Which Is Your Fave? (Art On Wheels, Part Seventeen)

Yeah, Another Blogger27 Comments

Hello, one and all. The story now staring you in the face is part of a long-running, whimsical project I haven’t lost interest in at all, one I hope I’ll continue to pursue for as long as Yeah, Another Blogger remains an active enterprise. Yes, I barely can believe I’ve now published accounts of seventeen Art On Wheels expeditions. Just goes to show you what can happen when you’re having fun.

For the uninitiated, let me explain that Art On Wheels stories detail my outdoor searches for artistically adorned wheeled objects. I photograph the ones I spot. Trucks and vans comprise the vast majority of the specimens whose portraits I’ve taken. Food carts have made appearances on these pages too, as has a heavy-construction vehicle. In the early and middle eras of Art On Wheels I sought my prey in various suburbs of Philadelphia (I reside in those burbs). For a number of years now, though, I’ve dealt strictly with Philadelphia itself.

My previous AOW ventures in Philly took place in downtown and near-downtown areas of the city. For number seventeen, however, I decided to go far afield by paying a visit to Philadelphia’s Mayfair neighborhood, which is part of the absolutely huge city sub-section known as Northeast Philadelphia. I did the deed two Thursdays ago.

Mayfair is a working-class community located about nine miles from downtown Philly. There’s nothing fancy about Mayfair. And it’s congested as hell, loaded with rowhouses and small businesses of all kinds. From the looks of things, a fair number of those businesses are having a pretty hard time of it. In that respect, they have company all over the world.

I have a connection to Mayfair. My periodontist, whose services, other than occasional checkups, I haven’t needed in many years, has been in business there for decades. About 30 years ago he successfully performed extensive and intensive surgeries on my gums and teeth, so besieged was I by periodontal disease. What bloody messes those frigging procedures were. While doing my AOW thing, I was tempted to drop in on him. “Hi, doctor,” I’d have said. “How about slicing open, cleaning, and re-attaching my gums again, just for old time’s sake? I mean, I’m in the mood.” He would have responded, perhaps, by saying to me, “Great idea, Neil! I specialize in catering to masochists. Ease yourself into this chair and let’s get started.”

Okay, then. I walked for an hour and a half in Mayfair, mostly on Frankford Avenue, which is the main business drag. And I had good success. I wasn’t surprised about that, seeing that I noticed a gorgeous truck parked on Leon Street when I was in my car looking for a parking spot two minutes before my on-foot adventure began. The truck, belonging to FreshPoint, a produce distributor, was still there when I exited my car a block and a half away. The truck smiled innocently when I approached to take its picture.

Photos of what I deem to be the top five wheeled objects I encountered are on this page. Do you have a favorite, or favorites? As luscious as FreshPoint is, I like best the FritoLay chips truck. It pulled into a Wawa convenience store’s parking lot a few seconds after a Future Finish van was pulling out. I waited till the FritoLay driver/delivery guy wheeled his load of boxes of chips into the store. Then I photographed the vehicle. Its mural’s color choices — dreamy shades of gold and orange — startle me, but in a gentle way. And, intriguingly, the product names seem to be afloat, inviting us to loosen up and allow our minds to take wing. I’m down with that message. It is excellent advice.

Boys and girls, I believe that’s a wrap. I am all Mayfaired out. It’s time for this old boy to get his beauty rest. On second thought, screw that! I think I’ll have a beer instead. Adios till next time!

Beautiful!

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

I tip my hat to the Philadelphia Horticultural Society (PHS), for it is the producer and director of the wonderful Philadelphia Flower Show, an event first staged in 1829 when PHS was two years old, and mounted almost every year since then. I’m very much into the show, something that wasn’t always the case. Pre-2016 I pooh-poohed it, certain that I’d have zero interest in its presentations were I to attend. Which only goes to prove I truly can be a dumb f*ck.

