The WordPress Gods Were Looking Out For Me: Art On Wheels, Part Six

And so, here I am again with yet another essay centered around my quests to find and photograph commercial vehicles that are adorned with fine designs. This story is the sixth installment of what will remain an ongoing project (assuming that I continue to stay above ground, that is). What, like I’ve got something better to do with my time than to troll streets and the parking areas of shopping centers and strip malls for handsome trucks, vans and cars? I don’t! At my advanced age I ain’t interested in reaching for the brass ring, goal-and-activity-wise, you dig? Not that I ever was, to tell you the truth. Thus, no novels will I be writing. No corporations will I be starting. No applications to graduate schools will I be submitting, unless there’s a PhD program out there that would accept a doctoral thesis titled An Unambitious F*cker’s Aimless Thoughts.

In other words, trolling suits me just fine.

Frustratingly, it hasn’t been easy finding an adequate number of beauties for this story. Five hunting trips, each of an hour or more in length, brought forth only six vehicles whose images I deemed worthy of inclusion. I want and need one more pleasing photo, but I’ve had my fill of intensive hunting. I’m very confident, though, that an object of my desire will present itself during my normal activities over the next few days (I’m typing these words on the 20th of July). Lucky number seven surely is heading my way!

I didn’t run into a numbers problem during the creation of this series’ previous installments. In fact, for most of them I bagged enough useable photos during only one or two expeditions. Which was amazing, considering that the vast majority of commercial vehicles have little, indifferent or no artwork upon their bodies.

What accounted for the change in numbers? Partly it was just one of those things. A cold streak, if you will. But I’m pretty sure that the good ol’ coronavirus was the main reason. Although many stores and offices are open in my area (I live near Philadelphia), the pandemic has harmed business here, as it has everywhere. Decreased demand for goods translates into fewer deliveries. There weren’t as many chances, as a result, for me to cross paths with good-lookers.

Luckily, part of the shortfall was made up by artistic vehicles of the non-delivery type. The Omni Comp car, for example. It belongs to a computer repair store in my town and is used, I assume, by the workers there for service calls. That car is cute as a button, no?

And how about the van owned by Noble Dentistry, whose office is in a town nearby to mine? The van’s greens and blues are oh so dreamy. But why does ND need a van? For mobile dental services? Uh uh. Their website makes no mention of that. I suppose the practice’s owners simply want to have a sharp vehicle parked in front of their building in the hopes of catching the eyes of some potential patients.

My favorite hunk of metal and glass, though, is of the delivery sort. It’s a truck that was delivering Canada Dry beverages to a Wawa food market near my home. As with Noble Dentistry’s van, greens and blues rule on the truck, only much more profoundly and on a significantly larger scale. Man, it was hot as hell on the day I walked around Canada Dry, admiring it from various angles. Its soothing, refreshing facade cooled me down, though that was mostly in my head. In reality, I continued to sweat like a pig.

With that, I’ve come to the end of my commentary. But only for now. I shall resume the narrative when beauty number seven reveals itself to me. Don’t go away!

I’m back! It now is the 21st of July. Two hours ago I returned home from a dental appointment in Philadelphia’s congested Mayfair section. Because traffic was lighter than usual — another consequence of the pandemic — I arrived ten minutes before my appointment time. I parked on one of the neighborhood’s countless rowhouse-filled blocks and silently said something along these lines to myself: “Might as well walk around for a couple of minutes before going to the dental office. There’s a decent chance I’ll spot a sweet vehicle parked on the street.” Turns out there was a 100% chance, for on Frankford Avenue, a shopping mecca, I saw a vision in red and white: a Meadow Gold dairy truck that was making a delivery to one of the stores nearby. It’s a great beauty, colorful and wonderfully designed. But I still have to go with the Canada Dry truck as my favorite, because of the loving way in which its greens and blues resonate with me. Meadow Gold, you are a real close second.

Naturally, I snapped Meadow Gold’s picture and gave deep thanks to the WordPress gods for looking out for me. They wanted me to bring this story to a satisfactory conclusion, of that I have no doubt.

Well, that’s about it. As I do with all of my stories, though, I’ll let this one marinate for a few days and tinker with it compulsively. Thanks for reading. Please don’t be shy about letting me know which vehicles you like the best, or about anything else. Goodbye till next time!

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.)

Colors, Colors, Colors!

