Somewhat Deep Thoughts

You Gotta Have Fun: A Cannoli Story

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

My wife Sandy and I go out to dinner most Friday and Saturday nights. We’ve been doing this for years, and know that we’re fortunate as hell to be able to indulge ourselves in this way. The majority of those meals take place in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, which isn’t surprising, since we reside in those burbs. And once or twice each month we head into Philadelphia, a city with many fine aspects, including a pulsating restaurant scene that, like the universe, keeps expanding. Each of our Philly visits includes dining in a restaurant or pub. The abundance of good eateries is one of the reasons why I’m a major fan of The City Of Brotherly Love.

Sandy and I consider dining out to be a form of entertainment. It’s fun. Two Fridays ago (November 7th), in the burbs, we chowed down at a restaurant we’ve been to a lot: Anthony’s Coal-Fired Pizza. The Italian salad we ordered was A-OK, and the pizza that followed it earned, on my scale, a 6.8 out of 10. That’s pretty high praise from me, because I’m a pizza snob.

The salad and pizza filled us up quite nicely. There was no room for dessert, certainly not for cannoli, a not-on-the-light-side Italian pastry, which Sandy, almost in passing, mentioned was on the dessert menu. Cannoli — crispy, tubular shells of dough stuffed with one variation or another of a ricotta cheese filling — can be scrumptious. When the word cannoli left Sandy’s mouth, my mind lit up, and I found myself reliving a sublime gastronomic experience. Namely, the cannoli I’d swooned over a year or so previously, for they were perfection, at Little Nonna’s, an Italian restaurant in downtown Philly that’s hard to get into unless you’ve reserved a table at least several days in advance. I hadn’t eaten any cannoli since then. But the signs were clear. It was imperative that I interact with Little Nonna’s cannoli again. And soon. Damn soon. The next night, in fact, would be ideal.

Thus, as we were preparing to pay the bill, I said to Sandy that, when we got home, I was going to see if Little Nonna’s, by some miracle, had a table available for the following evening. The odds were low, but miracles, I hear, have been known to occur. The cannoli gods were with me. Back at the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes when Litte Nonna’s online reservation service offered a table for 7:00 PM on Saturday. I nabbed it. Cannoli, here I come!

Little Nonna’s
Little Nonna’s

We arrived at Little Nonna’s from a Philadelphia movie theater, where we’d seen Blue Moon, a literate and really good drama about Lorenz Hart, the brilliant but troubled lyricist whose songwriting partner was the composer Richard Rodgers. Little Nonna’s is a cool place. Dimly lit, casual and full of life. Sandy and I enjoyed the heck out of the salad we shared. Ditto for our entrees. The chefs there know what they’re doing.

Cannoli at Little Nonna’s

One hour into the meal, the long-anticipated moment was at hand, as a plate holding two cannoli was placed before us. They were a vision and also deelish. The hazelnut bits, chocolate sauce and powdered sugar saw to that. But were the cannoli fully as good as those on the previous occasion? You better believe it! My idea to revisit Little Nonna’s was one of the best I’d had in a long while.

As we all know all too well, our lives zoom by. That’s why it’s important to have fun on at least a fairly regular basis. Anything less than that means we’re not in the best of shape. If I hadn’t followed through on my goofy cannoli-related impulse, I’d have missed out on a fun-filled mini adventure. Which would have been a shame. For most of my adult life, I’ve been a frequent fun-pursuer and a usually successful fun-attainer. I have no plans to change.

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

I get about six hours of sleep daily, less than the majority of folks. This means I have 18 hours to fill, which is a lot. Overall, I do a fairly decent job with that, I guess. Some combination of the following occupies me pretty well most days: family life; household chores and duties; social life; volunteer work; reading; listening to music; watching TV; dining out; long walks; pecking away at my computer’s keyboard to produce content for the dodgy publication you’re now staring at.  And I’d be remiss not to mention scratching my balls while belting out the melodies of my favorite Gregorian chants. Yes indeed, I love doing that very much. It’s just about my only activity that isn’t on the mild side.

But wait, there’s more! After attending to personal hygiene matters and downing hot coffee, I kick off most every day by tackling one or two sudoku puzzles online, via the Brainbashers website. Man, I’m addicted to sudoku, a logic-based game involving the correct placement of numbers in a grid. I quickly became hooked when, in 2011, I researched and deciphered sudoku’s inner workings. I’ve interacted with thousands of sudoku puzzles since then.

