The Real Little Eddy #1

It occurs to me that I have been selfishly living in my own little world, having not near enough to do with family and/or friends. It's not that I am hopelessly selfish, although that's probably a good part of it. But time races by, and I'll not be here forever, and there really are things I should remember and share with family and friends. And so I am beginning this what will hopefully be a weekly blog, at first at least without the web and consequently a log with no b. If I can write a weekly fantasy for mrdouble I can write down some of my reminiscences, and as number one son Daniel pointed out some time back, I owe it to all to do it. Particularly to granchildren, Cedar and Sol.
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I think I would like to start my reminiscences with a tale from my radio days. At one point I was working for a sports oriented station called KATL, and one Saturday afternoon I was the only person at the station and was preparing to get a feed from Lee Hedrick, our sports announcer who was preparing to broadcast a Harlem Globetrotter's game from Hoffeinz Pavilion. All of a sudden the phone rang and the voice on the other end identified himself as Harpo Marx. I should have made him honk to authenticate himself, but I was too astounded to think of it at the time. When he managed to convince me of his identity (Harpo and Chico were playing the Shamrock Hotel, and when reading about the game in the paper made him think of calling the station.) Harpo volunteered he and Chico to a free halftime show if they would let them in. I got Lee on the phone from the stadium, and had him ask the management there. A couple of minutes later Lee was back with the word that the game was totally sold out, not even standing room, but if they would agree to watch it from the lighting booth up in the rafters they could come on down. From the laughter at halftime I could only guess that Harpo and Chico did give one helluva halftime show. Incidentally, Harpo sounded not unlike brother Chico on the phone, but he would never say a word on stage or camera, no matter how much money he was offerred.
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What a wonderful world this is. Instant gratification is finally in our grasp. At least virtual instant gratification. Take last night, for instance. After spending part of an evening listening to Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" with the itunes Visualizer hynotizing me along the way, I got a sudden hankering to hear one of the folksong era's most impressive epics, Don McLean's American Pie. Thanks to Joel I went to Safari and opened that incomparable bit torrent search engine (now closed to American users thanks the the movie industry's legal team, no doubt), and I typed in American Pie Don McLean. There were 11 peers at my disposal, and forty five minutes later the entire album was on my hard drive. Unfortunately I had to go to bed before it finished.

But when I got up this morning I started my day with American Pie. What a wonderful allegorical tale, an audio trip through Lewis Carroll's surrealistic looking glass, and yet as American as, well, as apple pie. If you haven't heard it lately, you should grab it. Unfortunately nothing else on the album is of equal note, although both Winterwood and the tribute to Vincent Van Gough are nice, and one or two others are tuneful. But American Pie really is a classic, and secured Don McLean's place in music history. For instance, it is 8 minutes and 32 seconds, and it forced it's way onto pop radio which hated any song of more than three minutes (they interfered with the commercials), and before A.Pie they would not play a long song at all. But A.Pie was so popular it forced its way onto their playlists. Also, once while staying after camp at Pete Seeger's house near Beacon, N.Y. I went along with the Seeger family to a Hudson River Sloop party that Don McLean held at his house. It was a nice affair, there must have been singing, but I can't remember whether Don McLean sang A.Pie there but he must have, it was in the middle of A.Pie madness. But I remember it being a nice, music filled day.
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Remembering back to the days of staying at Pete's after camp brings back a flood of memories. One of the most vivid concerns Woody Guthrie who stayed there for a few days after finally being diagnosed with Huntington's Chorea and being released from a mental hospital in upstate N.Y. One of the things Woody did while there is make a clay pot on Toshi Seeger's potting wheel, he made it for his ex-wife Marjorie, and just before he fired it up he spit in it. I don't know whether or not Marjorie ever got the pot, but if she did I'm sure the spit was well dried after the firing. Another incident I'll never forget concerned Pete's dog, a dalmatian named for the song Darling Corey. Corey intimated all of us, Pete included. All except Woody. One day, when dinner was laid out on the table but no one had been called yet, Corey got under the table and proceed to guard it. He would growl at anybody who dared to come near the dinner table laden with our dinner. When Woody saw the situation he let out an exasperated mutter about dogs not belonging in the dining room, and he went inside and swept Corey up in his arms, and unceremoniously dumped the poor dog out in front yard. All of the rest of us males looked on unbelievingly, but Corey's doggy omnipotence was nipped in the bud on that day. He never guarded another table, or got away with anything after that day.

