ruth Brown!  The legend!  May the Good Lord bless and
keep you, Ruth Brown.

I was a little afraid of mentioning the songs Jackie
and George sent me.  Copyrights, you know.  But then I
thought, hey, this man probably made half of these
songs hits in the first place (are all of you aware of
who George Wilson is and what he has done in radio?). 
Anyway, there's one more song I thought I'd mention. 
Patsy Cline doing "Crazy."  In stereo.  I thought she
was before stereo.  I have an LP somewhere around, or
did have, of her doing "Crazy," but I'd swear it's
mono.  Just to illustrate the work put in on this
particular CD, there's "Bottle of Wine and Patsy
Cline" by Marsha Thornton, a very nice record,
followed by "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.  You know the work
entailed on something like CD?  First, you've got to
locate the doggoned record.  You think you remember
the name, but what did you do with it?  Not to mention
the production work.

Impressive, George!

I owe Roy Head an apology.  I remarked in a previous
Commentary that he had snubbed me one night in a
Houston nightclub where he was performing.  Jim Rose
defended the man a week or so ago.  Jim Rose was
right.  I've just listened to "Treat Her Right" by Roy
Head.  It is a great record by a great talent.  The
first time I heard this song was a live performance by
Head at an r&b convention in the 60s.  The record is
far ahead of the technology of the time in a studio
that obviously lacked equipment befitting the artist. 
Good musicians, though.  Enjoyed the heck out of the
record.  You can snub me any time, Mr. Head.

The same people--Jackie and George Wilson--who sent me
"Treat Her Right" also sent me "Cherry Pink and Apple
Blossom White" by Pérez Prado.  Now we're talking
about a 45 rpm that goes back about 50 years!  I
bought it in a PX when I was getting discharged along
with a little RCA player that I had to plug into a
radio.  Do you realize the odds of someone having this
particular record around?  Good version, too.

Three CDs.  Two, George scrawled on the CD "Texas
Junk."  One of the songs was/is.  "I Want a Waitress"
by the Light Crust Doughboys.  Absolutely horrible! 
But I'll bet there are probably only three people in
the world who have a copy of this particular song. 
Me, George Wilson, and Dr. Demento, who has
everything, up to and including "I'm a Toolpusher From
Snyder" by Slim Willet.

Some good stuff on these CDs, though.  And I was
totally knocked out to get them.  Impressed is a word
that doesn't say it all at the moment.  Years and
years ago, I once mentioned a song in Vox Jox and
quickly received a copy of the tearjerker "Baggage Car
Ahead" on a little reel of tape.  Gone now.  As well
as a tape featuring someone I can't mention because it
would bring down a barrage of lawsuits on the guy who
gave it to me (it's a tape that supposedly doesn't
exist).  Helen Wirth packed my office stuff when I
moved from New York City to Los Angeles with Billboard
and she evidently tossed that tape away.  Be worth at
least a million dollars.  I've often pondered whether
I'd sell it for a million.  Probably not.  The guy who
gave it to me was actually not only trusting me with
the tape, but sort of honoring me, too, if you know
what I mean.  Well, I feel like George and Jackie have
done the same thing with these three CDs of stuff both
esoteric and great and somewhat gone.  Pérez Prado? 
You've got to be kidding, as John McEnroe might say.

Got to mention one more great tune.  Not from George
and Jackie, but from one of the CDs of my kids. 
"Forever Young" by Kitty Wells.  I put this song on my
laptop.  Great record.  Jimmy Rabbitt a few months
back emailed me that he was still playing Kitty Wells.
 This is only amusing when you realized that Rabbitt
was fired for playing Kitty Wells on KMET in Los
Angeles back when the station was a national
powerhouse in a progressive rock format.  Rabbitt
still holds the record for being fired from the
longest distance.  Australia.  David Moorhead, the
general manager of KMET, and I were down there
attending a media convention organized by 2SM in
Sydney.  Specifically, as I recall, the efforts of
Kevin O'Donohue, general manager of 2SM, and Peter
Davidson, the station's promotion director.  I loved
Rabbitt's show.  Listened all of the time.  I was
trying to persuade Moorhead not to fire Rabbitt and
Moorhead was trying to persuade Rabbitt to back off of
Kitty Wells.  Spent more than $600 in long distance
phone bills!  But the end result was that Rabbitt got
fired.  Later, Moorhead told me that the first person
in his office asking for Rabbitt's timeslot was Mary
Turner.  This is ironic because Rabbitt and Turner
were sort of that way about each other, if you know
what I mean.  Anyway, Turner ended up with Norm
Pattiz, head of Westwood One before he became head of
a huge media empire, and when I mentioned that in Vox
Jox, Norm called to tell me they weren't married.  No,
Norm would not know me now.  Often wondered why he
even bothered to call me about not being married,
though.  Hope things worked out between Pattiz and
Turner.  She was pretty and very bright; had a
master's in television, as I recall.  Was she as good
as Rabbitt on KMET?  Hey, she didn't play any Kitty
Wells!  Ironically, I would probably play "Forever
Young" on a progressive rock format.  It's that kind
of record.  And that good.

