Author: Yeah, Another Blogger

I’m Still Grooving, But Not As Much As I Used To

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

For decades and decades, listening to music was a dominant activity in my life. The infatuation started in 1957, I think, when I was nine and a half or maybe ten years old. That year, by way of top-40 radio stations, rock ‘n roll and pop songs began to ring my bell vigorously. Wake Up Little Susie, by The Everly Brothers, for instance. I loved that tune. Still do. And I became totally captivated by Honeycomb. Sung by the little-remembered Jimmie Rodgers, it seemed as sweet as a warm, sunny day. I remember singing Honeycomb to myself over and over again, the first time, probably, I’d ever done such a thing. Music had hooked me, and the hook, as the months and years went by, penetrated deeper and deeper.

The Beatles sealed the deal. In 1964, their great songs and incredible charisma turned me into a music junkie. I couldn’t stop listening to Beatles creations and to loads of other songs on the radio and on the smattering of vinyl albums I’d accumulated. By the time I graduated from college, in 1969, my record collection was on the verge of becoming pretty substantial, and I’d become a bigger addict than ever. And the addiction grew even stronger one year later, as I began to attend concerts at an admirable pace.

I don’t know what the actual count is, but I’ve taken in well over 1,000 concerts in my life. Hell, in 2008 alone, determined to set a personal best I’d unlikely ever top, I went to 104 of them. And my collection of vinyl albums, CDs and cassette tapes is huge, numbering somewhere in the vicinity of 1,500 items.

But things have changed. Since 2020, I’ve gone to far fewer concerts annually than before (last year I caught nine). And during that time I’ve bought hardly any recorded music at all. Even more telling about my altered relationship, for these years, is this: I’ve listened to music at home for an average, I’d estimate, of an hour and a half per day. For many a moon, the figure had been two to three times higher.

So, what happened? Part of the answer is age-related. Meaning, I’m old as f*cking dirt, and with age has come what seems to be a need for longer periods of quiet. My mental and emotional systems function better when sounds aren’t around me all that much. Ergo, music plays at home on a fairly limited basis — in the evenings and on weekend mornings, primarily.

That said, I still adore going out to hear live music. But I’m not a fan of driving home late at night from a venue, unless the place is reasonably close to my home. Why? Because, as I just mentioned, I’m old as f*cking dirt. Alas, most of the venues I favor aren’t nearby. Which, along with other reasons not worth going into, accounts for my decreased concert-attending statistics.

Here’s the thing, however: When I listen to music intently, it can get to me the same as it did when I was younger and feeling my oats more frequently than I do these days. I haven’t lost any of my ability to groove mightily to rock, jazz, blues, R&B, soul, bossa nova and the other genres I’m keen on. I love to sync myself with the vibes and rhythms of strong, honest music, and let them carry me up, up and away.

Last year, my wife and I went to see Alejandro Escovedo, a rocker who has been at it for about 50 years. Criminally not as well-known as he should be, Alejandro is the total package: excellent songwriter, singer and guitar player. He remains at the top of his game. What a great show he and his band put on. I’m in the mood right now to be transported to the stratosphere, and to be enveloped by the take-no-prisoners powers of musicians who know how to deliver. Here, then, is the song titled John Conquest, the opening track on Alejandro’s latest album (Echo Dancing). Prepare yourself to be rocked righteously.

A Friends-Centric Story

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

I’d been vaguely kicking around friends-centric story ideas for a few days when, on Monday of last week, none other than David Schwimmer popped up on my TV screen. He was a guest on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert. Schwimmer, as many people know, was one of the stars of Friends, an immensely popular American sitcom that ran from 1994 to 2004 and whose episodes have been rebroadcast on traditional television channels, and have been available on various streaming services, for years.

Even though I’m almost completely ignorant about Friends, having seen a grand total of maybe six minutes of the show, I took Schwimmer’s appearance to be a forceful cue from the WordPress gods. Who wouldn’t have?  I was not about to give those deities, famed for being short on patience, any opportunities to wreak vengeance upon me. Hence, the following day I lowered my bony ass onto the chair beside my computer and began to peck away in earnest. What follows, then, is all about friends.

Man, if there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s this:  You can’t have too many friends, good ones especially. We’re social creatures, after all. Just about everyone, anyway. We want to feel loved and appreciated. And we need to laugh and shoot the shit and, when necessary, to be comforted and helped. The more close friends we have, the more regularly and satisfactorily those requirements will be met, and the more at ease and comfortable in the world we will be. Of course, having but one good friend absolutely will suffice. The game of life, though, becomes merrier and richer when multiple individuals who meet the good friend description are within our orbits.

