Too Much Green?

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

Earlier this month, my wife Sandy and I made our way from our abode in Pennsylvania, USA to a village in the northeast section of New York State. We journeyed there to attend a family reunion at the home of my brother and sister-in-law. Spread out over several days, the event turned out to be as delightful and meaningful as we could have hoped. Most of our close relations, from my side of the family, live far from Sandy and me. So, we don’t see them all that often. Outstandingly, all of them were at the reunion.

The village in question, not far from Canada, is bordered on its eastern side by Lake Champlain. What a beautiful locale. Farmlands and rolling hills abound near the village. And Lake Champlain, enormous, is as pretty as a picture.

The best natural sights we saw during the trip, though, were the Adirondack Mountains, a large section of which we drove through in order to reach our non-mountainous destination, and on the return trip too.  Of medium but not insignificant height (46 of the Adirondack peaks are over 4,000 feet/1,219 meters), they possess an aura of composure and stability. Those qualities aside, what wowed me the most about them were their trees. A mixture of conifers and hardwoods, the trees were so thickly massed. And, it being summer in the northern hemisphere, so green. Man, I’m a suburban/urban guy who doesn’t get to see endless expanses of trees every day. You better believe I was duly impressed.

But . . . leave it to me not to have taken any pictures of the Adirondack greenery. Ditto for Sandy. Sue us! However, all is not lost. For, last week I decided to gaze upon and photograph trees in my suburban neighborhood. The density of trees here is insignificant compared to that of the Adirondacks, of course, but is pretty good for suburbia. Thus, after slathering my arms and beyond-wrinkled face with sunscreen lotion, out the door I went on a hot Monday morning. Over the next 50 minutes I traversed many of my neighborhood’s blocks. And got more than my fix of green.

Now, when it comes to scientific matters, I’m almost as dumb as shit. In fact, if you take away the almost from the previous sentence, you’ll be much closer to the truth. Which is why I had, and still have, no answer as to why the tree leaves I saw that morning showed no signs of drying up, considering how brutal the Sun and temperatures had been in my region for the previous four or more weeks. Mother Nature knows the reasons, of course, but hasn’t been in the mood to share her knowledge with me. Up yours, Mother Nature! (Just kidding, my dear lady, just kidding.)

Yes, green was the color of the day. But after strolling around for a while I began to think that maybe too much green was on view. I mean, green’s dominance in my little corner of the vegetation world was impressive and more than deserving of a salute. However, I grew a bit tired of the sameness as my walk progressed. As a result, I found myself thinking ahead to autumn, when tree leaves put on multi-colored spectacles that never fail to totally knock my socks off. Would I also have tired of Adirondack greenery had I spent more than a limited number of hours in the mountains’ presence a few weeks ago? Likely. What can I say? Green, I like you, but I guess I don’t love you.

I’m not quite finished talking about green, though. That’s because of a song — Bein’ Green — composed by Joe Raposo in 1970 for Sesame Street, a children’s television series. Bein’ Green truly is lovely. Its lyrics and melody tug at your heart. First sung by Kermit The Frog, who is one of Sesame Street’s characters, the tune has become a classic covered by numerous performers.

So, here’s the thing: Kermit is green, which is a prominent color in the frog family. But he wishes he were a more interesting hue, one with more oomph. Well, Kermit then gives the situation some additional thought. And, as he is unusually wise, concludes that he will accept himself for what he is. There’s beauty and worthiness in just about everything, after all.

Who am I to argue with Kermit? If green is totally good enough for him, it is for me too. Green, I apologize for not appreciating you fully. I’ll try to do better!

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.

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.

Dr. R. U. Forereel Reaches For The Light

Yeah, Another Blogger119 Comments

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Neil ‘I’ve got major problems’ Scheinin,” my psychiatrist Dr. R.U. Forereel said quietly, her gaze fixed on me like a big-game hunter, when I entered her office for my monthly session last week.

Her words stopped me in my tracks.

“What? Did I hear you correctly, doctor? How dare you talk to me like that!”

“Oh, calm down. Have a seat, Neil. I was just kidding around. My, you have a thin hide.”

Keeping my ears wide open lest any further barbs be projected at me, I slowly approached the patient’s chair and then eased my way onto it.

“Yikes!” I yelled, as my highly bony ass made contact with the chair’s rigid cushion. “Dr. Forereel, you need to replace this piece of crap masquerading as furniture. Its seat is as hard as a frigging rock. I’ve never been comfortable on it, and now less than ever, given my aging butt’s deteriorating condition. Maybe that’s why I’ve made minimal sustained progress over the many years you’ve been treating me.”

“Point taken, Neil. Rest assured that a chair deserving of your continued presence will greet you next month. You are, after all, one of my favorite patients. Which really isn’t saying much, though, considering the competition you’re up against.”

“Doctor, I’m shocked to hear you badmouth your other patients,” I said. “You’ve never done that before. Are you having a bad day?”

My question caused Dr. Forereel’s stern demeanor to change immediately. “Neil, I’m not sure I ever have a good day,” she said, her eyes awash with vulnerability. “And that’s been especially true for the past two weeks. You see, I feel I must end my relationship with Tom, the fine man who, because of you, entered my life last year.”

Her comment about my close friend Tom completely took me by surprise, as Tom has nothing but wonderful things to say about Dr. Forereel whenever I speak with him. He moved in with my psychiatrist only weeks after he first asked her out, and as far as he is concerned everything between them has progressed swimmingly.

“End the relationship? Why, doctor?”

“I know, on the surface it makes little sense. Tom is sweet as peach pie. He’s caring and intelligent. But he’s driving me crazy, though I, of course, have kept this hidden from him. For instance, Tom clears his throat vigorously, as if he’s starting up an outboard motor, whenever he’s about to start speaking to me — VRROOMM! I can’t stand that. And he never takes off his baseball cap, even when we’re making love. All he’ll do on those occasions is turn it backwards on his head so that the bill doesn’t poke me in the face or in my private parts. That’s considerate of him, true, but I imagine he wears the cap in bed because he likes to think of himself as a talented athlete. In truth, however, he isn’t exactly carrying heavy lumber, if you get my drift.”

“Ouch, too much information!” I responded. “Look, you can’t have everything. Surely, doctor, there has to be a way for you to focus on, and appreciate, the bigger picture. I believe it would be a major mistake for you to send Tom packing. You might never again find a man to share your life with.”

“Sadly, I cannot disagree. I’m well into my middle years, yet Tom is the first man I’ve lived with. I suppose I’m not cut out for a partnership . . . Wait! I just thought of something. The Journal Of Seemingly Lost Causes ran a fascinating article not long ago. It’s about the therapeutic techniques designed by Dr. Ican Fixit. The results from Dr. Fixit’s program, though preliminary, are extraordinary. His basic approach is to put his patients into deep hypnotic states and then scream at them, ‘You think you‘ve got problems? Believe me, they are nothing compared to mine, so wise up already!'”

“Neil,” my doctor continued, “Dr. Fixit repeats this procedure every day for a month. By then, success in most cases is achieved. There’s no time for me to lose. I will contact him and enroll in his program. When I complete it, there will be a new version of me — more tolerant, less prickly. I’ll embrace and be amused by all of Tom’s peculiarities. And my psychiatric abilities undoubtedly will rise to heights even Freud could not have imagined, which means that possibly you’ll finally start showing some lasting improvement. Let’s hope so. You’ve certainly got a long, long way to go.”

Art On Wheels, Part Thirteen: Which Of These Are Your Faves?

Yeah, Another Blogger175 Comments

When, in September 2017, I published my first Art On Wheels essay, I doubt if I’d have guessed I’d still be tracking down artistically decorated vehicles nearly seven years later. But I am. Why? Because after my second or third expedition in search of same, I knew for certain that I get big kicks from the endeavor. It’s fun. And, even though your correspondent is older than f*cking dirt, having fun remains high on his These Are Important Aspects Of Life list.

And so, on the final morning of April 2024, I found myself in the center of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, having been transported there by a commuter train I’d boarded in my suburban-Philadelphia town. The hunt was on. Based on past experience, I was confident that a large number of excellently adorned trucks, vans and other wheeled assemblages were out there. The question, as always, was how many would cross paths with me. I was hoping for at least ten.

Well, I walked and walked and walked, covering about five miles of territory. In the two and one quarter hours I was on the street, I aimed my phone’s camera at 16 wheeled objects and then snapped their portraits. I enjoyed pretty much every minute of the treasure hunt. The fact that the adventure took place in a fascinating locale sure didn’t hurt. Believe me, I know I’ve oohed and aahed about Philadelphia time and time again in Yeah, Another Blogger. But I just can’t help myself, as this city truly has got what it takes. Philly is a winning combination of the old and the new and the in-between, of the chic and the stately and the funky. Plus, the sections of Philadelphia I traversed that day were popping with people whose collective energy rocked the air. I was in my element.

Now, all of the 16 wheeled subjects looked fine to me. While caught up in the excitement of the chase, however, I wasn’t precisely sure which were the standouts. Since then, though, I’ve examined and graded the vehicles, using the photos I took, and have whittled down the 16 selections to my top five. I have no idea how the 11 omitted carriers are able to make their presence known right now, but I hear them cussing at me. “Up yours, Neil! We deserve to be included in your story!” they just shouted in unison. I understand their pain and frustration. I empathize. Nonetheless, here’s what I have to say to them: “Tough shit, guys! Deal with it!”

Although my five faves are displayed on this page, I now will limit my commentary to the two that, in my book, tie as the gold-medal winners. No offense, of course, to the trucks promoting JDog junk removal and hauling, Surfside Iced Tea + Vodka, and White Claw Hard Seltzer. They look very cool, but I feel they don’t quite reach the heights achieved by the graffiti-covered truck and by the Tea Around Town bus.

The graffitied wonder struck a major chord with me the moment I spied it in Philadelphia’s historic district. The truck was parked about one block from where Benjamin Franklin, one of the USA’s so-called Founding Fathers, lived. I can’t get enough of its composition’s controlled wildness. The design is an invitation to visit, mentally, unusual realms. Seeing that voyages not of the ordinary appeal to me, I’ve accepted the invitation several times. The resultant trips, short though they were, delighted me.

As for the Tea Around Town bus, my eyes opened wide when I spotted it on a block near Rittenhouse Square, one of Philly’s finest neighborhood parks. I’d never seen this behemoth before. My best guess is that Tea Around Town is a new business venture. A quick look at the company website showed me that Tea Around Town offers, for $80 and up, a bus tour of downtown Philly, during which teas and pastries are served. And what a bus it is, blessed with exterior artwork as delicate and sweet as a butterfly. I’m at heart a softie. Not surprisingly, then, the Tea Around Town vehicle made me go a bit weak in the knees. I was smitten. Its style of painting, an excellent example of classic beauty, never will go out of style.

That does it for today, folks. I’d be interested to learn your thoughts about the art on view in this story. Goodbye till next time!

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

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 . . .

A Nice Day

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

Twelve days ago, after paying our bill at Barbuzzo, a restaurant in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, my wife and I exited the establishment and then walked a few blocks to Jefferson Station. There, we caught a train that returned us to our suburban town. Halfway between Barbuzzo and the station I said to Sandy, “This was a nice day.” I wasn’t the least bit surprised when she said she had been thinking the same thing.

Yup, our worries and woes were in hiding during the five and a half hours we spent in Philadelphia that Thursday, first at The Philadelphia Flower Show and then at Barbuzzo. I don’t know, maybe I’d been sprinkled with a heavy dose of magic dust before leaving home in the early afternoon, because I was cool, calm and collected in Philly, as relaxed as when I’m drifting off to sleep. Even the substantial crowd at the flower show didn’t bother me in the least. “Hell,” I said to myself, “everyone here has just as much right as I do to get up close and personal with the exhibits.” What? I, whose nerves often are easily jangled, actually felt that way? I did. I sure would love to be in such an at-ease frame of mind far more than I normally am. Will the transformation occur before my time expires on Planet Earth? Well, “miracles” are known to happen. But I’m not holding my breath.

I’ve been living in or near Philadelphia since the mid-1970s, but for decades never paid any attention to The Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event. In 2016, though, almost on a whim, Sandy and I decided to go. I liked the experience, and now have attended five times. This year’s production, which ran for nine days, was as sweet as summer fruit, despite being held in a non-descript hall large enough to accommodate a number of jumbo jets.

Each year’s flower show has a theme, 2024’s being United By Flowers. I’m all for unity and, like just about everyone, am pro-flowers. So, I couldn’t go wrong. Excellent flowers were almost everywhere in the exhibits area. Ditto for other forms of flora. Sandy and I spent two and a half hours admiring the many installations, doubling back at times to re-examine the five or six that had particularly wowed us. We spent an additional 30 minutes wandering around the vendors section, where more products than you could shake a stick at — and not just horticultural items — were for sale.

Besides the beauty and creativity on display, was there anything else about the show I liked? Affirmative. I admired the diversity of people in attendance. They ranged in age from those that hadn’t yet reached their first birthday to old f*ckers such as me. A wide range of races and cultures were on the scene. And numerous folks with mobility issues didn’t let the enormity of the hall keep them away. Wheelchairs, motorized scooters and canes abounded.

Around 5:00 PM, Sandy and I heard dinner’s call. So, we bade farewell to the flower show and made our way to 13th Street. Philadelphia’s restaurant scene is amazingly strong, and a four-block-long section of 13th Street is one of the prime destinations for restaurant goers. We couldn’t get into Darling Jack’s Tavern, our first choice. But 50 feet away was Barbuzzo, an Italian eatery we’d passed many times but had never frequented. In we went. The place was mobbed, dimly lit and looked cozy. Could they accommodate us? Sure, but only at the chef’s counter, where two stools apparently had been waiting to greet our rear ends.

Happy with our perches, we watched meals being cooked five feet away from us, in pans sitting atop the burners of a stove as solid as an army tank. The burners’ flames, and those from the nearby wood-fueled pizza oven, kept us good and warm. I kept glancing at the oven, whose fury fascinated me. Its portrait was the only photo I took in the restaurant.

We kept things simple at Barbuzzo, whose menu ranges wide, opting for a salad, a Margherita pizza, beer and wine. Everything was delicious. And, before we knew it, it was time to head home.

At 8:06 PM, we arrived at Jefferson Station, giving us very little time to catch the 8:10 train. If we missed it, we would have had to wait an hour for the next one. F*ck that! But we didn’t miss it. Moving quickly through the waiting area and down the stairs, we reached the train platform just as the 8:10 was pulling in. Nice.