My Old Self, Terence.

It wasn’t so much the young or the phalanx of aging Hollywood actresses, “my bevy of lovers”, he was quoted in Vogue for Men when describing his female friends, but for all the hyperbole and mirth written or envied about him, Terence was an empty man. Some felt his parlor antics, his all-nighters and international jet-setting, was nothing more than adolescent compensating for his adult shortcomings. Terence entertained himself; his curiosity both perfectly manipulating and nauseating, as his ego fashioned him his own deity. He mercurial nature allowed, when permitted, for people to hover close to him or diminish into the nothingness.

Terence was disgustingly perfect, and his rouse was that he could hide his vainglory beneath innocent seal-like eyes–like a raven against the setting sun.

Those who did know Terence, who cared about him, passively ridiculed him whenever would appear at a luncheons dressed in a tee shirt and torn jeans, his worn D&G shades adorn on his scruffy face; his attitude devoid of care for the people or their destinations. Even while this was occurring, in his presence or behind fake smiles, he never sought to correct them or respond.

The truth of the matter was this: Terence’s marquee boy-toy life was in fact a college episode of compensation. He was compensating for some thing more than himself—a purpose unlike that of the tabloids, trysts, and unyielding flows of dissatisfaction.

It would be one morning, one a calendar month one could not recall, that Terence would pack what he could into a bag-pack, and leave his rent-free apartment on 61st and Lexington, and board a Greyhound bound for anywhere not familiar to him. He would not take with him anything identifiable from his old life. He would not take with him the trappings of material gaiety, he would not take with him the blackberry filed with names and numbers inputted there hours before; he would not bring with him his car keys, or the ignorance of believing a man or cause is measured on how much its worth or how much the returns were.

Terence went north to Massachusetts, and after some time, bargaining with nothing more than a passion to help with his charisma to bring like-minded people together, he found a home of sorts. In this new place, like that inside him, he freed himself from the naïveté that was his old world importance, and looked for employment that benefitted both him and others. His fair-weather friends, those demons wrapped sexually and fittingly in their silk, denim, and animal fur attire, called on him less and less. Terence made friends of every non-statistical demographic and nationality, and in them they valued is raw energy, his view on life, and his randomness—at times. He still marveled in collecting comic books, watching cartoons, laughing at children and animals falling in the snow, and playing sports( more ever now with the emergence of feisty Olivia and the calculated Isabella as strikers on his kickball squad).

Terence didn’t mind being outside the grid or “along the side of the road” as some would put it, he valued the idea of starting anew, and not following in track with the others.

By design we have an ingredient inside us that either mixes wells with what is force-fed to us or disagrees and rises to the top. It’s not so much we should find what makes us happy and the approach that as the path we’ll be on for the rest of our lives, (hell happiness should be forever in supply), but it should be about a longevity of happiness for others—to see others smile, laugh, and wear our happiness on them, with them, long after we’re gone.

Terence sought the longevity aspect of his new life—to work tirelessly at his job, with his co-workers and friends, and use his actions to motivate others to do the same.

Sometimes at night Terence wondered if this pursuit of longevity was his old self, the city-minded ego that grew up with him, rapping at the window on city blown current to have a word with him. Terence wondered if perhaps his old self was paying him a long overdue house-call, to help modify his new way of living a tad. But, he would never answer it—he admired the Metropolitan creature at his bedroom window, for its bravery, but then pitied it–it’s life was a short and an exclusive one.

Filed under: Personal , Arrogance, children, Footsteps, life, Mirror, Self

Mascara

After a brief morning workout, I got into talking to Ciy, my brother, while running through some chores.  It was refreshing to speak to him, as we’ve been at a distance with respect to communication because of shifting time zones and his career overseas.

It occurred to me, while awaiting at a red light, that I have some 8 short stories that have yet to find a conclusion. It was this revelation, in the form of a hanging sentence, that has me slowly working my writer’s mind out of the career three piece suit and back into my creative sportscoat.

