Pfanstiehl.
Pfanstiehl.
Pfanstiehl.
Just felt like saying Pfanstiehl.
(Oddly, Google doesn't produce a single image of what I know a Pfanstiehl to be.)
May 2004 Archives
So that's it -- barring accident or the most tremendous bonk in the history of the sport, and despite his struggles uncorking the champagne bottles, 22-year-old Damiano Cunego of the Saeco team will be this year's winner of the Giro d'Italia, having raced brilliantly throughout the 20 days.
But if you tune out whenever I mention cycling (and I blame you not in the least), you can always just look at the Saeco macchines per caffe. Cycling attracts some odd sponsors, but I think the winner for oddness this year is probably De Nardi, a leading maker of metal garage doors. Fassa Bortolo makes cement, which puts it in a certain ironic position in sponsoring one of the fastest sprinters alive, Alessandro Petacchi.
The weekend has been less than stellar, weatherwise. It was cold yesterday, though there was sun, and it was dropping down into the '40s last night, so we had to bag plans for the drive-in, or at least postpone them until tonight. We let the kids stay up and watch the tape of the Giro with us, then once they were put away we watched "Bubba Ho-Tep," which was fine but nowhere near the screaming laugh-fest some people have made it out to be. Think of it as quietly absurd, and it's quite enjoyable.
What happened to the photography thing? Well, I've just been busy, busy, busy. Hopefully I'll have some new stuff at Fotolog soon.
So, raise your hand if you've hand-packed wheel bearings more recently than the Carter administration. My hands are still firmly on the keyboard, so assume that the past two afternoons have been an interesting combination of misery, hard work, puzzle solving and nostalgia. The last time I chased ball bearings around the driveway, I was wearing blue and red striped "flares," I'm pretty sure (vertical stripes, in shades that could only have been found together in the '70s), and a belt that involved d-rings and was just featured as "the latest thing" on "Queer Eye." The Bianchi had about 1200 miles or more on it with little more than the occasional cleaning and oiling, and I knew the wheel hubs needed cleaning and regreasing. And of course I had none of the necessary oddities, like cone wrenches, so there have been a few trips across the river to the bike shop. I also had to take the headset apart, which turns out to have been wise, as I was actually missing a ball bearing, which might explain that odd little noise I was getting every time I turned the wheel. The Down Tube guys were very helpful, though, so I appreciated that, and they didn't even grouse when I brought back some tools I really didn't end up needing. Going out for a quick spin to the video store later, so we'll see how well the whole thing went. If my wheel comes flying off, we'll know why.
You would think that by now I would be able to recognize the warning signs of a creeping obsession before it's too late -- I've been through enough of them in my life -- but man, when you're in the grip of an obsession, there's just no getting out of it. And so it is with reluctance that I admit that last night, having done my stretching and situps and so on, I sat on the couch watching the tale end of the Giro (a tough mountain stage, but nothing like today's will be) and reached down to the magazine pile for something to peruse while the race went on. I started out looking at a Victoria's Secret catalog, something I haven't even cracked open in a very very long time, and after 4 or 5 flips through, I put it down and picked up the Performance bike parts catalog. It was more exciting and interesting to me. Either this signals a new level of maturity or a pathetic cry for help. You decide. But I've got a terrific jones for some cone wrenches and a deep desire to rebuild my hubs this weekend.
I've had a revelation. From now on, I'm going to schedule all major dental work so that I can sit and watch the Giro or the Tour or the Vuelta uninterrupted, live, while sitting in the dentist's chair. After sufffering through some awful Today Show nightmare involving Katie Couric in a poodle skirt and Matt Lauer in some horrible imitation of The Fonz, it occurred to me: "Hey! The Giro's on right now!" Patients control the clicker in my dentist's office, so I was off to the Giro, and from that point on, despite the fact there were three people with their hands (or extensions thereof) in my mouth, my only concern was getting an unobstructed view of the first mountain stage. The peloton blew apart, there were two chase groups behind the breakaway, and Cunego absolutely sailed up that last mountain while the others went to pieces. An outstanding race.
