I Like ‘Em! (These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things)

One thing for certain about this little old world of ours is that it holds an overwhelming amount of content geared for human discovery and consumption. Travel destinations, food stuffs, movies, automobiles, political causes, you name it . . . there’s always something for us to get excited about and sink our teeth into, if we are so inclined. Which, no doubt, nearly every one of us is. Myself included.

This story, then, shall be a look at a few things that have rung my bell quite nicely as of late. In the upcoming paragraphs I’ll expend wordage upon this motley group: a television series (Ozark), cheddar cheese, and the song (Texas Sun) that has captivated me more than any other recording so far during pandemic-plagued 2020. And I’ll be glad to hear about what has been tickling your fancies recently. So, please don’t be shy about letting me know.

Let’s start with Ozark, the Netflix series whose third season was unleashed earlier this year. My wife and I watched all three seasons over the past few months, taking a two or three week breather between each arc. (The fourth and final season is on the drawing board, but who knows when filming will be able to begin.) We became hooked almost from the get-go, as have millions around the globe. Not so one of my cousins though. When I mentioned Ozark to her during a phone conversation not long ago, she said she’d seen a few minutes of the show but that’s about all. “I don’t want to watch all those sleazy people” was more or less how she summed up her feelings about Ozark.

Sleazy? Indeed! That word damn well fully applies to many of the show’s characters. It barely indicates, though, the depths of their polluted natures.

In Ozark we learn the tale of a married couple, Marty and Wendy Byrde (played, respectively, by Jason Bateman and Laura Linney) that is ordered by a Mexican drug cartel to abandon their home in Chicago and relocate, with their two kids, to central Missouri’s Lake Of The Ozarks. LOTO, an enormous man-made lake and a popular vacation spot, is surrounded by rural territory populated with all sorts of unsavory individuals.

Why did the cartel so demand? Because Marty, a buttoned-down financial wizard who years before had agreed, foolishly, to become one of the cartel’s primary money launderers, through no fault of his own got on the cartel’s very wrong side. Via astonishingly quick thinking and quick talking, he avoided execution by convincing the cartel’s top brass that he could make and launder enormous monies for them in, of all places, the Lake Of The Ozarks. Turns out he was pretty right as rain, though establishing the mechanisms that enable that to happen send Marty and his family down hellish paths that in a million years they otherwise wouldn’t have imagined could emerge. And their ordeals gradually bring out the worst in Marty, and the scarily worst in Wendy.

I can see the show’s writers rubbing their hands gleefully as they came up with plot lines that continuously elevate the dangers and other mega-problems that Marty and Wendy must confront. What a series! Prominent cast members regularly meet their demise. Dirty-dealing and treachery reign supreme. Ozark isn’t for everybody, as my cousin demonstrates, but, if you’re not already a fan, it just might be for you.

Now on to cheese. I’ve been a cheese lover for many moons, and cheddar is one of my favorite types. But not the mild kind. I like cheddar that is bold, aggressive and memorable. Those are qualities, by the way, that yours truly sorely lacks.

But it never has been easy for picky me to find cheddars that I deem outstanding. Vermont, for instance, is famed for its cheddars, but I’ve yet to taste a Vermont cheddar that truly knocks my socks off. Thankfully, about four years ago I stumbled upon Old Croc cheddar, which is produced in Australia. The brand’s extra sharp version pleases me deeply. As does a very recent discovery of mine: Sartori’s aged and sharp cheddar. Heavy with elevated flavor, and salty, it is the first American-made cheddar to receive my seal of approval. Take a bow, state of Wisconsin! Pieces of Old Croc and/or Sartori have been my go-to lunch of late. They’re delicious as is, and even better when atop Triscuit crackers.

I wouldn’t dare eat those cheddars while listening to Texas Sun, however. That’s because the process of munching away would interfere with my ability to absorb this oh-so-fine song, which was released in February. A collaboration between vocalist Leon Bridges, who often makes soul music in the vein of Sam Cooke, and indie rock band Khruangbin, Texas Sun is a meditation on longing and lust. It is gently powered by a sweet and steady beat, and wafts upon the wings of dreamy guitar lines. I’ve heard this song many times on various radio stations, which indicates to me that it has found its way into the hearts of numerous music lovers and radio programmers. The best thing for me now to do is to get out of the way and allow you to listen. Here is Texas Sun:

What Do I Know? Good Question

Five or six times each week, for half an hour or so, I haul my sorry ass along the streets of one neighborhood or another, usually my own. I engage in this walking routine for fitness purposes and also just to get out of the frigging house during these pandemic-constricted days. I sure as hell am not a lover of regular exercise, but I’ve come to tolerate it for one reason: I listen to music podcasts as I stride along. Music, as we know, helps to keep boredom at bay. Duh!

One podcast that I often dial up is Downtown Soulville, hosted by a guy who calls himself Mr. Fine Wine. The program appears each week on New Jersey radio station WFMU, and then, luckily for me, is transformed by one form of magic or another into the podcast format.

Downtown Soulville is damn fine. During each episode, Mr. Fine Wine spins soul and rhythm and blues recordings, all of them on 45 RPM singles from his incredibly huge collection of same. He doesn’t talk too much during his shows, which is the way I like it, so song after song after song (most of them from the 1950s, 60s and 70s) hit the airwaves.

