Miles knew a great deal about flying saucers,
especially their propulsion system which was based on
the concept, as he put it, that light is "thu same
thang"--i.e., a physical property much as water or the
very air we breathe.  The rotating ring surrounding
the edge of the craft took in light, accelerated these
particles, ejected the particles on the other side.  A
statis field kept the major part of the craft not only
on an even keel, but from spinning.

The greatest value of the flying saucer, so far as
Xtery could tell, was that it worked well inside the
atmosphere of a planet and even better out in space
where enormous speeds far beyond the speed of light
could be produced.  On the other hand, needles such as
used by Tarrmell and several other races in Xtery's
sector of the galaxy, were clumsy in an atmosphere,
though quite proficient in space.  The Tarrmellian
needle used hydrogen for propulsion, but a small
container could drive the ship halfway across the
galaxy.  Actual propulsion was "assisted" by the
mental efforts of a highly trained and skilled crew.

Both vehicles, however, required a tunnel though space
for high-speed travel and slower vessels and crews
were required to blast constant debris from these
"highways" between the stars.  And, quite frequently,
new highways had to be constructed as planets and even
stars drifted into the way.  In the case of a needle,
the highways were actually mere dashes in space and
the needle was usually popped from one dash to
another.

Starr had listened to all of these details in
fascinated awe.  Muduud and Bdudd, however, seemed to
pay no attention.  Muduud fiddled with the jar of
peanut butter.  He managed to lift it from the shelf
to the kitchen counter, but couldn't get the lid off
and, finally, instead of allowing himself to become
frustrated, he decided to ignore the jar completely. 
After the jar was abandoned, Miles casually went over
and placed it back on the shelf.  Once, Xtery noticed
that Bdudd was paying more attention to the
conversation than appeared.  Starr hung onto every
word and often asked questions that indicated she
understood just about everything being discussed.

As for the graffiti, Miles actually didn't know much.

"You thought I faked being drunk.  Nope," he said. 
"Anyway, it was dark in that alley and I wasn't paying
attention to much else other than me.  Until you came
along anyway.  As far as I can recall, they were some
kinda bugs."

"With wings?"

"I don't know," he said after thinking for a moment. 
"Probably not.  Maybe though, but nothing like these
fairies you have as pets."

"We are not pets!" Bdudd shouted at him.

"Okay.  Okay," said Miles.  "I beg your pardon.  I
didn't mean to offend you none."

"They are definitely not pets," Xtery said.  "I'd much
prefer a pit bulldog any day."

"Thanks," said Bdudd.  She went over and helped Muduud
once again lift the peanut butter jar from the shelf. 
This time, together, they managed to get the lid off. 
Bdudd immediately poked his finger into the jar and
came up with some peanut butter.

"Use a knife," said Miles.

"Why?" asked Bdudd.

"Because someone else might want some peanut butter
later and I don't think they'd appreciate having to
eat after your dirty finger."

"Oh."

Xtery watched with unexpressed amusement while the two
little creatures managed to get the bread box open and
a slice of bread onto the counter.  They found a table
knife in a drawer and began making themselves a
sandwich.  He was impressed.  Then he realized that
he'd never seen either of them eat before.  Not
anything.  He wondered why he'd never thought about
that.  It seems that there was a lot going on which
he'd never thought about before.

"Don't eat too much of that stuff," warned Miles. 
"You'll get sick.  You can get sick from eating too
much candy...I should know...and too much peanut
butter.  Come to think of it, too much of just about
anything.  Especially tequila."

The two Verdidiuns continued to eat their makeshift
peanut butter sandwich.

"They never listen to you, eh?"

"Funny you'd say something like that," Xtery said,
"but I suppose they're good company."

"They watch you?"

"I suppose," admitted Xtery.  "Maybe that's their
job."

"And you watch everyone else?"

Xtery nodded.

"And, so help me, that's all that I do," Xtery said to
Starr.  He turned back to Miles.  "What's your job?"

"No one ever told me what I was supposed to do here on
earth," Miles said.  "And that, so help me, is the
honest truth.  I hope.  Because I'd hate to be doing
anything else stranger than what I've been
doing...especially something I didn't know nothing
about."

He, too, said this to Starr rather than as an answer
to Xtery's question.

According to Miles, he remembered a trip aboard a
flying saucer.  The saucer had landed.  He'd come to
later sprawled on his back, arms flung out, in a corn
field in Alabama.  "Since then, I've been just sort of
wandering around.  Sick.  Sick and drunk."

"You're perhaps either a lure or a sponge," said
Bdudd.

"How's that?"

"A lure attracts game, like fish to a hook," said
Bdudd.  "A sponge merely soaks up whatever it touches.
 Waits for someone to squeeze everything out."

