Joey, do you like movies about gladiators? ...

I've never been a great fan of the old gladiator movies from the '50s and '60s, but times seem to have changed for me.

Last night I popped in my latest DVD from Netflix and propped myself up on the sofa to watch Troy. I was absolutely blown away!! Five decades ago, in order to make an epic battle scene, you needed hundreds and hundreds of extras. Nowadays, a small handful would do and computers add the rest, giving the impression of thousands of shirtless armored warriors all muscled up and sweating, their adrenaline pumping through...through their...

...

...oh...

Sorry 'bout that...anyway... I'm not a huge fan of Brad Pitt, both as an actor and a "sex symbol". Sure, he's handsome, but he never really did anything for me. Until now...

From his days as a lean muscular hitchhiker in Thelma and Louise to this muscular mean looking warrior (achilles), you can tell that he took the image of this roll seriously. All pumped and bulging and...and... (be right back)...

Other highlights of the film: Nathan Jones in the opening scene. Sure, he gets killed without much more than a few grunts as his credited lines in the movie, but seeing him part a sea of soldiers as he is selected to do a one on one battle, his massive torso towering over his fellow warriors as his 6'7" frame steps out into the open, his shaved head glistening in the midday sun, his chest heaving...his...his...

(later that day...)

...and Eric Bana, what more can be said about that body, that dark curly hair, that sexy beard... I just wanna go all Greek on his ass!

So there you have it...my review of Troy. Let's see, did I leave anything out?

Oh yeah...

The story was good too...

Who, Me?...Bitter? ...

I prefer cynical...

You Are 60% Cynical

Yes, you are cynical, but more than anything, you're a realist. You see what's screwed up in the world, but you also take time to remember what's right.

How Cynical Are You?

Tour of Jury Duty ...

I performed my civic duty today when I visited the Philadelphia Criminal Justice Center as part of a 700+ person jury pool for upcoming trials. But what started out as my obligation as a resident of this city soon turned into an 8 hour stretch of boredom and fighting hemorroidal flare-ups caused by countless hours of waiting...and waiting...and waiting...

The mailing notice informed me to arrive there by 8:15 am so, after stopping at the Wawa for a large cup of coffee, I walked amoung the morning rush of office dwellers and package delivery guys, making my way through the glass and concrete corridors of Center City. It was a bright, sunny, remarkably mild (for November) morning and the walk was relaxing, until I reached Market Street and heard the deep bong of the city hall clock tower echoing off the curtains of glass and steel rising up on either side of me. I remembered from the last time I suffered through Jury Duty that getting into the place was a chore in itself, what with the long lines and metal detectors...and this was before 9/11. I quickened my step from 20th Street, crossed the granite park on the west side of city hall, grimaced at the shabby looking Christmas tree being decorated by city workers, and cut through the central courtyard of the French/Victorian style landmark, passing under the towering portico that led me to Market East.

It was ten minutes after eight when I arrived at the main entrance to the Criminal Justice Center. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't overly crowded in the lobby. I handed in my cell phone and turned the corner to go through the metal detectors, where I was instructed to remove my coat, pockets and belt and place them on the conveyor belt which takes my items through the x-ray machine. After redressing, I gathered up my coffee and reading material and turned the next corner, being directed into a small lobby where someome greeted me, collected my notice with my identifation number and pointed me toward the waiting room through the double doors (taking special time to tell me of the wide range of breakfast food and beverages in the adjoining room).

8:15am...

I find an available seat in a large room with rows and rows of seats, filled with people of all ages, races and religions, all with one thing in common: they couldn't figure a way out of this. Sipping on my Wawa coffee, I fill out the 2-page questionaire using the #2 golf pencil provided to me. I then fold it and wait for my name to be called.

8:45am...

Still waiting for my name to be called.

9:15am...

About two-thirds of the room has been vacated, the former occupants on their way in groups of 40-60 people to the criminal courtrooms on the upper levels or to the civil courtrooms in city hall across the street. I look around to see who's left. A scattering of people (at least it looks like a scattering, but there are still a couple hundred people in the room) are trying desperately to occupy their time with books, newspapers, small talk with their neighbors or watching local television programming on the flat screen tvs suspended from the cieling.

9:45am...

I begin to wonder what would happen if I wasn't called. Around that same time, a young black woman sitting a couple seats away from me leans over and asks me that very same question. "You'll be called." I reply. "It's just a matter of time."

10:00am...

The woman who calls the names arrives at the podium with a fresh list in hand. She announces that the following list of people will be needed for jury selection in a criminal trial upstairs. There will be 60 people called, but we were to remain seated until all names are called.

10:06am...

My name is finally called. I'm juror number 36.

10:10am...

We are asked to line up with numbers 1 through 40 to the left of the main entrance and 41 through 60 down the center aisle. We are instructed to form a line 2 wide and that our juror numbers are not needed for any particular order. As we lined up along the wall, I looked out into the room and saw about 20 or so people still seated. They were going to be the last ones called.

10:12am...

The court officer moved down the line silently counting us jurors, her fingers dancing in the air before her like an airline stewardess taking a head count. She then counted the center aisle and paused. "We're missing someone from over in this line and we have an extra in that line." I checked my number just to make sure I'm in the right line. Yup.

"Please check your numbers and make sure you're where you're supposed to be please." The court officer instructed. "Numbers one through forty in this line, forty-one through sixty in the center aisle."

10:13am...

Counting again, the court officer moves more quickly through the lines. Everyone has checked and rechecked their numbers, assuring her and themselves that they are in the correct line.

10:13:37am...

The court officers grabs her list and begins reading off names. Within the first couple names called out, an audible, exhausted sigh comes from behind me. A black girl, probably no older than twenty, with a butt that could shelter a small village, realizes she's in the wrong line. Among the soft snickering and aggrivated groans of the other jurors, the girl moves across the room to the correct line.

10:14am...

The court officer informs us that, in just a moment, we would be led upstairs to the courtroom. She exits the waiting area to get further instructions.

10:14:10am...

The court officer returns: "That trial has been cancelled, please take your seats and we'll send you to the next one available."

10:20am...

The last group of twenty (who were sitting in their seats while we were all up in line) are called, gathered and led out of the room, leaving us 60 potential jurors sitting anxiously in our seats. Another court officer enters the room and tells us it'll be about 10-15 more minutes before we are moved, so if we wanted to step outside for a break or go to the bathroom, please feel free. I quickly rush outside and light up a cigarette. I can feel the beginnings of a headache creeping up the back of my neck.

10:30am...

Back in the room, we wait...

10:35am...

waiting...

10:45am...

Two and a half hours after my initial arrival, I am escorted out of the room with 59 other jurors to the elevator lobby. We bypass the elevators and head to the escalator instead.

