Aging

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.

I’m Still Grooving, But Not As Much As I Used To

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

For decades and decades, listening to music was a dominant activity in my life. The infatuation started in 1957, I think, when I was nine and a half or maybe ten years old. That year, by way of top-40 radio stations, rock ‘n roll and pop songs began to ring my bell vigorously. Wake Up Little Susie, by The Everly Brothers, for instance. I loved that tune. Still do. And I became totally captivated by Honeycomb. Sung by the little-remembered Jimmie Rodgers, it seemed as sweet as a warm, sunny day. I remember singing Honeycomb to myself over and over again, the first time, probably, I’d ever done such a thing. Music had hooked me, and the hook, as the months and years went by, penetrated deeper and deeper.

The Beatles sealed the deal. In 1964, their great songs and incredible charisma turned me into a music junkie. I couldn’t stop listening to Beatles creations and to loads of other songs on the radio and on the smattering of vinyl albums I’d accumulated. By the time I graduated from college, in 1969, my record collection was on the verge of becoming pretty substantial, and I’d become a bigger addict than ever. And the addiction grew even stronger one year later, as I began to attend concerts at an admirable pace.

I don’t know what the actual count is, but I’ve taken in well over 1,000 concerts in my life. Hell, in 2008 alone, determined to set a personal best I’d unlikely ever top, I went to 104 of them. And my collection of vinyl albums, CDs and cassette tapes is huge, numbering somewhere in the vicinity of 1,500 items.

But things have changed. Since 2020, I’ve gone to far fewer concerts annually than before (last year I caught nine). And during that time I’ve bought hardly any recorded music at all. Even more telling about my altered relationship, for these years, is this: I’ve listened to music at home for an average, I’d estimate, of an hour and a half per day. For many a moon, the figure had been two to three times higher.

So, what happened? Part of the answer is age-related. Meaning, I’m old as f*cking dirt, and with age has come what seems to be a need for longer periods of quiet. My mental and emotional systems function better when sounds aren’t around me all that much. Ergo, music plays at home on a fairly limited basis — in the evenings and on weekend mornings, primarily.

That said, I still adore going out to hear live music. But I’m not a fan of driving home late at night from a venue, unless the place is reasonably close to my home. Why? Because, as I just mentioned, I’m old as f*cking dirt. Alas, most of the venues I favor aren’t nearby. Which, along with other reasons not worth going into, accounts for my decreased concert-attending statistics.

Here’s the thing, however: When I listen to music intently, it can get to me the same as it did when I was younger and feeling my oats more frequently than I do these days. I haven’t lost any of my ability to groove mightily to rock, jazz, blues, R&B, soul, bossa nova and the other genres I’m keen on. I love to sync myself with the vibes and rhythms of strong, honest music, and let them carry me up, up and away.

Last year, my wife and I went to see Alejandro Escovedo, a rocker who has been at it for about 50 years. Criminally not as well-known as he should be, Alejandro is the total package: excellent songwriter, singer and guitar player. He remains at the top of his game. What a great show he and his band put on. I’m in the mood right now to be transported to the stratosphere, and to be enveloped by the take-no-prisoners powers of musicians who know how to deliver. Here, then, is the song titled John Conquest, the opening track on Alejandro’s latest album (Echo Dancing). Prepare yourself to be rocked righteously.

Old As Shit

Yeah, Another Blogger142 Comments

I picked up after the first ring when my editor Edgar Reewright phoned me last week, because I figured he was anxious to discuss the essay for Yeah, Another Blogger that I’d emailed him the day before.

“Hello, Edgar,” I said. “How goes it? What do you think of the article? Will it need much editing?”

“Neil, have any of your pieces ever not needed loads of editing?  I mean, it’s all I can do to make your writings even somewhat presentable. I haven’t looked at your latest opus yet, though. I’ll get to it fairly soon. But I didn’t call to talk business.”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“I haven’t been in the strongest frame of mind lately,” Edgar said, sighing loudly, “so I’m hoping that maybe you can help me put things in perspective. I’ve been thinking about mortality a lot, you see, and it’s getting me down. I became a senior citizen ages ago, but until recently I didn’t consider myself an old man. All of that changed when I celebrated my 86th birthday with my wife Loretta last month. Towards the end of the meal, Loretta went into the kitchen and came out a few minutes later with a big birthday cake. There were 87 candles, one of them for good luck, burning brightly on it. The number of candles absolutely stunned me. They took up so much space, you barely could see the top of the cake. I’m old as shit, Neil, and I don’t like it.”

