Author: Yeah, Another Blogger

A TV Series, A Confectionery, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

“Neil, how come you usually write about things you enjoy, rather than about those that, in your opinion, bite the big one?” I asked myself the other day.

“Well,” I answered, “I’ve ripped into people I loathe. Trump and Putin, primarily. And I’ve discussed situations that worry me or piss me off. But there’s no denying that my natural orientation is to comment about aspects of life that ring my bell.”

“I understand,” I replied. “There’s no reason right now for you to mess with your natural orientation. So, let’s take a look at some of your recent bell-ringers. And, maybe, your readers then will tell you what they’ve been into of late. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong!”

Okay! First up is a miniseries my wife and I watched two months ago: Escape At Dannemora, seven episodes in length and available on Paramount+ and elsewhere. It had been on our to-be-viewed list for a couple of years. Fortunately, we finally got around to it. It bowled us over. I place Escape in the pantheon of miniseries I’ve encountered, along with The Queen’s Gambit, Anxious People, The Investigation, Godless and a handful of others.

Escape At Dannemora came out in 2018, three years after the true events from which it draws its inspiration. Set in the town of Dannemora, in rural upstate New York, the show aims its beam at David Sweat and Richard Matt, convicted murderers imprisoned in Dannemora’s Clinton Correctional Facility, and at the married prison employee (Joyce Mitchell) who became emotionally and sexually involved with them. Ultimately, Mitchell helped them escape from jail.

Escape At Dannemora is not a docuseries. Anything but. All, or nearly all of its dialogue is imagined. After all, it’s not as though conversations between Sweat, Matt, Mitchell and the story’s other principals were recorded. And what dialogue! Completely realistic. No artificial ingredients. I’d never heard of the scriptwriters (Brett Johnson, Michael Tolkin, Jerry Stahl), to whom I now publicly tip my hat. As I do to Paul Dano (Sweat), Benicio del Toro (Matt) and Patricia Arquette (Mitchell), the actors who employed the scripted words to create characters as nuanced as French pastries. Ben Stiller directed the production with economy and precision. As couldn’t be more obvious, I highly recommend this show.

My dad loved halva, a moist, semi-sweet treat that, as I learned from doing a bit of research for this piece, originated well over a thousand years ago in Persia (present-day Iran). Unlike him, I wasn’t infatuated with the product, but ate it now and then while growing up. Halva disappeared from my diet, though, when I was in my 20s, maybe earlier, for reasons I’m not sure about. Possibly my obsessions with pizza and Cheez-It crackers left no room for halva, a product that isn’t easily found in stores in my country (the USA), and which the majority of the world’s population likely never heard of.

And probably I’d never have had halva again were it not for my pals Cindy and Gene, who bestowed sesame-based halva, the variety I am familiar with, upon me and my wife Sandy twice in the last several months (there are other types of halva in addition to sesame-based, as the Wikipedia article, the link to which is in the above paragraph, explains).

“This a weird gift,” I thought to myself when I saw what Cindy and Gene had presented to us on the first occasion. Man, how wrong I was!  Halva was the perfect gift. That wouldn’t have been the case with the too-dense halva made by the Joyva company, the brand I knew in my youth. But the halva they’d chosen, from the Seed + Mill firm, is incredible. Its sesame paste is perfectly balanced with chocolate and salt. And the texture, light and slightly granular, is wonderful. Hallelujah, I’ve been blessed!

And finally: Some songs have the power to bring you up short and make you say, “Holy shit, this is fantastic!” I Want To Know, by the quite obscure rhythm-and-blues group the Gay Poppers, did such to me two weeks ago when the tune burst forth from SiriusXM Radio’s Carolina Shag channel.

I Want To Know came out in 1960, and the Gay Poppers were from North Carolina, USA. Not much else about the song or about the group can I find online. Except that the recording at some point became popular in parts of the dance-club world. It makes me want to dance, because its beat won’t quit, and because the Gay Poppers’ vocal prowess damn well is off the charts. Without further ado . . .

A Nice Day

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

Twelve days ago, after paying our bill at Barbuzzo, a restaurant in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, my wife and I exited the establishment and then walked a few blocks to Jefferson Station. There, we caught a train that returned us to our suburban town. Halfway between Barbuzzo and the station I said to Sandy, “This was a nice day.” I wasn’t the least bit surprised when she said she had been thinking the same thing.

