And now I’ve gone and broke my Henley. Shame, too, cause this is what I’ve been leading up to with all that negative Eagles talk in the past two posts, and I’ve been so enjoying this tape that I’ve been playing it often and it’s inspired my workouts. If Henley’s first solo effort was a practice run to Building the Perfect Beast, then Building the Perfect Beast was just a prelude to The End of the Innocence. I can’t recall which of the songs did it for me – the title song, “The Last Worthless Evening” or “The Heart of the Matter.” I’m thinking like a lot of women of various ilks, “The Last Worthless Evening” made us swoon inside and showed how much we’d let Henley get away with, as it is slightly sexist and could be considered a bit stalkerish. But with Henley now front and center, and more like a romantic cabaret singer, he almost could do no wrong. That voice that was the focal point of many of the more irksome Eagles songs, for me, was now insightful, clever, dreamy and passionate. He’d gone from California hippy dude to kinda cool. And I was so digging the pony tail. “The End of the Innocence” is a really well-crafted collaboration between Henley and Bruce Hornsby about growing up and coming of age in the era of Reaganomics and corporate greed, and escaping from it all, at least in one’s mind. Its political message blends with the idealism it presents in the gentlest of ways and you find yourself saying to yourself – wait, what did he just say? And of course the song “The Heart of the Matter” had special meaning for me and the ex.
I liked that Don Henley had passions and causes, and could speak intelligently on political topics, and looked just a bit uncomfortable alone and out front on stage. I noticed, and it was confirmed, that Henley would sing his own songs front stage and then climb back on the drums when performing one of his Eagles numbers. Was it respect, insecurity or just a gimmick? Didn’t matter.
And though I was totally into anything Henley and was crushing on him big time, in actuality Fry is probably the guy I’d go for. Now I have another addition to my must get CDs list.
As one of my opinions of The Eagles was that they capitalized on tasty topics, songs like “Dirty Laundry” from Don Henley’s first venture as a solo artist left me unimpressed. And perhaps I was a little overly saturated with Stevie Nicks at the time, but their collaboration on “Leather and Lace” was somewhat ho-hum. The first album seemed to be a practice run for his second solo album some years later, Building the Perfect Beast. I was still not a Henley fan, but I will admit that “Boys of Summer,” both song and video are most appealing and made me sit up and take notice. Still, it wouldn’t be an easy transition from my dislike of The Eagles to my eventual appreciation of Henley. Even though my days as a baseball fan were over, I did think “Boys of Summer” was a bit of a masterpiece, but for me he still seemed to project The Eagles arrogance that I perceived. Then there was this song “Sunset Grill” during which Henley screeches the words “don’t worry girl. I’ll stand by you,” that I realized I wanted to hear again and often. I think we all know by now I have a fondness for a good rasp – Springsteen, Stewart, Etheridge and Joplin. Wouldn’t it be inevitable that Henley would break through that Eagles wall I erected? And so he would. Big time.
Fitness report: I am now exercising in shorts. It looks okay actually. I’m not saying I’m going out in public in shorts, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
You may remember my lack of fondness for The Eagles back when we covered Poco, and now may be wondering why the cassette collection contains one of their tapes. Two words – Don Henley. But if you recall back in the P’s to the workouts to the double best of Poco album, you’ll not only remember my disdain for The Eagles, you’ll recollect that I mentioned my fondness for Henley. But as we are discussing The Eagles as a group right now, we’ll explore this tape and what could have happened to me in my childhood to make me dislike them so much.
I actually do kind of like them now, but I really didn’t way back, and some things are just worth hanging on to. Besides, I’ve got bigger issues to work on. I can still see them being interviewed on TV and one guy was talking about this new song “Tequila Sunrise” and how great it was. Well, I drank tequila sunrises back then (I was young) and how dare they! I found them irksome, which I think came from a sense of arrogance I perceived. And that California sound. And California. I’m a New Yorker, even though I was born and lived the first 21 years of my life on Long Island, going back frequently throughout my 20s and into my 30s. I couldn’t stand “Life in the Fast Lane,” and “Hotel California” makes me cringe. They seemed to like to borrow titles from trendy things like “Tequila Sunrise” “Life in the Fast Lane” and “The Sad Cafe” (There’s the novella by Carson McCullers The Ballad of the Sad Cafe which is suggested and pretty easy reading). Still, there songs are recognizable, and you can get used to them, no matter how hard you resist, and you find yourself straining to listen in a bar to figure out what the words to “Take it to the Limit” are. And then oh, that lovely Timothy B. Schmit and that lovely “I Can’t Tell You Why” are just breathtaking. The latter is on this tape, and is a big bonus too as it was purchased for the song “Those Shoes.” Yes, there is a nicely done Henley/Joe Walsh collaboration sound-wise, but shoe-wise it’s near perfection. I never had a large shoe collection, by no means, but I have had some mighty great shoes and boots over the years, starting back from junior high.
