A Quit-Smoking Journal ...

Day 1 (Wednesday)...

With one cigarette left still in the box sitting on my kitchen counter, my alarm clock wakes me and I make the decision to not smoke.  It's a decision made on a whim and one that I've made in the past.  The difference between now and the other times is back then I used to carry my cigarettes around with me "just in case".  My "quitting" then would simply be cutting back.  This time, that last lonely cigarette remains on the kitchen counter with the lighter, both untouched.

My morning coffee and time out in the new back yard were hampered by thoughts of a nice long drag from that tobacco stick just 10 feet away, but I refused.  I can do this this, I told myself.  The self-help books my therapist had given me and the talks with him allowed me to learn the tools to be able to cope with the negative feelings associated with quitting.  It was the physical addiction that was scaring me!



Day 2 (Thursday)

Awoke still smoke free.  I thought I would have trouble sleeping since I went to bed last night thinking of smoking.  I get out of bed and immediately head to the kitchen to make coffee.  The cigarette pack is still there, right next to the coffee maker, the neon-green lighter resting on top.  I spent the morning watching the news and preparing for a full day of sweating.

All I thought about all day was smoking.  Work was kind of slow, making the habit that much more intolerable.  When I finally did have someone in the store to talk to I realized that I was jittery and couldn't get a grasp on what I was actually talking.  I swore up and down to myself that they probably thought I was the worst salesperson they've ever dealt with.  After they left I looked in the mirror and was shocked at how red my eyes were.  Now I realize they probably thought I was stoned.

After work, I went over to my friend's house to go swimming and to cool down in his house.  I felt bad that I was forcing him to go out side to have a cigarette in his own house.

Day 3 (Friday)

STOP MOCKING ME, EMERGENCY CIGARETTE!!!!

Day 4 (Saturday)

The cravings are not subsiding.  Sometimes I don't think about it, but when the feeling hits me, it hits with the force of a bullet, nearly knocking me off my feet.  I take a deep breath, hold and let it out slowly.  Then I snap the rubber band on my wrist and finally I start gnawing away at the pretzel logs I purchased yesterday. 

A part of me (the evil part) is saying I made a mistake.  The good me (learned optimism) is saying I have done this good for more than nearly 48 hours, that I've already saved almost $30 since Saturday and that it will get easier. 

...the evil part is saying bullshit....go ahead and smoke...

This Fall on FOX ...

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)

The Good, The Bad and the Rapture ...

So, doomsday is less than 24 hours away and there are mixed views about how it's going to happen.  Some say that, beginning at 6pm EST in New Zealand, earthquakes will ravage the world.  Others say it is The Rapture, and Jesus H. Christ himself will swoop down from the heavens and carry his Believers away, leaving the rest of us behind to clean up the mess.

Well, let's just be realistic about it, shall we?

a)  Nothing will happen and all the false prophets of the world will say they got the date wrong.
b)  Earthquakes, volcanos and every other natural demise known to mankind will simultaneously erupt destroying the human waste and no one will be alive to record it.
c)  The Rapture will indeed happen and those of us "left behind" will clean up the mess, get on with our lives and wait out another 7 years before Armegeddon wipes us off the face of the earth.

So, considering 'a' and 'b' leave nothing to think about, let's consider 'c'.

For those of us not wisked away, the first thing we have to look forward to is our immediate survival.  I'm not talking about panic and chaos in the streets.  That'll come soon enough.  I'm talking about dodging the unmanned cars hurtling towards you or the unpiloted planes falling from the sky.  If you're sitting there talking and all of a sudden the person infront or beside you disappears, use the old '50s mantra:  Duck and Cover.

Second comes the mass hysteria and confusion for those of us still here.  However I believe that, with all the news coverage and gossip leading up to this, People will quickly realize what had happened and they'll wonder why they weren't taken away.  Well, get over it!  I, like you and really the majority of the world, are sinners in one way or another.  And, figuring they have nothing to lose now, looting and other crimes will be on the rise.

Third will finally be acceptence.  We're here...we're sinners...get used to it.

As we all get back to our normal lives, the Anti-Christ will rise to power.  I was convinced that it would be Oprah, but now I have to wager a guess and say it may very well be Lady Gaga.

It's ironic how quickly she has gained not only popularity, but such a large number of minio--I mean followers.  And, even more strange, 48 hours before Doomsday, she's touted as being the most powerful woman in the world, knocking Oprah off the stage.  And her followers already think of her as perfection, almost "godlike".

The bad thing is, not only are we going to have to follow her commands and obey her world power for seven years until the Final Battle, but we're also going to have to all go out and buy (loot) every one of her cds.

Crap....is it too late to redeem myself and become a Born Again?

Let's Make Paul Lynde Proud ...

Center City Philadelphia is a great walking area and virtually impossible to get lost in.  There are two main things to remember:  numbered streets go north and south, named streets go east and west.  It's a simple grid pattern mapped out by William Penn to designate residential and commercial areas, surrounded by gardens and orchards.  His intention was to make Philadelphia a rural town similar to English villages rather than a city.  However, being a main port, the residents sold and divided properties closer to the Delaware River, building rowhomes and tenements above street level shops and the "village" quickly grew into a city.

Although his original plan for many open green spaces dividing residents and buisnesses faded quickly, what remained of his map were the 5 main parks precisely placed in the center of each section of the city; Northeast Square, Southeast Square, Northwest, Southwest and Center Square.  Today, renamed and still prominent in a Center City map, all but 2 of these squares have seen many life altering changes.  Northwest Square was swallowed up by the Benjamen Franklin Parkway and turned into a great fountain and renamed Logan Circle.  The park blended in nicely with the grand boulevard, but crossing 6 lanes of circling traffic in order to reach it left alot to be desired and the park is used more as a photographic backdrop than a crowded gathering spot.