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Colors, colors, colors! I’m in the mood to write about colors — big, bold combinations of them — and to look at those combos in the eight photographs that decorate this article. Who, after all, doesn’t like snazzy hues that are having a ball playing together? They can make your day.

Manhattan, New York City
Philadelphia Flower Show (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

And before I go any further, I have to say that the pictures, all of which I took in recent years, send tingles from my head to my toes. But wait, I’m exaggerating. The truth is that the tingles don’t come close to reaching my toes. Due to my advanced age, the best they can do is terminate one foot above my groin, where they paddle around for a second or two and then go poof! Shit, such is life.

Abington, Pennsylvania
Cape Cod, Massachusetts

Where was I? Yeah, I’m a sucker for vibrant color displays. Always have been. Like just about everybody, for instance, I’ve dug fireworks for almost as long as I can remember. Circa 1954, when I was very young and living in Brooklyn, my parents took me to the roof of a tall apartment building on our block. There, along with a bunch of other families, we watched fireworks exploding in the skies above the Atlantic Ocean near Coney Island Beach. The fireworks were several miles away from where we stood, appearing small at that distance, of course, but I found them groovy. Colors, colors, colors.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

And in my adulthood, which has been a work in progress for over 50 years, my admiration of fireworks has done nothing but grow. I always get close to the displays, as I like having the shifting shapes and colors in my face as much as possible. Many communities in the USA, including Philadelphia and various towns surrounding it, set off fireworks on July 4, which is America’s Independence Day. My wife Sandy and I live near Philly and have attended many Fourth Of July shows in that city or in its burbs.

What’s more, for a long time Philadelphia has gone one step further by ushering in each New Year with fireworks on the city’s Delaware River waterfront. Sandy and I love those shows too. As long as the outside temperature isn’t an ass-freezer, we go. The fireworks photo included with this story was snapped in Philly on the final evening of 2019. Right, we didn’t freeze our asses off.

Cape Cinema (Cape Cod, Massachusetts)

The other photograph that I’ll expend some words on is the one from Cape Cinema, a movie theater in the Massachusetts town of Dennis, on Cape Cod. My wife and I have vacationed almost annually on Cape Cod since 1998. And Cape Cinema has become one of our must-go-to entertainment venues. It shows good movies. And, incredibly, it is blessed with a swirling, otherworldly artwork that covers every inch of its auditorium’s ceiling and much of the auditorium’s walls.

Is there another theater in the world such as this? If so, I’m unaware of it. Created by Rockwell Kent and Jo Mielziner in 1930, the enormous mural (which was painted on canvas strips that then were glued to the interior surfaces) blows my mind every time I see it. Which is often, because I’ve been to this theater at least 35 times. The mural depicts mythological creatures and heavenly objects, but the subject matter hardly matters to me. No, what I’m interested in is allowing the feast of colors and patterns to intoxicate me, which they always do. I get lost in them. Cape Cinema is magical.

Edinburgh, Scotland

Yet, here’s the thing: As much as I love to be around color extravaganzas, there are limits to how often. Lengthy exposures to them on a regular basis (or to any forms of excitement, come to think of it) would cause my system to overload, to beg for mercy. Of that I have no doubt.

And so, if I were forced to make a choice, color-wise, between flash on the one hand and mellowness on the other, the latter would win hands down. To cite an example of mellowness, there’s almost nothing I’d rather do than stand, facing the water, on a sandy ocean coastline on a clear day. Hundreds of times I’ve done exactly that, drenching myself in the tans below me, the teals in front of me, and the great expanse of baby blue overhead. The palette in such a setting soothes, man, soothes. No, I wouldn’t be pleased about eliminating bouncy, bright color schemes from my life, but I would if I had to. I have a feeling that most people would choose the same as me.

Thank goodness that none of us has to make that choice, though. There’s a vast number of colors out there. And there’s a time and a place for each of them. Say hallelujah, girls and boys! Amen.

(Comments are welcomed, as is the sharing of this article. Mucho gracias.)

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

Looking For Signs While Walking Around On A Sunny Morning

It will come as no surprise to some of you when I mention that for several years I have been turning out shitloads of written product that revolve around my taking walks in one locale or another. The present opus is yet another example of same. When, moaning and groaning and writhing, I birthed this website five years ago, I wouldn’t have guessed that essays along that line eventually would become my go-to form of expression. But that’s what has occurred, and I’m down with it. I mean, I like walking around while examining my surroundings. Always have. But I didn’t consciously realize it all too much until this publication began finding its comfort level. And so, I tip my hat to the writing process, because it has helped to give me a halfway-decent sense of who I actually am. And who is that, you ask? Don’t ask!

