The Silent Killer ...

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

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

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

And then it hits me...

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

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

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

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

"Did you fart?!?!"

More Pictures ...

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

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

Behind Closed Doors ...

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

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

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

Happy Holidays...

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

The Outside...

The Inside...

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

Have a great holiday season folks!!

Skippin' Across the Pond ...

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

On a more personal note:

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

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

xoxo
Your own Joey Tribbiani

City Planning at Its Worst ...

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

However...

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

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

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

Gridlock!...

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

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

But noooooo...

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

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

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

The Retail Bitch Session ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy to the world.

The Retail Whore

Not a Happy Snow Bunny ...

Thursday...

Snow storm on the way...

Birthday tomorrow...

Party on Saturday...

Everything falling apart...

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

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

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

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

Someone Is Listening ...

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

The Evil Uncle ...

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

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

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

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

D'OH!!!!

* * *

(Jump ahead two weeks)...

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

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

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

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

That's right. While my neice opens her gift certificate or something and politely thanks her uncle for the gesture and my brother and his wife accept a bottle of wine and some foo-foo dessert, I will casually hand my nephew a key tied to a bow and say: "Your gift is in the driveway."

Sure, it'll be far-fetched, but I know my family, and I know that it'll take a few brief seconds to realize that it's just a joke. My nephew, on the other hand, being an overly anxious teenager on Christmas day, will surely bolt out of the kitchen, down the hall and outside to see what awaits him.

Merry Christmas from your Evil Uncle...

God, I love the gift giving season...

Winter Wonderland (Update) ...

Even though the local media put the fear of the Snow Miser in the hearts and minds of its viewers, causing them to stay at home instead of heading out for some Christmas shopping, the expected snowfall was a complete dud. The storm moved out to sea south of the city, bringing us only a coating of the white stuff. I was stuck at work with no one to talk to and missed out on a few drinks with the Mistress, but at least I didn't miss out on the expected funfilled snowy night out on the town as I feared. Maybe next time ...

Winter in the City ...

I just received an email from the one and only Mistress Jenn inviting people out for drinks tonight. Here it is, the first week of December, a few days before my Birthday, a new job beginning just after Christmas, stuck in my current job with extended holiday hours and a snowstorm on the way.

Snowstorms was another thing that lured me to city life. I remember several years ago, a former co-worker who lived in Center City Philadelphia talked about meeting up with friends during a blizzard and walking the streets, entering the only establishments that were brave (and smart) enough to open during such an event: bars.

I, at that time, lived in Delaware County, about a 20 minute drive from the city. During that same blizzard, I was stranded at home, my car buried under snow drifts six feet high, repeat sit-coms on the telly and my parents calling me inviting me to a party a few blocks away at one of their friends' house. Knowing that all of my city friends were out strolling through the winter wonderland that was downtown, I stewed a while longer in my mexican inspired (but not made) throw, staring at the images flashing before me on the television screen. I vowed then and there that I was going to abandon the suburbs and move into the city.

It had only taken a few more years, but I made it into the city. The blizzard of '03 was the first big time storm to hit and shut down the city since I had moved five years earlier and it was everything I had always imagined it would be. It was February 16, my friend's birthday. He was living in Jersey, but we had already decided that, since he worked in the city, he was going to take the train in and just stay overnight at my house. That way he wouldn't have to worry about driving in what was promising to be the "storm of the century".

It was a weekend storm, starting out late Friday night and snowing through most of Saturday. By the time we awoke Saturday morning, local television stations have all pre-empted their children's cartoon line-up in lieu of continuous coverage of the storm, with reporters stationed throughout the region, getting anyone and everyone's reaction, as if the information hadn't been already beaten into the viewers' heads for days leading up to that morning.

"This is incredible..."
"I have no food in the house..."
"I had no idea..."
"What am I supposed to do with my car?..."

Me? I was raring to get out and play. Like a little kid, I was up at the crack of dawn but my friend, who bartends and didn't get home until about 3am, was still sound asleep. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I walked throughout the house, putting coffee on, watching the t.v., staring out the window. By the time he had crawled out of bed and was standing infront of the coffee pot, I had already been outside twice and shoveled the walk clear.

We had already made the decision to just go and check out the city, walk the streets and take in the scenes. Once we made it to Rittenhouse Square, we were both amazed at how many people were out and about. The snow was still coming down hard and the wind was whipping it around, stinging what exposed skin there was on the body, but people didn't seem to mind. Automobile traffic was all but non-existent, as people treked through the streets, oblivious to changing traffic signals overhead warning them to stop (had they been driving). The surrounding skyscrapers were completely shrouded by the low ceiling and falling snow, making the only visible architecture the rows of victorian and colonial storefronts lining the avenue. Walking through this surreal cityscape, no towering glass structures, no cars or trucks blaring their horns, no visible blacktop street benieth the packed snow, the only tracks outside of footprints being an occational bicycle tire track, it all made me wonder if this was what it must've been like at the turn of the century, when families would stroll through the streets on a Sunday afternoon, dressed to the nines, fruit carts lining the curbs of the cobblestone streets, an occational electric streetcar clanging its bell in the distance.

As I wondered this, our travels brought us across town and to our first destination, Woody's, for an enormous cheeseburger and a beer. It was about 2 in the afternoon and the place was packed with revelers all out enjoying the snow (by being indoors with a martini). We ordered our food and drinks and chit-chatted about nothing in particular as we watched the overhead televisions with the continuing coverage of (cue menacing music): The Blizzard of '03.

