Walks

Europe 2024, Part One: Paris

Yeah, Another Blogger175 Comments

My spouse Sandy and I hadn’t seen our close friends Alan and Martine in the flesh since vacationing with them in Edinburgh, Scotland in 2019. Post-COVID, the four of us had tried to arrange another reunion, preferably in a locale that would be new to us all. But for one reason or another the plans didn’t get very far.

Well, one day four months ago, Sandy and I, who reside in Pennsylvania, USA, figured the best way to uncomplicate the situation was to visit the married couple on their home turf: Paris, France. And from there, we decided, we’d extend our trip by spending time in Brussels, Belgium, a city we never had set foot in and which by all accounts was appealing.

We made the travel arrangements pretty quickly. The weeks went by. Finally, on the 19th of September we found ourselves with our pals in their beautiful home in one of the world’s greatest cities. We bunked with them for four days, enjoying our time with them immensely, and in their company explored a good bit of Gay Paree. Sandy and I give our Parisian sojourn a rating of 10 out of 10. It absolutely was that good. The subsequent four days spent in Brussels, though, were another matter.  Compared to Paris, which is a significantly magical place, Brussels seemed quite lacking. We had a nice amount of fun there, sure, but rate that leg of the trip only a modest 6.5 out of 10. Alas, you can’t have it all. Not always, anyway. In Paris, however, we did.

Now, though Paris is superb, it’s not perfect, so let’s get a few of the downsides out of the way: Like any big city, parts of town contain an unnerving volume of vehicular traffic. And annoying numbers of people maneuver on the sidewalks of many streets, such as those in the popular area where Alan and Martine reside. Not all of Paris is necessarily worth a tourist’s attention, either, though, to me, the gritty neighborhoods I briefly saw exuded a je ne sais quoi sort of charm nevertheless.

Enough about the negatives. Man, so much of Paris is straight out of a delightful dream: Elegant architecture; the comforting heights of its buildings (Paris is almost skyscraper-free); the parks, museums, bistros and baked goods that far more often than not impress; the sense of history filling the air; and the river Seine, quietly commanding respect as it flows peacefully from west to east through the middle of the city. And that’s just for starters.

I’d been to Paris four times before, three of those visits with my wife, and was fairly familiar with its major attractions, layout and vibes. When Martine (via Facetime a month before the latest get-together) asked me what I might want to do in Paris in September, I left it pretty much up to her and Alan. Except for one thing: I was curious to see what condition Notre- Dame Cathedral is in. A devastating fire, in 2019, destroyed the roof, spire and other upper portions of the church, and caused severe damage elsewhere in the structure. Since then, an intense effort has been under way to restore the medieval icon to its former glory (click here to read an excellent article about the fire and Notre-Dame’s rebirth). The cathedral’s official reopening is scheduled for December of this year, barring complications.

A view of the Louvre museum and its courtyard.
The Seine, as seen from Pont Neuf (New Bridge).

Martine and Alan granted my request. One day after our arrival in Paris, they led Sandy and me on a most-satisfying walk. A couple of minutes after leaving their abode, we strolled through the gardens of Palais-Royale. In no time after that we reached the Louvre, an astonishingly large museum, and its enormous courtyard. The courtyard was mobbed. The Louvre’s galleries probably were too. We walked a few more blocks, then crossed the Seine by way of the Pont Neuf (New Bridge), soon descending a stone staircase to the river walkway. Everything I’d seen so far struck me as picture-postcard-perfect, or damn near close to it. I am not exaggerating.

The river Seine.
Notre Dame Cathedral.

Along the left bank of the Seine we ambled, and after about 10 minutes Notre-Dame came into good view. We climbed up another stone staircase, returning to street level, to see the cathedral properly. Heavy equipment still was on the scene, indicating work remained to be done. However, Notre-Dame looked remarkably healthy all in all. I’m anything but a religious person, yet was relieved and happy that incredible efforts, not to mention nearly a billion euros, had saved one of Paris’s and the world’s most famous creations.

Cafe G.
A section of Luxembourg Garden.
The section of Luxembourg Garden reserved for kids and their caregivers.

