Philly Life (as I see it)

Mending Fences ...

2010-07-02T13:33:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago I wrote a little posting about my old friend, Michael, and our lost friendship. It was a good feeling to reestablish that friendship after a long absence, but it also feels good to begin mending fences on several sides of this little plot of farmland I call my life.

Another old friend, Ozzie, is now part of that mending process. Soon after the first fence was repaired and new foundations were poured to hopefully ensure a strong friendship for years to come, the old posts and rails of an aging fence rotted with bad feelings and resentment were torn down to make way for yet another newer and stronger fence.

He texted me out of the blue and we scheduled a dinner date together. When we met up on an extremely hot June afternoon we gave each other a strong hug and began tearing down the old fence with a few apologies over past encounters. Just like any large scale remodeling project, it was awkward in trying to figure out where to begin, but we soon got the hang of it as we walked the heated streets to find a place that didn't have its windows thrown open to the hot exhaust fumes of the afternoon rushhour.

We finally settled on Garcas Trading Company, a wine & cheese bar with a nice selection of dinner entrees. We shared a bottle of wine, some cheese samples and a nice chicken entree, all the while trying to catch up on the past three years that had been lost. Both some good and bad things had happened in both our lives, but it seemed that my side of the conversation always travelled back to the negative aspects of my life. That only made me drink a little more and worked in loosening up for a more comfortable conversation as we headed to our next destination.

We headed off to Stir, formerly The Post Bar (full circle, considering that this blog was originally intended to be about the Post and the 2 people who urged me in taking on the blog in the first place are the 2 friend whom I have been writing about in recent weeks). We both had some heavy duty fruity drinks that seemed to be filled with alcohol. After 2 of those and then working on a beer, the conversation reverted back to the days of The Post and we shared stories and laughs of the people and events that still echoed within the now refurbished bar.

Another fence-mending project has begun. I feel that the materials and workmanship going into this project are just as strong as the my previous fence-mending project. Three years have passed since the fence collapsed and lay untouched. Now, with experience and history to guide us, I'm confident that all fences will be stronger than before and will last for years to come.

Kindered Wine and Spirits ...

2010-05-29T08:57:00.003-04:00

Back in 2000, I started talking to a guy in a bar sitting next to me. It was just simple small talk, but then we were both quickly caught up on the Timmy/Jimmy fight on South Park. Being the only ones in the entire bar laughing our asses off, a friendship quickly formed.

This friendship lasted 7 years and then was quickly abollished for reasons no longer important.

A few months ago, I found myself saddled up to another bar watching another tv screen and discover this same guy sitting next to me. So many things have changed over the last 3 years of our banished friendship, yet so many things were left unaltered. After a brief and awkward bout of apologies and regrets, the laughing and joking started up again.

We've met up a few times since and it's good to feel that old friendship reshaping itself.

Last night we pounded back a few drinks, shared more than enough hardy laughs and walked home together. We stopped in his place, sat and talked a bit more in the back garden, had another beer and I headed on my way.

It feels good to have my friend back...

Building Back the Walls ...

2010-05-28T16:18:00.002-04:00

It's been 9 months since posting on here and, looking back on my last couple of entries, it seems like a lifetime...

Please ignore the last 2 postings. That relationship is over.

We're trying to remain friends...

It's hard...

Trust is a terrible thing to lose, but when it's taken away, it's like removing one's spine and you're left with nowhere to turn without falling completely in on yourself.

The walls were up before this past relationship and the walls will go back up again. It's so much easier to keep people at bay than it is to wear your heart on your sleeve and jump into a scolding hot copper pot filled with mistrust and betrayal like ingredients to a bad stew.

The last eight months were not as bad as that last paragraph may have lead. It was just a one-sided relationship and apparently I was on the wrong side.

Who knows if I'll ever meet someone again. I never really thought I'd meet this person and I did. I still remember that very first meeting like it was yesterday. I played hard to get that night.

I sometimes wish I had only played harder...

Could This be "it"? (part 2) ...

2009-08-22T09:30:00.003-04:00

Lightning flashing...

Thunder rumbling...

Rain pouring...

We stood under a large umbrella trying to stay as dry as possible, but the wind driven rain soaked us anyway. We stood close, arms wrapped around each other, gazing deep into each other's eyes. Traffic raced by, splashing puddles up onto the sidewalk and our feet, but that didn't matter. We embrased and shared a long passionate kiss beneith the canvas that sheltered us.

After a few minutes we headed back inside, the air conditioning breathed an icy cold blast onto us and he immediately began to shiver. His drink was almost spilling over the rim of the glass and he looked up at me with wide puppydog eyes as his body continued to shake more aggressively from his wet shirt and the cold air.

In the middle of the room, surrounded by diners and drinkers, we were alone. I took the glass from him and set it down, wrapped my arms tightly around him and pulled him close. I rubbed his back and nuzzled my face in his neck, not letting go until his shivering passed.

It felt so good...

Could This be "It"? ...

2009-08-10T10:48:00.011-04:00

He sits across from me, a single flame from a tea light candle dances in his eyes as he stares across the small table at me. The remnants of a delicious dinner still occupy the tabletop between us as a warm breeze from a fan in the corner carries with it the sounds of soft piano music drifting out of the CD player. The warm summer night is still thick with a nearly oppressive humidity seeming to make the world move in a sluggishly slow motion, but within the walls of the enclosed porch my heart races, filled with a joy that I can't remember last feeling, if at all. I reach across the table and place my hand on his, delicately running the tips of my fingers across the back of his hand. I stare through the flickering candlelight and into his deep penetrating eyes. He smiles at me; a smile that is warm and genuine and kind and caring. His eyes dance in the candlelight and I can't pull my own gaze away. He did so much in making this night just right and it was really just a last minute plan to have a light dinner together. But here we are with candles, soft music, deliciously prepared food and holding each other's hand across a small table on his front porch. Everything feels so right, but then again everything has felt right with him almost since the first minute we ever started talking.

Could this be "it"?

It scares the crap out of me to be honest. After being burned, abused, hurt and betrayed several times over, it has taken many years and many layers to build the fortress around my head and heart that has kept me from getting too close to anyone. As much as it pained me to realize, I unwittingly accepted my own fate of living and dying alone, unwilling to love or be loved. It had taken me years to construct the walls that protected me along with the vault I held deep inside to lock away my emotions. But like so many Greek or Roman temples whose walls crumbled by fire or quake or war, nothing was indestructible and I am finding that my own little fortress is slowly breaking away.

It's only been a few short weeks, but the time we spend together is like nothing I've ever experienced, and the time apart is filled with a longing to be with him. He makes me smile and laugh. He makes me feel warm and wanted. He opens my heart and my mind. We could talk on the phone for hours or simply sit side by side and stare out into the night in silence. My eyes light up when I see him and they remain so long after we say our good-nights. I can be honest with him without fear of being judged and he can be honest with me without having judgement placed.

Everything seems so right.

And I ask again: could this be "it"?

For our own set of reasons, we both agreed to take things very slow, to move forward day by day.

On the surface, it's logical...

Down below, it's sensible...

Deep within my heart, impossible...

Could this be "it"?

The Crying Game ...

2008-10-10T17:03:00.009-04:00

I will never admit that I am a political analyst or that politics is even remotely interesting, mostly due to the fact that, no matter what side of the big ol' Thanksgiving turkey their wing hangs, all politicians are about as trustworthy as a Catholic priest at a cub scout jamboree. Democrats and Republicans in the same room, whether politicians or mainstream everyday citizens, is often times like watching a cock fight on pay-per-view. This was never more evident than in the aol chatrooms back in the day when the service provider linked a corresponding chatroom with certain news stories. Reluctantly, yet habitually I would find myself moving my cursor across the screen and hover the pointer over the "chat" button, wondering what the hell I was going to get myself into once I'm catapulted into the cyber world of right-wing conservatives, left-wing liberals and crazy Jesus fanatics thrown into the chat stew like a bad spice.

Trying to get a word in edgewise in this chat world was a task in of itself but, no matter what the topic, the tone was always the same: Reds blamed Blues, Blues blamed Reds, Young blamed Old, Old blamed Young...and the Jesus Freaks blamed everyone who didn't live their lives to the letter of the bible. Back during the beginning of the Iraq War, when it was clear and evident that our initial reasons for being there were unfounded and U.S. soldiers were dying for poor decision making, chatrooms were afire with hatred and ridicule. Libs blamed Bush for making the wrong choice. Conservatives blamed Clinton for getting a blowjob five years earlier, thus justifying our being in Iraq. Libs pointed out that Bin Laden was still running free and Saddam had nothing to with 9/11. Conservatives blamed Clinton for the World Trade Center bombing of '93, thus justifying our being in Iraq.

Over and over, it seemed that, whatever the current problem was, the Republicans found a way of turning back the clock and linking that problem of today to something that happened during another administration. Now, I'm not saying that Clinton and the eight years of that administration is 100% blameless with things that happened during the first couple of years of W.'s first term, but c'mon, we're now going back 16 years when Bubba first took oath on the Capitol steps. It's time blame is put where blame is needed.

So here we are again, just 3 weeks away from electing someone new into the White House and this country is more divided than ever, with the proverbial Mason/Dixon Line cutting us in two. What gets me is, with such a hatred between the two parties (and I'm talking about the general public, not the candidates), we are all in the same sinking financial boat. At last count (24 hours prior to this posting) polls showed that a mere 9% of Americans feel that this country is heading in the right direction. It took a tragic day like September 11th to bring this country together. Political parties were cast aside as people--complete strangers--stopped and hugged one another on a street corner. Now, although not as heart wrenching as watching continuous news coverage showing people wandering all over Lower Manhattan looking for missing loved ones, this country is facing a crisis that is and will affect more people directly than that fateful morning. People are losing their jobs, their homes, their life savings, their retirement funds...and we are at each other's throats. This is a time when we, as American citizens, need to step up and ask--demand--what our respective candidate is about and what, specifically, he intends to do to help us.

Sure, both Obama and McCain give the a-typical round-about political answers to questions posed before them; not giving an answer, but rather twisting a question to best meet their need of half explaining their agenda. Obama is now leading the polls, and it's looking more and more like he may very well become this country's first African American President. Is that a good thing? Sure, in a way... But is it the right thing? Who can really say? Personally, I don't feel too comfortable with either candidate in this late stage.

But what makes matters worse is the way these candidates are ripping at the wound that is already stretching across this land. Palin accuses Obama of associating himself with a radical terrorist...from 40 years ago. McCain accuses Obama of lying about said accusation. Obama has been called everything from a Muslim to the Anti-Christ.

On the flip side, instead of defending himself and these accusations, Obama retaliates by saying that the McCain campaign is using these tactics because they're running scared. I'm sorry, but this is just adding fuel to an all ready out of control fire.

Now McCain rallies across the country are getting angrier and angrier and those in the audience are calling Obama a terrorist and screaming at McCain, telling him how angry they are. What does McCain do? He eggs them on. What does Palin do? She eggs them on (with a wink and a smile)

I, for one, can not wait for these elections to be over and, just like the economy, the next 25 days are only going to get worse before they get better. This country is in alot of pain. It's gonna take more than a new President to put us back together.

Is it any wonder that so much of the world hates us? The news is showing that we Americans are hating each other. Although arrested many times after making his now infamous quote, Rodney King said it best:

"Can't we all just get along?"

A Print-ad of the Past ...

2008-10-10T14:30:00.002-04:00

Some Pictures ...

2008-10-06T09:51:00.010-04:00

Just a couple of pictures from walking around the city this past Saturday.

Up up and away ...
The Comcast Center.

Reflections ...
The Comcast Center
The Bell Atlantic Tower
Liberty One

The Comcast Center Plaza ...
Designed by the same team who created the fountain pool infront of the Bellagio in Vegas.

C-Rex ...
I have mentioned my cat, C-Rex and his "love affair" with a stuffed rat many times. The rat was given to me/him by a long-time friend (who is apparantly no longer allowed to speak to me). C-Rex carries this rodent around the house and often props it up next to his food dish while he eats.

This Fall on FOX ...

2008-09-20T09:08:00.032-04:00

Ed. note: The following post is scripted as a commercial. And, if you're offended in any way, please get over it. Thank you.

(fade-in: quick clips of raging fires, wars, hurricanes, George W. Bush, Wall Street, Famine, etc. Menacing music playing softly...)

Announcer (voice-over):

In a world gone wrong.
In a time with little hope.
Where do we go?
And to whom do we turn?

(Cut to the FOX logo with "Coming this fall" scrolled beneith...)

Announcer (voice-over):

Coming this fall to FOX...

(Cut to an aerial shot of a Malibu mansion on the side of a hill. Music changes from menacing to slightly more light-hearted...)

Announcer (voice-over):

In a Malibu mansion...

(Cut to a shot of a long white stretch limo driving up a winding driveway towards the camera...)

Announcer (voice-over):

One man will hold the answers

(Cut to close-up of rear door of limo being opened up by a driver. A sandled foot steps out onto the gravel driveway...)

Announcer (voice-over):

One man will change the world...

(Camera pans from sandled feet standing on driveway upwards, slowly revealing a white flowing robe, a thick twine of rope tied loosely around the waist, long slender fingers intertwined together infront of the man's chest. The camera raises further as the music builds to a beautiful harmonic pitch. A face is revealed, bearded and long, eyes looking towards the sky. The sun shines down from behind the man, giving a halo of light around his head...)

Announcer (voice-over):

The son of God...

(Screen shows shots of people emerging from cars pulling up infront of the house. Twelve people in twelve different cars, young and old, black and white, men and women. As the announcer speaks, the people line up side by side facing the front of the mansion. Nervous smiles and looks of amazement are shown across all of their faces as they wonder what they are about to take part in...)

Announcer (voice-over):

These twelve men and women were chosen from thousands of entries across the globe. They will live in this oppulant mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean. And they will tested on their will power and, more importantly, their faith...

(Screen shows screen shots of other names of shows...)

Announcer (voice-over):

From the combined creators of The Bachelor, Joe Millionaire, The Surreal Life and every one of Flava-Flave's shows comes the ultimate reality show. A show that will test the limits of human compassion to win the ultimate prize...

(Screen shows the large double doors to the mansion slowly opening up and stunned gasps from the contestants as they see who walks across the threshold. Camera shows close-up of sandled foot stepping out onto the marble step as the name of the show spirals onto the screen...)

Announcer (voice-over):

The Rapture...

(Screen shows reactions from the contestants...)

(1st Woman):

Sweet Jesus.

(2nd Woman):

Oh my God.

(man):

Holy *beep*

(Jesus looks down from the steps, arms raised outward, smiling)

(Jesus):

Welcome one and all to my home...

(announcer):

These contestants will be fighting for their very souls and the winner will receive eternal bliss at God's side.

(screen shots of contestants taking part in chosen battles: following special written instructions to turn water into wine, building a fan to part the waters of the backyard swimming pool, revealing their deepest sins in the confessional booth.)

(Shot of woman contestant in the confessional booth. Floating crosses of assorted sizes and styles floating in the background behind her)

(Woman contestant):

I'm a born again Christian. My entire life is devoted to serving Christ.

(Shot of same woman in the kitchen of the mansion slamming a frying pan down on the countertop. Other contestants stand around looking in her direction, obvious signs of arguing permiate the room.)

(Same woman contestant):

Don't *beep* with me people or I will slice you up, fry you and serve you to the homeless!!

(Shot of same woman contestant back in confessional booth, looking into the camera and smiling.)

(Woman Contestant):

I am very into my volunteerism and charities.

(Multiple shots of contestants in different forms of challenges.)

(Announcer):

Each week is a different challenge and each week a contestant must be banished from the mansion until only one remains...

(Shot of Jesus holding a wafer.)

(Jesus):

This is my body. Will you eat me?

(Shot of each contestant as the announcer speaks each word)

(Announcer):

Who.....will....be....saved....

(Shot of Jesus)

(Jesus):

You are banished from this house...

(Shot of male contestant in the confessional booth)

(Male contestant):

There ain't no way I'm spending 7 years during The Tribulation without taking some of these bitches down with me.

(Aerial Shot of mansion)

(Announcer):

This fall on fox... The Rapture...

(Shot of FOX logo)

(Announcer):

Save the date...

(Fade to black)

Reality at its Un-reality-est ...

2008-09-19T17:41:00.002-04:00

John and Kate Plus 8 is something, like so many other reality shows on cable, I unknowingly get sucked in to when flipping through cable channels on a rainy afternoon. But there's something about this show that infuriates me.

In a time of financial uncertainty of many Americans, the Discovery Channel has the balls to continue to air (and worse pay for) the life of a family of twins and sextuplets and the trials and tribulations the parents have in raising them. I have seen an episode where the mother travels to New York to receive lypo-suction for free from a doctor who's wife had seen the show and the husband has received hairplugs...both for free. I have seen an episode where the family traveled to Sesame Place, a children's amusement park north of Philadelphia and had received special treatment including free rides and visits with the muppet characters, all private and away from the general public.

In interview segments of the show, the couple talks about the difficulties of raising 8 children, yet in these segments you don't hear a sound coming from any of these children. Are these interviews held in the middle of the night or is there someone (a nanny no one is supposed to see or members of The Discovery Channel team) watching the children off-camera?

They (reality-TV producers) are stuck making these shows to save money on actors/sets and other expenses that go in to making scripted television and yet they still call it reality?

Now I hear there's a new family on the reality-tv couch; a family of 19.

How much money are they being paid to talk about their hardships?

How many free gifts will they receive?

Reality TV is becoming the best job to have in this millenium...

A Big Gamble for Center City ...

2008-09-11T14:06:00.022-04:00

After more than two years battling neighboring homeowners in South Philly over the proposed gambling complex on the Delaware waterfront, Foxwood Resort has its eye on Center City, more specifically Market East and even more specifically The Gallery at Market East. A shopping mall developed and built in the mid-70's, The Gallery at Market East is a white slab of cement taking up four city blocks on the northern end of Market Street. It was designed to help boost a sagging retail area of Center City, connecting the downtown to the surrounding suburbs via a new underground regional rail station. And it helped...at least in the beginning.

But, as with many other major projects of the time, little to no thought went into the project beyond its immediate goal: to get people to shop within its fortress-like walls. The exterior, instead of being planned with the surrounding streets and buisnesses in mind, was designed similarly to those shopping malls that grew from the once rural farmlands in the far reaching suburbs of Montgomery, Chester and Bucks Counties; no friendly or welcoming exterior, but rather windowless white walls that rose four stories above the sidewalk. The only thing different between this mall and its suburban counterparts was its lack of a 30 acre asphalt parking lot surrounding the structure.

The interior, although large and somewhat airy (in parts), is a maze of steps and escalators forcing you to travel from one level to another. There are also two parts of the mall that you have to exit the building and cross the street to continue on your journey. On some levels, you cannot even get from one end of the mall to the other without having to go through the K-Mart that slices the complex in half like a magician's stainless steel blade through his assistant. The main entrance to the mall, on Market Street, goes from street level to below ground and then back up to street level again once you're inside, as if the glass canapy making up the main entrance had sunk several feet during construction and was left that way.

The lower level of the mall (that actually does travel the entire length of the building) is where you can find the food court and portable kiosks under the low claustrophobic ceiling of glass orb lights that went out of style around the same time Billy Beer was being removed from store supermarket shelves in the South. It is also where you connect to the suburbs via the regional rail lines or the Martket Frankford Line. But getting to the subway at times, can be a lonely trek through desolate corridors of blacked out glass and unused kiosks. Market East Station (for regional rails) is a little more comfortable in its layout, but still feels more like walking through an airport than a shopping mall.

The shopping experience leaves alot to be desired as well in The Gallery, unless of course you had an urge to shop at a Payless Shoe store. These you can find almost as easily as a Starbucks. Although I was quite young when the mall first opened, I remember it being a more substantial destination that it is today. With Strawbridge and Clothier anchoring one end and Gimbles the opposite and John Wannamaker a block away (2 of the 3 were actually department stores founded in Philly), there was a higher end and more competative market within the cement walls of The Gallery. But, as with so many before them, the major department stores have gone out of buisness, either being bought out (Macy's is now in the John Wannamaker building) or closing their doors altogether with nothing to occupy its space (Strawbridge & Clothier). The current day major tenants of The Gallery are Super K-Mart and Burlington Coat Factory. The failing department stores that once thrived along this busy corridor of Market Street are a long ago thing of the past. Walking along this same strip of pavement you will now find discount sneaker stores, no name electronics, CVS, Rite-Aid and McDonolds. Clerks stand in doorways shouting the specials going on inside while loud music from the mounted speakers above the entrance to the store punctures the air like a continuous sonic boom.

Inside the shopping mall, it's much the same: discount record stores, video game stores, sneaker stores, all piled up next to one another begging for your buisness. The forth floor of the mall, an area that is pretty difficult to get to in the first place, is all but completely barren of buisness, showing instead darkened window after darkened window of failed dreams.

And now Foxwood wants a shot, turning at least part of the mall into a casino and possibly adding a hotel. Personally, I have mixed feelings on this new project. A casino complex in the heart of Center City can bring traffic problems this city has never seen before, in an area that is already very congested at times (the Pennsylvania Convention Center is right behind the mall). No matter how many ways the city and its transportation system can describe public transit vs. driving, people in this area don't really get it. Although not the best system in the world, you can travel from one part of the city to the other (and beyond) and leave your car at home. Most big venues in Philadelphia (the stadium complex, the historic district, Penn's Landing, the convention center) are all within a very short walking distance from public transportation, yet people (especially from the suburbs) insist on driving, then find themselves complaining about traffic and parking fees. A casino built right on top of a major transportation hub is a good idea but suburbanites will most likely still drive into the city and circle around each and every block seeking that perfect and closest parking spot.

Another reason this may not be such a good idea is the fact that Market East is not the most desirable section of the city to walk around, especially for a tourist. Although relatively safe, it is very intimidating walking among the homeless and protestors and religious prophets shouting from soapboxes.

Over the years, many plans were layed out on the drawing boards to improve Market East. Some worked, some didn't, some never even had a chance. Among the more successful: The Pennsylvania Convention Center, along with the expansion and renovations of the Reading Terminal Headhouse on Market Street. A Hard Rock Cafe is nestled in on the ground floor of the headhouse. The Marriott hotel was constructed at 12th and Market streets and the PSFS building (a historic landmark) was converted into a Lowes hotel. On the eastern edge of Market street, Independence Mall was completely replanned and construction of the Philadelphia Visitor's Center, the Liberty Bell Pavilion and the National Constitution Center brought tourism to the highest this city has ever seen. At 8th and Market, Disney was supposed to build some sort of entertainment complex, but that fell through in the '90's leaving behind a big hole in the ground that was only recently filled in and turned into a parking lot. South 13th Street, not too far from Market East was once home to adult bookstores and topless bars, but was recently renovated with new storefronts and loft apartments. Although the bookstores remain, they are more descretely hidden among the finer stores and restaraunts that line the street.

So what will Foxwood bring to the (gambling) table? It is rumored that they want to convert the Burlington Coat Factory into a slot parlor and maybe build a hotel ontop of the existing structure. It really doesn't matter how they go about it, so long as the decision to give the face of Market East a complete overhaul. The projects of the past all tried to jump start development along the retail corridor, but none acheived it. It is now up for grabs.

I have a couple of suggestions, should anyone care to listen:

First, the mall...

As I mentioned above, the mall is split in half by a Super K-mart. The thirty years this mall has been in existance has shown over and over that the space is too large for the stores occupying it and there is no reason to have so many empty storefronts scattered from floor to floor. My thoughts are to shrink the mall to the section between the K-Mart and the old Strawbridge & Clothier store. The remaining half (west of the K-Mart to the proposed Casino in the Burlington Coat Factory) can be converted into a large boutique style hotel, with all rooms facing the open air interior courtyard of the building. From the ground floor lobby looking up towards the large expanse of skylights in the roof, one would see four stories of balconies draped in hanging and flowering plantlife. The building is big enough to provide many rooms along with provisions such as a gym, spa, pool, conference rooms restaurants, etc.

Along the exterior on Market street, open up street level shopping and cafes with outdoor seating and spruce up the streetscape. The upper floors of the building (now encased in white cement panels) can be a challenge to conceal or look more attractive, but a suggestion might be to install an artifical facade, maybe something along the lines of a steel frame outline forming the older buildings that once occupied the space. This may give a more intimate feel to the shopping and dining at street level if the occupants were not looking up a blank wall rising above them.

The glass atrium (pictured above) should be removed and expanded into a more artful glass enclosure, possibly expanding through to the north side of the mall, visually connecting the neighborhood of Chinatown on the next block. This atrium/winter garden can even be transformed into a grand european style entrance to the Market East Station below ground.

Again, they are my own thoughts and suggestions, something that will be seen only be a few people. The important thing is that, if Foxwood is serious about turning an outdated shopping mall into a hotel/casino complex, there is alot to take into consideration and, like the so many plans before them, their thought process needs to seriously expand beyond the boundaries of a shopping mall and out into a street that is in need of developement; a street that expands 7 blocks of which they will be smack dab in the center.

My Thoughts in Haiku(s) ...

2008-09-09T08:45:00.007-04:00

Sitting in my room...
Eyes adjusting to the screen...
Doing what I'm told...

Twenty lines a day...
A wrapped box depends on it...
Nothing comes to mind...

Lines should not relate...
But they tie in at the end...
What ties into this?

Dinner off the Square...
Drinks abundantly flowing...
Cosmos, beer and wine...

My head swims in fog...
It's way to early to write...
Long Island iced teas...

Banging down the street...
A house under construction...
Banging in my head...

C-Rex and a rat...
A cat in love with a toy...
Boom-chicka-bow-wow...

And there you have it...
Not the Most perfect haikus...
But twenty-four lines...

Good-bye Song to the Post ...

2008-05-10T14:45:00.002-04:00

After writing the previous entry, a song started to form in my head. Here it is:

Sung to the tune of "The Wall", by Pink Floyd

We don't need no overpriced drinks
We don't need no padded seats
Just large libations or a cold brew
Will more than make our night complete

All in all we miss that little hole in the wall
All in all we miss that little hole in the wall.

Welcome Back to the Post ...

2008-05-10T09:55:00.007-04:00

...Err... I mean Stir.

That's right, after almost a twelve months the 30+ year old landmark that was the Post Bar opened with alot of renovations and little fanfare. If it weren't for an email I received from my friend, John, I wouldn't have known anything. Last night, Friday, was the official opening and I decided to swing by there after work for a beer and to check out the changes.

Before I begin, you must remember what it was like for several years: a simple hole in the wall place with a pock-marked bar and exposed beams (and wiring), no heat and very little air conditioning, mice, and nearly everyone with their own assigned barstool. You can read a more descriptive post about the bar here.

So last night, I entered through the steel door and stepped into the main bar. Fresh paint, exposed brick, shiny new ductwork and a large rectangular bar all combined to give the room a nouveau-chic industrial loft kind of a look. A new flat-screen tv hung on the opposite wall from where I stood (waiting for a beer) and glass doors displayed the contents of an assortment of beers in the cooler under the concrete bartop.

The original Post consisted of three rooms: the main bar, the game room and the back bar/dancer lounge, all lined up like drunken soldiers taking up the entire first floor of the narrow building. Stir's owners kept the footprint of the main bar, but combined the two rear rooms making it one long narrow lounge, with the "middle" bar empty save for a couple of small padded conversation benches. It makes the room more open and airy, but the lower ceilings keeps a cozy and intimate feeling. Niches in the wall displaying bottles of olives and small oil paintings of martini glasses help to create a themed atmosphere of sophistication. Behind the new back bar (where the office was located in the original location) is a DJ booth which, according to the website, houses guest djs on a weekly basis.

Although the transformation is mind-boggling, what many of the Post regulars feared seems to have come true: it is not your bar any longer. Gone was any clue of the local watering hole that was home to many friends. Gone was the friendly atmosphere where everyone knew your name (and buisness). All this has been replaced with the stiff atmosphere and attitude of a new nightclub to compete with likes of any other upscale center city lounge, where it seemed as if you might actually be offending the bartender by asking them to make a drink.

When I walked in and stepped up to the bar, there were two people behind the bar, one twink loading the beer cooler and a woman (I later came to realize was either the owner or manager). She was talking to someone across the bar, and not once turned around to take an inventory of the clientele. I stood quietly with a twenty dollar bill in my hand, directly in line of sight of the customer to whom she was conversing. The customer looked over her shoulder at me several times, but never once broke the conversation to allow the bartender to do her job. The twink also looked up at me, but continued to rearrange beer bottles in the cooler. Other people around the bar were deep in conversation and once, I caught the woman casually look around, but her eyes stopped about 1/4 of the way around the bar before she turned back to her conversation companion. Finally, after about 4 minutes, she turned her attention my way and asked if I wanted anything.

I ordered a beer, payed and stepped away from the bar to take in the rest of the new establishment. I spotted a couple of people at the back bar and walked down there to check things out. The female bartender working there I knew was one of the owners. I remembered her from a couple of times when she had been in the Post. With barely an acknowledgment my way, she turned to two females and started a conversation.

When I had finished the first beer, I'll give her some credit, she did ask in a timely fashion if I wanted another. I ordered and sat quietly on the barstool, watching as more patrons filtered in. It dawned on me that everyone who was coming in, male or female, were friends of the owners (or one more young bartender with an attitude). This got me thinking...

What kind of a businessman or woman will open up a new establishment of any kind and, on the first day open to the public, won't even give a patron a friendly or at least a warm greeting, thanking that person for coming or at least welcoming them to their new place? The website boasts a "friendly atmosphere", but the only friendliness I witnessed was to those who knew the owner(s) or bartenders. In fact, in that short time that I was there, I realized that I was probably the only person who had walked in off the street. The only other friendly person who worked there was the bouncer, who remembered me from the days of the Post.

All in all it was a very unsettling experience. I walked out of there missing the Post and it's cold dampness and mice even more. Being in the customer service business for years, I was disappointed in the unwelcoming way I was treated. Stir has a sterile, but warm appearance and a sterile and cold attitude (unless you're in the know).