"Don't think I'm a hunter of any kind, so, if you
don't mind, I'll just toss away that idea about being
a lure.  I sure ain't no good at fishing.  Tried it
once.  Didn't like to bait the hook."

"You caught us," Muduud said.

"If I did catch you, and I'm denying the fact, I'd
just toss you back," said Miles.  "Don't want you. 
No, sir!  No way!"

"Maybe you're just soaking up information then and one
day the flying saucer comes back, finds you, takes you
away, and they pump the information out of you," said
Bdudd.

"Strange way to do business," Miles observed.  "Sort
of disrespectful, you know what I mean?  Hey, a person
deserves to be treated better than that!"

"Sorry," said Bdudd.

"So, here we are, a watcher and one who waits and a
couple of flying fairies and a pretty strange blonde
earth thing.  It's just really strange.  Especially
when you consider someone else don't particular like
one of us, meaning you specifically," he said, nodding
at Xtery.

"And I don't even know who they are.  I thought it
might be you."

"Not me!" said Miles.  "I've always had other fish to
fry even if I didn't know how to fish."

"And then I considered the possibility that Bdudd and
Muduud might have hidden agendas."

"No!" they said in unison.

"Well, don't look at me!" said Starr.

"Research is what we need," said Miles.  "We need a
good look-see at the situation."

"We can help," said Bdudd.  "We're tired of watching
Xtery.  He is, after all, quite boring."

"I guess I can help, too," said Starr.

"No," Xtery told Miles.  "She'll just run away and
tell the authorities and we'll have even more trouble
on our hands."

"What authorities?" asked Miles.  "Ain't nobody no
where no way gonna believe something like that. 
They'd just lock her up in some loony bin."

"Can we take that chance?"

"I vote for her," said Bdudd.

"Me, too," joined in Muduud.

"Your votes don't count," said Xtery.

"They do with me," said Miles.

That's when, Xtery later decided, the two little
fairies fell in love with the old vagrant née alien
from Alabama.  Suddenly, he could do no wrong.  They
listened to his every word as if he were some ancient
sage with great wisdom.  And if he needed something,
he only had to suggest it and on the merest of whims
one or both sped to fetch that very thing.

"Now," said Starr, "let's go tackle that bug-eyed
monster in the living room."

"Not me!" said Xtery.  He was terrified at the idea of
facing the huge balloon-eyed Cyrreenan controller. 
Even one who was merely a holographic projection. 
Perhaps he'd been psychologically conditioned to fear
Xtarso Divhuud.  Xtery didn't know.  But he held the
Cyrreenan controller in more than just awe.

"You scared of him?" asked Miles.

"No," said Xtery.  "Not really."

"He is, though," said Bdudd.  "I can tell."

"Hush, now," Miles said.  "Maybe he's right to be
scared and maybe he's not.  On the other hand, maybe
this is something that he should face whether he wants
to or not."

"I had enough trouble trying to explain about Starr to
the controller," said Xtery.  "I just don't think I
could explain about you, though."

"Let me do the explaining," said Miles.  "I've never
been scared of a bug-eyed monster in my life."

"He is sort of scary," cautioned Starr.

"So am I," said Miles.  "You're just seeing the good
side of me.  Hey, now and then I look into a mirror
and even scare myself."

And that was how the three of them walked into the
living room--Bdudd and Muduud each occupying a
shoulder on the lanky form of Miles--and turned on the
holographic communication unit.

"Good thing I don't have one of these," Miles said,
"because I'd probably tell a few people off.  People I
don't even know and never saw before.  But I'm pretty
teed off at all of them.  Alabama?  Why didn't they
park me someplace nice like San Diego, California.  Of
course, I guess I oughta feel grateful they didn't
just dump me somewhere in Kansas."

It took a moment for the communications unit to warm
up.  And when Xtarso Divhuud suddenly appeared, Starr
was immediately disturbed in spite of an obvious
attempt to remain calm.  Miles Davis almost fell over
backward at the huge, protruding eyes of the Cyrreen
controller.  He stumbled into the couch and decided it
was better to sit than fall somewhere else, so he sat.

The controller screamed and the thin, piercing noise
caused Starr to be even more disturbed.  Bdudd and
Muduud weren't bothered at all.  Both smiled
cheerfully at Xtarso Divhuud.  They had been dislodged
by the antics of Miles and now hovered in air near the
couch.

"More earthlings!" moaned Xtarso Divhuud.

"Better believe it," said Miles, who had recovered
some of his composure.  He crossed his legs and leaned
back against the cushion.  Bdudd and Muduud
immediately few over and perched on either shoulder of
the gray-haired Alabama vagrant.

