Traveling Through The Years

Yeah, Another Blogger30 Comments

I’m not exactly sure when the urge to travel first hit me, but a good guess would be 1969. In the summer of that year, soon after graduating from college, I bumped into a childhood friend, Mike, whom I hadn’t seen in a long, long while. That encounter took place inside a restaurant in Roslyn, the Long Island town he and I had grown up in and to which we had returned when our collegiate careers reached their conclusions (Long Island is near New York City).

Mike and I immediately hit it off at the restaurant, to the extent that he asked me if I’d be interested in joining him on a road trip to Canada, which he was eager to embark on. With no employment plans, or any kind of plans in place, I said yes. Off we went, then, maybe a couple of weeks later, in Mike’s bright red Ford Mustang convertible. Our journey lasted for two weeks or so, I think. We got as far north as Canada’s Gaspé Peninsula, where we began the southward drive back to the States. Mike and I had a blast throughout our expedition. We’ve palled around regularly ever since that time, partly because, as fate would have it, we ended up living not far from each other in Pennsylvania, the state each of us moved to a few years after our Canadian journey. We remain Pennsylvanians and close friends.

Having been bitten by the travel bug, and still uncertain about what to do with my life employment-wise, I scratched the bug by exploring many states of the USA on two separate month-long occasions during the early 1970s. And in 1977, right before beginning what would become a lengthy career in government, I wandered through Europe for six weeks, accompanied by a backpack. With little money to my name — I specialized in low-paying, short-term jobs for a bunch of years — it’s somewhat amazing that I pulled off those three trips. These days, it probably would be next to impossible.

Yours truly on Kala Patthar in Nepal. Mount Everest is the tallest of the peaks behind me.
(November 19, 1982)

Well, I’ve maintained a pretty active travel schedule since then, spending significant amounts of time on foreign shores and also in a selection of American states. The most astonishing adventure I’ve ever had was a three-week hike, in 1982, through the Himalayas in Nepal. Sticking strictly to terrains on which mountaineering equipment (ropes, ice axes, etc.) was not needed, I and a couple more members of my small trekking group ultimately reached Kala Patthar. KP is an approximately 18,500-foot-high ridge almost within spitting distance of the world’s tallest structure, Mount Everest, whose tippy top is 29,032 feet above sea level. On Kala Patthar, with Everest and other monstrously elevated peaks staring me smack in the face, my mind was totally blown. I’d never experienced anything that majestic before, and haven’t equaled or topped it since. And there’s virtually no chance I will.

My wife Sandy wasn’t with me in Nepal, due to the irrefutable fact that we didn’t meet until 1990. But we’ve logged plenty of miles together since becoming a couple, both in the States and abroad. Many of those miles have been on Cape Cod, a 65-mile-long Massachusetts peninsula. I’ve written ad nauseum about the Cape in this publication, another irrefutable fact. That’s because Sandy and I have developed an intimate relationship with Cape Cod, something we never anticipated would happen with any travel destination. Cape Cod is blessed with unusually beautiful coastlines, tons of restaurants and a good arts scene, and it emits welcoming vibes. It is our soul mate. We have vacationed on the Cape almost annually since discovering it in 1998.

Sandy and I travelled quite a lot in 2025. Totally domestically, as all five of our destinations, which included Cape Cod and Maui, are parts of the States. Where might we find ourselves in 2026? Cape Cod is on the agenda once again. Beyond that, we don’t know. Getting to, and back home from, vacation spots wear us out more than it used to. Last year’s trips proved that to us emphatically. So, we shall see.

I’ll say this, though: Somewhere down the line it would be cool to return to Italy, where Sandy and I explored Venice, Florence and Rome in 2011. We’d like to see more of Italy, the Naples/Pompeii region, for instance.

And we would be thrilled to poke around any number of lands we never have set foot in. Spain is on that list, as is Portugal and Morocco and . . .

A Baby-Blue Story

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

Two Thursdays ago, in need of exercise, fresh air and dashes of excitement, I unglued my bony ass from the living room sofa and left the comfort of my suburban-Philadelphia home. Hopping into my car, I drove for three miles, arriving in the heart of Hatboro, an old-fashioned village which, after parking, I explored on foot for an hour. Actually, I exaggerate. I didn‘t hop into the car. Eased my way in carefully is more like it. But I might have hopped were I at least 25 years younger than I am.

