It was a mistake.  Big mistake.  He knew it
immediately and realized there would be enormous
repercussions.  Furthermore, if anyone had asked, he
couldn't have explained, even to himself, why he'd
allowed the mistake to occur.  Practically everyone on
Tarrmell would have told you that Xtery had never made
a mistake in his life.  But that would be a
mistake--now--and this was certainly a mistake.

Later, he realized that the old man may have
influenced him in some fashion.

Or perhaps he was slightly befuddled because of the
situation with his wife Starr.

Or maybe Muduud and Bdudd had finally gotten to him
with their shenanigans.  Strange, his use now of that
word shenanigans.  But it seemed to fit the pair.  And
probably himself at the moment.  More and more he
realized that the assignment of the flighty pair here
on earth was quite complex and involved himself in
greater depth that he'd originally suspected.  They
were certainly not just companions.

Regardless, he had no valid explanation why he decided
to let the old man hang around.  And he certainly
didn't have the slightest idea how he would explain
this new situation to Xtarso Divhuud, his controller
on Cyrreen.  A controller that was already in a fuming
rage because he'd married an earth girl and,
furthermore, tried to keep it secret and, furthermore,
exposed the entire surveillance operation!

Even later, he attributed his oddball relationship
with the old man to his subconscious.  A part of his
mind had figured everything out in detail even though
he wasn't aware of it.  That might happen on a rare
occasion, perhaps, to a Tarrmellian.  For the
subconscious mind was often highly developed in a few
Tarrmellians.  Or maybe the old man, too, had
calculated everything and the subconscious mind of the
old homeless creature had played a role in the
situation.

But for a Tarrmellian to make a mistake?  Unheard of!

"So I can't get rid of you?"

"No," said the old man, shaking his head for emphasis.
 His hair tossed and fell partially across his
forehead.

"Well, you can't go around looking like that," said
Xtery.

"Like what?"

"Like a Texas tumbleweed."

Xtery made a chopping motion--an unnecessary gesture,
but highly flamboyant--with his right hand, first on
one side of the man's head and then the other.  A
profusion of white and gray hair fell from his head
and chin and was immediately scattered by whispering
breezes that flowed down the dark alley.

The hand of the old man reached for the top of his
head, now cropped short in a crewcut.  Then he felt
his neatly trimmed beard, his eyes wide.

"Hey!  How'd you do that?"

"What's your name?" asked Xtery, ignoring the old
man's question and also paying little mind to his
obvious astonishment.

"Davis.  Miles Davis," he said.

Xtery nodded.  "I doubt that.  The coincidence of you
having the same name as a legendary jazz musician is a
bit far fetched."

"Well, it's good enough for me," said the old man. 
"Anyway, I don't remember just now what my name is. 
That's because I lost my billfold and my driver's
license a couple of years back.  Everything went sort
of screwy after that."

"Too much tequila, I suspect," said Xtery.

"Nah.  Not enough tequila," said the old man, "and
that's the honest truth."

"You're right," said Xtery.  "Miles is good enough for
anyone.  And Miles it is.  Just Miles.  I like the
sound of it."

"How'd you do the hair thing?  You could make a living
working that kind of magic."  He stepped back
suddenly, eyes wide.  "Or should I ask?"

"Magic.  Just simple magic while you weren't looking,"
said Xtery.  "Mental sleight of hand, really.  But you
shouldn't ask if you want to hang around me.  So, now
we're faced with the big question:  I obviously didn't
scare you off?  You still want to hang around?"

"Yeah.  Like I told you.  Like a snake on a pig's
back."

"Yes.  I remember you saying something like that. 
Although I still find it rather much of a strange
saying.  Quite quaint."

"Not back where I come from."

"And where's that?" Xtery asked, exerting pressure on
the words in hope that the old man might really tell
him the truth.

"Alabama," said Miles quickly and with just a spark of
anger as if he'd realized Xtery was trying to
manipulate him in some way.

"You remember where you're from, but not your real
name?"

"Yeah.  That's the way it is sometimes," he said.

"Okay, Miles.  Okay.  You're hired.  A real job, if
you want it.  I'll figure out the pay later."

"And who're you, now that I'm going to be sort of like
a bodyguard?"

Xtery didn't know why he said it, because a person in
a situation such as his--a professional stranger on an
alien world--specialized in being friendly; it was
part of his duties.  A great deal of his training for
this position focused on the psychological skills
associated with being perceived as friendly.  Yet, he
replied with a cold tone of voice, knowing also that
he sounded very aloof:

"Mister Smith.  And I don't require a bodyguard.  A
servant, perhaps.  Bodyguard, never."

"Mister, eh?  Servant, eh?"

"Yes," said Xtery.  "I'm not the one insisted on this
relationship."

