Well...Thursday morning can only mean one thing in my little world here...Kinky Quizzo update...
Last night, Mistress Jen, with a big ol' "ten-hut!", transformed herself from the dominatrix we've come to respect to the drill sergeant we've come to fear. Although I DID make her speechless at one point when I referred to "snowballing" as "dinner". She said only two weeks ago that "nothing surprised her" and it would take a lot to surprise her into silence. When she read my response, it was priceless to see the stunned expression as she tried to suppress a laugh (or hold down her drink).
Anyway, I'm sure I'll get my own when she comes back snappin' a whip.
Back to the game.
M&O, although playing separately, took home prizes...AGAIN... (I have a feeling that pretty soon their basement will become lovingly referred to as "Dungeon Disney") Last night's theme was Operation Fagdad, and most people contributed to the operation by having themed team names: Osodomy Bin Laden, So-damn Insane, Abu-grabme, Extreme Baghdad Makeover, Light in the Loafers Brigade, sergeant Sodomy.
It wasn't the most crowded night at The Post, but it was definitely one of the most rowdy and fun-filled crowds (or was it just me?). I think everyone had a good time (with the exception of some idiot who walked into the bar, sat down, had a drink, and left. He displayed a winning personality that could only be described as...dead man drinking).
I'm slowly recovering from a headache, so my writing might seem scattered, but before I forget (the mistress would hang me from my nipples if I didn't put this out there), something special is happening next week, so all you readers who attend Kinky Quizzo please remember. A good friend of Jen's (and a very sexy looking dude in fatigues) is stationed over in Iraq. She tells us that they spend alot of their free time hanging out, playing games and chompin' on some snackables. So, Jen's asked us all to bring in some supplies so she can put together a care package and send overseas. These can be chips, pretzels, fritos, blah blah blah....basically anything non-perishable, but snackable. In return, Jen has promised us some hot naked pics of this army guy.... Oh wait...sorry...she promised ME hot naked pics of this army guy.... Oh wait...I think I only dreamed about pics of this hot army guy...
Anyway, folks...that's about it for now. I'll think of some other things to say later on. In the meantime, have a great day and feel free to comment (either directly or by emailing me through my profile).
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Thank you, Mr. Tourist, for Setting the Tone for the Day...
You've heard me say it before: working in this gallery is not the best job in the world and some of the people are freaks of nature. But there are others who really get my goat.
Take Mr. Tourist, for instance.
I'm standing in the front of the gallery and a middle-aged gray haired man walks up to me and asks, with a severe accent, the price of a piece hanging above the fireplace.
"About twenty-two hundred," I reply.
He laughs and asks: "Why?"
I just stared at him, unable to say anything, but I didn't need to. He just continued in his accented tone.
"Dis is crap. I don unnerstand why you can sell for dat?" All the while, he's chuckling. I remain silent and stare daggers into him, ready to toss him out the door, but he doesn't stop. "Back en my condree, we have aaht like dis, in Stockholm, in da plaza. We call it 'square aaht'...'crappy aaht'." He turns to walk out. "I don like dis."
"You're entitled to your own opinion." Was all I managed to get out.
I'm not here to actually defend Thomas Kinkade, but I don't have to put up with shitholes like this either. I don't walk into a Gap store and say: "These jeans are crap... How can you sell that sweater?..." Or some lame shit like that!
FUCKING UGH!!!!!!!
A few minutes later, the Suede returns with his friends. I'm sitting at my desk and I hear the distinctive accent. He begins discussing the 'crap' with his friends and I've had enough. I walk up to him:
"Look, I told you a few minutes ago that you are certainly entitled to your opinion. But I am not required to be subjected to it. If you do not like this art, then by all means, there's another gallery right across the way. I would appreciate you leaving my store at once."
He actually shot me a look as if I were the one being rude!!!!
Needless to say, I have more than six more hours to go in here today and I'm not in the best of moods. Let's hope this little venting session I'm typing will smooth me over so I can deal with the next idiot who walks through these doors.
I promise...my next post will be better...
Take Mr. Tourist, for instance.
I'm standing in the front of the gallery and a middle-aged gray haired man walks up to me and asks, with a severe accent, the price of a piece hanging above the fireplace.
"About twenty-two hundred," I reply.
He laughs and asks: "Why?"
I just stared at him, unable to say anything, but I didn't need to. He just continued in his accented tone.
"Dis is crap. I don unnerstand why you can sell for dat?" All the while, he's chuckling. I remain silent and stare daggers into him, ready to toss him out the door, but he doesn't stop. "Back en my condree, we have aaht like dis, in Stockholm, in da plaza. We call it 'square aaht'...'crappy aaht'." He turns to walk out. "I don like dis."
"You're entitled to your own opinion." Was all I managed to get out.
I'm not here to actually defend Thomas Kinkade, but I don't have to put up with shitholes like this either. I don't walk into a Gap store and say: "These jeans are crap... How can you sell that sweater?..." Or some lame shit like that!
FUCKING UGH!!!!!!!
A few minutes later, the Suede returns with his friends. I'm sitting at my desk and I hear the distinctive accent. He begins discussing the 'crap' with his friends and I've had enough. I walk up to him:
"Look, I told you a few minutes ago that you are certainly entitled to your opinion. But I am not required to be subjected to it. If you do not like this art, then by all means, there's another gallery right across the way. I would appreciate you leaving my store at once."
He actually shot me a look as if I were the one being rude!!!!
Needless to say, I have more than six more hours to go in here today and I'm not in the best of moods. Let's hope this little venting session I'm typing will smooth me over so I can deal with the next idiot who walks through these doors.
I promise...my next post will be better...
Saturday, April 23, 2005
A Miracle?...
Just one last quick note for the day...
I always heard that a writer should write about what he knows. Earlier I wrote about my incredible back pain. It wasn't something that I particulary wanted to write about but, seeing how bad it was, it was the only thing I could concentrate on.
So I wrote about what I knew...
And what do you know? Two hours after writing about it and my pain is all but completely gone!! I still feel that little grip I described, the one that tells me not to forget or it'll get me when I least expect it. But I can move!!!
I just thought that was something a little strange, so I thought I'd mention it.
Adios, for now...
I always heard that a writer should write about what he knows. Earlier I wrote about my incredible back pain. It wasn't something that I particulary wanted to write about but, seeing how bad it was, it was the only thing I could concentrate on.
So I wrote about what I knew...
And what do you know? Two hours after writing about it and my pain is all but completely gone!! I still feel that little grip I described, the one that tells me not to forget or it'll get me when I least expect it. But I can move!!!
I just thought that was something a little strange, so I thought I'd mention it.
Adios, for now...
A Bite Out of the Big Apple (part 1)...
You know, I just looked back on the last few posts I have written and discovered the image I am projecting: one of a bitter angry man. My life isn't the best by any means, but there have been some good moments throughout my stay here on earth. And two of the most memorable were trips to visit my friend, Scott, in New York City.
Scott used to live in Astoria, Queens back when we both were working in Kinkade galleries. He was the Director of the gallery in Manhattan and had come down to the philly area for a company event. Even though we had spoken for nearly a year over the phone, this was actually the first time we met face to face.
Long story short, the event went well and we all were making some good money. A few weeks later, Scott had invited me up to New York for the weekend. I hopped an Amtrak on Friday night and reached New York by about 9:00 or so. He met me at the station and we hopped a subway to his place in Queens. Although I was anxious to get out and see The Big Apple, we had decided on a simple and very nice dinner at a Greek restaurant around the corner from his house. Some good wine, good food and good conversation was the begining of the weekend.
The next morning, we got up, showered and were out the door to a small (again, Greek) diner around the corner. We ate breakfast and then hopped on the El and made our way into Manhattan. It was a beautiful, sunny and warm Saturday as we crossed the East River and descended into the depths of the New York underground. From there, I can't remember where we surfaced, but we walked the streets, window shopping, while Scott showed me this and that, which I've only seen in television or the movies.
We eventually made our way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where we expanded our culture through priceless works of art and ancient mummified corpses. Once outside again, I remember seeing a line of vendors selling everything from t-shirts to hot dogs to tiny little paintings of different scenes around the city. My eyes fell upon two particular pictures I decided I must have; one of the Brooklyn Bridge and a second of one of my favorite buildings, The Flat Iron.
As the afternoon rolled on, we strolled through Central Park and I was amazed at how lost one could get in an area that is nothing other than a giant rectangle in the middle of a sprawling city. But lost I was, both physically and mentally. It was amazing, walking down pathways and the sounds of the city were completely washed away. Small brooks fed into larger streams while the canopy of trees shaded us from the blistering Indian Summer sun. After about an hour or more, we emerged all the way down by the Plaza Hotel and it suddenly dawned on the both of us that we haven't had anything to eat since early that morning (it was now about 4 or 5 o'clock).
The only bad thing to happen that whole weekend (sorry, Scott) was when we stopped in some themed restaurant to grab a burger and Scott accidentally sat on the bag containing my pictures that I had just purchased. All I remember hearing was a "pop" and I knew the glass had broken.
(sigh...)
I can't keep anything nice.
Anyway, after having fun making Scott feel guilty about ruining my purchase (I'm sure I'll receive a scathing phone call within a few days of posting this), we headed back to Queens for a quick nap before returning to the city for a night of bar-hopping.
I don't exactly remember which bars we went to. I remember hopping in and out of cabs but I think, for the most part, we walked up and down Christopher Street. I remember going to The Stonewall and then to another bar that was having Karioki. The one thing that really stands out was going to a bar to shoot pool and all of a sudden, this guy comes up to me and starts flirting with me. The whole time he was doing this, I couldn't help but feel that I knew him. But that couldn't be...right? I mean... I'm in New York. Sure, it's only 90 minutes from Philly, but there are friggin 8 million people here... But still, the feeling nagged me.
And then it hit me!
Of all people! I suddenly turned to Scott and said: "This guy's from philly."
The guy turned to me and said: "Yes I am. Is that where you're from?"
"Yes."
"Did we meet down there?"
"Yes," I replied, taking a swig of beer and looking at him cooly. "And you annoyed the fuck out of me down there too."
The next morning, Sunday, was even more beautiful (although you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at Scott). We got up, showered and headed to that little Greek diner again. I don't remember what we had ordered for breakfast, but I do remember the waitress plopping the food down infront of us, Scott taking a look at his plate, looking up at me, and say: "I'll be right back." He then rushed into the bathroom.
Awwwwwwwww..., I thought, taking a forkful of some sort of breakfast meat. Poor guy shouldn't have drank so much.
After a few cups of coffee (and luckily no more trips to the bathroom), we finished breakfast and paid the bill. The plan today was to head down to the South Street Seaport to Scott's gallery and then just play it by ear as to what to do next.
We hopped the subway and traveled down to Lower Manhattan, walked to the Seaport and went to his gallery. I was amazed at how similar it looked to mine, right down to the furniture. I didn't want to stay too long.
Scott suggested we walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Why?" I asked.
"Why not?"
So we did. When we reached the midspan, I turned around and took in the view. And was suddenly pissed that I left my camera back at the apartment. Like a gift from heaven, seated right smack dab in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, was an old woman selling bottled water and (gasp) disposable cameras!!! I bought one of each and started snapping pictures...
Pictures of the skyline...
Pictures of Scott and the skyine...
Pictures of me and the skyline...
Pictures of a hot jogger with the ass of death--and the skyline...
You get the picture...
We didn't walk all the way over to Brooklyn, but instead turned and headed back into the city. We strolled through a very abandoned looking financial district until we came across a place to get some coffee. Then down to Battery Park. People were sunning out by the water and I remember one guy with this HUGE bulge sticking out from his tiny silken shorts...
I took a picture...
We circled the park and head up towards the World Trade Center. I snapped some pictures of the twin towers before we strolled into the Winter Garden. We emerged out in the plaza of the World Trade Center and Scott asked if I wanted to go up to the observation deck. I told him the last time I was in New York with my boyfriend, Mark, we tried to go up to the top of the Empire State and the line was like two hours long.
"Well, let's just check it out," He said. "If it's less than about 15 minutes, we'll go up."
Lo and behold, there was barely anyone in line and within the 15 minute timeline we gave ourselves, we found ourselves standing out looking across all of Manhattan. Never in my life have I been up so high with such an incredible unobstructed view. From each direction, north, south, east and west, I took picture after picture of the land around me, the sky cloudless as the sun started drifting off towards the west. I felt alive up there! The entire city below was alive, but not a sound drifted up this high. It was incredible.
Little did I know how glad I would be to experience that feeling.
Sadly, a week later, the world changed before our very eyes as both buildings came down.
But still...although I have been to New York a few times before then, that weekend was, without question, the best weekend I had and I will always be grateful to Scott for sharing it with me...
Scott used to live in Astoria, Queens back when we both were working in Kinkade galleries. He was the Director of the gallery in Manhattan and had come down to the philly area for a company event. Even though we had spoken for nearly a year over the phone, this was actually the first time we met face to face.
Long story short, the event went well and we all were making some good money. A few weeks later, Scott had invited me up to New York for the weekend. I hopped an Amtrak on Friday night and reached New York by about 9:00 or so. He met me at the station and we hopped a subway to his place in Queens. Although I was anxious to get out and see The Big Apple, we had decided on a simple and very nice dinner at a Greek restaurant around the corner from his house. Some good wine, good food and good conversation was the begining of the weekend.
The next morning, we got up, showered and were out the door to a small (again, Greek) diner around the corner. We ate breakfast and then hopped on the El and made our way into Manhattan. It was a beautiful, sunny and warm Saturday as we crossed the East River and descended into the depths of the New York underground. From there, I can't remember where we surfaced, but we walked the streets, window shopping, while Scott showed me this and that, which I've only seen in television or the movies.
We eventually made our way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where we expanded our culture through priceless works of art and ancient mummified corpses. Once outside again, I remember seeing a line of vendors selling everything from t-shirts to hot dogs to tiny little paintings of different scenes around the city. My eyes fell upon two particular pictures I decided I must have; one of the Brooklyn Bridge and a second of one of my favorite buildings, The Flat Iron.
