(re)Tired Images

photos no longer used online here

Audio / Vi(m)eo

Photo(s) by Jglo

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Fearless Failure

Whenever a gig folds, I expand ...

I wrote that twenty-some years ago, in a fit of exhaltation, having been sent home from a nice-paying job because -- as it was put to me -- my bright, loud '90s tie was too wide.  I think there may have been stars all over it.  I remember a guy I worked with bursting out into "Star Man" -- this tremulous, pitch-perfect Bowie noise -- whenever he saw me throughout that day.  We laughed about it ... Me calling him "Ziggy" ... Me laughing not with, but at myself ... and then my gig folded.

I got sent home.

Looking back, it's doubtful my neckwear was the (only) problem.  Perhaps I was bored.  A bit understimulated ... I was working in a hotel environment, where customer service and propriety were the norms.  Probably singing "Ballroom has broken", loudly -- this excellent, tremulous Bowie noise! -- to the tune of "Morning Has Broken", or barking gibberish in German, didn't help back then with the overall perception of me as a qualified, team-oriented AV professional (nor one with a full set of crayons in the box, for that matter!).

... I got sent home.

That paled, though, in comparison to being called up by an employer on New Year's Eve once, after work, and being bluntly informed that that day had been my last ... The subsequent year getting off to a flying stop, as I lay on the floor of New York's Port Authority bus station, waiting for daylight on January 1st, and my wife to return from upstate with our house keys.

There are several -- nay, hundreds -- of other examples, of me and misfortune caressing each other ... Each time, with each failure, and each lesson learned, there's potential, resolve not to get it wrong next time!

There are realizations, and steely damn insights, and fury ... Self-loathings with each new awareness...

But work-wise, I've learned it comes down to this:  If the job doesn't fit you, you really should quit.

If the job don't fit, you gotta quit.

If you're in a rut and it doesn't feel right ... bored to wit's end, and you're understimulated ... Singing songs to pass the time, or acting foolish through discomfort -- You don't feel you belong, so you're creating discomfiture -- it's time to assess.  Call timeout, and if necessary, take yourself out of the game.

Don't wait to be benched.  Or, for your gig to be folded ...

Take a deep breath.  Expand.

Be exhalted ...

Yeah, Yeah ... No!

Recovering from the rush of "addiction" apologists -- falling over themselves, as they have been this month, to try and justify the high profile heroin overdose of Philip Seymour Hoffman -- it was refreshing to be distracted this past weekend by the The Beatles' arrival in America and appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show fifty years ago.

While I tended to prefer the Sex Clark Five growing up, to "ageing musician" Dave's bunch and the rest of the early British Invasion . . . like millions of people before me and after, I did grow up in a Beatles household.  Introduced to their music on old Scotch cassette tapes, which my dad had recorded for my mom back in the day, I was intrigued at first by the musical whimsy ("All Together Now", "I Am the Walrus") ... the overall happiness of their early sounds ... then the melodies and singability became apparent ...

I remember cruising around our backyard on a riding lawnmower once, singing "I Should Have Known Better", and our neighbor complaining about the noise.  "The lawnmower is fine," I remember him shouting.  "Just lower your voice!"

Later, the bash and steady beat of The Beatles' 'college music', as I used to call it -- "Helter Skelter", "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" and "Day Tripper"; those three, in particular -- would keep me hooked ... and ultimately, there were the lyrics.  John, the poet, as the cliche goes ... but there was George, waxing wise about "the space between us all", and deadpan singing, "Love me while you can / Before I'm a dead old man" ...

There you go:  whimsy and poetry!

For that matter, the Ringo line, "You were in a car crash, and you lost your hair", I always found to be hilarious (regardless of whether or not it meant Paul was dead).

So suddenly last weekend, it was 'fifty years ago today' ... and sadly, John and George could not make the party.  There was George's son, Dhani Harrison, on-stage, representing.  There was Yoko, instructed to dance, representing.  There was Sean Lennon, looking disturbingly like his father ... There was the new and latest Lady McCartney ...