First impressions are hard to shake, but I will give this place the benefit of doubt. Chalk it up to opening night jitters, if you will. I'll probably go back and give it a 2nd shot, although it will never be my hangout as the Post was. I don't think it will be anyone's "hang-out". It's just not that type of a bar.

Besides, I know there are some of the old Post regulars who are most likely "in". As I am sure this review will eventually make it to the ears of the owners and that day will come when I walk in to hushed voices whispering things like "he's the one who wrote that scathing blog", in which case I'll be asked to leave. But it won't be a heart-wrenching moment.

But, in any event, I do wish success to the owners. It was a long time coming and the place is completely transformed for the better (except the 'tude).

Dinner with Big Daddy ...

2008-03-27T12:52:00.011-04:00

Back in December, "Big Daddy" contacted me and wanted to get together for dinner and drinks. I was reluctant at first, having been going through my own personal hell what with the holidays and my birthday and all. Finally, I agreed and, after that first night turning out to be a fun-filled night of drinking and Cuban food, we made the mutual decision to try and make it a monthly meeting.

So, January came and we met up for drinks and had Vietnamese...and more drinks.

We needed to skip February due to one of us catching the flu bug so March rolled around and we hooked up a third time. I figured these meetings would at least give me a reason to write in the blog, since we seem to try something new each time. So here, in more detail is...

Dinner with Big Daddy...

Keeping up with the Joneses...

We met up at Uncle's Bar and had a few drinks. After allowing the liquor and/or beer to begin flowing freely through our veins, we decided on Jones for dinner. Stephen Starr's tribute to the 70's, Jones Restaurant has all the ambiance of a rec-room rarely seen outside of an old movie or tv show from the same era that brought us such great things as flaired pant legs and the AMC Pacer.

With stacked flagstone columns and lime green uphostered booths, dark wood and vinyl flooring made to looked like shag carpeting, the air within this corner location gives as much a long forgotten feeling of home as the food itself.

Although upscale, it is one of Stephen Starr's lower priced restaurants, offering everything from grilled tuna and breaded talapia to meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fried chicken and waffles right on down to a Duncan Hines triple layer chocolate cake for dessert.

The drink specials were just as funk-a-delic as the atmosphere. I had a S'more martini and Big Daddy ordered this sweet-tasting concoction that came complete with a gummy worm draped over the lip of the glass. When the overzealous waiter came back later in the evening and asked if we wanted another drink, Big Daddy simply replied: "I think we'll have something alittle more adult this time around."

All in all, dinner was fantastic. The food was good, the drinks were good and the company...well, what can I say....it was Big Daddy!!!!

Sake and Samurais...

After dinner, Big Daddy asked if I ever had Sake. After telling him no, he decided to take me to Raw, an upscale sushi bar and sake lounge in the heart of Center City. Walking into the long narrow room, I immediately felt as if I were standing in some hip and trendy club in Manhattan. A long curving bar, covered in green glass mosaic tiles guided you deeper into the diningroom set further back under the soft yellow glow of oversized Japanese lanterns hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Dark wood furniture, suede seating and a polished hardwood floor all joined forces in giving you the feeling that this was something more than the corner sushi bar.

Big Daddy and I took a seat at the bar and ordered a caraf of sake. All the while, as we sat sipping sake, Big Daddy asked (on more than one occassion) if I had to go to the bathroom. He had mentioned earlier in the evening about the special bathroom this place had designed was really urging me (and my bladder) to make a visit.

I got up from the bar, made my way down to the lower level via a long narrow staircase and emmerged into a large room with a double sink. To the left of the sink was a frosted glass door leading to the ladies' room. To the right stood the men's room. I walked through the door and was standing directly infront of (what can only be described as) a giant stone trough.

When a soft cascade of water started to flow down the side of the wall (I assumed either from a pressurized floor or motion detector) when the door closed behind me, I figured this must've been what Big Daddy was talking about. A raised stone slab was the only barrier between the dark tiled floor of the bathroom and the drain in the trough. I stood on the stone and pulled down my zipper, feeling slightly uneasy since I was standing directly infront of the doorway leading back out into the common area. My mind kept saying that this was not what he was talking about and that I was actually about to pee into a planter or something. But the covered urinal cake near the drain eased my fears (although not completely).

However, my eyes suddenly looked straight ahead at the mural painted on the tiled wall where the water cascaded down into the drain. A giant angry looking Samurai stared back at me. In his hands was gripped a massive sword ready to swing downward. Although I knew it was only a painting, the image before me made my bladder close up completely. My body was already screaming at me to put my johnson back behind the protective barrier of my buttonflies. There was no way I was going to stand in such a vulnerable position, before an angry Samurai and within eyesight of whomever stood on the other side of that frosted glass door.

I decided to wait until our next destination before I went to the bathroom...some place with blank tiles on the walls...

Spotted ...

2008-03-21T09:30:00.002-04:00

I can't believe I was actually recognized on the street for my blog!

This morning, I was standing at the bus stop waiting to go into work and a man (David, I think he introduced himself as) crossed the street and stood beside me in the cold morning sun. He looked at me, pulled out the earpiece linked to his I-pod and said: "Do you blog...or did you in the past?"

"Yes," I replied. "But I haven't done it in a long time."

He then explained how he had forgotten how he had come upon it, but the started to read my rants and enjoyed them.

"I have been meaning to update it for about six months now." I explained. "I've been getting harassed by some of my friends about not keeping up and I had a few things I needed to write about."

He joked with me, saying I should get a commission on pizza sales from Lazarro's. "I read about that and figured it's right around the corner, I should check it out. Now I'm there all the time getting pizza."

It made me feel good, knowing that there are still some people out there who read my writings. And I do have more to write about including:

* Dinner with Big Daddy
* "Final Destination", the train ride
* My trip to Vegas
* (and possibly) my severed friendships

So I'll try to get rolling. In the meantime...

Thanks!

Little Italy ...

2007-09-04T15:10:00.000-04:00

There are a countless amount of small pizza/sandwich shops dotting the streets of Center City Philadelphia. Just walk down any block or turn any corner and you'll see signs boasting "Home of the Gyro" or "Philly's Best Slices" or "Free Delivery" on flyers scotched taped to the glass or scripted in green and red neon dangling from the chipped paint that frames the storefront windows. You'll see names like Lorenzo's or Randazzo's or Taste of Sicily, but when you walk inside, you're no longer surprised to see the place being run by Hispanics or Asians. And usually there's no more than 2 or three people behind the counter, one taking and ringing up orders and another further back in the tiny overheated kitchen flipping burgers, dunking baskets into the deep fryer or spinning dough in the air.

But it seems that a new pizza place (around in the neighborhood for less than a year) is bringing back not only the true family business, but the true family Italian business. I'm talking about a very small place at 18th and South Streets called Lazarro's. It's freshly painted facade of red, white and green stripes is brightly illuminated by stark white florescent lights. It's tiny waiting/order area has a counter under the front window with 3 bar stools, 2 glass encased drink coolers and a small colored television set hanging from the wall close to the ceiling. The tiled counter is topped with a glass barrier running the width of the store (which is only about ten feet). But what's truly amazing is what goes on behind that glass barrier, in the small confines of the prep area and kitchen in the rear. I went in to this place the other night to get a cheesesteak on my way home from Uncles and found myself entranced by the bustling activity that filled the small pizza shop.

The waiting area is crowded with people waiting to place or pick up orders. I wait my turn and am eventually greeted by a rugged looking Italian man standing at the register. Slightly overweight and with a beard stubble growth that was probably only hours old, he greeted me enthusiastically with a thick, almost unintelligible accent. His fresh white t-shirt looked a size too small and his thick tanned arms, complete with a layer of dark hair, seemed to strain against the cotton fabric. I placed my order (cheese steak, provolone cheese, mayonaise) and, as he wrote it vigorously down on a pad of paper, he barked out the order over his shoulder: "Chiss stick, plo-vlone, minnaize!" A second later, like the far off chirp of a cicada, came a voice from the back of the kitchen, in a similar thick accent: "Chiss stick, plo-vlone, minnaize!" As I handed the man my money, I spotted the man behind the 2nd voice. Thick dark hair greased back and a beard lining the squared contour of his jawline, a thin muscular Italian man wearing another brilliantly white t-shirt slapped a slab of frozen steak onto the grille and began attacking it with a pair of steel spatulas.

Then I noticed a third guy at the service desk, checking orders against what was being boxed up or bagged. A forth guy pounded his fists into a ball of raw dough, spreading it out into a disk shape before sliding it down the counter for yet another guy to pour the sauce and spread the cheese across someone's future dinner. A sixth guy was making salads. A seventh was, I would assume, the hoagie man. An eighth was checking the pizzas in the oven while yet the ninth was removing and boxing pizzas that were cooked. A tenth man serpintined his way through the other workers pushing a broom infront of him across the kitchen floor. All were fashioned in the same t-shirts, tight fitting against tanned necks and arms, all ranged in age from about 20 to 35 and all looked to be brothers. The only English spoken was to the people on the public side of the service counter.

I was completely amazed by the efficiency that had obviously been perfected in such a small space. Ten men, each with their own little job, blending together to create an atmosphere that flowed effortlessly from order taken to order completed. I suddenly found myself smiling slightly as I watched this, thinking that this must be what it is like to be inside a beehive.

It was an amazing thing to watch.

And the cheesesteak was very good.

History Revealed ...

2007-08-21T14:19:00.000-04:00

It's days like this that I wish I had a digital camera (and a computer strong enough to upload images).

Today, Tuesday, I left my house and stepped into the cold, wet and dreary August afternoon. Temperatures are barely making it out of the 50's today and there is a constant drizzle with intermittent heavy soaking rains as band after band of storms follow the path of a stalled cold front that has been hovering over the city for the past 2 days. My house is a complete mess, filled with plaster dust after 2 weeks of repair work in my livingroom, diningroom and kitchen, all the result of damage from a leaky roof that had finally been replaced about a month ago. Now the time has come for some cleaning, priming and painting, but this will probably be the last day of cool enough temperatures to work indoors and my original goal was to wait until September to start. Besides, I had a few errands that I needed to run and, since it didn't look like the rain was going to end any time soon, I decided to brave the elements and head out into the city.

My first stop was the bank on Walnut Street. I tapped the ATM and was heading to Suburban station to pick up my weekly trans-pass, but made an about face at 17th Street and walked to The Post bar instead.

The Post has been my old stomping ground for years and has been the subject of many postings (no pun intended) within this blog. But, as history has often repeated with this establishment, trouble befell the owner in the couple of years. It is my opinion that owning this bar is pretty much a curse rather than a blessing. Three owners have died (2 by illness and 1 by a drug overdose) and the last owner is now serving time in jail for dealing crystal meth. The new owners (a lesbian with or without a partner) has taken the liberty of finally doing what had needed to be done for several years: close the Post's doors and completely gut the place and remodel. Outside of some new paint and the occasional taping of an extension cord, this is the first remodel the bar has seen in nearly 2 decades. I don't know how long this remodel job is supposed to take, but from what I've seen today, it looks like progress is going smoothly and fairly quickly. Hopefully, this will also break the curse.

Today, I turned onto Chancellor Street and noticed that the door to the bar was open. I decided to have a look at what sort of remodelling was being done. I was more than taken by surprise by both the progress and the reveal of a bar that has been around for more than 30 years.

The core of the main pub, the large oval bar, was completely gone. In its place was nothing more than a pile of old sinks in the center of the room. The tvs that had often filled the room with images from everything from superbowl games to Oscars to the somber images of continuous coverage of the world trade center attack were gone. The ceiling (long ago ripped down to fix a bad leak and never repaired, but instead painted black in an attempt to make the termite infested wooden struts look more industrial) remained, but the ceiling fan was now dangling, hanging at an odd angle like the ghostly images of the barnacle encrusted chandelier taken at the site of the Titanic wreck.

Beyond the main room, past the narrow doorway that once led down a small ramp to the "game room" and the back bar beyond, the black painted walls were stripped, revealing the studs underneath. A lone green light (which instantly reminded me, for some reason, of the green light at the end of the dock in the Great Gatsby)dangled from the ceiling in that room. From my vantage point in the front door, the light seemed to hold a certain sadness to it, the way it dangled from a weak cord. I guess that was why I was reminded so much of Fitzgerald's book, something I hadn't thought about since Junior High when I read it. But I remember the symbolism behind that light in the story; how it represented Gatsby's longing for, not only Daisy, but everything: money, happiness, success. But it always came back to his one true love. And that's what this light brought to me. It was like I was suddenly seeing this bar's true history for the first time and how it longed for what it once was. The bar has seen so much tragedy and chaos. This light (to me) seemed to reflect that.

This image in my mind, this sense of history being revealed and the bar's longing to capture it (as strange as it may sound) became more relevant when my eyes scanned the main room and fell upon the graffiti riddled wall that once held the incredible male nude sketches done by the former owner's lover. As I said, all the walls have been stripped, but what lay underneath the drywall was evidence of another time, a long forgotten time.

I can only imagine that the writing on the wall had been done many many years ago back when the original Post bar was stripped of it's rich history for the first time, back when the rich panelling (from what I heard described) was torn down and the original bar (with its four strong columns standing guard on each corner) were removed. On the wall infront of me today was layer upon layer upon layer of spray-painted messages, some unreadable, some overlapping others, and some stood out: "Rodney Loves Phil", "Glory Daze", "This Sucks - Mike". These were just some of the messages on the wall that I could read (and remember before getting home to write this). It made me wonder about the men who spray painted these messages. Were they regulars back in the '70s? Was this their time capsule, so to speak? I wanted to walk further into the room and examine the writings more, but I heard noises coming from the back room.

As I write this, I am filled with a mixture of emotions: curiosity and wonder. Whatever happened to these people? Are they alive? Have they passed on? What would they think if they saw their little "tribute wall" had been exposed after all these years? Other emotions are happiness and sadness. Happy because I was able to stumble upon this and I know that not too many people will ever see this reveal. Sadness because, like that light, I long for the times when the Post was like family to me. Now all the regulars are scattered, their common thread destroyed by the greed of one man and his drugs.

No matter what is done to the post, no matter how many improvements they make, it will never be the same. Too many things have changed in the last couple of years. People--friends--who were tight back then are no longer talking to one another, while others have found new watering holes.

When that wall of writings is once again covered, it will be joined with the memories of the last of that generation along with the memories of a new generation that had never witnessed what The Post was like in its true hay day. The memories will be drywalled, spackled and painted over, forever covered. Sure, there may be times to remember and talk, but like everything else, the images will begin to fade, being replaced with new memories, some good and some not so good.

As I write this, a new band of heavy rains begins to beat against my bedroom window. In August, I'm wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a button down flannel. The sky is still grey and cold.

...And a bar stands alone, its ghosts calling out from a mold-covered wall.

A Bite Out of the Big Apple (Part 2) ...

2007-08-07T08:57:00.000-04:00

Although I have done alot of writing recently (maybe I have a muse, who knows?), I looked back and much of it is negative. Whether it's fighting demon dogs or demon boyfriends, I have been getting out alot of buried emotions and feelings. I just felt it was time to write about something a little more positive; a good memory of mine. So, here it goes.

A while back, I wrote this blog about a trip I had taken to New York City to visit with my friend, Scott. (Ironically, that blog began very similarly to this one.)

Anyway, it was my birthday weekend, 2001, and I can honestly say that I haven't had a better birthday before or since. We had done so much that weekend that I can't really remember if it was Friday through Sunday or just an overnighter, but there was alot we did.

First of all, Scott had been warning me for the entire week prior that there was going to be alot of things in store for me, many big surprises. I had no idea what these things may be and he wasn't cluing me in on a single one of 'em. I was working that last day before heading up and he called me from the road, saying he was about 30 minutes away. I had suddenly gotten the feeling that there was going to be a limousine pulling up infront of work and I started to get alittle nervous...excited, but nervous. When he called again and said he was outside, I said good-bye to my co-workers and headed out. There he was, outside, waiting in his bright red Jeep Wrangler. I felt slightly relieved as I hopped inside, thinking that would've been over the top. But at the same time, I was sort of disappointed. It would've been a real treat to head up to New York in the back of a limo. After we started heading north, I reluctantly mentioned my thoughts to which Scott replied: "You know, I was actually thinking about hiring one, but money was beginning to get tight with everything else I had planned."

Everything else? Geez, what was I in for?

We arrived at his house in Astoria, Queens, a couple hours later and there was just enough time to shower and change before we were due to head out again. I still had no idea what we were doing or where we were going, but I at least figured it was going to be somewhere in Manhattan.

We hopped on the subway and headed into town, all the while Scott keeping shut about our evening. When we surfaced from the underground tunnels of Manhattan, we were somewhere in Midtown. Scott asked me if I figured out where we were going yet, but I still had no clue. We crossed several intersections and I kept my eyes peeled for anything or any place that I may have mentioned to him in passing, but nothing was coming to mind. Then, up ahead, I saw a sign. High above us, rising vertically against the side of the building, red neon beckoning us like a bug zapper to a moth: Radio City Music Hall. Scott looked at me and said: "Have you figured it out yet?"

For a while I remember thinking: Is he going to take me to see the Rockettes? It was December after all and Rockefeller Center was a world famous destination at Christmastime, the Rockettes being the headliner. But I wasn't a big fan of seeing a row of women kicking their legs up infront of me. I told him I still hadn't a clue. We turned the corner and headed towards the entrance to the main building in the complex, 30 Rockefeller Center. Once inside the lobby I became completely clueless. Until I noticed the bronze plaque hanging next to the elevator: Rainbow Room.

I looked at Scott, my mouth hanging open. "You've got to be kidding me."

"We're not eating here, but we don't have alot of time. We're on a tight schedule and we're just here for a drink."

We stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us. My stomach turned and my ears popped as the express elevator quickly raced upwards and opened at the 65th floor. Waiting for the doors to open, I was anxious to see one of my favorite paintings come to life: Ken Keeley's Welcome New York, Day. It was my understanding that this was the view one would see when approaching the Rainbow Room. I was disappointed, however, when the doors opened and we stepped out into a darkly paneled hallway. But that disappointment didn't last long when we were escorted to our table in the Rainbow Grille, with it's panoramic view of lower Manhattan. Although we were seated in the center of the room (apparently, the tables along the windows were reserved days in advance), the view was spectacular. Evening had arrived and the city was aglow all around (and below) us. It was a crisp clear December night and the lights of the city and New Jersey were spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.

The one somber image three months after the event was the stark white glow coming to us from Lower Manhattan. Ground Zero. Like the last burning embers of a dying campfire, the glow beckoned everyone's attention, the buildings surrounding Ground Zero silhouettes; bordering the perimeter like dedicated soldiers keeping watch. Around the glass enclosed room, you can see all eyes stealing glances in that direction, whispers being made, memories kept fresh with the site of a thin layer of smoke still drifting up from underground even after all these weeks.

As with everyone else, Scott and I looked out, thinking our own thoughts, reliving our own fears and memories. It was something that needed to be done before moving on. Before long, however, we were toasting over deliciously overpriced drinks and readying ourselves for the rest of the night.

I don't remember the exact order of things that happened next, but what happened when we left 30 Rock was a surprising treat. We stumbled upon a street artist. A crowd had gathered in the chilly night to watch the man crouched down on the cement, an assortment of spray cans and household tools surrounded him. We watched as he set out a blank sheet of paper and went to work, layering color upon color of spray paint onto the paper and then scratching combs and putty knives and paint cans across the surface in practiced precision, created a colorful skyline of New York City. I was amazed at how this guy worked and stayed to watch him do a few more. Scott tried to urge me on (the time frame for our next destination was apparently growing thin). I held off leaving to watch the street person do a couple more. It was taking him all of about 3 minutes to create each image.

I finally turned away to light a cigarette. When I turned back, for a second I couldn't find Scott. I looked up and down the street until finally I spotted him emerging from the gathering crowd. He smiled and handed me a rolled up piece of paper.

"What's this?" I asked, taking the baton.

"A taste of New York." He replied.

"Thanks again, Sir!" A voice called out. I looked past Scott and saw the street artist looking in our direction.

Our next stop was a place I have only heard of by reputation, although that rep was long dead. We arrived at Studio 54 to see Molly Ringwald in "Cabaret". What amazed me about Studio 54 was the fact that it was alot smaller than I envisioned. What amazed me more (about Cabaret and Scott) was that I found ourselves sitting in the front row of small cocktail tables. Floored was an understatement. The actors, when entering or exiting the stage, had to pass right by us. At one point, I looked up and Molly was standing right next to me getting ready to run up on stage. It was really something.

During intermission, we had a drink or two at the bar up on the balcony, talked about what it must've been like to have been here to witness all that had taken place within these walls, all the screwing, all the drug taking, all the celebrity spotting. Things that will never be repeated again with such debauchery.

After the show, we had to jump into a cab for our next destination. We exited the cab in The Village and walked down a narrow alleyway to a small carriage house once owned by Aaron Burr, Vice President to Thomas Jefferson, but who's political career was completely severed after duel challenge led to his fatally shooting Alexander Hamilton. One if by Land - Two if by Sea was a an incredible place to have dinner. We waited at the bar, beside the 2-story illuminated Christmas tree, waiting for our table to be ready. The bartender offered us a glass of wine while we waited and, although I can't remember the details, we watched as some wealthy woman sat at the bar and got drunk. I seem to recall her singing to the piano player, but I could be mistaken. Once at the dinner, we shared a bottle of wine, toasted my birthday and ordered dinner. I don't remember what I had for dinner, but one thing I do remember was desert.

At work, there is a coffee shop downstairs that I went to every morning. A wide array of flavored coffees offered, my favorite pick when available was always the creme brulee. Scott, at some point, had prearranged to have my desert be the crem brulee (instead of the traditional slice of birthday cake). Incredibly rich, it was the perfect ending to a great night.

After dinner, we went to a couple of bars, had a few drinks and hopped into a cab for the ride back to Queens. I thanked Scott for a fantastic night on the town to which he replied: "There's one more thing." He set a large wrapped box on the bed. I stared down at it, unable to figure out what it was. He had already done too much for me and this, I felt, was going to be over the top and I pretty much told him so.

"It's something you mentioned liking and really, it wasn't all that much." he said.

I unwrapped the box and pulled back the flap. Inside was something wrapped in bubble wrap. I pulled it out. It was a picture...

Okay..this is where I have to do some explaining: We were both co-workers in 2 separate Thomas Kinkade Galleries, me in philly, him in New York. I, personally, cannot stand the artist, but I knew when I took the job how popular he was and that it was going to be some easy money to make, which it was. What I didn't know about Kinkade was that he had a series of Plein Aire paintings. These were images outside the normal "light" thing that he is best known for. A more impressionistic style, these were quick paintings he did on location around the world, often using these as studies for his more detailed works. Of these impressionistic paintings, my favorite was a small 8x10 image of London's Tower Bridge. The oringal not for sale, his canvas lithograph was an already sold-out edition of 550. I've never been to London, but for some reason the image of the Tower Bridge was something that I really liked. And here I was unwrapping it from a roll of bubble wrap on Scott's bed.

The next morning, it was back into the city. A walking tour in midtown. We took an elevator ride up to the top of the Empire State Building (kind of a surreal feeling considering 3 months prior we were at the top of a building that was no longer there). We did a little bit more walking before heading back to Queens and jumped into Scott's jeep for the ride back down to Philly.

So, that was it...

I have thanked him time and time again and I'll do it one more time. Thank you, Scott, for giving me the best birthday I have ever experienced, filled with drinks, fun, celebrity spotting and cherished gifts and memories. It's great to have a friend like you and I only wish we can share more good times together instead of over the phone or the internet.

Scott recently paid me a visit a couple months ago. I'll write about that in a future post.

Goal 1, Day 1, Part 2 (The Demon Dog) ...

2007-08-03T11:45:00.000-04:00

When last we left our non-smoker, he was battling temptation by refusing to get out of bed and make coffee...

Before I go any further, I need to best try and describe this smoking addiction and how I view this battle between myself and my demon. I tend to be a very internally visual person, allowing my mind to race into parts unknown, creating scenarios that more often than not become nothing more than an overactive imagination. My friends often say that I over analyze things and sometimes they are right. There are other times when my thoughts and feelings are right on the mark, or at least within the in-field. Psychic? Some say.

But I'm drifting away again...

Back to my monster...

On my first morning as a non-smoker, I decided to walk the 20-25 blocks to work, meandering through the tree lined streets of Center City. What I didn't expect at such an early hour, however, was the heat. At nine a.m. it was already pushing 80 degrees and the humidity was climbing at a rapid pace. By the time I was halfway to work, I found myself trying to find every sliver of shadow to hide from the blistering sun. As I made my way down Walnut Street, I quickly discovered that I wasn't the only person walking in this fashion. It seemed like several people were hugging the stone and brick facades of the storefronts, afraid to step out into the harsh morning sunlight as if they may instantaneously burst into flames if any bit of their sweaty flesh should come within direct contact.

I watched as these people (and myself) inched closer and closer to the buildings with each passing block as the shadows grew shorter from the rising sun. And all the while, I kept wanting a cigarette even though I knew that, in this heat, inhaling a lungful of smoke was about as pleasurable as kneeling down behind a 30 year old VW Bug and inhaling the fumes through the exhaust pipe (not that I've ever tried, mind you). But the feeling; the need for a cigarette continued to eat away inside me, trying to get me to reach into the breast pocket of my shirt and pull out the 1/2 empty pack of smokes I foolishly brought with me that morning (for just such a mental breakdown). I realized that this feeling was really taking control, eating away at my insides to the point where it was beginning to feel more physical than mental.

The feeling was beginning to take on a shape...

As I begin to describe this monster within me, I can't help but be drawn back to a short story I once read: "The Sun Dog", written by Stephen King, and found in a book with three other novellas titled "Four Past Midnight".

In "The Sun Dog", the main character, a boy of about 11, receives a Sun camera for his birthday. It's one of those poloroid jobs where each picture is spit out of the camera with a mechanical whirring sound and you can watch as the picture slowly begins to develope infront of you. The camera this boy received, however, only took what appeared to be one photograph; a photograph of a picket fence outside of a rundown house. With each click of the button, the camera would spit out the same image no matter where you pointed the viewfinder. Even replacing the film didn't change the outcome. Except for the shadow...

Slowly, from the left side of the developed photos, a shadow starts to appear. In each picture taken, the shadow grows larger until a dog, mangy and hungry looking, appears from outside the shot. With each picture it takes a step further into the frame. If you were to stack the photos on top of one another and quickly flip them (as they did in the story) a little movie would be created with this ugly dog walking into the shot from the left.

Then the dog slowly begins to turn toward the camera. Whomever is taking the initial photograph is spotted by the dog and the dog, in each photo progressively snapped, begins to charge the photographer; snarling for the camera; leaping into the air to attack.

So, the image of The Sun Dog became stuck in my head as I felt this monster deep inside me scratching, biting & clawing his way out, trying to satisfy its own need by making me light up. I can feel the pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket pressing against my chest with each step I took; a heartbeat against my own, pulsing in sinc with my own footfalls. It's the heartbeat of my demon.

My Sun Dog started to take shape in my mind. If you can imagine a poorly documented commercial on television, maybe one for some new pain relieving pill. "University studies have shown how this little green pill, when swallowed..."

--Cut to the bad diagram, white on a black screen, used as a visual tool. It is nothing more than the outline of a human being, the head turned in one direction, a raw diagram of the throat leading from the mouth down to the oval shape representing the stomach. Animating the diagram (a green circle being the pill) you see how the medicine reacts to the body, getting absorbed into the bloodstream and suddenly turning in many happy faces floating throughout the body, eliminating pain as they go.

I started to imagine that bad diagram as me. My insides consisted of nothing more than the outline of a throat and a stomach (and of course a bright box of Marlboros floating around in the left chest area where my breast pocket was located. My demon, not a Sun Dog as Stephen King described but my own demon dog, was not even really a dog per-say. It was more of a arts and craft creation gone wildly possessed.

For starters, my Domeon Dog appears in my mind as mostly 2-dimensional. He is like a piece of heavy duty black construction paper crudely cut into a shape that can only be described as part Jack Russel/part Pitbull, a combination of my most loved and most feared breeds. The edges of the cutting are slightly curled, casting the faintest hint of a shadow along the edges onto the background, the interior field of the human diagram (me). Its ears stand upright, giving the impression of a devil's horns. The mouth is cut out to appear always opened, but ready to snap shut; never smiling, always hungry and angry. The mishapen rows of upper and lower teeth, childlike cuttings of slightly different sized triangles cut from the blackness of the rest of the figure are razor sharp. The eyes are two construction paper cut-out on one side of the Demon Dog's profiled silouette, cartoonish, but alive with fire. The eyes are unseeing, but they know...they know the hunger.

When my Demon Dog moves, it's like stop-motion photography. Each movement is sharp and unflowing into the next; twitching. But it is constant and ferocious at the same time. The snarls from the Demon Dog are viscious and gutteral. The sharp claws on the black paws are feverishly clawing away, faster and faster, like a dog scratching at the base of a door, desperate to be let outside to relieve itself.

The Demon Dog is trapped in the crude outline of the stomach in the diagram. It's scratching and clawing at the outline, pushing and stretching the stomach from inside making it look like a mishapen elastic ball. The snarls are deep and angry. The firey eyes are fixed on the floating pack of cigarettes just inches away.

As I made my way through the tree line paths crossing the grounds in front of Independence Hall, I could actually feel the Demon Dog's prescence inside me, scratching his way to the surface. My hand reached for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, but fingers never actually touched cardboard. Instead, I took a deep breath, held it a second and slowly let it out. I could feel the Demon Dog settle slightly in the pit of my stomach and I could actually hear him whimper softly. In my mind, I pictured the diagram stomach and the Demon Dog trapped within its outline. The stomach, in sinc with my deep breaths, seems to be shrinking slightly around the Demon Dog, giving it less room to move. I took another deep breath and imagined the Demon Dog being forced to crouch within the walls of the outlined stomach.

After a few more seconds of deep breaths, the Demon Dog was settled; the craving had passed.

But that dog was merely lying in wait, buying his time. There were several more opportunities for him to jump and stretch that stomach lining. Like a celebrity stalker, he just rested...and waited...

