Me And/Or My Family

A Peachy Story

Yeah, Another Blogger173 Comments

For most of my life I’ve enjoyed summer. I’ve spent many hours outdoors in the hot season, frolicking under the Sun or soaking up its potent rays while lying on a blanket or chaise lounge.

Alas, somewhere along the line, perhaps about 10 years ago, my good feelings about summer took a sharp turn southward. Since then, I’ve mostly stayed indoors in summer when the Sun is high in the sky, my body no longer happy to be exposed to temperatures above 85°F (29°C) and to an unrelentingly bright ball of fire. Now deep into my senior-citizenhood, I melt like ice cream under those conditions. Which doesn’t fit the definition of having fun in the summertime.

A week and a half or so ago, though, a northward shift occurred. I have no idea how long this positive outlook on summer will remain in place. In any event, it’s fascinating to me that the change occurred at all.

My favorite fruit, peaches, prompted my new attitude. There I was in early June at a local supermarket, buying this and that, when I remembered that peaches had come into season in parts of the USA and would be for sale in the store. Moments later I picked out a couple of peaches. They’d been shipped from the state of Georgia, one of the peach hubs of America, to Pennsylvania, where I reside and was grocery shopping.

One of those peaches took two days to ripen, the other took three. The waits were worth it. The peaches blew my mind when they entered my mouth, so luscious were they. Their sweetness was exemplary, their texture a dream. In love with the fruit, I realized that peaches galore would be available for the next two or three months. In other words, throughout the summer. And, at that moment, I found myself regarding summer, which officially began in my hemisphere on the 20th of June, in a good light. “You know,” I said to myself, “summer offers more than the opportunities to sweat like a f*cking pig and to come close to passing out from the heat. Neil, you’ve forgotten that summer has its upsides too.”

Yes, I’m in a much better frame of mind about summer than I’ve been in a long time, despite the crazy heat that has Pennsylvania and much of the rest of the world in its grip. And I have more than peaches to thank for that, because what I’m expecting to be enjoyable getaways are on the horizon. Sandy and I will be at a family reunion this summer for a few days. The locale? A village beside a beautiful lake in rural upstate New York. And we’ll also spend time with friends at their beach house in Delaware.

Now, I’m going to stay in the shade, or indoors, a good bit at those gatherings. I’m not about to forget what high heat and glaring Sun can do to me. However, I fully intend to have fun while there. And if that happens, I figure there’s a chance I’ll also approach the remainder of summer 2024, and subsequent summers, lightheartedly, like I used to do.

I can think of no better way to end this essay than to include a song from Eat A Peach, the album released in 1972 by one of the greatest rock groups of all time, The Allman Brothers Band. Fittingly, they were based in Georgia. And, I’d guess, they consumed more than their fair share of peaches. I’ll leave you with Stand Back, one of the Allman songs you don’t hear all too often. Power-packed and gritty, it almost makes me want to go outside and dance madly while engulfed by high temps and intense sunlight. I said almost.

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.

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.

A Shorts Story

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

“What the f*ck is going on?” I asked myself two Thursday afternoons ago while at my volunteer job in a medical office building near my home. (I man the information desk there for four hours each week, answering questions and helping people in a variety of other ways.)

The day was humming along. I was busy. But something I’d never seen before in the dozen years I’ve held the gig was becoming more and more apparent as the afternoon progressed. Namely, scads of male visitors, ranging from teenagers to senior citizens, were wearing shorts. Amazingly, in fact, it seemed that more geezers — my peers — were in shorts than the younger members of my gender.

The volume of shorts-clad guys in the building didn’t decrease at any point during my shift. I even saw two examples of those gentlemen, each a strong candidate for the Hairiest Legs In Town trophy, heading for an exit together. What the f*ck, indeed! Was it National Men-In-Shorts Day? Sure, the weather outside was mild. But on nice days about one in ten guys visiting the building normally sport shorts. On the Thursday in question the percentage was at least three times higher. Some pieces of photographic evidence of what I observed are included in this essay.

