Photography And/Or Art

Art On Wheels, Part Eleven (A Philadelphia Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

It was a fortuitous moment for yours truly when the idea for Art On Wheels popped into my head in 2017, as this series, now comprising 11 stories, has brought me plenty of pleasure. An admirer of good-looking objects, I have become semi-addicted to tracking down attractively decorated trucks, vans and other wheeled vehicles, snapping their portraits and writing about the adventures.

This is especially true for parts eight through eleven of Art On Wheels, which are the four most recent episodes, because I initiated them by roaming the streets of Philadelphia on foot in search of prey. Prior to that, my main modus operandi had been to drive all over the frigging place in the Philadelphia suburbs (I live in those burbs), where I located vehicles in strip malls, loading docks and other non-descript places. I doubt if I’ll ever return to that method. I’d rather walk than drive, for one thing, and Philadelphia, unlike the burbs, is made for walking. What’s more, Philly is fascinating and full of energy. My suburban area doesn’t come close to fitting that description.

There I was, then, on a recent Friday morn, boarding a train in my sleepy town. Forty-five minutes later I bade the train farewell within Jefferson Station in central Philadelphia and headed outside to begin my mission. Past experience had shown me that lovingly adorned vehicles, some in motion, some parked along curbs, are not uncommon on Philadelphia’s streets. But would I encounter enough of them on my wanderings this day to illustrate a story? Was a dud of a day in store?

It wasn’t! Man, within three minutes of exiting the train station I saw, and photographed, several vehicles that passed muster: a delivery truck, a delivery van and a tour bus. I’m worried that the truck and bus might sue me or physically confront me, as I’ve decided that only the van, belonging to the Mini Melts ice cream company, is worthy of immortalization on my site. I tell you, being a beauty contest judge is cool, but there’s a darkish side to the gig.

Long walks and I agree with one another. And it was a long, zigzagging walk I took through a multitude of neighborhoods in Philadelphia, the city I know better than any other. After six and a half miles of pavement-pounding I decided to call it a day. I likely would have continued the expedition for another hour or so, but at around the six-mile mark, from out of the blue, my calf muscles cramped up outrageously. Shit, those f*ckers hurt like hell! I could barely move and had to lean against a building to prevent myself from sinking to the sidewalk. Amazingly, the pain soon mostly went away, but I wasn’t about to push my luck. So, I made my way to Jefferson Station and returned home. I’ve never had leg cramps like those before. If they ever decide to pay a return visit, I’m going to be royally pissed.

I’ve poured over the pix of the vehicles that posed for me during the trek. I’m avoiding overkill by presenting but six of the nearly 20 photos I snapped. They are the portraits I like best. My top two votes go to the trucks belonging to Allspec Construction and to Vision Furniture. They took my breath away when I crossed paths with them the other day, and their pictures continue to do so. The airiness and lightness of their designs make me say “ooh la la!”

Still, I have a clear favorite. Vision Furniture, in my book you are numero uno! Your chairs are the embodiment of happiness, barely restrained by gravity’s pull and delighted to be with one another. And your power goes beyond that: When I look at you, I hear piano music — melodies as carefree as kids at play — accompanying the flying chairs.

Well, maybe I’m getting carried away a bit. But hell, I can’t help myself. It’s the way I roll. Been doing it for decades. One thing I know for sure, in any event, is this: If Vision Furniture had been the only stellar vehicle I saw during my urban safari, I’d have deemed the day a success.

Springtime Close-Ups

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

Maybe it was due to global warming, or maybe Nature was just feeling antsy. Whatever the reason, spring arrived way earlier than usual this year in my neck of the woods, aka southeastern Pennsylvania, USA. Man, I saw a few trees in flower on the 22nd of March, for crying out loud. That’s at least three weeks sooner than tree-blossoming normally begins. And maples and other big boys of the non-flowering kind unfurled their greenery far ahead of schedule too.