**Author's note: I am completing this posting on the morning of my forth day of Goal 1. Although I am doing well, I must admit, the Demon Dog has won a few battles over the last couple of days. The war will be long, I can tell.

Goal 1, Day 1 ...

2007-08-01T16:23:00.000-04:00

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I awoke this morning as a non-smoker. Or at least that was my intention...

A few weeks back I wrote on here about my three life-changing goals I have mapped out: quit smoking, get back to the gym/eat more healthy & get out of debt. I have myself three separate dates to begin each, but never mentioned them to anyone. If I failed, or worse yet, never even attempted to start, then I really didn't want any more disappointment that what I would've dished out upon myself.

Yesterday was supposed to be my "prep day" for goal number one: cleaning, wiping down the mini-blinds, basically ridding the house of the aroma of stale cigarette smoke that has undoubtedly accumulated on every surface but unnoticed by me. But instead of cleaning, yesterday I awoke with sudden need to get things off my chest. I don't know if I had possibly had some sort of a dream to make me feel this but all morning, I felt a desperate need to write.

So, stealing a page from my friend, Rob's self-help manual, I sat infront of my computer and began to write a letter. A letter to a long-ago ex-boyfriend who had controlled my life. A form of "Therapy E-mail" as Rob likes to describe it. I really had no idea where the letter would take me or what I would write about. Nor did I have any clue that I would wind up sitting there at my desk for nearly two hours typing feverishly and reliving details from a relationship a lifetime ago. Least of all, I never realized the feelings of anger and hatred that would rise and swell inside me and spill out onto my computer screen.

By the time I had finished I was emotionally drained, but I didn't feel finished yet. There was still more to be said about a few other things going on in my life. So, I turned back to my computer, opened my email program and wrote a long winded letter to my friend, Scott, up in Maine.

When that letter was finally complete, I felt even more drained. I was seriously wanting a cigarette and my pack had already been finished off about an hour earlier. It was mid-afternoon and my original plan was to finish the pack of cigarettes I had that day (trying to spread them out into the evening) and that would be that. No more smokes. During the course of the day, I would be cleaning non-stop. But after writing for over 2 hours on my blog and then writing another long emotionally draining letter to Scott, the last thing I could think of was cleaning and the ONLY thing that dominated my mind was the need for a smoke.

I quickly grabbed a shower, got dressed and headed out the front door. I bought a pack of Marlboro's and walked the city streets, trying to clear my head. I found myself soon heading towards Uncles and quickly ducked inside for a beer. It was still early and I knew no one would be there, at least no one I really cared about. However, the place was loud with afternoon drunks and Willy's voice bouncing off the mirrored walls was enough to give me the feeling that my eardrums were about to begin bleeding, so I finished my beer and continued my walk.

Without even remembering how I got there, I found myself staring into the dark waters of the Delaware River, twenty blocks from my house. I stood on the cement banks and stared. A PATCO train slowly crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge. Joggers passed by me on the brick pathway. A sailboat lazily drifted downriver, its occupants basking in the afternoon sunlight. I stood there, unmoving, for about five minutes, taking everything in, the sounds, the smells, the sights. Across the river in New Jersey, past the waterfront development, I could make out the hazy treeline of some distant hill beyond Camden's city limits. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warm summer air fill my lungs. When I opened my eyes again, everything was the same. I really didn't know what to expect; maybe some sort of revelation, some clue as to what I was doing here. But everything was as it was; no clearing of the mind, to great idea, nothing. So, Like Forrest Gump when he reached the Atlantic Coastline, I simply turned around and headed back towards the city.

Needless to say, no prepwork was done to help me with Goal #1. The furthest I had gotten with that yesterday was a few loads of laundry, emptying and washing out my ashtrays and making the decision that, for the remainder of the day, any smoking will be done outside on the stoop. No great battle plan, but it was a start.

So...back to this morning, this first day of this first goal...

My alarm sounded at six a.m. and my eyes opened. I reached out and hit the alarm off. I was a non-smoker and I felt as if I could take on the world!

The feeling, unfortunately, lasted a fraction of a second when I remembered the 1/2 pack of cigarettes lying on the table downstairs in the livingroom. I can almost feel them taunting me; urging me out of bed to share with them that first cool drag of the morning which would ultimately set the tone for each drag thereafter. I can imagine the pack dancing across the back of the sofa, long female stockinged legs in high heeled shoes tapping across the back cushions, a provocative little twist of toe on the pillow, mimicing one stamping out a cigarette on a sidewalk. I can almost hear them calling out to me, begging me to smoke them. Their chorus of tiny voices sounding much like the high pitched giggles that first drifted out from deep within the colorful bushes to greet Dorothy when she took that long ago trip.

I needed coffee, but coffee would only encourage the smoking. They go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Shaggy and Scooby.

I eventually fell back to sleep.

I awoke a half hour later to my phone alarm going off. I quickly silented the second alarm and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I decided that my need for coffee was driving my desire for a cigarette, so I wasn't going to get out of bed to make any. I was just going to stay here until the time came to get into the shower. If the craving got too strong, I would simply force myself to nap for a few minutes.

Most people find this odd, but it's a habit I had long ago adopted from my mother. We are both slow morning risers and each set our alarm clocks hours before we actually need to be up. This gives me the opportunity to lounge around in bed while the coffee's brewing, watch the morning news and not have to worry about rushing to take a shower and get out the door. So forcing myself to take little naps to avoid the urge to smoke, even if it is making me miss my much needed morning coffee, wasn't such a major issue. I still had at least 90 minutes before I had to leave the house.

(To be continued...)

**author's note** unfortunately, by the time this is posted, I will have already failed my goal of the day. I really don't feel all that bad. I've been up since 6am and I had one cigarette at 6:30-PM All of this writing about the desire to smoke actually made said desire that much stronger. I'll talk about that more tomorrow.

A Letter ...

2007-07-31T10:09:00.000-04:00

Dear Don,

In my starting efforts to try and better myself as a person, physically, spiritually and emotionally, it seems clear that I must travel back in time to try and figure out where some of my inner turmoil had begun. I cannot possibly blame you entirely, but there are several issues in my life that can be directly or indirectly traced back to you, our relationship and my avoidance of you after our break-up. Even the house I currently live in can be traced back to you since I started living here with a friend I had made after beginning to hang out at the 247 bar in order to avoid seeing you at Woody's. You were my first real boyfriend, but I don't think in the five years we were together I can actually say that I truly loved you and I realize now that I was nothing more than a possession to you.

I can remember seeing you way back 20-23 years ago in the CSR bar when we were both underage, me with long curly hair sitting alone at the bar and you coming in with your much older boyfriend, your hair spiked in that long forgotten '80s style wearing loud colored shirts to match. We never really spoke, but i thought you were attractive. It was a few years later when you finally came up to me and began talking. I had always been shy but you, being the loud opinionated Italian/Irishman that you were, didn't care. We hung out as friends for a few weeks before we started dating. Little did I know that you were also dating someone else at the time, but you soon broke up with him and started going out with me. I realize now how volitile the relationship was from the get-go, but the weaker part of me was just happy to be in a relationship and that, I realize was my first huge mistake.

This all goes back to 1986. I know that because in the early summer of that year I purchased my first "new" car, a 1987 Chevy Beretta, bright red with tinted windows and custom pinstripe done by a childhood friend who did detail work in a car dealership. I know that because late in that summer, we had our first physical altercation and, as materialistic as the reason may have been, I had my true first opportunity to bag the relationship, but instead I made my 2nd huge mistake. I allowed you to manipulate me and allow me to blame myself.

We were down in Wildwood staying with your family and you, me and your two cousins, Julie and (I forget the older sister's name) went out barhopping. We all got alittle drunk and I really don't remember what started it all, but I got so pissed off at you that I flicked my cigarette at you and it bounced off your cheek. You came at me with such force and anger that I was sure an all-out brawl would ensue. But, as luck would have it, the bartender behind me saw the entire thing, leaped over the bar and grabbed you before you got to me. Ironically, it was you to be escorted out of the place while your cousins tried to calm me. I kept trying to tell your cousins that you were doing something to my new car, but they assured me that they knew you better than me and that you were just outside cooling off. They tried to get me to dance, but I had to see for myself.

We left the bar and headed for the parking lot. There you were, standing beside my car. You immediately started to apologize for overreacting, but I ignored you and carefully circled my car, scanning every inch of the bright red surface. It didn't take me long to notice the broken antennae and soon after the huge 2 foot long scratch going down the center of my hood. I remember staring at you and asking you point blank what had happened? I remember you trying to tell me that this was how you found the car. I remember your cousins telling you that that was bullshit; that I was just inside the bar telling them that you were out here doing something to my new car. Yet you kept denying it.

The ride back to the beachhouse was silent until you finally screamed out from the back seat that yes...it was you. I simply said, "I know" and continued driving.

Back at the beach house, the rest of your family was sound asleep. You apologized again and said that you would pay for the damages. You asked me if I was leaving. I wanted to so bad, just pack my car and drive home right then and there, never to lay eyes on you again. But it was also 3 in the morning and I had been drinking, so instead I continued to give you the silent treatment. You got up and walked out of the house and headed down to the beach.

Part of my silent treatment had been to keep my anger in check. The last thing I wanted was to raise royal hell with you and wake the entire family. So I followed you out to the beach, readying my self for battle. Instead, after yelling and screaming out there under a blanket of stars, I was suddenly on my knees crying and begging for YOUR forgiveness for being MAD. I still don't know how you managed to do that to me, but I remember you coming over to me and giving me a hug and, thinking about it still so vividly in my mind, I know now that that was your whole intention, to manipulate me into believing that my actions IN the bar led YOU to do damage to my car.

Over the next several months, I started to lose my longtime friends. Not so much lose them than give them up for you and YOUR friends, people I had nothing in common with. My waking hours were either spent at work (where you called me several times a day to make sure I was actually there) or your place. I stood by and watched my life slowly deteriorate and become your's. Our weekend nights out at woody's started fairly early and ended early because you had the need to pound back 3 or 4 shots of Jack Daniels within the first hour of being there and, in most cases, by 10:30 or 11 we were back at your place lying in bed and watching tv. You would get a 2nd wind and roll a joint or smoke a bowl. I would take acouple hits and roll over and go to sleep.

When you DID manage to make it through the night, we often went to the Bike stop. Several times there I would leave to go to the bathroom only to return and see you in a darkened corner feeling someone up. And what do I do? I turn the other cheek.

When I actually came across someone from my past, a guy I had a couple dates with a few years earlier, you were in the bathroom. We were upstairs at woody's and I was talking to this guy and you came out of the bathroom, grabbed the beer I was holding for you and stood there between us, defiantly. You stared at him and you looked back at me. "Who's this?"

"This is an old friend of mine, Dave. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Don." Dave reached out his hand, but you looked down at it and then back up at him and didn't say a word. I remember the look Dave had given you, but more importantly, the look he gave me. "Chris, it was good running into you. Good luck." And with that, he turned away.

"What did he mean by that?" You demanded.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why so rude?" I shot back.

"How do you know him?"

"I dated him...when I was 18!" I turned and walked away, livid. "Thanks for being such an ass to someone I haven't seen in 4 years."

"What? Do you want him again?"

I stopped right in the middle of the flight of stairs leading back down to the first floor. People trying to get by grumbled, but I ignored them. I Looked back at you and suddenly opened up with both barrels: "Let me get this right! I have to sit back and watch you flirt with complete strangers and feel them up and make out with them in the basement of the bikestop, but I come across an old friend and something has to be going on between us??? You're a fucking idiot!!!"

"You tell'm, girlfriend." someone in the passing crowd shouted. Who knows, it could've been Dave himself, but it was enough to make me see that I was causing a seen. I turned and continued down to the first floor and out of the bar.

You apologized and insisted on going back to Dave and apologizing to him, but I wouldn't allow it. I never saw or spoke to Dave again.

***cybernote to Dave DiPietro: it's been about 18 years since this occurred, but please accept MY apologies for having such an asshole as a boyfriend.

Another episode that clearly stands out in my mind, Don, was my best friend's wedding. We were about a year into our relationship and by this time, Mark had been another childhood friend that I let go because of you. But I still lived at home, across the street from him and was invited to his wedding, which so happened to be taking place down the street from your house. I stopped over to see you before heading to the wedding and told you I would see you later in the day. Instead I called you from the reception and told you that I was going to go to a party at Mark's parents' (across the street from where I grew up and lived). You grumbled and bitched and asked what were you supposed to do, just sit home and wait? I explained that I hadn't seen these people in a long time and I wanted to catch up. None of them knew that I was gay, let alone seeing another guy and I planned on keeping it that way.

So there we were, 15 or 20 of us out infront of Mark's house, laughing and drinking and remembering the good times. Then, from across the street, I heard my mother calling. It was after midnight and she was quite upset. "Don's on the phone. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour?" I picked up the phone and you were already screaming at me. "Where are you?"

"I'm at Mark's house. Why?"

"No you're not. I drove down your street and didn't see you."

"How can you miss us? We're the only house on the block with a bunch of bridesmaids in ugly dresses hanging out in the front yard."

"Well I'm going out for a DRINK!"

"Go then. I hanging out with my friends."

The next morning you called telling me you broke your wrist because you punched a wall after I made you so upset. I later found out that you punched a wall in the adult bookstore, putting a hole right through the drywall.

Don, we were in a bad relationship for over five years and for nearly four of those, I wanted out, but didn't know how. It had finally ended though on the day before Easter. I was in the middle of a project and was getting frustrated with myself and you wanted to go out. I said that I wasn't going to go out, but you were getting angry with me. I finally said, "Look, this just isn't working. Go out. Have a good time and leave me to what I have to do."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"C'mon. I'm not happy. You're not happy."

"Fine!" And you hung up. I was actually relieved. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but at least another fight wasn't taking place. By this time all of our conversations were nothing more than arguements in different tones. But a few minutes later, you called me back. I figured it was going to be more apologizing and trying to work things out, something that I had no intention of doing. Not this time. I've apologized enough for your actions. Instead, you said the strangest thing: "I just want you to know that, if anyone asks, I'm telling them that this break up is YOUR fault."

"Fine, Don." I replied, exhausted. "Tell them whatever you want. I really don't care anymore."

I thought that that was the end of it, but was I in for a rude awakening. You once told me: "Don't ever cheat on me. I will find out." It was a strange comment to make, considering that, although our sex life was all but completely gone after the first 2 years, I was completely monogomous as I am in any relationship I'm in. But, Don, no truer words were spoken. For months and even YEARS after our break-up, I was running into people you had fooled around with behind MY back. Thinking back, I can remember you taking secretive phone calls in the other room.

So there you have it, Don. You were right. I WILL find out. I knew long before this letter was written. I have avoided you for a few years after our break-up because I was afraid that I would just out and out KILL you right there on sight. I started hanging out on the other side of town, met a new group of people. Kept our relationship secret and from there, through a series of paths, both good and bad; right and wrong, here I am, writing to you...FINALLY...after 16 years, to tell you how much I hate you. I hate you for manipulating me. I hate you for cheating on me. I hate you for making me give up all the friends of my youth. I hate you for so many things, but most of all, Don...I hate you for making me hate MYSELF.

I hate myself for ALLOWING you to manipulate me
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to make me give up my friends
I hate myself for KNOWING all along, on some level, that you were cheating on me and not nipping it in the bud.
I hate myself for PUTTING UP with this shit for five years.
I hate myself for WAITING 16 YEARS to tell you this
I hate myself for BURYING it only to let it surface and repeat itself in all but ONE reltationship since. And in that one relationship in which it didn't happen...
...I hate myself for THINKING that a relationship couldn't actually BE any other way.

Don, it wasn't until just this very second that I realized how much I actually buried my emotions where you were concerned. I write this letter and think: my God...did this actually HAPPEN to me?

I don't think that I will EVER see true happiness. Not in this lifetime. Time does not heal all wounds. In many cases, it just scabs over and scars, leaving you with a neverending reminder of the pain that once was. It's been 16 years and the hate, although buried deep down, is still there and is still strong. I will always carry the burden of having known you and will, more importantly, always carry the burden of losing my identity and my self worth.

People tell me I'm bitter and it's a name I have given myself. I am currently (as stated in the opening of this letter to you) trying to overcome it. Although you will never see this letter, it's out there as proof that I am finally letting it out. I am accepting my part in that mess of a relationship and that I am tired of granting your request of taking blame for our break-up. Although it's been a long time, it was a good 2 years after our break-up that I was able to break free of the whole "Don and Chris" label. Whenever people asked what happened, I bit my tongue and simply said things just didn't work out. It wasn't until much more recently that I am able to say that a good deal of who I am today was because of the emtional abuse that you put me through, but I still left everything vague. Now it's out, at least a couple of key examples of the MANY.

So, Don, it's been a long time coming, but I'm here to tell you that I will not let you win in the end. You have manipulated me for too long and I'm just seeing that now. It's going to stop. So let me just give you one last piece of advise before I forever put this behind me and try to finally make pease with myself and get on with my life.

That little piece of advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Chris

To Kill a Mockingbird ...

2007-07-26T20:35:00.000-04:00

The Old City Section of Philadelphia can be a very interesting area of town to work, play and relax. The architecture ranges anywhere from the original colonial structures dotting narrow cobblestone paths to Georgian and Victorian facades bordering streets like mismatched dominoes to large warehouses converted into overpriced lofts, while maintaining their Old City charm while holding on to their identities by keeping the names of thier original uses, like the Chocolate Works or the Hoopskirt Factory. Rising up from the rubble of some of the fallen and forgotten foundations, you can now see glass and steel reflecting the sunlight and giving those fortunate enough to afford it, a spectacular and unobstructed view of the office towers in Center City a mile west.

Tourists flock to this part of the city for the nation's history, found anywhere from Independence Hall and the Betsy Ross house to the new Liberty Bell Pavilion and the great fortresslike structure that is the National Constitution Center. Restaurants are packed, most days from open to close as visitors wait anxiously for their turn on the Duck Boats or the London double decker tour busses. The clip clop of a countless array of horse drawn carriages can barely be heard above the scripted tourguides telling riders the significance of The Real World House.

Walking the streets is much better than trying to navigate your way around siteseeing traffic, unless of course, you happen to be late for work or on your lunchbreak on a beautiful summer afternoon and suddenly find yourself on the tail end of a tourgroup of 30 to 50 people all stopping to snap pictures of a church steeple or a park bench that just so happens to have proof (read off of a bronzed plaque) that some founding father once sat there to clean the mud off his shoes.

I enjoy my casual morning strolls from the bus stop to work. Oftentimes, when the morning air isn't too thick with the building humidity of the day, I will walk from home, taking a different route each time and discovering things I have never seen before even after more than ten years living in Center City. It was upon one of these walks that I found myself suddenly attacked, without provocation. No, it wasn't a mugger. No, it wasn't a gang of misfit teens.

But I can honestly say that I now feel what it must've been like to be Tippy Hedren all alone in that little rowboat...

The other day, I was doing my usual walk from the bus stop, up 4th street to Arch, and decided to cut through the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House, a large 2-story brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. Within the confines of the 8 foot bricked wall surrounding the grounds there are nice little garden areas with benches scattered about where you can sit and have lunch or escape from the noise of traffic passing down Arch Street.

That morning, however, I was doomed to cross the angry path of an overprotective mockingbird keeping a watchful eye on her nest.

Little did I know that mockingbirds build their nest low to the ground, under or in closely packed shrubs. I sort of found this out the hard way when I passed through the iron gates from 4th street and headed up the brick pathway that would lead me out through a matching set of gates directly across from work. I wasn't ten feet inside the walled garden when, above me and to my right, I hear a loud and obnoxious screech. There, ontop of a lightpost, is a mockingbird, it's head bobbing feverishly in my direction. It screeched again and took up toward the roof of the meetinghouse.

I ignored it and continued on my way, the tiny sound of the plastic grocery bag brushing against my leg is the only sound reaching my ears on an exceptionally quiet morning. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly got a chill up my back. It may have happened before the actual incident or it may have been simultanious. I couldn't be sure. All I know was that there was a soundless rush of air that passed by my left ear and I quickly spun around to catch the tail of the mockingbird disappearing up into the tree over me. I stopped and stared up, thinking that this bird did not just try to fly into me.

But there it was, out on a branch staring down at me, screeching and pointing with his head and....well...mocking me. I decided that I don't care how little that thing was, there was no way I was running. I stood there for a minute staring back up into the tree, watching the bird bounce from limb to limb until...and I can't tell if it was my imagination, but...it zeroed in on me. I stared in amazement as the bird spread his wings and took flight. Then, when its path was clear, it close its wings tight against the side of its body and, with a screech that I can only imagine sounding like the last sound to escape the mouth of a Kamikaze pilot, this demonbird came at me like a heat seeking missile.

With barely a second to react, I arched my back to try and get out of its path and swung my plastic bag up infront of me at the same time. The bird, as if pulled by a wire, suddenly did a sharp right turn just inches from my head and took off up into the tree again.

"Shit!" I shouted with a nervous laugh.

The bird perched itself once again on the branch and screeched, readying itself for another attack. It flew up and out of the leaves and came down towards me like a heavy stone, this time turning away higher up and landing once again on the roof.

I must've really looked like a fool out there in the middle of the garden, standing in the sunlight like a contortionist with turret's. I realized that I probably did look like a fool by the reaction to the group of hot firemen standing infront of the fire house on Arch Street, looking back in my direction and smiling. I took one last look up towards the roof and noticed that the bird was gone. Wary of another attack, I grabbed my plastic bag (and what little pride I had left) and headed to work.

***

(last night)...

After a couple hours of speaking to my friend, Rob, on-line, I headed downstairs to watch a special call "Ghost Adventures" or some such crap. It was a 2 hour special on the Sci-Fi channel and turned out to be pretty cheesy. Although there were a couple of clips that kinda got my blood crawling. It also happened to be at this point that Rob decides to call me on my cell.

I was lying on the sofa, shirtless, the phone resting on my stomach, set on vibrate. Glued to the television, I watched in awe as the makers of the documentary had caught, on film, bricks and boards in the basement of this supposed haunted hotel in New Mexico flying off of the floor and into a wall. The cameramen were so startled that they went off screaming down the corridor, their cameras capturing nothing more than out of control light and shadow.

My heart raced...

My breathing shallowed...

My vibrating phone comes to life on my stomach...

I scream...

After answering the phone and telling Rob what just happened, we chatted alittle bit about phone problems and he said he was going to bed and watch a DVD. It dawned on me that I still had 3 DVDs from Netflix that I've been holding onto for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't remember what they were. With him still on the phone, I opened each envelope and read the titles.

And I burst out laughing.

The last envelope held the most appropriate movie title, considering my ordeal on the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House.

The only thing better would've been Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

But this is a close second....

To Kill a Mockingbird.

Three Dates Are Now Set ...

2007-07-24T15:29:00.000-04:00

Life in a Nuthouse is a thing of the past, both figuratively and literally. The original name of this blog was to establish the ups and downs, comings and goings and ins and outs behind the walls that was The Post Bar. But the bar is all but completely gone. It is officially under new ownership and, although no one knows exactly when, it will close, be remodeled and re-open sometime in the future. It won't be the same and who knows if the old crowd will return or whether it will have the same sorted drunken drama as it did over the last several years, but it is no longer a "nuthouse" as my blog title once stated.

I have also removed the sub-heading of this blog because I think it's about time that I, along with the Post, need improvements, changes and a fresh start. No longer will my heading read bitter and middle aged. I'm 40 years old and it's time I reevaluate my life and my attitude. I have tried to rid myself of my bitter attitude in the past, but I have jokingly been labeled that for more than five years now and it's time for it to end. I don't like being told that my bitterness is why people like me or people I just meet already know me as bitter before even getting to KNOW me. It's going to be hard and it'll probably take a long time, but the last thing I would want to be remembered for was the fact that I spent my entire adult life seemingly resentful of all those around me.

I figured the best way to start down this new path was to make three changes in my life; three large changes that will ultimately improve my life and make the transition alittle easier...eventually. I have the dates set up and recorded on my calendar and there's no erasing them.

I will not announce these dates to anyone. They will be my own personal goals and start times. My self-esteem is low and always has been. The last thing I would want is to announce my dates to my friends (or in this case the entire cyberworld) and then either a: fail, or b: not start at all. I will be hard enough on myself if failure should occur and really do not need those around me to remind me that I have failed, or to show disappointment in my failure. I will say this though: 2 of the 3 goals are right around the corner.

So now the actual goals:
* First: Quit smoking
* Second: Get back to the gym on a regular basis (after re-joining). Included in goal number 2 will be to re-evaluate my eating habits as well. Something I've never looked at.
* Third: Get entirely out of debt.

This part, although there are thousands of people who are worse off than myself, seems to be the toughest hurdle. I've always had a roommate or housemate up until about 3 or 4 years ago. And at that time, when I started living by myself, I was at one of the lowest points of my life and I really didn't give a rat's ass about anything, myself included. Truly, the only reason I'm alive today and writing is that I have seen what suicide had done to my family in the past and I didn't want that to happen again. So, instead, I planted a fake smile on my face and perservered. It's not that I'm thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars in debt. In fact, I'm far from it. It just seems that, just when I think I'm gaining the upper hand, something falls apart. So, with each paycheck, more and more money winds up being spread thinner and thinner. Now, at work, sales are way down across the board (but it seems like there's an upsurge once again). However, due to my pay structure, it looks like it will be a couple to several more months before I'm ahead of the game again.

So there you have it; my three life altering goals. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it...along with your support (my friends), maybe some guidance or suggestions when needed and, most importantly, understanding. There may be times when I will not be joining in in any of the reindeer games simply because the funds aren't there. Just understand and accept.

And by the way, there are some people out there (y'all know who you are) who have been an ear to talk to and I have gone after it like a hungry pitbull at times. I thank you and appreciate your allowing my rants.

Speaking of rants...

About this blog. As a sidebar sort of a goal, I am going to try to get back on this thing and keep it up to date. It may be rantings. It may be updates on the progress with my goals. It may be nothing more than talking about what mundane things I did that day or week.

I guess that's it for now. I'll be in touch!

Thanks!
Chris

2007-07-09T11:09:00.000-04:00

This is the first time in quite awhile that I'm actually writing anything and I realize that some of my friends may be shocked, But something happened to me last night and, although it happened four years ago, I've never written about it. I figured what better time than now, when it's fresh in my mind again.

Also, for some reason, I'm not able to title this (what is going to wind up being) drawn out story, so forgive me ahead of time.

I met my friend out for a couple of drinks at Uncles last night. We had both agreed ahead of time that it was going to be a quick night for the two of us; nothing more and a few beers (and the ritualistic shot). I arrived a few minutes before him and settled down with an ice cold bottle of beer (monkey piss to some who shall remain nameless). All in all it started out as a enjoyable, yet uneventful night. We shared some talk, laughs, shots. I received a nice box of fudge brought back from the shore (but stuffed into a Wawa bag--I haven't quite figured that one out yet).

One brief topic that came up was how a former housemate of mine entered my house unexpectedly (he had moved out a few months before) at 3 in the morning. It freaked me out so much so that I nearly crashed a lamp over his head as I heard him moving upstairs towards my bedroom. Considering what had happened to me a few months before (that story is what I'm now leading up to) it was a terrible thing for him to do to me at such an early hour.

I mentioned this to my friend last night and he wanted me to save this story and go into detail later. I happily agreed and he soon moved across to the other end of the bar to speak to another friend of his who had entered some time earlier.

I ordered another beer and made some brief conversation with the off-duty bartender who was sitting next to me. At one point, I took a swig from my bottle and looked across the bar to the cash register. I realized it was past midnight when the digital display read 7-9-7. I stared at the numbers for a few more seconds wondering the significance. Suddenly a chain reaction started to take place in my head:

* Who's birthday is it?...
* No ones
* Yes it is...
* No...
* It's something...
* Friend's, family's?...
* Crap! Anniversary...
* Mom & Dad...
* Remember to call or mom'll be pissed...
* She worries about you when you don't call...
* She'll think something happened...
* Like that other time...
* When that guy...

I suddenly felt my heart begin to pound harder as my eyes locked in on that digital readout before me. My mind raced back over the years. Images began to form in my head. Then came the voice, whispering once again in my ear. Deep, rough, angry:

"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you..."

I suddenly didn't want to leave the bar. I knew it was in my head, but my body wouldn't move for a moment. I looked around the bar at the faces. People were laughing and joking. The music was blaring. Everything started to blend together as the mirrored walls closed in around me.

I closed my eyes and pushed it away. When I opened them again, things were back to normal. I figured it was now or never. I took one last swig of beer and got up to leave. My friend was at the bar near the exit and I told him I freaked myself out and was leaving. We have plans today and he said he was leaving in a couple minutes himself. I walked out the door and headed home.

One half of me kept telling me to grab a taxi, but I needed the air to try and clear my head, so I walked the 8 or 9 blocks to my house, all the while that night replayed itself over and over in my mind, not letting go. What freaked me out even more was that, outside of the bar I had just left, everything was identical to that night...including the date.

Four years ago, I had left another bar after deciding that I wasn't going to drink too much. Just a beer or two. I needed to get up the next morning for a job interview. It was a hot, muggy night and, as I made my way down the quiet Center City streets, I kept thinking about the coolness of my bedroom. After about ten minutes, I turned the corner onto my quiet tree-lined street. I reached my house and pulled my keys out and unlocked the security gate. I unlocked the inside door and stepped into my vestibule. I turned around, keys in hand, to close and lock the gate when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement to my left.

"Are you Michelle?" A voice asked. (I don't actually remember the name he used, but it was a girl's name.

"What?" I replied to the figure drawing nearer. My hand was on the gate and I was swinging it closed, key in hand and ready to lock.

"Are you Michelle?" He repeated. He was now at the foot of my stoop.

"No." I answered. My key was just touching the lock on the gate.

The above dialogue lasted less than 5 seconds. There was no alarm in my head. I was going through my normal procedure of locking the gate. But that brief exchange was all he needed to make a move.

He grabbed the gate and pulled. My hand was still gripping and, as I tried to pull it shut again, my mind could not grasp what was going on.

Who is this guy?
Do I know him?
Doesn't he know I don't look like a Michelle?

