On Tue, May 23, 2017 at 2:19 PM, Mark Jeffries <[email protected]>
 wrote:

> Interesting that they left in her potshots at Batiste and his act on the
> air and that they posted the full interview online (it starts at 6:09 with
> Batiste's first piano noodle):
>
> https://youtu.be/NyHCIhFsZoA
>
> And what does "Chuck E's in Love" have to do with her?
>
>
On Tue, May 23, 2017 at 1:23 PM, Jon Delfin <[email protected]> wrote:

> Funny you should ask. Anybody have a WSJ subscription? Or else we may
> never know.
> https://www.wsj.com/articles/paula-poundstone-on-chuck-es-
> in-love-1493737021
>
>
Never say I didn't do anything for the panel...

At 18, I was on my own and busing tables in 1979 at a salad-bar restaurant
in Boston. The concept of making your own salad was just catching on then.
That’s where I first heard Rickie Lee Jones’s “Chuck E’s in Love.”

The best part about my restaurant job was Mary, the manager. She had this
great work ethic and a motivating sense of humor. She made everyone laugh,
and everyone worked hard for her.

A cassette stereo system provided the restaurant’s music. One morning, when
I was setting up tables, I heard “Chuck E’s in Love” on the radio. I went
out and bought the album on tape so we could hear the song every day before
the restaurant opened.

“Chuck E’s in Love” is a happy song. It opens with a strong beat and a
slinky, twangy acoustic guitar. Then Rickie Lee Jones’s raspy voice comes
in and sings the song’s lyric, something about Chuck E being in love. I
loved Rickie Lee Jones’s quirky articulation. It was both rural and street
and hard to pin down. But it was tough to sing along with her. I could
never figure out what she was saying.

Even when I read the lyrics, they didn’t make much sense. Lines like, “And
how come he turn off the T.V. / And he hang that sign on the door?” But
when it was time to sing the chorus, “Chuck E’s in Love,” I’d wail away,
usually just before she did.

Eventually, Mary and many of my work friends moved on. I was heartbroken.
Clearing salad-strewn tables had lost its charm. By then, I had tried
stand-up at open-mic nights in Boston and was hooked.

With barely enough money for two consecutive months of unlimited travel
tickets and a bag of Oreos, I boarded a Greyhound bus.

Once I got where I was going, I’d work a comedy club and then take the bus
on long trips so I could sleep. It was cheaper than a hotel. During those
lonely nights, I longed for my restaurant friends.

The Sony Walkman hadn’t come out yet, so late at night on the bus, to avoid
disturbing anyone, I’d press my ear against the tiny speaker of my small
cassette player so I could hear “Chuck E’s in Love.” The challenge was to
avoid singing along or crying too loud.

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