I hope you didn’t think that this would answer the age-old question, why was Paul the walrus. I don’t know and I don’t know if I care. We all had fun, right? This answers the old-age question, why did I choose to call my blog The Walrus Was Paul, particularly when there are other blogs and websites with almost identical URLs. Yes, we all know by now (and if you don’t, I suggest you hit the archives because we’ve been over this a few times already) the whole project – the exercising to my albums and writing about it in the blog, blah, blah, blah… started with Paul McCartney’s second solo album, Ram. That was the impetus. Paul, for me was my motivator. I’m not near where I want to be at this point, but I’m also not done yet. So it had to be The Walrus Was Paul. I felt it in my big gut. I owe it all to Paul. And for me, after my trip down, way-down, memory lane, The Walrus Was Paul means: You can believe what you want to believe. It doesn’t make it so.
I wasn’t going to exercise tonight. I’ve been good lately. Besides, I didn’t feel like writing about anything. But I tired of Dr. Phil and thus decided to turn on the radio to get some movement in. I suddenly needed to hear Bonnie Bramlett sing “That’s What My Man Is For,” badly. Only to this song, mind you, I’ve started to dance around with an invisible mike in my hand. Next I had to hear Fiona Apple on CD doing “Criminal.” Love that song! I wanted to listen to Bette Midler’s “Lullaby of Broadway” and “In the Mood,” not just as the add-ons they became to pick up the deficiency in the shorter albums, and the mini-workout ended with Melissa Etheridge (another tape, one that saw me through some tough times) and “I’m the Only One.” Bonnie Raitt’s Nick of Time album has been playing while I’ve writing and posting, and finding it hard to sit still. But that’s right. Tonight, no boys allowed.
Here’s how I write: Pen to paper. Sometimes sitting and completing a thought, but most often, for this blogged project at least, I’m scribbling cryptic notes and whole sentences, while bending at the waist down to the notebook on the floor next to the yoga mat, because I don’t want to stop the aerobic portion of the workout, or I’m lying on my back with my legs up the wall writing upside down. What’s in the notebook then gets typed into a word doc, and then is copied to my blog – The Walrus Was Paul (like you’d forget). Why do I do it this way? I’m getting it done, aren’t I? And why, you must now be asking, don’t you keep your notebook in a more convenient spot during the first half of your workout? Because that’s the set-up. It’s been the set-up since we began. I did try keeping the notebook on the coffee table, but it keeps winding up on the floor next to the mat. And Max likes it.
So why The Walrus Was Paul? Can I tell you tomorrow? Judge Judy’s coming on.
I’ve been exploring my tape collection, what’s left of it. It’s a small collection, made smaller by a malicious tape deck in my last stereo. Many of them were tapes I bought on sale, because they were on sale. The ravenous deck got ones I had specifically purchased at full price, like Sophie B. Hawkins and Mary Chapin Carpenter.
I discovered that the Joe Cocker tape With A Little Help From My Friends, which was definitely a sale purchase, isn’t all that interesting. At least not side one. I haven’t even bothered with the second side yet. Joe Cocker was one of those I regret not having in my album collection, but I think I will need to explore additional Cocker options to see, or hear, which CD I should buy for my new collection, which I ought to start now so in another 50 years, when we have thrice moved on from CDs, I can blog about my workout regime to those dusty old compact discs.
(Follow up: While typing, I put on side two that has been just eh. When we got to “With A Little Help From My Friends” it stopped. I don’t know what, why or how, nor quite how to put this, but darn it, my Cocker broke. I think I need Woodstock.)
I worked out to Ten Years After tonight, but I’m not going to write about now. I’ve been working out to the selected twenty albums at my choosing many evenings since ZZ Top hit my turntable less than two weeks ago. As I go I may expand upon previous posts about the various artist, but I don’t feel like it now cause I’ve been thinking about moving to someplace I might be more productive.