Franklin Square, originally Northeast Square, became an unused plot of land after The Ben Franklin Bridge was built to connect Philadelphia and New Jersey.  The base of the bridge ended right at the eastern edge of Franklin Square.  Then, in the '80s, the Vine Street Expressway interchange to the bridge and Interstate 95 all but completely blocked the square on the north end.  The neglected park soon became home to street people and drug users.  This changed a few years back when developers transformed the dumping ground into a family friendly park.  Complete with fountains, snack booths and a miniature golf course, the park quickly turned into a three-season destination spot for locals and tourists alike, with the main attraction paying homage to one of Philadelphia's world-renowned industries.  Philadelphia was once the world leader in the carousel industry with 3 of the top makers of the 19th & 20th centuries based here.  Even today, when you come across a carousel that displays an assortment of realisitic animals and figures, this is known as "The Philadelphia Style".

Washington Square and Rittenhouse Square (Southeast and Southwest Squares respectively) are two of the least touched, as far as completely altering.  Through the years, both of these were used for different purposes (Southeast as a mass burial ground for Civil War casulties and Southwest as a sheep grazing area), but each developed tight and wealthy residential neighborhoods around them.  Washington Square today remains a quiet place to walk your dog or sit in the grass and read a book.

Washington Square



Rittenhouse Square

Rittenhouse Square, on the other hand, has become the hub of activity and the place to be seen.  Located in the middle of the most exclusive neighborhood in Center City and the high-end shopping of Walnut Street, Rittenhouse Square is surrounded by fine dining and designer boutiques.  It has gained more popularity over the years with the college crowds from neighboring University City.  It's a place where, nearly any time of day or night, you can catch musicians or performance artists or watch the bevy of dogs playing in the fountain, all under a great canopy of century old trees.  The park also plays hosts to such annual events as flower and art shows.

Out of all five original squares, only one has been so completely transformed that it bears no resemblence to it's original design outside of it's shape.  Center Square was exactly that.  Located in the exact center of Penn's Philadelphia, the site now sits beneith the stone and marble mammoth structure known as City Hall.

This now iconic structure was and still is the largest municipal building in the country and the 2nd tallest masonry building in the world (short by 1'8").  Designed to be the tallest building in the world, it fell short of the Eiffel Tower and the Washington Monument, mostly due to the 30 years it took to build.  The clocktower is topped by a 27 ton statue of William Penn who is facing northeast towards the Fishtown area of the city, reported to be where he signed the treaty for the city with a local Indian Tribe.

With the westward developement of Center City in the 50's and 60's, big changes came into play with the biggest being the removal of "the Chinese Wall".  This viaduct carried train tracks from the then Broad Street Station west to 30th Street Station.  The stone bridge, with it's small barrel vault openings over the north/south streets, literally cut the city in half.  With the arrival of the electric train however, Ed Bacon, City Planner, set out to demolish the wall, along with Broad Street Station and put all the trains underground, creating a whole new corporate developement site aptly named Penn Center.




Broad St. Station/train shed/Chinese Wall

 Originally spanning two blocks, but extending to five over the years, Penn Center replaced the Chinese wall with open plazas, mid to high rise office buildings and an underground shopping complex complete with an ice skating rink.  It was designed with the intention of bringing workers in from the suburbs and get them to there place of employment without ever having to step outside. 

Penn Center Complex looking west

A dark, unattractive tunnel under six lanes of heavy traffic connects Penn Center with City Hall at Dilworth Plaza, an equally unattractive cement multi-level plaza on the western edge of what was once Center Square.

The grey granite slabs of paving, grey granite benches and grey granite railings make the plaza cold and barren.  The trees planted between the lower plaza and City hall is pretty much the only green there is and, instead of the aroma of fresh spring and summer blossoms, the air is filled with the stench of urine and body odor from the countless homeless people that take up residence in the plaza all day and night.  As with many urban developements of the time, modern meant stark and stark meant cement, and what lacked was the idea of an inviting green space where people can relax.

But soon that may change.  With the near completion of the 10 year painstaking soot removal and refurbishing of City Hall and the completion of the Residences at the Ritz-Carlton tower across the street, focus is now being directed on Dilworth Plaza and what its true potential is.  I have seen renderings of a great lawn, of an ice skating rink for the winter and fountain display in the summer, of small food sheds and outdoor cafes.

Rendering of new Dilworth Plaza

Sure, all of that looks good on paper, but is anyone thinking about the future?  No one has proposed easy access to the plaza.  City Hall/Center Square is cut off in all directions by six lanes of traffic.  You see all those kids in the rendering above?  What parent in their right mind would drag their kids across six lanes of traffic to play in a fountain?  The area around City Hall is becoming more and more residential and tourist driven as older office buildings are being converted into hotels and conominiums.  Dilworth Plaza can potentially become their "Rittenhouse Square", but not if it means risking your life to get there.  The northeast corner of the plaza faces the Ben Franklin Parkway with the Philadelphia Museum of Art in the distance, the Franklin Institute, the Free Library and the soon to open Barnes Museum.  Love Park, another gathering spot is directly across the street.  The newly expanded Convention Center just opened its doors a block away.  All of this growth going on around Center Square and the desire to revamp Dilworth Plaza is front and center, but no one has thought about how all of these new residents and tourists and conventioneers are going to get to it.  If it's not thought out soon, the "new" Dilworth Plaza with just be an enhanced version of the old one.  A place where, during the week, city hall employees will sit out there for 15 minutes and shovel down their lunch or make their way to the subway and trains underground to go home, leaving the rest of the days, nights and weekends to the homeless.

