I bumped into Dudley while getting out of a limo in New York City, I was removing an 1865 C.F. Martin guitar, of mine, in a skeleton key lock
hand-pegged coffin case, and was not paying attention to who was behind me.
He said, 'Ello, excuse me. and smiled widely, as I apoligized briefly, never reaizing who he was. My girlfriend told me a few minutes later, just exactly who I'd brushed elbows with.
The guitar is gone now, sold to some collecter of time, Dudley is gone too, time collected him. They both lie somewhere in the darkness of a coffin case. Icons of the 19th and 20th century, one covered in dust, while the other tragically becomes it.