The alarm started to ring loudly in my head as we struggled with the gate, but at the same time I couldn't understand what was actually happening. Everything was happening so quickly. Only about ten seconds had now passed since this guy first spoke, but everything was happening in slow motion. He pulled hard on the gate and I felt it being torn out of my grip.

"Get in!" He shouted, stepping into the doorway.

I screamed for help as I reached my hands out infront of me to try and push him back outside. I still remember the oversized 53 on his chest; white numbers on a back blue football jersey.

He pushed me further into the house and kicked the door closed with his foot, all the while holding onto the neck of my t-shirt and pulling me closer to him. I yelled again, hoping someone was walking by my open window...but when I looked towards the window, I saw the fan on the floor and the blinds closed. It had rained earlier that day and I had shut the window. I mentally kicked myself.

It's amazing what goes through your head...

He through me down onto the floor and I felt his full weight ontop of me. I struggled to break free and I tried to scream again. I was lying face down on my livingroom floor and I felt his thick fingers begin to wrap around my neck. I tried to scream again, but when I took in a lungfull of air, his fingers tightened.

"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His words were harsh in my ears. His breath was hot.

I didn't listen. I tried to scream again, but as his fingers tightened around my throat even further, all that escaped my lips was a throaty gurgle. I felt my eyes begin to water and white spots soon replaced my vision of the television stand a few feet infront of me.

"Shut up!" he barked through clenched teeth. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."

His fingers relaxed, but as one hand completely released itself from my neck, the other held their position, threatening me.

I pleaded, both to him and to God. My words were soft and caught between sobs. The weight of this guy (who was actually about 190 or so pounds) felt like a car ontop of me. I felt his free hand searching my pockets, pulling my wallet out.

I suddenly remembered my grandfather's high school ring, a gift the previous Christmas from my mother. It had never been off of my finger and it suddenly dawned on me that, although small and of little value except to me, it was in plain view of my attacker. I struggled to pull my hand inside and under my chest.

I didn't have any money on me which, on one hand, was a good thing. He wasn't going to take anything, but my pride, dignity and feeling of security within my own home. It wasn't until he flipped me over that I realized he may take something else.

I was now on my back. My attacker was straddled across my chest. Both of us were breathing heavy. He reached into one of his pockets of his baggy black pants and said to me: "Let's see what you got upstairs."

It was then that I saw the knife he had slipped out of his pocket...

Joey, do you like movies about gladiators? ...

2006-12-19T09:20:00.000-05:00

I've never been a great fan of the old gladiator movies from the '50s and '60s, but times seem to have changed for me.

Last night I popped in my latest DVD from Netflix and propped myself up on the sofa to watch Troy. I was absolutely blown away!! Five decades ago, in order to make an epic battle scene, you needed hundreds and hundreds of extras. Nowadays, a small handful would do and computers add the rest, giving the impression of thousands of shirtless armored warriors all muscled up and sweating, their adrenaline pumping through...through their...

...

...oh...

Sorry 'bout that...anyway... I'm not a huge fan of Brad Pitt, both as an actor and a "sex symbol". Sure, he's handsome, but he never really did anything for me. Until now...

From his days as a lean muscular hitchhiker in Thelma and Louise to this muscular mean looking warrior (achilles), you can tell that he took the image of this roll seriously. All pumped and bulging and...and... (be right back)...

Other highlights of the film: Nathan Jones in the opening scene. Sure, he gets killed without much more than a few grunts as his credited lines in the movie, but seeing him part a sea of soldiers as he is selected to do a one on one battle, his massive torso towering over his fellow warriors as his 6'7" frame steps out into the open, his shaved head glistening in the midday sun, his chest heaving...his...his...

(later that day...)

...and Eric Bana, what more can be said about that body, that dark curly hair, that sexy beard... I just wanna go all Greek on his ass!

So there you have it...my review of Troy. Let's see, did I leave anything out?

Oh yeah...

The story was good too...

Who, Me?...Bitter? ...

2006-12-13T22:22:00.000-05:00

I prefer cynical...

You Are 60% Cynical

Yes, you are cynical, but more than anything, you're a realist.
You see what's screwed up in the world, but you also take time to remember what's right.

How Cynical Are You?

Tour of Jury Duty ...

2006-11-28T17:51:00.000-05:00

I performed my civic duty today when I visited the Philadelphia Criminal Justice Center as part of a 700+ person jury pool for upcoming trials. But what started out as my obligation as a resident of this city soon turned into an 8 hour stretch of boredom and fighting hemorroidal flare-ups caused by countless hours of waiting...and waiting...and waiting...

The mailing notice informed me to arrive there by 8:15 am so, after stopping at the Wawa for a large cup of coffee, I walked amoung the morning rush of office dwellers and package delivery guys, making my way through the glass and concrete corridors of Center City. It was a bright, sunny, remarkably mild (for November) morning and the walk was relaxing, until I reached Market Street and heard the deep bong of the city hall clock tower echoing off the curtains of glass and steel rising up on either side of me. I remembered from the last time I suffered through Jury Duty that getting into the place was a chore in itself, what with the long lines and metal detectors...and this was before 9/11. I quickened my step from 20th Street, crossed the granite park on the west side of city hall, grimaced at the shabby looking Christmas tree being decorated by city workers, and cut through the central courtyard of the French/Victorian style landmark, passing under the towering portico that led me to Market East.

It was ten minutes after eight when I arrived at the main entrance to the Criminal Justice Center. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't overly crowded in the lobby. I handed in my cell phone and turned the corner to go through the metal detectors, where I was instructed to remove my coat, pockets and belt and place them on the conveyor belt which takes my items through the x-ray machine. After redressing, I gathered up my coffee and reading material and turned the next corner, being directed into a small lobby where someome greeted me, collected my notice with my identifation number and pointed me toward the waiting room through the double doors (taking special time to tell me of the wide range of breakfast food and beverages in the adjoining room).

8:15am...

I find an available seat in a large room with rows and rows of seats, filled with people of all ages, races and religions, all with one thing in common: they couldn't figure a way out of this. Sipping on my Wawa coffee, I fill out the 2-page questionaire using the #2 golf pencil provided to me. I then fold it and wait for my name to be called.

8:45am...

Still waiting for my name to be called.

9:15am...

About two-thirds of the room has been vacated, the former occupants on their way in groups of 40-60 people to the criminal courtrooms on the upper levels or to the civil courtrooms in city hall across the street. I look around to see who's left. A scattering of people (at least it looks like a scattering, but there are still a couple hundred people in the room) are trying desperately to occupy their time with books, newspapers, small talk with their neighbors or watching local television programming on the flat screen tvs suspended from the cieling.

9:45am...

I begin to wonder what would happen if I wasn't called. Around that same time, a young black woman sitting a couple seats away from me leans over and asks me that very same question. "You'll be called." I reply. "It's just a matter of time."

10:00am...

The woman who calls the names arrives at the podium with a fresh list in hand. She announces that the following list of people will be needed for jury selection in a criminal trial upstairs. There will be 60 people called, but we were to remain seated until all names are called.

10:06am...

My name is finally called. I'm juror number 36.

10:10am...

We are asked to line up with numbers 1 through 40 to the left of the main entrance and 41 through 60 down the center aisle. We are instructed to form a line 2 wide and that our juror numbers are not needed for any particular order. As we lined up along the wall, I looked out into the room and saw about 20 or so people still seated. They were going to be the last ones called.

10:12am...

The court officer moved down the line silently counting us jurors, her fingers dancing in the air before her like an airline stewardess taking a head count. She then counted the center aisle and paused. "We're missing someone from over in this line and we have an extra in that line." I checked my number just to make sure I'm in the right line. Yup.

"Please check your numbers and make sure you're where you're supposed to be please." The court officer instructed. "Numbers one through forty in this line, forty-one through sixty in the center aisle."

10:13am...

Counting again, the court officer moves more quickly through the lines. Everyone has checked and rechecked their numbers, assuring her and themselves that they are in the correct line.

10:13:37am...

The court officers grabs her list and begins reading off names. Within the first couple names called out, an audible, exhausted sigh comes from behind me. A black girl, probably no older than twenty, with a butt that could shelter a small village, realizes she's in the wrong line. Among the soft snickering and aggrivated groans of the other jurors, the girl moves across the room to the correct line.

10:14am...

The court officer informs us that, in just a moment, we would be led upstairs to the courtroom. She exits the waiting area to get further instructions.

10:14:10am...

The court officer returns: "That trial has been cancelled, please take your seats and we'll send you to the next one available."

10:20am...

The last group of twenty (who were sitting in their seats while we were all up in line) are called, gathered and led out of the room, leaving us 60 potential jurors sitting anxiously in our seats. Another court officer enters the room and tells us it'll be about 10-15 more minutes before we are moved, so if we wanted to step outside for a break or go to the bathroom, please feel free. I quickly rush outside and light up a cigarette. I can feel the beginnings of a headache creeping up the back of my neck.

10:30am...

Back in the room, we wait...

10:35am...

waiting...

10:45am...

Two and a half hours after my initial arrival, I am escorted out of the room with 59 other jurors to the elevator lobby. We bypass the elevators and head to the escalator instead.

10:47am...

We now find ourselves lined up 2 x 2 like rejects from Noah's Ark in a 2nd floor hallway. A man behind me whispers that we're about to be sent back down into the room again.

10:49am...

We're split into 3 groups of twenty and are taken up to the eleventh floor, via the elevator. It finally looks like things are going to start happening.

11:00am...

All 60 of us are now on the eleventh floor, waiting for instructions. We're told to hang out in the lobby until we're directed to the courtroom.

11:40am...

We're directed to the courtroom. My headache is screaming at me.

11:45am...

The judge introduces himself, the Assistant District Attorney and the defense lawyer. He begins to give us some instructions and throws in some lame jokes along the way to kind of put us at ease. After all, we've been sitting downstairs and in the 11th floor elevator lobby for 3 1/2 hours already with nothing to show for our civic duty.

11:55am...

The judge calls a sidebar with the ADA and the defense lawyer.

11:56am...

The judge calls a lunch recess. We are to report back at 1:00pm.

1:00pm...

We arrive back in the courtroom and are immediately broken down into three groups of twenty. The last group (41-60) are escorted to another courtroom for another trial selection, leaving 40 of us remaining. Of the remaining, numbers one through twenty are escorted into a back room and numbers 21-40 (myself included) are herded off to an adjacent courtroom. We're told that the first group of twenty are going to be interviewed about their questionaires they filled out earlier that morning and it would just be a "short wait" before we are brought back in and questioned ourselves.

1:30pm...

2:00pm...

2:30pm...

3:00pm...

The court officer arrives and brings us back into the first courtroom. We're ushered past the seating gallery and the twenty remaining jurors are put into a small room behind the courtroom. A man pokes his head into the room from another door to tell us there's a water bottle and bathroom back there and the judge will be with us shortly.

The court reporter arrives a few minutes later and tells us that the judge will question the remaining jurors one at a time in numerical order. She calls in juror #20.

3:10pm...

Juror #21 is called.

3:15pm...

Juror #22

It seems to be going fairly quickly this time around. I calculate that I should be getting out of there sometime around 4:30 or so. Whether or not I will be selected to serve on the trial is still to be determined. My headache was pounding by now and people all around the room were visibly worn down by the hours and hours of waiting with no real guidance. The last thing I wanted to do was to wait any longer only to be told that I've been selected to come back in the morning.

3:20pm...

Juror #23

I try and figure out what to say to these lawyers that will make them not want me on the panel. There are reasons I'm called bitter and they can come into perfect use at a time like this...

3:40:pm...

Juror #26

...After all, I don't trust the police department. Five years ago, I had a home invasion and I was dragged up to my bedroom by a big black man with a knife against my throat. After wrestling him off and chasing him out of my house, I called the police. Sure, they arrived quickly and immediately jumped into action, but when they learned I was gay, I can tell their attitude changed, probably thinking this was just a trick gone bad...

4:00pm...

Juror #30

...Even my wallet and the knife the guy left behind were dusted for prints, but none were found. Although I always found it strange that, when the police captain slipped my wallet through my mailslot of my front door in a plain manilla envelope without even knocking on the door to talk to me, there was never any sign of fingerprint dust on the leather...

4:15pm...

Juror #33

There were seven jurors left in the room, all lost in their thoughts. I had become lost in my own anger and frustration with the whole process. A civil trial I could handle but, left alone in a room all day to stew in the frustrations of an impending criminal trial, I couldn't help but go back to that one question on the survey that morning about not having prejudice against the statement of a police officer simply because of his or her occupation. I was left out in the cold by these officers simply because I am gay. Now I'm supposed to trust the testimony of a cop who will be testifying against two people who were of obvious middle eastern decent?

4:25pm...

The court officer hasn't arrived back for the next juror yet. I'm growing more and more impatient with each passing moment. I'll keep my cool, but let it be known, should they ask why I checked the box marked "yes" under that question...

4:35pm...

The court officer finally arrives and smiles at the 7 remaining jurors. "We have selected our jury and alternates. You can all go home now. The office downstairs is closed, so we will mail you out your checks."

What??? Nearly 8 1/2 hours of sitting in rooms full of strangers, being shuttled around the criminal justice center like cattle, having nothing to do, but watch the bored faces of the other jurors while beating off the headache from hell or trying desperately to focus on the words in the book I grabbed before leaving the house this morning? All that time for...."civic duty" and nine bucks that'll be mailed to me??? And I didn't even get a chance to vent my frustration????

4:45pm...

I'm sitting at a bar, cold beer in my hand...

But...I SWEAR...I don't say "wooder"!!! ...

2006-11-21T11:05:00.000-05:00

If you're from Philly and don't think you have an accent, take this test and then....think again.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: Philadelphia Your accent is as Philadelphian as a cheesesteak! If you're not from Philadelphia, then you're from someplace near there like south Jersey, Baltimore, or Wilmington. if you've ever journeyed to some far off place where people don't know that Philly has an accent, someone may have thought you talked a little weird even though they didn't have a clue what accent it was they heard.
The Northeast
The Midland
The Inland North
The South
Boston
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

Problem ...

2006-10-23T11:05:00.000-04:00

I just tried updating my blog with a new entry, but all of my editing icons have completely vanished. I can't upload pictures, edit text, add links or anything like that. If anyone else is having this problem, please let me know!!!

I've just tried contacting the help desk, but who knows how long it'll take to get a response.

Thanks.

Ode to a Stylist ...

2006-10-23T10:45:00.000-04:00

I know it's a couple of weeks overdue and I know it's been a long, LONG while since I've written something here, but I just wanted to do a quick shout-out to one of my best friends and his new venture into the world of buisnessowner: Ozzie Perez of the soon-to-be-world-famous Ozzie Perez Salon. Best of luck to ya, bud!!

Sung to the tune of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana"...
His name is Ozzie, he was a hair guy.
With golden scissors in his hand he was known throughout the land
The guy to go to for a new hair do
from tattered wirey tangled locks, he turned you into a million bucks
But like those gone before, he dreamed of so much more.
He was young and he was a stylist
He wanted his own store

Called the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion was always his passion
and he promised
walk-ins welcomed...

His boyfriend Michael saw his potential
and together side by side they went searching far and wide
A perfect storefront to greet his clients
They had the neighborhood picked out, but then they started having doubts.
Until that fateful day when luck would come their way
and together at the window you can hear them say

It's the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (Hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion will be his real passion
and they started
to build the dream

His name is Ozzie, He is a hair guy
in his own shop off of the Square, all designed with retro flare
Both men and women all come to see him
And his dream throughout his life has begun to take up flight.
And like a newborn's dad, he's proud of his new pad.
And I'm sure I'm gonna hear it for this real bad ad

For the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (Hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion is always his passion
So be sure to
stop in sometime....

(Ozzie...)
{Perez Salon...)
(Ozzie...)
(Perez Salon...)

Five Years ...

2006-09-11T08:18:00.000-04:00

A somber and sobering anniversary. I can't believe five years have passed since that fateful day when it seemed the world had their collective eyes glued to every station on every television set.

It was said on the news yesterday that 95% of Americans can remember exactly where they were at the time they learned the news that we were under attack. It's hard for me to believe that it isn't a full 100%. In any case, not only do I remember, but I can once again feel every emotion and thought that gripped me that sunny Tuesday in September 1,825 days ago.

I'll write about it next. I need to get to work. I just wanted to take a moment here to remember and to pass a message to my friends who witnessed first hand (you know who you are) that I'm thinking of you.

Thank you.

I felt Just Like Marlin Perkins ...

2006-08-13T07:50:00.000-04:00

It suddenly dawned on me, as I was suffering through public transportation on my way home from work the other night, at how much the Route 17 bus resembles Mutual of Omaha's, Wild Kingdom.

It started out as a quiet ride with only myself and a small handful of passengers making our way back to our respective homes dotting Center City and South Philadelphia, but as usual, the bus quickly filled up with an eclectic assortment of riders hauling shopping bags and baby strollers, all trying to squeeze past one another like a tank packed full of feeder fish; legs lifting over oversized Old Navy bags set down in the aisle as a single passenger fishes through a junk-filled purse looking for exact change while people left outside all funnel around the narrow doorway like a herd of refugees charging the back of a flatbed truck trying to get a bottle of water after a natural disaster. After several minutes all passengers are boarded; the sounds Nextels chirping endlessly and countless conversations in multiple dialects and slang filling the already cramped airspace.

I'm sitting in the first forward facing seat and I watch a black mother and her very overweight pre-teenage daughter take a seat in the bench infront of me. They're facing the aisle, so I'm viewing their profile. The daughter, too large for the small hard padded seat, is figiting, trying to get as comfortable as possible. Her mother pulls out her Nextel and immediately starts beeping someone on the other end, alerting them that they are now on the bus. Both females have similar hairstyles, but with slightly different "twists". The daughter's hair is tightly braided; black twists pulled back from her forehead, each perfectly spaced from the next, creating an alternating black/coffee colored horizontal striped pattern from her face to the center of the back of her head, where the braids from each side met in perfect alignment and were then twined together. What was leftover was not braided, but flared outward, all the way from the back of her neck up the center of her skull to her forehead, giving the illusion of a wild, wiry three inch mohawk. Although I couldn't get a great view of the mother's hairstyle, I did notice that she sported another version of a painfully tight braiding that looked to all converge under a hair extention which could've only been picked out of a pile of trash swept up from the curb.

The girl sang, her words unintelligible, her voice cracking like a reject from American Idol. She looked around the bus, her eyes darting from person to person without actually seeing anything, like a kid who's Ritalin hasn't quite kicked in yet. The mother continued to mutter into the Nextel, alternating the electronic contraption from her lips to her ear (thank God she had the courtesy of keeping the volume down). She then whispered something to her daughter and I, along with several other passengers in the front of the bus, became silently fixated on what we were seeing.

The girl reached up to her mother's head and, continuing to sing and only glancing quickly at what she was doing (her main attraction seemed to be still coming from somewhere behind me), she started to pull and tug at her mother's braids. The mother continued talking on her phone, seemingly unaware of her daughter's actions. One by one, the daughter reached into the mother's nest and yanked a braid, twisting it between her fingers and pulling out a tiny rubber band that kept the braid wound. She would slip the band over a fat finger and then reach up with both hands and proceed pull apart the strands of hair like wet pasta.

I winced in pain, wondering what this must feel like against the mother's scalp, but she just continued to hold a conversation. I realized that this must be a common practice among African American women, but, as I stared around at the other black women seated around me and noticed their shock and awe gazes, I realized that, maybe common, this shouldn't be something happening on a bus, but rather in the privacy of one's own home, or at least under the protective shade of a front porch on a hot summer afternoon when there was nothing else to occupy one's time.

This ritual went on for several blocks and probably long after I disembarked from the bus, since it appeared to be almost as long a process to take out the braids as it does to create. I, along with many other passengers, stared with disgusted fascination, but about midway through the ride home more passengers boarded the bus and my view was quickly blocked by another mother, this time seated between me and the mother/daughter team, and her young son (maybe 8 years old) seated on her lap.

The mother was dark skinned, the son light and, with soft wisps of curly hair instead of the tight matte of hair characteristic of the race, was obviously bi-racial. What amazed me most about the boy was his intelligence, especially for someone so young. He was a constant talker, discussing many subjects, but nothing his mother was actually listening to, his speach was more like that of someone twice, maybe two and a half times his age. His pronuciation was perfect, his vocabulary extensive, but what really got me was his Rainman-like obsession with Nemo. His monologue went from subjects across the board to Dustin Hoffman having to get to a tv before Jeopardy begins:

"We need to get home for Finding Nemo...Finding Nemo starts at 9:00, 7:00 central...I must watch Finding Nemo...It is now 9:00--"

"We'll make it." The mother chimes in.

"--7:00 central time...I must catch Finding Nemo from the beginning...Not at 9:15...Not at 9:10...Nemo starts at 9:00 o'clock on the dot, 7:00 central..."

Thank God I only had a few more blocks to go.

When I got off the bus, I thanked the silence that enveloped me, interrupted briefly by a car horn in the distance.

When I got into my house, I immediately headed to the fridge and cracked open a beer and chugged half of it down, trying to wash away the images and sounds from the bus. I then plopped down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, turned on the tv and watched...

Finding Nemo

A Room With a View....FINALLY ...

2006-08-01T12:19:00.000-04:00

Applause, Applause (lovingingly nicknamed A.A.) "A theatrically themed restaurant and lounge", seems to be one of the new homes for the Post regulars. Stephen's first day was yesterday and his happy hour crew came out in full force to support him in his new spot. The bar is right in the gayborhood at 13th & Locust Streets. Small and quaint, but looking to expand, the place appears much larger due to the wall of glass that overlooks Locust Street. A small, granite bar sits nestled in the angled front window, giving the patrons a great view to people watch as passers-by head off to other bars, restaurants and theaters down the street. Behind the bar, a wall of glass shelves displays the establishment's offerings of a large selection of alcohol for your drinking pleasure (even Mike's Hard Lemonade, which I've wanted to try for a long time). Chandeliers line the ceiling, reflecting prisms of light throughout the room. And, although it's a long walk, a stroll through the narrow room and down a winding flight of stairs leads you to a pair of very attractive bathrooms, with terra cotta colored walls and granite tilework and very cool sinks (the faucets are set off to the side of the basin and the water runs down through copper troughs).

The crowd is very mixed: gay and straight, old and young, but all are friendly. It almost feels like being back at the Post, only after a long awaited remodeling was done (and of course the manager replaced with someone who actually cares).

I look forward to many a happy hour with our "counselor", Stephen, and the fresh new feel of sitting in a bar without the worry in the back of your mind of whether or not a furry little creature will crawl up your pantleg...(at least without buying you a drink first).

Full Circle ...

2006-07-31T08:18:00.000-04:00

Originally this blog, appropriately titled "Life in a Nuthouse", was to primarily be about the comings and goings of people and activities in The Post Bar. You can get a little background by scrolling through some of my original posts. Of course, over the past thirteen months of writing, just like everything in life, things have changed. What started out as life behind bar drifted down other avenues, from my search for a new job to friendships coming and going to living with a devil-cat. But, like a deep rooted, lifelong friendship, life at the post always crept back into an entry or two every month or so, from talking about mice and the icy temperatures in the bar to photo essays.

My physical time spent at the Post started to dwindle several months ago. I just became bored with the drab walls and dangling electrical cords trying to snake their way into the neck of my beer bottle. Unfortunately, however, spending less time in a place where so many of your friends gather you begin to see how important a dive like that is as a sort of common thread that tie the friendships together, at least from my perspective.

Case in point: I went to the Post this past Saturday to visit with the regs and catch up on things only to discover the clientele consisted of a stranger, myself and a few of the rodents scurrying under the non-working baseboard heaters. The bartender informed me that Stephen, the most popular bartender, was fired the week before for a seriously dumb-ass reason with no other justification other than the manager's jealousy of his own downspiraling popularity with the patrons. This firing led to a massive boycott against the establishment with most of the regulars. There are several regulars who read my blog and, to be honest, I kinda felt slighted not to have been informed of such major news and the way everyone banded together behind a fired bartender, it made me feel like I was left under the heading of "out of sight, out of mind". I know that's not entirely true, however, since it's my understanding that several regs have oftentimes wondered where I've been and how I was doing when I showed up at the bar after a several week absence. According to one: "We didn't even know if you were alive or dead!" That's kind of a hurtful thing to hear, considering that nearly everyone has my phone number, yet no one called. I just put on a brave face and fake smile and say: "As you can see, I'm here and I'm fine.", but in the back of my head I'm thinking: geez, I can slip in the tub or fall down the stairs and no one will know until the smell of a rotting corpse drifts through the open window.

Sorry. As I said to my friends last night, my writings tend to lead more towards babbling.

Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled posting...

So, the bartender's fired, the group is protesting and other neighborhood bars are suddenly finding themselves busy with new patrons. When I ran into the group last night, they immediately pulled me aside and said that this would be a great thing for my blog. There will probably be a few more entries after I receive pictures from the upcoming make-shift memorial that is planned, but first, thanks to Ivan, here is the infamous "letter" to the owner. I've been given permission to post this letter and I'm quite honored to be one of the first people to read it. I've also taken the liberty of changing the names to protect the innocent (or stupid), but it won't be hard to figure out who's who.

A great deal of commotion surrounds the termination of Steven from The Post, and Timmy is relieved to have dismissed him. However, you have been presented with only one side of the story. As a businessman, you are entitled to hear the entire truth before you can make an informed decision about his future status. First and foremost, it should be noted that the only reason Steven opened the bar late on Sunday, July 23rd (which precipitated this whole situation) is because the bartenders from the previous night were remiss in their responsibilities and did not clean up. The bar opened approximately 10 minutes later than usual so that Steven was not forced to make drinks while still scrubbing toilets.

Granted, Steven may have ranted to Timmy in an inappropriate manner about the conditions of The Post. His concerns, however, are motivated by a genuine desire to accommodate his clientele. For example, the bar has not been repaired from the flood and fire damage it suffered years ago, there is no heat in the bar during the winter months, and mice run rampant on the floor. These are all legitimate grievances that have yet to be addressed.

What you probably don’t know, are all of the positive contributions Steven has made to the bar.

For example:

* Sunday Lunch and a Movie — on Sundays, Steven regularly prepares light fare to accompany a current movie. (These expenses come solely out of his own pocket, and draw a substantial crowd.)

* Potluck Luncheons — in order to foster a sense of camaraderie among the patrons, Steven will e-mail or telephone patrons and encourage their participation in these special events which also bolster sales tremendously.

* Football Sunday — like Sunday Lunch and a Movie, Steven prepares food (again, at his own expense) offers door prizes, and fosters a sense of community among patrons during football season. This special consideration makes everyone forget the lack of heat during the winter months.

* Birthdays — Steven keep a running tab of all patron birthdays and provides cake and food to celebrate each patron birthday throughout the year (at his own expense).

* Holidays — Steven will also decorate the bar in an appropriate manner for each holiday season (yet again, at his own expense).

Granted, Steven does have his shortcomings. But then again so does Timmy of which you are probably not aware:

* Timmy does not show up on time consistently

* He disappears from the bar for periods of up to 30 minutes alerting clientele, “Someone watch the bar for me; I’ll be right back.”

* He is discourteous to anyone he does not consider a “regular.”

* He has been derelict in his responsibilities (as mentioned above), and does not leave a clean bar for the morning shift

Does Steven have his faults? Absolutely. However, the positive contributions he makes to The Post, far outweigh any minor flaws in his ability to draw a crowd and serve his clientele. To lose Steven would be a grave mistake as his client base is responsible for a substantial amount of income which the bar generates. Furthermore, it seems foolish that a petty disagreement on Timmy’s part is cause for his termination.

My recommendation would be to make Steven a daytime manager who reports directly to you and retain Timmy as an evening manager. More importantly, numbers speak for themselves and it will become apparent in the weeks ahead that the bar will lose more than it will gain by Steven's termination — both in revenue, and patronage.

As I stated above....more to come as I receive.

The "Flood" Gates of Hell ...

2006-07-24T20:21:00.000-04:00

It came without warning. It came with great ferocity and strength. It came and came and came...

No, I'm not talking about the hottest stud in the latest porn movie. I'm talking W-A-T-E-R!!!

I sell high-end furniture in an 18,000 square foot facility covering two floors in Philadelphia. It's a well respected establishment with a long history of contemporary furniture, rugs and accessories. We've been written up in magazines, newspapers and are even credited in many shows on HGTV, as well as furnishing the "Real World Philadelphia" house. It's a great old building with high ceilings and an expansive view from the front door, interrupted only by the duel rows of massive columns that hold up the six floors of loft condominiums upstairs. Much of the character of the interior (as is the case in many loft apartments in the neighborhood) is the old industrial look; exposed pipes snaking the cieling, worn down hardwood floors and other such amenities and flaws that remind you of an industrial age gone by. The original hardwood floors on the main level, for example, are forever stained with grease and grime from the original occupants. For decades the building was some sort of factory and signs can still be found, including a ten foot high rusted piece of machinery in the back storeroom. And, although you would never notice by looking down the length of the 300 foot room (but very noticeable when you're up on a ladder changing the overhead spots) the floor actually slopes and is about a foot higher in the rear of the room than the front door. I've learned that, whatever was made in that building 70, 80, 90 years ago, the only way to clean the floors was to start from the back and hose it down, allowing all the water to wash out into the street. But, as with many great old buildings, there are great old problems that come along with it.

The lower level (or basement) is about 7,000 square feet and, although the ceilings are much lower and there's no natural light, we've managed to make the best of it with some brightly colored walls, textured fabrics and vibrant area rugs to break the monotony of a drab painted cement floor. As with the upstairs, little has been done to comprimise the old industrial feel the building embraced. When the building was vacated and gutted, many of the pipes and electrical fixtures were left behind and, although decades since used, were always a reminder of what once was. Some pipes, mostly unused drain pipes from the upper floors were removed and the holes in the floor capped for all eternity.

Or so we thought...

