My friend and I recently had a series of conversations about the art, and genesis, of human communication. That is, how and when does one approach another on the street, in a coffeehouse, on public transportation? Is there a design or strategy we must apply, or should we simply utter that magic, universal conversation-starter, "Hi, I'm..."
Subsequently, I began to pay more attention to the human interactions I witnessed, initiated, or those in which I took part. Two of these stood out; one was refreshing and the other abrupt, and a almost hostile.
The first took place on New York's downtown #6 train last Wednesday evening. As I entered the train, I inadvertently walked into a conversation about human beings talking to other human beings. "There's a giant cloud of radiation in Japan, man!" the one bongo player said, emphatically. "If there were a cloud of radiation over New York, maaan, we'd be talkin to each other more! We'd HAVE to! That's what we gotta do, just don't be afraid, and talk to each other!" The other guy chimed in, "We've got all these gadgets and trinkets that keep us busy, look! (pointing at me) This guy's got his iPod with earphones in. Not even paying attention!" Coincidentally, I had the earphones in but no music was playing; thus I heard the dialogue. I took the earphones out, smiled at the one guy, and chuckled quietly. "See! This guy took out the earphones cuz he wants to be part of the conversation!" He then said, staring directly into my eyes," You know the ONE THING we FEAR the most?? Each other!"
They got off the train.
The second encounter was brief, and much colder than the first. While waiting in the bathroom line at a Starbucks, a man approached two women directly behind me. He appeared a bit disheveled, was clad in basic clothing, and came right up to them and spouted off some phrases in French, "Excusez-moi! Mademoiselle! Je suis; oui, oui!" "Get lost," the one woman grumbled. He seemed oblivious to her discomfort, and stuck around. "Like, now! ASAP!" the other woman said. He walked away from them, exited the store, and tried his failed approach again with some people on the street. "Some people..." She sighed. "What a creep!" I don't know what compelled me to say it, but I turned to them and said, "You know, maybe he was just looking for a friend." They smiled, and shrugged. "But I understand maybe that wasn't the best way to go about it," I added. "You gotta be aware of people's personal space." (In truth, the man did come very close to their faces; I think the hostility was the result).
Although one situation differed greatly from the other, the one common link I saw between the two is that people, in general, have some innate desire to communicate with others. How and when they do it is subjective; "to each his/her" own, as they say. I can't write a "one size fits all formula" for how to initiate conversation with someone; in addition, other factors, such as how gentle or forceful you seem, what you're wearing, how you smell, how close or far away you are from the person, also come into play. I suppose I'll use the, "Hi, I'm Joey" approach as a direct yet non-threatening way to create the platform for conversation, but that might not suit another individual on the same quest.
All I can say is, I hope the Starbucks guy will one day run into the two bongo-playing subway dudes; I'd venture to guess that would be a pretty interesting conversation!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Three Butter Triangles
I once wrote in this blog about how I believe everyone, at one point or another, is "the asshole." Nice, genuine people get disgruntled, peeved, and act "out of character;" Conversely, more mean-spirited, arrogant people show us their lighter, more compassionate sides once in awhile. In my opinion, a person is neither completely "saintly" nor completely demonic (It's a stretch, but even Hitler loved his dog, his niece, and Eva Braun-right?)
This weekend in Jamaica, Vermont - quite an oxymoron, don't you think? - I played the role of "asshole."
It was a long weekend away; a retreat from New York City noise into the tranquility and crisp mountain air of central Vermont. My cousin was in a ski competition - US Freestyle Nationals - at nearby Stratton Mountain. On Friday afternoon, I arrived to the "Three Mountain Inn" to obtain my room key.
Upon requesting the key from the Inn Keeper, he abruptly said, "Only two per room; you can't be in a room with three people." "Okay, but my uncle told me I was rooming with George and Max-" "No, that's not possible," he said, cutting me off. "You're going to have to stay somewhere else." Bewildered, I asked to speak with my Uncle, who had reserved the room. "I can't let you leave." Although his voice was monotone and facial expressions unexaggerated for the latter comment, the overall exchange created a very tense, uncomfortable vibe and thus made it sound more menacing than I'm sure he intended. All of a sudden, Don Henley echoed in my head, "You can check out anytime you like...but you can never leave..."
As I moved toward the exit and opened it, he put his hand on the door and physically prevented me from leaving. He said he would call my Uncle over to the lodge, but I was not permitted to go see him myself.
The principles of Dale Carnegie (of "How to Win Friends & Influence People" fame), tell us never to criticize, condemn, or belittle another because, in turn, it will only make that person more defensive and/or determined to prove us wrong. As my emotions took over, thoughts of Dale evaporated. I subsequently accused him of not being able to read people well, lacking good customer service and "people" relations, and made a comment about how I deal with people who are jerks all the time in New York, but in Vermont, where people are supposed to be "nice," this was unexpected.