"Well, if that's the way you want it, but it seems
right unfriendly to me," said Miles, cocking his head
ruefully.  "I don't think I've called too many men
mister in my life.  Not on purpose, anyway, and not
without a few other well-chosen words tacked on to it.
 Of course, I haven't much called anybody much of
anything these past few years.  It's downright amazing
how few people stop and talk with you when you're
living in a pile of trash in an alley way.  I'm
talking about when I was a lot younger than I am now."

"And we're going to get even more unfriendly, as you
put it, unless you get a bath fairly soon."

"If you can do haircuts and shaves, a bath...."

"I don't do baths," Xtery said quickly.

"It's a trick.  You're trying to get rid of me.  But
it isn't going to work.  No bath.  I'm sticking as
close as...."

"Yes, you said that," Xtery interrupted.

He tried to calculate a solution to his problem.  But
his mind, once lightning fast, now blundered along
multiple thought paths as if through mud.  He was
confused and slightly irrational and astonished at
these things about himself.  Was this created by the
old man?  The confusion fell upon him from a lot of
angles.  He felt the necessity to return quickly to
his wife, left alone in that house on the other side
of the border that was both a palace and a prison. 
Yet, he knew he would not be welcome.  He wanted to
shed this homeless pest that he'd acquired like some
flea that could not be discarded.  Yet, he was
strangely drawn to the man.  He wished he could
maintain better control over the activities of Muduud
and Bdudd, yet he realized that part of their charm
existed in their pure rascalness.  He also felt a
pressing need to erase all of the graffiti that seemed
to be at his elbow no matter which way he turned and
yet, at the same time, he realized whoever had made
the markings could quickly make more.  Worse, and even
more pressing, he needed to calm down and get his mind
in order.

He stood there in vast indecision, his mind grumbling
virtually to a halt, almost blank.

"Well?" said Miles.

The old man's eyes seemed to be a little clearer than
a few minutes ago, slightly more blue, slightly more
sharp.  And with a shave and a haircut, he seemed more
presentable, although his attire and odor called that
concept a lie.

"I could give you some money for a motel room and come
get you tomorrow in the car," Xtery said.

"No," said Miles.  "You might forget about me by
tomorrow.  On purpose."

"I never lie," said Xtery.

"Sure, I know that," said Miles.  But he shook his
head as he said it and Xtery immediately eliminated
the possibility of placing the man in a motel room. 
The idea of forgetting about Miles hadn't occurred to
him.  Now that the old man had suggested it, Xtery
considered the various ramifications.  None of the
outcomes seemed as bad as letting him participate in
the life of Xtery Xudd, a visitor called Smith on a
planet called Earth.

Xtery sighed.  For a moment, he contemplated the
possibility of just eradicating the old man.  But
that, too, was totally unlike anything he would have
ordinarily considered and certainly would ever do. 
Xtery smiled.  It was more of an inward smile than
visible on his face.  Controller Xtarso Divhuud would
never allow it anyway.  Eradicating an earth person
was totally out of the question.

"Well, come along with me," Xtery said.

"You got a car?"

"No.  No, I don't have a car.  Well, I do have a car,
but not with me at the moment."

"How'd you get here?"

"Taxi," said Xtery and immediately realized that he'd
told an outright lie!  An astonishing fabrication! 
All of these...experiences...were new!  He paused to
savor the feeling.  There wasn't any blinding white
light, no enormous explosion, no searing and sudden
headache.  Throughout his life, he'd prided himself on
the truth.  But this first venture into the realm of
major falsehood hadn't changed him so far as he could
tell.  In fact, he felt slightly pleased with himself.

"This time of night?" questioned Miles.

Xtery shrugged.  "We could walk, I suppose."

"How far?"

"About 22.7 miles, give or take a few inches."

"We need a taxi," Miles said quickly.

"I was lying.  About the inches," Xtery said.  And the
instance he admitted this new lie, he felt good.

"Lying?"

"It's precisely 22.7 miles."

"How do you know something like that?"

"The same way I gave you a shave," said Xtery.  "You
still want to tag along?"

"You couldn't chase me away now," said Miles.  "I'm a
little bit of a liar myself."

"Somehow, I knew that," said Xtery and sighed.  The
sigh was also new to him and he mused about it for a
moment.  The incident with Starr and the incident with
this homeless old man had affected him immensely. 
Suddenly, he'd become someone quite different.  A man
he did not know.

Finding a taxi was difficult.  Two taxis slowed, but
didn't stop and Xtery didn't blame them.  Finally, he
gave up waiting for chance and/or compassion and a
taxi rolled to a stop at the curb, the driver
wondering why the car's engine had acted up like that
just at this particular moment.

