There have been quite a few times that I’ve mentioned Cynthia Robinson throughout the two years I’ve been blogging. I’m glad I got to pay tribute to her and saddened at the news of her death. In case you don’t know, Cynthia Robinson was the trumpet player for Sly and the Family Stone, and was a true musical icon of the 1960s and a pioneer for women, all because she just wasn’t interested in playing the flute. And of course, she is an important part of my fitness routine. Only last night I marveled at her talents during “Higher” as I exercised to my best of Sly CD, and her ordering us all to get up and “Dance to the Music.” She died of cancer yesterday at the age of 69.
This is a rare Tuesday post on The Walrus Was Paul, but to Cynthia Robinson I’d like to say thanks one more time, and farewell.
Let me explain. No. Let me sum up.
Before you read the article I wrote but didn’t post last week as my complaining and accompanying picture didn’t seem appropriate at the time, I want you to know that while I am oh so very proud of myself for taking the trip to visit my nutty, old stepmother in Holland and glad it is behind me, I have suffered some bizarre effects upon my return. For starters, during a conversation with my staff regarding the annual company Thanksgiving luncheon, I insinuated some sort of violence in my upbringing. I only recall one such instance and truly believe it was a one-time occurrence for which all parties were remorseful, so among all the issues in my family, violence was not one of them and I didn’t quite understand my outburst. Then the next day, because we were chatting between callers for the afternoon session of the online chat with a doctor who works with our department, I began to sing “You Sexy Thing,” that 70s tune by Hot Chocolate (not to be confused with Sexual Chocolate from the movie Coming to America). There was a reason, I promise. I was explaining that one of my many trepidations of taking the trip was that I had to get myself from the Amsterdam airport to The Hague bus station by train, then get on the #22 to my stepmother’s apartment, which I did with more ease than I thought I could considering I was in another country and in the handful of times I’d been over there, I’d always been picked up at the airport. So reversing the process to get home was a snap, and as the #22 bus pulled away from the stop in front of the apartment house, the song that was playing on the cigarette smoking driver’s radio was “You Sexy Thing.” The doctor, being just a bit older than I, knew the song, but my colleague did not, ergo, I had to sing the opening lines “I believe in miracles. Where you from. You sexy thing,” and relayed that my inner selfie cried out, I’m from New York, and I am going home! Of course my odd behavior didn’t stop there, and when the doctor started talking about grammar during another break, and the difference between “I feel bad” and “I feel badly,” each time he said “I feel bad” I heard James Brown yell out “I feel good” and found it necessary to voice the notes that follow out loud. “Na na na na na na na.” You know it.
Now, read on. Or not. Up to you. But just look at that picture of me and try to resist at least taking a peek into what inspired it:
Behind my stove sit two of those corked ceramic jars that have words or expressions carved into them. One reads Snide Remarks and the other Ennui. They were both gifts from my colleagues at the craft gallery where I worked in Bayside. If you have ever been there, yes, it was the one with all the cats. I believe both jars were special orders just for me. Snide Remarks would be obvious to anyone who knows me. I am snide, but not churlish, I hope. I have been known to be quick-witted, and in case you think I lack humility, I have also been known to be dim-witted, at times. The one that says Ennui is another story. The word itself sounds kind of snide, as many French words may. It translates as boredom but has a wider feel as it represents lethargy, listlessness, disinterest and as one definition notes – utter weariness. You’ve all felt it now and then and when you do, you feel it all over your body. It makes your head feel heavy and you want to just lie on the floor and tell everyone to leave you alone and come back another day. Perhaps that is an extreme and diminishes the power of the word boredom and the ability to scream out “I’m bored” as an effective way of communicating the sensation. Saying “I feel ennui” does not come across the same way, and to emphasize our boredom, we have expressions like “bored to death” and “bored to tears” to illustrate that immense unfillable void.
So when my crazy old stepmother, who had gotten herself hauled off and locked up in a psych ward and has now been living in a nursing home in The Hague not far from her apartment where she yearns to return, called me at 4 in the morning, her time, and cried out “I’m so bored,” I felt for her, big time. Even before she was taken away more than a year ago, she would call me in her wee hours, knowing that it was well before midnight my time, to chat. I was glad to be there for her as that would be the time she would get herself into trouble, and I was glad that she would call from her little room, as she describes it, that was making her so sad and so bored. “Can’t you come,” she would say, and I would always come up with an excuse. It’s true, I don’t like to fly anymore, and now with plane crashes happening a little too frequently, it is getting scarier. She eventually accepted that, but I know that if I really wanted or needed to, I would buck up. I’d been putting it off for years. We get along so much better over the phone.