Developers really need to consider at least one, if not two pedestrian bridges, one on the northside of Dilworth Plaza that will lead people towards Love Park, the Convention Center and the Museum District.  The 2nd bridge needs to be on the Southside, towards the shopping and residential district.  As it is right now, if you want to "legally" get from South Broad Street to Dilworth Plaza, you have to first cross Broad Street and then stand on a little island in the middle of traffic and wait for another light to change before crossing into the Plaza.  On that island you can only hope that no out of control cab will be heading your way because there isn't anything between you or it. 

Another area to look at is the City Hall Courtyard.

Probably one of the most beautifully secluded areas in Center City, it is also one of the most under utilized.  Pedestrian walkways through the City Hall complex connects East and West Market Street and North and South Broad Street.  Outside of going from point A to point B or going down to the subway from the lone entrance in the center of the courtyard, nothing goes on here.  This is the perfect spot to house a small cafe or coffee shop (hell, if Starbucks only knew of this hideaway).  Some benches, trees and shrubbery is all that's needed to make this courtyard more entising.

These are just a couple of my own ideas, probably never to be realized.  The important thing that needs to be realized is that it's not always true, what they say in that move:  If you build it, they may not come if they can't get there.

The Center Square on television has never been the same without Paul Lynde.  Maybe this time, this city can make our Center Square into something it never was....good.

Back Yard Progress. Slow n' Steady ...

So, I had mentioned in my last post that the back yard is slowly taking shape after I had finally destroyed my nemisis, the evil Curly Willow.

The first couple of pictures are the yard during the tree's demise.

Although, still messy, I have dug up hundreds of bricks long buried beneith the mountains of dead branches and began laying out large planting areas and throwing packets of seeds.

What Makes You Happy? ...

A conversation last night had Ric ask the question:  What makes you happy?

For years with him it is a consistent ritual that happens twice a week: 

     Sunday - Burger Night
     Wednesday - New Comic Book Release Day

It's these two simple weekly events that apparently make the mayhem of the days between more bearable.  Being an artist, I would think that Ric's happiness (outside of a long and happy relationship) would lie in his artwork.  And I would wager a guess that it does.  However, he also admitted that the creation process is time consuming and frustrating and happiness mostly comes when he can begin to see the end result. 

Other simple pleasures for him are at night when, watching television, his husband, louis, falls asleep in his arm.  "When he's able to fall asleep like that, I know he's content and that makes me happy."

Michael, being imaginative and creative, tends to find his happiness with his hands.  As long as he's making crafts, working in his garden or creating a 12-course meal with a 40lb tofu log he's happy.  And unlike Ric (and myself), Michael doesn't find the creation process difficult.  Instead, he finds it invigorating. 

Donny, the bartender on duty, replied with cooking dinner for friends and getting ready for his trips to his Florida home.  He made a point as to say "getting ready for his trips" instead of the actual traveling part, stating that nowadays the times in the airports are the most frustrating.

When the question was posed to me, I couldn't answer at first.  But when I finally did, it was writing.  But even the answer itself wasn't simple.  It was more along the lines of :  "I don't know.  I guess...I don't really... If I were to pick something...  I guess I would be happy writing."  It wasn't that wordy (at least I don't think it was), but it was that confusing.

Truth be told, I can't remember the last time I was truly happy.  (ironically, as I just began typing that last sentence, The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" started playing on the radio.  This has really been my personal theme song for quite some time).

But back to the topic at hand.  I can remember as a kid, spending hours curled up on the sofa reading a book or sitting out on the front stoop sketching.  I had alot of alone time creating houses and cities and planes out of a several year accumulated bag of Legos.  Even in my teens I had developed a desire to write, penning my first book (about 300 hand written pages in 2 spiral bound notebooks) at the age of 19. 

I had taught myself to paint, first in oils (yes, a special shout-out to Bob Ross) and then, almost as a dare to myself and a promise to a former employee, in watercolors.  My first watercolor (actually 2) were of a co-worker's parents' home she was going to frame up and give as a Christmas Present.  Although it took me several weeks and a couple of tries, I managed to complete them and was very pleased at the result.  Apparently so were other co-workers because I ended up doing 3 additional house portraits (pencil sketches) for that same Christmas.

Over the years, I decided to do a few more house portraits for my brothers and sister when they purchased their first homes.  One summer I had even done a portrait of my then 6-month old nephew from a wallet size photograph.  This had actually brought tears to my sister-in-law's eyes that following Christmas.  This life portrait branched out into an oil portrait of my old dog.

There was definately a talent there that I had let slide over the years as the hell of real life began to envelope me.  I stopped painting and stopped writing.  The creative side of me cowered away in a dark closet while the real me fought not to come out of it.  I would always tell myself that someday I'll start again, but the weeks turned into years and soon became a decade.

Yes, nearly 10 years had passed before I knew it.  My father had quit showing his disappointment in me for not continuing with my creative side and my mother never really showed her support one way or another.  And I always looked at myself as a failure for giving up and wondered if I would ever get that passion back.  But life kept smacking me in the face with one bad relationship after another until I finally gave up on that as well. 

My last relationship, which ended this time last year, lasted about 8 months.  During that whole time, I thought I was happy, but looking back I knew I wasn't.  I think it had been just a desperate need for a relationship after nearly 10 years of not even a single date.  Although it was a nice relationship, we were in 2 completely different places.  He was successful, making 6-figures and I, along with so many thousands of others, had the economic rug pulled out from under me and was on the verge of being evicted.  It wasn't that he made me feel good about myself to make me think I was happy, it was more like he was a nurturer and comforted me when I was at one of many low points in my life.

I had no money and couldn't date like a normal person and he was spending money left and right (something I didn't like him doing, but I had to swallow my pride).

When Christmas started to approach, I began to panic.  Although he understood and insisted that I not get him anything, I was someone who was (what I thought) in love and I became overwhelmed with guilt.  So, I gave it some thought and thought what would make him happy?