I’m fortunate to be able to say I have a pretty nice number of good friends. I can depend on them and they can depend on me. I’m talking about my wife and some other relatives, and a bunch of pals to whom I’m not related but with whom I share mutual love and similar wavelengths. I have nothing whatsoever to complain about.

Still, I worry a bit about my situation. That’s because it has been many, many a moon since I formed any friendships that have gone beyond the casual stage. Much to my amazement, I made several good friends while in my early 60s. Since then, however, not a one. I’m now well past the halfway point of my 70s, and wouldn’t at all mind having at least a couple more people to hang out with, folks whose vibes and interests mesh with mine. But how the hell might I meet them? By striking up conversations with strangers? By enrolling in adult ed classes whose subjects wow me? I suppose so. I sure can’t think of a lot of other ways. The odds, though, are that my circle of friends will not expand. Seeing that we reside in an ever-expanding universe, however, everyone’s circle of friends automatically would follow suit if it were up to me.

Many songs have been written about friends and friendships. I’d like to conclude this contemplation with two of them. You’ve Got A Friend, composed by Carole King, would be an obvious choice. But I’m going to go with others I prefer to the King opus.

In 1968, a very low point in their career, The Beach Boys released Friends, an album as beautiful and calming as a forest pond. It barely made a dent in the record industry’s sales charts. One of the relative few who bought it back then, I quickly fell under its spell. From it, naturally, I’ve chosen to present the title song, a sweet thing in waltz time written by four members of the band (Brian Wilson; Carl Wilson; Dennis Wilson; Al Jardine).

We’re Going To Be Friends (written by Jack White) is my second pick. The tune appears on White Blood Cells, an album thrust into the world in 2001 by The White Stripes, a now-disbanded duo composed of Jack and his then-wife Meg White. Best known as thrashing rockers, The White Stripes had a gentle side too, as We’re Going To Be Friends demonstrates.

For your listening pleasure, here are those two celebrations of human connectivity:

The Bad (Trump) And The Good (TV Shows)

Yeah, Another Blogger124 Comments

I’ve met but one fellow WordPress scribe in the flesh. And the person in question, Andrew Ferguson, proved to be even warmer and more gracious than I’d anticipated. My wife Sandy and I spent a day with Andrew and his wife Alison in 2019 on their home turf — Scotland — where Sandy and I were vacationing. I bring up Andrew right now because his thoughts on my country’s (i.e., the USA’s) recent presidential election are totally in tune with mine. Here’s what he wrote:

“We woke up . . . to the news that more than half of the US voting public had taken leave of their senses and voted for Trump — again. If you didn’t enjoy the first movie, Trump II: This Time It’s More Mental promises to have even more bad actors. Coming to a political and environmental shitshow near you in January.”

Even though Andrew’s analysis is perfection (click here to read the wide-ranging article in which his Trump commentary appears), there’s plenty I can add. Such as this: Oy frigging vey! Are you shitting me? A riot-inciter and convicted felon is soon to wield immense power for a second term? Man, sometimes bad dreams come true. This is one of those instances.

I could go on and on about the president-elect. But I won’t, as my blood pressure is starting to rise like a hot air balloon. That’s what writing about a vindictive, freedoms-suppressing bully does to me. It’s time, then, to steer this essay into currents I’m comfortable navigating. So, excuse me for a moment while I allow my aged systems to decompress. Ahh, I’m feeling better already. Onward to an agreeable topic.

Since early 2020 I’ve watched an hour or two of television series most evenings, something I hadn’t done in years. I turned to TV because of the COVID pandemic, which left my spirits in need of some boosting. Series-viewing was just what the doctor ordered. I became infatuated right from the start, and the infatuation hasn’t lessened at all. My mind continually is blown by the gargantuan number of available series, and by the good-to-great quality of a sizable percentage of them. I’m certain I won’t terminate what has become one of my favorite activities until the Grim Reaper confronts me and utters words to this effect: “Your days are more than numbered, schmuck. They now are over.”

Not being one who is enamored by advertisements, the vast majority of the series I’ve seen have been on streaming services, as opposed to traditional television. Sandy is my steady viewing companion, I hasten to add. We possess quite similar tastes in series fare. And each of us appreciates having someone a foot away who can offer help when uncertainty arises about what the hell just happened in a scene or about what a character meant by what they said. I’m not ashamed to say that I get puzzled a whole lot more frequently than my spouse does.

Do you have any series recommendations? I’m always eager to learn about shows I’m unfamiliar with. Here are a few I watched in 2024 that I think highly of: Lessons In Chemistry; The Last Days Of Ptolemy Grey; John Adams. The first two are on Apple TV+, and the latter can be found on MAX.

