Ubiquitous Grunge

 

ubiquitous - adjective - ever present

grunge - noun - a style of rock music featuring raucous guitar and lazy vocal delivery. In fashion, it features loose clothing and ripped jeans. 

Sometimes I think I'm Oscar Wilde regenerated as I ascribe to his philosophy of Aestheticism: One should reflect art. Beauty should exist for the sake of beauty. Gosh, I'm dating myself by over a hundred years. If the actual Oscar were to come back to life for one day and attend a Broadway show where it is not unusual to see young audience members in shorts and flip flops, he would be astonished. 

The ubiquitous grunge that dominated fashion in the 1990s is still ubiquitous. It is said that Stella McCartney, Marc Jacobs, and Alexander McQueen introduced grunge into the realm in the 1990s, and suddenly, "ugly" (baggy pants, dirty T's, ripped jeans and plaid flannel) became trendy. Groundbreaking (?). Yes, some thirty years ago, grunge entered stage left. And suddenly, anything remotely attractive, melodic, inspiring artistically exited stage right. 

Grunge was and is all about tasteless dressing down. Tasteful dressing up takes effort. Growing up, Gen X and Millennials received trophies for zero effort. Why wouldn't their clothes reflect their lackadaisical state of mind? Much to my dismay, because Gen X is now just the right age to stand on center stage and command the spotlight, the comfort and ease of ugliness and/or mediocrity will stick around for awhile. Millennials don't seem to have a problem with it,  probably because they were old enough to participate in the movement to an extent. (Remember Gothic? I do.) 

Personally, I am hoping the kids of Gen Alpha will push out ubiquitous grunge in their own journey to the center if only as a form of rebellion. Sadly, I may be dead by the time genuine beauty and stunning, artistic excellence make a comeback, and I pray that AI has nothing to do with it. Perhaps in thirty years, a futuristic version of Jessica Daves will stumble upon an antique suitcase in the last remaining Victorian home and open it to uncover a copy of Vogue from the 1950s. She'll want to share it with fashion designers and poof! The effort of elegance will be in style again.

As for music, I am still seeing young folks playing in jazz bands and genuinely enjoying the melodies known to occupy the American Songbook. A short while ago, I actually met a twenty-three-year-old male who told me just how much he loves Sinatra. So there is hope that quality will make a comeback. 

Okay. I'm allowed to dream. Aren't I? 

"Never, never, never give up." 

Thanks, Winston. 

#social commentary, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay, #writer , #grunge, #art, #fashion 

Sensationalism vs. Truth

 

sensationalism - noun - (in journalism) use of exciting or shocking stories or language at the expense of accuracy in order to provoke public interest (Google). 

Throughout history, journalistic sensationalism has played a huge, egregious role, and it is still omnipresent today. I don't know about you, but I have pretty much given up hope in ever coming face to face with one-hundred-percent accurate reportage from any one media source. Much of what you see and read on social media is completely erroneous. What can be considered "news" that I pay attention to I either witness myself or hear secondhand from valued friends who would never fall into a pot hole as deep as sensationalism. 

Case in point, this past Monday night, an award-winning storyteller, one of my closest SoCal pals,  someone with whom I attended undergraduate school, held about fifty barflies rapt with her personal account of the L.A. ICE protests back in June. She was one of about 10K peaceful protestors towards the front of the procession downtown. According to her eye-witness account, the news media ignored her and her benign colleagues in activism in favor of filming some one hundred whose anger and frustration caused them to torch a few Waymo electric cars on the side of the freeway. The media took an isolated incident and exploded it so that Americans throughout the country walked away from their screens with an inaccurate, negative impression of what was in actuality nothing like what was recorded on video. 