A disclaimer on a Dutch e-mail that came my way:
De informatie verzonden met dit e-mailbericht is uitsluitend bestemd voor de geadresseerde. Gebruik door onbevoegden, openbaarmaking of vermenigvuldiging is verboden. De afzender is niet aansprakelijk in geval van onjuiste overbrenging van het e-mailbericht en/of bij ontijdige ontvangst daarvan.
Just remember, kids, openbaarmaking of vermenigvuldiging is verboden!
I'm not afraid of the Dutch! What are they gonna do, make us pay separately? ("The Drew Carey Show," way back when.)
This is so cool. Though somewhat less than self-evident. Enter your favorite musician's name in the white box (under the email address) and press search, and voilå, Musicplasma presents you with a solar system view of the relationships of that musician to others. Discuss!
Getting our annual bout of Apocalyptic Spring Weather, including endless rolling thunder, massive lightning, and hail the size of mini ice cubes. After that pounding last evening, I was fully prepared to see frogs fall from the sky. In addition, we've had wind, rain, sun, and calm, all at around the same time. Of course, this always happens when my rugosas are in bloom, so we get to enjoy their beauty for about five minutes before the sky opens up and takes them out. Wait 'til you see what the gods do to my poppies in a couple of weeks.
Tree fort nigh onto complete. The monkey bars are all done. I really just need to post and assemble the roof (which I'm currently figuring out how to do) and then make a satisfactory way of getting up into the thing. I made a ladder that I already don't like. Maybe I'll go back to the drawbridge idea.
The weather took out power just long enough yesterday to mess up the VCR, so we couldn't watch yesterday's record seventh stage win by Petacchi in the Giro d'Italia. Ended up watching a little movie we'd seen years ago and had always wanted to see again, "Niagara Niagara," a mostly sad tale of a girl with Tourette syndrome. Perfect movie for IFC. I actually liked it better the second time through, and thought Robin Tunney was amazingly believable in the lead. Mysteriously, the film was shot around Poughkeepsie, though it was set in western New York. Guess they blew the entire location budget on the final scenes around Niagara Falls.
Current book: "Rowing to Latitude: Journeys Along the Arctic's Edge" which I've thought about reading for a while but which Lee picked up for me on a NYC trip.
Question: what's the correct response when your wife, who has never done such a thing before in your 25 years together, announces to you that she has named her breasts "Trinny" and "Susannah," in honor of the hosts of BBC America's "What Not to Wear"? 30 words or less, please.
Don't know how this book slipped under my radar -- maybe I thought it would be too much like "Carter Beats the Devil," but for a long time I ignored The Devil in the White City, a stunning and well-written book by Erik Larsen. It's the story of the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago, about which I knew little (other than that some brand of olive oil still bears its seal). I think I would have paid it more attention had I realized that something like the Justice League of Architects had assembled to bring it together (Burnham, McKim, Sullivan, and Olmsted). But even so, I would really expect that I would have heard that there was a thoroughly twisted psycho killer operating just blocks from the fair (with his own home-built gas chambers and crematorium), who opened his own little murderous (Hotel California/Bates Motel/insert favorite reference here) just blocks from the fair. Fairgoers check in, they don't check out. I cannot believe I never heard of this case before. And on top of all that, you've got Buffalo Bill Cody, the murder of the Mayor of Chicago, and the thrilling debate between alternating and direct current -- one of my favorite topics, as it happens. Extremely well-written, dramatic without going overboard, and I'd advise that you stick to the architectural side of the story if you're reading it before dropping off to sleep, and leave the mass murder parts for brighter parts of the day.
Just thought I should share, once again, that it's probably best to self-censor what you're listening to on the iPod in the grocery store, lest you find yourself in the cracker aisle (the kind you eat, not the one where ignorant white people gather - they're over by the frozen spaghetti), humming along to Hole's "Rock Star," realizing you've just inadvertently shouted, "We even fuck the same!" This is why I shop late at night.
Speaking of Hole, just gotta say that while I feel terrible for her as a human being and hope that someday she gets her act together, cleans up and acts like a responsible adult, I have to admit that Courtney Love's current massively publicized descent into the abyss is hugely entertaining.
