Bon(ed) Soir

"a musical wasteland of endless bass solos and fart-like runs ... "

 This was all I could muster after seeing Wycliffe.

I don't know if the music was lacking, it was the overall vibe of the Lincoln Center Out-of-Doors crowd (most of them there to see Randy Newman this night) ... younger now, but no less pretentious and trying-too-hard-seeming as when I used to live across the street and (barely) attended auld FU.

Or, have I finally stopped trying too hard to dig jazz?

When I used to immerse in the scene, in the clubs, eating cheeseburgers ... waitresses (swimming in sax!) ... with the crowing, old voices of jazz legends nightly, and Wryly Sardonix demanding I leave ... which I did one night, mid-set, when he yelled from the stage that he sounded "like shit" and the cause of that mess fell on my deaf ears ... WHAT!?

I stormed offstage that night before he did!  There's only one King, bitch, and I left the building!!!

... Where was I?

Oh, right.  So Wycliffe Gordon ...

I went to see James Brown once, back in the day when we lived in America ... and shuffling around the stage at Radio City Music Hall at one point with an RK-100, he launched into a noodling rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" ...

Now don't ever let anyone try and tell you that James Brown, 'the Godfather', was NOT a show-stopper!  He stopped that show dead ... ground to a halt, as he strutted and poked on his shoulder-slung Korg, an eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth verse.  Of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame".

Really.

"The hell is he doing?" a guy behind me asked his date.  Something large and thrown fell just short of the stage ... A chorus of "boos" began, like an imagined cliché scene, and rose in cresecendo until filling the theater.

James Brown stripped to his undershorts and started kicking Rockette-like, as the curtain came down and there wasn't an encore.

Just kidding!  Nobody really threw anything.

But I remember that night well ... I hooked up with a girl who thought she had tickets to see Jethro Tull ... and experienced something like it last night seeing Wycliffe.

Or maybe I wasn't in the mood.

Are You Hearing Me?

For many years, I have had the good fortune to be a live sound engineer - mixing bands that can play actual musical instruments ... so that I, as any actual live "sound engineer" should be able to do, can discern between the varied sounds and tones of each instrument (the human "vox" included) ... as opposed to, say, sitting behind a computer (a digital sound console) and lazily babysitting "presets" (watching the faders zoom up and down together).

writes Mr. Nice Legz

As any self-respecting musician (or opinionated windbag in the business) will tell you, there is nothing worse than a lazy sound guy.

That said, there are clearly advantages to going digital in a live sound environment.  Because digital processing is self-contained -- that is, all of the effects, equalization, compression, etc., can be accessed from within the sound console itself -- there is no longer any need for racks, and stacks of "outboard" gear cluttering the tech. table or mixing area ... so when babysitting digital presets myself, I can at least put my feet up.

Once I was doing this hotel gig, and we started discussing the lunch that was going to be served that day.  As we were finishing breakfast, waiting for the morning's first presentation ... the in-house sound guy I was working with blurted, "Salmon!  Never been much of a salmon guy.  Just give me a nice piece of friggin' swordfish!"

And then he fell mountainously asleep at the sound board.

See, that's what I'm talking about!

That's the main difference between analog and digital audio mixing.  It's apples and oranges ... salmon and swordfish!

Head ... Case

or, München (ist für die Birds!)

Skulking up Schwanthalerstraße recently, past the Deutsches (on the left hand side) ... the Nokem store and that hookah place, I double take as I notice a large bird -- tweeting and making strangled noises auf Deutsch -- flying down the otherwise empty street toward me, my own beak directly in its sights.

I'm not sure whether to freeze or keep walking ... duck or run ... fight or fly away myself.   I decide, after giving it some thought, just to stand there and shit my pants.

This fiendish Archaeopteryx, apparently sensing my response, pulls up at the last moment ... leaving me to marvel at the sanctity of life and nature ... with an excretion of some sort dripping down my forehead, but otherwise, none the worse for wear from our run-in!

Nonetheless, since then, I'm wearing a diaper.  On my head ... just in case.

Better sorry, and safe ...

Sony, North Korea and Me!

As an American, I’m confused:  do I thump my chest and stress about complete and utter capitulation … the weaselly collapse of an entire segment of population … the industry that feeds it and the “weakness” of our nation?