After satisfying my sudoku jones and then eating breakfast, I retrieve the copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper that has been tossed onto our driveway by my family’s paper-delivery guy. I postpone reading any of its articles and head straight to the crossword puzzle, for sudoku is not the only puzzle genre I’m addicted to. Settled comfortably upon the living room sofa or at the dining room table, I do my best to fill in the crossword’s blank spaces accurately.

All told, I devote an average of roughly 90 minutes daily to puzzles. That’s nearly 8.5% of my waking hours, a significant figure. I’ve often wondered if I should cut back. Addictions, needless to say, can be seriously unhealthy. And so, several weeks ago, at my most recent session with my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel, I brought up the subject.

“What? You do puzzles for 10 or more hours each week? What in the world is wrong with you, Neil?” Dr. Forereel commented.

“But, sudoku and crossword puzzles relax me. And they help to keep the old brain cells in shape.”

“Old is right, Neil,” my doctor said, after glancing at my chart. “You’re soon to turn 78, I see. Neil, you’re ancient, and should be doing your utmost to live life to its fullest at this point. After all, who knows how many more tomorrows you have left? Stop squandering time on puzzles. Do something exciting instead. Take up rock climbing, for instance. Or Formula One race car driving. I could give many more suggestions. The possibilities are almost endless.”

“Dr. Forereel, are you trying to get me killed?” I asked her. “I’m not a daredevil. I’m not sure what I am, actually, but built-for-thrills sure doesn’t fit my description.”

“Neil, where oh where have I gone wrong? You’ve been my patient for years and years, and yet, despite my strongest efforts to build it up, your self-confidence remains at the meh level. Sometimes I question my efficacy as a physician.”

“Efficacy is such a wonderful word, Dr. Forereel, one I haven’t heard in ages. For that alone, I consider today’s session to be valuable. But, getting back to puzzles, have I truly been on the wrong track by giving substantial amounts of time to them?”

“Of course you have, Neil. Puzzles are frivolous. If I’d wasted time on such nonsense, I’d never have become the respected healer that I am.”

“Doctor, I’ll follow your sage advice. You’ve convinced me that I absolutely need to amp up my life. Nothing I’m involved with right now pushes the envelope.”

“That‘s the spirit, Neil. It seems I’ve underestimated you. Well, the clock on the wall tells me that today’s session has reached its end. Go get ’em, tiger!”

Over the next few days, my vision of how I might better allocate my time began to crystalize. There are so many paths, I realized, that would lead me to becoming a more-daring version of myself. Alas, I’m sorry to report that things have remained unchanged. My gas pedal is stuck. Dr. Forereel will be hugely disappointed.

What can you say? Life’s a bit of a puzzle, isn‘t it?

A Choice Story

Yeah, Another Blogger118 Comments

In May of this year, Apple Music sent me an email that offered three months of their service for free. Considering that up until about 15 years ago I was a full-fledged music junkie, and that I’m still a major lover of music, it’s kind of surprising I wasn’t already enrolled in Apple Music or in one of its music-streaming peers, such as Spotify. Anyway, I hemmed and hawed for several weeks, eventually accepting the offer. Man, I’m close to ecstatic that I signed up. It blows my foggy mind that residing within my phone’s Apple Music app are countless thousands of albums, many of which I became intimately familiar with during the approximately 45 years that comprised my music-junkie era (I own circa 1,200 physical albums and used to attend concerts right and left). And as for the incredible number I was unfamiliar with but was interested in checking out, well, I’ve made a slight dent in that mountain. New-to-me albums by some of my very favorite artists (Sun Ra, Howlin’ Wolf, Bruce Springsteen and Ella Fitzgerald, to name but a few) and by at least 100 other artists have reached my ears thanks to Apple Music. I’ve been in music heaven the past two months, and possibly am on my way to becoming a long-term junkie again. There would be worse fates than that.