But we weren’t done for the day. Our walk continued, taking us through the Latin Quarter (where we stopped for refreshments at the lovely Café G), the sprawling Luxembourg Garden, Place Saint-Sulpice and beyond. I was especially smitten by the area of Luxembourg Garden set aside specifically for young children and their caregivers. It was touching to see little ones at ease and having fun.

Place Saint-Sulpice.
Left to right: Alan, Sandy, Martine.

I could go on and on and on, describing the other activities that filled those four days. But I think you get the picture. It’s not by accident that Paris is one of the most-visited cities on our planet. It’s got what it takes, and more.

Good Friends, A Fine Beach Day, A Rockin’ Song

Yeah, Another Blogger148 Comments

Up until a few weeks ago, the state of Delaware, which shares a border with my home state of Pennsylvania, was foreign territory to me. Even though Delaware is not terribly far from Pennsylvania, where I live, I’d never spent any time in Delaware whatsoever, except to pass through it on visits to Washington D.C., my nation’s capital.

That changed, all to the good, when my wife Sandy and I spent three mid-August days with two good friends of ours, a married couple who own a house in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware. They fed us well, showed us around their town and neighboring areas, and had us bunk down in their guest bedroom, among other acts of kindness. Good friends make life better, right? Just about everyone needs love and companionship, after all. And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no such thing as having too many good friends. The more, the merrier.

Rehobeth Beach, I discovered, not only is the name of a town, it also is the name of a stretch of sands within said town’s borders. That beach, about one mile in length and backed by a boardwalk, is kissed every moment of the day by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. On day two of our visit the skies were clear, the winds were mild, and the mid-day temperatures, though we were in the middle of summer, were far lower than normal. Perfect conditions for a beach encounter. So, to the beach the four of us headed.

We soon were sitting on comfortable beach chairs beneath a huge blue umbrella. Umbrellas abounded on Rehobeth Beach, as did the humans who employed them. A selfish f*cker, I prefer to have beaches more or less all to myself, which is often the case on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where Sandy and I vacation in the off-season nearly every year. You know what, though? I didn’t mind the crowds that day at all. In fact, I grooved on the Rehobeth experience right from the get-go. What was there not to like? I was in fine company, the weather was kind, and a fair number of cute girls were in view. What’s more, Rehobeth brought back nice memories of forever-ago summer days when lying, and sometimes frolicking, on crowded beaches, while slathered with tanning lotion in the hopes of becoming a bronze god, were de rigueur for me.

Sad to say, I didn’t become a bronze god back then, and I sure as hell am not one now. What I am is pale and wrinkled and barely suitable to be seen in public. Nonetheless, those realities didn’t stop me from rising from my chair on two occasions to set off on 40-minute walks on Rehobeth Beach. A boy sometimes has got to stretch his legs and take in the sights.

During the hikes I saw scads of folks standing or splashing around in the ocean. I watched a few kids burying two of their peers up to their necks in sand, and gazed at a prop plane flying by lazily. It dragged a banner that promoted, of all things, Pennsylvania tourism. And at a far end of the beach, a section that people hadn’t congregated on, a flock of seagulls was impossible to miss. The birds stood almost motionless, but ready, undoubtedly, to pounce on something tasty when they deemed the prospects to be favorable.

All in all, the beach day pleased me just fine. As did the entire mini vacation. Delaware, I still barely know you, but I’m glad to have made your acquaintance.

Seeing that writing this essay has put me in an upbeat mood, I have decided to raise the good-vibes quotient by including a tune I heard the other day. It’s by a young, pretty popular British rock band, The Heavy Heavy. The song is titled Happiness, and it’s from One Of A Kind, which is the group’s brand-new album.

Man, if you’re a lover of the type of rock and roll defined by potent guitar riffs, pounding drums and ecstatic vocals, then Happiness is for you. Ironically, though, the song’s lyrics aren’t all that joyful. But I think The Heavy Heavy, by virtue of the rousing sounds to which the lyrics are put, are implying that a nice amount of happiness is within the band’s reach. Without further ado, here’s Happiness:

Too Much Green?