Hatboro, Pennsylvania (January 8, 2026)
Hatboro, Pennsylvania (January 8, 2026)

The hike began a few minutes after the noon hour. I had one main goal in mind: to find joyful colors, on man-made objects, that would counteract the mild case of sluggishness that my region’s drab winter had induced in me that day. I ended up having a fair amount of success, thanks to encounters with the large, bright murals painted on the exteriors of two buildings. Other than them, though, Hatboro’s structures offered little in the eye–catching hues category. Basically, earth tones, greys, whites and blacks dominated. Fortunately, that’s not the end of this story.

Half a year ago, while on a walk that I wrote about for Yeah, Another Blogger, I came to the realization that, theretofore, I ordinarily failed to look at the sky when I was outdoors. Big mistake, as its vast canvas can present a sizeable variety of designs, all of them fascinating. There were exceptions to this, of course. For instance, I swooned over sunsets now and then. Overall, however, I was someone who, celestially-speaking, was missing the boat.

That walk changed my behavior. Since then, I’ve tried hard to remember to peruse the heavens a bit when I’m outside. I still fall short in this regard, but I’m pleased with my progress. And I think I’ll continue to improve. One thing for sure is that looking upward brought my Hatboro walk to a higher level than it otherwise would have been.

Hatboro, Pennsylvania (January 8, 2026)

Yes, two man-made creations (the murals) impressed me. But, as it turned out, a Nature-made creation (the sky) wowed me way more, and gave me an additional bonus too. During the expedition I raised my gaze four or five times to the baby-blue expanse above me, allowing its gentle, soothing presence to penetrate my wrinkled skin and creaky bones. The cloud filaments strewn throughout the ethers aided the process lovingly. Ah, what relief! Those sky-gazing sessions, brief though they were, sent my inner tensions packing. Unfortunately, the tensions soon returned. Why? Well, I’m a pretty uptight f*cker. I wish that wasn’t true, but it is. Shit! Still, I was glad to get rid of them even for those short periods.

Blue, according to various research studies, is the favorite color among humans. But which shade of blue? A bold one, such as cobalt blue or navy blue? An extremely mild one, such as powder blue? I investigated that subject online and couldn’t find an answer. My hunch is that, for heavens-related reasons akin to mine, the blue hue that reached down to comfort me in Hatboro is the world’s favorite, or near the top anyway. Color experts seem to call it either baby blue or light-sky blue. I go with baby blue. I like the sound of that name.

When I was a kid, bright yellow was my favorite color. During my young adulthood, my preference changed to blue. I’m not sure, however, if I ever thought about which specific form of blue I prefer. Until recently, that is. These days, baby blue does it for me. I know it’s not flashy. It doesn’t make my jaw drop instantly. But I find it to be graceful and liberating. It makes me smile and makes me feel good. Clearly, I’ve become a big fan. Which wouldn’t be the case if I hadn’t started to look up regularly last year, losing myself in the baby-blue skies that often have been there to greet me.

Peace, Love And Understanding

Yeah, Another Blogger153 Comments

So, here we are at the start of another year. Perhaps 2026 will prove to be more agreeable for humankind than 2025 was. But that’s a major longshot, seeing that a propensity for violence is embedded in the genetic material of way too many people, males above all. Vladimir Putin is a perfect example of an individual filled with real nasty DNA. Male, and also a f*cking monster, he shows no inclination to end Russia’s attack on Ukraine. And let’s not forget Donald Trump. (Man, we can’t. He’s unforgettable! Right, Venezuela?) Like Putin, he is a hugely destabilizing figure. Duh! A megalomaniac, a bigot and a convicted felon, and contemptuous of all who dare to disagree with him, this guy is trying his damnedest to put a submission hold on democracy in the USA. I could cite dozens of other examples of horror shows being staged on our planet. But I’ll spare you the wordage.

As you might guess, based on the above paragraph, the negative aspects of the world’s state of affairs are on my mind a lot. They are in sharp contrast to teachings of the hippie movement of the 1960s, which shaped my outlook on life. Or maybe that outlook already was in place back then and merely wanted to be reinforced a bit. Whatever the case, I’m a sucker for peace, love and understanding, three key tenets of hippiedom. And for four of the others too: kindness, inclusion, fairness and open-mindedness. Alas, alas, alas, only in the dreamiest dreams will that septet become guiding principles of any nation, let alone all nations. There is far too much intolerance and greed throughout the world for that to happen. Still, it’s important to champion and manifest those virtues. The more inroads they make, the less unfortunate the future of our species, and of most other species on Earth, will be.