The past days have been hotter 'n hell, with temperatures in the upper nineties and heat indexes nearing 110 degrees. It was only a matter of time before a much welcomed cold front would push its way through the city, bringing with it more bearable temperatures. But, as with any summer cold front moving in on an area soaked with humidity and firey temperatures, it could be quite unpredictable. This past Saturday was no exception to the rule. What was strange was how quickly everything changed.

It was a fairly busy Saturday and we were pushing towards the end of the afternoon. Each of the three salespeople were all with potential customers throughout the two levels. I was working on what was promising to be a very lucrative sale and showing a couple several options on leather recliners, dining furniture and rugs for a new addition they had just completed on their house. One co-worker was in the lower level showing fabric samples to a couple interested in livingroom furniture and the 2nd co-worker was showing off other items to someone who had just walked into the store.

The sales desk is about twenty or so feet away from the wall of glass that overlooks the street. I was looking up some prices on the computer and suddenly something felt out of place. I looked towards the bank of windows and then looked back at my client: "Did it just suddenly get dark?"

"They said we're supposed to get some bad storms today." The wife replied.

A few minutes later, I took the couple downstairs. As we reached the top of the stairs, a sudden blinding flash of lightening filled the brightly lit showroom, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder so loud that, for a brief second, I thought all six floors of the condos above us were crashing down.

"I guess this is gonna be a bad one." I chuckled, as we made our way down the steps to the lower level.

A few minutes later, I was back upstairs looking up information on something else that peeked my client's interest. I heard the chime of the front door and looked up to see a young couple dashing inside. On the opposite side of the glass I could see rain like I haven't witnessed since Hurricane Floyd several years ago. Unstoppable, the rain poured down onto the city as if the dark sky was suddenly torn open, unleashing every drop of moisture it once tried to hold. Within seconds, I can see rushing water spilling up over the curb; whitecaps breaking against the tires of parked cars like waves on a rocky beach. A soft steady roar could be heard through the glass as the rain increased even more in intensity. I chuckled nervously, thinking of my basement at home and hoping that this was a fast moving storm.

A few minutes later (seriously, no more than five or six minutes since the rains started) my phone at the sales desk beeps and it's my co-worker down on the lower level: "Uhhh, Chris. We have a leak down here."

Thinking it's just a some condensation dripping from an air conditioning pipe, I casually ask: "Is it bad?"

"It's...uhh...it's coming up out of the floor."

"Oh shit!" I slam the phone down and head to the stairs. As soon as I reached the landing where the stairs turned, I stopped and looked around the floor. It didn't seem so bad. I did notice a trickle of water off to my left, travelling towards one of the drains in the center of the room. My co-worker was looking up at me and then back down towards the floor behind a chair. That was when I heard the strange bubbling sound. I rushed down the remaining steps and headed over towards the corner where he stood.

In the ground, where one of the capped holes from an old drain pipe was located, water was literally pumping up from under the building. As I watched in astonishment, the water rose around my feet, sweeping over the area rug and heading towards the center of the room.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I said to no one in particular. I've never witnessed water entering the building like this before, especially from a hole that was a good ten feet below street level and another seventy feet from the street!

"Okay." I finally said. And that was it. I thought a solution would come to me, but that was the only word out of my mouth. Mopping wouldn't work. Already there was about a half inch of water on the floor and it was pumping more violently, spewing up rust and debris that hadn't seen the light of day in probably twenty years. So far, only about 30 seconds had passed since I was on the step staring down.

I rushed off towards the back storeroom where the wet-vac was housed. I threw open the door...and stopped. The now familiar gurlgling/pumping of forced water echoed in the darkened room and, in what little light I had to see with from the doorway, it was evident that the drain in the center of the room was also pumping up water...and GET THIS: water was also pumping up out of the wash tub in the back corner!! I can see water spilling down over the lip of the fiberglass rim and splashing down onto the floor. I closed the door just as my co-worker came up behind me. I said the only thing I fealt was appropriate: "You don't want to go in there..."

I then heard the hissing. The sound scared the crap out of me. At first, I thought it could only be one thing: gas leak, but then, as I hunted down the source of the sound, a familiar gurgling accompanied the hiss. Across the other end of the room from where the water was bubbling up out of the ground like a newly found oil well (and has not let up yet), I discovered another capped drain. The metal cap was still tightly mounted over the hole, but water was trying to force itself up around the tiny crack around the edge of the cap. A small, managable pool of water formed around the cap and I moved away, thinking nothing much of it. I ran back upstairs to call my boss. Through a not-so-perfect cell connection, I desperately tried to explain the situation. He suggested using the wet-vacs in the back storage room until he arrived, but he couldn't understand the scope of the situation. Hell, I couldn't even understand the scope of the situation and I was witnessing it first hand.

Outside, the rain was still pouring. Inside, the water was still pumping. All in all, not fifteen minutes had passed since the rain started. I figured I should just call 9-1-1, but then I noticed a couple heading back downstairs. The couple I had been working with were up on the main level discussing dining chairs. I couldn't believe that things were continuing normally while I frantically ran from level to level like Chicken Little around the farmyard. I headed back downstairs and noticed yet another couple sitting on a sofa, mere feet away from a newly formed stream coursing through the center of the basement, looking through fabrics. I suggested to the other two salespeople that we should get these people upstairs.

From my vantage point, the front end of the basement looked dry, but I decided to check it out anyway. Boy, was I wrong. Another pipe, this one coming in from the outside, somewhere under the sidewalk in the front of the building, was orinally capped with cement. The cement chunk, about an inch in diameter and three inches in length, was lying on the floor about two feet away from the pipe, which was now spewing water out onto the floor. All I could do at this time was laugh.

The second drain (the one that was still capped with only a little bit of water bubbling around the edge of the metal disk) suddenly exploded with enough force to send dirt and rust fragments halfway up the side of a hutch standing next to it. Water quickly flooded that portion of the room.

About 30 minutes after the rains began, they ended just as quickly, along with the pumping of the water from the drains. It amazed me that, after only five minutes or less of a torrential downpour, the storm drains outside had gotten so completely filled with water that they started to back up into the buildings. After all was said and done, there was about an inch of water covering about 30-40% of the floor. There was nothing left for us to do except go home and wait for the water to drain again.

The next morning, I arrived about an hour early. My boss was already there with a shop-vac trying to salvage the rugs. Where there was cement exposed, only a few puddles remained, leaving behind small piles of rust chips and other dirt (including a crushed tin can that was so old, the label had worn away).

Worse things could've happened. Worse things have happened. But all in all, the only loss from the storm were about a dozen rugs and maybe an ottoman or two. We were open for business and, outside of the lingering smell left over from the carpets that had been hauled away, things were pretty much back to normal; a fairly busy Sunday...

Poop Machine ...

2006-07-11T09:07:00.000-04:00

While cleaning out C-Rex's litter box this morning, I couldn't help but start thinking of a song. With a little change of the lyrics, here it is. Enjoy...

Sung to the tune of "Love Machine" by The Miracles:

Oh, yeah....

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I )I'm just a poop machine
and I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

Every morning at dawn
I feel the urge coming on
and I just sneak away.
Into my little gray box
without a door or a lock
and I just let one lay.
It's amazing how much I eat
that my crap can be so complete.
From my dinner bowl I just peck
and then my sphincter muscles start to flex.

OOOOOOOOhhhh!!

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I ) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

With just a kibble or two
I can produce so much poo
And it just blows my mind.
And at the drop of a hat
I'm a bowel-moving cat
like no other kind (push it push it baby)
And with the stink that I create
you always wonder what I just ate.
Don't think to much, just move the clump.
'Cause look out baby, here's another dump!

OOOOOOOOOOhh!

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I ) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

La... La la la la..... La la la la.. La la
La la la la la.. La la la....
La la laaaaaaaaa
Push it push it baby, yeah......ah, ah

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore ...

2006-06-21T20:17:00.000-04:00

Fridays are my late nights at work; keeping the store open for that last little straggler of a tourist on his way back to the hotel from a day of walking the streets in search of history or a joyous kazoo harmonizing ride on the Ducks. I've come to dread these people and their overactive interest in high-end furniture only to ask that inevitable question: "Do you ship?" and finally gasping at the price I quote them. It's kind of a good thing that their likings tend to gravitate them toward oversized contemporary sectionals because they seem to need the extra firm cushions to catch them when the shipping charge knocks them back off of their feet.

So, this past Friday evening, after the last of the tourists were escorted to the front door and guided in the direction of the Holiday Inn around the corner, my fellow co-worker and I, along with another employee who will most likely turn out to be one of my bosses somewhere down the line, all decided that it was the perfect evening to go out for a couple of drinks. With so many places to choose from in Philadelphia's Old City neighborhood, it was finally decided upon to find a spot where we would be able to sit outside and watch the Friday night tone of the city change from suits rushing toward the subway entrance to cleavage trying to break free from tight, low cut cocktail dresses. We quickly found the perfect spot for people-watching and drinks: the last remaining outdoor table at a corner restaurant at 3rd and Market Streets.

There we sat for a couple of hours under the oversize canvas umbrella; its flaps advertising some sort of French bottled water. Around us were groups of finely dressed couples talking softly across the black wrought iron cafe tables; a murmur of whispered voices drifting across the warm evening air like the ebb and flow of waves caressing the shore. We ordered appetizers; an assortment of seafood that worked well with the bottle of white wine already emptied between us and our fresh drinks sitting on the paper cocktail napkins. Our topic of conversation varied greatly, but always seemed to steer itself back to work, but in a good fun provoking and gossiping kind of way. Flirtation was in the air between my two co-workers, but that was nothing new. I've been witness to this type of behavior between the two of them before and I was enjoying the pleasant awkwardness that played out before me like a high school play.

After wine and two or three drinks, someone decided it was time for a round of shots. I tried to steer clear of the temptation; trying to be the respectable elder of the group (eleven years older than the one younger than me and a good fifteen years on the other), but my objections were were overruled and I soon found myself staring down at a shotglass containing a mixture of Southern Comfort and Peach Schnapps. It wasn't the most pleasant tasting shot, but it went down easily enough and I quickly chased the last of the taste down with a swig of a freshly opened bottle of beer.

Darkness soon blanketed the sky, leaving us bathed in the shadow of the umbrella, surrounded by the ambiant soft yellow-pink glow of the street lights lining the avenue. We decided to pay our check and head off to new surroundings. Again, I objected, stating that I'm feeling good at that moment, but I was still well in control of myself. My co-worker pointed her finger to the bus stop across the street and informed me that we weren't going to go to any place where we would lose sight of the bus stop and (throwing in for good measure) that I only lived a few blocks away. She grabbed my hand before I could state my argument and I found myself making my way down Market Street towards the Delaware River waterfront. A sea of people washed around me, their faces blurring together as they passed by on towards their own destinations.

It was amazing how quickly that shot had taken hold of me. Maybe it was because there were so many people around and I didn't know where I was being taken, but I really don't remember entering the next bar, a place called Drinkers. I remember it being about a block from Front Street, right on Market Street. I remember it being a long and narrow room, like one of the many converted storefront buildings that may as well have been a fish market or a butcher in a bygone era. I remember the walls having a dark '70s kind of paneling running from the front entrance to the stairs in the rear of the room leading to another bar in the basement.

But most of all I remember the doorman, a young well built black man...kid...with a shaved head and tight-fitting t-shirt. It wasn't the kid I remembered as much as what happened to me. After all, I was in a straight bar I've never entered before with straight co-workers. I had to keep myself in check, even though the kid did seem to have a chest that Evil Kinevil would think twice about jumping. My co-worker, a woman, walked in first. I was chit-chatting with my other co-worker and watched her reach into her purse and bring out her I.D. I passed the doorman, still talking and saw my other co-worker, a 6'4" bull of a guy, pull his wallet out of his back pocket and display his I.D. Thinking I better not move any further into the room and have the doorman calling after me, I turned towards him and reached into my back pocket...

He looked at me through the dim lighting and the cloud of cigarette smoke hanging in the air and...shook his head! At first, I didn't quite get it, but he continued shaking his head, almost spasmatically, and waved me away.

"Dude!" I shouted back at him with a laugh. "Why don't you just stab me in the back on my way out and put me out of my misery!"

The doorman looked cautiously at me and, realizing that I was still laughing, offered me an embarassed apology before going on to the next card-carrying patron.

It didn't take long for two more beers and another shot (this time Southern Comfort and lime juice) to grab me by the ears and take my head for a little spin. I'm pretty good that way. When my head tells me it's had enough alcohol, my feet start taking me to the nearest exit. I'm far beyond those years where drinking only led to more drinking and only stopped long enough to order another drink. I'm mostly a beer guy and I can drink a good number of them and still function (especially for someone of my size), but it makes it that much more difficult for me when other things incorporate themselves into that formulatic consumption, such was the situation that Friday night with a bottle of wine and shots of Southern Comfort. I kindly said my good-byes and drifted out of the bar and into the night, my head wanting to go one way and my feet the other. In my mind's eye, I was walking a straight line towards the bus stop, but only passers-by would know what I truly looked like (although I don't think I was too bad).

When I reached the bus stop, I leaned against a street sign and waited...and waited...and waited. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was nearing 11:30. I wished there was a bench at this stop, but I had to remain standing, my eyes burning with a drunken tiredness that cried to be closed.

After about 10 minutes, I saw the headlights of an approaching bus grow nearer. I dug into my pants and pulled out two dollar bills. The bus pulled up and the doors opened with a hiss. Inside, the florescent lights blazed in all their artificial glory and I bowed my head, keeping my eyes in shadow for fear of them bursting into twin flames before a busload of horrified passengers. I fed my bills into the farebox and moved down the narrow aisle, thankful to spot a forward facing seat near the front. I closed my eyes as the bus pulled away from the curb. My mind was alert to the sounds around me: someone on a cell phone, the drone of the bus engine, the soft computerized female voice of the GPS navigator announcing the next stop...

"5th Street...National Constitution Center...8th Street...Market East Station...15th Street for Suburban Station...19th Street & J.F.K. Boulevard..."

The bus turned the corner onto 19th Street. Only a few more blocks to go and I'll be home in bed...

"Market Street...Walnut...Chestnut............."

"Washington Avenue..."

I stirred slightly.

"Ellsworth..."

Oh crap!

I pulled on the cord signalling the driver to stop at the next corner. I never even bothered to look out the window or at any of the other passengers. The bus stopped, the doors opened and I stepped out into the warm night air, kicking myself for having fallen asleep. The bus pulled away, kicking up a wave of curbside dust and exhaust fumes into my face. I looked around, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Abandoned buildings, empty lots, darkened streetlights.

Yup, I'm in hell...

I quickly got my bearings and headed due north on 19th Street. My street was about six or seven blocks north of here, but from the looks of my surroundings it may as well have been six or seven miles. The first major street ahead of me would be Washington Avenue. Although it's busy street during the day, lined with a wide array of blue collar businesses and home improvement specialty stores, it doesn't see much traffic at night, except for hoodlums driving about looking for someone stupid enough to be walking around by themselves.

Midnight in Baghdad...

I made my way up to Washington Avenue, praying that a taxi would be nearby, but knowing it was unlikely. The closest place I could think of to get a cab would be 5 blocks east on Broad Street. If I didn't get a cab soon, any direction I decided to walk would probably be a bad decision.

I reached Washington Avenue and looked towards the east: no cars. I looked towards the west: one car heading towards me. I wondered if I should hide in the shadows, but I figured if they were looking for someone and spotted me, running or hiding wouldn't help.

The headlights drew closer...

...and I noticed the familiar small dome on the roof...

"TAXI!!!!!!!"

I ran towards the intersection; a mantra repeating in my head: pleasebeemptypleasebeemptypleasebeempty...

The cab pulled towards the curb...

YES!

I opened the back door and hopped in.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked.

"North. I'll tell you when to stop." And then I added as an afterthought: "But don't let me fall asleep."

The cab dropped me off at the end of my street and I walked the rest of the way to my house. I unlocked the door, greeted C-Rex and headed up to bed.

As I laid my head down on the pillows, a famous line suddenly found its way into my mind. The movie is not one of my all time favorites, but the line seemed to take on new meaning...

There's no place like home...

Down, But Not Out ...

2006-06-04T09:01:00.000-04:00

That's what the sign read hanging from my employer's main store only hours after lightening from an intense thunderstorm sparked an inferno that destroyed 95% of the structure last night. To read about it click here

Dammit!! ...

2006-05-19T00:19:00.000-04:00

I just discovered that, when I changed my template from a black backgroud to a white, I lost the links to the other bloggers I had listed.

If you're linked to me or me to you, please respond to this posting so that I can update this site.

Thank you!

The Shot Heard 'Round the World ...

2006-05-18T23:15:00.000-04:00

Well, here it is; the last episode of Will and Grace.

I went to The Post tonight to watch. Actually, I had forgotten it was on and I stopped in on my way home from work and discovered the "Behind the Scenes" prelude episode on the suspended television screens, so I decided to stick around.

It seemed so appropriate to end the show with the four of them in a bar all toasting shots to their friendship and it sort of made me envious. I mean sure, it was all scripted and acted, but after watching I couldn't help feel a little pang of jealousy. Here, a show was ending that not only spanned 8 years, but catapulted you forward another twenty or so. Their lives went thier separate ways and came back full circle. It not only made me think of my small circle of friends I have now, but those from my past; those closest to me when I was growing from my pre-teens through my teens and into my young adulthood. Those people are all gone now; moved on with their lives and families; some who have kids who are (gasp) already in college. We were close and spent several evenings together wondering what the future held for us.

I often still think of myself in that time and not someone who's been on this earth for nearly forty years. I wonder where I'm going and I look back on where I've been. I look at my life as it is and realize that I really haven't accomplished anything that I had set out for myself all those years ago. It's depressing and I sometimes (more often than not) think that it's too late for me; that I'm destined to sit on a vinyl barstool whose surface is patched together with a strap of coordinating electrical tape while nursing a Coors Lite and watching the house rodents scurry along the baseboards.

I then realize that there is still so much out there to do and avenues to take. I've held an interest in writing since I was seventeen or eighteen and have written several short stories, but never had the ambition to have someone look at them and to see if they were worth pushing further. I've painted all my life and taught myself several styles and mediums, but never felt confident enough to do anything other than give them away as gifts.

I see friends of mine who are branching out into new areas; going into business for themselves or taking an existing position and turning it into something where people are actually stopping and taking notice. I see friends who, at ages older than myself right now, are setting out on new ventures and careers. I've had the moral support to do these things on my own, but not the ambition and all the lack of confidence in myself to drown any dream faster than Shelly Winters wearing ankle weights.

I just wish I knew what life had in store for me...

I wish I had writers like those of Will and Grace who had everything neatly typed out on white paper and, after all is said and done, the quick-stepping notes of an upbeat jazz piano tune will signify that yes, this is something good going on here...

To Ivan with Love ...

2006-05-18T07:32:00.000-04:00

"If I were to criticize your blog, the one thing I would say is this: those of us over 50 have a difficult time reading white text on a black background. You should have a white background with a black font."

So, Ivan, I hope this format is a little better on the eyes.

It's always a pleasure talking with you.

xoxo

Super Bulge ...

2006-05-17T08:03:00.000-04:00

The makers of the new Superman movie seem to be alittle jealous of the Man of Steel's manhood. So much so that they are making editors digitally remove most of the "superbulge".

Personally, I can't wait for the director's "uncut" version to be released...

American Midol ...

2006-05-11T08:01:00.000-04:00

It just pained me deep inside last night when I had to witness the complete disappointment on Chris Daughtry's face when he got booted off American Idol. Chris was not only the only person worth watching this year, but the only person worth watching since the show first aired. Sexy, charasmatic and a terrific voice, he was a shoo in from the get-go. It just goes to show you that the general public have absolutely no input in choosing who should have a record deal on this show. Why the hell is the cheesy hotel lounge singer still on along with the girl who's nerves make her voice crack half the time?

I'll miss watching you, Chris. You'll never know what you do to me (in my imagination)...

Sneak Peak ...

2006-05-09T11:27:00.000-04:00

M, O, Gar & myself all scored free passes last night to go see the new Poseidon movie. An interview on Good Morning America yesterday morning stated that: "We were not trying to make a remake of the 1972 classic". Let's see...a ship named "Poseidon" is hit by a tidal wave on New Year's Eve at midnight. Everyone on board drowns in the grand ballroom except a small handfull of people who must climb up to the "bottom" of the ship and make their way out of the propeller shaft. Of the cast of survivors, one is a little boy who suddenly disappears in the depths of the ship and another is a leader who must sacrifice his own life in order to save the others...

Yup...no similarities there...

All that aside, I was abosuletly floored by the movie! The special effects will definately be a serious contendor for an Academy Award. The rogue wave hits about twenty minutes into the movie and, not only are you witnessing what happens in the grand ballroom, but you're swept away in flash fires and explosions throughout the ship as thousands of passengers and hundreds of crew members are tossed about like ping-pong balls in a bingo cage. A short, but gripping scene during the rollover takes place in the 10-story lobby of the ship, as glass elevators (of course filled with people) are ripped from the walls and plummet down/up to the floor, along with a second scene (also having to do with an elevator) where you know someone is about to die, but you find your palms beginning to sweat and the hairs on the back of your hands start to stand as the director makes you wait and wait for the inevitable.

Richard Dreyfuss plays a gay architect who had just been dumped by his lover. With his life seeming to have no meaning, he is just about to take the ultimate dive into the depths of the Atlantic when he looks up and sees the full moon hanging delicately above the horizon suddenly being blocked out by a wall of water. As you see the fear rise in his eyes, you can suddenly feel your own heart begin to race as you, along with the suicidal architect on screen, begin to realize what's about to take place. From that point on, it's a roller coaster ride that doesn't let up until the closing credits scroll up from the bottom of the screen.

I must admit, as the world was turned upside down before me and everyone on the screen was swimming through water filled corridors, I was swimming in those blue pools that were Josh Lucas' eyes. Against a backdrop of burned walls and oil slicked tuxedo shirts, his eyes were ablaze in color and I found myself waiting anxiously for each and every close-up shot.

I look forward to the official opening night of Poseidon. I plan on seeing it again...if not for the special effects, than to just sit back and look into the eyes of this week's obsession...

Bad Marketing ...

2006-05-01T08:43:00.000-04:00

I've oftened talked, either on here or in person, of my life with the devil cat, C-Rex, and his apparent feline delight in seeing how much blood he can draw from me in a single day. I've named him C-Rex due to his stance when he's in his "Attack Mode". Seated upright on his hind legs, his front paws pressed tightly against his chest, ears folded back and his pupils dilated so large that you can see your own scared expression reflected back at you, he reminds me a Terranasaurus Rex doing battle.

I partially blame myself for his behavior. I enjoy tormenting him. Sometimes, we would be sitting on the sofa, C-Rex contently purring, sprawled out next to me with his head dangling over the edge of the cushion. I would suddenly thrust my arm out, my fingers bent tightly in a defensive claw-like position. C-Rex would slowly lift his head up and look at me, one eye blinking the sleep away. If he lowered his head again, I would softly growl and wiggle my fingers infront of him until I see him slowly fold his ears back and look at me more intensely. We would remain that way for as little as a few seconds or as long as a half a minute, before C-Rex would suddenly leap up and wrap his paws around my wrist and begin gnawing at the flesh between my thumb and index finger. Then, as quickly as it began, he would release his teeth and claws and leap off the sofa to take his stalking position under the dining table. He would continue to stare, readying himself for another attack, occasionally being distracted by a rogue dust bunny, until I claimed defeat and turned my attention elsewhere.

He's also developed the strange habit of attacking me every time I try to leave the house. I would like to think it's his way of trying not to get me to leave and to spend more time with him, but that's probably just wishful thinking.

My sofa sits perpendicular to the front door, extending out into the middle of the livingroom. Whenever I go to leave the house, C-Rex would take his attack stance on the floor or sofa and, just as I'm walking behind the sofa, spring into action, leaping up onto the back cushions and wrapping his paws tightly around my arm and begin gnawing through my sleave. Unless I provoke him (which is more often than not) his gnawing is soft, but tension-filled, as if his his mind is telling him God, how I want to just rip this arm apart, but I can't...I...just...CAN'T!! It's the hand that feeds me!

The point I'm trying to make is that I have war wounds. There are days when I look like I tried to get affectionate with Edward Scissorhands. Sure, it's annoying to have to explain my scratches and tell people no, it's not self-mutilation and no, it's not stigmata. It's just playtime with the devil-cat.

Anyway, last week, I decided enough was enough. I stopped in to CVS on my way home from work to pick up a few essentials. With my arms cradling paper towels, coffee, milk, bread, kitty litter, and a few other things, I found myself walking down the first-aid aisle towards the register. I figured I may as well pick up a box of band-aids. However, I felt it would be even more embarrassing to explain my body riddled with flesh colored plastic strips than the actual scratches themselves, so I quickly scanned the shelves for the more inconspicuous clear band-aids. Finding a box, I juggled the other items in my possession, stuffing things under my arms and between my teeth, in order to grab a box of band-aids from the shelf. I made my way to the register, paid for the items and went home.

I never needed the band aids until yesterday...

My last thing on my to-do list before heading off to work was brush my teeth. C-Rex loves the smell of mint and, as with any other morning, he jumped up onto the sink and raised his head, his tiny nose wiggling back and forth like Elizabeth Montgomery. I bent down closer, not seeing the trickery in those eyes until it was nearly too late.

Almost instantly, C-Rex's pupils dilated, his ears folded back and he charged. I pulled back just in time, keeping his claws away from my face and, more importantly, my eyes. But he went for the toothbrush, wrapping his paws around my wrist. Had I just played along, it would've been the normal routine with him gnawing and then releasing. But, in my startled retreat I nearly pulled him off the sink and his claws dug deep into my wrist before he let go and fell to the floor. An inch long scratch at the base of my palm like an extention of my life-line began to redden as blood made its way to the surface. I cursed myself and C-Rex as I ran my wrist under some cold water. The cut wasn't deep, but just enough to ruin my shirt if my sleeve brushed against it. Not to mention it looked like a half-assed suicide attempt.

Good thing I just bought some new band-aids...

I reached in the medicine cabinet, pulled down the box, opened it and pulled out an individually wrapped bandage, all while thinking it'll be cool...they're clear...I won't have to explain away a band-aid at the base of my wrist...

I tore apart the wrapping, peeled away the backing and slapped the band-aid over the scratch.

Then I paused...

I looked, questioning in my mind to what I was seeing...

I looked at the box and read it again: BAND-AID Brand Adhesive Bandages...PERFECT BLEND Clear Bandages... "Breathable protection that blends with the skin...

So why wasn't it blending? Why do I have this dark patch on my wrist?

I read the side of the box: Available in 3 shades...Light, Medium, Deep

Now, not that I have a problem with this (other than the fact that I have a box of band-aids in my medicine cabinet that is anything BUT inconspicuous), I think, when Johnson & Johnson come out with a bandage that is specifically meant for African Americans, it should actually SAY something to that effect on the box! Sure, there's a picture on the front, but the top of the box says "CLEAR" The way the shelves were stocked, the top of the box was all you could see. It just seems to me that, after 55 years of having the flesh-colored strips on store shelves, introducing a new (and much darker) color should be packaged much better.

With Every A-hole, Some Sh*t Must Fall ...

2006-04-18T09:18:00.000-04:00

I wasn't in a particularly good mood last night, so when I went to the Post for a couple of beers, my intention was just that: to sit back, watch some videos and have a couple of beers. Little did I know that my quiet time would be shattered by a drunken asshole named "T".

From what I understand, "T" is a professor of some kind or other. I've known of him for years, but we have never once held a conversation. Correction. Once, he came out of the bathroom and, forgetting where his barstool stood, sat down next to me and immediately threw himself into a conversation with slurred, unintelligible comments. Other than that one time, our interactions were nothing more than sharing the stale air of cigarette smoke that hung above the bar.

"T" is the type of guy who you've never actually seen sober. His eyelids always hang low giving the impression that he's ready to fall asleep at any second. Usually sitting by himself at the bar, he pounds back the martinis like shots until his head dips forward and you start taking bets around the bar on how soon his slackened body will topple to the ceramic tiled floor. Once in awhile, like Walter Mattheau's bit-part character in the 1974 movie "Earthquake", he would raise his head and shout out a series of random words that only form a sentence in his blurred mind. He's the type of guy who's so lost in his liquored up world that if you spoke to him or even looked at him for more than a few seconds, you're now his boyfriend and his run-on sentences are overshadowed only by his groping hands.

There's nothing wrong with sitting at the bar and getting drunk. There's nothing wrong with trying to pick someone up at the bar. The problem I have (and don't really bother myself with) are those who seem to walk into the bar drunk, drink for several more hours, fall asleep at the bar and still think you're better than others. And that's how "T" is.

Last night, I wasn't in a very talkative mood. I went to the Post, sat at the bar and nursed a couple of beers. The bar wasn't that crowded, with only a small handful of people scattered around the room with enough barstools between each to ensure that everyone had their own personal space. "D" was sitting next to me and, although we conversed, my responses were pretty much limited to simple answers or nods. "T", already three sheets to the wind, was sitting off to the left, talking/slurring/groping/making out with someone I didn't recognize. After about a half hour, the stranger left the bar and within a few minutes, "T" was talking/slurring/groping/making out with someone else. His activities didn't interest me but, being a constant observer, I watched with disgusted amusement out of the corner of my eye.

After awhile, the 2nd guy left, leaving "T" to talk/slur/grope/make out with his half-empty martini glass. As per the normal routine with him, every few minutes he would expel a few meaningless words or suddenly start laughing. Maybe the pink elephants sitting with him were entertaining him in a way no one else could relate.

At one point, "T" got up off his barstool and staggered towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came back and stood next to "D", who was seated next to me. The two of them were talking about something very random and I was now lightly joking with the bartender. I wasn't paying any attention to the conversation going on next to me until I heard the word "blogger".

"What's a blogger?" I heard "D" ask.

"Heeee'th a bloggerrrrr..." came a drunken response. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a waving, unfocused finger lazily waving in my direction. "I hate bloggerrrrzz..."

"What's a blogger?" "D" asked me, lightly tugging on my shirtsleeve.

"I write on-line." I answered simply. I wasn't about to get into a conversation with the drunken "T", even though I had no idea why on earth he brought the subject of blogging up in the first place. But as I was giving my simple answer, the drunk pushed my button...

