MY BRUSH WITH THE RUTABAGA MAN

Although I will always be a devoted Beatles kind of girl, there are a few oddball musical groups that have grabbed my attention over the years, and one of them was Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. My college buddy Walter, of "Walt's Vault" fame (the title of his college newspaper sports editor column) turned me on to a bit of the Mothers, and I especially liked their song, "Call Any Vegetable," which is not to be confused with "Duke of Prunes." I'm not sure which of their albums it's on. Maybe "Burnt Weeny Sandwich" or "Uncle Meat." Frank and his crew always aimed for the bizarro when it came to writing lyrics. "Call Any Vegetable" is probably the only song in music history that coos sweet nothings to a rutabaga.

A few years after leaving college behind, circa 1973, I found myself working at a Love Field restaurant in Dallas, and among the semi-famous who strolled in one day was Frank Zappa, himself, and his bandmates, all of whom were and still are nameless to me. Like most good over-inflated performers and athletes, they asked for seating in the private area of the restaurant so they wouldn't be hassled by the commoners, but, believe me, I was probably the one in the joint who knew these scruffy guys in bell bottoms were the Mothers. No one was going to get within 50 feet of them.

I acknowledged that I knew who they were and asked where they were going. Memphis, maybe. I can't recall. They weren't rude, but they weren't friendly, either, so I got them seated, told a waitress who they were because she couldn't figure out why in the world they were getting the VIP treatment, and returned to the front of the restaurant to greet other customers. But a little part of me still wanted to go back to the Mothers' table and sweetly warble out to them, "Ruta-bay-a-aga, Ruta-bay-a-aga, Ruta-bay-a-aga, Ruta-bay-a-aga, RUTABAGA."

This will go down in history as one of the great regrets of my life.