I ain’t complaining, though. A lover of colorful spectacles, I rate the springtime performances of flora quite high on my entertainment list (though not at the lofty level occupied by autumn’s leaves-changing-color extravaganza). Thus, you’ll find me taking a number of walks each spring in which my focus is to admire colors that were unavailable during winter. I spent an hour recently in my suburban neighborhood doing exactly that. My trusty and trusted smart phone was in hand, its camera poised for action. The plan was to use the camera strictly for close-ups. Not of my face, of course, as any images of that rutted, crusty object would have shattered the f*cking camera lens. But of flowering trees and bushes? You bet! Close-ups eliminate surrounding distractions. They get straight to the heart. A close-ups day it would be.

Japanese cherry tree
Japanese andromeda

The conditions for the walk were ideal — sunny, cool and breezy. So breezy, in fact, that I had to hold on tightly to my baseball cap a few times, lest it blow off the previously mentioned rutted, crusty object. I strolled from block to block to block, getting up close and personal with cherry trees, azalea and lilac bushes, and other examples of Nature’s wonders. That didn’t happen as often as I’d have liked, however, since many lovely creations were in the middle or rears of people’s lawns. You better believe I wasn’t about to step onto those lawns, not being in the mood to have homeowners yell at me from their front doors or, worse, come dashing out of their homes to confront me. Sadly but truly, you never know what might happen these days. We sure as shit live in uncertain times.

Dogwood tree
Azalea bush

Nonetheless, the walk was a damn fine one. I felt relaxed and at peace, my head pretty much devoid of thoughts. All of which took me by surprise, as I am, for the most part, a natural-born worrier and overthinker, and good and tight in the shoulders too. Calmly on the lookout for pretty colors, I somehow had entered a near-zen state. That’s part of the magic that a Nature walk sometimes imparts to me. I could go for that degree of mental and emotional clarity and ease all the time. It’s the way to be, of that there is no doubt.

Azalea bush
Lilac bush

I haven’t inhaled spring’s charms and soothing hues all that much since the walk I describe took place. I plan to pick up the pace soon, though, because before you know it all of the flowering trees and shrubs in my area will have dropped their blossoms. I find it a shame that spring’s delicacy and soothingness don’t last for at least several weeks more than they do. If I were in charge of Nature, they would. Hell, let’s take this a few steps further: If I were in charge of Nature, violence and disease would not exist. Living things would not feed upon other living things. The world, in other words, would be a gentle and wonderful place, one in which all organisms, including humans, of course, would spend their days in fulfilling and pain-free manners.

A boy can dream, right?

Great Performances

Yeah, Another Blogger116 Comments

Last week, a few hours before placing my fingers on my computer’s keypad, I toyed with the idea of writing in depth about the world’s never-ending cavalcade of horrors: the man-made and also the ones bestowed by Mother Nature. Among those of recent vintage, Russia’s pummeling of Ukraine for the past 13 months is the first category’s undisputed leader. Earthquakes in Turkey and Syria, which killed nearly 60,000 people earlier this year, top the second.

But, seeing that I ain’t anyone’s go-to guy for news analysis or for astute political and philosophical commentary, I decided to ditch said idea and head instead in a direction I’m more in tune with. The next however-many hundreds of words, therefore, are devoted to artistic performances that recently knocked me off my aged, wrinkly feet.

First up are the acting jobs — as profound as any you could hope to see — turned in by Michael Shannon and Jessica Chastain in George & Tammy, a mini-series available on various platforms, including Showtime. The show tells the intertwined tales of George Jones and Tammy Wynette, country music stars long deceased, who loved one another to the end, despite divorcing in 1975 after six years of marriage (Jones passed in 2013, Wynette in 1998.) More than anything else, Jones’ heavy drinking caused the union to crumble. He adored Wynette but, a troubled soul, was prone to violent outbursts. Conversely, Wynette, blessed with inherent sweetness, radiated calm and light in the face of a host of personal difficulties.

My wife Sandy and I gobbled up George & Tammy last month. It got to us, really moved us. It’s not perfect, though. A few too many clichéd scenes see to that. However, Shannon and Chastain are wonders to behold, and make production deficiencies almost irrelevant. Bringing their characters to life so believably, so naturally, they elevate each episode’s script to levels the writers likely never envisioned. And, by the way, Shannon and Chastain sing damn well too. I’ll now clearly state what I’ve been implying: George & Tammy is worth your time, even if you’re not a country music fan. I highly recommend it.

