Last Sunday, while trying to figure out how to post on my blog from the old laptop that doesn’t have the same mindset as the new model (kind of like me), I missed the first half hour of Columbo. Vicki and I, unbeknownst to each other at first, had both gotten into the habit of watching the old ’70 show every Sunday night on one of those cable stations that runs TV programs of yore. I was so determined to deal with my new laptop already being in the shop for the next few weeks, and get this old guy going, I denied myself any rewards like turning on the television before the task was complete. Darn. It was about a murdering mystery writer played by Jack Cassidy (father of David) with Peter Falk in his most famous role (you know he was nominated for an academy award twice a decade prior). It was directed in 1977 by Steven Spielberg, who was all of 24 at the time. It was a good one, but I achieved my goal. Sort of.
Not enough female killers on Columbo. I can only remember Trish Van Devere.
I’m just babbling tonight. Nothing new to report. Oh, except that last Sunday I went out to brunch with my cousin wearing those size 10 jeans I said that I could squish into but not yet dare wear out, and had no regrets. I think I am no officially a size 10 again.
Happy Thanksgiving tomorrow. Also tomorrow, happy birthday to the late Jimi Hendrix, if that’s appropriate, to the current Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg, to Chauncey Grubbs (a girl with whom I went to high school), wherever she may be, and me. Still with Benny. I guess that’s obvious.
You know, I have nothing to write about tonight. I’ve been finding comfort in my parents’ old Benny Goodman album lately. It really provokes no memories whatsoever, but it does prompt me to move – kind of mindlessly – concentrating on nothing, except actually thinking I’m a dancer. It’s nice once in a while. I’ve not been working out much since Wednesday’s post. I’ve had a couple of nice long walks though so I can be excused, can’t I? But when I do get back into the routine, I’m not into thinking. So this is me, not writing and not thinking. Maybe I’ll start thinking again tomorrow. I do want to warn you that I had to send my new laptop back to the manufacturer for repairs. Darn thing’s D popped off. Now I’m trying to blog with my old laptop that doesn’t seem to want to cooperate internet-wise. So if I don’t post during the week, you’ll know why.
You all know that Tom Petty has a new album out, right? Well, as soon as it hits the discount racks, it’s mine.
I’m ashamed to say I have no Petty music in my collection and don’t quite know why, so I went to Barnes & Noble specifically to look for a Tom Petty CD that’s in my budget. The weird thing is, there it was, this first album by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers sitting upon the display rack above the $4.99 selections, waiting for me. Kismet? What else could it be.
And what a debut album this was. I only know two songs from it, “Breakdown,” which is one of my Petty favorites (the other being “Listen to Her Heart”), and “American Girl,” but not only do I want to listen again and again to the other songs, I want to add more Tom Petty CDs, in addition to his first, which I now have, and his current, which I will have, to my collection. And perhaps the Traveling Willburys too. His videos have always been classic, and of course you know I love “Into the Great Wide Open” with Johnny Depp and that other classic, Faye Dunaway. Those video days seem to be gone now though.
The whole CD is just half an hour long, good for the aerobic exercise, but I’ll have to determine a good companion to lengthen the workout. Something more fitting than Bobby Rydell or The Association, which are also short, but don’t quite go with the Tom Petty momentum.
When I reviewed Syl Sylvain and the Teardrops’ album back in April of this year as part of the A to Z project, I thought I just might further explore that iconic group from which he came. Syl’s album, if you recall, made the Ram 20 for its undeniable bounciness and enjoyability. And so when I came across the New York Dolls’ first album in the $4.99 CD section, I scooped it up. I remember in high school borrowing the album from a friend and not wanting to return it. It was the same friend who lent me her copy of Foxy magazine, which was a little odd because she had a pretty conservative appearance herself, and Foxy was like Seventeen for groupies. Me however, reading that one issue of Foxy as a teen and that whole Annie Fannie thing during my pre-teen years (please refer back to the August post on The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test) were not the most positive influences on my adolescent and post-adolescent life.