There I was, then, on Thursday the 9th of April, sauntering along the long stretch of blocks that comprises most of Hatboro’s business district. (Hatboro, an old-fashioned-looking town, of which there are way too few in my region, is two miles from Willow Grove, the non-descript burg that I call home. Both Hatboro and Willow Grove are in the suburbs near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA.)

I arrived in Hatboro at about 10:30 AM and departed 45 minutes later. The skies were as blue as blue can be, the temperature was mild, and a sweet breeze caressed my cheeks and those of the people that I saw. Due to the coronavirus situation, those people were few in number, and all stores in Hatboro (and throughout much of Pennsylvania) were shuttered, except for those of the sorts deemed essential by Pennsylvania’s governor. Thus, a hardware store, a pharmacy, ten or so food purveyors, and a handful of others were open for business. As for that sweet breeze, even though everyone was keeping plenty of distance between one another, hopefully it wasn’t blowing any coronavirus microbes into anyone’s eyes or mouths. But hey, I’m not here today to dwell upon coronavirus. No further mention of that demon shall I make herein.

On my person was my trusty iPhone. What, like I’d go anywhere without it? (Well, maybe to take a crap, but that’s about it.) For one thing, the phone’s camera is essential to my journalistic endeavors. And what I had in mind to do with the camera was to point it at store, street and traffic signs, and at whatever other signs caught my eye. I enjoy signs, you see. Even though I’d been in Hatboro many dozens of times over the years, I wasn’t sure what the outcome of my plan would be, as I hadn’t paid extensive attention before to the state of affairs of the town’s signage.

I needn’t have worried. From the get-go I found sign after sign that interested me. Some for their colors. Some for their designs. Some for their whimsicality. Some for the jaunty ways in which they interacted with other signs in their vicinity.

In other words, I damn well dug the time that I spent wandering Hatboro’s streets.

Unexpectedly, little was playing in my mind as I kept placing one foot in front of the other, so focused was I on the mission. I wasn’t contemplating the meaning of life. I wasn’t thinking about what other activities I’d fill up the rest of the day with. And I wasn’t analyzing the importance of signs. But, as I realized when I began to gather my thoughts for this essay, signs are important as hell. They provide all sorts of information, and succinctly. We’d be lost without them, would have little clue about what’s going on. Man, signs are essential to human society, don’t you think? Yup, that’s why there are so many signs in Hatboro, just as there are in every town and city. We’re builders, creators, doers. And the oceans of signs in the world prove, reflect and add to that.

Okay, I’m just about signed-out. It’s time for me to have a nice big glass of milk and some warm chocolate chip cookies, and take my afternoon nap. I can hear my sofa calling me. “Lie down, you creaky geezer, lie down,” it’s cooing. “You need your beauty rest. Only problem is, you ain’t got any beauty left. Tough crap. Such is life!”

Thanks for joining me on my passage through Hatboro, girls and boys, and for gazing at a selection of the photos that I took there. By the way, seeing that I usually mention several things at the ends of my stories, I might as well mention them again. Namely, please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this article. And if you click on any photo, a larger image will open in a separate window. Till next time!

Tomatoes, Beer And The Kominsky Method: A Sexy Story

Over the phone I could feel my editor Edgar Reewright’s blood pressure galloping towards very unhealthy levels. I could sense that the veins in his forehead were bulging more than his famously small pecker ever has. And, almost needless to say, I heard him roar loud and clear.

What the hell’s wrong with you, Neil?” Edgar screamed at me. “Why do you keep doing this? Is it so hard to come up with story ideas whose components go together like hats and gloves? It isn’t. In fact, it should be easy!”

“Neil, an essay about tomatoes, beer and The Kominsky Method just won’t cut it. They’ve got nothing in common, and I say that even though I don’t have a clue about who or what Kominsky is. If you want to write this story, then write it. But edit it yourself. Oh, where did I go wrong to end up with you as a client? If you weren’t a reliable source of income I’d drop you faster than my first three wives dumped me!”