Xtery noticed that the image of the Cyrreen controller
flickered in the air before them.  For an instant, the
image seemed to disappear, but the disappearance was
so rapid that a less-keen eye or analytical mind
wouldn't have observed it at all.

"What a Tarrmellian situation!" Divhuud said.

For a moment, Xtery thought about protesting the
obvious insult, then decided to avoid confrontation.

"Aren't you going to be insulted?" asked Bdudd.

"Not at the moment," said Xtery.

"How come he speaks English?" demanded Miles.

"He doesn't," said Xtery.  "You just hear him in
English.  And he hears what you just said in Cyrreen."

"Good," said Miles.  He turned to the image of the
Cyrreen controller.  "Got some sad news for you,
chief."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Earth was invaded a few weeks ago," said Miles.

"Don't be silly," said Divhudd, his eyes wide.  "Earth
was invaded several hundred years ago.  Why do you
think we have observers assigned there?  Your job
description, Xtery, is to report everything of an
unseemly nature.  And, of course, avoid violating the
indigenous culture.  If you're just now becoming aware
that earth has been invaded, you've failed to perform
your assigned duties in a qualified manner.  And it
appears as if you're also violated the culture.  Who
is this person?"

Even Miles seemed, counter to his nature, speechless.

"For once," said Xtery, "things are suddenly beginning
to make sense."

He went over and sat down beside Miles on the couch. 
Starr, still somewhat frightened of the rather
different appearance of the Cyrreen controller, stood
virtually frozen in the doorway into the kitchen. 
Once again, she seemed poised for flight.

"Come over here, girl," said Miles.  "This thing from
outer space ain't gonna hurt you."

"I'm not, as you so quaintly put it, a thing from
outer space," said the controller.  "And, once again,
I demand to know to whom I'm speaking."

"Miles Davis," said Xtery.  "I rescued him from a pile
of trash in an alleyway over in El Paso earlier this
evening."

"That was yesterday evening," Miles pointed out. 
"Look at your wristwatch."

Xtery actually did glance at his left wrist before he
remembered that he didn't wear a wristwatch;
Tarrmellians knew the time instinctively, not only on
earth, but any place they'd ever been.

"He's right," Xtery told the controller.  "Yesterday
evening.  Guess I'm a bit flustered."

"Actually, he's very flustered," said Bdudd.  "I've
never seen him so flustered.  But Muduud and I think
it's because of the girl."

"Females sometimes do that sort of thing to you," said
Muduud, which got him a sharp glance from Bdudd that
caused him to quickly shut his mouth and look at the
corner of the room.

"I'm not flustered anymore," said Xtery.

"I think you're all flustered!" said Divhudd.  The
eyes of the Cyrreen controller arched in agitation. 
"And all of you are coming home!"

"Me, too?" asked Miles.

"No, not you.  Just Xtery and the two Verdidiuns."

"We don't want to go," said Bdudd.

"And I refuse to go," said Xtery.  He was astonished
at himself; the decision to protest had been quick and
without rational consideration.

"Hey, I'll go!" said Miles with a gleeful tone in his
voice.  "I think we'd make a good team.  Always wanted
a bug-eyed monster as a partner."

"Not you and not her," Divhudd said.  "You'll both be
turned loose as soon as the office there is
permanently closed and the house eradicated."

"No one's going to touch my house," warned Xtery.

"We'll see!" shouted Divhudd and disappeared from
view.  His fading words:  "I'll see all of you in
prison!"

"Where'd he go?" asked Miles.

"He cut off his image generator.  He didn't go
anywhere," explained Xtery.  "I would expect he's
still sitting at that round table he calls his desk
back on Cyrreen shoving papers right and left onto the
floor.  Throwing a tantrum, I think it's called."

"Good," said Miles.  "I was hoping to make him mad. 
People make mistakes sometimes when they're mad."

"First," said Xtery, "Divhudd is definitely not a
people.  And the kind of mistakes that he might make
you don't want to see happen to you.  Nor, come to
think of it, anyone else.  Like most people in
positions of power, he likes the use of it."

"What's prison?" asked Muduud.

"A room where they put people who've done some sort of
crime," said Miles.  "Unless, of course, they've got
something entirely different back where you guys come
from."

"I'd just pop out," said Muduud.

"Getting out is not quite that easy," explained Xtery.
 "Anyway, I thought you and Bdudd were eager to go
home."

"That was before all of the fun started," said Muduud.
 "Now, we want to stay and enjoy ourselves."

"I'm not leaving either," said Starr.

They all stared at her, including Miles.

"Wasn't this guy holding you here against your will,
lady?" Miles asked.  "Or was that a false impression I
sort of had?"

She took a deep breath.  "This seems like a real loony
bin," she said.  "And I suppose I've come down with a
touch of whatever has infected the rest of you." 
"I think we all need another cup of coffee," said
Miles.