I’m an old guy, about one-quarter of the way through my 79th journey around the Sun, a reality I can’t fathom at all. How the hell did I become near-ancient? Anyway, I don’t know if it’s surprising or not, but I’ve always remained true to the societal and world views I held when I was in my 20s, a period during which I wouldn’t have guessed that, decades later, my face would decide to form more wrinkles than are found in a box of prunes. Political-spectrum-wise, I haven’t swung to the right, not even a little, and never will. And I’ll add, by the way, that I’m not a pacifist. Violence and warfare at times are just and necessary. And I’ll also add that I take comfort in the knowledge that a healthy number of readers of this publication have pretty much the same takes as me on the matters I touch upon in this article.

Nick Lowe, an astute British rocker, is the composer of the great song (What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding. He and the other members of his then-band Brinsley Schwarz recorded it and released it in 1974, with Lowe handling the lead vocals. Initially, it didn’t go anywhere at all. Since then, however, the song has gained an enormous amount of traction. Elvis Costello And The Attractions got the ball rolling with the version they put on wax in 1978. Many more artists subsequently covered it too. There’s no doubt in my mind that the composition’s popularity has mushroomed because its message is the truth. There’s nothing funny about peace, love and understanding. They are where it’s at.

Without further ado, I present to you the Brinsley Schwarz version of a song that has its heart in the right places. Get ready to be rocked and inspired.

Ho, Ho, Ho And All That Jazz: A Guest Post By Santa Claus

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

Ho, ho, ho and all that jazz, this is Santa Claus, writing to you from the frigging North Pole. It’s colder than deep space here, so cold that my private parts probably wouldn’t thaw out if I spent a month in the Caribbean. Despite that, I’d love to relocate to warmer climes. But Mrs. Claus won’t hear of it. Ditto for the elves, those weirdos I rely on to help get the big job done at Christmastime. Beats me how anybody can stand the cold. But it takes all kinds, I guess.

Anyway, one week ago, feeling antsy, I decided to get away for a couple of days. The elves are strange as hell, so I was not at all certain they could handle Christmas-toymaking pressure on their own. But I knew that Mrs. Claus would keep things under control. What a woman she is! It’s a shame that my frozen privates almost always prevent me from providing her with the satisfaction she deserves. Not to mention that true intimacy would be much more achievable if I dropped at least 80 pounds. Yeah, there’s no denying I’m a fat f*ck.

“Where are you headed, my chubby hubbie?” my spouse asked when I told her of my need for a quick getaway.

“I’m off to Pennsylvania, USA, dearest. I’ve been out of touch with Sandy and Neil for a long while. I miss them. Too bad I won’t be with them during Chanukah. But that holiday begins only a week and a half before Christmas, and I’ll need to be back home well before that. Dearest, I think it’s great I have Jewish friends. Why, I’m so comfortable with Sandy and Neil, I sometimes flirt with the idea of converting to Judaism.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?” my wife responded. “You’re a Christian icon!”

“Just joking, dearest, just joking,” I said. Or was I? Twenty minutes later, after pecking my better half on the cheek, I climbed into my waiting sleigh and in a handful of seconds was up, up and away.

I reached my destination in record time, landing and parking, under a seriously dark sky, in Sandy and Neil’s backyard. “Don’t cause any problems, guys,” I told the reindeer. “No moaning and groaning. No crapping on the lawn. Just lie down and be quiet. We’ll be homeward bound tomorrow.”

I made my way to the front of the house and knocked on the door. Neil opened it. “Holy shit, it’s Santa! It’s been ages, my man. Ages. Come on in. How have you been? Sandy, Santa‘s here!” Sandy ran to the door, a wide smile on her face.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Santa. I’ve missed you so much!” she said.

Well, they embraced me, and I them, and then the three of us sat down and spent the next two hours chit-chatting, noshing, drinking, and having one hell of a fine time. What’s better than being with people you actually want to be with? Not much.

The conversation turned to the holiday season. “As I know you know, Santa, I’m an atheist,” Neil said. “But there’s something about Chanukah even I can get into. I’m talking about lighting menorah candles each night of the holiday and watching them glow. They’re beautiful and put me in a gentle frame of mind. I wish you could spend at least part of Chanukah with us, Santa, but I’m sure your schedule won’t allow that.”