The girls were in the backyard having a swordfight the other day, while I was working on building the new tree fort. They're playing a game where if the sword touches a part of their body, they lose the use of that part. At some point the older one clipped the younger one on the hand, whereupon my precious 7-year-old said, "You cut off my middle finger! Now I can't swear with my right hand!"
Ran a 9:28 pace pretty consistently (not discounting the 30 or 40 seconds it took to actually get to the starting line) for the 3.5 mile course, ended up with 32:32. My goal was to run a training pace and hold to it, and I did that for once. Much slower than last year, much less desire to puke at the end. For someone who literally hasn't run in a month, not bad. I passed people, people passed me. The Corporate Challenge is different from charity races (though they did pick up a local charity to benefit this year), and as such there aren't hoards of yelling supporters/volunteers/fans all along the course, making you feel good about what you're doing. And there isn't the chatter in the field. There's pretty much just the sound of feet on pavement, more than 4000 people huffing and the occasional spit (hey, guys: SWALLOW! Bastids). There was water at less than a mile, and water at 3 miles, and the space in-between seemed long indeed. The temp was only about 74 and the wind was blowing hard, but it was a hot wind and didn't provide a lot of relief, and I just found the whole thing to be very warm. Glad I went with the sleeveless shirt.
I actually don't like this race, partly for the lack of charity but mostly because it starts at 6:30 at night, which is just too damn late for running. At least for me. I'm shot by 6:30. But we were doing in honor of one of our comrades who died a couple of months back, victim of a very vicious cancer. He used to run it. And we were with another guy who beat a very similar fate, and if he can come back after what he went through and run again, then I guess my little sore heel doesn't really qualify me to beg off. Not that my time is any kind of help to the team, of course. The best thing about running is how you feel when you're done. I don't love doing it quite like I love cycling, but man it does make the dolphins flow through your blood.
We were promised, promised I tell you, that if gays started marrying, our culture would collapse, marriage would become meaningless, and I think there was something in there about gravity no longer working right. I know it's only been two days since it became legal in Massachusetts, but you would think it would have at least devalued my heterosexual marriage by now. Don't ya?
"Morey Amsterdam sandwich" -- As in, "I'd like to be the meat in a Morey Amsterdam sandwich"??? That's truly disturbing. Hey, I liked Morey as much as the next guy, even if his contribution to an East End Kids movie didn't quite bring it up to "classic" status. But, a Morey Amsterdam sandwich???
Regular readers (both of you) will be surprised to learn that this little piggy is supposed to run a 5k tomorrow night, the Corporate Challenge, in honor of a fallen comrade. The surprise would arise from my having failed to mention anything about running lately, but fear not, that's no oversight on my part. I haven't trained one bit for this run. I'm keeping my biking up, but haven't run even on the track for a month and a half. So, this will be interesting, n'est-ce pas? I thought I might get in a couple of days this week, but it just didn't come together. I've told everyone, in a very loud voice, that I'm running only at a training pace. Let's see if I can even accomplish that. My goal is to get through without pulling my ITB, and then get back to cycling.
Speaking of cycling, if you haven't done it yet, you simply must watch the Giro d'Italia on OLN. 9:30 eastern, repeated at 1 pm. Bike racing rocks as a sport, it's like chess at 25 (or 40) miles per hour, and OLN has been showing nearly the whole thing. In fact, they've hugely stepped up their cycling offerings this year, and I couldn't be happier. Now if only I could get the whole time-shifting thing down with this digital cable / VCR setup . . .
In fact, bike racing is a very easy thing to have on while exercising, you don't need your eyes glued to the screen every moment, and it has a very peaceful rhythm until the end (when there's a crazy sprint for the finish, bikes everywhere, and usually some nasty pileup), so I've been working nicely on getting my body back where I want it to be. When I took up running I laid off the weight training for the most part, because I didn't need that extra bulk. But then of course I laid off nearly all training, the muscle went away but the weight was still there, and after last summer's lack of training and sickness, I was a mess this winter. A blob. So, it's all coming back together now, and I'm feeling like my old self. Eat less, exercise more -- only thing that makes any sense.