"We prefer another peanut butter sandwich," said
Bdudd.

"No more peanut butter for you guys," said Miles. 
"Last thing I need is a couple of sick flying varmints
buzzing around my head."

"We don't like coffee," said Bdudd.

"Some herbal tea then," said Miles.

"I'll get some," said Xtery and by the time the five
of them entered the kitchen, there were two boxes of
herbal tea on the kitchen counter.

"What's a varmint?" asked Bdudd.

"A cute little flying creature," said Miles.

"Can't I be something besides a creature?"

"You're right," said Miles.  "Careless of me.  I mean
to say a cute little flying Verdidium."

Xtery had heated the water in the kettle on the stove
as soon as Miles came up with the suggestion for
coffee.  But Starr and the two fairies from Verdidium
decided they would rather have tea.

"I make a great herbal tea," said Miles.

"There's nothing to make," Starr pointed out.

"It's all in the wrist and it has to be done just
perfect," insisted Miles as he poured the hot water
into their cups.

"This cup is too large," protested Bdudd.

A couple of small cups like those used for expresso
immediately appeared on the kitchen counter and Miles
patiently poured some of the tea equally into the
smaller cups.

Muduud was cautious.  "I've never had tea before."

"Make a man of you," said Miles.

"Not sure I want to be a man," said Muduud.

"Just a figure of speech, my friend.  I use a lot of
figures of speech.  I don't know why.  Somebody musta
done something to me way back about the time they
dumped me in Alabama."

"This tea is interesting," said Bdudd.

"Is that all?" demanded Miles.

"Yes.  Just interesting."

"Well, I guess it has to grow on you more or less."

"I like it," said Muduud.

Xtery sat at the end of the table, quite amused.  So
Bdudd and Muduud finally differed on something!  He
sipped at his coffee as he also studied Starr as
discreetly as possible.  Her hair was mussed, but she
was still extremely beautiful.  More beautiful, in
fact, than ever!  Did she love him after all?  How was
he to know?  At least, she seemed to accept him at the
moment.  Why, he didn't know.  But, then, he hadn't
understood her intense fright and rebellion earlier
just because he was from another planet.  It had to
do, he was sure, with watching too many of those
horror movies on television.  There was always
something on.  Most monsters, goblins, aliens caused
the actresses to scream in fright.  He wondered if the
actresses got paid by the scream.

What it came down to, of course, was that he didn't
understand women.  He was sent to this planet to
understand the people and maybe he'd learned to
understand the male species just slightly, but the
female of the species was completely a mystery to him!

He looked at Bdudd and Muduud.  They seemed happy as
they listened to Miles, the old vagrant/alien, discuss
different kinds of tea.  He seemed to be an expert. 
Come to think of it, Miles seemed to have a great deal
of knowledge about a lot of things, most of which were
more or less unimportant.

And Starr seemed to be quite interested, too, in
whatever mute point Miles was discussing about tea at
the moment.

"It was a Englishman named Thomas Lipton who made tea
available to everyone," Miles said.  "Before Lipton,
only rich people could afford to drink tea."

"Why would they want to bother?" asked Bdudd.  She
sipped her tea gingerly, decided that was enough, and
poured the rest of the cup down the kitchen sink. 
Muduud continued to sip at his tea.  Whether he
enjoyed the idea of having tea or drinking the tea
itself, Xtery couldn't tell.

"Enough of this educational stuff," said Miles
finally.  "We've got to find out about me."

"I object," said Bdudd.  "I think we ought to start
planning how we're going to fight Divhudd when he
arrives."

"We don't dare try to fight Divhudd," said Xtery.  "He
would merely send enough needles with troopers to
overcome us."

"Well, you're the one who protested that he couldn't
destroy your home."

"Protecting my home is one thing.  Fighting a Cyrreen
backed by an army with superior technology and
superior skills is another," Xtery told Bdudd.

"How long will it take him to get here?" asked Miles.

"Two or three weeks, perhaps," said Xtery.

"Then we've got plenty of time to worry about me,"
Miles said.

(continued next week)

I was thinking about "crash pads" this morning.  I
don't know why.  I have never needed a crash pad.
Always thought, however, they were a good idea.  You
take Jim Gabbert, he has two yachts.  One is obviously
a crash pad.  Some people have a cabin on a lake, some
a condo at the beach.  Fancy crash pads.  Hey, I heard
on CNN Wednesday, March 2, 2005, that one out of every
three homes sold in 2004 was a second home; evidently,
the wealthy folks are getting themselves a crash pad.