My last trip four years ago was such a disaster, that I vowed never to return. She has a habit of dragging out the child she never knew, and poking at her many sore spots. My stepmother can be quite mean when she wants to. Last visit she kept bringing up my mother, how beautiful she was and how sad, as if I didn’t know that. She wanted me to take family pictures home with me as she didn’t want them anymore, but I have them all already and I told I didn’t mind if she threw them out. “No, no, you have to do it. You will have to rip them up. I can’t do it. You mother was too beautiful.” Yes, she wanted me to rip up pictures of my tragic mother. I think I don’t have to explain further and as tempted as I am to say “and you know what else she did? I’ll spare you. And me.
But I’m a strong person, I am, and I’ve recovered again and again, and have protected and comforted that little girl. I should point out that my stepmother was never a parent to me, and we only became friends after my father (who was also not much of a parent) died about 25 years ago and there have been times when I think we were actually fond of each other. Many times. So, as she is 89 and said that she won the right to return to her home (which has been confirmed if she gets 24 hour help), I decided it was time and just made the plane reservations before I could talk myself out of it again.
There was none of the spoiling she had promised me, not that I really expected it and she used me as a nursemaid, which was more like what I did expect, just not to the extent it was. She kicked the little girl again, and made her cry, but I managed to curtail it and it only happened once. I tried being more kind and helpful than before, as well as independent, getting from the airport to her apartment by public transportation and doing the food shopping on my own, both of which made me feel even stronger. No, this visit was not as bad as last time, however the word gross can describe much of it. In fact, when I got home after greeting a much relieved Max, I showered longer than I have since I was in high school.
And that’s all I want to say about it at this time. I am home, I am happy, Max is happy, and the rare selfie you see that I took while sitting on my stepmother’s old dusty couch in front of the large portrait her first husband painted of her, depicts the face that I covered with a much more serene one throughout my trip.
I promise next week, less complaining and more music and exercise. But just remember I said “less” complaining.
It just doesn’t seem like a good idea to post the article I wrote for tonight’s blog about my Holland trip that I took last week to visit my nutty, old step-mother, considering the horrific events in France the other day. In particular, the selfie I took of my inner-self throughout that week may appear to be disrespectful. Mostly however, my ails and woes, though I try to deal with them with a bit of humor, don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
Taking a little blog break – Tell you about it next week. Or not. – TWWP
You know, I have things on my mind right now. Kind of major stuff. Nothing that anyone should worry about other than me. That is if you were to worry about me at all. But I don’t feel like writing, particularly about what is on my mind right now, and that is all I’m thinking about. Plus, I am having serious pen malfunctions.
First, as I’m writing this, the black pen of the Pilot G-2 07 set that I keep a steady supply of, just ran out of ink, and the other pen sitting on the coffee table (that I can see as the table needs a good sweeping of papers and what-not that have piled up), is the pen that came in a request for a donation to an organization I don’t know of, but do make donations to one similar. I think it’s the same organization that sends a nickel along with a letter that says something like – do you know what a nickel can do? This of course causes me to think – then why don’t you just keep it? I’ve collected 10¢ from them so far, and a pen that has extended its nib fully and won’t retract. But I have to use it anyway, because while I don’t want to write, it seems that I am.
And please, I am not saying don’t give to charities that send you stuff, just don’t feel obligated to do so. I actually donate to one that has sent me a half dozen world maps. It’s the cost of doing business, as they say. Do use the stuff. It would be silly to waste them (though I don’t know what to do with all the maps), and do give to charities that you think are worthwhile.
Hey – Do you all know what today is? It’s Trouble-Buddy’s birthday! In a few weeks, we’ll be the same age again.
It’s no surprise to me that “Drive My Car” is one of my favorite Beatles’ songs. I like going for drives and just looking at the scenery, even it’s just the other cars on a highway. There’s always something going on, if not outside the car then on the inside of my head. I think I was born that way. I was a somewhat introverted kid. Not anti-social, just socially awkward, and was often called out, oh so disapprovingly for my awkwardness to the point of eventual self-consciousness. And also, I just liked to be alone in my thoughts. Still do. And I’m still working on that self-consciousness thing, which is coming along nicely, thank you.