"Bloggerrrrrrzz are lazzzzyyyyy..."

"Excuse me?" I leaned across the bar, my voice getting suddenly loud enough for all other conversation to end and all eyes turning my way.

"Shhhhhhh." "D" said. "Don't get upset."

I ignored the comment and leaned closer to the drunk. "You better fuckin' close your shit-filled mouth!" I quickly glanced at the bartender and almost laughed at his reaction; his hand infront of his mouth trying to hold back his own laughter.

"D" tried to justify the drunk's comment: "He didn't say anything about you. He was just stating his opinion."

"Bullshit! He pointed directly at me when he said that. He's a fucking drunk asshole and the whole bar knows it. I'm not gonna just sit here and have him call me lazy."

I guess "D" was just trying to put out a growing fire and I wasn't about to let things get carried away. I wasn't going to get myself kicked out of a bar that I've been hanging out in for years over a stupid drunk. But "T", the drunk, continued his slurred comments under his breath. The rest of the bar sat watching, possibly waiting for fists to start flying, but I wasn't going to let that happen. I let it be known that I wasn't going to put up with that horse's ass and the crap he spewed. I settled myself back down and ignored whatever slurred remarks was coming out of his mouth.

I didn't understand "D" however. Whether he just couldn't let it drop or if he wanted to stir up some trouble, he kept defending the drunk even after the drunk staggered back over to his stool. I just repeated that I wasn't going to just sit back and allow some drunk who doesn't even know me to offend me and tried to close the subject.

A little while later, "T" got up and came back around to our end of the bar. Trying to ignore what was being said, I picked up snip-its of their conversation:

"--you should apologize..."

"--not gonnnna appollllogizzzzze..."

"Just drop it." I said, not taking my eyes off the television.

The drunk walked behind me and place his hand briefly on my shoulder. I shook it off and took a swig of beer. Now standing on the other side of me, he leaned in and started talking/slurring in my ear, but still talking to "D" on the other side of me. I set my hand on his cheek and pushed him away. He staggered back into the wall.

"If you're talking to him, don't do it in my ear, you ass."

Without another word, he staggered down out of the bar.

After he left, "D" turned to me and asked: "Are you Irish?"

"An Irish temper has nothing to do with it. You can ask anyone in this bar at any time and they'll tell you that I have never raised my voice in here. I'm not gonna sit here and let the token bar asshole talk about me." I still couldn't understand why "D" wouldn't let it drop.

I finished my beer and said my good-byes, knowing full well that I was going to go home and lazily blog the actual story...

The Age-Old Question ...

2006-04-10T08:36:00.000-04:00

How many gay men can you crowd around a laptop to watch "straight" college men having sex in order to win a truck?

The answer: Who cares? There are "straight" college men having sex in order to win a truck!

But it was interesting to find out when, last night, one of the Post's family members arrived with his laptop in tow to get some advice from another patron on how to use it more effectively. We warned him when he decided to take the dive into the world of computers that he would begin to fight the constant pull of the whirlpool current that would take him into the deepest depths of cyberporn (not to be confused with the constant pull when he finally reached those depths). He assured us that he was only going to use it for work. The more knowing ones just smiled and nodded. Who was he really trying to convince here? We knew it was only a matter of time before he would stumble upon some sweaty man-flesh images when we told him that he could google pretty much anything that popped into his head.

Last night:

"Wow! I gotta show you this site! It's unbelievable! I googled 'straight college boys' and I couldn't believe what popped up!"

Aaaaaah....the beginning of the end... Up flips the monitor of the laptop and the soft blue/white glow illuminates that corner of the bar. I was just glad we were on solid ground, what with the way the men jumped out of their barstools and rushed to that side of the room. We would've rolled over faster than the Poseidon had we been on water.

After trying to capture a glimpse of the monitor over the huddled shoulders before me, I sat off to the side wishing someone had brought a camera with them.

Unfortunately, I didn't stick around too much longer...just long enough not make it sound like I wasn't rushing home to jump on-line. I did what every decent red-blooded gay man would do: casually said my good-byes, finished my beer and strolled out of the bar....all the while silently repeating the name of the website in my mind so I wouldn't forget it before I got home...

A Commentary ...

2006-04-04T08:51:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning, a C-5 cargo plane loaded with fuel for an overseas flight and carrying 17 servicemen crashed just short of the runway at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. After initial take-off, the pilots reported engine trouble and double-backed for an emergency landing. The plane, one of the largest in the world, fell from the sky just short of the runway, the cockpit and tail sections being ripped from the fuselage, and landed in an open field (luckily missing the peppering of housing developments and major highways that encircle the air force base).

This morning, I'm watching the news and two reports, both related in a roundabout way, got me thinking. Now, you may agree with me or you may disagree. I don't know and I really don't care. After all, isn't that what this blogging site is about, letting me post my thoughts and feelings? So, here it goes...

Although, with any plane crash, the NTSB is investigating the C-5 mishap, initial reports are believed to be a flock of birds were sucked into one, maybe two engines. There is a dump not too far from the air force base and birds have been a big problem for planes here for years; so much so that the military is actually in the process of moving the dump to another location. The NTSB and the military are also considering permenantly grounding the C-5 cargo plane and replacing it with the C-17, a smaller version.

Now, I'm not an engineer, so I'm not going to begin to speculate on the pros and cons of replacing one aircraft with another but, after watching the news coverage the last two days, I started to ask myself something.

Most plane crashes, whether it be military, private or passenger, happen either during take-off or landing. The result is often an explisive ball of fire that rips through the fuselage, giving passengers little time for escape. The C-5, carrying 51,000 gallons of fuel crashed in a field, split into three sections and even catapulted one of it's engines hundreds of feet away when it hit the ground. All this with little or no fire and with all 17 passengers suviving, most being able to walk away from the wreckage. Why no explosion with all that fuel stored in its massive wings? Because the plane was designed with the wings (and thus the fuel) above the fuselage. Even though at least one wing hit the ground hard enough to have an engine snap free, the fuel did not explode. This, along with the enormous size of the plane, helped to save the 17 crew members' lives.

Passenger planes, however, are designed with the passengers sitting on top of the fuel, with the wings extending out from the bottom of the plane. When a passenger plane crashlands, in most cases, it's the fuel tanks that touch the ground first, resulting an many many lost lives.

Now again, I'm not an engineer or scientist, just a simple blogger who tries to see things as easily as possible and, in my opinion, to use three words from the great Carlos Mencia...

(tap head) "Da-da-daaaaaaaaaa..."

The other story I heard on the news this morning (and this is something slightly more delicate and readers may be more up in arms over) is the soon to be released Hollywood big-budget film based on September 11th and, more directly, the passengers aboard Flight 93.

Although this isn't the first movie about these heros, it is definately the one that is making the biggest impact. Back in January, A&E aired its version of the flight and I found myself glued to the television with so many emotions surging through me. I was angry. I was frightened. I was saddened. The film's dialogue was taken directly, capturing every word, tone and emotion, from recordings and transripts. Ultimately, as the closing credits scrolled up the screen infront of me, all of the emotions I had felt watching the movie seemed to converge within in me, creating one growing sense of pride. Pride for those who gave up thier own lives to save countless lives on the ground.

The rest of the country during those fateful hours on that blue-skied morning, had witnessed the falling of the towers, the flames and smoke surrounding the Pentagon, and we all knew by this time that there was still at least one more plane unnacounted for, while all others were being grounded. The Capital and the White House were being evacated live on television as Americans across the country held their breath, waiting for cameras to capture a growing grey image in the cloudless sky, aiming itself at yet another target. The feeling that, collectively, we were all watching some movie unfold before our eyes, seemed surreal when reports started drifting in on the wires that a plane may have crashed somewhere in western Pennsylvania.

Initial reports stated that the terrorists had lost control, but it wasn't until a few days later that more information on that fourth plane, Flight 93, began slowly building a picture of what had happened. Family members of the passengers started talking about their last conversations and how the passengers, now well aware that the country was under attack, were planning to regain control of the plane and survive or not, not allow the terrorists to take another cheap shot at Americans on American soil. With a trolley cart as a battering ram and hot water as a weapon, with rumors of fighter jets closing in and air force pilots preparing to do the unthinkable in U.S. airspace, the passengers took charge.

It will always remain unanswered as to what actually took place in those last few seconds in the air over Pennsylvania. We will never know if the terrorists drove the plane into the ground in a last ditch effort or if the passengers did it to save America. But one thing's been proven. They didn't just sit on their asses. They fought back. They weren't ordered to fight, they decided. I am in no way putting down the military. I commend all those fighting in Iraq and Afganistan (although Iraq is...well... :-X ), but our true heros, in my opinion, are the men and women who were having a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee while enjoying a beautiful morning flight one minute and thwarting a terrorist plot the next. These are true heros.
These two words have been emblazened in our minds. High school text books have been republished to include the attacks on September 11th. Bumper stickers are permanently placed on cars throughout the country. Memorials of one kind or another are erected in town squares. And, on a more negative side, National Guardsmen are stationed in airports, restaurants beyond the security checkpoints no longer stock silverware, people are being asked not to photograph tall buildings and Muslims (American citizen or not) are still being looked at more cautiously. If you're in an internet chatroom and say something against the war in Iraq (again... :-x ), you're automatically labeled "Un-American" by people who chant/type "we will never forget".

Now Hollywood is showing trailers of its new movie about a group of true heros and people sitting in their seats watching the trailer are crying "Too soon!!" When will it not be 'too soon'? When the majority of the people who have lived it are long gone? I remember sitting in the theater watching Titanic. Sure, the love story was kinda cheesy, but I remember having to listen to laughter and rude comments from kids to how people on board reacted to and handled the situation of facing a cold and watery death. Even when Pearl Harbor, with Ben Afflack, was released, it was viewed to many as a high-explosion special effects mega-movie, with little regard to what they were actually watching, the lives of hundreds of American sailors...sailors who actually existed over 60 years ago...being killed on a beautiful December morning. I myself cried when the USS Oklahoma capsized and all of those sailors, some of whom had never even realized they were under attack, had all drowned. I cried because I knew it was real. I cried for those men. I cried for the families. I cried for the sailors who straddled the hull of the ship and tried desperately to break through to get at those trapped inside.

The Titanic has become more of a legend in folklore than an event, and Pearl Harbor will soon become something that happened "way back when". Hollywood, in creating this movie about Flight 93, isn't just out to make a buck. The producers have already stated that 100% of the proceeds in the first 3 days of release will go directly to the funds to build a memorial to Flight 93 in that little patch of farmland in Western Pennsylvania. It's already projected to be a blockbuster hit. That's alot of money to go towards the memorial. The producers didn't just wake up one morning and say "let's do this". They sat down with each and every family member of those aboard Flight 93 and asked them basically for their permission and guidance in making the film. Not one family member refused. They want these heros to be remembered. The rest of the country (at least those who will stand outside theaters in a couple months and picket) seem to want to remember (or rather "never forget") as long as there's nothing there infront of them to remind them.

There are some people who, as emotional as it will probably be, want to remember and want to witness how a small group of passengers managed to save the lives of others on a September morning.

I have two words for those who choose to put September 11th into that little black box tucked way in the deepest corner of your mind while you stand out infront of a movie theater and protest Hollywood for making a movie that deserves to be told...

STAY HOME!!!

A Home Improvement Warning ...

2006-03-31T07:34:00.000-05:00

I don't how many of you shop at Home Depot, but this may be useful to
know. I am posting this to you to warn you of something that happened to
me, as I have become a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. This
happened to me at Home Depot and it could happen to you.
Here's how the scam works:

Two seriously good-looking 25-year-old hunks come over as you are
loading what you bought in the bed of your truck. I mean very VERY hot
muscular guys. They wash your windshield with a rag and Windex, with
their cocks almost hanging out of their tight cut off shorts. It is
impossible not to look.

When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask
you for a ride to another Home Depot. You agree and they get in the back
seat. On the way, they start having sex with each other. Then one of
them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while
the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen last Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday, again
on Saturday, and also yesterday. Maybe tomorrow too!

So please be careful!!

Generation Gap ...

2006-03-28T07:35:00.000-05:00

As with many people my age, part of being raised as a child was having your mom or dad plop you down infront of the television and having your brain scrambled with images of makebelieve neighborhoods, corny esteem-building songs and oversized singing and talking animals.

With my father being a model railroading buff and myself having an over-the-top collection of Matchbox cars and Hot Wheels, one of my favorite shows was Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. The fascination wasn't in the lessons learned in the Land of Makebelieve or the short film clips inserted into Picture-Picture, but the opening and closing credits, when the camera would pan over the cardboard lawns and plastic houses of "The Neighborhood". I can remember sneaking into my father's workshop while he was at work, climbing up on a high stool, reaching into the cabinet above the extra freezer, and carefully pulling down the two large boxes of delicately assembled and painted houses stored inside. (Dad was/is a model railroader, but still, all these years later, has never completely finished a working display)

Anyway, I would empty the boxes onto the family room floor and construct my own neighborhood, using the funky geometric pattern in the 60's style carpeting as my street grid. It was fun playing God and ruling over this tiny town I've created, pushing my Matchbox cars along the streets and pulling up into driveways. Who was I going to visit today and what was I going to find happening in my "neighbor's" house? Oops! Mrs. Johnson didn't see the stop sign as she sped her Hot Wheels dune buggy through the intersection and--CRASH!--slammed right into Mr. Peters' oil truck and--

BOOM!!

...The whole neighborhood goes up in flames just in time for me to pack up and put away the houses before my dad got home from work and found me fooling around with his stuff.

I know...I know...dimented imagination.

But at least Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood got my imagination (as sick as it is) working.

Another show I was fascinated with (although I don't know why) was The New Zoo Review. As I said, I can't explain my fascination with this program, but I remember 3:00 every weekday afternoon, sitting infront of the television in my parents' bedroom and staring at Frederick, the Frog and Henrietta Hippo and the owl (can't remember his name). I can even remember the lyrics to the opening theme (algthough I won't write them here. You'll just think I'm wierd. Maybe I got glued to that show because I knew that "The Hood" was on afterward. I don't know, but I bring up "The Zoo" to explain the reason for this writing.

This morning (as with every morning), I'm sitting on the sofa, legs folded up next to me with C-Rex curled up in a tight ball behind my knees and softly snoring, coffee in one and and remote control in the other. I'm flipping through the channels and come across a familiar cast of characters. There's Henrietta Hippo, her tight floral print dress twirling around as she bounced across the soundstage. Her southern accent, strong and squeaky, I was suddenly reminded of Delta Burke and the way she ballooned up during her last year of Designing Women.

My God, I thought. Is this show still on? I watched in morbid curiosity, making sure the livingroom blinds were closed so no one would peak in and see what was on my television screen. My question was soon answered when Doug and Emmy-Jo, the only "humans" on the show appeared on screen and were dressed in the loud wardrobe you can only find if your turned back the clock 35 years (or walked into a vintage clothing store).

The episode that was airing had something to do with putting on a circus, and each character happily displayed their talents with the props they were given by the stage-hands. Emmy-Jo displayed her skills equestrian skills riding a sawhorse. I listened to the cheers from the rest of the cast and suddenly found myself bursting into uncontrolable laughter at what was being said on the screen. C-Rex was so startled, he jumped into the air, off the couch and darted into the kitchen.

It took a long time getting here, but this was where I was heading with the title of this post: "Generation Gap". The way a simple turn of phrase can be used more than three decades ago in a children's show is now a porn industry term. This is what I mean...

Cheers from the other characters as Emmy-Jo rode the sawhorse:

* "Look at her ride!"
* "Go Emmy-Jo!"
* "Show 'em how you ride bareback!"
Emmy-Jo whips off the small red cape she was wearing.
* "Oh yeah! Look at how she rides bareback!"
" "You're a great bareback rider!"
" "Look how pretty she looks bareback!"

I'm still chuckling and wiping a tear from my eye...

The Post Bar (A Photo Essay) ...

2006-03-07T11:39:00.000-05:00

As a continuing thanks to M, here are some long awaited pictures of The Post Bar. With the way things are going there, these could very well be some of the last pictures ever to be taken of the place. But then again, as the regulars are well aware, cockroaches and The Post have many things in common: they can both be found in dark dingy alleyways among piles of garbage, they are both more active after the sun goes down, you can try to kill either and somehow, you can't seem to get rid of them 100%, and both are said to be able to survive a nuclear explosion.

From the looks of the place, you'd think that the building is being held together by by construction paper and edible paste, or at least the sticky remnants of years of failed and removed livers...and you're probably right! But as the rumoured demise of the establishment circulates over the squeezed lemon wedges submerged in heavily poured drinks, rest assured that the phoenix shall rise again, its wings shaking off the dusty mouse turds, its claws grasping a fresh package of plastic stirrers like the talons of the American bald eagle gripping an olive branch. It shall rise above the ashes of its former self and shed new life upon all who slouch over its chipped and scarred bartop. The bathrooms will be blessed with hot and cold running water and a toilet that glistens NOT from fresh pee droplets, but from actual cleanliness. The walls shall emit heat in the winter and coolness in the summer, not vice versa. The lights shall shine as lights are meant to shine, from fixtures in the ceiling and not from strings leftover from Christmases past, plugged into the last remaining working outlet somewhere in the back office. The multiple televisions shall all play the same channel with sound.

Hear the harmonic (or homonic) voices of the alcoholic angels rise to a crescendo, their chorus lifting our inner spirits as we lift our own spirits to our lips; a toast to all those, past and present, who have tried to topple the kingdom that is The Post!

Yes! The Phoenix shall rise again, as it has done so many times before!

Then again....maybe not...

In the meantime, enjoy the pics...

The sign on the quaint streetlamp announcing your arrival...

Chancellor Street...

Welcome to The Post...

The mural. The one good physical characteristic the bar has to offer...

The...ummmmm...gameroom. it's been rumoured that more than just a cue ball has been shot across that red velvet...

Even the great chefs on The Food Network know when Happy Hour at The Post is...

The ceiling. The motif: Nuveau Decrepid...

More to come later on. It takes me a while to post these pics on here...

Some Pictures ...

2006-02-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

M recently gave me a disk with some pictures that I can finally post on here. Most are of the snowstorm last month and how we spent the afternoon playing (or rather drinking). I'll post those later. These are just a few random pics.

Rittenhouse Square...

Drowned Rat ...

2006-02-14T10:02:00.000-05:00

I really should be doing something other than putting several posts on here today. In fact, I was just about to do something constructive and was just finishing up my coffee before I started when I witnessed something funny, so I figured I'd put up one last post before I begin.

A few months ago, M&O gave me (or rather C-Rex) a gift bag welcoming him into my home. In it was a book called "Do Cats Think" (a book originally published over twenty years ago, but still an intriguing read for cat owners), a water dish, a food dish, a floor mat to set said dishes upon, and lastly, a life-size stuffed rat.

The last item instantly became C-Rex's favorite thing to play with. At once, he embraced it with joy, having something to repeatedly stalk and "kill". It really amazed me at how much and how quickly natural instinct comes to a kitten. When I first pulled it out of the bag, I waved it excitedly over him and his eyes lit up at the sight of something else with four legs and a tail. I tossed it across the room and, like a cartoon character, his legs ran in place on the ceramic tiled floor in the kitchen before his footing finally grabbed hold and he sped out of the room and raced toward his prey. He leaped into the air and, in one smooth motion, crashed down upon the rat, snatching it between his paws. He flipped onto his back and clamped his teeth down upon the exposed neck of his victim. I watched in amused astonishment as he gnawed at the toy, grasped firmly in his grip, and proceeded to kick it repeatedly with his back legs.

He then tossed it to the side, flipping back onto his feet, and slowly walked away, glancing behind him every few steps to make sure the rat was still there. Suddenly, he dove behind the leg of the diningroom table, his head low, and stared intensely across the hardwood floor at his prey. I don't know if, in his mind, he saw the rat move or maybe heard a pained cry, but he darted out from behind the table leg, leaped through the air with the precision and grace of a figure skater going for the gold, and landed once again on the unsuspecting rodent, catching it between his teeth. I laughed out loud and C-Rex looked up at me as if to say: "Yeah. Laugh all you want, but at least I won't go hungry." At this point, I was just happy that there was something other than my ankle that would occupy his time.

But it wasn't until later that I began thinking more about the kitten's natural instinct kicking in. I was sitting on the couch watching television when I heard C-Rex take off running. This was a few days after M&O gave me...err...us the bag of goodies, so I was sure he was stalking the poor stuffed rat. A few minutes later, C-Rex walked past me, his tail straight up in the air as if about to raise a victorious flag, and the stuffed rat dangling from his mouth. Now, I noticed this a few times over the past couple of days but now, watching his proud display of conquer, something dawned on me. Every time he played with the rat and "killed" it, he picked it up by the throat; never by the tail, never by the back, never by the head. Always by the throat, his eye teeth sinking into the neck. Seeing that the cat was only three months old at the time, I found this incredibly fascinating. This domesticated animal, never seeing the outside world except through a pane of glass, knew instinctively how to kill.

A few months have now passed and, although I'm used to his running around the house, I'm amazed at how much enjoyment C-Rex gets out of repeatedly "killing" this rat. And every time, he picks it up by the throat and proudly walks off to another part of the house. He also likes to play fetch with it. I'll be sitting on the sofa and all of a sudden he jumps up onto the over-0stuffed arm, rat clenched between his teeth, and drops it at my hand. I'll pick it up and toss it onto the stairs. An eager murmur will escape C-Rex as he jumps from the sofa and catches the rat. Sometimes he brings it right back, ready to go after it again. Other times, he'll play with it on the steps, softly pawing at it, almost challenging it to make a run for it, before picking it up by the throat and bringing it back to me.

Now, I know the above is a long-winded story, but I felt that an in-depth background leading up to what made me write this post was needed and, quite frankly, this was something else about the cat's relationship with the rat I find very intriguing and, as I sit at my desk and look at the cover of the book M&O gave me ("Do Cats Think"), I come to realize that yes, yes they do think. I just find it a little unsettling that my cat tends to think like a serial killer...

As I said at the beginning, I was finishing my coffee and mentally preparing myself to get some of the endless chores around the house done, when something caught my eye.

Every once in awhile, I would come home from work or wake up in the morning and find the rat in the kitchen next to C-Rex's water dish. Often times the stuffed animal would be wet and I figured that the cat walks around the house with this thing dangling from his mouth so often that he completely forgot about it when he went to get a drink of water.

Boy, was I wrong...

As I sat there drinking my coffee, I watched C-Rex walk into the kitchen, the rat dangling from his mouth. He gingerly set the rat down on the rim of his water dish and then sat down next to it, never taking his eyes from the grey rodent. The rat's head hung out over the water, it's felt eyes staring blankly into space. C-Rex, stared down at it for a few more seconds before slowly raising his paw and softly placing it on the rat's face.

And then, slowly...Maniacally...deliberately, he pushed the rat's head under water, deep enough to cover the mouth and nose, but still able to keep his own paw dry. He held it there, never taking his eyes away.

Finally I said: "What do you think you're doing?"

He continued on.

"Hey!" I said, my tone alittle sharper.

Although his paw remained on top of the drowned rat, he slowly looked up at me and, maybe it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, but I can swear to this: his eyes appeared to be glazed over and unfocused, as if he were in some sort of trance and...he...he...he appeared to be...smiling.

My God, I've adopted Ted Bundy!!!

Being Single, It Completely Slipped My Mind ...

2006-02-14T09:27:00.000-05:00

Happy Hallmark-Needs-To-Make-A-Few-Bucks-Between-Christmas-And-Easter Day...

Soft Paws ...

2006-02-14T08:33:00.000-05:00

A client at my new job told me about this website to go to in lieu of having C-Rex declawed. M would kill me if I did that. To quote him: "Cut his balls off, sure. But please, please, please don't declaw him. That's so mean."

Anyway, my client told me about Soft Paws, a website that sells vinyl--for lack of a better description--Lee Press-on Nails for cats! If the whole idea isn't funny enough (although it is brilliant), you can get the nails in a variety of fashionable colors.

To think, C-Rex, named after one of the most ferocious dinosaurs to ever walk the planet (and appropriately named after witnessing him in his attack mode), will soon be sporting nails that would make a drag queen envious.

I'm getting a little too joy out of the idea though. Sure, I'll probably have to wear a protective steel mesh shark suit in order to get the nails on, but at least my furniture will be safe. I just hope this isn't leading me down the path where one day neighbors on the street will secretly refer to me as "the guy who likes to dress up his cat".

Roadside Assistance ...

2006-02-14T08:22:00.000-05:00

I would've never given up my car if Triple-A had this kind of service...

Baby Picture ...

2006-02-14T07:37:00.000-05:00

And here I thought my bitterness started much later in life. Sigh...

What Have I Done? ...

2006-02-13T23:47:00.000-05:00

Have I unknowingly put my little C-Rex in jeopardy???

The Paparazzi at the Post ...

2006-02-07T08:15:00.000-05:00

The shutterbugs were out in full force at the Post yesterday afternoon. This is M trying to escape from the barrage of flashes.

Bottoms Up ...

2006-02-06T15:08:00.000-05:00

Personal to M...

This was the closest pic I could find that you were talking about last night during the Super Bowl...

Jewel of the Bile ...

2006-02-06T09:49:00.000-05:00

M sent me this link from Gophila.com. It's a recent review from some out of towner who actually enjoyed spending some time at my local watering hole. Although I think the reviewer was trying to be a little P.C., so I've decided to include the translation within his posting (blue italics)...

The Post
A gay jewel in the dark

Hidden among parking garages on one of the darker sides of Rittenhouse Square, the Post is easy to miss (someone refuses to change the burned out light bulb over the door), but you shouldn't. This bar harkens back to a time where gay bars were hidden among the shadows, left to only those in the know (like the infamous "Elephant Graveyard"). When you open the Post's door, you'll feel as though you've been let onto a great secret (a secret so great, even the local utility companies don't know it's there).

Trolling around Chancellor Street will lead you to this pleasant dive, with warm, red walls decorated with homoerotic art (muscular ass pictures...can't really say anything bad here). The crowd veers older and tends to talk about the issues of the day around the horseshoe-shaped bar. The drinks are strong, the company is loyal and the mood is mellow (see Elephant Graveyard comment above).

All in all though, I gotta say, with as much criticism about The Post that I write on this blog, it's still one of my favorite places to hang out. I'm beyond that stage in my life where I want to go to a big dance club and have the house music beating into my head like an ape in an old Samsonite commercial, pay for expensive drinks and stand in a corner watching the assortment of cliques all tweaked out on crystal meth, gyrating on the dance floor. Even if I wanted to talk to one of these guys, the chances of keeping their attention focused on the conversation at hand are lower than Rosanne Barr's chances of being asked to sing another national anthem. I like the people who hang out at The Post and I like being able to hold a conversation with the person sitting next to me without having to lean in and scream into his ear with the hopes of him being able to decipher what I'm saying by being able to pick out a few key words.

Loyalty or Stupidity ...

2006-01-29T05:58:00.000-05:00

I have oftentimes talked about my local watering hole in my rants here, but I'm beginning to question my sanity. It's an old run down place, large as far as neighborhood dives go. I've often stated, the people are fun and the drinks are strong. I've met some great people there and have developed some long lasting friendships.

But where does one draw the line between good friends and strong drinks and sitting in a place that would make the Board of Health go running into the night screaming, vowing never to return? Let me explain some of the things I'm talking about...

Let's first begin with the temperature. It's rare that you find yourself sitting in a bar in the middle of winter and suddenly find the need to run outside into the deep freeze in order to warm up. This place has its own climate. I don't know if it's the drafts that blow through, or the lack of insulation, or even the angry spirits of the many past owners who have passed on, but there are times when crystals begin forming on the rim of your glass . Thankfully, it's been a fairly mild winter so far this year, but that still doesn't account for the fact that you can literally feel the temperature drop after the sun goes down (and the place doesn't even have any windows). There have been some nights when you would walk through the front door and be amused at the sight of three or four patrons leaning in together over the bar. At first glance you would think they were in an intense whispered conversation, but then quickly realize they're all huddled over a tealight candle.

Then there are the ... ummmm ... non-paying customers. I'm talking about the hairy little four-legged rascals that became the inspiration for the world's largest themepark industry. You can always tell when one makes an appearance simply by watching the guy sitting across the bar from you. He'll be quietly sitting alone, hand lightly caressing a beer bottle, eyes casually reading the closed-captions on one of the television sets. Suddenly, he looks away, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He'll stare intently at a row of bottles and you'll watch as his eyes gradually follow something moving. Then one of two things happen, either a look of disgust registers on his face or a slight smile, as he tracks the mouse's progress. If it's a regular patron, he'll casually say something. If he's a newbie, he'll remain quiet. What's funny is that no one (new or regular) will leave the establishment. They'll continue to drink and turn back to whatever it was they were doing.

They (and I do mean 'they') have become a family within a family, making nightly appearances, showing off their tricks as they high-wire it across the rows of compression tubes or scurrying along the edge of the wall towards another section of the bar. I've had mouse problems in my house before, so they don't really annoy me any longer (besides, my cat, C-Rex, is keeping them out now), but I do only drink bottled beer fresh out of the cooler just in case.

Last night, as so often happens, I stopped in after work for a beer (or four). The afternoon was thankfully mild and the climate within the darkened walls was bearably cool. The afternoon bartender was playing Will & Grace DVDs and M&O were sitting drinking their martinis, laughing it up as Will, Grace, Jack and Karen amused them and the other patrons with their (predictable) one-liners. I said my hellos to my friends, gracing all with my warm and bubbling fucking personality, and took a seat at the bar.

I don't know how the conversation had come up, but I was soon informed that the back bar wouldn't be opened that night--ooooh....Now I remember. O had gone off to the bathroom and when he came back he made mention to the fact that someone must not have paid the electric bill, since he had to pee by candlelight. I then noticed the big orange industrial extension cord dangling from the ceiling. It turns out that, most of the front bar was being lit by the power that goes to the back bar (or some strange shit). In any event, both bars couldn't be operational at the same time because if you turned the lights on in the back, the lights in the front would go off. I seem to remember something funny like that happening last year too...something about turning on an air conditioner in one area would turn off the television in another.