Everyone needs a crash pad, albeit not necessarily a
fancy one.  And I would think these may be somewhat
wasted on the wealthy.  Sorry, Jim.  Of course, I've
never been wealthy and my view might be a little
different with a great deal of money.  And maybe also
with not all that much money.  My preferences these
days anyway tend more toward something with an ocean
view.  From a cruise ship.

L. David Moorhead, when general manager of KMET in Los
Angeles, one of the greatest radio stations that ever
existed, and I talked about it at least a couple of
times.  Maybe more.  In those days we visualized
perhaps a prefab house with three bedrooms somewhere
on the northside of the mountain that plunges into the
sky in Tucson, AZ.  Somewhere out there by itself with
electricity and phone hookup, a well for water.  Space
for a travel trailer or two.  A cupboard in the house
full of can goods, pasta, rice.  Survival food for
those days when we might be out of work and seeking
another job.  Friends with a similar problem would be
welcome, of course.

To some extent, incidentally, the radio world and the
journalistic world had that in common:  Job
insecurity.  I was fired from Cavalier, a man's
adventure magazine published by Fawcett in New York
City, with 15 minutes' notice back in the 60s.  New
editor wanted his own staff; that made sense to me.
He had been recently fired from Playboy.  It was a
circle.  When I joined Billboard after a couple of
years of good newspaper exerience (the New Orleans
Times-Picayune), I thought I'd be there about two
years.  Then I became engrained into the magazine.  In
one sense, I was Billboard and it was me.  It was my
life.  I thought I'd work there until I died.  Big
surprise!  One day in Los Angeles in the 70s, Lee
Zhito, the publisher and editor-in-chief of Billboard,
walked into my office at the 9000 Sunset Building and
told me I was fired.  I'd worked for the magazine at
least a dozen years by then, had brought in several
profit centers (these earned at least a million
dollars a year), had built the radio circulation to
its highest level in the history of the magazine
(circulation revenues paid for all costs of the
magazine, including salaries, printing, etc.;
advertising at that point was strictly cream income).
I was on a five-person editorial advisory committee.
No reason to fire me.  Just whim.  And, of course, the
fact that I knew about Bill Wardlow and had figured
out that Zhito had to be involved (Zhito probably
realized this).

Fired!  A man with family (Barbara and three kids), a
house with a mortgage, a dog named Popsie.  No idea of
another job.  No "feelers" out.  No extra income other
than a book published by Billboard called "This
Business of Radio Programming" for which I was getting
about 80 cents royalty per copy sold (actually I
didn't earn much from the book after paying all of the
legal fees, etc.; secretaries in the office could buy
my own book cheaper than I could; they got it for
$6.50; I once had to pay $9.95 for 20 copies that I
wanted to mail to college radio professors).

You talk about suddenly sweating!  What in hell was I
going to do?

Zhito walked back into my office an hour later--I was
still sitting there stunned; couldn't even think!--and
told me to forget it...that I still had a job.

I never knew why he changed his mind.

I knew my days were numbered, though.

With radio, the difference is that you more than
likely don't even have a number.  Not then.  Not now.

Anyway, a crash pad for disc jockeys and program
directors seemed like a very good idea those long
years ago.  The only problem is that when David
Moorhead was literally promoted up and out with
Metromedia, he spent his payoff of about a million
dollars on wine and women.  Ergo, no crash pad.  Even
though he later needed one himself.  As for me, I
never had a payoff.  Ergo also, no crash pad, period.
Pity.  Instead, I've had periods of absolute
floundering at times.  I'm not alone is this; a lot of
people I've known have floundered over the years.  One
good friend, I had to literally force to take
advantage of the welfare system.  He was out of work.
Had two kids and a wife.  Kids need milk.  Enough
said.  His argument was that he was a well-known disc
jockey.  Sure.  But kids still need milk. 

The idea of a crash pad brings to mind the format of
KMET in the 70s.  Forget the music.  The real success
of the station was its personal involvement with the
audience.  Now and then, the station would annouce
crash pads where listeners could spend the night.  In
those days, there was a flood of youth leaving homes
in cities across America and heading to the West Coast
where life was happening.  We all knew about it.  The
problem is that few did anything to help these kids.
Except KMET and David Moorhead.  The station was more
than just a jukebox in many, many ways.  Heard on the
air and unheard off the air.  It was involved!

My major complaint today is that most radio stations
are merely jukeboxes.  Music researched all to hell on
many stations.  Big deal!  One of the reasons I listen
to Mexican radio in Las Vegas is that I'm fed up with
"Lying Eyes."  But also, the greater majority of the
radio stations here cater to someone on Mars.  Try to
find information, try to find involvement and it isn't
there.  There is little difference between something
from a satellite and something from a local station.

