The Chosen One


Junk Mail Drives Me Nuts!

An e-mail sent to me from Time today said I was chosen. Never had I thought ever to be a chosen one, but my fifteen seconds of jubilation and self-assumed fame turned into anonymity quickly again upon my discovering they just wanted more of my hard-earned money, by offering cut-rate pricing for subscriptions to their other publications.

Give me a break. I already subscribe to their flagship magazine, but the greedy marketing department wants to draw blood from a stone.

Methinks I’m the chosen one for receiving unsolicited junk mail from everybody in the world.

That’s like AARP, another organization that gets my goat, soliciting for cash donations at least twice monthly. With my assuming they send out letters to their millions of members as well, postage and handling must cost them a fortune. Let’s figure this out, shall we?

According to records, AARP has a membership of 37,000,000+ old farts like me. Their revenue, based on the fiscal year of 2014, was $1,486,310,000. That’s well-over a billion dollars. Their expenses for that year totaled $1,468,824,000, yielding a net profit of $17,486,000.

If, for argument’s sake, the organization sends out two letters per month, begging for donations from all their members, they’d have to pay marketing bulk-mail postage on 76,000,000 envelopes monthly, times 12 for an annual total of 912,000,000 solicitations.

Taking the low-end price for a bulk-mail stamp, which costs 21¢ if mailed from a US Postal Sectional Center Facility, the yearly expense comes to $191,520,000. That’s definitely not chump change.

Then the expense for stationary, printing, and other miscellaneous charges compounds that to presumably another $91,200,000, guessing the supplies cost 10¢ per mailing, for a grand total of $282,720,000.

Granted, they have to solicit to get money, but, considering their net profit as mentioned above, is all the hassle and cut trees from massive quantities of paper worth it? Close to a third of a billion dollars spent begging for money seems redundant to me.

Making charitable contributions to various organizations land well-meaning donors onto mailing lists that go round-robin to the rest, sold from one outfit to most every other charity from here to kingdom come.

Since contributing to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, veteran groups, police associations, ACLU, the Red Cross, a few food banks and flood-relief concerns, I’ve now received from a boatload of associations, a cache of return-mail labels, a stash of calendars—at least two for every room in my apartment—stationary with my name embossed atop of it, pens, and enough greeting cards to send out to those on my annual Christmas-card list. Everybody wants a piece of the action.

Entering a sweepstakes from Publishers’ Clearing House condemns a soul to eternal receipt of yet more chances to win money for another drawing from which one will never receive any of the prizes in their lifetime.

I made the mistake last June by sending back their entry form for a contest and have been hit up regularly to enter another form of the same sweepstakes, sent to me almost as often as AARP sends out their junk mail. I just received another one in the post yesterday.

When will it all end? My tongue has a permanent layer of glue embedded in its pores from licking all the stickers for plastering them on their return, super-prize certifications.

Oh well, I’m my worst enemy, it seems, so enough of this week’s rant. Just finished my latest cover tune this evening, by the way. Please allow me to share it with you. Hope you enjoy it. It would be nice to mention in the comments’ section if you do. Even if you think it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard and it hurts your ears, I would appreciate the input.

Incidentally, I’m heartbroken that the NY Yankees lost the ALCS tonight, but they gave it one heck of a try. Congratulations to them for a fine season.

Thanks for stopping by and for your continued support.

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Things That Make Me Go, “Hmmmmmm!”