The dust settled. I got a room. We all ate dinner at the Inn that night; I came face-to-face with Mr. Inn Keeper multiple times as he refilled my wine, or served my food. It was like a "Seinfeld" episode, and I was charmingly awkward George.
After reflecting on the experience the following day and talking with my uncle about it, I felt bad; feeling like the "asshole" in that situation. Although his initial demeanor when I walked in could have been different, I didn't care; I knew I was also at fault. He owns the Inn; he has rules (however unorthodox I think they might be) and I shouldn't have been so sarcastic, or vocal about my disapproval of his management style.
It all came into better perspective the following morning at breakfast. The wait staff serves three triangular butter squares with muffins, to symbolize the "The Mountain" Inn. Staring at these butter squares-and finally, after at least three meals, "getting it"-I was reminded of life's simple, yet intricate beauty; and the subtle, yet creative reminders of the world around us and the people, places, and things that, woven together, form our reality and ultimately enhance our experiences.
(I know; such deep emotions and truths evoked from just three small pieces of butter) :D
I also thought in terms of Jam-the philosophy that I've adopted as my creed. Jam was inoperative in this situation; its implications unable to be accessed and applied because my emotions took control and I neglected to see the "oneness" and common bond the Inn Keeper and I shared as members of the human race. Thus, I lashed out.
So, my petty argument only served to make for uncomfortable tension; a situation I later attempted to reverse by apologizing. He accepted.
I will be back at the Three Mountain Inn next year for US Nationals ski competition. I'm sure I'll see him again. At least now I know the maximum room capacity :) If, God forbid, I play the role of "asshole" again, that's one less issue from which the argument can stem.
This weekend in Jamaica, Vermont - quite an oxymoron, don't you think? - I played the role of "asshole."
It was a long weekend away; a retreat from New York City noise into the tranquility and crisp mountain air of central Vermont. My cousin was in a ski competition - US Freestyle Nationals - at nearby Stratton Mountain. On Friday afternoon, I arrived to the "Three Mountain Inn" to obtain my room key.
Upon requesting the key from the Inn Keeper, he abruptly said, "Only two per room; you can't be in a room with three people." "Okay, but my uncle told me I was rooming with George and Max-" "No, that's not possible," he said, cutting me off. "You're going to have to stay somewhere else." Bewildered, I asked to speak with my Uncle, who had reserved the room. "I can't let you leave." Although his voice was monotone and facial expressions unexaggerated for the latter comment, the overall exchange created a very tense, uncomfortable vibe and thus made it sound more menacing than I'm sure he intended. All of a sudden, Don Henley echoed in my head, "You can check out anytime you like...but you can never leave..."
As I moved toward the exit and opened it, he put his hand on the door and physically prevented me from leaving. He said he would call my Uncle over to the lodge, but I was not permitted to go see him myself.
The principles of Dale Carnegie (of "How to Win Friends & Influence People" fame), tell us never to criticize, condemn, or belittle another because, in turn, it will only make that person more defensive and/or determined to prove us wrong. As my emotions took over, thoughts of Dale evaporated. I subsequently accused him of not being able to read people well, lacking good customer service and "people" relations, and made a comment about how I deal with people who are jerks all the time in New York, but in Vermont, where people are supposed to be "nice," this was unexpected.
The dust settled. I got a room. We all ate dinner at the Inn that night; I came face-to-face with Mr. Inn Keeper multiple times as he refilled my wine, or served my food. It was like a "Seinfeld" episode, and I was charmingly awkward George.
After reflecting on the experience the following day and talking with my uncle about it, I felt bad; feeling like the "asshole" in that situation. Although his initial demeanor when I walked in could have been different, I didn't care; I knew I was also at fault. He owns the Inn; he has rules (however unorthodox I think they might be) and I shouldn't have been so sarcastic, or vocal about my disapproval of his management style.
It all came into better perspective the following morning at breakfast. The wait staff serves three triangular butter squares with muffins, to symbolize the "The Mountain" Inn. Staring at these butter squares-and finally, after at least three meals, "getting it"-I was reminded of life's simple, yet intricate beauty; and the subtle, yet creative reminders of the world around us and the people, places, and things that, woven together, form our reality and ultimately enhance our experiences.
(I know; such deep emotions and truths evoked from just three small pieces of butter) :D
I also thought in terms of Jam-the philosophy that I've adopted as my creed. Jam was inoperative in this situation; its implications unable to be accessed and applied because my emotions took control and I neglected to see the "oneness" and common bond the Inn Keeper and I shared as members of the human race. Thus, I lashed out.
