Music

Time, Trump, A Book, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger142 Comments

Time marches on, of that there is no doubt. I can barely believe that July 2024 is here. Just like that — zoom! — the first six months of the year have disappeared into the ethers. And before we know it, 2025 will have begun, possibly full of promise, possibly not.

In the USA, where I reside, 2025 and beyond will be nightmarish if Donald Trump wins the upcoming presidential election (November 5, 2024 is Election Day). A fascist, a scoundrel, a convicted felon, a master at lying through his teeth, a riot-instigator and a vindictive bully, Trump is champing at the bit to damage democracy even more than he did during his first term. Are there enough sensible voters in the States to deny him a second occupancy of the high throne? One can only hope. Yes, Joe Biden performed miserably at his recent televised debate with Trump, and is aging right before our eyes. Nonetheless, Biden has done a solid job as president and is an infinitely better choice. For the record: If Trump were running against a box turtle, the turtle would get my vote.

But enough about Trump. Writing about him always puts a knot in my stomach. So, I’m going to move on to more agreeable topics. Such as books and music. Ahh, already I can feel my stomach untangling.

For quite a few years, some of the books I’ve read have entered my life via a largely random process: I sometimes wander through library aisles with no specific authors or titles in mind, pulling volumes off shelves and giving them the once-over. This willy-nilly approach to book selection at times has brought gold my way. For example, the novels Flight (by Sherman Alexie) and The Middlesteins (by Jami Attenberg).

The latest beauty I discovered by employing this method is Holding Her Breath. Published in 2021, it is the first and to-date only novel by Eimear Ryan, an Irish lass. It took 20 or 30 pages for the book’s rhythms to grab hold of me. After that, I remained hooked. Firmly.

Beth Crowe is Holding Her Breath’s main character. A college student in Dublin, Beth suffered an emotional breakdown a year or two before the book opens, and tentatively is hoping not only to rediscover but to further discover herself.

While in college, Beth, a one-time champion swimmer who ultimately couldn’t deal with the pressures of her sport, does her best to come to terms with her athletic past. She also begins a romantic relationship with a teacher at her school, probably not the wisest decision in the world. And she learns much about herself and her family when she becomes fascinated by the life and writings of her grandfather Benjamin Crowe, a famed Irish poet whose stature and mystique did nothing but increase following his suicide at age 43, many years before Beth was born. Before entering college, Beth was far less familiar with all things Benjamin than she should have been, although her mother is the poet’s daughter and her grandmother his widow. Beth and Benjamin entwine in a very real way during the course of Holding Her Breath.

Ryan’s writing is as clear as spring water, as lithe as a gymnast. Take, for instance, this section about Beth:

Later, as she’s going to bed, it occurs to her that she’s never actually heard her grandfather’s voice. She googles it—”Benjamin Crowe” + “audio”—not really expecting much. But there’s a page and a half of results. She clicks, pops in her earphones.

Here he is, in full flow, reading his famous long poem “Roslyn.” Voice deep and raspy, struggling up from great depths. The hitch in his voice is so croakingly alive. The lines come back to her like a nursery rhyme: “In that dark sash a comet appeared . . . trailing its afterburn . . .”

Beth closes her eyes. His voice vibrates through her. She falls asleep that way.

I’ll close this essay with Days Can Turn Around, a song I first heard a week and a half ago.  It captured me immediately. Sung and co-written by Sarah Jarosz, Days Can Turn Around is a gentle reflection on life’s bumpy road. The lyrics remind us that we need to keep our heads up and, as best we can, follow our hearts and dreams.

Days Can Turn Around appears on Jarosz’s latest album, Polaroid Lovers, which came out in January. When I close my eyes and listen to the song, I feel as though I’m floating on air. Maybe it will have the same effect on you.

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.

Love, Love, Love

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

A few weeks ago, I, an art lover, spent an hour surfing the web, learning about the numerous outdoor sculptures dotting the University Of Pennsylvania campus. Much to my amazement, I discovered that one of the late artist Robert Indiana’s famous LOVE sculptures sits smack dab in the middle of the university’s grounds.

LOVE Park, Philadelphia

Now, I’d been fully aware of, and had seen multiple times, two other of his LOVE sculptures, both of which reside in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. They have become tourist attractions, especially the one in a park within a stone’s throw of City Hall. That park, in fact, is known to just about everyone as LOVE Park, rather than as John F. Kennedy Plaza, which is its official name.

But it was news to me about the University Of Pennsylvania, a major Philadelphia institution located a mile from downtown. This meant, of course, that Philadelphia displays three LOVE pieces, which is fitting, since The City Of Brotherly Love is one of Philadelphia’s nicknames. New York City, by the way, is the only other municipality in the world with as many as three. (Per Wikipedia, more than 80 LOVE sculptures are scattered around the globe.)

Well, being one who enjoys his mini adventures, I decided I should visit this trio of creations soon. And all on the same day, no less, which I was certain nobody had ever done before. Shit, I’m old as hell and heretofore had no claim to fame whatsoever. It was time to make my mark, no matter how incredibly insignificant it would be!

Sister Cities Park, Philadelphia
University Of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia

Thus, late last month I hauled my aged ass aboard a train that, in an hour, took me from my little town to the heart of Philadelphia. Five minutes later, there I was in LOVE Park. Fifteen minutes after that I strode into Sister Cities Park to examine its AMOR sculpture (Robert Indiana produced versions of LOVE in various languages; amor means love in Spanish and Latin). And I made my way to Penn’s sprawling campus from there, eventually locating and admiring its LOVE piece. Mission accomplished!