But how cool would it have been to see Sir Paul's son, James, and Ringo's son, Zak, a part of things too?  If not to perform something together there, with Sean and Dhani -- because let's face it, "Sean, James, Zak and Dhani" (in fact, the Post-Fab Four roll call would need to be "Sean, James, Dhani and Zak" to align with "John, Paul, George and Ringo" in the 21st century) just sounds weird - and that's without them even playing a note together!  It certainly would have been unfulfilling musically, for everyone --

If not to perform, then at least to speak together, reminisce a little ... and let the evening, not to mention the legacy, embrace them.

Perhaps they didn't want to be embraced.  The legacy already instilled within them, what need do James McCartney and Zak Starkey have to show up anywhere - let alone to what amounts, for them, to be just another family reunion with, quite probably, annoying relatives?

That said, the biggest omission of Sunday night's Grammy Salute to The Beatles -- an omission too often made in the grand Beatles' scheme of things, I think -- was Julian Lennon.  John's first son, and, arguably, the most creatively gifted Beatle offspring ... deserving, if anyone, to be included; invited, to carry a legacy.

Where was he last Sunday night when they were all together?  He was a no show man (goo goo g'joob) ... Hey, Jude deserves the torch passed down!  Not to keep getting burned, kept at bay, from The Beatles' ongoing and present flame!

... But what do I know?  I'm not in the Beatles' realm, and certainly don't claim to know any internecine goings on there.  I just think it would've been cool, and a richer golden anniversary -- not the golden slumbers that we saw and heard, and which came and went with seemingly too little forethought -- if all of the relatives could've been in the same room.

September... Auf Deutsch

I've begun reading, just for shits and giggles (as they say in the old country), Extrem Laut und Unglaublich Nah - which is Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close ... auf Deutsch.

Photo(s) by Jglo

Now the fact that I can't speak, read or fully comprehend Deutsch without a dictionary, or a drunk companion, does not deter me.  I am giving it the college try!   I started at the beginning of this summer.  I am already on page six.  I've found that if I skip around to the English bits -- words that I recognize, like "New York City" ... "Money Can't Buy Me Love" ... "Stephen Hawking" -- the pages turn faster.

Der Herbst, autumn -- in fact, life in general -- is all about the pages turning.  I approach fifty ... My parents, still living, are in their eighties.  My brother, still stuck in the '80's, is forty (Just kidding about my brother ... He isn't really forty!).

We're OLD, dude.  Alten Säcke!  And yet, though I still might rage (or flail) against the "machine" and show petulant, (sort of) tongue-in-cheek truculence toward Facebook and "its" generation, I still dig sounds I know Gen Y finds interesting ... can get up when I fall still, and have all my hair.

Beyond this, I have begun doing the same thing Gen Y is all doing:  putting my "work" out there ... unabashedly, shamelessly tiring you with it - my writing and imperfect photographs ... Words & Images, Random Poetix and Faction by Jeff Glovsky.

The key difference between me -- that is, my own generation, so aptly (nondescriptly) labeled X -- and the Facebook / Gen Y crowd -- the so-called millennials -- is that I leave the house.  While Gen Y hides behind its computers and smart phones and mixers and apps, I enjoy nothing more than walking, live music, fresh air and potential ... while still creating, doing, being, like Y does ...

It's not entirely Y's fault, though - the fear and feeling of What's the Point? that it has.  Gob-smacked with the Great Recession and trying to feed itself and excel in the worst economy in 80 years ... with guns creating daily havoc and so many jobs out there not worth the pennies (or "experience") they insultingly offer ... the running for the comforts of (mom's) home and "man caves" -- not to mention the support and opprobrium of vast "communities" of global strangers -- can be sweetly tempting ... in the same way I loved lying on my bed or sofa, "channel surfing" and talking to friends on my land line back in the day ... I get it.  I get the urge, almost the need, to stay home.