  • Why are the crowns of North Korean military hats so large in circumference?
  • Are openly carrying pencils and small notepads while in Kim Jong-un’s presence part of the North Korean military protocol?
  • What is it exactly that all those old men write in them?
  • Is a fixed amount of time mandatory before responding to an e-mail or text message after one reads it on their smartphone or Internet device, instead of answering it right away?
  • Why do so many drivers not use their turn signals?
  • How come shoppers must leave their shopping carts in the middle of the supermarket aisle while they pick items off the shelves, blocking everyone from passing around them?
  • Why do oncoming vehicles speed up when one is attempting to pull into traffic, even if wanting to go the other way?
  • Is it really necessary for having to slam the door after entering or leaving one’s house or apartment?
  • Must cars be parked as close to mine as possible in parking spaces next to me, causing dings and scratches on my auto from others’ opening doors when exiting their vehicles?
  • Have individuals forgotten to say—or given up saying—”Thanks,” and “You’re welcome,” anymore?
  • Does a person feel more important by ignoring comments posted by presumed, insignificant others on the former’s tweets or updates on Social Media, never giving the latter any recognition at all?
  • When I attempt to tear-open new zip-lock packages at the spot that reads, “Tear Here,” why doesn’t it tear no matter how hard I try without using a sharp knife or scissors?
  • Why is it talk is so cheap, and a lot of people never do what they tell me they’re going to do?
  • Do all click-bait headlines on the Internet lately say, “Here’s what you need to know,” about whatever?
  • Can you believe two hundred more words are left to go in this goofy tirade?
  • How come nobody loves you when you’re down?
  • Who discovered that most lines of type average ten words?
  • Why is it you’re counting words in the above lines?
  • Do politics and religion really make strange bedfellows?
  • How long does it take to shave one’s head bare everyday?
  • Is it looking like Mr. Clean that makes them want to do it?
  • Why do bald men mostly always have beards or other facial hair?
  • Who was Murphy, and did he actually devise that law which seems to rule my everyday existence?
  • Will the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol ever make a visit to my flat after my religiously plastering stickers on every one of their entry forms ever sent to me?
  • Does anyone besides me wish for a “Do Not Send Junk Mail” registry?
  • How does AARP know when someone turns fifty for pestering them to join their organization?
  • How did I get this far into this weeks tirade with the preceding nonsense?
  • Why are the second syllables in preceding and proceeding spelt differently?
  • Why do I always misspell them both?
  • Is a writer’s block actually a cube?
  • Do you sometimes amaze yourselves like I do me?
  • How did I get started on this anyway?
  • Does anyone even give a shit?
  • Do you believe I made it past 500 words?

Allow me to shamelessly plug my new novel, Sarobia: Sanctuary for Humans, Birds and Animals, which can now be found at, on sale today for 23% off the list price, by clicking “here.”

Lastly, my latest cover, for hopefully your enjoyment, is a tribute to the late Tom Petty:

Thanks your your continued support, and for putting up with my weekly diatribes.


That’s All Folks!

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Ode to Uncanniness


Life is Like a Golf Ball Stuck in a Tree, Surrounded by a Spider Web.

What is it about thee?
A penchant to look past and not see me;

Observing only what thou wishes to be,
Expressing admiration predominately,
When complimentary to thy own bland cup of tea.

Ignorance is thine,
Self-pity is mine,
Time after time, after time.

It’s always been that way.
Why? I really can not say.
I think I’ll blame it all on an older sibling named Ray,
Under whose foot as a child I did stay.

Living in fear and pain, lasting throughout each day,
Wishing for comfort and not feeling at bay,
Tortured by a tyrant whose jealousy is felt even today,
Although he is long gone from this astral plane.

Being a threat to another’s autonomy,
Is what I gather the cause must be,
Seeming as if a sign is planted perpetually on my back that reads, “Ignore me.”

Another month has passed us by,
Why is it that I want to cry?

Could it be that it went so fast,
Knowing that my time won’t last,
For very much longer?

Life is filled with so much uncertainty,
Why doth thou add to my soliloquy with thy ability,
To make me feel worthless, untalented and unfulfilled with ambiguity?

I apologize for this rant in rhyme,
Something that’s a specialty of mine,
Inscribing thoughts that come to mind,
Of what seem to be bothering me at the time.

Writing is a friend with a listening ear,
Who offers a kind bit of cheer,
Always letting me speak when no one else doth hear.

The pain and sorrow I hath reared,
Doth take away my happiness and return it with jeers,
From them who care less about anyone but sub-peers,
Who fill their own agenda, boost their egos, and not realizing mine own tears.

Perhaps I should go out and have a beer.
But my five hundred words are nowhere near.

So I’ll continue until I reach the quota,
Three hundred and thirty-three words thus far and not an iota,
Of sense doth this make, so let them eat cake,
Frosted in iambic pentameter.

Another one hundred and fifty words to go in this epic poem,
Which started out seriously and now makes me want to leave home,
To seek some entertainment other than my words of groan.

I’ll need to throw on a pair of pants,
Taken off before starting this rhyming rant,
Sweating after putting away all the food-shopping I had made,
This evening much to my disdain.