I was a participant in more ways than one with the
progressive rock format in the 60s and 70s.  I've
detailed most of this involvement in "This Business of
Radio Programming," which is still available even
after all of these years courtesy of Danoday.com.  I
was even involved to some extent in KMET because of my
friendship with David Moorhead.  Just as an example, I
one day realized that KMET and KLOS were fairly close
on the dial and essentially were playing the same kind
of music.  I suggested to David that he had to force
his deejays to get the call letters on the air in some
way, shape or form.  They had become so "hip" they
were not bothering to tell the listeners the station
they were listening to!  B. Mitch Reed promptly did
the cutest stuff.  Had his daughter do the calls.
Jimmy Rabbitt condesended to call the station "K Met."
 Ratings went up.  Fairly better for a market like Los
Angeles.  And Moorhead did a billboard blitz
throughout the city that had enormous benefits.
Florescent signs you could see for a mile!  The calls
and the frequency.  Just incidentally, I also told him
early on that he had to get the pot out of the studio.
 I walked into the station once.  Studio not visible
because of posters.  Odor of pot.  "FCC walks in
here," I told David, "and you've lost a station."

Everything else: Moorhead.  The wedding ceremonies at
the La Brea Tar Pits, etc., etc.  For a while, he did
well.  I recall one day going with him to see his new
home up a new canyon out toward the Pacific Palisades.
 Big beautiful home.  We did 95 mph up that canyon in
his Thunderbird (provided by the station).  You could
do that in those days.  Drive fast.  Not anymore.  No
crash pad up that canyon, though.  Not just because of
a high mortgage.  The taxes.  Anyway, the canyon home
went, too.  The high desert outside of Tucson would
have been better anyway for a crash pad.  Isn't it
unusual how most disc jockies and, in fact, a great
many of radio people can't hold onto houses.  Things
seem to vanish on us.  The industry seems to preclude
the gathering of what Ron Jacobs once told me was
"important money."  And when fortune smiles, important
money seems not to last long.

Judith Moorhead, one of David's wives, stated after
his death that if Moorhead got into Heaven it was
because "you pushed him in, Claude."  Yes, I believe
that Moorhead is in Heaven and, no, I didn't have much
to do with it.  What he did, in my opinion, was take a
radio station that may have been different and make it
an extra ordinary station because of its involvement
with the public.  I believe that KMET made serious
personal contributions to the lives of many listeners
during its lifecycle.  Moorhead may have had his
personal flaws, but these were not necessarily in
radio or because of radio, just with life in general.
He was a great radio man.  He put listeners into the
programming mix.  Radio stations that tend to last
over longer lifecycles usually have this as a major
facet.

The audience, in my opinion, is not in the programming
mix of most of today's radio stations.  I once heard a
lost pet show on a radio station in Corsicana, Texas,
that had more reason for a person to listen than 90
percent of the radio stations in Las Vegas.

OTHER MATTERS
Bill Gable, Toronto, Billgablevox@aol.com: "I never
missed a Vox Jox column during my years at WHBQ and
CKLW during the seventies. Regarding Dene Hallam's
comments on the lack of recognition for certain
greats, Herb McCord is a perfect example: Herb was my
mentor. He treated me and everyone at CKLW with
respect and paid us all well. Herb gave me my first
programming job. Twenty years later in Orlando, he
hired me again for mornings at WMMO. Herb is a smart,
compassionate man who has done much for this business
and the people within it. Rosalie Trombley has, over
the years, received well-deserved recognition from The
Detroit News, Detroit Free Press and Windsor Star.
Recently, she was featured prominently in a very good
Canadian documentary, 'The Rise and Fall of the Big
8'. This fine film was aired nationally in Canada on
History Television. Hopefully, it will be shown in
the U.S. soon. Also, Rosalie will receive a special
award this week at Canadian Music Week in Toronto.
The organization has named the award in her honor: A
'Rosalie' trophy will be awarded each year from now on
at C.M.W. This recognition is overdue, in my
opinion. Considering her contributions to the music
industry, not only in Detroit, but in surrounding
states on CKLW's huge signal, she should get a spot in
the Rock 'N Roll Hall of Fame. I'd put you on the
list, as well, Claude. I enjoy your writing as
much today as I did back in the day."

I always liked Herb McCord and you're absolutely
right, too, about Rosalie Trombley.  Good people.