10:47am...

We now find ourselves lined up 2 x 2 like rejects from Noah's Ark in a 2nd floor hallway. A man behind me whispers that we're about to be sent back down into the room again.

10:49am...

We're split into 3 groups of twenty and are taken up to the eleventh floor, via the elevator. It finally looks like things are going to start happening.

11:00am...

All 60 of us are now on the eleventh floor, waiting for instructions. We're told to hang out in the lobby until we're directed to the courtroom.

11:40am...

We're directed to the courtroom. My headache is screaming at me.

11:45am...

The judge introduces himself, the Assistant District Attorney and the defense lawyer. He begins to give us some instructions and throws in some lame jokes along the way to kind of put us at ease. After all, we've been sitting downstairs and in the 11th floor elevator lobby for 3 1/2 hours already with nothing to show for our civic duty.

11:55am...

The judge calls a sidebar with the ADA and the defense lawyer.

11:56am...

The judge calls a lunch recess. We are to report back at 1:00pm.

1:00pm...

We arrive back in the courtroom and are immediately broken down into three groups of twenty. The last group (41-60) are escorted to another courtroom for another trial selection, leaving 40 of us remaining. Of the remaining, numbers one through twenty are escorted into a back room and numbers 21-40 (myself included) are herded off to an adjacent courtroom. We're told that the first group of twenty are going to be interviewed about their questionaires they filled out earlier that morning and it would just be a "short wait" before we are brought back in and questioned ourselves.

1:30pm...

2:00pm...

2:30pm...

3:00pm...

The court officer arrives and brings us back into the first courtroom. We're ushered past the seating gallery and the twenty remaining jurors are put into a small room behind the courtroom. A man pokes his head into the room from another door to tell us there's a water bottle and bathroom back there and the judge will be with us shortly.

The court reporter arrives a few minutes later and tells us that the judge will question the remaining jurors one at a time in numerical order. She calls in juror #20.

3:10pm...

Juror #21 is called.

3:15pm...

Juror #22

It seems to be going fairly quickly this time around. I calculate that I should be getting out of there sometime around 4:30 or so. Whether or not I will be selected to serve on the trial is still to be determined. My headache was pounding by now and people all around the room were visibly worn down by the hours and hours of waiting with no real guidance. The last thing I wanted to do was to wait any longer only to be told that I've been selected to come back in the morning.

3:20pm...

Juror #23

I try and figure out what to say to these lawyers that will make them not want me on the panel. There are reasons I'm called bitter and they can come into perfect use at a time like this...

3:40:pm...

Juror #26

...After all, I don't trust the police department. Five years ago, I had a home invasion and I was dragged up to my bedroom by a big black man with a knife against my throat. After wrestling him off and chasing him out of my house, I called the police. Sure, they arrived quickly and immediately jumped into action, but when they learned I was gay, I can tell their attitude changed, probably thinking this was just a trick gone bad...

4:00pm...

Juror #30

...Even my wallet and the knife the guy left behind were dusted for prints, but none were found. Although I always found it strange that, when the police captain slipped my wallet through my mailslot of my front door in a plain manilla envelope without even knocking on the door to talk to me, there was never any sign of fingerprint dust on the leather...

4:15pm...

Juror #33

There were seven jurors left in the room, all lost in their thoughts. I had become lost in my own anger and frustration with the whole process. A civil trial I could handle but, left alone in a room all day to stew in the frustrations of an impending criminal trial, I couldn't help but go back to that one question on the survey that morning about not having prejudice against the statement of a police officer simply because of his or her occupation. I was left out in the cold by these officers simply because I am gay. Now I'm supposed to trust the testimony of a cop who will be testifying against two people who were of obvious middle eastern decent?

4:25pm...

The court officer hasn't arrived back for the next juror yet. I'm growing more and more impatient with each passing moment. I'll keep my cool, but let it be known, should they ask why I checked the box marked "yes" under that question...

4:35pm...

The court officer finally arrives and smiles at the 7 remaining jurors. "We have selected our jury and alternates. You can all go home now. The office downstairs is closed, so we will mail you out your checks."

What??? Nearly 8 1/2 hours of sitting in rooms full of strangers, being shuttled around the criminal justice center like cattle, having nothing to do, but watch the bored faces of the other jurors while beating off the headache from hell or trying desperately to focus on the words in the book I grabbed before leaving the house this morning? All that time for...."civic duty" and nine bucks that'll be mailed to me??? And I didn't even get a chance to vent my frustration????

4:45pm...

I'm sitting at a bar, cold beer in my hand...

But...I SWEAR...I don't say "wooder"!!! ...

If you're from Philly and don't think you have an accent, take this test and then....think again.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: Philadelphia Your accent is as Philadelphian as a cheesesteak! If you're not from Philadelphia, then you're from someplace near there like south Jersey, Baltimore, or Wilmington. if you've ever journeyed to some far off place where people don't know that Philly has an accent, someone may have thought you talked a little weird even though they didn't have a clue what accent it was they heard.
The Northeast
The Midland
The Inland North
The South
Boston
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

Problem ...

I just tried updating my blog with a new entry, but all of my editing icons have completely vanished. I can't upload pictures, edit text, add links or anything like that. If anyone else is having this problem, please let me know!!!

I've just tried contacting the help desk, but who knows how long it'll take to get a response.

Thanks.

Ode to a Stylist ...

I know it's a couple of weeks overdue and I know it's been a long, LONG while since I've written something here, but I just wanted to do a quick shout-out to one of my best friends and his new venture into the world of buisnessowner: Ozzie Perez of the soon-to-be-world-famous Ozzie Perez Salon. Best of luck to ya, bud!!

Sung to the tune of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana"...
His name is Ozzie, he was a hair guy.
With golden scissors in his hand he was known throughout the land
The guy to go to for a new hair do
from tattered wirey tangled locks, he turned you into a million bucks
But like those gone before, he dreamed of so much more.
He was young and he was a stylist
He wanted his own store

Called the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion was always his passion
and he promised
walk-ins welcomed...

His boyfriend Michael saw his potential
and together side by side they went searching far and wide
A perfect storefront to greet his clients
They had the neighborhood picked out, but then they started having doubts.
Until that fateful day when luck would come their way
and together at the window you can hear them say

It's the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (Hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion will be his real passion
and they started
to build the dream

His name is Ozzie, He is a hair guy
in his own shop off of the Square, all designed with retro flare
Both men and women all come to see him
And his dream throughout his life has begun to take up flight.
And like a newborn's dad, he's proud of his new pad.
And I'm sure I'm gonna hear it for this real bad ad

For the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (Hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion is always his passion
So be sure to
stop in sometime....