“For crying out loud, Edgar, calm down,” I said. “What’s wrong with this story idea? The answer is nothing. I like writing about things that give me a buzz, and this story will be about the ones that have excited me the most lately. Not only that, somewhere in the piece I’ll ask the readers to let me know what’s been ringing their bells. They’re a discerning lot and will help to expand my horizons.”

“Horizons, huh?” Edgar snickered. “You’re old, Neil, remember? Your horizons are too stiff and achy to expand more than an inch.”

“Maybe so, Edgar,” I said, “but that inch is more than your famously small pecker is capable of expanding.” Edgar didn’t respond to that cutting remark.

“Hear me out, Edgar,” I continued a few moments later. “Let’s start with tomatoes. Have you ever tasted little yellow ones? I never paid any attention to them until a few months ago, when they caught my eye at the supermarket. Now I’m hooked on them. “Comets” is the brand name of the ones I buy, and they’re damn fine. Sweet as sugar, with just the right amount of tang. They make any salad better.”

Edgar didn’t say a word.

“And how about the beers that Magic Hat Brewing Company, in Vermont, turns out?” I continued. “Magic is right. The brewers there are magicians, Edgar. Magicians! I have two Magic Hat variety packs at home. And every one of the brews in those boxes is absolutely delicious. I’ve been drinking their beers for years, but didn’t know about the vastness of the Magic Hat repertoire until the variety packs entered my life not long ago. That brewery rules!”

Once again, Edgar remained silent. What was wrong?

“Edgar, this conversation isn’t going well, so I think we should say our goodbyes soon. Then I’ll start writing the story. But I can’t leave without recommending The Kominsky Method to you. It’s a television series, a comedy/drama done charmingly and with a sharp wit. Netflix carries it. Edgar, I don’t turn on the TV too often, so I’m glad I decided to give Kominsky a try. Do you like Michael Douglas and Alan Arkin? I do. They’re the leads in the show and are fabulous. So is everyone else in the cast. Watching Douglas and Arkin try to deal with the slings and arrows that life throws at them in their old age is a blast, and touching too.”

I paused. Then I said, “Edgar, you haven’t talked in three minutes. I don’t hear you breathing. Speak to me, Edgar. Speak to me! Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Edgar, sounding sad, said ten seconds later. “I heard you talking all along, but nothing registered. I was deep in thought. Neil, how do you know about the size of my manhood? I thought that nobody knows except for my wife Loretta and my three exes.”

“Edgar, you’re kidding me, right? Everybody has heard about your short sword. Your third ex-wife went into all the details in a post on her Facebook page last week. She mocked you real good. In no time the article took off. You’re famous, Edgar. Maybe you don’t want to be, but you are.”

What? I’m going to sue her. I’ll have my day in court. I’ll tell the world that size isn’t everything. It’s quality that counts, Neil, not length! Quality is my middle name, in bed and, as you know, as an editor. I’ve got to go now. Good luck with your story. You’re on your own with it. Hopefully your next idea will be better than this one.”

Just before Edgar pressed the red button on his cell phone to end our call, I heard him yelling to his wife: “Loretta, I’ve been defamed! I need top-tier representation. What’s that lawyer’s name? You know who I mean. He used to star in porno films before he went to law school and became an attorney. Wait, I’ve got it. Big Dick Johnson! Please get him on the phone for me!”

(What’s been ringing your bells lately? Comments about that, and about Edgar or anything else, are welcomed. Ditto for sharing this story.)

A Springtime Walk To Try And Take My Mind Off Of Things

I’ve been doing a little of this and a little of that of late, most of it nothing to write home about. You see, my routine has been thrown way off as a result of coronavirus. Yours probably has been too. Due to that health catastrophe, my volunteer jobs have been suspended and the places I like to hang out in — restaurants, movie theaters, music venues, to give some examples — have closed their doors, leaving me with shitloads more time on my hands than I’m used to. I’ve yet to use that time productively.

But my situation counts as absolutely nothing compared with the state of affairs worldwide. Tens of millions suddenly are without paychecks. Countless businesses and institutions very well might collapse. And people are succumbing in scary numbers to coronavirus. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. I have a sinking feeling. And when I say sinking, I mean sinking.