"I thought that door was locked," the driver said in a
muffled tone as Xtery crawled into the back seat of
the taxi.  Miles, showing an amazing agility for one
supposedly so ancient and downtrodden, quickly
scrambled into the seat beside Xtery as if afraid
Xtery might suddenly shut the door.

Xtery noticed the grimace of the driver.  The driver
immediately rolled the window down at his side to let
in fresh air.  The fresh air reached Xtery as well and
felt good in his lungs.

Xtery realized that he could eliminate the odor
surrounding Miles by siphoning certain characteristics
of the smell into the street flowing past outside the
taxi and replacing those characteristics with a soft
variation of a perfume called Jasmine.  He did this. 
But the taxi driver didn't know it and kept his window
open, his head canted half out the window to catch the
night air.  Xtery then took the dirt in the man's
clothes and popped the debris into the desert north of
Ft. Bliss, a military post on the outskirts of El
Paso.

The man still needed a bath, of course.  More than
once during the past few minutes, Xtery had
contemplated popping him out into the middle of the
Rio Grande, dragging him through the water, shaking
him dry much as a dog dries itself.  Unfortunately, at
this time of the year the Rio Grande, occasionally a
broad, shallow river, was merely a trickle down
through a concrete rut in an almost dry river bed.  It
was much too far to the Gulf of Mexico or the Sea of
Cortez.  Not even Xtery could handle that kind of
distance.  Atoms had a tendency to disperse after
several kilometers during popping and you had to
maintain absolute control and focus or a person
vanished into nothing.  The greater the distance, the
greater the tendency for this to occur.

Idly, he searched for and found a swimming pool at a
house that was presently vacant, but by this time the
taxi had pulled to a stop to let them out within
walking distance of the Mexican border.

Xtery shelled out a few dollars and the taxi driver
rolled up his window and sped off into the night,
obviously glad to be rid of his passengers.  A block
up the street, he stopped at the curb to make sure
both passenger doors were locked.  Then he sped off
again.

"Are you still sure?" Xtery asked Miles.

"Still."

"Why are you so interested in me?  Now?  All of a
sudden?"

"Curious, that's all," said Miles.  "I think you're
something special.  Special what, I don't know.  But
special.  Always considered myself a gifted bird. 
You're like that."

"I've never been compared with a bird and I'm not
convinced," said Xtery.

"Who cares whether you're convinced or not!  I'm the
one who makes the decision.  You blink your eyes, I
blink.  You sneeze, I'll catch a cold, too.  You ain't
leaving my sight!  Do you understand that, lizard?"

"I thought I'd persuaded you that...."

"You ain't persuaded me about nothing!" Miles said
loudly.

"Not so loud!"

"Okay," he said softly.

"There are no such...."

"Sure, sure," Miles said just as softly, but with a
quick glance in both directions to make sure he hadn't
been overheard.  The old man backed off a step just
the same and stared at Xtery as if with new-found
perception.

Xtery was aware of this.  He stared in mild disbelief
at the old alcoholic vagrant.  He was now seriously
regretting the changes he'd made to Miles.  Certainly,
he hadn't expected this.  The man facing him was
alive, vibrant, alert, poised.  In the back of his
mind, Xtery had supposed that he would save the old
man's life, the old man would be grateful and answer a
few questions, then the old man would more than likely
go back to his bottle and, in time, fade away as any
alcoholic must eventually.

After a moment, he said, "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" returned Miles.

"Like you expect me to convince you otherwise."

"Convince me about what?"

Xtery shrugged.  The tone of voice of the old vagrant
clearly indicated that he was merely engaging in
verbal fencing; he'd made up his mind about the
situation and nothing could be done to make him think
different.

The trouble was that Xtery couldn't determine just
exactly what--or how--the old man felt.  Strangers
always affected him this way.  It was one of the
attributes of his job: The desire to know individuals
better.  But at the moment he didn't know whether he
wanted to know the old man better or not.  Finally, he
reached a decision of his own.  It was not too late to
correct the mistake he'd made with the old man.  He
couldn't kill him; that would only compound the error.
 But he could avoid him.

"Well, you can follow me if you wish," Xtery said,
"but I'm not going to have anything more to do with
you.  You think I'm some kind of strange being.  A
lizard, you said?  Big deal."

He turned and walked quickly toward the bridge that
led into Juarez, a Mexican sister city to American El
Paso.  The narrow walkway was thronged with people,
even at this time of night, walking slow, but Xtery
shouldered past them almost rudely and then walked
even faster up the main street.  Years ago a mayor of
Juarez had "cleaned up" this section of the city, but
his "work" ended a few hundred feet from the Rio
Grande.  A block away from the main street the old
Juarez still existed much as it had existed more than
a hundred years ago.

