Work

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

I get about six hours of sleep daily, less than the majority of folks. This means I have 18 hours to fill, which is a lot. Overall, I do a fairly decent job with that, I guess. Some combination of the following occupies me pretty well most days: family life; household chores and duties; social life; volunteer work; reading; listening to music; watching TV; dining out; long walks; pecking away at my computer’s keyboard to produce content for the dodgy publication you’re now staring at.  And I’d be remiss not to mention scratching my balls while belting out the melodies of my favorite Gregorian chants. Yes indeed, I love doing that very much. It’s just about my only activity that isn’t on the mild side.

But wait, there’s more! After attending to personal hygiene matters and downing hot coffee, I kick off most every day by tackling one or two sudoku puzzles online, via the Brainbashers website. Man, I’m addicted to sudoku, a logic-based game involving the correct placement of numbers in a grid. I quickly became hooked when, in 2011, I researched and deciphered sudoku’s inner workings. I’ve interacted with thousands of sudoku puzzles since then.

After satisfying my sudoku jones and then eating breakfast, I retrieve the copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper that has been tossed onto our driveway by my family’s paper-delivery guy. I postpone reading any of its articles and head straight to the crossword puzzle, for sudoku is not the only puzzle genre I’m addicted to. Settled comfortably upon the living room sofa or at the dining room table, I do my best to fill in the crossword’s blank spaces accurately.

All told, I devote an average of roughly 90 minutes daily to puzzles. That’s nearly 8.5% of my waking hours, a significant figure. I’ve often wondered if I should cut back. Addictions, needless to say, can be seriously unhealthy. And so, several weeks ago, at my most recent session with my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel, I brought up the subject.

“What? You do puzzles for 10 or more hours each week? What in the world is wrong with you, Neil?” Dr. Forereel commented.

“But, sudoku and crossword puzzles relax me. And they help to keep the old brain cells in shape.”

“Old is right, Neil,” my doctor said, after glancing at my chart. “You’re soon to turn 78, I see. Neil, you’re ancient, and should be doing your utmost to live life to its fullest at this point. After all, who knows how many more tomorrows you have left? Stop squandering time on puzzles. Do something exciting instead. Take up rock climbing, for instance. Or Formula One race car driving. I could give many more suggestions. The possibilities are almost endless.”

“Dr. Forereel, are you trying to get me killed?” I asked her. “I’m not a daredevil. I’m not sure what I am, actually, but built-for-thrills sure doesn’t fit my description.”

“Neil, where oh where have I gone wrong? You’ve been my patient for years and years, and yet, despite my strongest efforts to build it up, your self-confidence remains at the meh level. Sometimes I question my efficacy as a physician.”

“Efficacy is such a wonderful word, Dr. Forereel, one I haven’t heard in ages. For that alone, I consider today’s session to be valuable. But, getting back to puzzles, have I truly been on the wrong track by giving substantial amounts of time to them?”

“Of course you have, Neil. Puzzles are frivolous. If I’d wasted time on such nonsense, I’d never have become the respected healer that I am.”

“Doctor, I’ll follow your sage advice. You’ve convinced me that I absolutely need to amp up my life. Nothing I’m involved with right now pushes the envelope.”

“That‘s the spirit, Neil. It seems I’ve underestimated you. Well, the clock on the wall tells me that today’s session has reached its end. Go get ’em, tiger!”

Over the next few days, my vision of how I might better allocate my time began to crystalize. There are so many paths, I realized, that would lead me to becoming a more-daring version of myself. Alas, I’m sorry to report that things have remained unchanged. My gas pedal is stuck. Dr. Forereel will be hugely disappointed.

What can you say? Life’s a bit of a puzzle, isn‘t it?

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.

I Am Extremely Fortunate

Yeah, Another Blogger180 Comments

Last Monday, the first day of the second half of rapidly disappearing 2025, found me at the medical office building where I’ve volunteered for 13 years, manning its information desk. The part-time gig keeps me on my toes. Many patients arrive without knowing which suite their doctor works in, for instance. It’s my job to point them in the right direction. And sometimes I come to peoples’ “rescue,” such as when I aid those who, their medical appointments completed, can’t remember where in the nearby parking garage they deposited their cars. Off I go with them to that multi-level structure to solve the problem.