His life was his house, a little bungalow in Jersey.  So, after some self coaching and pep talks, I finally picked up my old watercolor tablet and a paintbrush.  From a digital photograph I had taken at dawn's early light on a cold October morning, I began sketching out my first house portrait in 10 years.

Almost immediately, my frustrations started to build at my inability to get the perspective right or the proportions.  More than once I threw up my hands and screamed at myself, crumpling up the paper and throwing it away.  I stewed in my own failure for days and weeks before panic started to set in.  Time was running out.

I started again and this time I wouldn't give up.  Instead of giving all of my time into making it look just right in pencil, I did a quick rough sketch that turned out halfway decent and then pulled out the watercolors.  I stayed up late at night and did a little at a time, spending most of the evening just staring at it.  When I neared completion, I would force myself to change something or add some color, knowing full well that watercolor can be very unforgiving. 

It was literally down to the wire as I finally called it finished and penned my name the morning of Christmas Eve.  I didn't have the time or the money to have it custom framed, so I just bought a piece of matboard and carefully wrapped it.

When I presented the gift, he looked at me and said that I shouldn't have gotten him anything and I just nervously smiled and said I didn't buy anything.  I watched as he carefully unwrapped it, not knowing what it could possibly be, but then, even through the sheet of wax paper I had placed over the image, he could make out what it was (or what he thought it was--a photograph).  When he lifted up the wax paper, he let out a gasp and immediately burst into tears. 

"Did you do this?" 

I knodded, my own tears welling up as the nervousness and tension from weeks of work drained out of me.  He was so happy that when I came over a few days later, it was already framed and proudly displayed in the dining room.

The end result made me happy. but the weeks leading up to it made me unable to start painting again. 

Writing was the same for me.

Michael urged me a several years back to start a blog.  When I did, I went at it full throttle.  It started out as a blog about The Post Bar and its cast of characters, but quickly spread into something more personal as I started describing my day-to-day observances.  But instead of continuing on, I started to lose not only interest, but the desire to write.  Again, things around me just never seemed to go my way and I fell victim to depression and listlessness.  Nothing I had to say seemed important enough to write about and my look at the world around me became as gray and lifeless as November.

I tried a few times to get back in it, but weeks and months began to pass without a single posting.

Several months ago, Michael suggested I start a new blog.  This is it.  It seemed like a good idea, but I'm limited in my writing time and I'm still having difficulty in finding things to write about.  It seems that the subjects I think I would tackle wind up similar to this:  describing everything I see wrong with myself and my life instead of writing about the lighter side of things.

So, back to the original question:  What makes you happy?

I really don't know.  I haven't found it yet.  I love my friends and the time I spend with all of them.  Is it enough to make me happy?  Of course not.  There's still the alone time.

My yardwork is about 1/2 done as far as the planting areas.  It's mostly seeded and those are beginning to come up.  There's still alot of work to be done, but I'll soon have a place where I can sit in quiet and think about what makes me happy.

Hopefully I might find it...

Jell-O and Other Childhood Memories ...

With friends the other night at Tavern on Camac, somehow the topic of Jell-O and molded desserts became the topic.  This brought back childhood memories that I thought I'd like to share...

Growing up in a small town in Delaware County wasn't like growing up in one of the many small towns dotting our country where, viewed from the air, you follow a single road across the land and suddenly are surrounded by houses and mom and pop stores and a town square complete with a white-washed band stand only to find yourself back in the rural farmland once you reach the opposite end.  Delaware county is a densely populated make-up of middle and upper-middle class towns stretching southwest of Philadelphia.  Big employers had been the Philadelphia airport, Boeing, Septa and an assortment of refineries lining the Delaware River south of the city.

Back when I was a kid, the western edge of Delco was still rich with farmland (once you traveled through the immediate outlying suburbs of Philly), but have since been replaced with large shopping malls, mcmansion developments, apartment complexes and corporate parks.  Hotels now dotted the land where cows once grazed, as the route 202 corridor on the westernmost edge of the county developed into a sprawling field of low-rise glass and concrete office buildings and research and development labs.

The town I grew up in, Clifton Heights, had also been farmland and Victorian homes.  On the eastern edge of town was Darby Creek, lined with mills creating everything from paper to leather to cotton.  The mills kept the town alive, even during the depression.  Baltimore Avenue, the main street running through the small downtown section, was like any other storybook small town street complete with a movie theater, bank corner drug store, elementary school and high school, fire house, town hall, all nestled together among the tiny shops and houses lining the 5 block distance.

(Downtown Clifton Heights, circa early 20th century.  Believe it or not, outside of asphalt and alot more signage, this block looks exactly the same)

As the years wore on and after having gone through a 2nd world war, growth in Clifton Heights became more and more aggressive.  Newly paved streets replaced open fields and farmland.  The Delaware County Rowhome, a contemporary take of its Philadelphia counterpart popped up like long strings of dominoes.  On the western edge of town, Baltimore Avenue was widened to accommodate the traffic as expansion extended westward into Secane, Springfield, Swarthmore and the county seat of Media.

Fast food restaurants, motels, car dealerships and supermarkets grew from the ground like mold spoors.  And the icon of them all was the Bazaar of All Nations, the first "indoor shopping mall" in the area.  The Bazaar became a mecca for every resident of Delaware County.  It was the heart and soul of the area and a place where you not only shopped, but hung out as a kid.  It was such an icon that, after its demolition nearly 20 years ago, a local filmmaker decided the legacy needed to live on through memories, photographs and interviews.

