Me And/Or My Family

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!

75 And Counting

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

Eleven months ago I published a piece in which I noted that I couldn’t believe how fast 2021, and hence my life, was flying by. Well, somehow 2022 has equaled or maybe even surpassed 2021’s fleetness. And I have no doubt that 2023 will tear out of the starter’s block like Usain Bolt and then do nothing but pick up speed. Man, time unquestionably is the most precious commodity of all. It’s unsettling too.

Now, not everybody would agree with my perception of time. Most young people, for instance, don’t sense time as being a high-speed train.  Hell, for the most part they don’t think about time at all. Like many senior citizens, however, I have time on my mind pretty often. Meaning, I’m anything but oblivious to the facts that I’ve been on Planet Earth for a good long while, and that I’m a whole lot closer to the end than to the beginning. I don’t become badly depressed about it, or anything like that. However, the reality of the situation definitely gets my attention now and then.

I mention the above because I was stunned big-time a couple of months ago as I neared the completion of my 75th journey around the Sun. I did not feel at all celebratory about the upcoming birthday. The cockles of my heart refused to warm even one little bit. “75? Are you shitting me?” I asked myself. “How is it possible that I’ve become so f*cking old?” I mean, it seems like only yesterday that I was in my twenties, let alone in my 40s. Holy crap, where in the world did the time go?

By anyone’s definition, 75 is old as frigging dirt, or nearly so. Yeah, I know that plenty of people are older than me. Not as many as you might think, though, nor as many as I thought until I researched the subject earlier this month on a website that can tell you where you fit, age-wise, on the human population ladder. (Click here if you’d like to see the site. When it opens, click on Let’s Go. Next, click on My Place In The Population, which is where you enter your age.)

The answer, for 75-year-old me, was not joy-inducing. That’s because I learned that I am older than 96% of the people on our beautiful, polluted planet. That figure was an absolute kick to the balls. All I could do was shake off the pain and acknowledge the bad joke with a half-hearted chortle. And then I got right back to doing the things I love, such as palling around with my wife and other friends, exploring the natural and man-made worlds, writing, reading, and imbibing cool music. They make for a good life. With luck, this regimen will continue for a bunch more years.

With 2023 a mere handful of days away, the time now has arrived for me to wish all of you a most Happy New Year. May it be rewarding. And may peace, love, understanding and freedom fully permeate the human condition one day. They are in short supply in many parts of the globe, as we know all too well. So, as I’ve been thinking about freedom a lot lately, I’ll conclude this essay by presenting a song, Miles And Miles, that knocked me off my feet when I heard it for the first time recently. It’s a brilliant rocker, released this year by The Heavy Heavy, a young British band that I wouldn’t mind hanging out with for a while, traveling with them from gig to gig and absorbing their vibes. For the song’s about being flushed with freedom as you groove to life’s rhythms and grab hold of the good stuff out there in the world. I tell you, that orientation has appealed to me exquisitely since I reached adulthood many moons ago. I hope I never stop feeling, and acting, that way.

A Puzzle Story

Yeah, Another Blogger147 Comments

Almost every morning, while downing a couple of cups of coffee, I devote an hour and a half or so to numbers-based and words-based puzzles. Sudoku and crossword puzzles, specifically and respectively. Generally, I work my way through two sudokus and one crossword, a practice I’ve been pursuing for the last 11 years. The puzzles keep my brain limber, calm my nerves and provide a healthy dose of satisfaction if I complete them correctly. They are my pals.

Needless to say, I’m anything but alone in regularly attacking puzzles that revolve around numbers and words. Although some folks have no interest in sudokus, crosswords, cryptograms, Wordle, etc., or are interested but don’t have the time, legions of people are engaged with them. With jigsaw puzzles too. And there also are countless fans of the puzzles found in certain books, television shows and movies. To wit, the plots of mysteries, thrillers and the like in which it’s up to professional detectives or private individuals to identify and track down evil doers. I’m definitely drawn to that sort of fare. In recent weeks, for example, I watched the first three seasons of Unforgotten, a British drama series in which police detectives confront what they refer to as historical murders. In other words, newly discovered homicides that took place years before. Solving these crimes requires tremendous persistence and attention to detail. The members of Unforgotten’s police unit that take on these cases are up to the task, and I’m envious of their abilities.