(Ozzie...)
{Perez Salon...)
(Ozzie...)
(Perez Salon...)

Five Years ...

A somber and sobering anniversary. I can't believe five years have passed since that fateful day when it seemed the world had their collective eyes glued to every station on every television set.

It was said on the news yesterday that 95% of Americans can remember exactly where they were at the time they learned the news that we were under attack. It's hard for me to believe that it isn't a full 100%. In any case, not only do I remember, but I can once again feel every emotion and thought that gripped me that sunny Tuesday in September 1,825 days ago.

I'll write about it next. I need to get to work. I just wanted to take a moment here to remember and to pass a message to my friends who witnessed first hand (you know who you are) that I'm thinking of you.

Thank you.

I felt Just Like Marlin Perkins ...

It suddenly dawned on me, as I was suffering through public transportation on my way home from work the other night, at how much the Route 17 bus resembles Mutual of Omaha's, Wild Kingdom.

It started out as a quiet ride with only myself and a small handful of passengers making our way back to our respective homes dotting Center City and South Philadelphia, but as usual, the bus quickly filled up with an eclectic assortment of riders hauling shopping bags and baby strollers, all trying to squeeze past one another like a tank packed full of feeder fish; legs lifting over oversized Old Navy bags set down in the aisle as a single passenger fishes through a junk-filled purse looking for exact change while people left outside all funnel around the narrow doorway like a herd of refugees charging the back of a flatbed truck trying to get a bottle of water after a natural disaster. After several minutes all passengers are boarded; the sounds Nextels chirping endlessly and countless conversations in multiple dialects and slang filling the already cramped airspace.

I'm sitting in the first forward facing seat and I watch a black mother and her very overweight pre-teenage daughter take a seat in the bench infront of me. They're facing the aisle, so I'm viewing their profile. The daughter, too large for the small hard padded seat, is figiting, trying to get as comfortable as possible. Her mother pulls out her Nextel and immediately starts beeping someone on the other end, alerting them that they are now on the bus. Both females have similar hairstyles, but with slightly different "twists". The daughter's hair is tightly braided; black twists pulled back from her forehead, each perfectly spaced from the next, creating an alternating black/coffee colored horizontal striped pattern from her face to the center of the back of her head, where the braids from each side met in perfect alignment and were then twined together. What was leftover was not braided, but flared outward, all the way from the back of her neck up the center of her skull to her forehead, giving the illusion of a wild, wiry three inch mohawk. Although I couldn't get a great view of the mother's hairstyle, I did notice that she sported another version of a painfully tight braiding that looked to all converge under a hair extention which could've only been picked out of a pile of trash swept up from the curb.

The girl sang, her words unintelligible, her voice cracking like a reject from American Idol. She looked around the bus, her eyes darting from person to person without actually seeing anything, like a kid who's Ritalin hasn't quite kicked in yet. The mother continued to mutter into the Nextel, alternating the electronic contraption from her lips to her ear (thank God she had the courtesy of keeping the volume down). She then whispered something to her daughter and I, along with several other passengers in the front of the bus, became silently fixated on what we were seeing.

The girl reached up to her mother's head and, continuing to sing and only glancing quickly at what she was doing (her main attraction seemed to be still coming from somewhere behind me), she started to pull and tug at her mother's braids. The mother continued talking on her phone, seemingly unaware of her daughter's actions. One by one, the daughter reached into the mother's nest and yanked a braid, twisting it between her fingers and pulling out a tiny rubber band that kept the braid wound. She would slip the band over a fat finger and then reach up with both hands and proceed pull apart the strands of hair like wet pasta.

I winced in pain, wondering what this must feel like against the mother's scalp, but she just continued to hold a conversation. I realized that this must be a common practice among African American women, but, as I stared around at the other black women seated around me and noticed their shock and awe gazes, I realized that, maybe common, this shouldn't be something happening on a bus, but rather in the privacy of one's own home, or at least under the protective shade of a front porch on a hot summer afternoon when there was nothing else to occupy one's time.

This ritual went on for several blocks and probably long after I disembarked from the bus, since it appeared to be almost as long a process to take out the braids as it does to create. I, along with many other passengers, stared with disgusted fascination, but about midway through the ride home more passengers boarded the bus and my view was quickly blocked by another mother, this time seated between me and the mother/daughter team, and her young son (maybe 8 years old) seated on her lap.

The mother was dark skinned, the son light and, with soft wisps of curly hair instead of the tight matte of hair characteristic of the race, was obviously bi-racial. What amazed me most about the boy was his intelligence, especially for someone so young. He was a constant talker, discussing many subjects, but nothing his mother was actually listening to, his speach was more like that of someone twice, maybe two and a half times his age. His pronuciation was perfect, his vocabulary extensive, but what really got me was his Rainman-like obsession with Nemo. His monologue went from subjects across the board to Dustin Hoffman having to get to a tv before Jeopardy begins:

"We need to get home for Finding Nemo...Finding Nemo starts at 9:00, 7:00 central...I must watch Finding Nemo...It is now 9:00--"

"We'll make it." The mother chimes in.

"--7:00 central time...I must catch Finding Nemo from the beginning...Not at 9:15...Not at 9:10...Nemo starts at 9:00 o'clock on the dot, 7:00 central..."

Thank God I only had a few more blocks to go.

When I got off the bus, I thanked the silence that enveloped me, interrupted briefly by a car horn in the distance.

When I got into my house, I immediately headed to the fridge and cracked open a beer and chugged half of it down, trying to wash away the images and sounds from the bus. I then plopped down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, turned on the tv and watched...

Finding Nemo

A Room With a View....FINALLY ...

Applause, Applause (lovingingly nicknamed A.A.) "A theatrically themed restaurant and lounge", seems to be one of the new homes for the Post regulars. Stephen's first day was yesterday and his happy hour crew came out in full force to support him in his new spot. The bar is right in the gayborhood at 13th & Locust Streets. Small and quaint, but looking to expand, the place appears much larger due to the wall of glass that overlooks Locust Street. A small, granite bar sits nestled in the angled front window, giving the patrons a great view to people watch as passers-by head off to other bars, restaurants and theaters down the street. Behind the bar, a wall of glass shelves displays the establishment's offerings of a large selection of alcohol for your drinking pleasure (even Mike's Hard Lemonade, which I've wanted to try for a long time). Chandeliers line the ceiling, reflecting prisms of light throughout the room. And, although it's a long walk, a stroll through the narrow room and down a winding flight of stairs leads you to a pair of very attractive bathrooms, with terra cotta colored walls and granite tilework and very cool sinks (the faucets are set off to the side of the basin and the water runs down through copper troughs).

The crowd is very mixed: gay and straight, old and young, but all are friendly. It almost feels like being back at the Post, only after a long awaited remodeling was done (and of course the manager replaced with someone who actually cares).