Anyone who is into paintings, graphics and sculptures probably is familiar with The Barnes Foundation, a museum in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. Its collection, amassed over several decades by the late Albert Barnes, a wealthy physician, chemist and businessman who left this mortal coil in 1951, is nothing short of astonishing. The Barnes is drenched with works by Renoir, Cézanne, Soutine, Utrillo, Matisse and Van Gogh, to name but a few of the mid-1800s-to-mid-1900s artists the museum specializes in. It also showcases African masks and sculptures, ancient Greek sculptures, plus a ton of other creations. What a place!

Well, being someone who definitely is into the artforms listed above and who lives not terribly far from Philadelphia, I drop by the Barnes every few years (visiting more often than that would dampen my ability to view the collection with fresh eyes). One particular array of paintings has caught my attention on each of my last few visits, including the one I paid three weeks ago. Extending from one wall to the next, it presents four oils, three of them by Paul Cézanne and one by Vincent van Gogh. Those gentlemen, along with Claude Monet, are my favorite artists.

Cézanne and Van Gogh had the gift of getting to the heart of things, each from a different set of angles. The four oils in question — beautiful performances, if you will — are proof of this. I feel life forces simmering beneath Cézanne’s understated pallet of blues, grays, browns and greens. Van Gogh, of course, is more obviously expressive. He can’t contain his emotions.  It’s easy to spend more than a few moments gazing at his still life’s flowers and leaves, which seem ready to leap not only out of their container but off the canvas too. He painted it in 1888, one year before his death. Van Gogh, who had minimal commercial success during his life, would have been ecstatic, I’m sure, to know that in time his works would captivate people, and that he was destined to become a legend.

The final performance I’ll present is by Sarah Shook & The Disarmers, an American band that can rock like nobody’s business. Their recording Talkin’ To Myself came out a year and a half ago. It blew me away when I first heard it last year, and I dialed it up again the day before I began writing this story because I was in need of perfect, ass-kicking rock and roll. Lyrically this song doesn’t paint a happy picture but, man, sonically it’s amazing. Ferocious guitar licks and pounding drums that show no mercy surround Shook’s controlled-yet-sneering vocals. Press the Play button below if you’re ready to be jolted.

Flora Galore!

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned in at least one or two earlier stories that I ain’t an ace when it comes to gardening. I garden, but only in a utilitarian sense. That is, I mow the lawn surrounding my house as needed. I gather up shitloads of fallen leaves each autumn and winter and put them out for collection. I pull out weeds. I prune shrubs and trees as best I can to keep them from becoming crazily overgrown. And . . . well, that’s about it.

In other words, I don’t plant or transplant. I don’t fertilize or otherwise nurture. I don’t attempt to expand or reconfigure the placements of flora on my grounds. Thus, the grounds look more or less as they did in 2005, the year my wife Sandy (who is not a gardener at all) and I bought our house, except that several shrubs and one tree have bitten the dust since then, as have numerous flowers. Still, things look okay overall. To my eye, anyway. A facelift definitely wouldn’t hurt though, or a few changes simply for change’s sake.

So, what’s holding me back from engaging in meaningful gardening? Indifference, for one thing. And a bigger factor: It intimidates me. Meaning, I’m afraid I’d mess things up badly were I to thrust my hands into the soil. Yes, where gardening is concerned, I’m a f*cking wuss.

However, I’m happy to report that both Sandy and I are keen appreciators of other people’s efforts to create and maintain attractively designed grounds. Who isn’t? Those endeavors, after all, are artistic enterprises and expressions. It almost goes without saying, then, that we had a fine time earlier this month at the annual Philadelphia Flower Show, a famous event organized by the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society. The show began quietly in 1829 and has, over time, become a big deal. Out of ignorance, I used to thumb my nose at the Flower Show. I wised up in 2016, the first year I attended. Our visit this month was my fourth and Sandy’s fifth.

We arrived at the show, held in Philadelphia’s cavernous convention center, on the third day of its nine-day run. The show’s theme, which changes each year, was The Garden Electric. As that name implies, bold lighting was woven into many of the sights. I think that the show organizers also opted for the word electric in order to get folks psyched for the upcoming spring season’s unfoldings and blossomings.