So, my petty argument only served to make for uncomfortable tension; a situation I later attempted to reverse by apologizing. He accepted.
I will be back at the Three Mountain Inn next year for US Nationals ski competition. I'm sure I'll see him again. At least now I know the maximum room capacity :) If, God forbid, I play the role of "asshole" again, that's one less issue from which the argument can stem.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
"What are you, some kinda idiot??"
As I recently wrote, "it's all jam;" loosely translated, we're all one, and those things we deem so dire are usually, in actuality, nothing worth wasting energy on in the grand scheme of things. An encounter this past weekend perfectly illustrated this point:
On Saturday, I called a department store to check their hours. I dialed 212, 439 ... (when it should have been 212, 489 ...) I was a mere digit off from perfection. A woman answered the phone with an abrupt "hheelloo??"
Realizing this store would surely have an automated greeting, I said, "Oh I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number." I hung up the phone.
Subsequently, I contacted the store and obtained the necessary information. About 10 minutes later, I see a "Private Number" calling. Curiously, I answered. "Hello?"
"Hi," a woman said gruffly. I vaguely recognized the voice. "Who is this and why are you calling my number?" I stammered a bit, and said, "I don't understand, who is this?" I did not yet realize it was the woman I mistakenly dialed with trying to reach H & M.
She angrily said, "I'm not playing that game with you! I'm not giving any information. I don't know why you dialed a number out of state!"
"Ma'am, there's really no need to be rude," I said, now realizing it was the troll I dialed by accident and spoke with, a mere 10 minutes earlier.
As I began to explain, she cut me off with, "WHAT ARE YOU, SOME KINDA IDIOT!!??" and slammed the phone down.
My initial reaction was one of fury. How dare she say those nasty things to me? And what is she, living under a rock?? With ubiquitous cell phone usage in a very large and diverse city, other area codes - aside from the local '917' '718' '347,' etc. - are inevitable! Here she saw "440" and thought I was dialing out-of-state when in fact, I probably live just blocks from her in Manhattan.
The idea of "jam" began to permeate my brain and my thought process shifted. She didn't do this TO ME; in fact, it has nothing to do with me. I have never met this woman, and probably never will; I have no idea what her life is all about. For all I know, she may have hung the phone up on me and went to kiss her sleeping grandchildren.
Maybe she's all alone. Maybe she hasn't been laid in a really long time. Maybe she's a loving and devoted, mother, wife, and PTA president that I happened to catch on a bad day. Or, maybe she really is a heinous bitch that loves to cut people down.
What's beautiful about this story, ironically, is the idea that people cross our paths in this life all the time. Some stay for awhile, others are fleeting and leave virtually no memory imprint. Others become friends, lovers, teachers; others yell at us on the phone when we've dialed a wrong number. For whatever reason, the universe brought this woman and I together last Saturday, in an undesirable capacity, but nevertheless our lines crossed, both literally and figuratively.
Sometimes that's all we get with people - that spilt second of elevated emotion - and then we resume the current of our own lives. I wish it was more pleasant, but maybe that's just how it was supposed to be with her, and again, I cannot blame myself or nor ask "How dare she?" Her story began long ago, is still going on, and will continue. I was a minute detail; a spec of dust on the image of her life, and vice versa.
On Saturday, I called a department store to check their hours. I dialed 212, 439 ... (when it should have been 212, 489 ...) I was a mere digit off from perfection. A woman answered the phone with an abrupt "hheelloo??"
Realizing this store would surely have an automated greeting, I said, "Oh I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number." I hung up the phone.
Subsequently, I contacted the store and obtained the necessary information. About 10 minutes later, I see a "Private Number" calling. Curiously, I answered. "Hello?"
"Hi," a woman said gruffly. I vaguely recognized the voice. "Who is this and why are you calling my number?" I stammered a bit, and said, "I don't understand, who is this?" I did not yet realize it was the woman I mistakenly dialed with trying to reach H & M.
She angrily said, "I'm not playing that game with you! I'm not giving any information. I don't know why you dialed a number out of state!"
"Ma'am, there's really no need to be rude," I said, now realizing it was the troll I dialed by accident and spoke with, a mere 10 minutes earlier.
As I began to explain, she cut me off with, "WHAT ARE YOU, SOME KINDA IDIOT!!??" and slammed the phone down.
My initial reaction was one of fury. How dare she say those nasty things to me? And what is she, living under a rock?? With ubiquitous cell phone usage in a very large and diverse city, other area codes - aside from the local '917' '718' '347,' etc. - are inevitable! Here she saw "440" and thought I was dialing out-of-state when in fact, I probably live just blocks from her in Manhattan.