Yup, our worries and woes were in hiding during the five and a half hours we spent in Philadelphia that Thursday, first at The Philadelphia Flower Show and then at Barbuzzo. I don’t know, maybe I’d been sprinkled with a heavy dose of magic dust before leaving home in the early afternoon, because I was cool, calm and collected in Philly, as relaxed as when I’m drifting off to sleep. Even the substantial crowd at the flower show didn’t bother me in the least. “Hell,” I said to myself, “everyone here has just as much right as I do to get up close and personal with the exhibits.” What? I, whose nerves often are easily jangled, actually felt that way? I did. I sure would love to be in such an at-ease frame of mind far more than I normally am. Will the transformation occur before my time expires on Planet Earth? Well, “miracles” are known to happen. But I’m not holding my breath.

I’ve been living in or near Philadelphia since the mid-1970s, but for decades never paid any attention to The Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event. In 2016, though, almost on a whim, Sandy and I decided to go. I liked the experience, and now have attended five times. This year’s production, which ran for nine days, was as sweet as summer fruit, despite being held in a non-descript hall large enough to accommodate a number of jumbo jets.

Each year’s flower show has a theme, 2024’s being United By Flowers. I’m all for unity and, like just about everyone, am pro-flowers. So, I couldn’t go wrong. Excellent flowers were almost everywhere in the exhibits area. Ditto for other forms of flora. Sandy and I spent two and a half hours admiring the many installations, doubling back at times to re-examine the five or six that had particularly wowed us. We spent an additional 30 minutes wandering around the vendors section, where more products than you could shake a stick at — and not just horticultural items — were for sale.

Besides the beauty and creativity on display, was there anything else about the show I liked? Affirmative. I admired the diversity of people in attendance. They ranged in age from those that hadn’t yet reached their first birthday to old f*ckers such as me. A wide range of races and cultures were on the scene. And numerous folks with mobility issues didn’t let the enormity of the hall keep them away. Wheelchairs, motorized scooters and canes abounded.

Around 5:00 PM, Sandy and I heard dinner’s call. So, we bade farewell to the flower show and made our way to 13th Street. Philadelphia’s restaurant scene is amazingly strong, and a four-block-long section of 13th Street is one of the prime destinations for restaurant goers. We couldn’t get into Darling Jack’s Tavern, our first choice. But 50 feet away was Barbuzzo, an Italian eatery we’d passed many times but had never frequented. In we went. The place was mobbed, dimly lit and looked cozy. Could they accommodate us? Sure, but only at the chef’s counter, where two stools apparently had been waiting to greet our rear ends.

Happy with our perches, we watched meals being cooked five feet away from us, in pans sitting atop the burners of a stove as solid as an army tank. The burners’ flames, and those from the nearby wood-fueled pizza oven, kept us good and warm. I kept glancing at the oven, whose fury fascinated me. Its portrait was the only photo I took in the restaurant.

We kept things simple at Barbuzzo, whose menu ranges wide, opting for a salad, a Margherita pizza, beer and wine. Everything was delicious. And, before we knew it, it was time to head home.

At 8:06 PM, we arrived at Jefferson Station, giving us very little time to catch the 8:10 train. If we missed it, we would have had to wait an hour for the next one. F*ck that! But we didn’t miss it. Moving quickly through the waiting area and down the stairs, we reached the train platform just as the 8:10 was pulling in. Nice.

Edgar Reewright Tries His Hand At Kid Lit

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

It has been a while since I’ve mentioned Edgar Reewright, my longtime editor, on these pages. The last occasion was nine months ago, when he and his wife Loretta were deciding whether or not to accept Elon Musk’s offer to join Elon’s SpaceX senior citizens lunar program. Well, in the end they would have signed up. But before that could happen, Elon, in late June 2023, pulled the plug on the incipient project, whose initial lunar landing by seniors had been scheduled for 2026.

“Neil, Musk eats it!” Edgar told me on the phone last July. “You know what his main reason was for cancelling? Adult diapers! Shit, can you believe it? These were his exact words when he called to give me the news: ‘I’m most sorry to inform you, Edgar, that I’m deep-sixing the senior citizens lunar program. You see, every oldster already in the program is dependent on adult diapers. And you and your wife, on your applications, indicated that they are essential for you too. The SpaceX rockets would have to double in size to accommodate the numerous boxes required for this sanitary product. Not to mention the problem of what to do with soiled diapers. We couldn’t just open a hatch and toss those bad boys into outer space, after all. Well, maybe we could, but if we did and the word got out, the negative publicity would devastate my businesses. Edgar, I’ve got to go. Not to the bathroom, but back to work. Goodbye.'”