Between the Bazaar and my house was a little wooded area and working farm called Burn Brae.  Burn Brae was originally a hospital "for the insane".  Through the years, the large Victorian house became a private residence.  I'm not 100% positive, but I remember hearing that, at one point, it was part of the underground railroad.  The house near the back of the property still remains (I think), but the woods closer to my street have all been uprooted to be replaced by a development of duplexes.  But it was in these woods that my friends and I would sit under the shelter of an enormous oak tree, smoking our cigarettes and flipping through girly magazines.

Washington Avenue was a small street lined on both sides with about 60 rowhomes.  From as far back as I could remember, the people who had lived on my street had mostly remained there for nearly my entire childhood and well into my teens.  Even now, I can mentally walk up one side of my street and down the other and remember every family that lived in each of these homes during my childhood.  A few that stand out more than others are the "hippies" who lived at the bottom of the hill.  The smell (later in my life recognized as pot) filled the air almost all the time around that house.  The crazy old woman who lived up at the top of my street was one of the nastiest bitches I ever knew and would ever know.  So nasty was she that in the mornings she would hang out in her bathroom while the kids were on their way to school and, if a one of us touched the waist-high fence that bordered her property, she would fling open the window and dump cold water down on us, all the while yelling and screaming.  Her death stared could only be compared to Judge Judy when someone is acting stupid.  Somewhere in my neighborhood (although not on my street) was a Korean War vet who was laughingly know as Fingers.  Often seen walking the streets, he would not only talk to his fingers (and the wiggling motion kinda gave the clue that they may have been talking back), but he actually argued with them as well.

My friends all lived on my street as well.  Summers were spent hanging out along the street playing with matchbox cars or G.I. Joe's (the ones with the fuzz buzz, thankyouverymuch).  Sleepovers and Saturday morning cartoons were often the weekend at someone's house.  Later on it was hopping on our Schwinn's (the spoiled kids got the Huffy sport bikes) and exploring the neighborhood, venturing further with each passing week.  Weekends during the school year and every evening in the summers were spent roaming the corridors of The Bazaar or hanging out at the Putt-Putt mini-golf and arcade.  With the teenage years came our own discovery of pot and those trips to the Bazaar and Putt-Putt were teamed up with many runs to the McDonald's or Popeye's across the pike.

Even into our late teens, the circle of life remained the same, only now used cars replaced the used bikes.  It was almost like a scene out of American Graffiti, the way cars would continuously pull in and out of the parking lot and circle around the Bazaar only to come back again ten minutes later.

It wasn't until I had seen that show "The Wonder Years" that I realized that growing up on Washington Avenue was like growing up on any other small street in the country, at least back in the 60's & 70's.  When a family bought a new car, it was a big deal for everyone on the street.  Papas would stand proudly over the new family wagon, bragging about the newfangled power windows and hi-fi stereo while wiping a clean cloth across the faux wood panel running along the body.  Mamas would bring out freshly brewed coffee in a steaming percolator and start distributing to the other mothers who could care less about the car and more about who's child did what.  And the kids would run around screaming on the street until dusk even if it were a school night because they somehow knew that the parents would be setting a bad example by making the kids go inside while they hung out chatting all night.

When a family went on vacation (only 1 time a year), usually to the mountains or down the shore, they always left on a Saturday morning, but not before another ritual would take place:  again, the Papas would gather around the car, making sure it's packed correctly, tugging on ropes, talking about the fastest and easiest route and making sure the the driver remembered to have the car serviced.  Again, the Mamas are inside finishing up the last of the coffee, talking about what to visit and agreeing over the frustration of having to clean the house and do all the laundry in time to leave at a designated time that had already passed by.  And again, the kids are running around the street, excited for no other reason than being a kid.  At least until you reach the rebellious stage (13) and you feel you're too old to be going away with "The Parents", but are forced to anyway.  These kids stand against the car, moping and speaking to no one.  These are the kids who, when the time finally comes and they are all safely in the car, has his head leaning against the window frame looking like he's on his way back to school instead of the Wildwood beaches.  And these are the kids who would have a blast on the boardwalk and on the beach and have the time of his/her life, until it was time to join the family again for the annual all-you-can-eat fish n' chip extravaganza dinner.

These were some good times growing up and, as the novelist, Barbara Kingslover once said:

"It's surprising how much

memory is built

around things unnoticed

at the time..."



Mutual of Alcohol's Wild Kingdom ...

whisper:  "Hello, and welcome to another fascinating episode of Mutual of Alcohol's Wild Kingdom.  I'm your host, Marlin Perkins and today I am at a local watering hole known as 'Uncle's'.  I hope to bring you the rare look into the hunting techniques of the older gay couple.

"I enter the hunting grounds carefully, trying not to stir the peacefully grazing herd.  I take a seat and, with the help of the pack leader behind the serving counter, quickly blend into the mix behind the shelter of a gin & tonic.

"Once seated, I begin to study my surroundings.  The sun is lowering into the west, giving me the best time to observe the pack.  It is relatively quiet now as the alcohol has yet to instill the more belligerent behavior in the group.  Music plays quietly, also keeping the activity more subdued.  But, as in my past studies, I know this will all change once the watering hole fills with more men and it gets harder to find a place to take refuge.  The music will get louder, the alcohol will flow more freely and the pack will increase in size, making the chatter grow in intensity.  Sometimes it's a long wait, but I have a feeling that tonight we will be in for a spectacular display of the hunt.

"How I wish my cameraman could be here, but I have learned that, in these kinds of surroundings, a camera is apt to bring a behavior away from the norm if the pack should become aware of it.  They often act in 2 distinct ways.  The first is with a shyness and they turn away from the camera, or worse, leave the watering hole altogether.  The second reaction I usually come across is the more aggressive attention seeking behavior where they come up to the camera with smiles and song and become more combative for time in front of the lens.  No, this needs to be studied with subtlety and patience and I must let them act naturally if I am to observe accurately."