I look forward to many a happy hour with our "counselor", Stephen, and the fresh new feel of sitting in a bar without the worry in the back of your mind of whether or not a furry little creature will crawl up your pantleg...(at least without buying you a drink first).

Full Circle ...

Originally this blog, appropriately titled "Life in a Nuthouse", was to primarily be about the comings and goings of people and activities in The Post Bar. You can get a little background by scrolling through some of my original posts. Of course, over the past thirteen months of writing, just like everything in life, things have changed. What started out as life behind bar drifted down other avenues, from my search for a new job to friendships coming and going to living with a devil-cat. But, like a deep rooted, lifelong friendship, life at the post always crept back into an entry or two every month or so, from talking about mice and the icy temperatures in the bar to photo essays.

My physical time spent at the Post started to dwindle several months ago. I just became bored with the drab walls and dangling electrical cords trying to snake their way into the neck of my beer bottle. Unfortunately, however, spending less time in a place where so many of your friends gather you begin to see how important a dive like that is as a sort of common thread that tie the friendships together, at least from my perspective.

Case in point: I went to the Post this past Saturday to visit with the regs and catch up on things only to discover the clientele consisted of a stranger, myself and a few of the rodents scurrying under the non-working baseboard heaters. The bartender informed me that Stephen, the most popular bartender, was fired the week before for a seriously dumb-ass reason with no other justification other than the manager's jealousy of his own downspiraling popularity with the patrons. This firing led to a massive boycott against the establishment with most of the regulars. There are several regulars who read my blog and, to be honest, I kinda felt slighted not to have been informed of such major news and the way everyone banded together behind a fired bartender, it made me feel like I was left under the heading of "out of sight, out of mind". I know that's not entirely true, however, since it's my understanding that several regs have oftentimes wondered where I've been and how I was doing when I showed up at the bar after a several week absence. According to one: "We didn't even know if you were alive or dead!" That's kind of a hurtful thing to hear, considering that nearly everyone has my phone number, yet no one called. I just put on a brave face and fake smile and say: "As you can see, I'm here and I'm fine.", but in the back of my head I'm thinking: geez, I can slip in the tub or fall down the stairs and no one will know until the smell of a rotting corpse drifts through the open window.

Sorry. As I said to my friends last night, my writings tend to lead more towards babbling.

Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled posting...

So, the bartender's fired, the group is protesting and other neighborhood bars are suddenly finding themselves busy with new patrons. When I ran into the group last night, they immediately pulled me aside and said that this would be a great thing for my blog. There will probably be a few more entries after I receive pictures from the upcoming make-shift memorial that is planned, but first, thanks to Ivan, here is the infamous "letter" to the owner. I've been given permission to post this letter and I'm quite honored to be one of the first people to read it. I've also taken the liberty of changing the names to protect the innocent (or stupid), but it won't be hard to figure out who's who.

A great deal of commotion surrounds the termination of Steven from The Post, and Timmy is relieved to have dismissed him. However, you have been presented with only one side of the story. As a businessman, you are entitled to hear the entire truth before you can make an informed decision about his future status. First and foremost, it should be noted that the only reason Steven opened the bar late on Sunday, July 23rd (which precipitated this whole situation) is because the bartenders from the previous night were remiss in their responsibilities and did not clean up. The bar opened approximately 10 minutes later than usual so that Steven was not forced to make drinks while still scrubbing toilets.

Granted, Steven may have ranted to Timmy in an inappropriate manner about the conditions of The Post. His concerns, however, are motivated by a genuine desire to accommodate his clientele. For example, the bar has not been repaired from the flood and fire damage it suffered years ago, there is no heat in the bar during the winter months, and mice run rampant on the floor. These are all legitimate grievances that have yet to be addressed.

What you probably don’t know, are all of the positive contributions Steven has made to the bar.

For example:

* Sunday Lunch and a Movie — on Sundays, Steven regularly prepares light fare to accompany a current movie. (These expenses come solely out of his own pocket, and draw a substantial crowd.)

* Potluck Luncheons — in order to foster a sense of camaraderie among the patrons, Steven will e-mail or telephone patrons and encourage their participation in these special events which also bolster sales tremendously.

* Football Sunday — like Sunday Lunch and a Movie, Steven prepares food (again, at his own expense) offers door prizes, and fosters a sense of community among patrons during football season. This special consideration makes everyone forget the lack of heat during the winter months.

* Birthdays — Steven keep a running tab of all patron birthdays and provides cake and food to celebrate each patron birthday throughout the year (at his own expense).

* Holidays — Steven will also decorate the bar in an appropriate manner for each holiday season (yet again, at his own expense).

Granted, Steven does have his shortcomings. But then again so does Timmy of which you are probably not aware:

* Timmy does not show up on time consistently

* He disappears from the bar for periods of up to 30 minutes alerting clientele, “Someone watch the bar for me; I’ll be right back.”

* He is discourteous to anyone he does not consider a “regular.”

* He has been derelict in his responsibilities (as mentioned above), and does not leave a clean bar for the morning shift

Does Steven have his faults? Absolutely. However, the positive contributions he makes to The Post, far outweigh any minor flaws in his ability to draw a crowd and serve his clientele. To lose Steven would be a grave mistake as his client base is responsible for a substantial amount of income which the bar generates. Furthermore, it seems foolish that a petty disagreement on Timmy’s part is cause for his termination.

My recommendation would be to make Steven a daytime manager who reports directly to you and retain Timmy as an evening manager. More importantly, numbers speak for themselves and it will become apparent in the weeks ahead that the bar will lose more than it will gain by Steven's termination — both in revenue, and patronage.

As I stated above....more to come as I receive.

The "Flood" Gates of Hell ...

It came without warning. It came with great ferocity and strength. It came and came and came...

No, I'm not talking about the hottest stud in the latest porn movie. I'm talking W-A-T-E-R!!!

I sell high-end furniture in an 18,000 square foot facility covering two floors in Philadelphia. It's a well respected establishment with a long history of contemporary furniture, rugs and accessories. We've been written up in magazines, newspapers and are even credited in many shows on HGTV, as well as furnishing the "Real World Philadelphia" house. It's a great old building with high ceilings and an expansive view from the front door, interrupted only by the duel rows of massive columns that hold up the six floors of loft condominiums upstairs. Much of the character of the interior (as is the case in many loft apartments in the neighborhood) is the old industrial look; exposed pipes snaking the cieling, worn down hardwood floors and other such amenities and flaws that remind you of an industrial age gone by. The original hardwood floors on the main level, for example, are forever stained with grease and grime from the original occupants. For decades the building was some sort of factory and signs can still be found, including a ten foot high rusted piece of machinery in the back storeroom. And, although you would never notice by looking down the length of the 300 foot room (but very noticeable when you're up on a ladder changing the overhead spots) the floor actually slopes and is about a foot higher in the rear of the room than the front door. I've learned that, whatever was made in that building 70, 80, 90 years ago, the only way to clean the floors was to start from the back and hose it down, allowing all the water to wash out into the street. But, as with many great old buildings, there are great old problems that come along with it.