“Yes, Edgar, you are old as shit. But, overall, you’re fine and dandy nonetheless. Oh, except for the medicinal help your mighty sword requires in order to perform halfway decently with Loretta, of course. And the adult diapers you wouldn’t dare leave the house without wearing. And your incurable bad breath that rivals the odors at a garbage dump. Have I forgotten anything?”

“No, you haven’t. And how I wish you weren’t privy to such information. Even though we’ve never met in person, it’s entirely my fault that you know about these things, since I have trouble keeping my trap shut whenever we speak on the phone.”

“Very true. However, your tendency to divulge sensitive and embarrassing matters does make you a bit loveable. You’d be intolerable, otherwise. Anyway, I’m now going to try and cheer you up.”

“Thank you, Neil. I appreciate it.”

“Let’s start with some humor. Edgar, did you hear about Thomas I. Toldyaso, the aged astrophysicist who kicked the bucket last week?”

“No. What about him?”

“Everyone expected him to pass away with barely a whimper,” I said. “Instead, he went out with a big bang!”

“Not bad, Neil, not bad. That joke makes me wonder about my exit from this mortal coil. Will a horrible disease do me in? Will anyone actually care that I’m gone? I tell you, I feel the end isn’t too far off. The Grim Reaper has me in his sights. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?”

“Relax, Edgar! You’re strong as a bull. Even if The Grim Reaper taps you on the shoulder any time soon, I have no doubt you’ll grab him by the cowl and throw him back whence he came.”

“Whence? Are you kidding me, Neil? Only you would ever use the word whence. I better never see it in one of your blog stories. They’re awkward and lifeless enough as it is.”

Edgar paused for a moment, possibly deep in thought. Then he continued. “So, you think I’m strong as a bull, do you?”

“Absolutely, Edgar. I’m certain you have 10 more solid years in you. And 15 is more like it, most likely. Why, your energy and focus leave me in the dust, even though I’m a decade younger than you. Don’t be down in the dumps, Edgar. Just keep on keepin’ on!”

Once again Edgar took a moment to consider what I’d said. When he spoke, he was back in the saddle.

“Neil, all of a sudden I am feeling so much better. I wasn’t at all sure that you’d be of any help whatsoever when I decided to call you a little while ago. But I made the right choice. Thank you so much! The skies have brightened. I see a lengthy, excellent future in front of me. I now will get back to work, tackling the undoubtedly sorry-ass article you sent to me yesterday. Oh well, such is the life of an editor. Have a good day!”

“Goodbye, Edgar. It’s been a pleasure. Sort of.”

Here’s Some Of What I Liked In August. What Rang Your Bell?

Yeah, Another Blogger159 Comments

Yup, August has come and gone. And in a few blinks of an eye, 2023 will have arrived. Zoom! I tell you, there’s no doubt that time flies at accelerating rates the older we get. And being genuinely old, I ain’t happy about that. To say the least. I don’t know how many grains of sand remain in the upper part of my hourglass. But, whatever the number, a shitload more would suit me just fine.

Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about it. So, to steer my mind away from the above paragraph’s depressing direction, let me mention some things that brought a smile to my crinkled face during the month that waved goodbye to us a handful of days ago.

First up are peaches and corn on the cob, without which life wouldn’t be as sweet. It being summer here in the USA, the harvesting season for those fine forms of produce, my wife Sandy and I would have been fools not to indulge in them during August.

I’ve loved peaches for nearly all of my life. I think, though, that their deliciousness began to make truly deep impressions upon me somewhere in my 40s. Man, what a treat it is to bite into a peach. A good peach, that is, not one of the mealy ones that have become more commonplace in recent years. Such beautiful flavor, as luxurious as you could hope for. And a texture, in the happy zone between soft and firm, that was made to seduce. I had some real good peaches in August. And tossed aside a couple of very sub-par examples too. You win some, you lose some. In any case, the peach season in the States hasn’t all that much longer to go, a damn shame.