I watched the movie The History of the Eagles that came out last year, which not particularly well-done, but it wasn’t directed by Martin Scorsese and The Eagles are not The Beatles, neither in magnitude, nor in the love and bond between bandmates. What I did get out of the documentary was that the arrogance I perceived came right from Glenn Fry and Timothy B. Schmit is as sweet as he looks. I’ll never be an Eagles fan, but we will do more on Henley next time.
It was one of those warm summer days when your left arm rested on the car door with the window rolled down no matter how conscientious a driver you were. The radio was on. The radio was always on. Vicki sat in the passenger seat with her right arm resting on her door. It was 1982 and we were soaking in as much of that sun as we could. I liked music in the car whether I was the driver or the passenger. So when the news came on I only half paid attention. But what was that the newscaster just said?
“Vicki,” I said excitedly. “Did you hear that? Ike and Tina negotiations! Ike and Tina Turner are getting back together.”
It was a sad day in music when Ike and Tina Turner broke up years before, ending an act that as small children, my brother and I watched on The Ed Sullivan Show. Tina was tough, energetic and could belt out a song wearing the skimpiest of costumes for the times. And she could dance. She was a tremendous influence on me. Tina Turner, Emma Peele and Honey West. Now, please remember that Tina’s big comeback was in 1983, and we didn’t learn that Ike had been beating her until the release of her autobiography I, Tina in 1986. So in 1982 I was very happy to hear that Ike and Tina were thinking of reconciling and of course would be performing together again. I just couldn’t understand why Vicki seemed to not share my enthusiasm. I glanced at her quickly as I’ve never been one to take my eyes off the road for any length of time, but it was still long enough to notice the quizzical, if not dumbfounded look on her face.
“Not Ike and Tina negotiations,” she said. “Argentina negotiations. Real political, aren’t you?”
Well, I knew enough, but not that summer. It was a lazy, laid back few months for me, while Margaret Thatcher and the UK were tussling with Argentina over something called the Falkland Islands. I like to think it was not so much that I was unaware of current events, just more able to predict the next music phenomenon like Tina’s recapturing the hearts and souls of millions of us at the age of 44 with her cover of Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” then her album Private Dancer, from which my favorite song was “Better Be Good to Me.” Unfortunately, I have no Tina Turner albums, tapes, CDs or even singles, with or without Ike, but I’ll bet she’d be great to workout to.
As a writer, I have an attraction to movies about writers, of course. In 2006, the movie Stranger Than Fiction became my favorite, beating out 2002’s entry and winner Adaptation. Third place may change now and then, but I did so like Rich and Famous with Jacqueline Bisset and Candace Bergen in 1981, with a nod to 1943’s Old Acquaintances with Bette Davis and Miriam Hopkins. But Stranger Than Fiction has that preposterousness about it, that Will Ferrell carries off so well. Emma Thompson is the perfect voice for a narrator making even the most menial words sound intellectual and literary. But as the tortured writer she’s even more compelling, and I learned how a person desperate enough for a cigarette can smoke in the rain, not that I ever got to that point. Props also to Queen Latifah and her yellow umbrella.
But that has nothing to do with music or exercise so maybe this little tidbit will satisfy the theme of this blog. Two things you should know about Max; he loves shoelaces and he is a big boy. He’s also lonely. Lightbulb! It just so happens that I recently changed the laces in my sneakers and they’re laying out there on the floor for Max to play with whenever he wants. I’m running about for a portion of my workouts anyway, so how about if I drag a shoelace along the ground while I do. Max gets exercise and quality time and I get to exercise as well and alleviate my guilt. Win-Win. I get so caught up in it myself sometimes, I use both laces.
For someone who hangs on to most everything, I think I tossed my Mojo Nixon tape during one of the moves.