Three days after hearing my friend's story, I volunteered to serve food to homeless people in a Venice restaurant. I had not been called into Bread and Roses for at least a month as my services were not needed. What I witnessed yesterday with my own eyes amounted to a truth that reporters were not privy to. No matter what laws are bandied about in D.C., the homeless problem is not going away. From my perspective, it is getting worse. I served about 150 individuals, mainly young, white men, within three hours. Seriously, I didn't think they would stop coming. We were that busy. Ease-dropping on one conversation, I learned that although at least one of the many was actively looking for a job, he was not finding any. Hence, based on my own observations, I can infer that if you are reading that the economy is improving, just know that it isn't here in Los Angeles. 

The aforementioned examples are true. You won't find this kind of verity online or on TV. Whatever you experience yourself, you can believe. Don't be fooled by agencies who are just trying to make money by infiltrating reality with fantasy. 

Just sayin'. 

#social commentary, #blog, #blogger, #writing community, #truth, #sensationalism 

Dog vs. Cat People

 

preference - noun - a greater liking for one alternative over another or others (Google)

When it comes to domestic creatures, do you have a preference for either dogs or cats? Personally, I can't say that I do as I have spent quite a few years (at least fifty) alternating between the two. But I have known many over-the-top pet enthusiasts who have taken sides, and like some political activists, are strongly pro dogs or pro cats and stand by their choice. Just what kind of people are these who cannot be without either dogs or cats? 

Let's look at the multitudes who prefer dogs over cats first. I live in Los Angeles where just about everyone you meet on the street is being followed by a breed of hound on either a short or long leash. Some of the small pups are even securely sequestered in baby carriages. Most of these dog enthusiasts are Millennials who look like they are on the fence about having human children, so they have chosen to be "dog parents" as they think it is easier. Being that I have been both, I can honestly say that having a puppy is just as hard as having an infant. The difference is that the puppy grows into a full-size dog that never matures beyond the equivalent of a four-year-old child. Dogs are needy, and dog people like to be needed. Dog people know that dogs, once trained, can truly be the best of companions. As dogs are pack animals– highly social creatures and very loyal–they place their loving "parents" first in their lives. They can truly make them feel loved due to their uncanny ability to sense human emotions and react to them. Whether positive or negative, extremely fanatical dog people actually view their dogs as family members, and as a result, will take their dogs everywhere, even to locations where dogs shouldn't be, such as restaurants and grocery stores. These people will go to extremes. For example, I have seen a dog child accompanying his human parents as they were playing golf on a well-groomed course. Just today, I spied an adult Australian Collie squeezed into a backpack while her owner zigzagged through traffic on his bike. (Both activities are dangerous for a dog.) And it is true that dog people look remarkably similar to their dogs. So who knows? Maybe the dog parents are actually the parents of the dogs? It wouldn't surprise me.

Cat people, on the other hand, tend to appreciate felines because they are far less dependent than dogs. All of the cats I have ever owned could pretty much care less about me. Indolent by nature, cats just don't want to work too hard hunting for food (they can survive on their own in the wild), so they have domesticated humans to get out of any real effort. Which means they will be as affectionate as possible to get what they want: unlimited quantities of Fancy Feast and carte blanche to rip up everything destructible inside a house with impunity. Blindly devoted, cat folks refuse to believe that their fur-ball babies could ever be this manipulative and self-centered and devious. Male owners of cats tend to be a bit unusual (euphemism). The ones I've known are usually single and riddled with idiosyncrasies (understatement). One of my exes actually believed his one cat was his brother and the other, his "little girl," meaning daughter. He loved both way more than he loved me. Obviously if they date at all, these men only bother with women who adore cats. Generally, "Must love cats" comes up first on their online dating profiles. Alternatively, cat women can either be more normal or just as abnormal. Most all-in cat persons reflect their felines as they can often be independent and/or misanthropic, preferring even tepid kitties in captivity to emotionally available humans in the wild. 

Wouldn't it be nice if all people treated each other the way that some dog and cat parents treat their "children"? I think so. When I observe some of these obsessive humans, I can't help but want to come back as either one of their dogs or cats in the next life. 

Just sayin'. 

#blog, #blogger, #personalessay, #writer, #author, #dogs, #cats, #socialsatire 

The Talk About Retirement

 

retirement - noun - the action or fact of leaving one's job and ceasing to work.