But the New York Dolls were right up my alley. At least this album. The cover was considered shocking back then and I dug it. The cover and the shock value. Now when I look at it I see some discomfort there, except for David Johansen aka Buster Poindexter, who looks quite comfortable, and the easy on the eyes Johnny Thunders who also made an attractive woman, in an early 70s glam/punk sort of way. You know, I once knew all the words to “Looking For A Kiss,” now I can’t understand what the hell Johansen’s saying.
A couple of years ago, when I had premium channels, I came across a documentary called New York Doll about Doll bassist Arthur “Killer” Kane. He was then in his mid-fifties, a recovering alcoholic and a Mormon. He worked in the library and seemed like a gentle person who was content with his life. The film however was about the 2004 New York Dolls reunion, and followed Kane around as he prepared, nervously yet excitedly for the event. Guitarist Thunders and drummer Jerry Nolan had both died about a dozen years prior, but David Johansen and Syl Sylvain had signed on. We get to see a bit of the pre-production, in which the remaining Dolls see each other again for the first time in a long time, and have to rehearse together. Kane had been out of the limelight for quite a while by then, but once they got on stage, it was fun to watch and see how thrilled the unassuming Killer Kane was to be there.
Then – he goes home. About three weeks later he’s not feeling well, goes to the hospital, is diagnosed with leukemia and dies that day. I was not expecting that. I knew Johhny Thunders had died, but was not up on my Dolls so hadn’t heard about Kane. Sad yet ironic, isn’t it? He had been so happy at the reunion and with the events before and afterward, and relished being able to perform again as a Doll. Lucky actually he didn’t know he was sick because he got that chance. Sylvain and Johansen remain the crux of the Dolls and are still out there performing together.
The New York Dolls’ glam/punk New York club scene sound appealed to me then and their debut album still provides some fun music, and makes for a pretty good workout.
The ex mentioned that when I started The Walrus Was Paul last year, I included more about the exercise portion of the project and now I’m concentrating more on the music aspect. I am aware that the original intent of the blog was the melding of music, memories and fitness, and it still is. I’m only posting twice a week now, but I’m still exercising four to six times per for about an hour each time. And I know that I should post an updated photo, but truth is I hate having my picture taken, and my phone’s camera seems to be permanently stuck on the hag setting. But I did recently give an update on the 145lb milestone, and confessed that I was not helping it along at the moment diet-wise, and while I feel the slight differences in my agility, in the definition of my arms and in the separation of butt and thigh, you can pretty much still go by the year-old picture of me showing off my squatting abilities. I predict that the next milestone will not come this year.
It has also been brought to my attention, but I don’t think by the ex, that I don’t write about Max often enough. I guess I have taken my fear of being labeled “crazy cat lady” to the other extreme, sort of, and don’t want to be one of those people who tells nothing but cat stories and shows 237 pictures of my cat sleeping on a pile of laundry thinking it’s the most clever thing ever. So please know that Max still looks forward to my workout routine and often joins in one or more of the three sections. Sometimes he’s in for the long haul and other times he’d prefer to watch me from his perch atop the back of the couch, but mostly it’s somewhere in between, like tonight. He particularly likes when I dangle in a forward bend after a back bend during the final third when he gets his rubbies in, and he seems fascinated by the silver weights, staring wide-eyed as I work those biceps.
And as long as I’m doing updates, here’s the movie with the ex report from last week. We went to see Birdman with the profoundly odd and dynamic Michael Keaton, with whom I first fell in love in 1982 when I saw him in Night Shift, an early Ron Howard film with Henry Winkler (The Fonz) and Shelly Long (Diane from Cheers). The outdoor Rickie Lee Jones concert I was to attend that night was rained out and I needed a laugh so I picked this movie as an alternative. And I got that laugh mostly due to Keaton’s manic performance. I still think he was the best Batman.
I was considering posting a picture of the ex, but then I think I would have to look for another movie buddy, so I opted for a photo from another of my favorite Michael Keaton movies. We both, the ex and I, really liked Birdman except for the very end.
In honor of Veterans Day yesterday, Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA, has been on the turntable, with much thanks to our Vets.
