I wanted to perk up this evening, so I put on a happy song, “Whenever I Call You ‘Friend,'” by Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks. Yes, I enjoy soft rock. Yes, it’s a strange title. It doesn’t make sense, but neither do the 70s.
Who is this beautiful model in a peacoat, so downtrodden? Such a pretty thing.
This was Kenny post-Loggins and Messina. Yes, you have heard of them. They sing that song, “Danny’s Song,” which never says Danny at all, but you’ve heard it.
Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you, honey.
See, you remember.
Anyway, this was before Kenny wrote the soundtrack to every blockbuster movie in the 80s. Yes, all of them. Can we say royalty checks?
Whenever I hear this song, I wish I was at a packed karaoke bar, wearing a gypsy poncho like a crazed Gold Dust Woman swirling about, doing my best Stevie Nicks impression with someone possessing awesome Loggins hair.
Oh. My. Goodness. Talk about a penetrating gaze. It’s like a beady-eyed baby bird with gloriously feathered (more bird references?) tresses. Gee, I bet his hair smells terrific.
And look at THIS. Look at it. It was his Cindy Crawford supermodel phase.
I think he got confused. A beard-crazy WordPresser posted this awesome pic of Kenny with Messina. He was “ugly Christmas sweater” when ugly Christmas sweater wasn’t cool.
Son of a gun. I always thought the lyric was “The wise man has the power.” It’s not. It’s “no wise man has the power.” That changes everything. I need some time for reflection. Don’t worry. I’m alright. Don’t nobody worry about me.
In case you didn’t know, the Denton High School marching band is awesome. Their jersey shirts tell you so.
Hard work, perseverance, and dedication will take this band all the way to state. It doesn’t hurt that Alan can really blow.
Jill and Dana are just happy to have an excuse to skip family Uno night each Friday. Jill gets her rebellion on by donning the purple eye shadow that Mom says makes her look like a Runaround Sue, and Dana has splashed her entire being with Jean Nate in an effort to entice Alan. And after the game, it’s endless Capri Suns and Fritos with bean dip!
If Alan is oblivious as usual, maybe she can spark some interest from Josh. Who wouldn’t want to be around Josh, when his enthusiasm is so palpable?
A conversation with Sandra led me down the long and winding road to this awesomely bewitching video for “Tender Love.” How had I never seen it?
You don’t have to be familiar with this slow jam by Force MD (one of Pres Obama’s favorite bands) to appreciate all of its levels of 80s gloriousness. Let me break it down in fifteen easy steps. I promise it’s better than “Key Largo.” No, I can’t promise that.
A lone man sits on a stoop with what appears to be swaddling clothes in his lap. Or it might just be a sweatshirt.
A group of stylish young men (in various stages of mulleted Soul Glo hair growth) gather at the foot of a brownstone. Any moment now, Theo Huxtable will pop out of the front door, wearing a shirt sewn by sister Denise.
Suddenly, Rerun from What’s Happening? (who has clearly just left a Jenny Craig meeting) quiets them down–by the power of his index finger, combined with the metallic glow of his F necklace.
He begins to conduct them as he would an orchestra, and they fall into place, snapping and swaying, with a combination of karate moves and sign language that bring to mind a poor-man’s Temptation.
Already I’m in Cosby Showcardigan overload. The graphic prints just make it all the worse.
Oh, no! What’s that? Did they piss a white lady off? No, it’s Rosie Perez, and she stole Nancy Reagan’s blazer. Alert the Secret Service!
They form a soul train toward the window to serenade her, with a bright yellow blazer bringing up the caboose. Now it’s full-on Motown moves and emoting with great fervor.
The lead singer goes into his falsetto, which launches black-and-white cardigan man into his signature “rope-pulling Marcel Marceau” move.
The effect this has on Rosie Perez is not only calming, but seems to be sending her into some Lunesta haze. She inhales while curtains flap in the breeze like a Summer’s Eve commercial.
