Children

Edgar Reewright Tries His Hand At Kid Lit

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

It has been a while since I’ve mentioned Edgar Reewright, my longtime editor, on these pages. The last occasion was nine months ago, when he and his wife Loretta were deciding whether or not to accept Elon Musk’s offer to join Elon’s SpaceX senior citizens lunar program. Well, in the end they would have signed up. But before that could happen, Elon, in late June 2023, pulled the plug on the incipient project, whose initial lunar landing by seniors had been scheduled for 2026.

“Neil, Musk eats it!” Edgar told me on the phone last July. “You know what his main reason was for cancelling? Adult diapers! Shit, can you believe it? These were his exact words when he called to give me the news: ‘I’m most sorry to inform you, Edgar, that I’m deep-sixing the senior citizens lunar program. You see, every oldster already in the program is dependent on adult diapers. And you and your wife, on your applications, indicated that they are essential for you too. The SpaceX rockets would have to double in size to accommodate the numerous boxes required for this sanitary product. Not to mention the problem of what to do with soiled diapers. We couldn’t just open a hatch and toss those bad boys into outer space, after all. Well, maybe we could, but if we did and the word got out, the negative publicity would devastate my businesses. Edgar, I’ve got to go. Not to the bathroom, but back to work. Goodbye.'”

“Bummer, my man, for sure,” I said to Edgar. “I know that you and Loretta would have loved to kick up your heels on the Moon. And I damn well might have applied to the program too. Oh well, such is life.”

Leave it to Edgar, though. He didn’t dwell on the SpaceX disappointment. As always, he moved forward with gusto. Case in point: When I spoke with him on the phone a few days ago, he told me he’d just completed writing a book for preschoolers.

“Neil, I’d never written a book of any kind before. But I needed a creative challenge, seeing that editing the pap you turn out for Yeah, Another Blogger isn’t exactly a soul-satisfying experience.”

I bit my tongue, responding instead with kind words.

“Why, Edgar, that’s wonderful. You’re a worldly person, rich with experiences and memories. I have no doubt your book will connect with developing minds flawlessly. What is the book about?”

“I’m glad you asked. Unlike your blog pieces, which exemplify the word wooden, my book is a hold-onto-your-hat tale about a set of young twins, a brother and sister. One day they decide to play hooky from school. I’d like to read the opening sentences to you. Okay?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

Jill and Bill are seven-year-old twins. They live with their parents in a small town in Colorado near the Rocky Mountains. They hate school. “School is for suckers,” they like to say. Their parents always are worried, since Jill and Bill say it so often.

“Hey, Bill, let’s skip school today,” Jill suggests early one Monday morning. “Heck, nobody in our class likes us, so they won’t miss us. And our teacher probably will be glad we didn’t show up, considering all the problems we cause.”

“Gee, Jill, that’s a great idea. After Mom drops us off at school we’ll sneak around to the back of the building and head to the mountains. I’m sick of Mom and Dad, so I want to stay away from home for at least a week. We’ll start forest fires and do lots of other fun things. Are you with me?”

“You bet. Let’s get ready,” says Jill.

“What do you think?” Edgar asked. “Want to hear more?”

“Spare me, Edgar. Holy crap, are you out of your f*cking mind?  What you’ve written is incredibly inappropriate and warped. No preschooler should be exposed to anything like this. You’ll never find a publisher. And if you self-publish, avalanches of condemnation will rain upon you. Edgar, I’m seeing you in a new light. A dark light. I’m not sure I want you to be my editor anymore.”

Edgar held back comment for many seconds. Instead, he gulped. Multiple times. Finally, he spoke.

“Uh, are you sure about all of that? I never had children, which puts me at a disadvantage when determining what might be a good read for little kids.”

“Trust my judgment, Edgar. If this is the kind of subject matter you feel the need to tackle, then do a major rewrite, with young adults as your intended audience.”

“Alright, I’ll take your advice. Or maybe I’ll just throw in the towel. In any event, am I still your editor?”

“Yeah, you are. I’d be lost without you. Plus, occasionally you give me something to write about. There’s a lot to be said for that.”

“Thank you, Neil, thank you. You’re the best. Well, not the best. Not by any means. But you truly are sort of okay.”