I like the job, which occupies me for four hours each week. Without it, I’d have a relative paucity of human interactions, seeing that I spend a hefty percentage of my time resting my aged, bony ass upon the living room sofa. Plus, helping people out boosts my spirits. Basically, I need to feel as though I’ve still got something to offer society.

Last Monday was a typical day at work. I answered questions from, and helped unravel somewhat-knotty situations for, approximately 50 individuals. However, during my shift something struck me more than it usually does: I clearly realized that a whole lot of visitors to the building were using and relying on canes, walkers and wheelchairs. And nowhere near all of those folks were senior citizens. This was a sobering observation. It brought to the surface a piece of self-knowledge that normally resides in the bottom reaches of my subconscious. Namely, I am extremely fortunate. Here I am, pushing age 80, and I get around on my legs just fine. I can walk for five or more miles, no problem. And though it would be foolhardy of me to attempt an all-out sprint, trotting remains within my powers. Yeah, anything might yet happen, but I’ve retained more than decent mobility.

And my good fortune extends way beyond my legs. My health in general, according to medical tests and my physicians, is solid. I’ve had one very dangerous health situation in my life. Thanks to modern medicine and just plain positive luck, it appears to be permanently confined to the rearview mirror. Of course, nobody knows that for certain, but the odds are in my favor.

What’s more, I have plenty to eat, and my country (the USA), though in the hands of a freedoms-suppressing megalomaniac, is not a war zone. I almost feel guilty about my good fortune, considering how difficult so many people have it in the States and all around the world. Poor health, poor healthcare availability, and inadequate food intake are some of the injustices plaguing hundreds of millions of individuals. And armed conflicts make life a living hell, or close to it, for so, so many. Not just in Ukraine and Gaza, but in violence-beset nations that don’t receive much media attention. Haiti and Sudan, to name two, and Myanmar and Yemen, to name two more.

Yes, the human condition, in certain respects, is horrible. Always has been. Always will be.

Considerate guy that I occasionally am, I’ll leave you on a sunny note: My good fortune expanded at the tail end of last year when I discovered Abigail Lapell. She’s a fine Canadian singer-songwriter who isn’t too well known outside her home country. Her latest album, Anniversary, came out 16 months ago. I’m in love with one of its songs, Flowers In My Hair, which is the first song in many a moon that I can’t (and don’t want to) get out of my head.  A meditation on going with the flow while letting love reign over you, it is dominated by angelic vocals and by mesmerizing percussion provided via handclaps and foot stomps. Flowers In My Hair, to me, is sweet as a peach and free as a bird. Give it a listen.

I’m In Love: A Philadelphia Story

Yeah, Another Blogger173 Comments

In 1974, while floundering in life, I moved from a town in New York State to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania for employment reasons. I knew almost nothing about the city when I started my new job as a caseworker with the Pennsylvania Department Of Public Welfare. Well, I lucked out. The job became the first section of a PDPW career that lasted well over 30 years. And, right from the start, I felt at ease and at home in The City Of Brotherly Love.

I was wowed by Philly’s music scene and museums, its art galleries, bookstores and record stores, its beautiful parks and plethora of houses and other structures erected in the 1700s and 1800s. I had landed in a place loaded with history and culture and, as it turned out, poised to embrace the future. For, Philadelphia has gotten better during the subsequent years. A world-class restaurant scene has developed, for instance, something almost nobody would have predicted back then. And the looks of downtown Philadelphia improved, taking on a modernistic slant when a crop of skyscrapers, as sleek as can be, began to rise in the 1980s.

To this day, Philadelphia’s assets have resonated with me quite perfectly. Which is why I’ve never tired of Philadelphia. There’s zero chance my love for this city will end before I bid farewell to Planet Earth.