Why is it I hate to do that dreaded deed?
A friend calls me silly, for otherwise how would I feed?
There’s always take out and home delivery,
But that can be quite costly on my fixed sustainability.

Telling me she likes to shop, tooling around with a shopping cart,
Something methinks that’s ingrained at birth for every little female tart,
Who grows up later into a money drain while visiting every boutique and super-mart.

But enough of that, for my poetic diatribe has now reached its five-hundred words,
Even more as I type, this is really getting to be absurd.
Thanks for allowing me this bit of poetry,
Your continual support, and weekly reading of my non-sensibility.

So until next time I doth so uncannily rhyme,
Thanks for being so kind.

The End

P.S. Oh, by the way, allow me to share our latest tune,
Sung by Rie Waits and yours truly in honor of the Harvest Moon,
With the accompanying video for good measure,
Of one of  my last few joys for surrealistic pleasure.

One more thing, but it doesn’t rhyme, is my latest novel, Sarobia: Sanctuary for Human Beings, Birds and Animals, which is now available at and on Kindle;

Please pick up a copy. Thanks in advance.

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Turn, Turn, Turn

Roger McGuinn of the Byrds

Roger McGuinn of The Byrds – I had a pair of those sunglasses back then.

To everything, turn, turn, turn,

There is a season, turn, turn, turn,

And a time to every purpose under heaven.

A time to gain, a time to lose,

A time to rend, a time to sew,

A time to love, a time to hate,

A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late.

The  previous lyrics were written by Pete Seger, adapted from first eight verses of the third chapter of the biblical Book of Ecclesiastes.

As summer turned to fall, I thought about the above song, recorded by the Byrds, which is embedded at the end of this week’s entry.

Yes, I’m back to my regularity with no help from Ex-lax, thank goodness; nor from prune juice. How can anyone drink that stuff? Tried it once. Took me well-over two weeks to go through a quart of it, forcing the dreadful extract down daily, not to let it go to waste; but it did anyway, however, so to speak. OK, albeit, that’s way too much info.

Sorry for getting off on a tangent there. As for the song, I think of its lyrics at the turn of every season, sort of like a perpetually seasonal ear worm.  Now you’ve got it. No need to thank me. You’re welcome just the same.

The poem has so much to say about human nature and is fresh today as it was in 935 BCE, when Ecclesiastes was mused by King Solomon, which is relevant to today, having been Yom Kippur that ended at sunset. Hope your fast went well, for all of our Jewish friends.

A time of love, a time of hate,

A time of war, a time of peace,

A time you may embrace,

A time to refrain from embracing.

The prior stanza sounds like my former marriage, the world stage today; or even Social Media, which takes up the lives of too many individuals who really need to get a life outside amongst real people.

Even when they do, you see these unfortunates hunched over, looking at their smartphones while meandering around seemingly aimlessly.


At least this woman had a book to read.

At a public park the other day, while bird-watching and taking photos, enjoying nature, I took notice presumably of the majority of people about, who were reviewing their Social Media feeds.

Roughly 98% of the park’s visitors carried their devices openly in one hand, if not looking at the screens.

Couples strolled together, but each gazed at their own phones, as if walking in a fog, unable to see a world of beauty around them. People sat on park benches, engrossed in their iPhones or Androids, whatever. Some even had tablets with them.

While someone waited at a stop sign in a car, he peered at his smartphone. It drives me nuts to see this. If the humans aren’t glued to the screens of their communicators, they’ve got them stuck to their earlobes, talking a mile a minute, with that glazed-over look in their eyes, like deer on the side of the road, staring at a vehicle’s headlights in the middle of the night.

A time to be born, a time to die,

A time to plant, a time to reap,

A time to kill, a time to heal,

A time to laugh, a time to weep.

Now we’ve reverted back to the time of nuclear-war paranoia. This old-timer remembers clearly as if yesterday, air-raid drills in school: drop and tucking under desks, tables, or in the church basement where stacked 55-gallon drums of potable water were stored in case of a nuclear attack.

People in Japan, seeking shelter within minutes’ notice from emergency-broadcast systems, have to worry about crazed neighbors across the sea who are hurling guided, ballistic missiles above their country.

Citizens in the U.S. are fully aware of a madman whose rhetoric leans too close to nuclear holocaust; and then there’s North Korea’s Kim Jong-un.