As the afternoon rolled on, we strolled through Central Park and I was amazed at how lost one could get in an area that is nothing other than a giant rectangle in the middle of a sprawling city. But lost I was, both physically and mentally. It was amazing, walking down pathways and the sounds of the city were completely washed away. Small brooks fed into larger streams while the canopy of trees shaded us from the blistering Indian Summer sun. After about an hour or more, we emerged all the way down by the Plaza Hotel and it suddenly dawned on the both of us that we haven't had anything to eat since early that morning (it was now about 4 or 5 o'clock).
The only bad thing to happen that whole weekend (sorry, Scott) was when we stopped in some themed restaurant to grab a burger and Scott accidentally sat on the bag containing my pictures that I had just purchased. All I remember hearing was a "pop" and I knew the glass had broken.
(sigh...)
I can't keep anything nice.
Anyway, after having fun making Scott feel guilty about ruining my purchase (I'm sure I'll receive a scathing phone call within a few days of posting this), we headed back to Queens for a quick nap before returning to the city for a night of bar-hopping.
I don't exactly remember which bars we went to. I remember hopping in and out of cabs but I think, for the most part, we walked up and down Christopher Street. I remember going to The Stonewall and then to another bar that was having Karioki. The one thing that really stands out was going to a bar to shoot pool and all of a sudden, this guy comes up to me and starts flirting with me. The whole time he was doing this, I couldn't help but feel that I knew him. But that couldn't be...right? I mean... I'm in New York. Sure, it's only 90 minutes from Philly, but there are friggin 8 million people here... But still, the feeling nagged me.
And then it hit me!
Of all people! I suddenly turned to Scott and said: "This guy's from philly."
The guy turned to me and said: "Yes I am. Is that where you're from?"
"Yes."
"Did we meet down there?"
"Yes," I replied, taking a swig of beer and looking at him cooly. "And you annoyed the fuck out of me down there too."
The next morning, Sunday, was even more beautiful (although you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at Scott). We got up, showered and headed to that little Greek diner again. I don't remember what we had ordered for breakfast, but I do remember the waitress plopping the food down infront of us, Scott taking a look at his plate, looking up at me, and say: "I'll be right back." He then rushed into the bathroom.
Awwwwwwwww..., I thought, taking a forkful of some sort of breakfast meat. Poor guy shouldn't have drank so much.
After a few cups of coffee (and luckily no more trips to the bathroom), we finished breakfast and paid the bill. The plan today was to head down to the South Street Seaport to Scott's gallery and then just play it by ear as to what to do next.
We hopped the subway and traveled down to Lower Manhattan, walked to the Seaport and went to his gallery. I was amazed at how similar it looked to mine, right down to the furniture. I didn't want to stay too long.
Scott suggested we walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Why?" I asked.
"Why not?"
So we did. When we reached the midspan, I turned around and took in the view. And was suddenly pissed that I left my camera back at the apartment. Like a gift from heaven, seated right smack dab in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, was an old woman selling bottled water and (gasp) disposable cameras!!! I bought one of each and started snapping pictures...
Pictures of the skyline...
Pictures of Scott and the skyine...
Pictures of me and the skyline...
Pictures of a hot jogger with the ass of death--and the skyline...
You get the picture...
We didn't walk all the way over to Brooklyn, but instead turned and headed back into the city. We strolled through a very abandoned looking financial district until we came across a place to get some coffee. Then down to Battery Park. People were sunning out by the water and I remember one guy with this HUGE bulge sticking out from his tiny silken shorts...
I took a picture...
We circled the park and head up towards the World Trade Center. I snapped some pictures of the twin towers before we strolled into the Winter Garden. We emerged out in the plaza of the World Trade Center and Scott asked if I wanted to go up to the observation deck. I told him the last time I was in New York with my boyfriend, Mark, we tried to go up to the top of the Empire State and the line was like two hours long.
"Well, let's just check it out," He said. "If it's less than about 15 minutes, we'll go up."
Lo and behold, there was barely anyone in line and within the 15 minute timeline we gave ourselves, we found ourselves standing out looking across all of Manhattan. Never in my life have I been up so high with such an incredible unobstructed view. From each direction, north, south, east and west, I took picture after picture of the land around me, the sky cloudless as the sun started drifting off towards the west. I felt alive up there! The entire city below was alive, but not a sound drifted up this high. It was incredible.
Little did I know how glad I would be to experience that feeling.
Sadly, a week later, the world changed before our very eyes as both buildings came down.
But still...although I have been to New York a few times before then, that weekend was, without question, the best weekend I had and I will always be grateful to Scott for sharing it with me...
Pain, Pain Go Away...
I need drugs!!!! Lots and lots of drugs!!!! Huey Lewis can't even begin to list the drugs I need!!!
For about three weeks now, I've been suffering from intense lower back pain. I can't even remember how it all started. Maybe it was just bad sleep and stress and poor choice in shoes, but it was awful! It went away for acouple of days and then returned with sweet revenge on Easter Sunday while I was playing with my brother's new puppy (an eight month old doberman).
The Tuesday after Easter, I had a trial run at a new job that could've promised me a shitload of money while being able to work a mere few blocks from my house. It involved alot of computer work and lifting and running around the three-story building, but I managed to eek out a nine hour day and was paid handsomely for time. I was supposed to go back the following Thursday (my next day off From Kinkade), but was unable to sleep due to my back pain. When I went into my normal job on Wednesday, I had slept maybe two hours that night and my back was so bad all I wanted to do was cry.
Another painful night on Wednesday and now, ontop of everything else, I tossed and turned (painfully) thinking about this new job. The guy who was going to hire me was a complete nutcase and his mind continuously ran in ten different directions. I would be comfortable walking into a new situation with a game plan some sort of guidance, but here I walk in and the guy just says "This needs to be done" talking about something I never even heard of and, instead of explaining how or why, he would be off somewhere else after just saying to do it. My back was giving me so much agony that, not only did I have another sleepless night, but I couldn't even find a comfortable position in which to lie without feel like I was lying ontop of broken pieces of glass and chipped cement blocks.
Come Thursday morning, I sat watching the clock move closer to the hour in which I had to leave for this job. Back pain, sleepless nights and, if I went in, not another day off for another five or six days (I was doing this new job on the days off of my other job). I knew I was making a bad choice and I was lying to myself and others about my decision. But by this time I had completely forgotten what it was like to be pain-free. All I wanted to do was have a drink to sort of ease the agony in my back (and it was 9:00am!!). Aspirin wasn't working, hot/cold creams weren't working, stretching in the hopes of either pulling my back free from it's grip or paralizing myself wasn't working.
I decided to take the day for myself, to not go into this new job. Somewhere during my second cup of coffee, I had also lost my balls somewhere in the kitchen because I never called this guy to tell him what was up. I just stayed on the couch for most of the morning and wallowed in self-pity, kicking myself over and over again (mentally, since lifting my legs any amount meant excruciating pain).
My friends all supported my decision, but I sensed disappointment in them. They all knew how burned out I was from my current job and my two hour commute to and from it. But they supported me, which was a good thing, because I was feeling like an absolute failure.
Even now, three and a half weeks later, I'm kicking myself. The way I look at it, I would've been OUT of King of Prussia by now, stressed in a new job, but making a nice hefty piece of change. And I guess part of the reason I'm still kicking myself is because I'm back to having sleepless nights again.
At some point during the last week or so my back pain suddenly vanished...until yesterday. All it took was a simple movement of bending to retrieve my shoe and BAM! Like being hit by a bullet to the back, I dropped to my knees. What made things worse was that yesterday I had to work a twelve-hour day. There was nothing I could do to get comfortable. Sitting was painful, but getting up from my chair was worse. Walking was awful, but standing still wasn't any better. By the time I finally made it back into the city last night, I made a beeline to The Post for a drink (or two or three). J.C. asked how my day was and all it took for him to understand was a look. Before I knew it, there was a shot infront of me along with my beer.
Good boy....
Today, the pain is still there, but luckily not as severe. It's more like a vice grip wound tightly enough to let me know that, whenever it wants, it can just turn the crank once more and bring me to my knees. I've been in a severe funk the last couple of weeks, both from wondering if I made a bad career choice and the pain in my back and I want to apologize to all those I've been a bitch to. I've been waiting for a number for an apparently amazing accupuncturist in Center City. Nothing else has worked, I may as well try a 5,000 year old technique.
It really sucks to get old... especially when I'm still in my twenties in my head. I guess this is Life's little way of telling me to snap out of it!
For about three weeks now, I've been suffering from intense lower back pain. I can't even remember how it all started. Maybe it was just bad sleep and stress and poor choice in shoes, but it was awful! It went away for acouple of days and then returned with sweet revenge on Easter Sunday while I was playing with my brother's new puppy (an eight month old doberman).
The Tuesday after Easter, I had a trial run at a new job that could've promised me a shitload of money while being able to work a mere few blocks from my house. It involved alot of computer work and lifting and running around the three-story building, but I managed to eek out a nine hour day and was paid handsomely for time. I was supposed to go back the following Thursday (my next day off From Kinkade), but was unable to sleep due to my back pain. When I went into my normal job on Wednesday, I had slept maybe two hours that night and my back was so bad all I wanted to do was cry.
Another painful night on Wednesday and now, ontop of everything else, I tossed and turned (painfully) thinking about this new job. The guy who was going to hire me was a complete nutcase and his mind continuously ran in ten different directions. I would be comfortable walking into a new situation with a game plan some sort of guidance, but here I walk in and the guy just says "This needs to be done" talking about something I never even heard of and, instead of explaining how or why, he would be off somewhere else after just saying to do it. My back was giving me so much agony that, not only did I have another sleepless night, but I couldn't even find a comfortable position in which to lie without feel like I was lying ontop of broken pieces of glass and chipped cement blocks.
Come Thursday morning, I sat watching the clock move closer to the hour in which I had to leave for this job. Back pain, sleepless nights and, if I went in, not another day off for another five or six days (I was doing this new job on the days off of my other job). I knew I was making a bad choice and I was lying to myself and others about my decision. But by this time I had completely forgotten what it was like to be pain-free. All I wanted to do was have a drink to sort of ease the agony in my back (and it was 9:00am!!). Aspirin wasn't working, hot/cold creams weren't working, stretching in the hopes of either pulling my back free from it's grip or paralizing myself wasn't working.
I decided to take the day for myself, to not go into this new job. Somewhere during my second cup of coffee, I had also lost my balls somewhere in the kitchen because I never called this guy to tell him what was up. I just stayed on the couch for most of the morning and wallowed in self-pity, kicking myself over and over again (mentally, since lifting my legs any amount meant excruciating pain).
My friends all supported my decision, but I sensed disappointment in them. They all knew how burned out I was from my current job and my two hour commute to and from it. But they supported me, which was a good thing, because I was feeling like an absolute failure.
Even now, three and a half weeks later, I'm kicking myself. The way I look at it, I would've been OUT of King of Prussia by now, stressed in a new job, but making a nice hefty piece of change. And I guess part of the reason I'm still kicking myself is because I'm back to having sleepless nights again.
At some point during the last week or so my back pain suddenly vanished...until yesterday. All it took was a simple movement of bending to retrieve my shoe and BAM! Like being hit by a bullet to the back, I dropped to my knees. What made things worse was that yesterday I had to work a twelve-hour day. There was nothing I could do to get comfortable. Sitting was painful, but getting up from my chair was worse. Walking was awful, but standing still wasn't any better. By the time I finally made it back into the city last night, I made a beeline to The Post for a drink (or two or three). J.C. asked how my day was and all it took for him to understand was a look. Before I knew it, there was a shot infront of me along with my beer.
Good boy....
Today, the pain is still there, but luckily not as severe. It's more like a vice grip wound tightly enough to let me know that, whenever it wants, it can just turn the crank once more and bring me to my knees. I've been in a severe funk the last couple of weeks, both from wondering if I made a bad career choice and the pain in my back and I want to apologize to all those I've been a bitch to. I've been waiting for a number for an apparently amazing accupuncturist in Center City. Nothing else has worked, I may as well try a 5,000 year old technique.
It really sucks to get old... especially when I'm still in my twenties in my head. I guess this is Life's little way of telling me to snap out of it!
Alone Again (sigh)...
Looks like, once again, I have been abandoned...
I woke up this morning and looked out my bedroom window to find not only the morning doves gone, but they've taken with them any sign that they were actually setting up residence on my air conditioner. All leaves, twigs and scraps of what-not have been swept clean. No note, no thank you, no nothing...
(sigh...)
The story of my life...
I woke up this morning and looked out my bedroom window to find not only the morning doves gone, but they've taken with them any sign that they were actually setting up residence on my air conditioner. All leaves, twigs and scraps of what-not have been swept clean. No note, no thank you, no nothing...
(sigh...)
The story of my life...
Friday, April 22, 2005
Kinky Quizzo Alert...
ATTENTION!!
After my last blog about Michael and the AIA Bookstore, I was pleased to get a response from our favorite Kinky Quizzo Host, Mistress Jen. She informed me of next week's theme at The Post. It appears that, in keeping with the times (as hard as they sometimes are), next week will be "Operation Faghdad".
Feel free, my dear readers, to come dressed as your favorite hero or villian or anyone in between.
Some off the top of my head suggestions are:
1) Osodomy Bin Laden (I know, I know...it's not Iraq, but we can't forget about A-fag-ghanistan)
2) Colinoscopy Powell
3) Tony Blair (complete with big wax lips, perfect for kissing ass)
4) You can even go so far as being Laura Bush (all you need is a Mary Tyler Moore wig and a t-shirt with a picture of your ex on the front with a set of tire tracks running over his face)
5) I think I'll go as good ol' boy, George Dubya, and stand on a barstool and declare victory in Kinky Quizzo before the first question is even read.
See ya there!
After my last blog about Michael and the AIA Bookstore, I was pleased to get a response from our favorite Kinky Quizzo Host, Mistress Jen. She informed me of next week's theme at The Post. It appears that, in keeping with the times (as hard as they sometimes are), next week will be "Operation Faghdad".
Feel free, my dear readers, to come dressed as your favorite hero or villian or anyone in between.
