As a kid I couldn't understand why my school chums didn't rush home from P.S. 33 to catch Jack Armstrong on radio. I guess each in his own way wanted to be the All-American Boy in rough play, whereas I chose to be Jack in my imagination. If my friends knocked on the back door between 7:30 and 8 PM on Mondays, Wednesdays or Fridays, I ignored them—lying low on the parlor rug with my ear riveted to the Philco console listening to the Lone Ranger. Radio now as it's supposed to be doesn't exist. ...