When I first started listening to Downtown Soulville I was struck not only by how very few of the recordings I’d ever heard before, but also by how very many of the artists I’d never heard of. This kind of shocked me, because, although I no longer try too hard to keep up with what’s going on in the various sections of the music world, for decades I did, waving my music-junkie flag proudly. I was, and am, into rock, jazz, soul, R&B, blues, reggae, Brazilian, African, classical, folk, and more musical genres. So, how was it that hundreds of soul/R&B singers that Mr. FW has thrown my way, such as Sugar Pie DeSanto, Billy Watkins and Mel Williams, were new to me?

The conclusion that I came to was that, despite being well-informed about music, in a very real sense I don’t know shit about that subject compared to what there is to know. That was a sobering thought. And eventually it set in motion a sequence of questions and answers. To wit: If my knowledge about music is limited, what does that say about me regarding every other subject you can name? Well, I know even less about them than I do about music, in most cases incredibly less. But, okay, does that really matter? Yes, it does, since acquiring knowledge is a worthy goal. Sure, but nobody can imbibe everything, right? True, and, what’s more, it’s exhausting to try to. Indeed, but that notwithstanding, aren’t there things you’d love to understand more about?

The answer to that question is a no-brainer: Damn straight!

For instance, how come I Don’t Wanna Be A Doofus No More, the personality-enhancing potion that George Clooney gifted me with a few years ago (click here to read about it), isn’t helping me anymore? Man, that elixir cured me of being a schlemiel for the good long while that it worked. Clooney, I’m going to sue you if you don’t rectify this situation!

And how come Alicia Keys, Halle Berry and Jennifer Lawrence haven’t gotten back to me regarding the messages I left with their agents? What, the ladies have something against hanging out with a dorky septuagenarian? Did they somehow learn that I Don’t Wanna Be A Doofus No More no longer is having salutary effects upon me?

And, though not as pressing as the issues that I just mentioned, what’s the deal with the universe? Specifically, how did it begin? Yeah, yeah, there’s the Big Bang theory and all, but here’s the thing about that: If all the matter that became our universe once was contained in an impossibly-compressed chunk of whatever, as the theory states, where the f*ck did that chunk come from? Did it always exist? Is it possible for something to always exist? Boys and girls, truer words than the following rarely have been written: I sure as shit don’t know.

I tell you, all of this mental work is tiring me out big-time. Having reached my deep-thoughts limit, there’s little doubt that my living room sofa, and naptime thereupon, await me. Before I sign off, though, let me say that I’m always glad to receive readers’ comments, so please don’t be shy about adding yours. Goodbye, then, till next time. I’ll leave you with the songs that I heard on Downtown Soulville the other day by the aforementioned Sugar Pie DeSanto, Billy Watkins and Mel Williams. Hope you enjoy them.

 

Getting Closer? Yes And No

Man, in the early days of coronavirus I wouldn’t have guessed that this microbial demon would find its way into as many of my essays as it has. Its omnipresence and dangers, though, have made it impossible for me to ignore, in my everyday life and as a writer. Alas, truer words than these rarely have been spoken: We need an effective vaccine sooner than ASAP!

It’s anything but new news when I observe that in a mere handful of months the virus has impaired our world in oh so many ways. Hundreds of thousands of people have died at the villain’s hands, and that count will rise and rise. Livelihoods have disappeared. Economies have been derailed. And that which is normal behavior for most of us — having a fair amount of close contact with fellow members of our embattled species — has become, for the most part, a big no-no. We can, of course, be physically near to those who we are confident are non-contagious, assuming that we are confident that we meet that criterion too. But to anyone else? Yo, it’s risky!

It’s natural to wonder about the extent to which close contact will return after our savior, a good vaccine, rides in from whatever lab ends up creating it. That’s assuming the savior is creatable. It better be. Anyway, will the general populace go back to their merry old ways? You know, crowding into elevators, sharing joints, rocking out shoulder-to-shoulder at concerts, spilling their guts to friends seated near them at bars and cafés, etc., etc. (As we know, some people, against expert advice and governmental guidelines, are doing these sorts of things already. Spikes in coronavirus have resulted. Those folks just don’t want to keep their distance from one another!)

I’m betting that a full return never will happen. Maybe we’ll level off at about 75% of where we were, but no more than that. I mean, coronavirus has brought home the fact that microbes don’t always play nice, that unfriendly bacteria and viruses could be anywhere, and that cutting back a little on your potential contact with same might be a wise way to live your life.

For example, as many already have noted, the handshake has an uncertain future. Shit, that’s no big deal. To a decent extent, pre-virus, handshakes already had been replaced by fist bumps, elbow taps and other far-less-germy forms of greeting. I’m cool with that. But some also are predicting that hugs won’t be as common as once they were. Hugs? That is a big deal, and I’m not cool with it. Me, once the pandemic is no more, I’m going to give a nice big hug, if they want me to, to every pal and relative that I get together with. That will be a damn good way to celebrate the nightmare’s demise.