The idea of "jam" began to permeate my brain and my thought process shifted. She didn't do this TO ME; in fact, it has nothing to do with me. I have never met this woman, and probably never will; I have no idea what her life is all about. For all I know, she may have hung the phone up on me and went to kiss her sleeping grandchildren.
Maybe she's all alone. Maybe she hasn't been laid in a really long time. Maybe she's a loving and devoted, mother, wife, and PTA president that I happened to catch on a bad day. Or, maybe she really is a heinous bitch that loves to cut people down.
What's beautiful about this story, ironically, is the idea that people cross our paths in this life all the time. Some stay for awhile, others are fleeting and leave virtually no memory imprint. Others become friends, lovers, teachers; others yell at us on the phone when we've dialed a wrong number. For whatever reason, the universe brought this woman and I together last Saturday, in an undesirable capacity, but nevertheless our lines crossed, both literally and figuratively.
Sometimes that's all we get with people - that spilt second of elevated emotion - and then we resume the current of our own lives. I wish it was more pleasant, but maybe that's just how it was supposed to be with her, and again, I cannot blame myself or nor ask "How dare she?" Her story began long ago, is still going on, and will continue. I was a minute detail; a spec of dust on the image of her life, and vice versa.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Getting Back to Jam (Part 1)
It's a phrase I use often. It's the name of this blog. "It's ALL JAM." But what IS jam, you ask? And why, as the title of this entry states, are we "getting back" to it?
The "genesis" of jam, as it were, was December 10, 2006. That night, I uttered those three words for the first time and it all began to take shape.
Jam is a school of thought; a philosophy of life, and a general state of mind. It means something different to everybody, but the lose translation of it's "it's all jam" as I believe it is that it's all good, all okay (or WILL BE okay, as it ONCE WAS in the past) and that the natural ebb and flow of people and events is inevitably part of life's great design; things tend to work themselves out in the big picture. Although there are mishaps and undesirable elements that are sprinkled throughout life's journey, thinking about the "macro" version of the world and universe at large (as "one body") allows us to minimize and move beyond our own issues, usually more insignificant than we realize at the moment when emotions are being triggered.
Make sense?
If not, it's OK - the tenets of jam are very general and applicable to each school of thought and each personality.
Some may perceive jam as more of a nihilistic idea, and say, "well, since it's all jam, I'm gonna do whatever I want, whenever I want, without regard to morality since it all evens out in the end."
The above thought process is not my idea of jam nor does it define the phrase "it's all jam." When I explain and interpret the implications for myself, I try and steer clear of the existentialist take because, going back to the idea that "we are all one," I believe we must strive to love and cherish others and thus a code of ethics is linked to "my jam." After all, we all came from ONE CELL. A single cell. From that came everything else. Sure subsequent ideas, religions, political parties and national lines arose which divided us, but in essence, our innate humanity (from our humble, one-cell beginning) is the strong and binding tie that unifies us all. "It's all jam" serves as a reminder for me to cherish that spirit and unity, and to seek deeper meaning in life and find the oodness of living in each experience or person that we encounter.
Of course, it's not always a cake walk. And life really sucks sometimes!
The goal of the "jam" I try and promote is one of optimism and confidence that we're all in the game of life together - and in addition to being "one" we're all relatively the same as far as what we want and need - so try and see the goodness in things, in each other, and remember when you're having a bad day that it's, well, all jam.
I recently went through a rough patch. Life isn't all cotton candy and gumdrops now :D but it is much better; partly because of external forces at work and partly because of my changed attitude and mindset. Point is, I "lost" my own jam - in the sense that I conveniently forgot about everything I've written above - because my emotions were the only thing that I felt, and they were heavy. So instead of the ubiquity of the philosophy I have adopted, I was weighed down by these emotions.
Thus, I think life is about being aware of and believing in the jam - your jam - however you interpret it, and knowing that sometimes you will lose it. It will still always be "there," but in essence, the paths we choose in life and the experiences that happen may take us away from those core ideas. The goal is to always dig a path BACK, and re-discover that which you knew to be true all along - JAM!
Furthermore, the idea behind a "jam" mindset is that there is a oneness
The "genesis" of jam, as it were, was December 10, 2006. That night, I uttered those three words for the first time and it all began to take shape.