“Bummer, my man, for sure,” I said to Edgar. “I know that you and Loretta would have loved to kick up your heels on the Moon. And I damn well might have applied to the program too. Oh well, such is life.”

Leave it to Edgar, though. He didn’t dwell on the SpaceX disappointment. As always, he moved forward with gusto. Case in point: When I spoke with him on the phone a few days ago, he told me he’d just completed writing a book for preschoolers.

“Neil, I’d never written a book of any kind before. But I needed a creative challenge, seeing that editing the pap you turn out for Yeah, Another Blogger isn’t exactly a soul-satisfying experience.”

I bit my tongue, responding instead with kind words.

“Why, Edgar, that’s wonderful. You’re a worldly person, rich with experiences and memories. I have no doubt your book will connect with developing minds flawlessly. What is the book about?”

“I’m glad you asked. Unlike your blog pieces, which exemplify the word wooden, my book is a hold-onto-your-hat tale about a set of young twins, a brother and sister. One day they decide to play hooky from school. I’d like to read the opening sentences to you. Okay?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

Jill and Bill are seven-year-old twins. They live with their parents in a small town in Colorado near the Rocky Mountains. They hate school. “School is for suckers,” they like to say. Their parents always are worried, since Jill and Bill say it so often.

“Hey, Bill, let’s skip school today,” Jill suggests early one Monday morning. “Heck, nobody in our class likes us, so they won’t miss us. And our teacher probably will be glad we didn’t show up, considering all the problems we cause.”

“Gee, Jill, that’s a great idea. After Mom drops us off at school we’ll sneak around to the back of the building and head to the mountains. I’m sick of Mom and Dad, so I want to stay away from home for at least a week. We’ll start forest fires and do lots of other fun things. Are you with me?”

“You bet. Let’s get ready,” says Jill.

“What do you think?” Edgar asked. “Want to hear more?”

“Spare me, Edgar. Holy crap, are you out of your f*cking mind?  What you’ve written is incredibly inappropriate and warped. No preschooler should be exposed to anything like this. You’ll never find a publisher. And if you self-publish, avalanches of condemnation will rain upon you. Edgar, I’m seeing you in a new light. A dark light. I’m not sure I want you to be my editor anymore.”

Edgar held back comment for many seconds. Instead, he gulped. Multiple times. Finally, he spoke.

“Uh, are you sure about all of that? I never had children, which puts me at a disadvantage when determining what might be a good read for little kids.”

“Trust my judgment, Edgar. If this is the kind of subject matter you feel the need to tackle, then do a major rewrite, with young adults as your intended audience.”

“Alright, I’ll take your advice. Or maybe I’ll just throw in the towel. In any event, am I still your editor?”

“Yeah, you are. I’d be lost without you. Plus, occasionally you give me something to write about. There’s a lot to be said for that.”

“Thank you, Neil, thank you. You’re the best. Well, not the best. Not by any means. But you truly are sort of okay.”

Faces

Yeah, Another Blogger166 Comments

A week and a half ago, Philadelphia Museum Of Art opened its arms nice and wide when my wife Sandy and I entered the building. Then, with feeling, it embraced us. “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “this is going to be a good visit.” And it was. How could it not have been? I mean, over the years I’d roamed through PMA’s galleries more than 100 times, coming away invigorated each trip. The museum rocks.

Arriving with no advance plans as to what to see, we took a look at the museum’s website after showing our PMA-membership cards at the admissions counter. Any number of special exhibits listed on the site, ranging from small to large, piqued our interest. An hour and 45 minutes later, we’d toured them all, plus other gallery spaces. Whew! Had we covered too much ground a bit too quickly? Probably, but little matter. In any event, the museum was readying to close at that point, so off we went to retrieve our car in the museum’s parking garage. The visit, though, didn’t fade from my mind.

Sketch of The Potato Eaters, by Vincent Van Gogh. (This image belongs to Philadelphia Museum Of Art)

Faces! I’m still thinking about some of the face-centric artworks I saw at the museum, more so than the landscapes, seascapes, town scenes and city scenes, and abstractions. Maybe that’s because Sandy and I began our trek at a mini exhibit whose centerpiece was a privately owned, seldom-shown-in-public sketch by my favorite artist, Vincent van Gogh. The drawing, from 1885, is a rendition of The Potato Eaters, an oil painting Van Gogh was working on at the time in the Netherlands, the country of his birth. That painting is now generally considered to be one of his most important pieces.