What will become of us? To try and protect ourselves, and to try and contain the virus, we stay in our homes as much as possible, practice social distancing when we leave the house, wash our hands numerous times each day, and use antiseptic wipes on potentially-suspect objects and surfaces. But, looking at the big picture, will any of that make much difference ultimately if an effective vaccine and/or other effective medical treatment isn’t developed in the very foreseeable future? Or if coronavirus doesn’t peter out on its own? I’m normally a fairly optimistic guy, but my answer is no. After all, in the twinkling of an eye, life as we know it has been turned on end. And right now there’s no reason to think that things won’t disintegrate far more than they already have.

“Yo, Neil,” I hear at least a couple of you yelling, “you’re bumming us the f*ck out! That’s enough, partner. Knock it off!”

I hear you, believe me. I’ve been bumming myself the f*ck out too, and for quite a while, as you can tell. Which is why, when I went for a walk on March 21 to try and take my mind off the current state of affairs, I had a potentially uplifting purpose in mind. The night before, driving home after buying take-out food from a restaurant, I’d noticed that some flowering trees around the corner from my house had burst into color. Thus, my plan on the 21st was to check out the flora in my suburban Philadelphia neighborhood and also in a neighborhood of a nearby, bordering township.

Now, walking is one part of what-had-been-my-routine that the coronavirus calamity hasn’t disrupted. Since early January, for personal health reasons, I’ve been hitting the pavement, in one locale or another, four or five times each week. Thirty minutes or more each session. That’s the most exercise I’ve gotten in years. And, knock on wood, so far I’ve enjoyed the regimen more than I’d have guessed I would.

Anyway, I embarked on the trek at about 1:30 PM. The skies gleamed, their blues a welcome sight for eyes in need of perking up. As I figured would be the case, green leaves hadn’t sprouted anywhere, though budding was in progress. Green’s domination over the browns of winter was another week or two away from taking place.

But, damn straight, some flowering trees were doing their thing, and that made a big difference. We’re talking magnolia and cherry trees, I think, and maybe a pear tree of one sort or another (I wouldn’t bet my life on those statements though, because I’m almost as dumb as dirt when it comes to identifying flora). Whatever, although the flowering tree performance normally doesn’t begin till early April or later, the milder-than-average temperatures that we’d had in the winter months pushed up the schedule. I let the trees’ pink, red and white petals grab me. The colors felt pretty good.

Other splashes of springtime colors were around. I spotted a few azaleas showing off their purple plumage. Forsythia bushes, which had opened in my region two weeks prior, looked damn fine in their mustard yellow. And the smattering of ground-level flowers on the properties brightened things up a bit too, especially the patch of small, yellow wildflowers in one yard.

What really struck me though, in this time of coronavirus precautions, was that I saw far more people than I’d expected to, which gave the afternoon a sense of normalcy. For instance: a father with his two young daughters, all on bikes; two middle-aged guys shooting hoops with a kid on a sidewalk basketball set-up; people sitting in their yards; four or five ambitious sorts hammering and sawing away, in their driveways or garages, at one project or another.

All told, at least 40 people crossed my field of vision during the hour I spent wandering around. I exchanged hellos with a bunch of them. None of them, or me, was doing anything that, virus-wise, might be problematic. That’s what medical people say, anyway. It’s okay to be outside, according to the experts, as long as you keep your distance from others.

And so, I recorded another entry in my Book Of Walks. The excursion was a good one. As spring progresses, the walks, I believe, will become even better. Lots more flowering trees and shrubs to gaze at. Lots more colors to absorb. Hats off to all of that.

(Comments are welcomed. Ditto for sharing this article.)

A Coronavirus And Philadelphia Flower Show Story

These are tough times. I’ll mention but three of many calamitous situations: War, raging in Syria and Yemen, has displaced millions of people from their homes and homelands. Ocean levels are on the rise as a result of melting Arctic and Antarctic glaciers and ice shelves. And coronavirus, emerging like a demon from a dark, dark corner, is throwing mankind into a tailspin. The virus is the story, so far anyway, of 2020.

Most of us might be fortunate and not contract coronavirus. But how can we not pay attention to it and worry about it? We can’t. As I began to compose this essay on March 11, I relived the conversations I’d had with the ten relatives and friends that I’d spent time with in the six days before that date. Coronavirus was, and remains, heavy on their minds. And on mine too. How far will this renegade spread? Just how deadly might it become? Will an effective vaccine or other treatment be developed, and if so, when? Will coronavirus mutate into other strains that will raise the human condition’s havoc level to even higher heights?

