Hole in the Sky

“Missing (You)”, ©Jeff Glovsky

because it must.

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The Meaning of Jimmy

I wonder what happened to Jimmy, sometimes.

My first professional gig in New York, my first actual job there, was as a light and sound engineer at a cabaret theater called The Ballroom.

Jimmy, ostensibly, was the floor manager of the bar and restaurant part ... no doubt having taken the job proudly; won the position from numerous other qualified applicants and fulfilled his duties with zest and purpose ... once.

By the time I knew Jimmy, he'd become installed:  a figurehead, fixture at the end of the bar, where he'd plant each day and into the night, quaffing cup after cup of port and vino ... Occasionally yelling out, "86!" - whether the kitchen was actually out of a menu item or not.

It didn't matter to Jimmy, who scarcely realized where he was by the middle of each nightly shift ... let alone who he had bartending or waiting tables for him (who he was "managing", in other words) ... who might have been playing in the cabaret ... or whether blurting out "86!" in a crowded restaurant, for no good reason, was a good idea.

In work, as in life, there are comforts, nostalgia, stagnation, complacency, habits (for we are creatures of all!) ... which creep in and combine with routine, daily boredoms, lethargy, apathy, to freeze one in place ... annihilating zest and purpose, rendering one meaningless.

I wonder what happened to Jimmy, sometimes ... and sense, in the end, we are all of us, Jimmy.

Thoughts, Prayers, Remembrance

"A cacophony, full arsenal ... that crisp, blue morning"

"Celebrating" 9/11 (in 2013)

Transmission (Eloquence)

David Letterman on Robin Williams

 

Companion Piece (Characters)

Walking around the streets of my old town .. the Upper West Side, where I lived and breathed.

Where Amy's boyfriend broke the bar sign ... Joe G. (and Jeff G. - Jg²!!) shared a "bromance" before there ever was such a thing ... Skinny Jen and her Nicolas Cage-looking fella consoled each other through various episodes ...

Where Rick and Judith became "JewRick" ... where the multi-talented Angry Black Man targeted his future wife (proving there's trueness to "love at first sight") ... Where "Humphrey Bumphrey", "Gus", "Sergeant (Pepper)" and "Ass Feast" (don't ask!) trod the boards ... "Zoo Loser" and her sister, "Scab" (...seriously);

where Wolf and Ernest prowled the streets, the latter with his harelip up, a picture frame around his neck ('cause he was "FRAMED!", see?); or imploring passersby who'd listen, "What's the greatest nation on earth?"

Why, that would be the "Dough-nation!

"Donate to the United Negro Pizza Fund?" Ernest would ask, and I always would.  For one thing, Ernest was pleasant ... He was personable.  Not full of these fake Munchausen-esque self-pity syndromes, sitting planted on the sidewalk in people's way.

No, Ernest didn't have a new scrawled sign with a different sob story, in a different neighborhood, each night or week.  He didn't dress up for Halloween and make angry demands ... nor did he own a cell phone or iPad and sit there entitledly, chatting or tapping away on the sidewalks while fully expecting someone, at least, to rain into his paper cup ...

Ernest spoke for his place and time, in a way, and his generation:  he was engaged, first off ... He would make eye contact ... made an effort ... He was annoying, a little, but not unpleasant or nasty.

My pal Wolf, on the other hand ...

Though Wolf was also engaged:  in keeping alive, afloat, on the move (always prowling) ... He was never just sitting there, obnoxiously waiting.  Wolf, and I'm pretty sure, friendly Ernest, would have accepted employment had it been offered.  Neither seemed entitled or above it all (despite appearing on, and of, the streets) ... and neither one of them was overtly faking.

I think of old friends on the Upper West Side, and acquaintances and names I knew ... More clearly envisioning 20+ years ago, than my life here this century, which ended last decade ...

I've moved on.  Though I still think of Amy, Joe G., Skinny Jen ... auld FU in general ... Wolf, Ass Feast (!), the Angry Black Man and Ernest ... and I think still of Zorro, who loved to dream ...

Each night, caught her traipsing her mangy hound here ... the two of them dressed to the nines, fit to kill!

Then, "Zorro" was sixty, if she was a day ... apparently living to find a friend.  I followed her down for ten blocks the first time, the wide and noisy street between us:  me, on the east of Columbus, that is, and she and her mutt traipsing down on the west side ...