Just sent out the notice on the Tour de Cure this weekend, and we're already at $550. And that's without my chief fundraiser, Stephanie, doing her thing. Thanks to any who have helped, and if you haven't and you want to, click on the Tour de Cure logo to the right.
Finished the basic frame of the new "treehouse," which appears in quotes because our maple isn't really well-suited for a treehouse and I wanted something with a little more structural stability to replace the aging "crow's nest" that I put together in an afternoon back when Hannah was 2, and which has served us well but which now needs to go. So this is really just another crow's nest, significantly bigger and much better anchored, that happens to go up into the tree. There'll be a roof and everything. They don't know it yet, but there's probably going to be a drawbridge for getting into it. How cool will that be?
But the combination of rocks, maple roots and my own inability to deal well with spatial relationships (kinda crippling in a carpenter, I know) meant that the frame didn't come out perfectly yesterday, and thunderstorms cut the day short, so I had to recast one of the corner posts this morning. But now all is up and well, and I got as far as I wanted to, or at least far enough to justify taking off for a little jaunt on my bike. I'm not a distance whore much - - I went around the lake two and a half times to get my final mileage up to an even 30. But it was a great ride out on the country roads of Schodack, and there were even a few other cyclists out. (Of course, when encountered, it is the rule of the alpha male that I must not merely pass them, but blow their doors off. And so I did.) And, super-bonus, I was able to walk up the stairs when I got home! That's sometimes an issue after more than 20 miles. Lovely views of the distant Helderbergs, a slightly strong wind, warming sun, and minimal roadkill. (On Friday I saw a woodchuck that looked like a cartoon of roadkill, on its back, legs splayed and pointed skyward, somewhat surprised expression on its face.) Now if those girls would get downstairs for supper, we could cap this evening with a well-deserved chocolate malted shake at the Lickety Split.
Wanna know a secret? I'm getting one whether they get downstairs in time or not.
I'll start hitting people up by email early next week, but just so you know, all you have to do is click on the Tour de Cure logo on the right to push me to do 50 miles of suffering to raise money for the American Diabetes Association. Last year we raised $1250! Even $5 or $10 helps!
Here are just a few of the search times that have brought visitors to this site lately. Forget about "tribeca meaning" and "glycerol ester of you-know-what." I mean, why are people even searching for these things?
- "Angela Cartwright BeeGees" I am the ONLY real result.
- "Wild Angels Ride Tonight" (I'm one of only 3 results on Yahoo)
- "How do people in New York earn money?" We steal it from tourists. Now hand it over.
- "Survivor microphone necklaces" I have no idea how I got this one.
- "Meaningful songs about life." I believe I was ascribing depth to an ELO song. I'm sorry.
- "Diane Lane lovelies." Should that be possessive?
- "Trick iTunes to work on Windows 98." That's like tricking champagne to taste like lighter fluid. Why?
- "Photographs of men doing modelling for socks." Damn, some people are sick.
- "Spandex pants olivia movie grease." Yeah, I talked about that.
- "Bingingtum." Yay! I'm the only hit!
- "Humans Sterling Storm." Now that's just freaky.
- "Where did creampuffs originate." No f'ing clue.
- "Translate Comment allez-vous ce soir Je suis comme ci comme ca." I will, but not for you.
- "What else will my i-pod do." Hey, it's not a Furby, pal.
- "Huntz Hall Sandwich Shop." Ooh! Ooh!
- "Sean O Keefe is an asshole." Hey, watch what you say about a fellow Maxwell grad!
And that's just this month!
'Cause I was so tired of those leeches. Stomach bug was gone quickly, replaced by the gnawing realization that my semi-annual sinus infection had arrived and I wasn't going to get rid of it by ignoring it. Very annoying, since my allergy symptoms have been pretty under control this spring for the first time in a long time. Hey, Doc, don't bogart those antibiotics! Feel good, though, and even got in a quick ride last night on the pretense of picking up my meds. I've got to stop being such a distance whore and settle for shorter rides more often, instead of waiting until I can get 20 or 30 miles in. I'm thinking of joining up with the local club and doing some rides there, too. I laugh at their distance, but jeez, at least they're out doing it! And so shall I.