Doo-wop moves ensue. Suddenly, she smiles, revitalized, looking nothing like Rosie Perez. Her skin is cafe au lait, and so smooth. She must be a Noxzema model.
What’s that? J.J. from Good Times walks up the stairs with Penny. Seems so random.
Then they gather in a campfire circle and sing “la la la la” with more air-snapping and high-fiving, congratulating themselves that the song is halfway over.
They all make fists and bring them down, a precursor to the Billy Blanks Tao-Bo upper-cut.
The Noxzema model is unimpressed, and retires to the bedroom, as the blinding yellow from the chunky one’s ensemble has seared her retinas.
They disband. Yellow blazer departs in search of a bolo tie to complete his look, leaving skinny Rerun behind. Forlorn. Waiting on Rosie. You’ll be waiting forever, son. She’s gone. She’s gone. Just ask Hall and Oates.
Most of us know about the Rat Pack, his ill-fated marriage to Ava Gardner, his suspect connections to the Mafia, his support of JFK, his daughter Nancy Sinatra, and his acting and singing careers. You may even know he’s one of only five people to have both a #1 single and an Oscar for acting, along with Cher, Barbra Streisand, Bing Crosby, and Jamie Foxx. Yeah, Jamie Foxx. But did you know:
His version of “New York, New York” is played at Yankee Stadium after every Yankee home win? Liza Minelli’s version is played after every Yankee home loss.
He was the original choice to play Dirty Harry?
When Bela Lugosi died virtually penniless, Sinatra paid for his funeral?
According to www.imdb.com, “Sinatra weighed over 13 pounds at birth, and he had to be delivered by forceps. As a result, one of his ears was nearly severed. Showing no signs of life, he was held by his grandmother under cold, running water. He began to breathe, and cry. His mother – a practical nurse – and his father – a tavern operator – had been hoping for a girl, and had already chosen the name Frances. So they gave him the masculine form of the name: Francis.”
Here he is performing vocal warm-ups with Jackie Gleason.
In today’s 1948 yearbook, I found a picture of this tall drink of water, Karl Hickfang, surrounded by a group of girls called the Lassies Petite. He was their mascot. Ironic.
Upon further investigation, I discovered that he went on to direct a choir. One of his students, Diane Garne, wrote about him in her book, Cinderella’s Daughter and the Secret of Big Bend:
I also found a memorial to his friend, written by Hickfang himself:
During a summer of 1949, I was finishing requirements for a bachelor of Music degree. I looked forward to my first teaching position as the band director at Bonham High School, my alma mater. Near the end of August, I learned the position was not mine and I had to scramble to find another position so close to the start of the school year.
The teacher placement bureau at the University of Texas informed me of junior high school band openings at Conroe and Alvin, north and south of Houston. I found the Conroe position filled. From a phone booth in downtown Houston, I called the superintendent of schools in Alvin and was told the band director at Alvin High Schools would be at H &H Music at 1:00 p.m. and that he had the authority to hire me if he chose to do so.
While I waited at H & H Music Co, three gentlemen came in the store…I was introduced to these gentlemen and Mr. Johnstone indicated he knew of me and said there was an opening for a choir director at Woodland Acres Junior High School, in the Galena Park district. To this day, I never believed he knew of me and I told him I anticipated going to Alvin Junior High School as a band director. I learned right then that you don’t say no to this man. He eventually convinced me to take a position at Woodland Acres and became my mentor.
Isn’t it amazing what you can find online? I always wonder what became of the happy, youthful folks in these eras of yore, and it’s good to know some of them live long, fruitful lives. Karl Hickfang passed away four years ago at the age of 83. R.I.P., Mr. Hickfang.
