my-yi-yi-yi-yi-whoo! my my my my sharona!

this is an homage to elizabeth (mel,please note the lowercase) and actually being able to remember anything about the '70s.

So I took the e-challenge: here are the top 100 songs from 1979. elizabeth covered her senior year of hell/high school (1978) and commented on what she is still able to recall. You can see her list at http://nfluxus.net/flux/

What I liked best about graduating in '79 is that we were the last class of the decade and things just seemed to be a lot more happy and gay at the end of the '70s than they did at the beginning. We just didn't seem to take ourselves as seriously musically after the deaths of:


Jimi Hendrix (1970)
Janis Joplin (1970)
Jim Morrison (1971)
Don McPherson (1971)
Duane Allman (1971)
Junior Parker (1971)
Brian Cole (1972)
Berry Oakley (1972)
Danny Whitten (1972)
Ron "Pigpen" McKernan (1973)
Clarence White (1973)
Jim Croce (1973)
Robbie Mcintosh (1974)
Freddie King (1976)
etc., etc., etc.

Disco was not yet a joke, Van Halen, Cheap Trick and Supertramp were on the scene (yummy). Also, we had the Knack AND The Village Peeps. I mean, come on, people, who could ask for anything more?

Okay, so my format is a bit different than e's. I did bold and underline my favorites.

My comments, good, bad and/or otherwise are bolded and ital'ed.

My embarrassing guilty pleasures are ital'ed.

The ones I despise and think should never be exposed to human ears EVER again are obvious.

Read on, oh brave ones, and follow me to the land of Dorothy Hamill hairdos and mood rings and wedgie shoes and toe socks.

1. My Sharona, The Knack

2. Bad Girls, Donna Summer

3. Le Freak, Chic

4. Da Ya Think I'm Sexy, Rod Stewart Um, no.

5. Reunited, Peaches and Herb Yes, sometimes make-up sex is good, but we had no clue about this in high school. At least I didn't.

6. I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor

7. Hot Stuff, Donna Summer

8. Y.M.C.A., Village People

9. Ring My Bell, Anita Ward

10. Sad Eyes, Robert John BARF I wanted to scratch my own eyes out every time I heard this

11. Too Much Heaven, Bee Gees

12. MacArthur Park, Donna Summer

13. When You're In Love With A Beautiful Woman, Dr. Hook

14. Makin' It, David Naughton

15. Fire, Pointer Sisters

16. Tragedy, Bee Gees

17. A Little More Love, Olivia Newton-John
all my thoughts re: anything recorded by O N-J involve blunt trauma. Need I say more?

18. Heart Of Glass, Blondie

19. What A Fool Believes, Doobie Brothers

20. Good Times, Chic

21. You Don't Bring Me Flowers, Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond SWEET JESUS I HATE THIS EFFING SONG!!!

22. Knock On Wood, Amii Stewart

23. Stumblin' In, Suzi Quatro and Chris Norman

24. Lead Me On, Maxine Nightingale

25. Shake Your Body, Jacksons

26. Don't Cry Out Loud, Melissa Manchester More blunt trauma. To the head.

27. The Logical Song, Supertramp

28. My Life, Billy Joel

29. Just When I Needed You Most, Randy Vanwarmer
My best friend in high school had a torrid affair with the activities director on the ship that she and her parents did an Alaskan cruise on during winter break. After the cruise he was supposed to rendevous with her at a motel but stood her up and while she waited for him in vain she kept hearing this song playing in the bar downstairs. But he sent her a copy of "Frog and Toad Are Friends." Like that made it all okay. Oh yeah, and she was 17 and he was like, 35. Loser.

30. You Can't Change That, Raydio

31. Shake Your Groove Thing, Peaches and Herb

32. I'll Never Love This Way Again, Dionne Warwick I hope this means you'll never sing this way again too. Never mind, after this drek you did That's What Friends Are For. BARF

33. Love You Inside Out, Bee Gees

34. I Want You To Want Me, Cheap Trick

35. The Main Event (Fight), Barbra Streisand TOTAL waste of vinyl.

36. Mama Can't Buy You Love, Elton John

37. I Was Made For Dancin', Leif Garrett And rehab and oblivion and male-pattern baldness and embarrassing profiles on lame E! shows about has-beens, apparently.