“Right, duty awaits me at the North Pole,” I said. “But, speaking of beautiful, how about we all stroll around your neighborhood right now? Many of your neighbors really know how to decorate their houses and grounds for Christmas. We’ve looked at wonderful Christmas displays a few times before. Remember?”

“How could I forget, Santa?” Neil asked. “One of those excursions lifted you out of a funk.”

“Word!” I acknowledged. “Okay, let’s see what we shall see.”

Well, what can I say? The sights at night on the blocks near Sandy and Neil’s home mesmerized the three of us. I felt as if I were in a wonderland. And in a real sense I was. Those streets were enchanted, and only in good ways.

Before departing the next day, I asked Neil if I could contribute a story to Yeah, Another Blogger. I’d written two guest posts before. “Damn straight, Santa!” he said. “That would suit me just fine. You write a heck of a lot better than me, you know.”

“Neil, you’re such a flatterer!” I replied. But he wasn’t wrong about that.

Soon, the time to say goodbye arrived. It had been over five years since I’d spoken on the phone with, let alone visited, Sandy and Neil. We promised to stay in touch regularly. And I believe we will. And, though it was still a few weeks away, they wished me a very Happy New Year. Which is what I wish for the readers of Neil’s publication. The world is in sad straits. It’s going through a dark period. But if we all let our inner lights shine brightly, maybe we can push the needle in a positive direction.

Thank you, Neil, for posting my article. And thank you, readers, for reading it!

You Gotta Have Fun: A Cannoli Story

Yeah, Another Blogger159 Comments

My wife Sandy and I go out to dinner most Friday and Saturday nights. We’ve been doing this for years, and know that we’re fortunate as hell to be able to indulge ourselves in this way. The majority of those meals take place in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, which isn’t surprising, since we reside in those burbs. And once or twice each month we head into Philadelphia, a city with many fine aspects, including a pulsating restaurant scene that, like the universe, keeps expanding. Each of our Philly visits includes dining in a restaurant or pub. The abundance of good eateries is one of the reasons why I’m a major fan of The City Of Brotherly Love.

Sandy and I consider dining out to be a form of entertainment. It’s fun. Two Fridays ago (November 7th), in the burbs, we chowed down at a restaurant we’ve been to a lot: Anthony’s Coal-Fired Pizza. The Italian salad we ordered was A-OK, and the pizza that followed it earned, on my scale, a 6.8 out of 10. That’s pretty high praise from me, because I’m a pizza snob.

The salad and pizza filled us up quite nicely. There was no room for dessert, certainly not for cannoli, a not-on-the-light-side Italian pastry, which Sandy, almost in passing, mentioned was on the dessert menu. Cannoli — crispy, tubular shells of dough stuffed with one variation or another of a ricotta cheese filling — can be scrumptious. When the word cannoli left Sandy’s mouth, my mind lit up, and I found myself reliving a sublime gastronomic experience. Namely, the cannoli I’d swooned over a year or so previously, for they were perfection, at Little Nonna’s, an Italian restaurant in downtown Philly that’s hard to get into unless you’ve reserved a table at least several days in advance. I hadn’t eaten any cannoli since then. But the signs were clear. It was imperative that I interact with Little Nonna’s cannoli again. And soon. Damn soon. The next night, in fact, would be ideal.

Thus, as we were preparing to pay the bill, I said to Sandy that, when we got home, I was going to see if Little Nonna’s, by some miracle, had a table available for the following evening. The odds were low, but miracles, I hear, have been known to occur. The cannoli gods were with me. Back at the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes when Litte Nonna’s online reservation service offered a table for 7:00 PM on Saturday. I nabbed it. Cannoli, here I come!

Little Nonna’s
Little Nonna’s

We arrived at Little Nonna’s from a Philadelphia movie theater, where we’d seen Blue Moon, a literate and really good drama about Lorenz Hart, the brilliant but troubled lyricist whose songwriting partner was the composer Richard Rodgers. Little Nonna’s is a cool place. Dimly lit, casual and full of life. Sandy and I enjoyed the heck out of the salad we shared. Ditto for our entrees. The chefs there know what they’re doing.