Anyway, in 2016 I woke up a little and decided to give the exhibition a shot. That year, I went with my wife Sandy to the Pennsylvania Convention Center, the show’s downtown-Philadelphia home, and was wowed. I’ve now been to seven editions of the extravaganza, most recently on the first Friday of this month. Though possibly not quite as enthralling as last year’s version, the 2026 flower show, which ran for nine days, damn well was more than good enough. Imaginative horticultural displays (from local, national and international exhibitors) abounded. Proof of the event’s high quality is that I more or less forgot I was inside a monstrously huge, cement-floored venue that in and of itself is completely devoid of charm. For two hours, Sandy and I wandered from one display to another, doubling back and circling around to re-examine the sights. And then, sated, we bade farewell to the show, exited the building, and disappeared into the fast-approaching night.

It’s too late in the game for PHS to change the name of the show. But theoretically it wouldn’t be a bad idea, because, for decades and decades probably, numerous displays have not been flower-centric. That is, other forms of flora (non-flowering trees, shrubs, vines, you name it) also have starred. And man-made elements, some as whimsical as can be, have raised the excitement and enticement levels of countless exhibits considerably.

Still, the display that grabbed me the most this year was all flowers: a wedge-shaped bed of, primarily, tulips. Its creator — Jacques Amand International, a British firm — arranged the tulips by color groups, all of them snazzy. Man, the energy radiated by this exhibit was palpable. The flowers were bursting with life, proud of their vibrant hues and eager to share their happiness with members of the human race. I soaked up the tulips’ good vibes and good will while hungrily looking them over. They were just so beautiful.

You never know when you’ll encounter beauty that takes your breath away. And in our troubled world, we need as much beauty of that sort as we can get. The tulips certainly did that to me. As did many passages in Baumgartner, a novel (by the late Paul Auster) that I read this year. A writing machine for decades, pumping out novels, memoirs, essays, poems and screenplays like there was no tomorrow, Auster passed away in 2024, about six months after Baumgartner was published. And so, strictly by chance, the first Auster novel I read turns out to have been his last.

I whole-heartedly recommend Baumgartner. It tells the tale of one Seymour (Sy) Baumgartner, a retired philosophy professor, age 70 when the book begins. Sy’s world was upended by the accidental death of his wife Anna, the utmost love of his life, some years earlier. At book’s start, he has yet to recover. As the next couple of years unfold, though, Sy begins to make headway as he thinks back upon his life, gaining not only insights into himself but also an expanded appreciation for Anna’s abilities and talents. Slowly, a meaningful future opens up.

Auster’s use of language is enviable. Throughout the novel, his word choices and their rhythms and flows often stunned me, the first time a book affected me this way since I don’t know when. Such as this passage from early on in the story:

It is the trope Baumgartner has been searching for ever since Anna’s sudden, unexpected death ten years ago, the most persuasive and compelling analogue to describe what has happened to him since that hot, windy afternoon in August 2008 when the gods saw fit to steal his wife from him in the full vigor of her still youthful self, and just like that, his limbs were ripped off his body, all four of them, arms and legs together at the same time, and if his head and heart were spared from the onslaught, it was only because the perverse, snickering gods had granted him the dubious right to go on living without her. He is a human stump now, a half man who has lost the half of himself that had made him whole, and yes, the missing limbs are still there, and they still hurt, hurt so much that he sometimes feels his body is about to catch fire and consume him on the spot.

See what I mean? Auster truly had a way with words. Beautiful!

A Real Old Story

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

As some of you know, my previous opus (it will pop up on your screen if you click here) examines the travel bug that bit me when I was a young adult, and highlights a few of the trips and destinations I’ve been most taken with over the course of my life. At the tippy top of the most–taken–with list is a three-week trek, in November 1982, through the Himalaya Mountains in Nepal. I’d never done anything as demanding or adventurous as that endeavor turned out to be. And I haven’t come close to equaling it. I think about the trek fairly often. It made a huge impression on me, bringing me nearly face-to-face with some of the world’s tallest peaks, including numero uno itself, Mount Everest.