For whatever reason, the subject of retirement seems to be dominating cyberspace this week. The popular site Quora that stimulates online conversations among individuals–who find time to respond to responses generated on myriad topical topics–has been featuring it. As I have been an active participant of retirement for the past six years (although I have taken a few odd, paying jobs on the side just for enjoyment), I have been entertained by what others have been admitting that they do to fill in the blanks of their remaining days on the planet. 

Not surprisingly since my generation has ceased to grow up and out of its designation as the Me Generation, for the most part, the retirees lead self-centered lives. I was amazed by some who confessed that they follow the same banal routine every day. One gentleman mentioned that he wakes up each day at the same hour, has breakfast, walks the dog and then feeds it, watches MSNBC for a few hours, has lunch, takes a nap, returns to the dog and its care, does a crossword puzzle, has dinner, and then turns on the television as an encore, allowing it to lull him to sleep. (Maybe on the weekends he does a bit of cleaning and laundry?) Hmm. It is hard for me to believe that anyone would be even remotely satisfied with his mundane itinerary, but apparently, many are. 

And then there are the gamers. I am not talking about Gen X, Y, or Z video gamers; I am referring to the 65 and over board or card gamers (and maybe even the golf-tennis-pickleball crowd). Most of these folks are game to keep their minds (and perhaps, bodies) active so that Alzheimer's doesn't creep up on them. I get it. It is probably knocking on my door right now since I just found it hard to recall the name of the condition. Anyway, this agile crew–mainly women–go for Canasta, Bridge, Mahjong, Scrabble, Pinochle, Bingo, and Yahtzee, meeting day and night to follow often complicated sets of rules, competing for first place while chatting about pedestrian topics. With great dexterity, they manage to balance their gaming with babysitting the grandchildren, also a popular pastime in retirement. Women, I've read, are also more apt to globe trot. Some singles and couples have even set up permanent residence on cruise ships. 

What I have found to be quite disconcerting is that not one to respond to the topic on Quora (that I saw) has mentioned volunteerism. If you have been following my blogs, you know that I spend at least an hour a day during the week working in support of multiple good causes. For those who are not content with the aforementioned, I highly recommend my course of action. It doesn't matter where you live, you can always find some organization in need of unpaid employees, retired people who still want to change the world in some pragmatic way. Selflessness is its own reward. 

The people of my age or older who really impress me are those who don't even wish to touch retirement. They want to work at something that they love until they drop because they don't feel that what they do is actually arduous. You know whom I mean. The Bruce Springsteens and Mick Jaggers and Paul McCartneys and Ringo Starrs of the world. Okay, all of these men are musicians so that some can argue that they have never worked a day in their lives anyway. I agree. But with the right attitude, you can find a passion that pays and keeps your life humming with purpose just like they did decades ago. It is entirely possible. 

Just sayin'. 

#retirement, #society, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay, #writing community, #writer, #author 

Seller's Remorse

 

buyer's remorse - noun - a feeling of regret experienced after making a purchase, usually one that is extravagant or unnecessary.

We have all heard of the above or have experienced it at one time or another. After all, we do live inside of capitalism, an "ism" dependent on buying and selling. But have you ever entered the Twilight Zone of seller's remorse? The feeling of unmitigated rue after selling something special? I think you have. I definitely have.

Case in point, a year ago this past April, I put my perfectly perfect (as opposed to imperfect) 2,000 square foot home in Jersey up for sale in a competitive market. I spent about thirty years and about 200K renovating, polishing, updating, enhancing (whatever). In short, I kept the home politically correct stylistically. Heck, I even created a perennial English garden out of what had looked like a pigsty when I moved in back in the late 1990s. Two days after publishing the listing, I sold my dreamy cottage for nearly 800K to two twenty-eight-year-old, newlywed New Yorkers who swore on their great-grandparents' graves that they loved the house as is and would never do the unthinkable: tear it down and build a McMansion, the current exasperatingly trendy trend (that is completely selfish). 