And a few months ago I polished off A Mind To Murder, by the celebrated crime novelist P. D. James. It’s a good story with complicated circumstances, so much so that the lead detective, Adam Dalgleish, whose reputation for exemplary work precedes him, ultimately pursues someone who is not the killer. In the end, Dalgliesh is humbled by his errors and by the uncertainties that always surround him.

I hadn’t given this any thought before, but A Mind To Murder is more lifelike than most mysteries in that respect. Meaning, even the best detective might be thrown way off course. Man, if Adam Dalgliesh can blunder, what does that imply for the rest of us in the greater scheme of things? Oh well, what can you say? Life’s a big puzzle, for sure, one that’s always in flux and requires us to stay on our toes. We’re usually good at deciphering what’s going on, and consequently make appropriate moves to keep ourselves humming along decently. But it’s not always that easy, as we know all too well. Let’s face it, there are a lot of dynamics going on out there at every given moment, not to mention within us. Their interactions can be unnerving. Or worse.

With sudoku and crossword puzzles, though, you don’t run into unanticipated occurrences, emotional flareups, or anything of the sort. That’s because their components are designed to fit together precisely, unlike the components of life. Those are among the reasons why I enjoy sudokus and crosswords as much as I do. Which is not to say, of course, that they can’t be tricky. The most difficult sudokus are tremendously tricky, but can be untangled by applying rules of logic. And though some crossword puzzle creators adore tossing curveballs at us, via the sly wording of clues, that doesn’t change the fact that only one answer exists for each of those clues.

So, I feel as though I’m in a safe zone when I sit down in the morning to sudoku and crossword puzzles. I’m comfortable in their self-contained worlds where, intrinsically, everything is stable and exactly as it should be. What’s more, the peaceful hour and a half I spend with them makes me better able to deal with the noisy real world. Damn straight I give a big thumbs-up to that!

Back To Work!

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

When I bid adieu to my government-work career 13 years ago, opting to cash in on retirement pensions, I knew that the regimented style of life I’d engaged in for decades was one I’d be remiss to discard entirely. I mean, I liked the job and didn’t mind the commutes. And, of course, I was very used to the overall arrangement. Thus, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be lost at sea if I didn’t replace it, to a decent extent, with a similar routine.

That’s why, three days after hanging up my paid-employment spikes, I began trying out part-time volunteer jobs at various institutions, six or so months later settling down for the long haul with assignments at a health system (a hospital and its related facilities) near my home in the Philadelphia suburbs. I enjoyed the medical-related gigs quite a lot. But when the devilish coronavirus conquered Planet Earth in early 2020, the health system lost zero time in placing its volunteer staff on hiatus. The risks of us contracting the virus, or of infecting people with it, were just too high for the organization to keep us on board. And the same thing happened with a local food pantry where I helped out a little each week.

Wham! All of a sudden I had a bunch of extra hours on my hands, as if I didn’t have more than enough of them already. I took the easy way out, spending more time than ever on my living room sofa, one of my closest friends. I’m not proud to admit that last year, upon said sofa, I eclipsed the previous Guinness World Records top mark in the “Most Time Devoted To Scratching One’s Balls” category. Hey, what can I say? I ain’t all that genteel!

I’m glad to report that now I’m less of a slacker and balls-scratcher than I was, because in July I returned to one of the jobs that I had held with the health system, which has opened its arms to volunteers once again. Though I’m on site only four hours each week, I feel pretty damn good to have some amount of scheduled work in my life, and to be of service. More likely than not I’ll soon try to expand my hours by getting an additional assignment within the organization.

My official job title is Greeter. And greet people I do, via a “how’s it going?” or a nod when they arrive at the three-story medical office building whose ground-floor information desk I man on Thursday afternoons (the medical office building is across the street from the hospital). And I say “see ya” often too, as visitors, having completed their doctor appointments, head to one of the building’s several exits.

The main point of my being there, though, is to help people. A lot of them, for example, aren’t sure which office their doctor is in (a staff directory, mounted on a wall of the sprawling ground floor, is easy to miss), or can’t find the public restrooms or the alcove where vending machines are located, or aren’t even sure if they are in the correct building (more often than you’d expect, they’re not).

