Mellowing Out With Karen, Gordon and Lionel

I was driving around town listening to the radio the other day and I heard Kenny Rodgers sing “She Believes In Me” followed by John Denver singing “Sunshine On My Shoulders” followed by the Captain and Tennille singing “Love Will Keep Us Together.” 

Looking for a logical explanation for this odd string of oldies, I came to two possible conclusions:

1)    I had hit a pothole that somehow triggered a time-travel episode landing me back in the 1970s.

2)    A new easy listening station had invaded the airwaves.

Since a quick reality check confirmed I wasn’t wearing bell bottoms or flipping the hair out of my eyes every 10 seconds, I latched onto the new radio station theory. Of course, I use the word “new” loosely when referring to a station where Olivia Newton John and the Bee Gees are topping the charts and Lionel Richie is still dancing on the ceiling.

Frankly, I have a dysfunctional come closer/go away relationship with easy listening radio. On the positive side, there’s that irresistible thrill one gets when an all-time favorite song pops up, like unexpectedly running into an old friend. That’s how I feel when I hear “Operator” by Jim Croce or “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt or “Handyman” by James Taylor.

On the negative side, easy listening can quickly turn into queasy listening when sappy slush begins to crowd out the joys of timeless musical gems. That’s how I feel when I hear “Can’t Smile Without You” by Barry Manilow or “My Eyes Adored You” by Frankie Valli or “Sometimes When We Touch (The Reality’s Too Much)” by Dan Hill. Copy that, Dan.

The worst moments come when, in spite of your self-image as an enlightened connoisseur of music as a dynamic expression of the human experience, you find yourself singing along to some gooey slab of schmaltz like the Carpenter’s “They Long To Be Close To You.” 

Before you chalk it up to a harmless moment of weakness, let’s recite a snippet of the actual lyrics, shall we?

Why do birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near?

Just like me, they long to be close to you.  

Still skeptical? Here’s more . . .

Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by?

Just like me they long to be close to you.

 Call it a “guilty pleasure” if you like, but the ability and willingness to sing along with this or any other Carpenter’s song is a sign that your connection to any form of cutting-edge, contemporary music is hanging by a thread. What’s next, swooning to the silky smooth croonings of Canadian songbird Anne Murray? Dancing to the slick pop stylings of Tony Orlando & Dawn? Partying to the power ballads of Minnie Riperton?

As I teeter between this time-warped world of seductive simplicity and today’s plugged-in power surge of life-in-progress complexity, I see the slippery musical slope before me. 

One minute you’re privately cranking up the car radio to hear an endearing piece of 40-year-old fluff like Peaches and Herb’s “Reunited,” the next you’re telling some mystified 20 year old about Peaches and Herb, or the Fifth Dimension, or Air Supply. What’s that, punk? You never heard of Air Supply? Now don’t make me sing one of their songs to jog your memory. Oops, too late.

I’m lying alone, with my head on the phone,

thinking of you till it hurts.

I know you hurt too, but what else can we do?

Tormented and torn apart.

Not ringing any bells? Here’s the chorus . . .

I’m all out of love, what am I without you?

I can’t be too late to say I was so wrong.

 

Look, some like the breathless zeal and simpleminded worship of easy listening songs and some don’t. Judging from my tendency to turn the radio up at the first sign of any Gordon Lightfoot song, I probably have a higher tolerance for it then a lot of people. But I still worry about the addictive perils of prolonged ballad abuse.

There’s a line that must not be crossed and pretending that line isn’t there is dangerous. For some the line is drawn at Karen Carpenter. For others, Neil Diamond. For others still, it’s any duet involving Tony Bennett, even if he’s paired with Elvis Costello or Bono. For me, I’ll know I’ve reached the point of no return when I hear the DJ say:

“Stay tuned for more soft and mellow favorites to ease you through your cheesy, breezy life.”

 

Adventures In Motion Detection

Some things you outgrow as you get older – like acne, idolizing athletes, and giggling when someone mentions the planet Uranus. (Okay, I still snicker when Uranus comes up, but faintly and only for a moment.)

One thing that I had hoped to grow out of but have now accepted as a lifelong affliction is motion sickness. I’m told that as a small child I once begged my parents to leave me by the side of the road after one of my frequent back seat barf fests left me drained and pessimistic about the future. 

I suppose I’ll never know how close mom and dad came to honoring my proposal, but I have had a disturbing dream through the years of being raised by wolves after getting lost in the woods near the interstate.

In my adolescent days roaming the amusement-filled boardwalks of the Jersey shore, I endured an endless succession of stomach-churning incidents. This merriment-marring pattern was fueled by my inability to remember that, for me, climbing aboard anything livelier than a sedated dairy cow was a wrong turn down Queasy Street.

While other kids my age sought high-velocity thrills on the rollercoaster or tilt-a-whirl, I occupied myself with more levelheaded pursuits such as trying to amass the 30,000 tickets necessary to win a plastic harmonica by playing arcade games.

Inevitably I would get complacent and allow myself to get coaxed onto one of the tamer rides like the merry-go-round or Ferris wheel . Even in those situations it wouldn’t be long before I’d be making desperate eye contact with the ride operator who -- to add to my misery -- would usually be in the process of shoveling a greasy sausage and onion sandwich down his mustache-framed pie-hole.

