Photography

Which Of These Do You Like Best? (Art On Wheels, Part Sixteen)

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

In my late 20s, I moved to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA for employment reasons. I knew little about the city when I deposited myself there, but almost immediately developed a fondness for my new home. I liked the very old buildings that heavily populated, and still populate, many neighborhoods. And I liked the city’s parks, museums, music venues, record stores, and movie theaters. Hell, there wasn’t much about Philadelphia I didn’t like. And now, approximately 50 years later, my admiration for The City Of Brotherly Love is on an even higher plane than it was during my newbie days. That’s because, to cite a few factors, its restaurant scene has become world-class, its cultural offerings have expanded, and various parts of town have changed for the better.

I lived in Philadelphia for the first 30 of those 50 years. But then, for reasons we maybe didn’t think through properly, my wife Sandy and I made the “leap” to the burbs.  The burbs are okay, but I sure as shit ain’t in love with them. It’s a good thing that Philadelphia isn’t far away, for I can’t resist its call. I pay the city a visit two to five times each month, chowing down and drinking in taverns and restaurants, taking long walks, attending concerts, going to museums, etc., etc. There’s absolutely no doubt I’ll be a Philly aficionado till the day I no longer qualify for inclusion in the Among The Living category.

All of the above is a longwinded lead-up to a recounting of one of my recent adventures in the city I know better than any other. That activity took place two Fridays ago, a day that boasted clear skies and reasonable temperatures. I arrived in downtown Philadelphia in late morning, via the train I’d boarded in my little town. I was in the city to search for and photograph excellently decorated trucks, vans, buses, and other objects mounted on wheels. (“Huh? You were there to do what? Neil, you truly are a f*cking oddball,” I just heard one of this publication’s readers mutter. Oh yeah? Well, I’ll let that possibly inaccurate remark slide.) And so, after emerging from the train station I spent two and a half hours pounding the pavement in central and near-to-central sections of the city. And I met with good success, the result of which is the story you’re now reading. Namely, the sixteenth installment of Art On Wheels, a series I began eight years ago.

On the day in question, I snapped portraits of 18 wheeled objects, which very well might be my personal high. Following post-trek examinations of the photographs, I’ve selected six specimens that ring my bell loudly. I’d have included a certain Philadelphia tour bus and a certain food-supply truck among the six were it not for the fact that, as I later discovered, their images appear in previous editions of Art On Wheels. My half dozen choices are displayed on this page.

Which of them do you like best? My two favorites are the halal food cart and the Windstar bus. The food cart is an eye-popper, no? So many colors. Such vibrancy. I spotted it at the corner of 9th and Chestnut Streets, three blocks west of Philadelphia’s famed and historic Independence Hall. If I’d had any sense, I would have placed an order at the cart. I’m sure its offerings are delicious.

As I snapped its picture, the Windstar bus (Windstar is a charter bus company) was turning from Chestnut Street, where a few seconds earlier it had glided past Independence Hall, onto Fifth Street. I liked its artwork but wasn’t knocked out by it. However, when examining the Windstar photo on subsequent days, I found myself increasingly admiring the simplicity of the vehicle’s painted design and the way the undulating red and blue lines seem to imply that fun-filled, free-flowing times lie ahead. Windstar, I now am under your spell. I award you my top vote.

Well, folks, that’s a wrap. Thanks for reading this opus. Let me remind you to mind your Ps and Qs. And please don’t let the bed bugs bite. Till next time!

A Red-Themed Tale

Yeah, Another Blogger160 Comments

A not-so-fun fact: Outdoors, I almost always melt like butter when it’s hot and humid and the Sun is relentlessly glaring. This has been true for quite a few years, though I melt quicker now than ever before. None of this is surprising, because, as I’ve often noted on this publication’s pages, I’m old as hell and not improving with age.

Which brings us to Monday morning of last week. When I stepped out at 7:45 to retrieve the newspaper that had been tossed on my driveway (my wife and I subscribe to The Philadelphia Inquirer), I was stunned by the heat, the heaviness of the air, and also by the Sun’s intense brightness. Any thoughts that I might have had about doing yard work at some point during the day immediately disappeared. Man, we are in the middle of what has been a very tough summer here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA.