Cannoli at Little Nonna’s

One hour into the meal, the long-anticipated moment was at hand, as a plate holding two cannoli was placed before us. They were a vision and also deelish. The hazelnut bits, chocolate sauce and powdered sugar saw to that. But were the cannoli fully as good as those on the previous occasion? You better believe it! My idea to revisit Little Nonna’s was one of the best I’d had in a long while.

As we all know all too well, our lives zoom by. That’s why it’s important to have fun on at least a fairly regular basis. Anything less than that means we’re not in the best of shape. If I hadn’t followed through on my goofy cannoli-related impulse, I’d have missed out on a fun-filled mini adventure. Which would have been a shame. For most of my adult life, I’ve been a frequent fun-pursuer and a usually successful fun-attainer. I have no plans to change.

Autumn, A Fine Time Of Year

Yeah, Another Blogger159 Comments

For many years, autumn has been my favorite season, though I guess spring has been gaining ground in that regard. In any case, summer and winter sure ain’t contenders, as I’m not into sweating like a pig nor freezing my balls off.

What is it that puts autumn at the top? Well, the coolish daytime-high temperatures of many of its days please me just fine. And I’m influenced, I believe, by the fact that I’m an October baby. It seems logical to be a fan of the season during which one was born. Actually, I wonder how much truth is in that statement. I’m not sure.

But what I like the most about fall is tree leaves changing color, a spectacle I can’t get enough of. I feel sorry for folks who live in sections of the globe where the extravaganza isn’t staged. In a very real sense, they are being cheated. Many of the deciduous trees in my area have been doing their morphing thing for several weeks, and are looking mighty fine.

I live in a tidy, oldish and unusually hilly neighborhood, part of a town located close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. In an attempt to keep my bod in halfway-decent shape, I go for walks in the hood fairly regularly. A stroll along the streets two Thursdays ago was a most lovely one. The temperature when I left the house at about 11:00 AM was 57°F (14°C), which was a little lower than it would have been if I were in charge of things, but perfectly acceptable nonetheless. What’s more, the sky was painted a vivid blue, with wads of clouds scattered here and there along its lower regions. I examined the sky closely throughout the walk, since the heavens above almost always are worth looking at and admiring. I’ve been semi-negligent about doing this for much of my life, and recently have tried to become more attentive. A walk I took and wrote about a few months ago got me thinking along those lines.

The color transformations on the Thursday in question knocked my socks off. Shades of orange, gold and cranberry, among others, lit up the neighborhood fabulously. I was particularly drawn to the trees laden in both orange and gold hues. They knew they were something special and proudly showed off their wares. But not boastfully. That’s how confident and assured they were about themselves. The mixture of those colors got to me in a deep way. Not only was it fiery, almost paradoxically it was mellow too.

By the time I arrived home, I had hiked nearly two miles, farther than I was expecting to. Tree leaves with mesmerizing powers had kept me on the streets. Sad to say, the multi-color show will have reached the end of its run by late November, if not sooner. That’s the way Nature rolls.

In 1972, Van Morrison, the singer-songwriter who at age 80 is still going strong, laid down the tracks for Hard Nose The Highway, an album that was released the following year and whose awkward title refers to the importance of trying to persevere through hard times. There are some top-notch tunes on Hard Nose. Maybe the best is Autumn Song, a Van composition that instantly carries me away, so sweet and relaxed is it. The best time and place to listen to Autumn Song, I believe, is late on a fall night, indoors with the lights turned off or way down low. But, with few exceptions, any hour of any day at any location will do just fine. The recording is more than 10 minutes long, by the way. Autumn Song doesn’t overstay its visit, though, because it’s a total charmer. Here it is, anxiously waiting for you to click on the Play button.

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

I get about six hours of sleep daily, less than the majority of folks. This means I have 18 hours to fill, which is a lot. Overall, I do a fairly decent job with that, I guess. Some combination of the following occupies me pretty well most days: family life; household chores and duties; social life; volunteer work; reading; listening to music; watching TV; dining out; long walks; pecking away at my computer’s keyboard to produce content for the dodgy publication you’re now staring at.  And I’d be remiss not to mention scratching my balls while belting out the melodies of my favorite Gregorian chants. Yes indeed, I love doing that very much. It’s just about my only activity that isn’t on the mild side.

But wait, there’s more! After attending to personal hygiene matters and downing hot coffee, I kick off most every day by tackling one or two sudoku puzzles online, via the Brainbashers website. Man, I’m addicted to sudoku, a logic-based game involving the correct placement of numbers in a grid. I quickly became hooked when, in 2011, I researched and deciphered sudoku’s inner workings. I’ve interacted with thousands of sudoku puzzles since then.