In 2005, for reasons too banal to go into, my wife Sandy and I moved from Philadelphia to a nearby suburb, where we still reside. However, the relocation didn’t mean that my need to absorb Philadelphia’s vibes had lessened. On the contrary. For the next four years I continued to get my Philadelphia fix regularly, because I worked in an interesting section of the city and also because I frequently indulged, during non-work hours, in good stuff the city had to offer. And, since retiring from PDPW in 2009, I’ve journeyed to and immersed myself in Philly two to five times each month, often with Sandy. I just can’t stay away.

During the last decade or more, one of the activities I’ve most enjoyed is taking long walks, with no agenda in mind, through different Philadelphia neighborhoods. Nearly every block contains one thing or another that grabs my attention, and the rhythms of my legs in motion make me feel free. My latest expedition took place on the final Tuesday of July. That’s when I drove sleep-deprived Sandy, who was too groggy to be behind the wheel safely, to her hair salon appointment in Philadelphia’s Queen Village section. After I parked the car, Sandy entered the shop where magic occurs, and I ventured off to see what was up in Queen Village.

Over the next hour and a quarter I walked along many of Queen Village’s blocks, some of which I’d never been on before. This neighborhood, which is a bit south of Philly’s far-better known Old City section (Old City contains Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell and other famed American landmarks), has a fair number of green spaces and a few funky commercial corridors. On those corridors, one finds taverns, fabric stores, a Jewish-style deli and other eateries, a bookstore, tattoo joints, craft shops, and on and on.

Most of the blocks, though, are primarily residential. They are calm, partially shaded by trees, and just plain lovely. The majority of houses, I’d guess, date from the 1800s. There are plenty from the 1900s and aughts too, and some that remain from the 1700s during Philadelphia’s early years of development. If Sandy and I ever seriously contemplate moving back to Philadelphia, Queen Village might be a neighborhood for us to consider landing in.

Before heading back to the hair salon to retrieve Sandy, I popped into Three Graces Coffee, in the heart of Queen Village, to rehydrate and have a bite to eat, as the outside temperature (85°F/29°C) had begun to drain my aged bod of energy and had put me on the verge of sweating like a frigging pig. Three Graces saved the day. A glass of iced peppermint tea went down swimmingly. And a blueberry muffin, as good as any I’ve ever eaten, put a smile on my inner face. I was content, and already looking forward to my next round of exploration, whenever that might occur, in the city I know best.

The Matchmaker

Yeah, Another Blogger123 Comments

“Have a seat, Neil,” my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel said to me last week when I entered her office for my monthly session. I could tell from her tense tone of voice that she wasn’t in the best frame of mind. Nothing new about that.

“Neil, I’m not in the mood to take on additional challenges today,” she continued, as I lowered myself into the patient’s chair. “So, I hope that you don’t have even more problems than the ones we’ve uncovered over the years. Please tell me that you don’t.”

“Doctor, put your mind at rest. I probably should have cancelled this appointment, because, astonishingly, I’ve never felt better. The clouds have lifted.  I’m as chipper as a British gent. And all of this happened from out of the blue. I can’t believe it, but I’m certainly not complaining.”

“Very good, Neil, very good. Now, allow me to provide illumination. I believe that, subconsciously, you have been mulling over the numerous insights into your psyche that I’ve presented to you at our sessions. It was my hope that one day they truly would resonate with you. At last, they have, though in all honesty I always thought you were a lost cause. Hallelujah, you’re not! Which is why I’m going to submit an account of your case to It’s A Miracle! magazine, one of the American Psychiatric Association’s premier publications. I won’t reveal your name, of course, as that would be highly improper. The most important consideration, anyway, is that my name will appear, not only in the byline but throughout the article, bringing me added fame and many new clients. Thank you, in advance, Neil, for all of that.”

“The article will be of great value to the psychiatric community, Dr. Forereel. And it goes without saying that I am in your debt eternally. Or maybe for only a day or two more if my breakthrough implodes. Whatever, I thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she replied. “Let’s move on. What else shall we discuss today?”