The five folks in the sketch are Dutch farmers, a hard-working family that never had, and undoubtedly never would have, more than the minimum necessities needed to get by. Van Gogh didn’t try to portray them in exacting detail. He wasn’t a precisionist. His intent was to get to the heart and soul of these people. Hell, getting to the heart and soul was his intent in every one of his works, no matter what the subject matter. And he almost always pulled it off. His enormous popularity developed largely for this reason, I think. Posthumously, needless to say, as the general public was unaware of Van Gogh during his lifetime. (Van Gogh moved from the Netherlands to France in 1886, and died there, by his own hand, in 1890.)

Portrait Of James Baldwin, by Beauford Delaney. (This image belongs to Philadelphia Museum Of Art)

On the opposite side of the museum’s ground floor, hundreds of feet away from the Van Gogh sketch, Sandy and I admired a portrait of James Baldwin, the American writer, social activist and deep thinker. Painted by Beauford Delaney, a devoted artist whom success mostly eluded, the work, painted in 1945, depicts Baldwin in his early twenties. It captures him brilliantly, with bold strokes and an expert disregard for photographic-like realism. As a result, Baldwin comes alive on the canvas. Van Gogh would have approved.

Many other faces greeted us from PMA’s gallery walls that day. I’ll comment on only two of them. They are the visages, as some of you will recognize, of myself and my better half. Man, there was no way I was going to let pass the opportunity to snap a photo when I noticed our reflections in a mirror designed by Stephen Burks. The mirror was part of a dazzling exhibit of Burks’ modern interior-design items.

Somewhat amazingly, it is the only picture I took in the museum that day (the other two pix in this story are from the PMA website). That’s because, while at PMA, I had no intention of writing about Sandy’s and my visit and illustrating the story with photos captured by my phone’s camera. I just wasn’t in a reporter-on-the-scene mood. And yet, this essay emerged anyway. Well, all I can say is, “You never frigging know.” Ain’t that the truth!

Driving Me Crazy

Yeah, Another Blogger150 Comments

As readers of this publication know, fairly often I make mention of the facts that I’m f*cking old (my internal tree added its 76th ring a few months ago), and that I ain’t thrilled about being way closer to the end than to the beginning of my residency on Planet Earth. I’m not obsessed or anything like that with these thoughts, but they clearly are on my mind.

Still, the nature of my life isn’t all that different from what it was 25 or more years ago, except that I no longer work fulltime. I’m in decent shape and health, and I continue to pursue my interests: writing pieces for this website, for instance, and leaving the comfort of my abode to take in concerts, movies, art exhibitions, restaurant meals and the great outdoors pretty regularly. I’m damn lucky, overall. I have little to complain about.

That being said, I’m now about to lodge a major complaint, as there is one activity that annoys the crap out of me and puts me on edge. Consistently. Up until about 15 years ago it didn’t, which makes me think that becoming old as dirt has made me more sensitive to its challenges. Or maybe I simply reached an inevitable breaking point. Whatever, here’s what I’m referring to: driving my car.

There’s no such thing as a casual, pleasant drive anymore. Not for me, anyway, a guy whose nerves apparently are half-shot. I’m just fed up with the enormous number of vehicles out there, the roadwork projects and lane closures you’re destined to run into most days, and the tricky situations you constantly have to navigate. Not to mention the assholes running red lights, tailgating, and blithely turning in front of oncoming traffic. Basically, me no like!

Hell, even on my quiet neighborhood’s residential blocks (I live in Willow Grove, a town near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA), it’s a miracle when a delivery truck or other vehicle isn’t partially or fully blocking my way, or when my view of potential cross-traffic at intersections isn’t obscured by cars parked head-to-toe along the curbs. If I resided in Philadelphia or some other city with a good public transportation system, I could make do without a car. Here in the burbs, though, I need one. So, I grit my teeth and keep my fingers crossed when behind the wheel.

On my way to the supermarket, on Old York Road.

The other day was a classic, driving-wise, and not in a good sense. There I was, in late afternoon, hoping to make a right turn out of my neighborhood onto Old York Road, a major corridor. My destination? A supermarket about three-quarters of a mile from my house. Holy shit! I couldn’t turn, because traffic was backed up for 500 or more feet on Old York, the result, undoubtedly, of a train sitting at, or approaching or leaving the Willow Grove train station (I wasn’t able to make out exactly what was going on). After what seemed like forever, I nudged my way into a long line of cars on Old York. And several minutes later, the vehicles in front of me finally able to inch along, I reached and crossed the railroad tracks. At last, the supermarket was almost within shouting distance. Hallelujah!