38. After The Love Has Gone, Earth, Wind and Fire

39. Heaven Knows, Donna Summer and Brooklyn Dreams

40. The Gambler, Kenny Rogers BARF

41. Lotta Love, Nicolette Larson

42. Lady, Little River Band

43. Heaven Must Have Sent You, Bonnie Pointer

44. Hold The Line, Toto

45. He's The Greatest Dancer, Sister Sledge

46. Sharing The Night Together, Dr. Hook

47. She Believes In Me, Kenny Rogers BARF, BARF AND MORE BARF

48. In The Navy, Village People

49. Music Box Dancer, Frank Mills

50. The Devil Went Down To Georgia, Charlie Daniels Band BARF x 100

51. Gold, John Stewart

52. Goodnight Tonight, Wings

53. We Are Family, Sister Sledge

54. Rock 'N' Roll Fantasy, Bad Company

55. Every 1's A Winner, Hot Chocolate

56. Take Me Home, Cher

57. Boogie Wonderland, Earth, Wind and Fire

58. (Our Love) Don't Throw It All Away, Andy Gibb

59. What You Won't Do For Love, Bobby Caldwell

60. New York Groove, Ace Frehley

61. Sultans Of Swing, Dire Straits

62. I Want Your Love, Chic

63. Chuck E's In Love, Rickie Lee Jones

64. I Love The Night Life, Alicia Bridges

65. Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now, McFadden and Whitehead

66. Lonesome Loser, Little River Band Yes, as a matter of fact, I have heard about the Lonesome Loser and he is you for recording this piece of ca-ca

67. Renegade, Styx

68. Love Is The Answer, England Dan and John Ford Coley No, actually, it really isn't. Not for this one.

69. Got To Be Real, Cheryl Lynn

70. Born To Be Alive, Patrick Hernandez

71. Shine A Little Love, Electric Light Orchestra

72. I Just Fall In Love Again, Anne Murray Sorry, Sisters of Sappho, but, oh, BARF

73. Shake It, Ian Matthews

74. I Was Made For Lovin' You, Kiss

75. I Just Wanna Stop, Gino Vannelli

76. Disco Nights, G.Q.

77. Ooh Baby Baby, Linda Ronstadt

78. September, Earth, Wind and Fire

79. Time Passages, Al Stewart

80. Rise, Herb Alpert

81. Don't Bring Me Down, Electric Light Orchestra

82. Promises, Eric Clapton

83. Get Used To It, Roger Voudouris

84. How Much I Feel, Ambrosia

85. Suspicions, Eddie Rabbitt

86. You Take My Breath Away, Rex Smith He should be suffocated for this one

87. How You Gonna See Me Now, Alice Cooper

88. Double Vision, Foreigner

89. Every Time I Think Of You, Babys

90. I Got My Mind Made Up, Instant Funk

91. Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, Michael Jackson I want to go on record: I never thought this whack-job was cool. Ever. Even before he had his face melted. I always was bored out of my mind by him. Hmm. Maybe I am a genius after all.

92. Bad Case Of Lovin' You, Robert Palmer

93. Somewhere In The Night, Barry Manilow

94. We've Got Tonite, Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band

95. Dance The Night Away, Van Halen

96. Dancing Shoes, Nigel Olsson

97. The Boss, Diana Ross

98. Sail On, Commodores

99. I Do Love You, G.Q.

100. Strange Way, Firefall

PS: Happy Halloween, ya'll. Boo.

the sox win!

Wow.

And, sorry, e. Really.

Maybe you just didn't pray hard enough and now your team is being punished for it. That's how it works, you know.

deterring Miss Daisy

Daisy cut her paw on a shell at the beach (we think) but anyway, she will not stop licking her paw. So after shaving it for closer inspection and cleaning it up (and two x-rays) and $160 at the vet, she is now a funnel-head for a few days.

She does not seem to mind. But it is painful when she runs into my shins, which is often. Her manuevering is kind of like that of a lurching, drunken cruise ship passenger right now.

She is expensive and she leaves huge black fluffy tumbleweeds of fur all over the house and she always has to pee just when I have settled under my cozy quilt with a great book in my hand and a hot cup of tea and she jumps on my friend, Latoya, who is terrified of dogs, and sometimes she eats my furniture. But here's what I tell Schmoopie about love (with apologies to Oscar Hammerstein): "...love isn't love till you give it away."

And Miss Daisy, she is all about the love. Nothing but love.

willllllllllllllllllllllllllma!

The wind blew and the rain fell and the wind blew some more but we weathered Wilma just fine.

This morning we went out to the beach which was breathtaking. The wind was still about 50 mph and the gusts sent the sand flying in such sudden sharp whooshes that it stung our faces and arms and legs. It was low tide anyway, but the winds associated with the hurricane had pulled the tide out farther than I have ever seen it. I walked on wet sand that has not been exposed to air in years, probably. The tide was out past the buoys that are meant to mark the end of the “safe zone” for swimmers. The buoys look odd stranded in the wet sand, like fish abandoned by a sudden swell.

The unusually low tide spared fish, we saw none on the sand but we encountered many beds of sand dollars that were quickly drying since they were exposed to the wind and so far from the water. We scooped hundreds up and carried them out to the water. The tide started to come back in but it did not seem to be coming back in fast enough to save the gasping baby sand dollars, some no larger than a nickel. We felt good about the sand dollar rescue, futile as it may seem.