After satisfying my sudoku jones and then eating breakfast, I retrieve the copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper that has been tossed onto our driveway by my family’s paper-delivery guy. I postpone reading any of its articles and head straight to the crossword puzzle, for sudoku is not the only puzzle genre I’m addicted to. Settled comfortably upon the living room sofa or at the dining room table, I do my best to fill in the crossword’s blank spaces accurately.

All told, I devote an average of roughly 90 minutes daily to puzzles. That’s nearly 8.5% of my waking hours, a significant figure. I’ve often wondered if I should cut back. Addictions, needless to say, can be seriously unhealthy. And so, several weeks ago, at my most recent session with my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel, I brought up the subject.

“What? You do puzzles for 10 or more hours each week? What in the world is wrong with you, Neil?” Dr. Forereel commented.

“But, sudoku and crossword puzzles relax me. And they help to keep the old brain cells in shape.”

“Old is right, Neil,” my doctor said, after glancing at my chart. “You’re soon to turn 78, I see. Neil, you’re ancient, and should be doing your utmost to live life to its fullest at this point. After all, who knows how many more tomorrows you have left? Stop squandering time on puzzles. Do something exciting instead. Take up rock climbing, for instance. Or Formula One race car driving. I could give many more suggestions. The possibilities are almost endless.”

“Dr. Forereel, are you trying to get me killed?” I asked her. “I’m not a daredevil. I’m not sure what I am, actually, but built-for-thrills sure doesn’t fit my description.”

“Neil, where oh where have I gone wrong? You’ve been my patient for years and years, and yet, despite my strongest efforts to build it up, your self-confidence remains at the meh level. Sometimes I question my efficacy as a physician.”

“Efficacy is such a wonderful word, Dr. Forereel, one I haven’t heard in ages. For that alone, I consider today’s session to be valuable. But, getting back to puzzles, have I truly been on the wrong track by giving substantial amounts of time to them?”

“Of course you have, Neil. Puzzles are frivolous. If I’d wasted time on such nonsense, I’d never have become the respected healer that I am.”

“Doctor, I’ll follow your sage advice. You’ve convinced me that I absolutely need to amp up my life. Nothing I’m involved with right now pushes the envelope.”

“That‘s the spirit, Neil. It seems I’ve underestimated you. Well, the clock on the wall tells me that today’s session has reached its end. Go get ’em, tiger!”

Over the next few days, my vision of how I might better allocate my time began to crystalize. There are so many paths, I realized, that would lead me to becoming a more-daring version of myself. Alas, I’m sorry to report that things have remained unchanged. My gas pedal is stuck. Dr. Forereel will be hugely disappointed.

What can you say? Life’s a bit of a puzzle, isn‘t it?

I Don’t Want To Publish Any Crap

Yeah, Another Blogger203 Comments

A few days ago, feeling unsure about myself and about the future of Yeah, Another Blogger, I grabbed my phone and called an individual who, I figured, might be able to help me put things in perspective. Help me find my way, if you will. Not that he’d ever been all too beneficial in those regards before. But, desperate as I was, I gave it a shot.

“What’s up, Neil?” asked my editor Edgar Reewright, picking up after the first ring. “Please don’t tell me there are major problems with the next manuscript you’re going to send me. Hell, what am I talking about? There always are major problems with your manuscripts.”

“Edgar, give me a break. And stop complaining. Yes, there is a major problem. But not with an upcoming story. That’s because there is no upcoming story. Edgar, I’ve just about run out of gas. I can barely think of anything to write about. And when I do come up with an idea, it seems pretty much the same as things I’ve written about dozens of times before. I don’t want to publish any crap, so I might as well take off my spikes and leave the playing field.”

There was silence on the other end. But not for long. “I can’t believe my ears, Neil,” Edgar said. “What is wrong with you? From day one, you’ve been churning out crap like a champ for Yeah, Another Blogger. I mean, crap is your middle name. Okay, you’re in a slump. But you’ll break out of it. All you need to do is look to Joyce Carol Oates for inspiration. She’s 87 years old, the same age as me, by the way, and still writing books like there’s no tomorrow. She’s penned so many books, everybody has lost count, but it’s way, way over 100. Her latest one, a novel, hit the marketplace in June. And it’s 672 pages long!”