The place is falling apart right around our drunken feet. It's high time I find somewhere else to hang my hat... Maybe tonight I'll think long and hard about it...

...while I sit with a beer in the cold and watch Mickey run across the compression hose...

Extreme Makeover ...

2006-01-24T09:17:00.000-05:00

In an attempt to create a new image for me in my new job, "O" has taken it upon himself to become my fasion consultant. He's shown tremendous excitement in this new venture, and I'm beginning to believe that he's taking this task as a more personal goal in making a flannel, t-shirt, jeans, and boot-wearing guy into something right out of the pages of GQ (or at least a Walmart Sunday supplement).

It started with the haircut...

For so many years, I had taken it upon myself to cut my own hair. I'm not one for the latest styles, so I never really thought twice about putting clippers to my head and just having done with it in a matter of a few minutes. But I had stopped cutting my hair a few months back and began letting it grow again. After about eight or nine years of having a buzz cut, I was shocked at how much grey had crept up on me in my thirties. I have seen some of O's styling triumphs and I know that he's good at what he does, so I decided to let him near me with a pair of scissors. I was pleasantly surprised at how my hair had turned out and even more surprised at the positive comments I received immediately afterward (right about now, O is probably screaming "See? I told you so!").

Next came the new clothes...

We took a trip to Lord & Taylor, where O directed me to the rows and rows of shirts. "Try this," He says, putting a shirt up to my chest. Before I can even imagine what it would look like on me, he pulls it away. "No good. Here, try this."

I groan as I pull out my credit card to pay for the shirts we've selected. O laughs, saying "What kind of a gay man are you?"

"The kind that hates to shop," is my reply.

"Well we're gonna have to change that. Stick with me!"

GROAN!

We move on to Banana Replubic. They're having an End of the Season, 70% off sale. My palms are sweating as we travel through the store towards the men's department. I pick a pair of pants to show him. He looks at the pants and then at me. "Ummm...no." He picks out a pair for me to try on. I head off towards the dressing room, but stop when I hear him call to me. He's holding up a shirt. "This'll go great with those pants."

"But I already bought some shirts"

"But not for those pants."

"But I haven't bought these pants."

"You will..."

GROAN!

"Go try 'em on. I'll get a clerk to check the price on the shirt."

I'm in the dressing room trying on the pants. I have to admit, they did fit well and I liked them alot. Maybe I'll just get the pants and be out of there real quick. But I hear the clerk approaching. He tells O the price.

Great price on the shirt.

From inside the dressing room, I let out a heavy, slightly louder than intended...

GROOOAAAAAN!...

"Is he okay in there?" The clerk asks.

"Shopping shock." O's reply.

I pay for the clothes and am suddenly in need of a drink.

Yesterday, me, O and M go to the Philadelphia Home Show at the Pennsylvania Convention Center. We walk through Lord & Taylor on our trek across town. I admitted that I needed a new pair of shoes and wanted to look and see what they had. When we arrived at the convention center, I didn't have new shoes. I did, however, have a new Kenneth Cole sport jacket and a DKNY sweater. We were early for the Home Show, so we continued shopping for shoes. I didn't find anything I liked, but did see a pair back at Lord & Taylor that I almost bought. I announced the need for a return trip after the Home Show.

I bought the shoes (a nice brown pair of Kenneth Cole's) and suddenly fealt that burning need for a drink again. M laughs at my buyer's remorse as we make our way through the men's cologne department.

"Ooooh..." M exclaims. "We need to find you a new scent."

"I don't wear cologne." I announce.

M looks at me, a curl growing on his upper lip, a disgusted look in his eyes. "We know..." he whispers.

GROOOOAAN!!

Brush With Death ...

2006-01-16T12:12:00.000-05:00

I know it's been a long while since I've posted anything on here (December 21st being the last), but my new job has been kinda...well VERY...rough on me. I've jotted down some things on paper to write about, so you might be seeing little stories that seem out of date (like Christmas) in the near future. But this post was something that I needed to get down right away.

(...I'm also fighting a terrible hangover, so forgive any mistakes or running of the mouth/fingers...)

The weather had been unseasonably warm this month with temperatures hovering anywhere from 10-15 degrees above normal. That all changed Saturday night when a fierce cold front moved through, bringing with it icy winds that howled through the concrete and steel canyons of Center City. I was going to go out for a few drinks, but as I sat on my computer looking at porn--I mean reading some good wholesome...aaaah, what the hell--yes...porn, I listened to the winds racing down my street, bending the bare branches of the ginko tree, giving me fair warning to seriously think through my options: the warmth of home, infront of the television watching TV-Land's weekend marathon of All in the Family, or fighting the bone chilling winds as I trek the six blocks to the Post for a beer and a seat on a lumpy barstool. The decision was easy. And for those of you who know me and think they know the answer, let me just say this: I stayed in with Archie Bunker.

Anyway, by the time I awoke the next morning, the winds were still howling, but weren't nearly as biting as the night before. The temperature outside had dropped from 60 degrees Saturday afternoon to the low 30's twenty-four hours later. I had so many unfinished projects going on in my house (taking down Christmas decorations, laundry, cleaning, organizing, etc.) that I didn't really know where to begin, so I didn't do a damn thing. By two o'clock in the afternoon, I was very pissed at myself for not doing anything constructive and even more pissed that I smoked my last cigarette and I had to go outside into the frigid cold to get some. So, I threw on my heavy bright red Old Navy coat (which makes me look like a blister ready to pop, but keeps me warm) and headed off to the little Indian market a few blocks away.

The sun was bright, but didn't do a damn thing to warm you up and the wind whipped around the corners of the cross streets, hugging the storefronts, until reaching you, making your eyes tear up and blurring your vision.

I tucked my new pack of smokes in my coat pocket, shoved my hands deep inside with them and lowered my head within the confines of the fleece-lined collar. Staring down at the sidewalk, i quickly started walking home. A strong wind caught me off guard and I cursed it, thinking this short, two-block walk home was going to seem like a lifetime if I didn't speed things up a bit, so I started to run, crossing one intersection and hurrying through the cold shadow of the parking garage towards the next break of sunshine a block away.

My eyes staring down at the sidewalk, the only thing I can see were the shoes of the few people who passed me by heading in the opposite direction. I glanced up quickly, seeing how far I had advanced, and then looked back down again. I buried my head deeper into my coat as another wind swept down the sidewalk. I passed the entrance to the parking garage and judged that I only had about fifty feet or so left until I reached the welcoming patch of sunshine ahead. The last two landmarks to pass were the cashier's entrance to the garage (of which I was passing now) and the corner building, a beautiful two-story victorian structure currently abandoned, but still displaying signs in the storefront picture window, stating that it was once the home of the parking authority for that police district.

I usually pay no mind to noises around me (unless, of course, it's the squealing of brakes if I'm crossing an intersection), but there was something in the blood curdling scream of a female off to my right that sent a chill through my body that no icy winter wind could match. One command from that piercing scream made me obey without hesitation:

"STOOOOOOOOOOP!!!........

As if an invisible wall was suddenly before me, I stopped dead in my tracks, slightly off-balanced due to my hands being shoved deep in my pockets. I had no idea who had screamed or why, but I looked around and spotted a stocky black woman standing across the street, a look of terror on her face as she stared back at me, her arms infront of her as if trying to physically hold me back, one hand tightly gripped around her cell phone. I still had no idea what this was all about and why I stopped, but I watched as she brought the cell phone up to her ear and frantically speak to someone on the other end. The only words I could make out were: "get the police over here right away!"

Oh my God, I thought. Have I been mistaken for a robber or mugger or something? A sudden panic enveloped me as I watched the woman snap her phone shut and cross the street towards me. My first instinct was to run, but then I figured, unless there was a new law against not doing housework, then I had no reason to run. I nervously stood my ground, readying myself to go into defense mode, as the woman neared. The panic expression was still on her face, but I can also see a small hint of concern in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She asked as she reached me. She extended her hand and touched my arm.

I looked at her quizically, wondering who the fuck she thought I was. "Yeah," I replied.

"Jesus, you nearly killed yourself!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see?"

My blank expression must've been answer enough for her and she pointed infront of me. At first, I didn't know what she was pointing at and I thought she was just abso-fucking-lutely nuts. But then my eyes started to focus on the object of her attention. It was hard to see because of the angle and height and because it nearly matched perfectly to the color of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the parking lot across the intersection.

What I suspect had happened at some point was this: Whether it was the winds that morning or the night before, or a vandal, the plate glass window on the corner Victorian building (either abandoned or housing the parking authority) had gotten broken. The break started in almost the exact center of the window and extended outwards towards the four corners, creating an "X" effect and dividing the pane into four almost equal pieces. The bottom piece (my guestimate would be a triangular section about 4 feet across at the base and rising about 3 feet to a point at the initial break) had broken free from the rest of the pane, but was still being supported in the window track.

Why it had taken so long for me to focus on what I was seeing was because, not only was the glass tinted a dark brown, making the broken edges almost black (thus blending into the wrought iron fence), but the top edge of it was also at perfect eye level, so I couldn't see a reflective surface of the glass, only the 1/4 inch thick line of the broken edge.

I thanked the lady for the....(for lack of better term)...heads up. At this point, it still hadn't dawned on me what had just happened, so I just stared at the hanging sheet of broken glass and listened to the woman say how close I had come to having my head taken off. Only a few words of her's registered in my mind...

"...running down right towards it..."

"...bloody mess..."

"...lose your head..."

The police arrived a few minutes later. They inspected the glass and carefully pushed it back up and inside the hole. I thanked the lady again and made my way home.

It wasn't until I was home, out of my coat and sitting infront of the television again that it dawned on me what actually just happened. If that woman hadn't been looking at me at that exact moment. She may still have been across the street on the phone (I later found out she was actually reporting the glass to 9-1-1), but if she had looked away for just a brief second, that might have been the end of my existence, taken out of this world in the style of a b-rated bloody horror movie. That sheet of glass was angled in such a way that, if I had run into it, it would've gashed me from my above my left jawline and diagonally up through my nose to above my right eye. If I had run into it hard enough, it might have actually scalped me.

The thought brought on the image of the photographer being decapitated in The Omen. It was a scene that had haunted me as a child. To actually realize that something very similar had nearly happened to me sent chills down my spine and turned my legs to jell-o. My heart began to race as the dawning of how close I had come began to surface.

I had come close to death a few times in my life. I've had a home invasion with an eight-inch blade pressed against my throat, I've missed car accidents where a last-minute decision of one sort or another had kept me from becoming another statistic. If I believed in destiny and our lives being already planned out, then I would believe there was still some reason why I'm still here. I just wish someone would clue me in from time to time.

The Silent Killer ...

2005-12-21T12:12:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting at my computer just now, reading a comment from a previous post (and yes, Mistress, it is a kitchen in my pocket). C-Rex, the kitty (his current name after watching the original King Kong the other day and realizing that his fighting stance is very much like the t-rex in the movie) is sitting on the floor staring up at me. His posture is very stoic, his tail wrapped around his feet like a loose fitting scarf. His paws perfectly placed in a picturesque pose. His large green eyes staring up at me as if telling me something.

I smile down at him, being careful not to make any sudden moves or speak for fear that he'll take it as a signal for playtime. He seems very content just sitting next to my feet, observing.

I return my gaze to the monitor, debating whether I should continue sitting here in my robe or actually do something with my life and brace the frigid temperatures and head on over to the Gallery Mall to get my Christmas shopping wrapped up.

And then it hits me...

If it had a visual presence, I could discribe it as a menacing green cloud, slowly drifting across the stagnant air of a closed up, winterized room. If it were a cartoon, I could describe it as having glowing yellow eyes, pulsating with a wicked anticipation as it neared its destination. It has an evil grin, its stained teeth crusted over with years of neglect and sharpened to deadly points. It has a pair of boney claws reaching out to me, its nails ready to wrap around my throat in a death grip.

I suddenly stop typing, my senses short circuiting, trying to decipher what the hell is happening.

I look down at C-Rex, who stares up silently....waiting...

Three words escape my lips. The three words that have been repeated endless times in small rooms across the country.

"Did you fart?!?!"

More Pictures ...

2005-12-20T09:34:00.000-05:00

My friend, O, still gets a kick out of the fact that the kitchen was even decorated for Christmas.

In Center City, most of the houses have very small kitchens. Most people are shocked (and quite jealous) at the size of my kitchen. Just wish I was more of a cook.

Behind Closed Doors ...

2005-12-19T09:58:00.000-05:00

I just came across this site and HAD to post it on here. I was laughing so hard, even though the origin of this conversation is more than a half century old.

Here is the kind of conversations that go on in the whitehouse on a daily basis :

George: Condi! Nice to see you. What's happening?
Condi: Sir, I have the report here about the new leader of China.
George: Great. Lay it on me.
Condi: Hu is the new leader of China.
George: That's what I want to know.
Condi: That's what I'm telling you.
George: That's what I'm asking you. Who is the new leader of China?
Condi: Yes.
George: I mean the fellow's name.
Condi: Hu.
George: The guy in China.
Condi: Hu.
George: The new leader of China.
Condi: Hu.
George: The Chinaman!
Condi: Hu is leading China.
George: Now whaddya' asking me for?
Condi: I'm telling you Hu is leading China.
George: Well, I'm asking you. Who is leading China?
Condi: That's the man's name.
George: That's who's name?
Condi: Yes.
George: Will you or will you not tell me the name of the new leader of China?
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Yassir? Yassir Arafat is in China? I thought he was in the Middle East.
Condi: That's correct.
George: Then who is in China?
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Yassir is in China?
Condi: No, sir.
George: Then who is?
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Yassir?
Condi: No, sir.
George: Look, Condi. I need to know the name of the new leader of China. Get me the Secretary General of the U.N. on the phone.
Condi: Kofi?
George: No, thanks.
Condi: You want Kofi?
George: No.
Condi: You don't want Kofi.
George: No. But now that you mention it, I could use a glass of milk. And then get me the U.N.
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Not Yassir! The guy at the U.N.
Condi: Kofi?
George: Milk! Will you please make the call?
Condi: And call who?
George: Who is the guy at the U.N?
Condi: Hu is the guy in China.
George: Will you stay out of China?!
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: And stay out of the Middle East! Just get me the guy at the U.N.
Condi: Kofi.
George: All right! With cream and two sugars. Now get on the phone.

Happy Holidays...

2005-12-18T11:02:00.000-05:00

Some pics of the house. Not this Christmas however. The electric bill skyrocketed with all of these lights (although you can't really tell how many lights there actually were).

The Outside...

The Inside...

For some reason, the site won't add any more pics to this entry, so I'll have to include more a bit later.

Have a great holiday season folks!!

Skippin' Across the Pond ...

2005-12-18T10:33:00.000-05:00

It was recently brought to my attention through an old friend's email that my blog has been linked to a blogger who lives in England. Not for not, but I just think that's a kinda cool thing.

On a more personal note:

Not to mention any names (you know who you are). Circumstances aside, I had a really nice time talking last night (Saturday). You know I luv you two. Always have & always will. But after the week you guys had and seeing how you are there for each other, my love and admiration has grown in leaps and bounds. Thank you for listening to my woes of late and giving some sound advice. (more of that saga transpired after you left, but that's for another time).

Again, I love you guys and I love our friendship.

xoxo
Your own Joey Tribbiani

City Planning at Its Worst ...

2005-12-16T09:14:00.000-05:00

This month was the grand opening of Philadelphia's newest skyscraper, the Cira Ce n tre. Located on the western banks of the Schuylkill River, atop the trainyard feeding into 30th Street Station, it is the tallest building in Philadelphia outside of Center City. It is a modern glass sculpture rising up from Amtrack trains passing through the yard below street level. A structure this city has never seen, it takes on a completely different look from every angle, seeming to almost disappear into the sky when the sun reflects off its glass. At night, a brilliant display of changing lights on every floor light up the facade like a carnival ride. It's a building so out of the ordinary from the typical skyscrapers built in this city that it stands out as a tribute of the future into which Philadelphia is embarking.

However...

Architectural planning has already been comprimised with the poor design of traffic flow around the area with the addition of this highrise. Situated alongside the circle of traffic that encompasses 30th Street Station, the Cirra Centre is also attached to a new parking garage that accomodates both workers in the building and Amtrack and Septa passengers, not to mention its location is about 50 or so yards away from the off-ramp of the Schuylkill Expressway.

In a nutshell, traffic around the train station complex has all but completely grinded to a halt, especially during evening rush hour. It's always been less than an ideal situation, with cars exiting the expressway and being forced to turn right at the top of the ramp, going around 30th Street Station (now past the Cirra Centre) and continuing on to Market Street, the city's main East/West artery.

To make matters worse, just a 1/2 mile west of the off-ramp on the Schuylkill Expressway, The Vine Street Expressway merges with the Schulkill, bringing with it traffic from Center City and I-95 from the East. So technically, you have 3 major highways that wind up using one off-ramp to exit at 30th Street Station. Top this with the endless parade of taxi cabs circling the train station and now the added traffic from the new parking garage next to the Cirra Centre, and what do you get?

Gridlock!...

Yesterday, I was on the bus coming home from work. Snow had already been falling, already doubling the 45 minute commute from King of Prussia into Center City. The bus was hot and crowded and I really needed to go to the bathroom. When I saw the skyline quickly approaching, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I was a few short minutes from home (and the bathroom). And then the gridlock. What normally takes about 30 seconds or so to get from the top of the off-ramp, around 30th Street and continuing down Market Street into Center City had slowly grown to an agonizing, bladder inflating 15 minutes! Cars exiting the expressway merged with 2 lanes of traffic circling the station which merged with 2 lanes of traffic exiting the new parking garage which merged with 2 lanes of taxi-traffic. Six lanes which then merged back down into 3 as it rounded the western side of 3oth Street, making it's way towards Market.

Granted, a parking garage was definately needed, but better traffic planning is also needed. Instead of spending God knows how many 10's of thousands of dollars used to computerize the lighting scheme for the outside of the new building, a bridge should've been built from the parking garage, over the railroad tracks behind the Cirra Centre and connecting to JFK Boulevard on the west side of 30th Street Station. This could've taken traffic from the garage away from merging traffic from the expressway and right out to Market Street 2 blocks west.

But noooooo...

No one ever thinks of traffic before the fact, only when horns are honking and complaints start rolling in from drivers.

The Cirra Centre is rumored to be the beginning of a new growth of buildings that would stretch into adjoining University City. I certainly hope someone's light goes off before the next shovel of dirt is removed from the earth.

The Cirra Centre officially opened it's doors in early December. The traffic nightmare around one of the country's largest train stations has just begun...

The Retail Bitch Session ...

2005-12-08T15:44:00.000-05:00

My Friend, Michael, e-mailed me today to voice his own annoyance about the Christmas Holiday retail season. So, without further adeau, here is my guest blogger, Michael, and his rendition of "All I want for Christmas is to Bitch, Bitch, Bitch"...

Since I do not have a blog of my own, I wanted to rant about something that you could put in YOUR blog.

You know what I find the MOST annoying part about holiday shopping? It's not the long lines. It's not the guy behind you talking on his cell phone so loud that everyone in the store knows about his wife's doctors appointment tomorrow at 3. It's not the never ending wail of children wanting this or that, "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE can I have it?" and it's not Salmonella, the cashier who couldn't care even less about her job if she really really tried.

No, its women with purses. Yes. I said it. Women with purses.

I mean c'mon. You know who you are. You know you are in line and are expected to pay for the crap your carrying in your hands. You could very easily have your credit card ready and help the line move along at a nice clip.

Uh-huh. Nope. You have to wait till the cashier has rung everything up and told you the total of your purchase and THEN you hike your fifteen pound bag up onto the counter. You open it and rifle through it for at least two minutes to find you wallet. You then proceed to pull out every credit card you own until you find just the right one. Oops. No, not that one. Use this one.

Then after you scrutinize every item on the receipt like you were searching for secret codes, sign it, you finally put your card back into you wallet. The receipt gets folded up and put in that special pocket in your bag. The one with the zipper that gets stuck sometimes. The wallet then has to go back into the bag, way down in there so you have to search for it at your next stop. The bag gets slung over your shoulder, and you pick up you purchases.

And being that I'm the guy behind you in line, I have had a small stroke by this time and don't even know what the hell I came in there to buy in the first place.

Joy to the world.

The Retail Whore

Not a Happy Snow Bunny ...

2005-12-08T10:50:00.000-05:00

Thursday...

Snow storm on the way...

Birthday tomorrow...

Party on Saturday...

Everything falling apart...

There's a girl I work with who (for some God only knows what reason) travels down five hours from central New York to work the weekends here. She's supposed to arrive early tomorrow afternoon so that I can take off and enjoy my birthday. She's scheduled to work Saturday morning and then head back home Saturday afternoon. I have off on Saturday so that I can enjoy myself at M&O's 2nd annual Christmas extravaganza.

I was excited yesterday at the thought of a snow storm heading our way in time for my birthday (something that hasn't happened in my lifetime) and couldn't wait to go out and play (or at least drink at the bar).

But here I am at work (45 minutes late due to a car fire on the Schuylkill Expressway) and I just received a call from the girl from New York. They already have 29 inches of snow on the ground and another 10 on the way tomorrow, so she's not coming down. Already short staffed here, now I'm stuck working later than I was originally scheduled for tomorrow and I not only have to come in on Saturday morning (which means I can't go out tomorrow night for my birthday), but I also have to work on Sunday (which means I can't "over"enjoy myself at the party on Saturday).

This just plain SUCKS!!!!!!!!!

Someone Is Listening ...

2005-12-07T23:43:00.000-05:00

It's a little late this year, but I was walking through Rittenhouse Square this afternoon and the illuninated balls were dangling from the long stiff winter branches overhead.

The Evil Uncle ...

2005-12-07T10:03:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is usually spent at my brother's and sister-in-law's house out in the boonies. It's always a fun time, with plenty of wine being passed around the table, an all too enormous Italian feast and plenty of joking and ribbing one another. Mostly my dad is the brunt of many of the jokes, especially now that he has finally broken down after so many years and accepted the fact that he's old and needed hearing aids. But he turns them down whenever there's too much conversation going on the the room and all he claims to hear are metalic echoes bouncing around inside his head.

This past Thanksgiving, I once again realized how old I actually was when my nephew and brother started a verbal exchange over when my nephew will be able to learn to drive. My brother's response: "When you're old enough to afford your own apartment."

Knowing the joking tone of his father's voice, my nephew replies: "Well how will I be able to find an apartment without a car?"

"Do what Uncle Chris does. Take the bus."

D'OH!!!!

* * *

(Jump ahead two weeks)...

Yesterday, I was invited back for Christmas dinner. With a new job beginning on December 26th and no more having to wake up at 3am in order to make it to work by 6 to open the gallery for after-Christmas returns (of which my place gets very little), I graciously accepted.

Since my brother lives out in the boonies close to the Pennsylvania/Delaware border, whenever I went out there for family get togethers, I would have to take the train out to my parents' house and then climb into the backseat of their Ford Explorer and ride with them, constently chanting from the back seat: "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" (anything to consistently drive my folks batty).

This year, with training for my new job beginning the day after Christmas and having to travel over to Jersey for two weeks, I decided to rent a car for the duration instead of figuring out how many trains or buses I would need to take. So I'll have a car on Christmas day to go to my brother's place.

It suddenly dawned on me this morning (and I'm writing it down now on here, so I don't forget to actually go through with the plan) that, in all the times I've gone to Thanksgiving dinner over there, I was always tagging along in my parents' backseat. This time, I'll be taking my own transportation. What better way to get revenge on my brother's stab at my taking public transportation than to present my nephew with the ultimate gift?

That's right. While my neice opens her gift certificate or something and politely thanks her uncle for the gesture and my brother and his wife accept a bottle of wine and some foo-foo dessert, I will casually hand my nephew a key tied to a bow and say: "Your gift is in the driveway."

Sure, it'll be far-fetched, but I know my family, and I know that it'll take a few brief seconds to realize that it's just a joke. My nephew, on the other hand, being an overly anxious teenager on Christmas day, will surely bolt out of the kitchen, down the hall and outside to see what awaits him.

Merry Christmas from your Evil Uncle...

God, I love the gift giving season...

Winter Wonderland (Update) ...

2005-12-06T08:53:00.000-05:00

Even though the local media put the fear of the Snow Miser in the hearts and minds of its viewers, causing them to stay at home instead of heading out for some Christmas shopping, the expected snowfall was a complete dud. The storm moved out to sea south of the city, bringing us only a coating of the white stuff. I was stuck at work with no one to talk to and missed out on a few drinks with the Mistress, but at least I didn't miss out on the expected funfilled snowy night out on the town as I feared. Maybe next time ...

Winter in the City ...

2005-12-05T17:39:00.000-05:00

I just received an email from the one and only Mistress Jenn inviting people out for drinks tonight. Here it is, the first week of December, a few days before my Birthday, a new job beginning just after Christmas, stuck in my current job with extended holiday hours and a snowstorm on the way.

Snowstorms was another thing that lured me to city life. I remember several years ago, a former co-worker who lived in Center City Philadelphia talked about meeting up with friends during a blizzard and walking the streets, entering the only establishments that were brave (and smart) enough to open during such an event: bars.

I, at that time, lived in Delaware County, about a 20 minute drive from the city. During that same blizzard, I was stranded at home, my car buried under snow drifts six feet high, repeat sit-coms on the telly and my parents calling me inviting me to a party a few blocks away at one of their friends' house. Knowing that all of my city friends were out strolling through the winter wonderland that was downtown, I stewed a while longer in my mexican inspired (but not made) throw, staring at the images flashing before me on the television screen. I vowed then and there that I was going to abandon the suburbs and move into the city.

It had only taken a few more years, but I made it into the city. The blizzard of '03 was the first big time storm to hit and shut down the city since I had moved five years earlier and it was everything I had always imagined it would be. It was February 16, my friend's birthday. He was living in Jersey, but we had already decided that, since he worked in the city, he was going to take the train in and just stay overnight at my house. That way he wouldn't have to worry about driving in what was promising to be the "storm of the century".

It was a weekend storm, starting out late Friday night and snowing through most of Saturday. By the time we awoke Saturday morning, local television stations have all pre-empted their children's cartoon line-up in lieu of continuous coverage of the storm, with reporters stationed throughout the region, getting anyone and everyone's reaction, as if the information hadn't been already beaten into the viewers' heads for days leading up to that morning.

"This is incredible..."
"I have no food in the house..."
"I had no idea..."
"What am I supposed to do with my car?..."

Me? I was raring to get out and play. Like a little kid, I was up at the crack of dawn but my friend, who bartends and didn't get home until about 3am, was still sound asleep. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I walked throughout the house, putting coffee on, watching the t.v., staring out the window. By the time he had crawled out of bed and was standing infront of the coffee pot, I had already been outside twice and shoveled the walk clear.

We had already made the decision to just go and check out the city, walk the streets and take in the scenes. Once we made it to Rittenhouse Square, we were both amazed at how many people were out and about. The snow was still coming down hard and the wind was whipping it around, stinging what exposed skin there was on the body, but people didn't seem to mind. Automobile traffic was all but non-existent, as people treked through the streets, oblivious to changing traffic signals overhead warning them to stop (had they been driving). The surrounding skyscrapers were completely shrouded by the low ceiling and falling snow, making the only visible architecture the rows of victorian and colonial storefronts lining the avenue. Walking through this surreal cityscape, no towering glass structures, no cars or trucks blaring their horns, no visible blacktop street benieth the packed snow, the only tracks outside of footprints being an occational bicycle tire track, it all made me wonder if this was what it must've been like at the turn of the century, when families would stroll through the streets on a Sunday afternoon, dressed to the nines, fruit carts lining the curbs of the cobblestone streets, an occational electric streetcar clanging its bell in the distance.

As I wondered this, our travels brought us across town and to our first destination, Woody's, for an enormous cheeseburger and a beer. It was about 2 in the afternoon and the place was packed with revelers all out enjoying the snow (by being indoors with a martini). We ordered our food and drinks and chit-chatted about nothing in particular as we watched the overhead televisions with the continuing coverage of (cue menacing music): The Blizzard of '03.

By the time the sky grew dark and the streets were aglow with the ambiant glow of the overhead streetlights, my friend and I had walked to several bars and had several drinks. The snow was still coming down heavily and our stomachs were growling for something a little more substantial. My friend suggested dinner at Friday, Saturday, Sunday, a quaint little restaurant off of Rittenhouse Square. I was alittle short on cash and, seeing that it was his birthday, I didn't feel right about having him pay. He poo-pooed my objection, saying that, since he had lived in Florida for so many years, he had forgotten how much fun a snow storm was and that being with me made it the best birthday in years. He decided to treat for dinner and we headed back home to change pants and warm up a bit before heading back out into the storm.

I called the restaurant to see if they were open and to make reservations. We realized soon enough that reservations were not needed. Aside from us, the only other people in the place were the owners, sitting at an adjoining table. They bought us a bottle of wine and we ordered dinner.

It ended up being a fun-filled day of drinks, laughs, good food and good company. By the time we were leaving the restaurant, the city was completely quiet. Cars who's drivers were brave (or stupid) enough to drive were abandoned at odd angles along the curbs. The snow had stopped falling, save for a few drifting flakes caught up in the diminishing winds. In the distance, a rogue diesel engine of a snow plow can be heard moving through the streets, clearing paths for emergency vehicles. As we made our way home, I commented on this being one of the big reasons for me moving into the city. The burbs, as sprawling as the lawns may be, held you captive in your homes on days like this. The city allowed you to move about and rediscover things you normally took for granted.

Ironic then that I should be living in the city still and being stuck at work in the burbs as Mistress Jen is finding people to go have drinks with in the first snowstorm of the season.

(sigh...)

Wendy Jo Sperber ...

2005-12-01T16:25:00.000-05:00

I just read that Wendy Jo Sperber, best known as Amy in the hit sitcom (of the time) Bosom Buddies, has died after an eight year battle with breast cancer. It's always sad to hear about the people you've come to love (or at least grow fond of) from television or movies, especially when they're your age. One of the best things I've seen her in (and it may have even been her first role in a major movie) was the lovestruck teenager in the movie 1941 with John Belushi. I think I'm gonna have to hop on Netflix and get that film to watch again. The swing dance number she performed in that movie just showed the energy that woman had, despite a weight problem.