Likewise, fresh corn’s availability already has peaked. Last month, getting while the getting was good, Sandy and I chomped down on boiled ears of corn at dinnertime three or four times. We gave them a thumbs-up. Helpful public servant that I am, I’d like to give you a tip for dressing corn on the cob: Peel back the paper a bit on a stick of butter, then rub the exposed butter all over the corn while twirling the cob. This method is much better than attempting to place pats of butter on the corn with a knife. Those pats, as we know, usually end up skidding all over the f*cking place. I’ve already accepted your thanks in advance!

Now it’s time to talk about television series, a media format that has pleased the hell out of me since the start of the pandemic. Hungry for entertainment, I began watching series in earnest at that time, something I hadn’t done in years. Sandy has been my viewing companion. And, even though Covid’s roar has lessened, we haven’t slackened our pace, for during August we devoured two limited series (We Own This City and the scripted version of The Staircase, not the documentary by that name) and one season each of multi-season productions (Capitani and Never Have I Ever). The first three that I mentioned are very much worth watching, but they are grim. Ergo, I’ll limit my commentary to the sole smile-inducing series among August’s fare.

Never Have I Ever, a thoughtful comedy on Netflix, tells the tale of Devi Vishwakumar, an Indian-American public high school student in California. Devi, smart as a whip but fairly low in the self-confidence department, isn’t one of the cool, popular girls at school. She has a loving family, fortunately, and several trusted, loyal girlfriends. Thus, her situation overall is quite decent, despite the cruel fact that the death of her father, during her freshman year, was a blow that tests her mightily.

There have been three seasons of Never Have I Ever so far. Sandy and I have watched them all, polishing off the latest run in August. During season three’s ten episodes, Devi loses a boyfriend, attempts to land a new beau, contemplates losing her virginity, and completes her junior year of high school with top grades. And her pals are no slouches in the busy-lives department either. Wow! There’s a lot going on in this show. Cleverly too, partly because of the sarcastic, sometimes-exasperated voice-over narration by, if you can believe it, John McEnroe. He’s the former tennis champ who was known for his verbal outbursts on the court as much as for the beauty of his game. McEnroe does a great job, adding volleys of whams and bams to a coming-of-age story that’s handled with insight and care.

With that, I’ll toss a tennis ball into your half of the court. What rang your bell last month, food-wise, entertainment-wise, nature-wise, anything-at-all-wise?

Time Flies!

Yeah, Another Blogger133 Comments

“Doctor, you’ll be pleased to know that I don’t have any major problems to discuss with you today,” I said to my psychiatrist, Dr. R. U. Forereel, at the start of our most recent monthly session. “But there definitely is something that’s perplexing me.”

“Neil, I’m happy that you’ll be taking it easy on me,” she replied. “I’ve had a rough week, what with patient after patient yapping away about their lives, complaining about this, that and the other thing. What is wrong with these people anyway? I’m sure that I don’t know. Don’t they realize that life isn’t a bowl of cherries, let alone a bowl of oatmeal? I tell you, I should have listened to my parents and become a dairy farmer instead of going into medicine. Cows aren’t demanding. Oh well, live and learn. Neil, let’s proceed. Time’s a wastin’.”

“Funny you should use that word, doctor,” I said, “because time is precisely what I’d like to talk to you about. It’s moving too fast, isn’t it? Why, you’d think that 2021 has a fire cracker up its ass, pardon my crudity. Before we know it, Santa Claus will be shimmying down chimneys all around the world. And a week after that, 2022 will have arrived.”

“Your perceptions are interesting and valid, Neil,” said my psychiatrist. “Did 2020 also move quickly for you?”

“Indeed it did, doctor, despite all my worrying about COVID. But 2021 is zipping along faster than any year ever has. What gives?”

“Well, how can I put this politely, Neil? Hmmm . . . a quick glance at your patient information chart reveals to me that the last time you might have been described as a spring chicken was five decades ago. To put it another way, your glory days are ancient history. Here then is the bottom line: You officially are old as shit, pardon my crudity. And it’s been proven that, as the years pass, time moves unusually quickly for a particular segment of males in the old as shit category, far more so than it does for anyone else. Sadly, you are a member of said segment.”