Speaking of MAX, Sandy and I are fans of that broadcaster’s Starstruck, a series I hadn’t heard of until two months ago. Starstruck, which originally ran from 2021 to 2023, consists of 18 episodes spread over three seasons, each installment a mere 23 or so minutes in length. Truly hooked, Sandy and I polished off Starstruck in about one week.

Though a rom-com, Starstruck doesn’t head in directions you might expect. Its main storyline follows Jessie, a gal in her late 20s at series’ start, and Tom, who maybe is a few years older than that. They first set eyes on one another in a pub in London, England, on New Year’s Eve. Natch, they end up spending the night together, sparks flying to a decent extent. Eventually they begin an on-again, off-again romance that frustrates and confuses them both. Are they mismatched socio-economically? Jessie, after all, struggles to make a living, while Tom is a pretty well-known movie actor.  Tom, an unassuming sort, isn’t concerned about their financial and fame disparities, though. The show incisively reveals that the reasons behind their fits-and-starts relationship are far more meaningful.

Rose Matafeo, previously an unknown to me, created, co-wrote and stars (as Jessie) in Starstruck. The inspiration for the series, I’ve read, came from incidents in her personal life. She’s a talent. The show is full of witty repartee and spot-on zingers, and has its share of moments that seriously tug at your heart. And Matafeo’s Jessie is completely believable as an uninhibited cum vulnerable young lady. It doesn’t need repeating, but I’ll say it anyway: I like Starstruck a lot.

I Have My Favorites, How About You? (Art On Wheels, Part Fourteen)

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

On the final Monday morning of this year’s penultimate month, I boarded a train in my sleepy suburban town. One hour later it deposited me in Jefferson Station, smack in the heart of The City Of Brotherly Love: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. After exiting the station, I walked one block north on 10th Street, entering Chinatown, one of my favorite Philadelphia neighborhoods. My mission — to wander around the city, photographing well-adorned vehicles that cross my path — seemed to be off to an auspicious start, for I soon spotted a magnificently decorated truck, one belonging to the Rosenberger’s dairy company. Whipping out my phone, I took the truck’s picture, figuring there was a good chance it would be the best-looking vehicle I’d see all day.

Well, as it turned out, things slowed down considerably after that. I saw only eight more commendable wheeled objects during the two and a half hours I spent pounding the streets, at least five or six fewer conveyances than I was expecting. What’s more, a look into my blog’s archives two days later showed me that Rosenberger’s, and another top-tier truck I encountered that Monday, had made previous appearances in Art On Wheels installments. My policy is to exclude previously presented vehicles, so those two are outta here. Ouch!  . . . their loss pains me. One day I may need to rethink said policy. In any event, I’ve given some thought to the seven remaining transports, and have chosen the five I favor most. Their photos reside on this page.

Which of the five do you like best? My top picks are Freda Deli Meats (see above) and Office Basics (see below). Freda’s bold colors are balanced carefully. They reach out and grab you, but don’t slap you too hard upside your head or upside any other part of your body. Hell, you’d have grounds for a lawsuit otherwise. And I’m impressed by the asymmetry of the Freda canvas, its righthand portion extending a couple of feet below the rest of the design. That’s a sophisticated touch you don’t see too often on vehicle art.

As for Office Basics, I find myself almost mesmerized by its stoic presence. Its artwork proves that perfectly positioned concise shapes, and a limited palette, are all that’s needed sometimes. I have a hard time choosing between Office Basics and Freda. However, if some motherf*cker were holding a gun to my head and ordering me to make a decision, or else, Office Basics it would be. Sorry, Freda, that’s life.

I’ll say a bit more before being on my way, starting with this: My visit to Philadelphia took me far and wide. By no means was I only in Chinatown. According to my phone’s Health app, I totaled six miles of walking. And I did so with just a couple of brief pauses, so focused was I on trying to locate art that sits above wheels. I tell you, I am extremely thankful that I’m still able to carry on like this, seeing that I’m distressingly close to being old as dirt. My Art On Wheels ventures, and other long walks I indulge in, help to keep my spirits up and fulfill my need for adventure.

Finally, I’ll add that I’m amazed by the unpredictable nature of the Art On Wheels expeditions. I never know what I’ll find around the next corner or on the block straight ahead of me. These jaunts are treasure hunts. They are fun games, and a healthy way in which to spend some hours. I now have done my Art On Wheels thing 14 times, and haven’t begun to tire of it in the least.

Watery Pix Of The Cape

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

During the 11 full days my wife Sandy and I were on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, last month, my right index finger was busier than it normally is. For it is the digit I usually employ to tap the big button on my phone’s camera when I notice a scene I want to immortalize. I snapped 137 photos during that period, which averages out to about 12 per day. That’s a substantial amount of picture-taking, an activity I enjoy. And I thank the stars above for making digital photography, via camera phones, so very easy and so very convenient. If it weren’t, I probably would say f*ck this, and then look for another hobby. Yours truly, you see, likes things to be as simple and problem-free as possible. But enough about that proclivity. Let’s now spend a few minutes with some of my pix from the Cape. All of them are water-based.