However, two and a half hours later, feeling restless, I decided to get out of the house. And being one who attempts to keep his cardiovascular system in proper running order, I wanted to exercise too, something I hadn’t done in two or three days. But where and how? Well, as had been the case many times before, I turned to a local resource: the three-level, air-conditioned shopping mall (Willow Grove Park) within walking distance of my home. I didn’t walk to it, of course, as succumbing to sunstroke and/or heat exhaustion wasn’t part of my plans for the day. So, I hopped, figuratively speaking, into my car and drove there. And spent the next 40 minutes moving my legs at a pretty good clip upon the gigantic structure’s floors.

I was in a bit of a blue mood when I arrived at the mall, thanks to a couple of personal worries simmering in the back of my mind. Figuring that a themed walk through the complex might raise my spirits, I came up with the idea to seek out (and photograph) those establishments whose business-name signs were illuminated in red. Though I think of red as the most eye-catching color for advertising purposes, there were fewer such signs than I expected. I counted nine, though maybe I missed one or two. Anyway, I grabbed pictures of the nine and have placed three of the photos within this story.

Here’s the thing: The themed trek did not lessen my blue mood. Actually, it upped it a little, largely because there weren’t a heck of a lot of shoppers in the mall. The lack of human vibrancy chilled the atmosphere and made me more aware than I would have been of the mall’s vacant spaces and of the several stores that, though fully stocked, had not opened for the day. Willow Grove Park once was a thriving place of business. But thriving hasn’t fit its description in a long while, certainly not since Covid descended upon Planet Earth in 2020. Is the mall doomed? It might be. I’ve read that its ownership group has had significant financial issues. What a potentially sad situation. If the mall goes under, hundreds of people will be out of work.

Let me be the first to say that, without a shadow of a doubt, the red-sign pics in this article are dull as f*cking dishwater. Meaning, it now is incumbent upon me to add something that’s red-related and also deliciously lively. What instantly comes to mind is one of my favorite songs by the insanely talented Prince Rogers Nelson, the guy known simply as Prince, who left us in 2016 at age 57. The world would be a better place were he still among the living. And so, I present to you Little Red Corvette, a magnificent rocker about a one-night stand. The recording (which Prince made with his band, The Revolution) came out in 1982 and in no time was shaking the world mightily. It is great.

A Cloudy Walk And A Rousing Novel

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

A half hour shy of noon a few weeks ago, in need of some exercise, I raised my bony ass off the living room sofa, exited my house and took a walk around my suburban neighborhood. It was a hot and humid summer day, the type that normally causes me to spew sweat like a volcano. I guess the dermatology gods took pity on me, though, for my wrinkled skin became only mildly moist during the stroll.

I usually don’t spend a lot of time looking upward when I’m outside, not in daylight nor when the skies are black. Pretty foolish of me, because, obviously, the heavens are incredible. But, on the day in question I decided to alter that orientation by examining the clouds filling much of the sky. They were of two sorts, some of them bright and friendly and perfect partners for the sky’s blue areas, the others darkened and signaling that rain, which ultimately never arrived, might be a-comin’.

And I also had my eyes on trees, which are fairly abundant in my neighborhood (I live a few miles outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA). It would be cool, I decided, to snap some photos in which cloud-filled skies and trees appeared. But only cloud-filled skies and trees. This turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course, since my neighborhood is jam-packed with houses, utility poles and overhead-utility lines, nearly all of which not only were in the way, but also cursed me out when I told them I wouldn’t include them in the photos. What a bunch of obnoxious bastards! Persevering, I found a fair number of vantage points that allowed me to meet my criteria. I tell you, the life of an amateur photographer ain’t a breeze. On the other hand, just about nobody’s life is a breeze. Hell, that’s life.

Two photos from my mini expedition adorn this essay. I regard them as semi-abstract compositions, the amorphous clouds offset by the tight structure of treetops. I bow before Mother Nature. Her variety of creations is dazzling and just about infinite, yet limited and uncomplicated displays of her wares, such as these, have no trouble awing me. There’s a whole lot to be said for simplicity.

Getting back to life, this month I was swept away by a novel that tells the tale of one David Granger, a 68-year-old American whose adult life has been the opposite of a breeze. Months and months of violent combat in Vietnam jungles in the late 1960s saw to that, not only while he was fighting the Viet Cong, but also every year since then, a decades-long period during which war-induced nightmares have bedeviled his bedtime hours. Granger is the narrator of The Reason You’re Alive, the madcap, profane and humane book by Matthew Quick published in 2017. (Matthew Quick’s best-known novel is The Silver Linings Playbook, which was turned into a movie starring Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper.)