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

Earlier this month, my wife Sandy and I made our way from our abode in Pennsylvania, USA to a village in the northeast section of New York State. We journeyed there to attend a family reunion at the home of my brother and sister-in-law. Spread out over several days, the event turned out to be as delightful and meaningful as we could have hoped. Most of our close relations, from my side of the family, live far from Sandy and me. So, we don’t see them all that often. Outstandingly, all of them were at the reunion.

The village in question, not far from Canada, is bordered on its eastern side by Lake Champlain. What a beautiful locale. Farmlands and rolling hills abound near the village. And Lake Champlain, enormous, is as pretty as a picture.

The best natural sights we saw during the trip, though, were the Adirondack Mountains, a large section of which we drove through in order to reach our non-mountainous destination, and on the return trip too.  Of medium but not insignificant height (46 of the Adirondack peaks are over 4,000 feet/1,219 meters), they possess an aura of composure and stability. Those qualities aside, what wowed me the most about them were their trees. A mixture of conifers and hardwoods, the trees were so thickly massed. And, it being summer in the northern hemisphere, so green. Man, I’m a suburban/urban guy who doesn’t get to see endless expanses of trees every day. You better believe I was duly impressed.

But . . . leave it to me not to have taken any pictures of the Adirondack greenery. Ditto for Sandy. Sue us! However, all is not lost. For, last week I decided to gaze upon and photograph trees in my suburban neighborhood. The density of trees here is insignificant compared to that of the Adirondacks, of course, but is pretty good for suburbia. Thus, after slathering my arms and beyond-wrinkled face with sunscreen lotion, out the door I went on a hot Monday morning. Over the next 50 minutes I traversed many of my neighborhood’s blocks. And got more than my fix of green.

Now, when it comes to scientific matters, I’m almost as dumb as shit. In fact, if you take away the almost from the previous sentence, you’ll be much closer to the truth. Which is why I had, and still have, no answer as to why the tree leaves I saw that morning showed no signs of drying up, considering how brutal the Sun and temperatures had been in my region for the previous four or more weeks. Mother Nature knows the reasons, of course, but hasn’t been in the mood to share her knowledge with me. Up yours, Mother Nature! (Just kidding, my dear lady, just kidding.)

Yes, green was the color of the day. But after strolling around for a while I began to think that maybe too much green was on view. I mean, green’s dominance in my little corner of the vegetation world was impressive and more than deserving of a salute. However, I grew a bit tired of the sameness as my walk progressed. As a result, I found myself thinking ahead to autumn, when tree leaves put on multi-colored spectacles that never fail to totally knock my socks off. Would I also have tired of Adirondack greenery had I spent more than a limited number of hours in the mountains’ presence a few weeks ago? Likely. What can I say? Green, I like you, but I guess I don’t love you.

I’m not quite finished talking about green, though. That’s because of a song — Bein’ Green — composed by Joe Raposo in 1970 for Sesame Street, a children’s television series. Bein’ Green truly is lovely. Its lyrics and melody tug at your heart. First sung by Kermit The Frog, who is one of Sesame Street’s characters, the tune has become a classic covered by numerous performers.

So, here’s the thing: Kermit is green, which is a prominent color in the frog family. But he wishes he were a more interesting hue, one with more oomph. Well, Kermit then gives the situation some additional thought. And, as he is unusually wise, concludes that he will accept himself for what he is. There’s beauty and worthiness in just about everything, after all.

Who am I to argue with Kermit? If green is totally good enough for him, it is for me too. Green, I apologize for not appreciating you fully. I’ll try to do better!

Art On Wheels, Part Twelve (Thanks, Philadelphia)

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

It had been half a year since I’d hauled my scrawny ass around the streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, searching for handsomely decorated trucks, vans, buses and other wheeled objects. I was itching to track down another bunch of those bad boys, photograph them, and then compose and publish a new installment of Art On Wheels, a series I’ve grown quite fond of. And so, amidst favorable weather conditions, I hopped aboard a train in my suburban burg three Monday mornings ago. One hour later I arrived in downtown Philly. The game was set to begin.