The premises were plenty crowded. I was happy to see that mobility issues didn’t keep some people away, as canes, walkers, wheelchairs and motorized scooters abounded. Babies in strollers and carriages were on the scene too. All of which made for a welcoming environment, though the size of the crowd meant that long lines awaited Sandy and me at some of the special exhibits.

The waits were worth it, as the special exhibits, for me, were what the event was all about. (I had no interest in the sections of the floor where potted plants, sitting on tables, had been judged and awarded ribbons, or the enormous section where plants, horticultural tools and tons of other products were for sale.)

Tulips, daffodils, hyacinth
Dense vegetation near the winding path

Many of the special exhibits were either gardens or less-structured landscapes, all of their flora anchored in soil. It was easy to forget that these displays were mounted on a concrete floor. I immediately took a liking to the swath of lawn blessed by hundreds of tulips, daffodils and hyacinth, whose punchy colors rocked. And I was an even bigger fan of the mini-woods, which was dense with vegetation and alive with fragrances. I ambled along its winding path, my blood pressure dropping with every step. Soothing, man, soothing.

Part of the exhibit of wispy, tendrilled sculptures

Other special exhibits left the world of reality pretty much behind, such as the display of wispy, tendrilled sculptures, behind glass and bathed in black light. That exhibit, in fact, pleased me more than anything I saw during the three and a half hours Sandy and I spent at the show. It was very cool. Yes, there is no doubt I’ve become a believer in the Philadelphia Flower Show. If all goes as planned, Sandy and I will return for the 2024 edition.

I’m going to conclude the proceedings with a nod to a blog I enjoy: Paddy Tobin, An Irish Gardener (click here to view it). Unlike me, Paddy and his wife are masterful gardeners. The grounds of their home look great, due to their hard work and artistic vision. A stroll through Paddy’s blog will show you what I mean. Enjoy!

A Circular Story

Yeah, Another Blogger148 Comments

One day, back when humans lived in caves and suburban housing developments were unimaginable, two brothers — Moan and Groan — began dragging, with ropes, a crude, enormous wooden box. Their destination, several miles away, was the adjacent caves in which they resided with their wives and children. One cave per family. The box, I hasten to add, was occupied by a wooly mammoth, which was no longer among the living. That was because Moan and Groan had punctured the crap out of it with their spears.

“Groan, this motherf*cker is heavier than hell,” Moan moaned in his native tongue, which I, a linguistic scholar specializing in commonly-thought-to-be lost languages, have translated into English for the benefit of anyone reading this article. “There’s got to be a better way to move large objects, don’t you think?”

“Moan, there is no better way. So, shut up and keep pulling,” replied Groan, groaning from exertion.

Six hours later, totally exhausted, Moan and Groan arrived home.

“We’re back,” they announced weakly at the caves’ entrances. At this, Tip and Top, the respective mates of Moan and Groan, rushed from the caves to greet the returnees. The ladies clapped their hands enthusiastically at the sight of the gigantic animal destined to feed the two families for months.

“Thank you, boys,” Tip said. “By the way, Top and I have been putting our heads together recently. We know how strenuous it is for you to bring your prey back home. Hard work indeed! But we’ve figured out something that will make the jobs much easier.”

Moan and Groan, looking at each other quizzically, were all ears. “Tell us,” they said.

Well, suffice it to say that Tip and Top had developed the wheel. And not only the wheel, but the axle too.  Wheels and axles, with large boxes atop them, would make the transport of wooly mammoths, and of a million other things, a relative breeze, explained Tip and Top. And, of course, they were right. Though it must be noted that axles, as important as they are, don’t mean shit when wheels aren’t in the picture. Yup, the wheel has proven to be one of humankind’s greatest inventions. It’s right up there with the Big Mac and Viagra. I believe we all should set aside time each day to give thanks to Tip and Top, as their genius made life easier and initiated a major awakening of human brain power.