Well, like all good boys and girls, I’ve been trying to keep at least six feet away from nearly all homo sapiens. (The one exception to this regimen is, of course, my wife Sandy.) Doing so is frustrating, for sure. So, when the idea hit me the other day to get real, real close to something — in this case, certain inhabitants of the non-human sphere — I jumped at it.

Thus, a couple of days later, while walking around my neighborhood in the Philadelphia suburbs, I gave flora, stone walls, traffic sign posts and other objects a good looking over from way within spitting distance. Then I snapped their portraits, some of which are plastered on this page. Photographically-speaking, I dug the close-up approach and probably will venture out on a similar mission in the foreseeable future.

But, during the trek and after, I couldn’t stop thinking about human physical closeness, and decided that it would be appropriate to illustrate this story with songs that touch upon aspects of that wide subject. No doubt there are thousands and thousands that fit the bill. I’m going to go with two that popped into my head pretty much right off the bat. These great recordings, which more or less represent opposite sides of the closeness coin, remind me, as if I need any reminding, that I’m anxious for the day when once again I’ll be able to talk with people from a normal distance. And to pass within a whisker or two of strangers on the sidewalk as I nonchalantly walk from here to there. I present to you, then, The Temptations singing I Can’t Get Next To You, and Ol’ Blue Eyes’ heart-melting rendition of The Nearness Of You.

Till next time, gals and guys. Stay safe, as the saying goes. And, by the way, please don’t be shy about adding your comments.

 

A Doors-Filled Story

I like to roam, to stretch my legs in a variety of locales while checking out the surroundings. And in recent years I often have turned my leg-stretching excursions into essays for this publication. These mini-adventures, thankfully, get me away from my living room sofa, upon which I spend hours upon hours each week engaged in questionable activities. Namely, staring into space, scratching my balls and twirling the five strands of hair that remain on the crown of my head.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that I’ve mentioned that sofa routine many times before on these pages. Can’t seem to stop myself from writing about it, though. What can I say? Would you prefer that I describe the nightly visitations paid to me by space aliens, and how I cured the aliens of toenail fungus? Nah, I didn’t think so.

Anyway, this article now will concern itself with doors. That’s what I was in search of when, on the penultimate day of May, I roamed the streets of Jenkintown, a nice village three miles south of Willow Grove, the town that I call home. Both communities are in the Philadelphia burbs.

Doors had been in the back of my mind as a story idea since 2017 or so, after I discovered that there are a goodly number of WordPress writers who launch door-oriented pieces into cyberspace on Thursdays. Their leader is a guy named Norm, who began a Thursday Doors theme in 2014 (click here to see Norm’s website). And so, I’m going to follow the leader by pressing the Publish button for this story during the opening minutes (in my time zone) of Thursday, June 18.

Concentrating on Jenkintown’s doors was right in my wheelhouse. After all, on walking excursions here and there during the last few years I’ve sometimes kept my eyes on alert for specific subjects: the color green for instance, shadows, store and street signs. Doing that kind of thing helps to make life interesting for me. On a low but real-enough level, it’s like a research project or detective work. It’s fun, basically.

King’s Corner pub
Private residence

I hit Jenkintown’s sidewalks at around 11:30 in the AM and concluded my mission at a quarter past noon. I might have stayed out longer than I did were it not for a vivid Sun that was getting a thrill from making me schvitz most admirably.

Grace Presbyterian Church
My Jewel Shop

I walked along most of the blocks in Jenkintown’s business district and along a sampling of its residential streets. One thing I realized is that the vast majority of doors in Jenkintown are vanilla. That is, non-threatening standard concoctions of wood, glass or metal, or a combination thereof. Yet, I deemed some of them as absolutely photograph-worthy, because of the decorations on or near them, or because of their silent commentary upon our present times.

Uptown Event Center

Take the Uptown Event Center’s door, for example. How many ordinary, metal-framed glass doors such as this are in the world? Many tens of millions, no doubt. Yet, it looks as sharp as can be, flanked as it is by a lady singer and a sax man. Cool. Very cool.

Velvet Sky Bakery

And what could be plainer than the opened door of Velvet Sky Bakery? It stands out, though, in a major way. With a table holding disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer beside it, it’s a reminder that we live in the days of coronavirus. This is a door through which you do not enter. You place your order from the sidewalk, pay when the items are brought to you, and walk away.

Immaculate Conception Church

On the other hand, sometimes you cross paths with grandeur, such as the front doors of Immaculate Conception Church. Lovely creations of golden brown wood, they are all the more impressive thanks to the elegantly-chiseled stonework that surrounds them.

Sprinkler room door

And then, in a category all its own, there’s a sprinkler room door, which is attached to the back of a building that I otherwise didn’t make note of. As of this writing it’s my favorite door in Jenkintown. That deep, deep color. That monolithic presence. Man, the door is the definition of gravitas.

We’d be in trouble without doors. I suppose that humans invented them in caveman days. Maybe way before that. Maybe later. Whatever the case, they provide protection from the elements and from members of the fauna categories, and they help to give us privacy. Right, duh! There are all kinds of philosophical interpretations that might be made regarding doors too. But I ain’t exactly Jean-Paul Sartre, so for me to go beyond the kiddie end of the pool in those matters would be a huge mistake. I will say this though: The Doors — and I’m referring to the rock and roll band — took their name from The Doors Of Perception, a book by Aldous Huxley that praises the use of psychedelics to open the mind’s doors, thus expanding one’s insights. I’m all for allowing more of life’s possibilities to present themselves. But there’s no need for psychedelics. For example, who knows what realms you’ll travel to when, non-medicated, you listen to Break On Through (To The Other Side), the opening track of The Doors’ first album, from 1967. Let’s find out:

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this essay. I thank you.)