If visiting Key Largo is on your bucket list, go fetch that Sharpie pen and cross it off, because watching this video is just. Like. Being. There. You will have no need of travel; this video will transport you, not only with Bertie Higgins’ smooth soft rock stylings, but with its scrumtrulescent fashion choices (a white blazer a solid TWO YEARS before Don Johnson would affect the style on Miami Vice), rich, dark locks like a swarthier Kenny Rogers (with a dash of Grizzly Adams), and a gold necklace that so intrigues me.
It takes a certain kind of man to wear a gold parrot necklace, and Bertie is that man.
Look at him, propped against a pole, his lion’s mane blowing in the breeze, his face to the sun like he is a jungle king. He takes a drag and exhales his alpha male breath while his lapel laps against his sun-damaged brown skin. Suddenly, he turns and looks seductively at me. ME! (Swoon). I am weak in the knees. He is whispering to me. Is that a pineapple on his shirt? The way he says “watching” blows my mind. It’s like the lyrics are the breeze, soft and sultry upon my grateful ears. How can that lamp pole against which he is leaning possibly support all that rugged manliness? It must be made of steel.
Just prior to the the minute mark, we witness Higgins in profile, as the sun dances on the rippling sea. Glistening. Then he reaches out to his daughter, a cardigan casually draped about her shoulders like she stepped right out of The Official Preppy Handbook, and she flashes her Aquafresh smile.
What the freak? Suddenly I realize this is not his daughter. This is not my beautiful house! This is his love interest. This big-banged thing, barely past adolescence? She’s the Bacall to his Bogie? Are you kidding me? And then it hits me.
Lauren Bacall was only 19 when she met Humphrey Bogart, 25 disgusting years her senior. Now it all makes sense. They are just like Bogie and Bacall. The truthiness of the song overwhelms me.
Bertie and Courtney Cox’s little sister (let’s call her Ainsley) jaunt up a hill, as he holds steadfastly to his jacket at his shoulder like a mack daddy. Uh-oh. Slow down. There is no chemistry here. How awkwardly they embrace. Like he’s her uncle. And then I see–it wasn’t pineapples on his blouse. It was never pineapples. It’s starfish or poinsettias or some Hawaiian flower that’s not indigenous to my native land, but whatever–I feel deceived. Manipulated. Betrayed.
Soon, they are on a boat together, gazing into each other’s eyes, assessing each other’s caterpillar Brooke Shields’ eyebrows, and giggling. He’s not so bad after all, she thinks. He has a boat. Preppies love boats. He’s wearing another non-pineapple Hawaiian shirt, this time in navy. First it was the innocence of white, but now it’s navy, a harbinger of the thunderstorm brewing not so far away. Can this love last?
At 1:49, suddenly they are traveling down a palm tree-lined boulevard, presumably in a convertible. But where is the driver? Are they on a float in a parade? Are they in Key Largo or Santa Monica? Bertie does his “shrug and cock the head to the side” move to emote his romantical feelings, and she looks away like she doesn’t exactly understand English, like an Italian exchange student, silently cursing herself for not buying Rosetta Stone, or like she just saw an ugly dress in the window of Macy’s and has to turn away before she vomits.
But Bertie soldiers on. He makes more Bogart classic movie references: “Please say you will play it again” (Play it again, Sam), which is lost on her, as she is just out of her Saturday morning cartoon phase. And yet, something attracts her.
At the 2:27 mark, Ainsley moves her teeth to her bottom lip to make the “F” sound. She’s considering forsaking all the feathered-hair frat boys at college and actually getting it on with this dude who is like totally her dad’s age. Gag me. And yet…that gold necklace…is so…reflective of light. And I can nearly smell the Sex Panther wafting off his virile body.
As the song nears the end, he croons, “Here’s lookin’ at you, Kid,” which makes sense because it was only a year ago that she was a kid. But wait. Bogie didn’t even say that line to Bacall in the movie, Key Largo. He said it to Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. Is he cheating on her? Is this his subtle hint?
two grown adults
The video ends with the couple walking along the shoreline at dusk. I sense the sun has also set on their relationship. As much as she likes his boat, she’s begun to spy little grey hairs in his beard, and he’s been complaining of arthritis in his knuckles. After all, he was born in the middle of WWII. She cannot fathom a life of administering Geritol each morning and separating his white blazers from his colors in the laundry.