Jam is a school of thought; a philosophy of life, and a general state of mind. It means something different to everybody, but the lose translation of it's "it's all jam" as I believe it is that it's all good, all okay (or WILL BE okay, as it ONCE WAS in the past) and that the natural ebb and flow of people and events is inevitably part of life's great design; things tend to work themselves out in the big picture. Although there are mishaps and undesirable elements that are sprinkled throughout life's journey, thinking about the "macro" version of the world and universe at large (as "one body") allows us to minimize and move beyond our own issues, usually more insignificant than we realize at the moment when emotions are being triggered.
Make sense?
If not, it's OK - the tenets of jam are very general and applicable to each school of thought and each personality.
Some may perceive jam as more of a nihilistic idea, and say, "well, since it's all jam, I'm gonna do whatever I want, whenever I want, without regard to morality since it all evens out in the end."
The above thought process is not my idea of jam nor does it define the phrase "it's all jam." When I explain and interpret the implications for myself, I try and steer clear of the existentialist take because, going back to the idea that "we are all one," I believe we must strive to love and cherish others and thus a code of ethics is linked to "my jam." After all, we all came from ONE CELL. A single cell. From that came everything else. Sure subsequent ideas, religions, political parties and national lines arose which divided us, but in essence, our innate humanity (from our humble, one-cell beginning) is the strong and binding tie that unifies us all. "It's all jam" serves as a reminder for me to cherish that spirit and unity, and to seek deeper meaning in life and find the oodness of living in each experience or person that we encounter.
Of course, it's not always a cake walk. And life really sucks sometimes!
The goal of the "jam" I try and promote is one of optimism and confidence that we're all in the game of life together - and in addition to being "one" we're all relatively the same as far as what we want and need - so try and see the goodness in things, in each other, and remember when you're having a bad day that it's, well, all jam.
I recently went through a rough patch. Life isn't all cotton candy and gumdrops now :D but it is much better; partly because of external forces at work and partly because of my changed attitude and mindset. Point is, I "lost" my own jam - in the sense that I conveniently forgot about everything I've written above - because my emotions were the only thing that I felt, and they were heavy. So instead of the ubiquity of the philosophy I have adopted, I was weighed down by these emotions.
Thus, I think life is about being aware of and believing in the jam - your jam - however you interpret it, and knowing that sometimes you will lose it. It will still always be "there," but in essence, the paths we choose in life and the experiences that happen may take us away from those core ideas. The goal is to always dig a path BACK, and re-discover that which you knew to be true all along - JAM!
Furthermore, the idea behind a "jam" mindset is that there is a oneness
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
What is Love? (Baby don't hurt me...)
What is love?
Those three words made Haddaway a rich man back in 1993.
It's a question we all ponder; well, I guess those of us who didn't fall in love with the girl next door and end up marrying her (okay, maybe even those guys wonder about the nature of the world's most famous emotion!)
I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I am currently not "in" love with an individual. Yet, I love my family, friends, and even have moments where I fall into fleeting love with strangers or people I barely know. Love, actually, is, all around (OK, copyright infringement, I get it ;) but it's true - it's ubiquitous - but I'm most interested in what it means to be "in love" with another.
Once, a few years back, I fell in love with my friend's grandmother. This wasn't sexual love or physical desire, just a sense of oneness I felt, even if I only met her once and spent all of 30 minutes with her (I never saw her again, by the way). The best way I can describe it is that her mere presence emitted such positivity and her worldly and outgoing nature was extremely attractive to me. I felt myself wanting to talk with her, to learn about her life story, and I even wanted to say things just so she would be impressed and/or accept me. That said, it was an organic conversation and it flowed. She was as vibrant as could be, but in a subtle way; and seemed almost illuminated as she sat on my friend's couch. I didn't long for her after I left, nor did I ask about her again. But I believe there was a brief love felt (at least on my end) that was meant to be brief, and confined to that place and time.
In my opinion, the question "what is love" is impossible to answer in a sentence, paragraph, or novel. I suppose it has no real answer, since everyone would probably describe it differently. In a general sense though, it seems that we humans view true love as something that makes us feel excited to be alive; feel jovial, carefree, and optimistic about life and what's in store. For most people, this "love" we feel allows us to re-examine ourselves and find ways in which we can improve; i.e. "you make me want to be a better man..." (Jack Nicholson, "As Good As it Gets"). Some may argue that no one ever really changes, but at least the passion or desire fueling the love we feel results in an ATTEMPT to be a better person, change a bad habit, or mend our ways.
When I think about love, I see it as truly intangible. It cannot be quantified or accurately describes (because again, everyone's on their own "love" journey, and apparently cupid never really does the same job twice). So we all feel and experience our first love, and perhaps, many other loves, differently than the next person.
I suppose when I believe I've really "fallen in love," I can more accurately comment on this entry - or even modify it to fit my experience with it!
Those three words made Haddaway a rich man back in 1993.