The lower level (or basement) is about 7,000 square feet and, although the ceilings are much lower and there's no natural light, we've managed to make the best of it with some brightly colored walls, textured fabrics and vibrant area rugs to break the monotony of a drab painted cement floor. As with the upstairs, little has been done to comprimise the old industrial feel the building embraced. When the building was vacated and gutted, many of the pipes and electrical fixtures were left behind and, although decades since used, were always a reminder of what once was. Some pipes, mostly unused drain pipes from the upper floors were removed and the holes in the floor capped for all eternity.

Or so we thought...

The past days have been hotter 'n hell, with temperatures in the upper nineties and heat indexes nearing 110 degrees. It was only a matter of time before a much welcomed cold front would push its way through the city, bringing with it more bearable temperatures. But, as with any summer cold front moving in on an area soaked with humidity and firey temperatures, it could be quite unpredictable. This past Saturday was no exception to the rule. What was strange was how quickly everything changed.

It was a fairly busy Saturday and we were pushing towards the end of the afternoon. Each of the three salespeople were all with potential customers throughout the two levels. I was working on what was promising to be a very lucrative sale and showing a couple several options on leather recliners, dining furniture and rugs for a new addition they had just completed on their house. One co-worker was in the lower level showing fabric samples to a couple interested in livingroom furniture and the 2nd co-worker was showing off other items to someone who had just walked into the store.

The sales desk is about twenty or so feet away from the wall of glass that overlooks the street. I was looking up some prices on the computer and suddenly something felt out of place. I looked towards the bank of windows and then looked back at my client: "Did it just suddenly get dark?"

"They said we're supposed to get some bad storms today." The wife replied.

A few minutes later, I took the couple downstairs. As we reached the top of the stairs, a sudden blinding flash of lightening filled the brightly lit showroom, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder so loud that, for a brief second, I thought all six floors of the condos above us were crashing down.

"I guess this is gonna be a bad one." I chuckled, as we made our way down the steps to the lower level.

A few minutes later, I was back upstairs looking up information on something else that peeked my client's interest. I heard the chime of the front door and looked up to see a young couple dashing inside. On the opposite side of the glass I could see rain like I haven't witnessed since Hurricane Floyd several years ago. Unstoppable, the rain poured down onto the city as if the dark sky was suddenly torn open, unleashing every drop of moisture it once tried to hold. Within seconds, I can see rushing water spilling up over the curb; whitecaps breaking against the tires of parked cars like waves on a rocky beach. A soft steady roar could be heard through the glass as the rain increased even more in intensity. I chuckled nervously, thinking of my basement at home and hoping that this was a fast moving storm.

A few minutes later (seriously, no more than five or six minutes since the rains started) my phone at the sales desk beeps and it's my co-worker down on the lower level: "Uhhh, Chris. We have a leak down here."

Thinking it's just a some condensation dripping from an air conditioning pipe, I casually ask: "Is it bad?"

"It's...uhh...it's coming up out of the floor."

"Oh shit!" I slam the phone down and head to the stairs. As soon as I reached the landing where the stairs turned, I stopped and looked around the floor. It didn't seem so bad. I did notice a trickle of water off to my left, travelling towards one of the drains in the center of the room. My co-worker was looking up at me and then back down towards the floor behind a chair. That was when I heard the strange bubbling sound. I rushed down the remaining steps and headed over towards the corner where he stood.

In the ground, where one of the capped holes from an old drain pipe was located, water was literally pumping up from under the building. As I watched in astonishment, the water rose around my feet, sweeping over the area rug and heading towards the center of the room.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I said to no one in particular. I've never witnessed water entering the building like this before, especially from a hole that was a good ten feet below street level and another seventy feet from the street!

"Okay." I finally said. And that was it. I thought a solution would come to me, but that was the only word out of my mouth. Mopping wouldn't work. Already there was about a half inch of water on the floor and it was pumping more violently, spewing up rust and debris that hadn't seen the light of day in probably twenty years. So far, only about 30 seconds had passed since I was on the step staring down.

I rushed off towards the back storeroom where the wet-vac was housed. I threw open the door...and stopped. The now familiar gurlgling/pumping of forced water echoed in the darkened room and, in what little light I had to see with from the doorway, it was evident that the drain in the center of the room was also pumping up water...and GET THIS: water was also pumping up out of the wash tub in the back corner!! I can see water spilling down over the lip of the fiberglass rim and splashing down onto the floor. I closed the door just as my co-worker came up behind me. I said the only thing I fealt was appropriate: "You don't want to go in there..."

I then heard the hissing. The sound scared the crap out of me. At first, I thought it could only be one thing: gas leak, but then, as I hunted down the source of the sound, a familiar gurgling accompanied the hiss. Across the other end of the room from where the water was bubbling up out of the ground like a newly found oil well (and has not let up yet), I discovered another capped drain. The metal cap was still tightly mounted over the hole, but water was trying to force itself up around the tiny crack around the edge of the cap. A small, managable pool of water formed around the cap and I moved away, thinking nothing much of it. I ran back upstairs to call my boss. Through a not-so-perfect cell connection, I desperately tried to explain the situation. He suggested using the wet-vacs in the back storage room until he arrived, but he couldn't understand the scope of the situation. Hell, I couldn't even understand the scope of the situation and I was witnessing it first hand.

Outside, the rain was still pouring. Inside, the water was still pumping. All in all, not fifteen minutes had passed since the rain started. I figured I should just call 9-1-1, but then I noticed a couple heading back downstairs. The couple I had been working with were up on the main level discussing dining chairs. I couldn't believe that things were continuing normally while I frantically ran from level to level like Chicken Little around the farmyard. I headed back downstairs and noticed yet another couple sitting on a sofa, mere feet away from a newly formed stream coursing through the center of the basement, looking through fabrics. I suggested to the other two salespeople that we should get these people upstairs.

From my vantage point, the front end of the basement looked dry, but I decided to check it out anyway. Boy, was I wrong. Another pipe, this one coming in from the outside, somewhere under the sidewalk in the front of the building, was orinally capped with cement. The cement chunk, about an inch in diameter and three inches in length, was lying on the floor about two feet away from the pipe, which was now spewing water out onto the floor. All I could do at this time was laugh.