Or am I glad that things aired on the right side of caution, and that fate wasn’t tempted?

* * *

(Thanks, Rene, for the reblog!)

Remember(ing) Laughter

When my dad turned 50 years old, he did a little 'river dance' on his birthday cake.  Sadly frustrated with life and years behind him to that point, and whatever present hassles he felt his family, (empty) wallet and failing business had been giving him, in a single swooping motion, he swatted his 50th birthday cake off the kitchen counter, and leapt upon it like Nureyev.

Stamping like a person one-tenth his age in the frosting, and crushing "5" and "0" candles beneath his still shoe-clad feet, he ceased misbehaving only when my mom burst, literally, Lucille Ball-like into tears.

I was not privvy to the "Event of the Half Century", as my brother and I came to call that day; I did not witness it myself ... My brother, in these sort of excited, hushed tones, related what was going on, as I entertained guests in the upstairs bedroom we shared:  a sanctuary (whenever I'd lock Jared out of it) that I used to kick back and call, "The Swamp".

Finest Kind

My friend Mike and I had been arguing that day over which of us was going to be Hawkeye Pierce ... and more importantly, which one of us was going to go downstairs and eat birthday cake wearing the dirty bathrobe my brother and I had laying around the floor of our bedroom?

I was adamant:  I was going to be wearing that bathrobe, because Hawkeye would have ... and anyway, it was on my bedroom floor, in my house, not Mike's!

"You're Trapper John!  You're TRAPPER!" I screamed into Mike's sweaty armpit ... as he tightened his headlock and gave me a noogie.

Just then, my brother (Major Winchester) burst in.  "Dad smashed his birthday cake on the floor!"

I didn't hear what he said at first -- flailing, in a headlock, as I was -- but eventually, as the words sank in -- and as my best friend Mike released his grip -- I realized that neither of us would be needing the bathrobe ...

There wasn't any birthday cake to be eaten!

"Jared, are you joking?" I asked my brother.

He responded by throwing me into a headlock ... I told him I believed him!  I just wanted to make sure!

He gave me a noogie.  Then we ran downstairs.

Sure enough, my mom was wailing like Lucy ... a birthday cake was on the floor ... and there was my dad, with some paper towels, wiping frosting and candle wax off his shoes.

Fast forward several decades.  As I near the 'Big Five-Oh' myself -- incidentally, no longer so smug in my lineal place as the older brother -- I compare my (mid)life now, to my dad's back then:  daily stresses?  Check.  Money messes?  Check.  Failed business(es)?  Check(check).  Wailing wife and stunned children?  At times, check and check.

But an overriding impulse to laugh through it all?

That most vital touchstone ... Happily, check ✓.

Made Brown Again

Congratulations on getting 5 total likes on Jeff Glovsky INK

Five Likes only??

Yikes!

... more Random Poetix

by Jeff Glovsky 

Why Is It So Big??

Story of my life!  I get asked all the time ...

Why is your blog so ridiculous??

I smile, wink a little ... proudly, yet truthfully, say "I don't know."  Ask if I should change my dongle.

"Your dongle's fine ... ".

I smile again.

"Dude!  What the fuck?  Stop simpering at me!"

"You tell me why it's so big!  That's why I called you here, to look ... Here, let me open things up for you ... "

"Holy shit," she says, as it smacks her eyeballs ... "That is big!  Is that as small as things get?"

"Yes," I say, sheepishly.

"It's like my parents' telephone ... "

"I know!" I say proudly.  "I was looking at it the other night, and thinking the same thing!"

"My mom's small fingers get lost all over it.  My dad can flail away though, and never misses!"

"I hear ya'!"

"Can I ... ?"

"Absolutely.  See, I've got no control over how big it looks ... "

"You should resize this manually."

"I have, believe me.  I do!  All the time.  But then it just springs back to this size again."

"Even if you snip it?"

"Snip it, crop it ... It's like a worm.  It just keeps growing back!  Nothing I do ever makes it smaller."

"I'll make it fit the way you want it."

"Thank you, Gina."