Now, there’s little doubt that just about nobody but me would have paid much, if any, attention to the shorts situation that day. I mean, who gives a shit about guys in shorts, right? Well, I do, but only when it comes to males middle-aged and above. That’s because I, once very pro-shorts, eliminated shorts from my wardrobe circa 1990. In my mid-40s at the time, I was of the opinion that shorts had become age-inappropriate for me.

Furthermore, I decided that guys in my age demographic or older would do well to follow suit. Needless to say, that didn’t happen and still hasn’t. I’ll never be an influencer.

It doesn’t take a psychiatrist or psychotherapist to understand that what I did and thought regarding shorts revealed and continues to reveal plenty about my insecurities and confidence level. Let’s face it, I feel slightly threatened by and jealous of mature men who appear in public in shorts. Clearly, though, I should admire them instead, as many of them, undoubtedly, are more comfortable in their skins than I am in mine.

So, I’ve got work to do. Mainly, I’ll try to stop asking myself “what the f*ck?” when shorts-wearing guys who are far removed from their 20s enter my field of vision. And it wouldn’t hurt if I bought and began wearing shorts again. Screw age–inappropriate!

Up until six months ago I wouldn’t have needed to buy any shorts, though, as two pairs of same had been residing undisturbed within my clothes closet for eons. One was a multi-colored gem, a work of pop art. Back in the 1980s I wore it proudly.

The second pair, taupe in color, lacked charisma but was cool nonetheless. For reasons I can’t recall, not only did I never wear it, I didn’t even remove the price tag. I suppose I bought this pair in the 1990s, thinking I might one day get back into a shorts frame of mind.

Anyway, six months ago a wonderful event took place: a multi-day, my-side-of-the-family reunion. People came from very near and from very far, everyone, including me and my wife Sandy, spending the majority of time in Philadelphia. For one day, though, the gang assembled at Sandy’s and my house in the Philadelphia burbs, where lots of fun was had by all.

I don’t remember why, but in the middle of that day the subject of clothes, maybe of shorts specifically, came up between me and one of my nephews, who was at the reunion with his girlfriend. Bingo! It instantly dawned on me that I possessed clothes I no longer wore and no longer wanted. I raced upstairs and removed both pairs of shorts from their burial site and bestowed them upon two folks much younger and better looking than I. My nephew and his girlfriend wasted no time in putting them on. The photo I snapped of them in their new duds is a favorite of mine. Have shorts ever looked finer on anyone? I think not!

Happy Birthday, Sandy!

Yeah, Another Blogger150 Comments

Seeing that a person’s birthday comes but once a year, celebrating it in a substantial way is a damn good idea. Even though my wife Sandy and I don’t always follow that philosophy, a couple of weeks ago we did. Having booked a hotel room in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA for Sandy’s birthday (the big day itself, plus the two days bookending it), we dipped into The City Of Brotherly Love’s many offerings and, as is almost always the case when we’re there, had a fine time.

Jules Goldman Books And Art, an eye-popping store.
Empty building that once housed the Painted Bride Art Center. Isaiah Zagar’s mosaic mural covers the building.
A portion of the mosaic mural at the rear of the building.

What did we do? We had two great restaurant dinners, for one thing, meals that we won’t soon forget. We took in a movie (Barbie, which Sandy, unlike me, liked a lot). We wandered into Jules Goldman Books And Art, one of the most mind-blowingly jumbled stores I’ve ever seen. And we gazed in wonder at the mosaic mural (by Isaiah Zagar) covering all sides of the long-vacant building that once housed the Painted Bride Art Center. Sandy and I saw loads of terrific music and dance performances at the Bride, and truly miss it. (The Painted Bride Art Center still exits. It’s at a different location now, and is but the merest shadow, arts-wise, of its former world-class self.) The building’s and the mosaic mural’s fates, tied up in litigation for a number of years, are uncertain. Demolition is a real possibility. If that comes to pass, Philadelphia will lose a treasure.