And what do you think happened?  After less than a year, my designer home is gone. The kids transmogrified the Cape into a cookie-cutter, center-hall colonial, unrecognizable to any of my former visitors, which only took about five months to do. Shocking. I don't even want to think about what happened to the garden. Ugh. Okay, I get it. They bought it, so they get to do what they want to it. Right? Fine. But is lying to get what you want the way to go? They could have told me the truth so that I didn't have to tell my neighbors–sick of listening to the cacophony of construction every time a house gets sold on the street–that I hand-picked buyers intent on preserving a 1930s relic with class, something the existing residents wanted to hear even though most of them had "renovated" their Capes as well. To them, I'm the liar, not the buyers. How was I to know these twenty-somethings would deceive me? Human nature is a bitch.

Seller's remorse, big time. 

On the other hand, I chose to part ways with my Jersey roots, and now I have none that are discernible, a kick in the teeth to my sense of identity. I moved three thousand miles away into a time zone that gave me back three hours of my life. Everything about this place is far more livable than my old neighborhood. I'm the winner here. Even though it was disclosed that the land is basically a swamp, the naive pair from Brooklyn decided to buy it for a hefty price. My guess is that karma will kick in (because it always does eventually), and my seller's remorse will become their buyer's remorse. And all will be well, in balance, as it should be. Hahaha! 

Just sayin'. 

#real estate, #buyer's remorse, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #social commentary

Should Love Recognize Age?

 

cougar - noun - slang term for a middle-aged woman who pursues romantic or sexual relations with men ten to fifteen years younger (Google).

For whatever reason, I've been spending time reading biographies this summer, which is something I used to do as a teenager. I have regressed to a literary adolescent state as I am running out of classic fictional titles that interest me, and nothing that has been published within the last twenty years is even close to being well written. (Please leave me a comment if you think I'm wrong because I'd like to be.) I just finished James Kaplan's massive, two volume biography (1700 pages) of Frank Sinatra, and now I am just about through Woody Allen's autobiography Apropos of Nothing. Other than both gentlemen being born under the zodiac sign of Sagittarius and knowing Mia Farrow in the biblical sense, initially, I didn't think they had too much more in common. But they do. For one, both men married much, much younger women: Frank, Mia and Woody, Soon-Yi. Despite each couple's tying the knot 31 years apart, upon hearing the news, true, judgmental conservatives all dropped their jaws simultaneously, apoplectic with rage. However, the fervor in both cases died down eventually as everything grows old with time.

Nevertheless, when it comes to May-December romances, I've always thought that there is a double standard. Just recently, Mick Jagger, who is at least eighty, married his long-term girlfriend Melanie Hamrick, who is 44 years his junior. If I married a young man 44 years my junior, you better believe most of my friends and relatives would have something derogatory to say about it. I wouldn't be a cougar, I'd be a jaguar, and I'm not referring to the automobile - or maybe I am?

But should love recognize age? Are numbers significant? Case in point: as the three of you who read this blog religiously already know, I am dating a man whom I refer to as James Bond. James, his actual name, has two things in common with Frank and Woody. He just happens to be a Sagittarius (like I am) and his last girlfriend was 35 years younger than he. But I can tell you why he did fall for her. 1. She was gorgeous. 2. She hit on him. 3. James has the mentality and body of a 35 year old even though his face looks and is 65. They broke up because she wanted to have his child, and he just wasn't selfish enough to say yes because let's face it. By the time the kid was in college, he would most likely be deceased, something Mick didn't think about when he had his eighth child, his six-year-old son, with Melanie. James also didn't want his lover to wind up having to take care of him in twenty years when he would be 85 and she, only fifty. Ergo, he left her and is with me, someone a year older and much, much wiser, not nearly as problematic. In James's mind, age does matter when it comes to romantic love. 