Before March 11, the virus hadn’t infiltrated my region too much (I live near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA), or so it was thought. How quickly things have changed since then, though. As of this article’s publication date (March 16), there are many confirmed cases of coronavirus in Pennsylvania. And, as we all know, numerous national and local governments, worldwide, have increased restrictions on travel, and have ordered schools and certain businesses and other organizations to close until further notice (this is true for my region). Much of the same has occurred via voluntary restrictions and closures too.

As a result, over the last few days my wife Sandy and I have made big adjustments in regard to what we do and don’t do. So, it’s sobering to think that until recently pretty much everyone around here was living life fairly normally — the population was aware of the virus, but was only starting to act cautiously. Sandy and I certainly weren’t exercising a whole lot of caution when, on March 6, we boarded a train in our suburban town and rode it into the heart of central Philadelphia. A short walk away was the Pennsylvania Convention Center, a huge-as-hell structure that for nine days this month was home to the Philadelphia Flower Show. We bought tickets for the show at one of the Center’s box offices and entered the exhibition hall.

The Philadelphia Flower Show is an annual, world-famous event. It began modestly in 1829 as a project of the Philadelphia Horticultural Society and has become, by far, PHS’s most noted endeavor. Millions of people have taken it in over the years. Now, I’ve lived in or near Philadelphia since the mid-1970s and have been aware of the Flower Show all of that time. But I didn’t give a shit about it, and never went. Until a few years ago, that is. “What the hell, let’s go to the Flower Show,” I said to Sandy in 2016, and we did. We liked it. We returned in 2018, took 2019 off, and decided two weeks ago not to extend that non-attendance streak to two consecutive years.

One of the reasons that I didn’t give a shit about the Flower Show is that I wasn’t keen on looking at exhibit after exhibit of flowers. If I had investigated what the show really is about, though, I’d have discovered that it features all sorts of flora, not just flowers, and often replicates natural and man-made landscapes and waterscapes too. Hell, I’m down with all of that, so I should have given the Flower Show a shot way before I eventually did. I don’t live and learn all that often, but in this case it happened.

Almost needless to say, I found the 2020 version of the show to be absolutely a-ok. As did Sandy. Each year the Flower Show is centered around a theme, and this year’s was Riviera Holiday. Meaning, displays inspired by Mediterranean life in Spain, France, Monaco and Italy took up much of the hall (horticultural-competition areas and booths selling this, that and the other thing grabbed the rest of the floor space).

The themed section, filled with movie-set-like constructions, was where I spent most of my time. The gardens, some formal, some not, were lovely. As was a villa, and a modest cottage beside which a motor scooter was stationed, and the whimsical, color-drenched representations of Italian fishermen’s houses.

I dug the recreation of the Princess Grace Rose Garden. The original garden is in Monaco, the itsy-bitsy nation where, in 1956, the actress Grace Kelly became a princess by marrying Monaco’s Prince Rainier. A mannequin, clothed in a copy of Kelly’s wedding gown, stood in the garden. Grace, I’m sure, would have approved of the tribute.

Yes, the Flower Show had atmosphere. It brought me back to 1977, the only time I was on the Mediterranean coast. I spent six weeks in Europe in the spring of that year, travelling solo, before returning to a job in Philadelphia that I foolishly had quit two years before. One of those weeks was passed in southern France and in Monaco. A very good week it was. And the Flower Show gave me the urge to return, this time with Sandy. But the coronavirus situation will have to be under control before we step onto a plane. And who knows when that will be?

The crowds at the Flower Show on the day we attended were noticeably smaller than those we encountered in 2016 and 2018. One of our friends, a Flower Show aficionado, went twice this year. She told Sandy that attendance was less than usual on the days she visited too. Part of the shrinkage was due I’m sure to the hefty ticket price increases that PHS instituted in 2020. But the main factor, I’m also sure, was the threat of coronavirus posed by being in crowds.

That threat was understood on March 6 in my area, but nowhere near as well as it is understood today. That’s why the Philadelphia Flower Show was lucky, in a sense, that it was able to complete its run (last week, government mandates in Philadelphia and throughout Pennsylvania banned large events such as the Flower Show.) On the other hand, it’s more than possible that some amount of virus transmission took place at the show. And that truly sucks.