By the time the sky grew dark and the streets were aglow with the ambiant glow of the overhead streetlights, my friend and I had walked to several bars and had several drinks. The snow was still coming down heavily and our stomachs were growling for something a little more substantial. My friend suggested dinner at Friday, Saturday, Sunday, a quaint little restaurant off of Rittenhouse Square. I was alittle short on cash and, seeing that it was his birthday, I didn't feel right about having him pay. He poo-pooed my objection, saying that, since he had lived in Florida for so many years, he had forgotten how much fun a snow storm was and that being with me made it the best birthday in years. He decided to treat for dinner and we headed back home to change pants and warm up a bit before heading back out into the storm.

I called the restaurant to see if they were open and to make reservations. We realized soon enough that reservations were not needed. Aside from us, the only other people in the place were the owners, sitting at an adjoining table. They bought us a bottle of wine and we ordered dinner.

It ended up being a fun-filled day of drinks, laughs, good food and good company. By the time we were leaving the restaurant, the city was completely quiet. Cars who's drivers were brave (or stupid) enough to drive were abandoned at odd angles along the curbs. The snow had stopped falling, save for a few drifting flakes caught up in the diminishing winds. In the distance, a rogue diesel engine of a snow plow can be heard moving through the streets, clearing paths for emergency vehicles. As we made our way home, I commented on this being one of the big reasons for me moving into the city. The burbs, as sprawling as the lawns may be, held you captive in your homes on days like this. The city allowed you to move about and rediscover things you normally took for granted.

Ironic then that I should be living in the city still and being stuck at work in the burbs as Mistress Jen is finding people to go have drinks with in the first snowstorm of the season.

(sigh...)

Wendy Jo Sperber ...

I just read that Wendy Jo Sperber, best known as Amy in the hit sitcom (of the time) Bosom Buddies, has died after an eight year battle with breast cancer. It's always sad to hear about the people you've come to love (or at least grow fond of) from television or movies, especially when they're your age. One of the best things I've seen her in (and it may have even been her first role in a major movie) was the lovestruck teenager in the movie 1941 with John Belushi. I think I'm gonna have to hop on Netflix and get that film to watch again. The swing dance number she performed in that movie just showed the energy that woman had, despite a weight problem.

Do you have your own Wendy memory from tv or film? Let me know! In the meantime, you will be missed, wendy.

After 11 Agonizing Months ...

...My New Year's resolution is happening.

As of today, December 1st, I am writing my resignation and will no longer be pushing the works of "The Painter of Light". It's been a long time coming, especially in the last year and a half when I had to pretend to like "Little Miss Hysterectomy", a back-stabbing be-otch who tries to weasle her way into each and every sale and/or client I have. She's been working in this gallery (transferred from another gallery that had closed a few years ago) and almost immediately, her antics began. I've given her the above name because of the operation she had last January. I was hoping that having her insides scraped and removed (sorry for the gross image, but that's how much I hate her), she would've have calmed down like a cat or dog being fixed. But noooooooooooooo. There have been times when I've been so angry with her and her sneaky tricks, my friends and I would sit around the bar and discuss easy ways of eliminating her from the picture.

For the most part, however, I like most of the people I work with and, after five years, writing this letter will be hard and sending it, even harder. Maybe a singing telegram or a male stripper would be more appropriate.

I'm exciting (and frightened) about starting my new job. It's something completely different, but it's also got far-reaching possibilites. My friends are very exciting because I'm no longer commuting out to the boonies (I think, however, they're more excited about the 50% discount I'll be getting).

Anyway, wish me luck and I'll let y'all know what sort of reaction my letter will bring.

Caio!

Where are My Balls? ...

I was walking through Rittenhouse Square the other day and watched as workers began stringing white lights around the 30 foot high Christmas tree across from the reflecting pool. I quickly scanned the rest of the park and realized that the little colored illuminated balls hanging from the leafless canopy of gray branches criss-crossing above my head were missing. It's usually one of the first signs of the impending Christmas season when you see cranes high up in the trees in mid-November, hanging these balls at various heights, starting from the park entrances and working in towards the center of the park.

This has been a Rittenhouse Square tradition for the better part of the last 6 or 7 holiday seasons, the committee increasing their budget every year to include more and more lighted balls. The first year, the colored spheres dangled over the 4 corner entrances to the park and sort of looked unfinished. But, with each passing year, more and more lights were added until it really started to look spectacular at night, the pavement below cast in warm green, red, blue and yellow glows.

But now, with December barreling down on us with overplayed Christmas music already weeks old, traffic surging towards the area malls, panic setting in to find that perfect gift before the bargain bins are ripped apart, the branches overhead in Rittenhouse Square remain bare and lightless. The Square seems cold and barren, the towering pine with its hundreds of white lights laced through its branches, looks forgotten this holiday season.

I hope it's just an oversight and the lights are going up as I write...

Before There was Will & Grace ...

I know, I know... It's been a long time since I've posted anything on here, but I've been going through some tough times emotionally. With the days growing shorter, the temperatures dropping, the holidays quickly approaching and my birthday growing menacingly nearer, I tend to get this way each year. And, unfortunately, each year I begin feeling this way earlier and earlier. I've been living in a shell, not going out and not expressing myself in my blog. Quite frankly, my mind's been in such a state of boredom that I couldn't even think of a single sentence to put down on here. I actually had something that I thought was interesting to write about, but I had been thinking about it during my waking stage in bed and now, several hours later, it has completely escaped me.

But nonetheless, I was sitting down in the livingroom, debating which of the many tasks I had placed on my plate to do first, flipping through the television. I found myself stopping my assault on the up-arrow channel button of my remote control when I came upon (I'm ashamed to admit) Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

This had been one of my favorite shows growing up, not for the lessons this gentle man tried to bestow upon the many children glued to the television set, not for the adventures in the "Land of Make-believe", but for the simple pleasure of studying the scaled-down model of the neighborhood during the opening and closing credits of the show or whenever Fred would go visit one of his "neighbors" and the camera would scan the streets of miniature houses depicting the host's strolls through the hood.