George Wilson, KeokiWC@aol.com, has a selection for
Hallam's Hall of Fame: "Joel Dorn.  Claude, I was
fortunate to work with Joel at WHAT in Philly...he
produced 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face', he is
a great producer and a truly nice man.  If you're a
serious jazz fan, even if you're any kind of jazz fan
at all, there's an excellent chance that in your
collection you've got at least one piece of music that
was produced by Joel Dorn.  In the 1960s, Dorn
parlayed his tenure as a disc jockey on WHAT-FM, a
pioneer 24-hour jazz station, into a slot as an
assistant to Nesuhi Ertegun, one of the founding
partners of Atlantic Records. Dorn quickly rose in
responsibility and stature, and between 1967 and 1974
produced albums by one of the most legendary jazz
stables ever assembled on one single label: Les
McCann, Eddie Harris, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Max Roach,
Freddie Hubbard, Herbie Mann, Keith Jarrett, Yusef
Lateef, Jimmy Scott, David 'Fathead' Newman, Hank
Crawford, Ray Bryant, Oscar Brown Jr., Mongo
Santamaria and Gary Burton.  Dorn's work for Atlantic
garnered him four Grammy Awards: Two Records of the
Year with Roberta Flack, for 'Killing Me Softly' and
'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face', Jazz Album of
the Year for Keith Jarrett and Gary Burton, AND Best
Original Cast Album for 'The Me Nobody Knows'. In the
decade which followed, Dorn freelanced as producer for
a variety of artists and labels, including Lou Rawls,
the Neville Brothers and Leon Redbone, and received
with Asleep at the Wheel the Grammy Award for Best
Country and Western Instrumental for 'One O'Clock
Jump', perhaps for a change of pace."

Just FYI, I think Buzz Bennett also worked for George
Wilson in Philly.  But the biggest name was a guy I
can't recall at the moment.  Sid?  Strange that I
can't recall the man.  Right on the tips of my
toenails, I swear!  When George hired him from a
competing station in the market, I believe he took his
entire audience with him.  And I mean everyone!
Probably one of the first jocks to do something like
that.

Tom Noonan, Tenoonan8@aol.com: "Just read your
latest--McCabe's Guitar Shop is still in the same
location and still has small shows in the back room,
as in the past. Scandia Rest. is gone--l loved that
place--which you mentioned about having lunch with
Zhito--who was my boss at Billboard (my second time
there from 1975 to '90) and he was really some-thing
else again. Always wanted to take full credit for
things he 'wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole' when
you presented an idea to him--so I asked for his
permission to go to WDL: (William D. Littleford) in
N.Y. and Lee told me 'absolutely--you have no chance
in hell of getting this idea over'. He further told
me, 'Don't you know that Billboard has never missed an
issue in X amount of years, even when Cincy was
flooded, etc.' I told him I know that but I went to
WDL via telephone and gave him the idea of NOT
producing a 52nd issue--nobody is at work in the
record biz to read that issue, nobody advertises in
that issue, we can't bother record dealers for sales
info for the charts and therefore we do NOT produce
any new charts that week and to top it off, I told
Bill that we would save a ton of money (printing,
postage, other expenses, etc.) if we didn't produce a
52nd issue--we could extend all 1-yr. subs by an
issue, give the employees a great week to use up at
least a week's worth of vacation time (saving the
company even more money) and Bill told me on that same
telephone call to go ahead and let's do it. We kept
it quiet the first year and only in the third year of
doing that did the other trades follow suit---today
all tip sheets, trades, etc. do the same thing.
Later, I was at a lunch when Lee told our lunch guest
that it was HE that came up with the idea of not
producing a 52nd issue and I exploded--and told the
full and true story to our lunch guest, much to the
embarrassment of Lee but I couldn't help myself, I was
so bloody mad. Not the only time that he used to do
that.     Also, Claude are you positive about that
song that Wexler cut on Aretha in Muscle Shoals??? I
think it must have been another song as that sone was
a major hit by another artist. Just a minute
correction. Take good care."

To tell the truth, after about 40 years, I could be
wrong.  But I remember Jerry Wexler telling Paul
Ackerman and myself that it was Aretha Franklin.
Seems that Columbia Records had dumped her and Jerry
and others at Atlantic Records were quite happy about
that.  Later, I understand CBS was quite happy with
her hit because they had six albums that suddenly were
profitable.  But I certainly don't have a copy of the
story that we wrote.  I remember the headline written
by Bob Sobel, though.  "There's Gold in Them There
Piney Woods."  Studio was built by Rick Hall.  No
relation.  Muscle Shoals, AL.  Jerry said it took
three days to produce the hit.  He was enormously
impressed with the musicians who mostly were from
Memphis, as I recall.  Dan Penn?  Guess someone could
ask Jerry.