Some off the top of my head suggestions are:
1) Osodomy Bin Laden (I know, I know...it's not Iraq, but we can't forget about A-fag-ghanistan)
2) Colinoscopy Powell
3) Tony Blair (complete with big wax lips, perfect for kissing ass)
4) You can even go so far as being Laura Bush (all you need is a Mary Tyler Moore wig and a t-shirt with a picture of your ex on the front with a set of tire tracks running over his face)
5) I think I'll go as good ol' boy, George Dubya, and stand on a barstool and declare victory in Kinky Quizzo before the first question is even read.
See ya there!
And Now, a Word from Our Sponsor...
I feel like I have alot to cover today (seeing that I'll be working a 12 hour day) so, if you're one of my readers who checks out this site each day, try to make it back a second (or even third time) before the day's out. Thank you.
But first thing's first...
As I said to you a few blogs back, my friend, Michael, has been interviewed and appeared in a little "Spring Style" section of the Philadelphia City Paper. Michael is the buyer and General Manager of the AIA Bookstore in Center City and, although I'm sorta leary of mentioning too many names on this blog, Michael already told me he doesn't give a crap. Besides, what I'm about to say is (as his Goddess, Martha, says) a good thing.
Back in my wasted youth, I attended the Art Institute of Philadelphia, majoring in Interior Design and Architecture. I remember visiting the AIA Bookstore (AIA meaning American Institute of Architects) and the store was pretty much nothing more than what the name suggests, a bookstore selling books and other product related to the architectural and engineering fields. Sure, there were some other areas of interest that I seem to remember: a small children's section, a few little bits of gift product, etc, but it was mainly books. It wasn't a place that one would normally go in to look around or to try and find a gift (unless of course that special someone in your life was a Mike Brady).
But in the four or so years that my buddy has been running the show there, things have definitely turned around. Michael, being the store's buyer and already having a flair for the whimsical, travels to gift shows a few times a year and spends days on end picking out product from around the world that, at first, you just stare at and say "what the fuck was he thinking", but then you come to realize that the majority of the stuff he buys is flying off the shelf. One of the biggest success stories and draws to the store come in the autumn, when they open up the downstairs and all you'll find are rows and rows of unique Christmas tree decorations. But throughout the year, the rest of the store has become a hodge-podge (again...it's a good thing) of unique gifts from vases to martini glasses to jewelry to (and I still have yet to see this) doormats in the shape of man hole covers.
Oh yeah... and there are still books...
But most times, when you go into a bookstore, you're going in to find something to read or something for someone else to read. In the AIA bookstore, you can actually go in and laugh (or at least smile) at some of the things displayed before you. Michael has definitely brought some character into what, in my opinion, would normally be a ho-hum kind of store.
And that's where the City Paper comes in. I don't know if they got wind of the store's success or what, but there is a small section in this week's paper titled "Spring Style Guide". Unlike the paper's "Best of Philly" section that comes out once a year and covers literally hundreds of topics and places, the Spring Style Guide is mostly ad space, but the editors of the paper have also set aside space for a mere dozen or so "profiles" of selected businesses throughout the metropolitan area. That being said, I feel that a good ol' hats off to Michael should be given (and those at the Post should buy him a celebratory martini) for being selected.
In his interview, here's what Michael had to say about style trends:
"I see a trend towards objects and home furnishings that have a sense of humor to them. They are not only functional, but they're a visual pun or an out-right laugh..."
"Humor is an important part of life and these designers help create a dwelling that you are not only comfortable in, but one that makes you chuckle and think 'Man, I love that!'"
And, in many display cases and on many shelves within the store, you'll find Michael's philosophy behind the newest product and you too will find yourself chuckling and saying: "Man, I love that!"
So, if you find yourself walking through Center City Philadelphia and you're in the area of 17th and Sansom Streets, be sure to stop into the AIA Bookstore.
PS: Mention this blog to Michael for some special treatment (probably a roll of the eyes and a softly mumbled "Christ, not that again..."
But first thing's first...
As I said to you a few blogs back, my friend, Michael, has been interviewed and appeared in a little "Spring Style" section of the Philadelphia City Paper. Michael is the buyer and General Manager of the AIA Bookstore in Center City and, although I'm sorta leary of mentioning too many names on this blog, Michael already told me he doesn't give a crap. Besides, what I'm about to say is (as his Goddess, Martha, says) a good thing.
Back in my wasted youth, I attended the Art Institute of Philadelphia, majoring in Interior Design and Architecture. I remember visiting the AIA Bookstore (AIA meaning American Institute of Architects) and the store was pretty much nothing more than what the name suggests, a bookstore selling books and other product related to the architectural and engineering fields. Sure, there were some other areas of interest that I seem to remember: a small children's section, a few little bits of gift product, etc, but it was mainly books. It wasn't a place that one would normally go in to look around or to try and find a gift (unless of course that special someone in your life was a Mike Brady).
But in the four or so years that my buddy has been running the show there, things have definitely turned around. Michael, being the store's buyer and already having a flair for the whimsical, travels to gift shows a few times a year and spends days on end picking out product from around the world that, at first, you just stare at and say "what the fuck was he thinking", but then you come to realize that the majority of the stuff he buys is flying off the shelf. One of the biggest success stories and draws to the store come in the autumn, when they open up the downstairs and all you'll find are rows and rows of unique Christmas tree decorations. But throughout the year, the rest of the store has become a hodge-podge (again...it's a good thing) of unique gifts from vases to martini glasses to jewelry to (and I still have yet to see this) doormats in the shape of man hole covers.
Oh yeah... and there are still books...
But most times, when you go into a bookstore, you're going in to find something to read or something for someone else to read. In the AIA bookstore, you can actually go in and laugh (or at least smile) at some of the things displayed before you. Michael has definitely brought some character into what, in my opinion, would normally be a ho-hum kind of store.
And that's where the City Paper comes in. I don't know if they got wind of the store's success or what, but there is a small section in this week's paper titled "Spring Style Guide". Unlike the paper's "Best of Philly" section that comes out once a year and covers literally hundreds of topics and places, the Spring Style Guide is mostly ad space, but the editors of the paper have also set aside space for a mere dozen or so "profiles" of selected businesses throughout the metropolitan area. That being said, I feel that a good ol' hats off to Michael should be given (and those at the Post should buy him a celebratory martini) for being selected.
In his interview, here's what Michael had to say about style trends:
"I see a trend towards objects and home furnishings that have a sense of humor to them. They are not only functional, but they're a visual pun or an out-right laugh..."
"Humor is an important part of life and these designers help create a dwelling that you are not only comfortable in, but one that makes you chuckle and think 'Man, I love that!'"
And, in many display cases and on many shelves within the store, you'll find Michael's philosophy behind the newest product and you too will find yourself chuckling and saying: "Man, I love that!"
So, if you find yourself walking through Center City Philadelphia and you're in the area of 17th and Sansom Streets, be sure to stop into the AIA Bookstore.
PS: Mention this blog to Michael for some special treatment (probably a roll of the eyes and a softly mumbled "Christ, not that again..."
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Dr. Doolittle, I Presume...
I awoke this morning to a tap-tap-tappin'...
It was too early for me and I had a bit to drink at Kinky Quizzo last night (by the way, I lost again...), but needless to say, the tapping woke me up and, headache or not, there was no falling back to sleep.
I heard this familiar coo-ing coming from right outside my bedroom window and it brought back memories of a teenager. Three years in a row, between the age of about 16 and 19, every spring, I would find a nest in my bedroom window. Through the winter that first year, I had accidentally left the storm window open about six inches and, at some point, a pair of morning doves had taken up residence on the sill. Every morning, I would be awakened by this soft, but endless coo-coo from just beyond the drawn curtains. I ignored it for the longest time but then, as the days grew warmer, I decided to open the window and air out the bedroom. To my surprise there is a morning dove sitting in a nest on the other side of the glass, the head bobbing up and down and a startled look in its eyes (but they always look startled). But even more surprising to me, when the dove moved off the nest and towards the edge of the sill, was the discovery of three tiny eggs sitting in the twisted mangle of twigs and dried leaves.
Now, you always see television shows and movies about eight or nine year old boys climbing a tree and discovering a nest of eggs and staring in awe while waiting for that first crack to appear, but I was never a tree climber growing up, so the experience of seeing life being created through the protection of a sheet of glass was incredible.
Each morning I would peel back the drapes and there she would sit, mother-to-be, her eyes staring up at me. She refused to move from her eggs and the father dove would all of a sudden fly down from the sky and land on the sill, making a soft sound sort of reminiscent of a vehicle in a Jetsons cartoon. Mother would stare, father would pace. I felt the sudden urge to rush out and buy cigars.
This ritual went on between the three of us for a couple of weeks until I finally realized that I may be doing some harm and both birds may abandon the nest, leaving the eggs behind. But, at fifteen, I had to know what was going on! The Discovery Channel was still ten years away! But my conscious won out and I let the happy couple alone. Until I heard all the chirping.
About two days later, the eggs hatched. Two of the three eggs were completely broken open and pushed to the side. The mother was sitting on the new arrivals, so I couldn't see what they looked like. The father swooped down (bbbrrrrrrrrrrr) and landed on the sill. His head bobbed back and forth like a proud pappa (das right...I'm da man....coo-coo-ca-choo).
Throughout the next couple of weeks I peered through the glass, but the knowing mother wouldn't budge. The third egg had also hatched by this time. I knew now that I would never get the chance to see what these little creatures looked like. But my dog proved me wrong when she came prancing into my room, raised herself onto the sill and let out a loud "WOOF" like only a German Shepherd could do. The poor mother dove sprang to life and took off flying, leaving her little grey fuzzy children behind, their beaks wide open expecting to be fed. I chased the dog out of the room and closed the drapes. Every once in awhile, I would sneak a peak and the only ones on the sill were the babies. I felt horrible and wanted to do something...anything... The poor chicks were chirping uncontrolably. I wondered if they liked Apple Jacks...
Again, I left them alone for a time and was glad to see that the mother evenutally returned.
The weeks passed. Spring turned into Summer. My bedroom STILL had yet to be aired out, but there was nothing I could do about it. Eventually, I awoke one morning and found the nest completely empty of life. At some point the mother had taught her children to fly (I looked around the foundation of the house 3 floors below and was glad to see no stupid little chick had fallen out of the window). I was saddened to see my tenants gone...
But, like those families who travel to the Jersey shore every summer and rent the exact same house for the same two weeks, the following spring I awoke to cooing...
YEAH!!!
I don't know if it was the same mother and father (I don't know the life expectancy of a morning dove) or if it was one of the children who's instincts have brought them back or if, in fact, it was just some completely different dove altogether. It didn't matter. I was excited to be able to watch the whole thing over again.
When I awoke to the now familiar sound the following spring (this is the 3rd year now), I was like: enough already!!!
The following winter I made sure to remember to shut the storm window.
That was twenty years ago.
I awoke this morning to a tap-tap-tappin...
Yes, a pair of doves are walking around ontop of my air conditioner in my bedroom window. I'm hearing the familiar Jetsons cars shooshing back and forth as the doves go fetch twigs and bring them back. Every once in awhile, I would look out the window and see the mother sitting there and the father standing over her, preening her feathers. There are no eggs yet, so I'm discovering this early on.
With all the stress of being an adult: bills, rent, job, and life in general, I'm thankful for two things. First, I'm thankful that I'm going to once again be able to witness life in the making.
And second...
I'm thankful that this bedroom has two windows and I'm still able to air out the room...
It was too early for me and I had a bit to drink at Kinky Quizzo last night (by the way, I lost again...), but needless to say, the tapping woke me up and, headache or not, there was no falling back to sleep.
I heard this familiar coo-ing coming from right outside my bedroom window and it brought back memories of a teenager. Three years in a row, between the age of about 16 and 19, every spring, I would find a nest in my bedroom window. Through the winter that first year, I had accidentally left the storm window open about six inches and, at some point, a pair of morning doves had taken up residence on the sill. Every morning, I would be awakened by this soft, but endless coo-coo from just beyond the drawn curtains. I ignored it for the longest time but then, as the days grew warmer, I decided to open the window and air out the bedroom. To my surprise there is a morning dove sitting in a nest on the other side of the glass, the head bobbing up and down and a startled look in its eyes (but they always look startled). But even more surprising to me, when the dove moved off the nest and towards the edge of the sill, was the discovery of three tiny eggs sitting in the twisted mangle of twigs and dried leaves.
Now, you always see television shows and movies about eight or nine year old boys climbing a tree and discovering a nest of eggs and staring in awe while waiting for that first crack to appear, but I was never a tree climber growing up, so the experience of seeing life being created through the protection of a sheet of glass was incredible.
Each morning I would peel back the drapes and there she would sit, mother-to-be, her eyes staring up at me. She refused to move from her eggs and the father dove would all of a sudden fly down from the sky and land on the sill, making a soft sound sort of reminiscent of a vehicle in a Jetsons cartoon. Mother would stare, father would pace. I felt the sudden urge to rush out and buy cigars.
This ritual went on between the three of us for a couple of weeks until I finally realized that I may be doing some harm and both birds may abandon the nest, leaving the eggs behind. But, at fifteen, I had to know what was going on! The Discovery Channel was still ten years away! But my conscious won out and I let the happy couple alone. Until I heard all the chirping.
About two days later, the eggs hatched. Two of the three eggs were completely broken open and pushed to the side. The mother was sitting on the new arrivals, so I couldn't see what they looked like. The father swooped down (bbbrrrrrrrrrrr) and landed on the sill. His head bobbed back and forth like a proud pappa (das right...I'm da man....coo-coo-ca-choo).
Throughout the next couple of weeks I peered through the glass, but the knowing mother wouldn't budge. The third egg had also hatched by this time. I knew now that I would never get the chance to see what these little creatures looked like. But my dog proved me wrong when she came prancing into my room, raised herself onto the sill and let out a loud "WOOF" like only a German Shepherd could do. The poor mother dove sprang to life and took off flying, leaving her little grey fuzzy children behind, their beaks wide open expecting to be fed. I chased the dog out of the room and closed the drapes. Every once in awhile, I would sneak a peak and the only ones on the sill were the babies. I felt horrible and wanted to do something...anything... The poor chicks were chirping uncontrolably. I wondered if they liked Apple Jacks...
