The Kain-tuck-eee Jubilee

Rupp Arena

Last Saturday night anxious fingers tuned radio dials in Gap Tooth and Wet Rye. On a lonely mountain in eastern Kentucky, two men sharing a quart of moonshine pulled a coughing car to the edge of the road and listened in. An executive, off duty from a  boardroom, settled down in front of his fireplace to rekindle memories of Groza, Spivey and Hagan. A Rabbit Hash widow turned her radio upside down and placed it in the hallway for better reception.

 

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