"That's why I'm here ... "

And how was your weekend?
 * * *

more annoyances / episodes

Bad Lines and Inspiration

"Some might argue that it’s hubristic to write in the first-person.

"I (me, myself and … ) disagree.

"What I would argue is that the first-person, as a narrative form, should be retired. This would limit, if not eliminate, all the posers, pretenders and Starbucks dreamers who 'share' themselves like drunken cheerleaders. It would also pretty much lay waste to the 'blogosphere' … this, arguably, not a terrible thing.

"Several decades ago -- before our Facebook, cut and paste, 'open-source' world --  there were older siblings … also scribbling, pos(t)ing dreamily, into Barnes & Noble 'journals' the size of granny panties … or contributing to Fray."

It's All About Me(dium)

in

Inspire the World

Independence

Photo(s) by Jglo

I'm a part-time expatriate.

I am not an ex-patriot.  Just because I spend time abroad, and maintain a little Schloß looking out over Bavarian rooftops, doesn't mean I belong here ... or understand, particularly, the workings of the Bundestag.

I don't (yet) speak German, cannot tzpe things easilz ... Canät get through a newspaper, could not compose a blog or story ... Can't get past amenities, or pleasantries about das Wetter auf Deutsch.

But I'm not in München for conversation.

I'm here because need for change brought me here.  And business ... The Erneuerbare-Energien-Gesetz (EEG) is what started the whole solar power ball rolling ... and though planned reductions in government incentives and an overall energy market stabilization quelled the schnell reich dreams of many by the time I made my move to Germany ... still, I felt overdue for a change.

From the loud desperation, the quietly screaming ... the more and more frequently tipped boiling points; the embarrassing "news", the incessant "discussions", the swiping of credit cards and dignity ... which the United States, 'tis of me, has come to embody;

I needed respite, from upwards of €12.5 T ($17 trillion usd ... that's TWELVE ZEROS, folks!) in national debt ... and from the recently confirmed worst U.S. president since World War II ... Certainly, of my own lifetime.

... I remember being with Milf-y Vanily one night back in the day ... and we got around to discussing Richard Nixon, like you do .... I guess it was because I was coming out from the bathroom making a peace sign, and Milf-y laughed and said I looked like him (?).  Or something like that was going on ...

Anyway, she suddenly became embarrassed, like actually blushed ... and I looked down to make sure I wasn't trailing any toilet paper.  She finally, after some (not so ;-) gentle prodding, said, "I actually voted for Richard Nixon!"

I remember thinking at the time, how sweet it was that that mattered to her ... Was it really such a point of shame (or playful pride??)?

Nixon's flameout in real time was just at the cusp of my cultural awareness - I was only entering Kindergarten then.  I knew he did something, and he was being replaced, and it was a darkly newsworthy time in America ... but I had nothing to do with electing him myself, of course -- at two, I was only along for the ride -- and I don't recall my parents ever saying much about him, or politics in general, one way or another.

They were probably ashamed as well, come to think of it ... and being from an earlier time than Milf-y, didn't bother speaking too much about things they felt they couldn't control ... America's first presidential resignation being one of these.

So when Milf-y Vanily played all coy, I started to think how sweet that was ... but also how little her shame (or embarrassed pride) really mattered in the great scheme of things.  It was history, and Milf-y really was from another era ...

I quickly put on my pants and left!

I relate this now, having grown into a Milf myself ... I'm a FILF!  I'm FILF-y ... approaching fifty ... and I empathize with the embarrassment, playful or not, which my companion shared with me that night:  I actually voted for Barack Obama.

And change is needed.

 

Cold, War and Otherwise

Though spring has sprung in Deutschland, in the States, the cold weather's unrelenting and winter storms -- for some reason, christened like hurricanes now! -- keep howling and blowing.

Also howling and blowing is western media, every time there's a new "global conflict".  Usually so ridiculously narrow and self-interested, reporting breathlessly the "breaking" news of Oscar night parties, celebrity deaths (all too often, self-inflicted) ... and/or imperious, like dolts in a small town, poking fun at perceived foibles: "Sochi problems", for example, or an "inept" investigation (or the opposite: escalating random acts of breathing -- those naturally occurring, every day things we all do because we're supposed to, and most of us are wired that way -- into newsworthy, larger than life acts of "heroism") ...