But the best evidence are the lyrics themselves. “We had it all.” Had. Past tense. And like Bacall, she will move on to other men and star in a new “late late show.” Yes, it’s bittersweet. But was she really enough woman for all that man? I think not.
I realize one day I will have to defend the 1980s to my son. He will ask the big questions, and I will do my best to make sense of that decade. Everything in excess, big and sprayed and sparkly. But NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING can defend the 1970s. What were you thinking? The entire country did not collectively drop acid in 1973, but you could have fooled me. Witness this scene from Indiana University.
I realize the times, they were a-changing. The times are always a-changing. I understand that having your friends and family drop dead right and left in a war we didn’t win was no picnic. In fact, I read just today about a six-foot college man who weighed 145 lbs at the time he was drafted and forced himself to drop down to 123 (officially underweight) to fail his physical and consequently avoid service in Vietnam. Now that’s drastic. The fact that 145 was not underweight for a six-footer is equally absurd.
When the clock chimed New Year’s Day in 1973, our boys were still overseas. The stats are staggering: over 8 million GIs were on active duty during the Vietnam War from August 1964 to March 1973. EIGHT MILLION.
Other things that happened in 1973:
Pong was the big arcade game.
The MRI was invented. Have you had one? I have. It’s like being trapped in a tube with a pounding hammer in your brain while time stands still. And then they bill you $7K and tell you the diagnosis isn’t certain. Awesome!
President Nixon asserted that he was not a crook.
Singer Jim Croce died in an airplane crash.
Bruce Lee suffered “death by misadventure” when his brain increased 13% in size.
The Best Actor Award went to Marlon Brando for The Godfather, but because he was rendered immobile from overcarbing and was overcome with white guilt about the treatment of Native Americans, he thought it would be a most excellent time to send the Mazola lady in his place (you call it corn; we call it maize). Oh, it wasn’t the Mazola lady? Sorry, it was in fact Marie Cruz (Sacheen Littlefeather was not real name) to graciously refuse Brandon’s award for him, because the Oscars was a super forum to do that. Fortunately, his gesture healed all race relations, so it proved to be a great idea. And lest you think I’m harsh on Littlefeather, I refer you to her integrity-filled Playboy spread.
Speaking of air bags, they were first used in the Oldsmobile Toronado that year. I’ve never heard of it, either, but I am saying it with a proper Spanish accent. Toronado.
Anyway, this was what 1973 looked like in Bloomington, Indiana and perhaps most of the country. It’s enough to make a girl staple her knees together and live the celibate life.
I believe it was Grace Slick who said, “And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you’re bound to fall, well, tell ’em a hookah, a smoking caterpillar has given you the call.” What on earth?
You think that’s odd? These college kids listened to a sermon from a blind Viking named Moondog. I did not make that up.
These were college-educated lucid students who KNEW it was portrait day and yet CHOSE to show up looking like this.
Yummy! A Hollywood Squares of hot bachelors! You KNOW I choose Bachelor #2. I’ve never dated a scarecrow hybrid.
Inflation caused gas prices to skyrocket from 36 cents in 1972 to 40 cents in 1973. I know that’s like COINS, but it was a big deal at the time. They had to resort to alternatives.
come on and take a free ride
Again I stand by my celibacy comment.
These folks may have missed a ticket all aboard the Love Train, but fortunately they found themselves (wasted) in the back of this Chevy truck. I guess The Levee wasn’t dry that day. If only that truck were a DeLorean, they could time-travel to the 1980s, put a clean Izod on, get a shave, a haircut and a hot shower! Far out, man.
I Don't Get It 