However . . . I didn’t slip into game mode as effortlessly as I’d expected, because, from the start, some of Philadelphia’s many charms began to distract and seduce me more than slightly. For instance, 19th century townhouses as stately as anyone might wish for. Rittenhouse Square, a perfectly designed neighborhood park. Skyscrapers whose glass facades, in daylight, flaunt fabulous reflections.

It almost got to the point where I considered putting Art On Wheels on hold and writing a piece about the magnificence of The City Of Brotherly Love instead. But that wouldn’t do! Hell, I was on a mission, and I needed to see it through. And so, refocusing, I doggedly looked here, there and everywhere for noteworthy vehicles. Even though I didn’t spot quite as many as I’d have liked during the two hours I spent pounding the pavement, I found enough of them to quench my thirst quite thoroughly. In all, I took portraits of 17 specimens. The six that rang my bell more artistically than the others illustrate this article.

Yes, things worked out well in the end, as they always have in Philadelphia. Being a natural-born worrier, though, I had my doubts at times that day, since each Art On Wheels expedition is in fact a bit of a crapshoot. The odds, of course, were in my favor. You’d think that past experience would have proven to me emphatically that more than a few enterprises making deliveries or providing services in Philly want their vehicles to stand out. That’s just good business sense, right? In fact, it’s surprising, when you think about it, that the exteriors of a high percentage of commercial trucks, vans, etc. are pure vanilla. Flair isn’t in their vocabulary, but it sure wouldn’t hurt if it were.

Do you have favorites among the six vehicles pictured in this story? My top three are the ones promoting Junk In The Trunk, Orbit Water, and Budweiser beer (the slogan “official beer of the shift change” is meant to honor hard workers, such as Shayna Raichilson-Zadok, the chef who is proudly pictured).

Choosing among those three isn’t easy. However, I’m going to go with the candidate that makes me the happiest. Namely, Orbit Water. The truck’s artwork is oh so refreshing. And the smiling guy in the design is the epitome of good cheer. He would make an ideal salesperson for almost any product or service. Excepting cemetery plots and colonoscopies, needless to say, and a handful of others. Orbit Water, you are A-OK in my book.

Let me conclude this opus with a sidenote: For several years I’ve been issuing, without fail, a story every other Tuesday (Tuesday in my time zone, that is). However, seeing that Chanukah has begun and will continue for a few more nights, and that Kwanzaa, Christmas and New Year’s Day soon will arrive, this is a good time for me to step back for a short while. Thus, I won’t be publishing on what would have been the next scheduled date (December 26). But, assuming I remain above ground, I’ll return with fresh material on January 9, 2024. Happy New Year, everyone!

A Foggy Afternoon At The Beach (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

Well, the time has arrived for me to add yet another story about Cape Cod to this publication’s contents. And why not? Cape Cod is one of my happy places, as it is for my wife Sandy. We’ve vacationed on the Cape nearly every year since 1998. We feel at home there, at peace. We never get tired of it.

Sixty-five miles in length and surrounded by endless waters on three sides, hook-shaped Cape Cod lies within the boundaries of the state of Massachusetts, USA. The Cape has a lot going for it, such as natural beauty, a good arts scene, and slews of restaurants. Sandy and I are into all of that, in spades. Thus, as usual, we had a fine time and were active as can be during our just-ended two-and-a-half-week stay. If I were to write an account of all we did, this essay would go on for 10,000 more words. The hell with that. So, as is my wont, I’ll keep things on the concise side.

For me, the one aspect of Cape Cod that stands out above the others is its Atlantic Ocean coastline, which runs north and south for about 40 miles on the Cape’s eastern border. Man, it is breathtaking. And, importantly, is undeveloped. There are no commercial enterprises or boardwalks directly on the Cape’s Atlantic coast. Unadulterated beach, sand dunes, ocean and sky are what you get. And, in a long section, massive sand cliffs too. The sand cliffs astound me. They sit at the back of the beach, eroding and receding slowly year after year due to the punishment delivered by ocean storms, yet remaining defiant. They stare straight ahead stoically, their grit undeniable.

Late afternoon two Fridays ago, my better half and I found ourselves on Marconi Beach, a spectacular stretch of the ocean coast in the township of Wellfleet. Talk about cliffs! Marconi’s are enormous, possibly taller than their siblings elsewhere on the Cape’s Atlantic beaches. By my estimation they are roughly 100 feet in height. Walking along Marconi’s sands while gazing at the cliffs is a humbling experience.

What made this particular walk extra special, however, was not the cliffs. They are a given. No, it was dense fog, whose presence surprised the heck out of me. The rocking and rolling ocean, noisy as a crowded tavern, was heavily obscured. Swaths of vapors hugged the cliffs. I love walking the Cape’s beaches when the Sun is shining, the skies are blue and all seems well with the world. But I dug Marconi Beach no end that foggy afternoon. Variety damn well is the spice of life.

Sandy and I were pretty well bundled up at Marconi, as the temperature was not exactly warm. And the beach was uncrowded, just the way I like it. We saw only 25 or thereabouts individuals while we were there.

Two of our fellow beach visitors blew my mind: teenage girls frolicking in the surf. Holy shit, the waters were rough! I worried for the lasses. But they must have been experienced at this kind of thing, and clearly were having the times of their lives. Here’s the amazing part: The girls were as naked as when they were born, having left their clothes hanging on one of the many sculptures (human-made assemblages of driftwood) that graced the sands.

I toyed with the idea of snapping a picture of the young ladies, from a distance of course. But the possibility of them noticing me, then chasing after me, then catching me and beating the crap out of me, wasn’t appealing. Anyway, I’m an old man, not a dirty old man. I think.

Getting back to driftwood sculptures: I saw plenty of them on one beach or another during our Cape vacation. Marconi Beach contained an unusually large number. Do people have an innate urge at beaches to make arrangements of pieces of wood? I know that I do at times. I did just that once or twice while on the Cape this trip. Not at Marconi, though, despite driftwood abounding there. I guess I had other things on my mind. The fog, for one. And maybe the unclothed girls!

(The photos are from Marconi Beach)

Art On Wheels, Part Eleven (A Philadelphia Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

It was a fortuitous moment for yours truly when the idea for Art On Wheels popped into my head in 2017, as this series, now comprising 11 stories, has brought me plenty of pleasure. An admirer of good-looking objects, I have become semi-addicted to tracking down attractively decorated trucks, vans and other wheeled vehicles, snapping their portraits and writing about the adventures.

This is especially true for parts eight through eleven of Art On Wheels, which are the four most recent episodes, because I initiated them by roaming the streets of Philadelphia on foot in search of prey. Prior to that, my main modus operandi had been to drive all over the frigging place in the Philadelphia suburbs (I live in those burbs), where I located vehicles in strip malls, loading docks and other non-descript places. I doubt if I’ll ever return to that method. I’d rather walk than drive, for one thing, and Philadelphia, unlike the burbs, is made for walking. What’s more, Philly is fascinating and full of energy. My suburban area doesn’t come close to fitting that description.

There I was, then, on a recent Friday morn, boarding a train in my sleepy town. Forty-five minutes later I bade the train farewell within Jefferson Station in central Philadelphia and headed outside to begin my mission. Past experience had shown me that lovingly adorned vehicles, some in motion, some parked along curbs, are not uncommon on Philadelphia’s streets. But would I encounter enough of them on my wanderings this day to illustrate a story? Was a dud of a day in store?

It wasn’t! Man, within three minutes of exiting the train station I saw, and photographed, several vehicles that passed muster: a delivery truck, a delivery van and a tour bus. I’m worried that the truck and bus might sue me or physically confront me, as I’ve decided that only the van, belonging to the Mini Melts ice cream company, is worthy of immortalization on my site. I tell you, being a beauty contest judge is cool, but there’s a darkish side to the gig.