When I tell the ex I’ve taken to walking around my neck of the city with pockets full of peanuts for the squirrels, he asks if there aren’t signs around telling us not to feed the squirrels. “Nooo,” I say. “The signs say – if you feed the squirrels you’re feeding the rats, or some such thing. Not the same.” Besides, I don’t just drop the peanuts here and there. I will hand one at a time to a squirrel I come across in the park after calling it over using that tch, tch, tch clicking sound that is universal for c’mere squirrel, I got nuts. I’ve got one cute guy who resides somewhere near the park’s northern entrance, who will put the peanut in his mouth and hop after me. I don’t know if he is just saying thank you, can I have another, or can I have one for my friend. Probably the second as I do believe he is the same squirrel who once rejected an assortment of muffins until I found one with a nut in it. Then there was the time I was watching another squirrel I’d just given a peanut, sit up and tear its top off. I got the strange feeling we were not alone, and when I turned there was a group of tourists behind me snapping pictures of the squirrel. I politely move out of the way. I will miss that. Feeding the squirrels is something I’ve enjoyed on my way to and from work. But alas, I can no longer feed the squirrels.
I have a problem. It’s a home addiction thing. No, I’m not addicted to my home, I seem to get addicted to things at home. I don’t have the same issue in public. My most recent overindulgence came when it was suggested by someone on TV that eating pistachio nuts was a healthy snack and by eating the ones still in their shells it would take longer to eat. Good idea. So I bought a pound bag and ate them in one sitting. I was doing this once or twice a week. I tried then buying them from the bulk dispensers at Whole Foods, which regulated the amount I could bring home and have at my, but everyone else must have the same idea, because quite frequently the unsalted pistachio dispenser is empty. I tried almonds, and found I’d go through as many as I brought home in no time as well. At about this time that I was having my nut addiction, I started buying sacks of peanuts for the squirrels. No big deal, I don’t really like eating whole peanuts though I do like superchunk peanut butter, which I have not had in a long time. It was not a big deal until I decided that my poor stomach couldn’t take all those nuts on the inside and out, and I banned myself from purchasing anymore pistachios or almonds. And then wouldn’t you know it, it became a big deal as of course I started devouring the squirrels’ nuts. And so, I cannot buy and bring into my home anymore nuts, pea or otherwise, because of my home addiction. I may slip now and then. Too many nuts upset my stomach, but they don’t make my finger go numb.
It was like that with smoking. I’ve smoked since I was 14, not a lot and more often not smoking at all simply because I didn’t feel like it. For many, many years I’d sometimes not smoke for months at a time, one time over a year. I lacked the urge. Being around heavy smokers was always a big turn-off and I resented the smoke-filled offices or sitting in the smoking section of a restaurant because a friend couldn’t go for more than ten minutes without a cigarette. I mostly smoked at home, and it only became a real problem about a dozen years ago. I was smoking at home a lot. One cigarette after another while I’d partake in my other addiction, Spider Solitaire. I smoked five packs a week, all after work and weekends never feeling the need to carry any on me. My cigarette of choice – Eve 120s. They balanced nicely in my hand, and I didn’t have to smoke them all the way down.
I kept explaining to everyone, friends, doctors… that it was a boredom thing. Yes, I suffer from congenital ennui. (I actually have an ennui cork jar. The other one says “snide remarks.” They were gifts.) It was boredom and an oral fixation and a patch or inhaler weren’t going to help me unless I could hold it between my fingers and puff on it. I thought of those candy cigarettes when we were kids, but I will bet they don’t make those anymore. The only thing that stopped me from trying e-cigarettes when they first came out was that they were promoted by Lindsey Lohan’s icky father. So I was dubious for a while, but they actually helped me cut down. And I got the nicotine-free kind. Not perfect, but a darned good substitute that I think others should use to cut down on smoking, not to continue smoking.
Even with this thing going on with my feet, I wasn’t tempted to stop completely. But the gross anti-smoking commercials, particularly the lady with multiple amputations, started having an effect on me, and when I lost the feeling in my left pinky, I cut out a whole pack a week. And then another. And when I got used to two packs, I decided not to buy cigarettes anymore. If they didn’t come home with me, I couldn’t smoke them. And that was two years ago today. I’ve had less than a handful of cigarettes since June 3, 2012, never at home, and the last one was many months ago as the urge to join someone in a smoke dwindles to practically nothing. Sometime, I’ll tell you about my fondness for Jack. We broke up a long time ago, but we still hang out once in a while.