After a few blocks, Xtery realized that he was
desperately out of condition.  He was out of breath. 
His chest heaved as he struggled for air.  He resolved
that he needed to adopt some regular form of exercise,
maybe buy a treadmill machine for his "study" deep
below his house and use it at least once a day.  Even
a "lizard," goodness knows, had to keep in condition.

The thought came to him suddenly that now he was
beginning to even think like an earthling.

With dismay, he noticed that Miles had kept pace with
him and was only a few yards behind, now crossing the
last street.

The opportunity to pop himself away--back to his study
south of the border--just wasn't there!

In an explosion of anger that was highly
uncharacteristic, Xtery whirled down a side street to
the west and about two blocks later was strolling on a
dirt back street bordered on either side with low
adobe cantinas that were also makeshift brothels. 
There were no streetlights down here in this part of
town.  A moon fell only in scattered puddles of light.
 Rather than perceiving the rapidly walking figure of
Miles, he saw his face flicker just an instant as he
passed an open doorway at the corner.  Obviously, the
old man wasn't giving up even though the pace must be
hurting him.

The Casa Rose Cantina was without question the worse
of the scattered dens that offered cheap tequila and
very reasonable prostitutes in this forgotten part of
the Juarez.  The noise that flowed from an open window
and the doorway was like that of some ancient bullring
which admitted only deranged people as audience.  And
the odor was old and sickening.  It reminded him of
rotting fish on a dock in California near Pismo Beach.

Xtery flung himself inside the dimly lit doorway,
hoping that Miles might not notice in the dark of the
street and pass on by.

He was almost immediately embraced in the arms of a
young senorita, who wanted him to buy her a drink.  He
handed her all of the change in his pocket in
desperation and demanded where he could find the back
door of the cantina.  She nodded off to the left.  But
when he glanced around, Miles was standing by the back
door as if a guard, arms crossed.

How had the man known?

With a shrug of his shoulders, Xtery stepped to the
bar and ordered a shot of tequila.  "Oro."

Automatically, as if he were used to serving gringos,
the Mexican bartender sat down a small plate with
limes sliced thin and a salt shaker.

When Xtery also asked for hot sauce "mucho caliente,"
the bartender looked at him and, after a while,
nodded.  His eyes blinked.  But he tried not to reveal
that he was impressed in the slightest by this odd
gringo elbowing up to his bar.

Xtery tossed a heavy splash of the hot sauce into the
top of his shot glass.  He drank the fiery condiment
in the usual Mexican fashion--a suck of lime juice, a
lick of salt on the back of his hand, a swig of Jose
Cuervo Gold Tequila from the small glass.  In days
past, Xtery merely altered the liquid as he drank;
today, he did not and immediately felt a surge of
anger, for that was his prevailing mood and the
strength of the tequila amplified it like a cavern
takes even the smallest noise and throws it back
loudly as if to scare you.

He quickly ordered another shot of tequila and it was
just as quickly placed on the surface of the bar in
front of him.

That's when he came up with the solution to his
problem.  He turned and gestured with the small glass
of gold liquid at the old man standing, arms crossed,
by the back door.  The gesture was a cross between a
salute and an invitation.

Miles glanced around as if thinking, for a moment,
that Xtery might be offering the drink to someone
else.  Than, reluctantly, as if stepping on peanut
shells, he came over.  He stood, arms now hanging at
his side, in front of Xtery.

"What you want?"

"Just to offer you a drink," said Xtery.

"I don't trust you," said Miles.

"You don't trust me!" snapped Xtery.  "I'm beginning
to be rather suspicious about finding an old man in
the trash in a strange alley.  A strange old man, I
must point out."

"Ain't nothing strange about me!"

Xtery merely nodded his head.  "That cancer you had
should have killed you weeks and weeks ago."

"I'm a tough old bird," Miles explained.  "That's all.
 That's the only reason I ain't dead."

"And I also suspect now that you weren't all that
drunk.  Not as much as you pretended to be."

"I was drunk.  Been drunk for days."

Xtery shook his head back and forth.  "Come now!"

"Weeks even," insisted Miles.

"Do you want this tequila?" Xtery asked, lifting the
small glass again.

"No," said Miles.

"I thought not," said Xtery.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Miles.

"I don't think you've had a drink in your life," said
Xtery.  "And if you did, it probably wasn't tequila."

"Yeah?  Yeah?  How would you know?"

"Because," said Xtery quite simply, "I've finally
figured out that some birds don't drink tequila. 
Gifted or not."

He said the words as defiantly as possible.  Miles
seemed to get the message.

"I see," he said after a considerable pause.  "So
that's the way it is now?"

