Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: new (Page 34 of 46)

Physical fitness vs. physical fatness…

Maybe you never heard of Joe Weider. It is pronounced like Joe WEE-der. To me, it seems like I’ve known him all my life.

Big Joe started out as Little Joe, one of those 98-pound weaklings – OH, wait a second… there is probably no one reading this that remembers those old comic book ads that promised a body-builder’s-body to anyone who sent in the money for the booklet.

Those ads showed a scrawny guy lounging on the beach with his beautiful girlfriend, perfectly happy until the big beach bully strolls up and kicks sand in the poor guy’s face. It was the basis for a series of ads that became a national joke, of sorts. The 98-pound weakling. It was like saying Loser! Or Whatever! Or LOL ROFL OMG! Everybody knew what it meant.

Little Joe became Bigger Joe. If he was scrawny to start with, he worked out to make up for it. Then, during the Great Depression, he started what became an empire of muscle magazines, equipment designed for bodybuilding and fitness, and diet supplements. He was one of the backers of bodybuilding contests that featured superstars like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

In truth, Weider discovered the bodybuilding formula in a magazine. An immediate devotee, he continued his fitness formula for life.

He died yesterday, at the age of 93. He wasn’t infirm or out of shape, but his heart gave out.

Even in his latter years, ages 70s and 80s, he was chiseled and fit. After all the years, he still had a following of readers, people who took up Muscles and Fitness, Flex, Fitness, and Shape, a magazine for women. All together, it amounted to some 25 million readers. In those pages were people like Schwarzenegger, Cher, and Sylvester Stallone.

For my part, I remember thinking about getting in shape. I laid down on the couch until that thought went away. Joe Wieder was a product in my mother’s health food stores and not so much a destination for my lifestyle intentions.

Here’s the weird part: I remember the canisters of the Joe Weider products more than the man himself. I guess that’s proof that his legacy will live on. RIP Mr. W. When I was stocking the shelves for one of the country’s health food pioneers, you were just a name on a product.

Age 93.

In anybody’s book, the man achieved a ripe old age. Probably moving around in his latter years faster than I am now, and I’m many, many years his junior.

For many pioneers of the heath food and body building industry, Joe Weider was the Jackie Robinson, the Charles Lindbergh, the Lewis and Clark, and the Edmund Hillary. (Google them, if you don’t know these pioneers in their own fields…)

RIP Mr Weider. You were ahead of your time, and lived long enough to see the results of your efforts.

I’m thinking about getting in shape and it is in no way an intention of disrespect, if I lay down for a minute or two to think about it first.

Thistles and shamrocks. What?

The lettering on the front door says McHuston Booksellers & Irish Bistro. People ask me about the Irish connection.

People: What’s the Irish connection?

Me: It’s like the French Connection starring Gene Hackman without the Academy Awards, the car chases, the drug running, or the European mafia. Other than that…

Nah. It’s nothing like the French connection, come to think of it.

This afternoon, I whipped the picture from the shelf to describe the Irish connection, then promptly dropped it and shattered the glass. Ooops. The frame was too large, anyway. As a result of my salvaging the picture, I have a chance to scan it in to the blog today.

Family folklore suggests the photo was taken on their wedding day. Michael and Mamie. He spelled his name Michel and her given name was Mary, but she was known as Mamie. He came to the US from the Kingdom of Bavaria and her family rode the boat over, leaving their home in County Tipperary, Ireland.

They had a great marriage, since she spoke no German and he couldn’t crack that Irish brogue. The language of Love, and all that, I suppose.

After their marriage, they joined the many Irish immigrants who were working the new Katy rail line at its Parsons, Kansas jumping off point. From there, tracks were put down across Indian Territory to Texas, opening up a whole new avenue for commerce.

My father would speak occasionally about Mamie and the singing of the Irish songs with his buddies. He had a wonderful tenor voice. Shame on me for not learning the tunes from him then, but I have made up for that shortcoming over the years, Alive alive-oh! Alive alive-oh! Crying Cockles and Mussels, alive alive-oh!

You didn’t ask, but the McHuston part of the Irish connection comes from my dear Mother’s side of the family. Her people arrived on a boat years before the American Revolution, trotted over to the county courthouse, and immediately declared that they had lately arrived from Ireland.

Her family, at the courthouse: Here we are, then. Would ye kindly jot that down in the book for us? A note of arrival, if you will. The name is Houston, and that would be us.

Clerk, writing in the big book: Irish, you say. Like I would not have guessed that. All-righty, then. Huston it is.

And thereby, and forever after, the family lost the O that might have been included for posterity, so others would not call us Huss-tun. It’s pronounced just like the Astros and the Texans and the fellow Sam: Houston.

The Mac part?

In the old Gaelic language, Mac translates to “son of.” Mac Donald described the son of Donald.

Mac Huston describes the son of Ms Huston, who is my mother – the book-lover who instilled that same attachment in me.

And THAT’s the Irish Connection (if it isn’t all a load of Blarney…).

Jay Limo. Funny car man.

He was leaning back in one of those old-timey desk chairs, the wood kind that squeaks loudly when it swivels. His appearance hasn’t changed much from that day, which was long enough ago that neither one of us would want to count it up. He’s back in town, for an appearance at The Joint, and is featured in a Tulsa World interview this morning. The article mentions Jokers Comedy club, the nightspot at which he was performing so many years back.

Jay Leno wasn’t so famous then. He was booked for a weekend performance at the Brookside club. I’m not sure I even knew who he was. He might have been filling in for Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show by then, but – like I say – it was that long ago.

I enjoyed doing the interviews. Back then, radio stations had to air a few programs every week that served the public interest – things like half-hour interviews with the mayor or streets commissioner. Potholes and infrastructure. We carried our share of those, but when Jokers Comedy Club starting sending me news releases about who was scheduled to perform, I began calling up and requesting interviews.

They were nothing like the one-on-ones with musicians that came ‘round the station. Those were about as formal as a radio interview could be, even if both the subject and interviewer were at ease. Studio, microphones, seated across a recording console. Reel to reel tape machine rolling (back in the pre-computer days…).

The stand-up sessions were almost always done at the club. Jokers had a little upstairs office – for the club manager, presumably. That’s where Jay Leno was sitting with his feet up on the desk.

It was early afternoon and I’m guessing for Mr Leno, it must have been the equivalent of 5am. Most of the performances were later in the evening, and many of the comics I talked with were up-all-night-sleep-through-til-noon kind of people. Leno mentions in his Tulsa World interview today that he doesn’t smoke or drink, that cars are his weakness. Maybe that was the case back then as well. He did seem a little put out, and I just figured it was a result of the lifestyle.

At one point, I asked him if Johnny Carson was critical of new comedians. My thinking was – from a competitive standpoint – any comic could be the next big thing. Bigger than Johnny, even (although he pretty well cemented his legacy). Jay Leno jumped on that. He told me that a Tonight Show invitation was the biggest break any up-and-comer could get, and that as a result, there was no competitive attitude. Everyone respected Johnny, he said.

Then and there I began trying to extricate my foot from my mouth. Didn’t mean to get him irritated. Was only hoping for some funny stories and an interesting half-hour.

It still was better than talking potholes with Jim Hewgley.

« Older posts Newer posts »