Justice, Equality And Peace

It’s late morning on the third of June as I begin to type this essay. It’s not the essay that, up until June 2, I was planning on writing. That one will have to wait till next time. No, even though I’m not a particularly incisive observer of, nor commentator upon, societal and political matters, I feel compelled to lay down some thoughts about what’s been happening in my country (the USA), and in other parts of the globe as a result of George Floyd’s murder by a police officer, Derek Chauvin, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. George Floyd, who was unarmed and handcuffed during the incident, was black. Chauvin, who has been fired from his job and charged with murder, is white.

Did anyone predict or expect that, in the wake of Floyd’s killing, hordes of people would take to the streets to denounce systemic racism and police brutality against blacks? I’m not sure, but I’m guessing not. Once put in motion, though, the protests expanded to locations far from Minneapolis. That includes Philadelphia, where I lived for decades, and which is very near to the town that my wife and I now call home.

I’ve watched television coverage of the marches and demonstrations, and of the violent turns that some of those gatherings took. The looting and property destruction that have taken place sadden and sicken me. Ongoing behavior such as that can deeply damage society, and can make conditions far worse than they already are. Fortunately, for the moment anyway, looting and destruction have lessened greatly, and peaceful protests continue.

Where will the protests lead? What will they result in? Will they result in anything, for that matter, or simply peter out as the energy and indignation that fuel them slowly evaporate? I hope that such will not be the case, because it’s undeniable that racism in the United States is alive and well, that many folks in this country don’t want equality-for-all to become an absolute given. The existence of white supremacy groups, and the continuing efforts by more than a few members of the Republican party to suppress the vote of minorities and of the marginalized, are two examples of this. The USA has a long way to go.

And what of the possibility that the protests explode into mayhem, uncontrollable violence, even civil war? I don’t discount this idea at all. Anything might happen, a frightening thought.

Barack Obama, in a level-headed and insightful essay about the Floyd tragedy, states what he believes should be the responses to it. Click here to read the piece. He urges us to vote out of office those elected officials with stone-age mentalities. And he focuses his exhortations on the young, who he says are the ones that must lead the efforts to make the world a better place. Here are a few of his thoughts: “The point of protest is to raise public awareness, to put a spotlight on injustice, and to make the powers that be uncomfortable; in fact, throughout American history, it’s often only been in response to protests and civil disobedience that the political system has even paid attention to marginalized communities. But eventually, aspirations have to be translated into specific laws and institutional practices — and in a democracy, that only happens when we elect government officials who are responsive to our demands.”

We can only hope that Obama’s way forward will prove to be the chosen path. His commentary, of course, would be lost on Donald Trump, who doesn’t care about the whys behind the reactions to Floyd’s death. That’s only to be expected from he who is callous, narcissistic, vindictive, a pathological liar and a thug. If Trump deploys federal troops, all bets are off.

At about 8:30 PM on June 2, I slipped outside to the deck at the rear of our house. Very unsettled by George Floyd’s death and the violence that partly filled its aftermath, I needed to decompress. That’s what happened as I stared at the dense foliage, listened to the birds and scanned the heavens.

Much of the sky was heavy with clouds, so almost no color emerged from the sunset. Bummer. But I was in luck anyway, because twenty minutes after I took my place on the deck I looked to the east and saw a vivid Moon rising, It seemed to have come from out of nowhere. Possibly it had been hidden by now-dispersed clouds. The Moon, as bright as a powerful LED light, was stunning. It made me feel somewhat hopeful.

As did Peace, a song recorded by the Ornette Coleman quartet in 1959. It played over the radio as I brushed my teeth two hours after Moon-watching. It wasn’t coincidental that WRTI, Temple University’s radio station, played this composition. That evening, the station was attempting to offer comfort to its listeners.

None of us knows with any degree of certainty where we are headed, but may justice and equality for all, and peace (it goes without saying), be intrinsic parts of the destination. And of the journey that takes us there.

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this essay)

How Glad Was I When The Kinks, The Byrds And Willie Nelson Visited Me Last Month? Very!

As everyone knows, billions of words are written each day about coronavirus, the f*cking demon that has done an excellent job of turning our world to shit. Among those words are repeated recommendations to be in touch with friends and relatives more often than usual. Most of those contacts, by necessity of course, must be via phone and internet rather than in person. We can thank the demon for that.

Good advice, right? Damn straight. After all, we have an innate need for human contact. And if ever there was a time for maintaining, strengthening and even expanding ties, this is it. Expanding? Sure. Now’s your golden opportunity, for instance, to pick up the phone and call that first cousin that you haven’t spoken to in eons because you’ve never particularly gotten along with him and because he absolutely pissed you off big-time by not inviting you to his son’s wedding 25 years ago.