"Yes," said Xtery and this time he was quite firm as
he spoke the word, somehow taking it for granted that
the old man called Miles would understand everything
that he was actually trying to tell him.  Because,
Xtery realized now that stumbling upon the old man
back in an alley of El Paso more than likely hadn't
been accident.  The situation had been too irrational.

Miles finally nodded his head and, indeed, Xtery
thought it looked something like the motion of a bird
pecking at flung seed.  Although, of course, he was
probably not descendant of the bird species at all in
all of its past and present myriad varieties.  As
Xtery well knew, on many worlds entirely different
species developed far different from birds, humans,
rabbits...yes, even lizards.

"You ain't gonna fire me, are you?"  The tone of voice
was low, calculating, pensive.

"No," said Xtery.  "But we will come to an
understanding here and now or there will not exactly
henceforth be a here and now."

Miles seemed abashed at the threat.  He apparently
could not make up his mind whether the threat was real
or not.  And Xtery could see a question in his eyes as
if Miles wasn't quite sure whether Xtery could, in
fact, eliminate him if he wished.

On the other hand, this being called Miles evidently
decided that he didn't want to take a chance.  Or,
perhaps, didn't care to push the issue at that moment
in a crowded bar, even if the bar was deep in the back
streets of Juarez where killings are sometimes as
common as headaches and for less reason.

"What kind of understanding?"

"Here's some money if you actually need it," Xtery
said.  He placed several bills on the counter of the
bar.  "Go home...go somewhere...and take a bath.  Get
some decent, respectable clothes.  Meet me at the old
church in town tomorrow at 11 a.m."

The money was ignored.

"What are you doing to do?"

"None of your business," Xtery said.  He walked out
the backdoor into the dark, stepped quickly to the
side, and, before anyone could follow, disappeared.

(continued next week)

Things are fading away on me.  You go out on any
prairie these days and there's someone out there.  And
not far away either.  But when an old sourdough named
Shuffield took me and several other kids out southwest
of San Angelo there was only miles and miles of miles
and miles.  Far away to the west were some low hills. 
We called them mountains, but they were not all that
high.  However, the prairie was so flat they looked
like mountains in the distance and they were purple
from the distance through the haze.  Just haze.  You
didn't even know what smog was in those days and
certainly not in Texas.  But distant hills were always
purple.

Out there was a spring in the rocks that bubbled up
more than a foot above the surface.  You could dive
into the water.  It was crystal clear.  Looked
shallow, but was deep.  Might have been the head of
the Concho River.  I don't remember and it wasn't on
any map then nor now.  Anyway, it's probably dry now. 
A lot of springs dried up since I was a kid. 
Irrigation.  Carpetbaggers.

Off yonder was a huge oak tree.  A strange tree in a
strange place because for miles and miles there was
nothing else but low mesquites and low sagebrush and
low prickly pear cactus.  Some rattlesnakes.  But here
was this tree and eight men couldn't reach around the
truck and it was so old that some of the branches had
broken off over the years and fell on the ground and
rotted away.  The tree still grew, though, and old man
Shuffield said you could put a hundred sheep in its
shade at high noon.

Before you got to the tree, there was a dropoff in the
prairie of about three feet.  Buffalo trail.  They
used to come this way from the south and their hooves
stirred up dust that blew away and there were millions
of them and for more than a mile or so this gully had
been carved in the earth and over yonder further than
you could see was the other side.

We were Boy Scouts seeking a merit badge.  I wandered
away from the group.  They were talking.  You can't
see as much when you're talking as when you're quiet. 
Suddenly, an old lobo wolf confronted me around a
tangle of mesquite.  We both stopped.  Stared at each
other.  He looked hungry.  I was just 12 years old and
probably looked like a pretty good meal.  But after a
while he just turned and trotted away.

Further on, I saw buzzards.  Hundreds upon hundreds of
them on an old creepy windmill out there in the middle
of nowhere.  Ugly looking things!

Sometimes today someone will point at a hawk in the
sky and call it a buzzard.  They are not.  Only
buzzards are buzzards.  And none of them are going to
pass a beauty test.  You don't see many of them
anymore.  And no wolves at all.  Not even on the
prairies out there.  And I don't know how to find the
spring anymore nor that old oak tree nor the buffalo
trail.  All gone.  Part of my youth.

A lot of things are gone from my youth.  Some I miss
muchly and some I don't miss very much.  But I do miss
the Thursday and Saturday late evening live broadcasts
from Cain's Academy over KVOO.  Johnnie Lee Wills. 
Younger brother of Bob Wills, who was already a legend
in music by this time and had moved to the West Coast.
 Johnnie and his band played two or three hours for
dancing.  I listened a great many hours.  I can still
remember the lyrics to some of the songs.  "I was just
walking out the door.  It's too bad you didn't come
before.  I've waited so long, so long, so long.  Now
there's no time to wait anymore."  Hey, I can sing the
entire song!  Don't know the name of the song.  But I
still know the song by heart after about 50 years!  A
song lasted forever.  They would sing the song, there
would be an instrumental break, and then someone in
the band would sing the entire song again.  Western
swing.  Dance music.