“Seeing that I’m in good mental and emotional shape at the moment, I’d like for us to spend the remainder of the session talking about my friend Tom, instead of about me,” I said, to which my doctor nodded okay. “He’s 55 years old, smart and accomplished. Never been married. Never has had a serious romantic relationship, in fact. Doctor, my friend is keenly aware he’s been missing the boat big time. He needs a woman badly. He’s frustrated and lonely.”

At the word lonely, Dr. Forereel winced. She became silent. Her eyes dropped.

“Dr. Forereel, are you alright? Is there anything I can do?”

A few moments later she raised her eyes to meet mine. Then she spoke. Softly. “Neil, you’ve hit a raw nerve. Here I am, a respected and successful therapist. Yet, as much as I’ve wanted to find true love, I’ve never come close. There must be something about me that turns men away.”

“Well, perhaps your stern demeanor and unwelcome comments play a role in that,” I said. “But what do I know? Have you tried any of the online dating services?”

“Yes, many, and without success. I was especially disappointed when my profile on I’m A Shrink, What Are You? resulted in zero dates. Neil, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I haven’t been out with a man in four years. Oh well, I simply have to accept reality. For me, a life partner, even a temporary partner, isn’t in the cards.”

“I don’t buy it. There’s someone for everyone. Sometimes it just takes a long time to meet the right person. Doctor, what are you looking for in a man?”

“Well, I’ve always felt that too much togetherness is problematic. After all, there really isn’t all that much to talk about after a while, is there? Therefore, the fewer waking hours he and I would share, the better. Also, I would want to be with someone who is a wiz in the kitchen, as I certainly am not. I can’t think of too much beyond that. Which, I suppose, is part of the problem.”

“Doctor Forereel, you may find this hard to believe, but you and Tom might be made for each other. He’s a master chef, for crying out loud! And he works 80 or more hours a week in his restaurant. Since you work like a dog too, the two of you would spend only a handful of waking hours together. Doctor, should I ask Tom to call you? My intuition tells me that you and he will make a fine couple.”

My psychiatrist looked at me with hope in her eyes. Then she said, “Yes, Neil, please do. Oh, this has been one of the most productive sessions I’ve had with any patient. I feel renewed. As for you, fingers crossed that your mental and emotional well-being will remain at a good level. And if that turns out to be the case, which is unlikely, it won’t take away from the fact that there are knotty aspects of your personality that continue to require my attention. See you next month.”

What’s Up, Doc?

Yeah, Another Blogger133 Comments

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite patient,” said Dr. R. U. Forereel, a not unsubtle note of sarcasm in her voice, when I entered her office last week for my monthly psychiatric session. “Have a seat, Neil. Which of your numerous problems would you like to discuss today?”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I want to talk about my recent difficulties with writing,” I said as I sat myself down in the patient chair. “I’m sure you remember that I’ve been turning out articles since 2015 for my website Yeah, Another Blogger.”

Dr. Forereel made no attempt to turn her head away from me as she rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Of course I know about Yeah, Another Blogger. How could I not know, considering that you mention it every damn time I see you? Okay, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Doctor, it’s never been a snap for me to come up with story ideas and develop them into written pieces. But the last couple of weeks have been terrible. I mean, I’ve been stuck in traffic, going nowhere, paddling against the current . . . ”

Dr. Forereel cut me off. “Enough with the clichés already. I get it! You have writer’s block, right?”

“Bingo,” I said.

Dr. Forereel paused for a long moment, playing with the several chin hairs that she’d have done well to dispose of at home. Then she began to talk again.

“Neil, I’m in the process of writing my memoirs, as you know. I have you to thank for that, needless to say. I’ve plugged away at the book religiously every night after work for the last seven months, and on weekends too, with remarkable results. No writer’s block for me. Last night I completed the section about my life at age four, the age at which it became apparent to one and all, including me, that I was not a people person. That personality trait has continued to this day, by the way.”

“What?” I yelled. “After hundreds and hundreds of hours of work you’re only up to age four? At this rate you won’t finish the book for another 25 years! And if you’re not a people person, then why in the world did you pursue psychiatry?”