I don’t know what I thought about when I was very young, but I do have some relatively vivid memories. In fact, I remember a suburban daycare or summer camp in a big old house surrounded by vast wooded grounds, in which was an old car parked in the middle of a grassy section not far from the outdoor play area. It was more than just a chassis, although I don’t think that it could have been much more as they would have wanted it safe for the kids. How old I was I can’t really recall. Very young but not too young to be allowed to wander off by myself to sit behind the wheel of the old car in the early sixties, a time when children could still run about pretty freely. As an example, when visiting my little friend on the next block from my home, we would often sit in the middle of the street on warm summer days popping tar bubbles. That was lots of fun, but jeez, where was her mother. It wasn’t a rural area, it was suburbia, with cars. Not near as many as today, and we never got run over, but that’s the kind of relaxed attitude had by some raising children in that time and that place.
Climbing into the car and putting my hands on the wheel with limited knowledge of my destination, I knew I could get there if I just kept turning the steering wheel back and forth. And though my feet didn’t reach the pedals, I was going. When the little girl sent to fetch me for show and tell one afternoon called out to me from the unpaved driveway mere feet away from the car’s grassy perch, she met with resistance and left in confusion. “I have nothing to show,” I replied to her when she let me know I was being summoned for the activity. “Then tell something,” she said. “I have nothing to tell,” I explained and kept on driving. I remember she stood there for a moment, shrugged knowing that she failed in her task, and went back inside. No one bothered me again that day.
I was nineteen when I got my driver’s license. Most of my friends had gotten theirs two or three years prior and had gone off to college. I would take my mother’s 1967 dirty white Dodge Dart, the one with one headlight that slanted upward and the other that slanted inward, probably caused by slamming into buildings too close to parking spaces, and who knows what else, and with the dented passenger side door that my then boyfriend’s best friend described as an elephant fart. Other drivers would constantly flash their brights at me thinking that the misaligned light from my car that was hitting them in the eyes was because I had my brights on. I was not as embarrassed to be driving around in the pitiful looking and sounding vehicle as one may think. It wasn’t my years of excessive drinking and lax drunk driving laws that were responsible. I kind of felt sorry for the car, it was after all the family car and like me didn’t damage itself. Plus I loved to drive and it would take me where I wanted to go. I’d go out day or night with a map, getting lost anyway, but always making my way back to my mother’s house, which was in as bad condition as the car.
The ex loves to drive more than I do, and when we hooked up, I could be the passenger, being driven and not having to concentrate on anything but my thoughts and the music on the radio. It was almost like the silent two hours I’d spend as a girl, fortunately not that often, in the car with my father as he drove me to his apartment in New Jersey, where it seemed that the divorced fathers of Long Island were relegated. He’d have the radio on to a station for the contemporary music of the time. Not rock like what would be on the ex’s radio, but I could get into it. The difference in driving with my father and driving with the ex is that the latter was better because I wanted to be there. And my father was a lousy driver who I always imaged had one foot on the gas and the other on the brakes, cause that’s what it sure felt like. The ex was a very good driver, who has improved as he mellowed. (He’ll get that last sentence)
All this was long ago and I’m very rarely even in a car these days. Besides, I’ve not been behind the wheel of a car in such a long time, and things have changed so much that I don’t think I can remember how to drive. There’s a lot to learn about the operations of a vehicle now. And it’s not just me missing crank windows, and keys. It’s way beyond that. So, it would be very beneficial to have someone to drive my car for me, even though I don’t have one.
To avoid debate, I’m not going to address the other 80s instrumental albums from the Trouble-Buddy collection. We will just have to remember that I did discuss the two Jeff Beck albums in July, and had nice things to say about his talents. But the others, from well-known artists of the time, didn’t have me at hello, so I’m going to skip them. I don’t think it would be TB (for Trouble-Buddy) who would object, but perhaps the more ardent fans that check into my blog now and then might. And that’s not what this is all about.
I thought perhaps that I simply was not into instrumental music until I realized that I once loved listening to my parents’ old recordings of the Montovani Orchestra, which I guess could be considered high-class elevator music, and that record with the stripper music (no words needed, I suppose). One of my favorite rock instrumentals is Emerson Lake and Palmer’s rendition of the Nutcracker Suite. That’s Tchaikovsky done right. And I do like me some piano, as I’ve previously noted. We know that I love watching Chico Marx shoot the keys in the old Marx Brothers movies. The beginning of Bruce Springsteen’s “Incident on 57th Street” with David Sancious on piano, and anything Roy Bittan does are totally swell. And I find Billy Joel’s abilities mystifying. Pianist-wise. Personally, well let me tell you, as I did my research for my posts on The Stranger album and my cassette tape of Piano Man, there are a few things I’d like to have words with him about.
