Me And/Or My Family

A Baby-Blue Story

Yeah, Another Blogger107 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 Blogger149 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.

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.

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger155 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?

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!

I Am Extremely Fortunate

Yeah, Another Blogger180 Comments

Last Monday, the first day of the second half of rapidly disappearing 2025, found me at the medical office building where I’ve volunteered for 13 years, manning its information desk. The part-time gig keeps me on my toes. Many patients arrive without knowing which suite their doctor works in, for instance. It’s my job to point them in the right direction. And sometimes I come to peoples’ “rescue,” such as when I aid those who, their medical appointments completed, can’t remember where in the nearby parking garage they deposited their cars. Off I go with them to that multi-level structure to solve the problem.

I like the job, which occupies me for four hours each week. Without it, I’d have a relative paucity of human interactions, seeing that I spend a hefty percentage of my time resting my aged, bony ass upon the living room sofa. Plus, helping people out boosts my spirits. Basically, I need to feel as though I’ve still got something to offer society.

Last Monday was a typical day at work. I answered questions from, and helped unravel somewhat-knotty situations for, approximately 50 individuals. However, during my shift something struck me more than it usually does: I clearly realized that a whole lot of visitors to the building were using and relying on canes, walkers and wheelchairs. And nowhere near all of those folks were senior citizens. This was a sobering observation. It brought to the surface a piece of self-knowledge that normally resides in the bottom reaches of my subconscious. Namely, I am extremely fortunate. Here I am, pushing age 80, and I get around on my legs just fine. I can walk for five or more miles, no problem. And though it would be foolhardy of me to attempt an all-out sprint, trotting remains within my powers. Yeah, anything might yet happen, but I’ve retained more than decent mobility.

And my good fortune extends way beyond my legs. My health in general, according to medical tests and my physicians, is solid. I’ve had one very dangerous health situation in my life. Thanks to modern medicine and just plain positive luck, it appears to be permanently confined to the rearview mirror. Of course, nobody knows that for certain, but the odds are in my favor.

What’s more, I have plenty to eat, and my country (the USA), though in the hands of a freedoms-suppressing megalomaniac, is not a war zone. I almost feel guilty about my good fortune, considering how difficult so many people have it in the States and all around the world. Poor health, poor healthcare availability, and inadequate food intake are some of the injustices plaguing hundreds of millions of individuals. And armed conflicts make life a living hell, or close to it, for so, so many. Not just in Ukraine and Gaza, but in violence-beset nations that don’t receive much media attention. Haiti and Sudan, to name two, and Myanmar and Yemen, to name two more.

Yes, the human condition, in certain respects, is horrible. Always has been. Always will be.

Considerate guy that I occasionally am, I’ll leave you on a sunny note: My good fortune expanded at the tail end of last year when I discovered Abigail Lapell. She’s a fine Canadian singer-songwriter who isn’t too well known outside her home country. Her latest album, Anniversary, came out 16 months ago. I’m in love with one of its songs, Flowers In My Hair, which is the first song in many a moon that I can’t (and don’t want to) get out of my head.  A meditation on going with the flow while letting love reign over you, it is dominated by angelic vocals and by mesmerizing percussion provided via handclaps and foot stomps. Flowers In My Hair, to me, is sweet as a peach and free as a bird. Give it a listen.

A Story And A Song For My Father

Yeah, Another Blogger178 Comments

As many of us know, Sly Stone left this mortal coil early this month, and two days later Brian Wilson joined him in the Great Rock Band In The Sky. Two superb musical minds, and revered figures, gone, just like that. At least they made it into their 80s. Their passings would have been harder to take had they left us while in their primes.

As the masterminds, respectively, of Sly And The Family Stone and The Beach Boys, Sly and Brian helped turn the 1960s into a music wonderland. During that decade, music was vibrantly alive with love and hope and power and innovation. No decade before or since, to my way of thinking, was or has been as sonically diverse and dynamic. I came of age during the 1960s, becoming, among other things, a music junkie, a description that still fits me, though not to the extent it did back then. Those were the days.

I could go on and on about Sly Stone and Brian Wilson, but I don’t mean to focus on them. The idea to meld them into this story, though, came to me on Sunday, June 19, which was Father’s Day in my nation, the USA. They, and their music, were on my mind, as had been the case for a number of days. My father, of course, was on my mind too. Very much so. Many memories about him played in my head, including music-related ones. I’m sure the latter would not have surfaced had I not been thinking about Sly and Brian.

My dad, Hyman Scheinin, lived to the ripe old age of 96, breathing his last on September 1, 2005. He spent the final six and a half years of his life with me and my wife Sandy, and became a dialysis patient about one year after moving in with us. Dialysis is a hard road for anybody to travel, let alone someone in their 90s. But my father bore the burden pretty well, emotionally and physically. Over time, however, his body began to wear out from the strain of three-times-per-week dialysis sessions, and from infections. He died in a hospital bed, with my wife, my brother Richard and myself beside him. It was a sad day, one I thought about a lot on Father’s Day.

Sandy and I did our best to care for my father, and to try and keep his spirits up. Everyone deserves to experience positive things in life, it goes without saying, so we made it a point to get him out of the house for more than his dialysis sessions and his numerous other medical appointments. He went with us to restaurants and art shows, to name two activities. And I would take him on casual drives, just to see what we would see. He almost always had a good time.