Again, I left them alone for a time and was glad to see that the mother evenutally returned.
The weeks passed. Spring turned into Summer. My bedroom STILL had yet to be aired out, but there was nothing I could do about it. Eventually, I awoke one morning and found the nest completely empty of life. At some point the mother had taught her children to fly (I looked around the foundation of the house 3 floors below and was glad to see no stupid little chick had fallen out of the window). I was saddened to see my tenants gone...
But, like those families who travel to the Jersey shore every summer and rent the exact same house for the same two weeks, the following spring I awoke to cooing...
YEAH!!!
I don't know if it was the same mother and father (I don't know the life expectancy of a morning dove) or if it was one of the children who's instincts have brought them back or if, in fact, it was just some completely different dove altogether. It didn't matter. I was excited to be able to watch the whole thing over again.
When I awoke to the now familiar sound the following spring (this is the 3rd year now), I was like: enough already!!!
The following winter I made sure to remember to shut the storm window.
That was twenty years ago.
I awoke this morning to a tap-tap-tappin...
Yes, a pair of doves are walking around ontop of my air conditioner in my bedroom window. I'm hearing the familiar Jetsons cars shooshing back and forth as the doves go fetch twigs and bring them back. Every once in awhile, I would look out the window and see the mother sitting there and the father standing over her, preening her feathers. There are no eggs yet, so I'm discovering this early on.
With all the stress of being an adult: bills, rent, job, and life in general, I'm thankful for two things. First, I'm thankful that I'm going to once again be able to witness life in the making.
And second...
I'm thankful that this bedroom has two windows and I'm still able to air out the room...
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Battle to be Heard...
I just have one simple question. Who was the dumb fuck who decided it was a good idea to bring a once popular childhood toy into the 21st century and unleash it upon an already obnoxious society????
I'm, of course, talking about the annoying little contraptions called the two-way radio.
You know, when I get on the bus at 8:oo in the morning to ride almost an hour to work or in the evening for the return trip, all I want to do is either try to wake up or try to wind down. Is it too much to say to other passengers that, when you see someone quietly sitting and reading a book, it is rude to pop open your walkie-talkie and start speaking to someone halfway across the city through a device that only makes the other party sound like an alien enjoying a anal probe?
But first, let us begin with another gadget...
Cell phones were bad enough but, thanks to my dear friends, M&O, I have been sucked into that world and have now plummeted down into a well of custom ring-tones, text messaging and speed dialing. Within a few short months of ownership, I have found myself relying on this little devise as much as a high school nerd relies on his pocket protector and Texas Instruments calculator with all those unnecessary extra buttons. I find myself going from one of those "I'll call you when I get the chance" people to running the 8 blocks from the bus stop back to my house because I've only got one more bar left on the battery indicator and I forgot my charger.
I used to dread working evenings not because all my friends were already home from work and enjoying a cocktail or two, but because, as soon as I slide my money into the fair box along with 20 other people and slip into my seat for the long ride home, it would happen without fail. I would pull out my book, flip back the dog-eared page, get as comfortable as one could get on a bus seat and begin reading where I had left off eight hours earlier. The other passengers would board the bus, take their seats, stuff their bags and other items between their knees and the seats infront of them and, like sycronized swimmers, reach into their pockets or purses, pull out their cells and flip them open. Like the sound of a deck of cards being fanned into a shuffle, the plastic flip-tops open in unison and the beep-beep-beep of fingers punching in numbers drowns out the roar of the bus engine.
Then the 30 or so different conversations begin. I've never been on the trading floor of an exchange house, but I could imagine it not being that much worse than a busload of people all announcing to their callers that they were now on the bus. Is someone's life really that important that they feel the need to call and give an account of their whereabouts that hasn't really altered from day to day since they had first taken the job from which they were now leaving? And to make things worse, each person on the bus; each person speaking into their mouthpiece has to speak louder than the one sitting next to them. Don't they realize that the person on the other end of the line can, for the most part, hear them perfectly clear? Just because the talker can't hear the conversation over the drone of other chatters doesn't mean that speaking louder...actually shouting into the phone is going to make it a more pleasant experience. Just once I wish someone would realize this and say: "Hey, this is a waste of minutes. Let me call you when I get off the bus."
For a number of weeks I (and yes, the other passengers) had the displeasure of actually having to listen to not only someone shouting into a phone for the entire ride home, but someone shouting in Chinese. A middle-aged Chinese woman would arrive at the bus stop every evening just as the bus arrived. Her annoyance begins long before the cell phone is brought out. Every night, she would get onto the bus and shout for the driver to wait. "My friend...He come now! He come now!" She would point across the street to another Chinese man dodging cars and ignoring blaring horns. One time, when the guy was still a half block away and the bus driver closed the door and started pulling away from the stop, she actually grabbed the steering wheel. Those first few times of witnessing her enthusiasm were quite funny and the other passengers would begin laughing (all the while, making their ritualistic phone calls), but after awhile everyone had had enough of her and she soon realized that it was every man for himself and that her co-worker would just have to catch the next bus if he wasn't quick enough. But that was only part of the annoyance of this woman.
Once she would sit down, without fail, she would pull out her cell phone and start dialing. I sat across the aisle from her one evening and had to listen to her gab on and on and on for about twenty minutes, shouting in her native tongue to whomever was on the other end of the line. People shot her dirty looks while snickering with one another at the same time and making comments that they had no intentions of keeping quiet. The woman finally hung up the phone to the audible relief all around her. Then she would start dialing again. And again, a loud one-sided conversation would erupt for another ten minutes. After a third time, someone had finally had enough (I had to do everything I could to keep myself from ripping the phone out of her hand and stomping on it) and told her either to put the phone away or keep her conversation quiet. Few passengers even applauded when they saw the woman slip the phone into her pocket.
And now, we have the two-way radio...
As if it wasn't bad enough to have to try and block out a one-sided conversation, now we must ignore the other party too? But how can you ignore a little contraption that precedes an incoming voice with probably one of the most annoying sounds since Yoko Ono first signed a record deal? That squelch/beep/piercing cry for attention sends chills up my back. But what's worse is the fact that, not only must you have to hear what the other person is saying, but you must hear it in a way that technology can't seem to advance. There is abso-fucking-lutely no difference in the way a voice sounds on these things nowadays compared to how the voices of two kids sounded playing army while running around shouting into the $10 walkie-talkies of the 60's and 70's.
Has technology advanced so much that it's brought us back in time?
What's next, a box that you can plug into your tv and be able to play table-tennis with a square ball and a pair of paddles that are no more than elongated versions of the square ball?
Oh wait... If I'm not mistaken, Pong did make a come-back...
I'm, of course, talking about the annoying little contraptions called the two-way radio.
You know, when I get on the bus at 8:oo in the morning to ride almost an hour to work or in the evening for the return trip, all I want to do is either try to wake up or try to wind down. Is it too much to say to other passengers that, when you see someone quietly sitting and reading a book, it is rude to pop open your walkie-talkie and start speaking to someone halfway across the city through a device that only makes the other party sound like an alien enjoying a anal probe?
But first, let us begin with another gadget...
Cell phones were bad enough but, thanks to my dear friends, M&O, I have been sucked into that world and have now plummeted down into a well of custom ring-tones, text messaging and speed dialing. Within a few short months of ownership, I have found myself relying on this little devise as much as a high school nerd relies on his pocket protector and Texas Instruments calculator with all those unnecessary extra buttons. I find myself going from one of those "I'll call you when I get the chance" people to running the 8 blocks from the bus stop back to my house because I've only got one more bar left on the battery indicator and I forgot my charger.
I used to dread working evenings not because all my friends were already home from work and enjoying a cocktail or two, but because, as soon as I slide my money into the fair box along with 20 other people and slip into my seat for the long ride home, it would happen without fail. I would pull out my book, flip back the dog-eared page, get as comfortable as one could get on a bus seat and begin reading where I had left off eight hours earlier. The other passengers would board the bus, take their seats, stuff their bags and other items between their knees and the seats infront of them and, like sycronized swimmers, reach into their pockets or purses, pull out their cells and flip them open. Like the sound of a deck of cards being fanned into a shuffle, the plastic flip-tops open in unison and the beep-beep-beep of fingers punching in numbers drowns out the roar of the bus engine.
Then the 30 or so different conversations begin. I've never been on the trading floor of an exchange house, but I could imagine it not being that much worse than a busload of people all announcing to their callers that they were now on the bus. Is someone's life really that important that they feel the need to call and give an account of their whereabouts that hasn't really altered from day to day since they had first taken the job from which they were now leaving? And to make things worse, each person on the bus; each person speaking into their mouthpiece has to speak louder than the one sitting next to them. Don't they realize that the person on the other end of the line can, for the most part, hear them perfectly clear? Just because the talker can't hear the conversation over the drone of other chatters doesn't mean that speaking louder...actually shouting into the phone is going to make it a more pleasant experience. Just once I wish someone would realize this and say: "Hey, this is a waste of minutes. Let me call you when I get off the bus."
For a number of weeks I (and yes, the other passengers) had the displeasure of actually having to listen to not only someone shouting into a phone for the entire ride home, but someone shouting in Chinese. A middle-aged Chinese woman would arrive at the bus stop every evening just as the bus arrived. Her annoyance begins long before the cell phone is brought out. Every night, she would get onto the bus and shout for the driver to wait. "My friend...He come now! He come now!" She would point across the street to another Chinese man dodging cars and ignoring blaring horns. One time, when the guy was still a half block away and the bus driver closed the door and started pulling away from the stop, she actually grabbed the steering wheel. Those first few times of witnessing her enthusiasm were quite funny and the other passengers would begin laughing (all the while, making their ritualistic phone calls), but after awhile everyone had had enough of her and she soon realized that it was every man for himself and that her co-worker would just have to catch the next bus if he wasn't quick enough. But that was only part of the annoyance of this woman.
Once she would sit down, without fail, she would pull out her cell phone and start dialing. I sat across the aisle from her one evening and had to listen to her gab on and on and on for about twenty minutes, shouting in her native tongue to whomever was on the other end of the line. People shot her dirty looks while snickering with one another at the same time and making comments that they had no intentions of keeping quiet. The woman finally hung up the phone to the audible relief all around her. Then she would start dialing again. And again, a loud one-sided conversation would erupt for another ten minutes. After a third time, someone had finally had enough (I had to do everything I could to keep myself from ripping the phone out of her hand and stomping on it) and told her either to put the phone away or keep her conversation quiet. Few passengers even applauded when they saw the woman slip the phone into her pocket.
And now, we have the two-way radio...
As if it wasn't bad enough to have to try and block out a one-sided conversation, now we must ignore the other party too? But how can you ignore a little contraption that precedes an incoming voice with probably one of the most annoying sounds since Yoko Ono first signed a record deal? That squelch/beep/piercing cry for attention sends chills up my back. But what's worse is the fact that, not only must you have to hear what the other person is saying, but you must hear it in a way that technology can't seem to advance. There is abso-fucking-lutely no difference in the way a voice sounds on these things nowadays compared to how the voices of two kids sounded playing army while running around shouting into the $10 walkie-talkies of the 60's and 70's.
Has technology advanced so much that it's brought us back in time?
What's next, a box that you can plug into your tv and be able to play table-tennis with a square ball and a pair of paddles that are no more than elongated versions of the square ball?
Oh wait... If I'm not mistaken, Pong did make a come-back...
Sunday, April 17, 2005
The Kinkade Cult Unmasked...
Thomas Kinkade..."The Most Collected Living Artist in the World"...
One can only achieve this title by coming up with a good marketing strategy. In Thomas Kinkade's case, it's getting his paintings on anything and everything that has a surface on which one of his thatch roofed cottages can be slapped. Most in the world will call this tactic "saturation". But Thom....Thom likes to view this as "enabling people across the globe to enjoy his work and message of hope and joy, no matter what your income". So that is why you can find his images on everything from greeting cards and coffee mugs to lampshades and umbrellas. So that everyone, no matter how much money they have stuffed into their little rubber change purse, can sit and stare....be hypnotised...by the glowing windows within these quaint little smirf-like houses, while being pulled into the ever growing depths of hell.
Middle America is the core group of people that has hopped on board and have become "collectors". Working in a Kinkade gallery myself, I often find it quite remarkable at how easy it is to sell one of his paintings by simply using some key phrases: light, color, beauty, hope, serenity... With each word spoken, you can actually see the customer's eyes begin to glaze over as they unknowingly run the tip of their tongue across their drying lips; their breaths growing more and more shallow as I sit them on a sofa and dim the lights, enhancing the whole "glow" of the image. Their palms become sweaty or, if it's a couple to whom I'm talking, their fingertips touch as a silent message is crossed between them until finally, in unison, they stand and shout: "WE'LL TAKE IT!!!!"
"Great," I reply. "Now let's pick a frame."
Ka-Ching!!
I see this kind of reaction alot working within these dark green carpeted walls lined with non-existant flowers in paintings where sunlight streams through treetops and dances atop babbling brooks and cascading waterfalls. The gallery in which I work is in a shopping mall and the way the store is set up, voices from the main concourse drift across the air and into my ears. I can hear what's being said as well as Lindsay Wagnor flipping back a strand of blond hair behind her ear, the camera panning in for a close-up as the infamous "brrrr-brrr-brrr" sound is signaling bionics that are taking over.
"Oooooh...I LOVE Thomas Kinkade...."
"This is the guy that paints with Light..."
"He always puts his wife and children in his paintings..."
"He's such an inspiration..."
"My mom LOVES this guy..."