One night while relaxing after work, even though I’ve never been into classical music, I hit purchase on an Amazon order for Max to which I had thrown in the CD of Billy Joel’s classical recording that he did some years back. It was his only classical album and I thought the last album he’d ever done. Then the package came and I learned that the songs on Fantasies & Delusions, released in 2001 when Billy still had some hair, were all written by Joel but performed by some other guy. But there’s a picture on the back with the pianist Richard Joo and Billy Joel, so that makes it okay.
And it was okay. I was hesitant at first and only listened to a portion of it. I played it in its entirety a day or two later, but took a shower during it. Then I put it on again when my ears were not in another room and under water. It’s nice, relaxing. Sometimes even interesting. I might consider exploring a new genre, if it’s classical music with a rock ‘n roll flare.
In any case, Max loved his order of Temptations catnip flavored treats, tub of Yeowww catnip, the good stuff, plus the box they came in. I like my part of the delivery as well even though the case is broken and I have yet to master the art of removing the cellophane wrapping and sticky strips from the CD case, if there is an art to it.
Btw – Heartening news. The other day a new guy walked into my office to hand me something I’d left in the copy machine during the 10 at 10 on my mixed era rock station The Peak, and instantly recognized “96 Tears” by Question Mark and the Mysterians, which I had cranked up to eleven. We both guessed that the year was 1968, but it was ’66, and chatted albums a bit. He likes Hendrix. When they started to play “Walk Away Renee” by The Left Bank, I had to restrain myself from hunting him out to let him know. What was it I called “Walk Away Renee” last time I mentioned it? Something like one of the healthier songs about obsession?
People complain about autocorrect, but that’s because they aren’t paying attention. It’s like people who follow GPS blindly. I find autocorrect fascinating. I like the written forms of communication, emailing and texting, and am not real big on chatting on the phone. So I watch in awe as autocorrect tries to predict my next word, which it often does. Yes, there are those frustrating times when it should be obvious, like if I type “I’d like another piece of p”, porcupine would not even be close to what anyone, except maybe another porcupine, would ever be thinking. Or the fact that I have to type in five of the eight letters of my first name before it guesses it’s me. And yes, those times it changes your word to something that makes no sense because it doesn’t understand what you wrote and after all, it knows better, doesn’t it – and then you hit send before you notice. I’ve done it once or twice, no more really as I am fascinated with the talents of this little slab of stuff I’ll never understand, that I can hold in my hand and do so many amazing things with. For someone my age, I am living the futuristic future of my childhood. I ponder, often, with wonder and dread what we’re going to come up with next, and are we going to rely too much on autocorrects and GPS to tell us where to go and say.
I’m sure you’re wondering what brought this on. You recall my former Manhattan friend that no longer lives in the state, who stays with me once a month or so and to whom we are now referring as Gilda? Good.
Gilda and I are both fans of those true crime stories, like the ones on the Investigative Discovery and other channels. I look forward to the CBS show 48 Hours at 10:00 on Saturday night’s (I know, sad, isn’t it). In fact, one time Vicki and I were hanging out at Gilda’s tiny studio on the upper east side, and rather than background music, Gilda had her TV set on a Snapped marathon, during which we would chat about a certain episode we’d both seen, until poor Vickie cried out “Do we have to keep watching this?” Of course, we did not.
Gilda and I also both love Lt. Joe Kenda, even though I was horribly dismayed last year when I heard him say “nucular” instead of nuclear. As we know, I find that irksome. So, working backward, as neither Gilda nor I are working tomorrow, she will be staying with me Tuesday, the night Joe Kenda’s show is on. She texted me that she would love to stay over on lends Tuesday, which took me a short while to figure out she meant Kenda Tuesday, but autocorrect decided it knew better. Then I sat down and wrote this, because autocorrect, and all that is to come, good or bad, fascinates me.
BTW – In a reverse “Hey Nineteen” moment, I was in Whole Foods yesterday, which I find to be a wholly unenjoyable necessity, trying to balance an open plastic bag in one hand, the scoop for the unsalted pistachio nuts in the other hand while holding up the lid to the nuts with my third hand so I could scoop up the half pound of pistachios that will take me no more than an hour to eat once I get them home, a nine or ten year old boy wearing his horned backback and jabbering away as he following his mother, suddenly blurted out “I love this song.” (That was one sentence) I listened hard above the din and recognized Elvis Costello’s “Pump It Up”, my favorite Costello song, and felt a wee bit heartened that there may be hope for future generations.