What I don't understand, and never will, is the eschewing of normal, everyday, whole life functioning.  Millennials seem to have collectively blown off driver's licenses, cars, homes, careers, marriages, children ... adulthood.  Intellectual curiosity ... anything with the faintest whiff of active participation.  They are a musical bunch, to be sure - capable of passively (aggressively) tuning out; but give them an instrument, or a book, it will languish untouched - unless it's an i-Something.  If it's a shimmering, vibrant keyboard graphic, or wildly animated guitar or drum kit ... That, they will pick up and click on, to "play"!

But I'm lumping now ... painting with broad strokes.  Like a racist or homophobe, I'm lazily generalizing.  Like every alter Furz (old fart) gone beyond 40, I'm trying to root for my own generation, and the certainties of the world I knew when I made the rules up while going along, and the paradigm shifted for my demographic.

I am over.

As the torch becomes past ... and the leaves of youth fade and fall like sex around my ankles, I can only watch, helplessly mixing metaphors ... hiding away inside a new world I wasn't born into, and don't (yet ;) fully comprehend.

"Verzauberung (Enchantment)", ©Jeff Glovsky

Syrias-ly?

Yes, it's personal.

War-like, with screaming calls to battle ("YOU ARE A F*#!ING CRIMINAL!") and overreaching shock and awe tactics, designed to get all Hiroshima ... which sadly (for everyone involved, and too many who were not at all), has achieved its intended effect over the past three years.

I have lost.  Copiously, tangibly.  And to this day, I continue to be abused and bullied by certain fools who believe it's their right or their calling, or it's somehow okay, because Hey, it's "out there", online, so it must be okay ... and must be true!

You don't mind, do you (Scumbag), if I pile on and harass, make demands of your ass and get all hateful?  You deserve it!  You must be used to it, right?

I'll just post a little bit too ... slander, libel ... add a few non-facts after the fact.  Use CAPITAL LETTERS - because like the rest of the internet, I'm PISSED OFF!!  Entitled, self-righteous, anonymous (though you'll always know very well who I am) ... and I'll do this, unless you meet every demand I decide to make!

You own the apartment - I'm your guest, in your property.  But I'll fight you!  Create problems, invent them ... talk nonsense, "yelp" bullshit and CALL YOU NAMES because I'm a misery.  Plus I feel inconvenienced.  

Plus, I read online somewhere that you deserve what I am fully prepared, and have cleared up my life and calendar, to give you.  Or give someone; "Jeff"'s not even your real name!  All criminals use aliases!  Jeff Glovsky's a crook, right?  You rip people off!  I'll make it certain that your clients and customers -- whom I'm not involved with, don't know and have no business ever being in contact with -- all know this ... so that reasonable dealings and communications, resolvable problems which might arise and/or potentially smooth and successful transactions with them -- developed and nurtured from a place of trust -- remain elusive to you, your family, business(es) and livelihoods.

... ?

But about your apartment - I lost your key and locked myself out.  So??  I won't cover the cost of the locksmith and the replacement key.  Of course not!  I'll CALL THE POLICE if you try to deduct the cost of the locksmith and the replacement key from the security deposit I argued about giving you.

I'd like to pay for the apartment in full the day I arrive, please.

Wait ... Why is this not possible?!?

Okay.  So if you can't just hold the apartment in limbo, turning away other potential tenants and hoping I actually show up in a couple of months ... then how about I send you $25, $50 in good faith?  Obviously, I won't pay anything else up front.  And I've got a friend in town who can visit the apartment and see it for me (just to make sure it exists).  When will you be in town?  If not, I'd like to do a walk-through when I arrive, before paying - Again, just to make sure your apartment exists and I'm not being SCAMMED!!!!!!