The second drain (the one that was still capped with only a little bit of water bubbling around the edge of the metal disk) suddenly exploded with enough force to send dirt and rust fragments halfway up the side of a hutch standing next to it. Water quickly flooded that portion of the room.

About 30 minutes after the rains began, they ended just as quickly, along with the pumping of the water from the drains. It amazed me that, after only five minutes or less of a torrential downpour, the storm drains outside had gotten so completely filled with water that they started to back up into the buildings. After all was said and done, there was about an inch of water covering about 30-40% of the floor. There was nothing left for us to do except go home and wait for the water to drain again.

The next morning, I arrived about an hour early. My boss was already there with a shop-vac trying to salvage the rugs. Where there was cement exposed, only a few puddles remained, leaving behind small piles of rust chips and other dirt (including a crushed tin can that was so old, the label had worn away).

Worse things could've happened. Worse things have happened. But all in all, the only loss from the storm were about a dozen rugs and maybe an ottoman or two. We were open for business and, outside of the lingering smell left over from the carpets that had been hauled away, things were pretty much back to normal; a fairly busy Sunday...

Poop Machine ...

While cleaning out C-Rex's litter box this morning, I couldn't help but start thinking of a song. With a little change of the lyrics, here it is. Enjoy...

Sung to the tune of "Love Machine" by The Miracles:

Oh, yeah....

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I )I'm just a poop machine
and I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

Every morning at dawn
I feel the urge coming on
and I just sneak away.
Into my little gray box
without a door or a lock
and I just let one lay.
It's amazing how much I eat
that my crap can be so complete.
From my dinner bowl I just peck
and then my sphincter muscles start to flex.

OOOOOOOOhhhh!!

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I ) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

With just a kibble or two
I can produce so much poo
And it just blows my mind.
And at the drop of a hat
I'm a bowel-moving cat
like no other kind (push it push it baby)
And with the stink that I create
you always wonder what I just ate.
Don't think to much, just move the clump.
'Cause look out baby, here's another dump!

OOOOOOOOOOhh!

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I ) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

La... La la la la..... La la la la.. La la
La la la la la.. La la la....
La la laaaaaaaaa
Push it push it baby, yeah......ah, ah

(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.

I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore ...

Fridays are my late nights at work; keeping the store open for that last little straggler of a tourist on his way back to the hotel from a day of walking the streets in search of history or a joyous kazoo harmonizing ride on the Ducks. I've come to dread these people and their overactive interest in high-end furniture only to ask that inevitable question: "Do you ship?" and finally gasping at the price I quote them. It's kind of a good thing that their likings tend to gravitate them toward oversized contemporary sectionals because they seem to need the extra firm cushions to catch them when the shipping charge knocks them back off of their feet.

So, this past Friday evening, after the last of the tourists were escorted to the front door and guided in the direction of the Holiday Inn around the corner, my fellow co-worker and I, along with another employee who will most likely turn out to be one of my bosses somewhere down the line, all decided that it was the perfect evening to go out for a couple of drinks. With so many places to choose from in Philadelphia's Old City neighborhood, it was finally decided upon to find a spot where we would be able to sit outside and watch the Friday night tone of the city change from suits rushing toward the subway entrance to cleavage trying to break free from tight, low cut cocktail dresses. We quickly found the perfect spot for people-watching and drinks: the last remaining outdoor table at a corner restaurant at 3rd and Market Streets.

There we sat for a couple of hours under the oversize canvas umbrella; its flaps advertising some sort of French bottled water. Around us were groups of finely dressed couples talking softly across the black wrought iron cafe tables; a murmur of whispered voices drifting across the warm evening air like the ebb and flow of waves caressing the shore. We ordered appetizers; an assortment of seafood that worked well with the bottle of white wine already emptied between us and our fresh drinks sitting on the paper cocktail napkins. Our topic of conversation varied greatly, but always seemed to steer itself back to work, but in a good fun provoking and gossiping kind of way. Flirtation was in the air between my two co-workers, but that was nothing new. I've been witness to this type of behavior between the two of them before and I was enjoying the pleasant awkwardness that played out before me like a high school play.

After wine and two or three drinks, someone decided it was time for a round of shots. I tried to steer clear of the temptation; trying to be the respectable elder of the group (eleven years older than the one younger than me and a good fifteen years on the other), but my objections were were overruled and I soon found myself staring down at a shotglass containing a mixture of Southern Comfort and Peach Schnapps. It wasn't the most pleasant tasting shot, but it went down easily enough and I quickly chased the last of the taste down with a swig of a freshly opened bottle of beer.

Darkness soon blanketed the sky, leaving us bathed in the shadow of the umbrella, surrounded by the ambiant soft yellow-pink glow of the street lights lining the avenue. We decided to pay our check and head off to new surroundings. Again, I objected, stating that I'm feeling good at that moment, but I was still well in control of myself. My co-worker pointed her finger to the bus stop across the street and informed me that we weren't going to go to any place where we would lose sight of the bus stop and (throwing in for good measure) that I only lived a few blocks away. She grabbed my hand before I could state my argument and I found myself making my way down Market Street towards the Delaware River waterfront. A sea of people washed around me, their faces blurring together as they passed by on towards their own destinations.

It was amazing how quickly that shot had taken hold of me. Maybe it was because there were so many people around and I didn't know where I was being taken, but I really don't remember entering the next bar, a place called Drinkers. I remember it being about a block from Front Street, right on Market Street. I remember it being a long and narrow room, like one of the many converted storefront buildings that may as well have been a fish market or a butcher in a bygone era. I remember the walls having a dark '70s kind of paneling running from the front entrance to the stairs in the rear of the room leading to another bar in the basement.

But most of all I remember the doorman, a young well built black man...kid...with a shaved head and tight-fitting t-shirt. It wasn't the kid I remembered as much as what happened to me. After all, I was in a straight bar I've never entered before with straight co-workers. I had to keep myself in check, even though the kid did seem to have a chest that Evil Kinevil would think twice about jumping. My co-worker, a woman, walked in first. I was chit-chatting with my other co-worker and watched her reach into her purse and bring out her I.D. I passed the doorman, still talking and saw my other co-worker, a 6'4" bull of a guy, pull his wallet out of his back pocket and display his I.D. Thinking I better not move any further into the room and have the doorman calling after me, I turned towards him and reached into my back pocket...

He looked at me through the dim lighting and the cloud of cigarette smoke hanging in the air and...shook his head! At first, I didn't quite get it, but he continued shaking his head, almost spasmatically, and waved me away.

"Dude!" I shouted back at him with a laugh. "Why don't you just stab me in the back on my way out and put me out of my misery!"

The doorman looked cautiously at me and, realizing that I was still laughing, offered me an embarassed apology before going on to the next card-carrying patron.