B&BTW-I can now pull off my size 12 jeans without unbuttoning and unzipping them. Too bad Letterman’s not on anymore as I could audition for stupid human tricks.
I think I had mentioned before that I have finally been granted a new staff member for my woefully understaffed department. The problem is she is very young, and my only other colleague, who has been with me for years, does not share my taste in music or movies. I was talking to them the other day and had the opportunity to say “These go to eleven,” complete with accent and everything. They stared at me in bemusement, then looked at each other, then back at me and said nothing. It’s not them, it’s me. I need a better environment that is conducive to my knowledge of the arts and sense of humor. After all, how can anyone not recognize one of the best lines from the iconic movie This is Spinal Tap. When the DJs on my radio station say things like “We’re going to crank it up to eleven,” we all know to what they are referring, and I know that they are all younger than I am. Besides the eleven line, and the one that titles this entry, which I’ve loved since the moment it came out of David St. Hubbins’ mouth, my other favorite from the mockumentary is when they talk about having performed a concert on the Isle of Lucy.
So what is this post about? Is it the fact that I can’t communicate with 20 somethings? (“Hey Nineteen”?)Well, I know I have some young blog readers, so that’s not entirely true. I think it’s more about how I am just in the wrong environment, and have been for the past six years. This is no new revelation, I’ve never really belonged here. I actually did like parts of my job once because I basically had to create my department, and I enjoyed the challenge. Plus, I did it well. But it’s time for something new or somethings new. A whole new milieu seems to be in order.
But, I’ve hit a bit of a creativity block lately and am finding it difficult to be clever or even stupid. The motivation has dwindled and not only am I not writing much I’m not exercising much either. The transition from summer to fall was dramatic, zooming from warm and sunny to cold gloom in no time. And you know I’ve got stuff to do, kind of important stuff that’s adding up and adding to my inertia. I hope it’s just a weather thing and I will have a more pithy post for you next week. I equate myself to a slug or a sloth, rather than a stiff.
Btw – In order to try to pluck myself from the doldrums, I had to hear me some Jimi Hendrix Are You Experienced? It’s not on the Ram 20 list, but it helped. As did Bruce’s The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle, which is on the list. If “Rosalita” doesn’t do it for you, you may be a stiff after all.
And luckily the sun came out around 1pm and Max welcomed it by going belly up (in a good way) in a patch of sunlight on the floor. His owner was most pleased as well, and even though the weekend was kind of a bust, perhaps the work week will go a little smoother due to the intake of the vitamin D, and an apartment that isn’t so chilly.
Let’s rehash. I’ve been getting into different workout routines, and must confess that I only do a full hour plus a smidge, once a week, maybe twice. That routine starts with the first three songs from Linda Ronstadt’s Heart Like a Wheel as a warm-up. I don’t need to hear “You’re No Good,” anymore, but I use it to get set up and maybe go to the bathroom, then I test my vocal chords with “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore,” and really stretch them with the beautiful “Faithless Love.” If you’ve been keeping up with the blog, you know that this is followed by Santana’s “Smooth” twice, cause once just won’t do, then a number of Sly and the Family Stone songs with “I Want to Take You Higher” played twice as well (same reason) giving me about a half hour of aerobics. Then we are still listening to all of Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black. As I now understand more of the words to her songs, I’m a little disappointed in her talents as a lyricist, and am more impressed with my own interpretations of what the lyrics actually are. Example: In “Me and Mr. Jones,” I distinctly hear her call him “Mr. Slick Mickey,” which I love, but it’s not what she says, and after reading the actual words, I like my version better. Still, she made up for this in voice and style.
So I’m mixing it up a bit in music and duration of the workouts, with the three aforementioned CDs that are relatively new to my music collection and the old Ronstadt album, with some Beatles here and there. Some nights, many really, I just need to start off with Bob Dylan’s “Rainy Day Women,” particularly on those evenings I come home from work frustrated at and by the nincompoops in control. But it seems to be highly representative of the nincompoopy kind of world we live in. So, I would not feel so all alone…
Btw – Speaking of nincompoops, Time Warner Cable. And that’s all I have to say.
Here’s a better by the way: I have been fitting into the size 10 pants lately. Yes I know, this happened last year, but I am more in touch with my foibles and the “we must put on our winter fat” excuse, and I will be much more vigilant as the cold weather approaches. Plus I am eying a lovely pair of size 8 black crepe slacks I’ve hung on to for when that time comes.
The Walrus Was Paul 