Just as I’ve gotten to be a good judge of which amusement park rides have chunk-blowing potential, I also proceed with savvy caution in circumstances where rapid or rhythmic motion holds sway. These situations include, but are not limited to:

• Any commercial or private air travel where the aircraft is required to actually leave the ground at some point.
• Cruises, pleasure boating, charter fishing excursions or any other offshore activity where water tends to relentlessly move up and down until you taste the feta cheese and spinach omelet you had four days ago.
• Movies, especially of the super-sized IMAX variety, where sophisticated cameras strapped to skiers, skydivers and other adrenalin-addicted movers and shakers become your eyes, ears and stomach pump.
• Dances, such as polkas, where prolonged and vigorous spinning make you break free of the Earth’s gravitational pull and carom violently off of walls and other stationary objects before coming to rest in a lightheaded la-la land where accordion players with suspenders and beer breath rule.
• Revolving rooftop restaurants where you leave your table to go to the rest room and when you come back out the spot where you table was is now occupied by a family of five from Yokohama who mistake you for the waiter and ask what kind of beef you use in the sukiyaki.

Suffice it to say that motion sickness has its hardships. But the world keeps on turning, and as long as it doesn’t turn any faster then its present pace, I’ve learned to enjoy a relatively puke-free journey through life. I just thought it was time to shed light on this awkward affliction that millions suffer from in silence.

Thank you for letting me spill my guts. And sorry about your carpet.

OCTOBER ROAD: My Father's Journey Home

“Fathers don’t need much,” my dad would sometimes say. “A visit or phone call is more than enough to make my day.”

That, of course, didn’t stop me from numerous wild goose chases through the years trying to wow him. More often than not I whiffed on the mission, drawing dad’s standard “very nice” response to the unwrapping of another John Wayne video or coffee table book on horses.

When he passed away this year a month shy of his October 10th birthday, his “fathers don’t need much” message came back to me, but with a whispered final request: “Bring me home if you can.”

Though a resident of Florida for the last 30 years, home for my dad is a rural New Jersey town called West Milford, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s there that the mountaintop ranch house my dad dubbed “The Ponderosa” sits, still a family focal point with my brother Bob and sister-in-law Jill holding down the fort.

While Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, my dad left his heart, soul and long underwear in West Milford. Before age and alarmingly bad knees caught up with him, he would go back for hunting season in the fall. Some years, before autumn’s festive charms gave way to winter’s tortures, I would join him for some October hiking.

How could I go wrong? October is a time in northern New Jersey known for mild, sun-splashed days and cool, crisp nights. A time where nature’s Crayola box of primary colors erupts into joyful celebration, causing grown men to stop on the side of the road and tear up in worshipful wonder.

Except that some years, winter decides to hold a sneak preview. I flashed back to one of those times, recalling how dad and I exchanged diverging views during a hike. 

“I hear it’s supposed to get down in the 30s tonight,” I mentioned as we made our way into the woods and onto the white dot trail.

“It doesn’t feel cold to me,” dad asserted, a contradictory droplet of snot dangling from his nose. “Only a la-la would be cold in this kind of weather,” he teased.

We followed the trail deeper into the woods, occasionally using our hand-carved walking sticks like a third leg to maintain balance over wet leaves and loose stones.

“I like having the walking stick in case we run into any black bear,” dad said casually. This made me shiver for other reasons.

“Have you seen any black bear out here?”

“Not this trip. But they’re out here. The mounds of bear scat are everywhere.”

“I always heard that you’re supposed to lie down and play dead if you cross paths with a bear,” I ventured, seeking confirmation.

“That’s for grizzlies,” dad clarified. “Black bear will just bend down and start digging into their happy meal. Of course, if you hit them in the face just right with your walking stick, you might be able to daze them long enough to get away.”

“What if you miss?”

“Then your best shot is to poke yourself in the face with the walking stick and hope the bear thinks you’re crazy.”

The highlight of many hikes was angling up the mountain across from the house and stepping out on the open rocks for a breathtaking view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was dad’s favorite spot … and the only place worthy of spreading his ashes.

Joined by my brothers Bob and Jim, my nephew Robert and my Uncle Allan, we climbed the steep, boulder-strewn trail to reach the scenic lookout and say our goodbyes on sacred ground.

As I thought about my father on this picture-perfect October day, there was a sweetness in everything visible: the woods, the water, the sky. And reflecting on him and how he lived, I couldn’t help but see all these things through his eyes. I sensed that his had been a search for peace all along. His search had sent him down some dead ends and detours, but in nature he found comfort, beauty and an inspiration he could embrace without reservation.

Groping for words as I slipped from the group to a private spot on the rocks, I invited my now departed dad to “reach out to me in any way he could” in the years to come.

“Sons don’t need much,” I pointed out. “A feeling, a presence – a cameo appearance in a dream.”

As we made our trek back down the mountain, it struck me that my father’s final journey wasn’t a once-and-for-all goodbye. The loved ones we lose always stay a part of us. And the love lives on.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” I heard a whisper in the breeze.

“Only a la-la would have kept you away,” I whispered back.