Yet, I have to say it almost seems wrong to have such an overwhelming amount of musical choice a mere handful of taps away. I mean, do I, or does anyone, deserve such unimaginable bounty? Am I, or is anyone, that entitled? I suppose those questions are moot. After all, billions of people own smartphones, laptops, etc., and each of those devices easily can access near-infinite amounts of content on any subject under the Sun. That’s where we are in the 21st century. It’s the new reality, something we usually or always take for granted. The digital world is a wonder of the highest order (though not always in good ways), and it is ever-expanding.

Which leads me to another corner of the streaming universe, that which supplies humanity with more series and movies than a person could consume in 1,000 lifetimes. So many choices! Most evenings, my wife Sandy and I click onto a streamer and watch a series for an hour or two. We’ve breezed through 27 series so far this year. I’ll briefly mention two I enjoyed immensely: The Residence, a whimsical, sprightly murder mystery set in the White House in Washington D.C., and The Pitt, a drama that follows a harrowing 15-hour shift in the emergency room of a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania hospital. The Pitt contains more than a couple of graphic, bloody scenes, I should note. To my amazement, I didn’t close my eyes during them. Shit, I think that means I should go to medical school! If I start next year, I’ll become a licensed physician at age 84 or 85. What, you wouldn’t want an octogenarian diagnosing and treating you? I’m offended! By the way, you’ll find The Residence on Netflix, and The Pitt on HBO Max.

Last week, while I waited at an auto service center where my car was undergoing an oil change and safety inspection, Apple Music once again proved its amazingness to me. Nestled in a lounge area, I read a text message my brother Richie had sent to me regarding Terry Reid, a British rocker who passed away on August 4th at age 75. Richie mentioned that Reid was an opening act at a Rolling Stones concert he and I attended (at New York City’s Madison Square Garden) in November 1969. I have no recollection of Reid’s performance. And I have only partial memories of The Stones’ work.

Fortunately, recordings of The Stones from the show we were at, and from three other Stones concerts that November, appear on a classic Stones album, Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I hadn’t heard the record in eons. Listening to it was the obvious choice for me to make. So, I tapped on my phone’s Apple Music app for a few seconds and — voila! — the album presented itself to me. I sat back and, via earbuds, listened all the way through. It’s a beauty.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to conclude this piece with one of the tracks from Ya-Ya’s, right? I’ll go with Street Fighting Man. I’m a big fan of hard rock, as long as the songs are top-notch and the musicians are wailing like nobody’s business. This recording meets my criteria.

I Am Extremely Fortunate

Yeah, Another Blogger180 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s An Old Story

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

I like the way Raitt and Nash look at things.

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

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

A Friends-Centric Story

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

I’d been vaguely kicking around friends-centric story ideas for a few days when, on Monday of last week, none other than David Schwimmer popped up on my TV screen. He was a guest on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert. Schwimmer, as many people know, was one of the stars of Friends, an immensely popular American sitcom that ran from 1994 to 2004 and whose episodes have been rebroadcast on traditional television channels, and have been available on various streaming services, for years.

Even though I’m almost completely ignorant about Friends, having seen a grand total of maybe six minutes of the show, I took Schwimmer’s appearance to be a forceful cue from the WordPress gods. Who wouldn’t have?  I was not about to give those deities, famed for being short on patience, any opportunities to wreak vengeance upon me. Hence, the following day I lowered my bony ass onto the chair beside my computer and began to peck away in earnest. What follows, then, is all about friends.

Man, if there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s this:  You can’t have too many friends, good ones especially. We’re social creatures, after all. Just about everyone, anyway. We want to feel loved and appreciated. And we need to laugh and shoot the shit and, when necessary, to be comforted and helped. The more close friends we have, the more regularly and satisfactorily those requirements will be met, and the more at ease and comfortable in the world we will be. Of course, having but one good friend absolutely will suffice. The game of life, though, becomes merrier and richer when multiple individuals who meet the good friend description are within our orbits.

I’m fortunate to be able to say I have a pretty nice number of good friends. I can depend on them and they can depend on me. I’m talking about my wife and some other relatives, and a bunch of pals to whom I’m not related but with whom I share mutual love and similar wavelengths. I have nothing whatsoever to complain about.