Now, I bring all of this up because wheels have been pretty crucial for my blog. I mean, I’ve published ten editions of Art On Wheels, for crying out loud. It’s a series about my hunts for well-decorated trucks and other vehicles, and includes photographs of my captures. You better believe I had fun creating those stories. And I certainly have no plans to terminate the project (click here for the most recent entry).

Orleans, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA
Edinburgh, Scotland, United Kingdom

However, while examining my phone’s overflowing photo library the other day, I realized that it contains a selection of wheels-related pix that have nothing to do with Art On Wheels. Some of them, I noticed, had made their way innocently into Yeah, Another Blogger stories over the years anyway, for one reason or another. Most hadn’t, though. A softie at heart, I began to melt when I heard the unpublished ones explaining to me, between sniffles, that they felt lonely and neglected. They insisted that they wanted to be lofted into cyberspace, hoping to experience the warmth that might come from more eyes than mine gazing upon them.

Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA
Manhattan, New York City, New York, USA

“I truly understand,” I said to the photos, my eyes tearing up. “But I can’t place all of you on Yeah, Another Blogger. That would be overkill. So, I want each of you guys to examine one another closely and then vote for your ten favorite pix, excluding your own. The top-five vote-getters will be displayed in my next story.”

Willow Grove, Pennsylvania, USA

Naturally, there was some grumbling, since none of the pictures wanted to be left out. But in the end the vote took place. And I am happy to decorate this article with the winners.

In conclusion, all I can say is that, as with many things, we take the wheel for granted. Most likely we’d still be living in frigging caves had it not been invented. Thus, before I forget, I now bow down to Tip and Top. Okay, that’s accomplished. In a few minutes, then, I’m going to head to my car, because I need to run a few errands. Wheels, here I come!

Windows Shopping

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

I don’t know about you, but in my neck of the woods (I live a bit outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA) there aren’t too many towns that look like towns. Mine sure doesn’t, though I suspect it did up until 70 or 80 years ago. Today it’s a mess, a hodgepodge of neighborhoods interspersed with shopping centers galore. And of those towns that do look like towns, few have thick roots going back many years. Which is one reason why I’m pleased that the borough of Doylestown, Pennsylvania lies a mere 15 miles from my abode.

Doylestown, large in size and containing a high percentage of structures erected between the mid-1800s and the early-1900s, somehow combines stateliness, quaintness and chicness casually and seamlessly. I find it to be a swell place to hang out in and to stroll around, and have been doing just that pretty regularly for decades. I dig its well-kept houses, its arthouse cinema and museums, its record store (Siren Records), its bookstores, its big collection of eateries. On a recent Monday I spent two hours on the streets and alleys, and within a few shops, of this estimable hamlet. I had a specific purpose in mind, one I hoped would result in a photographic essay for Yeah, Another Blogger. Hallelujah, my hopes have been realized!

I arrived in Doylestown at 11:00 AM under skies glowing happily in blue and white. The temperature was 50°F (10°C), quite pleasant, though not warm enough for me to wander without my winter coat. You better believe that I, an old f*cker, chill easily. Anyway, with my trusty phone’s camera at the ready, I immediately began checking out the town’s windows, as windows were to be the stars of the hoped-for story. Windows? You bet. I’m into themed walks and have reported upon any number of them for this publication. Now and then, for instance, I’ve gone in search of well-decorated motor vehicles (click here to read my latest opus about the subject). That’s the way I roll, wobbly as it may be.

Now, I’m not going to tell you that I saw any Doylestown windows with design elements that completely knocked my socks off. However, a number came close. For example, there was no denying the power of the tall, narrow windows, pointing skyward, that adorn the Doylestown Presbyterian Church. Some of them depict Biblical scenes. In retrospect, I’d have loved to view them from inside the church too, but the idea didn’t occur to little ol’ me at the time.

And I was taken with the asymmetrical positioning of the windows on a lovely mustard-colored home. Unbalanced though it may seem at first glance, to my eye the arrangement makes perfect sense. It demonstrates how components big and small can work together in harmony when the will is there. The nations of Planet Earth have yet to learn this lesson fully.