She sighed and shook her head, gazing, with pity in her eyes, at the abundant prune-like creases on my face. Then she said, “Neil, I refer you to the writings of Albert Einstein. Apparently, you are not familiar with his Specific Theory Of Relativity For Heavily-Wrinkled Old F*ckers, a brilliant treatise that explains how time affects those gentlemen with your dermatological condition. Pardon Professor Einstein’s crudity, by the way.”

“You are in your life’s homestretch, Neil,” she continued. “This is true even if you manage to hang on for another 25 years. And as if that isn’t bad enough, your remaining years are absolutely going to zoom by so fast they’ll make 2021 seem as though it had been in slow motion. Poof! In the relative blink of an eye your days above ground will be over. All of what I say, of course, paraphrases the Specific Theory, which I urge you to read. Einstein certainly was a genius, no? Fascinatingly, he was a prune lover too.”

“Holy crap, Dr, Forereel! You’re bumming me way out! What am I to do? I feel one hundred times worse than I did when we began today’s session.”

“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of truths, Neil. And I would like to help you dissolve the bleakness that you’re experiencing, but I’m afraid that this session has reached its end. Please try to keep your chin up. It’s sagging, you know. I hope to see you in four weeks.”

As down in the dumps as I’ve ever been, I shuffled out of her office, got into my car and made my way home. Not surprisingly, I arrived there in no time at all.

Up Is Where It’s At: Philadelphia’s Elevated Parks

Yeah, Another Blogger122 Comments
Central Philadelphia, as seen from Cira Green.

As loyal readers of this publication know, I have a propensity to mention that not only am I getting old, I strongly dislike getting old. I mean, what’s to like? I’m at the point where even if I were to live another 25 years, an unlikely occurrence that would take me deep into my 90s, the end sure as shit is still a whole lot closer than the beginning. Depressing, man, depressing.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I get a kick out of wandering around in search of that which is new to me. I tend to believe that a steady diet of fresh experiences possibly has the ability to hold back Father F*cking Time. In any event, encountering the new sure helps to keep your brain cells firing, to bring at least the semblance of a smile to your face, and to make most days decently bright. And so, off I went recently to a couple of places that I’d never visited before and was more than curious to investigate.

The Rail Park

I live not far from Philadelphia and head into that interesting city, which contains an almost endless supply of things to do, three or more times each month. On August 8, I decided that I’d go there to check out The Rail Park, which began as an idea in the early 2000s and became a reality when its first, and to-date only, section opened in 2018. Three more sections are on the drawing board. (If plans for the creation of those sections interest you, then feel free to click here to learn about them.)

Luckily I did a bit of googling before leaving the house, otherwise I’d not have known that another elevated park, Cira Green, occupies space in Philadelphia. As far as I know, The Rail Park and Cira Green are Philly’s only places with greenery that are up in the open air.

Close to central Philadelphia’s Chinatown section, The Rail Park was created by a partnership of forward-thinking area residents and governmental and private entities, and is built on what were abandoned, elevated Reading Railroad tracks. Those tracks once brought freight and passengers into and out of The City Of Brotherly Love. They were last used for those purposes in 1984.

And Cira Green? Well, unlike The Rail Park it’s not under city government’s oversight. It’s an entirely private enterprise, but everyone is welcome there. Its home is the roof of a parking garage that sits between two modern towers. (The two towers, the parking garage and Cira Green collectively are known as Cira Centre South.) Cira Green opened three years before The Rail Park did and rubs shoulders with The University Of Pennsylvania and with Drexel University in the enormous part of town known as West Philadelphia.

Cira Green

I took in Cira Green first. I rode the parking garage elevator to the 11th floor and then walked up a staircase that leads to the roof. Voila! Cira Green spread out before my eyes, one and a quarter acres of walkways, terraced lawns, shrub and flower beds, and a sprinkling of trees. There’s a burger and beer joint on the grounds too, and a big tent where organized events are held. Lawn chairs and chaise lounges were scattered around.

Central Philadelphia, as seen from Cira Green.

