File Under: Terrifying Early Childhood Memories

In addition to Greatest American Hero, my other earliest childhood television memory is Zoobilee Zoo. Zoobilee Z00 was essentially a half hour of humans dressed as stuffed animals making wild facial expressions and erratic movements whilst singing about problems every human child faces-- like making silly mistakes. Or being an anthropomorphic cockatoo.

I mainly remember Ben Vereen, dressed in what appeared to be a dusty, bedraggled leopard costume stolen from a dumpster behind an off-Broadway production of Cats and one of Prince's least favorite jackets, slinking over the top of a piano while attempting to impart a condescending moral lesson. As always, I turned to YouTube to jog my memory further. I was pleased to find that the voices are badly out of sync with the characters' mouths, and sound as if they were recorded separately using a YakBak.

The characters whine and shriek in infantile voices while capering about an obvious soundstage, scattered with irrelevant props painted in garish day-glo colors. There is a pink thing that looks a lot like a live-action Popple, but is supposedly a kangaroo flautist. There is a beaver who looks like Orville Redenbacher, a Teddy Ruxpin-esque "adventure" bear (whatever that is), an irritating squawking bird with a Chiquita Banana style accent and headress (easily the most believable character), a lion whose interest in art is eclipsed only by his uncanny likeness to Chaka Khan in the "I Feel For You" video, and finally, the most terrifying character, Bravo Fox.

Bravo Fox, I believe, must have been styled heavily after John Worthington Foulfellow, the manipulative fox in Pinocchio, only with a curious middle Atlantic accent that usually sounded like he ran afoul of Betty Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. He is played by a statuesque balding man in a threadbare butler's uniform with orange tufts of "fur" bursting from every seam. Bravo Fox haunted me for years after I stopped watching the show, and was the subject of several recurring nightmares when I was seven. In these nightmares, he was usually a criminal mastermind with supernatural powers. He would send me puzzling letters ala the zodiac killer detailing his evil schemes. I eventually published a book about him and appeared on talk shows to educate the good citizens of our country about the impending danger. This only made him want to kill me, and I'd spend the remainder of the dream seeking protection from the skeptical, unfeeling police department.

Probably the weirdest thing about this show is that it's only weird in retrospect. When I was a kid, I loved it and wanted to be a Zooble.

The Man with Golden Buttered Popcorn Tresses

I realize that, originally, I started this blog to catalog my adolescent experiences with Easy Listening. I realize, also, that I have become very tangential. Gentle reader, I apologize for straying, but I've only just begun. I want to share with you my first crush ever, who I had forgotten about until yesterday.
Here's how I remembered:
I'm on the horn with Amanda, discussing the trajectory of our journeys through life as ENFPs (I wish I were joking). I admit to her that sometimes, when confused about my personal trajectory, I listen to the original Broadway recording of Pippin. I identify with the main character, I say. I explain that the themes of Pippin-- coming of age, the restlessness and confusion of early adulthood, trying to find one's place-- are very relevant now. Pippin, I suggest, is a total ENFP. "Rachel," she says, "you sound like some kind of second rate theater school reject." Fair enough. This derisive comment didn't stop me from watching Pippin on Youtube for the next hour. I wrote the lyrics to this song in more than one high school yearbook. Second rate theater school reject. Once I saw William Katt as Pippin, I got a strange feeling of familiarity. Where had I seen him? After some truly wild synapse firings, I remembered:
Of course! He's Ralph, AKA Greatest American Hero AKA My First Crush Ever. Considering the competence of my television babysitter, it's no small wonder that the opening sequence of Greatest American Hero is, without a doubt, the cradle of some of my earliest memories. I remember forcing my dad to rush me home from my grandparents house so that I could watch this show, it being a life or death (tantrum) situation. I also remember him fashioning some homemade "I Love Ralph" stickers on a primitive label maker for me. I stuck them on the blue chair I sat in during rapt Greatest American Hero viewings. I'm not sure why, at age 3, I found him so appealing. Perhaps I was just recognizing the universal appeal of semi-androgynous men with hair the color and texture of buttered popcorn (see also: Christopher Atkins). I can't remember what the show is about, really... I think Ralph found a red suit which, when worn, imbued him with superhero powers. He never really mastered flying in the suit, and would usually make hilarious crash landings.
This is my first crush. This is my earliest memory. Second rate theater school reject. Something worse?

In Search Of...?