One problem with my place is the winters are tough. The electric bills that cover the heat had skyrocketed this year, and that had nothing to do with the long, cold winters that spread over three seasons. That was just an extra bonus. They’ve been working on the roof since the beginning of the fall and just decided they were finally done just last week, another perk. I haven’t had one moment of warmth in my apartment as the chill seeps in from the windows and the ill-fitted HVACs. And not the good chill like the one I get in my neck, down my spine and back again at the sound of Alvin Lee’s voice. I’m thankful the cold weather is over for a while. But now that it’s warming up and we see more than mere glimpse of the sun, I think I could stay here forever. Forget about handing out blankets and socks to guests and the tips of my fingers turning blue while inside with the heat on. And forget that this neighborhood has way too many little kids and designer dogs, and no good places to eat or just have a drink. Just remember what you have year-round, I hear myself telling myself – that southern view that encompasses the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River even when it’s covered in sheets of ice, and the unexpected spectacular fireworks displays. My view to the east isn’t too shabby either. I get the sunrise over a sliver of the Brooklyn Bridge and the sunset reflected off the mirrored windows of the building across the way.
Then we have a night like tonight. The gusting wind has taken over, as it often does, and it can be pretty scary up here at times. I’m not even mentioning the rain that slaps the windows from both sides. I once saw the wind pick up a two inch thick, at least 6 foot round glass table top from the terrace of the apartment below (I have no terrace) lift it over the length of the table and drop in on the floor. Okay, I didn’t actually see it happen, but I heard it and when I looked out my window, I saw just that. The top to the table inches away from its base lying on the ground beside it in shatters and shards, but keeping its shape. It was almost like a joke the wind was playing rather than a simple show of power.
(And btw – I just got a Flash Flood Warning in my area texted to me by the National Weather Service.)
Max has many of boxes of various sizes around my studio with alcove apartment, and he uses every one of them. Boot boxes, a vacuum box, the largest being the chair box that I have to move each night I exercise. As its usual spot is in front of a small shelf unit where it covers items that I don’t care if anyone sees, each time I move it, the small collection of tapes and 45s is exposed. I didn’t think anything of it as the tapes are of a different era than the albums, and there’s no way to stack the 45s on my turntable. I can’t keep stopping what I’m doing after each song to put the next one on.
And then a thought, which was quickly confirmed. With all my whining about my brother claiming two of my albums as his, I had forgotten that I did eventually buy the tape of the Delany & Bonnie with Eric Clapton record. No, it’s not an 8-track. It was already wound to start side two which began with the song I had so wanted to hear – Bonnie Bramlett singing “That’s What My Man is For.” I finally got to listen to it. I know, you’re probably thinking that I could just download it, but there’s a problem with that. I’m, let’s say, old-fashioned. Which is another way of saying backward, can’t keep up with technology, reluctant. Maybe this song will force me to breakdown and give it a try. I thought when I first heard it and the poor quality of the tape that I would just listen to the one song and move on to something else. But it’s as darn good a record – music, enjoyment and workout-wise as the other album, and would have been an addition to the Ram list, along with the other Delaney & Bonnie album, if it weren’t so fuzzy.
When I discovered FM radio in my pre-teen days, the WNEW disc jockeys were strangers to me. But my transition from AM was made easier by the familiar rasp of Scott Muni’s voice, who I knew from his days with WABC-AM. Though I can’t remember most the names of the DJs from back then, I remember their styles and voices. None was more memorable than Alison Steele, and not just because she was the rare female DJ. She was a rock ‘n roll enigma to me – an older woman – a mentor that given those times I was up at 2am was a mysterious yet wise voice, sultry, though I didn’t know the meaning of the word at the time, and exceedingly cool. The self-described “Nightbird” made you feel she was talking to you – you and the couple of others like you in the entire New York metropolitan area who were up listening to the radio in the wee hours of the morning, still considered night. The mystique and the intimacy, the feeling that it didn’t matter if only a few were listening, she was going to do what she did, play what she wanted to play, say what she felt like saying, and if you tuned in, great. I pictured, as I’m sure many did, a woman’s mouth up close to the microphone, faceless and alone in the night. But, what did I know, I was merely a 12 or 13 year-old suburbanite.
When I was beginning my blog, I took an evening class on blog writing. A young woman explained with dismay that she had abandoned her blog because she felt like no one was paying attention. Me – I have dozens of notebooks filled with words, thoughts and stories that no one has ever seen. I can’t stop, and never will. So – a’blogging I will go. The Walrus Was Paul will continue with music, exercise and memories, even if I am just doing it for myself. Please bear with me though as I figure out how.
