I was going to do the dishes before exercising tonight, so not thinking that the ex’s Roxy Music CD would offer the energetic workout I need these days, I put it on, pressed play and stepped into the kitchen and stepped right out again as soon as Bryan Ferry started singing “Avalon.” I could not keep from moving, cause you know, that Bryan Ferry, he can make a woman – sway. In a heartbeat. Some men too I’ll bet. Then “More Than This” followed. It was just a little over a year ago when we were in the final quarter of the A to Z album project of The Walrus Was Paul, covering my Roxy Music record, and I wrote about the first time I heard that song. In a department store, a long time ago, it was the music being piped in and as soon as I heard it I thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds that had ever entered my ears. I asked a perfect stranger what song it was and who was singing it, and not knowing himself, he helped me identify words which would lead to a most pleasurable discovery, the song and the sultry voice of Bryan Ferry. Smooth and cool without even trying. His voice just trickles down like fingers on the back of your neck that spread along your back and… good thing I’m going for a massage on Saturday. Anyway, the beauty of the ending of the song, the repetitious instrumental, is that you can still hear Ferry’s voice long after he has stopped singing.
Oh – Ferry’s version of John Lennon’s “Jealous Guy.” Damn. Those dishes’ll never get done.
It is by no coincidence that I exercised, again, to my Sly and the Family Stone CD, as it is my go to music these days for a good, solid and enjoyable workout. But today is also the 72nd birthday of Sylvester Stewart, aka Sly Stone. I’m still having a hard time getting around to writing about the history of the band, and how Sly’s substance abuse led to the demise of something really great. There was a reason why it was Sly and the Family Stone, even though the group consisted of some very talented musicians and depended on the concordance and cohesiveness of its members under Sly’s creative leadership. My inability to write about them does a disservice to the other band members, and even my article about Family trumpeter Cynthia Robinson, with whom Sly has a daughter, is lacking. I apologize.
I was happy to learn of his recent victory in a lawsuit against his former management, which paid him $5 million in back royalties, although I’m sure many of us wonder how long it will last. My research shows promise though. Sly has been more of a recluse over the past couple of decades rather than a homeless bum who totally succumbed to his addictions. And he’s come out now and then, playing in his youngest sister’s band, which has also included the great Cynthia Robinson. At 72, Sly looks much older in photos, so I’ve gone with one from the day.
And now for something completely different, but still under the heading of demons. We all have our demons, don’t we? I think that years of intense therapy will never uncover the reason why I have this problem with laundry rooms – or the specific machinery involved – or maybe just the laundry itself. If it is some deep seeded memory of some awful thing, it’s not coming up. I remember everything. You know that. Not like that talent that Marilu Henner has, in which you can throw a date at her and she can tell you exactly what happened on that day, but my memories, when triggered do surface with ease and much detail. So if something not so nice occurred regarding laundry, that one is staying put.
Or, it could just be that I’m lazy. I’ve refused to admit that something as simple as going down to the laundry room has gotten the best of me, so I threw in the towel, so to speak, when I ran through all clean sheets and towels recently and only got as far as dragging the cart out of the closet with no signs of actually putting anything in it and taking it downstairs. I filled a laundry bag that I had purchased long ago and brought a 10lb load to one of the local cleaners. It’s not like having a drug addiction or overcoming it, but I feel good about being able to recognize my shortcomings and giving in to a solution. I will no longer beat myself up over my inability to do my own laundry. Yes, the cleaners does pick-up and drop-off to my building, but I’m not ready to commit that much quite yet.
There’s a good, yet eight-year-old article in Vanity Fair in which Sly give a rare interview at: http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2007/08/sly200708, and offers the comments of other band members.
No.
I will say this – it is very nice to be able to don a shorter jacket rather than the long winter coat I’ve been wearing fastened to mid-calf, and sneakers with a bit of an arch instead of the snow boots whose rubbers soles are so worn they no longer have grooves, and freeing my legs into that long stride I know I have in me, no longer slogging through slush taking short careful steps. February is becoming a blurred memory and I am out of excuses. Except that I just discovered Tostinos.