The third album I found at Helga’s Consignment Shop was my favorite find (please recall the other two were Vanilla Fudge and very early Bob Dylan, which is really good – Dylan not Fudge). Although it is proving to be far from my favorite Beatles’ album, I have gained a new appreciation for the song “Flying,” the instrumental credited to all four of the lads. However, I am just not a “Penny Lane” or “Strawberry Fields Forever” (yes, I said it) kind of gal. But I love the Beatles, and even more so as I explore there music in album form again with the ones that I already have, and those I’ve been adding to my music collection. It isn’t even so much the music as it is the sentiment it evokes. The Beatles were such a big part of my childhood and a major influence on my taste in music. They were an open door, with a welcome mat. Even our parents couldn’t help but like them or at least acknowledge who they were.
I was near giddy when I saw this in the pile of old vinyl at Helga’s. You can ask the ex. It still has its 24-page full color picture book from the television special of the same name that they made and starred in. I’ve never seen it. I am hoping to find the Help or A Hard Day’s Night soundtracks, at least one, so I can write about the movies. But I might just anyway even if I never do find either in the $4.99 bin.
Some great and very influential women in music have had birthdays recently – Bonnie Bramlett, Rickie Lee Jones, Joni Mitchell and Bonnie Raitt. I already mentioned Grace Slick’s 75th. A lot of scorpions. Makes one think.
Inserted between the metal sill and the rubber frame of the window next to my seat on the train was a small envelope, like one of those that come with a gift card, on which was written a cell phone number starting with 732 and the name Lucas underneath. Perhaps some guy’s attempt to hook up with a young woman that didn’t go the way he hoped, giving her his number before he got off at his stop, and she so disinterested she left it in plain view of everyone who would come to the same conclusion as I did. Kind of sad. Lucas was publicly rejected. So without taking sides, I removed the envelope and threw it in the trash when I got off the Long Island Railroad train at Penn Station. I don’t know if I would have been so magnanimous if I had not just had some good news.
The story, because there’s always a story, starts about eight years ago back in Bayside when a small lump was discovered on my thyroid. I went to the endocrinologist, not even knowing what the hell that was, who reported to me immediately that yes indeed, there was a lump but it was too small to biopsy and I should come back in six months. Six months later it was smaller, and on my next visit a year later, it was the same. Then I moved to Brooklyn and not able to find an endocrinologist like my Bayside doctor who performed the ultrasound himself and let me know what was going on right then and there, I had to wait for the radiologist to report to the internist/endocrinologist then get in touch with her to find out that it was still the same size and was in their eyes, too small to biopsy. Then I moved to Manhattan and went to a diagnostic center. According to the new doctor I had found, who went on vacation so I had to wait quite some time for test results, the lump was still the same size and the doctor at the center was recommending a biopsy. Well two out of three doctors said too small, and there was something more pressing to take care of, so I did nothing and have not had my thyroid checked for more than two years. Where to go, what to do. I certainly didn’t want to go back to the last place.
I decided to go back to Bayside. So yesterday, I took the LIRR back to where I had not been in four and a half years. Some changes have occurred, like the noisy little diner where I would get so much writing done is now an Indian restaurant and the craft gallery where I once worked is now an empty restaurant. Yet it was a beautiful day for a stroll along the boulevards to the doctor’s office and not too long of a wait before I was brought to my room to continue to wait. And while I waited I stared at the scale thinking I should hop on as I hadn’t weighed myself since declaring I was under 145. But I have been very, very bad of late and couldn’t get myself on the scale. The doctor remembered me, though it’s been more than five years, and as we chatted he drew a vial of blood and did the ultrasound. We continued chatting until I remembered to ask him what the results were. “It’s not picking up anything,” he said. Darned thing just went away by itself after hanging out all this time.
So Lucas got lucky that I was in a jolly mood and even though he may well be the biggest jerk going, I felt enough compassion for him that I didn’t want someone with evil intent to get their hands on his phone number.
In celebration of my good news I did a full workout to Bruce’s The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle. “Rosalita” is again my favorite Springsteen song AND my favorite song of all time, and “Kitty’s Back” is climbing up, if only I could understand the words. And because I don’t want to stare down a scale again, and lose, I will get back into a good exercise and eating routine. Well, starting Friday I guess because tomorrow is another movie with the ex day (using those leftover days) and I will be forced to eat bacon.