On my way home from the supermarket, on Old York Road.

What made the afternoon extra special is that I became enmeshed in a similar situation on the way home from the market. As I neared the train tracks, the gates that descend when a train is approaching did their thing. Down they went, the red lights attached to them flashing. A train eventually pulled into the station and eventually continued on its way. And eventually I arrived home. Man, I could have made the trips to and from the supermarket faster on foot than in my car, a laughable and pathetic truth.

Okay, rant over. In memory of the days when driving commonly was fun for me, I’ll leave you with a smoker from Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers: Runnin’ Down A Dream, which was released in 1989. The recording, as potent as freedom, almost is enough to convince me that carefree driving experiences might come my way once again. Here’s hoping.

A Whole Lot Of Colors

Yeah, Another Blogger146 Comments

Like a zillion other folks, I’m a sucker for fireworks displays. I feel deprived when I don’t catch at least one of them each year. My wife Sandy and I saw magnificent fireworks in Philadelphia this past July. And a fine show was gifted, once again by Philadelphia, to us and our pals Cindy and Gene (and a host of other celebrants) on the final evening of 2023. The four of us watched that New Year’s Eve extravaganza, an annual Philadelphia affair, from atop a parking garage near the Delaware River. In the middle of the river sat a barge from which the rockets were launched.

(Photo by Sandra Cherrey Scheinin)

On the garage roof, I behaved exactly as I expected I would. Meaning, I oohed and aahed as the air shook mightily and the darkened skies filled with starbursts (mostly in stately whites, golds, greens and reds) that danced and interwove for all they were worth. I damn well had a great time.

Still, a day or two later I was in need of further blasts of colors, though I didn’t recognize their call right away. Bold, brash colors, as it turned out, not the more subdued ones that predominated on New Year’s Eve. Was I a bit down in the dumps for a couple of days after NYE, and subconsciously figured that avalanches of eye-popping hues would snap me out of it? Could be. Whatever the case, five days into 2024, by which time I was clear about what to do, I entered Willow Grove Park, a three-level indoor mall located a hop, skip and a jump from my house in the burbs. I knew that heavy doses of just-what-the-doctor-ordered awaited me at the mall’s enormous arcade, whose space formerly had been occupied by a JCPenney department store.

I’d been to the arcade before, always as an admirer, not a game player. Man, it’s something else. Game console after game console after game console fill the arcade’s two floors. I don’t have a clue how to play any of them. But who cares? The games are a color extravaganza. On that January day I allowed their oversized personalities to conquer me.

What’s more, they were loud as hell, something I should have remembered from previous visits. Even louder than fireworks, being in a somewhat confined space as they are. Man, my poor f*cking ears, longtime victims of tinnitus, were greeted by a nonstop outpouring of screeches, whams and bams. Did the racket cause me to flee? Hell, no! I wanted an immersive experience.

Eventually, after becoming fully immersed, I departed. I quickly forgot about the arcade’s din, but not about its dazzling colors. They’d impressed the heck out of me. And invigorated me. I’m thinking about their vitality right now as I type these words.

Funny, though: It’s one thing to be impressed and invigorated, and quite another to be truly in love. Yes, for all my adult life I’ve been a seeker of colors that pack a mighty punch. But I sure don’t want to be in their presence anywhere close to all the time. That would be way too much sensory input. I’d become overwhelmed and exhausted.

However, there is a color I never tire of being around. It’s the one I saw when I stepped onto my house’s deck a half hour after returning home from the mall. Looking up at the sky’s gradations of gentle blue, I thought something like this to myself: “Yo, blue sky, I’m yours! Come on down and wrap yourself around my sagging, wrinkled bod!”

Well, the sky sure as shit ignored my invitation. Maybe it’s hard of hearing, or maybe it just can’t stand the sight of me. I’m not one to hold a grudge, though. Thus, I’ll conclude this story with a recording of Blue Skies, a lovely song composed by Irving Berlin. And who better to sing it than Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. I think you’ll like it.

It’s A Wonderful Life . . . Or Is It?

Yeah, Another Blogger153 Comments

My better half and I jointly watch an hour or more of television fare five or six evenings each week. Mostly we dial up series, with the occasional movie thrown into the mix. During the second half of December, however, we went movie-crazy, by our standards, what with five flicks passing before our eyes. In chronological order, they were: A Thousand And One; A Million Miles Away; Maestro; Rustin; It’s A Wonderful Life. All came out last year, excepting It’s A Wonderful Life, which, since its release in 1946, has ascended to an exalted status reached by few films. I’m now going to devote a few words to it and to A Thousand And One, as they, unlike the others on the list, seem to be in no hurry to fade from my mind. They made a strong impression on me and got me thinking.