I’m not surprised that water features prominently in a significantly high number of the 137 photos, because it was on Cape Cod, which Sandy and I have visited almost annually since 1998, that I fell in love with water. Open, endless waters particularly, and ponds too. I don’t know why this love affair blossomed when I was in my 50s, rather than much earlier in my life, as I spent plenty of time at ponds and lakes and the Atlantic Ocean during my younger days. But people — a category I’m fairly sure I’m a member of — sometimes evolve.

Cape Cod is the area shaped like a flexed arm. The land mass above Buzzard’s Bay is not part of Cape Cod.

Four bodies of water surround Cape Cod. I don’t know squat about one of them, Buzzard’s Bay, because it’s too damn far from where Sandy and I stay on the Cape. On the other hand, I am real good pals with the other three: the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. They are majestic. As many times as I’ve stared out at them, I’ve never tired of their looks and auras. They make my jaw drop even farther than old age already has. If I had to choose a favorite among the three, the Atlantic would get my vote. It’s beyond mega-huge, and one never knows what temperament it will display on any given day.

Mill Pond (Orleans, Cape Cod)
Atlantic Ocean, as seen from Nauset Beach (Orleans, Cape Cod)

I’m continually amazed that our rented house, in Orleans township, is deliciously close to the ocean. A 15-minute walk will take you there. And what a walk! From the house, which is nestled in a wooded area, you stroll two blocks to luscious Mill Pond and then head eastward along Mill Pond’s marsh-grassed edges. Soon you reach low dunes, beyond which lie Nauset Beach and the big fella himself. The Atlantic. Sandy and I trod this route at the very tail end of our trip in October. We were not disappointed. Natural beauty bathed us every step of the way. The ocean was fairly calm that day. We took our time watching it, listening to it, letting the waters soothe our minds. Then we bid farewell to our friend, whom we hope to meet again next year.

During the first few years we vacationed on Cape Cod, Paine’s Creek Beach (in Brewster township) was our favorite vantage point from which to imbibe, figuratively speaking, Cape Cod Bay. Subsequently, we discovered other Cape Cod Bay beaches with exceptional views. But Paine’s Creek Beach remains high on the list.

Cape Cod Bay, as seen from Paine’s Creek Beach (Brewster, Cape Cod)

The scenes at Paine’s Creek Beach last month made us question why we haven’t moved to Cape Cod. The sea grasses poking out of the waters were showing off their autumnal amber hue. And the waters themselves were a dream, as calm and gorgeously blue as anyone could want. There is nothing even remotely close in beauty to Cape Cod Bay in the region we call home (southeast Pennsylvania). Unfortunately.

For one reason or another, we don’t feast our eyes on Nantucket Sound as often as we do on the ocean and Cape Cod Bay. However, I’d been impressed by Chatham township’s Hardings Beach, bordering Nantucket Sound, a bunch of times over the years. And so, after catching a movie (“Saturday Night,” which is super-entertaining) at the cinema in Chatham’s village section, we drove to Hardings Beach to watch a sunset.

A sunset at Nantucket Sound, as seen from Hardings Beach (Chatham, Cape Cod)

Though not a knock-your-socks-off spectacle, the feathery, misty sunset was way better than meh. And, as always, Nantucket Sound captivated us. Massive bodies of water have that kind of power. For two and half decades I’ve been losing myself in the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. I doubt if I’ll ever get my fill of them.

It’s My Kind Of Place (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

Not knowing what to expect, my spouse Sandy and I first visited Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in 1998. We enjoyed the experience enough to return one year later. That second sojourn sealed the deal, and we have vacationed there just about every year since then. We can’t get enough of the Cape’s expansive areas of natural beauty, its arts scene, its wide choice of restaurants, its delightful old villages, and the healthy vibes that permeate the air. By now we’ve spent, I estimate, more than one year’s-worth of days on this 65-mile-long island. We think of it as our second home and in some ways prefer it to our primary home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. We’d possibly move there for keeps if healthcare were as good, or almost as good, on Cape Cod as it is in Greater Philadelphia. But it isn’t.

Last month Sandy and I were Cape-side for 11 days, in a rented house in the township of Orleans. As usual, we were far more active than we are back home in the burbs, devoting about eight hours each day to this, that and the other things. Such as: beach walks; a forest walk; visits to museums and art galleries; moviegoing; theatergoing; chowing-down in restaurants; shopping in and wandering around villages. We played mini golf too, and flew our tattered kite on a stretch of sands beside the Atlantic Ocean. I like playing with our kite, even when the f*cker refuses to stay up in the air for more than two or three minutes at a time, which was the case that day.