That’s where I come in, verbally or physically directing the lost souls to their proper destinations, answering a substantial variety of questions, and sometimes becoming involved in fairly complicated matters. Such as when I go to the multi-level parking garage behind the building with those who, their appointments over, can’t remember where they parked their cars. I have an excellent track record in locating the misplaced vehicles.

The job may not be top of the ladder on the excitement scale, but its pace and quality fit me comfortably most of the time. On average I respond to questions and unravel situations around ten times per hour, which is enough to keep me interested. And I like the fact that I never know what question or dilemma will be presented to me next.

I’ve been involved with people-oriented volunteer work for much of my adult life. As clichéd as it sounds, I believe in giving folks a helping hand, in paying back and paying forward. And I get a nice amount of satisfaction from my modest deeds. Thankfully, most people are on the same wavelength about all of this as me. If that wasn’t the case, the world would be an even more unsettling place than it is, right? Right.

My Pal Alfie

Yeah, Another Blogger168 Comments

Not a bad photo, huh? The dog, who goes by the name of Alfie and who is in possession of enormous eyes that peer deeply into yours, seeking your essence, is cute as can be. And he was even cuter a couple of weeks before this picture was taken. By which I mean that Alfie, a Wheaten Terrier, was the definition of luxuriously shaggy at that time (I’ve seen photographic proof of this). But when his owners — my brother Richie and my sister-in-law Sara — brought him to a groomer for what they thought would be a trim, the groomer, totally incompetent and/or smashed out of his or her mind, went hog wild and sheared off tons of hair. Alfie was left looking as sleek as a sausage. I’d have sued. Or maybe not . . . after all, the new version of Alfie is still damn cute.

I made Alfie’s acquaintance in early June when my wife Sandy and I visited the aforementioned couple and other family members in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The photo dates from that visit. Alfie was nine months old. At one time a human was prominently displayed in the photo too. Me. But I cropped the picture drastically because I look like absolute shit in it, disheveled and sporting neck folds as thick as ham steaks. I don’t know, maybe I look like absolute shit pretty much all the time. At my advanced age it’s perfectly possible. But I like to dream that such isn’t the case.

The most amazing and unexpected thing for me about the New Mexico trip was that Alfie and I took to each other as though we were predestined to become close pals. This was a wonderful experience. It felt totally natural, making me realize that I’ve missed the boat, pet-wise, never having had a dog or cat as a kid or an adult.

Now, cats ain’t my favorite cup of tea anyway, so I have no regrets about their continual absence from my life. They’re too aloof, though I know there are exceptions. Dogs, however, I feel fine about. I’ve been with a fair number of them, including three that Richie and Sara owned prior to Alfie. But only one canine — a mutt named Maggie who lived with friends of mine during the 1970s — ever showed more than the slightest interest in me. Maggie, exhibiting dubious taste, dug me a lot. The bond between me and her was the strongest I’ve ever had with a non-member of my species. Until Alfie entered the picture, that is.

My relationship with Alfie developed, no doubt, due to my lack of hesitancy in patting his head and rubbing his stomach. Alfie, it was clear to me, couldn’t get enough of those forms of contact. As a result, before I knew it he was paying meaningful attention to me, often laying his head on my legs or resting one of his paws gently on my arm. And gazing with wonder and interest into my eyes. Which resulted in my petting and rubbing him even more than I had, cementing the feelings that flowed between us. Strong feelings, you understand. Alfie, you’re my kind of dog. That is to say, you like me!

As for Sandy, well, she and Alfie had a mutual admiration society going too. But there’s no denying that Alfie seemed fonder of me than he did of her. Sorry, Sandy, but facts are facts!

Will Sandy and I ever get a dog? Probably not. Owning a dog is a big responsibility, one that requires a lot of time. I’m not particularly up for that. I haven’t discussed the topic with Sandy, but I’m pretty certain that she isn’t up for it either. You never know, though. The love and companionship that a dog provides aren’t to be underestimated, that’s for sure.