A time to build up, a time to break down,

A time to dance, a time to mourn,

A time to cast away stones,

A time to gather stones together.

Fall’s first full moon, or the “Harvest Moon,” is five days away. In celebration, Rie Waits and I are working on a special duet to honor the event. Stay tuned to Twitter and the other dreaded Social Media Networks to which I subscribe, for further details.

In the meantime, Turn, Turn, Turn, in the right direction; and thanks for your continued support. By the way, my novel is on its way to becoming a best-seller. Better pick up a copy before Sarobia: Sanctuary for Human Beings, Birds and Animals sells out!

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But Did You Miss Me?

Sarobia's Entrance to Yesterday

Autumn at Sarobia

Looking at the activity calendar on the right sidebar of this journal, one will see the last post made here was on the 2nd of September, a little over three weeks prior to this one. Shame on me for being so neglectful.

“What were you up to?” you might be asking; although, probably not. Most likely you didn’t even notice, or care one way or the other. That’s OK. I was enjoying myself.

In case someone did, however, I was busy writing my fourth novel, an illustrated tome about a place that’s close to my heart and apartment: Sarobia, or presently known as Neshaminy State Park, roughly four miles northeast from where I live.

The lead-in photo to today’s tirade is a sketch of the entry into the former notorious estate. I’m assuming it was drawn by Richard Blossom Farley, an early-twentieth-century American Impressionist painter, sculptor, poet, architect, builder, and classically trained artist who lived there, along with other bohemians, stray dogs and alley cats who inhabited the experimental commune and art colony.

The following is a present-day photo of that same entrance sans gatehouse, Farley’s tower, and gateposts topped with black-iron cats; now a one-lane road, coming in and out of the state park for authorized vehicles only:


Present-day Shot of Entrance into Sarobia

The shame of it all is everything from the compound’s florescence has been stolen or demolished, leaving only remnants of its past, like the formal garden’s wall adorned with a cracked Humpty Dumpty, sitting atop of its main portal; a couple of sundial pedestals with store-bought masonry indices without gnomons, or shadow-casters—the originals were ripped off by hoodlums—and the old pump house which supplied water to the estate, now a storage facility for the park.

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Often wondering what the place looked liked back in its heyday, I was fortunate to have met Jack Maher (JM), who grew up adjacently to Sarobia on the grounds of the Riverfront Estate, owned by a Major Frank Ehlenfeldt, where JM’s father was the caretaker.

Jack had become friends with Sarobia’s caretaker’s son, Henry, both of whom had free access to the two properties; and JM had many anecdotes to tell presently about life on the mysterious, experimental commune and art colony.

Most significantly, the vast, personal collection of 35 mm slides owned by Robert Logan, the master of Sarobia, was in the possession of my new-found contact, who shared the grandeur of the old estate by graciously giving me the privilege of scanning and reproducing the images from them, to include the photos in my latest novel entitled, Sarobia: Sanctuary for Human Beings, Birds and Animals.

Along with the boatload of illustrations is the factual history behind the infamous commune and art colony, which had been been depicted by the locals as being a haven of heathens, nudists, cat-worshipers and insanity.

Jack introduced himself to me by e-mail after finding my postings about Sarobia on the search engines. We corresponded back and forth during the interim before I took a road trip on the 6th of this month to meet him and his wife personally at their home in Northern Virginia, near Fredericksburg. It was then he gave me all the magnificently explicit slides.

It took me the remainder of the time from early September until now to go through the nearly 1,000 slides and transpose the best into digital photographs, write, edit, proofread and publish my latest novel, which is what I’ve been up to for the past three weeks. I plan now on getting back to business as usual, sharing photographs of my daily exploits, and cutting up on Social Media.

Making my musical covers had suffered as well during this period, for which I’m really sure nobody noticed; but I’m back, so be forewarned.

By the way, If anyone is interested in purchasing a copy of my newest novel, please feel free to click here for more information about how to pick it up.

Thanks in advance.


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Summertime and the Living Ain’t Easy

Hot in Philly 02s

How Hot Was It?

Summer is slipping away with the Labor Day Weekend upon us, and not a moment too soon.  Never thought that way until relatively recently. Always felt melancholy as the autumn equinox approached. Still do for the simple fact of decreased daylight, and that winter, a least favorite of this complainer, is not far behind at the rate seasons appear to fly by progressively faster.