My father is a model railroader buff and some of that has rubbed off on me (although all of my trains are collecting dust in my parent's attic). I remember as a child, sneaking into my father's workshop while he was at work, climbing up onto a stool and pulling down the many boxes of model buildings he had stashed away in the cabinet above the extra freezer. Then I would go into my toy closet, pull out my sackful of Matchbox cars and spread everything out on the rec room floor and begin creating my own "neighborhood". Driving around town, visiting friends and neighbors, running simple errands, causing pile-ups at quiet intersections. My little basement land of make-believe had brought me hours of enjoyment each and every day (until about 2:30 in the afternoon when I realized I had about 30 minutes or so to neatly stack my dad's houses into their respective boxes and balance myself ontop of that stool again to shove them back into the cabinet).

But even at an early age, my architectural instinct would kick in as I watched the show and asked myself many questions. How can "Trolley" enter through one wall of the livingroom and exit through another and all of a sudden be in this land of puppets? The trolley just goes in a circle around the castle, which means that Mr. Roger's house must be behind the castle. But from the outside, his house is no where near big enough to hold a castle. How can "Picture Picture" show movies while hanging on the wall (little did I know that this little special effect would soon become reality)? Where was the bathroom? There were only three doors in Fred's house, the front, the back and the closet holding one sweater and a pair of sneakers.

But my biggest question as a child couldn't even really be put into the form of a question at such an early age, but I still can remember wondering why certain characters seemed "different". I'm talking specifically about Lady Elaine Fairchild and King Friday, televsions first gay friendship. Even though, at five or six years old, I didn't really know the right words to explain myself but, in a todder's way of thinking, I wondered why did Lady Elaine have a boy's haircut and wear a heavy and baggy wool sweater? Why was she so aggresive and nasty and bitter and why was she only friendly to Henrietta Pussycat? Why was King Friday dressed in torquoise satan? Why was he always mumbling softly below his breath like soft moans? Why did he speak with an over emphasis on his "s"s? And he was scared shitless of the red nosed drunk who lived in the Museum-Go-Round.

I can remember having these thoughts as a child, but never put words to it. I suppose I thought about it throughout my later years growing up, when I would jokingly refer to the mailman as "Mr. McFeelme" or wondered if Lady Elaine got that red nose sniffing some fishy caves, but I never really sat down and thought about it until this writing.

And now, as I finish this post and look back at what I had written, I begin to think: how sad is that?

Just Another Day at City Hall ...

Seventh District city councilman Rick Mariano -- facing an imminent federal indictment -- will remain hospitalized under psychiatric evaluation at least through the weekend, after being talked down from the City Hall Tower by Mayor Street.

Mayor Street and others rushed to the observation deck at the top of City Hall after learning that a depressed Rick Mariano had made his way there.

A massive emergency response shut down City Hall and police commissioner Sylvester Johnson helped convince Mariano to come down.

And, in great Philadelphia style, evening rush-hour traffic was ground to a halt around city hall raising complaints from drivers trying to make their way through the winding streets to wind up sitting in their usual traffic jam on the Schuylkill Expressway.

I personally feel that, with a looming transportation strike on the horizon (October 31st), the head honchos at Septa and the union representatives should use this tactic as a way to settle their endless dispute. Let's see if anyone would try and talk them down.

Feeling Bleu ...

Fun night last night...

In honor of my friend's 40th Birthday, a small group of us had dinner in one of Rittenhouse Square's trendy hotspots, Bleu, at 18th & Locust Streets. Excellent food, good service and great company. The only downside to the place is that it's not the greatest seating arrangement for more than 2 people in one party, since their tables are nothing more than round cocktail tables that they pushed together and the dishes were almost too large for everything to be placed comfortably. But all that aside, it was a fantastic and fun-filled night that brought on an incredible hangover from which I'm slowly trying to recover.

Dinner was to be at 7 o'clock, so I stopped in at the Post (conveniently located around the corner) about six for a beer. I ran into G who was also going (the rest of the party were to meet us at the restaurant). The original plan was to have dinner at another restaurant, but I received a call from O about 6:30 saying that, even though reservations had been made, it was still going to be about a 45 minute wait. So plans were changed at the last minute and we were all going to meet at Bleu instead.

One of the main reasons (other than M's 40th) was for us all to get a chance to meet M's parents, who flew into town for a few days. We've all heard stories of his family's get togethers and we were all looking forward to finally getting a chance to meet the infamous parental units. Now, I'm not good at meeting people and keeping a conversation going with strangers, but I have to say I was comfortable with M's parents from the very first second I was introduced. They were fun and friendly and both had the same infectious laugh as their son.

With drinks in hand we were all escorted to our table and ordered appitizers, entrees and, of course, more drinks. We laughed, talked, ate and drank...

And drank...

A huge thick cut of NY strip lay atop a high pile of fries sat infront of me. As I cut into the steak, I heard several comments about these being the best fries. Hands seemed to come from all directions, picking out my fries.

(oh man, my mind is so foggy right now. Trying to write about the evening with this hangover is not going over very well.)

After dinner, M's dad makes the announcement that, being Italian, it was customary in his family to have an after-dinner drink. When he suggested Sambuca my stomach flipped as the memory of a very horrible Sambuca-induced night in Atlantic City several years ago flashed in my mind like a blinding bolt of lightning. I asked the waitress what she would recommend and I took her suggestion of a vanilla flavored cognac.

My God that was potent!!!! I didn't realize at the time (when we were all saying our good-nights and I asked G if he wanted to go back to the Post for one last beer) that I had reached my limit for the evening.