“Neil, the world will welcome my autobiography no matter when it is published. Of that I’m certain. And, to answer your question, a central message of the book, one that millions of people will take heart from, will be this: It’s absolutely fine to be ill-suited for one’s profession. Why waste time trying out different occupations, hoping and praying that one of them will prove to be a wonderful fit? Just grab indiscriminately at something, put your nose to the grindstone and get on with it. Whatever that it might be. Don’t you agree?”

I was dumbfounded. Which didn’t stop me from cobbling together a response. “You’ve just proven to me that you’re a remarkable theorist, doctor,” I said. “What’s more, a bad match though you might be for psychiatry, you are a wonder-worker too. Where would I, and who knows how many others, be without you? You have illuminated a few of the dark recesses of my mind over the years. Not that I feel any better as a result of that, but at least I have more to talk about with people than I used to. For that, I’m eternally in your debt.”

“So glad to be and to have been of service. You won’t mind, I hope, if I mention you by name in my memoirs?”

“Certainly not. Especially since it seems I’ll be long gone or too old to care by the time your book hits the market. You know, I must say today’s session has been unusually enlivening and enlightening, so much so that I feel the need to write up an account of what you and I have discussed this afternoon. I am totally confident that writer’s block will not be an issue. And then, with your permission, naturally, I’ll publish the story on my blog.”

“You have my blessings,” my doctor said. “After all, your previous descriptions of our encounters brought me a substantial number of new patients. They’d never have known I existed had it not been for you.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” I replied. “And I barely can wait to get back home and put my fingers on my computer’s keyboard. Because of you, doctor, Yeah, Another Blogger will live to see another day!”

Back To Work!

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

When I bid adieu to my government-work career 13 years ago, opting to cash in on retirement pensions, I knew that the regimented style of life I’d engaged in for decades was one I’d be remiss to discard entirely. I mean, I liked the job and didn’t mind the commutes. And, of course, I was very used to the overall arrangement. Thus, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be lost at sea if I didn’t replace it, to a decent extent, with a similar routine.

That’s why, three days after hanging up my paid-employment spikes, I began trying out part-time volunteer jobs at various institutions, six or so months later settling down for the long haul with assignments at a health system (a hospital and its related facilities) near my home in the Philadelphia suburbs. I enjoyed the medical-related gigs quite a lot. But when the devilish coronavirus conquered Planet Earth in early 2020, the health system lost zero time in placing its volunteer staff on hiatus. The risks of us contracting the virus, or of infecting people with it, were just too high for the organization to keep us on board. And the same thing happened with a local food pantry where I helped out a little each week.

Wham! All of a sudden I had a bunch of extra hours on my hands, as if I didn’t have more than enough of them already. I took the easy way out, spending more time than ever on my living room sofa, one of my closest friends. I’m not proud to admit that last year, upon said sofa, I eclipsed the previous Guinness World Records top mark in the “Most Time Devoted To Scratching One’s Balls” category. Hey, what can I say? I ain’t all that genteel!

I’m glad to report that now I’m less of a slacker and balls-scratcher than I was, because in July I returned to one of the jobs that I had held with the health system, which has opened its arms to volunteers once again. Though I’m on site only four hours each week, I feel pretty damn good to have some amount of scheduled work in my life, and to be of service. More likely than not I’ll soon try to expand my hours by getting an additional assignment within the organization.

My official job title is Greeter. And greet people I do, via a “how’s it going?” or a nod when they arrive at the three-story medical office building whose ground-floor information desk I man on Thursday afternoons (the medical office building is across the street from the hospital). And I say “see ya” often too, as visitors, having completed their doctor appointments, head to one of the building’s several exits.

The main point of my being there, though, is to help people. A lot of them, for example, aren’t sure which office their doctor is in (a staff directory, mounted on a wall of the sprawling ground floor, is easy to miss), or can’t find the public restrooms or the alcove where vending machines are located, or aren’t even sure if they are in the correct building (more often than you’d expect, they’re not).

That’s where I come in, verbally or physically directing the lost souls to their proper destinations, answering a substantial variety of questions, and sometimes becoming involved in fairly complicated matters. Such as when I go to the multi-level parking garage behind the building with those who, their appointments over, can’t remember where they parked their cars. I have an excellent track record in locating the misplaced vehicles.