I cherish my Himalayan memories. And I’ll never add to them, because it would be physically impossible for me to ascend high into the Himalayas at this point in my life. My legs would give out after two or three days on the trail, for sure. Or, far worse, my ticker might stop ticking before my legs cried uncle. Hell, the trek took place 43 and a half years ago. I was 35 at the time, fully feeling my oats. I’m 78 now. And though I’m extremely fortunate to be in decent shape, a whole lot of the oats I feel nowadays are literally oats. In the form of oatmeal, which I spoon into my mouth for breakfast about once a week. In other words, decent shape is relative, and I definitely ain’t what I used to be. Nobody in my age bracket is.

Seventy-eight? Are you shitting me? How is this possible? How did time flow by so quickly? Man, by just about anyone’s definition, I’m real old. That’s why, completely unsurprisingly, I now and then ponder my eventual demise. What will get me in the end? The possibilities are more than many. As with everything, time will tell.

The crazy thing about it, though, is that I can’t fully wrap my head around the fact that an expiration date is stamped in invisible ink somewhere on my body. (By the way, my guess is that it’s on my ass. On both cheeks, probably.) I mean, I still think of myself as being kind of immortal, just as I did decades ago. Basically, I want to keep going on and on and on, and for everyone of like mind on the subject to keep going on and on and on too. And, let me assure you, serious bodily ailments would be no more for those of us choosing non-ending sojourns on Planet Earth. Yeah, you better believe that a major restructuring of earthly realities would be instituted pronto if I were in charge. Vote for me! Damn straight I’d set matters straight!

In autumn 2025, my wife Sandy and I gathered with family in Hawaii to attend the bar mitzvah of one of our three great-nephews, as Hawaii is where the bar mitvah boy resides. We stayed with a bunch of other family members in a rented house for a week. On the grounds was a huge swimming pool. The pool was a magnet for the great-nephews, who at the time ranged in age from six to thirteen, and for most of the adults too.

One afternoon, Sandy and I were standing in the house with our sister-in-law Sara, who was regarding, through windows, the three youngsters splashing away in the pool. Sara turned to me and Sandy and said something to us that has stuck in my mind: “Our lives are ending and theirs are beginning.” Wistfulness and wonder were in her voice.

Well, Sara meant ending in a broader sense, not in the imminent sense. Nevertheless, she was right. She, Sandy and I are in our 70s. Even if we each hang in there for another 20 or more years, that won’t be all that much compared to the number of years we’ve already said goodbye to. On the other hand, the future is wide open for my great-nephews, and I hope it treats them well.

So, that’s life. We come and we go. And, hopefully, we live productively and lovingly during our stays. My wishful thinking described above isn’t about to change the way things roll here on our orb. Though I’d be delighted if it did.

Traveling Through The Years

Yeah, Another Blogger150 Comments

I’m not exactly sure when the urge to travel first hit me, but a good guess would be 1969. In the summer of that year, soon after graduating from college, I bumped into a childhood friend, Mike, whom I hadn’t seen in a long, long while. That encounter took place inside a restaurant in Roslyn, the Long Island town he and I had grown up in and to which we had returned when our collegiate careers reached their conclusions (Long Island is near New York City).

Mike and I immediately hit it off at the restaurant, to the extent that he asked me if I’d be interested in joining him on a road trip to Canada, which he was eager to embark on. With no employment plans, or any kind of plans in place, I said yes. Off we went, then, maybe a couple of weeks later, in Mike’s bright red Ford Mustang convertible. Our journey lasted for two weeks or so, I think. We got as far north as Canada’s Gaspé Peninsula, where we began the southward drive back to the States. Mike and I had a blast throughout our expedition. We’ve palled around regularly ever since that time, partly because, as fate would have it, we ended up living not far from each other in Pennsylvania, the state each of us moved to a few years after our Canadian journey. We remain Pennsylvanians and close friends.