Sandy and I were around Alfie for eight days. When will we see him again? There’s a real chance that we’ll visit Richie and Sara next year. So, maybe it won’t be terribly long before my new friend and I commune once more. Usually it’s not easy making friends, especially when you’re frigging old, like me. If only all friendships developed as quickly as this one did.

A Family Gathering And A Desert Walk (My 300th Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger172 Comments

It’s good to be around your relatives, is it not? Yeah, it is, but only if you like them! Well, my wife Sandy and I are crazy about my brother Richie and his wife Sara, and their oldest son Ben and his wife Amanda, and the latter couple’s two young boys. Ergo, we had one hell of a fine time recently when we gathered with this family grouping in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which is where Richie and Sara reside.

Now, being Pennsylvania denizens, Sandy and I don’t get to see the folks listed above all that often, as they live so damn far away from us. Especially Ben and company, who call Hawaii home. So, when earlier this year the Hawaiian crew decided they would visit Richie and Sara in a few months, well, Sandy and I wasted no time in making our arrangements to join the upcoming celebration. We arrived in Santa Fe, via American Airlines, on the 31st of May.

We spent three days with the entire clan and, after Ben and company decamped for Hawaii, four more with Richie and Sara. The time flew by at lightning speed, as time is wont to do. Sandy and I did all kinds of fun things with the family. You know, shooting the shit, eating swell meals, playing with the kids, going here and there and there and here, etc., etc. It almost didn’t matter what was going on, though, since everybody was just plain glad to be together.

One activity in particular rang my bell exceedingly well. It resulted from Sara asking me, soon after Ben and his crew began their journey home, if there was anything special that I wanted to do in New Mexico. “Nah, not really,” I thought to myself. But all of a sudden I realized that there was: Below the surface I’d been itching for a desert experience, one that might rival the trek through Plaza Blanca that knocked my socks off when Sandy and I visited Richie and Sara in New Mexico four years ago (click here to read about it).

Right to left: Richie, Sandy, Sara, Alfie. (This photo and the other photos are from the Nambé Badlands.)

When I told Sara that the desert was calling me, almost at once she said that the Nambé Badlands was the place to go to. Man, turns out she was spot-on correct. A day later, there the four of us were (plus Richie and Sara’s trusty dog Alfie), strolling around this stunning wilderness together. Nambé thrilled our eyes and graciously allowed our feet to take us where they might.

The Nambé Badlands is a dizzying configuration, straight out of a surrealist’s mind, of gullies, canyons, hills, level grounds, and sculptural rock formations. It encompasses a huge chunk of territory about 20 miles north of Santa Fe. Sandstone and limestone are among Nambé’s main inorganic ingredients, and a highly surprising number of juniper trees, most of them roughly ten feet in height, pepper the landscape. We arrived at 9:15 in the morning, when the Sun was already more intense than we’d have liked it to be, but less so than it was when we bid adieu to the desert an hour and a half later. The skies were painted a sweet blue, and few clouds were on display. As totally expected, we spotted not a single drop of water on the premises.

For the most part, our group hiked on dusty trails, upon which we crossed paths with a dozen or so other humans, several of whom were zipping along on their sturdy bikes. The trails were easily followed. But I couldn’t resist going off-trail a couple of times, wandering down crumbly hills to peer more closely at canyon sides and dry gully beds. I toyed with the idea of making my way down to a bed or two, but in the end chickened out, though, to tell you the truth I think I could have done it. On the other hand, climbing back up without incident probably would have been a near impossibility for me, an old f*ck whose body contains more rings than 99.99% of the trees on Planet Earth.

Yeah, hell will freeze over before I’ll be mistaken for Indiana Jones. But so what? I lost myself for a while in the Nambé Badlands, my tensions and jumbled thoughts slipping away like yesterday’s news as I grooved on the wonderland surrounding me.

With any luck, some day I’ll be back.

(Girls and boys, this is my 300th story. I’m more than stunned that I’ve typed as many words as I have since launching this publication in April 2015. If I decide to throw a party to celebrate my unlikely feat, I’ll invite you all!. Here’s another important announcement: Anyone who enjoys mysteries that have a social conscience would do well to check out Murder At The Crossroads: A Blues Mystery, which was co-written by my friend Debra Schiff. It came out this year. A lot of info about the book is available by clicking here.)