“Guess who this is?” you should say before he has a chance to get a word out of his mouth. “It’s your favorite cuz, that’s who. The pandemic situation has convinced me that I should reach out to you, you loser. You better believe that I haven’t forgotten how you snubbed me all those years ago. Adios, baby. Nice talking to you!”

Okay, that attempt at communication possibly could have been handled more agreeably. But don’t sweat it! There are far more important things to worry about these days.

To continue: So far during the pandemic I’ve done nicely in the keeping-in-touch part of life, though expanding my ties has yet to become a part of the picture. I speak regularly with a good number of my friends and relatives, more regularly than I did in the pre-coronavirus era, and have enjoyed all of those conversations. But what I enjoyed even more were the occasions when old friends of the sonic variety unexpectedly visited me. For it was in late April, over a two-day period, that I heard on the radio three songs that I truly love but had forgotten all about.

Each recording brought a couple of tears to my eyes and made my grizzled heart go all soft and mushy. I sang along with them. I vowed never to let them disappear again, a pledge I plan to keep. No doubt, I’m a happier, more contented individual now that, after long absences, Sweet Lady Genevieve (by The Kinks), Have You Seen Her Face (by The Byrds), and Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain (by Willie Nelson) have reentered my life. And that, by the way, is the order in which I heard them last month.

The songs came out on albums in 1973, 1967 and 1975, respectively. The album titles, again respectively, are Preservation Act I, Younger Than Yesterday, and Red Headed Stranger. I own copies of those albums, for crying out loud. Don’t ask why I hadn’t given any of the platters a spin in a zillion years. Mea culpa.

Each song possesses a personality distinct from the other two, but they have something in common with 90% of all songs ever written. That is, in one way or another they address the prime human emotion. Love. Sweet Lady Genevieve, composed and sung by The Kinks leader, Ray Davies, is a plea for forgiveness and a promise to become faithful and true. Have You Seen Her Face presents a not overly clear-thinking guy who suspects he’d be wise to pursue a certain beguiling lady whom, perhaps, he is destined to bond with. As for Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain, here we have the tale of someone who fully realizes that the love affair of his life has reached its end, and that he never will get over the breakup.

Yeah, to me each of the recordings is something special. Sweet Lady Genevieve’s melody, with its leaps and twists, is irresistible. And the lyrics? Well, the eloquence of the opening line — Once under a scarlet sky, I told you never-ending lies — makes it clear that you’re about to hear a cleverly-spun story. There are many, including me, who consider Ray Davies to be a songwriting giant.

Chris Hillman, who played electric bass in The Byrds, wrote both the music and lyrics for Have You Seen Her Face. Yes, the lyrics are messy, but little matter, considering how freely, almost giddily, the melody unfolds, and how the trippy guitar solos will lift you right out of your body.

And what about Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain? For one thing, Willie Nelson, an ace songwriter, didn’t compose the work. It was written in 1945 by the late Fred Rose, a musician, songwriter and music industry executive. The lyrics are direct and profound, the music likewise. Willie Nelson recognized all of this. His vocals, accompanied by spare instrumentation, will break your heart.

Little more do I need to add, except to mention that The Kinks and The Byrds, iconic rock bands, no longer are functioning units. Haven’t been for years. Many of their once-members, though, remain active musicians. As does Willie Nelson, a mere lad of 87.

And so, without further ado, here are the songs that resonated with me so well recently. Oh, just one more thing: I’d be happy to hear your comments about this article.

My Favorite Color Once Was Yellow, Now It’s Blue. What’s Yours?

A couple of stories ago I reported that, for health reasons, I recently started going out on half-hour walks four or five times each week. A lot of the walks have taken place in my remarkably hilly neighborhood. In early February, while hauling my ass up and down slope after slope, I listened to a podcast that I like quite well. The podcast, Music From 100 Years Ago, is hosted by easy-going and real knowledgeable Brice Fuqua, and the episode that played from my earbuds was called Yellow Music (click here to find it, if you like).

Now, I’d chosen this particular episode, one of many that I’ve heard in Music From’s archives, because the word yellow had jumped out at me and set my mind in motion. As I readied to begin that walk, I fondly remembered that yellow was my favorite color when I was a wee lad. Yellow was a good choice of color for me back then. It’s cheerful and packed with energy, like most little kids. I still dig yellow, but for a long time haven’t been in love with it to the extent that I was millions of moons ago. That’s especially true these days, seeing that I ain’t especially cheerful and packed with energy anymore. Ah, the joys of getting old!

I don’t know when yellow ceased to be my fave. Probably when I was more or less ten years old. For the next 35 or so years I didn’t have a favorite color, not consciously anyway. During that time I was a fan of just about every color, something that has remained true to this day.

But somewhere in the 1990s I began to notice that I was particularly attracted to blue, or should I say blues, because various shades of blue pleased me just fine. I suppose that blue will remain my favorite for the rest of my life. I’d be shocked and awed, for instance, if on my death bed my final words were something like these: “Listen, after all this time I’ve decided that I like green more than blue. Who’d have thunk it? Okay, it’s time for me to go. Goodbye, cruel world!”