David Granger is a piece of work, an over-the-top character who wears his lengthy list of opinions on his sleeve. A widower, he has an uneasy relationship with his one child (an adult son named Hank), and adores his young granddaughter, Ella. His friendships are pretty plentiful and also profound. And although he possesses a conservative, America-first outlook, he does not meet the definition of a Trumpster, because he is completely accepting of, and admires, the USA’s racial and sexual minorities. A complicated guy, Granger feels compelled to put his story down on paper before it might be too late, seeing that he recently went under the knife for brain cancer, a disease he believes was induced by heavy exposure in Vietnam to the poisonous chemical Agent Orange. Post-surgery, Granger gets it into his head that he should return a valuable object that, under shameful circumstances, he stole from a fellow soldier during the war.

I don’t want to spill too many beans about the plotlines, so I’ll say little more. I will add, however, that the sentences in The Reason You’re Alive barrel along like a high-speed train and pack a punch. Here’s a sample paragraph from the book:

Doctors had sawed through my skull. They had cut out part of my brain. I was still freeballing it in a lime-green fairy gown. I was in a fucking hospital bed, for Christ’s sake, and Hank’s machine-gunning me with entire belts of words just because I didn’t tell him about the surgery until after it was over. I figured, why worry him? We hadn’t been speaking since summer anyway. Ever since we had a blowout at the Phillies game.

See what I mean? Matthew Quick can write. I unhesitatingly recommend The Reason You’re Alive.

Three Pics That Blow My Mind

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

I couldn’t live without my smart phone. Well, that’s an exaggeration. But I’d be a moping and disgruntled geezer were it taken away from me for more than a few days. Man, thinking about that gives me shivers. I’d nearly prefer to contemplate the Apocalypse, which might not be too far off, sad to say, what with far-right-wing motherf*ckers proliferating like rabbits all over the globe.

Okay, back to my phone: I don’t use it as much, or at all, in some of the ways that are crucial to many people. For instance, I send (and receive) text messages, but not to the point that they are coming out of my ears. And I never watch movies or TV shows on the tiny screen. When it comes to surfing the internet, however, I’m addicted and a champ, as I read one thing or another on the phone for two or more hours just about every day. For this activity alone, my phone is essential to me.

And I’m totally in love with the magical device’s camera, a valuable ally. On vacations, I snap away like a mad dog. And I often document gatherings with friends or relatives, and other fun occasions, with a picture or two or more. Hell, just about everybody does all of that, I imagine. It’s a good way to keep memories at hand and to have a running record of the enjoyable parts of our lives.

The publication you’re staring at right now — Yeah, Another Blogger — often is on or not far from my mind when I aim and shoot, for I include photos in quite a few of the pieces I publish. I think of myself as an amateur photographer, I suppose, and get a kick from sharing images with whomever is good enough to read my stories. Seventeen of the approximately 300 photos I’ve taken so far this year have graced Yeah, Another Blogger’s pages already. And three more now are about to make an appearance. I tip my hat to my smart phone for making this possible. Modern technology blows my mind.

Photo was taken in February 2025 in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania

Speaking of which, I chose these three pics because they too blow my mind. They are undoctored photographs of what struck me as almost-hallucinatory scenes. I took the above picture on a cold, grey winter’s day this past February, a couple of blocks from my house in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania, USA. Have tree limbs and branches ever seemed more complex and wiser? I had a feeling they understand the underlying nature of the universe and were trying to find a way to express this knowledge. If they clue me in one day, I’ll let you know, believe me.

Cellar Dog Philadelphia
(Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. April 2025)

Cellar Dog Philadelphia, a cool-as-can-be venue that opened not long ago in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, is the setting for photo number two. Cellar Dog is a bar cum jazz club cum non-electronic games joint (billiards, table shuffleboard and foosball are among the games you can play). My wife Sandy and I were there in April with our pals Cindy and Gene. The jazz quartet we heard that night pleased each of us a lot. And the looks of the place put me in mind of Salvador Dali paintings. To me, the shuffleboard tables appeared to be hanging on for dear life, praying that the bold floor tiles and the dazzling wall wouldn’t decide to catapult them into the heavens.