Where was I?

Oh, right.  So usually the media, particularly in the US and UK, is carrying on this way, perpetuating its curious combination of smug isolationism and Big Stick condescension, the whole time relying on unpaid contributors to file "i-reports", in order to fill all the 24/7 content platforms) ... but Vladimir Putin "takes" Crimea, and suddenly, hot.cool.Sochi gets forgotten; the meaningful Paralympics all but ignored, and CNN and the US start clucking, 'What to do about UKRAINE?'.

Geopolitically speaking, the US should have nothing to do with Ukraine.  The people of Crimea are speaking, and they seem to prefer not to be part of 'the west'.  This (so far) peaceful expression of self-determination should be recognized, in fact, allowed.

Beyond this simple statement of what seems, to me, obvious, I offer no public opinion.  My thoughts on politics, like religion and like my home address, telephone number, love and sexual doings that actually matter to me, are private, and will remain that way ... at least until they matter less, and/or I am ready to "share" them.

Does this mean, though, that I can't opine?  I don't have a politcal thought, or opinion?

"Gloaming Looming", ©Jeff Glovsky

Once I was sitting outside a jazz club where I used to mix sound.  It was a beautiful spring night, and I stepped out of what was, at that time, the stereotypical smoke-filled room to gulp in some fresh air.  It was during a bass solo ... These always tended to go on forever anyway, so I figured I had a few minutes, at least, before the singer would come in again and start gesticulating (wildly) toward her ear, suggesting (none too subtly) that she wasn't able to hear herself, or the piano.

As I was sitting there, pleasantly digging the gloaming, this homeless guy shuffles up to me and says, "Nice night, huh?"  He sits down on the brownstone stoop beside me, and offers up something about the second Gulf War ...

Well, I'd always been taught, and took pains to adhere to, the common sense adage about not talking to strangers.  I took this literally, and to this day -- fast-tracking to fifty (!) years old -- I struggle with its application.  Innately shy, to the point of awkwardness, if not coming across as 'differnt' (as in, 'that boy ain't right!') in most social settings, I was struck even dumber by my new companion's next and final communication.

After commenting about G. Dubya Bush, our troops in Iraq and September 11th -- all still very fresh wounds at the time -- and receiving zero response from me, this homeless guys says, "Man, I thought you were an asshole, but you might just be stupid."

Then sneeringly, he shuffles off.

I go back inside the jazz club, not offended or defensive, but really struck by what the homeless guy just told me: that I was an asshole, but I might also be stupid.  I'd never thought of myself as "stupid".  Throughout my academic career, with the exception of some shaky punctuation, Geometry in high school and five years of college, it was always the opposite!

But as I made my way back toward my sound booth that night, noticing that not only had the bass solo ended but the first set as well ... that the house lights were on, the stage was empty (though an amp was buzzing) and people were standing up to leave ... it occurred to me the homeless guy was probably right.

Hysteric Indulgence

"I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying." - Nelson Mandela (1918-2013)

I'm ill-fitting, and self-absorbed.  Upon hearing of Nelson Mandela's death, I posted a picture of myself, and a link to my page on Writers-Network.

Here is what I was thinking:  I was trying to illustrate his quote about saints and sinners and perseverance, by putting up a "selfie" that might have sort of worked as a visual, sort of, 'Should I or Shouldn't I?' ... 'Done that (too late!), now what's the next move?'.

And then I linked that photo to my page on Writers-Network, because the apropos quote, attributed to Nelson Mandela, has always been a part of my profile there.

The move backfired, though, when that one guy who's following me intimated that I seemed like an asshole for doing this.

Beyond which, my sincere and timely post on Tumblr -- a humble homage to one of history's great leaders, and a light and inspiration to millions -- could have achieved 'maximum viscosity' (i.e., re-blogging) if I'd only decided to bag the link ... or better yet, do away with my own photo completely.

I did end up choosing to lose the linkage.  But my photo's still there ... first of all, because I think it does, in a way, sort of lend itself to the above quote, and this was my intention.  Secondly, because it's my damn Tumblr (just like Lil Wayne's cup) and I'll post what I want there!