Each time I go to Barnes and Noble and make my small purchase of one or two CDs, a card or a hollow book, I am asked if I’m a member so I can get my discount. No, I answer, then No Thank You when asked if I want to join. I guess I should rethink that now, and probably should have done so ten CDs ago. But here’s another $4.99 find from a group that had not been represented amongst my music collection though I’ve long had a fondness for them since first seeing them on Saturday Night Live early in 1980. Just not enough to buy an album.
I like their music and their persona, and felt a bond with them, particularly with singer Cindy Wilson, when her brother and original bandmate Ricky died of AIDS about a month after my own brother did at about the same age. They were a group known for being fun, and they are good at it, and were fortunately able to return to their music after this devastating blow, at first without Cindy, who eventually rejoined. Keith Strickland, the drummer, picked up guitar and other duties, Kate Pierson took the Stevie Nicks route showing up on other artists’ songs and videos after her adorable performance in “Love Shack,” and singer Fred Schneider keeps talking his way through the songs. They haven’t released any new stuff since 2008 and put out a live album a few years ago, but they are most know for their performances, so they more than have my permission to rest on their laurels. I am fortunate to have found this 1998 compilation of 18, yes 18 of their hits over their first couple of decades, which is so long I can complete an hour long workout and shower afterwards before the CD is done. Favorite B-52’s songs: “Strobelight” and “Deadbeat Club.” The ex has long been amused with my misinterpretation of the first line of “Roam,” which I thought was, and still hear “Row Misty Wattu.” I thought it was some sort of inspirational chant in a different language.
Happy 75th birthday, a few days ago, to the notorious Grace Slick.
There was this pin made of pewter in the craft gallery where I worked many, many years ago. There were many pewter pins, but this one was in the form of an open book with small pewter weapons hanging from it. A gun, a knife and a rope. I don’t think there was a candlestick. Across the pewter pages it read: It was a dark and stormy night. I had to buy it for my friend Amy, who like me, liked a good murder mystery. She loved the pin and fastened it to the lapel of her trench-like coat that she had named Basil, not the herb, the Rathbone. I think this might have been Basil II. She was a tall, pretty blond intellectual. We were friends in high school and beyond, along with Vicki and a few others, although Vicki and I remained closer, at times closer than others, all these years, and as I mentioned recently, we lost Amy just about a year ago, and Vicki four months later.
So, Amy was real smart, one of those annoying people in high school who fretted over getting an A rather than an A+. She went to Wellsley for a year before she determined she was too cool for them and transferred out. She had a boyfriend, and then a husband and didn’t talk much about guys, at least not to me, but she liked Sting. She only had to say something about him once for me to understand. She really liked Sting. I hadn’t been thinking about her much, not since Vicki died, until a couple of weekends ago when I walked into Barnes and Noble on one of my 4.99 CD runs and saw a display of those hollowed out books, and these books wore eerie covers that declared themselves to be The Raven and proved it by quothing the first line of the poem. I already have a hollowed out book, and my stepmother was thrilled when I sent her one, but something told me to buy this one – even though I didn’t need it – for Amy. I’ve been getting a lot of those something told me to moments lately. No worries, nothing nefarious and I’m not hearing voices. So now whenever I see the hollow Raven on my bookcase, I think of Amy.
And of course it is fitting that I found these two Police CDs at my local library. I started with the earlier album, and found as with other groups that I only appreciated for their hits and never explored further, I am now pretty disinterested in the other songs. So it was with Reggatta de Blanc, that boasts “Message in a Bottle” and the fabulous “Bed’s Too Big Without You.” Ghost in the Machine though faired much better with “Spirits in the Material World,” “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” and a few others I recognize. If memory serves, I think I liked Synchronicity a lot. Still, a couple of peppy little workouts with fond memories of an old friend. The Ghost in the Machine album cover may have been more appropriate choice for this time of year, but I thought we’d all like to see a picture of the lads.
Happy Halloween J. You’ll rest those weary fingers soon.
The Walrus Was Paul 