Still, I worry a bit about my situation. That’s because it has been many, many a moon since I formed any friendships that have gone beyond the casual stage. Much to my amazement, I made several good friends while in my early 60s. Since then, however, not a one. I’m now well past the halfway point of my 70s, and wouldn’t at all mind having at least a couple more people to hang out with, folks whose vibes and interests mesh with mine. But how the hell might I meet them? By striking up conversations with strangers? By enrolling in adult ed classes whose subjects wow me? I suppose so. I sure can’t think of a lot of other ways. The odds, though, are that my circle of friends will not expand. Seeing that we reside in an ever-expanding universe, however, everyone’s circle of friends automatically would follow suit if it were up to me.

Many songs have been written about friends and friendships. I’d like to conclude this contemplation with two of them. You’ve Got A Friend, composed by Carole King, would be an obvious choice. But I’m going to go with others I prefer to the King opus.

In 1968, a very low point in their career, The Beach Boys released Friends, an album as beautiful and calming as a forest pond. It barely made a dent in the record industry’s sales charts. One of the relative few who bought it back then, I quickly fell under its spell. From it, naturally, I’ve chosen to present the title song, a sweet thing in waltz time written by four members of the band (Brian Wilson; Carl Wilson; Dennis Wilson; Al Jardine).

We’re Going To Be Friends (written by Jack White) is my second pick. The tune appears on White Blood Cells, an album thrust into the world in 2001 by The White Stripes, a now-disbanded duo composed of Jack and his then-wife Meg White. Best known as thrashing rockers, The White Stripes had a gentle side too, as We’re Going To Be Friends demonstrates.

For your listening pleasure, here are those two celebrations of human connectivity:

This Is My 350th Story

Yeah, Another Blogger214 Comments

Huh? What? Are you shitting me? I can hardly believe that 350 stories have emerged from my cobwebby mind. I mean, when I first began pecking away at my computer’s keyboard a little over nine years ago, writing an initial batch of articles that the WordPress gods were good enough to allow to be published, I doubt if I’d have guessed that the number of opuses residing within Yeah, Another Blogger eventually would turn out to be somewhat impressive.

Sure, many scribes publish stories at a pace incredibly faster than mine. (Take a look, for instance, at bluejayblog, penned by an anonymous gentleman whose handle is swabby429. He produces a piece every single day, and many of them are as astute as all get out.) Still, I’m fairly proud of myself. Writing ain’t easy, for me anyway. But my plan is to continue turning out product, and I’d like to think that I have many more stories in me. As I often note on these pages, though, I’m older than dirt, so my future isn’t necessarily wide open. As it always does, of course, time will tell.

Speaking of which, time has been on my mind a lot of late, along with some of its related matters. Many of us, including me, take time for granted. But, amorphous and difficult to conceptualize as it is, time nonetheless rules. Seeing that we each have only a finite number of days to spend above ground on Planet Earth, it seems pretty clear that trying to become better versions of ourselves should be among our priorities. Pursuing our peaceful dreams, for example, is where it’s at. As is standing up for the little guy. Most important, though, I’d say, is being as open, respectful, loving and kind as possible. Can you imagine how fine the world would be if those four qualities increased by twenty percent or more among humankind? Why, we’d almost be living in paradise.

Believe it or not, my thoughts have been running in these directions because of a television series my wife Sandy and I devoured over the last several weeks. Sandy purchased a new smart phone recently, and with it came a free trial subscription to Apple TV+. There was no reason to put that subscription to waste. Thus, a few days later we began to watch Ted Lasso, which probably is Apple TV+’s most well-known production. I’d heard of Ted Lasso, but knew nothing about its premise. Sandy, on the other hand, knew plenty. And was champing at the bit to discover if the series’ popularity is deserved.

The answer is yes. Ted Lasso isn’t perfect, mind you. The acting and dialogue fall flat here and there, and the occasional plot line heads nowhere in particular. However, little matter. For the most part, Ted Lasso goes down as satisfyingly as your favorite beverage, and provides uplifting messages along the way. It’s inspirational, just what the doctor ordered to get your mind off the world’s woes and to inject you with hope for the human race. The show sure as hell made Sandy and me feel better about things for a little while, as it has done for millions of others.

