The very mention of The Somethingorothers conjures an image of livestock contentedly grazing on rolling pasturelands beneath a clear blue sky. Old Bill Evans comes bouncing down the road in his '79 Ford pickup - he just won't give up on the old girl - trailing a cloud of dust behind him. When he gets close enough, you can hear Buck Owens on the truck's AM radio. Bill puts on the brakes when he passes the oak tree and slides up to the flagpole the way he always does. He likes to give the impression that he's in a hurry, but his feet just don't move as quickly as they used to, and the unfamiliar eye may just mark him a careless driver. But careless is the One thing William Butler Evans never was.

"I seen this sketch comedy troupe from Toronto," he begins as he's rounding the bed of his truck. He pauses to make sure the tailgate is locked - force of habit - and shuffles up to the porch. He looks at you when you don't say anything. "They was good," he continues, "They had little videos and some neat ideas, and some of their bits...they was just sound. No picture or people on that stage or nothing," he shakes his head, recalling the days when radio was king, and anybody who was anybody did comedy you couldn't see.

"Come on in for some coffee and pie, Bill," you say, "You can tell me all about it..."