I’m ecstatic to see what happens in the next few months.I’ve been needing something like this for a long time.

Ecstatic?

Refreshing?

I’ve been watching way too much Flipping Out on Bravo.

Call me Jeff..

Filed under: Personal , Brother, Career, Ciy, Santa Claus, writing

This was forwarded to me this morning…

What you are about to read is not of my own creation, and is no doubt known by some or all of you (given the wide sweeping angles of the internet). Kim forwarded this to me this morning. I’m merely passing along it’s good message…

PERCEPTION
..something to think about…

Washington, DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. The man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approx. 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After 3 minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.

4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk..

6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

10 minutes:
A 3-year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people’s priorities. The questions raised: in a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made…. How many other things are we missing?

Filed under: Personal , Boston, Busy, life, Musician, Observation, Wonder

Controls

I dreamed last night that I had a hole running deep into the core of my skull. In fact, it ran through my cranium, almost touching the right halve of my brain. I didn’t feel any pain, I didn’t show any concern. I was, for all intensive purposes, distracted and surprised–as if both humbled by the fact a 6 inch hole, the diameter of a penny tunneled to my gray matter inside, and confused on how it got there.

A voice in the background, perhaps my physician’s I’m not sure, informed me I’ll be alright. That things were going to be “alright from here on out..”

I took his words as gospel of course( my dream self seemed more concerned over the awkward haircut they gave me, than the medical procedure in store to fill in and sew up my “wound”.

I wasn’t concerned.

I read that the left hemisphere of the brain controls if-then logic, vision, and the ability to discern one’s future from one’s present self.

I’m still trying to decipher what it means, but when I try to things get blurry.

Filed under: Personal

Currency

I think I’m going to refocus my previous commitment to my blog by establishing three or four new posts per month. It’s easy for me to become segued with career or personal duties, and neglect those readers that find my “personal window” interesting. This said, and stress aside, I feel a handful of serious posts per month, is better than a shopping bag full of undocumented ideas.

Filed under: Personal , Commitment, massachusetts, Personal

At the Red

I was in Northampton this weekend, just taking some time off to introduce the little Western Massachusetts enclave to a native of the Boston area. It wasn’t too early in the morning, so we decided to grab some brunch at one of the slowly opening restaurants. However,despite our agreed upon plans,  the weather presented itself as being as stubborn as a sobbing baby to a teet.The air was flat, not dry, but overwhelmingly humid–we both resented wearing jeans that morning.

While waiting at a red light, we happened upon an elderly woman pushing a carriage of empty recyclables and corrugated boxes across the street to our right. It wasn’t odd for either of us to see a homeless person; me being from NYC, and she from Cambridge, but what caught us in arrears; especially while regarding this 60+ year old woman shuffling, under cart, down the densely populated sidewalk was what she did once she crossed the street.

“AAAAAHHHMMAAAHGAAAWWD”, the old woman shrieked “IIILAAWWSTMAAAHWAALLETT….AAGGAAIIN!!”

“Oh my God, I lost my wallet….again.”

What is immediately insincere about this sight isn’t the haggardly dressed old woman or the questionable whereabouts of her missing wallet( or faculties), but the sea of passer-bys who disregard both her wail and presence. Man, woman or child seemed gyved to an unspoken rule: no eye contact, keep yourself rigid, don’t respond, don’t show sympathy.

It was as if she didn’t exist: old woman and wallet.

My friend and I discussed whether the woman is mad or perhaps a known ne’re-do-well; having built a reputation for both collecting recyclables and “losing her wallet”, which explains why people are sullying on past her without a turned head of consideration.

But that day, as the light turned green and I motored onto destinations far from wallets, old woman, and mannequin faces, I’m left with the feeling that Northampton, renown in part for it’s fealty toward diversity, culture and care, has failed that old woman. The Hampshire Country hub becoming that which it finds revolting in the larger cities across the state: uncaring eyes and hearts toward the downtrodden.