I have my personal reasons to want to start a movement to put an end to this stupid month forever. For instance, we were only five days into February last year when, without warning, we lost my dearest and oldest friend Vicki. And then this year an old friend, someone I was friends with from first grade through the beginning of high school also passed. That was not unexpected. I was fortunate to see her again after 40 years just this past summer, when we dined together with another old and current friend, who feels her loss as I feel Vicki’s. I’m sure after this year many of you would consider joining the movement to abolish February for your own reasons. Throughout the country we have suffered an onslaught of nonstop horrible weather, not just dotting the end of the winter as February has been known for, but prolonging it making us fear it would never stop. My holiday blues stretched nearly beyond their limit and could have snapped in a weaker person. Reports of my poor cousin, south of Boston, spending hours upon hours out in the cold on his tractor, clearing away pounds and pounds of snow, over and over again, make me ashamed to complain, but I’m doing it for all of us.
It is not just due to the occurrences over the last couple of years that prompt my contempt for the month, it’s the obvious stuff. First, it’s hard to say correctly and even I, who can be a stickler about such things, more often than not will skip the first R and simply say Febuary. (Note: If abolishment is not possible, we should at least change the name to Feblueary to better reflect my state of mind.) Then of course there’s that bizarre day thing. When trying to remember how many days in a particular month, don’t we run through our heads, even recite out loud, “Thirty days have September, April, June and November. All the rest have thirty-one, except for February…” Then who remembers how the rest goes or what it even means. It’s without rhyme or reason, literally. Wouldn’t it be best to say “31 days are in September, April, June and November. All the rest have 32, because we’re not crazy. And how are you?” I will leave it to the experts to figure the redistribution of days and factoring the solstices and whatnot throughout the 11 months we are left with.
We would do away with those nonsense holidays like Groundhog Day that can only be annoying to the poor creatures, who are saddled with the responsibility of predicting the weather, an ability they have proved time and time again not to have, and I’m sure they don’t want to be burdened with. Do we not get that by now? Last year, my city’s very tall mayor dropped a groundhog, which resulted in its death. I don’t blame the mayor, I fault our adherence to silliness on behalf of tradition. Please don’t get me started on Valentine’s Day. (Seriously, don’t get me started because I have a story about last year, that all I will say about it is, the good news is there was no one to disappoint me this year. Really, all I asked for was a cozy dinner at my place, no flowers, chocolates or stuffed animals clinging to hearts.) And then there are those people who call it Valentime’s Day.
I do like the holidays that have historical relevance – President’s Day and Martin Luther King’s birthday. I was one of those who originally objected when we started moving all the holidays to Mondays out of convenience. Now, I like it. Just don’t touch the 4th of July. As March is one of the longer months and has no holidays that close the office for the day, both those February holidays can move there. I understand that the people with February birthdays may be reluctant to shift their own special days, but not if we offer them the opportunity to pick their new birthdays from any of the 365 days and to subtract two years from their ages as an added bonus. I know I would change my birthday from the end of November when Thanksgiving frequently interferes with celebration plans, opting instead for a lovely spring day. If we put our heads together, this could work. I can’t be the only person that has ever thought of it.
I accept no responsibility for my weight set-back, nor for my lack of initiative to work on my writing projects other than the blog and all the stuff I do for the job that pays the bills. I blame February.
Tonight I was going to write about something that’s been bothering me, but you know me, taking all those side trips to Tangent City. So instead I made myself listen to a Laura Nyro CD, courtesy of the ex. Of course I love Laura Nyro. Who doesn’t? She was great and gone too soon. Listening to this record however, reminded me of the problem I had with the Karla Bonoff album. THAT was a long time ago. Way back in the B’s of the A-Z album project. Karla Bonoff wrote some good songs that were covered by the likes of Linda Ronstadt. Good song writer, nice voice, but the songs have much more personality than the singer, meaning Bonoff herself. This is how I feel about Laura Nyro, I am very, very sorry to say. She’s got a very nice voice, but her songs really shine through the throats of others. “Wedding Bell Blues,” covered very successfully by the 5th Dimension, which by the way my mother was obsessed with because she had wanted to marry the first officer of a cruise ship named Bill (the ship’s name was the Oceanic, not Bill), but didn’t, probably because she had children. There’s a lot of feeling from Marilyn McCoo in this song, who did marry her Bill, fellow 5th Dimensioner Billy Davis Jr. And they’re still together.
My brother really liked Barbra Streisand’s version of “Stony End,” but it was Barbra after all. I, not being a big fan of her music, also liked it as it’s atypical of Babs and quite a catchy tune. “Eli’s Coming” by Three Dog Night, which, as you know I have on my very own Three Dog Night live album, was a favorite of mine and would be my first exposure to the songs of Laura Nyro. But that song is not on this CD.