Six Pix For The First Six Months Of The Year

Yeah, Another Blogger137 Comments

During the 1970s and 1980s I enjoyed walking around Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where I lived at the time, and around many other places, snapping photos with my Kodak Pocket Instamatic of whatever caught my eye. I took a lot of family photos too. I haven’t looked at most of those pictures in . . . forever. Save for a relative few, they reside, way too many unlabeled, inside a large box or two or three somewhere in my house. The attic, most likely. I’d do well to locate and gaze at the pix. Who knows what good memories they’d bring back? Yeah, one of these days I’m going to get off my lazy ass and do just that. One of these days.

Anyway, fast forward to the tail end of 2015, which is when I purchased my first smart phone. Man, after 25 or more years of not being involved with photography — my wife Sandy had assumed the photographic duties — I took to the phone’s camera like Donald Trump takes to undermining democracy. In no time I was having fun shooting digital pictures and marveling at how easy the camera was to use.

And I couldn’t have been happier that the phone dated each shot and listed information about where the picture was taken. Even better, the photographs had no desire to leave the confines of their cozy quarters within the phone. They wouldn’t even consider wandering off to the f*cking attic or anywhere else. I love them for that, because I drop by now and then to take a look.

Sculpture outside a Mexican restaurant. Hatboro, Pennsylvania. January 2023
Artwork at Philadelphia Flower Show. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. March 2023

Like many of us, I’ve shot a large number of digital photos. Documenting our lives on a semi-regular basis isn’t the worst idea in the world, right? A recent stroll through my iPhone’s photo library revealed that my button-pressing fingers were pretty busy during the first six months of 2023, for instance, as roughly 250 photographs from that period are stored there. Being in a jolly mood at the moment, I’ve decided to bestow immortality upon six of those pix that I especially like, one from each month (I did the same thing last year). They are included in this story, and haven’t appeared in Yeah, Another Blogger before. Scads of worthy photos are not pleased about being snubbed, however. I have this to say to them: “Tough shit! Nobody ever said that life is fair.”

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. April 2023
Keswick Theater. Glenside, Pennsylvania. June 2023

I didn’t venture very far from home during the months in question. The photos herein, therefore, are restricted to the Philadelphia suburbs, which has been my home base since 2005, and to Philadelphia itself. And now a few words about two of the pictures.

Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. February 2023

I’ve witnessed numerous sunsets in my time, most of them in areas blessed with natural beauty, such as Cape Cod, Massachusetts. My town doesn’t come close to matching that description. However, my hilly neighborhood is good for sunset-watching from certain high points, like the one that is half a block from my front door. The view of the sky is nicely open there, not obscured by many houses or trees. One early evening in February I ventured out, and 15 seconds later was admiring a sunset whose yellows, oranges, pinks and greys, all delicate as feathers, made my day. A beautiful sight it was.

Willow Grove Park Mall. Abington, Pennsylvania. May 2023

And on a May morning I headed to Willow Grove Park Mall, an enclosed space not much more than a hop, skip and jump from my abode. I occasionally go there to engage in a cardio workout, walking the mall’s avenues and byways at a good clip. Such was the reason for my visit that day.

Hoofing around the mall’s second level, I approached a GAP clothing store. The posters in its windows always have impressed me, touching as they do on the positive aspects of the human condition. During the May walk, one of the GAP posters brought me up short. After staring at it for a few seconds I whipped out my phone. There was no way I was not going to photograph the poster, because its depiction of parental love was more vivid and pure than any I’d ever seen. His arms wrapped around his baby, a young father could not be more certain of his role in life than he is at that moment. Love radiates from him in gentle waves. He’s the luckiest guy in the world. And he knows it.

Things I’m Thankful For, Only One Of Which (A Movie) Is Real

Yeah, Another Blogger46 Comments

After the Thanksgiving affair that my wife Sandy and I hosted last week, I really am feeling thankful. Thankful that the big day is over and that (hopefully) I won’t see the guests again for a long time. Never again would be ideal.

What with most of our family scattered around the world, far from our suburban Philadelphia home, and what with our friends chowing down elsewhere, Sandy and I, as usual, were reduced to inviting only the three cousins who live near us — Tom, Dick and Larry — to sit around our dining room table on Turkey Day.