It’s not a comforting thought to consider, even now, but despite her present condition, that old woman was or possibly is still someone’s daughter, sibling, or grandchild at a time.

Wallet…and all…

Filed under: Observation , Cambridge, Hampshire, massachusetts, Mental, Northampton, Poverty, Recycle

Backwards Thinking

Riddle me this, America: Why is it that during the back to school advertisements, Mobile Service Carriers(AT&T, T-Mobile, Boost, etc) are at their dizziest in marketing their “wares” to teenagers. I mean, there’s this one particular commercial that prides itself on statistically breaking down how many people are doing what at any given time. This company’s newest incarnation, on the heels of the back to school rush, gears itself on numerating how many teenagers are texting, flipping burgers, or talking within a moment in time. Creative…creatively flawed.

By piecing text-messaging usage and teenagers together, Mobile Service Carriers are playing against what Public and Charter Schools have been trying to enforce for years: No cellphones in the classrooms. Despite the harangue of myopic parents screaming for their children to be allowed to carry their cellphones; to use them in school in case of an emergency, I say to this myopic lot: Puuuhhlleeaaaase.

There are administrators and educators paid to keep the distractions of the outside world out of the classroom. If an emergency should arise, there are professionals in place to take care of the situation. Lil Johnny doesn’t need an iPhone with an Unlimited Text Messaging plan to act as Paul-friggin-Revere if the Redcoats should so happen to cross the parking lot. It’s not likely that will ever happen.

Lil Johnny needs to pay more attention to his Geography.

Spain isn’t the capital of Puerto Rico

Nevertheless, when Sprint flaunts “new cellphones” or “text messaging plans” to teenagers they play right into disrespecting the system that forbids their usage. Disrespecting, with support from doting parents, the base point of uninterrupted learning.

We’re not Japan. They’ve figured it out a long time ago. As Americans, we are as mesmerized by technology as deer are by headlights at night.

You want to know how many people does it take to undermine common sense and the Department of Education for the sake of profit? Ask Sprint, they’re good with numbers.

Filed under: Observation , AT&T, Back-to-School, Commercial, Mobile, Parents, Phone, September, Sprint, T-Mobile, Texting

Service before Dishonor

I’ve been an AT&T user for almost ten years now. My commitment to my mobile service has seen three relationships, three area code changes, and two cars.

10 years. 3 Relationships. Wow.

Now, it must be said that my relationship with AT&T has ended as of, 6:59pm EST. I won’t mourn the relationship as failed, but a decent one up until last week. I mean, I was dedicated to sticking it out with AT&T for another 24 months. My mobile device was approaching an upgrade anniversary, and I was all set to pick between the Samsung Jack or the white iPhone. But then, once again, the rug was pulled out from underneath me.

Let me stage this for you like this: No. Service. From. Apartment. Three.Days.

That’s right. I haven’t had any service in or around my apartment for 3 frig-frackin days!

Judging from how much I pay a month for service you would THINK the Gods up at AT&T would have a more reliable contingency plan in place when their transmitting box piggybacked on the top of a Verizon tower goes dead? You would THINK they would have a more concise answer to offer ” Sorry, our service really sucks out in Western Massachusetts” instead of an excuse “My map is showing you should have service in that area. But let me notate your account.”

How the hell does notation help me!?

So it is with heavy heart and much sadness( damn regret, I don’t regret nothing!) that as of 7:05pm EST I have decided to take up with another mobile service provider. On what grounds you might ask( especially if you’re an AT&T employee)? On the grounds of reliable service. RELIABLE SERVICE. RELIABLE SERVICE. I’m not worried about any “early termination penalties” for I have the proof sitting on my rug in front of my television. If a Representative scoffs at my demand to end my service I will invite him or her to visit me and see how many bars I get from my apartment. I would challenge them, as human beings, to accept this as a worthwhile service to keep. I would dare anyone to look at my tribulation as minimal( Oh..oh man, I would love someone to tell me to deal with it. I’d punch em’ in the nose–so hard).

I think this is enough grounds for ending a now disappointing, oft-unreliable relationship, don’t you think?

If anyone from AT&T is reading this, please know that I stuck it out with you for 3 days. 3 days of having to drive to the center of town, or in some cases to the Quabbin Reservoir( Google it!) just to talk to my family and friends. That’s down-right pathetic, even for the 21st century, even for the United States; even for a big wig like you guys! I don’t think there is anything to be said by you that could change my mind. Maybe if I were moving soon I would…no, who the heck am I kidding? I wouldn’t. I need a service provider that looks at my monthly payments to it’s service as a “thank you for keeping me in contact with everyone for 30 days” as a thank you, and not an expected donation. I’m not paying for “sometime” attention or “sometime” reliability. I’m paying for the peace of mind that my bars (like in the commercials) will always be at their highest, especially at home.

I’m sorry guys, but it was a beautiful 10 years, and though we didn’t foster any children from it( that’s your fault, not mine), I will miss the memories. I just think it’s time to move onto a service provider that will understand you can’t put out a product and expect the public to adore it when it works at 1 bar, or in this case SOS reception. I don’t think any living, competent person would accept marginal service. It doesn’t matter where he or she lives, whether in a city or on the fringes of a State, if you advertise the service, the service should be consistent. I refuse to accept not being able to talk to friends, family, or co-workers from home because AT&T thinks “hey, just talk to them from the Quabbin, buddy”

What.the.eff.

So, like Mary J.Blige in AT&T’s new commercial, the one in where she’s swapping in and out of clothes while walking on a treadmill of sorts, I am too walking in the other direction, to another solution( I’ll just be doing it without the heels, dresses, or hip-swagger).

Filed under: Personal , AT&T, Connection, Family, Mary J Blige, massachusetts, Service, Verizon, Wireless

Summertime

I think a prefaced apology is in order, as I might come off to some as a literary troglodyte after this commentary is read.

I understand there is a disappointing mood sweeping the Northeast, with respect to the vacillating weather we’ve been experiencing . This I do empathize with, to an extent. You see I don’t have any children, hell I don’t even have a small animal to drag around. Because I’m dearth( I love this word) of any sentient thing to take care of or make a summer schedule for, I must say: I pity you.

I don’t mean “I pity you for having a family,  to which you must find activities to keep them busy during the summer, despite gasoline prices, back to school specials, college tuition, annoying tax increases, and unemployment.” What I should to say is “I pity those parents( single or otherwise) that are driven to madness by incessant “this summer sucks” issuing from either their teenagers or toddlers( hey, toddlers can be rude too!). I assume the stress level in these households can run high at times; having nothing to do in a world of “things to do” must be a pack-a-day moment for some. I’m all about taking a step back from where you’re standing to admire those around you–their lifestyle, their surroundings–before you castigate your current situation. Perspective.

I remember when the season worked in accordance with the summer months, producing weather that you barely had to consider when planning what to do. I mean, I’ve experienced in the past like 30 heatwaves growing up in NYC, and despite the televised warnings to “drink plenty of fluid, wear light clothing; check up on your elderly neighbors, and refrain from going outside between the times of 11:00am and 2:oopm” I STILL had a good time. It only rained during the month of August. That’s it. August.

I can count on my hands, toes, and eye lashes how much rain we’ve had in the month of June and July. That’s pretty sad. To be robbed of that much going to the beach time.Dang.

My summer has been awesome. I hope August it’s in tandem with the previous months, the weather doling out rain like free cheese during the 1980s. I pity some inner city families, not all of them, just those that willfully choose to ignore the other environments and experiences going on outside the metropolis. I pity some suburban families, not all of them, just those that willfully choose to ignore the other environments and experiences going on inside the metropolis.