The coolest thing about windows is that they usually are reflective, and many were showing off their talents in that regard. Reflections often blow my mind, as they are real and not real simultaneously — real in the sense that they do exist, and not real because they are weightless representations, often distorted, of the physical world. In any event, I couldn’t get enough of the reflections proudly displayed in the windows of the Bucks County Administration Building, a sharp red car parked on State Street, and the Doylestown Inn.

Very cool, too, was a window I photographed while inside Siren Records, where I browsed through a box of used CDs (I bought five of them). As ordinary as the window itself is — billions upon billions of its type populate the world — the scenes surrounding it and seen through it grabbed me. The window, delighted to be trimmed in yellow and to be adjacent to a wide array of colors, provided a shimmering, kaleidoscopic view of the outside world, courtesy of a sun that glared as if there were no tomorrow.

Well, the time to leave Doylestown has arrived. But I’ve still got windows on my mind, and I’m also ready to be rocked. So, I’ll end this story with one of the best windows-centric recordings I know of. The song, written by the late Tony Joe White, is titled Steamy Windows, and has been recorded by several artists, including Tony Joe. Tina Turner more than did the tune justice, releasing a bluesy, full-steam-ahead version in 1989 that is strong enough to shatter glass. Go, Tina, go!

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!

Smiling Faces

Yeah, Another Blogger141 Comments

The skies were depressingly grey two Saturdays ago, the wind was not gentle, and rain poured down in buckets. In other words, it was real shitty outside. I’m no fan of such conditions — except for ducks, who the f*ck is? — but I was itching to wander the aisles of a local public library, and my aged body was in need of some exercise. So, out the door I went that morning, scrambled to my car and headed off to take care of business.

Success awaited me at destination number one, the library, where I found a book I’ve wanted to read for a long time (A Year In Provence, by Peter Mayle). Next stop, Willow Grove Park, a three-story, enclosed shopping mall in the Philadelphia burbs. It’s located less than a mile from my house. I drove there not to shop but to walk its every corridor. I go for several walks each week, almost always outdoors. But when the weather truly sucks, and an exercise session is in order, I stretch my legs at this indoor mall.

And stretch them I did, for almost an hour, with plenty of bounce in my step and with an episode of The Many Moods Of Ben Vaughn, a music podcast that features a wide range of tunes, playing through my earbuds. There was a pretty good number of people at the mall, some of them youngsters lined up, in the special Christmas section, to have a chat with Santa Claus. A pretty good number, yes, but nothing much out of the ordinary, considering that the Christmas-shopping season was upon us. In fact, a third of the businesses, as I walked past them, had nobody but employees within. Can brick and mortar establishments continue to hang in there, what with the heavy body blows that online shopping delivers to them non-stop? It’s not an upbeat situation.

Being one with artsy leanings, I took a good look at the posters on display in store windows as I strode through the mall. Designed to catch the attention of potential customers, nearly all of them were great. And halfway into my walk it dawned on me that a considerable number of these artworks had something in common. To wit, they featured one or more people with smiling faces. Not just half-grins, mind you, but broad, joyful, glad-to-be-alive smiles. (A sampling of the posters illustrates this article.)

I was down with that. Absolutely. After all, what’s better than being happy and showing it too? Not much. Anyone who spends a meaningful percentage of their waking hours in that state has found a strong path in life.

When I began composing this essay several days after being at the mall, I recalled someone who would have been a natural for a store poster, as he wore a smile almost all the time. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who fits that description. I worked with Ray, for that’s his name, in the 1980s. Everyone liked him. How could you not like a guy who brought bright light to the workplace? Ray never was stressed, never was in a bad mood. Unfailingly helpful and friendly, he was nothing short of amazing.

The posters at the mall, and thinking about Ray, have made me realize that I should start smiling more than I do. I would have nothing to lose by doing so, and possibly a good deal to gain, right? There’s no doubt about it. What’s more, can you imagine how much better the world would be if everyone upped their smiling quotient? We’d be on our way to creating paradise if that ever were to happen.