Having been bitten by the travel bug, and still uncertain about what to do with my life employment-wise, I scratched the bug by exploring many states of the USA on two separate month-long occasions during the early 1970s. And in 1977, right before beginning what would become a lengthy career in government, I wandered through Europe for six weeks, accompanied by a backpack. With little money to my name — I specialized in low-paying, short-term jobs for a bunch of years — it’s somewhat amazing that I pulled off those three trips. These days, it probably would be next to impossible.

Yours truly on Kala Patthar in Nepal. Mount Everest is the tallest of the peaks behind me.
(November 19, 1982)

Well, I’ve maintained a pretty active travel schedule since then, spending significant amounts of time on foreign shores and also in a selection of American states. The most astonishing adventure I’ve ever had was a three-week hike, in 1982, through the Himalayas in Nepal. Sticking strictly to terrains on which mountaineering equipment (ropes, ice axes, etc.) was not needed, I and a couple more members of my small trekking group ultimately reached Kala Patthar. KP is an approximately 18,500-foot-high ridge almost within spitting distance of the world’s tallest structure, Mount Everest, whose tippy top is 29,032 feet above sea level. On Kala Patthar, with Everest and other monstrously elevated peaks staring me smack in the face, my mind was totally blown. I’d never experienced anything that majestic before, and haven’t equaled or topped it since. And there’s virtually no chance I will.

My wife Sandy wasn’t with me in Nepal, due to the irrefutable fact that we didn’t meet until 1990. But we’ve logged plenty of miles together since becoming a couple, both in the States and abroad. Many of those miles have been on Cape Cod, a 65-mile-long Massachusetts peninsula. I’ve written ad nauseum about the Cape in this publication, another irrefutable fact. That’s because Sandy and I have developed an intimate relationship with Cape Cod, something we never anticipated would happen with any travel destination. Cape Cod is blessed with unusually beautiful coastlines, tons of restaurants and a good arts scene, and it emits welcoming vibes. It is our soul mate. We have vacationed on the Cape almost annually since discovering it in 1998.

Sandy and I travelled quite a lot in 2025. Totally domestically, as all five of our destinations, which included Cape Cod and Maui, are parts of the States. Where might we find ourselves in 2026? Cape Cod is on the agenda once again. Beyond that, we don’t know. Getting to, and back home from, vacation spots wear us out more than it used to. Last year’s trips proved that to us emphatically. So, we shall see.

I’ll say this, though: Somewhere down the line it would be cool to return to Italy, where Sandy and I explored Venice, Florence and Rome in 2011. We’d like to see more of Italy, the Naples/Pompeii region, for instance.

And we would be thrilled to poke around any number of lands we never have set foot in. Spain is on that list, as is Portugal and Morocco and . . .

A Baby-Blue Story

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

Two Thursdays ago, in need of exercise, fresh air and dashes of excitement, I unglued my bony ass from the living room sofa and left the comfort of my suburban-Philadelphia home. Hopping into my car, I drove for three miles, arriving in the heart of Hatboro, an old-fashioned village which, after parking, I explored on foot for an hour. Actually, I exaggerate. I didn‘t hop into the car. Eased my way in carefully is more like it. But I might have hopped were I at least 25 years younger than I am.

Hatboro, Pennsylvania (January 8, 2026)
Hatboro, Pennsylvania (January 8, 2026)

The hike began a few minutes after the noon hour. I had one main goal in mind: to find joyful colors, on man-made objects, that would counteract the mild case of sluggishness that my region’s drab winter had induced in me that day. I ended up having a fair amount of success, thanks to encounters with the large, bright murals painted on the exteriors of two buildings. Other than them, though, Hatboro’s structures offered little in the eye–catching hues category. Basically, earth tones, greys, whites and blacks dominated. Fortunately, that’s not the end of this story.

Half a year ago, while on a walk that I wrote about for Yeah, Another Blogger, I came to the realization that, theretofore, I ordinarily failed to look at the sky when I was outdoors. Big mistake, as its vast canvas can present a sizeable variety of designs, all of them fascinating. There were exceptions to this, of course. For instance, I swooned over sunsets now and then. Overall, however, I was someone who, celestially-speaking, was missing the boat.