Another favorite Seeger reminiscence concerns Woody Guthrie's son Arlo, who came up to spend a few days at Pete's a couple of years later when he was fifteen. It was before his music and recording career, of course. But I'll never forget him walking around the outside countryside playing this two-finger guitar piece which a couple of years later was to become the musical accompaniment for Alice's Restaurant.
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Healthwise, things are probably going along as well as can be expected. Thanks to the VA, and to my son the doctor, Joel, who took me down to the Houston V.A. Hospital, it's nice to know that I don't have Lukemia after all. My Forteo pen has run out and I can't afford the $700 monthly cost, but I've been on it for most of a year, and it seems to have really made my osteoporosis better. At least I don't have pain from it, probably thanks to the two Aleve's I take every day.
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It is Monday, and again I'm going to take some time and delve into memories, observations, et. all. Thanks to prodding of Illustrious Older Son who doesn't want some of my memories, etc. to simply die away when time runs out. Since I write a story a week for mrdouble's site, I don't have too much time. However I am trying to devote at least three or four hours on every Monday to the task. I don't know what I will end up with, but I'll never know unless I sit down and knock something out.
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Last week I told you about downloading Don McLean's American Pie thanks to Joel and the magic of the bit torrent search engine. One day last week I decided to do a search for the lyrics, and so I typed: lyrics American (I accidentally hit return before typing in Pie) and the first thing that came up was the complete American Pie lyrics accompanied by a really nice piano rendition that captures the spirit of the lyrics. I think it is a neat experience reading the A.Pie lyrics while listening to that nice piano interpretation of it.
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I remain strangely habituized (is that a word? If not it should be. definition: subject to, a slave to habits.) For instance my cofee drinking habits. I have a blessed machine, a Cuisinart Automatic Grind and Brew, and each day of the week I have a different flavored coffee. Five require grinding. Two of them brew out of the bag. I'm sure you're just dying to know what each day's flavor is, so I'll not keep you waiting another minute. Monday, Hazelnut (wb-whole bean); Tuesday, Hazelnut Creme (wb); Wednesday, Cinnamon Hazelnut (wb); Thursday, Cinnamon Bun (grnd); Friday, French Roast (wb), Saturday, Dutch Chocolate Almondine (wb), and Sunday, Fudge Nut Brownie (grnd). I know this is not world shaking news, but it tells a lot about me, a different flavor a day keeps boredom at bay, and helps me keep track of what the day is.
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My breakfast every morning is still McCann's Irish Oatmeal. I flavor it with Cinnamon and Nutmeg. I happened to use those two because I had originally bought them to add to butter to dip artichoke leaves in. Then I lost my two upper front teeth, so no more dragging artichoke leaves. And so I had the spices and I got the idea of flavoring that very bland oatmeal with them. I also use butter, real, not fake. And it turns out I scored big. For cinnamon is nature's way of keeping one's blood sugar low, and of course oatmeal is what they call heart friendly, a cholesterol dissolver. So it looks like my morning ritual should keep my old heart pumping and the blood flowing if not sugar free, as least sugar low for awhile.
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I am a person with flawed, or weird heroes. For instance, my very first politician hero was Henry Wallace, who was FDR's vice president at one point before the political establishment began to be afraid of him as being too left wing. They replaced Wallace with Harry Truman for Roosevelt's last term. I often wonder what America would have been like if Roosevelt had not replaced Henry with Harry.
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I went through a phase of liking the books of Thorne Smith, an advertising copy writer turned author, who wrote several fantasy books including Topper and Topper Takes a Trip among others. In comedy I loved Ernie Kovacs, who unfortunately didn't live long enough to let his cigar smoking do him in; he plowed his sports vehicle into a lamp post after a Hollywood party. I loved a French comedian named Jacques Tati for one movie, Mr. Hulot's Holiday, who's work in this movie like Ernie Kovac's dealt in largely in visual comedy. Harpo Marx, who I mentioned last week, would also fit with this group. And of course Charlie Chaplin was the 20th century master of visual comedy.
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An aside here, the father of a Camp Killooleet camper named Karen Mogelescu headed a company call Dutch Masters cigars, and was a great fan of Ernie Kovacs whose company sponsored Kovac's tv programs, and we used to talk about E.K. whenever he came up to Camp Killooleet to visit his daughter. And he always brought me Dutch Master cigars, which I smoked, though I preferred the cigarette sized Trends at the time. Speaking of parents and Killooleet, I can't pass go without telling a couple of other little anecdotes.
