Get that out of my brain
Here are some thoughts about New York City, where I once worked and drank and where I once had friends, too many of whom are no longer with us.
One is Robert, who died of AIDS several years ago. I found out from our old boss, James W. Mosley, owner of Saucer News, the magazine I edited – yes, yes, YES, it was about flying saucers – and for which Robert and his friend Pam worked until Mosely told me to fire them.
I did, but they never left. They just kept coming back, hanging around, usually armed with a six pack. I might not have let them in otherwise.
I don’t know what happened to Pam.
Then there’s Glenn, who died in 1987, stabbed to death by a young guy he met in a bar. The guy decided to walk off with Glenn’s stereo system. Glenn objected. Glenn got killed.
I liked Glenn. I thought about him during the recent “royal” wedding of Harry and Meghan. He would have liked it, but he LOVED Princess Diana. I guess it’s best that Glenn died a decade before she. He would have drunk Goren’s dry.
Goren’s was the bar off Fifth Avenue where we drank after work at The Travel Agent magazine where Glenn was a writer and I was an editor.
Murphy worked there, too, and was part of the Goren’s crew. I don’t think we missed a night.
Goren’s owners must have wailed in distress when Travel Agent moved uptown to 52nd Street and none of us ever went back. Too far, 17 blocks or something.
There was a bar right below our office, so we went there. I remember one night I showed up in a tuxedo because I had a travel function to attend and got mocked mercilessly. I figured they were all jealous. I OWNED my tux; they had to rent one when they needed it.
I guess all this came back because of the Harry-Meghan thingy, not a second of which I watched because I can’t figure out why I should care. I’d care if I lived in Britain because of all the tax dollars it takes to support the royal family who really ought to get jobs, even if just summer work, maybe in Torquay, the butt of jokes on “Fawlty Towers.”
“Hello, I’m Queen Elizabeth. Would you like fries with that?”
“No, thanks, but could ya not be droppin’ your crown in my milkshake?”
Hey, I’ll bet you didn’t notice that I said “droppin’ your crown IN my milkshake.” What’s wrong with that? Well, you can’t drop your crown IN my milkshake without first getting INTO my milkshake and I can’t see you fitting all that well. I couldn’t, either.
So, we just segued into something that always annoys me: The use of IN when we mean INTO. You can’t jump IN the pool until you jump INTO the pool. Once you’re IN the pool you can jump to your heart’s content IN the pool. First you have to get INTO the pool. But you can get OUT of the pool, especially when Mom says its suppertime.
Which, suddenly, made me think of Bobby Rydell. Good God. I know, I KNOW. Somehow, I have to wash the image of Bobby Rydell out of my brain. Anyway, once I thought of him, I did a YouTube thingy because, you know, SUPPERTIME reminded me of the stupid, stupid Rydell song “Summertime (is Kissin’ Time.)” It hurts just to think about it. But if you YouTube him, you can see him on American Bandstand with Dick Clark and notice how similar their hair is. Arghhh. Now I see DICK CLARK’S HAIR.
Rydell’s days in the sun came pre-Beatles and, along with Fabian, he was awful. But every day we turned on the AM radio and listened to whatever was being played. You want to hear something REALLY awful? See if you can find Fabian singing “I’m a Tiger.” Arghhhhhhhh! Talk about painful images. No, don’t. Don’t suffer as I suffer now that I have Rydell-Fabian images in my brain.
I feel like Vincent Price in “The Fly:” Put me out of my misery. I saw that movie with Robbie and Jimmy and right up until the time Price came out with that big FLY HEAD, I liked raisins. I was eating Raisinettes during that movie. As soon as he came out with that big FLY HEAD, I gave them to Jimmy. It didn’t bother him that raisins and fly heads have certain similarities. Ugh.
How did we get here? Aren’t segues fun? It’s like Jack Kerouac with that huge roll of paper in his typewriter, writing stream of consciousness – if that story is even true. There are skeptics. I prefer to believe it. Sal Paradise was my first non-sports hero. Maybe he’s why I got into jazz when I was only 16.
Which could bring us to The Crests doing “16 Candles” before they became Johnny Maestro and The Crests, but let’s not go there. Rydell and Fabian are enough to bear for one day.
It’s best I leave you now. In order to get rid of the Rydell-Fabian-Maestro-Vincent Price-Fly-Head images, I think I’ll go back to remembering Glenn and Murphy and Robert and … Remembering Robert reminds me of Ned, my friend Joyce’s friend, who died of AIDS and …
Turning off brain now.