I’d seen It’s A Wonderful Life once or twice before, but not in ages. Not blessed with the world’s finest memory, I might as well have been viewing it for the first time last month, so few of the scenes did I recall. Well, all I can say is, “Wow!” IAWL deserves its immense popularity and the high esteem millions of folks hold it in. This is a great movie, one that pulls at your heartstrings and does its darnedest to make you believe in the basic goodness of humankind. Hats off to that.

Frank Capra, also of Mr. Smith Goes To Washington and It Happened One Night fame, directed It’s A Wonderful Life. For those of you who haven’t seen the film, be aware that spoilers lie ahead. I’m confident they won’t lessen your enjoyment should you choose to view it.

IAWL tells the tale of George Bailey (played flawlessly by James Stewart), a generous, caring individual who discovers that his company, through no fault of his own, suddenly is on the verge of bankruptcy. Distraught, and finding no way to right the sinking ship, he decides to put an end to his earthly existence. The money his wife Mary (the superb Donna Reed) then would collect from his life insurance policy would keep her and their children sheltered and fed for a long while.

Moments before George is about to carry out his plan, a heavenly force — Clarence, a low-level guardian angel trying to earn his wings — intervenes. Clarence’s efforts, and those of Mary, save the day. George learns that his importance to his family and community is immeasurable, and that his many friends truly love him. Anyone whose heart is not encased in granite will find themselves tearing up at It’s A Wonderful Life’s happy ending, an ending that implies that never again will George allow despair to conquer him. George will be okay.

But will Terry, a main character in A Thousand And One, be okay? That’s a worrisome unknown in the powerhouse drama written and directed by A.V. Rockwell.

We first meet Terry (played by three actors, one for each time period the movie covers) in the mid-1990s. He’s six years old at that time, a foster-care child lonely for his absent mother Inez. Portrayed with swagger by Teyana Taylor, Inez is armed with eyes that don’t miss a thing.  She is barely into her twenties and always has lived on society’s edges. Inez re-enters Terry’s life after being released from prison, soon taking him, illegally, from his foster parents. For the next eleven years she tries as best she can to raise him. Ultimately, however, circumstances catch up with them big-time.

A Thousand And One pulls no punches. Set mostly in New York City’s Harlem section, it often is as gritty as a sandstorm. I’ve given away much of the ending of It’s A Wonderful Life. I won’t do the same with A Thousand And One, whose concluding scenes I didn’t see coming. Those scenes left me concerned, not for street-savvy Inez’s prospects, but for those of shy and gentle Terry. For the most part, I’ve led a stable and comfortable life. A Thousand And One has me counting my lucky stars.

What a world we live in. So much poverty and inequality. So much violence and emotional trauma. So much intolerance, indifference and deception. That’s the way things always have been. And, I believe, always will be. There also is beauty in our world, of course. And love and joy and kindness. It can’t be denied, though, that life is a very rocky road for multitudes of people. Too many Terrys, and other unfortunates, are out there. If only it were otherwise.

Art On Wheels, Part Twelve (Thanks, Philadelphia)

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

It had been half a year since I’d hauled my scrawny ass around the streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, searching for handsomely decorated trucks, vans, buses and other wheeled objects. I was itching to track down another bunch of those bad boys, photograph them, and then compose and publish a new installment of Art On Wheels, a series I’ve grown quite fond of. And so, amidst favorable weather conditions, I hopped aboard a train in my suburban burg three Monday mornings ago. One hour later I arrived in downtown Philly. The game was set to begin.

However . . . I didn’t slip into game mode as effortlessly as I’d expected, because, from the start, some of Philadelphia’s many charms began to distract and seduce me more than slightly. For instance, 19th century townhouses as stately as anyone might wish for. Rittenhouse Square, a perfectly designed neighborhood park. Skyscrapers whose glass facades, in daylight, flaunt fabulous reflections.

It almost got to the point where I considered putting Art On Wheels on hold and writing a piece about the magnificence of The City Of Brotherly Love instead. But that wouldn’t do! Hell, I was on a mission, and I needed to see it through. And so, refocusing, I doggedly looked here, there and everywhere for noteworthy vehicles. Even though I didn’t spot quite as many as I’d have liked during the two hours I spent pounding the pavement, I found enough of them to quench my thirst quite thoroughly. In all, I took portraits of 17 specimens. The six that rang my bell more artistically than the others illustrate this article.