It didn't take long for two more beers and another shot (this time Southern Comfort and lime juice) to grab me by the ears and take my head for a little spin. I'm pretty good that way. When my head tells me it's had enough alcohol, my feet start taking me to the nearest exit. I'm far beyond those years where drinking only led to more drinking and only stopped long enough to order another drink. I'm mostly a beer guy and I can drink a good number of them and still function (especially for someone of my size), but it makes it that much more difficult for me when other things incorporate themselves into that formulatic consumption, such was the situation that Friday night with a bottle of wine and shots of Southern Comfort. I kindly said my good-byes and drifted out of the bar and into the night, my head wanting to go one way and my feet the other. In my mind's eye, I was walking a straight line towards the bus stop, but only passers-by would know what I truly looked like (although I don't think I was too bad).

When I reached the bus stop, I leaned against a street sign and waited...and waited...and waited. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was nearing 11:30. I wished there was a bench at this stop, but I had to remain standing, my eyes burning with a drunken tiredness that cried to be closed.

After about 10 minutes, I saw the headlights of an approaching bus grow nearer. I dug into my pants and pulled out two dollar bills. The bus pulled up and the doors opened with a hiss. Inside, the florescent lights blazed in all their artificial glory and I bowed my head, keeping my eyes in shadow for fear of them bursting into twin flames before a busload of horrified passengers. I fed my bills into the farebox and moved down the narrow aisle, thankful to spot a forward facing seat near the front. I closed my eyes as the bus pulled away from the curb. My mind was alert to the sounds around me: someone on a cell phone, the drone of the bus engine, the soft computerized female voice of the GPS navigator announcing the next stop...

"5th Street...National Constitution Center...8th Street...Market East Station...15th Street for Suburban Station...19th Street & J.F.K. Boulevard..."

The bus turned the corner onto 19th Street. Only a few more blocks to go and I'll be home in bed...

"Market Street...Walnut...Chestnut............."

"Washington Avenue..."

I stirred slightly.

"Ellsworth..."

Oh crap!

I pulled on the cord signalling the driver to stop at the next corner. I never even bothered to look out the window or at any of the other passengers. The bus stopped, the doors opened and I stepped out into the warm night air, kicking myself for having fallen asleep. The bus pulled away, kicking up a wave of curbside dust and exhaust fumes into my face. I looked around, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Abandoned buildings, empty lots, darkened streetlights.

Yup, I'm in hell...

I quickly got my bearings and headed due north on 19th Street. My street was about six or seven blocks north of here, but from the looks of my surroundings it may as well have been six or seven miles. The first major street ahead of me would be Washington Avenue. Although it's busy street during the day, lined with a wide array of blue collar businesses and home improvement specialty stores, it doesn't see much traffic at night, except for hoodlums driving about looking for someone stupid enough to be walking around by themselves.

Midnight in Baghdad...

I made my way up to Washington Avenue, praying that a taxi would be nearby, but knowing it was unlikely. The closest place I could think of to get a cab would be 5 blocks east on Broad Street. If I didn't get a cab soon, any direction I decided to walk would probably be a bad decision.

I reached Washington Avenue and looked towards the east: no cars. I looked towards the west: one car heading towards me. I wondered if I should hide in the shadows, but I figured if they were looking for someone and spotted me, running or hiding wouldn't help.

The headlights drew closer...

...and I noticed the familiar small dome on the roof...

"TAXI!!!!!!!"

I ran towards the intersection; a mantra repeating in my head: pleasebeemptypleasebeemptypleasebeempty...

The cab pulled towards the curb...

YES!

I opened the back door and hopped in.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked.

"North. I'll tell you when to stop." And then I added as an afterthought: "But don't let me fall asleep."

The cab dropped me off at the end of my street and I walked the rest of the way to my house. I unlocked the door, greeted C-Rex and headed up to bed.

As I laid my head down on the pillows, a famous line suddenly found its way into my mind. The movie is not one of my all time favorites, but the line seemed to take on new meaning...

There's no place like home...

Down, But Not Out ...

That's what the sign read hanging from my employer's main store only hours after lightening from an intense thunderstorm sparked an inferno that destroyed 95% of the structure last night. To read about it click here

Dammit!! ...

I just discovered that, when I changed my template from a black backgroud to a white, I lost the links to the other bloggers I had listed.

If you're linked to me or me to you, please respond to this posting so that I can update this site.

Thank you!

The Shot Heard 'Round the World ...

Well, here it is; the last episode of Will and Grace.

I went to The Post tonight to watch. Actually, I had forgotten it was on and I stopped in on my way home from work and discovered the "Behind the Scenes" prelude episode on the suspended television screens, so I decided to stick around.

It seemed so appropriate to end the show with the four of them in a bar all toasting shots to their friendship and it sort of made me envious. I mean sure, it was all scripted and acted, but after watching I couldn't help feel a little pang of jealousy. Here, a show was ending that not only spanned 8 years, but catapulted you forward another twenty or so. Their lives went thier separate ways and came back full circle. It not only made me think of my small circle of friends I have now, but those from my past; those closest to me when I was growing from my pre-teens through my teens and into my young adulthood. Those people are all gone now; moved on with their lives and families; some who have kids who are (gasp) already in college. We were close and spent several evenings together wondering what the future held for us.

I often still think of myself in that time and not someone who's been on this earth for nearly forty years. I wonder where I'm going and I look back on where I've been. I look at my life as it is and realize that I really haven't accomplished anything that I had set out for myself all those years ago. It's depressing and I sometimes (more often than not) think that it's too late for me; that I'm destined to sit on a vinyl barstool whose surface is patched together with a strap of coordinating electrical tape while nursing a Coors Lite and watching the house rodents scurry along the baseboards.

I then realize that there is still so much out there to do and avenues to take. I've held an interest in writing since I was seventeen or eighteen and have written several short stories, but never had the ambition to have someone look at them and to see if they were worth pushing further. I've painted all my life and taught myself several styles and mediums, but never felt confident enough to do anything other than give them away as gifts.

I see friends of mine who are branching out into new areas; going into business for themselves or taking an existing position and turning it into something where people are actually stopping and taking notice. I see friends who, at ages older than myself right now, are setting out on new ventures and careers. I've had the moral support to do these things on my own, but not the ambition and all the lack of confidence in myself to drown any dream faster than Shelly Winters wearing ankle weights.

I just wish I knew what life had in store for me...

I wish I had writers like those of Will and Grace who had everything neatly typed out on white paper and, after all is said and done, the quick-stepping notes of an upbeat jazz piano tune will signify that yes, this is something good going on here...

To Ivan with Love ...

"If I were to criticize your blog, the one thing I would say is this: those of us over 50 have a difficult time reading white text on a black background. You should have a white background with a black font."