Standing in the doorway, you can always tell a Kinkade fan. Even from as far away as a hundred yards, as I watch a middle aged couple exit the Macy's store, the husband dressed in baggy jeans and a so-and-so high school 1982 county champions t-shirt trying hard to cover an expanding belly from years of sitting in a barc-o-lounger. The wife is in lime green stretch pants (stretched as far as the manufacturer will allow) trying to conceal thighs that could feed a third world nation, a white sweatshirt with "World's Greatest Grandma" made from a bedazzler she'd bought over the television stretched across an enormous and very saggy chest. They walk out of Macy's both running their cracked tongues across their rocky road ice creams, the cones wrapped in soggy white napkins long lost in the battle of absorbing the drips which have begun to run across the wife's hot pink nail polish. Thier discussion could be about anything at that moment. All I see is thier lips moving in conversation as the ice cream is sloshed around in their mouths.
But then it happens...
The wife's eyes rise and I can almost read "Thomas Kinkade", the letters backwards in the reflection of her irises. I can see the pupils expand as recognition takes hold at what stands before her across the mall. All sound around me ceases as I watch her lips form the five words which tell me I'm in trouble here...
Oh-My-God---Thomas-Kinkade...
Suddenly time slows down as the music over the mall's sound system begings playing Chariots of Fire. The woman, completely forgetting her recent urge for a Friendly's ice cream, tosses her cone into the trash and grabs her husband's arm, not the hand...the arm. Like a mother who grips the arm of a little child in a supermarket, trying to pull him away from the rows and rows of sugar filled cereal because she must get the shopping done and be back home before Oprah comes on. In slow motion, the bedazzled "World's Best Grandma" rises and falls over her all too bouncing melons, the sparkles catching the rays of sunlight streaming in through the skylight above. Shoppers, their hands loaded with bags from Restoration Hardware and Bloomingdales, look up and take notice of the linebacker barrelling down upon them. Like a Diehard movie, they leap out of the way as if trying to escape an exploding car. The husband, now being nearly dragged like a sack of potatoes, darts his eyes back and forth at the other shoppers who have barely escaped with their lives. He says nothing... He actually can't say anything because his cone is clenched between his lips, the sudden pull taking him in mid-lick.
I'm still seeing this all in slow motion. I plant my feet firmly on the dark green carpet, readying myself for the assault. All knowledge of Thomas Kinkade and his works run through my mind as I try and determine what tactic to use on this bull racing toward the little red cape that is a Thomas Kinkade gallery. I prepare myself for the sale. I figure out ahead of time, what they're willing to spend to bring alittle more hope and joy into their home. Will it be a big sale or am I aiming too high and they'll only wind up buying a stupid puzzle?
She's only inches away from the door. I can almost hear her heart pounding in her chest. I can see the sweat dappled across the husband's forehead, the fear that his credit card is about to be swiped is evident in his eyes. I put on my welcome smile. The Chariots of Fire theme is reaching its full crescendo. The "Ding-Ding" of the motion detector hanging above the door announces their arrival into my domain.
The music blares....
I open my mouth to greet the couple...
And a calloused craft-abused hand with hot pink nail polish is raised to my face...
(ssscrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaatch...)
The music is suddenly halted as an icy stare is fired from the woman's eyes.
"Just looking!"
D'OH!!!!!
One can only achieve this title by coming up with a good marketing strategy. In Thomas Kinkade's case, it's getting his paintings on anything and everything that has a surface on which one of his thatch roofed cottages can be slapped. Most in the world will call this tactic "saturation". But Thom....Thom likes to view this as "enabling people across the globe to enjoy his work and message of hope and joy, no matter what your income". So that is why you can find his images on everything from greeting cards and coffee mugs to lampshades and umbrellas. So that everyone, no matter how much money they have stuffed into their little rubber change purse, can sit and stare....be hypnotised...by the glowing windows within these quaint little smirf-like houses, while being pulled into the ever growing depths of hell.
Middle America is the core group of people that has hopped on board and have become "collectors". Working in a Kinkade gallery myself, I often find it quite remarkable at how easy it is to sell one of his paintings by simply using some key phrases: light, color, beauty, hope, serenity... With each word spoken, you can actually see the customer's eyes begin to glaze over as they unknowingly run the tip of their tongue across their drying lips; their breaths growing more and more shallow as I sit them on a sofa and dim the lights, enhancing the whole "glow" of the image. Their palms become sweaty or, if it's a couple to whom I'm talking, their fingertips touch as a silent message is crossed between them until finally, in unison, they stand and shout: "WE'LL TAKE IT!!!!"
"Great," I reply. "Now let's pick a frame."
Ka-Ching!!
I see this kind of reaction alot working within these dark green carpeted walls lined with non-existant flowers in paintings where sunlight streams through treetops and dances atop babbling brooks and cascading waterfalls. The gallery in which I work is in a shopping mall and the way the store is set up, voices from the main concourse drift across the air and into my ears. I can hear what's being said as well as Lindsay Wagnor flipping back a strand of blond hair behind her ear, the camera panning in for a close-up as the infamous "brrrr-brrr-brrr" sound is signaling bionics that are taking over.
"Oooooh...I LOVE Thomas Kinkade...."
"This is the guy that paints with Light..."
"He always puts his wife and children in his paintings..."
"He's such an inspiration..."
"My mom LOVES this guy..."
Standing in the doorway, you can always tell a Kinkade fan. Even from as far away as a hundred yards, as I watch a middle aged couple exit the Macy's store, the husband dressed in baggy jeans and a so-and-so high school 1982 county champions t-shirt trying hard to cover an expanding belly from years of sitting in a barc-o-lounger. The wife is in lime green stretch pants (stretched as far as the manufacturer will allow) trying to conceal thighs that could feed a third world nation, a white sweatshirt with "World's Greatest Grandma" made from a bedazzler she'd bought over the television stretched across an enormous and very saggy chest. They walk out of Macy's both running their cracked tongues across their rocky road ice creams, the cones wrapped in soggy white napkins long lost in the battle of absorbing the drips which have begun to run across the wife's hot pink nail polish. Thier discussion could be about anything at that moment. All I see is thier lips moving in conversation as the ice cream is sloshed around in their mouths.
But then it happens...
The wife's eyes rise and I can almost read "Thomas Kinkade", the letters backwards in the reflection of her irises. I can see the pupils expand as recognition takes hold at what stands before her across the mall. All sound around me ceases as I watch her lips form the five words which tell me I'm in trouble here...
Oh-My-God---Thomas-Kinkade...
Suddenly time slows down as the music over the mall's sound system begings playing Chariots of Fire. The woman, completely forgetting her recent urge for a Friendly's ice cream, tosses her cone into the trash and grabs her husband's arm, not the hand...the arm. Like a mother who grips the arm of a little child in a supermarket, trying to pull him away from the rows and rows of sugar filled cereal because she must get the shopping done and be back home before Oprah comes on. In slow motion, the bedazzled "World's Best Grandma" rises and falls over her all too bouncing melons, the sparkles catching the rays of sunlight streaming in through the skylight above. Shoppers, their hands loaded with bags from Restoration Hardware and Bloomingdales, look up and take notice of the linebacker barrelling down upon them. Like a Diehard movie, they leap out of the way as if trying to escape an exploding car. The husband, now being nearly dragged like a sack of potatoes, darts his eyes back and forth at the other shoppers who have barely escaped with their lives. He says nothing... He actually can't say anything because his cone is clenched between his lips, the sudden pull taking him in mid-lick.
I'm still seeing this all in slow motion. I plant my feet firmly on the dark green carpet, readying myself for the assault. All knowledge of Thomas Kinkade and his works run through my mind as I try and determine what tactic to use on this bull racing toward the little red cape that is a Thomas Kinkade gallery. I prepare myself for the sale. I figure out ahead of time, what they're willing to spend to bring alittle more hope and joy into their home. Will it be a big sale or am I aiming too high and they'll only wind up buying a stupid puzzle?
She's only inches away from the door. I can almost hear her heart pounding in her chest. I can see the sweat dappled across the husband's forehead, the fear that his credit card is about to be swiped is evident in his eyes. I put on my welcome smile. The Chariots of Fire theme is reaching its full crescendo. The "Ding-Ding" of the motion detector hanging above the door announces their arrival into my domain.
The music blares....
I open my mouth to greet the couple...
And a calloused craft-abused hand with hot pink nail polish is raised to my face...
(ssscrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaatch...)
The music is suddenly halted as an icy stare is fired from the woman's eyes.
"Just looking!"
D'OH!!!!!
Friday, April 15, 2005
Get Some Better Material....Girl!!!
Okay... Just a rant here, but these are the kinds of things that really piss me off.
I was bored at work today (unlike any other day when I'm sooooooo full of pep and willing to break out into Kumba-Ya whenever I sell a piece of art) when I hopped on-line and a link to Overstock.com popped up on my screen. I was actually thinking about checking this site out for awhile after several people swore by it.
So, here I am, piddlin' the day away while going through item after item after item, scrolling through endless pictures of crap I had no need for, when I suddenly saw something that caught my eye. You know...it was nothing big, but I thought it might make a nice gift since a friend of mine had been looking for these very things (I have a feeling Mike and Ozzie are going to give me a bunch of shit for this, but oh well).
I found a nice set of bath towels.
It was nice to see that overstock.com also provides information where users can rate their product. Since you never really know what you're getting until it arrives at your doorstep, it's good to read what others thought of the product you're viewing. And towels are a very personal experience...at least to me. I mean, I've had towels that felt like you'd have more comfort rubbing your back along a cinderblock wall than having this thing touch your body.
Did you just dry off or were you attacked by a warewolf?...
This thing's about as absorbant as a sheet of bubblewrap...
Anyway, the fact is, it's good to see what others feel and write about before I go ahead and make the decision.
So, I find these towels and I go down to the review section. There are several comments about these particular towels, everything from "these are to die for" to "after one washing, they started falling apart". But there was one in particular that caught my eye and made me want to throw up my General Tso's chicken all across the monitor. I just had to cut n' paste it and bring it into this forum:
Reviewer: Madonna from Hollywood, CA
"These towels just might be your lucky star. They are the plush towels you have been desperately seeking. You will find it easy to jusify your love of these beautiful items and they will satisfy even the pickiest material girl. So get into the groove because these towels are crazy for you!"
Yes, folks, you read right... Not only is there a Madonna wannabe in our midst, but this little fucker has so much time on his hands that he/she/it feels the need to waste a shopper's on-line experience by trying to describe a product using the Material Girl's song titles!!!
I'm sorry... I know this is a little thing to be going off about, but sometimes, when I'm bored at work I get alittle frustrated. When it's slow here, I just can't get into the groove and some things just hit me the wrong way. I can't really talk to people when things are this slow because I've already crossed over that borderline where I'd rather sit at my desk and stew instead of talk to anyone. I'm hoping to get out of this place soon. To find that ray of light that'll guide me towards my new destination. But I'm like a virgin when it comes to change and new experiences. My father once said to me: "Son, you've got to open your heart alittle more. You never know what beautiful stranger you may cross paths with..." I said: "Papa don't preach to me."
(sigh...)
That little bit above was low....even for me. But, if it's one thing I've learned about this blogspot it's that it gives you power. The power to...
Come on, dear readers, say it with me
The power to...
express yourself!!
I was bored at work today (unlike any other day when I'm sooooooo full of pep and willing to break out into Kumba-Ya whenever I sell a piece of art) when I hopped on-line and a link to Overstock.com popped up on my screen. I was actually thinking about checking this site out for awhile after several people swore by it.
So, here I am, piddlin' the day away while going through item after item after item, scrolling through endless pictures of crap I had no need for, when I suddenly saw something that caught my eye. You know...it was nothing big, but I thought it might make a nice gift since a friend of mine had been looking for these very things (I have a feeling Mike and Ozzie are going to give me a bunch of shit for this, but oh well).
I found a nice set of bath towels.
It was nice to see that overstock.com also provides information where users can rate their product. Since you never really know what you're getting until it arrives at your doorstep, it's good to read what others thought of the product you're viewing. And towels are a very personal experience...at least to me. I mean, I've had towels that felt like you'd have more comfort rubbing your back along a cinderblock wall than having this thing touch your body.
Did you just dry off or were you attacked by a warewolf?...
This thing's about as absorbant as a sheet of bubblewrap...
Anyway, the fact is, it's good to see what others feel and write about before I go ahead and make the decision.
So, I find these towels and I go down to the review section. There are several comments about these particular towels, everything from "these are to die for" to "after one washing, they started falling apart". But there was one in particular that caught my eye and made me want to throw up my General Tso's chicken all across the monitor. I just had to cut n' paste it and bring it into this forum:
Reviewer: Madonna from Hollywood, CA
"These towels just might be your lucky star. They are the plush towels you have been desperately seeking. You will find it easy to jusify your love of these beautiful items and they will satisfy even the pickiest material girl. So get into the groove because these towels are crazy for you!"
Yes, folks, you read right... Not only is there a Madonna wannabe in our midst, but this little fucker has so much time on his hands that he/she/it feels the need to waste a shopper's on-line experience by trying to describe a product using the Material Girl's song titles!!!
I'm sorry... I know this is a little thing to be going off about, but sometimes, when I'm bored at work I get alittle frustrated. When it's slow here, I just can't get into the groove and some things just hit me the wrong way. I can't really talk to people when things are this slow because I've already crossed over that borderline where I'd rather sit at my desk and stew instead of talk to anyone. I'm hoping to get out of this place soon. To find that ray of light that'll guide me towards my new destination. But I'm like a virgin when it comes to change and new experiences. My father once said to me: "Son, you've got to open your heart alittle more. You never know what beautiful stranger you may cross paths with..." I said: "Papa don't preach to me."
(sigh...)
That little bit above was low....even for me. But, if it's one thing I've learned about this blogspot it's that it gives you power. The power to...
Come on, dear readers, say it with me
The power to...
express yourself!!
Thursday, April 14, 2005
The Power of a Blog...
Who knew this little venting station of mine would gain so much popularity? I sure as shit didn't.
I went to Kinky Quizzo last night at The Post. Even though I came in 2nd to last place (sorry, JC), I still got a great round of applause when my name was called. According to our very own georgous Dominatrix, Mistress Jen, last night's theme was in honor of the new Royal Couple, Charles & Camilla, the most beautiful couple this side of the Devon Horse Show. Mistress Jen entered the bar wearing a hat that would've made the Queen Mum jealous and sporting a tight fitting tee-shirt with the royal couple's official photograph emblazened across her...ummm...ample breasticles. :-)
One thing about Jen is this: No matter what the topic of discussion might be, she has this unique ability to bring the average size of the man's penis into the conversation, and do this in such a fluid manner that you wouldn't even notice.