Cira Green is a solid piece of work, and dozens of people were there enjoying the sunny day. But it ain’t knock-your-socks-off beautiful. If it were on ground level it would be considered fairly pedestrian. But it’s not on ground level. One hundred and fifty or more feet above the streets, it provides a motherlode of fab views. Damn right I didn’t plop my ass into a chair or chaise lounge. What I did was walk all over the place, checking out those views.

West Philadelphia, as seen from Cira Green.
Cira Green. Reflections too.

Skyscraper-loaded central Philadelphia, across the murky Schuylkill River, gave me a buzz, as did West Philadelphia’s kaleidoscopic patterns, dominated by tans, browns and greys. But what I also couldn’t keep my eyes off of were the reflections in the facades of the two giant buildings flanking Cira Green. A person, such as I, could get lost in those reflections.

One public transit ride later, not to mention blocks and blocks of walking, I found the stairs that lead to The Rail Park. The park is in a gritty neighborhood that goes by various names, including Callowhill. Much of Callowhill went up in the 1800s. The area has an industrial look, which figures, because many factories once produced goods there. A few still do. Others have been converted to residential use. Parking lots are part of the landscape too, as is a dense array, too dizzying for me to digest, of other structures. The Rail Park was needed. It’s the only park in Callowhill, the only green refuge.

That’s The Rail Park up there.
The Rail Park

I liked The Rail Park. A mere 20 or thereabouts feet above street level, it doesn’t command the types of views that Cira Green does. But that was alright with me. As I walked back and forth along the park’s quarter of a mile length of planks and gravel paths, I looked here and I looked there, admiring the otherworldliness of the electric company substation very near the park and enjoying the neighborhood’s overall no-nonsense ambience.

The Rail Park
The Rail Park

The park’s plantings are pretty. The oversized swings struck me as a delightful touch. Basically, The Rail Park, at least during the moments I spent within it, was very welcoming. I felt comfortable and at home. If I lived in its vicinity I’d head over there now and then, book in hand, and find a comfortable perch on which to read.

One guy was doing exactly that. One young lady walked her dog. Two couples huddled, exchanging sweet nothings or something of that order. And a few folks of various ages, including an old guy, one of my peers, relaxed on the swings. Yeah, I definitely liked The Rail Park. I hope that Callowhill’s and Chinatown’s residents have come to embrace it, or will.

In closing, I tip my metaphorical hat to Philadelphia, a city that always has inspired me. Without Philadelphia, this website would be hurting for content. For real.

(As I almost always say, please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this story. Gracias.)

(If you click on any photo, a larger image will open in a separate window.)

Rock On, Old-Timer!

Yeah, Another Blogger118 Comments

Hey there! This piece is partly a commentary about growing old, a subject and a sad reality that I can’t seem to stop thinking about. And, consequently, writing about. I don’t obsess over it by any means, but as I mentioned in an article a month or two ago, I am very aware of the grains of sand that steadily and relentlessly are falling to the bottom of my hourglass. Man, I’m 71, at least 20 years older than I’d like to be. But hopefully I’ll be around for many more years, hitting the Publish button for scads more stories on this website. And if not, well, c’est la f*cking vie, as they say in Gay Paree.

Doom and gloom, however, will not dominate the present proceedings. Nah, that’s not me. Age-wise, I may be nearing lofty heights. (Nearing? Shit, I’m already there.) At heart, though, I’m still kind of a rabid 20-something.

Which is why I was bouncing like a rabbit on amphetamines a week and a half ago, on the way back home from the supermarket. I was in my trusty, humble, beat-up Honda Civic, model year 2001. This car is well-known in my neighborhood for its pitted paint and for the fabric langorously sagging from the roof’s underside. Hell, I’m pitted and sagging too. Naturally, then, the Honda and I get along real well.

I listen to music a lot when I’m in the car, but it’s pretty rare for my body to react like it did on the short drive home. My hips, my shoulders, my head were jumping around excellently, fueled by the energy coming through the speakers. I couldn’t help myself, couldn’t contain myself, couldn’t believe that not one, not two, but three catchy-as-hell, blistering rock tunes in a row accompanied me on the drive. I hadn’t been blasted like that in quite a while. It was good to be reminded that hard, driving rock and roll is hard to beat, and that, old as I am, I love potent rock as much as I ever did.