Coronavirus ain’t playing. It already has killed thousands. And its course is unpredictable. Hang on tight as best you can, girls and boys.

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. And if you’re in the mood for sharing this article, go for it! I thank you.)

(The photos, duh, are from the 2020 Philadelphia Flower Show. If you click on any photo, a larger image will open.)

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.)

Here We Go Again: Art On Wheels, Part Five

My editor, Edgar Reewright, wasn’t pleased when I told him last week that my next story, which in fact is the one you’re now reading, would comprise observations garnered and photos taken in my pursuit of nicely decorated motor vehicles.

“Edgar,” I said to him over the phone, “you know that I get a kick out of photographing these bad boys, and maybe an even bigger kick from writing about the photo shoots. What can I say? It’s what I do.”

“Well, Neil, editing your attempts at writing is what I do. And I don’t want to deal with yet another of your Art On Wheels efforts. You’ve done four of them already. That’s more than enough. Believe me, nobody has been praying that you’d turn out a fifth. Neil, if you insist on going ahead with Part Five, then you’re on your own until you come to your senses.”

Being more than somewhat of an asshole, Edgar then hung up. Screw him! Who needs an editor anyway? Well, I sure do, come to think of it. But if this story has to be editor-less, so be it. I’ll bring Edgar back on board after I launch Part Five into cyberspace. He may not be a fan of my journalistic output, but he damn well is in favor of the monies I pay him for his expertise.

Yup, I surely enjoy an occasional quest for trucks and other vehicles whose bodies are artistically painted canvases that advertise goods or services. What’s surprising is that relatively few commercial vehicles, maybe one out of 10, fit that bill. The rest are either very plain Janes or are decorated not at all. As for the latter (the totally unadorned ones), more often than not they are monochromatic homages to one shade or another of white. Sure, there’s something to be said for going about your business anonymously. But, vehicularly-speaking, I prefer a nice amount or more of splash.

Parts one through four of this series (which you can read by clicking here and here and here and here) describe expeditions in my immediate area (I live near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA). Each adventure was confined to one day, a day in which I spent a few hours trolling shopping centers, strip malls and wherever else I could safely and slowly drive my car. When I found my prey, I parked the car, exited from it, and documented with my phone’s camera the vehicle(s) that had caught my eye.

This time around, though, I took a different approach, which began on the first of this month while my wife and I were visiting The Big Apple. That evening, walking to Penn Station to catch a train that would take us part of the way home, we passed a trippy wonder of a truck that sold cannabis-infused sweet stuffs. Weed World Candies was painted in nearly every gleeful color under the Sun. Natch, I had to take its picture.

The idea for Part Five began to solidify in my mind at that moment. No need this time around to snap the photos in one day. And no need, necessarily, to troll in a car. Three days later, therefore, I wandered around my home area on foot, and found four victims that met my standards. But, lazy guy that inherently I am, I used my car the day after that to locate more artsy examples. The pictures of all the vehicles that passed muster on the various photo shoots are on this page, but in no particular order.

So, what do you think about the trucks and the one SUV (Kremp Florist)? Me, I’ve got to rate the cannabis truck as number one. It probably is as sharp as any example of art on wheels that I’ve ever seen. And my pick for second best is the Sysco truck. Its blues are calming, its message one of graciousness and welcome. The third-place prize? I grant it to the Trotter Services truck. The precise, hard-edged design, though severe, is oh so modern to my eyes.

By the way, when I was about 80 feet from Sysco, which was partially obscured from my view by plantings, I heard what I assumed was the opening or closing of the truck’s rear door. Not knowing which direction the door was moving, and not wanting to wait to find out, I quickly took up position behind some bushes, enlarged the truck’s image on the phone’s screen, and pressed the button. Man, I was lucky to get the shot. In the photo, that’s the driver only seconds away from climbing into the vehicle and taking off.

I tell you, the writing game can bring surprises. The longer you’re at it, the more likely your true nature and inclinations will emerge, not only in words and story lines but in real life. When I began this publication in 2015, never would I have expected that I’d be tracking down good looking vehicles, and liking it. I confidently say that, assuming I remain above ground for the foreseeable future, there will be another installment of Art On Wheels, Edgar Reewright notwithstanding. What, like I’ve got something better to do? As I’ve noted in my articles numerous times before, I’m an old f*cker. Humor me.

(As I almost always mention, please don’t be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this piece. I thank you.)

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