So basically (don’t hate me – I swear I love Laura Nyro), this CD was really boring and I have to admit that I skipped over a lot so I could put Sly back on to get in a decent workout. How do I feel about Carol King, did I hear you ask? Great songwriter, not a great voice, but there’s something else there that makes her listenable. I mentioned this before, don’t remember when, but my brother drove my mother crazy with Tapestry, and I have since learned that was not uncommon.
Pretty album cover though.
I’m not a big Jimmy Buffett fan. Some of his stuff is okay, but he doesn’t wow me. I like “Margaritaville,” especially since he takes responsibility for his own actions in it, and that shark song, neither of which is on this CD. Obviously this in one of the ex’s CDs. So here’s a short story, probably my only one having anything to do with Jimmy Buffett.
The ex had gotten tickets to see him at Jones Beach on a summer night. I was to come in on the Long Island Railroad to Syosset after work and meet the ex at Christiano’s, a great old Italian restaurant and bar that only recently closed forever. It’s not only a place from where I have a ton of memories from childhood on up, it was an inspiration for Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.” Great pizza and my favorite dish was their baked ziti with eggplant. We’ve actually covered it before.
I sat in the take-out waiting area with a view of the window and the front door. Now the ex was always late, seriously so. As a matter of fact he was three hours late for our first date for no reason, which should tell you something more about me, at least back then. He was also never much of what you might call a fashion plate. But he was good looking enough to pull off a tattered old sweatshirt and still look charming. So when I spotted him in my peripheral vision after only a ten minute or so wait, I noticed he was wearing a crisp red Hawaiian shirt and he had combed back his hair, as any good Buffett fan would. I stared straight ahead not letting on that recognized him although this persona was unfamiliar to me. Music was playing, so when he came over to me he leaned down and said hi, to which I replied “I’m sorry. I can’t talk to you. I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”
The concert was okay but it was really cool when late, renowned reporter Ed Bradley came on stage to sing backup. The CD is also okay, but the workout was better because I starting with Sly to get in a more energetic aerobics portion. I’ve now got to lose five pounds to get back to where I was before the holidays. I am so glad that February is over.
Who gets 10cc Live on CD? They should have stopped making it when it was on 8 track. This is one of those naked CDs from the ex’s collection, and I’ve no clue what his motivation was to make this purchase. 10cc I recall had one big hit in the mid-70s and I’m guessing without looking, and before listening that it was “I’m Not In Love,” which I remember as not a bad song, but one that was very much for the times, as they were. I have to keep reminding myself that every step in life is a learning experience and there are sidesteps and missteps, baby steps and back steps. Sure, I get that now that there is something up with my feet that is still undetermined. Hard to say no regrets though, cause I still cringe with certain memories. Although I have a ways to go, I’ve really made a lot of progress and am pretty satisfied with how I’ve turned out. I do like myself much better. At least I can proudly say that I never liked disco. Not that 10cc was a disco band in the least. This little venting session has less to do with the song than the times. Let’s just say I was confused back then.
I was indeed correct however that it was 10cc’s big hit, but I had to listen to the whole CD first, which that song, the big hit, wasn’t even on. Does anyone remember when 10cc was mentioned previously on The Walrus Was Paul? Because it was, back when we were about midway through the A-Z album project. Rather than make you scramble back to search, and because there is no prize as incentive if you get it right, I will remind you. It was when we listened to the Lovin’ Spoonful’s greatest hits. I discovered the meaning of the group’s name and that of 10cc’s were of the same origin. They both refer to the average amount of ejaculate from a human male. Just so you know, I shan’t be entertaining any comments on the subject.
I had me a good workout this evening. I’ve showered, Max is fed, I’m fed and am now settling in with a beer to watch the Academy Awards. I am sorry that Joan Rivers died, but I have always hated the “who are you wearing” thing. I like to see the attire, but it does overshadow the accomplishments of the women. And you can’t wear a who. Anyway, I’ve not seen many of the films this year and am not as adamant about my choices as I was last year. I wanted American Hustle to take everything, but was not unhappy with the winners, besides is Jared Leto not one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen? And I mean that only as a compliment.