Long walks and I agree with one another. And it was a long, zigzagging walk I took through a multitude of neighborhoods in Philadelphia, the city I know better than any other. After six and a half miles of pavement-pounding I decided to call it a day. I likely would have continued the expedition for another hour or so, but at around the six-mile mark, from out of the blue, my calf muscles cramped up outrageously. Shit, those f*ckers hurt like hell! I could barely move and had to lean against a building to prevent myself from sinking to the sidewalk. Amazingly, the pain soon mostly went away, but I wasn’t about to push my luck. So, I made my way to Jefferson Station and returned home. I’ve never had leg cramps like those before. If they ever decide to pay a return visit, I’m going to be royally pissed.

I’ve poured over the pix of the vehicles that posed for me during the trek. I’m avoiding overkill by presenting but six of the nearly 20 photos I snapped. They are the portraits I like best. My top two votes go to the trucks belonging to Allspec Construction and to Vision Furniture. They took my breath away when I crossed paths with them the other day, and their pictures continue to do so. The airiness and lightness of their designs make me say “ooh la la!”

Still, I have a clear favorite. Vision Furniture, in my book you are numero uno! Your chairs are the embodiment of happiness, barely restrained by gravity’s pull and delighted to be with one another. And your power goes beyond that: When I look at you, I hear piano music — melodies as carefree as kids at play — accompanying the flying chairs.

Well, maybe I’m getting carried away a bit. But hell, I can’t help myself. It’s the way I roll. Been doing it for decades. One thing I know for sure, in any event, is this: If Vision Furniture had been the only stellar vehicle I saw during my urban safari, I’d have deemed the day a success.

A Doors-Filled Story (Fourth Edition)

Yeah, Another Blogger134 Comments

A lovely day it was indeed. The Sun beamed and gleamed. The skies, nary a cloud within them, were an expanse of blue at its finest. Unexpectedly mild for winter (51°F/11°C), a steady breeze on hand to keep me refreshed, the afternoon of February the ninth presented to me a perfect opportunity to go out and peruse doors in Hatboro, a town in the Philadelphia burbs that’s a couple of miles from the one I call home. I grabbed the opportunity.

Doors? Yes, doors are a favored subject for a fair number of WordPress scribes, including, occasionally, yours truly. I’ve written about them three times before. And, it should be noted, the hub on WordPress for all things doors is the Thursday Doors project run by Dan Antion on his No Facilities blog. So, if you click here you will be directed to Dan’s handsome site, where links to the writings of and photographs by doors enthusiasts may be found.

As I drove to Hatboro I was confident about what I’d find, because I’ve been there a multitude of times over the years — to shop, to dine, to stretch my legs on its sidewalks. It’s a down-to-earth community with pleasant residential blocks and a commercial area that, though hanging in there, has seen better days. Sure, maybe a unique or snazzy door or two awaited me. But no more than that, I figured.

And you know what? I was right. Of the hundreds of doors that passed before my eyes that afternoon as I wandered around many of Hatboro’s streets, alleys and parking areas, nearly all were of one standard style or another and also plain as can be in the color department.

And you know what else? I was absolutely fine with that, as I’ve long believed there is value and beauty in just about everything if I look hard enough and, when needed, adjust my way of thinking. After all, who am I not to admire the seemingly ordinary? I mean, I understand what it’s like to be ignored. I ain’t exactly Bradley Cooper when it comes to looks, you dig, proof of which is the fact that I can count on two hands, probably one, the number of times in my life that a girl has given me the eye. And those occurrences were decades ago. Shit, now that I’m pretty damn deep into my senior citizen era, there ain’t a chance in the world that I’ll ever again be gazed upon with interest, unless it’s by somebody working on a doctoral thesis about old farts. Boo hoo, man! Boo f*cking hoo!

Ordinary and admirable
Ordinary and very admirable

Among the “ordinary” portals that made a real impression on me in Hatboro, two of whose portraits I’ve included above, my top pick is the one identified by a nice big 3A. It more or less stopped me in my tracks because, I now realize in hindsight, its grey-green coloration struck an oceanic chord within me. I’m an ocean lover, and over the years I’ve seen the Atlantic’s waters take on a hue similar to 3A’s. Plus, how could I not fall for a door with a newspaper sticking out of its mail slot, like a tongue looking for attention?