The ex called last night and said “please don’t tell me you’re sitting on the couch with a gallon of ice cream.” He had just checked in on my blog sensing we were coming to an end. In fact, I had just put Bruce’s The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle on the turntable and was about to start my workout, and the ice cream bar left over from the last gathering I had here nearly two weeks ago is still in the freezer. I do think about it a lot though. It won’t be there much longer, but so far so good.
The ex didn’t know what I was going to do now, and neither do I, but as I have my 20 workout albums, I promise I will continue to exercise to them. It is hard, picking the record that I want to exercise to when for the past nine months I had no say in the matter, taking whatever came next, though sometimes I did put my foot down.
There is still so much work to do. I’ve not lost nearly as much weight as I’d hoped and the belly still protrudes flabbily. At least I’ve muddled through the entire record collection and found those records that will best help me on my quest to one rockin’ body. And though that part of my fitness report does not provide such good news, I am impressed with the fact that I have stepped up certain aspects of the workout like the elbow to knee crunches that I started at two repetitions of 12 in between leg lifts, upped to 24 each, and now can do at least 30 each time, sometimes 60. And try not losing 20 pounds listening to “Rosalita.” But what to do about the blog. The project is over. Is the blog?
I exercised tonight. It doesn’t matter to what now. Just know that it was one of the albums that are on the Ram list, which as Ram remains number one of a list of twenty, we will no longer refer to it as the Ram alternative list. And here it is:
- Ram – Paul McCartney
- Bruce Springsteen – The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle
- Syl Sylvain and the Teardrops (I felt I was overly exuberant during my first listening)
- Delaney & Bonnie – The Best of…
And in no particular order:
Derek And The Dominos – Layla and other assorted love songs Bette Midler
Benny Goodman – The Golden Age of… Rod Stewart – Gasoline Alley
Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band – Stranger in Town Ten Years After – Ssssh.
The Moody Blues – Days of Future Passed Jefferson Airplane – Surrealistic Pillow
The Rolling Stones – Hot Rocks Mott The Hoople – All The Young Dudes
The Waitresses – Wasn’t Tomorrow Wonderful? Slade – Sladest
Bruce Springsteen – Born in the U.S.A. Ten Years After – Cricklewood Green
The Who – Meaty Beaty Big & Bouncy
Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes – Reach Up And Touch The Sky (sides 3&4)
I don’t know how clear this picture will be, but this is me at 21. That waistline is a goal. An unrealistic one, but a goal nonetheless.
This is early ZZ Top before they went all MTV on us. They’re a Texas rock and blues band with not an interesting backstory, but after gaining some popularity they went on hiatus and returned to the limelight with a new look and style and became the darlings of the video age. Ironically, the two guitarists in the three-man band grew elongated beards, and the drummer, named Beard, did not. But this was before all that. A guy I had started seeing took me to a ZZ Top concert along with a friend of his, and I liked ZZ Top enough then to buy this album, which is half concert. What I liked best about the guy was his friends. He didn’t last and neither did my appreciation for the band. I can’t say I was a ZZ Top fan for more than a nanosecond, and that was not rekindled by hearing the music of theirs I actually once liked, again.
I don’t know how I could have forgotten this, but my favorite Neil Young song is “Cowgirl in the Sand.”
And we’re done. Alice Cooper to ZZ Top. Give me a minute – I’ll do a re-cap, or something like it.
This is the album I wanted instead of Graham Nash’s Songs for Beginners, but after returning it twice because the batch of After the Gold Rush that was in stock at the time skipped, I went home with Graham instead. I think I stated this when we were in the Ns, that I like Graham Nash much better than Neil Young, however this is the far superior record. I’ve been surprised and pleased that there have been so many additions to the Ram alternative list during this last part of my album collection, but I had no hope that this would make it. And I was right. It’s good music. Neil Young certainly does have a style of his own and he seems to write what strikes him at the time. It’s just not a workout album. Not to say it won’t come out again. Even though it doesn’t include my favorite Neil Young songs “Mr. Soul” from his Buffalo Springfield days and “Cinnamon Girl,” it is something that I would like to hear again.
The Walrus Was Paul 