... Then, depending on what you have inside and the overall condition of things, I'll offer you what I think is an appropriate security deposit for myself, my two pets and my three children (but really, it's just me who will be staying in your apartment ... just as we discussed.  But we're all well-trained and well behaved.).

Jeff!  I've been trying to reach you.  You don't pick up your phone, and you won't let me text you?!?!?? I just called your wife and parents (I found them online), to see if they could help me contact you ...

Anyway, I'm 'checking out' of your apartment in ten days from now ... just as we discussed.  I want to make sure you're there when I leave, to get my security deposit back.  My flight is at 6am.  Probably leaving the apartment around 3:30 ... Make sure you're there, or I'll CALL THE POLICE again (Scumbag)!

Actually, such tenants -- such human beings -- from the belching, eruptive bowels of hell, have been relatively infrequent ... yet it's a tragic fact, to which I can and will attest, endlessly - that such obnoxiousness, stemming from fear and fueled by ignorance, does exist.

Because in 2010, things were made personal.  The sovereign state of my personal name and reputation was invaded -- raped, violated, left to die by the side of the information superhighway -- and as a result, everybody ended up losing battles.

Now, going forward, it's the ones who keep coming ashore with faulty intelligence -- the lazy and dangerously misinformed, who launch and re-launch the same attacks, the same Hiroshimas, September 11ths and Syrian gas nightmares ... perpetually offensive because they think there's no defense -- who are going to end up not winning the war.

Labor, No Love Lost

(or, Square Peg in a Round World)

I'm ill-fitting, and self-absorbed.

Most of my writing is in the first person, and I'd never heard of Paula Deen until last month.  Even in my salad days -- or more accurately, my bacon cheeseburger (medium rare), profiterole sundae days (and late night, bad life music nights) -- I couldn't care less about popular culture.

Knee-jerkingly antipathetic toward anything "mainstream", I pointedly avoided the sardonics of "Seinfeld" ... the cloying, warm fuzziness of "Friends" ... the bilious pomposities of Rosie and Oprah, the horse jocularities of Ed and Jay Leno ...

Of course, Ed McMahon was with Johnny Carson - I stopped having time for that guy too, when he hosted the Oscars!  Billy Crystal, Tom Hanks, Whoopi Goldberg, forget it.  And Robin Williams ended up going the same route:  essentially abandoning all that shtick about "drugs and people passing out" ... betraying his essence, reigning himself in and joining the cloying and warm, fuzzy "mainstream".

When Howard Stern became a judge on "America's Got Talent", all bets were off.  That, more than anything, put a nail in the coffin of what I perceived to be my 'youth':  rebellious, obnoxious, enigmatic ... Outside looking in, but not wanting to be in.

My early work life, not a whole lot different.  The fake camaraderie and/or seeming pointlessness of the American "air-conditioned nightmare", as Henry Miller put it (and as it perfectly describes too many of the office work wheels I've been a cog in) provided a woefully bumpy labor ride as a young adult ... and working in restaurants, I would either stare wistfully at a couple's table, assessing their body language, watching them smile and behave with each other and wishing I had someone to do the same with;

or wistfully stare at the asses of waitresses - blithely ignoring all other needs.

I've lost jobs and had businesses fail, often through nobody's fault but mine.  I've been labeled inappropriate, apathetic, inefficient, off my game, "superior to superiors", inferior to what's needed, beyond what's acceptable ... and, almost as ludicrous as the suggestion of (I guess) arrogance or condescension in the superiority comment above, I've been called unclean.

Now as you might imagine, of all of these, the complaint about my personal hygiene stinks the most.  Then again, it was probably the most head-scratching and off the mark, in terms of not only my work ethic and job performance, but also (as anyone who knows me will attest), my person.

Simply put, I am clean.  You're welcome to smell me.  I lift up my arms, with my shirt off, and dance; I blow in your face my hot, sweet-smelling breath ... I trust you'll inspect the long middle fingernails thrust with insouciance deep into your eyeballs.  And lick me.