One section of Cape Cod always has intrigued me more than any other: the desert on the ocean side of Provincetown and neighboring Truro, the townships comprising the Cape’s farthest reaches. It’s hard to believe that this rugged territory is within walking distance of Provincetown’s famed and cool-as-can-be village. The Cape is full of surprises.

I’d hiked in the wonderland any number of times before, including last year. No way was I not going to explore it again. Not in the mood to risk getting lost in desert sections I was unfamiliar with, I decided to walk to the Atlantic Ocean, sticking to the established sand trail that leads there. (Sandy didn’t join me. She has been in dunesland only once. She found the trek to be too physically demanding, and has no plans to revisit this desert.)

The steep sand hill, near Snail Road, that one must climb to reach open sands.

The access to the trail in question is via a wooded area that abuts Snail Road, in Provincetown.  A ridiculously steep dune partly lies within this wood, and up it one must go in order to reach open sands. In the past I’d had little trouble ascending the dune. Last month, however, I began to huff and puff well before reaching its crest, my thigh and calf muscles not performing as well as I’d expected. What can you say? I was four days shy of my 77th birthday. I sure as shit am not what I used to be, and apparently wasn’t even what I’d been one year prior.

Anyway, after conquering dune number one, I set off for the ocean, about one mile away. The trail, easy to follow because of thousands of footprints in the sands, goes up and down dune upon dune before reaching level ground, after which dunes emerge again. Some of those sand hills are incredibly wide and tall. They’d fit right in on the Moon.

I’ve never been less than awestruck in the Cape desert. This time was no exception. It’s so beautiful out there, so unlike anywhere else on Cape Cod. Amazingly, a tiny number of people live in this demanding land, most of them in shacks, the rest in very modest houses. The abodes have no running water, of course. Maybe some have electric generators . . . I don’t know. In any event, it’s not your average person who chooses to reside in such an environment. I wouldn’t. I like my comforts too much.

The Atlantic Ocean is very nearby. Two dune shacks are in the distance.

Well, eventually I made it to the ocean. Almost to the ocean, that is, as I saw no path leading from my sand-cliff perch to the beach and waters below. Some years ago I’d walked onto the beach easily. Not sure why access is difficult now. I suppose that powerful storms have shifted the sands around, creating barriers. Mother Nature has the last say.

My tank dangerously low on gas, I eventually made my way back to Snail Road, stopping every few minutes to drink some water. It’s a good thing I’d had the sense to bring water with me. Otherwise, I might have collapsed somewhere in the lunar-like landscape and drifted off into eternal sleep. If that had happened, the WordPress gods would have been very disappointed, for they’d recently honored me with their Your Articles Kind Of Suck, But We’ll Let That Slide award. What’s more, I now wouldn’t be looking forward to my next vacation on Cape Cod. Yes indeed, it’s my kind of place.

Europe 2024, Part Two: Brussels

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

In my previous opus I mentioned that the Brussels leg of our recent trip to Europe didn’t turn out anywhere near as wonderfully as my wife Sandy and I had expected. But, shit, that’s the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. Life ain’t perfect, that’s for damn sure. Though I’d do anything but complain if it were.

We fully were expecting to dig Brussels, the capital of Belgium, a lot. Advance research had indicated to me there were quite a few museums, parks and neighborhoods worth investigating, and that the chances were good that we’d attend one or two concerts during the four full days of our stay.

Alas, we attended no concerts and didn’t see all that much of the city. Basically, we were thrown off our game. The bad cold that Sandy came down with had plenty to do with that. It bummed both of us out. And the on-and-off rain showers we encountered on several days were not exactly spirits-boosters.

A view of Grand Place.
A street in the old section of Brussels.

In the end, then, our explorations were limited substantially to the old, tourist-thronged, cobblestone-streets section of Brussels, whose hub is Grand Place, an imposing plaza. That old section looks similar to how it did long, long ago, and at times we had fun taking in the sights there. On one of its many narrow streets sits Choco Story museum, a place we’d put near the top of our things-we-want-to-see-in-Brussels list. So, after paying the admission fees, we embarked on a self-guided tour of the museum’s galleries.

Choco Story’s unpretentious layout appealed to me. Its exhibits explain the history of chocolate, a product first developed and enjoyed, as a beverage, by the Mayans and Aztecs. Solid chocolate, a European creation, made its appearance in the 1800s. I found all of this pretty interesting. And I became especially interested when I reached the end of the exhibits. For, lo and behold, I noticed a sign that said a chocolate-making demonstration was about to begin in the room just beyond the sign. Sandy and I wasted little time in sitting down on a bench in that room. Moments later, a chocolatier walked in.

