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...