In the evening, WOR gets farther out. At 11:15 Jean Shepherd comes on, a brilliant and undisciplined night sprite. A sort of oral abstract expressionist. Shepherd begins to talk, gains speed, and skims along by free association. He remembers his Indiana boyhood with a command of imagery so precise that he can spin into the air everything from the smell of an old-fashioned icebox to the guilty excitement of an adolescent boy looking through a stack of Breesy Story Magazines down in a corner of the cellar. When he begins to run out of breath, jazz comes on softly behind his voice, and he continues, accelerating maniacally, until the jazz drowns his voice altogether. The jazz ends abruptly. Shepherd begins again. He is the inspired kinghead of a minor and secret sect.