It's a question we all ponder; well, I guess those of us who didn't fall in love with the girl next door and end up marrying her (okay, maybe even those guys wonder about the nature of the world's most famous emotion!)
I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I am currently not "in" love with an individual. Yet, I love my family, friends, and even have moments where I fall into fleeting love with strangers or people I barely know. Love, actually, is, all around (OK, copyright infringement, I get it ;) but it's true - it's ubiquitous - but I'm most interested in what it means to be "in love" with another.
Once, a few years back, I fell in love with my friend's grandmother. This wasn't sexual love or physical desire, just a sense of oneness I felt, even if I only met her once and spent all of 30 minutes with her (I never saw her again, by the way). The best way I can describe it is that her mere presence emitted such positivity and her worldly and outgoing nature was extremely attractive to me. I felt myself wanting to talk with her, to learn about her life story, and I even wanted to say things just so she would be impressed and/or accept me. That said, it was an organic conversation and it flowed. She was as vibrant as could be, but in a subtle way; and seemed almost illuminated as she sat on my friend's couch. I didn't long for her after I left, nor did I ask about her again. But I believe there was a brief love felt (at least on my end) that was meant to be brief, and confined to that place and time.
In my opinion, the question "what is love" is impossible to answer in a sentence, paragraph, or novel. I suppose it has no real answer, since everyone would probably describe it differently. In a general sense though, it seems that we humans view true love as something that makes us feel excited to be alive; feel jovial, carefree, and optimistic about life and what's in store. For most people, this "love" we feel allows us to re-examine ourselves and find ways in which we can improve; i.e. "you make me want to be a better man..." (Jack Nicholson, "As Good As it Gets"). Some may argue that no one ever really changes, but at least the passion or desire fueling the love we feel results in an ATTEMPT to be a better person, change a bad habit, or mend our ways.
When I think about love, I see it as truly intangible. It cannot be quantified or accurately describes (because again, everyone's on their own "love" journey, and apparently cupid never really does the same job twice). So we all feel and experience our first love, and perhaps, many other loves, differently than the next person.
I suppose when I believe I've really "fallen in love," I can more accurately comment on this entry - or even modify it to fit my experience with it!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Do You Remember Your First Time?
Do you remember where and when you first heard the sound of music?
(No, I don't mean the famous Austrian nun and her singing children) ;)
What about the artist or song? When you hear them/it today, are you instantly taken back to that moment? Do nostalgic feelings ensue and you feel three years old again?
For me, it was a combination-circa 1988 I remember hearing Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" (YEARS before the arrival of the 'RickRoll'), The Fine Young Cannibals "She Drives Me Crazy," and Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon" and "Gold Dust Woman."
Although Rick and the FYC evoke nothing particularly vivid in my mind, I can still remember being at the 13th Street Racquet Club and the supermarket when I first heard both, respectively; having been nearly 4 years old and under pleasant, carefree circumstances, each one brings a smile and a warm feeling when I hear them today, no matter how much people might lampoon or even hate on Mr. Astley.
I vaguely recall being in the car and listening to Fleetwood Mac; although I was exposed to a healthy dose of "Wee Sing," Raffi, Sharon, Lois, and Bram-I even saw the latter group in concert w/Heather-my folks loved the Stones, the Doors, the Eagles, and more-so naturally "Rumors" was on the frequently played list. As I heard voices in synergy and harmonizing in 'Rhiannon,' I remember not knowing if it was boys, or girls, or both. The folksy and somewhat twangy voice of Stevie Nicks combined with Lindsay Buckingham and the others confused me; I didn't know if they were young singers like me or older, like my parents. There was something beautiful about the way they sang though, and I wanted to hear their music over and over.
When I first heard "Gold Dust Woman," I visualized the song's intro in my head based on what I was hearing - a stick banging against an aluminum can - I tried to imagine what could be making such eerie and soothing sounds. Then came the lyrics, "Back on gold dust woman..." I knew for sure this was a woman singing. The slight rhythmic "tick...tick...tick...tick" continued. I really liked this song!
Whether it was Rick Astley, Mick Fleetwood, or those weird lookin Cannibal dudes, I developed an ealry love and appreciation for the soothing and euphoric sound of music!
Flash forward to the early 1990s. My first cassette tape (ha!) was Ace of Base's "The Sign," followed shortly thereafter by Alanis Morisette's "Jagged Little Pill." I felt awkward playing the latter CD in the car since the word "fuck" was on the "You Oughta Know" track - thanks a lot, Dave Coulier.