The painting popularly known as Whistler’s Mother.

The birthday girl and I also went to the Philadelphia Museum Of Art. In that enormous institution we viewed hundreds of artworks, including the world-famous painting popularly known as Whistler’s Mother, on loan from a museum in Paris. I was expecting to poo-poo the picture, but the more I looked at it, the more I liked it. It’s a well-designed creation, quite riveting, whose true title (Arrangement In Grey And Black No. 1) is a good description of what the artist James Whistler was going after, and accomplished, when his mother Anna posed for him in 1871.

The building in which I once lived (Clinton Street, Philadelphia).

I could mention plenty more activities, but I’ll limit myself to one. A very personal one. Namely, our visit to a central Philadelphia neighborhood we both were familiar with, and within which we very likely crossed paths many years before we formally met in 1990.

I moved to Philadelphia in 1974, taking up residence on Clinton Street, a leafy block with any number of fine old houses. I lived there for 14 months in an apartment building, the one nondescript structure on Clinton, during which time Sandy worked two blocks away. Did we pass one another, maybe more than once, on the street? Did we chow down in a neighborhood eatery at the same time? We’ll never know, but I’m guessing yes. On the day before her birthday, we reminisced about those long-ago days as we strolled along a bunch of blocks in the Clinton Street area.

To continue: As noted above, our paths crossed in 1990. Meaningfully too. This occurred at a singles event near Philadelphia’s Delaware River waterfront. Sandy and I, each of us far removed from our Clinton-Street-neighborhood days, clicked right from the start and have been together ever since. I don’t believe in fate or anything like that. But it’s cool that, unbeknownst to us, we were part of the same picture all those years before, in a sense just waiting for our stories to entwine.

Now, this being a piece about a special occasion, I’ll conclude the proceedings with blasts of good cheer and high energy. And I’ll turn to The Beatles to handle the honors. Their hard-rocking song Birthday appears on what has come to be known as The White Album. John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote Birthday quickly in the recording studio in September 1968. A few hours later, the band, McCartney handling lead vocals, put it on tape. Man, in no time at all a classic was birthed.

It’s inarguable that Paul McCartney calling Sandy and singing Birthday over the phone to her would be better than my presenting her with The Beatles’ recorded version. Maybe one day, in an alternate universe, that will happen. But for now, the original, in all its glory, will suffice beautifully. And so, once again . . . happy birthday, Sandy!

Summer Kind Of Sucks

Yeah, Another Blogger165 Comments

Ah, my mind is drifting back to the carefree days of my youth, ages ago, when I embraced the summer season, thinking nothing of being outside in the sun for hours on end. What was there not to like? Playing baseball, basketball, volleyball, golf, and tennis sure as hell was very alright with me. As were any number of other outdoor activities, including a passive yet major one. Namely, lying on beaches and in the backyard of the house I grew up in. There, while listening to music on my transistor radio, I’d soak up the sun’s vibrant rays in hopes that the suntan lotion I’d slathered all over my body would help my innately pale skin shift to a handsome shade of bronze.

Well, a bronze god I never became. Or a god of any sort, for that matter. Shit! But, despite that disappointment, I had plenty of fun, fun, fun in the summertime.

That’s no longer the case. Nope, I haven’t been a fan of summer for quite a few years. The heat doesn’t agree with me. Nor does a maniacally sneering sun. Thus, when the temperature is above 80°F (27°C) and the sun is unblocked by clouds, which is the scenario on the majority of summer days, I’m not in a rush to mow the lawn, go for a cardio walk in my steeply hilled neighborhood, or engage in any other semi-strenuous activity. When those meteorological conditions are in play, I’d rather spend my time productively indoors — belching harmonically, for example, as I twirl the five strands of hair remaining on the crown of my head.