“Yeah, Edgar, she’s incredible. And a genius. She never runs out of ideas.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Neil. Story ideas by the untold thousands are bobbing in the air, just waiting to be snatched. Sure, Joyce is at the top of the ladder, writing-talent-wise, while you’re a bottom dweller. But you shouldn’t feel like you’re stuck in cement.  Suck it up, Neil, and get back to work. And maybe, just maybe, your perseverance will garner you an award one day. Everyone wants recognition, am I right?”

“That goes without saying, Edgar. But that’s already happened to me. Don’t you remember? Two years ago I received a Pulitzer Prize in the If You’re Bored Out Of Your Mind, Reading This Person’s Writings Won’t Snap You Out Of It category. That was one of the most memorable occasions of my life.”

“My bad, Neil! How could I have forgotten? See? You’ve already sort of made it, and other awards possibly await you. But only if you stay in the game. Neil, throwing in the towel after all these years would be a big mistake, one you’d eventually regret. What’s more, you need to think about me. And about my wife Loretta. We depend on the enormous salary you pay me. Because of you, we’ve been able to live the highlife. I’ve never asked you this, Neil, but how did you come into so much dough?”

“Well, Edgar, I’m now going to allude to something that only my wife knows about. If you recall an unsolved armored-truck heist 35 years ago in Philadelphia — it was a major story — I believe you’ll be able to put two and two together.”

“That was you? Man, you are something else! Needless to say, my lips are sealed.”

“They better be, you dig? Anyway, I’m glad we’ve talked today. I feel re-energized. I’m ready to start writing. Once I come up with a decent story idea, that is. Thanks for your help, Edgar. I really appreciate it.  Over and out for now!”

Which Of These Do You Like Best? (Art On Wheels, Part Sixteen)

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

In my late 20s, I moved to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA for employment reasons. I knew little about the city when I deposited myself there, but almost immediately developed a fondness for my new home. I liked the very old buildings that heavily populated, and still populate, many neighborhoods. And I liked the city’s parks, museums, music venues, record stores, and movie theaters. Hell, there wasn’t much about Philadelphia I didn’t like. And now, approximately 50 years later, my admiration for The City Of Brotherly Love is on an even higher plane than it was during my newbie days. That’s because, to cite a few factors, its restaurant scene has become world-class, its cultural offerings have expanded, and various parts of town have changed for the better.

I lived in Philadelphia for the first 30 of those 50 years. But then, for reasons we maybe didn’t think through properly, my wife Sandy and I made the “leap” to the burbs.  The burbs are okay, but I sure as shit ain’t in love with them. It’s a good thing that Philadelphia isn’t far away, for I can’t resist its call. I pay the city a visit two to five times each month, chowing down and drinking in taverns and restaurants, taking long walks, attending concerts, going to museums, etc., etc. There’s absolutely no doubt I’ll be a Philly aficionado till the day I no longer qualify for inclusion in the Among The Living category.

All of the above is a longwinded lead-up to a recounting of one of my recent adventures in the city I know better than any other. That activity took place two Fridays ago, a day that boasted clear skies and reasonable temperatures. I arrived in downtown Philadelphia in late morning, via the train I’d boarded in my little town. I was in the city to search for and photograph excellently decorated trucks, vans, buses, and other objects mounted on wheels. (“Huh? You were there to do what? Neil, you truly are a f*cking oddball,” I just heard one of this publication’s readers mutter. Oh yeah? Well, I’ll let that possibly inaccurate remark slide.) And so, after emerging from the train station I spent two and a half hours pounding the pavement in central and near-to-central sections of the city. And I met with good success, the result of which is the story you’re now reading. Namely, the sixteenth installment of Art On Wheels, a series I began eight years ago.

On the day in question, I snapped portraits of 18 wheeled objects, which very well might be my personal high. Following post-trek examinations of the photographs, I’ve selected six specimens that ring my bell loudly. I’d have included a certain Philadelphia tour bus and a certain food-supply truck among the six were it not for the fact that, as I later discovered, their images appear in previous editions of Art On Wheels. My half dozen choices are displayed on this page.

Which of them do you like best? My two favorites are the halal food cart and the Windstar bus. The food cart is an eye-popper, no? So many colors. Such vibrancy. I spotted it at the corner of 9th and Chestnut Streets, three blocks west of Philadelphia’s famed and historic Independence Hall. If I’d had any sense, I would have placed an order at the cart. I’m sure its offerings are delicious.