Tom, Dick and Larry are from my side of the family. I never can keep straight precisely how they are related to me. Third cousins twice removed. Or second cousins thrice removed. Something like that. Whatever the blood connections may be, several things are definite: These guys are suspicious characters, unmarried and without girlfriends, and never receive Thanksgiving invites from anyone else. I won’t delve deeply into describing how thoroughly they distressed me last week. Let’s just say that after Tom glared at me 20 minutes into the meal and hissed “pass the gravy . . . or else,” I came this close to soiling my Mickey Mouse-emblazoned boxer shorts. Holy crap, I’m very thankful that didn’t happen! One painful hour later the meal was over and five minutes after that the boys were on their way home. Unsafe travels in the future, fellas.

Now, I pride myself on being not too concerned about lucid juxtapositions. One of these days maybe I’ll set aside my wobbly ways, but that day hasn’t arrived just yet. Which is why I, without embarrassment, now turn away from a Thanksgiving fantasia and toward something entirely unrelated. Its name is The Florida Project. It’s a movie, one that I thought only relative handfuls of people were visiting the theaters to see. But I was wrong about that. A quick look at Box Office Mojo reveals that TFP is in a substantial number of cinemas in the States. It deserves to be. The Florida Project is superb, a piercing examination of human plight. I caught it a couple of weeks ago, am thankful that I did, and can’t get it out of my head.

The Florida Project, though scripted, has the feel of cinema verite. Episodic, it follows the lives, day after day during one summer, of several young kids and their parents who call the Magic Castle motel home. The motel is in Orlando, Florida, close to Disney’s Magic Kingdom theme park, but for many of Magic Castle’s residents it might as well be a million miles from that pricey wonderland. That’s because the Magic Castle, where a room may be had for under $40 a day, is loaded with those near the bottom of the economic ladder — folks with low-paying jobs, hustlers and pensioners who are barely getting by, and transients on their way to who knows where.

Moonee, a smart, playful and happy six-year-old girl, has been living in the Magic Castle for quite a while with her single mom, Halley, an angry and majestically-tattooed 20-something who, clearly and unfortunately, never has been part of the mainstream and won’t be joining it soon. Money comes to Halley in various ways, mostly by scheming, and its flow is erratic and unplentiful. Life’s been a bitch for her, as her white-hot temper shows, but the temper never is directed towards her daughter. Moonee is the apple of Halley’s eye, the wondrous creature who can do no wrong, the one person on Earth she loves unconditionally.

The Florida Project is filmed in colors that blaze with brilliance. I think the director, Sean Baker, chose this somewhat jarring motif to demonstrate the way in which Moonee views her surroundings. To her they are an adventureland meant to be savored and explored. And explore it she does with her pals Scooty and Jancey — the fields close to the motel, the ice cream stand where they twist the arms of customers to buy them cones, abandoned buildings that sit under the Sun peacefully and half-forgotten.

At first, none of this seems like much. But the cumulative effect of the seemingly ordinary soon becomes powerful, as Baker paints the children and their parents with unadulterated strokes. The characters are real, vividly real, and totally believable. I’m still hearing Moonee’s glee-infused voice, which provides one of the soundtracks to the film. It’s been a year since I saw a movie, Moonlight being the last, that rang as true as this one.

Well, as they pile up it becomes apparent halfway through the movie that the details within The Florida Project are not a collection of random observations and occurrences. The plot is headed in a definite direction. And it would be most unfair of me to give away the final destination. I will say, though, that anyone whose heart is not composed of stone better be prepared to have it wrenched.

Performance-wise, what can you say about Brooklynn Prince and Bria Vinaite, who portray Moonee and Halley, respectively? Brilliant jobs, young ladies. Utterly brilliant. And Willem Dafoe? He’s the sole actor I was familiar with in the film. His handling of Bobby, the motel manager whose job requires him to put out metaphorical fires right and left, and who keeps a watchful eye out for dangers that might be heading for the children, is understatedly strong.

Sean Baker, who also co-wrote The Florida Project, is yet another I never knew about previously. Maybe I should have been aware of the sitcoms he helped create a few years ago, Greg The Bunny and Warren The Ape. But I wasn’t and am not.

In any event, somebody waved a magic wand over Baker’s head some time ago when he began thinking about the ideas he wanted to get across in The Florida Project and how they might take shape. The magic wand worked.

(Don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this article. I thank you.)