I don’t take it as a discourse when my day is ruined by a weather pattern–I’m bummed if a plan has to be rescheduled, but I don’t turn into John Malkovich over it.

Filed under: Observation , Autumn, Families, massachusetts, new york city, Northeast, Rain, Summer

Sexy

I would like all or any of my women readers to try this social experiment. Visit a modestly populated beach or local swimming hole on the hottest day next week. Now just before you embark, I want you to stop by the Mall to get a swimsuit. I know you might already have a one piece, two piece with a sappy skirt, or that gnarly looking knicker-set,  but I need you to buy a special swimsuit for this experiment. I want you to select a two piece bikini 2 SIZES TOO SMALL. That’s right, I’m upping the uncomfortable level on a bit on this experiment, but it serves a point. Now, take said 2 SIZES TOO SMALL two-piece bikini(preferably in red or mango color) and take a stroll from your towel seat to the water’s edge, being assured that your pace, your gait, is under the supervision of all the beachcombers around you. Now depending on your current body dimensions you will either be concluded in the annals of public opinion as:

A) Sexy B) Gross C) Unnecessary.

I understand how crass these options are, and by no reason am I affirming that you, my women readers are unattractive, but I’m hemorrhaging what culture has fed me over the years.

Now what my social experiment seeks to prove is this:  the ideal of being “sexy” is not some “thing” one naturally possesses or exudes innocently on celluloid, but is in a matter-of-fact way brandished upon by society.

If an emaciated woman graced the cover of a magazine, her nipples partially exposed next to the Editorial headlines, the populous that deem themselves the marketplace of style, fashion–beauty, would not be offended. In fact, they would charge it, the image of her nipples against her malnourished body, as an example of striking example of feminine sexuality on display. Now, swap out the 110 lb model for an identical woman, a real woman, who just so happens to weigh 200 lbs. You will see the same populous, the marketplace of style, fashion–beauty, turn their applauding mouths into frowns of discomfiture, disgust, and abhorrence.

It’s a two way street, this redefinition of self-image. In the eyes of the sensuously blatant community, partial nudity or attire reaped in sexuality is sorely the rue of what ails man. However, one can not ride down the road toward this blithe of image without noticing the opposite flowing lane of traffic.  No matter how accessible one might assume sex on display to be, care must be taken to those “unperfect”; those women who are at times undressed, misrepresented, or miscued by “art” for the appeasement of men.

Deviancy comes from making such mistakes.

My case for this can be made by watching any film that stitches gratuitous displays of sexuality behind plot lines such as “our last year in high school” or “our first year in college” over the top sex-romps. Of course, the argument exists that I’m being bias, and merely attacking mediums of overtly drawn sexuality because I lack the understanding of the “perfect people”.

I doubt this diagnosis highly.

It takes a real mutton-head NOT to see that what transpires or transmits as attractive, acceptably attractive, is put to us as early as childhood.  Where our Brothers Grimm regale in their stories the differences between “fair maiden” and “wicked witch”. We move pass these tales to “handsome princes” and “orges and goblins”. It’s cumulative, this re-education of what IS attractive, and what ISN’T. But, one thing decides whether the painted-on swimsuit model or the curvilinear music video are the creme de le creme when it comes to the tertiary order of  beautiful, acceptable, and passable: Personal interpretation.

It always comes down to personal interpretation. What one group cries as “one of the world’s most beautifulest”, another group, with a sober eye-roll, spies as an empty vessel to continue the charade of beauty to the unwilling like a motocade down Broadway.

I understand when a woman is attractive, hell I can even utter it aloud. But, I’d rather my eyes interpret what IS, instead of someone else telling me WHAT ISN’T.

Filed under: Observation , Acceptance, Appeasement, Image, life, Models, Sexuality, Swimsuit