That walk changed my behavior. Since then, I’ve tried hard to remember to peruse the heavens a bit when I’m outside. I still fall short in this regard, but I’m pleased with my progress. And I think I’ll continue to improve. One thing for sure is that looking upward brought my Hatboro walk to a higher level than it otherwise would have been.

Hatboro, Pennsylvania (January 8, 2026)

Yes, two man-made creations (the murals) impressed me. But, as it turned out, a Nature-made creation (the sky) wowed me way more, and gave me an additional bonus too. During the expedition I raised my gaze four or five times to the baby-blue expanse above me, allowing its gentle, soothing presence to penetrate my wrinkled skin and creaky bones. The cloud filaments strewn throughout the ethers aided the process lovingly. Ah, what relief! Those sky-gazing sessions, brief though they were, sent my inner tensions packing. Unfortunately, the tensions soon returned. Why? Well, I’m a pretty uptight f*cker. I wish that wasn’t true, but it is. Shit! Still, I was glad to get rid of them even for those short periods.

Blue, according to various research studies, is the favorite color among humans. But which shade of blue? A bold one, such as cobalt blue or navy blue? An extremely mild one, such as powder blue? I investigated that subject online and couldn’t find an answer. My hunch is that, for heavens-related reasons akin to mine, the blue hue that reached down to comfort me in Hatboro is the world’s favorite, or near the top anyway. Color experts seem to call it either baby blue or light-sky blue. I go with baby blue. I like the sound of that name.

When I was a kid, bright yellow was my favorite color. During my young adulthood, my preference changed to blue. I’m not sure, however, if I ever thought about which specific form of blue I prefer. Until recently, that is. These days, baby blue does it for me. I know it’s not flashy. It doesn’t make my jaw drop instantly. But I find it to be graceful and liberating. It makes me smile and makes me feel good. Clearly, I’ve become a big fan. Which wouldn’t be the case if I hadn’t started to look up regularly last year, losing myself in the baby-blue skies that often have been there to greet me.

Peace, Love And Understanding

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

So, here we are at the start of another year. Perhaps 2026 will prove to be more agreeable for humankind than 2025 was. But that’s a major longshot, seeing that a propensity for violence is embedded in the genetic material of way too many people, males above all. Vladimir Putin is a perfect example of an individual filled with real nasty DNA. Male, and also a f*cking monster, he shows no inclination to end Russia’s attack on Ukraine. And let’s not forget Donald Trump. (Man, we can’t. He’s unforgettable! Right, Venezuela?) Like Putin, he is a hugely destabilizing figure. Duh! A megalomaniac, a bigot and a convicted felon, and contemptuous of all who dare to disagree with him, this guy is trying his damnedest to put a submission hold on democracy in the USA. I could cite dozens of other examples of horror shows being staged on our planet. But I’ll spare you the wordage.

As you might guess, based on the above paragraph, the negative aspects of the world’s state of affairs are on my mind a lot. They are in sharp contrast to teachings of the hippie movement of the 1960s, which shaped my outlook on life. Or maybe that outlook already was in place back then and merely wanted to be reinforced a bit. Whatever the case, I’m a sucker for peace, love and understanding, three key tenets of hippiedom. And for four of the others too: kindness, inclusion, fairness and open-mindedness. Alas, alas, alas, only in the dreamiest dreams will that septet become guiding principles of any nation, let alone all nations. There is far too much intolerance and greed throughout the world for that to happen. Still, it’s important to champion and manifest those virtues. The more inroads they make, the less unfortunate the future of our species, and of most other species on Earth, will be.