The chocolatier at work.

Speaking in heavily French-accented English — though French, Dutch and German are Belgium’s official languages, I imagine he used English for the benefit of the museum’s largely non-Belgian clientele — the gentleman explained to the 20 or so folks in the audience the processes required to produce solid chocolates. Temperature control plays a big part. And, while talking a mile a minute with wit and confidence, he demonstrated each step of the operation. Voila! At the end of the show everyone lined up and grabbed a praline (the pralines he offered to us had been prepared earlier, to allow them to solidify properly). Belgium is famed for its chocolates. And, I’m pleased to say, the chocolatier’s creations didn’t let his nation down.

Choco Story wasn’t the best of the two museums we visited in Brussels, as it turned out. Not even close. That honor belongs to Musical Instruments Museum, commonly known as MIM. What a place! And not in the old part of town, either. I’d never seen anything like it. From the moment I began touring the premises, I was certain I was in a truly great museum.

Musical Instruments Museum.

Hundreds and hundreds — thousands? — of instruments fill MIM’s several floors of gallery space. They come from every corner of Planet Earth. Most, it seemed to me, date from the 16th to 20th centuries. And two are from 14,000 or more years ago: pierced animal bones used as whistles by our ancient relatives.

MIM’s cornucopia is meant to please more than our eyes. Our ears are blessed at the museum too, because recorded music performed on a goodly percentage of the instruments can be heard by entering designated code numbers on the headset device given to each museum visitor. Simply put, I was blown away. I listened to saxophone pieces, harmonica pieces, sitar pieces, you-name-it pieces. MIM, on its own, is not reason enough to pay a visit to Brussels. But it almost is.

I hate to be remiss. Which is why I’m going to mention one other aspect of the Brussels vacation that agreed with me well. I’m a bit of a beer geek. And, through reading, I’ve known for years that Belgium produces fine beers, most of which (save for beers made by Leffe, Stella Artois and a couple of other breweries) do not find their way to the USA, the nation I call home.

I’m happy to report that I downed delicious brews in Brussels, each of which I’d never heard of before. The majority of them entered my system at Bier Central, a cozy, handsome tavern whose food is very good. More to the point, its beer selection is out of this world. 366 beers, all of them from Belgium! If you’re a beer lover and ever find yourself in Bier Central, I recommend trying, among others, Floreffe Dubbel (made by Brasserie Lefebvre). It put a contented smile on my frigging face.

In conclusion, I regret not seeing more of Brussels than I did, and never getting a feel for the city. I had a good enough time there, though, to consider the visit a reasonably enjoyable one. And, here in the States, I’m now going to make it my mission to try and find some elusive Belgian beers. Cheers, skoal, bottoms up!

Europe 2024, Part One: Paris

Yeah, Another Blogger175 Comments

My spouse Sandy and I hadn’t seen our close friends Alan and Martine in the flesh since vacationing with them in Edinburgh, Scotland in 2019. Post-COVID, the four of us had tried to arrange another reunion, preferably in a locale that would be new to us all. But for one reason or another the plans didn’t get very far.

Well, one day four months ago, Sandy and I, who reside in Pennsylvania, USA, figured the best way to uncomplicate the situation was to visit the married couple on their home turf: Paris, France. And from there, we decided, we’d extend our trip by spending time in Brussels, Belgium, a city we never had set foot in and which by all accounts was appealing.

We made the travel arrangements pretty quickly. The weeks went by. Finally, on the 19th of September we found ourselves with our pals in their beautiful home in one of the world’s greatest cities. We bunked with them for four days, enjoying our time with them immensely, and in their company explored a good bit of Gay Paree. Sandy and I give our Parisian sojourn a rating of 10 out of 10. It absolutely was that good. The subsequent four days spent in Brussels, though, were another matter.  Compared to Paris, which is a significantly magical place, Brussels seemed quite lacking. We had a nice amount of fun there, sure, but rate that leg of the trip only a modest 6.5 out of 10. Alas, you can’t have it all. Not always, anyway. In Paris, however, we did.

Now, though Paris is superb, it’s not perfect, so let’s get a few of the downsides out of the way: Like any big city, parts of town contain an unnerving volume of vehicular traffic. And annoying numbers of people maneuver on the sidewalks of many streets, such as those in the popular area where Alan and Martine reside. Not all of Paris is necessarily worth a tourist’s attention, either, though, to me, the gritty neighborhoods I briefly saw exuded a je ne sais quoi sort of charm nevertheless.

Enough about the negatives. Man, so much of Paris is straight out of a delightful dream: Elegant architecture; the comforting heights of its buildings (Paris is almost skyscraper-free); the parks, museums, bistros and baked goods that far more often than not impress; the sense of history filling the air; and the river Seine, quietly commanding respect as it flows peacefully from west to east through the middle of the city. And that’s just for starters.