Yes, things worked out well in the end, as they always have in Philadelphia. Being a natural-born worrier, though, I had my doubts at times that day, since each Art On Wheels expedition is in fact a bit of a crapshoot. The odds, of course, were in my favor. You’d think that past experience would have proven to me emphatically that more than a few enterprises making deliveries or providing services in Philly want their vehicles to stand out. That’s just good business sense, right? In fact, it’s surprising, when you think about it, that the exteriors of a high percentage of commercial trucks, vans, etc. are pure vanilla. Flair isn’t in their vocabulary, but it sure wouldn’t hurt if it were.

Do you have favorites among the six vehicles pictured in this story? My top three are the ones promoting Junk In The Trunk, Orbit Water, and Budweiser beer (the slogan “official beer of the shift change” is meant to honor hard workers, such as Shayna Raichilson-Zadok, the chef who is proudly pictured).

Choosing among those three isn’t easy. However, I’m going to go with the candidate that makes me the happiest. Namely, Orbit Water. The truck’s artwork is oh so refreshing. And the smiling guy in the design is the epitome of good cheer. He would make an ideal salesperson for almost any product or service. Excepting cemetery plots and colonoscopies, needless to say, and a handful of others. Orbit Water, you are A-OK in my book.

Let me conclude this opus with a sidenote: For several years I’ve been issuing, without fail, a story every other Tuesday (Tuesday in my time zone, that is). However, seeing that Chanukah has begun and will continue for a few more nights, and that Kwanzaa, Christmas and New Year’s Day soon will arrive, this is a good time for me to step back for a short while. Thus, I won’t be publishing on what would have been the next scheduled date (December 26). But, assuming I remain above ground, I’ll return with fresh material on January 9, 2024. Happy New Year, everyone!

Rocking On!

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

Here in the northern hemisphere, autumn is not all that far from drawing to a close. Winter soon will arrive. Having spent way too little time admiring the changing colors of tree leaves this autumn, a week and a half ago I decided to try and rectify the situation by taking a walk around my suburban neighborhood. And so, after murmuring a fond I’ll be back to the sofa I’d been resting my bony ass upon, out the door I went. Though many trees had already dropped all or most of their leaves, I quickly discovered that some still were proudly displaying plenty of their wares. Those leaves, masterpieces in shades of amber, burgundy, russet and gold, moved me. I was glad to be around them.

It wouldn’t be long, of course, before just about every deciduous tree was bare. Which is why, as I strode along, I found myself thinking about time’s relentless forward thrust. Man, not only will winter soon arrive, 2024 will too. Huh? For me, 2022 absolutely zoomed by. And 2023 is setting an even faster pace. It’s scary how time seems to accelerate when we get up there in years.

And there’s no question that I’m up there. I’m 76, for crying out loud, a number that stuns me. In my mind I may be 45 or 50, but the mirror tells a different story. As does this obvious truth: Even if I remain above ground for another 20 or more years, I’m ridiculously closer to the end than to the beginning. Holy shit, who designed this system?  I don’t like it! If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have expiration dates. Or, at the least, the expiration dates would be a hell of a lot longer than they now are.

What to do, what to do? Well, we all know that a good approach to life is to keep on keeping on as best we can. Meaning, we should be loving and giving individuals, and should pursue those activities that bring us joy. And it wouldn’t hurt if we spread our wings too. Yeah, that’s a game plan to embrace, no matter what our age.

There’s not enough room on this page for me to delve into my successes and failures in attempting to meet each of the criteria suggested above. But I will describe one recent activity that brought me joy. Namely, my attendance, with my wife Sandy, at a Willie Nile concert, which took place at City Winery Philadelphia. Willie is a songwriter, vocalist and rhythm guitarist. And, most important, a high-potency rocker. I’d seen him in concert before, and was at City Winery because I expected to be rocked righteously. For rock and roll — guitar-based, take-no-prisoners rock and roll, to be exact — is a form of music that meshes exceedingly well with my internal rhythms. When the songs are hearty and the playing is powerful and the musicians’ commitment knows no bounds, I’m transported to higher realms.

Everything came together magnificently that night. Willie and his band were on fire, unleashing torrents of energy. I’d been feeling rock-deprived for the previous two or three months. The Willie Nile concert put a halt to that.