An hour later...

"Welcome back to Mutual of Alcohol's Wild Kingdom.  Much has happened within the last hour since my initial arrival to the watering hole.  As suspected, the crowd has grown in numbers and men are now finding it necessary to squeeze between other patrons for the attention of the pack leader serving out drinks.  The music has grown in volume and the alcohol seems to be doing its trick in loosening up the herd.  Conversations are louder and interactions are becoming more animated.

"But my attention is now focused on the latest addition to the mix.  They approached the watering hole about thirty minutes earlier and had taken up the last remaining stools, although one is refusing to sit, opting rather to stand and lean over the bar sipping from a beer and swaying to the music.  They both appear to be in their mid 50's, but trying to look younger with the one obviously dying his beard and the other wearing a very clingy t-shirt.  Although showing little affection for one another, it is obvious these two are a couple and it is this host's hope that this be the type of hunters I have been seeking my entire career:  the rare trado venator or Committed Hunters.

"I have only heard stories of these types of hunters and I am excited to possibly witness the hunt in person.  I must wait and sip my drink and keep a sharp eye trained across the bar.

"They speak softly to one another while their eyes dart around the room, looking for prey.  Once in a while, one or the other will glance in the mirror to check himself out.  The drinks are filled and emptied at a fairly rapid pace.  They are--

"Oh!  What's this?  Yes!  Yes, I think it is!  The elusive valde juvenis or very young man, often referred to within the packs as a "twink".  This is a real find!  These rare individuals are usually gatherers and grazers, not hunters.  They usually travel in small groups of look-a-likes, but from his nervous looks around the watering hole from his position in the doorway, it seems that this twink may have accidentally drifted away from the rest of his herd and became lost.  His skin is smooth and his hair is gelled into a into a kind of faux-mohawk, possibly being a ruse to make him appear larger than he was, therefore scaring the hunters away.  His buttoned shirt is mostly undone revealing a hairless chest and his buttocks is small and perky.

"The scent of the Twink seems to fill the air as the eyes of most of the elder hunters all focus in on the entrance.  The sounds of shifting stools can be heard under the loud music.  The lust almost seems palpable. 

"Timidly, the Twink steps further away from the entrance, scoping out a place to sit.  I look across the bar to the two men I've been studying and realize that the hunt was now on.  The one standing eases away from his stool and offers it to the Twink.  The other hunter stares his prey up and down and smiles, winking at his partner.

"Stay tuned..."

Later still...

"This game of cat and mouse has been going on for over an hour now.  The herd of hunters, once all thinking they could have a piece of the lost little Twink, had given up the fight to the two elder hunters who displayed their voracity for the fresh meat, not with fists and language, but with drinks offered to the Twink.  They kept his thirst for alcohol consumption filled and left enough money down on the bar to make sure the pack leader kept the fresh glasses rotating.  The elder hunters were now closing in for the kill, standing very close to the inebriated twink.  Their calloused hands nervously run across the hairless arms and over the small buttocks, trying to see how far they can go.

"The twink, now drunk from many shots and cocktails, smiles politely, all the while shifting from one foot to the other, trying to escape the clutches of the hunters who's own desires have grown to near uncontrollable levels.  I suspect that the time will soon be upon us.  Have the hunters weakened the hunted enough to take him back to their den?  Or will the Twink wait for his chance and es--

"Oh!  This is a new development that I didn't see coming!  It looks as if the rest of the Twink's herd has arrived and are hurrying to his aid.  I suspect the last time the Twink had gone to the rest room, he may have realized how trapped he was and sent out a distress call.

"The other twinks surrounded their friend, pushing back the two hunters with their skinny bodies.  The hunters stare in disbelief, their egos obviously wounded.  The young pack of gatherers, talking at once, decide to move on to pastures where more gatherers for their nightly ritual of shirtless dancing.  They gather up the drunken Twink and, with polite good-byes, quickly escape the watering hole, slightly wounded, but ready to move on.

"The hunters lick their own wounds with fresh cocktails and discuss with one another the prized catch they almost had and quickly move on to their next quest.

"And as for me, I must say, this has been a very interesting evening of observations.  I hope you enjoyed it as much as I.  I may come back to this particular locale for more studies.  I've heard of the very very outrageous flock that comes to this watering hole late in the evening.  I'm anxious to capture the flamboyant herd who's behavior can go from fun and frolic to violence and screeching in a flat second.  I am, of course, talking about the flashy and often ostentatious Tranny.

"For now, this is Marlin Perkins and Mutual of Alcohol wishing you all a good night.  Thank you."

Congratulations!

Picture it...
The Westbury...
Summer, 2010...

Ric and I were outside having a cigarette.  It was late summer and the air was still warm, but the evenings were beginning to creep in a little earlier and cooler than only a few weeks prior.  By about seven that Sunday evening, the sky above was kissing the sun farewell and a deepening gray began to blanket the city.  It was still light enough for the street lights to remain dim but the shadows cast by the surrounding apartment buildings crept along the streets like fingers reaching out to us.

The Westbury sits on the ground floor of The Parker Hotel.  Formerly known as The Spruce, this structure was once dubbed in the 20's as a "Bachelor Apartment Building".  But the 12 story Parker has deteriorated over the decades to become the cheap rundown low-income rental unit derelict that sits like an unwanted stepchild in the heart of bustling Center City Philadelphia.  Once home to traveling salesmen and single gentlemen, the current tenants can range anywhere from low income, decent individuals trying to get by to hustlers hosting assorted nightly tricks to drug addicts and alcoholics living out the last days of their American Dream.  It's not uncommon to hear of a body found either inside one of the scarcely furnished rooms or behind the building in the alley where they ended up after taking an ill-fated swan dive from one of the windows above.  The police are continuously called to that location to check out assaults, overdoses, suicides and everything in between.