I’d been to Paris four times before, three of those visits with my wife, and was fairly familiar with its major attractions, layout and vibes. When Martine (via Facetime a month before the latest get-together) asked me what I might want to do in Paris in September, I left it pretty much up to her and Alan. Except for one thing: I was curious to see what condition Notre- Dame Cathedral is in. A devastating fire, in 2019, destroyed the roof, spire and other upper portions of the church, and caused severe damage elsewhere in the structure. Since then, an intense effort has been under way to restore the medieval icon to its former glory (click here to read an excellent article about the fire and Notre-Dame’s rebirth). The cathedral’s official reopening is scheduled for December of this year, barring complications.

A view of the Louvre museum and its courtyard.
The Seine, as seen from Pont Neuf (New Bridge).

Martine and Alan granted my request. One day after our arrival in Paris, they led Sandy and me on a most-satisfying walk. A couple of minutes after leaving their abode, we strolled through the gardens of Palais-Royale. In no time after that we reached the Louvre, an astonishingly large museum, and its enormous courtyard. The courtyard was mobbed. The Louvre’s galleries probably were too. We walked a few more blocks, then crossed the Seine by way of the Pont Neuf (New Bridge), soon descending a stone staircase to the river walkway. Everything I’d seen so far struck me as picture-postcard-perfect, or damn near close to it. I am not exaggerating.

The river Seine.
Notre Dame Cathedral.

Along the left bank of the Seine we ambled, and after about 10 minutes Notre-Dame came into good view. We climbed up another stone staircase, returning to street level, to see the cathedral properly. Heavy equipment still was on the scene, indicating work remained to be done. However, Notre-Dame looked remarkably healthy all in all. I’m anything but a religious person, yet was relieved and happy that incredible efforts, not to mention nearly a billion euros, had saved one of Paris’s and the world’s most famous creations.

Cafe G.
A section of Luxembourg Garden.
The section of Luxembourg Garden reserved for kids and their caregivers.

But we weren’t done for the day. Our walk continued, taking us through the Latin Quarter (where we stopped for refreshments at the lovely Café G), the sprawling Luxembourg Garden, Place Saint-Sulpice and beyond. I was especially smitten by the area of Luxembourg Garden set aside specifically for young children and their caregivers. It was touching to see little ones at ease and having fun.

Place Saint-Sulpice.
Left to right: Alan, Sandy, Martine.

I could go on and on and on, describing the other activities that filled those four days. But I think you get the picture. It’s not by accident that Paris is one of the most-visited cities on our planet. It’s got what it takes, and more.

Good Friends, A Fine Beach Day, A Rockin’ Song

Yeah, Another Blogger148 Comments

Up until a few weeks ago, the state of Delaware, which shares a border with my home state of Pennsylvania, was foreign territory to me. Even though Delaware is not terribly far from Pennsylvania, where I live, I’d never spent any time in Delaware whatsoever, except to pass through it on visits to Washington D.C., my nation’s capital.

That changed, all to the good, when my wife Sandy and I spent three mid-August days with two good friends of ours, a married couple who own a house in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware. They fed us well, showed us around their town and neighboring areas, and had us bunk down in their guest bedroom, among other acts of kindness. Good friends make life better, right? Just about everyone needs love and companionship, after all. And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no such thing as having too many good friends. The more, the merrier.

Rehobeth Beach, I discovered, not only is the name of a town, it also is the name of a stretch of sands within said town’s borders. That beach, about one mile in length and backed by a boardwalk, is kissed every moment of the day by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. On day two of our visit the skies were clear, the winds were mild, and the mid-day temperatures, though we were in the middle of summer, were far lower than normal. Perfect conditions for a beach encounter. So, to the beach the four of us headed.

We soon were sitting on comfortable beach chairs beneath a huge blue umbrella. Umbrellas abounded on Rehobeth Beach, as did the humans who employed them. A selfish f*cker, I prefer to have beaches more or less all to myself, which is often the case on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where Sandy and I vacation in the off-season nearly every year. You know what, though? I didn’t mind the crowds that day at all. In fact, I grooved on the Rehobeth experience right from the get-go. What was there not to like? I was in fine company, the weather was kind, and a fair number of cute girls were in view. What’s more, Rehobeth brought back nice memories of forever-ago summer days when lying, and sometimes frolicking, on crowded beaches, while slathered with tanning lotion in the hopes of becoming a bronze god, were de rigueur for me.

Sad to say, I didn’t become a bronze god back then, and I sure as hell am not one now. What I am is pale and wrinkled and barely suitable to be seen in public. Nonetheless, those realities didn’t stop me from rising from my chair on two occasions to set off on 40-minute walks on Rehobeth Beach. A boy sometimes has got to stretch his legs and take in the sights.