The job may not be top of the ladder on the excitement scale, but its pace and quality fit me comfortably most of the time. On average I respond to questions and unravel situations around ten times per hour, which is enough to keep me interested. And I like the fact that I never know what question or dilemma will be presented to me next.

I’ve been involved with people-oriented volunteer work for much of my adult life. As clichéd as it sounds, I believe in giving folks a helping hand, in paying back and paying forward. And I get a nice amount of satisfaction from my modest deeds. Thankfully, most people are on the same wavelength about all of this as me. If that wasn’t the case, the world would be an even more unsettling place than it is, right? Right.

TV, I Bow Before Thee!

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

Like everyone, I’m anxiously awaiting the day when a vaccine is created that puts an end to the pandemic that has sent us into the twilight zone. It will be fabulous to ditch the f*cking masks and gloves that make us look like weirdo safe crackers. Better yet, getting together with friends and relatives will be back on our agendas, and the outlook will be fair or better for those businesses that were able to survive the dark times. Until that day arrives though, the overall picture, I believe, will continue to be anything but pretty.

Fortunately, life has been okay for me and my wife Sandy since coronavirus struck our part of the USA in March (we live near Philadelphia). Nowhere near as okay as it used to be, but okay enough. You adapt as best you can, after all, and try to deal with reality decently.

Among other things, the pandemic has forced me to make major adjustments to time allocation, as many of what had been my normal, much-enjoyed activities are only memories right now. That’s because, for health and safety reasons, my volunteer jobs were suspended and most of the usual outside-the-home entertainment choices that Sandy and I indulged in (socializing, cinemas, music venues, restaurants, museums) are unavailable, for now anyway.

So, how have I, a lazy septuagenarian, been filling the 16 or so hours of freed-up time each week? Well, for one thing, the living room sofa and I see more of each other than ever before. Upon its sensuous cushions I while away the time, alternating between scratching my balls and twirling the five strands of hair that remain on the crown of my head. Yes, I’m proud to report that my fellas are hanging in there okay, considering my advanced age, and that the strands of hair look damn studly. Thanks for asking!

Now, the scratching and twirling account for about nine of the 16 hours, and largely are confined to mornings and afternoons. What about the other seven hours? In a word, television. You see, in early April I really began to miss the kicks I’d been getting for ages at concerts, cinemas, etc. This ol’ boy needed to get entertainment from somewhere. And I wanted to do that with Sandy, my partner in kicks-experiencing for lo these many years. Television was the obvious outlet.

It’s not that I’m a stranger to the tube. In fact, I once was a highly dedicated viewer. But that ended about 12 years ago. Since then I’ve watched TV mostly in shortish sessions and mostly late at night, compulsively and expertly flipping channels. That pattern now has expanded. Yeah, I’ve retained the late night regimen. But, in addition, several evenings a week at around 8:30 or 9:00, Sandy and I head upstairs to our bedroom, which contains the bigger and better of the two TV sets in our home. We then proceed to lose ourselves for an hour or more. Doing so is nothing new for Sandy, who always has racked up admirable numbers of evening hours in front of the home screen. But, as noted, it’s been more than a while for me.

And you know what? I love it! Laughing, gasping, oohing and aahing together has been fun. Together, of course, is the operative word.

And what have we watched? Good movies, such as The Two Popes, The Wizard Of Oz, Saving Mr. Banks,  and Standing In The Shadows Of Motown. And a not-so-good one, Roma, which won an Oscar as 2018’s best foreign language film but which left me blank.

And entertaining series, two of them (Modern Family and Curb Your Enthusiasm) on network and premium-channel television. The others (Sherlock; Lilyhammer; After Life) were on Netflix, which has become one of my greatest pals. Man, we tore through the Netflix series zestfully, usually chowing down two episodes per sitting (no binge-watching for us, though. Maybe Sandy has the energy for that, but I don’t). And we’ve only scratched the surface of what the Netflix library holds.