OTHER MATTERS
Vince Cosgrave, who now owns and operates Veteran Real
Estate in Las Vega, reports that Rick Frio, who
manages Carol King, is thinking about a trip to Las
Vegas even though he hates Vegas.  And Norman Winter,
a public relations person, has bought a home in Las
Vegas and is thinking about expanding his public
relations business to the area from Los Angeles. 
"They are about the only folks I've heard from
lately," Vince says, then ads: "but I was very sad to
hear of David Skepner's death (Loretta Lynn's
manager).  Skep threw me a life preserver when he and
Universal hired me to promote 'Coal Miner's Daughter'.
 That led to three years with an office at Universal
doing radio promotions.  Speaking of Loretta, Jack
White did a steller job on her Grammy-winning
(hopefully) album.  I love it.  Great story that I was
told:  The independents saw how well I was doing with
movies and brought Murray the K to Universal in an
attempt to unseat me.  Remember now, this was 1979. 
After the pitch, they asked what was the last movie
Murray promoted and he replied 'Requiem for a
Heavyweight'.  End of meeting and I was sercure." 
Vince works with sons of Ramsey Lewis and Brian
Holland.

I remember Rick back in the days when he was an
executive at MCA Records; Elton John threw a party for
3,000 of his friends on Univeral Studio's western
street and one of the saloons was named after Rick. 
Or was that a restaurant?  Bumped into Al Kooper on
the street, one of the members of Blues Project, one
of the early rock groups to experiment with music, and
the guy who put Blood, Sweat and Tears together. 
Elton John performed on a railroad platform down at
the end of the street.  Just this past week, my son
Andy, my brother-in-law Richard Schwartz, and my
beautiful bride of more than 40 years paid about $150
each to see Elton John perform on the Strip.  I told
them, "Hey, last time I saw Elton John perform, it
didn't cost me anything."

Elton John later rented an entire circus for a party. 
These were probably two of the biggest parties, bar
none, ever done in Los Angeles.

George Pollard reports that Bob Macadory, once the
afternoon jock on CHUM, Toronto, has died after a long
illness.  He was 69.

The day of the big disc jockey seems to have passed. 
Someone might mention the name of Howard Stern, but
Stern is a mere "puddy cat" compared to many that I
could name from the days of yore.  He's not great
anything.  Just knows a few four-letter words.  No
talent involved.  He may have a fandom, but one
questions their quality.

The days are gone, though, when disc jockeys not only
had a fandom, but also an entourage of other disc
jockeys.  I recall once doing a survey of 30 of the
nation's leading Top 40 program directors and 30 of
them thought Charlie (Art Ferguson) Tuna at KHJ in Los
Angeles was the No. 1 Top 40 personality in America. 
There was no coaching on this survey; I did not
provide a list from which they might choose.  Charlie
Tuna was the peer image.  These, in effect, were
heavyweights paying homage to a heavyweight.  When I
interviewed Bill Stewart in the restaurant then atop
9000 Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles, he had brought along
a radio personality named Paxton Mills to listen to
Charlie Tuna.  The later interview with Charlie Tuna,
incidentally, reaped more than 250 letters and at
least a hundred phone calls of comment and those were
the days when I always had seven or eight phone calls
waiting at the switchboard (most, I never got to
answer) so I don't know how many phone calls I might
have received in regards to the interview.