And Zorro flicked hair from a flattish sombrero, this dyed blonde, unruly and posthumous mane.  Her little pooch cried out as well ... the two of them begging, imploring attention ...

It was me, though, who tanked on that need as they vibed there!  That mutt, but outrageous, and yapping like mad.

"Sssshh," Zorro pampered and squatted down then ... to cuddle and fondle and soothe her dog friend ... and down there like that, her short skirt rode up high, and her narrow and varicose thighs kissed the midnight.

... As much as it hurts me to realize, admit it, I've outgrown New York.  Or it's left me behind ... or I've simply and finally, indeed, moved on.

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The "Zorro" bit, adapted from Central Park (a work in progress) ... Thanks for reading!

Song Without Music

für Elise Claudia

My biggest regret in life -- apart from wishing I'd spelled "recognize" correctly in the 8th grade spelling bee ... I'd have taken State!!  To this day, I think about that brain fart moment when I dropped the g, and puttered out "r-e-c-o-n-i-z-e" ... and the judge then, pausing significantly, completely ignoring me, turning to my opponent and intoning, "Recognize?".

... My opponent remembering the goddamn g!  Spelling "recognize" CORRECTLY, and setting off my lifelong descent into failure.

"Needless to say, you failed" ... my driving instructor also intoned to me, several years later, as I dinged a parked car while parallel parking.  I didn't get my license that day, my first try, at sixteen, and my piss-poor, abyss-diving life drove downward ...

Brother Theodore on Letterman:  all angsty pangsty, acting like he just burped up from hell.  Dark chords were struck, a bond was born, his shtick of torment, mine as well ...

-- but where was I?  Failure ... Regret!

The (second) biggest regret of my life is that I can't play an instrument.  Bopping sub tactilely, digging "the" jazz, doesn't qualify me as a Soundcloud "creator".  House all piano-less, tuneless fingers ... notes and tones just heard, unplayed.  Oh, would I spoke the languages of nature (plants) and music!  I can only see and hear ... Appreciate.

But not create.

And then, that one who got away.  You know who you are (Claudia) ... You 'got' me, understsood my Drang, my Sturm, und stood beside me.  You, who laughed at my suggestions, my sad efforts at suggestiveness ... You laughing, tousled hair and bird-like visage, made my losing less ...

Could we have played things differently?  If I blew notes, instead of all that air when we togethered??

Would we each be part of One, still?  How I wonder where you went!

But I digress ...

The parking meter's hungry.  I can ill-afford another ticket ... Traipsing out to feed her and I trip upon my laces, sprung undone because the shoes are cheap, like a bed in a hostel instead of a suite.

It's raining, as I'm on the street ... Getting up 'cause a cop on his beat comes to greet me.  Otherwise, I'd die here ("lie" or "lay"?) and just forget you.  But I can't forget you, Claudia!  Feel you playing still, my instrument ... You taught me all the things I could've kept, to keep in time, you mine ... but me, I tuned them out, and we ...

Our concert's over.

Now I try my best to solo, but I can't create the music!

No, the biggest regret of my life -- beyond the lack of talent and the 8th grade spelling contest -- is that blue, I note our lost motif and recoGnize it won't repeat ...

Dead Letter Days (JL, JFK)

Recently the world (or the U.S., anyway) "celebrated" the 50th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

"I am a jelly donut!" I toasted at one point during the November 22nd weekend ... not only refusing to "celebrate" death -- as we all tend to do, versus wallowing in it -- but also trying to be vaguely amusing while alluding to the wince-making "jelly doughnut misconception" which prevails, half a century later, in pieces of Germany.

Back in New York, there is today the annual celebration of a local, as much as a global, icon.  December 8th, 2013 "celebrates" the 33rd anniversary of the death of John Lennon.

While I missed having a memorable "Where were you when....?" JFK moment, I was alive, and do know where I was and what I was doing, when 'I heard the news that day (oh boy)' regarding JL.

I was watching a little football on Monday night ... which in 1980, was a treat.  Game days then were reserved for the weekend.  Football on Monday (plus at night!) meant I was going to be staying up 'late' -- usually well beyond my (unenforced) pre-teen "bedtime" of 10:30 -- and laughing with my parents at Howard Cosell.  This particular Monday night was no different.