Nevertheless, a boy needs his exercise. Which is why, on a recent morning, when it already was hot enough at 10:00 AM to fry an egg on the sidewalk, I jumped into my car and drove to the enclosed, three-story mall less than a mile from my home. I spent 40 minutes there, striding purposefully along its avenues and raising my heart rate in the process.

What was true even before the COVID pandemic arrived is far truer now in the wake of that siege. Meaning, the mall is struggling. I saw any number of vacancies. And a bunch of shops, still in business apparently, had decided not to open that day. Except for food stores, pharmacies and a few other commercial businesses, how does any retail establishment, pretty much anywhere, compete with online shopping anymore? I don’t know. It’s a troubling situation. Many jobs are at stake.

Still, I enjoyed the walk, looking, as I was, for store-window posters that idealized the joys of summer. I found a few that did precisely that. They almost made me think that fun in the summer sun could still be a significant part of my life. Then I returned to reality. I mean, all of the models in the posters were under age 25, a time in life when summer heat doesn’t make you melt like ice cream, and the sun wants only to bless you. I don’t fit into that picture.

Heat-wise, more likely than not, the worst will have passed by late September. Autumn, my favorite time of year, should be in first gear by then, starting to bestow its charms and cooler temperatures upon my part of the globe (southeastern Pennsylvania, USA). I damn well am looking forward to those developments.

Yes, I’ll be happy to wave goodbye to summer. But, on the other hand, I don’t want to get on summer’s wrong side, considering that its normal side is just about too much for me. That’s why I’m going to try and appease the blazing season by ending this essay with one of the best summer songs ever: Hot Fun In The Summertime, by Sly And The Family Stone. It came out in 1969 and sounds as good today as it did then. Maybe better. What grit, what cool, what joyfulness and power! Summer kind of sucks, but this recording doesn’t.

Ringo Starr Knows Where It’s At

Yeah, Another Blogger146 Comments

There I was a couple of Thursday afternoons ago, manning the information desk at a medical office building not far from my home. I’ve put in several thousands of hours at this volunteer job since 2010. It gets me out of the house and into the real world and keeps me on my toes. That’s why I like it.

Halfway through my shift, in wandered a white-haired guy with his wife. He looked a bit like Santa Claus . . .  chubby and jolly. I don’t know which one of them had an appointment. In any case, I could tell they were having trouble figuring out where the appropriate doctor’s office was. I got their attention and asked if they needed any help. Santa strolled closer to me.

“I’m lost,” he said, “which isn’t unusual for me.”

He gave me the name of the doctor, and I told him which suite to go to. But he didn’t walk away. Instead, he gazed at me, curiosity pouring from his eyes, and continued the conversation.

“We’re about the same vintage, aren’t we?” he asked.

Huh? I sure as hell wasn’t expecting those words to come out of his mouth.

“Well, maybe,” I replied.

“I’m 80. Will be 81 in October,” he told me.

“I’m not quite there,” I said.

He gazed at my visage for a second or two more, and then, joined by his spouse, headed to the elevator. Just before stepping in, he delivered parting words with pride and amazement in his voice: “I’m still here,” he said. Meaning, he hadn’t become worm-food yet.

“Yeah, we’re hanging in there,” was my reply.

Holy crap! Had it come to that? Was it possible that I, a mere lad of 75, could pass for an 80-year-old? Man, I’ve been thinking about this ever since the encounter, and I’m stunned.

Sure, for a nice big bunch of years I’ve realized that no lady, unless she’s nearsighted as hell, ever again will give me the eye. I might be 50 years old in my mind, but the wrinkles and bumps on my frigging face tell a far different story. 80, though? Shit, unfortunately Santa probably was right. There’s a real chance that plenty of people peg me for an octogenarian. Excuse me for a moment . . . I feel a cry coming on.