Yet, as this summer fades, so does the dreadfully torrid weather we had mostly everywhere, which seems to have gotten increasingly hotter each year for the past several.

Below is a graph from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, showing the nine warmest years globally on record, and guess what? Eight of them occurred within the past twelve years.

NOAA graphic-gloabal-warming

However, according to the White House and many legislators with a great portion of the U. S. voting population, global warming is all a hoax and fake news. The present administration pulled out of the Paris Climate Accord this year for reasons unclear, other than trying to undo the legacy of the past chief executive; but let’s not get into politics. Too much of it fills our daily lives already as it is.

Summertime was the favorite time of the year for this aging cynic, a season for celebration, looking forward to fun in the sun, vacations, and rock-‘n’-rolling all night long. Not so fun anymore while being drenched in sweat and fatigued by the heat.

The weather and temperatures have broken finally. How does Mother Nature do that, knowing to flip the switch regularly around the first of September? Indian Summer was a joy for me too, as it always seems to happen around the World Series. Now, I’m looking forward to putting on the old leather jacket again, and hoping another heat wave is at least a year away.

Labor Day was a special time for my family, as we always went to Canada for the three-day weekend. I’ve posted about it before in this journal, and even waxed poetically about the end-of -summer holiday here.

Like music, holidays jog one’s memory, bringing back to mind various events from long ago, and carting along with them, the heartfelt emotions experienced at the time. As mentioned often on these pages, I always try to remember the humorous times. No sense delving in unhappiness, which brings us to the closing of this week’s entry with a little story about one of our crazy Labor-Day jaunts to the Great White North.

My father had just bought a few acres of land in Saint-Alexandre, Québec, in the Regional County Municipality of Le Haut-Richelieu. The area is a rural-farming district with a sparse population. Canada’s 2011 Census counted 2,495 residents, which was most likely a lot less when the following took place.

A small house, which I considered a shack, sat on the property, along with a barn, and an outhouse that wasn’t found until the end of our stay that weekend. No indoor plumbing was available, just a hand pump next to the rusted porcelain sink in the kitchen.

We had to make sure we filled a jar with water after using the pump, for it needed to be primed each time, or all one got was air.

Pop had rented a backhoe to dig a trench for a septic tank. He and his brother worked all weekend installing it, with plumbing to the inside of the three-room cabin, installing a loo, tub and sink in the newly constructed bathroom, a hot-water heater in one of the closets, and a new sink and faucet in the kitchen.

A new electric water pump sat in the crawl space under the house. One thing about my dad and his brother, they worked like gangbusters, outfitting the place with modern conveniences by the time we returned to the States.

Meanwhile, my two best friends, Bob and Bruce—members of our little garage band—went on the trip with us. I was thirteen at the time. We took turns operating the backhoe during the initial digging for the septic tank, under close supervision by either my father or Uncle Gaston.

At night we youngsters slept outside in our sleeping bags under billions of stars, viewing them unhampered by light pollution, gazing at the meteor showers, counting at least two dozen each before falling asleep.

My only complaint about our foray with living like frontiersmen was regarding the infernal poison-ivy rash all over my backside, resulting from my having to relieve myself outdoors like a bear in the woods due to not discovering the whereabouts of the outhouse until our last day at Chez Pop, when we cleaned out the barn that was cluttered with old wood, junk and other debris.

After my friends and I had cleared a path inside, we spotted the crappers in the far corner, two of them sitting side by side with lids covering holes through an enclosed platform made of varnished wood. I supposed back in the day, folks enjoyed having company while taking care of their business, which seems rather crude and smelly.

It was a rough ride home to Hackensack for me, albeit. No amount of calamine lotion took care of my nasty itching.

A few years back, Bruce from that trip found me through, and we reconnected after a few decades of having each gone our separate ways. He sent me the following scanned photos from his archive, which gave me quite a chuckle upon receiving them in my e-mail:


Bob and Mike in Pop’s Shack: Notice the hand pump on the counter where I was seated. Bob was handling the new faucet, and I was pretending to drink water from it.


Mike, sitting on the new septic tank.


Taking a break in the kitchen. The room in the rear was the only bedroom.