With that in mind, give a listen to a song I heard at the mall, courtesy of Ben Vaughn’s podcast, if you’re in the market for something that will put a nice big smile on your face. The one tune Ben played that really jumped out at me, it’s by The Penguins, a long-defunct doo wop cum rhythm and blues vocal group. Their biggest claim to fame was Earth Angel, a syrupy ballad that became a smash hit in 1954. You hear Earth Angel to this day. On the flip side of the Earth Angel single, however, was Hey Senorita, a song so cool it’ll make you want to bounce around madly. Thanks. Ben, for airing it. Here it is:

Two Sunsets By The Bay

Yeah, Another Blogger130 Comments

It’s not as if there haven’t been enough sunset stories published over the years. Shit, their numbers probably run in the tens of millions. Nevertheless, I’m unashamedly adding to the mega-glut right now. And why not? Sunsets can be spellbinding. We watch primo ones quietly, maybe even reverentially, giving them the respect that they deserve.

From my experience, clouds, more than anything, are what make or break sunsets. Our friend the Sun, when setting, needs clouds to absorb, reflect and refract its light. To make things interesting, in other words. But not too many clouds, as the Sun ain’t got a chance when sheets of clouds abound. As for cloudless skies, well, they are canvases upon which sunsets do not rise above the meh level. When the white-hot fire ball heads downward on a cloudless day, the color and pattern possibilities for the upcoming sunset are limited.

And then there’s location. Needless to say, it counts for plenty when it comes to sunsets. If you’re in the middle of Manhattan, for instance, where tall buildings thrive, you are barely going to be able to see sunsets, whatever their quality, let alone appreciate them. On the other hand, if Cape Cod Bay is nearby, as it was recently for me and my wife Sandy, you’re f*cking golden.

Cape Cod Bay, enormous and fed by the Atlantic Ocean, abuts the northern coast of Cape Cod, a lengthy peninsula that’s part of Massachusetts, USA. We were on the Cape, vacationing our asses off, for a two-and-a-half week stretch that ran from mid-October to early November. During the trip, among a host of activities, we walked and hung out on four of the numerous public beaches along the bay. Over the years we’ve been on quite a few of the Cape’s other bayside beaches too, and have yet to be disappointed. The sands are clean, and masses of seagrasses are plentiful in many sections close to shore. And the waters themselves are inspiring, partly because of their vastness. Staring out at the bay, to me, sometimes seems like staring into infinity.

Our vantage point for the first of the two great sunsets we saw on the Cape this year was First Encounter Beach, in the township of Eastham. It’s one of my favorite Cape Cod Bay beaches, possibly my top pick, though the competition is stiff. There we were on a comfortable mid-afternoon, admiring our kite as it did its carefree thing way overhead. The bay’s waters had receded profoundly, leaving many acres of mudflats in their wake. Great beauty surrounded us, and we knew it.

First Encounter Beach (Eastham, Cape Cod)
First Encounter Beach (Eastham, Cape Cod)

After reeling in the kite, we took a stroll upon the sands. Then we made our way back to our car, contemplating dinner. But it wasn’t dinnertime just yet, and sunset was scheduled to take place in about 20 minutes. So, we decided to stay, a wise decision, for we soon witnessed a sunset that we are unlikely to forget. At its beginning, and made possible by well-positioned clouds, bands and assorted streaks of oranges, golds and greys filled the western sky’s lower regions prodigiously. The greys took a back seat after a while, allowing the brighter colors to go wild. The darkening sky, at that point, was absolutely aflame. What a sight!

The second excellent sunset arrived a week and a half later at the bayside swath of territory known as Corn Hill Beach. It’s located in the township of Truro, which is far out on the Cape and, unlike Cape Cod’s 14 other townships, totally rural.

I’ve been a big fan of Corn Hill Beach since discovering it around 15 years ago. Like First Encounter Beach, it faces due west, perfect for sunset-watching. What’s more, the views from Corn Hill Beach, when you look seaward, are wide and unobstructed. A wonderful place.

Corn Hill Beach (Truro, Cape Cod)
Corn Hill Beach (Truro, Cape Cod)

Both Sandy and I agree that, as far as we can remember, we’ve never seen a sunset such as the one at Corn Hill Beach. The sunset appeared to be foggy and misty, despite the fact that nowhere else, in any direction, was fog or mist visible. Light on its feet, the sunset was the ideal partner for the bay waters moving gently beneath it.