Do you have your own Wendy memory from tv or film? Let me know! In the meantime, you will be missed, wendy.

After 11 Agonizing Months ...

2005-12-01T11:31:00.000-05:00

...My New Year's resolution is happening.

As of today, December 1st, I am writing my resignation and will no longer be pushing the works of "The Painter of Light". It's been a long time coming, especially in the last year and a half when I had to pretend to like "Little Miss Hysterectomy", a back-stabbing be-otch who tries to weasle her way into each and every sale and/or client I have. She's been working in this gallery (transferred from another gallery that had closed a few years ago) and almost immediately, her antics began. I've given her the above name because of the operation she had last January. I was hoping that having her insides scraped and removed (sorry for the gross image, but that's how much I hate her), she would've have calmed down like a cat or dog being fixed. But noooooooooooooo. There have been times when I've been so angry with her and her sneaky tricks, my friends and I would sit around the bar and discuss easy ways of eliminating her from the picture.

For the most part, however, I like most of the people I work with and, after five years, writing this letter will be hard and sending it, even harder. Maybe a singing telegram or a male stripper would be more appropriate.

I'm exciting (and frightened) about starting my new job. It's something completely different, but it's also got far-reaching possibilites. My friends are very exciting because I'm no longer commuting out to the boonies (I think, however, they're more excited about the 50% discount I'll be getting).

Anyway, wish me luck and I'll let y'all know what sort of reaction my letter will bring.

Caio!

Where are My Balls? ...

2005-11-29T13:47:00.000-05:00

I was walking through Rittenhouse Square the other day and watched as workers began stringing white lights around the 30 foot high Christmas tree across from the reflecting pool. I quickly scanned the rest of the park and realized that the little colored illuminated balls hanging from the leafless canopy of gray branches criss-crossing above my head were missing. It's usually one of the first signs of the impending Christmas season when you see cranes high up in the trees in mid-November, hanging these balls at various heights, starting from the park entrances and working in towards the center of the park.

This has been a Rittenhouse Square tradition for the better part of the last 6 or 7 holiday seasons, the committee increasing their budget every year to include more and more lighted balls. The first year, the colored spheres dangled over the 4 corner entrances to the park and sort of looked unfinished. But, with each passing year, more and more lights were added until it really started to look spectacular at night, the pavement below cast in warm green, red, blue and yellow glows.

But now, with December barreling down on us with overplayed Christmas music already weeks old, traffic surging towards the area malls, panic setting in to find that perfect gift before the bargain bins are ripped apart, the branches overhead in Rittenhouse Square remain bare and lightless. The Square seems cold and barren, the towering pine with its hundreds of white lights laced through its branches, looks forgotten this holiday season.

I hope it's just an oversight and the lights are going up as I write...

Before There was Will & Grace ...

2005-11-17T12:05:00.000-05:00

I know, I know... It's been a long time since I've posted anything on here, but I've been going through some tough times emotionally. With the days growing shorter, the temperatures dropping, the holidays quickly approaching and my birthday growing menacingly nearer, I tend to get this way each year. And, unfortunately, each year I begin feeling this way earlier and earlier. I've been living in a shell, not going out and not expressing myself in my blog. Quite frankly, my mind's been in such a state of boredom that I couldn't even think of a single sentence to put down on here. I actually had something that I thought was interesting to write about, but I had been thinking about it during my waking stage in bed and now, several hours later, it has completely escaped me.

But nonetheless, I was sitting down in the livingroom, debating which of the many tasks I had placed on my plate to do first, flipping through the television. I found myself stopping my assault on the up-arrow channel button of my remote control when I came upon (I'm ashamed to admit) Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

This had been one of my favorite shows growing up, not for the lessons this gentle man tried to bestow upon the many children glued to the television set, not for the adventures in the "Land of Make-believe", but for the simple pleasure of studying the scaled-down model of the neighborhood during the opening and closing credits of the show or whenever Fred would go visit one of his "neighbors" and the camera would scan the streets of miniature houses depicting the host's strolls through the hood.

My father is a model railroader buff and some of that has rubbed off on me (although all of my trains are collecting dust in my parent's attic). I remember as a child, sneaking into my father's workshop while he was at work, climbing up onto a stool and pulling down the many boxes of model buildings he had stashed away in the cabinet above the extra freezer. Then I would go into my toy closet, pull out my sackful of Matchbox cars and spread everything out on the rec room floor and begin creating my own "neighborhood". Driving around town, visiting friends and neighbors, running simple errands, causing pile-ups at quiet intersections. My little basement land of make-believe had brought me hours of enjoyment each and every day (until about 2:30 in the afternoon when I realized I had about 30 minutes or so to neatly stack my dad's houses into their respective boxes and balance myself ontop of that stool again to shove them back into the cabinet).

But even at an early age, my architectural instinct would kick in as I watched the show and asked myself many questions. How can "Trolley" enter through one wall of the livingroom and exit through another and all of a sudden be in this land of puppets? The trolley just goes in a circle around the castle, which means that Mr. Roger's house must be behind the castle. But from the outside, his house is no where near big enough to hold a castle. How can "Picture Picture" show movies while hanging on the wall (little did I know that this little special effect would soon become reality)? Where was the bathroom? There were only three doors in Fred's house, the front, the back and the closet holding one sweater and a pair of sneakers.

But my biggest question as a child couldn't even really be put into the form of a question at such an early age, but I still can remember wondering why certain characters seemed "different". I'm talking specifically about Lady Elaine Fairchild and King Friday, televsions first gay friendship. Even though, at five or six years old, I didn't really know the right words to explain myself but, in a todder's way of thinking, I wondered why did Lady Elaine have a boy's haircut and wear a heavy and baggy wool sweater? Why was she so aggresive and nasty and bitter and why was she only friendly to Henrietta Pussycat? Why was King Friday dressed in torquoise satan? Why was he always mumbling softly below his breath like soft moans? Why did he speak with an over emphasis on his "s"s? And he was scared shitless of the red nosed drunk who lived in the Museum-Go-Round.

I can remember having these thoughts as a child, but never put words to it. I suppose I thought about it throughout my later years growing up, when I would jokingly refer to the mailman as "Mr. McFeelme" or wondered if Lady Elaine got that red nose sniffing some fishy caves, but I never really sat down and thought about it until this writing.

And now, as I finish this post and look back at what I had written, I begin to think: how sad is that?

Just Another Day at City Hall ...

2005-10-21T11:53:00.000-04:00

Seventh District city councilman Rick Mariano -- facing an imminent federal indictment -- will remain hospitalized under psychiatric evaluation at least through the weekend, after being talked down from the City Hall Tower by Mayor Street.

Mayor Street and others rushed to the observation deck at the top of City Hall after learning that a depressed Rick Mariano had made his way there.

A massive emergency response shut down City Hall and police commissioner Sylvester Johnson helped convince Mariano to come down.

And, in great Philadelphia style, evening rush-hour traffic was ground to a halt around city hall raising complaints from drivers trying to make their way through the winding streets to wind up sitting in their usual traffic jam on the Schuylkill Expressway.

I personally feel that, with a looming transportation strike on the horizon (October 31st), the head honchos at Septa and the union representatives should use this tactic as a way to settle their endless dispute. Let's see if anyone would try and talk them down.

Feeling Bleu ...

2005-10-18T10:17:00.000-04:00

Fun night last night...

In honor of my friend's 40th Birthday, a small group of us had dinner in one of Rittenhouse Square's trendy hotspots, Bleu, at 18th & Locust Streets. Excellent food, good service and great company. The only downside to the place is that it's not the greatest seating arrangement for more than 2 people in one party, since their tables are nothing more than round cocktail tables that they pushed together and the dishes were almost too large for everything to be placed comfortably. But all that aside, it was a fantastic and fun-filled night that brought on an incredible hangover from which I'm slowly trying to recover.

Dinner was to be at 7 o'clock, so I stopped in at the Post (conveniently located around the corner) about six for a beer. I ran into G who was also going (the rest of the party were to meet us at the restaurant). The original plan was to have dinner at another restaurant, but I received a call from O about 6:30 saying that, even though reservations had been made, it was still going to be about a 45 minute wait. So plans were changed at the last minute and we were all going to meet at Bleu instead.

One of the main reasons (other than M's 40th) was for us all to get a chance to meet M's parents, who flew into town for a few days. We've all heard stories of his family's get togethers and we were all looking forward to finally getting a chance to meet the infamous parental units. Now, I'm not good at meeting people and keeping a conversation going with strangers, but I have to say I was comfortable with M's parents from the very first second I was introduced. They were fun and friendly and both had the same infectious laugh as their son.

With drinks in hand we were all escorted to our table and ordered appitizers, entrees and, of course, more drinks. We laughed, talked, ate and drank...

And drank...

A huge thick cut of NY strip lay atop a high pile of fries sat infront of me. As I cut into the steak, I heard several comments about these being the best fries. Hands seemed to come from all directions, picking out my fries.

(oh man, my mind is so foggy right now. Trying to write about the evening with this hangover is not going over very well.)

After dinner, M's dad makes the announcement that, being Italian, it was customary in his family to have an after-dinner drink. When he suggested Sambuca my stomach flipped as the memory of a very horrible Sambuca-induced night in Atlantic City several years ago flashed in my mind like a blinding bolt of lightning. I asked the waitress what she would recommend and I took her suggestion of a vanilla flavored cognac.

My God that was potent!!!! I didn't realize at the time (when we were all saying our good-nights and I asked G if he wanted to go back to the Post for one last beer) that I had reached my limit for the evening.

I tried to finish my beer at the Post, but soon discovered that I really needed to get home and crawl into bed. I silently wondered (at least I hope it was silently) when the city had installed these trick sidewalks that seemed to shift every time you took a step. Someone should complain to the streets department about this. Luckily I found my bed and I looked forward to sleeping in late so I wouldn't wake up with a hangover.

I had neglected to remember that I now have the devil-cat living with me who liked to start his day before the first rays of sun peeked through the bedroom window...

The Week in Review ...

2005-10-14T10:31:00.000-04:00

It's been a week now since I got my new kitten and, if it means scratches, lack of sleep, constant worrying at work if I'm gonna arrive home to spilled lamps and clawed furniture, always shouting "NO!", having to lock myself in the bedroom in order to get a little privacy, and squeezing through a small gap in the front door whenever I enter or leave the house, then things are as blissful as can be.

I exaggerate. We're bonding. In fact, we've bonded almost immediately that first night when, after his exploration of the house, he hopped up on the sofa and curled up in the crook of my arm and fell asleep. Strange things have been happening though and I had to look through a couple of web sites to realize that he's still in the "socializing" stage of his kittenhood. Strangest of all is waking up to a strange sensation every morning as he wakes me by sucking on my earlobe, or sticking his nose in my face and licking my goatee. At least his morning antics have subsided to a more tender annoyance. That first morning freaked me out...

Sound asleep, I am slowly being awakened by the soft footfalls of La Tigre (I'm still in the naming stage, trying to find one that fits his personality--right now it's Rroid, since he's a pain in my ass). He walks across the pillow, delicately stepping on my cheek, leaning down to sniff my ear and tickle my face with his whiskers. I groan and roll over, trying to escape his pre-dawn activities. I sense him stepping off of the pillow and I think (oh so erroneously) he's curling up to continue sleeping. I like to sleep in the nude (or used to). I have a little patch of hair at the base of my back. As I drift back into a deep slumber, I'm suddenly startled into consciousness when the cat decides that 5am is the perfect time to attack! In he goes, needlelike kitten claws grabbing onto the hair and yanking, bared teeth chomping down and pulling, me jumping out of bed and giving what would become the first of many painful screams. I flip on the light, my hand reaching behind and rubbing the delicate patch, my eyes adjusting, half expecting to see a ball of hair dangling from the clenched jaws of the devil himself.

He stares up at me, belly to the mattress, ears back...and then meows softly, his eyes as big as Puss n' Boots in Shrek 2. My heart opens as the anger of being suddenly and shockingly awakened drains from me. "Awwwwwwwwwww." I coo, as I crawl back into bed and curl up under the blanket. I glance at the clock and mumble about the hour before closing my eyes. Within seconds I feel a gnawing on my fingertips. I pull my hand away. The cat darts across the mattress and attacks my hand. I shove it under the pillow. He claws his way into the linen cave and claws at the exposed skin. "STOP!" I yell.

I've quickly come to realize that "STOP" in kitty language is translated into "Yes, little one, I love playtime at five in the morning."

2005-10-01T09:17:00.000-04:00

Aaaaaaaaaand how!...

I've been trying to catch up on last season before starting season 2. This show is like a drug. It pulls you in and, like a drug, leaves you sitting in a fog wondering how you got there.

First there's an unknown monster, stomping down trees and ripping pilots from the cockpit, leaving him dead and bloodied and dangling from a tree branch 30 feet in the air. Then there's a polar bear trampling through the underbrush. Then there's a signal that is being sent from somewhere on the island...and has been sending out for twenty years. Then a French lady. Then "the others". Then the pirates who take the boy who's "special". Then the hatch. Then the man IN the hatch who's the same man in the doctor's memories.

I mean....what the hell?!?!?!?!

Are they really all dead?...

Is this heaven, hell or purgatory?...

Aliens?...

I'm so...(for lack of a better word)... Lost.

Proud Pappa ...

2005-09-30T17:21:00.000-04:00

In honor of bad labels of the 80's, I want to introduce to you the newest member of my family...

Le Tigre

She's six weeks old and came from a litter of 3 adorable kittens born to a self-adopted cat my friend had taken in.

I went over to my friend's house the other night and had the worst time trying to decide which one. These were the other two:

The black and white one is uniquely disfigured...six toes on each foot. Adorable, but lacks personality.

Look closely...

Anyway, I pick up Le Tigre next week and I'm really looking forward to it. Now if only I could teach it to poopie in the toilet (although I don't wanna be fighting for the bathroom 1st thing in the morning with a damn cat!

The Seduction of the Chicken Lady ...

2005-09-23T22:23:00.000-04:00

In my continuing attempt to break free into more of a creative environment, it was suggested that I sway from my normal routine and simply observe. So, instead of reading a book on the bus, I sat back in my seat and watched the people around me.

It was standing room only for a while and, when the bus pulled up to a stop, I watched an old black woman get step on and then quickly disappear into the crowd.

About 15 minutes later, the bus pulled up to a stop where several riders emptied out to board a connecting train, so I was able to take a seat near the rear. A few rows infront of me, in one of the benches which faced the center of the bus (unlike most which face forward) I spotted the old black lady again and I immediately became fixated on the show being performed before my eyes.

For you to better get an idea of what I was watching, I must first try my best in describing what this woman looked like, because her dress was just as enterataining as her actions. First, her hair. I counted at least three separate hairstyles combined to make one complete mess. If you were to draw a line across the top of her head, from ear to ear, dividing the front and back halves equally, you'd discover two complete styles. The front was straight and stiff, cut in a perfect line from her left ear, across her forehead, to her right ear, creating a razor sharp bang about a quarter of an inch above her painted eyebrows (a-la Moe Howard). The back half was a series of tightly wound braids that actually looked to be growing out of the base of her head and spiraling to the top where they disappeared beneith her third style: a large bun that could best be described as a pile of precariously stacked black jellybeans.

She must've been somewhere in her early 70's, but her mocha colored skin was fairly wrinkle free. Her high cheekbones were splashed with red; blush applied with the same results of tearing through a bag of pistachios. The arms of her gold frame glasses were studded with sparkling chips of cut glass and silver to form a rosebud, added strength to support the thick lenses that could burn paper on the sidewalk if caught in the sun's rays at just the right angle.

She wore a bright gold floral print blouse that seemed to reflect several design styles. Studying it more closely, I can pick out a touch of a Hawiian motif, a bit of African heritage and a splash of sparkle reminiscent of the glory days of the old Beadazzler. A black, ankle-length skirt and hand crocheted shawl resting on her lap completed the look.

As I stared, I watched the woman raise a bony hand to her mouth. Her other hand remained in her lap, clutching a clear plastic cup with ice water (or, from the way she began to slouch over time, it may have actually been vodka). The hand near her mouth held a small chicken leg, or rather the bone with a few strands of meat remaining. She proceeded to pull the remaining meat from the bone and then slowly, through pursed lips, slide the entire bone into her mouth. Staring straight ahead, both hands now wrapped delicately around the plastic cup in her lap, she moved the chicken bone around in her mouth from side to side, sucking every bit of meat free. I became fascinated at the way she drifted into a fog, ignoring all around her, as the bone would press against the inside of her cheek and move across the inside of her bottom lip and over to the other side. Every couple of seconds, it would pierce through her clenched lips and I would notice that the meat was all gone and she was now just sucking as much juice and her own saliva from the poor bird. She did this slowly and deliberately, relishing every bit of flavor remaining, as if it would be the last piece of chicken she would ever have. At one point, she removed the bone, examined it, took a swig from her cup and replace the bone in her mouth to continue sucking.

And, as if the visual wasn't enough, my senses picked up something else which made the image even more entertaining. From behind me, another passenger was listening to music through their headphones. It was some unidentifiable hip-hop tune. I couldn't hear the words of the tune, but what drifted up to my ears was the faint metallic beat setting the rhythm of the song. Maybe it was just in my mind but what I suddenly found myself living through was watching this woman making oral love to this chicken bone with some cheesey 70's porn music playing the soundtrack.

I felt a smile spread across my face as I closed my eyes, knowing full well that the Chicken Lady would have to make it onto my blog. I only wish I had broken down last year and had gotten that picture phone the sales rep tried upselling me.

Synchronicity ...

2005-09-19T09:46:00.000-04:00

I know I have mentioned this book a number of times in past posts, but it's amazing how quickly things begin to happen that the book explains will happen. There's a section titled "Recovering a Sense of Power" where the author describes, what she calls, "synchronicity". Others refer to this as mere coincidence or just simple good luck. She goes on to explain that, in order to get a better grasp of your creative side, you shouldn't blow these situations off, but rather look for them.

The other day, I posted about a childhood memory and mentioned a book I loved in my single-digit years. "The Little House" stirred emotions and dreams in me that, I believe, is one of the reasons I love living in the city.

My friend, Michael, loves to shop around on E-bay. As soon as I published that childhood post, I had a strange feeling that he would look around the site in search of the book and present it to me for my birthday in December (the book was originally published in the early 40's and I figured was a hard one to find). Yesterday evening as I made my way through the Center City streets and headed for The Post, a new thought came into my head. I layed a patio for him & Ozzie last week and am currently building a planter box in their back yard. I figured (knowing him) he jumped on E-bay as soon as he read my post and would find the book and give it to me much sooner than my birthday, maybe even later on this week. Last night, as I sat at the bar sipping a beer, my cell phone rings. It's Michael.

"I have a gift for you."

He came out to The Post with an AIA Bookstore bag (shameless plug #1). In it was a wrapped package about the size of a shirt box.

"I thought of you when I saw this," he grinned.

"I have a feeling, I know what it is," I replied with a laugh. "But if you were able to get it this quickly, I'd be shocked!"

He just laughed as I unwrapped the package and opened the box. Lo and behold, there it was. My childhood memory..."The Little House"! Brand new, never been read (except by Michael). After my laughter (and yes, a few tears) subsided I asked him how the hell he came upon it so quickly. Michael, being the GM of the AIA Bookstore (shameless plug #2), told me that he too remembered this book from his childhood and, as the buyer for the store, he would often pick up items that reminded him of his youth (toys, books, etc.). I was completely floored (and delighted) by the gift and am very grateful for the thought.

Which brings me to shameless plug #3...

The AIA Bookstore is more than just books. Visit their site or stop in at 17th & Sansom Streets in Center City Philadelphia. Christmas is approaching (much sooner than many of us hope) and their Christmas shop will be opening in about a month or less. There, you will find a wide array of unique ornaments for your tree, some of which you'll laugh out loud at seeing. I've said this in a previous post long ago, but it certainly needs repeating: this place is much more than a book store for architects (although you'll certainly find some great books on pretty much any and all types of architecture ever conceived). It's a place where you can walk in and browse the aisles and, more likely than not, come across a one of a kind piece of jewelry or a chachke that just brings a smile to your face and tells you it's the perfect gift for that flamboyant friend you have such a hard time buying for. So click here and peruse through the numerous sections and see what item(s) you suddenly must have. Or better yet, if you're in Center City, stop in!

A Childhood Memory ...

2005-09-17T12:39:00.000-04:00

I don't know why this suddenly came into my head, but I kept thinking of it and figured I may as well let it out. I believe the following is why I am and always have been a city person and love architecture, both residential and highrise.

Each year, from as early as I could remember until I was about nine or ten years old, my grandmother used to take me into "the city" once a year on my birthday to pick out a present. What neither she nor I realized so early on in my life was that part of her present to me was the trip itself, as it established a passion within me that hangs tight to this very day: city life.

My birthday is in the 2nd week of December, so a trip into the city also meant a trip to the department stores lining Market Street and a walk through "Dicken's Village" in the Strawbridges building or the organ light show in the old Wanamaker Building. Many of you already know this building if you've seen the movie mannequin and the scene where Kim Cattrell glides down through the elaborate 10 story courtyard of the department store on a hand-glider. That scene (as well as all interior shots) was in Philadelphia's Wanamaker Department Store. At Christmas, a light show display in the courtyard fascinates children and adults alike, while a century old pipe organ blasts Christmas music. It's been a tradition in that store since its begninning and carries through to this day, even though Wanamaker's is long out of business and Lord & Taylor now occupies the space.

Alongside those yearly treks, there's a more materialistic memory that I feel has developed a childhood burning desire to be part of "the city".

As a young child, I remember going with my mother to the dentist. As I waited for her check-up to be completed or waited for my own to begin, I would pass by the Hilights magazines and always grab the same book I've read each and every time I entered the dentist's waiting room. Even after it got to the point where my mother would take it out of my hands, telling me that I was too old for that book and I should read something else, I would sneak back to the all too familiar pages and study the pictures, imagining myself in those images, wondering what it would be like to live in "the big city". That book was "The Little House", by Virginia Lee Burton. Written in 1943, it was the story of a husband and father who built the perfect house on a sprawling farm for his family to grow up. Unfortunately for the little house, the world grew up also. First other houses sprang up around, then tenements, traffic became a problem when new roads were built around it, and trolley lines and subway systems as skyscrapers towered both sides of the house. The father has since died and the family moved away and, just when the wrecking ball is about to demolish the house, a great-great grandson finds it and rescues his family home, transporting it far, far away into the country, where he fixes it up and begins to raise his own family again.

Wow...even writing this little post now, I can feel the swell of emotions I felt long ago as a child. The drawings of the house grew sadder and sadder with each page, until the very end when it was fixed up again and ready for a new life. But I also remember the pictures of the city growing around the house, the hustle and bustle of activity as this house sat quietly, deteriorating in the shadows of highrises around it. Even as a child, I felt like that little house. Not necessarily sad, but surrounded by activity and unable to participate. I remember thinking all those long years ago how I wanted to jump into those pages and be a part of that city.

And now I am.

And, for the most part, I'm luvin' every minute of it!!

A Strange Coincidence ...

2005-09-17T09:31:00.000-04:00

I had a dream about him last night. I haven't had a dream about him since the one last April when I dreamed he was in trouble and needed me (only to later find out he tried to commit suicide while coming down from a high on crystal meth).

In last night's dream, I don't remember if he had called me or if I ran into him on the street, but we were in his apartment. I was sitting at the foot of his bed trying to avoid the mound of laundry piled ontop of the mattress while he sorted and folded. There was some small talk going on and I felt that he had never left the city as was his announcement last August, but I kept my mouth shut with the questions and continued with meaningless chatter until the appropriate time came. At one point (whether brought about by me or him, I can't remember) he mentioned "coming back" in a roundabout reference to him having left, but only recently returning. I thought this strange, considering we were still in the same apartment and nothing had changed, but again I didn't say anything about it.

Then, to my surprise, he came up behind me, wrapped his arms gently around my shoulders, and whispered: "I'm sorry for everything I had put you through."

Me being me (just one more indication that The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" is my theme song), I shrugged off the apology with: "That's okay. I'm over it." Even though I knew I still resented it (no so much hurt by it anymore) deep down inside, I wasn't going to let him know that.

I awoke from my sleep soon after. And I felt strangely at peace with myself. Maybe that was my subconscious telling me to get past it (even though I feel I have moved on consciously).

But the coincidence was still to come...

This morning, on my way to work, I continued to read the book Michael gave me. The chapter I started was titled: Recovering a Sense of Identity. It talked about "poisonous playmates" - those who aren't supportive of your journey (like drinking buddies of a recovering alcoholic) and self abuse (downplaying your own abilities). But the thing that stood out most was a section called "Crazymakers". These are people who's lives are so disrupted that the suck the energy out of those around them and feed (most often negatively) off of the attention of their friends, lovers or family to meet their own needs. Just to add a couple of descriptive quotes from the book:

*They are often charismatic, frequently charming, highly inventive, and powerfully persuasive.
*They are the kind of people who can take over your whole life.
*Everyone around them is a supporting cast, picking up their cues, their entrances and exits, from the crazymaker's whims.
*They break deals and destroy schedules
*They expect special treatment
*They discount your reality
*They spend your time and money
*They are expert blamers
*they hate schedules--except their own

These are a few of the several characteristics of this "crazymaker" this author writes about. And this is exactly what my friend was to me. Countless times, he would call, wanting to do something. I would drop whatever it was I was doing and head on over, only to sit in his apartment while he smoked his crystal and bounced off the walls. Ultimately, more often than not, the plan on "doing something" was simply sitting there and watching him deteriorate. I've gotten calls at 4 in the morning where he was crying and feeling all alone. I would cancel plans with other friends the second he would call.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not dwelling on the past or reinventing lost feelings and emotions. I am beyond that drama now. I just found it strange to dream about him actually apologizing to me for what he put me through and then opening up a self-help book and actually reading about him.

This book is more than getting reacquainted with your creative side. It really goes much deeper and, although I'm only in the first couple of chapters (my plan is to read the whole book, then go back and read it again and begin the exercises explained throughout), I highly recommend it to anyone out there who feels they can do better in whatever it is they want.

Up, Up and Away ...

2005-09-16T19:34:00.000-04:00

Philadelphia has always been known as a City of Neighborhoods. From block after block after block of rowhomes lining the streets of South Philly, known for its tourist traps of competative cheesesteak establishments and abundance of funeral parlors (Mafia territory) to the overpopulated (and cat-missing) streets of Chinatown to the lost treasures of Delancy Street (one of the most affluent addresses in the city, with some of the few remaining turn of the century 4 and 5-story mansions never converted into apartments) Philly has always been a city where people lived, worked and played with the relative ease of getting around. It is definitely a "walking city". In Center City (the downtown district), you can walk from Independence Hall to the infamous Rocky steps of the Art Museum in about 30 minutes (which may seem like a long stroll, but there's still so much to see and do between).

Back in the '70's people started moving out of the city and into the surrounding suburbs. Things were looking bleak for the City of Brotherly Love and, all things considered, it began to live up to the bad image it had been given for years. But things started to turn around again in the '90's and the younger generation, who mostly attended college in nearby University City, stuck around after graduation day and took up residence while older folk from the Main Line (Philadelphia Society, as Rose Dewitt Bukater put it) started selling their sprawling suburban estates and opting for the convenience of highrise living close to theaters and restaurants. A residential building boom was in the making as more neighborhoods started to spring up in once dilapidated areas. Fishtown & Northern Liberties, just north of Center City is quickly becoming "the loft district" and being compared to New York's Soho district. The riverfront, once abandoned warehouses and weed encrusted docks, are now being replaced with highrise condominiums. Even the Philadelphia Naval Yard, once one of the best in the country but lost in the '80's is once again alive with life, being transformed into a gated community and yacht club.

And still new neighborhoods are developing, and going skyward with some of the coolest highrises this city has seen in decades. Mandeville Place is a slender glass tower rising up from the Schuylkill River on the western edge of Center City. Groundbreaking could be as early as this fall, but will probably be delayed for one reason or another. The Symphony House is already under construction on The Avenue of the Arts right in the heart of Center City. All in all, there are probably 2 dozen or more condo highrises greater than 20 floors going up all around the city. Rumor has it also that the top 25 floors of 2 Liberty Place, the city's 2nd tallest building (3rd, when completion of Comcast tower happens in a few more years) may be converted into luxury apartments.

Maybe, as part of my rediscovering myself, I should think about investing in real estate. God knows it is and will continue to be in ample supply for some time.

Karaoke Thursday ...

2005-09-16T17:45:00.000-04:00

Well...it looks like Thursday nights are slowly catching on with karaoke at The Post. There was a halfway decent crowd there last night and it seemed all had a good time. Someone had brought pictures from a few weeks ago that I'm patiently waiting to have emailed to me so I can post them up on here. That way you can see for yourselves that I was literally manhandled and dragged up to the microphone to sing. I guess all those beers (among other things) made me a little easier to pluck up off my barstool.

Last night there was no singing for me, M & O, or Johnny F. We had a great time sitting in our little pow-wow dissin' everyone else up there. We have our own little plan we're slowly formulating which has something to do with stalking the karaoke representative to one of his other destination spots and making complete asses of ourselves in some other section of the city.

Another thing we discussed doing I'm actually looking forward to...weather permitting. We're going Kayaking next weekend!!!

Also met a fellow blogger last night. Ridor showed up with a few friends. We talked alittle bit, but I'm actually very shy when meeting new people, so after a few minutes of passing notes back and forth (he's also deaf, which is not a problem, just something I'm not used to) I went back to my friends, who were on their last drink before leaving for the night. Ridor seemed to like the bar though, so I'm sure we'll be able to meet up again.

Oh well...that's all for now, folks.

Oh....wait! Special shout-out to Mistress Jen: Desperate Housewives premier (when?)...you...me...we got a date planned. Sorry I forgot to tell you about karaoke, but keep that in mind for next Thursday!!!