In order to sidestep hypocrisy (if I am indeed being a hypocrite), my name did show up under the nomenclature of "Super Cougars" once when I dated a guy twenty years younger than I, but it came down to one date exactly. The young man, as well as those who surrounded him socially, was just too immature. And then there was my cousin, a private school English teacher, who gave me a hard time since this young man had been a former student of his too recently. I didn't wish to get on the wrong side of a family member.

In closing, let's return to the aforementioned questions in paragraph 3. Perhaps what matters most is simply the notion of love itself, something I kind of skipped over until right now. Love in all of its forms doesn't have a numeral attached to it. It is eternal. Love whom your heart tells you to love. It isn't a numbers game.

Just sayin'. 

#love, #relationships, #age, #blog, #blogger, #society, #spilled thoughts, #personal essay, #editorial  

Playing With the Boys

avuncular - adj. - relating to an uncle. (Google)

The platonic friendships I have built with boys and men throughout the years have been meaningful if not just a heck of a lot of fun. Although I was not blessed with a brother or brothers, their likenesses–stunt doubles, if you will–usually surrounded me in the neighborhoods of Jersey where I grew up. For whatever reason, there were just more boys than girls, so even though I longed for more close gal pals, there just weren't enough of them to go around. By the time I was in high school–albeit, I did befriend quite a few females–I found myself playing poker for pennies with five male friends every Wednesday night, something my Depression-era mother could not quite fathom. What could I possibly say? I just liked hanging out with the guys. And I wasn't bad at Texas Hold'em either. 

When I turned nineteen, I really got to know my father better after deciding to become more solicitous in terms of his occupation.  He hired me as his personal assistant for the summer, and together we appraised numerous edifices, a.k.a. real estate, including musician George Benson's home in Bergen County. June, July, and August of 1978 were enlightening months in my life that I will never forget.

It comes as no surprise then that the men in my life today are somewhat avuncular. As an adult, despite still having a considerable amount of women friends (some are the same ones whom I had in grade school), I also enjoy men as buddies, particularly those with whom I can collaborate in some organized way. 

For example, when I perform as a jazz singer, I prefer to play with the boys. Quite literally.  One evening two weeks ago when Bond (yes, I did decide to take a risk and go back to dating him - see the entry dated March 5th) and I were strolling the pier, which extends out into the Pacific from Hermosa Beach, we came upon a trio of very young jazz musicians busking. As I have no real understanding of shyness, I bounded up to them between tunes. Before one could say, "Play it again," I was jamming with them on an extended version of Cole Porter's "I've Got You Under My Skin" in Db. The jam, complete with my improvised scat singing, continued for about twenty minutes. After we realized that night was upon us, the crowds had dissipated, and we could no longer see well, the notes ceased. Before saying adieu, we exchanged Instagram info and promised each other we would do it all over again in the near future. Even if it never happens, inside of those musical moments, I couldn't have been happier. 

When it comes to playing with the boys, what I adore in particular is golfing. Sorry, ladies, but my past experience tells me that you are way too competitive for my taste and are too concerned with playing by PGA rules. I'll follow its game book when and if I ever make it into the PGA, which I can tell you right now, will be never. Playing along with men is lighter. As I can keep up with them for the most part, they respect me, treating me as a peer. In general, we don't take the sport that seriously, offering each other a polite mulligan when necessary and spending a lot of time laughing generously at our triple bogeys. My favorite golf buddy, the ruggedly handsome Rory (not quite McIlroy) just happens to be a fellow actor, forty years my junior, who keeps me on my toes since he is extremely good and a perfect gentleman. How lucky is this sixty-six year old? I'd say extremely lucky.

Ladies, whether you are married or single, it is perfectly okay to spend time with platonic, avuncular men friends who are more than capable of enriching your lives in one way or the other. And I emphasize "enriching" because every once in awhile, the male perspective is needed. Although there are women out there who honestly believe men are only good for sex and moving furniture, they are wrong. Okay, may some men are, but not the majority :).

Just sayin'. 

#Personal Essay, #blog, #blogger, #society, #spilled thoughts, #friendship, #editorial