In honor of my anniversary, I exercised tonight to The Waitresses of the Ram 20 out of respect for lead singer, the late Patty Donohue. She sings the song “Quit” and protests when her backup Waitresses yell quit at her, admitting and denying she has a problem. As I had previously mentioned when we covered their debut album just this April, Donohue died at 40 of lung cancer. She was known to be a heavy smoker. I don’t think she ever would have been considered great in the entertainment field, but I’ll bet we would have heard a thing or two more from her if she had stuck around.
Anyway, The Waitresses will always make me think of Vicki. And that’s a good thing, too.
Each weekday after I got to work, I would listen to the morning Bruce Juice on WNEW-FM 102.7. Dave Herman was the morning man back then, who gently guided me toward the music of Bruce Springsteen to the point of practical mania and in need of my AM fix of his pick of Bruce songs.
For many years Dave Herman was my morning DJ, helping motivate me to get up and go to work, then greeting me once I was there. I now listen to 107.1 The Peak, which I used to love for its wise mix of old and new. However, it’s gotten somewhat robotic lately, same songs over and over, same lines out of the mouths of the disc jockeys. Everything and everyone is programmed. Some months ago, before I noticed the slippage, I decided to look up Dave Herman to see if The Peak’s DJ Chris Herrmann was related to him, not know of the spelling difference at that time. I was a bit shocked and horribly dismayed to read this awful story about Herman, one of my favorite radio personalities. He had been arrested for attempting to have sex with a child. It was disheartening, because he was like an old friend, someone who knew a lot about music and was willing to share his knowledge. He opened my eyes and ears to artists I’d not yet heard of, or hadn’t learned to appreciate. And then, just the other night, I read of his death. He was 78 and in custody awaiting trial. I don’t know if the charges are true, if he became a pedophile in his old age, or if he had always been that way and just never got caught, but I must remember that old friend, who really seemed like a nice guy, and be grateful for what he did for me musically.
The Moody Blues’ Days of Future Passed is a brilliant album and not one that we would think would be a good enough workout album to make the Ram list. But it is brilliant, awesome and a bit mind-expanding. You do have to be in a particular mood for the album, as I was last evening. Plus, being two-fer Tuesday, I was lucky to have started last night’s workout with a double-dose of the Ramones, “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” and of course, “I Wanna Be Sedated.”
Max was going to be Ramone out of respect for an either very underrated or very overrated band, but even as a kitten, he was such a Max.
Fitness report: I think I lost a pound recently. But don’t worry, I’ll probably find it.
Last night I was watching Billy Joel Live at Yankee Stadium on MSG when it struck me that he does have a good voice. I hadn’t thought about it before because he was, you know, Billy Joel. Great musician, songwriter, lyricist, performer and especially pianist. But voice? It’s always been recognizable. You know it’s a Billy Joel song even if you’ve never heard it before.
It started me thinking how I would have loved to have had a recognizable voice. Not just as a singer like Billy, Bruce Springsteen, Annie Lennox, Stevie Nicks or Richie Havens – all those memorable voices that will always stick with us such as Alison Steele and Scott Muni, or newscaster that influenced our lives like Walter Cronkite or Barbara Walters. I’m sure I could fill pages with names of voices. Older actors with distinctive voices can supplement their incomes with commercial voice overs. Sally Kellerman may not be a name you remember as an actress, but she does have a great voice and I do recognize her when I hear her. And Donald Sutherland (father of Keifer?) has the proper intonation meant for the words “yet again,” that he says in his commercial voice over.
But as usual I digress, yet again. My tiny tape collection contains Billy Joel’s Piano Man cassette, which really is an impressive breakthrough record that continually demonstrates Joel’s many talents, particularly in this early period. Not the best workout tape, but I can just listen to “Travelin’ Prayer” over and over, which is a pain with a cassette tape, so this tape may have to be replaced for the even tinier CD collection. You gotta love a rock song that features a fiddle, a banjo and a Jew’s harp. Also of note on Piano Man are “Captain Jack” and “The Ballad of Billy The Kid.”
The other evening I listened to Rod Stewart. Does anyone remember why I put Gasoline Alley on the Ram list? It is a fine album, and I did want to hear it again, but it is hardly an exercise album. I must have been overcome by the anticipation, knowing that I once thought this was the record to beat. And I was very happy indeed to at least understand unashamedly why I felt that way. I’ve lost a bit of that thrill since we hit the S’s and I griped about old Rod.
Tonight’s choice of workout albums from the Ram list was an easy one to make. In honor of Paul McCartney, who’s not feeling so well, it was Ram itself. Sending him the good juju.
Good workout this evening.
The Walrus Was Paul 