This year, I’ve only seen Gone Girl, Wild, The Grand Budapest Hotel, The Theory of Everything and Birdman, and am rooting for the latter. Michael Keaton in particular, whom I have loved since first seeing him in Nightshift after my Rickie Lee Jones concert was rained out. I don’t want Budapest Hotel to win. I’m a big fan of Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tenenbaums and the ex is equally enthusiastic about The Life Aquatic and we were both disappointed in his latest contribution. We did see The Lego Movie and hated it. I’m glad it wasn’t nominated for best animated film despite all the hoopla, and hope the song does not win. Unless it is sung by Bruce or Melissa Etheridge or the like, I will probably leave the room when it is performed (yes, I know I live in a studio apartment).
The Beatles’ Help was never nominated for an academy award, but it is celebrating its 50th anniversary and I found this article with all these nifty pictures: http://www.msn.com/en-us/music/gallery/help-publishers-unearth-rare-beatles-pictures/ss-AA9mT7v#image=12. The Beatles have been nominated for three Oscars – for musical score and adaptation for A Hard Day’s Night, and for Best Original Score for Let it Be, which they actually won. Paul McCartney was nominated for best song for “Live and Let Die” from the Bond film of the same name, which lost to “The Way We Were,” and then for the song from Vanilla Sky, a Tom Cruise movie that I liked very much, but seemed to be in the minority. That lost to “If I Didn’t Have You by Randy Newman” from Monsters, Inc. It was Newman’s first win after being nominated 14 times previously for songs and scores of various movies, so I’m more than okay with that.
And now, I’m going to watch what they’re wearing on the red carpet.
Surprising that I was able to so easily sing along with “Midnight Rider.” I’m tearing myself away from Sly & co. now and then to poke through the CDs I’ve been collecting here and there. This is one of the ex’s contributions. I love “Sweet Melissa,” but that’s where the fugginess started and it began sounding like a disco song. I now understand what the ex meant when he handed me the small zip-lock baggie that contained the 17 caseless CDs and said he didn’t know if they worked.
So, I’ve nothing to say about the Allman Brothers, except – really, three instrumentals on one best of record? However, I do have one memory attached to them, having to do with that wayward time in my life, or should I say during one of the wayward times, when I was an assistant manager of a Victoria’s Secret, an experience that made be realize that I wasn’t meant for retail, well not corporate retail. I got scolded once when I was assigned to do the windows around the holidays. I tied the sleeves of the nightgowns and robes together in their fronts so it looked like the invisible hands were clasped together, as instructed by the Victoria’s Secret window guide that all stores were supposed to follow. I stacked the boxes, putting a bow on top as depicted in the manual and then, because we were selling these little stuffed bears holding transparent containers with red and green Hershey’s Kisses, I took a few of the bears from their display and put them in the arms of the nightgown and robe and in front of the stacks of pink and white boxes. When my manager came in, the first thing she did was yell “Who put those bears in the window,” like she had the good-old Victoria’s Secret handbook memorized. I had to put them back in the display from where we’d already sold two, the first two sold, during my shift.
Why did I work there? For a while I was working at an American craft gallery, and I liked Victoria’s Secret’s bras. Hey, I like nice underwear. I thought I could sell it, I was a good manager and wanted to give retail a try, but I hated the experience. Nearly every bit of it. You try working in a place where skeezy guys come in thinking that the young women that worked there were the models or would be walking around in nothing but bras and panties, or the lunkheaded boyfriends coming in to pick stupid fights with their girlfriends making them run out in tears, or the couples who thought it was cool or sexy to have sex in the dressing rooms. I won’t even go into the video that we had to play over and over, of the recent fashion show in which they were hawking the latest line of girdles (they tried to dress them up but they were girdles nonetheless) and this woman’s voice, over the boom boom booming music, would say “women are in control,” when she should have been saying “women are being controlled.” Yes. All of this and more happened and I was only there for eight months.
What has all this got to do with the Allman Brothers, you may ask. Well, most of the young women that worked there were pretty, or kind of dopey, or both. I liked many of them actually. Some not at all. But there was one girl, I think she was nineteen or so, very pleasant, quiet, dressed mostly in button-down shirts and skirts right above the knee, not at all a bad looking human being, but not like some of the cutesy, out-going girls that the manager had hired. She had a slightly stocky build and looked like she came from a big Irish family filled with brothers who were firemen. As a matter of fact, I think part of that is true. She wasn’t friends with any of the other girls, she didn’t go out drinking or dancing with them, but she got along with them fine. She kept to herself mostly, basically just doing her job. She was very reliable. I liked her very much for that alone. I think everyone kind of liked her. Anyway, the whole point of the story is that one day when I was walking the 20 minutes to work, she picked me up in her red Toyota that was blasting the Allman Brothers. Cool I thought. Most of the girls were into the dance music of the time. She even brought a six-pack to the summer party and swigged it from the bottle. We were all drinking wine.
