Proud Pappa ...

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

Le Tigre

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

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

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

Look closely...

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

The Seduction of the Chicken Lady ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Synchronicity ...

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

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

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

"I have a gift for you."

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

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

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

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

Which brings me to shameless plug #3...

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

A Childhood Memory ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now I am.

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

A Strange Coincidence ...

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

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

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

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

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

But the coincidence was still to come...

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

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

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

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

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

Up, Up and Away ...

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

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

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

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

Karaoke Thursday ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's the New Jan Brady ...

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

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

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

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

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

The Unbeatable Little Hair ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't let this be you!

Everyone has a Double ...

Ted Bundy...
















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

What a Week ...

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

It Was Bound to Happen ...

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

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

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

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

Team America ...

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

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

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

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