Generally, I prefer to let my WordSpeak (and my Photos by Jglo) without boring, pretentious exposition.  'I wrote this piece when I was not in a good place' ... 'This next song...'.

"Shut up and sing!" I used to scream, when I'd drop into an open mic. to read my words, or be trapped in a sound booth mixing a gig, and some insecure windbag would get up before me.  'And then my dog suggested, "Eat the bone!"...my dog is my muse.  Why, I'm just a vessel.  But I can't do an English accent...'

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I used to scream ... as the audience assembled would invariably chuckle in indulgent, embarrassed anticipation at what the insecure windbag might utter next ...

Now the internet screen has become the stage ... but other than this, there is little that's changed.  I still become hysterical when I visit most blogs and read all of the reasons and rhymes for each posting; the gestation behind each creation, the excuses for what, why and how each exists.

I BECOME HYSTERICAL with explanations which have themselves no need for existing, and only serve to pad the word count (or cleverly populate search results).  Rather than letting the words, or the various images, speak -- and rather than allowing me to absorb them subjectively -- there are zillions of  "creators" all telling me what, why and how I should feel, follow, "favorite" or "like".

Of course, zillions respond to this becoming-less-and-less-subtle steerage, and the "blogosphere" gets born and is an ever indulgent, happy place ... I become hysterical!!

Though all things considered, I am happy to be weighing in.  I will steadfastly be keeping your two cents to yourself ... but I know you'll continue to 'stumbleupon' sundry Random Poetix and other works, and Wor(d)s in Progress, by Jeff Glovsky, and take what you may from them ... without any boring, pretentious exposition.

I just wanted to take this moment here, to elucidate my self-absorption.

Thank you very much.  Thanks for reading.

Good night!!!

"All of Me", ©Jeff Glovsky

The Numbers Scheme

This was not the original plan ...

The plan was to match up my number of posts here -- or 'annual output' -- with the number of each corresponding month.  For example, June, when I started, should've seen six posts ... August, eight, right (because that's the eighth month)?

October, there should have been 10 posts, etc.

So here we are now, at the end of November, and I've only had seven things to say!

Seven seems to be the mean:  the overall average of monthly posts that time (or inspiration) allows me ...

I was wandering around a carnival once, or maybe it was some street fair or boardwalk / hippie part of town (like Santa Monica Pier or Pike's Place) some place ... and these Jesus freaks were pummeling people with pamphlets promising redemption.

One pimply prophet, someone's young runaway, ran up all saying, "Sir!  Sir!  Can I just talk to you for a minute?"

It was the first time I remember ever being called "sir" - so it must have been about twenty years ago ... right at that tipping point between Youth and Now.

"Not now!"  I remember clearly snapping.  I was snapping photos, and wanted then, like now, to be left alone doing it (buildings and night skies and moods much more vital than people to me, even then, like now).  "You're like the seventh person to come up to me here.  What part of town is this?"

The pimply young prophet did not miss a beat!  "Seven ... You mentioned seven," he says to me, eerily.  "What's that about?"

"Well," I begin, mustering enough patience to be able to feign.  "Seven is a natural number following six and preceding eight.  It's the first integer reciprocal with infinitely repeating sexagesimal representation ... and in quaternary, seven is the smallest prime with a composite sum of digits.

"It's also a purty little glyph...".  I reach down and unzip my fly, and that does the trick!

The pimply prophet's off and running, not looking back.

I was telling this story to Kléber the other day, this guy who lives in the apartment below mine.  I was jockeying for a parking place (i.e., crossing several lanes of traffic while down-shifting, finishing a pretzel (wiping mustard off my tie) and sending a text message) when I ran into Kléber -- literally -- stepping off the curb in front of our building.

As I was helping him to his feet, we started talking about numerology.  Kléber was all pissed, because his wife had just accused him of removing some photographs from a family album, and he wasn't looking where he was going (that's why he ran under my Volkswagen) ... We started talking about numbers, and I told him about my run-in with the meaning of the number seven.

Then it occurred to me, while we were chatting, that each month since July -- July of course, being the seventh month -- I've posted more or less seven items ... except September, the ninth month - when I correspondingly posted nine.

... I have no idea how any of this all ties together (seeing as you asked) ... but it wasn't the original plan.