Prior to Charlie, Dan Ingram at WABC.  Without
question.  Disc jockeys flew into New York City by the
ton to listen to the on-air techniques of Dan Ingram. 
The interview that I did with Ingram is still out
there on the Internet.  Someone, I don't know who,
typed it up for the web.  A lot of old disc jockies
still remember the Dan Ingram and still value his
on-air work.

One of the major radio personalities also of the 60s
was Joey Reynolds, G1boney@aol.com, now the over-night
talk personality on WOR, New York. Joey was like a
bullfighter!   An entourage of fans and radio men
followed him around.  Just like Elvis.  They talked
about him.  They idolized him.  Hell, there are still
a couple of people from that entourage around after
approximately 40 years!  Joey, of course, has changed.

I go back with Joey to a magazine called SoundMakers
in the 60s, a precursor to Rolling Stones.  Billboard
magazine asked me to put the magazine together and I
did.  I wanted it to be about happening music.  But
Hal Cook, publisher of Billboard, wanted an article on
this and an article on that and so the magazine turned
up more or less a nothing even though I think I
received at least 250 letters from around the world
about it over the next few months.  Basically, the
magazine didn't sell fast enough on the downtown
stands of Manhattan and Hal Cook decided to kill the
idea.  Pity.

Best thing in that issue was an article by Paul
Akerman on blues as the roots of rock'n'roll.  I think
I wrote a couple of good articles.  And four disc
jockies were written about, including Joey Reynolds. 
I didn't have time to talk to him about facts.  I
wrote it off the top of my head about what I knew. 
Yes, even the tale about nailing his shoes to the door
of the manager's office with a note stating, "You'll
never be able to fill these, baby!"  For years, I
thought I had a potential lawsuit hanging over my head
somewhere out there.  To my surprise, when I finally
did meet Joey, he thanked me for the article.  Big
sigh of relief!  But since that day, we've been
friends.

It's sort of odd about friends.  You don't necessarily
earn them.  You don't even choose them and probably
don't even understand fully why you've got them.  They
seem to happen.  I have been very fortunate in this
regards.  I have a great many friends in radio and in
the music business.  Some in countries such as Canada,
Australia, Brazil, elsewhere.  Some successful, some
not so successful.  But there.  Probably don't deserve
half of them.  If even that many.  But I do, indeed,
value them and I'm grateful for the gods that brought
them my way over the years.

Vinny Carella, Randy & the Rainbows,
randyandtherainbows@hotmail.com: "I just stumbled upon
your website while doing some research on my old
friend Popsie.  The caricature told me it was the same
guy I knew all those years ago from the Billboard
Radio Programming forums that my group used to
attend.  In 1968-69-70 we were recording for Capitol
and Paramount under the name Triangle and Milky Way
and it was at the first forum that I met you and from
time to time would speak with you by phone.  You were
always very nice to me and I've never forgotten that
or you.  Glad to see you're still doing your thing as
am I.  I've been with Randy & The Rainbows since 1975
and have experienced some great musical ecapades.  And
it's still a gas. (I'm 57 now).  I will be writing to
Popsie's son very soon.  When Billboard covered our
signing with Capitol and our first release, they
assigned Popsie to us for the day with Joe
Maimone.  We became pretty tight and I spent some nice
times with Popsie at the studio, at dinners, and just
hanging out.  I heard from him after he moved to
Arizona and then  feared the worst after not hearing
anything shortly after that.  I had heard he had a
stroke, and looking back now, he was much too young to
leave.  In any event, I dug the guy and will never
forget him.  Glad to have made contact with you
Claude.  Stay well.  All the best."

Bill Vancil, wdvancil@tds.net, former KSTT
(Davenport?) disc jockey, has a book soon out: "Don't
Fear the Big Dogs."

POLITICS & WAR
Now, suddenly, here's an email with a personal attack
from a guy who is not a friend and is never going to
be a friend.  Doesn't bother me much.  Personal
attacks are considered the same as losing an argument
before it starts.  Who wants or needs a friend like
that?  And I love to argue!  Once when I was pursuing
a batchelor's degree in journalism at The University
of Texas, I took on eight or nine opponents in a
heated discussion about religion at a beer garden nor
far from the campus.  I always thought I won the
argument.  But maybe I didn't.  I had great fun
regardless!  And I never stooped so low as to do a
personal attack on any of the people at the table. 
No, I'm not above such tactics.  However....