First Encounter Beach
(Eastham, Cape Cod, Massachusetts. April 2025)

Later in April, Sandy and I, while vacationing on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, found ourselves at Eastham township’s First Encounter Beach. There, we walked upon the wet, rippled sands (known as tidal flats) left exposed by the receding waters of Cape Cod Bay. It was low tide, indeed, and the sky was beginning to turn colors as the Sun dropped toward the horizon. The scene was one of head-spinning beauty, for much of the bay’s waters, via the Moon’s gravitational forces, had been pulled incredibly far from shore. Both Sandy and I felt exhilarated. We were in the right place at the right time.

In conclusion, let me say I wouldn’t want to have my mind blown crazily often. I don’t have the constitution for that. Does anybody? But, for all of my adult life I’ve needed, and have experienced, a steady, slow stream of far-out-ish encounters. That’s the way I’m built. They’ve made my life better.

Which Of These Is Your Favorite? (Art On Wheels, Part Fifteen)

Yeah, Another Blogger165 Comments

When I gave birth to Yeah, Another Blogger in April 2015, I had no idea that two years later I would begin a project that would please the heck out of me and to which I’d return, and write about, time after time. Well, as we all know, life is full of surprises, to say the f*cking least. So, much to my amazement, here I am, about to report on the latest episode — the fifteenth — of said ongoing project: Art On Wheels. And I’m hoping that numerous Art On Wheels adventures await me, taking me, at minimum, into the mid-or-late 2030s. I’ll be jumping for joy if things turn out that way, assuming I’m still among the living. Of course, it would be miraculous if I’m able to bounce even half an inch off the ground at that point, as I’d be pushing or exceeding age 90. Still, half an inch is better than nothing. Or so I’m told.

Here’s the lowdown: Art On Wheels escapades find me searching for beautifully decorated wheeled vehicles, photographing them, and then presenting some of those photos, and my wobbly thoughts, on this publication’s pages. I used to track down my subjects by driving all over the frigging place in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. In recent years, though, I’ve gone into Philadelphia itself, whose streets I explore strictly on foot. I love walking and I love Philadelphia. On the other hand, I don’t love driving and I don’t love Philly’s burbs, even though that’s where I reside. Thus, Art On Wheels has become even more fun for me than it initially was.

Friday, the 18th of April, dawned peacefully, because Donald Trump hadn’t started in on causing further mayhem just yet. At 9:36 AM I boarded a train in my little town and rode it into Philly. I spent the next three hours pounding the pavement in the center of the city and in neighborhoods to its east and north. When I called it quits, I had racked up six miles of walking, a distance that’s near my upper limit of physical capabilities.

The search for worthy subjects bore less fruit than on any of my previous Philadelphia treks. But I found a few beauties, such as an Urban Village Brewing Company van, its exterior illustrated as snazzily as can be, and a Heineken beer truck, which is a vision in green. The design layouts on Sysco and on Philly Greens rang my bell too.

I was impressed the most, however, by a wheeled object that not only brought me up short but also made me realize I’d never before considered including a certain genre of art in Art On Wheels. Namely, sculpture. The beauty in question, a piece of heavy equipment manufactured by the Caterpillar company, was outside the front door, in Philadelphia’s Old City section, of what once housed the Painted Bride Art Center, a world-class presenter of music, dance and theater from the 1970s through the early 2000s. (Painted Bride still exists, in a different part of town, but is a pathetic shadow of its former self. Barely any shows take place at its new location.) Dig the incredible mosaics, by Isaiah Zagar, that cover the vacant building. Man, I went to dozens and dozens of performances in this venue. I miss it a whole lot.

I’m not sure why the Caterpillar product was there, but it absolutely rocks. For one thing, I’m down with the gold and black color scheme. Mainly, though, I’m taken with the heft of the structure and its efficient angularity, which bring to mind a mutant beetle possessing one hell of a giant pincer. This big guy would not be out of place in a museum’s or other institution’s modern-sculpture garden. Do you agree with me that it is #1, or is another of the wheeled constructions your favorite?

As I type this ending paragraph, I’m already looking forward to my next Art On Wheels expedition. Most likely it will take place in autumn of this year. I wouldn’t be surprised if it will be an eye opener, just as this most recent installment, thanks to Caterpillar, proved to be.

Spectacles!