As I snapped its picture, the Windstar bus (Windstar is a charter bus company) was turning from Chestnut Street, where a few seconds earlier it had glided past Independence Hall, onto Fifth Street. I liked its artwork but wasn’t knocked out by it. However, when examining the Windstar photo on subsequent days, I found myself increasingly admiring the simplicity of the vehicle’s painted design and the way the undulating red and blue lines seem to imply that fun-filled, free-flowing times lie ahead. Windstar, I now am under your spell. I award you my top vote.

Well, folks, that’s a wrap. Thanks for reading this opus. Let me remind you to mind your Ps and Qs. And please don’t let the bed bugs bite. Till next time!

A Choice Story

Yeah, Another Blogger118 Comments

In May of this year, Apple Music sent me an email that offered three months of their service for free. Considering that up until about 15 years ago I was a full-fledged music junkie, and that I’m still a major lover of music, it’s kind of surprising I wasn’t already enrolled in Apple Music or in one of its music-streaming peers, such as Spotify. Anyway, I hemmed and hawed for several weeks, eventually accepting the offer. Man, I’m close to ecstatic that I signed up. It blows my foggy mind that residing within my phone’s Apple Music app are countless thousands of albums, many of which I became intimately familiar with during the approximately 45 years that comprised my music-junkie era (I own circa 1,200 physical albums and used to attend concerts right and left). And as for the incredible number I was unfamiliar with but was interested in checking out, well, I’ve made a slight dent in that mountain. New-to-me albums by some of my very favorite artists (Sun Ra, Howlin’ Wolf, Bruce Springsteen and Ella Fitzgerald, to name but a few) and by at least 100 other artists have reached my ears thanks to Apple Music. I’ve been in music heaven the past two months, and possibly am on my way to becoming a long-term junkie again. There would be worse fates than that.

Yet, I have to say it almost seems wrong to have such an overwhelming amount of musical choice a mere handful of taps away. I mean, do I, or does anyone, deserve such unimaginable bounty? Am I, or is anyone, that entitled? I suppose those questions are moot. After all, billions of people own smartphones, laptops, etc., and each of those devices easily can access near-infinite amounts of content on any subject under the Sun. That’s where we are in the 21st century. It’s the new reality, something we usually or always take for granted. The digital world is a wonder of the highest order (though not always in good ways), and it is ever-expanding.

Which leads me to another corner of the streaming universe, that which supplies humanity with more series and movies than a person could consume in 1,000 lifetimes. So many choices! Most evenings, my wife Sandy and I click onto a streamer and watch a series for an hour or two. We’ve breezed through 27 series so far this year. I’ll briefly mention two I enjoyed immensely: The Residence, a whimsical, sprightly murder mystery set in the White House in Washington D.C., and The Pitt, a drama that follows a harrowing 15-hour shift in the emergency room of a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania hospital. The Pitt contains more than a couple of graphic, bloody scenes, I should note. To my amazement, I didn’t close my eyes during them. Shit, I think that means I should go to medical school! If I start next year, I’ll become a licensed physician at age 84 or 85. What, you wouldn’t want an octogenarian diagnosing and treating you? I’m offended! By the way, you’ll find The Residence on Netflix, and The Pitt on HBO Max.

Last week, while I waited at an auto service center where my car was undergoing an oil change and safety inspection, Apple Music once again proved its amazingness to me. Nestled in a lounge area, I read a text message my brother Richie had sent to me regarding Terry Reid, a British rocker who passed away on August 4th at age 75. Richie mentioned that Reid was an opening act at a Rolling Stones concert he and I attended (at New York City’s Madison Square Garden) in November 1969. I have no recollection of Reid’s performance. And I have only partial memories of The Stones’ work.

Fortunately, recordings of The Stones from the show we were at, and from three other Stones concerts that November, appear on a classic Stones album, Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I hadn’t heard the record in eons. Listening to it was the obvious choice for me to make. So, I tapped on my phone’s Apple Music app for a few seconds and — voila! — the album presented itself to me. I sat back and, via earbuds, listened all the way through. It’s a beauty.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to conclude this piece with one of the tracks from Ya-Ya’s, right? I’ll go with Street Fighting Man. I’m a big fan of hard rock, as long as the songs are top-notch and the musicians are wailing like nobody’s business. This recording meets my criteria.