I tried to finish my beer at the Post, but soon discovered that I really needed to get home and crawl into bed. I silently wondered (at least I hope it was silently) when the city had installed these trick sidewalks that seemed to shift every time you took a step. Someone should complain to the streets department about this. Luckily I found my bed and I looked forward to sleeping in late so I wouldn't wake up with a hangover.

I had neglected to remember that I now have the devil-cat living with me who liked to start his day before the first rays of sun peeked through the bedroom window...

The Week in Review ...

It's been a week now since I got my new kitten and, if it means scratches, lack of sleep, constant worrying at work if I'm gonna arrive home to spilled lamps and clawed furniture, always shouting "NO!", having to lock myself in the bedroom in order to get a little privacy, and squeezing through a small gap in the front door whenever I enter or leave the house, then things are as blissful as can be.

I exaggerate. We're bonding. In fact, we've bonded almost immediately that first night when, after his exploration of the house, he hopped up on the sofa and curled up in the crook of my arm and fell asleep. Strange things have been happening though and I had to look through a couple of web sites to realize that he's still in the "socializing" stage of his kittenhood. Strangest of all is waking up to a strange sensation every morning as he wakes me by sucking on my earlobe, or sticking his nose in my face and licking my goatee. At least his morning antics have subsided to a more tender annoyance. That first morning freaked me out...

Sound asleep, I am slowly being awakened by the soft footfalls of La Tigre (I'm still in the naming stage, trying to find one that fits his personality--right now it's Rroid, since he's a pain in my ass). He walks across the pillow, delicately stepping on my cheek, leaning down to sniff my ear and tickle my face with his whiskers. I groan and roll over, trying to escape his pre-dawn activities. I sense him stepping off of the pillow and I think (oh so erroneously) he's curling up to continue sleeping. I like to sleep in the nude (or used to). I have a little patch of hair at the base of my back. As I drift back into a deep slumber, I'm suddenly startled into consciousness when the cat decides that 5am is the perfect time to attack! In he goes, needlelike kitten claws grabbing onto the hair and yanking, bared teeth chomping down and pulling, me jumping out of bed and giving what would become the first of many painful screams. I flip on the light, my hand reaching behind and rubbing the delicate patch, my eyes adjusting, half expecting to see a ball of hair dangling from the clenched jaws of the devil himself.

He stares up at me, belly to the mattress, ears back...and then meows softly, his eyes as big as Puss n' Boots in Shrek 2. My heart opens as the anger of being suddenly and shockingly awakened drains from me. "Awwwwwwwwwww." I coo, as I crawl back into bed and curl up under the blanket. I glance at the clock and mumble about the hour before closing my eyes. Within seconds I feel a gnawing on my fingertips. I pull my hand away. The cat darts across the mattress and attacks my hand. I shove it under the pillow. He claws his way into the linen cave and claws at the exposed skin. "STOP!" I yell.

I've quickly come to realize that "STOP" in kitty language is translated into "Yes, little one, I love playtime at five in the morning."

Aaaaaaaaaand how!...

I've been trying to catch up on last season before starting season 2. This show is like a drug. It pulls you in and, like a drug, leaves you sitting in a fog wondering how you got there.

First there's an unknown monster, stomping down trees and ripping pilots from the cockpit, leaving him dead and bloodied and dangling from a tree branch 30 feet in the air. Then there's a polar bear trampling through the underbrush. Then there's a signal that is being sent from somewhere on the island...and has been sending out for twenty years. Then a French lady. Then "the others". Then the pirates who take the boy who's "special". Then the hatch. Then the man IN the hatch who's the same man in the doctor's memories.

I mean....what the hell?!?!?!?!

Are they really all dead?...

Is this heaven, hell or purgatory?...

Aliens?...

I'm so...(for lack of a better word)... Lost.

Proud Pappa ...

In honor of bad labels of the 80's, I want to introduce to you the newest member of my family...

Le Tigre

She's six weeks old and came from a litter of 3 adorable kittens born to a self-adopted cat my friend had taken in.

I went over to my friend's house the other night and had the worst time trying to decide which one. These were the other two:

The black and white one is uniquely disfigured...six toes on each foot. Adorable, but lacks personality.

Look closely...

Anyway, I pick up Le Tigre next week and I'm really looking forward to it. Now if only I could teach it to poopie in the toilet (although I don't wanna be fighting for the bathroom 1st thing in the morning with a damn cat!

The Seduction of the Chicken Lady ...

In my continuing attempt to break free into more of a creative environment, it was suggested that I sway from my normal routine and simply observe. So, instead of reading a book on the bus, I sat back in my seat and watched the people around me.

It was standing room only for a while and, when the bus pulled up to a stop, I watched an old black woman get step on and then quickly disappear into the crowd.

About 15 minutes later, the bus pulled up to a stop where several riders emptied out to board a connecting train, so I was able to take a seat near the rear. A few rows infront of me, in one of the benches which faced the center of the bus (unlike most which face forward) I spotted the old black lady again and I immediately became fixated on the show being performed before my eyes.

For you to better get an idea of what I was watching, I must first try my best in describing what this woman looked like, because her dress was just as enterataining as her actions. First, her hair. I counted at least three separate hairstyles combined to make one complete mess. If you were to draw a line across the top of her head, from ear to ear, dividing the front and back halves equally, you'd discover two complete styles. The front was straight and stiff, cut in a perfect line from her left ear, across her forehead, to her right ear, creating a razor sharp bang about a quarter of an inch above her painted eyebrows (a-la Moe Howard). The back half was a series of tightly wound braids that actually looked to be growing out of the base of her head and spiraling to the top where they disappeared beneith her third style: a large bun that could best be described as a pile of precariously stacked black jellybeans.