Rumor has it also that she's gonna surprise us all one day by coming into the bar dressed to the nines in full dominatrix garb, whips and all.
(I've been a baaaaaaad boy)
In keeping with last night's theme, Michael's game name was Queen Mutha Martha (in honor of his own proclaimed royalty, the queen of style, Martha Stewart)... Speaking of style, be sure to keep tabs here over the next couple weeks, because it was brought to my attention that Michael is being interviewed by the City Paper for his contribution to style in the city of brotherly love.
***gag***
I mean....congratulations Michael!!!!
Ozzie's game name was Sir Ranwrap. Ozzie, by the way, came in 2nd place at the end of the night, taking home an assortment of parting gifts including a video of hot hairy men that he refused to even let me glance at the cover. Don't choke on a hairball, Oz!!!
My name was Sir Cumalot and, after seeing how I was at the end of the night, I should've made it something along the lines of Sir Drinkalot or Sir Pound 'em back.
But the winner... Aaaaaah the grand prize recipient of several gifts that we're sure to see on E-bay, including a blow up transexual doll complete with a detachable penis, was none other than a man who, like myself, has been there from the beginning.....
Did I promise not to use his name?.....
Was it....Michael?
No.....
Charlie?
No.....
Francis? Why... yes.... I think it was Francis who eventually went home with Little Miss Floatation Devise 2005. But wait... Before leaving last night, didn't I witness him getting alittle too agressive with his new found love? Didn't I witness him putting his fist somewhere where it shouldn't have gone? Didn't I witness Little Miss Floatation Devise 2005 whizzing around the room like a balloon until she was caught up in the cieling fan, her deflated legs whipping around in circles like crack whore trying to do cartwheels?Just when true love is found..... POP!
Anyway, as Mistress Jen read off the questions during the 2nd round, Michael, Ozzie and I suddenly looked at one another after hearing her read a very obscure question and we all realized that we knew the answer.
Why?
At that moment, Mistress Jen says: "And....if any of you had read Chris' blog, you'd already know the answer..."
Yes, in one of my previous posts, I had given an example of some of the questions that were asked and lo and behold, Mistress Jen was putting my readers to the test!!!
Keep that in mind, folks. If you want to take home some porn movies, whips, lube, penis leashes, or even your next vinyl date, think of this blog as the Kinky Quizzo version of the Davinci Code. You never know where you may find the clues and be able to win the grand prize!
That is...the power of a blog...
I went to Kinky Quizzo last night at The Post. Even though I came in 2nd to last place (sorry, JC), I still got a great round of applause when my name was called. According to our very own georgous Dominatrix, Mistress Jen, last night's theme was in honor of the new Royal Couple, Charles & Camilla, the most beautiful couple this side of the Devon Horse Show. Mistress Jen entered the bar wearing a hat that would've made the Queen Mum jealous and sporting a tight fitting tee-shirt with the royal couple's official photograph emblazened across her...ummm...ample breasticles. :-)
One thing about Jen is this: No matter what the topic of discussion might be, she has this unique ability to bring the average size of the man's penis into the conversation, and do this in such a fluid manner that you wouldn't even notice.
Rumor has it also that she's gonna surprise us all one day by coming into the bar dressed to the nines in full dominatrix garb, whips and all.
(I've been a baaaaaaad boy)
In keeping with last night's theme, Michael's game name was Queen Mutha Martha (in honor of his own proclaimed royalty, the queen of style, Martha Stewart)... Speaking of style, be sure to keep tabs here over the next couple weeks, because it was brought to my attention that Michael is being interviewed by the City Paper for his contribution to style in the city of brotherly love.
I mean....congratulations Michael!!!!
Ozzie's game name was Sir Ranwrap. Ozzie, by the way, came in 2nd place at the end of the night, taking home an assortment of parting gifts including a video of hot hairy men that he refused to even let me glance at the cover. Don't choke on a hairball, Oz!!!
My name was Sir Cumalot and, after seeing how I was at the end of the night, I should've made it something along the lines of Sir Drinkalot or Sir Pound 'em back.
But the winner... Aaaaaah the grand prize recipient of several gifts that we're sure to see on E-bay, including a blow up transexual doll complete with a detachable penis, was none other than a man who, like myself, has been there from the beginning.....
Did I promise not to use his name?.....
Was it....Michael?
No.....
Charlie?
No.....
Francis? Why... yes.... I think it was Francis who eventually went home with Little Miss Floatation Devise 2005. But wait... Before leaving last night, didn't I witness him getting alittle too agressive with his new found love? Didn't I witness him putting his fist somewhere where it shouldn't have gone? Didn't I witness Little Miss Floatation Devise 2005 whizzing around the room like a balloon until she was caught up in the cieling fan, her deflated legs whipping around in circles like crack whore trying to do cartwheels?
Anyway, as Mistress Jen read off the questions during the 2nd round, Michael, Ozzie and I suddenly looked at one another after hearing her read a very obscure question and we all realized that we knew the answer.
Why?
At that moment, Mistress Jen says: "And....if any of you had read Chris' blog, you'd already know the answer..."
Yes, in one of my previous posts, I had given an example of some of the questions that were asked and lo and behold, Mistress Jen was putting my readers to the test!!!
Keep that in mind, folks. If you want to take home some porn movies, whips, lube, penis leashes, or even your next vinyl date, think of this blog as the Kinky Quizzo version of the Davinci Code. You never know where you may find the clues and be able to win the grand prize!
That is...the power of a blog...
Monday, April 11, 2005
Wednesdays at the Post
What do you get when you put a room full of screaming queens half lit by overpriced cocktails and a voluptuous redheaded Dominatrix-in-the-making with a bag of sexual toys and pornographic DVDs? Why, what else would it be, but Kinky Quizzo night at The Post Bar!
Yes, folks, Wednesday nights at the post bar has become quite the fun time. It's a chance for everyone to either brag about their knowledge of sex and sexually related topics or to learn a thing or two for their next date or a-hem...chance encounter.
And the prizes are, shall we say, interesting. I myself am now the proud owner of a penis leash. What is a penis leash you ask? Well, I don't really know either, but by seeing how much money dog-walkers in the city can make, I'm thinking about starting some sort of buisness.
You can either be part of a team (it's fun to watch a winning team fight over the prizes) or play with yourself... Or you can find yourself playing with yourself if you become the lucky winner. In any event just remember this: the questions, no matter how kinky or experienced you think you are, are not easy. I mean, how many people actually know this: True or False: Sperm have little or no motion ability until they are mixed with the secretions of the prostate and seminal vesicles?
Think you know the answer?
Then swing on by The Post Bar this or any Wednesday night and put your balls where your mouth is....errr.... well, you know what I mean.
Hope to see you!!
Yes, folks, Wednesday nights at the post bar has become quite the fun time. It's a chance for everyone to either brag about their knowledge of sex and sexually related topics or to learn a thing or two for their next date or a-hem...chance encounter.
And the prizes are, shall we say, interesting. I myself am now the proud owner of a penis leash. What is a penis leash you ask? Well, I don't really know either, but by seeing how much money dog-walkers in the city can make, I'm thinking about starting some sort of buisness.
You can either be part of a team (it's fun to watch a winning team fight over the prizes) or play with yourself... Or you can find yourself playing with yourself if you become the lucky winner. In any event just remember this: the questions, no matter how kinky or experienced you think you are, are not easy. I mean, how many people actually know this: True or False: Sperm have little or no motion ability until they are mixed with the secretions of the prostate and seminal vesicles?
Think you know the answer?
Then swing on by The Post Bar this or any Wednesday night and put your balls where your mouth is....errr.... well, you know what I mean.
Hope to see you!!
Friday, April 08, 2005
The Painter of Light or The Prince of Darkness...
Cult leaders come in all shapes and sizes, from religious fanatics to nutcases claiming that the world will end and all who will be saved will be whisked away in little silver serving dishes. There is always one thing in common no matter who the leader is and what their beliefs are. They prey on the weak-minded. And whether it's their knowledge of the Bible or their knowledge of the stars above, one thing's for sure: their knowledge is their power...and ultimately, their downfall.
Now, most people who think of cult leaders think of people who speak in tongues, people who gather their flock to a remote location and pray for the answers in the Final Days. Although many normal folk can see these leaders for who they really are, most cannot stop their rise to power before it's too late and before you know it, news stations around the country and around the world are reporting whole groups of people who've had their last sip of kool-ade or a deadly shoot-out on a Texas farm or even, in the middle of an upper class neighborhood, an unfamiliar stench in the middle of a hot summer's day brings the discovery of similarly dressed victims lying dead in bunkbeds, their heads covered and brand new white Rebok's donning their feet. My question for that last group is this: what the HELL can be found behind Comet Hale-Bop that you would need to spend your last days on earth at a Modell's Sporting Goods store???
Call me paranoid and full of conspiracy theories, but I believe there's a new cult leader in the making. One you would never suspect. One who preaches kindness and expresses his beliefs and kindness not through the words of a age-old book, but by the stroke of a paintbrush.
Yes, folks, I'm talking about the one.... the only....
(drumroll please...)
Thomas Kindade!!!
(stadium cheers and applause...)
(cue the old Superman series announcer)
"Yes, Thomas Kindade.... Once a mild mannered illustrator scraping pennies together in order to marry his childhood sweetheart, slowly rising above his peers to start his own publishing company, expanding his Christian beliefs through his paintings and and landing himself with the title of Most Collected Living Artist in the WOOOOORRRLLLLLLLD!!!!!" (sound trumpets...)
Sure, on the outside this seems like the story of an underdog....a Rocky Balboa of the Christian world, if you will. But let's break this rise to fame down for all it's truth. It's a man. It's a man with a mission: (As a devout Christian, Kinkade uses his gift as a vehicle to communicate and spread inherent life-affirming values.) It's a man with a mission who can spread his word to the masses (through QVC). It's a man with a mission who can spread his word to the masses and who's word has been heard!...
Only the public in general is too goddamn stupid to realize they've been taken in by yet another cult leader. Thomas Kinkade, The World's Most Collected Living Artist, has over 300 independently owned galleries throughout the United States and slowly spreading his "word" across the pond to Europe. Walking into one of these galleries is like walking into some little Smirf village. Wall upon wall hangs paintings of little thatch roofed cottages, their windows afire with the warm glow of welcoming light.
PFFFFFFFFFT!!!!!!! Welcoming light my ass!!!
Garden scenes are ablaze with colors of blooming flowers as sunlight pours into the painting, dancing across the fields of grass or trails of cobblestone pathways....
BLECH!!!!! Make me PUKE!!!! This guy's got about as much diversity as Rainman.
But his word has been heard and the following he has created is enough to make Hitler and his SS retreat like a bunch of cockroaches thrown into the sudden sunlight that emits from one of Thom's paintings.
Just like the television evangelists, Thom has enveloped his power---errr---message around the most vulnerable group of people. A group who will grip onto any belief or listen to any figure who publicly displays their beliefs. As long as that belief brings peace of mind to their own weaknesses. I'm talking about none other than the Middle Class Bible Belt. From there, Thom's fame spread throughout the land with the ferocity of a Stephen King demon.
QVC picked up on this phenomenon and started selling Thom's paintings and gift product on the air, spreading the disease further across the land, reaching each and every household that had cable television.
Now, twenty years after he published his very first piece, Thomas Kinkade has a following that would have made the reverend Jim Jones think twice about mixing fruit juice and cyanide, had he known what lifting a simple paint brush and having a marketing plan would've done to boost his popularity.
Christ, Kinkade has even been invited to the White House by none other than good ole' boy George Dubya. Now there's a dynamic duo for you!!
Could Armageddon be too far behind?...
I think not...
Now, most people who think of cult leaders think of people who speak in tongues, people who gather their flock to a remote location and pray for the answers in the Final Days. Although many normal folk can see these leaders for who they really are, most cannot stop their rise to power before it's too late and before you know it, news stations around the country and around the world are reporting whole groups of people who've had their last sip of kool-ade or a deadly shoot-out on a Texas farm or even, in the middle of an upper class neighborhood, an unfamiliar stench in the middle of a hot summer's day brings the discovery of similarly dressed victims lying dead in bunkbeds, their heads covered and brand new white Rebok's donning their feet. My question for that last group is this: what the HELL can be found behind Comet Hale-Bop that you would need to spend your last days on earth at a Modell's Sporting Goods store???
Call me paranoid and full of conspiracy theories, but I believe there's a new cult leader in the making. One you would never suspect. One who preaches kindness and expresses his beliefs and kindness not through the words of a age-old book, but by the stroke of a paintbrush.
Yes, folks, I'm talking about the one.... the only....
Thomas Kindade!!!
(stadium cheers and applause...)
(cue the old Superman series announcer)
"Yes, Thomas Kindade.... Once a mild mannered illustrator scraping pennies together in order to marry his childhood sweetheart, slowly rising above his peers to start his own publishing company, expanding his Christian beliefs through his paintings and and landing himself with the title of Most Collected Living Artist in the WOOOOORRRLLLLLLLD!!!!!" (sound trumpets...)
Sure, on the outside this seems like the story of an underdog....a Rocky Balboa of the Christian world, if you will. But let's break this rise to fame down for all it's truth. It's a man. It's a man with a mission: (As a devout Christian, Kinkade uses his gift as a vehicle to communicate and spread inherent life-affirming values.) It's a man with a mission who can spread his word to the masses (through QVC). It's a man with a mission who can spread his word to the masses and who's word has been heard!...
Only the public in general is too goddamn stupid to realize they've been taken in by yet another cult leader. Thomas Kinkade, The World's Most Collected Living Artist, has over 300 independently owned galleries throughout the United States and slowly spreading his "word" across the pond to Europe. Walking into one of these galleries is like walking into some little Smirf village. Wall upon wall hangs paintings of little thatch roofed cottages, their windows afire with the warm glow of welcoming light.