Still, there were two doors that I preferred to 3A, both of which struck me as being a step or two above “ordinary”: a swinging door made of wood planks and metal, and the front door to a house. The latter, alive in orangey-red and decorated with a display of shadows that dazzled, easily garnered the gold medal in the doors competition that day.

In honor of Hatboro’s très cool red door, I’m going to end these proceedings by presenting an equally cool song titled — what else? — The Red Door. It was recorded in 1952 by a group led by tenor saxophonist John “Zoot” Sims and was released the next year. Zoot, who co-wrote the tune with Gerry Mulligan, takes the first sax solo. Mulligan, by the way, doesn’t appear on the recording.

Sims, a hell of a musician, was a presence in the jazz world for about 35 years (he died in 1985, having made it to only age 59). I had chance after chance to see him perform in New York City clubs during the 1970s and 80s, but, stupidly, let them pass me by. I’ve regretted those decisions ever since.

Here then is Zoot and his compadres on the lovely, swinging tune that The Red Door is. Enjoy.

An Artsy Walk Through The Mall On A Hot-As-Hell Day

Yeah, Another Blogger118 Comments

It was hot as hell in my area (the suburbs of Philadelphia) on the 30th of June. I’d gone for walks on each of the two previous days, days that weren’t exactly on the mild side temperature-wise either. But June 30 was a different ball game, one of those in which a mere minute in the sun causes sweat to pour from your face and back of your neck like lava from a mountain that is experiencing gastric distress.

However, I, an old guy who for the last year and a half has been very diligent about exercising regularly, was not about to not go for a walk. A walk was totally doable, because I live close to Willow Grove Park, a three-story, air-conditioned indoor shopping mall. Thus, in late morning I headed to the mall, to pound its avenues and corridors in A/C’ed comfort.

I like spending time now and then at Willow Grove Park, even though I rarely buy anything there. Architecturally it looks real good, and I’m always amazed by the copious amounts of eye-catching wares for sale. Plus, I almost always cross paths with some lovely ladies.

And I find Willow Grove Park to be quite an artistic environment, hardly different from art museums. For example, many merchandise displays within the stores are beautiful and creative. Even more so are the graphic artworks — posters and other printed creations — in merchants’ windows and free-standing elsewhere. Ergo, on June 30 I made it my mission, in addition to stretching my legs, to examine the state of affairs of graphic art at the mall.

I was drawn to any number of pieces. They ranged from the minimalistic (the large Sale signs, in flamboyant red, that bordered the H&M clothing store), to the complex and futuristic, qualities belonging to a poster hung within an Aerie shop.

Not surprisingly, many of the works featured human faces and, usually, additional body parts. More often than not, these creations were photography-based, but their painterly counterparts were on display here and there too. In the face/body category, the one that I found myself staring at the most was the group shot of five youngsters. It adorned the Gap Kids store. If everyone got along as well as those individuals do, the world would be pretty close to paradisiacal. And I was entranced by the two girls, their heads as close as canned sardines, aglow in a window of the Primark establishment.

A few hours after I arrived back home I began to mull over my mall experience, and damn if I didn’t feel slighted more than a bit. Shit, I realized that every human pictured at the mall was somewhere between young and the cusp of middle-age. How come someone like me wasn’t on display? I mean, what do companies have against male septuagenarians whose hairlines are receding faster than Greenland’s glaciers and whose faces are peppered with weird f*cking growths that dermatologists probably don’t even have names for? It ain’t right, I tell you! Those in power are going to hear from me!

But before they hear from me, I will bring this narrative to a close. Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. And give a listen, if you’re in the mood, to mall-istic songs that I discovered recently. After all, it’s not every day that you encounter music inspired by shopping malls.

The first recording, Let’s Go To The Mall, is by Robin Sparkles, a stage name once used by Robin Scherbatsky, who is a character in the television series How I Met Your Mother (the series ended in 2014). Cobie Smulders, the actress who played Sparkles/Scherbatsky, provides the lead vocals on this pop music confection. Did you get all of that? Not sure if I did.