It's funny how the individual changes, grows, matures, and progresses, but the lyrics and music of one's "first song" have been, and always will be, set in stone. The songs themselves were recorded in a place and time; not only the music and lyrics, but also that moment, are recorded. This is an ephemeral moment which leaves a definitive mark and subsequently creates an eternal presence in the history of the world.
It's the feelings or emotions which this eternal sound, this music, evokes as you grow older; these are the factors which, unlike the songs themselves, do not stay constant. One song may hold the special place of earliest music memory, and you can hear it time and again, but as the years go by, the song delivers itself in a slightly different tune as you'll take your life experiences, baggage, et. al and apply it to the same song as you now hear it. The music is still rhythmically and structurally the same, but the tune is different; this tune caters to your emotions and relates to your own personal journey, just as it did when you were 3.
(No, I don't mean the famous Austrian nun and her singing children) ;)
What about the artist or song? When you hear them/it today, are you instantly taken back to that moment? Do nostalgic feelings ensue and you feel three years old again?
For me, it was a combination-circa 1988 I remember hearing Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" (YEARS before the arrival of the 'RickRoll'), The Fine Young Cannibals "She Drives Me Crazy," and Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon" and "Gold Dust Woman."
Although Rick and the FYC evoke nothing particularly vivid in my mind, I can still remember being at the 13th Street Racquet Club and the supermarket when I first heard both, respectively; having been nearly 4 years old and under pleasant, carefree circumstances, each one brings a smile and a warm feeling when I hear them today, no matter how much people might lampoon or even hate on Mr. Astley.
I vaguely recall being in the car and listening to Fleetwood Mac; although I was exposed to a healthy dose of "Wee Sing," Raffi, Sharon, Lois, and Bram-I even saw the latter group in concert w/Heather-my folks loved the Stones, the Doors, the Eagles, and more-so naturally "Rumors" was on the frequently played list. As I heard voices in synergy and harmonizing in 'Rhiannon,' I remember not knowing if it was boys, or girls, or both. The folksy and somewhat twangy voice of Stevie Nicks combined with Lindsay Buckingham and the others confused me; I didn't know if they were young singers like me or older, like my parents. There was something beautiful about the way they sang though, and I wanted to hear their music over and over.
When I first heard "Gold Dust Woman," I visualized the song's intro in my head based on what I was hearing - a stick banging against an aluminum can - I tried to imagine what could be making such eerie and soothing sounds. Then came the lyrics, "Back on gold dust woman..." I knew for sure this was a woman singing. The slight rhythmic "tick...tick...tick...tick" continued. I really liked this song!
Whether it was Rick Astley, Mick Fleetwood, or those weird lookin Cannibal dudes, I developed an ealry love and appreciation for the soothing and euphoric sound of music!
Flash forward to the early 1990s. My first cassette tape (ha!) was Ace of Base's "The Sign," followed shortly thereafter by Alanis Morisette's "Jagged Little Pill." I felt awkward playing the latter CD in the car since the word "fuck" was on the "You Oughta Know" track - thanks a lot, Dave Coulier.
It's funny how the individual changes, grows, matures, and progresses, but the lyrics and music of one's "first song" have been, and always will be, set in stone. The songs themselves were recorded in a place and time; not only the music and lyrics, but also that moment, are recorded. This is an ephemeral moment which leaves a definitive mark and subsequently creates an eternal presence in the history of the world.
It's the feelings or emotions which this eternal sound, this music, evokes as you grow older; these are the factors which, unlike the songs themselves, do not stay constant. One song may hold the special place of earliest music memory, and you can hear it time and again, but as the years go by, the song delivers itself in a slightly different tune as you'll take your life experiences, baggage, et. al and apply it to the same song as you now hear it. The music is still rhythmically and structurally the same, but the tune is different; this tune caters to your emotions and relates to your own personal journey, just as it did when you were 3.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
A 'Venti' Concept that Really Caught On...Our Fascination with Coffeehouses
America seems to have a fascination with Coffehouses. Not just with the establishments themselves, but with the entire idea and culture it all - setting up shop w/Mac and double soy latte (no foam) for all to see.
As I type this, I am sitting at a Tribeca Starbucks on one of Steve Jobs's "miracle machines" with a Grande Iced Tea beside me. I am periodically scanning the crowd of coffehouse-goers, wondering what each is thinking and observing their ordering habits; some have fifteen-part orders and take 3 minutes to articulate exactly what they want while others order a 'tall pike,' and proceed to checkout.
My old boss once said, "the longer the Starbucks drink order, the more high maintenance the person." I tend to believe him.