PFFFFFFFFFT!!!!!!! Welcoming light my ass!!!
Garden scenes are ablaze with colors of blooming flowers as sunlight pours into the painting, dancing across the fields of grass or trails of cobblestone pathways....
BLECH!!!!! Make me PUKE!!!! This guy's got about as much diversity as Rainman.
But his word has been heard and the following he has created is enough to make Hitler and his SS retreat like a bunch of cockroaches thrown into the sudden sunlight that emits from one of Thom's paintings.
Just like the television evangelists, Thom has enveloped his power---errr---message around the most vulnerable group of people. A group who will grip onto any belief or listen to any figure who publicly displays their beliefs. As long as that belief brings peace of mind to their own weaknesses. I'm talking about none other than the Middle Class Bible Belt. From there, Thom's fame spread throughout the land with the ferocity of a Stephen King demon.
QVC picked up on this phenomenon and started selling Thom's paintings and gift product on the air, spreading the disease further across the land, reaching each and every household that had cable television.
Now, twenty years after he published his very first piece, Thomas Kinkade has a following that would have made the reverend Jim Jones think twice about mixing fruit juice and cyanide, had he known what lifting a simple paint brush and having a marketing plan would've done to boost his popularity.
Christ, Kinkade has even been invited to the White House by none other than good ole' boy George Dubya. Now there's a dynamic duo for you!!
Could Armageddon be too far behind?...
I think not...
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
The Strawberries Are A-Bloomin'
I know I wanted to give a little background information on The Post Bar but it occurred to me that, in order to cover all there is, I'd be missing out on some daily stories and would probably forget all about these episodes when it came time to start talking about them. Although there are some stories that I'd like to forget...
Last week, as I stood in the middle room playing a video game, Jimmy, the bartender came up behind me and said that I had an ass like a blooming strawberry. Now, at 38 years old, there are a good number of people in the world who's asses have seen better days and are starting to slide south like the polar icecaps. I'm proud to say that my buns (although as white as the driven snow) are still high, tight and nice to look at.
Yesterday was my day off and I needed to run across town to drop off my rent check. All of my jeans were in the wash, so I threw on a pair of sweats and went on my merry way. After spending a few hours walking around the city (it was the first really nice day of spring here in Philly), I decided to stop in at the bar for a couple beers.
Granted, I stayed for more than just a couple, as my friends, Michael & Ozzie (oops. I promised them I'd make up fake names)--errrr.... I mean Murray and Ollie, walked in and we sat and chatted. The three of us get along great together. We laugh and joke and just carry on. So much so that one time we were even sushed by a bitter-old-floral-print-shirt-seashell-necklace-wearing-throwback-from-the-70's-queen because we were laughing too loud. Imagine that, being in a bar and being told to shut up because we were having a good time!
Anyway, the conversation eventually made its way to the topic of this very blog and Michael/Murray suggested that I should include some pictures. He said that he has great pictures of the bar, including one of a fabulous waterfall in the storage closet. This decorating feature was sadly removed when the rest of the ceiling came crashing down during some heavy rains. From there, the subject drifted to the bar's "old days" back in the mid-80's (before our time) when the place was more than just a neighborhood watering hole, but an actual destination spot for the city's gay community.
Jimmy, the bartender, said he had some old photo albums in the back office and asked if we'd like to look through them. After a few minutes, he returned not with the books, but an entire strawberry shortcake that he plopped down on the bar infront of me. This was another leg of the run-on joke that's been going on about my butt for the last week, but it wasn't going to be the last before the night was thru.
A few minutes after that, Jimmy returned a 2nd time. This time carrying two or three photo albums. We all started flipping through the pages, laughing at some recognizable faces and outfits. Apparently, the bar used to host a "prom" at the Warwick Hotel next door and all the pages were filled with God-awful ugly drag queens in full evening wear and their dates in pastel blue formals with velveteen collars and ruffled shirts. I seriously need to get ahold of some of the best of the best of those pictures and place them on here for all the world to see. They shouldn't be hiding in a dusty corner in the back office of the bar.
Jimmy also has this fascination with my nipples. For years now he's been grabbing them and pinching them and trying to get me to scream uncle or who's your daddy or some shit. At times he gets going on them like he's Helga, the Milkmaid and I'm his prized cow. I'm not saying that I don't like my nipples played with. I actually do. There are times when I would start playing with them witho............... oops...sorry. ...without even knowing. Alot of times, however, Jimmy gets alittle carried away with them.
Last night, while looking through the photos, he came up behind me, put his arms under mine, reached infront and started playing with them. I'm always skittish when he acts like this because I never know how far he's gonna take things. One second, he could be gently carassing them and the next, attacking them like Anna Nicole Smith attacks a jar of pickles. But this time he was fairly gentle. And, after having several beers now, I'm not gonna lie and say it didn't feel good. His head was on my shoulder while he did it as we both looked through the old photographs and smiled at the apparent good times these people in the past seemed to be having. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that we were sitting in a gay bar and there was a guy behind me reaching around and playing with my nipples, you'd think it was one of those tender moments you only see in a Lifetime Original Movie.
During the course of the evening, there were a few more comments referencing strawberries by some others and soon enough it was time to leave. Murray, Ollie---aaaah, fuck it---Michael, Ozzie and I all left together and Michael said something to me about not having a jacket and looking like "trailer trash" in my sweats and thermal shirt.
As I stepped out into the daylight from the darkness of the bar, I was surprised by two things. First, it was still daylight (daylight savings was just this past weekend) and second, it was still warm and I didn't need the jacket that I didn't have in the first place. To prove my point at not needing a jacket, I slowly raised my arms up above my head, palms facing skyward, leaned back my head and closed my eyes, joyous that spring has finally arrived in the city.
Little did I know that expressing my joy for the change of season was also expressing my extreme vulnerability for what was about to happen...
Without realizing it, Jimmy, the nipple grabbing-fruit referencing bartender, snuck up behind me. In one fell swoop, he grabbed the waistband of my sweatpants (and also my boxers) and yanked them both down to my ankles. Here I stood, like Moses parting the Red Sea, with my lily white ass exposed to a group of hotel workers down the alley having a smoke!!! I fell to the ground, yanking my pants back up and then scrambled to my feet again and chased Jimmy back into the bar.
Mortified, I vowed my revenge....slow and painful, and left the bar. Michael and Ozzie were at the end of the alley sounding alot like Schultz, from Hogan's Heros: "I see nussin'..."
Later that night, I was over Michael & Ozzie's house having some pizza when another friend called on my cell phone. He seemed alittle drunk and was speaking loudly enough for M&O to hear everything he was saying (some things didn't need to be overheard). I told him what had happened to me in the alleyway and he said he was heading over to the Post. I told him to ask Jimmy why he embarassed me like that (not really believing he would be going over to the bar in the first place).
When I arrived home, Jimmy called me on my cell phone and mentioned a strange man who walked in and asked about my pants being pulled down. Jimmy claimed it wasn't him and blamed it on the daytime bartender who had already left. I later found out through his own admission that Jimmy was alittle nervous about this guy because he thought maybe I had sent someone in there in a full fury. He was afraid the guy was going to leap over the bar at him.
Hmmmmmmmmm....
I let this thought seep in to my tired mind as I drifted off to sleep....
Revenge is going to be sweet.
As sweet as a strawberry shortcake...
Last week, as I stood in the middle room playing a video game, Jimmy, the bartender came up behind me and said that I had an ass like a blooming strawberry. Now, at 38 years old, there are a good number of people in the world who's asses have seen better days and are starting to slide south like the polar icecaps. I'm proud to say that my buns (although as white as the driven snow) are still high, tight and nice to look at.
Yesterday was my day off and I needed to run across town to drop off my rent check. All of my jeans were in the wash, so I threw on a pair of sweats and went on my merry way. After spending a few hours walking around the city (it was the first really nice day of spring here in Philly), I decided to stop in at the bar for a couple beers.
Granted, I stayed for more than just a couple, as my friends, Michael & Ozzie (oops. I promised them I'd make up fake names)--errrr.... I mean Murray and Ollie, walked in and we sat and chatted. The three of us get along great together. We laugh and joke and just carry on. So much so that one time we were even sushed by a bitter-old-floral-print-shirt-seashell-necklace-wearing-throwback-from-the-70's-queen because we were laughing too loud. Imagine that, being in a bar and being told to shut up because we were having a good time!
Anyway, the conversation eventually made its way to the topic of this very blog and Michael/Murray suggested that I should include some pictures. He said that he has great pictures of the bar, including one of a fabulous waterfall in the storage closet. This decorating feature was sadly removed when the rest of the ceiling came crashing down during some heavy rains. From there, the subject drifted to the bar's "old days" back in the mid-80's (before our time) when the place was more than just a neighborhood watering hole, but an actual destination spot for the city's gay community.
Jimmy, the bartender, said he had some old photo albums in the back office and asked if we'd like to look through them. After a few minutes, he returned not with the books, but an entire strawberry shortcake that he plopped down on the bar infront of me. This was another leg of the run-on joke that's been going on about my butt for the last week, but it wasn't going to be the last before the night was thru.
A few minutes after that, Jimmy returned a 2nd time. This time carrying two or three photo albums. We all started flipping through the pages, laughing at some recognizable faces and outfits. Apparently, the bar used to host a "prom" at the Warwick Hotel next door and all the pages were filled with God-awful ugly drag queens in full evening wear and their dates in pastel blue formals with velveteen collars and ruffled shirts. I seriously need to get ahold of some of the best of the best of those pictures and place them on here for all the world to see. They shouldn't be hiding in a dusty corner in the back office of the bar.
Jimmy also has this fascination with my nipples. For years now he's been grabbing them and pinching them and trying to get me to scream uncle or who's your daddy or some shit. At times he gets going on them like he's Helga, the Milkmaid and I'm his prized cow. I'm not saying that I don't like my nipples played with. I actually do. There are times when I would start playing with them witho............... oops...sorry. ...without even knowing. Alot of times, however, Jimmy gets alittle carried away with them.
Last night, while looking through the photos, he came up behind me, put his arms under mine, reached infront and started playing with them. I'm always skittish when he acts like this because I never know how far he's gonna take things. One second, he could be gently carassing them and the next, attacking them like Anna Nicole Smith attacks a jar of pickles. But this time he was fairly gentle. And, after having several beers now, I'm not gonna lie and say it didn't feel good. His head was on my shoulder while he did it as we both looked through the old photographs and smiled at the apparent good times these people in the past seemed to be having. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that we were sitting in a gay bar and there was a guy behind me reaching around and playing with my nipples, you'd think it was one of those tender moments you only see in a Lifetime Original Movie.
During the course of the evening, there were a few more comments referencing strawberries by some others and soon enough it was time to leave. Murray, Ollie---aaaah, fuck it---Michael, Ozzie and I all left together and Michael said something to me about not having a jacket and looking like "trailer trash" in my sweats and thermal shirt.
As I stepped out into the daylight from the darkness of the bar, I was surprised by two things. First, it was still daylight (daylight savings was just this past weekend) and second, it was still warm and I didn't need the jacket that I didn't have in the first place. To prove my point at not needing a jacket, I slowly raised my arms up above my head, palms facing skyward, leaned back my head and closed my eyes, joyous that spring has finally arrived in the city.
Little did I know that expressing my joy for the change of season was also expressing my extreme vulnerability for what was about to happen...
Without realizing it, Jimmy, the nipple grabbing-fruit referencing bartender, snuck up behind me. In one fell swoop, he grabbed the waistband of my sweatpants (and also my boxers) and yanked them both down to my ankles. Here I stood, like Moses parting the Red Sea, with my lily white ass exposed to a group of hotel workers down the alley having a smoke!!! I fell to the ground, yanking my pants back up and then scrambled to my feet again and chased Jimmy back into the bar.
Mortified, I vowed my revenge....slow and painful, and left the bar. Michael and Ozzie were at the end of the alley sounding alot like Schultz, from Hogan's Heros: "I see nussin'..."
Later that night, I was over Michael & Ozzie's house having some pizza when another friend called on my cell phone. He seemed alittle drunk and was speaking loudly enough for M&O to hear everything he was saying (some things didn't need to be overheard). I told him what had happened to me in the alleyway and he said he was heading over to the Post. I told him to ask Jimmy why he embarassed me like that (not really believing he would be going over to the bar in the first place).
When I arrived home, Jimmy called me on my cell phone and mentioned a strange man who walked in and asked about my pants being pulled down. Jimmy claimed it wasn't him and blamed it on the daytime bartender who had already left. I later found out through his own admission that Jimmy was alittle nervous about this guy because he thought maybe I had sent someone in there in a full fury. He was afraid the guy was going to leap over the bar at him.
Hmmmmmmmmm....
I let this thought seep in to my tired mind as I drifted off to sleep....
Revenge is going to be sweet.
As sweet as a strawberry shortcake...
Monday, April 04, 2005
Within the Gates of Hell...
As I said before, The Post Bar is one of Philadelphia's oldest gay bars. It would probably be easier to figure out the exact age of the earth than to try and determine when this place actually opened but, if you were able to travel back through time, you'd probably witness George Washington and good ol' Benny F. doin' alittle ass banging in the service alley or maybe even William Penn doing his infamous snake dance in full Cleopatra drag.
I myself have been a regular in there for about six or seven years and let me tell you, this place and the stories within its walls can seriously make for a popular (if not campy) prime-time soap opera. I have seen relationships flourish and seen them fall apart. I've seen death and deception. I've seen fights and forgiveness. I've spent time there during the most trying times of my own personal life and I've spent time there during one of the most traumatic events to rock this nation in its history.
I guess you can say that The Post is like a second home for me and its patrons (both some of my best friends and my worst nightmares) are like a second family. Birthdays and holidays celebrated together and deaths and memorial services grieved together, with all the stories I wish to share within this newfound blog of mine, one thing is certain: all in all, the people who frequent The Post are some of the best mother fuckers to be around, in both good times and bad. Each person is unique in their own way and, before I begin a day-to-day blog of happenings and stories, each person deserves their own space and time. A space I'll reserve for later in a little section to be dubbed: "The Island of Misfit Drunks".