Loving the new Sanseverino disc. Can't provide a direct link, but if you go to Sony's website and scroll through the artists to Sanseverino, you can find some previews. They're at Amazon, too, but I ended up getting it through CDQuest, an Amazon seller, for half the price Amazon wanted. He's actually Italian, singing in French, doing something called "swingue severe," and it really works. Think "Squirrel Nut Zippers," and if that means nothing to you, there's nothing more I can do. Much better engineered than a lot of world music, too. The song that sent me to my Visa card is titled "A l'enterrement de ma grand-mere" -- "at the burial of my grandmother," and baby, it swings!
Speaking of music, the whole Blender/VH1 list is out now, and I was thinking about talking about more of it, but I have never even heard about half the songs. It really suffers from videocentrism, and I suffer from having other things to do with my life than catalog and remember crappy music (the secret joy of getting older - you really don't have to care about that stuff). Perhaps we should just start with a "Worst Songs of the '60s" list and move forward from there . . . hmmm, perhaps I shall. Can you hum along to "Eve of Destruction"? Knew you could.
Sick with the stomach bug that kept Bekah throwing up all through the day Friday, so I don't have much to say. It just came on this morning, so ti didn't spoil the Mother's Day weekend. The girls awoke their mom in ballerina costumes (you'd be amazed what we have lying around the house) and truly made breakfast, and it was all so very sweet I just wanted to bottle it. We're so blessed.
Other thoughts, quickly: 30 mile bike ride Saturday, in my old haunts in Glenville and Scotia. Haven't ridden there in years. Ridge Road is every bit as steep as I thought it was, a 10% pitch at the outset. Even passed the old store (not a store for many many years) where we used to buy our Wacky Packs, created in part by the then-unknown Art Spiegelman. "Survivor" - do your duty and vote for Rupert to win the million. My Sanseverino disc came, remind me to tell you about it when I feel more up to it. The Giro d'Italia is on OLN every day now, but I can't seem to figure out a setup that lets my VCR do timed recording (no, I'm not stupid, it has to do with the digital cable setup).
Uggh. Back to the couch.
Okay, I have to admit how I got here. There's a visualizer program for iTunes called "Collage." Unlike the normal goofy-graphics pseudo-hallucinogenic light shows that most visualizers provide (sort of a Spencer Gifts for the computer screen), this one goes off and Googles images that fit the title, artist, and album playing. So, very often, you get pictures from videos, or singles sleeves, album covers, routine stuff like that. Tonight Collage seemed to go a little overboard, as it brought us pictures of dolls for Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Party Doll" album, as well as some inexplicably ugly dogs and a picture of someone from the '50s who was clearly not MCC. Some other weird stuff followed, as well, and an Elvis Costello song baffled it entirely. Then we hit "This is How It Goes" by Aimee Mann, from "Lost In Space." That brought up an image of a trading card with June Lockhart in a space helmet and the caption, "Where is Penny?" Which led me to ask the same question.
And all I can say is: Angela Cartwright is alive and well and running a website and a boutique. Don't believe me? Go see for yourself. And here's what really blew my mind: "[She] has completed writing a fantasy novel with Bill Mumy soon to be published."
Angela, I burned for you when I was 7. And I wouldn't listen to anyone who said that Veronica was the hot Cartwright. I think time has shown I was right. (Except of course that in 1967, we didn't say girls were "hot." In fact, the best thing you could be then was "cool," which was a bit of hipster slang that my parents tried to forbid me from saying, presumably because it was one step away from turning me into a 7-year-old Maynard G. Krebs. They finally had to give up when Hot Wheels cars came out a year later, with the slogan, "Hot Wheels! They're cool!" Once I could point out that they even said "cool" on TV, they gave it up. "Heck" and "crap" were still issues, however. Which may be the reason I now curse like a dockworker. )
But I think Angela would understand, right?
Blog being swamped by those seeking the "meaning of Tribeca," or some variation thereof. I mentioned this a long time ago. Just for convenience, I'll mention it again: Triangle Below Canal. There. Satisfied? Now scoot! Jeez. I even know the reason for this sudden interest: the Tribeca film festival started last weekend. Big shout out to Bobby D., Bobby da Horse as the boys out in Ozone Park know him. They wouldn't say why.
