Hello again, hello
Ah Internet, you dangerous pit of information and hyperlinks. So writing that title led me to blingo all the lyrics which landed me on youtube watching a homemade video of Jazz Singer clips set to the song and next thing you know I'm perusing the related videos and blaring Love on The Rocks through my laptop speakers.
It's interesting to me how you spend your early childhood adoring all things your parents love followed by a substantial period of loathing all things your parents love only to get even older and once again appreciate those same items. For me, such is the case with Neil Diamond. My first four concerts were Neil Diamond concerts. My Mom and I stood in line for hours outside the old, obsolete Diamonds department store back in the days before Internet and Ticketmaster to buy tickets that landed us in the last row of the old coliseum known to the locals as the Madhouse on McDowell. I remember playing my America tape raw on my Fisher Price brown recorder/player. I composed intricate dance sequences to each song that carefully utilized each couch and chair in their living room. It's been over 20 years since I've listened to some of those songs, but I'm willing to bet I still know all the words.
As a teenager, I was embarrassed to be associated with Neil. America got sent to the bottom of the tape pile so I could blast Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam instead. I was far too cool for the likes of Neil. I acknowledged his existence with contempt. In short, I was a stereotypical teenager. I'd like to think Neil sensed my deserting the fold of his multitude of female followers and tried to woo me back by making a Christmas album, a choice he struggled with as a Jew. To Jesus or not to Jesus, that was his question, and fortunately he chose to Jesus and rock out on Holy Night. But I digress.
After awhile I was indifferent to Neil. I like to refer to that time as my college years. My dance routines were forgotten but I no longer smote his name in casual conversation. I just didn't care anymore, he was a vague memory. But somewhere along the way as I stumbled into my mid twenties, a strange thing happened, Neil Diamond became cool. Suddenly bars were playing Sweet Caroline and people were singing along at the top of their lungs. In grad school I spent one memorable night learning the bastardized version of Sweet Caroline at the local cowboy bar and felt this odd sadness boiling up in me, an empathy for the man and anger at whomever decided Caroline was a lady of the night.
The next day I woke up hungover and hungry for the music of my youth. I spent many hours on Napster downloading Neil tunes to listen to while I worked on my thesis. It felt good to welcome my old friend back, if not for dancing at least for drinks. I was no longer embarrassed by our association, quite the opposite. Now I wanted to show off my vast lyrical knowledge to anyone who would listen. I may not be Barbra but I knew the flowers were not being brought, that a woman in Kentucky was ready to own you, and that Rosie crackled.
Nowadays I don't listen to Neil on a daily basis, but I enjoy a fix every now and again and I'm always happy to sing along whenever I am lucky enough to hear an old favorite on the radio. I'm proud of our relationship and eager to share it with others. It's hard to stay sad when Neil is playing, he has a way about him that makes you want to sing along.
I turned 32 yesterday. At work I take continuous good natured mocking for being young, but I'm not feeling all that young anymore. I look in the mirror and see the crow's feet by my eyes and grab for the collagen eye cream. I don't think age is changing me in a bad way, it's just striking to notice that I no longer look 18. In some ways I'm content and happy with the way my life is going. It is a life full of laughter and positive experiences for the most part. I'm in a good place in many facets of existence. I love my condo and my job is, for the most part, a good fit for me. I have a close local friend and a great pub to visit for a night out. The nagging lingering sadness for the life I wish I could have is quiet most of the time and I work hard at kicking it down and enjoying what I do have even if it doesn't include the things I wish I could have. And I think that is the best that anyone could hope for, really, a life of mostly content interspersed with moments of unadulterated joy. They may not be the exact moments of my daydreams but they are moments nonetheless, and for that I am so very grateful.
It's interesting to me how you spend your early childhood adoring all things your parents love followed by a substantial period of loathing all things your parents love only to get even older and once again appreciate those same items. For me, such is the case with Neil Diamond. My first four concerts were Neil Diamond concerts. My Mom and I stood in line for hours outside the old, obsolete Diamonds department store back in the days before Internet and Ticketmaster to buy tickets that landed us in the last row of the old coliseum known to the locals as the Madhouse on McDowell. I remember playing my America tape raw on my Fisher Price brown recorder/player. I composed intricate dance sequences to each song that carefully utilized each couch and chair in their living room. It's been over 20 years since I've listened to some of those songs, but I'm willing to bet I still know all the words.
As a teenager, I was embarrassed to be associated with Neil. America got sent to the bottom of the tape pile so I could blast Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam instead. I was far too cool for the likes of Neil. I acknowledged his existence with contempt. In short, I was a stereotypical teenager. I'd like to think Neil sensed my deserting the fold of his multitude of female followers and tried to woo me back by making a Christmas album, a choice he struggled with as a Jew. To Jesus or not to Jesus, that was his question, and fortunately he chose to Jesus and rock out on Holy Night. But I digress.
After awhile I was indifferent to Neil. I like to refer to that time as my college years. My dance routines were forgotten but I no longer smote his name in casual conversation. I just didn't care anymore, he was a vague memory. But somewhere along the way as I stumbled into my mid twenties, a strange thing happened, Neil Diamond became cool. Suddenly bars were playing Sweet Caroline and people were singing along at the top of their lungs. In grad school I spent one memorable night learning the bastardized version of Sweet Caroline at the local cowboy bar and felt this odd sadness boiling up in me, an empathy for the man and anger at whomever decided Caroline was a lady of the night.
The next day I woke up hungover and hungry for the music of my youth. I spent many hours on Napster downloading Neil tunes to listen to while I worked on my thesis. It felt good to welcome my old friend back, if not for dancing at least for drinks. I was no longer embarrassed by our association, quite the opposite. Now I wanted to show off my vast lyrical knowledge to anyone who would listen. I may not be Barbra but I knew the flowers were not being brought, that a woman in Kentucky was ready to own you, and that Rosie crackled.
Nowadays I don't listen to Neil on a daily basis, but I enjoy a fix every now and again and I'm always happy to sing along whenever I am lucky enough to hear an old favorite on the radio. I'm proud of our relationship and eager to share it with others. It's hard to stay sad when Neil is playing, he has a way about him that makes you want to sing along.
I turned 32 yesterday. At work I take continuous good natured mocking for being young, but I'm not feeling all that young anymore. I look in the mirror and see the crow's feet by my eyes and grab for the collagen eye cream. I don't think age is changing me in a bad way, it's just striking to notice that I no longer look 18. In some ways I'm content and happy with the way my life is going. It is a life full of laughter and positive experiences for the most part. I'm in a good place in many facets of existence. I love my condo and my job is, for the most part, a good fit for me. I have a close local friend and a great pub to visit for a night out. The nagging lingering sadness for the life I wish I could have is quiet most of the time and I work hard at kicking it down and enjoying what I do have even if it doesn't include the things I wish I could have. And I think that is the best that anyone could hope for, really, a life of mostly content interspersed with moments of unadulterated joy. They may not be the exact moments of my daydreams but they are moments nonetheless, and for that I am so very grateful.