She must've been somewhere in her early 70's, but her mocha colored skin was fairly wrinkle free. Her high cheekbones were splashed with red; blush applied with the same results of tearing through a bag of pistachios. The arms of her gold frame glasses were studded with sparkling chips of cut glass and silver to form a rosebud, added strength to support the thick lenses that could burn paper on the sidewalk if caught in the sun's rays at just the right angle.

She wore a bright gold floral print blouse that seemed to reflect several design styles. Studying it more closely, I can pick out a touch of a Hawiian motif, a bit of African heritage and a splash of sparkle reminiscent of the glory days of the old Beadazzler. A black, ankle-length skirt and hand crocheted shawl resting on her lap completed the look.

As I stared, I watched the woman raise a bony hand to her mouth. Her other hand remained in her lap, clutching a clear plastic cup with ice water (or, from the way she began to slouch over time, it may have actually been vodka). The hand near her mouth held a small chicken leg, or rather the bone with a few strands of meat remaining. She proceeded to pull the remaining meat from the bone and then slowly, through pursed lips, slide the entire bone into her mouth. Staring straight ahead, both hands now wrapped delicately around the plastic cup in her lap, she moved the chicken bone around in her mouth from side to side, sucking every bit of meat free. I became fascinated at the way she drifted into a fog, ignoring all around her, as the bone would press against the inside of her cheek and move across the inside of her bottom lip and over to the other side. Every couple of seconds, it would pierce through her clenched lips and I would notice that the meat was all gone and she was now just sucking as much juice and her own saliva from the poor bird. She did this slowly and deliberately, relishing every bit of flavor remaining, as if it would be the last piece of chicken she would ever have. At one point, she removed the bone, examined it, took a swig from her cup and replace the bone in her mouth to continue sucking.

And, as if the visual wasn't enough, my senses picked up something else which made the image even more entertaining. From behind me, another passenger was listening to music through their headphones. It was some unidentifiable hip-hop tune. I couldn't hear the words of the tune, but what drifted up to my ears was the faint metallic beat setting the rhythm of the song. Maybe it was just in my mind but what I suddenly found myself living through was watching this woman making oral love to this chicken bone with some cheesey 70's porn music playing the soundtrack.

I felt a smile spread across my face as I closed my eyes, knowing full well that the Chicken Lady would have to make it onto my blog. I only wish I had broken down last year and had gotten that picture phone the sales rep tried upselling me.

Synchronicity ...

I know I have mentioned this book a number of times in past posts, but it's amazing how quickly things begin to happen that the book explains will happen. There's a section titled "Recovering a Sense of Power" where the author describes, what she calls, "synchronicity". Others refer to this as mere coincidence or just simple good luck. She goes on to explain that, in order to get a better grasp of your creative side, you shouldn't blow these situations off, but rather look for them.

The other day, I posted about a childhood memory and mentioned a book I loved in my single-digit years. "The Little House" stirred emotions and dreams in me that, I believe, is one of the reasons I love living in the city.

My friend, Michael, loves to shop around on E-bay. As soon as I published that childhood post, I had a strange feeling that he would look around the site in search of the book and present it to me for my birthday in December (the book was originally published in the early 40's and I figured was a hard one to find). Yesterday evening as I made my way through the Center City streets and headed for The Post, a new thought came into my head. I layed a patio for him & Ozzie last week and am currently building a planter box in their back yard. I figured (knowing him) he jumped on E-bay as soon as he read my post and would find the book and give it to me much sooner than my birthday, maybe even later on this week. Last night, as I sat at the bar sipping a beer, my cell phone rings. It's Michael.

"I have a gift for you."

He came out to The Post with an AIA Bookstore bag (shameless plug #1). In it was a wrapped package about the size of a shirt box.

"I thought of you when I saw this," he grinned.

"I have a feeling, I know what it is," I replied with a laugh. "But if you were able to get it this quickly, I'd be shocked!"

He just laughed as I unwrapped the package and opened the box. Lo and behold, there it was. My childhood memory..."The Little House"! Brand new, never been read (except by Michael). After my laughter (and yes, a few tears) subsided I asked him how the hell he came upon it so quickly. Michael, being the GM of the AIA Bookstore (shameless plug #2), told me that he too remembered this book from his childhood and, as the buyer for the store, he would often pick up items that reminded him of his youth (toys, books, etc.). I was completely floored (and delighted) by the gift and am very grateful for the thought.

Which brings me to shameless plug #3...

The AIA Bookstore is more than just books. Visit their site or stop in at 17th & Sansom Streets in Center City Philadelphia. Christmas is approaching (much sooner than many of us hope) and their Christmas shop will be opening in about a month or less. There, you will find a wide array of unique ornaments for your tree, some of which you'll laugh out loud at seeing. I've said this in a previous post long ago, but it certainly needs repeating: this place is much more than a book store for architects (although you'll certainly find some great books on pretty much any and all types of architecture ever conceived). It's a place where you can walk in and browse the aisles and, more likely than not, come across a one of a kind piece of jewelry or a chachke that just brings a smile to your face and tells you it's the perfect gift for that flamboyant friend you have such a hard time buying for. So click here and peruse through the numerous sections and see what item(s) you suddenly must have. Or better yet, if you're in Center City, stop in!

A Childhood Memory ...

I don't know why this suddenly came into my head, but I kept thinking of it and figured I may as well let it out. I believe the following is why I am and always have been a city person and love architecture, both residential and highrise.

Each year, from as early as I could remember until I was about nine or ten years old, my grandmother used to take me into "the city" once a year on my birthday to pick out a present. What neither she nor I realized so early on in my life was that part of her present to me was the trip itself, as it established a passion within me that hangs tight to this very day: city life.