I’m an old guy, about one-quarter of the way through my 79th journey around the Sun, a reality I can’t fathom at all. How the hell did I become near-ancient? Anyway, I don’t know if it’s surprising or not, but I’ve always remained true to the societal and world views I held when I was in my 20s, a period during which I wouldn’t have guessed that, decades later, my face would decide to form more wrinkles than are found in a box of prunes. Political-spectrum-wise, I haven’t swung to the right, not even a little, and never will. And I’ll add, by the way, that I’m not a pacifist. Violence and warfare at times are just and necessary. And I’ll also add that I take comfort in the knowledge that a healthy number of readers of this publication have pretty much the same takes as me on the matters I touch upon in this article.

Nick Lowe, an astute British rocker, is the composer of the great song (What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding. He and the other members of his then-band Brinsley Schwarz recorded it and released it in 1974, with Lowe handling the lead vocals. Initially, it didn’t go anywhere at all. Since then, however, the song has gained an enormous amount of traction. Elvis Costello And The Attractions got the ball rolling with the version they put on wax in 1978. Many more artists subsequently covered it too. There’s no doubt in my mind that the composition’s popularity has mushroomed because its message is the truth. There’s nothing funny about peace, love and understanding. They are where it’s at.

Without further ado, I present to you the Brinsley Schwarz version of a song that has its heart in the right places. Get ready to be rocked and inspired.

Ho, Ho, Ho And All That Jazz: A Guest Post By Santa Claus

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

Ho, ho, ho and all that jazz, this is Santa Claus, writing to you from the frigging North Pole. It’s colder than deep space here, so cold that my private parts probably wouldn’t thaw out if I spent a month in the Caribbean. Despite that, I’d love to relocate to warmer climes. But Mrs. Claus won’t hear of it. Ditto for the elves, those weirdos I rely on to help get the big job done at Christmastime. Beats me how anybody can stand the cold. But it takes all kinds, I guess.

Anyway, one week ago, feeling antsy, I decided to get away for a couple of days. The elves are strange as hell, so I was not at all certain they could handle Christmas-toymaking pressure on their own. But I knew that Mrs. Claus would keep things under control. What a woman she is! It’s a shame that my frozen privates almost always prevent me from providing her with the satisfaction she deserves. Not to mention that true intimacy would be much more achievable if I dropped at least 80 pounds. Yeah, there’s no denying I’m a fat f*ck.

“Where are you headed, my chubby hubbie?” my spouse asked when I told her of my need for a quick getaway.

“I’m off to Pennsylvania, USA, dearest. I’ve been out of touch with Sandy and Neil for a long while. I miss them. Too bad I won’t be with them during Chanukah. But that holiday begins only a week and a half before Christmas, and I’ll need to be back home well before that. Dearest, I think it’s great I have Jewish friends. Why, I’m so comfortable with Sandy and Neil, I sometimes flirt with the idea of converting to Judaism.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?” my wife responded. “You’re a Christian icon!”

“Just joking, dearest, just joking,” I said. Or was I? Twenty minutes later, after pecking my better half on the cheek, I climbed into my waiting sleigh and in a handful of seconds was up, up and away.

I reached my destination in record time, landing and parking, under a seriously dark sky, in Sandy and Neil’s backyard. “Don’t cause any problems, guys,” I told the reindeer. “No moaning and groaning. No crapping on the lawn. Just lie down and be quiet. We’ll be homeward bound tomorrow.”

I made my way to the front of the house and knocked on the door. Neil opened it. “Holy shit, it’s Santa! It’s been ages, my man. Ages. Come on in. How have you been? Sandy, Santa‘s here!” Sandy ran to the door, a wide smile on her face.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Santa. I’ve missed you so much!” she said.

Well, they embraced me, and I them, and then the three of us sat down and spent the next two hours chit-chatting, noshing, drinking, and having one hell of a fine time. What’s better than being with people you actually want to be with? Not much.

The conversation turned to the holiday season. “As I know you know, Santa, I’m an atheist,” Neil said. “But there’s something about Chanukah even I can get into. I’m talking about lighting menorah candles each night of the holiday and watching them glow. They’re beautiful and put me in a gentle frame of mind. I wish you could spend at least part of Chanukah with us, Santa, but I’m sure your schedule won’t allow that.”