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

I’m not sure when the Northern Lights captured my imagination. Maybe when I was in my 30s. Whatever the case, for a hell of a long time I’ve wanted to see them up close and personal, not just on YouTube videos or on television documentaries. They (and their counterpart, the Southern Lights) can be spectacles of the highest order, as we all know. However, to satisfy this craving I’d have to head to Alaska, Iceland or the like in late autumn or in winter, which is when the light displays generally are at their best. Most likely, that would entail enduring ass-numbing temperatures, something I once would have been okay with but am not at all keen on anymore. So, I have a feeling the craving will go unfulfilled.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts (October 2023)

Well, I can live with that. But I sure wouldn’t want my life to be spectacle-less. Over the last 30 or thereabouts years, I’ve developed a powerful need to be thrilled and awed on a somewhat regular basis by one spectacle or another. By sunsets, for instance, many of which I’ve witnessed during that span. Man, good sunsets are jaw-droppers, right? They are so inspiring and beautiful, you can hardly believe they are real. The same goes, of course, for sunrises. But not many of them have unfolded before my eyes, as I am not a fan of dragging my previously referred-to ass out of the house at ungodly early hours.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts (October 2021)

And I can’t get enough of energized ocean waters, either. Watching and listening to waves develop and roll to shore puts me in a hypnotic sort of state. I engage in this activity frequently on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where my wife Sandy and I have vacationed almost annually since 1998. I purposely overdose on it, in fact, since our permanent home, in Pennsylvania, is nowhere near the ocean. By doing so, the magic of the Cape’s ocean waters stays with me for several months after I’m back home.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (January 1, 2020)

Not every spectacle that rings my bell mightily is Nature-made, though. I’m into fireworks, which, when superior, are a fairly good rival, I suppose, to the Northern and Southern Lights. And in recent years I’ve enjoyed the Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event that, out of ignorance, I pooh-poohed for decades before mending my ways.

Now, I’m not a gardener in any meaningful sense. Sandy and I own a home whose grounds I try to maintain halfway decently. Meaning, I mow, rake and prune — rudimentary tasks — to the best of my limited abilities. But I don’t plant or transplant flora, or nurture them in any way. That’s why I paid no attention whatsoever to the Philadelphia Flower Show (PFS) until 2016, when Sandy and I, kind of just for the heck of it, decided to give the production a whirl. It hooked me immediately, not because I found myself inspired to create flower beds at home or to learn the ins and outs of horticulture, but because it was spectacular. Imaginative installations and wide palettes of colors abounded. I’m proud to say I’ve returned to the flower show five times since my inaugural visit.

Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)

Though not quite as swell as some previous years’ extravaganzas, PFS’s 2025 version, held in a cavernous convention center in downtown Philadelphia, damn well was plenty good enough. Sandy and I visited the multi-day event two weeks ago, exploring the display areas for two hours, at which point we ran out of gas.

Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)
Philadelphia Flower Show (March 2025)

As always, I happily succumbed to the bright colors — of flowers, light installations and other design elements — that filled the hall. They got my juices flowing. And the PFS environment was a welcoming one, too, for, as had been the case on our previous visits, the show attracted a broad spectrum of people. Young and old. Black and white. Mobile and disabled. It felt good to be part of an inclusive community. Inclusion is where it’s at.

More spectacles are on the horizon this year. Flowering trees, magnolias initially, I think, probably will begin to bloom in my area in early April, possibly before then. Is there anyone who doesn’t like their enormous masses of blossoms? Also during spring, Sandy and I will return to Cape Cod. There, ocean waters and unobstructed sunsets, among other natural delights, will be on view. I can barely wait to soak all of this in.

I Don’t Like Winter, But I Liked This Winter Walk

Yeah, Another Blogger166 Comments

In 2023 I penned an essay, Summer Kind Of Sucks, in which I expressed my strong distaste for hot weather. My feelings about the overheated season turned around meaningfully in 2024, however, due to the concerted effort I made to change my mindset. I’m still impressed I was able to accomplish the partial transformation, which found me embracing summer with a fairly warm hug and with an unforced smile on my heavily wrinkled face. I’m hoping to do the same when the temperatures skyrocket later this year. It’s very possible I shall.

But what about the other problematic season? Namely, winter. Here, in southeast Pennsylvania, USA, we’re moving toward the end of what has been, overall, a quite frigid winter, one peppered with numerous but small snowfalls. Have I enjoyed this season at all? Barely, because the days when I loved to frolic in the cold air and snow ended decades ago. Ever since then, I’ve gritted my teeth and slogged through each winter as best I could, staying indoors as much as possible. I’m hardly alone in this. I’m pretty sure that winter enthusiasts make up only a smallish part of the adult population.