The Westbury Bar seems like a little oasis in the drug infested desert that is The Parker.  Sitting on the corner of the ground floor, it's windows open up to the intersection of 13th and Spruce streets.  Intent on making the flailing bar turn around, the new owners installed several flat screens, applied new paint, revamped the dinner menu and brought in a large selection of bottled and draft beer.  The changes worked and the people, gay and straight, men and women, old and young seemed to flock to the new neighborhood hangout where they can sample a continuously changing beer menu while cheering on any one of the Philadelphia sports teams on television.

But once you step outside to have a cigarette, you're quickly reminded of the menace of brick and steel rising above your feet.  The Parker's entrance is nearly always active with the comings and goings of its residents, screaming at one another or asking for a cigarette or trying to sell drugs.  If you're a regular at the Westbury you sort of get used to the activity, like an African rhino gets used to the flock of birds that perch on his back, occasionally trying to swat them away with its tail.

And that particular Sunday evening that's exactly what Ric and I were doing, ignoring the buzz of activity going on near the entrance to The Parker.  In fact, it wasn't until we watched an ambulance pull up infront of us that we realized something may actually be happening.

Caught up in some small talk and our cigarettes, we watched as the ambulance pulled up to the curb.  Calls into The Parker were so frequent that no siren was even used.  It was as if the EMTs would just hang down around the corner and pull up at a given time, knowing full well their services would be needed.

The EMTs emerged from the cab of the vehicle and headed to the entrance.  Ric and I followed them with our eyes and both noticed the guy on the sidewalk not twenty feet away.  Obviously drunk or drugged, the disheveled man was down on his side trying unsuccessfully to right himself.  Armed with latex gloves, the EMTs knelt beside the man and talked to him, trying to figure out what he had taken and how much.  The man either couldn't answer or spoke too softly because the EMTs repeated themselves. 

Obvious that treatment on the scene wasn't going to cut it, the two EMTs tried hoisting the man up onto his feet.  Once erect, the man's legs buckled and curled like noodles and he was down again.  The techs have witnessed this time and time again and helped him back up onto his feet, each with an arm around the stumbling man's body.  They walked/dragged/carried the man over to the ambulance.  One of the EMTs held the guy up while the other reached for the side door.

And then it got weird...

Ric and I watched silently as the drunk was being hauled across the sidewalk to the ambulance.  The flourescent lights of the canopy over the entrance to the hotel started to cast an eerie white glow over the approaching shadows.  We sucked from our cigarettes as the one EMT reached for the handle and turned it.  He pulled open the door...

...and the sky suddenly filled with purple and gold balloons.

Like prisoners breaking free, these balloons burst through the metal doorframe of the ambulance and started rising into the air.  The EMT holding the man repositioned his grip as the 2nd tech let his grip on the man go to grab for the strings tying the escaping balloons together.

I don't know what was going through Ric's mind at that moment, but everything seemed surreal and didn't appear to be happening at all.  Sure, I had a couple of beers...maybe even more than a couple, but surely not enough to be imagining balloons pouring out of an ambulance.  We both stood and watched, not saying a word.  Our mouths hanging open in disbelief and wonderment.  I felt like I was watching a movie being told before me.  Some silly, over the top campy movie from the 80's like Police Academy, only geared towards the medical field.  Scrubs meet Killer Klowns from Outer Space!

Something needed to be said.  Anything that would explain what we were seeing.  This was just too weird for words...  Or so I thought.

"Congratulations!"  I shouted, a little too loud.  "You're our 100th overdose of the day!"

Ric turned to me in disbelief before realizing what I just said and burst out in laughter.

The tech who released the bouquet of colorful party favors struggled to get them back inside the back of the ambulance while the first tech struggled with the pesky little man needing medical attention.  The squeak of rubbing latex was loud as the tech pushed and prodded the purple and gold balloons back through the opening.  When most were in, one would pop back out and the EMT stretched his arm to get ahold of it.  Finally, after a few seconds (that seemed like several minutes) the balloons were back in their cell.  I can see them moving in the air, trying to get back out.  With one hand on the wall of colorful bouncing rubber the EMT reached out with his free hand to grab the drunk's arm and together, they tried guiding the man into the back of the ambulance.

As surreal as it was for Ric and I, you can multiple that 10-fold for the drunk, just by the look of unknowing fear and incomprehension on his face as he tried backing away from the attacking balloons.  But the EMTs won out.  They forced him up through the door and one followed behind, while the other closed the door and headed around to the driver's side.

We continued to laugh, Ric and I, as the ambulance pulled away from the curb and drove into the approaching darkness.  We were tearing up from laughing so hard, still not fully aware that what we just witnessed had actually happened.

"Oh, we gotta tell everyone about this."  Ric said, still laughing.  "No one is ever going to believe us!"

We flicked our cigarettes into the street and headed back inside the bar, laughing all to way to our seats.

Profiling ...

I was profiled!

First, let me just tell you a little about myself.  Sure, I like guys.  I mean give me a Chris Meloni or Jason Statham and what's not to like.  I like men who are men.  I really do have a wide range where it comes to "type", but men who can grow a beard in less than a week and don't shave their chest, legs and arms (to cut back on wind resistance) are at the top of my list.  There are too many physical features to mention that make up my perfect type of guy, but the type I'm not attracted to in the least are overly feminine guys or guys who smell as if they rolled around on the sampler tray at the Macy*s fragrance counter.

For as long as I can remember, I've kinda had a thing for older guys and guys that are taller than me (yeah, I know, Ric...not hard to find...blah, blah, blah).  But, being in my mid-forties now, the younger generation has it's appeals as well.