But, you won't understand many of the stories of the people until you understand a little bit more of the place. So, in a brief, but accurate description, welcome to The Post Bar...
How can one describe hell without actually experiencing it? Well, since I've been hanging out there for many years, I guess you can say experience it I have. The Post is a long narrow building separated into three good size rooms; the front bar, the "game room" and the back bar. Upon entering through the tiny vestibule, the first thing you notice would have to be the large oval bar in the center of the room, it's scratched and peeling surface illuminated by the soft glow of the blood red christmas lights dangling from the exposed beams of the unfinished ceiling. Actually, the whole effect of the ceiling was achieved using a simple home improvement technique--ignoring a leak for years until half of the ceiling comes down during heavy rains, then hiding the damage by painting it black and stringing the christmas lights around the room. Three television sets are suspended high up on the walls, two in the far corners and one immediately to your right as you walk in the door. The latter, I must warn, hangs slightly lower than the two across the bar, as evidenced by the corners of the shelf upon which it sits being wrapped in foam pipe insullation to protect the many drunkards who have slammed their heads into it. Running the length of the far wall is a mural created by the owner's other half. A series of naked, faceless men are featured flexing every muscle from every angle. It truly is an incredible display of talent (both for the artist and the apparent model). One example of these drawings can be found on the website.
Once you make it around the bar, you can find yourself standing at the entrance to the "game room". Nothing spectacular about this room. It's typical. Pool table, a few video machines, the bathrooms and a tiny kitchen concealed behind a black vinyl curtain, reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz (had the wizard suffered a feux leather fetish).
Beyond the Kitchen and bathrooms and through another doorway, you find yourself standing at the very entrance to Satan's playroom. The back bar is only open on weekends. Black walls, floor, bar, cocktail tables and chairs are reflected into the many mirrors that surround you. There's nothing better, in my opinion, than sitting at a bar and staring at yourself getting more and more drunk as the evening progresses... Unless, of course, you count sitting there and having one of the male dancers creep up behind you and begin rubbing their half-hard cock into the small of your back. Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against strippers, male or female. They're good to look at. In fact, there's one dancer in particular at The Post who is so fucking hot with such an incredibly massive body. But the dancers just aren't my thing. I'm shy to begin with and the idea of having to slip a dollar into the g-string of someone smiling at me and talking to me because that's what they're there for just doesn't sit with me. But more on the dancers later... That's another story altogether.
I'm kinda running out of things to say right now. Being my second post to this sight, I'm still trying to figure things out here. In fact, I still can't seem to locate the first one I did yesterday. So, if any of you see a log titled "From Riches to Rags" out there, please be sure and tell them that I'm looking for them.
Thank you.
I myself have been a regular in there for about six or seven years and let me tell you, this place and the stories within its walls can seriously make for a popular (if not campy) prime-time soap opera. I have seen relationships flourish and seen them fall apart. I've seen death and deception. I've seen fights and forgiveness. I've spent time there during the most trying times of my own personal life and I've spent time there during one of the most traumatic events to rock this nation in its history.
I guess you can say that The Post is like a second home for me and its patrons (both some of my best friends and my worst nightmares) are like a second family. Birthdays and holidays celebrated together and deaths and memorial services grieved together, with all the stories I wish to share within this newfound blog of mine, one thing is certain: all in all, the people who frequent The Post are some of the best mother fuckers to be around, in both good times and bad. Each person is unique in their own way and, before I begin a day-to-day blog of happenings and stories, each person deserves their own space and time. A space I'll reserve for later in a little section to be dubbed: "The Island of Misfit Drunks".
But, you won't understand many of the stories of the people until you understand a little bit more of the place. So, in a brief, but accurate description, welcome to The Post Bar...
How can one describe hell without actually experiencing it? Well, since I've been hanging out there for many years, I guess you can say experience it I have. The Post is a long narrow building separated into three good size rooms; the front bar, the "game room" and the back bar. Upon entering through the tiny vestibule, the first thing you notice would have to be the large oval bar in the center of the room, it's scratched and peeling surface illuminated by the soft glow of the blood red christmas lights dangling from the exposed beams of the unfinished ceiling. Actually, the whole effect of the ceiling was achieved using a simple home improvement technique--ignoring a leak for years until half of the ceiling comes down during heavy rains, then hiding the damage by painting it black and stringing the christmas lights around the room. Three television sets are suspended high up on the walls, two in the far corners and one immediately to your right as you walk in the door. The latter, I must warn, hangs slightly lower than the two across the bar, as evidenced by the corners of the shelf upon which it sits being wrapped in foam pipe insullation to protect the many drunkards who have slammed their heads into it. Running the length of the far wall is a mural created by the owner's other half. A series of naked, faceless men are featured flexing every muscle from every angle. It truly is an incredible display of talent (both for the artist and the apparent model). One example of these drawings can be found on the website.
Once you make it around the bar, you can find yourself standing at the entrance to the "game room". Nothing spectacular about this room. It's typical. Pool table, a few video machines, the bathrooms and a tiny kitchen concealed behind a black vinyl curtain, reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz (had the wizard suffered a feux leather fetish).
Beyond the Kitchen and bathrooms and through another doorway, you find yourself standing at the very entrance to Satan's playroom. The back bar is only open on weekends. Black walls, floor, bar, cocktail tables and chairs are reflected into the many mirrors that surround you. There's nothing better, in my opinion, than sitting at a bar and staring at yourself getting more and more drunk as the evening progresses... Unless, of course, you count sitting there and having one of the male dancers creep up behind you and begin rubbing their half-hard cock into the small of your back. Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against strippers, male or female. They're good to look at. In fact, there's one dancer in particular at The Post who is so fucking hot with such an incredibly massive body. But the dancers just aren't my thing. I'm shy to begin with and the idea of having to slip a dollar into the g-string of someone smiling at me and talking to me because that's what they're there for just doesn't sit with me. But more on the dancers later... That's another story altogether.
I'm kinda running out of things to say right now. Being my second post to this sight, I'm still trying to figure things out here. In fact, I still can't seem to locate the first one I did yesterday. So, if any of you see a log titled "From Riches to Rags" out there, please be sure and tell them that I'm looking for them.
Thank you.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
From Riches to Rags
Ahhhhh... Life in Rittenhouse Square...
Nestled within the fortress-like walls of highrise apartment buildings, hotels and office towers lies a tranquil little oasis in the heart of Center City Philadelphia's upscale shopping district of Walnut Street. Rittenhouse Square is one of William Penn's original parks planned into his original design of the gridlike layout of Philadelphia. And it's the only one that has any life to it.
On a spring day, all you would have to do is walk from one end of the square city block to the other and you can witness a wide array of people and happenings, from the homeless begging for money to college kids all gathered in a circle playing hacky sac, to nanny's keeping watch over their wealthy employer's children as they play on the goat statue (apparently an age-old playtoy for the tykes of the area). The Rittenhouse Hotel, along the western edge of the square, is said to be the place for mega-stars of all types while in town either on tour or filming a movie. Art shows, evening concerts and once, during the millennium celebration, a ground level fireworks display all take place throughout the year in this tiny little hamlet of formal Victorian gardens and towering trees. Dogs playfully splash about in the reflecting pool as artists (both professional and students from the nearby University of the Arts) choose the perfect location on the expansive well manicured lawns.
Rittenhouse Square is definitely a place to see and be seen, whether you're sitting back catching some afternoon rays while on your lunchbreak or meeting friends in one of the several trendy bars and restaurants that border the park. Two of the most popular dining spots on the square are Rouge and Devon, both located side by side on 18th Street along the eastern edge of the square. On any given night, you can hear the constant sounds of chatter, music and laughter as you eye the Lamborghinis, Hummers, and other pretentious cars pulling up to pick up passengers or drop them off. Outdoor diners sit under the warmth of propane heated lamps on cool nights or the canvas canopies providing shade on summer afternoons. All while sipping expensive wine or nibbling on overpriced entrees.
Yes, Rittenhouse Square is an experience in itself. As much a feeling of New York life as Philadelphia is willing to give. Feed squirrels, read a book or simply lie out on the grass and take a nap, there's always something happening and, even if you aren't an official resident of the very elite neighborhood, you can always feel like part of the rich snobs who live in the the million dollar apartments that overlook the park just by simply hanging out and taking everything in. You feel like one of the rich folk.... that is until you reach the alley...
They say life can change in the blink of an eye. Apparently so can your surroundings.
Separating the two hip restaurants, Rouge and Devon, is Chancellor Street which, in effect, is actually nothing more than a small alley connecting 18th and 17th Streets. From the posh high rise apartments and overpriced eateries, turning onto Chancellor Street, you suddenly find yourself walking around dumpsters, past loading docks and dodging scurrying rats. It's a street that even Jack the Ripper would think twice about walking down. Even at high noon the alleyway is darkened by the shadows of the two towering apartment buildings that border it. The only human activity you would find while walking down this particular street would be the cars pulling in and out of the parking garage midway down the block or the gangs of short foreign cooks, dishwashers and waiters who hang outside of the kitchen entrances of Rouge and Devon, smoking cigarettes and battling for control of a conversation about which you have no clue. The entire street is paved with what seems to be years of leaking transmission fluid, giving a surreal fluid-like kaleidoscope of changing patterns and colors, while becoming almost treacherous underfoot whenever the lightest rain falls. It's always an odd sight to see an older couple on their way back from the theater or a group of young women dressed in outfits leaving little to the imagination, the sounds of their high heeled shoes clicking against the blacktop and bouncing off the brick walls as they make their way to one of the many nightspots within walking distance.
Further down the narrow street, across from the trash bins of the once prestigious Warwick Hotel, you come upon the only actual business who's address is on that block: The Post Bar. A world away from the Rittenhouse Square lifestyle, The Post is one of Philadelphia's oldest gay bars. In fact, many say that The Last Supper was actually held at the post and some of the patrons who still frequent the establishment can be seen in the now famous painting.
So, this is the beginning of, what I hope to be, a long and probably very winded description of my Life in a Nuthouse (aka: The Post Bar). Stay tuned for the next leg of this saga, probably titled "Within the Gates of Hell". If you have any suggestions or feedback, please feel free to drop me a line!
Nestled within the fortress-like walls of highrise apartment buildings, hotels and office towers lies a tranquil little oasis in the heart of Center City Philadelphia's upscale shopping district of Walnut Street. Rittenhouse Square is one of William Penn's original parks planned into his original design of the gridlike layout of Philadelphia. And it's the only one that has any life to it.
On a spring day, all you would have to do is walk from one end of the square city block to the other and you can witness a wide array of people and happenings, from the homeless begging for money to college kids all gathered in a circle playing hacky sac, to nanny's keeping watch over their wealthy employer's children as they play on the goat statue (apparently an age-old playtoy for the tykes of the area). The Rittenhouse Hotel, along the western edge of the square, is said to be the place for mega-stars of all types while in town either on tour or filming a movie. Art shows, evening concerts and once, during the millennium celebration, a ground level fireworks display all take place throughout the year in this tiny little hamlet of formal Victorian gardens and towering trees. Dogs playfully splash about in the reflecting pool as artists (both professional and students from the nearby University of the Arts) choose the perfect location on the expansive well manicured lawns.
Rittenhouse Square is definitely a place to see and be seen, whether you're sitting back catching some afternoon rays while on your lunchbreak or meeting friends in one of the several trendy bars and restaurants that border the park. Two of the most popular dining spots on the square are Rouge and Devon, both located side by side on 18th Street along the eastern edge of the square. On any given night, you can hear the constant sounds of chatter, music and laughter as you eye the Lamborghinis, Hummers, and other pretentious cars pulling up to pick up passengers or drop them off. Outdoor diners sit under the warmth of propane heated lamps on cool nights or the canvas canopies providing shade on summer afternoons. All while sipping expensive wine or nibbling on overpriced entrees.
Yes, Rittenhouse Square is an experience in itself. As much a feeling of New York life as Philadelphia is willing to give. Feed squirrels, read a book or simply lie out on the grass and take a nap, there's always something happening and, even if you aren't an official resident of the very elite neighborhood, you can always feel like part of the rich snobs who live in the the million dollar apartments that overlook the park just by simply hanging out and taking everything in. You feel like one of the rich folk.... that is until you reach the alley...
They say life can change in the blink of an eye. Apparently so can your surroundings.
Separating the two hip restaurants, Rouge and Devon, is Chancellor Street which, in effect, is actually nothing more than a small alley connecting 18th and 17th Streets. From the posh high rise apartments and overpriced eateries, turning onto Chancellor Street, you suddenly find yourself walking around dumpsters, past loading docks and dodging scurrying rats. It's a street that even Jack the Ripper would think twice about walking down. Even at high noon the alleyway is darkened by the shadows of the two towering apartment buildings that border it. The only human activity you would find while walking down this particular street would be the cars pulling in and out of the parking garage midway down the block or the gangs of short foreign cooks, dishwashers and waiters who hang outside of the kitchen entrances of Rouge and Devon, smoking cigarettes and battling for control of a conversation about which you have no clue. The entire street is paved with what seems to be years of leaking transmission fluid, giving a surreal fluid-like kaleidoscope of changing patterns and colors, while becoming almost treacherous underfoot whenever the lightest rain falls. It's always an odd sight to see an older couple on their way back from the theater or a group of young women dressed in outfits leaving little to the imagination, the sounds of their high heeled shoes clicking against the blacktop and bouncing off the brick walls as they make their way to one of the many nightspots within walking distance.
Further down the narrow street, across from the trash bins of the once prestigious Warwick Hotel, you come upon the only actual business who's address is on that block: The Post Bar. A world away from the Rittenhouse Square lifestyle, The Post is one of Philadelphia's oldest gay bars. In fact, many say that The Last Supper was actually held at the post and some of the patrons who still frequent the establishment can be seen in the now famous painting.
So, this is the beginning of, what I hope to be, a long and probably very winded description of my Life in a Nuthouse (aka: The Post Bar). Stay tuned for the next leg of this saga, probably titled "Within the Gates of Hell". If you have any suggestions or feedback, please feel free to drop me a line!
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