By all means, you can lick me.

I'm clean.

This is what ricocheted through my brain, the day I got sent home from the lakeside restaurant where I used to wash dishes -- an early foray into underemployment -- and where, just a few hours earlier, Big Katy (Boss Lady) had reprimanded me that day about not chopping up some lettuce correctly.

"Make sure you really chop it!" said she ... pushing another fingerful from the salad bar into her mouth.  "This way, the customers can really get at it!"

She left the dining area then -- and me, in my filthy dishwashing apron, standing there with a head of lettuce which she'd lobbed my way like a softball pitch, after peeling a leaf off and blowing her nose with it -- and a few hours later, I get sent home because I'm "unclean"!

This is how people roll, of course.  The dirtiest, weakest, sickest links are always the quickest to point and think, "Do (and say) unto others ... "

And thus they do ... when they fit well.

Happy Labor Day!

"Night Work", ©Jeff Glovsky

Ultimate Pointless

"Destiny is what you are supposed to do in life.  Fate is what kicks you in the ass to make you do it." - Henry Miller

I've been snapping photos for decades.  I've been told (and I know) that I've "got a good eye".  Not to sound immodest, but if there are abilities I possess in which I have complete and utter confidence -- that is, in myself when I'm capably putting them to use -- these would be seeing (perception) ... followed by conceiving (conception), vocabulary/word flow and driving and/or sense of direction.

These are my skill sets.

For one reason or another, I haven't earned vast sums of money with any of them.  A little bit here and there; I've been lucky enough to sell a photo or two ... I've been paid as a delivery driver (bread, flowers, newspapers, musical instruments) ... I've directed plays and designed lighting and websites .. I've written web content, ad copy and had stories published.  But I have never had time to pursue my skill sets as anything other than passionate diversions:  I love to drive, and will travel by highway whenever it's not completely impractical; I love taking photos, composing images, painting pictures with words and rhythm ...

But I've yet to be free enough not to do these things free.

Could I have obtained a commercial driver's license at some point and enjoyed the freedom and responsibility of being a long haul truck driver, say, or a Greyhound bus driver?  Should I have dove into the grind, chasing agents and publishers or crafting the new Great American Novel?  Should I step up my photo game - invest in some gear and finally amp up my tools to match my "good eye"?

Yes, probably Yes and most Definitely, I believe are the answers.

But then there is the daunting, overwhelming Social Army:  the Facebookers, the hardcore 'Tumblrs', the bloggers, the i-news reporters, the You Tubers and Vimeo-ists ... Each with a squadron of "fans" and followers "liking" their largely mediocre output, and piping in with valueless comments and feedback.  "Great work!", "Nice!", "Love this!" are the constructive offerings ... while negative Two Cents from the peanut gallerists, on the other hand, can go on for paragraphs.  People seem to invest real time and thought, know exactly how, and are able to put into words, what they DON'T "like" ... but you'll be hard-pressed to find, anywhere online, a positive, well-written or thoughtful REASON to "like" something.

"See what your friends like!" Facebook and Google+ command ... and you all just do.

This, to me, is amazing.  I understand 'mob think' and 'herd mentality' ... brainwashing, laziness and the basic human need for appreciation.

 "Pedestrian Image", ©Jeff Glovsky

I guess my question is, if everyone is an artist -- a writer, photographer, DJ, musician ... "creatavist" -- then what's the point?  Where does one begin to stand out and become noticed?  Beyond this, where are the 215,000 notes on my own photo blog??  I've yet to receive more than six notes or likes on any image I've posted or shared anywhere!

Though to be honest,  I would much rather cultivate a dedicated follower or two, providing encouragement of value by showing discernment and regular, qualified attention to my work, than a herd of strangers posting, "So cool!".

This, to me, is the ultimate pointlessness.