Why are there so many LOVE sculptures in the world? Why do people gravitate to them? I’m not an expert on anything, let alone love. But it’s pretty clear to me that love, in some respects, makes the world go round. Our planet, which might easily and accurately be viewed as a horror show, would be even more unsettling were it not for the love that connects nearly each person with at least a few of their fellow beings. People need love and want to love. Even if they don’t know it.

And so, Robert Indiana tapped into something elemental when he began inserting love into his artworks. In 1961 he used the word for the first time, in a painting, not a sculpture. He made his initial LOVE sculpture nine years later, and over time the demand for sculptural follow-ups took off. I suspect that the demand was boosted tremendously when, in 1973, the United States Postal Service issued a postage stamp with Indiana’s LOVE image on it. That stamp sold like hotcakes.

I think that the simplicity and the warmth of Indiana’s LOVE design are the reasons for its success. Four letters in basic colors. Nothing more. The letters cling to one another for dear life, the O nestled against the L and the E as if it were in a womb. The LOVE design makes us drop our defenses and think that —yes! — love is where it’s at. It’s all you need, as The Beatles famously noted. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have water and food too. In any case, one thing for sure is that few artists ever create iconic works. Robert Indiana, without any doubt, did.

1967, the year of the Summer Of Love, was the height of the hippie movement, when it seemed that peace, love and understanding had a chance of putting the human race on a golden path. As we know all too well, that didn’t exactly pan out.

1967 also was the year in which All You Need Is Love, by The Beatles, made its appearance. It would be inappropriate of me to end this contemplation without including their live performance of the song, whose message has resounded loud and clear ever since. The event was part of a broadcast called Our World, the first ever to be transmitted to a worldwide audience via satellite. Home from college during summer break, I, with my brother, watched The Beatles do their magical thing on a tiny television in my bedroom. The presentation mesmerized and excited us. Those were special days.

Click on the following link to view The Beatles in action:  https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6mtbyq

A TV Series, A Confectionery, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Rocking On!

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

I Like Them (A Book, A TV Series, A Song)

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

Nine Inches, a collection of fiction stories from the pen of Tom Perrotta, and published in 2013, seemed to be calling to me last month as I browsed the shelves of my local library, though I’d never heard of Perrotta before. I should have been familiar with his name, however, since, as I later learned, he’s a successful author. In fact, two of his novels (Election; Little Children) have been turned into movies, and another (The Leftovers) into a television series.

With nothing to lose, I brought Nine Inches home. I’m glad I did. I mean, Perrotta can write. He sharply examines the human mind and emotions, effortlessly illuminating the quirks, insecurities, maladjustments and f*cked-up decisions that run rampant in our species, and which can propel people’s lives in unanticipated directions, some of them most unfortunate. He does so with sentence after sentence that go down as easily as your favorite comfort food and also, when needed, pack a hell of a punch.

Take the opening story in the volume, for instance. It’s titled Backrub, and chronicles the days and nights of Donald, a bright kid just out of high school. The victim of misaligned stars, he was rejected by every college he applied to. Wobbled by this injustice, he takes a job as a pizza delivery person and, after a while, not caring enough to want to try and right his ship, slides comfortably into dealing drugs. Perrotta’s gift for language shines in this paragraph near the story’s conclusion.

It all went down so fast. I barely had time to register the lights in my rearview mirror when I saw two more cop cars right in front of me, blocking the intersection. I got out with my hands on my head, like they told me to, and the next thing I knew I was lying facedown in the street, with my hands cuffed behind my back.

Perrotta’s writing style agrees with me. It’s taut and uncomplicated. He takes on a wide variety of subjects in Nine Inches (unfulfilling marriages, a lonely widow, an insecure teacher, to name a few), and brings them to life with clarity. While reading Perrotta’s stories, I subconsciously kept thinking to myself, “Man, this seems real.” That’s a solid compliment.

On the other hand, not all that much about the television series The Lincoln Lawyer seems truly real, except for some courtroom scenes. But that’s more than okay. Sure, Mickey Haller — aka The Lincoln Lawyer — is preternaturally quick on his feet. But that only adds to his likeability. He and the show’s other main characters are good people, loyal to each other, and don’t take shit from anyone. I’m down with all of that. (By the way, a film version of TLL came out in 2011. It’s good.)

My wife Sandy and I polished off season two of The Lincoln Lawyer recently, after watching season one earlier this year. Both rock, two even more than one. In the second season, Haller (played by Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), who does a good bit of his best work-related thinking while driving or being driven in one of his Lincolns, finds himself defending a lady accused of murder. Not all that many hours before she is brought up on charges, she and Haller were in bed together, enjoying the heck out of one another. What, you’d expect otherwise? But, hey, don’t prejudge the show. It’s quality escapist fun. The plot lines are tricky. The dialogue sparkles. And the actors give it their all. Sandy and I, for sure, are hoping that Netflix will renew The Lincoln Lawyer for a third run.

Which brings us, rather haphazardly, to another creation — The Well, a new song that instantly grabbed me when I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago. It’s the work of Briscoe, a group from Texas, and will appear on Briscoe’s first album, which is scheduled to be released next month.

The two main guys in Briscoe — Truett Heintzelman and Philip Lupton — are in their 20s. But they are looking far into the future in The Well, pondering whether memories of the joys of youth will help to sustain old age. I think the Briscoe boys are concerned about something that isn’t going to happen. They’ll be just fine, enjoying the moment, when they reach their “golden” years.

That quibble aside, there’s no denying that The Well, an old-timey type of song brought to high places by rocking drums, is catchy as can be. The blend of the stringed instruments with the quivering, giddy vocals makes me go weak in the knees. I’m smitten!

So, those are a few of the things that have rung my bell of late. What’s rung yours?

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.