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I had a camper one summer named David Bloomgarten whose father was a well known Broadway producer with a big hit show at the time. David was the most downtrodden, worried looking kid I ever knew. He was always walking around with a long face, no matter what, and always seemed to wish he was someplace else. We had a local doctor, Dr. Huntington, who examined the campers when they were ill. One day David had to see the doctor, and presented him with his usual long face. Dr. Huntington, in order to establish some kind of rapport with this frowning kid, asked David what his dad did for a living. David explained with near enthusiasm that he was a Broadway producer. "Yes," Dr. H. said, "what did he produce?" "A Most Happy Fella!" was David's answer. He did, too, produce the show, not the son. Dr. H. did a double take.
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Speaking of parents, our most famous visiting parent during my six year stint at Killooleet was Danny Kaye, whose daughter Deena was a camper. She was eight at the time and if memory serves she was in my sister Mary's cabin for at least one year. Anyway Deena's mother Sylvia Fine, and daddy Danny Kaye, both came up to see Deena at different times. Ms. Fine, who was Kaye's writer and manager as well as wife, was an interesting person, but nothing compared to the excitement that Danny Kaye brought when he visited the camp later in the summer. Danny went out of his way to be a most obliging camp parent, and patiently sat his way through the longest and most boring camp talent show I have ever witnessed. He managed to breathe a little life into it about three and a half hours into it when he finally consented to perform. His daughter, Deena, was mortified, and had to leave the auditorium, but Danny snapped his fingers and gave a wonderful singalong version of "Dem Bones, dem Bones, dem Dry Bones" that had the roof rocking, and almost succeeded in breathing a little life into that completely dead show. Earlier Danny Kaye had been playing pingpong with a boy camper outside the main house, and when he quit and went inside the boy turned to another boy standing there and said, "Geez, he looks so old. He looks old enough to be my father." Pretty good call that, since Danny Kaye was the father of an eight year old camper. Danny didn't look anywhere's near that old in his movies however. It's amazing what a little pancake makeup and a skilled makeup artist can do.
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We moved into the our house on Fairhollow during the Memorial Day weekend in 2000. I bought all new things at the time, new refrigerator and stove, and a new washer and dryer. It all lasted about five years. We are on our third stove, and recently had to replace the hot water heater. The washing machine died a year ago, we are renting to own one which will be ours in about three more payments. I had to buy a new dryer recently. Moral, nothing lasts forever, nor even particularly long, least of all me.
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Thanks to the generosity of Daniel and Joel I will probably never be wanting in the area of music for the rest of my life. Joel even showed me how to find and download my old Nightsong theme song, Tama, from Tonto's Expanding Headband. And between them they have each sent me several DVD's worth music, almost everything I could ever wish or hope to own. Ain't technology wonderful. This brings me to the R.I.A.A. and the asshole who runs it, and who is trying to prevent downloading by punishing a few they caught up with. It is true that riaa has a point, but professional musicians can be very picky lot. When I was working for KPRC-FM, my first real job, Benny Goodman and his sextette were playing a gig with the Houston Symphony Orchestra, and they made arrangements with KPRC to borrow a studio to rehearse the night before the concert. Of course, you can well imagine we who worked there were thrilled to death, and the engineer on duty made sure that the microphones which were in the studio they were practicing in were turned on. Benny Gooidman suddenly realized three or four of us were listening to them play, and raised hell about it, and although he didn't know enough to simply unplug the microphones, he did everything he could think of, and ended up placing the microphones upside down in a couple of trash cans. The music sounded great, years later Capitol records invented the idea of adding echo and reverb to their music, but those of us in the control room at KPRC, Houston, heard echo and reverberation years before Capitol put in in records, thanks to Benny Goodman putting those microphones into waste paper baskets.
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I would compare Benny Goodman's attitude towards giving away his music to the Weavers, who were playing the Shamrock Hotel in the early fifties. Goodnight Irene was an unbelievable hit at that time, and the Weavers played a several weeks engagement there. One Sunday Pete Seeger, bless his heart, made arrangements for the Weavers to do a completely free Sunday afternoon performance at the Jewish Community Center, then at 2020 Herman Drive. They weren't able to bill it as the Weavers (it was billed as Pete Seeger and friends), but all four Weavers showed up, and they went on to give a complete two hour concert to a grateful audience of several hundred, and not a bit of green was involved. At the time they were one of the most in demand musical acts in the country. And from that get together there came together the group who would later form the Houston Folklore Group, which evolved into the Houston Folklore Society. So can be found the contrast between the professional musician who is jealously trying to make a living, and the folk performer who gives away his talent just as often as he charges for it..
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Well, as I sign off this week's note I celebrate the leaving of Karl Rove from the Bush Administration's employment. Let us hope this forments change, but no such luck, I'm sure. Rove wants to move on before the Democrats get those subpoenas writ. I sure as hell won't miss him.

cheers,

The Real Little Eddy