And I’m not alone in my pick. Surveys have determined that blue is the favorite color of more people than any other. So, why blue? Well, I’ve given this some thought and have come up with some notions. For one, I suspect that the preference has to do with the prevalence of blue. In daylight, when the heavens above aren’t cloud-covered, it’s blue that dominates our world. Duh! And who can resist a blue sky? It smiles upon us with a twinkle in its eye and with welcoming embraces. We’ve probably come to think of blue as a healthful force.

Blue comforts us. It helps us to vibrate at a beneficial pace. You can’t say the same for all colors, I think. You better watch out for orange, red and yellow, among others, for example. They just might bop you in your frigging nose or get your hormones racing way faster than you’re in the mood to deal with. And though white, black and the rest of the neutrals might possess blue’s healthful qualities, they lack the factor that, to me, sets blue apart from them: prettiness. Blue has just enough in the looks department to keep you more than interested.

Still, what do I know? There’s no right or wrong when it comes to color preferences. I’d be very interested to learn what colors are favored by this article’s readers.

The time has arrived to insert a couple of photographs of my once and current favorite colors. The explosive painting below hangs in my living room. It’s from Haiti and won my heart when I saw it in a Philadelphia art gallery in the 1980s. There are a variety of giddy yellows in there.  As a child, all of them would have enthralled me.

I have no doubt which shade of blue rates highest on my scale. It’s the blue of a late-morning sky, a soft but rich blue. Looking at the photo below, which I took on February 16, I can feel my blood pressure dropping to an acceptable level. Healthful is right.

Let’s get back to Brice Fuqua, a guy with wide musical ears who builds each of his broadcasts around a theme. The theme for Yellow Music is songs with yellow in their titles. During my walk, the number that got to me the most was one I’d never heard before, Yellow Dog Blues. W. C. Handy wrote it in 1915. The version that Brice played, sung by the fabulous Bessie Smith, came out in 1925. The song is about a heartbroken lady who is desperate to find out where the love of her life has disappeared to.

Yes, it’s very appropriate to this essay that Yellow Dog Blues contains in its title the colors that have stood out the most for me in my life. Thank you, Brice, for enabling me to bring the present proceedings to a vaguely logical conclusion.

(As always, comments are welcome and appreciated. And please don’t be shy about sharing this story. Mucho gracias.)

We Deserve To Be Rocked!

The late Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Bluebeard, which came out in 1987 and which I read a few weeks ago, isn’t one of the best books I’ve ever pulled off a shelf. I mean, the plot is not particularly compelling. And whatever points Vonnegut was trying to make don’t congeal. But sometimes I’m a forgiving soul! And this was one of those times. Meaning, I enjoyed Bluebeard (though there’s no arguing that The Sirens Of Titan and Cat’s Cradle, among others, are better Vonnegut creations). It’s a breezy read. Its witticisms and absurdist underpinnings kept me flipping the pages. And eventually the book found its way into my heart when it helped to spur the production of this essay. See? It can pay to read a mediocre book!

Bluebeard is the supposed autobiography of septuagenarian Rabo Karabekian, a once-acclaimed but now-forgotten abstract painter who, through no real efforts of his own, has become ridiculously wealthy. But his riches mean little to Rabo. Hell, just about everything means little to him. He isn’t a basket case, but he passes through his “golden years” with emotions that rarely jump above a flatline pattern. Rabo would do well to allow joy to enter his life a whole lot more often.

I’ve incorporated Bluebeard into this opus as a result of my attention having been turned to one of the first pieces I wrote for this website. That occurred when I noticed, on my WordPress statistics page, that somebody in our big, old world recently had taken a look at said story, upon which I had bestowed an incredibly ungainly title:  Are We Just Boring As We Get Older? Jackson Browne, And I, Say It Ain’t Necessarily So (click here if you’d like to read it).

Well, last week I read that Browne essay to relearn what it’s all about. Shit, like I should have been able to recall something I penned almost five years ago? I’m lucky when I remember which drawer I keep my underpants in. Turns out that the piece is about the power of music to improve your life. Browne, a primo singer-songwriter who has been going strong in the music biz for over 50 years, has clear thoughts on the subject. Here are his words from my story. They are what he had to say, back in 2014, to interviewer David Dye when asked if people become boring in later life: “As you age, you look for ways in which to sustain yourself . . . Music is restorative, the act of doing it, the act of listening to it. Man, it’s good for you. It can really make the difference in how the rest of your life goes, and especially how you feel physically.”

Right on, Jackson! I couldn’t agree more. Music can calm you down. It can take your mind off your troubles and woes. And, way better from my perspective, music might lead you to inner regions that are so pure and enchanting, you can’t believe your good fortune in being there. Jackson’s quote put me in mind of Rabo Karabekian. Music seems to be absent from Rabo’s life, and he’s all the poorer for it.

Rabo aside, I’d guess that music plays anywhere from a reasonably big to a real big part in most peoples’ lives. Speaking personally, which I sure do a hell of a lot of in this publication, I’d be one sorry f*cker were music to be taken away from me. Listening to music sometimes makes my day. At the least, it helps to get me through each day. Unlike in my youth and middle age, I don’t need to hear tons and tons of music (like Rabo and Jackson, I’m into my 70s), but not a day goes by without a healthy dose, at minimum, of tunes greeting my ears.