Got home to find the power had gone out. It just came back on (obviously) but wow, did I accomplish a lot in six hours of no electricity:

--Cleaned off my desk and reorganized my bulletin board.
--Composed my “to do” list for the week.
--Wrote a couple of real letters and placed them in the mailbox.
--Walked the dog.
--Dusted the entire house.
--Put three weeks of laundry away.

--Cleared off the bench next to the front door and actually put everything away in its proper place.
--Tried to see if I could make myself look like an Asian girl using every bit of eye make-up I own.
--Decided I will always be the whitest white girl on the plant, which is how my friend Latoya describes me.
--Washed my face after the Guy In The Boxers asked me how I got the black eye.

--Called my mom every hour to announce that I still have no power, hoping for a dinner invitation.
--Gave up when she said “I guess you guys will be eating out tonight, huh? Oh, by the way, Dad and I are leaving for Disney tomorrow. We’ll be back at the end of the week.”
--Thought about how smug my parents are about retirement and disposable income even though they worked hard and earned it.
--Felt like a disgustingly spoiled Boomer.
--Drank three warm diet cokes.
--Walked the dog again.
--Called my brother to tell him Mom and Dad are leaving us no money at all.

waiting for wilma

The cars are gassed up and we have enough beer. Now we sit and watch and wait.

Some more.

Aw, screw it, I'm taking the dog for a walk on the beach.

oy

Tonight I ate cold ravioli out of a can for dinner while standing in front of a monitor and editing copy like a rabid one-armed kangaroo. I had not eaten since 6:00 a.m. and it was pretty good, considering. But whatever it takes to get the job done. When I finally walked to my car at 7:45 p.m. I realized I still had to pee and that I had needed to pee since around noon. I think I am turning into a guy.

jump

When I was a little girl my dad strapped some gear on me and tossed me off the platform of what was known as the kiddy jump tower at Fort Bragg. He did this without the prior consent or knowledge of my mom who knew nothing about it until I came home one Saturday afternoon with a certificate that announced I had officially graduated from "Kiddy Jump School."

I think Dad is still doing time for that one, but Mom has finally stopped shuddering and glaring at him whenever he mentions it.

For me, it was an exhilarating experience, one that set off the fuse of thrill addiction that has run through my life, fueling the jumps off the roof into the swimming pool, leaping from the railing of the nearby causeway bridge into the warm gulf of Mexico with all the wild boys in high school and taking a repelling class with my brother in the German alps. Our teachers were Army Rangers and they were a little nuts. It was wonderful.

Because we (my older brother and I) grew up in the bosom of a military family, and by that, I mean all my dad's colleagues and friends, there was an aura of danger that ran through my childhood, kind of like a foreboding soundtrack playing faintly in another room somewhere. Dad was a paratrooper, a Ranger, and all his friends were strapping, gorgeous muscled men with crew cuts who sat around our various carports at successive posts in Georgia, North Carolina, Kansas and Kentucky, smoking cigars and one-upping each other with macho stories. They filled my red wagon with ice and bottles of beer and lounged in the evenings.

Many of them are dead now, several lost in Vietnam and my dad has not recovered from losing them. I know now that he never will. He carries them around with him and they are never far from his thoughts. I can see it in his expression when something wonderful happens. I see bitter nodding knowledgement of the exquisite delightfulness of life. But there is sadness and regret and yes, guilt, that he was granted long life when better men than he (his words) were cheated.

Dad is coming up on a milestone birthday and my brother and I have decided to take him skydiving. But Mom has forbidden us from doing this. When she heard our plans, she folded her tiny arms across her chest and said "Absolutely not, no way."

Turns out she is not concerned so much about Dad completing the job on destroying his knees, but she is certain the three of us will die and she refuses to see us all plummet to our demises all at once. She apparently prefers we go one at a time. And my significant other (a courageous soul but a huge chicken when it comes to anything higher than a step-stool) also forbade me.

So we are on for next month some time. Dad can't wait and neither can I and my brother is giggling with anticipation whenever we discuss it. Hoo-rah.

tick-tock

My adorable aunt and uncle are moving from Michigan to Ocala soon. It will be a huge change for them. Their house is so far north that it stays light there in the summer until 10:00 p.m. It starts snowing in November and does not stop until after Easter some years.

But they live on top of a hill that overlooks a lake and I love to go visit. I walk for hours in the woods and stare at the deer I run into and examine the moss and the rotting fallen trees and inhale the aromas of the forest. At sunset the sun melts into the lake and everything glows amber and ocher and the brilliance creeps across the hillside, igniting all the ancient trees.

Night is so dark that the sky literally lights up and vibrates with stars--the most spectacular stars I have ever seen in my life. And if you sit outside for five minutes you are guaranteed to see a falling star streak across the darkness. No exceptions. I love to sit on the deck at night and just listen. I will miss the retreat it has offered me all these years. I know this has been a painful decision for them. Aunt Sue refers to the new house as their "final home."

I am happy that they are moving down because I don't think Uncle Paul can take another winter watching Aunt Sue shovel snow because his heart condition will not allow it. He is a terminally chivalrous man and the sight of his beloved slogging through the snow with a shovel in her petite hands is more than he can stand.

Aunt Sue called me last night and asked me what I want from their house. We have already done this once--when they sold their home in Ohio and moved full-time to their summer retreat in Michigan. I sighed and told her she has a new house waiting in Florida that will easily accommodate all her treasures so stop trying to give them away. I could hear their multitude of clocks ticking in the background as she paused. Uncle Paul is a clock nut and I suppose I have inherited this affliction. My house is likewise alive with the unique pulses of the many clocks that live here.

My latest addition is the grandfather clock given to me by my friend Mary's sister. Mary passed away unexpectedly in June and had no close relatives other than her sister who is in her 70s. Neither of them had children and the only family they have are very distant and estranged. There had been a battle over another relative's estate years ago that culminated in a lengthy and bitter lawsuit. So the only specifics in Mary's will were a detailed list of people who were forbidden from ever inheriting any of her stuff. They were all related to her. She left everything to her sister, the theatre where she volunteered and some of her friends, mostly actors. This came as no surprise to me. Mary spent most of her life in the theatre and we were her family, the one she chose. Isn't the family you choose really your true family? I think so.

It has been my experience that people often go insane when deaths occur in the family. The scramble to claim stuff always seems nuts to me. It's as if we forget that we will be dust soon too and so what is the point of fighting over Grandma's serving platter, really? It's all so temporary, all of it.

So after Mary died, I got a phone call from her sister who lives in Orlando. Helen was very pragmatic about it all.

"Everything I already own will probably end up at Goodwill. I have a house full of furniture and I don't need anything from Mary's house, so before we have an estate sale, I was wondering if you want her grandfather clock? I think she would have wanted you to have it."

So I went to pick it up and I noticed it had a thick wire attached to the back of it. Helen explained that Mary had fashioned the wire and attached it when she lived in San Francisco in the 1960s and was concerned it would tip over in the event of an earthquake. I left the wire on the clock.

The clock stands in the corner of my dining room and so we are face-to-face whenever I venture out of the den which is where I spend most of my days writing, muttering, daydreaming.

The clock has a kind, warm face. Sometimes I feel it sigh when I open its door to lift the great weights and pull the chains to wind it once a week. The loud bonging and chiming drives everyone else in the house crazy, so at night I silence the Big Ben and the Westminster chimes.

But in the mornings after everyone has gone off to school and work, the clock and I have at it. I release the silencer chains and the clock ticks and tocks and chimes and bongs, making merry music all day long. When everyone returns home in the evening, the clock is silent but for its ticking, and we are co-conspirators. No one knows what we two did all day long and that's the way it should be. We keep each other from feeling lonely, and it accompanies me as I work or don't work, reminding me always of the time, and sometimes I can hear it whispering: "The day is slipping away. Oh, hurry, hurry!"

detaining Miss Daisy

Note to self:

Dog does not do well when left home alone in the evening.

Dog must be afraid of the dark (dog ate a large portion of the bottom of the couch last night while we were out). It looked like a crime scene from CSI when we walked in the door.

In lieu of visit from the dog-whisperer, dog must go back to crate-ville when home alone.

Still think she's cute as all get-out.

Whatever that means.

The Falling of the Leaves

Welcome to October.

I live in a tropical climate and the leaves do not change here, much to my sad dismay. I have lived here most of my life, yet I find myself a little surprised and disappointed each year when the leaves fail to alter in hue.

I know Autumn is nigh, because the paper towels at Publix have pumpkin and maple leaf patterns on them and the Halloween aisle at Target is rocking. But the seagulls scream and the wet-haired shoppers sport long t-shirts over their bathing suits and the fishermen dash in for bags of ice for their coolers. Another boring day in paradise.

But I know that the leaves are stirring and drifting in the breeze and beginning to change elsewhere, just like they have forever. I think of you walking in the leaves of your big back yard and I smile. And I think it is a good time for a little lament from my favorite, William Butler Yeats. Yes, the guy probably could have benefited from Prozac. But then we would not have been gifted with some of the loveliest poetry to come out of the 20th century, and that would have been sad too. Anyway, I miss you. Happy Fall.

The Falling of the Leaves
Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
---William Butler Yeats