Ah, nothing like a trip down Memory Lane. As promised last time, allow me to share Rie Waits’ and my latest duet, a tune called, “Ain’t No Business But My Own.”

Thanks, for stopping by and for your continued support.

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Out Of This World News


Sun through sunroof, on my way to capture the eclipse.

On this past Monday, the day of the much anticipated solar eclipse, the sun shone brightly from the time it rose until about one-half hour before the celestial event was scheduled to begin in Philadelphia.

Only a partial was going to appear in this region. That’s when the clouds rolled in.

As seen to the left, the sky began to become increasingly overcast while on my way to Pennypack Park on the Delaware River, the spot at which I had practiced shooting the sun on the day before.

Of course not a cloud was seen on Sunday for most of the day.


Setup at Pennypack Park on the Delaware River in Philly

The photography setup took some time to prepare. A 4″ x 4″ solar filter, made of a black-polymer film, needed to be secured to the front end of the 500mm lens attached to a Nikon D5200 camera.

The filter has a shiny, silver surface on one side: the outer portion that faces the sun; the inner side is black.

Masking tape worked perfectly and was easy to remove. The Cooper is looking good these days, eh? Not bad for going on 14 years old. The chair has survived well too, considering it’s 4 years old; and my posterior isn’t getting any smaller or lighter.

The Eagles, by the way, are looking good also, as witnessed in their preseason games so far. I’m waiting until the end of the baseball season before turning in my Phillies’ cap for the Eagles’ chapeau.


Start of the eclipse

At 1 P. M., the sky looked mighty ominous, as shown on the left.

Little hope prevailed for my getting any decent photographs of the main event, which was due to start in 15 minutes.

A cable-television series claims, “It’s always sunny in Philadelphia.” Let me take that a step further by adding the disclaimer: except for when there’s a solar eclipse.

Fortunately, the sun popped through the clouds occasionally, allowing for enough photos to make a composite picture of the entire partial eclipse, plus an animated GIF, and a video too:

Partial Solar Eclipse-thumbnails 08-21-17-ss

Thumbnail collage of the partial eclipse

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Animated GIF of the Partial Eclipse

Naturally, after the end of the eclipse, the sky cleared entirely; and the sun blazed uninterruptedly for the rest of the afternoon, straight through until sunset. Go figure!

In other news, I ordered a new cup holder myself from Amazon for the Cooper. As noted in a prior entry, the mechanic who state-inspected the car broke it accidentally; and he ordered a new one to replace it, which turned out to be the wrong model and wouldn’t interchange without his drilling into the car’s console for a Rube Goldberg fix.

The correct device arrived and I installed it in a flash. I feel bad for expecting the auto technician at the inspection station to pay for it.  Albeit he broke it,  but the guy is the owner of a one-man operation and seems to work a lot of hours to make ends meet. The cup holder cost more than the inspection did.

I’m going to let it slide for now. When next year rolls around, and I take the Cooper there for the inspection renewal, I’ll barter with him then.

Elsewhere in the news, the refund from Amazon for my steampunk glasses, as featured in the previous tirade, landed in my account at the Internet superstore. The amount showed up in a gift card, which I redeemed today on an order for a new landline phone. Yes, I still have one of those, but got tired of using a rotary dial.

Not! Only kidding, but I did upgrade to one with caller ID. Talk about being behind the times. It took the last telemarketer who called this afternoon to prompt my decision for buying one with that convenient feature, so I can report them.

Both my home and cellphone numbers are included on the FTC’s National Do Not Call List. I checked on their Web site to verify. Pennsylvania has one as well, come to find out, onto which both phone numbers are now registered.

As haters will always hate, telemarketers will always be telemarketing regardless of how many do-not-call lists there are. A simple cure for them is to just hang up the phone when one of their calls comes through. They never call back.

Lastly, sweltering heat waves and above-average temperatures have plagued us again this summer in the Philadelphia area, inspiring me to cover an old rock-and-roll chestnut by the Lovin’ Spoonful. Allow me to share it with you:

The weather has broken finally. Cooler temperatures are a welcoming change. Leaving the windows open and using a blanket makes for sound sleeping like that of a hibernating bear. I love it!

The next musical cover on here will feature a duet with the lovely and multi-talented Rie Waits, which we’re presently putting together. I’m looking forward to the end result.

Thanks, as always, for stopping by and for your continued support.

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