During the hikes I saw scads of folks standing or splashing around in the ocean. I watched a few kids burying two of their peers up to their necks in sand, and gazed at a prop plane flying by lazily. It dragged a banner that promoted, of all things, Pennsylvania tourism. And at a far end of the beach, a section that people hadn’t congregated on, a flock of seagulls was impossible to miss. The birds stood almost motionless, but ready, undoubtedly, to pounce on something tasty when they deemed the prospects to be favorable.

All in all, the beach day pleased me just fine. As did the entire mini vacation. Delaware, I still barely know you, but I’m glad to have made your acquaintance.

Seeing that writing this essay has put me in an upbeat mood, I have decided to raise the good-vibes quotient by including a tune I heard the other day. It’s by a young, pretty popular British rock band, The Heavy Heavy. The song is titled Happiness, and it’s from One Of A Kind, which is the group’s brand-new album.

Man, if you’re a lover of the type of rock and roll defined by potent guitar riffs, pounding drums and ecstatic vocals, then Happiness is for you. Ironically, though, the song’s lyrics aren’t all that joyful. But I think The Heavy Heavy, by virtue of the rousing sounds to which the lyrics are put, are implying that a nice amount of happiness is within the band’s reach. Without further ado, here’s Happiness:

Two Sunsets That Brought Me Up Short

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

I’ve mentioned this several times before on this publication’s pages, and I’ll say it again: Smartphone cameras are perfect for those who enjoy documenting the world around them but can’t be bothered with cameras that have all sorts of settings requiring adjustment. They also are perfect for those who would be up shit’s creek trying to figure out how to use such cameras. I am a member of both categories.

Not surprisingly, then, I began snapping away pretty regularly soon after obtaining my first smartphone in late 2015. All you need to do is aim, touch the screen briefly here and there to adjust for distance and brightness if you so desire, and then press the big button. Voila! Mission accomplished. Easy as f*cking pie.

I’ve put hundreds of the photos I’ve taken to good use, placing them in Yeah, Another Blogger stories. And a fair number of those hundreds are sunset scenes, nearly all of them drawn from vacations my wife Sandy and I have enjoyed on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA.

Well, despite the fact that cyberspace currently contains several trillion sunset images, I’m never the least bit reluctant to add more of them to the unimaginable glut. I mean, it’s not as though somebody is going to sue me if I do. Right? On second thought, I damn well could be wrong about that. Whatever, I’m willing to take my chances. Away we go!

Cape Cod sunsets, when viewed from Cape Cod Bay, are magnificent when the atmospheric conditions are favorable, for there are no obstructions to hinder your view. Obstructions, however, are a given just about everywhere in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, which is where I reside, and in Philadelphia itself. I haven’t been to Cape Cod or anywhere else with wide-open, west-facing views so far this year. Nevertheless, two sunsets in my region brought me up short.

Jenkintown, Pennsylvania (July 2024)

In July one evening, walking to our car after eating and drinking in a pub in the village of Jenkintown, which is a few miles from our suburban town, I asked Sandy to stop for a moment, as I’d just noticed a pale orange tinge to the mostly hidden lower sky. The hue looked absolutely fine in the disappearing daylight, set off as it was by houses, overhead utility wires, parked cars, foliage and scattered clouds.

And so, confronted with a view I deemed worth remembering, I yanked my iPhone out of my pants pocket. Ten seconds later the deed was done. The photo is one of my favorites among the many I’ve taken to-date in 2024. There’s a sense of peace and stability in it. But wait . . . somewhere off in the distance I can hear my doctor talking to me: “Neil, you’re old as dirt, unfortunately,” he’s saying. “If you have any sense left at all, you’ll stare at this photo a lot. Doing so will lower your blood pressure and might extend your life a little bit.”

Thanks, Doc. Will do!

Fishtown section of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
(August 2024)

And in late August I became indebted to the phone once again. On the way back to our car after dining in Philadelphia’s Fishtown neighborhood, a small section of a sunset, smiling coyly, presented itself to me and Sandy on Jefferson Street.  Overall, the scene was denser and more complicated than its Jenkintown counterpart. There was more going on than I could comfortably absorb and process.

My iPhone came to the rescue, taking in the entire display and freezing it at 7:56 pm. The resultant photo pretty much blows my mind. It’s an exhilarating jumble of shapes and lighting effects. Every time I examine this picture I notice something I hadn’t before. I love it. Hold on a second, though . . .  my doctor is speaking to me again: “Neil, the Philadelphia photo is an absolute blood pressure raiser. It’s too intense for a geezer like you. Stop staring at it!”

Sorry, Doc. No can do!