“Right, duty awaits me at the North Pole,” I said. “But, speaking of beautiful, how about we all stroll around your neighborhood right now? Many of your neighbors really know how to decorate their houses and grounds for Christmas. We’ve looked at wonderful Christmas displays a few times before. Remember?”

“How could I forget, Santa?” Neil asked. “One of those excursions lifted you out of a funk.”

“Word!” I acknowledged. “Okay, let’s see what we shall see.”

Well, what can I say? The sights at night on the blocks near Sandy and Neil’s home mesmerized the three of us. I felt as if I were in a wonderland. And in a real sense I was. Those streets were enchanted, and only in good ways.

Before departing the next day, I asked Neil if I could contribute a story to Yeah, Another Blogger. I’d written two guest posts before. “Damn straight, Santa!” he said. “That would suit me just fine. You write a heck of a lot better than me, you know.”

“Neil, you’re such a flatterer!” I replied. But he wasn’t wrong about that.

Soon, the time to say goodbye arrived. It had been over five years since I’d spoken on the phone with, let alone visited, Sandy and Neil. We promised to stay in touch regularly. And I believe we will. And, though it was still a few weeks away, they wished me a very Happy New Year. Which is what I wish for the readers of Neil’s publication. The world is in sad straits. It’s going through a dark period. But if we all let our inner lights shine brightly, maybe we can push the needle in a positive direction.

Thank you, Neil, for posting my article. And thank you, readers, for reading it!

You Gotta Have Fun: A Cannoli Story

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

My wife Sandy and I go out to dinner most Friday and Saturday nights. We’ve been doing this for years, and know that we’re fortunate as hell to be able to indulge ourselves in this way. The majority of those meals take place in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, which isn’t surprising, since we reside in those burbs. And once or twice each month we head into Philadelphia, a city with many fine aspects, including a pulsating restaurant scene that, like the universe, keeps expanding. Each of our Philly visits includes dining in a restaurant or pub. The abundance of good eateries is one of the reasons why I’m a major fan of The City Of Brotherly Love.

Sandy and I consider dining out to be a form of entertainment. It’s fun. Two Fridays ago (November 7th), in the burbs, we chowed down at a restaurant we’ve been to a lot: Anthony’s Coal-Fired Pizza. The Italian salad we ordered was A-OK, and the pizza that followed it earned, on my scale, a 6.8 out of 10. That’s pretty high praise from me, because I’m a pizza snob.

The salad and pizza filled us up quite nicely. There was no room for dessert, certainly not for cannoli, a not-on-the-light-side Italian pastry, which Sandy, almost in passing, mentioned was on the dessert menu. Cannoli — crispy, tubular shells of dough stuffed with one variation or another of a ricotta cheese filling — can be scrumptious. When the word cannoli left Sandy’s mouth, my mind lit up, and I found myself reliving a sublime gastronomic experience. Namely, the cannoli I’d swooned over a year or so previously, for they were perfection, at Little Nonna’s, an Italian restaurant in downtown Philly that’s hard to get into unless you’ve reserved a table at least several days in advance. I hadn’t eaten any cannoli since then. But the signs were clear. It was imperative that I interact with Little Nonna’s cannoli again. And soon. Damn soon. The next night, in fact, would be ideal.

Thus, as we were preparing to pay the bill, I said to Sandy that, when we got home, I was going to see if Little Nonna’s, by some miracle, had a table available for the following evening. The odds were low, but miracles, I hear, have been known to occur. The cannoli gods were with me. Back at the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes when Litte Nonna’s online reservation service offered a table for 7:00 PM on Saturday. I nabbed it. Cannoli, here I come!

Little Nonna’s
Little Nonna’s

We arrived at Little Nonna’s from a Philadelphia movie theater, where we’d seen Blue Moon, a literate and really good drama about Lorenz Hart, the brilliant but troubled lyricist whose songwriting partner was the composer Richard Rodgers. Little Nonna’s is a cool place. Dimly lit, casual and full of life. Sandy and I enjoyed the heck out of the salad we shared. Ditto for our entrees. The chefs there know what they’re doing.