Just got hit for "burl ives down hill skiing," which is just too disturbing to deal with, so I posted it at Disturbing Search Requests, where mine is really only mildly disturbing by comparison. "Finger Will Not Open" is my current favorite.
If you don't know, the stripers are running. If you don't know what that means, it involves striped bass and their annual run up the Hudson, and the convergence of fishermen and their bass attack boats on the Corning Preserve boat launch for a couple of weeks. Used to that, no big deal, though when the bikes and the blades and the boats and the high school crew teams are all converging on one little area, things get a little confusing. But to add to the circus tonight, for reasons that I can only imagine, there were several bagpipers standing around under the highway overpass, blasting out odes to Robbie Burns on their goats' bladders. Pipers and stripers? I can't even guess the meaning.
Got in a ride in the rain this afternoon. Snuck out of work early, completely pissed with myself for not getting out this morning (stayed up too late last night), and nailed about 17 miles, along the bike path and then to the top of Green Island and back. I love how city teenagers feel compelled to yell things at cyclists. What is that?
If I could capture one perfect moment and bottle it, I think it would be the anticipation of a sweet summer evening, just before the sun goes down, of children running around on the grass at the drive-in theater, watching their phosphorescent necklaces and bracelets glow stronger in the fading light, playing a game of "blob tag" as they wait for the double feature to begin. Soon they'll pile into the backs of the hatchbacks and SUVs and curl up on pillows and blankets snatched up from family room floors, passing the popcorn and soda around, trying to find dropped Tootsie Pops that fell from the candy bag and wiggling into their long pants as the night cools off. But for now, there is just the sublime sensation of wanting something and knowing it's about to happen, and whatever happens, you'll have a bright blue glow on your wrist for the rest of the night.
So, that was Saturday night -- the kids' first drive-in movie, a double-feature of "Scooby Doo 2" and "Ella Enchanted." Such a perfect night -- it never even chilled off -- that I even thought the movies were pretty good. Perhaps I was hypnotized by Anne Hathaway's gigantic, unblinking eyes. Hannah, who is always thinking, offered that "if we lived in Averill Park, maybe we'd go to the drive-in more often because it would be closer." It's all of 20 minutes away. I offered that perhaps we could just go more often, when they have suitable films. (Our area is actually blessed with several remaining ozoners, and this one, The Hollywood, is one of the best.)
Otherwise, the weekend was fairly uneventful. Always directionless when the spouse is away. A million things to do, no real drive to do any of them. The kitchen is a disaster, and the laundry's behind. I need to build a new canoe rack in the garage (or so we've convinced ourselves), and I really need to figure out the treehouse I want to build for the kids, the basic scheme of which keeps evading me. So what did I do Saturday? I cleaned my bike. Believe me, it needed it, and it's likely that you have no idea how messy it is to try to get the fall/winter wet lube off the chain and switch over to dry lube. That chain was a disaster, man. The rear derailleur was completely gunked up, so I took it apart and soaked it in solvent. Had to adjust the front brakes, which are still riding a little high on the right side, which I just don't get and can't seem to fix. But a nice sunny morning for making a big oily rag pile in the driveway. Yesterday was dreary and threatening rain that never came, but we were all tired from the late night and made a nice lazy day of it, capped off by watching Lance win the Tour de Georgia and the joyous moment of picking up the mom at the train station, which is always a big event.
At the local newspaper's site, under "Breaking News," I swear there's a headline that says, "Tina Fey adjusts to writing for film." Don't get me wrong, I'm completely hot for Tina Fey, but I'm not sure that really qualifies as "Breaking News." Now, if it had been Nancy Pimental, that would be a different thing entirely . . . .
Really bad music that, I'm embarrassed to say, I would put on the turntable right now if I could:
Also, gonna have to disagree with some commenters. "Telephone Line" by ELO was one of The Most Meaningful Songs Ever. At least, when I was 16 it was. (But I know what you mean -- if a song gets attached to a trauma, that's it for the song.) "Afternoon Delight" can't make the list because, even though I'm man enough to admit I loved it when I was 16, there is no force on earth that could get me to put that on the turntable now. (And, unfortunately, who would need to? We ALL have it permanently engraved in our brains.) God, it was so DIRTY back then.