The concert not only excited me, it got me thinking too. Willie, you see, is a mere eight months younger than me. He’s been part of the rock scene for decades, has played thousands of shows, and hasn’t lost his passion for the music. I tell you, Willie shines as a role model for seniors who are a bit dismayed by the thought that the Grim F*cking Reaper might be lurking around the corner. I’m one of those seniors. Willie is doing what he loves, and shares his gifts generously with his audiences. I believe he’ll rock until the day he drops. That’s a truly worthy way in which to live a life.

In closing, I’ll present you with a video from the concert in question. Dig Willie’s leg kick towards the end of the song. He might be old, but he’s still got “rock star” moves:

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise

Yeah, Another Blogger149 Comments

Many incidents surprised me while my wife Sandy and I vacationed last month on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA. But only three of them pleaded with me to write about them. I’m a softie, so I couldn’t say no. Away we go!

Surprise #1:

Cyberspace is glutted beyond belief with photos of sunsets. Is there room for more? Damn straight! And there always will be. The gods overseeing the internet have seen to that. I took this article’s sunset photo in Truro, a rural section of Cape Cod. Sandy and I were strolling along Corn Hill Beach, which borders Cape Cod Bay, as light was fading from the skies. Sunset aficionados, we were there mainly to view the big event. As gorgeous as the beach and the overall setting were, though, I was a bit disappointed, because the sunset’s opening stages weren’t even so-so. Masses of grey clouds were making it impossible for anything impressive to be displayed.

Or so I thought! Man, all of a sudden, as the Sun hit the horizon, the less-dense clouds in the western sky became electrified, exploding in brilliant orange hues. The bay waters joined in on the orange-heavy festivities. Sandy and I could hardly believe our eyes. Damn well awestruck, we agreed we’d never seen a sunset develop as this one had. Life’s a mystery, is it not? You never know what might occur. That early evening, we were in the right place at the right time.

Surprise #2:

Later that week we spent a few hours in Provincetown village, at the tippy tip of Cape Cod. It’s a charming, funky old town, a home to the arts, and once was a major commercial-fishing center. Some amount of commercial fishing still goes on there, but Ptown, for decades, has been better known for its large LGBTQ community than for anything else.

During the visit we examined the artworks in a bunch of galleries on Commercial Street, popped into a couple of other stores, and then had dinner at Ciro & Sal’s, a terrific Italian restaurant. Ten seconds after exiting the eatery, Sandy and I unexpectedly were brought to a halt by a powerful, palpable presence. We looked up . . .  and there it was: the Moon, big and bright, flirting with nearby clouds and casting a spell on darkened Commercial Street.

As with the Corn Hill Beach sunset, I was amazed by what I saw. I hadn’t paid much attention to the Moon in a long time. Nor to the stars or any other objects in the night sky, for that matter. And it’s not as if I’m rarely outside at night. But once in a while the beauty of the blackened heavens makes itself apparent to me. I saluted the Moon. Then I took its portrait. The photo is one of my favorites of the pix I snapped on Cape Cod.

And now for the third surprise:

In my younger days I puffed away somewhat regularly on marijuana and hashish. The highs they induced often were exemplary. But I gave up the habit in the 1980s, after about 15 years of indulgence, out of concern for my lungs.

However, for some years I’ve been wondering if I should give cannabis a try once again. In Pennsylvania, though, where I reside, you can’t purchase for-recreational-use cannabis legally.

But . . . during the Cape Cod trip I had a casual conversation with a guy working in a theater where Sandy and I were about to see a play. Our talk turned to marijuana, and he told me cannabis is sold legally, in a variety of forms, by authorized stores in Massachusetts. “You mean, anybody can go into one of those places and buy it?” I asked. He answered in the affirmative.

Say what? How was it possible I hadn’t known about this? Well, a week later Sandy and I made a trip to The Piping Plover, the Cape Cod cannabis shop that the theater worker had told me is his favorite. There, after discussing my high-times history with the lady behind the counter, and telling her I wasn’t interested in inhaling smoke these days, I purchased the product she recommended: Camino cannabis-infused edible gummies.

I haven’t popped one of those bad boys into my mouth yet. I’m a bit apprehensive, you see. But I will soon. Very soon. And when I do, I’ll put on some mind-expanding music, lean back on the living room sofa, and go on what, hopefully, will be a delightful journey through the spaceways. I’ve always been an oh wow-oriented kind of person to a fair degree. And the time seems right for me to increase that oh wow factor, via cannabis, as I did during my glory days many moons ago.