And yet, good winter moments can emerge. As they did nine days ago when I ventured outside to take a look at the state of affairs in my suburban neighborhood. Unlike the conditions during previous walks I’d taken there this year, the temperature (45° F/7° C) was totally tolerable. Bundled up as I was, I didn’t get chilled at all.

I had something specific in mind for the hike. And that something was to spend time admiring leafless trees, which tend to be extremely underappreciated. I wanted to photograph them too, planning to aim my phone’s camera carefully in order to avoid having any houses or cars or other distractions enter the scenes.

Off I went at 2:00 PM. Though the onset of budding was visible, nearly all of the deciduous trees I encountered were bare basically, and they stunned me. They looked primeval, and would have appeared even more so in that respect had their backdrop been a grey sky rather than the afternoon’s gorgeous blue one. Their trunks and branches were things of beauty, the former as resolute as prizefighters, many of the latter delicate and poised to dance. And the no-nonsense, medium-to-dark hues of the trees made me concentrate on shapes, patterns, angles and intersections much more than I would have if the trees had been in leaf. What can you say? Mother Nature, as everyone knows, is the artist supreme. No large-scale, man-made sculptures surpass the big, bare fellas I tipped my hat to during the walk.

Now, none of this is to imply I might once again become a fan of winter. Cold weather activities, other than walks, don’t interest me. At my advanced age, I’d undoubtedly break a bone or two, or worse, were I to attempt to perform any winter sports. And, seeing that over the last few years I’ve become more sensitive to the cold than before, I’m averse to spending more than 30 consecutive minutes outdoors in winter anyway, unless the thermometer is nicely above 32° F/0° C. In other words, yours truly does not relish freezing his ass off.

Nonetheless, I’ll enjoy venturing outside occasionally for brief periods in future winters, to take in the wonders of Mother Nature. Assuming I remain above ground, of course. Fingers crossed about that. As for now, I’m looking forward to spring’s arrival. Which, I’m mighty pleased to say, will be soon.

I Have My Favorites, How About You? (Art On Wheels, Part Fourteen)

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

On the final Monday morning of this year’s penultimate month, I boarded a train in my sleepy suburban town. One hour later it deposited me in Jefferson Station, smack in the heart of The City Of Brotherly Love: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. After exiting the station, I walked one block north on 10th Street, entering Chinatown, one of my favorite Philadelphia neighborhoods. My mission — to wander around the city, photographing well-adorned vehicles that cross my path — seemed to be off to an auspicious start, for I soon spotted a magnificently decorated truck, one belonging to the Rosenberger’s dairy company. Whipping out my phone, I took the truck’s picture, figuring there was a good chance it would be the best-looking vehicle I’d see all day.

Well, as it turned out, things slowed down considerably after that. I saw only eight more commendable wheeled objects during the two and a half hours I spent pounding the streets, at least five or six fewer conveyances than I was expecting. What’s more, a look into my blog’s archives two days later showed me that Rosenberger’s, and another top-tier truck I encountered that Monday, had made previous appearances in Art On Wheels installments. My policy is to exclude previously presented vehicles, so those two are outta here. Ouch!  . . . their loss pains me. One day I may need to rethink said policy. In any event, I’ve given some thought to the seven remaining transports, and have chosen the five I favor most. Their photos reside on this page.

Which of the five do you like best? My top picks are Freda Deli Meats (see above) and Office Basics (see below). Freda’s bold colors are balanced carefully. They reach out and grab you, but don’t slap you too hard upside your head or upside any other part of your body. Hell, you’d have grounds for a lawsuit otherwise. And I’m impressed by the asymmetry of the Freda canvas, its righthand portion extending a couple of feet below the rest of the design. That’s a sophisticated touch you don’t see too often on vehicle art.

As for Office Basics, I find myself almost mesmerized by its stoic presence. Its artwork proves that perfectly positioned concise shapes, and a limited palette, are all that’s needed sometimes. I have a hard time choosing between Office Basics and Freda. However, if some motherf*cker were holding a gun to my head and ordering me to make a decision, or else, Office Basics it would be. Sorry, Freda, that’s life.