My birthday is in the 2nd week of December, so a trip into the city also meant a trip to the department stores lining Market Street and a walk through "Dicken's Village" in the Strawbridges building or the organ light show in the old Wanamaker Building. Many of you already know this building if you've seen the movie mannequin and the scene where Kim Cattrell glides down through the elaborate 10 story courtyard of the department store on a hand-glider. That scene (as well as all interior shots) was in Philadelphia's Wanamaker Department Store. At Christmas, a light show display in the courtyard fascinates children and adults alike, while a century old pipe organ blasts Christmas music. It's been a tradition in that store since its begninning and carries through to this day, even though Wanamaker's is long out of business and Lord & Taylor now occupies the space.

Alongside those yearly treks, there's a more materialistic memory that I feel has developed a childhood burning desire to be part of "the city".

As a young child, I remember going with my mother to the dentist. As I waited for her check-up to be completed or waited for my own to begin, I would pass by the Hilights magazines and always grab the same book I've read each and every time I entered the dentist's waiting room. Even after it got to the point where my mother would take it out of my hands, telling me that I was too old for that book and I should read something else, I would sneak back to the all too familiar pages and study the pictures, imagining myself in those images, wondering what it would be like to live in "the big city". That book was "The Little House", by Virginia Lee Burton. Written in 1943, it was the story of a husband and father who built the perfect house on a sprawling farm for his family to grow up. Unfortunately for the little house, the world grew up also. First other houses sprang up around, then tenements, traffic became a problem when new roads were built around it, and trolley lines and subway systems as skyscrapers towered both sides of the house. The father has since died and the family moved away and, just when the wrecking ball is about to demolish the house, a great-great grandson finds it and rescues his family home, transporting it far, far away into the country, where he fixes it up and begins to raise his own family again.

Wow...even writing this little post now, I can feel the swell of emotions I felt long ago as a child. The drawings of the house grew sadder and sadder with each page, until the very end when it was fixed up again and ready for a new life. But I also remember the pictures of the city growing around the house, the hustle and bustle of activity as this house sat quietly, deteriorating in the shadows of highrises around it. Even as a child, I felt like that little house. Not necessarily sad, but surrounded by activity and unable to participate. I remember thinking all those long years ago how I wanted to jump into those pages and be a part of that city.

And now I am.

And, for the most part, I'm luvin' every minute of it!!

A Strange Coincidence ...

I had a dream about him last night. I haven't had a dream about him since the one last April when I dreamed he was in trouble and needed me (only to later find out he tried to commit suicide while coming down from a high on crystal meth).

In last night's dream, I don't remember if he had called me or if I ran into him on the street, but we were in his apartment. I was sitting at the foot of his bed trying to avoid the mound of laundry piled ontop of the mattress while he sorted and folded. There was some small talk going on and I felt that he had never left the city as was his announcement last August, but I kept my mouth shut with the questions and continued with meaningless chatter until the appropriate time came. At one point (whether brought about by me or him, I can't remember) he mentioned "coming back" in a roundabout reference to him having left, but only recently returning. I thought this strange, considering we were still in the same apartment and nothing had changed, but again I didn't say anything about it.

Then, to my surprise, he came up behind me, wrapped his arms gently around my shoulders, and whispered: "I'm sorry for everything I had put you through."

Me being me (just one more indication that The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" is my theme song), I shrugged off the apology with: "That's okay. I'm over it." Even though I knew I still resented it (no so much hurt by it anymore) deep down inside, I wasn't going to let him know that.

I awoke from my sleep soon after. And I felt strangely at peace with myself. Maybe that was my subconscious telling me to get past it (even though I feel I have moved on consciously).

But the coincidence was still to come...

This morning, on my way to work, I continued to read the book Michael gave me. The chapter I started was titled: Recovering a Sense of Identity. It talked about "poisonous playmates" - those who aren't supportive of your journey (like drinking buddies of a recovering alcoholic) and self abuse (downplaying your own abilities). But the thing that stood out most was a section called "Crazymakers". These are people who's lives are so disrupted that the suck the energy out of those around them and feed (most often negatively) off of the attention of their friends, lovers or family to meet their own needs. Just to add a couple of descriptive quotes from the book:

*They are often charismatic, frequently charming, highly inventive, and powerfully persuasive.
*They are the kind of people who can take over your whole life.
*Everyone around them is a supporting cast, picking up their cues, their entrances and exits, from the crazymaker's whims.
*They break deals and destroy schedules
*They expect special treatment
*They discount your reality
*They spend your time and money
*They are expert blamers
*they hate schedules--except their own

These are a few of the several characteristics of this "crazymaker" this author writes about. And this is exactly what my friend was to me. Countless times, he would call, wanting to do something. I would drop whatever it was I was doing and head on over, only to sit in his apartment while he smoked his crystal and bounced off the walls. Ultimately, more often than not, the plan on "doing something" was simply sitting there and watching him deteriorate. I've gotten calls at 4 in the morning where he was crying and feeling all alone. I would cancel plans with other friends the second he would call.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not dwelling on the past or reinventing lost feelings and emotions. I am beyond that drama now. I just found it strange to dream about him actually apologizing to me for what he put me through and then opening up a self-help book and actually reading about him.

This book is more than getting reacquainted with your creative side. It really goes much deeper and, although I'm only in the first couple of chapters (my plan is to read the whole book, then go back and read it again and begin the exercises explained throughout), I highly recommend it to anyone out there who feels they can do better in whatever it is they want.

Up, Up and Away ...