And that was just one big tangent, wasn’t it. But tonight’s post is completely extemporaneous. I only used the notebook for one or two notes while I was exercising. And besides, that’s what listening to the Allman Brothers made me think of. I could have written about Cher, and then Sonny and Cher (did you know that Cher and Gregg Allman put out an album together and billed themselves as Allman and Woman). I know I said I don’t like Gregg Allman, but he did put out some pretty good tunes. And this CD ended with “Whipping Post,” which had only mild fugginess.
I’m going to try to come up with relevant pictures now and then because I have been listening to nothing but Sly and the Family Stone (a slight exaggeration), and I still have tons to say about him and the gang (another exaggeration), particularly with recent events concerning Sly himself. But I am aware that you’ve not been all that interested. I will write more about them at another time and will spare you now. Besides, I am in a kind of mood, and have that kind of ability to dredge up old memories and replay them in my head like old movies (probably why I have an ample forehead), and have no problem writing another story about Vicki and Amy.
So, you know about my problem with procrastination – this isn’t the story, just more backstory, maybe an early tangent. I bought a scanner… oh I’m thinking sometime before last summer, with points I had built up without even knowing I was doing so, and it’s still sitting in the box. Not even opened. This is why you’re seeing a picture of ’60s model Twiggy, who if you’ve been paying attention has been mentioned before, instead of a picture of me, Vicki and the ex. Vicki, her father and oldest brother had just run the marathon. I know! You’re just dying to see it, aren’t you? It’s really cute. And I am still well aware I owe you a current progress photo as the two that are posted, the big belly and my squatting picture, are about a year and a half old. I’ve said it before, but I’ve not changed that much except I cannot figure out what to do with my hair.
Vicki and Amy and I knew each other since high school and hung out together along with a few other girls, which included Vicki’s sister. Vicki and I grew closer after high school and by the time she moved back to New York when we were all in our mid-20s, we were like sisters. We all remained in touch on some level, and a couple of us have recently reconnected, I am happy to say.
Vicki and I lived together for a year and a half in my apartment in Bayside, along with my cat Bubba, who you will remember from a previous post because he was named after Gladys Knight’s brother. Amy, who still lived on the Island with her husband, was hanging out with us one day. Bubba was a very smart cat, so after a while the water pistol I had to keep him from picking on the rug became moot. I often recommend training a cat with a water pistol, so when they are climbing up the drapes you just give a little shot. It doesn’t hurt them, but they don’t like it. Bubba figured it out and would just look at me after getting spritzed a few times as if to say “Really? Is that all you got?” But the pistol remained filled just in case. I don’t recall how it started, but I imagine that I picked up the gun and shot Vicki that day because the next thing I remember was being backed into a dining room chair after Vicki had responded by picking up the plant sprayer, also full and which could eat my little orange plastic pistol for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The pistol let out one quick, thin stream of water, and the plant sprayer, well let’s just say I was getting creamed. I could see Amy laughing along with us, and looking like she so wished she could join in. Then suddenly Vicki stops and hands me the spray bottle. What a kind gesture. Just like her. Idiot. I tossed Amy the gun. Wait. Please let me say that again. How many times in my life do I think I’m going to have the opportunity to use a line like that and have it be true? I tossed Amy the gun and we chased Vicki, who looked surprisingly surprised, into the bathroom. She managed to shut the door on us, but we waited her out. “Okay, I’m coming out now,” she’d say. “Truce.” She’d open the door and we’d nail her. Happened a couple of times and then Vicki started complaining about the paint on the door peeling and the wallpaper getting wet. In all fairness, when she moved in she did put a lot of time and effort into wallpapering the bathroom and painting the trim. I didn’t care about that sort of thing, but she did. You might think though that if she were that concerned about how the bathroom looked, she would have been less oblivious to the glob of toothpaste she would always leave in the sink, particularly right after I had cleaned it.
She was let out of the bathroom eventually. I needed a towel to dry off.
The Walrus Was Paul 