The music came over 88.5 FM, the frequency of  WXPN, a Philadelphia station. More important, these are the songs that I heard: Feels Alright, a brand new number by the young band The Nude Party; Do Anything You Wanna Do, a classic by Eddie And The Hot Rods that came out in 1977; Silver, from 2017, by the group Waxahatchee. You can listen to them now, if you wish, via YouTube. My epic tale continues below the YouTube offerings.

Yeah, ever since my late teens I’ve been under the power of snarling, soaring electric guitars, throbbing electric basses, and pounding drums. Not that I don’t like the less-wild forms of rock or other styles of music. I do. A lot. In fact, I’m into almost everything, except for rap, opera and Madonna-style pop. And I even get along with those genres at times.

But if I had to pick the one type of music that perfectly meshes with the hidden recesses of my inner self, there would be little contest. It would be vigorous, tuneful, guitar-driven rock. Were I a musician, that’s what I’d be playing. I’d man the electric bass, helping to hold the rest of the band together, and getting my rocks off stratospherically.

Alas, I have zero talent as a musician. Like most of the rest of humanity, I’m a listener, not a player. But there’s a lot to be said for listening when you have the capacity to go higher, higher, higher. What a rush! What a gas!

Why, then, don’t I listen to the recordings of powerful bands (The Rolling Stones, Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers, The Patti Smith Group, etc.) at home as much as I did when I was single? Well, my wife Sandy usually prefers that things be on the calmer side in the house, so that’s the main reason. And yes, I know I could listen through earphones, but I’ve always found them to be uncomfortable.

As for hearing the strong stuff in person, there’s not much of it in the burbs, where I live. Most of it is concentrated in clubs and theaters in The City Of Brotherly Love, an hour’s drive away. It’s tough to find a parking spot near those Philly venues, and the shows start late and aren’t over till after midnight. Which means that I’d arrive back home well into the wee small hours. Thus, when I attend concerts these days (I go to quite a few), they tend to be of non-hard-rock varieties in places within comfortable driving distance of my home.

But you know what? Those excuses in the above paragraph are lame. I know for a fact that a smattering of people in my age bracket go to the music venues that I’ve been avoiding. They’re not embarrassed to shake and groove among music lovers 40 or more years younger than them. And neither am I. That’s why, a few days into our new year, I’m making one resolution: I am going to start visiting some of Philadelphia’s rock meccas now and then. Johnny Brenda’s, Boot And Saddle, and Union Transfer, here I come! It will be fun. It will be soul-satisfying. And I’d better do it while I can, because those frigging grains of sand have no plans to take a break.

(As I always mention, please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this essay via Facebook, Twitter, etc.)

There’s No Getting Around It: Old Is Old

Yeah, Another Blogger130 Comments

Holy crap, or more to the point, holy shit, I’m getting old. Old, as in old. I mean, how is this possible? I used to think that the rules didn’t apply to me. I don’t like this game!

Not until my most recent birthday, though, did I ever feel the least bit depressed about the advancing years. But when I spun the dial six months ago and it landed on the big 7-0, I gulped. Then I gulped again. Then I said to myself, “Neil, you’ve been around a looong time. In your head you might feel no different than you did when you were 45. But times have changed. The wrinkles on your face are multiplying faster than amoebae. Not to mention that your ass is starting to look as grainy as a minute steak. And the hairs on your head? Cowboy, there are fewer of those than there are fingers on your hands.”

“Man, the days when the occasional girl would give you the eye are gone, gone, gone,” I continued. “At this point, if a girl ever looks you over it’s gonna be because she has a case of myopia so severe she would mistake a McDonald’s sign for a rainbow. Neil, your glory days, as sadly placid as they were, are so far in the rear view mirror they in effect predate the Old Testament. You’re in the home stretch, fella, even if that stretch lasts another 25 years.”

Seconds after that cheery monologue ended I was on the verge of emitting a multitude of tears. Fortunately, I remembered that crying isn’t manly, so I merely wept very gingerly and very quietly. When the drippage came to its conclusion I shrunk off to a corner and stayed there until, my bladder near-exploding, I had to answer nature’s call. I haven’t returned to that corner since then, though I’ve been tempted to do so.