Yes, without a doubt we’ll keep watching TV together till outside-the-house entertainment opens up, and probably not stop even then. I’ve learned that there’s a whole lot to be said for TV togetherness. I used to know that, but had forgotten. So, at least one positive development has come out of the pandemic.

Girls and boys, in conclusion let me say this: The last few months have been disorienting to most, probably all, of us. What adjustments have you needed to make as a result of coronavirus’ far reach? How do you spend the extra hours that you might have found yourself with? Finally, which shows and movies have you been watching on TV? I’d be glad to hear your thoughts about any or all of these items.

Who You Calling “Retired”?

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

A week ago I paid a visit to my long-time barber, Paul. His mission? To make presentable the three strands of hair remaining on the crown of my head. Or is it five? Hang on, I’m going to take a look in the bathroom mirror. I’ll be back in a sec.

Here I am again. It’s five. And those motherf*ckers are lookin’ good!

Where was I? Ah yes, my barber, Paul.

Now, this guy is something else. Paul’s smart. He’s goofy, approaching the world from twisted angles. He cuts hair really well. And, despite being deep into his 70s, puts in nine or more hours at the job, six days a week. Paul’s got energy up the wazoo, and makes hordes of the world’s workers, no matter what their age, look like slackers. If he hangs up his scissors one day, the town in which his barber shop is located ought to erect a statue in his honor. And the inscription on the statue should include words such as these: “Paul’s work ethic was superb. You think you work hard? Think again, homie. Compared to Paul, you probably don’t.”

During that recent visit to Paul’s establishment, he posed a question. “How long have you been retired, Neil?” he asked while contemplating how to handle those five strands of hair.

I tensed up a bit at Paul’s inquiry. Retired? I’ve got to tell you that I don’t like the sound of that word when it’s directed at me. Sure, I left my government-work career in 2009. And sure, I’m in the early stage of my septuagenarian era. But I’m not retired, at least not by my way of looking at things. I mean, I do a decent amount of volunteer work every week. And I sweat bullets turning out the stories that I launch into cyberspace, such as the one you’re reading right now. Between volunteering and writing, I’m clocking up an average of about 20 hours of work weekly. That isn’t in Paul’s league, but it ain’t bad.

Anyway, I explained to Paul that I’m still a part of the workforce, though unpaid, and then let him have a go at the strands.

Indeed, I like to work. I need the structure that working provides, and I value the physical and mental energies that work requires. And, happily, I’m a recipient of job satisfaction: My volunteer gigs — for two shifts each week I man the information desk in a medical office building — agree with me. As does writing, though in a masochistic sort of way. The bottom line is that I have no plans to ditch my occupations.

What would occur if I put my work aside? Nothing to write home about, that’s for sure. I’d have way too many additional hours to fill comfortably. I already regularly indulge in good stuff such as concert-going, museum-visiting and traveling here and there, and don’t have the urge to devote more hours to those pursuits. No, if I stopped working I’d probably spend more time than ever on my living room sofa, where I’ve become expert at idly surfing the Web, snacking, and scratching my balls to make sure they haven’t shrunk. Working’s a better alternative.

Yes, there’s a lot to be said for working. And substantial numbers of folks in my age bracket, and older, are still heavily in the game. Some of my relatives and friends who are card-carrying seniors, for example, rival or surpass Paul in the number of hours they expend on their jobs. A few of them wouldn’t have it otherwise, being in love with their chosen fields. And then there’s the childhood pal of mine who continues to work full-time as a lawyer. I was at lunch with him last month. Unlike the people I just mentioned, he’s not fully enthralled by his occupation, but he knows himself well enough not to leave it behind. “What else am I going to do?” he asked me. “Mow my lawn all day?” He thinks like me. And he likes his place in life.

On the other hand, I also have relatives and friends in the seniors camp who no longer work and are as happy as clams. They lead fulfilling lives and have no regrets about occupying the post-employment category. You can’t do much better than that. After all, whether we’re employed or not, achieving happiness and feeling fulfilled are among our top goals, right? And by our, I’m referring, I figure, to about 75% of dear Planet Earth’s human residents, not just to seniors.

