"Them good ol' boys were drinking whisky and rye, singing 'this will be the day that I die..."

We all took the piss out of him a lot, and none of us had much respect for him because we thought he was lame for putting a price-tag on any and everything in the store that he could, but for the most part he wasn't always the complete cheezy-bastard that we made him out to be.

He graduated at the height of hippy idealism in 1968, and his love of music compelled him to work in a record shop called The Music Box until he could save enough to start his own. By 1974, he had achieved that dream. And what a great record store it was. He won numerous awards for his tongue-in-cheek, humorous radio jingles and racy television commercials. He orchestrated in-store appearances by some of the hottest artists of the day. He let the employees pretty much do whatever they wanted, and he held vast parties in the store after closing.

A bankruptcy and a downsizing changed that for him in 1982, but he still remained a committed music fan. The difference in the days of old and the "new era" was that he became a first rate penny-pincher and cut corners every way he could. By the time I started to work there in 1986 he was considered by staff to be a "really cheap & cheezy bastard." I didn't care though, because being a long time customer, I knew it was the best record store in town, and one of the oldest and greatest independents left in the country. I had wanted to work there for years, and one spring evening in 1986 as I was picking up a special ordered import LP, he asked me if I was looking for a job. I had a job at the time, but HELL YES I was looking if he was offering. He had me fill out an application on the spot, and two days later I started working at the Record Store.

I guess I feel a little guilty about all the slagging-off we employees did behind his back, because all in all, he wasn't really THAT bad of a boss. Hell, he usually fucked off home before 6pm and left us to our own devices until our midnight closing time. We got away with a LOT of crazy stuff that we'd have been fired for at any other place. He knew what those bottles of booze were doing in the back office fridge, knew several employees got stoned in the fire-exit hallway every weekend while on the clock, and he knew we got up to all sorts of other shenanigans. We were always eager to help customers, but we were also just as eager to take the piss out of their musical selections, and sometimes we intentionally put on certain albums just to piss people off. We thought it was hilarious. We also thought it was hilarous when he'd catch wind of something we'd done and get upset and huffy.

But as I said, he wasn't really as bad as we made him out to be. In fact, sometimes he could even border on "cool." He and his wife became vegetarian in 1970, and raised three vegetarian daughters. He and his wife were an inspiration for me, and it was because of them that I learned about TVP and how to fix tofu properly. They retained a lot of their "hippy ideals" and stood up for their beliefs. For their 25th wedding anniversary, they purchased a vacation home in Florida, and vowed that soon they would retire there. His dream was to work part-time at Disneyworld, because he loved the "happy vibe" he got from being in a place where everyone was enjoying themselves.

He passed away yesterday, never having achieved that dream of retiring to Florida and working part-time at Disneyworld.

He did, however, achieve his dream of owning the best damned record store the city has ever known.

Farewell Sav. Rest in peace.

"Will you spin for me?"