And then there were the Friday night jazz concerts at the Philadelphia Museum Of Art, a series populated by established and up-and-coming musicians from the States and elsewhere. The series ran for about 15 years and ended maybe 10 years ago. Being a jazz head, I miss it. My father attended 19 of those shows with us (Sandy and I also went to shows at the museum without him), and felt completely in his element there, probably to his surprise and certainly to ours. We’d arrive early, so as to be able to grab one of the cocktail tables close to the stage area. Out on the town and in a magnificent setting (the museum’s Great Hall), my father was happy as a clam from the moment he sat down.

Growing up, I didn’t think of my father as a music appreciator. He didn’t listen to songs on the radio, didn’t play albums on the family phonograph. And I had little reason to change my viewpoint until those many decades later. I think, now, that the thrill of just being at the museum concerts opened up my father’s ears, made him hungry to truly experience music. And truly experience it he did. His involvement reached a peak in January 2003 at a performance by the quartet led by the then-new-on-the-scene alto saxophonist Miguel Zenón. Zenón is a wonderful musician, adept at various approaches to jazz. He can play softly and melodically, for instance. And, while soloing, he can be ferocious.

In the middle of the show, following a lengthy and intense Zenón solo, the damndest thing happened. Sandy and I couldn’t believe our eyes when my father leaped from his chair, clapping madly in appreciation of Zenón’s mighty efforts. Normally a mild-mannered sort, he was revealing just how deeply into music he could dive. I was duly impressed. No one at the show was enjoying themselves more than the nonagenarian a few feet away from me and Sandy.

It’s fitting for me to conclude this musical story with the title song from Miguel Zenón’s first album, Looking Forward, because the album came out a mere smattering of months before his appearance at the art museum. Undoubtedly, then, he played tunes from it at the concert. Perhaps this song is the one that made my father applaud like there was no tomorrow. Whether it is or not, I tip my hat to Zenón for having brought joy to my father, and to Sly Stone and Brian Wilson for nudging me to write the words on this page.

It’s An Old Story

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

I know I’ve written about old age and mortality any number of times before, but I just can’t keep myself from visiting those topics once again. When you’re old as dirt, like me, it’s hard not to contemplate, at least now and then, how much time you’ve got left. I’m 77, for crying out loud, which stuns me. How can this be? Where the hell did the years go? As with most matters, I have no f*cking idea. One thing for sure is that the express train keeps barreling along. We’re here, and then — poof! — we’re gone. That’s life. If it were up to me, though, each individual creature, human and not, would carry on, and thrive, unto eternity. Yeah, sometimes I’m a hopeless dreamer.

My status as an ancient has been made crystal clear to me by information I’ve obtained from the website of The French Institute For Demographic Studies. One of its online calculators shows that I am older than 97% of the human beings on our planet, an extremely sobering statistic. Most truths don’t hurt, but this one does. And I’m having a heck of a hard time wrapping my head around it. (If you’d like to see where you fit on the global population scale, click here to open the website. Once there, click on Let’s go and, on the subsequent page, enter your age on the horizontal bar.)

Still, naively, and probably out of fear, I find myself not quite believing that I have an expiration date. It almost doesn’t seem possible to me that I do. I mean, I’m still nicely functional, still pretty much an ace at stumbling gracefully through life. Why should all of this come to an end? I sure would like to make it into my 90s, though. I’ll have been cheated, I feel, by anything less than that. But any way you look at it, time is running out. There are far, far more grains of sand at the bottom of my hourglass than at the top.

So, what’s to be done? Well, we all know the answers. To the best of our abilities, everybody — not just me and my fellow oldsters — should aim to do the right things. Such as: maintaining, and trying to expand, close relationships; pursuing activities that put smiles on our faces; and working hard to make society and the natural environment healthier. Anyone who does a good bit or more of all that is a valuable member of the human race.

Music has been my main interest for most of my life. I can barely carry a tune, and I’d be up shit’s creek if I attempted to plunk out Chopsticks on the piano. But I’m an expert when it comes to listening to music. And I pay a lot of attention to what musicians have to say. A recent article in The Guardian caught my attention and got me feeling better about being a geezer. The story takes a look at up-there-in-age musicians who have lost little, if any, of their life force. For instance, Bonnie Raitt, who is two years my junior, remarks, “I’m not slowing down and I’m not going to stop until I can’t do it any more.” And Graham Nash, six years my senior, has these thoughts about seeing the late master guitarist Andrés Segovia when Segovia was 92: “And he knocked me on my ass with the energy and brilliance of his performance. So I think: ‘Why not me?’”

I like the way Raitt and Nash look at things.

I’ll bring this opus to a proper conclusion by leaving you with a tune composed by Bob Dylan, who, at 83, remains a very active musician. The song in question, Forever Young, appears on his album Planet Waves, which came out in 1974. Dylan recorded the album in collaboration with his pals from The Band (Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, Garth Hudson, Robbie Robertson and Levon Helm).

While working on this story I listened to Forever Young for the first time in eons. Man, I think I’d never realized how direct and heartfelt the song is. It addresses some of the themes I’ve presented herein, but with a different slant, for Dylan had one of his youngsters in mind when he wrote the lyrics. The song’s sentiments, though, apply to folks of any age. Hope you enjoy it.

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: