Grey(t) Love, Escape

“Grey(t) Skyline”

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Whenever I'm back in New York for extended periods, which is becoming less frequent as I ripen like Käse, I'm reminded simultaneously of what still iron-grips me, keeps bringing me back here ... yet why I began to escape in the first place.

I've long said, in New York (in Manhattan, that is), there is no middle ground:  You're either perfectly young for it, or perfectly old.  You enjoy the clubs, lounges, (now corporatized) live music / night life scenes ... the all-nighters, 4am diner hangs ... or you're comfortably numbed.  You've learned where to go, what to see, who to do for your comforts, and you can afford these.

In the midlife, there is only flight ... from noise and Groundhog Day-like hassles, constant inconveniences, too many people (incessant noise!) and tourist price-gouging.  Add to this, a milennial sheen ... This privatized, Disneyfied, playground vibe ... This "service"-oriented age of "transparency", where everything's glass and in fact, nothing's private and even the taxi drivers pretend now to "like" you (transparent, indeed!) ...

Entering a pizza place last week, I'm greeted by a greasy apron caught up in this fantasy, all beaming as he asks me, "How are you, good gentleman?"

"Uh, yeah ... Gimme a slice," I grunt.  "Not hot.  Just like it is."

"It's cold!" shouts he with glee, imploring.

"Don't care.  That one.  With the cheese.  Not.  Burnt.  No, not that one!  Looks like ASS ... "

This happened last week.  Looking back, I think for a minute, I have no idea why I'm acting that way ... but then it occurs to me, Wait.  Yes I do.

I'm middle-aged now.  Gearing up for a thirtieth high school reunion (!) ... and New York -- in reality, a shoulda been transitional situation, where it's never been easy to live, just survive -- now feels to me like a burial ground.  My mood and spirit, hopes and humor, all but submerged, subsumed when I'm here ...

“Subsuming”, ©Jeff Glovsky

I have flown ... but can't yet keep too long away.

Until I can, long for the New York I was young in ... the mind your own business, out of my face place ... Grown up, Garbo-esque, I request at least that.  For now ... while I still can't fly too long away.

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The 25th

Hey Kids!  According to WordPress, I've just made my 25th post HERE.  But

"Who's Counting?", ©Jeff Glovsky

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Always be a poet, even in prose.

- Charles Baudelaire

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 ...

V Day

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Obnoxious

For most of my adult life, since first being subjected to, quite literally, 'music free commercial marathons' on New York City radio in the late 1980s, I've opted out as a radio listener.

To me, there is nothing -- no thing -- more grating, like nails on a chalkboard or through the skull, than a shouting, hyped-up radio ad.  Annoyingly crass, too often unfunny, always talking too fast and demanding I hear ... There has been, and remains, no single thing that will make me move quicker to turn off or unplug an inaminate object, than an obnoxious and overlong music- and energy-sucking commercial on non-public radio.

Inasmuch, society's "hits" have never meant anything to me.  I couldn't say thirty years ago what you, as a kid, were 'dancing' to; I certainly can't tell you now.

Wait, that's untrue.  In fact, I'm "hipper" today ... better informed musically, from a societal (or "Top 40") perspective, than I was in that era when U2, Whitney Houston, Roxette and Lisa Lisa -- and Crazy Eddie -- all shared the airwaves and vied for attention.

This, of course, has as much to do with social media, as it does the little "rugrat" vying for my attention (guilelessly bopping now to One Republic :) ... not only the Internet, but the prevalence of Things.  Music -- news, weather, awareness in general -- seep in today, more than they ever were able to.

Today then, is a forced content (non-"on demand"), overly ad-serving platform like radio even necessary?

Along these lines ... Should anybody really be surprised about Beck winning Grammys in 2015?  Be asking, even jokily -- like Kanye stalking forth to claim "his" prize (for Beyonce!) -- "Who the fuck is Beck?"?

You know who Beck is!  Even you, little "Rugrat" ... Inconceivable back when Beck was 'losing', you're old enough now for 'lost' worlds to seep in ... You should add a Republic!  A Direction or two!  Become multi- ... Span generations.  Expand.

And above all, learn ...

to respect artistry.

Über ...

In the gross, crass world we've all become ... of "reality" monsters, Frankenstein face-making, Facebook perversions of expectations -- to be private; to be left alone, not to be "poked"; to exist without "proof" - by (over)sharing or "checking in" -- 

our unprivate, unreal world of "belonging":  of "registering", "joining", being forced to "sign in" ... Of psychotics and legal drug pushing, abuse ... Of oversex; joky promotions of gluttony ... Clashing beliefs about health, diet, wellness ...

It's a miracle any of us functions normally.

What is even "normal" anymore?  There are three (3) sexes now:  two genders and a "neutral" ... and we're asked to select one when giving birth.  We've become science fiction.  Test tube animals.  Experiments.  Targets, in both the traditional and ad-"serving" sense.

We fight back hysterically ... pinching ourselves ... Histrionically flailing for affirmation; some foothold to keep us from being subsumed ...

Yet don't get me wrong.  I haven't entered Nietszche mode ... Man, Woman, Brucekind has my respect.  My utmost support and best, fervent hopes.  And if you're in on the joke our new world has become, I want to tear that shit up!! why, I respect you that much more ...

Nietziche, y'all!

Cusp of Winter

“Ground Hog”, ©Jeff Glovsky