I believe that to some extent we have failed to
capture and preserve the good things of our past. 
Billy the Kid is remembered.  Johnnie Lee Wills is
forgotten.  I haven't even heard the name Jim I. Heap
in years and while "Rag Mop" may live on, Jim I. Heap
is gone and he played those places Elvis and Johnny
Cash and Webb Pierce and others played: Cherry
Springs, the Hilltop Inn not far from Austin.  History
that, unfortunately, is not remembered.  Well, Jim I.
Heap wasn't all that much good anyway, I suppose.  I
caught him live only once.  I always thought Johnnie
Lee Wills was great, though.  He played in his
brother's band for a while.

One of the things I miss is the radio station--you
could hear it real well at night--that broadcast out
of Clint, Texas.  Well, not really out of Clint.  The
transmitter was over in Mexico.  The mailbox was on
this side of the Rio Grande River in Clint.  The call
letters?  I don't remember.  Bruce Miller Earle,
ingbme@hotmail.com, would know.  He knows all about
those Mexican stations and has been in several.  Bob
(Wolfman Jack) Smith started his career either in
Clint or not far away.  I know all about the
development of format radio and I've written about
Bernice Judas at WNEW in New York and, yes, that was
the first format music station (courtesy to some
extent to Martin Block and his "Make Believe
Ballroom") in my opinion and in the opinion of a great
many of the people who were around in those days and
knew what was going on.  But, ironically, the first
consistent radio format was probably on that radio
station with the mailbox in Clint, Texas.  They played
a Hank Williams record and then had a 15-minute
commercial block that advertised everything from baby
chicks to autographed pictures of Jesus, then they
played another Hank Williams record.  Advertised Dr.
Brinkly's Goat Gland Pills, too.  But you need to
confer with BME about that.

Come to think of it, I really don't miss that station
a hell of a lot, but it was all you could get out
there on those plains much of the time.  Especially at
night.  Miss Hank Williams somewhat, though.

These days, I see these country acts around and some
of them are a little bit humorous.  Most of them can't
sing.  Did you watch the Super Bowl pre-show?  If so,
you know what I mean.  Hank Williams?  Now there was
the real stuff!

It's hard to judge the real impact of Hank Williams or
all kinds of music then and now.  He was an ugly
little varmint.  Not big enough to whip a marshmallow.
 And as for voice, he did not have the pipes you'd
think a country singer should have.  But he could sell
a song better than most people who've ever lived. 
Then and now.  I have admired the acting talents of
Charlie Chaplin; he could make you laugh and then make
you cry and then make you laugh again.  Hank Williams
could do that with a song.  Absolute control of the
emotions when he wanted to, when he needed to.  His
rather plaintive voice became an instrument of power. 
>From the humorous "My Bucket's Got a Hole in It" to
the melancholy "Your Cheatin' Heart" is a vast
distance between laughter and tears, yet Hank Williams
has this kind of vocal range.  I'm listening at the
moment to a Polydor CD titled "Hank Williams: 40
Greatest Hits."  A collection that one of my sons gave
me.  Great songs by a great artist.

A purist would say:  "Don't dare touch."  Yet, many
have tried to bring these tunes technically into the
modern genre.  Enhancements.  Duets.  I'm not quite
sure that many of these have been worth the effort. 
The problem was that the acoustic technology wasn't
there.  Is it now?  Talk to Lou Dorren,
xytar@yahoo.com.

It is true, however, that the Hank Williams music is
shallow.  Patsy Cline materials from that musical
period are masterful.  The Hank Williams material was
literally short changed technically.  On this set of
two CDs, I hear an old standup bass and a steel
guitar.  Sometimes a fiddle.  A guy strumming
sometimes.  Very seldom a lead guitar.  And Hank. 
God, but I wish Willie Nelson and his guitar had been
there for these sessions!  "Lovesick Blues" could have
been a classic for the ages!  Same for "I'm So
Lonesome I Could Cry."

An idea for a major project.  Because, believe it or
not, Ipod is not the answer.  A good system is
necessary, but good music is even more important.  A
major project would create excitement.  A giant,
national railway from St. Louis to Los Angeles.  A
huge medical center in Utah staffed with the world's
best physicians.  A hi-tech public school in Denver
with only the most-outstanding teachers in the United
States.