In the second tune, The Last Mall, Steely Dan uses a mall metaphorically to comment on humankind’s fate. Such headiness is only to be expected, of course, as the brains behind Steely Dan — Donald Fagen and the late Walter Becker — were not your everyday song-writing team. The Last Mall, sardonic and clothed in the blues, paints an uneasy picture.

A Doors-Filled Story (Third Edition)

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

Well, here I am, dispensing thoughts about doors for the third time. Huh, doors? Damn straight! I mean, doors are cool. Or can be, anyway. And I’m hardly alone in holding this opinion. Various WordPress writers, for instance, launch doors-centric articles into cyberspace every Thursday. And they publicize the pieces by placing links to them on the No Facilities blog, of which a fine gent named Dan Antion is the heart, soul and brains. I’m part of that Thursday club today.

Okay, then. On a clear and comfortable morning in late May I visited the sprawling town of Glenside, a community in the Philadelphia suburbs about five miles from my home. Leafy, handsome residential blocks abound in Glenside. And there also are business sections that include Main Street-like corridors. Now, I wasn’t about to stroll up the front paths of homes to check out their doors closely (I wasn’t eager to hear something on the order of  Yo, asshole! What are you doing on my property? directed at me), so I confined most of my investigating and picture-snapping to commercial blocks. In the end, though, I also got pix of a couple of residential doors that were not set back from their respective sidewalks.

While I didn’t cross paths with any doors that might take your breath away during the hour I spent in Glenside, I became fascinated by the varieties of doors on public display. They ran the gamut from the solid and stolid to the utilitarian to the well-worn to the neglected. I passed at least two hundred doors, possibly many more than that, and a dozen or so of them grabbed me almost instantly. I’ve chosen images of seven of them to grace this page.

Could I possibly have resisted a sky-blue door, endearingly shop-worn a bit, whose street address (number 12) beams proudly above it? No way! I tell you, if that door were a human being I’d have smiled at it generously and then given it a great big hug. Yup, the blue door is the one I felt most in tune with in Glenside. In a low-key manner it exudes warmth and wisdom. It’s my kind of door.

Unexpectedly, the four garage doors belonging to Santilli’s auto repair shop connected with me. They’re ordinary, right? We’ve seen doors such as these a million times. Yet, as I stared at them I thought to myself they are worthy of admiration. Non-complaining and tireless, they enable important work to get done. In the doors-ian realm, these four are among the salt of the earth.

And what can you say about the rust-stained shed door that probably hasn’t been opened in years? The healthy green plant a few feet away, doing all it can to brighten the scene, knows that the door has been ignored. It’s the norm to pass by a door such as this without a thought. But I’m a softie at heart, and so my old ticker went out to it. Its life has been anything but easy.

By the way, I had no intention of having my spectral double show up in five of the photos, but that’s what happened. Yeah, I saw the f*cker aiming his phone’s camera at me from a door beneath the NAPA sign as I snapped that picture. But not till I was examining all of the Glenside pix a day or two later did I realize that he also was present in other doors, the sky-blue door and the ones belonging to Elcy’s, the antique store, and Santilli’s. “It figures, Neil,” my wife Sandy just mentioned to me, shaking her head in disapproval as she looked over this article before I hit the Publish button. “It’s bad enough that you write about yourself incessantly in your stories. Now your readers are likely to overdose on your sort-of-spitting image too. Give ’em a break, for crying out loud!”

Shit, she’s right. She almost always is. On the other hand, has a ghoul ever before rocked a Cape Cod-emblazoned cap so magnificently? I think not!

The time has arrived to bring this essay to a close. On a musical note, of course, as that’s what I did with my first two doors pieces. With each of those, I included a tune by the hippie era band The Doors. This time around I’ve decided to forego one of their blasts from the past. Instead I’ve selected a blast from the present. It’s called, appropriately, Leave The Door Open, and it’s by Silk Sonic, a new band led by pop superstars Bruno Mars and Anderson .Paak. The song is a throwback to the sweet soul/R&B music, lovingly orchestrated, that The Stylistics, The Delfonics and other groups filled the air with during the 1970s. I dig Leave The Door Open a lot.

I’m done! Goodbye till next time, boys and girls. Please don’t be shy about adding your comments.