And most genres of music suit me just fine. Jazz, blues, reggae, soul, classical, you name it. But more than anything, I like to be rocked. Rocked, that is, by loud, pulsating rock music, the varieties of same that prominently employ electric guitars. This doesn’t happen too much in my house, where my wife Sandy prefers music to be on the more sedate side of the spectrum. But I’ve made it a point over the past 12 months to attend concerts that rock me to the bones. I hadn’t done enough of that in the previous 10 or so years. Paradoxically, Sandy often accompanies me to these shows.

Rocked I was, and mightily, on January 11 when my much-better half and I went to a four-hour, five-band rock concert at City Winery, in Philadelphia. The bands took no prisoners. Nothing resembling a ballad was played that night. I liked each act, but one was head and shoulders above the rest. Namely, Joe Grushecky And The Houserockers (Joe is from the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania area, has been rocking and rolling forever, and is pals with Bruce Springsteen). During long passages on each of their songs, the singing stopped and the group’s three-guitar attack took to the skies. Closing my eyes, I let the dense, rushing waves of sound bring me as close to “heaven” as I’ll ever get.

Joe Grushecky And The Houserockers (Joe has the red guitar. Some band members wouldn’t fit in the photo.)

Yes, music, whether you’re a listener or performer, can be a nourishing force that opens hidden doors. And it’s not the only one, of course, though I have to think that it reigns supreme. For some people, painting or sculpting might take them to magical places. Or skiing. Or playing basketball. Who knows how long the list is. I believe that, consciously or not, we all crave more than the everyday, no matter what our age. And that, at least now and then, we want to soar. Man, we deserve to be rocked, in a good way of course, musically or otherwise. Damn straight about that. Our time on Planet Earth is limited, after all.

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. And if you’re thinking about sharing this story on social media, go for it! I thank you.)

I’ve Got A Few Recommendations. How About You?

During our vacation on Cape Cod in October, my wife and I poked around the cute town of Chatham one fine, sunny afternoon. While my much better half busied herself in the aisles of a store or two, I went into the Chatham Orpheum Theater to try and find out which films would grace its screens in the upcoming weeks. Thumbing through the theater’s brochures at the ticket counter, I overheard a conversation taking place between the guy behind that counter and a patron. They were discussing literature, and one of them mentioned Cacciato. Man, I’d heard of Cacciato, so I opened my trap and said so.

“Are you talking about Going After Cacciato, the novel by Tim O’Brien?” I asked them. The ticket seller gave me what I interpreted as one of those Huh, this asshole knows about Cacciato? looks, but I wasn’t offended. Anyway, it turns out that the two fellows mostly had been gushing over another of O’Brien’s works, The Things They Carried. They briefly told me about the book, which came out in 1990 and, like Going After Cacciato, was inspired by the time that O’Brien spent in 1969 and 1970 as a soldier in Vietnam. It sounded intriguing. “Do you want me to write down the name for you?” the ticket seller asked. Indeed I did, and so he did. Into my wallet the slip of paper went.

Not long after I got back from vacation I borrowed The Things They Carried from a local library. I finished it last week. And I have to say that the gents were right. A series of interconnected, semi-fictional stories about the Vietnam War (pre, during and post), the work impressed me. It doesn’t glorify war, doesn’t dwell on battles. What it mainly does is lay on the table the emotions and mindsets of people attempting to deal with potential, immediate and imaginary dangers. You’ll find the good, the bad and the ugly in this book. And also the mysterious and the truly touching. In the best of the stories, O’Brien’s words come at you like the blows of a patient, precise boxer. Clearly, I recommend The Things They Carried.

Recommendations. There are a few other new ones kicking around inside me. And there’s no way I can contain them, so desperate are they to meet and greet cyberspace. With no further ado then, here they are.

A biopic of sorts about the late Fred Rogers, host of the legendary kids’ show Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, has just come out. A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood is its name, and it stars Tom Hanks as Rogers. Now, I know that Fred was a strong force for decency and love. But his nasally voice, his sloooow talking pace, and his unnervingly calm manner never appealed to me. Nevertheless, my wife and I went to see the film a handful of moons ago. And I loved it. Having read no reviews in advance, I was happy to discover that it is not a typical biopic. Instead, it’s an imagined examination of the relationship between Fred and a cynical journalist named Lloyd Vogel, who is assigned, in 1998, to interview and profile Fred for Esquire magazine (the movie is drawn from the friendship that developed between real-life journalist Tom Junod and Fred).

A Beautiful Day rings very true. Hanks is Fred. And decency and love are largely what the movie is all about. Will Lloyd Vogel come to believe in the powers of Fred? I ain’t saying. Will Fred start talking faster and become the type of guy I’d want to discuss sports, music, food and girls with? Nah, but that’s more than okay. A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood flirts with sappiness here and there, sure, but it got to me anyway. That’s because it gently aims for the heart and doesn’t miss.

Hey, it’s almost dinner time in my household, so I’ve got to wrap this up. You know what else is good? Beers from Magic Hat and New Belgium breweries, that’s what. In November I bought variety packs of their robust, soul-satisfying ales. And I’m going to apply those same adjectives (robust; soul-satisfying) to the coffees that Allegro and Green Mountain coffee companies turn out. My wife and I are hooked on several of their roasts. I’m tempted to use the adjectives also to describe myself, but I’d be lying out my ass if I did. So, I won’t.

