Performer:
The Jefferson Airplane
Songwriter:
Paul Kantner
Original Release: After Bathing at Baxter’s
Year: 1967
Definitive Version: Anything from Woodstock. Multiple recordings are out there. The one I
have in my iTunes is from the Director’s Cut of the movie from 1994.
Awhile back, I mentioned my
Sunday night routine post-breakup with Debbie, which consisted of making a big
dinner, watching The Sopranos and Six Feet Under and then a few movies while
killing a bottle of wine. One of the movies I went to a lot during this time
was the Director’s Cut of Woodstock, specifically for this song, not only for
the song itself but to watch Grace Slick in her amazing white-fringe top.
Unfortunately, one tipsy night, I accidentally hit the record button on my VCR
and put a nice big gap toward the end of Won’t You Try. D’OH!
My routine Saturday night
was … well, pretty much the same, except my entertainment choices trended more
to titillation—Skinemax at home or the Dockside for some ballet. Regardless of
whether I’d go out or stay in, on Saturdays, I’d get carryout for dinner.
I had a couple of really
good options in my neighborhood, and I eventually reviewed both of them for
Carried Away. One was Weiland’s grocery store on nearby Indianola Avenue.
I call Weiland’s a grocery
store, because that’s what it is, but it’s nothing like Kroger, where I
typically shopped for foodstuffs. It’s like a Whole Foods for regular folks but
with better brands and lower prices.
I can’t remember whether
Laura told me about it, or I found it on my own after moving to Clintonville,
but I know I started going there because of its small but impressive wine
selection. I’d take my lists and stock up. After a while, I noticed they had
full meals for carryout, and I’m talking really good stuff like veggie lasagna
or turkey sandwiches with brie and cranberry sauce.
Weilands became a regular
stop until I moved to Cleveland in 2003. I’m happy to report that, at least as
of 2011, it still was there and still doing a solid business. I took Laurie,
and I bought four bottles of an excellent shiraz that I was having trouble
finding in Chicago. It was just like old times.
The other regular place was
Michael’s Pizza. Michael’s was on the “wrong side” of I-71. Whereas
Clintonville was well to do, the next neighborhood to the East, separated by
I-71, was not. It wasn’t a terrible area, but you definitely noticed a
difference in the quality of housing.
Close to the border was
Michael’s. The Grump turned me on to the place, meeting me there for pizza one
afternoon years before while he interviewed the owner, who wasn’t named
Michael. (Michael had sold to this guy, whose name escapes me.) Part of the
deal was that the new owner kept Michael’s grandmother employed as the sole
doughmaker. It was her recipe, and it seemed she was the only one who could
pull it off successfully. The pizza we had just onions, which was a bit too
much for me.
In 2002, Michael’s won a
pizza contest that gave it the right to claim “world’s greatest” status. Well,
if the world’s best pizza was this close to home, didn’t I owe it to myself—let
alone my readers—to give it another shot? I did—noting that grandma still was
in the back, still mixing her dough—but this time I added sausage and mushrooms
to the onions. That was the pick that clicked.
Soon after my Carried Away review
appeared, I went back for Saturday night pizza and saw that the Michael’s owner
proudly posted my review in his restaurant. I’d seen this elsehwere, and it was
never not cool to see, but this one was a bit overblown.
I mean that literally. My
review had been printed full size on poster board and put in the window of the pizzeria,
so anyone driving by could read every word.
I never said a word about
who I was—I believed in a reviewer being anonymous to experience a joint just
like anyone else would. I’d just go and pick up my usual, note with some
pleasure the words I’d produced and head home to see what was on Skinemax.
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