I can pinpoint exactly when and where it happened: the junior high gymnasium, the spring of my seventh grade year. I can also remember vividly how it happened. Usually I worked out on senior Doug's mat, which was an honor, because it meant I was one of the “advanced” gymnasts. Doug was a good assistant coach, able to understand exactly what each of us needed in terms of help, repetition, inspiration, goal setting and praise. He had complete confidence in us, and we in turn built on that confidence until it shone in us as well. I learned fearlessness and loved working with him. He had a way of inspiring me to achieve perfection in floor exercises that I never thought myself even capable of learning. He instinctively knew when to step in and help with segments of my floor routine, and he knew when to step back and simply spot me as I sprung around on the mats. He was ACE. Doug was a brilliant gymnast, holding several state titles and tons of medals, but was not, however, a great looking guy. The poor guy seemed to have a rough case of acne year round, and so we silly little gymnast girls mooned over the assistant on a nearby mat. The assistant was a few years younger than Doug, which meant he was closer in age to us starry-eyed girls. We all harbored secret, and not so secret, crushes on him. His specialty was the vault, but since none of us were too interested in the vault, he assisted with floor exercises, taking the “beginners” under his wing. Whereas Doug was quiet, graceful and intuitive, John was loud, prone to mood swings and rather ham-fisted for a gymnast. We didn’t care though, because he was incredibly handsome, with dark, rugged Italian features and eyes you could swim in. As it happened, Doug missed practice to visit a college campus out of state, where he had been offered a full scholarship, and the head coach had no choice but to mix the advanced and beginners together for one session. We advanced girls couldn’t believe our good luck! As we readied ourselves for our session, John instructed us that on his mat we had to keep our socks on. We were used to working barefoot on Doug’s mat, so this was an odd request for us, but we happily complied because we were eager to please him. We sat on the bleachers watching the beginners, and John casually strolled over to ask what each of us had been working on with Doug. I was currently working on a salto/no-handed roundoff/whip back combination, which is a series of moves in which I flipped across the mat from end to end, without my hands ever touching the mat. I’d already mastered the salto/no-handed roundoff, but was still working on the movement from roundoff into whip back. I was momentarily rendered speechless by his request because he was SO GORGEOUS, but I managed to finally find my tongue and tell him what I’d been practicing. he nodded and wandered away. When my turn finally came, I soared through the first section of the routine until I got to the whip back. John was spotting me, and reached out to guide me over the whip back, and he was too heavy handed. I was used to Doug’s light touch, and John flipped me over too hard and fast. My socked feet flew out from under me and my spine smashed hard on the mat. It knocked me out cold. The foul smell of salts washed over me and I opened my eyes to find John and Coach bent over me, asking what my name was and what year it was and other things they should have already known. I, however, couldn’t remember anything for a few minutes, which someone later informed me was not a “few minutes” but around half an hour. I was eventually helped to my feet and John carried me over to the bleachers, where I remained, rattled, for the rest of the session. Coach was livid, screaming at him “What the hell did you do to her!?” John’s feeble response was that I was “a lot lighter” than he thought I was. I felt really bad for John, and apologized profusely for getting him in hot water. What an idiot I was. He should have been the one apologizing to me! I didn’t want to tell my parents, because they were already frightened of the stuff I was learning and constantly worried that I was going to hurt myself. Coach, however, made a point to speak to my Dad when he came to pick me up from class that day. On the way home I tried my best to downplay the incident, and I never told them about the recurring pains in my spine that would wake me up in the middle of the night for months afterward. I missed the next few sessions, recuperating. When I came back, Doug told me that he had heard what happened, and wanted me to start back slowly. I was fine with that. But I never perfected the whip back, and Doug didn’t force me, because he could see The Fear in my eyes. We both knew, although it was never mentioned, that my gymnastics career was over. Once you get The Fear, it’s difficult to shake. I never shook it. Free spiritedly springing around the mats is just a distant memory for me now, but I am often reminded of The Fear. It was there again last night, when shoveling a bit of snow caused the fragile lower back to throb and pulse. Was it the pain, or The Fear, that kept me awake most of the night?

"While the other kids were rockin' round the clock, we were hoppin' & boppin' to the Crocodile Rock"

