Sara Hazlewood

The first time this happened — “Hotel California” was assigned as part of a poetry unit in my daughter’s junior high class — I went along. I consider myself open-minded. I figured there was more to the song than I originally remembered. But why, I asked myself, if they are going to deconstruct rock n’ roll, couldn’t they at least study Jim Morrison, who, although something of a degenerate, was at least a credible poet? And what the hell happened to Emily Dickinson? Are real poets suddenly devoid of academic charm or relevance?

Whatever. The class was asked to research and write about the meaning of the song, a tall order for anyone, including the Eagles. My daughter genuinely tried to come up with an intelligent-sounding explanation. But there wasn’t an answer per se; even the teacher offered no explanation at the end of the class discussion. Particularly perplexed were the kids who, because of language or taste issues, couldn’t even ask their parents what it meant. Granted, most of us with passing knowledge of the Eagles were just as clueless, but we could, given our age and experience, at least offer drugs as the subtext.

Then it happened again this year, this time at my son’s high school. It was right after they read Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” which is either the greatest contemporary novel of all time or the inebriated ramblings of a genius who stayed true to himself by aimlessly driving around with a friend who neglected his children and used women as cheap entertainment. But I digress.

This was deep into the unit on existentialism; I guess somewhere along the way they replaced Jean-Paul Sartre and Dostoevski with Jack, Glenn, the Dons et al. I was still reeling from the fact that my son hadn’t even heard of Sartre when the “Hotel California” assignment came into his life.

OK, I will concede that the first couple of lines of “Hotel California” are sort of nice. That “on a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair” bit is quite poetic. But that’s it. Things definitely start to deteriorate by the next line, which, if you will recall, talks about “the warm smell of colitas.” You know, I’m still not certain what that word means. It’s not in any dictionary, unless it is “colitis” (many still think it is), which is an inflamed colon. I don’t think Don Henley was driving on a dark desert highway smelling an inflamed colon. Maybe he was. (Nancy Reagan and school officials everywhere would be pleased to know that one explanation is that the Eagles were told by their road manager that colitas means “little buds” in colloquial Spanish.)

Yes, I know, there are a number of possibilities. One popular take is that the song free-associates on the trappings of success, drugs and Southern California, but I’m just not convinced. I even went as far as to check the Eagles’ Web site for the meaning of the song. Although I couldn’t find any comments by Henley (an admirable show of restraint), there was a pertinent interview with guitarist Glenn Frey. Here’s what he said:

“At the time we were also quite fond of Steely Dan and listening to a lot of their records. And one of the things that impressed us about Steely Dan was that they would say anything in their songs and it did not have to necessarily make sense.”

So can we really discuss ennui, the nature of free will, the struggle of man to overcome threats to his individuality using a song that was an attempt to emulate nonsensical Steely Dan lyrics? I think not.

And the parts that do make sense, let’s face it — they’re just not that profound. “I saw a shimmering light/My head grew heavy, and my sight grew dim/I had to stop for the night.” He was falling asleep while driving so he stopped for the night. Heavy. “I called up the Captain, please bring me my wine/He said we haven’t had that spirit here since 1969.” We all know that people had stopped drinking wine in the ’70s and had switched to drinks like brandy Alexanders, but is that worthy of inclusion? Is this English lit or Mixology 101?

Even as commentary on the life of a rock star, “Hotel California” is hardly eye-opening. The song could be about any number of contemporary performers: Consider the part about the woman with a Tiffany-twisted mind dancing in a courtyard with a lot of pretty, pretty boys. Britney Spears and ‘N Sync? Jessica Simpson and 98 Degrees? Where is the analytical meat here? The literary nugget lodged between the lines?

But most peculiar of all is the strange ending to the song and its sexual allusions. You have mirrors on the ceiling, pink champagne on ice and talk of being prisoners of our own device. Mostly a fantasy befitting a post-adolescent male until it turns into a cheap horror flick, complete with the enticing woman who is evil, everyone gathering for the feast and not being able to kill the beast. All you need is Vincent Price saying the last lines: “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

So here it is the start of my son’s senior year. They’re kicking things off by studying existentialism — I swear to God — and I find myself wondering if they’ll employ a team of child psychiatrists to mop up at the end of the semester. A quick look at the reading list brings some comfort, though: Kerouac again, but no “Hotel California” and — joy! — Sartre.

He’s right there at the bottom, just before the Doobie Brothers and right after Bachman Turner Overdrive.

It’s not clear why they were so unimpressed. Her numbers were strong, exceeding analysts’ expectations: Revenue doubled to $69 million for the quarter, up 24 percent over the same period last year. Her company is even profitable, for crying out loud! In the current climate of disappointing earnings, slow growth and outright bankruptcies, her performance is even more astounding. And she’s in a notoriously fickle industry as well. In short, she kicked ass.

For many of us, the news isn’t surprising at all. We’ve known about Martha’s prowess for quite some time. As evidence, I’m heading out this afternoon to look at those pots and pans she’s been hawking on television commercials. And believe me, that’s no easy feat considering my last experience in that bastion of American discount stores, K-Mart. After wandering fruitlessly through aisle after aisle of that time-warped, circa 1950s store, it took about 20 minutes to pay for my one lousy purchase.

But the fact remains that I need some new pots and pans. And if Martha Stewart put her name on those pots, that’s good enough for me. That’s what you call marketing, a concept unknown to many companies today. Companies like that beleaguered and struggling Priceline, which spent a fortune on a nincompoop of a spokesman who doesn’t even use the company’s service. Of one thing you can be certain, a gaffe like that would never happen in Martha Stewart’s company.

Perhaps it’s easy to overlook her success because her company is devoted to domestic interests. But another peculiarity is the snide manner in which she’s portrayed. For instance, in the company profile at Hoover’s Online you can find this odd comment: “Mix equal parts Julia Child, Miss America and P.T. Barnum; stir in liberal amounts of ambition and chutzpah.” P.T. Barnum? What’s that supposed to mean? And one would think ambition and chutzpah to be natural, not to mention desired characteristics for an entrepreneur — why bother mentioning them, unless to highlight how unnatural it must be for a woman to display them?

I remember when Martha Stewart’s company was about to go public and Bryant Gumbel was interviewing her. Granted, Gumbel is a poor interviewer, but did he actually have to ask her if she was scared about her forthcoming IPO? Would he have asked Ted Turner that question?

It all boils down to this: The business arena — predominantly male — doesn’t really understand Martha Stewart, doesn’t quite accept the fact that a woman can be a shrewd businesswoman and cook a nice dinner and put on a great party at the drop of a hat. It’s called multitasking, guys, and women have been doing it for centuries.