I’m back. And feeling better. I guess. Yup, any way you look at it, I’m old. But when you get right down to it, that doesn’t matter too much. What does matter is this, and it’s not as though I’m the first person ever to have these thoughts: Life is fleeting. It goes by so fast it can take your breath away. So, whatever your age, a good policy to follow is to keep on truckin’, doing that which brings you pleasure, for as long as your health allows you to. Needless to say, loving, helping and supporting others should be part of the equation too. And finding new avenues and vistas to explore ain’t a bad idea either. In fact, it’s a very good one. Might as well live life fully till the Grim F*cking Reaper decides to pay you a visit, right? You bet.

To wind up the proceedings, and to add some emphasis to what I just said, let’s turn to the one and only Ringo Starr. He’s 83, which is a shocking truth. But his advanced age doesn’t get him down. He’s full of pep, touring and recording like crazy. And he has his head on very straight. He was quoted as saying the following in an interview published last month in People magazine: “Nothing makes me feel old. In my head, I’m 27. Wisdom’s a heavy word. [Getting older] is what happens, and you try and keep yourself busy.”

I’ve always thought that Ringo is cool as can be. He’s smart and funny and gives off really good vibes. It doesn’t surprise me that he plans to keep on rocking until he can rock no more. In my own modest way, I intend to do the same.

Hackensack

Yeah, Another Blogger147 Comments

The other day, while driving to Hatboro, a town near mine in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I heard on the radio a song I adore. It has a simple title — Hackensack — and always has made me go weak in the knees. Powerfully gentle, Hackensack tugged at my heartstrings as I made my way along the road. I hadn’t heard the tune in years, in effect had forgotten about it. Now it is stuck in my head.

Hackensack is by Fountains Of Wayne, a pop-rock outfit whose career spanned the years 1995 through 2013. During that time the band had one big hit, Stacy’s Mom, which came out in 2003 on the album Welcome Interstate Managers. Hackensack also is on that album. Without further ado, let’s give a listen to the recording I’ve become reacquainted with and addicted to.

What’s Hackensack about? Well, I used to think of it as a bittersweet lyric — I guess I viewed the words as both wistful and vaguely hopeful — woven into a melody that is as delicious as a summer breeze. A guy, probably a 30-something, pines for a girl he went to school with years earlier in Hackensack, New Jersey, the town he has lived in his entire life. Despite his infatuation, in reality he never knew her all that well. She moved away long ago and has made it big as an actress. Tell me, is it possible not to sing along with these lines, though they might also cause a lump to form in your throat?

But I will wait for you/As long as I need to/And if you ever get back to Hackensack/I’ll be here for you.

As noted above, I can’t shake Hackensack. Nor do I want to. A day or two after visiting Hatboro, where I got my cardio in by walking vigorously around town, I did a bit of research into Fountains Of Wayne. I read that the band consisted of Chris Collingwood (lead vocals and rhythm guitar), Adam Schlesinger (electric bass), Jody Porter (lead guitar) and Brian Young (drums). They recorded five studio albums, Collingwood and Schlesinger writing all the songs. The only band member whose name rang a bell with me was Schlesinger, though years ago, in my music-junkie days, I probably knew all of them.

During the research I also learned something I was aware of when it happened but had forgotten. Namely, Adam Schlesinger, poor soul, succumbed to COVID in 2020. He was 52. And I also learned something I hadn‘t known before: Three weeks after his death, Fountains Of Wayne, long disbanded, came together (with Sharon Van Etten filling in on bass for the departed) to honor Schlesinger.

The song they played was Hackensack. I watched the video of their performance. It really got to me, the words taking on new meanings and hitting home. I realized that Hackensack is not bittersweet, which, as I’ve mentioned, is how I previously would have described it. No, it’s emphatically a sad song. Hackensack’s protagonist is lost and clueless. He isn’t exactly climbing the ladder of success. And, of course, he isn’t going to get the girl. Or any girl, most likely. Man, I can relate. I once was in similar straits, going nowhere fast during much of my 20s. It was only because of the grace of who-knows-what that my ship righted itself eventually, allowing me to establish a decent career and find someone — the absolutely correct lady, no less — to be with.