Fast cut to the present day. Gentle readers, I’m here to tell you that I’ve seen the light. Moonlight, specifically, because on the evening of March 31 my phone rang. My childhood pal Mike was on the line. (We grew up in a town outside of New York City, and now reside 20 miles apart in suburban Philadelphia. Yeah, we’re stalking one another).

Mike, an astronomy buff of sorts, was calling to inform me that a Blue Moon was making its appearance, that it was the second Blue Moon of the year (the first having been in January), and that I should go out and look at it because a Blue Moon in each of two months within the same calendar year wouldn’t happen again until 2037. That’s a lot of info, especially for someone whose brain is as old as mine. I barely knew what he was talking about, but I did what Mike suggested.

The Moon was a beautiful sight. Of course, it wasn’t blue at all, Blue Moon being a phenomenon that refers not to hue. Instead it denotes the second full moon that occurs within a given month (a somewhat rare event, though not freakishly so). “Hey, if you’ve seen one full moon, you’ve seen ’em all,” I hear you saying? Uh-uh, not if you’re someone like me who 90% of the time forgets to look up when he’s out at night.

From my front lawn on March 31 I gazed hard and fairly long at the rock in the sky. It was not far above the horizon and it was huge and bright. I asked it to smile and say cheese before I took its picture, to no avail. “I don’t smile,” it said to me. “That’s not the way I roll.” I couldn’t argue with that, of course, and proceeded to document the moment. My phone’s camera doesn’t capture nighttime images too sharply, but I’m shoving that moon photo into this article nonetheless. I kind of like it despite its graininess. It reminds me of my aforementioned ass.

What does admiring the Moon have to do with feeling less than chipper about entering the stratosphere, age-wise? Well, a lot, actually. Yeah, I’ve traveled plenty farther down life’s highway than I wish was the case, but there probably are — what? — three billion members of humanity who feel the same way. All that any of us can do is keep on keepin’ on, with our heads held high and our hearts and five senses open to greet the good people and good stuff around us. No point getting too down about the nature of the cosmic set-up. We come and we go, just like everything else, even stars so large they make our Sun appear puny. I don’t particularly like that set-up, but what can you say?  It is what it is, as the truest of truisms goes.

I’m not the sort who ever will attain a relentlessly positive attitude about life. Never have been. But I get a charge out of more than a few things on a pretty regular basis. Not long after the day of my 70th I stuck the Unhappy Birthday card that I’d delivered to myself into my back pocket. I’ve been doing what I can to keep it there, out of sight and mind. As I’m typing this essay right now, picking up from where I left off the night before, I’m enjoying a cup of coffee and looking out a window at a gloriously foggy morning. I’m going to step outside for a few minutes to admire the fog. And I’ll take its picture. Onward we go.

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(If you click on the photos, larger images will open in separate windows.)

Is Keith Richards About To Become Boring?

Yeah, Another Blogger35 Comments

Last week a reader took a look at an article that I launched into cyberspace during the first month of this publication’s life. Which was April 2015. I know this happened because WordPress, the genius company that provides the software for my and millions of other websites, gives statistical information to bloggers, letting them know, among other things, which stories have been looked at and how often. The aforementioned reader was the first to have set eyes on the piece in many a moon.

Photo by Cameron Brown
Photo by Cameron Brown

Likewise, the Moon had slid around Planet Earth mucho times since last I’d thought about that story. Weighed down with a way too long title (Are We Just Boring As We Get Older? Jackson Browne And I Say It Ain’t Necessarily So. Click here to read the article), it’s a short contemplation on aging that I was inspired to write after listening to a conversation that Jackson Browne had with a radio host a few months earlier. The interviewer, David Dye, and Jackson are well into their 60s. That sobering fact must have been the reason for David’s asking Jackson “are we just boring as we get older?” Jackson, an amazingly thoughtful and insightful guy, gave some reassuring comments in response to the query. To sum them up, what he said is that being absorbed in music, as a listener or performer, is a swell way to slow down Father Time’s advances.

Well, maybe that’s true in general. But in my case Father Time has been gaining on me, despite my being a music lover, faster than a speeding motherf***er bullet. I was powerfully reminded of this the other day when I forgot not to swallow the pits of the 15 prunes that I down daily to keep my engine lubricated. I should listen to my wife Sandy when she tells me that I need to buy pitted prunes. Next time I’m at the store I’ll pick up the no-pits variety. If I remember.