I’ll say a bit more before being on my way, starting with this: My visit to Philadelphia took me far and wide. By no means was I only in Chinatown. According to my phone’s Health app, I totaled six miles of walking. And I did so with just a couple of brief pauses, so focused was I on trying to locate art that sits above wheels. I tell you, I am extremely thankful that I’m still able to carry on like this, seeing that I’m distressingly close to being old as dirt. My Art On Wheels ventures, and other long walks I indulge in, help to keep my spirits up and fulfill my need for adventure.

Finally, I’ll add that I’m amazed by the unpredictable nature of the Art On Wheels expeditions. I never know what I’ll find around the next corner or on the block straight ahead of me. These jaunts are treasure hunts. They are fun games, and a healthy way in which to spend some hours. I now have done my Art On Wheels thing 14 times, and haven’t begun to tire of it in the least.

Watery Pix Of The Cape

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

During the 11 full days my wife Sandy and I were on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, last month, my right index finger was busier than it normally is. For it is the digit I usually employ to tap the big button on my phone’s camera when I notice a scene I want to immortalize. I snapped 137 photos during that period, which averages out to about 12 per day. That’s a substantial amount of picture-taking, an activity I enjoy. And I thank the stars above for making digital photography, via camera phones, so very easy and so very convenient. If it weren’t, I probably would say f*ck this, and then look for another hobby. Yours truly, you see, likes things to be as simple and problem-free as possible. But enough about that proclivity. Let’s now spend a few minutes with some of my pix from the Cape. All of them are water-based.

I’m not surprised that water features prominently in a significantly high number of the 137 photos, because it was on Cape Cod, which Sandy and I have visited almost annually since 1998, that I fell in love with water. Open, endless waters particularly, and ponds too. I don’t know why this love affair blossomed when I was in my 50s, rather than much earlier in my life, as I spent plenty of time at ponds and lakes and the Atlantic Ocean during my younger days. But people — a category I’m fairly sure I’m a member of — sometimes evolve.

Cape Cod is the area shaped like a flexed arm. The land mass above Buzzard’s Bay is not part of Cape Cod.

Four bodies of water surround Cape Cod. I don’t know squat about one of them, Buzzard’s Bay, because it’s too damn far from where Sandy and I stay on the Cape. On the other hand, I am real good pals with the other three: the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. They are majestic. As many times as I’ve stared out at them, I’ve never tired of their looks and auras. They make my jaw drop even farther than old age already has. If I had to choose a favorite among the three, the Atlantic would get my vote. It’s beyond mega-huge, and one never knows what temperament it will display on any given day.

Mill Pond (Orleans, Cape Cod)
Atlantic Ocean, as seen from Nauset Beach (Orleans, Cape Cod)

I’m continually amazed that our rented house, in Orleans township, is deliciously close to the ocean. A 15-minute walk will take you there. And what a walk! From the house, which is nestled in a wooded area, you stroll two blocks to luscious Mill Pond and then head eastward along Mill Pond’s marsh-grassed edges. Soon you reach low dunes, beyond which lie Nauset Beach and the big fella himself. The Atlantic. Sandy and I trod this route at the very tail end of our trip in October. We were not disappointed. Natural beauty bathed us every step of the way. The ocean was fairly calm that day. We took our time watching it, listening to it, letting the waters soothe our minds. Then we bid farewell to our friend, whom we hope to meet again next year.

During the first few years we vacationed on Cape Cod, Paine’s Creek Beach (in Brewster township) was our favorite vantage point from which to imbibe, figuratively speaking, Cape Cod Bay. Subsequently, we discovered other Cape Cod Bay beaches with exceptional views. But Paine’s Creek Beach remains high on the list.

Cape Cod Bay, as seen from Paine’s Creek Beach (Brewster, Cape Cod)

The scenes at Paine’s Creek Beach last month made us question why we haven’t moved to Cape Cod. The sea grasses poking out of the waters were showing off their autumnal amber hue. And the waters themselves were a dream, as calm and gorgeously blue as anyone could want. There is nothing even remotely close in beauty to Cape Cod Bay in the region we call home (southeast Pennsylvania). Unfortunately.

For one reason or another, we don’t feast our eyes on Nantucket Sound as often as we do on the ocean and Cape Cod Bay. However, I’d been impressed by Chatham township’s Hardings Beach, bordering Nantucket Sound, a bunch of times over the years. And so, after catching a movie (“Saturday Night,” which is super-entertaining) at the cinema in Chatham’s village section, we drove to Hardings Beach to watch a sunset.