Another turn-off for me are labels.  Now, I'm not talking about 'tops', 'bottoms', 'bears', 'cubs', 'otters', 'twinks' and things like that.  I'm talking about Armani, Versaci, D&G, CK, Gucci and any other overpriced label you can sew into the back of a shirt.  I put my jeans on one leg at a time just like everyone else and my ass wouldn't know the difference between a $50 pair of jeans and a $200 pair (both literally and figuratively).

Levis have been around for more than 150 years and hold up better than an expensive AX pair (which would probably be replaced less than a year later when the following season's style comes out).  I don't have the money to throw away on designer labels, but even if I did what would be the point outside of trying to impress someone else?  I'm not out to impress anyone.  As Popeye once said, I am what I am (note how I didn't reference Gloria Gaynor).

Gay icons (Madonna, Diana, Judy, Barbara, Ga-Ga) don't do it for me either.  I'm not going to feel ostracized because I cannot sing the lyrics to The Trolley Song (yes, I had to google it).

I eat what I want, when I want.  The exercise I do is done to keep my heart going, not to be able to remove my shirt the first sunny day when the temperature hits 70.  I go to bars to drink beer, meet friends and occupy a stool for some conversation, not stand silently in a corner posing like I'm advertising high above Times Square.  It takes me exactly fourteen minutes to shave, shower, dry and dress in the morning and I rarely take a last look in the mirror before heading out the door.  Again, not out to impress. 

I like action movies, not chick flicks (except Steel Magnolias, but it's because of the sarcasm spewed throughout the film).  Although I've enjoyed the ones I've seen, I'm not one to head up to New York to see the latest Tony Award winning play or musical.  I can count on one hand the number of musicals I've seen...4:  Titanic, Miss Saigon, Les Miserables and Cabaret.  That doesn't include the 2 or 3 I've seen in a movie version.

So, with all that being said, a few months ago I was having drinks with a group of friends at Uncles.  I stepped outside to have a cigarette.

It was a Sunday evening and, coming from work, I was dressed halfway decent in a pair of jeans (Levis), boots, a buttoned shirt and sport coat.  While resting against a post, legs casually crossed and a Marlboro in my hand, I spot a man across the street looking over in my direction.  Not comfortable being stared at, I changed position and stepped slightly in the alley, around the corner to the entrance to the bar.  I thought this move would show the man that a) I wasn't interested and b) I didn't want trouble.

As I stole a glance in his direction again, I noticed this time he was crossing the street.  I took a drag of my cigarette and turned back onto the street infront of the picture window looking into the bar.  I wasn't going to back down, but at least this way, if he started with me, I can just bang on the glass for help.

The man was somewhere in his 20's, skinny with a couple days growth on his chin, his walk was brisk and determined.  He wore a light jacket, unbuttoned but held closed with a long bony hand.  I watched as he made his way in my direction, glancing briefly to the west for oncoming cars.  I took another long drag of my cigarette, trying to look cool, but feeling my heart begin to beat harder.

When most people on the street make a deliberate detour like this guy, it's usually to ask you for a cigarette. I tried to look away in disinterest, but the guy stopped directly infront of me.

"Do you want to buy a movie?"

I looked at him quizzically, not prepared for that type of question.  But before I could decline, he opened his jacket to reveal 3 DVD boxes he pulled out from an inside pocket.

Was it Diehard 1, 2 and 3?... No.

Was it a bootleg version of the latest Harry Potter?... No.

Was it some old Bruce Lee movie?... No.

It was not one, not two, but three copies of Rent.  I looked at him and shook my head politely and then quickly dropped my cigarette into the recepticle and headed back inside Uncles.

As I'm heading back to my barstool, I'm thinking to myself why me?  Aside from smoking a cigarette outside of a gay bar, why would he think I would leap at the chance to own a street copy of a 5 year old musical?  And if he thought I would want to buy a copy so much as to do a transaction on the sidewalk, why wouldn't I already own a copy?

I sat down on my barstool, took a long swig of beer and looked at my friend, Michael.

"You know what?"  I asked.  "I think I was just profiled."

He didn't get it at first until I told him the story.  He then burst out laughing and made me relay the story to Ric and Louis.  Now, I didn't think this was a stomach clenching funny kind of a story, but it quickly made it's way around the bar and, within a couple of days, the running joke was my watching musicals like porn.

But that wasn't where the story ended either.  God, I wish it did, but that night became stranger yet when, about an hour or so later, I went out for another cigarette.

I said that the DVD story made it around the bar, but more like friend to friend.   It wasn't like a whispering grapevine that got so bent out of shape that it came back to me with  "Pssst, did you hear about that guy who slept with a street person for a copy of Rent?"  In fact, by this time, the only people to know what happened were the three I was hanging with and the bartender.

Anyway, I'm outside having my cigarette.  When I came out, there were already a few other guys smoking as well, but one guy who I know just as a face in the crowd was well on his way to becomming horizontal.  He swayed back and forth, his cigarette held loosely in his hand.  His speach was so slurred, it was almost it's own language and his eyes had the glassy look of someone just coming out of anesthesia.  He was talking to his friends about something that had to do with New York.  I couldn't quite make out what was being said and I didn't try too hard to figure it out.  But for some reason, his bloodshot eyes landed on me and he leaned in my direction (almost hitting the tipping point, but catching himself).

He looked at me and, in one long drawn out slurred together sentence, said:  "Hey!! Youlikebroadwayright?"

"What?"  I asked, thinking someone put him up to this because no...no I can NOT be profiled again.

"You look like you like Broadway."

"Broad Street is that way."  I answered, trying not to laugh.

"Not street!  WAAAAY!  Donchalike it?"

"I don't really do Broadway."

"What?  Waddaayamean?  You GODDA like Broadway!"

"Why?"

"Cause isss fun!" 

I went inside to replay part 2 of my night to my friends...