I see now that, at their root, Hackensack’s lyrics imply what we all know to be true. That is, life can be scarily unpredictable and fragile. It’s a crapshoot, really. Nothing is guaranteed, certainly not longevity. Adam Schlesinger’s death, I think, touched his former bandmates deeply. By regrouping briefly in 2020, they are saying, by way of the song they chose to play, that they miss him a lot. He won’t be returning to the town of Hackensack, or to anywhere else. But they wish he could and would.

Here is the video:

A Cheer For Beer

Yeah, Another Blogger170 Comments

In June 2015, two months into my blogging career, I composed a paean to beer, and I’ve returned to the subject several times since then. I have my friend Cindy to thank for setting the present story in motion. Here’s why: I mentioned to her recently that, for quite a while, I’d been taking photos at home of beers, alongside their frequently snazzy cans and bottles. And that I’d been sending some of the photos (via email with a subject line reading Tonight’s beer) to a rotating selection of relatives and friends. Those folks included Cindy’s husband Gene. Cindy didn’t say that she thought this was a pretty ridiculous thing to do, as well it might be. Nope, her immediate response was, “You should write a story about that.”

Well, I mulled over her idea for a number of days, finally deciding to wax rhapsodic about beer once again. And so, I headed to my smart phone’s photo archives. There I discovered that my first documentation of a beer purchase occurred in November 2020, and that approximately 80 more beers/cans/bottles subsequently have posed for me. None of the pictures are wonderful examples of the art of photography, that’s for damn sure, nearly all of them having been snapped clumsily in my kitchen or dining room. But what the hell. They are what they are.

Despite their pedestrianism, one thing for certain is that they make me want to down a cold brew right now. I won’t, however, because it’s mid-afternoon as I type these opening paragraphs, and I drink (almost) only at night. And only five beers per week, to boot. Shit, you better believe that I’d like to be able to drink a whole lot more than that, but I’m a geezer with a sensitive system. I know my limits. Maybe that’s why I truly savor just about every quaff that goes down my aged hatch.

In the USA, where I live, the beer world started to turn into a wonderland in the early 1990s. That’s when small breweries began popping up like mad all over the States, producing styles of beer commonly known to some parts of the world, but unfamiliar to the vast majority of American beer drinkers (including me), who downed only Budweiser, Miller and other mild lagers. Around that time, also, beers from other countries began finding their way into my nation more plentifully than before. Lo and behold, I gradually learned about stouts, porters, pale ales, wheat beers and Oktoberfests, to name a few, plus lagers that put Bud and Miller to shame. With hundreds upon hundreds of American breweries each producing their takes on assorted beer varieties and sometimes developing new styles, and with varied beers arriving from overseas, a beer renaissance was under way on my side of the pond.

Over time I’ve become a beer geek. A devotee of most types of beer, I’m amazed by the deliciousness almost always awaiting me at taverns, restaurants and beer stores. And I enjoy few things better than seeking out beers that I’ve never had before, in bottles and cans and on tap. I think of this ongoing quest as a treasure hunt. It thrills and delights me. I’m not kidding when I say that the beer revolution, still going very strong in the USA, has been one of my favorite developments of the last several decades. It has made my life better.

And I can’t seem to restrain my excitement. Thus, since starting the photography project innocently over two years ago, I grab a picture of nearly every store-bought beer that’s new to me when I open its can or bottle (for instance, Iron Hill Brewery’s version of Oktoberfest, which I discovered recently). I also immortalize beers that have held, and continue to hold, a special place in my heart and mouth. Anchor Steam Beer, proudly brewed in San Francisco since 1896, though I didn’t find out about it till almost 100 years later, is a prime example of that.

What’s more, I feel compelled to share my enthusiasm. The dozens and dozens of my beer pix that have landed in a bunch of individuals’ inboxes attest to that. Do any of these people want my pictures? Do they think I’m batty to send them? Who knows? Who cares? The bottom line is that delicious beers deserve to be acknowledged and saluted. To which I add . . . olé!