The ball is now in your court. What’s been ringing your chimes recently? Down below is a section where you can enter your comments.

Before I go, though, I have to mention and recommend a golden oldie — Bernadette —  that has been stuck in my head for a few weeks. I’ve heard it dozens of times in my life and always dug it. But when the tune came on the radio not long ago it walloped me like never before. Bernadette, by The Four Tops, was released in 1967. And it’s never gone away. Such a great song. The desperation in lead singer Levi Stubbs’ voice sends chills up and down my ol’ spine. I don’t like having earworms. But if I’ve got to have one, this is an excellent choice. Bernadette!

You Don’t Find Memphis Slim And Ludwig van Beethoven In The Same Story Every Day

If I’ve had a true passion for nearly all of my life, it’s music. The high decibel kinds above all. I may be at least 20 years past my prime, but I still like to fill my body regularly with driving beats and pounding drums and merciless sonic assaults. Yeah, hard rock, wailing jazz and raucous blues are very alright with this boy.

Having said that, I now will wimp out by adding that, often when I’m listening to music, I don’t care to be blasted into outer space. My constitution ain’t that far from the delicate side, so there’s a limit to how many wham-bam vibrations I can healthfully deal with. That’s why I keep at hand a welcome mat for mellow music. Hell, mellow is like Jell-O, right? There’s always room for Jell-O.

And I don’t mean that in a slighting way. Not at all. Sure, aggressive music is what you turn to when you need to shimmy and shake, when you’ve got to let the lava flow.

But music on the calmer side of the spectrum can work wonders too. Everybody knows that. How many more shoulder knots and jaws half-frozen in the clenched position would there be in the world were it not for the likes of James Taylor, Alicia Keys and Willie Nelson? A lot.

But you know what? Music, whatever its intensity level will, if you’re lucky, do something far better than what I mention above. Namely, transport you to purer realms. For me, I find that it works in different ways, depending on the nature of what I’m listening to. When it comes to hard-driving music, long solos from electric guitars (and, less frequently, from other instruments) sometimes capture me. I’ll close my eyes, find the gentle currents underlying the musicians’ explorations, and in moments will be hopelessly at ease, happily drifting in the ethers. These are out-of-body experiences, natural highs.

Calmer music, on the other hand, doesn’t bring me outside myself. What it does at times, though, is open a space within me that I ordinarily am out of touch with. This is a peaceful place. The noise of the world isn’t there. I settle into it and then let beautiful sounds wash over me.

What’s the difference between the two types of phenomena? Well, the first involves awe, meaning that I can barely believe the sweep of the magic carpet ride, nor my good fortune in occupying lofty regions in the first place. When the ride ends I find it hard to decompress.

Awe, however, doesn’t enter the picture in scenario number two, a more down-to-earth experience. It’s similar to when I’m in a museum, checking out this and that work of art, and meet a piece that immediately captivates me. Scenario number two isn’t as astonishing as its sibling, but it’s damn well good enough. The more smitten we are by the world around us, the better.

Naturally, I would like to add specific musical examples of both forms of enchantment to this story. But in a sense that would be cheating. You see, when I first sat down to compose the present piece, I didn’t anticipate that it would squirm around, mutate and head in the directions that it has. Awe wasn’t part of the original story idea. Any further mention of magic carpet rides will therefore wait for another day. Instead, I will say a few words about the two numbers, both of them members of the calmer side of the musical spectrum, that originally were meant to center and anchor that which you’re now reading. They struck me just right when I heard them, stopping me in my tracks to bask in their fineness.

I haven’t been to any concerts in the past week, but at home and in the car I’ve imbibed plenty of music. Many genres, many levels of intensity. As good as much of the music was, only Mother Earth, by the American bluesman Memphis Slim, and Piano Sonata No. 13 in E-flat major, by Ludwig van Beethoven (as performed by André Watts), separated themselves from the pack.

I was in the bathroom late at night brushing my teeth when Mother Earth came over the airwaves. I’ll be damned if I didn’t put down the toothbrush and listen hard. The song, a commentary on mortality, possesses a deep soul and unaffected beauty that can’t be denied or resisted. Memphis Slim, who wrote Mother Earth, recorded more than one version of the song. The one that I heard was the first, from 1951. Here it is. That’s Slim on vocals and piano.

Memphis Slim (born 1915, died 1988) was a big talent. He had what it takes when it comes to singing, piano playing and composing. And Ludwig van Beethoven (born 1770, died 1827) was no slouch either — What, you mean that’s common knowledge?

I’m making a heretical statement, however, when I say that Beethoven is not among my very favorite classical composers. For example, I’ll take Haydn, Bach and Sibelius over him. But Piano Sonata No. 13, which Ludwig wrote during 1800 and 1801? Man, its grace goes straight to the heart. I was sitting on the living room sofa when I heard it on the radio a few days after putting down my toothbrush for Memphis Slim. After the first three notes I was convinced that it is something special. Several listenings later, I still feel that way.

Goodbye till next time, gentle readers. Please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this essay. Mucho gracias. And, oh yeah, here’s the first movement of Piano Sonata No. 13: