I've begun doing interviews for the book and have enjoyed chatting with my fellow journalists. One of them said that he loved my book, but had a single complaint. He didn't like how I used the word "alright" because the correct spelling is "all right." "It's two words," he said. "Not one."

I told him that I chose to spell it as "alright" -- above the protests of my editor at Random House -- because it felt more "Stonesy." The first place I ever saw that spelling was on the Stones' "Got Live If You Want It" album when I was ten, and, ever since that day, I've spelled it that way. (My dictionary says that although it's incorrect, it has become somewhat acceptable -- as long as your reader knows it's "a token of willful unconventionality rather than a mark of ignorance.")

"I'm Alright," which appeared on the "Got Live If You Want It" LP, was the Stones' take on a Bo Diddley song. And it was because of the Stones that I fell in love with Bo and his music. They covered a lot of his songs (like "Mona," "Diddley Daddy," "Crackin' Up") and would talk about him in their interviews.

People may know Bo for the "Bo Diddley beat" and for his influence on artists like the Stones, but some people don't realize the impact he had on gender relations. In a world (1950s America) where females were relegated to the kitchen, and in an industry full of misogynists, Bo showed respect for women by employing them in his band. Peggy Jones was his guitarist in the 1950s, and a woman known as The Duchess was his guitarist in the '60s. For the last 25 years of his career, his bassist was Debby Hastings, and his keyboard player (who also served as his manager) was Margo Lewis. (In the 1960s, Margo played in Goldie and the Gingerbreads, who were, to my knowledge, the first all-female band to play their own instruments. They opened for the Stones in 1965.)

When Ronnie Wood introduced me to Bo in 1987, I was beyond honored. It took place at Top Cat Studio in New York, when Woody and Bo were rehearsing for their "Gunslingers" tour. Bo was wearing his trademark black Stetson and thick-rimmed glasses. He shook my hand and said, "Pleased to meet you, young man." (I was 25.) He then reached into his pocket and handed me his business card. It read: "Kids, don't do it. Stay drug free."

I got to spend time with Bo along the Gunslingers tour, and he was nicer than I ever could have hoped. Unlike Chuck Berry, his old label mate at Chess, Bo never had a chip on his shoulder. He was phenomenally courteous, gracious, and you could sense the respect he had for women, whites, and for young people like me.

I saw him a few times in the 1990s and he never disappointed, both onstage and off. The last time I saw him was in February 2007 at BB King's nightclub in Times Square. He had to sit throughout his concert, but still exuded his old magic. He was sharp as a tack and still full of energy. Backstage before the show, he told me how he'd recently looked into the mouth of an alligator and how he'd recently saved his granddaughter from choking. He even offered to give my girlfriend a gold coin that he had. (She refused.) Despite his physical aches and pains, he was the same sweet guy I met in 1987.

Below are mementos from my first and last meetings with him, twenty years apart. On the left is the business card he gave me, and on the right is a photo from 2007. (We're flanked by Margo and Debby.) Three months after this photo was taken, Bo suffered a stroke. He never fully recovered, and he died in June 2008, at the age of 79. He was truly one of a kind, and I treasure every moment I spent with him.

I recently saw the film "Cadillac Records" and mostly enjoyed it. I was delighted that a bunch of African American kids were sitting next to me in the theater. They need to know that their culture contributed a lot more to popular music than Puff Daddy and Jay-Z. But at the end of the film -- a biopic about the founding of Chess Records -- I realized that it never mentioned Bo. And that is not alright in my book.