Until, watching the Dolphins take on (and ultimately take) the Patriots, the blustering buffoon that comprised the persona -- the "Howard Cosell" (in quotes) brand, if you will -- became suddenly real.  Twice announcing that Lennon had been shot and killed, referring to it on-air as the "unspeakable tragedy" that it was ... and perhaps most sincere and heartfelt of all, reminding millions of us tuning in that night that in the Big Picture, what we were watching, what he was announcing, was "just a football game" ... Howard Cosell put the Big Picture back in perspective.

To be honest, my actual memory of Cosell's announcement is fuzzy.  I think I was in the bathroom ... or in the refrigerator ... or maybe I'd gone to bed already.  But the 'John Lennon dead' part ... 'John Lennon shot and killed' ... is the part that registered.  I remember then actually asking my parents, "Was John Lennon in the Beatles?" ... sort of confirming things for myself ... processing the weird and terrible news, delivered out of context that Monday night on a football broadcast, by a cartoonish sports icon who was clearly moved, clearly stunned ... a bereft and grieving fan himself.

There followed fifteen years or so of John Lennon being not only my 'favorite Beatle', but also sad, often inappropriate efforts on my part to infuse his spirit and a few of his reportedly defining qualities -- the cynicism, the sense of humor, a dry, often devastating wit and sharp tongue -- into my own thing ... whatever that was or I believed it to be.  I didn't outgrow my "John Lennon Phase" until I met and bedded Yoko Ono in the '90s.

Just kidding.

I still haven't outgrown John Lennon ... and of course, me and Yoko ... Well, that should go without saying (though just in case, I was JOKING:  I have never "bedded" Yoko Ono!!).

ANYWAY, Sachs Media Group recently offered what it thought would be a few music icons had they lived to see, and be seen, today:  Kurt Cobain, for example (of course he'd still be wearing flannel ... with his hair unwashed since '91!), and Beach Boy Dennis Wilson (who of course, would be wearing a Hawaiian beach shirt ... Really?).

While some of the 'aged rock star' images are laughable (especially Cass Elliot of the Mamas and the Papas ... What the FUCK??? :), the projection of John Lennon, had he lived to become 73 years old, I think could not be more perfect:

It's exactly how I would 'imagine' the guy now.  Good work on that one, SMG!

And RIP JL / JFK.

Thanks Giving, Awareness

My dad's good friend passed away this week.  After hearing about / witnessing nearly forty years of camaraderie, Schadenfreude, rivalry, jibing, belittlements, favors performed (sometimes grudgingly, other times without even asking) ... weekly breakfast and lunch rituals (my mom's frustrations at the "bromance") ... general support, bonhomie and the occasional assist with each others' families ... and at the end of the day, companionship and a comfort factor ...

My dad's friend of nearly forty years is no more.

Gordon died of a brain tumor, which overtly manifested its ugly head for the first time on November 1st, just over three weeks ago.  Apparently, he'd complained of headaches every now and then, more and more frequently ... but these were generally (too easily, conveniently) dismissed as what happens to you when you become old(er).  My own squinty vision, my dad's pained feet, my mom's knobbly knees and Gordon's headaches, all written off to inevitability.

Until this past November 1st, when my dad's friend collapsed - an aneurysm being to blame on the surface, while lurking and festering, metastasizing, below was the inoperable brain cancer which ravaged and killed him.

In just over three weeks!  You have to discover it ... Invite cure and treatment.  When "it" finds you, showing up at your doorstep, the game's usually over.

I thought of Gordon the other day, before I learned of his death (though I knew he was unwell).  Just randomly began thinking about how fast things happen ... about my own memories and knowing of him, mainly through his son, who's my age and with whom I went to school (Geoff, if I remember, was left-handed ... just like the spelling of his first name!) ... How at least he'd been released to home care and family for what would be his final days, and of course, the impact on his family.

How my dad, in his own words, doesn't "do sad" but would need to attend his best friend's funeral, before the weight of reality, new sense of mortality and feelings of loneliness set in like a northern Wisconsin winter ...

And if I were googly-eyed, I might try to suggest that it was that very moment, when I randomly and powerfully began thinking of Gordon, that his soul left his body ... and another little piece of my own life left me. 

 “Give (Thanks)”, ©Jeff Glovsky

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GLIOGENE International Brain Tumor Study