In the music world, the project that I would like to
see is Hank Williams.  Eric Clapton, Bruce
Springsteen, John Melloncamp, j.d. lang, Alison Kraus,
Vince Gill, and a few others might tackle a
revitalization of the Hank Williams material under the
aegis of an engineer such as Lou Dorren.  Let Lou
magically separate the music from Hank's voice, for
the stereo effect, then augment with the work of some
of the greatest musicians of today and also the better
vocal talents of our time doing harmony.

Yes, I know I'm just daydreaming on something like
this.  On the other hand, I say, "Why not?"  Without
daydreams, we are mere cattle.  Iraq has brought this
nation down.  We need something to lift it up again. 
Projects.  All kinds of projects.  At the moment, I
fancy a project focusing on Hank Williams.  Tomorrow?

OTHER MATTERS
Last week, I ran a picture of Ron Alexenburg with
George Wilson and as sometimes my wont, I emailed a
short note to some people that knew both men,
including Ron.  Got this back, sad to say:

Dena Gurewitz, algurewitz@msn.com: "Claude, I saw you
CC'd my Father on this message. I am sorry to tell you
that my  Father passed away Tuesday Night. Ron was at
the funeral and he can answer any questions I am
sure."

I quickly emailed a couple of others about Al
Gurewitz.  Sorry to hear the news, Dena.

Tom Noonan, Tenoonan8@aol.com: "I was catching up on a
few columns of yours that I missed--and saw your
writing about Vox Jox--Joe Carlton, Jerry Wexler
(still living on Long Island today), then, I think,
was taken over by the then radio editor of BB--Jerry
Franken (who eventually married another BB employee,
namely Charlotte Summer Franken--both are dead now--I
used to babysit for them with my then girlfriend, June
Hoglund--another BB employee who I eventually married
in 1957.  But, back to Vox Jox, it was then written by
June Bundy for quite a few years--she was then a
reporter at BB as you were and who I think you
followed as the writer of VJ...not sure, but maybe.  
June Bundy is still alive and lives here in Los
Angeles today (I'm in touch with her)--she married Joe
Csida, the edtior of BB in '49 and before--Joe
eventually left BB, went to RCA Records, and then
started Trinity Music--the "trinity" was Joe Csida,
Charlie Grean & Ed Burton, who was the brother of Bob
Burton, who was then the head of BMI. Joe Csida then
managed Eddy Arnold, Bobby Darin & Jim Lowe, who was a
DJ on WNEW then and also had the hit 'Green Door'.  
Do you remember 'Green Door'?   My first wife, June
Noonan went to work at Trinity Music because BB had
the silly rule that one could not work there with
their spouse.   June married Joe after Joe had left BB
and Charlotte married Jerry Franken after he had left
BB.  I stayed at BB after marrying June--she left to
go to Trinity and eventually left Trinity to go with
Charlie Grean to RCA Records where she worked till we
had our first child, and then June didn't work for 21
years--she is now living here in L.A. and working
today.   That's how I remember it all--amongst many
memories...all good ones relating to Billboard,
Columbia Records, Motown Records, Medtromedia Records
(where I met John Kluge--but only when I turned the
label from red ink to black ink--then he loved anyone
who made money for him--I was invited to his house in
Conn. for a dinner--I remember his living room was so
large and had a fireplace at both ends)--we had Bobby
Sherman at Metromedia amongst other artists there,
then went to Polydor Records, back on the west coast
to Motown Records again and then back to Billboard in
1975 in Los Angeles.    There goes 51 years right
there.  First of all the label that Nat Tarnapol had
was BRUNSWICK & was distributed by Decca back then. 
It was quite a successful little label.  Had quite a
few hit artists.   Secondly, a minute correction re
spelling--it is Paul Ackerman & not Akerman, as I am
sure you know.  I am attempting to help Barry Salberg
who is the guy that Ken Levine recommended in applying
for the Billboard Monitor job--but I told Barry not to
expect a high salary as they are probably trying to
get the lowest salary possible."

I told Tom that I was sick about misspelling Paul's
name.  Like Tom and Jerry Wexler and Sam Phillips and
countless others, I loved Paul.

Louis P. Kasman, CMC, APR, CBC  Media//Management
Consultant,  Ann Arbor, MI, kasperson@comcast.net: 
"Hope you and yours are well.  Dan Ingram worked the
format like a maestro.  While at WABC in the 60s as
Rick Sklar's assistant (gopher) I had the chance to
work around Dan and when he sat behind the mike a
different Dan Ingram appeared.  I think his love of
Jazz helped make his timing what it was.  He produced
my first audition tape!"

I'll bet a penny that many of the old pros helped
young disc jockeys with their first airchecks.  Good
on you, Dan Ingram!

