The Merriam-Webster Dictionary offers three definitions of “luxury.”
The first is “a condition of abundance or great ease and comfort.” In my head, that translates to oversized domiciles with gold-plated fixtures, marble floors and walk-in closets the size of some apartments; i.e., garish accoutrements that flout the proverbial thickness of one’s wallet, nothing more. Even if I hit the PowerBall or MegaMillions lottery, I’d eschew that stuff; it’s not me. My main indulgences, I think, would be what to me are pricey works of art—pieces by GeoBeam An and Luana Asiata, among others, and in the scheme of things they’re not all that expensive.
The second option is broken into two parts: “something adding to pleasure or comfort but not absolutely necessary”; and “an indulgence in something that provides pleasure, satisfaction, or ease.” That’s more my speed, actually—the allegedly “unessential” things that turn life from a gritty black-and-white noir to a Technicolor spectacle of song and dance. For me, that’s mostly music, both recorded and live, and the array of streaming TV options I enjoy, which these days—in addition to the usual suspects (Netflix, Hulu and Prime)—include MHZ Choice and Viaplay, both of which feature European and Scandinavian fare.
The third spin around the syllables highlights the word’s archaic roots: “lechery; lust.” That speaks for itself, I suppose. Henry VIII and Jeffrey Epstein’s best friend, the current tinpot despot, are good examples of that.
As I’ve noted before, from 1970—when I turned 5—until 1975, my family lived in Saudi Arabia, where entertainment options were few. TV was basically a non-entity, while weekly movies—shown on a cement slab located in the center of the compound, basically—were always a few years behind the times. Which probably explains why, when we returned to the States, I threw myself whole-heartedly into all things TV…and eventually paid the bills by writing for various TV magazines.
But, as much as I enjoy losing myself in a Nordic drama, the one luxury I will never relinquish—unless, that is, I go deaf—is music. To quote from my long-ago piece about my fleeting meet-and-greet with Bruce Springsteen, “We wake, roll out of bed and, often, dread the day to come—maybe it’s the morning commute or pile of work awaiting us at the office; perhaps a dead-end job for dead-end wages; or, at times, something much, much worse. But the music takes us away from whatever it is, albeit for a few minutes, and helps us muster the strength to soldier on. On the flip side, it elevates life’s wondrous moments in ways that are near-impossible to put into print (and, for once, I won’t try). In short, it’s the great intangible that enriches daily existence.”
There’s nothing more enthralling than the live experience, be it in a grubby club, pristine concert hall, or oversized barn of an arena; it’s why, when asked about my favorite concert, I often say the last one. And is there anything more invigorating than discovering a new singer-songwriter who somehow echoes your soul? I’m soon to turn 60 yet often feel like I’m still 16 when I stumble upon a new favorite. It’s the same rush.
The Old Grey Cat 
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