Dale Fox, AFOXDEN@aol.com: "You left wing liberals are
always so smug and condescending, always thinking that
you are the smartest people in any room.  If you would
get over the election results and look at the true
reality of this nation and the rest of the world you
just might get up to speed.  You and the other
Democrat dredges are no longer in power, and you just
don't know what to do about it.  Your playbooks and
your tired mantras are as out of date as tintypes and
the telegraph.  If you could see past our country of
sunshine patriots, voters who won't bother to go out
and vote if it is raining, to see hopeful, liberated
people braving mortar fire to exercise that new found
freedom, we would all be better off.  If it were left
to individuals like yourself, we would still be little
more than an unrepresented colony of England.  It's
time that you finally get your head out of the sand,
or other personal orifice, and looked at the positive
events that are taking place in the world and try to
become part of the solution, instead of a greater part
of the problem."

At first, I thought:  Why answer something like this? 
I'm too damned old to be part of any "solution." 
Anyway, as they say, I've been there, done that.  And
I doubt that Fox has; real soldiers don't really want
war. They may fight, but only the nut cases enjoy it
much.  And, yes, I've known soldiers like that, too. 
I would also be willing to bet two cents Fox hasn't
the slightest idea of what "left-wing liberal" means. 
Anyway, I'm a "bleeding-heart liberal," not a
left-wing liberal.  I admit it; I'm proud of it.  And
terms like "sunshine patriots" bother me.  Mortar
fire? Come now!  Don't think those things are used
much these days even by an "insurgent" rather deplete
of decent weapons (this is a battle fought between
people who have M-16 rifles and tanks against someone
throwing rocks and setting off makeshift bombs...not a
war, per se).  I heard the term "mortar" used this
past week on CNN Headline News.  Haven't heard it in
years!  My first impression is that while Fox has,
perhaps, ideas, he, like that reporter on CNN, lacks
real knowledge about what's going on.  And where are
your positive events, Fox?  You use the term lightly
without proof of any.  I, instead, realize that when
Condoleezza Rice says that war against Iran "is simply
not on the agenda at this point," she's lying (Ted
Rall: 'Bush gone wild.' Yahoo, 2.9.05).  We already
have all of the targets mapped.  Ready.  This week,
she threatened Iran.  Now North Korea.  Both have told
the United States to go to hell.  Which, in my
opinion, they have the right to do.  I don't trust
anything Buchenwald or Rice says.  Why should Iran and
North Korea?

Rall believes "we're already at war with Iran. The
question isn't whether or not they'll fight back. The
question is when and how."  He claims Bush used his
State of the Union address to signal that Iran is his
next target of war, calling it "the world's primary
state sponsor of terror--pursuing nuclear weapons
while depriving its people of the freedom they seek
and deserve."

Buchenwald makes this statement and he has never been
there!  He's only good at making threats and doing
photo opts, not leading a nation.

Tell you one good reason why no country trusts the
United States right now.  Reuters (Feb. 9, 2005)
reported in a story by Haitham Haddadin out of Kuwait
that a supposed al Qaeda leader named Amer al-Enezi
died at a military hospital due to a "collapse in
blood circulation." Enezi had been interrogated by
police since his capture on January 31.

If you're going to die anyway, fight!  We're not
talking about a trial and conviction, we're talking
about torture and death.

Tell you my philosophy:  A guy down a couple of
townhouses was using my parking space.  An old car was
gathering dust.  I told him he'd have to move it.  He
threatened to "stomp" me.  I told him he'd better
bring a weapon with him when he came over because he'd
have to kill me.  That I would not take a stomping. 
That's absolutely true to this very second. 
Buchenwald simply cannot go stomping about the world. 
Some people just won't take it.  And will retaliate in
any form possible for as long as possible if not
forever.

And I have some other sad news for you, Fox.  From
your email I'm quite confident that if only you and I
were in a room together, there's no question but that
I would be the smarter person there.  What a pity!  As
a bleeding-heart liberal, I feel sorry for you.  May I
recommend a couple of books?  Start with "War and
Peace in the Global Village" by Marshall McLuhan.  Let
me know when you've read the book and understand it. 
Okay?  Then perhaps we can discuss "left-wing
liberals."  Maybe you still won't understand the
meaning of the word, but at least you may understand
what being a human is all albout.