'Gunsmoke' trumps glitter, rock and roll...

While several of my friends are headed over to Thompson-Boling Arena to see The Eagles, I'm eased back on the couch watching "Gunsmoke."

Guess I never was meant for glitter, rock and roll...

"Gunsmoke" is something of an institution. It ran in primetime for 20 years and 635 episodes, the latter of which is still a record for a scripted American television series. It is television's best western -- without a close second.

My two favorite periods are the early 30-minute episodes (1955-61) and the hour-long color episodes (1966-75). The half hour shows were lean and mean, the writing cogent and crisp. The color episodes -- the best of 'em anyway -- are like mini movies.

Part of my fondness for the show is connected to family. My late grandfather Wayne Wyatt loved this show. Back when I lived with my grandparents, he'd often poke his head in my room about 7 and say, "Is it time for Marshal Dillion yet?"

Papaw told me "Gunsmoke" was the only program my great-grandfather would watch on television, coming down to my Papaw's house each Saturday night in time to root on Marshal Matt Dillon.

My dad loves it, too. We'll often compare favorite episodes we've seen lately when we talk on the telephone.

I also like to listen to the radio show when I can't sleep. It stars William Conrad as Matt Dillon, Parley Baer as Chester, Howard McNear as Doc Adams and Georgia Ellis as Kitty Russell. The show, which ran for nearly a decade, pioneered the use of sound effects and is darker and edgier than the television version. Listen to episodes here.

My friend Dean Harned surprised me on my birthday one year by purchasing me an autographed photo of James "Marshal Dillon" Arness. I felt like I'd won the lottery.

My heroes have always been cowboys, and still are, it seems...

This just in: Martians land in New Jersey (again!)

Martians landed at Grovers Mill, N.J., on this date in 1938.

They arrived again tonight at 8 p.m. (EDT) in celebration of the 75th anniversary of "War of the Worlds."

Of course, I refer to the most famous (or infamous) radio broadcast in American history, the Mercury Theater On The Air production of the H.G. Wells story spearheaded by the legendary Orson Welles.

Debate rages over just how many people panicked. It matters not. Welles became a household name overnight and was soon off to Hollywood, to RKO, to "Citizen Kane," to his own tragic American tale.

Radio stations around the country rebroadcast Welles' "War" tonight during a two-hour special hosted by George "Sulu" Takei. The original CBS drama was followed by a documentary called "War of the Welles." PBS aired an "American Experience" special on the broadcast last night.

We are more sophisticated in 2013 and could quickly spot the ruse. Nothing could have transpired so quickly as it does in the show, a point that probably occurred to anybody who didn't go running away from the radio. It's to Welles' and the Mercury Theater players' credit that they pulled it off so well and that the broadcast is still riveting.

I do know from eyewitness accounts that frightened folks ran into Central Baptist Church of Fountain City 75 years ago tonight, interrupting the prayer meeting to bring news of the extraterrestrial invasion.

Amazing, isn't it?

Radio remains a near perfect medium for this kind of thing. It isn't as passive as television. You have your pictures of what's being described and so do I.

I listened to Jack Benny's radio show for years before I ever saw his TV program, which isn't often repeated. The television incarnation was a letdown. Jack's pregnant pauses were even funnier when one couldn't see them.

Go here sometime and listen to them, or to "Gunsmoke" or to "The Great Gildersleeve" or to "The Green Hornet."

You'll see -- no, scratch that, you'll hear -- what I mean.

Suddenly, Schwartz, seven days a week

Jonathan Schwartz and I have been spending Sundays together for many moons now.

No, I've never met him. But, thanks to the intimacy of radio, Jonno feels like a friend.

Through thick and thin he's been there, playing the good, the gold, the Great American Songbook, while pop music has plummeted.

I was more than a bit bummed earlier this year when Schwartz said goodbye to his daily show on Sirius/XM.

"Well," I thought, "we'll always have Sundays."

And, now, suddenly, Schwartz, seven days a week, anytime I want. The fun begins Friday.

Christmas came early this year.

Jonno introduced me to Nancy LaMott, to Brian Stokes Mitchell, to Eva Cassidy, to others. He knows more about Sinatra than Sinatra did. He once made music with Mel Torme at Marty's in Manhattan. You can look it up.