From The Eggman to The Birdman My sister soon enough forgot about The Beatles and moved on to Elton John. Now to me, Elton was lumped in with The Scary Music, mainly because I didn't like the look of him. All feathers and monstrous glasses, he reminded me vaguely of a giant bird, and birds frightened the crap out of me. I could pinpoint my bird phobia to one night when Mom and Dad were out at a party, or maybe their Thursday night bowling league. Sue had been left in charge of babysitting me, and had spent most of evening on the phone arguing with her boyfriend. She'd hang up on him and ring her friend Lori to commiserate, then hang-up and wait for David to call her back so they could have another round. Engrossed in battle with the beleaguered David, she completely forgot to check on little sister, who was supposed to be safely tucked into bed. Unbeknownst to Sue, however, I had crept past the kitchen where she sat yelling down the phone, and hid behind Dad’s green leather easy chair. It was the perfect place to hide and listen in on her phone conversations. It was not, however, the ideal location to hide from the television, and I ended up viewing Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" in its entirety. By the time one of the actors got his eyes pecked out, Sue's phone conversation was long forgotten and all I could do was hold both hands over my mouth so I wouldn't scream and be discovered out of bed. Thereafter, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with anything remotely birdlike. That said, the first time I ever heard “Crocodile Rock” on WSAI-AM, I was hooked. It was simply unfathomable that Elton John could be said singer. So deeply did I feel that he was not the person responsible for such a wonderfully fun and catchy song, that I argued with both Mom and Sue about it one afternoon in the car on the way to the bowling alley. "That horrible birdman Elton John does NOT sing Crocodile Rock!" "Does too" Sue fired back. "Does not! He's too ugly and weird." "You're uglier and weirder than he is, creep" Sue wasn't persuaded by my argument. "Hey now," Mom cautioned, "don't call your sister names." "But she's wrong Mom, and you know it" Sue looked across the front seat to Mom and continued, "Elton John does sing that song, whether spaz wants to believe it or not. Gosh!" "I am NOT a spaz! Elton John is! He's a big, ugly bird and he's got a squirrel head!" I piped from the back seat. "Shut up twerp! You don't know what you're talking about coz if you did you'd know that Elton John DOES sing it and he wrote it too!" Sue thought she was soooo smart, and stuck her chin up in the air like an authority on the subject. Tugging on the seat-belt latch, I squealed "You think you're so smart but you're not! You're as dumb as Elton John looks!" Once free, I perched on the edge of the backseat and leaned over the front to bellow into her ear, "He looks like a bird but you're a bird-brain!" and I fell backwards, howling with laughter. "Mom!" Sue attempted an alarmed look, "did you hear what that little nimrod called me!? Aren't you going to do anything to her?" Mom shot her a cautionary look across the seat, but Sue wasn't sharp enough to leave it alone. She turned in her seat to confront me. "You are so stupid, you ignoramus little creep!" she spat at me, and I howled even louder, because I had never heard the word "ignoramus" and it struck me as just the sort of word to file away for later use back at her. "Elton John is not some weird birdman just coz he wears feather boas," she continued, "Only an idiot would think that!" She then reached over the seat and gave me a sucker punch to the leg, "And he DOES TOO sing 'Crocodile Rock'!" "That's enough from both of you!" Mom said, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hauling Sue back into the front seat by the shirttail. "Both of you sit down and shut up! One more word and I'll turn the car around and we won't go bowling." Mom's word was always final. I crossed my arms and pulled a face at the back of Sue's head, then turned my attention to the passing trees and buildings of our small town. "He does not," I muttered under my breath. Mom bowled in a league on Thursday nights, but every now and then she would bring us on a Saturday afternoon and let us have a go. On that particular occasion the lanes were full and we were resigned to the bar until a lane became available. Still muttering under my breath as we entered the dimly lit, medieval-themed barroom, what should I spy but a jukebox in the corner. The Elton argument was momentarily forgotten as I pestered Mom for a dime, and such was my persuasion that she gave me three, and told Sue to go with me while she got Cokes for everyone. Sue was never the brightest crayon in the box, and as she read through the listings for me, she emphasized that “Crocodile Rock” by ELTON JOHN was among the choices. It was red rag to a bull, and I hopped up and down excitedly and told her to play it. She obligingly punched the corresponding numbers into the machine, "E-5, and the E stands for Elton, spaz" and with that she dragged me away from the glowing music box and back to our table. “I remember when rock was young...me and Suzie had so much fun...” I knew every word and sang along in an off-key pipsqueak voice as the record spun its musical web. Sue hid her face in her hands as Mom joined in, and for the next three quarters of an hour Mom and I played the song repeatedly, with intermittent bursts of "This is NOT Elton John" issuing forth huffily from my little know-it-all self. Other patrons came into the bar, had a drink and left, all to the tune of our warbled rendition of "Crocodile Rock." I made a mental note of how many other people were putting their heads in their hands, just like Sue. Seven. Over and over we sang, until one of the seven, a drunken, disheveled man on a barstool, warned us that if we played it again he'd use our heads as bowling balls. He then turned to me and said, "And for Christ sakes, it IS Elton John, so shut up already." Sue shot me a look of superiority and said "Go eat a big 'I-told-you-so sandwich,' you little twerp!" and flashed a smile at the drunken man, who simply shook his head in thinly veiled disgust and turned back to his beer. Pouting, I stuck my tongue out at his back and decided that if Elton John really did sing “Crocodile Rock,” he would HAVE to be okay in my book, birdman or not.