Ted Lasso boasts an enormous cast, most of whose members receive generous amounts of screentime over the course of the series’ 34 episodes. The show’s biggest focus, not surprisingly, is its title character, a coach of American-style football at a college in Kansas, USA, who, in the series’ first episode, is wooed by the owner of an association football (i.e., soccer) team in England. Almost inexplicably, she wants Ted (portrayed by Jason Sudeikis) to become her squad’s head coach, despite the fact that Ted’s knowledge of association football/soccer is nonexistent. Nonetheless, due to problems in his personal life, he accepts the offer and moves to England.

For me to say much more would spoil the series for anyone who might be thinking of giving it a try. So, I won’t. Except this: Ted is a hell of a fine guy. He’s kind, gentle, empathetic and smart as a whip. He sees the good sides of people, tries to instill self-confidence in those who need doses of same, and unwaveringly supports everyone within his circle. He’s a difference-maker, in other words, in nothing but positive ways.

I also should mention that F-bombs, in a dazzling variety of iterations, drop pretty much continuously throughout each episode. Ted Lasso, therefore, should be avoided by anyone with sensitive ears. My ears are anything but. Which is one reason I liked the show as much as I did. And so, in closing, let me remind everyone that time totally fucking flies. Hence, for anyone so inclined, now is the time to try and become even better than they already are.

Amen.

Blossoms Backed By Blue

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

“To me, flowers look best when there are masses of them.” Those words came from a guy who, overall, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. Namely, from me. Once in a while, though, I realize I do know what I’m talking about. which led me to post that comment recently on In The Net! – Pictures and Stories of Life, Lynette d’Arty-Cross’s fine website that focuses on the beauty of the natural world.

What’s better than flowers? They are bursting with life, yet are peaceful. And, I’m certain, they connect positively with just about every human on Planet Earth, even with evil motherf*ckers. I wouldn’t be surprised, for instance, if the residences of Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un, and the surrounding grounds, boast flower displays that would knock your socks off.

Yes, I believe that you can’t have too many flowers. I began to embrace that opinion strongly circa 2018. I’m not sure why it hadn’t dawned on me much earlier. Whatever, I’m happy that I eventually wised up.

As fields of flowers don’t exist anywhere near where I live, I’ve developed a semi-obsession with flowering trees, which contain oceans of blossoms in relatively concentrated spaces. Those trees are miraculous. And, seeing that their performances don’t last for more than a handful of weeks, it behooves a flower aficionado to feast his or her eyes upon them while the feasting is good.

The spring season, here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA, was in pretty full gear by the second half of April. Various species of flowering trees were strutting their stuff. So, when a nice sunny day rolled around on the 22nd of April, I decided to take advantage of it, knowing that the blue skies would help the blossoms to look their very best. I wasn’t wrong. As I rambled for an hour through my neighborhood and an adjoining neighborhood, I soaked up the loveliness of thousands upon thousands of tree flowers, getting as close to them as I could, and allowing plenty of blue to enhance the views. My phone’s camera immortalized my walk. A few samples of its work accompany this story.

You know, when I left my house to go flower-hunting that late morning, I didn’t know that my mini expedition was taking place on Earth Day. I thought that Earth Day, an excellent event, had been celebrated two days prior. When you think about it, though, every day should be Earth Day. If humankind were a whole lot smarter than it is, individuals, governments and businesses would be doing whatever it takes, urgently, to try and repair the wounds that we’ve inflicted upon our gorgeous orb since the start of the Industrial Revolution about 250 years ago.

However, I’ve read (click here) that, despite substantial inroads made by renewable energy sources, fossil fuels (oil, coal and natural gas) remain dominant, accounting for about 80% of global energy usage. Heat-trapping greenhouse gases (such as carbon dioxide and methane) produced by the burning of fossil fuels are the main culprits behind climate change. That 80% figure needs to drop enormously in order to mitigate climate change’s manifestations: global warming; rising sea levels; extreme weather events; droughts; forest fires and floods, to name some of the biggies. Analysts, though, are divided as to when, or if, this might happen. Even under the best-case scenario, depressingly, enormous quantities of fossil fuels will continue to be burned for many years to come.

And don’t get me started on deforestation, plastic pollution and other mammoth non-climate-change-related crimes we have been committing. Holy shit, it’s absolutely incredible how destructive, and self-destructive, our species is.

On that note, I now shall sign off. By the time this story is published I will have bathed in the beauty of flowering trees several more times. They are good for my spirits. I damn well need them.

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

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.