By Tim Sanders

Last week the FDA approved the new over-the-counter diet pill, alli. On that product’s official website, the fine people at GlaxoSmithKline offer the following suggestion to alli users: "You may feel an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Until you have a sense of any treatment effects, it’s probably a smart idea to wear dark pants ..." I can just imagine scenes like this one:

"Say, Bob, what’s that foul smell coming from your cubicle?"
"From my what?"

"Your cubicle!"

"Oh ... you noticed?"

"The whole office noticed!"

"I can’t understand it. I’m wearing dark pants like they said on the website!"

But had Bob read further, he’d have noticed that the site actually advises consumers to "wear dark pants and bring a change of clothes with you to work." And just to cover all its, uh, bases, it adds: "You may not usually get gassy, but it’s a possibility when you take alli. The bathroom is really the best place to go when that happens." To which I’m sure each and every one of Bob’s co-workers would say, "DUH!"
Of course, all of this talk about gassiness and incontinence brings us to what is, sort of, the real topic of this week’s column:

Lawrence Welk.

Let me explain. When I was a kid, my parents were obsessed with proper bowel function. I think the Great Depression did something to their bowels. They fretted over their bowels, they pampered their bowels, they exhorted their bowels, and they talked about their bowels. When I was a youngster, Mom would often gaze across the dinner table at my plate, smile sweetly and give me this wholesome advice: "Eat your greens, Timmy. They’re good for your bowels." I usually responded by dropping my fork on the table and sticking my fingers in my ears. I remained very suspicious of green, leafy vegetables for several decades.

And, like so many bowel-obsessed people of their generation, my parents were Lawrence Welk fans. In the old days the Lawrence Welk Show was sponsored by Geritol, which was a harmless potion for old people with "iron poor blood" and lots of other complaints, including bowel problems. Geritol, by the way, is now produced by that very same multi-national pharmaceutical conglomerate with the run-on name, GlaxoSmithKline. I’m sure you can see how all of the pieces are fitting together, now. It is part of my plan. I am a journalist, and when it comes to good journalism, there are no accidents. Unless, of course, the journalist is taking those turbo-charged diet pills.

At any rate, a few weeks ago I walked into our den and noticed that PBS was running some sort of a musical extravaganza. On our TV set, I mean. There was an exceptionally old gentleman with flowing white hair and a goofy-looking top hat singing a song which was once one of my favorites. In the Spring of 1965, "Game of Love" reached the top of the charts. It was performed by a British group, Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders. As the camera panned the audience, it was just like watching the old studio audience on the Lawrence Welk Show. There was row after row of elderly folks, all swaying and clapping in sort of a stiff, halting, almost rhythmic manner. The old guy who was singing the song was doing a decent job, but the beat was way too slow, and it didn’t sound exactly the same. Obviously this octogenarian was no Wayne Fontana.

But as it turned out, it was Wayne Fontana. The PBS people had scoured retirement villages and nursing homes throughout the UK and invited a bunch of the British Invasion acts from the ‘60s to appear onstage and perform their hits. I called Marilyn, who sat and watched with me for awhile. Two elderly, white-haired gentlemen, Peter and Gordon, sang their 1964 hit, "A World Without Love." At one point either Peter or Gordon–I never knew which was which–dropped his dentures, but they still managed to keep the beat. Gerry Marsden of Gerry and the Pacemakers sang "Ferry Across the Mersey," and "Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying." I’m not sure, but I believe that Gerry actually had a pacemaker. There was also Procul Harem, who sang "A Whiter Shade of Pale," which made no sense in 1967, but now, after 40 years, makes even less sense. The Searchers got lost backstage, but finally found their way to the microphone to sing "Needles and Pins-ah." Other geriatrics there included the Zombies, Petula Clark, and Lulu, who actually looked better than she did when she sang "To Sir With Love" in the movie. Marilyn said she’d undoubtedly had some major reconstructive work done.

Eric Burdon and the Animals sang "The House of the Rising Sun," which was such a cool song that back in 1966 many of the residents of what would later become Van Wagoner House at Oakland University lobbied to name the new men’s dormitory "House of the Rising Sons." (We lost.) The once very young and groovy Eric had morphed into an aging Floridian with a flowered shirt, crew cut, and sunglasses. The only thing lacking was the metal detector. And when he got to the line "it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God I know I’m one," he got stuck on the "I know" part, and repeated it over and over again. Finally his drummer crept up behind him, poked him with a drumstick and jarred his memory. It was very depressing.

It was so depressing, in fact, that Marilyn and I turned the TV off before the show was over. We realized that we’d become our parents. All that was missing was a jovial fat guy at the piano, a smiling clarinetist, four or five grinning accordionists, and old Lawrence saying "Thank-ah you, boyz-ah!"

To paraphrase the Moody Blues, whoa-oh-oh-oh, I gotta go now. I think those new diet pills have kicked in. It’s either that or the darned Geritol.