Anyway, being reintroduced to my April 2015 story made me take a good, hard look at myself.  My physical and mental declines were, alas, a given. But how was I, on the cusp of the big 7-0, measuring up in the boring department? Was the meager supply of coolness that I’d been lugging around all my life on the decline? Just thinking about the possibility that this might be the case started to bring me down. That’s when my phone began to ring.

Photo: Ruven Afanador
Photo: Ruven Afanador

“Matey, how’s life been treatin’ ya?” my longtime friend Keith Richards asked. “Haven’t spoken to ya in ages. I’ve been on the contemplative side lately and figured my chum Neil is who I should talk with. How’s Sandy? How’s your blog comin’ along?”

“Sandy’s fine, Keith. Thanks for asking. And my blog? Man, it’s a struggle. The writing’s going OK, but finding people to read the stories is a battle and a half. Speaking of which, Keith, how come I get the feeling you never take a look at anything I write?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then Keith, who is 73, spoke. Somehow his voice was even lower in pitch and growlier than usual. “Sorry about that, pardner. It’s true. But that’ll be changin’, along with a lot of things. Neil, I’m gonna start cuttin’ back soon. Downsizin’. Once I get my life all nice and streamlined I’ll have time to read your stories. Don’t ya worry about that, bro.”

“Downsizing? You, Keith-o? What are you talking about? You’re ageless, man. You’re the guy the rules don’t apply to. Keith, what’s going on?”

Is this where Keith plans to move?
Is this where Keith plans to move?

“Neil, I gotta tell ya I wouldn’t have believed any of this even a month ago. But I’m gettin’ tired. I don’t feel like makin’ records no more. Don’t feel like tourin’ with The Stones no more. Don’t feel like stayin’ up all night partyin’ and gettin’ stoned, for the love of Mike! Yeah, I’ve had enough of fun and games and complications. I’ve got houses all over the world and I’m gonna sell ’em. Too much upkeep and bother . . . who needs it? Patti [Keith’s wife] and me, we’ve given this a lot of thought. We’re gonna move into a 55-and-over retirement community in Connecticut. Not sure which one yet. Life’ll be easier. A lot easier. That’ll be good for me, and it’s what I want.”

“Holy crap, amigo. Are you kidding? This is ridiculous. The world needs heroes and idols, Keith. You’ll be letting millions of people down.”

“My mind’s made up, chum. My perspectives have changed. Neil, I wanna live simply and quietly, just like you do. Describe one of your typical days for me. I’m takin’ notes.”

I heard the sounds of pen upon paper as I did what my pal had asked. By the way, I went into the genesis of our friendship in a previous article that you can read by clicking here. “Well, I get up around 7. In the morning, needless to say. I tidy up in the bathroom, put on some clothes and go outside to pick up the newspaper from the front lawn. Then I drink juice and coffee, eat 15 prunes, read the paper, do the crossword puzzle, take a nap on the couch. Keith, before I know it it’s one o’clock and time for lunch. After lunch I turn on the tube to watch The Bold And The Beautiful and General Hospital. Wouldn’t miss them. Then another nap and before I know it it’s dinner time. After dinner I lay out my clothes for the next day, play a few rounds of Go Fish with Sandy and work for a while organizing my collection of empty cereal boxes. By then it’s 8 PM and I’m ready to turn in. I’m busy, Keith. But simply and quietly, as you mentioned.”

“My man! Neil, you’re livin’ the dream and I’m gonna join ya in it. People will laugh, but I won’t care. ‘Booring!’ they’ll say, but screw ’em. You and I know better, don’t we, pal?”

“Keith, when you and Patti move into your new place, let me know. I’ll drive to Connecticut and we’ll hang. We haven’t done that in years, what with you flying all over the globe with The Stones. It’ll be nice. And maybe that’ll inspire me to write a story about you for my blog. The New Keith Richards is what I’ll call it.”

“Yeah, man, it’s a deal. Gotta go now, Neil. The laundry needs to be done and the trash needs takin’ out. Patti’s gettin’ me trained for my new way of life. Peace out, brother.”

Indeed, indeed.

 

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