- Anything by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show. I had a friend once who thought I was goofing on her when I said that, after she confessed to loving "Sylvia's Mother." But I wasn't. I loved it, too. And "Cover of the Rolling Stone." I'm not actually a Shel Silverstein fan (there, I've said it), but most of their hits really worked, they had a unique voice, and they liked to genre-jump. A Rolling Stone review in 1973 said, "If these guys would relax and become a straight pop group, they'd wipe the Osmonds and the Partridge Family off the board. Hey fellers, why don'tcha start a TV show? I'll watch, I promise."
- "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart" by the BeeGees. Nearly 30 years later, the BeeGees are like the Vietnam of pop music, a wound that just won't heal, a problem we don't like to talk about. But before "Saturday Night Fever" and the disco infection, there was a collection of their hits called "BeeGees Gold," and most were standard pop songs with some little quirk to their structure or subject matter. When I was 17, working in a grocery store and I desperately needed something, anything, to force the lite music/muzak they played from my head -- and there are some Carpenters songs stuck there to this day -- I would play the entire Gold album in my head, over and over and over, in order to block out the latest Olivia Newton John offering that was coming over the loudspeakers. (The only other thing to do was to add dirty lyrics to the ONJ songs, and after a while even that got boring.) Then the whole regrettable disco thing swept them up and from then on you either hated the BeeGees from the depths of your soul, or you were a disco weasel. There was no middle ground, there was no explaining the folky roots of "New York Mining Disaster 1941" or the sweet harmonies of "Massachusetts" -- to do so was to invite a serious beating. Or at least the loss of musical respect, which at that time was much more serious than any beating could ever be. So, out with all BeeGees product, and banish the songs from my brain. Then, a couple of years ago, the BeeGees appeared on Howard Stern and did an acoustic version of "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart" that just slew me. Turns out it's a really good song. A Really Good Song. So maybe it doesn't fit on this list, but now I've written all this up, so there you have it.
- "Philadelphia Freedom" by Elton John. Okay, no, there's no way in hell I would put that awful piece of pre-Bicentennial cheese on my turntable. But I would flip the bastid over and play the incredible live version of "I Saw Her Standing There" that he did with John Lennon on the flip side. "We're trying to think of a number to finish off with so I can get out of here and be sick . . . "
There was a show on Yoko Ono on Ovation the other night. I've always been mixed on Yoko. Don't blame her for the breakup of The Beatles, definitely recognize that her performance art in the early years was way beyond groundbreaking, and I love love love "Walking on Thin Ice." But, still, I can't say that I like her. On the show, out of nowhere, Camille Paglia suddenly delivered a broadside against Yoko that was stunning and yet, in retrospect, highly accurate -- she said that Yoko took away John's sense of humor, that his brilliant English wit was something she just found silly, and she made him get rid of it. And that was exactly it. Once he was with her, he got serious and stopped having fun. And the magic of his re-emergence, just before he died, was that he seemed to have found joy again, seemed a lot like the old joyous John. - "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad," or, really, anything by Meat Loaf. I'll admit it, I'm a sucker for the Loaf and those awful, over-the-top, let's-stuff-some-cliches-into-a-song Jim Steinman bloats. Train wreck! Train wreck! Hitting a school bus! Full of nuns! Can't! Avert! Eyes! (or ears, in this case.)
Also, gonna have to disagree with some commenters. "Telephone Line" by ELO was one of The Most Meaningful Songs Ever. At least, when I was 16 it was. (But I know what you mean -- if a song gets attached to a trauma, that's it for the song.) "Afternoon Delight" can't make the list because, even though I'm man enough to admit I loved it when I was 16, there is no force on earth that could get me to put that on the turntable now. (And, unfortunately, who would need to? We ALL have it permanently engraved in our brains.) God, it was so DIRTY back then.
Blender is slowly putting up more of the list. See if you can guess which song this is about: "Any musician who uses the phrase forest primeval with a straight face must be stopped. " Amen.