Philadelphia has always been known as a City of Neighborhoods. From block after block after block of rowhomes lining the streets of South Philly, known for its tourist traps of competative cheesesteak establishments and abundance of funeral parlors (Mafia territory) to the overpopulated (and cat-missing) streets of Chinatown to the lost treasures of Delancy Street (one of the most affluent addresses in the city, with some of the few remaining turn of the century 4 and 5-story mansions never converted into apartments) Philly has always been a city where people lived, worked and played with the relative ease of getting around. It is definitely a "walking city". In Center City (the downtown district), you can walk from Independence Hall to the infamous Rocky steps of the Art Museum in about 30 minutes (which may seem like a long stroll, but there's still so much to see and do between).

Back in the '70's people started moving out of the city and into the surrounding suburbs. Things were looking bleak for the City of Brotherly Love and, all things considered, it began to live up to the bad image it had been given for years. But things started to turn around again in the '90's and the younger generation, who mostly attended college in nearby University City, stuck around after graduation day and took up residence while older folk from the Main Line (Philadelphia Society, as Rose Dewitt Bukater put it) started selling their sprawling suburban estates and opting for the convenience of highrise living close to theaters and restaurants. A residential building boom was in the making as more neighborhoods started to spring up in once dilapidated areas. Fishtown & Northern Liberties, just north of Center City is quickly becoming "the loft district" and being compared to New York's Soho district. The riverfront, once abandoned warehouses and weed encrusted docks, are now being replaced with highrise condominiums. Even the Philadelphia Naval Yard, once one of the best in the country but lost in the '80's is once again alive with life, being transformed into a gated community and yacht club.

And still new neighborhoods are developing, and going skyward with some of the coolest highrises this city has seen in decades. Mandeville Place is a slender glass tower rising up from the Schuylkill River on the western edge of Center City. Groundbreaking could be as early as this fall, but will probably be delayed for one reason or another. The Symphony House is already under construction on The Avenue of the Arts right in the heart of Center City. All in all, there are probably 2 dozen or more condo highrises greater than 20 floors going up all around the city. Rumor has it also that the top 25 floors of 2 Liberty Place, the city's 2nd tallest building (3rd, when completion of Comcast tower happens in a few more years) may be converted into luxury apartments.

Maybe, as part of my rediscovering myself, I should think about investing in real estate. God knows it is and will continue to be in ample supply for some time.

Karaoke Thursday ...

Well...it looks like Thursday nights are slowly catching on with karaoke at The Post. There was a halfway decent crowd there last night and it seemed all had a good time. Someone had brought pictures from a few weeks ago that I'm patiently waiting to have emailed to me so I can post them up on here. That way you can see for yourselves that I was literally manhandled and dragged up to the microphone to sing. I guess all those beers (among other things) made me a little easier to pluck up off my barstool.

Last night there was no singing for me, M & O, or Johnny F. We had a great time sitting in our little pow-wow dissin' everyone else up there. We have our own little plan we're slowly formulating which has something to do with stalking the karaoke representative to one of his other destination spots and making complete asses of ourselves in some other section of the city.

Another thing we discussed doing I'm actually looking forward to...weather permitting. We're going Kayaking next weekend!!!

Also met a fellow blogger last night. Ridor showed up with a few friends. We talked alittle bit, but I'm actually very shy when meeting new people, so after a few minutes of passing notes back and forth (he's also deaf, which is not a problem, just something I'm not used to) I went back to my friends, who were on their last drink before leaving for the night. Ridor seemed to like the bar though, so I'm sure we'll be able to meet up again.

Oh well...that's all for now, folks.

Oh....wait! Special shout-out to Mistress Jen: Desperate Housewives premier (when?)...you...me...we got a date planned. Sorry I forgot to tell you about karaoke, but keep that in mind for next Thursday!!!

It's the New Jan Brady ...

I recently made a commitment to myself to become a changed man by the time I'm 40 (December, '06). By that time, I want to become a non-smoker, I want to be a regular at the gym again, I want to have some meaning in my life and most of all, I don't want to become what I've seen in several other middle aged gay men...bitter. Even though my blog refers to me in that way, it's not a good feeling. I even set a gold ring to grab hold of at the end of my journey: a new tattoo. I already have one on my arm that I got on a dare when I was 18. It's nothing much, but it was probably the least satanic thing posted on the walls of the studio. I had never put much thought into it and I've wanted to get it covered for quite some time, but wanted something a little more meaningful to me.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I caught Limp Bizkit's remake of an old Who classic, Behind Blue Eyes, that I realized how bitter I've become. Listening to the words and the meaning behind them brought tears to my eyes as each line cut deeper and deeper into my heart. This song was me through and through, hiding all emotions, putting on a facade while being ripped apart on the inside. It was then that I realized I really needed to change my outlook to become on the inside the person I portray on the outside. I've been through test after test after test in life to the point where I didn't think I could deal with anything else thrown at me, but I survived...if only to become subjected to more tests. It shows me that I'm a survivor and, although I mentally feel weak alot of the time, I have an inner strength that carries me through to the next level. My astrological symbol is the centaur, in my opinion, probably the strongest astrological symbol there is. So, with all that being said, I've decided on the tattoo I will give myself for my 40th birthday; incorporating both the song and the sign, into one image that defines my past, present and future.

But there's alot to accomplish before that can happen. That's why it seemed like perfect timing when my friend, Michael, gave me this book by Julia Cameron. He told me it was a systematic way of conquering writer's block. I started it this morning and realized just in the introduction that it was so much more than that. This book may actually be a starting off point for the year long goal I set for myself. It's a book that, through several weeks of mental exercises, is meant to only clear your mind and bring out your creativity, but to also make you see yourself and your surroundings in a completely different light. It warns you in the first few pages that you'll be in for a roller coaster ride of emotions, but to fight through them and hold on. But even in the first few pages I've read, a certain quote stands out that I can't help but hold on to: Leap, and the net will appear...

With everything going through my head lately and my desire to become someone new and the fear of it being too late to change, that quote seemed to call out to me.