Then, I had this news from Tom Noonan:  "Roberta Flack
is the artist that I couldn't think of the other day
re Gerry Wexler cutting that song in Muscle Shoals.
Roberta had the big hit with that song, not Aretha but
maybe Gerry cut Aretha with that song as well, I don't
know.  I'm off today to Miami for a weekend cruise and
then fly to NYC--as a special guest of Seymour
Stein--to attend the Rock "N Roll Hall of Fame
Induction Dinner on Monday, 3/14 in NY at the
Waldorf-Astoria Hotel (tickets are $2,500 per person)
in celebration of 50 years ago when I hired him as a
part-time employee at Billboard in the Pop Chart
Dept., which I then headed in 1955 when Seymour was 14
years of age & a H.S. student in Brooklyn. He went on
from there to King Records, started Sire Records which
eventually he sold to Warner Bros., where he still
works.   Never realized that he would go as far as he
has--(he's still heading up SIRE Records for Warner
Bros.) but in his career he has found and signed more
top artists  than any major label you can name. Just
a partial list would have to include Klimax Blues
Band, the group M from Australia, The Ramones, The
Talking Heads, The Cure, MADONNA, Seal, k.d. lang &
Bare Naked Ladies from Canada, and on and on--about a
dozen more artists that I can't recall right now. He
called me the other day to invite me. Pretty wild,
eh?  I will return to LA, on 3/16."

Good on you, Seymour Stein!  Paul Ackerman always
spoke highly of you; mentioned you several times to
me; told me once you quoted the entire catalog of
Starday Records to the owner and not only impressed
the devil out of him, but impressed the devil out of
Paul!

Just FYI, Tom and George, in my old age I've become
quite stubborn and I think I'll stick with my Aretha
in Muscle Shoals story until Jerry tells me to go
jump.

Burt Sherwood, bohica1@comcast.net: "Claude...the
Murray the K story is true...in fact, as I recall,
Bobby Darin wrote that with Murray's mother...they had
an apartment in the Essex House on Central Park West
in NYC...and Murray was delaying Bobby in doing
something...so Bobby and Murray's Mom went to the
piano while Murray was taking a bath...that is how the
legend goes...and how I recall 'Splish Splash'...I,
too, knew Bobby well...not as well as Murray did..but
I spent many a night with him while at WMCA...nice
guy...I saw the movie with tears in my eyes...if you
didn't know Bobby, you thought it was all true...but
remember that his wife and child were not there in the
early days...oh well...enough...Bobby was a rare treat
in the business, and I genuinely liked him as a
person, and we were at that level for quite a time!"

Burt Sherwood's website for those of you interested in
purchasing a low-power TV is: TheLPTVStore.com.  Might
as well pick up one for the kids.  Be prepared to
shell out some plain and fancy money, though, because
prices are going up!

Jim Kleist, jkleist@mcslink.net, notes: "Thanks all
around for contacting Ken & Nora. He was quite
pleased to have made contact. As for me, I'm glad to
be a newly found reader of your material. Best to
you."

>From cc cmccartney, ccmccartney@direcway.com: "cc
cmccartney wants to talk with you on Skype If you are
unable to see the message below, click here to view.
Or, copy
http://recp.rm02.net/servlet/MailView?ms=ODMxNgS2&r=Mjc5OTA5Njg0S0&j=MTcxMjI3NzgS1
into your browser.  Hello.   Download Skype and start
calling for free all over the world.  Skype me at
ccmccartneycabin.   Download Skype.  Read more about
Skype."

Don't know what the above is about.  Some kind of
deal, I guess.  But not for me.  I don't do that much
phone anymore.

Larry Shannon, larryshannon@radiodailynews.com: "Great
column today.  Lots of memories there."

I'm flattered!  Guy gives me a website and then
praises it.  Can't ask for more than that!  As the
guru of Big Sur (Henry Miller) once wrote: What a
writer wants is praise, even if it be deferred for one
thousand years.  And, speaking of praise, I finally
got into Bob Levinson's book "The John Lennon Affair"
last night.  Some good reading here.  Good book to
take on a plane.

George Pollard, gpollard@ccs.carleton.ca, says "RPM
Music Weekly," rpmmusicweekly.ca, a tribute site to is
now official.                       
http://rpmmusicweekly.ca/

Adds: "Richard Patterson is Contributing On-line
Editor. He was the drummer of The Esquires, who won
the Best Canadian Group category in the first Annual
RPM Awards. (In 1970, RPM renamed the awards, the
Junos. The revised name was homage to Pierre Juneau,
the first chair the Canadian Radio-television and
Telecommunications Commission and a pillar of CanCon.)
The site needs your input. Comments, criticism or
anecdotes about the struggle for CanCon are a
priority. Was CanCon a good idea, then or now?  Did it
help or hurt radio, then or now? In retrospect, could
a better strategy been used: why or why not? What's
your take on anything related  to CanCon, and its fall
out?  Pro or con, agree or disagree, then or now, it
doesn't matter. All responsible positions are fair
game."

Hey, another website you guys ought to tap into is
www.kentburkhart.com.  In his years in the business,
Kent met just about everyone in the business.
Memories.  Good ones.