"But, I want you to give me-- to give your spirit to me-- that golden light which is you--which you don't know--give it to me--" from Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence

I spent the last month or so reading Women in Love, and I experienced many instances of "Yes, yes exactly" along on the way. The fact that the movie of the same name is very aesthetically pleasing probably didn't hurt my affection, either. So often, that dark thing called What I Want is totally nebulous until the right combinations of words or images, in a book or song or movie, help give it its true shape. Then I'm struck with an epiphany; I know it is always what I wanted. Eureka. Insomnia is abated, if only temporarily, while I set to work obtaining What I Want.

For a long time (I'm talking most of my teen years here), my most penetrating desires could be expressed succinctly and perfectly with this early 60s folk-pop song.

I think I may have had (or at least, was on the long and muddy path to) What I Want before, both in the loftier, philosophical D.H. Lawrence sense, and in the simplistic cornball "Angel on My Shoulder" sense. So now what? How goes the "obtaining" part? Imagine me with a dog-eared copy of a Penguin Classic in one hand and a half drunk mug of Constant Comment in the other, searching for the answer now. A sillier picture you never saw, but just between you and me, I haven't slept well in days.

2008: Mission to Render Myself Totally Ineffectual Is A Success

A quick timeout to acknowledge my self destruction:

Guilty of putting all of my eggs in one basket, the horse before the cart, and several other adages related to poor planning, I face, yet again, the monumental task of deciding what I want to do for money and where I want to live. Evidently, having no previous forklift driving experience can really hinder your ability to find meaningful work! I find myself pulled in so many different directions, that usually I just wind up wallowing in indecision and, let's face it, self-pity. I spend a lot of time on self-indulgent, masturbatory tasks like rating every single song in my itunes library, writing down dreams that I had (Nyquil + B Vitamins= hideous psychadelic landscapes), and worst of all, writing blogs. Refusing to build a life for myself here out of pure obstinacy and for fear of getting stuck here has left me, well, stuck here. Once a week I leave town to visit one of my many far-flung friends, wondering, "Should I live here? Should I get a job here?" then going back home to 4139 Pity Party Lane, Sacramento, CA before any progress can be made. At what point did I decide that I can't do anything by myself, and how do I unlearn this? Advice, lectures, and silent disapproval are welcome.

Indulge me now, as I'm so fond of doing for myself, and watch this Dean Martin clip. The song is about being pathetic, so it's the official anthem of this post.

"I caught a good one, it looked like it could run..."

Typically, my mom would put on KCTC early in the morning to wake me up for school. There's a real absence of logic in using "easy listening" to wake somebody up, but this is the same woman who put me in itchy robes made out of what could only be leftover bedspreads from midwestern hotels every morning from ages 6 to 13. I guess she thought the music would combat my sour morning attitude, and it probably did. "Tom Dooley" and "El Paso" were two of my favorites to hear at that time, as the feelings imparted by their tales of rash stabbings or shootings, love triangles, and violent, inevitable death seemed in keeping with the horrible feelings of waking up before it was light, after having only fallen asleep 4 hours prior. The melodies were just jaunty enough to keep me from nodding off in my Cream of Wheat, and stuck with me all day-- much like the itchy neck from the frilled rayon zip-up collar of my robe, only not nearly as annoying.

Here, Steve Martin acts out the lyrics to Marty Robbins' "El Paso," along with a cast of chimps. I love Youtube so much.

Revisiting 'Friendster': Assumption That I'm Cooler Now Debunked

My dad used to wear this tacky shirt around that said "Still Perfect After All These Years" on the front. What's tackier still is that I may have unwittingly adopted this as a personal philosophy.

Following an unlikely thread lead me back to the Friendster account I forgot I still had. It stands, along with my 2002-2006 livejournal, unedited, as a monument to age 18. Yes, that's Amelie you see under "favorite movies." Cringe along with me.

The worst part: my friendster is not really the relic I think it should be after nearly 5 years. I mean, remove about 5 of the bands, The Bell Jar, the highly affected side ponytail, and you've got a reasonable facsimile of Current Me. I consider it a great injustice that I have not become monumentally cooler since then!

And yet, I believe that taking the gradual (natural?) approach to identity building is more respectable than the wild and desperate taking up of (and rapid abandonment of) pre-made and readily available identities. The person who can shift from bro to ska kid to juggalo to radical vegan bike punk to Buddhist nudist every 6 months bewilders the hell out of me.