So, folks, wish me luck on my new self-improvement endeavor and hopefully, like Prince, I too can be referred to as The Blogger formally known as Bitterchris.

The Unbeatable Little Hair ...

Now, before I begin this little rant, let me first say that I know I'm not the only one who has fallen victim here. I've seen it on others (both strangers and friends) so I know it's fairly commonplace.

It's common knowledge that, when people reach a certain age, hair begins to appear in areas where it really shouldn't; back, nostrils, fingers, ears (both in and around). In many cases, this is a time where men begin to understand what women must go through every day before they can exit their apartment. Clippers and razors are suddenly seeing more action than just maintaining the balls and crotch. There's no predetermined age when this begins to occur. Some men see it as early as their 20's while others don't fall victim to this menace until their late 30's and early 40's. Still others (a very small percentage) are blessed with never having to go out looking like Lon Chaney, Jr during his metamorphosis.

But there's one place on many men where a single hair sprouts like the first blossom rising up from the barren wasteland of grey ash left behind by a volcanic eruption. It takes root like a persistent weed and keeps returning no matter how many times you pluck it, even when you're convinced you've conquered it for the last time. And when you notice it on yourself, you begin to see it on others and you begin to ask why. Why, out of all the places hair grows on the body, do a vast majority of people suffer from this one little engine that could?

I'm talking about the single tiny hair that sprouts out of the center of the nose, just above the tip...

Go ahead...Check...I'll wait. Just rub your finger slowly up and down your nose. Some of you will definitely feel that hair you didn't think was there, and then you'll become obsessed with trying to yank it out. Those of you who don't feel it, just wait a few more years.

Now, once you've noticed it on yourself, you'll begin to see it on others, especially in profile; that determined little bugger calling out for attention. And when you do, please be kind and tactful. Let them know they have a visitor, but don't make a big deal about it. The truth, I've discovered, is that this little hair is like the relative that never leaves, but it must be controlled. I've actually dealt with people (mostly seniors) who's wives refused to say anything and this hair has morphed into something with it's own personality.

Don't let this be you!

Everyone has a Double ...

Ted Bundy...
















...and Big Ol' George Dubya...

What a Week ...

Between William Rehnquist dying, Hurricane Katrina devastating the Gulf Coast and Ophelia knocking on the door of the Carolinas, John Roberts, Michael Brown and FEMA, hiding out from the Governor of Louisiana, new Al Queda tapes threatening Los Angeles and then the very next day, the city of angels being blanketed in darkness, the continuing struggle in Iraq, the anniversary of this country's darkest day, gas prices, oil shortages, families still seeking loved ones, death toll rising as the water line in New Orleans drops, and so many other things going on, I think it's high time our fearless leader take a vacation. Don't you? I mean...what can possibly go wrong next?

It Was Bound to Happen ...

Wow... I've gotten a few e-mails (and some nasty verbal comments) from some people who were wondering where I've been. Well, took a vacation. I didn't go anywhere, but wanted to take some time off to try and get some projects done around the house. I also agreed to do a project for my friends, M&O, and what I originally thought would've been a couple days' work turned into FIVE. I layed down a patio in their back yard based on a very intricate pattern conceived by 'M'.

Anyway, I came back to work yesterday (Monday) to a very uneventful day. This morning, however, the inevitable happened. The hard work of laying pavers, hauling bags of sand, fighting off a colony of ants, and hacking away at tree roots came back with a vengeance in the shower. My back went out. I knew this was going to happen sooner or later, since my lower back had been tight for nearly a week, but I trudged through the labor, as promised, until the work was complete (or nearly complete, since we still have to find a place to cut cement pavers). Not that I'm complaining (I know 'M' is rolling his eyes right about now). It did keep me busy for most of the week.

I can't wait to see and post the pictures of the finished product. Not to toot my own horn, but it does look great. A very intricate pattern that, to me, looks like a pair of aliens in the old Space Invaders video game (dah... dah...dah... dah... dah... dah... dah... dah.. dah.dah. dahdahdahdahdahdahdahdah).

PS: I don't want to hear any wiseass comments about me in a blue floral print dress either!!!

Team America ...

I just saw the Team America - World Police movie the other night and I have to say it. I fucking LOVED it!!!!! As much as I like comedies, it takes alot for me to laugh out loud at something on television, especially if I'm by myself. And I was pissing myself watching this movie.

Trey Parker and Matt Stone are absolute geniuses with their warped sense of humor. Between the South Park series, the movie "Bigger, Longer and Uncut" and now Team America, they take no prisoners and hold no taboo thoughts at bay in their visual creations, pushing the envelope of decency far far beyond the threshold of tolerance. Which makes it all the more funny. There isn't a person alive who doesn't have racist thoughts, no matter how good natured you think you are. Trey and Matt bring your thoughts to the screen and allow you to laugh without the feeling of guilt.

And with Team America, they do it with puppets. They are advanced marrionettes with motorized heads to capture facial expressions, but the strings are all visible throughout the movie. It's something you soon forget when the sexual inuendos and racial slurs begin slamming you left and right. And no one is spared punishment, whether it be Kim Jong Il, Michael Moore, or Helen Hunt (don't you think they've captured that everlasting constipated smile?), the characters come to life and make you laugh out loud!

If you decide to rent the DVD, however, be sure to get the director's cut. In it you will see some things you'd never think you'd witness. What, you ask?... How about the dirdiest sex scene that would make Ron Jeremy blush.

On a Lighter Note ...

I'm sure my friend, Michael, is dancing in the streets over this one. Martha Stewart is now a free woman! Yes, as of today, that not so attractive piece of jewelry, her ankle bracelet is being removed and Miss Martha can now come and go wherever and whenever she pleases.