Harriet Fishman, fishmanluke@comcast.net: "I worked at
KMET and KLAC during the late 60s early 70s.  I knew
David Moorhead and Mikel Hunter very well.  For a
while I worked with Howard Bloom and Sam Ashe. I know
Tom Gamache and still communicate with he and his wife
Nancy.  So many have died...Mikel's passing is
especially sad for me.  Mikel and I were very close
for awhile."

Saw Mikel Hunter at David Moorhead's funeral services.
 He died a bit after that.  A pity.  Miss both him and
Moorhead.  KMET was a great station and I think it
could have stayed that way.  But no one asked me
before literally destroying the station.  Sad day for
radio.  Just FYI, I have one of the belt buckles
presented to KMET staff members.  No. 50.  I think
Jack Thayer received No. 48 or 49.  Just wonder if Tim
has his dad's belt buckle.  Maybe Jack's daughter has
it.  Might not be worth much to anyone, but it packs
some great memories!

Ian Wright, ianshome@iinet.net.au: "Tuna, Stern & a
GOOD MORGAN ! Hi Claude, nice piece on the great
Charlie Tuna. You also mentioned  Howard Stern's
schtick of crass radio sprinkled with a high rotate of
4 letter words and situations. I haven't heard a lot
of Stern but in comparison with Charlie Tuna's
longevity and class I guess I would summarise my
thoughts thus:  There's no denying, some folk yearn
and earn for one Howard Stern.  As for me...I'd sooner
have a  schooner, with that crooner named Tuna, 'cos
he's still great with the organ, only just pipped by
the late Robert W. Morgan!  Kind regards from sunny
South Australia."

Bill Vancil, wdvancil@tds.net:  "Thanks for the
mention of my book in your column. Yes, KSTT was in
Davenport, I spoke to you often while PD there in the
mid-60s.  The station is planning a reunion...I've
built them a website www.ksttplace.com  Also, the
website for my book is www.dontfearthebigdogs.com 
Thanks again.  Bill Vancil   KSTT-'60s, WISM-Madison,
'70s, Magic98/Q106-Madison, '80s&'90s, now in my own
business www.vancilcreative.com."

Thomas Crone, tomstrax@gmail.com: "A Fan letter from
Canada.  I know you get lots of letters - but I just
wanted to throw you a large THANKS for all the great
work over lo' these many years. I read you with like
the 'Good Book', as a pisher in the broadcast
business, and I continue to read your words of wisdom,
with the same kind of enthusiasm. Far too often the
gang out here in the radio wastelands (* sadly true in
Canada, as well) forget to say thanks to their HEROES
of which you, my friend, are one.  Honest - funny and
with a smart look at a crazy nuanced business - you
never seem to have lost focus on the fact that you had
an audience who believed in you - and looked to YOU
for guidance and pearls of wisdom.  Keep writing and
keep on 'keeping on', and one of our old friends used
to say.  I miss a lot of things in radio (heh, they
don't want 55 year old deejays with a 35 year winning
track record) - but I am glad I can keep up with you -
on line.  regards - and THANKS,  Tom Jeffries,
Vancouver, Canada."

Neal Barton, neal@nbc56.com: "LOVED THE LATEST YOU
DID ON RADIO DAILY NEWS. The days of the real talented
DJs are over.   Now it's just who can 'outgross' whom.
 Neal Barton, Tyler, Texas."

George Wilson, KeokiWC@aol.com: "Please send us One
Million Dollars By Return Mail. Thank You, Jackie &
GW."

Hey, Jackie and George, thanks for the Bill Monroe
stuff even if it's mono. But years ago, I was at the
Gaslight in Greenwich Village, New York City, when
Bill gave everyone there permission to tape his show
on cassette.  I'm quite positive that he wouldn't go
back on his permission for me to have copies of his
work even at this late stage.  Also, my "fee" for
helping push off his old bus at the Newport Folk
Festival one year was exactly the price you mention
above, so we'll charge your fee to his account.  I
hope this is satisfactory.

Just FYI, I got to thinking about the "million-dollar"
tape that I mentioned in a previous Commentary and the
honest-to-goodness truth is that even if I still had
the tape and even thought about selling it, there
would be enormous lawsuits falling down around my
ears.  Like yellow'd leaves.  Funny thing is that it
was a Bill Monroe song!  And in mono, too!

Just heard from George Wilson that Bobby Vee is
performing in April at a casino in the Albuquerque
area.  Lord, but it would be fun to go over there and
see the show.  Well, we'll see.

Gerry Wilkinson: "Your
photo on the Broadcast Pioneers of Philadelphia
website has moved.  It is now at:
http://www.broadcastpioneers.com/kluge73.html
We are moving everything away from ad based servers to
our own ad free server. Gerry Wilkinson, vice
president, Broadcast Pioneers of Philadelphia."