A sunset at Nantucket Sound, as seen from Hardings Beach (Chatham, Cape Cod)

Though not a knock-your-socks-off spectacle, the feathery, misty sunset was way better than meh. And, as always, Nantucket Sound captivated us. Massive bodies of water have that kind of power. For two and half decades I’ve been losing myself in the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. I doubt if I’ll ever get my fill of them.

It’s My Kind Of Place (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

Not knowing what to expect, my spouse Sandy and I first visited Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in 1998. We enjoyed the experience enough to return one year later. That second sojourn sealed the deal, and we have vacationed there just about every year since then. We can’t get enough of the Cape’s expansive areas of natural beauty, its arts scene, its wide choice of restaurants, its delightful old villages, and the healthy vibes that permeate the air. By now we’ve spent, I estimate, more than one year’s-worth of days on this 65-mile-long island. We think of it as our second home and in some ways prefer it to our primary home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. We’d possibly move there for keeps if healthcare were as good, or almost as good, on Cape Cod as it is in Greater Philadelphia. But it isn’t.

Last month Sandy and I were Cape-side for 11 days, in a rented house in the township of Orleans. As usual, we were far more active than we are back home in the burbs, devoting about eight hours each day to this, that and the other things. Such as: beach walks; a forest walk; visits to museums and art galleries; moviegoing; theatergoing; chowing-down in restaurants; shopping in and wandering around villages. We played mini golf too, and flew our tattered kite on a stretch of sands beside the Atlantic Ocean. I like playing with our kite, even when the f*cker refuses to stay up in the air for more than two or three minutes at a time, which was the case that day.

One section of Cape Cod always has intrigued me more than any other: the desert on the ocean side of Provincetown and neighboring Truro, the townships comprising the Cape’s farthest reaches. It’s hard to believe that this rugged territory is within walking distance of Provincetown’s famed and cool-as-can-be village. The Cape is full of surprises.

I’d hiked in the wonderland any number of times before, including last year. No way was I not going to explore it again. Not in the mood to risk getting lost in desert sections I was unfamiliar with, I decided to walk to the Atlantic Ocean, sticking to the established sand trail that leads there. (Sandy didn’t join me. She has been in dunesland only once. She found the trek to be too physically demanding, and has no plans to revisit this desert.)

The steep sand hill, near Snail Road, that one must climb to reach open sands.

The access to the trail in question is via a wooded area that abuts Snail Road, in Provincetown.  A ridiculously steep dune partly lies within this wood, and up it one must go in order to reach open sands. In the past I’d had little trouble ascending the dune. Last month, however, I began to huff and puff well before reaching its crest, my thigh and calf muscles not performing as well as I’d expected. What can you say? I was four days shy of my 77th birthday. I sure as shit am not what I used to be, and apparently wasn’t even what I’d been one year prior.

Anyway, after conquering dune number one, I set off for the ocean, about one mile away. The trail, easy to follow because of thousands of footprints in the sands, goes up and down dune upon dune before reaching level ground, after which dunes emerge again. Some of those sand hills are incredibly wide and tall. They’d fit right in on the Moon.

I’ve never been less than awestruck in the Cape desert. This time was no exception. It’s so beautiful out there, so unlike anywhere else on Cape Cod. Amazingly, a tiny number of people live in this demanding land, most of them in shacks, the rest in very modest houses. The abodes have no running water, of course. Maybe some have electric generators . . . I don’t know. In any event, it’s not your average person who chooses to reside in such an environment. I wouldn’t. I like my comforts too much.

The Atlantic Ocean is very nearby. Two dune shacks are in the distance.

Well, eventually I made it to the ocean. Almost to the ocean, that is, as I saw no path leading from my sand-cliff perch to the beach and waters below. Some years ago I’d walked onto the beach easily. Not sure why access is difficult now. I suppose that powerful storms have shifted the sands around, creating barriers. Mother Nature has the last say.

My tank dangerously low on gas, I eventually made my way back to Snail Road, stopping every few minutes to drink some water. It’s a good thing I’d had the sense to bring water with me. Otherwise, I might have collapsed somewhere in the lunar-like landscape and drifted off into eternal sleep. If that had happened, the WordPress gods would have been very disappointed, for they’d recently honored me with their Your Articles Kind Of Suck, But We’ll Let That Slide award. What’s more, I now wouldn’t be looking forward to my next vacation on Cape Cod. Yes indeed, it’s my kind of place.