His father was composer Arthur Schwartz, and he grew up among the greats. Read his memoir. It's a masterpiece.

And, above all else, listen. Listen to the music. Listen to a master play the masters.

But, by all means, listen. Listen seven days a week. Anytime you want.

Dialing up The Fall Classic

 Our national pastime is perfect for radio. Pitch perfect. A perfect announcer can paint word pictures that even HD can't capture.

Back in the Dark Ages, when one could only get "Monday Night Baseball" or maybe a Saturday game of the week, I'd fire up an AM radio not unlike the M&M Boys unit shown at left and could pick up games as far away as Chicago and Detroit.

This was long before cellphones and every other damn thing ruined radio's oldest bandwidth.

Television has its advantages, but baseball and radio go together like peas and carrots.

I was reminded of that fact this weekend. Driving home from my friend Shelton's house last night, I listened to the last couple of innings of the World Series on Sirius/XM, Joe Castiglione on WEEI. Tonight, I caught a couple of innings on KMOX -- Mike Shannon and John Rooney.

The best part? No Tim McCarver.

There is a caveat at work here, though. Baseball is terrible on the radio (or on TV for that matter) if the announcers are atrocious. I was spoiled for years by Pete Van Wieren, Skip Caray, Ernie Harwell, Marty Brennaman, Joe Nuxhall, and, after satellite surfaced, the peerless Vin Scully. I still have nightmares about Bob Rathbun and Ken "Hawk" Harrelson.

I'm not old enough to have heard the late, great Lindsey Nelson cover the New York Mets on the radio, but I certainly remember some of his later national TV broadcasts. ("Hello everybody, I'm Lindsey Nelson!") When he moved back to Knoxville, you could often spot him downtown sporting his trademark plaid sport coat. I think he lived at the Pembroke. Feel free to correct me on that. I'm going by memory.

Now, I'm kicked back on the couch, the Series playing on TV as I type. I like Joe Buck. I'm glad this is it for McCarver. But I'm biased. For years I had one of his Topps baseball cards taped to my toilet.

 TV announcers aside, this game is tailor-made for radio. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Without a song...

It's early afternoon and I'm eased back in my recliner. Didn't feel like brunch today.

So I've turned on the XM and am continuing my week-long New York state of mind by tuning into the disc jockey of the City.

Jonathan Schwartz still does his Sunday show. He's been around, it seems, nearly as long as the Great American Songbook music he plays.

Today he opens up with an eclectic gem. Bernadette Peters doing Bob Dylan.

And I'll be your baby tonight...

First time I heard that song, Bobby Darin was doing it at the Desert Inn. Mack the Knife turned Dylan's folk song into a blues number. He was good.

Now Schwartz is playing Ben Webster. He's taking off on a Richard Rodgers tune. I can't remember the name and I'm too lazy to get up and look.

I wonder if kids listen to the radio anymore in this iPod, MP3, download it now! world. I don't even listen to the radio like I once did. That's because Knox Vegas radio sucks.

But I digress.

When I was a kid, every night at 8 or so, you could find me in front of the big dial, usually tuned to some oldies station. I used to call one particular show every night while doing homework. My moniker was "Jake in Halls." (Imagine that.)

One night I coaxed DJ Tony Lawson into digging up Elvis Presley's "Promised Land." He had to go down to the basement and find the 45 RPM single. But he played it.

Left my home in Norfolk, Virginia, California on my mind...

Johnny's got somebody -- it isn't Patsy Cline -- singing "Walking After Midnight." Pretty good. Real jazzy. Something you'd hear in a joint.

Tonight we're going to hear Robin. I hear she's got a new band. Can't wait.

Robin sang me to sleep last night.

Funny how my teardrops don't make a sound, when they roll down my cheeks and they fall to the ground...

Whenever I die, my funeral is going to be a wall-to-wall sound of music that will make Phil Spector blush. You'll think you've come to a concert, and that's the way I want it. No tears. No fuss. Just tunes.

Schwartz is playing Astaire. Now it's k.d. lang, of all people, belting out Sinatra's classic saloon song, "Angel Eyes." Where does he find this stuff?

I'm thinking about turning it off. I want to hear the Chairman of the Board himself.

Without a song, the day would never end...

You're so right, Frankie. You're so right.