Family life, social life, work, hobbies, studying, spirituality, creative endeavors . . . these and other avenues, usually taken in one combination or another, can make our goals reality, whatever our age. Different strokes for different folks, and all that. Life’s cool that way.

Okay, sermon over. Amen. Class dismissed.

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Hippieish Notes From The Information Desk

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Infamously lazy as I am, it’s a damn good thing that for eight hours a week — four hours each on Mondays and Tuesdays — I man my post at a medical office building a couple of miles from my house. If it weren’t for these assignments, long ago I’d have set a world record for hours spent on a living room sofa, and my bony ass would have bored even deeper into my sofa’s cushions than it already has. And it has bored deeply.

Anyway, the medical office building is across the street from a suburban Philadelphia hospital and is owned by an enormous health care organization of which the hospital is another component. I’m a volunteer in that organization. My job is to provide information to visitors (I’m the answer man for questions such as “What room do I go to for my colonoscopy?” and “Where’s the men’s room, pal?”) and to help out those who find themselves in one sort of pickle or another. The job takes me here and there within and outside the building, but most of the time I’m positioned behind a sturdy, unassuming black desk. The information desk.

The information desk

Tuesday the 24th of September was a busy morning for the guy standing behind that desk. Questions came at me left and right. More in-a-pickle people than usual appeared. But, despite that, there were a number of lulls in activity during my shift. Usually nothing to write home about goes on in my mind during lulls. But on the 24th, from absolutely out of nowhere, some words of note silently materialized: “I was more comfortable in the hippie era than in any other era,” I thought to myself.

Wow! The succinct, unexpected notion startled me. And immediately I recognized that it was true. I never was a full-fledged hippie, but during the hippie heyday (1965 to 1972, more or less) I felt at ease with hippie philosophies and lifestyles. And I still do.

Copyright Anna Vynohradova

A baby boomer, I came of age during the hippie era. I’m not mentioning anything you don’t already know when I say that war in Vietnam raged during those years. And that political and social turmoil gripped the USA and other parts of the globe. And that, maybe partly in reaction to those realities, an inquisitive, peaceful and kind mindset developed among many millions of youths worldwide.

Who could argue with hippie slogans such as “Make love not war” and “Flower power”? Not me. I didn’t drop acid, move to San Francisco (the hippie epicenter) or put flowers in my hair. But I did grow my hair long and smoked a lot of cannabis. And I felt nothing but admiration for and solidarity with those who were all about camaraderie, harmony with nature, and attempting to bring peace to the world. Still, I was too unsure of myself to take a full plunge. So, I stayed on the hippie movement’s periphery.

Yeah, those were the days. I miss them. And, later that Tuesday morning, I was reminded of them a number of times while standing behind the information desk. Now, a lot of visitors to the medical office building are friendly towards me, but on most of my shifts one or two are unusually friendly, acting as if seeing my drooping eyelids and wrinkled puss is the greatest thing that’s happened to them in ages. I’m amazed by this. I mean, without even trying did I develop a lofty form of personal magnetism in my over-the-hill years? It ain’t likely. Shit, only in my dreams might Emma Stone or Charlize Theron appear at my doorstep, looking me over with lust in her eyes.

On the Tuesday in question, though, not one or two, but six individuals walked past me with their friendliest instincts at the fore. “How are you, man?” one guy said to me, a big smile on his face. “Take care, brother,” said another, unquestionably meaning what he said. In all six instances it felt good to be greeted so warmly. Real good. This kind of thing happened fairly commonly among the population in the hippie era. That’s because hippies’ good will, thankfully, permeated the culture to a decent extent.

The hippie movement, of course, went way beyond friendliness. Concern for the environment and a pretty wide degree of open-mindedness are among its lasting effects. How cool would it be if a neo-hippie movement, a drug-free incarnation, were to germinate and flourish? And if its good vibes and progressive actions were to become major parts of the norms throughout the world? Man, it would be more than cool. It would be miraculous. Our troubled planet is waiting.

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