Turn it up to 11

This last week of February marks 11 years since the debut of this humble blog.

As I write this, I’m listening to “Testify!” the WFMU radio show hosted by my friend Larry Grogan, whom I know well but have never met in real life. He, of course, is the proprietor of the mighty Funky 16 Corners blog and streaming radio empire.

As I look for songs to share with this post, I see all the cool covers downloaded the other day and recommended by my friend Jameson Harvey, whom I also have never met in real life. He, of course, is the proprietor of the fine Flea Market Funk blog.

As I consider the 11-year journey, a shout-out to the fellow bloggers I’ve had the pleasure to meet in real life, my friends Jim Bartlett from The Hits Just Keep On Comin’, Greg Erickson from Echoes in the Wind and Joe Accardi from Life Out Of Tunes.

Thought about something from “11” by the Smithereens. Nah, everyone knows that.

Thought about something we could turn up to 11. Nah, not the weekend yet.

Thought about an 11-minute song. Don’t have one.

So let’s just enjoy Garland Jeffreys covering the Beatles.

“Help,” Garland Jeffreys, from “14 Steps To Harlem,” 2017.

 

 

 

 

She slipped away

We were more a small family than co-workers. We were young, all in our 20s, some of us barely in our 20s. There were eight, maybe 12 of us in all.

We’d work like mad at the Grand Avenue Pizza Hut on Friday and Saturday nights, then get together after work to decompress until the wee hours of the morning. Between work and play, we spent a lot of time together. We grew close.

That’s how Susan and I came to be a couple. We’re at upper left in the photo above. It’s from 1976 or 1977.

We were friends first, and then she and I eventually paired off.

Susan didn’t like to go out. I think we had one date that could be called a conventional date. Which was fine. She was more comfortable with joining our Pizza Hut pals at their places or with the two of us hanging out in the living room at her house, watching the late-late Saturday night horror movies.

We were together for a short time. She was the first to realize that we were better as friends than as a couple. So she broke it off. That stung, but we remained friends, still working side by side at the Pizza Hut.

We were tight, our Pizza Hut family. Kerry, the guy with the black hair and mustache on the bottom of the picture, was the wise big brother I never had. Kerry was in his mid-20s, a soft-spoken Navy vet who mentored me — five years younger — on a lot of aspects of life.

Mary, the young woman on the other side of me in that picture, was the spitfire big sister I never had.

I messaged Mary this morning with the news that Susan has died. Complications of ALS, which neither of us knew she had. Gone too soon.

[We also lost Kerry too soon, 10 years ago now.]

Susan and I saw each other only once later in life, at our 30-year high school class reunion in 2005. It was awkward. I’d heard she was reluctant to go. We said hi, but she seemed surprised that I would be there. Truth be told, I was surprised she was there. She hadn’t been one for class reunions.

Perhaps they were out of her comfort zone. Susan’s obituary suggests she spent her life after the Pizza Hut much as she spent it with us, more comfortable at home, and with her family. Which, again, is fine.

Susan and I weren’t together long enough to have a song that was ours. But this one was part of the soundtrack provided by the jukebox as we worked together at the Grand Avenue Pizza Hut in Wausau, Wisconsin.

“More Than A Feeling,” Boston, from “Boston,” 1976.

Hearing this song always takes me straight back to that time.

So many people have come and gone / Their faces fade as the years go by

Yet I still recall as I wander on / As clear as the sun in the summer sky

I heard it while working out last night, before I read the news about Susan.

I hide in my music, forget the day / And dream of a girl I used to know

I closed my eyes and she slipped away / She slipped away