Of course, what I'm calling a commitment to authenticity could also be called stubbornness or unwillingness to try things. It is possible that I have changed too little. After all, I'm here in my childhood bedroom again, which is hardly a Madonna-style reinvention of myself. I've made gradual, minuscule "improvements." I've traded friendster for myspace, myspace for facebook, and livejournal for this blog; I'm still erecting internet monuments to myself. Despite the fact that one of them emphasizes what I feel to be the uniqueness imbued to me by a steady diet of grandparent-friendly music as a teen, I am still a product of our times. What's more, I am still well represented by my friendster account. Dammit.

While You Were Sleeping, Pt. 2

I've always had trouble sleeping. When I was a kid, proposed 8:30 P.M. bedtimes would find me awake, sneaking out into the living room at 9:00, 10:00 and 11:30 P.M. I didn't want to miss something. I felt that as soon as I fell asleep, outrageous fun, secret lifesaving information, and greater truths would be immediately revealed to all awake persons. Time and time again, my parents proved this theory wrong, as their secret revelatory nighttime rituals involved nothing but Law & Order reruns and, occasionally, Hercule Poirot. Unfortunately, this lesson goes unlearned. I'll still spend nights awake, thinking I can prevent something unpleasant that might happen to me tomorrow by being awake to intercept the sandman and refuse to sign for his packages tonight. Is this line of reasoning totally nuts? Yes. Do I think it was influenced, in part, by over-analyzation of easy listening hits in my early teens? Well, that, my friends, is the hypothesis on which this entire blog is predicated.

"Softly As I Leave You" is the perfect example of an idea that might fuel my late night paranoia for years to come. The song is about a man who leaves his wife or girlfriend of many years in the middle of the night, because he "can't bear the tears to fall." How can I be expected to sleep when there is a possibility that I could date someone this craven? See, I'd never be in this situation. I would be awake, waiting for the opening strains of "Softly" and the sound of feet slipping into shoes. The fellow would have to overcome his cowardice and just tell me he wants to break up, or, if he's still hell bent on sneakin', slip a heavy sedative into my mid evening kombucha.

(A lot of artists have recorded this song. I chose this video because the accompanying montage is inexplicable and really stupid).

While You Were Sleeping

As a lifelong devotee to insomnia, I've always had a soft spot for songs about being awake at night. Some of them just don't exactly fit my experience, though. Case in point: KCTC played at least 3 songs wherein male singers tenderly contemplate their female companions in the wee small hours while they sleep or cry nearby. Rather than offer any kind of tangible comfort or respectful silence, the fellow singing chooses instead to either ignore or annoy his groggy and distressed lover, (with the exception of John Denver's "My Sweet Lady").

Item #1: "She Believes In Me," Kenny Rogers
Kenny Rogers is working harder than a shoemaking elf to get some decent songwriting done in the middle of the night while his wife sobs in the other room over his repeated failures. All those circled newspaper want-ads smuggled in between the pages of his copy of Hustler and hours of despairing glances from her are enough to stymie his creative process, apparently, and he has to do all of his "work" at night. Insisting, with determination, that she "believes" in him, despite her audible weeping suggestive of the contrary, he hopes that this song, the one he's singing right now, the one that's keeping her awake as he belts it out, mouth filled with Gardetto's Snack Mix, will finally pay off the 2nd mortgage and make up for 4 years worth of unfulfilled promises.
(Be sure to watch for the fabulous surprise ending in this video!)


Item #2: "Mary in the Morning", Glen Campbell
Early bird Glen Campbell creepily catalogs every movement of his sleeping lover, Mary, noting the way the dappled sunlight freckles her face and hair, likening her somnambulist beauty to summer flowers, and similar flourishes evocative of a Summer's Eve douche commercial. He pauses from his dewy-eyed reflection only to disturb her ever so slightly with unauthorized kisses. If he loves her so much, maybe he should consider using this valuable time to make her a pancake surprise instead of inspecting her moles/trying out the shaving-cream-and-feather trick on her.


Item #3: "My Sweet Lady", John Denver
A wakeful John Denver, no doubt thinking about conservation and a New England Christmas with Kermit and Piggy, consoles his sweet lady as she awakens from a tearful nightmare, assuring her that he will never leave her. Honestly, I can't make fun of this song; I cried when I first heard it. At age 13, and now, I well up with emotion (and estrogen?) whenever I hear him wail, "I wish that you could know how much I looooooooooove you!" For some reason, the idea of waking up next to an overwrought balladeer who can silence any disparaging thoughts with vows of everlasting affection is really, really appealing to me.


Sweet dreams, readers.