We absorbed the sunset and its surroundings for 20 minutes, then returned, a bit downcast, to Corn Hill Beach’s parking lot. For we were fully aware of what we’d be losing soon. The natural world in all its glory is readily available on Cape Cod. Alas, back home in the grossly overdeveloped suburbs of Philadelphia, where we’d be in 48 hours, such is not even remotely the case.

Some Walks Are Better Than Others (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

Well, another Cape Cod vacation almost has reached its conclusion, as my wife Sandy and I will be back home just as this story hits the presses. We have had a wonderful time. We’ve done a lot and seen a lot on the 65-mile-long peninsula that we think of as our second home, and which we have visited almost annually since the late 1990s.

In some important respects, Cape Cod (which is part of Massachusetts) far surpasses the suburban jungle, in Pennsylvania, where we reside most of the year. You can find genuine peace and quiet on Cape Cod, for instance, and gorgeous waters, sands and marshlands too. In our overpopulated and overdeveloped home base? Fuhgeddaboudit! If health care were better than it is on the Cape, we would consider moving there permanently.

We pursue all sorts of activities on Cape Cod. We stroll through charming villages, play mini golf, fly our kite at beaches, watch sunsets, eat and drink well at taverns and restaurants, go to movies, concerts and plays . . . holy shit, I nearly feel guilty about how good I have it on the Cape!

If I had to place one activity above the others, though, it would be immersing myself, via hikes, in the natural world, which exists abundantly on Cape Cod. These explorations usually set my mind at ease and my heart aflutter. That being the case, I try to make a walk part of my game plan for nearly every day that I spend Cape-side. Now and then I trek alone. In most instances, however, Sandy is my companion.

We’ve been on a number of especially good walks these past two weeks. Magic, or who knows what, was in the air, elevating the experiences to special heights. We oohed and aahed in unison and fed off one another’s energy. And we each made a few pretty sharp observations about Nature that wouldn’t have occurred to the other party.

One of those excellent hikes took place on the eastern coast of Cape Cod, where the Atlantic Ocean, sands and sky make beautiful music together (except when raging storms are doing their thing). They are in harmony because most of the Atlantic coastline is government-protected territory, meaning that hotels, boardwalks, amusement rides and concession stands ain’t to be found. That’s just the way I like it. Another bonus is that not too many humans are on the beaches in the off-season, which is when Sandy and I visit the Cape. I’m down with that too.

There we were, then, on the stretch of coastline known as Nauset Light Beach, located in the town of Eastham. This particular beach is one of my favorites on Cape Cod, partly because of the mighty sand cliffs that back it. The cliffs, ranging from about 30 to 80 feet in height, are part of a chain of cliffs that covers at least half of the approximately 40-miles-long Atlantic coast. They never cease to amaze me. And that day, at Nauset Light Beach, I was struck especially hard by the deep grooves and primordial shapes that storms have sculpted in them. Those storms have pummeled all the cliffs on the Cape’s Atlantic coastline for time immemorial. It’s estimated that they strip away an average of several feet of sand from the cliff-faces every year. As a result, houses and other structures at cliff-top level keep growing closer to the edges of the cliffs. Over the years, some structures have had to be relocated farther inland, and some currently are in worrisome situations. Nature, in no uncertain terms, rules. (Erosion is an ongoing process and concern on many sections of the Cape’s sandy coastlines, not just its Atlantic Ocean side.)

The skies were cloudy as Sandy and I made our way along the beach, sometimes stopping to gaze at the uneasy waters. A strong wind blew, but it didn’t bother us. On the contrary, it energized us, boosting our awareness of the surroundings. As pompous as it sounds, we came pretty damn close to becoming one with Nature, as close as suburbanites have any right to be. We absorbed the unceasing roars, gurgles and hisses of the ocean, the imposing grey skies, and the haphazard array of stones, shells and driftwood on the beach. Everything seemed perfect, exactly as it was meant to be.

Our mini-adventure at Nauset Light Beach went by in a flash. We’d have stayed longer, probably should have stayed longer. But we had other places to go, other things to do. Till we meet again, NLB!