So what is it about flashing our fancy laptops and sporting our designer coffee brands in a public setting that is appealing to us? Some of us even look the part; we dress in stylish fabric, vintage scarfs, and shawls while others choose a preppier look, donning Polo sweaters and pleated khaki pants. Do we have a genetic pre-disposition to behave in such a way? Is it our narcissistic side expressing itself, with the goal of allowing people to observe the facade of 'coolness' and 'togetherness' which we present publicly here?
Or are we following the idea of "cool," defined by a bunch of marketing executives?
My best guess? The reason we love this environment and "soak it up" to the extent we do - in urban and suburban areas alike - is more in-line with the latter inference - that clever businesspeople at the top figured out how to tap into what we love most-ourselves-and subsequently manufactured and sold us the idea of the "coffehouse." An intimate, yet open place where we could showcase our talents in a subtle, yet blatant way. And boy, did it work brilliantly!
I can see the the meeting now: "Let's give the public a space where they can purchase a brand of coffee that's "more than just a cup of coffee," but an idea; a lifestyle. Then let's open that space up and bring in music, tables, chairs, couches, and free wifi access to ensure that a thousand chrome laptops will be illuminating at any given time. This will allow the patrons to project an image of themselves to the public, and, most importantly, new customers coming in the door - those that long to trump the "coolness factor" of the coffee-house dwellers they see before them, and thus the cycle repeats indefinitely."
SOLD.
Personally, I'm not against coffehouse dwellers; aside from the present moment, I've spent time at many a 'buck, the Oren's Daily Roast on the UWS, or even Gotham Coffee in my neighborhood. There's something peaceful about the whole environment-but who knows, perhaps subconsciously the real reason I enjoy it so much is it allows me to feel better, and view myself as "more cool," because I am working in a public space where others can see me instead of in the privacy of my own room. Could this group dynamic make me work harder, since I know I'm being watched? Or is it a place where I can go in the hopes that, amidst the generally anti-social atmosphere, a stranger will make contact and end up being the love of my life, or vice versa?
Just like the Tootsie-Pop question, I suppose given the subjective nature of situation, we'll never know the "true" reason behind New York, and America's, fascination with the Coffeehouse.
As I type this, I am sitting at a Tribeca Starbucks on one of Steve Jobs's "miracle machines" with a Grande Iced Tea beside me. I am periodically scanning the crowd of coffehouse-goers, wondering what each is thinking and observing their ordering habits; some have fifteen-part orders and take 3 minutes to articulate exactly what they want while others order a 'tall pike,' and proceed to checkout.
My old boss once said, "the longer the Starbucks drink order, the more high maintenance the person." I tend to believe him.
So what is it about flashing our fancy laptops and sporting our designer coffee brands in a public setting that is appealing to us? Some of us even look the part; we dress in stylish fabric, vintage scarfs, and shawls while others choose a preppier look, donning Polo sweaters and pleated khaki pants. Do we have a genetic pre-disposition to behave in such a way? Is it our narcissistic side expressing itself, with the goal of allowing people to observe the facade of 'coolness' and 'togetherness' which we present publicly here?
Or are we following the idea of "cool," defined by a bunch of marketing executives?
My best guess? The reason we love this environment and "soak it up" to the extent we do - in urban and suburban areas alike - is more in-line with the latter inference - that clever businesspeople at the top figured out how to tap into what we love most-ourselves-and subsequently manufactured and sold us the idea of the "coffehouse." An intimate, yet open place where we could showcase our talents in a subtle, yet blatant way. And boy, did it work brilliantly!
I can see the the meeting now: "Let's give the public a space where they can purchase a brand of coffee that's "more than just a cup of coffee," but an idea; a lifestyle. Then let's open that space up and bring in music, tables, chairs, couches, and free wifi access to ensure that a thousand chrome laptops will be illuminating at any given time. This will allow the patrons to project an image of themselves to the public, and, most importantly, new customers coming in the door - those that long to trump the "coolness factor" of the coffee-house dwellers they see before them, and thus the cycle repeats indefinitely."
SOLD.
Personally, I'm not against coffehouse dwellers; aside from the present moment, I've spent time at many a 'buck, the Oren's Daily Roast on the UWS, or even Gotham Coffee in my neighborhood. There's something peaceful about the whole environment-but who knows, perhaps subconsciously the real reason I enjoy it so much is it allows me to feel better, and view myself as "more cool," because I am working in a public space where others can see me instead of in the privacy of my own room. Could this group dynamic make me work harder, since I know I'm being watched? Or is it a place where I can go in the hopes that, amidst the generally anti-social atmosphere, a stranger will make contact and end up being the love of my life, or vice versa?
Just like the Tootsie-Pop question, I suppose given the subjective nature of situation, we'll never know the "true" reason behind New York, and America's, fascination with the Coffeehouse.
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