Cannoli at Little Nonna’s

One hour into the meal, the long-anticipated moment was at hand, as a plate holding two cannoli was placed before us. They were a vision and also deelish. The hazelnut bits, chocolate sauce and powdered sugar saw to that. But were the cannoli fully as good as those on the previous occasion? You better believe it! My idea to revisit Little Nonna’s was one of the best I’d had in a long while.

As we all know all too well, our lives zoom by. That’s why it’s important to have fun on at least a fairly regular basis. Anything less than that means we’re not in the best of shape. If I hadn’t followed through on my goofy cannoli-related impulse, I’d have missed out on a fun-filled mini adventure. Which would have been a shame. For most of my adult life, I’ve been a frequent fun-pursuer and a usually successful fun-attainer. I have no plans to change.

Autumn, A Fine Time Of Year

Yeah, Another Blogger159 Comments

For many years, autumn has been my favorite season, though I guess spring has been gaining ground in that regard. In any case, summer and winter sure ain’t contenders, as I’m not into sweating like a pig nor freezing my balls off.

What is it that puts autumn at the top? Well, the coolish daytime-high temperatures of many of its days please me just fine. And I’m influenced, I believe, by the fact that I’m an October baby. It seems logical to be a fan of the season during which one was born. Actually, I wonder how much truth is in that statement. I’m not sure.

But what I like the most about fall is tree leaves changing color, a spectacle I can’t get enough of. I feel sorry for folks who live in sections of the globe where the extravaganza isn’t staged. In a very real sense, they are being cheated. Many of the deciduous trees in my area have been doing their morphing thing for several weeks, and are looking mighty fine.

I live in a tidy, oldish and unusually hilly neighborhood, part of a town located close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. In an attempt to keep my bod in halfway-decent shape, I go for walks in the hood fairly regularly. A stroll along the streets two Thursdays ago was a most lovely one. The temperature when I left the house at about 11:00 AM was 57°F (14°C), which was a little lower than it would have been if I were in charge of things, but perfectly acceptable nonetheless. What’s more, the sky was painted a vivid blue, with wads of clouds scattered here and there along its lower regions. I examined the sky closely throughout the walk, since the heavens above almost always are worth looking at and admiring. I’ve been semi-negligent about doing this for much of my life, and recently have tried to become more attentive. A walk I took and wrote about a few months ago got me thinking along those lines.

The color transformations on the Thursday in question knocked my socks off. Shades of orange, gold and cranberry, among others, lit up the neighborhood fabulously. I was particularly drawn to the trees laden in both orange and gold hues. They knew they were something special and proudly showed off their wares. But not boastfully. That’s how confident and assured they were about themselves. The mixture of those colors got to me in a deep way. Not only was it fiery, almost paradoxically it was mellow too.

By the time I arrived home, I had hiked nearly two miles, farther than I was expecting to. Tree leaves with mesmerizing powers had kept me on the streets. Sad to say, the multi-color show will have reached the end of its run by late November, if not sooner. That’s the way Nature rolls.

In 1972, Van Morrison, the singer-songwriter who at age 80 is still going strong, laid down the tracks for Hard Nose The Highway, an album that was released the following year and whose awkward title refers to the importance of trying to persevere through hard times. There are some top-notch tunes on Hard Nose. Maybe the best is Autumn Song, a Van composition that instantly carries me away, so sweet and relaxed is it. The best time and place to listen to Autumn Song, I believe, is late on a fall night, indoors with the lights turned off or way down low. But, with few exceptions, any hour of any day at any location will do just fine. The recording is more than 10 minutes long, by the way. Autumn Song doesn’t overstay its visit, though, because it’s a total charmer. Here it is, anxiously waiting for you to click on the Play button.

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger156 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?