So, Ivan, I hope this format is a little better on the eyes.

It's always a pleasure talking with you.

xoxo

Super Bulge ...

The makers of the new Superman movie seem to be alittle jealous of the Man of Steel's manhood. So much so that they are making editors digitally remove most of the "superbulge".

Personally, I can't wait for the director's "uncut" version to be released...

American Midol ...

It just pained me deep inside last night when I had to witness the complete disappointment on Chris Daughtry's face when he got booted off American Idol. Chris was not only the only person worth watching this year, but the only person worth watching since the show first aired. Sexy, charasmatic and a terrific voice, he was a shoo in from the get-go. It just goes to show you that the general public have absolutely no input in choosing who should have a record deal on this show. Why the hell is the cheesy hotel lounge singer still on along with the girl who's nerves make her voice crack half the time?

I'll miss watching you, Chris. You'll never know what you do to me (in my imagination)...

Sneak Peak ...

M, O, Gar & myself all scored free passes last night to go see the new Poseidon movie. An interview on Good Morning America yesterday morning stated that: "We were not trying to make a remake of the 1972 classic". Let's see...a ship named "Poseidon" is hit by a tidal wave on New Year's Eve at midnight. Everyone on board drowns in the grand ballroom except a small handfull of people who must climb up to the "bottom" of the ship and make their way out of the propeller shaft. Of the cast of survivors, one is a little boy who suddenly disappears in the depths of the ship and another is a leader who must sacrifice his own life in order to save the others...

Yup...no similarities there...

All that aside, I was abosuletly floored by the movie! The special effects will definately be a serious contendor for an Academy Award. The rogue wave hits about twenty minutes into the movie and, not only are you witnessing what happens in the grand ballroom, but you're swept away in flash fires and explosions throughout the ship as thousands of passengers and hundreds of crew members are tossed about like ping-pong balls in a bingo cage. A short, but gripping scene during the rollover takes place in the 10-story lobby of the ship, as glass elevators (of course filled with people) are ripped from the walls and plummet down/up to the floor, along with a second scene (also having to do with an elevator) where you know someone is about to die, but you find your palms beginning to sweat and the hairs on the back of your hands start to stand as the director makes you wait and wait for the inevitable.

Richard Dreyfuss plays a gay architect who had just been dumped by his lover. With his life seeming to have no meaning, he is just about to take the ultimate dive into the depths of the Atlantic when he looks up and sees the full moon hanging delicately above the horizon suddenly being blocked out by a wall of water. As you see the fear rise in his eyes, you can suddenly feel your own heart begin to race as you, along with the suicidal architect on screen, begin to realize what's about to take place. From that point on, it's a roller coaster ride that doesn't let up until the closing credits scroll up from the bottom of the screen.

I must admit, as the world was turned upside down before me and everyone on the screen was swimming through water filled corridors, I was swimming in those blue pools that were Josh Lucas' eyes. Against a backdrop of burned walls and oil slicked tuxedo shirts, his eyes were ablaze in color and I found myself waiting anxiously for each and every close-up shot.

I look forward to the official opening night of Poseidon. I plan on seeing it again...if not for the special effects, than to just sit back and look into the eyes of this week's obsession...

Bad Marketing ...

I've oftened talked, either on here or in person, of my life with the devil cat, C-Rex, and his apparent feline delight in seeing how much blood he can draw from me in a single day. I've named him C-Rex due to his stance when he's in his "Attack Mode". Seated upright on his hind legs, his front paws pressed tightly against his chest, ears folded back and his pupils dilated so large that you can see your own scared expression reflected back at you, he reminds me a Terranasaurus Rex doing battle.

I partially blame myself for his behavior. I enjoy tormenting him. Sometimes, we would be sitting on the sofa, C-Rex contently purring, sprawled out next to me with his head dangling over the edge of the cushion. I would suddenly thrust my arm out, my fingers bent tightly in a defensive claw-like position. C-Rex would slowly lift his head up and look at me, one eye blinking the sleep away. If he lowered his head again, I would softly growl and wiggle my fingers infront of him until I see him slowly fold his ears back and look at me more intensely. We would remain that way for as little as a few seconds or as long as a half a minute, before C-Rex would suddenly leap up and wrap his paws around my wrist and begin gnawing at the flesh between my thumb and index finger. Then, as quickly as it began, he would release his teeth and claws and leap off the sofa to take his stalking position under the dining table. He would continue to stare, readying himself for another attack, occasionally being distracted by a rogue dust bunny, until I claimed defeat and turned my attention elsewhere.

He's also developed the strange habit of attacking me every time I try to leave the house. I would like to think it's his way of trying not to get me to leave and to spend more time with him, but that's probably just wishful thinking.

My sofa sits perpendicular to the front door, extending out into the middle of the livingroom. Whenever I go to leave the house, C-Rex would take his attack stance on the floor or sofa and, just as I'm walking behind the sofa, spring into action, leaping up onto the back cushions and wrapping his paws tightly around my arm and begin gnawing through my sleave. Unless I provoke him (which is more often than not) his gnawing is soft, but tension-filled, as if his his mind is telling him God, how I want to just rip this arm apart, but I can't...I...just...CAN'T!! It's the hand that feeds me!

The point I'm trying to make is that I have war wounds. There are days when I look like I tried to get affectionate with Edward Scissorhands. Sure, it's annoying to have to explain my scratches and tell people no, it's not self-mutilation and no, it's not stigmata. It's just playtime with the devil-cat.

Anyway, last week, I decided enough was enough. I stopped in to CVS on my way home from work to pick up a few essentials. With my arms cradling paper towels, coffee, milk, bread, kitty litter, and a few other things, I found myself walking down the first-aid aisle towards the register. I figured I may as well pick up a box of band-aids. However, I felt it would be even more embarrassing to explain my body riddled with flesh colored plastic strips than the actual scratches themselves, so I quickly scanned the shelves for the more inconspicuous clear band-aids. Finding a box, I juggled the other items in my possession, stuffing things under my arms and between my teeth, in order to grab a box of band-aids from the shelf. I made my way to the register, paid for the items and went home.

I never needed the band aids until yesterday...

My last thing on my to-do list before heading off to work was brush my teeth. C-Rex loves the smell of mint and, as with any other morning, he jumped up onto the sink and raised his head, his tiny nose wiggling back and forth like Elizabeth Montgomery. I bent down closer, not seeing the trickery in those eyes until it was nearly too late.

Almost instantly, C-Rex's pupils dilated, his ears folded back and he charged. I pulled back just in time, keeping his claws away from my face and, more importantly, my eyes. But he went for the toothbrush, wrapping his paws around my wrist. Had I just played along, it would've been the normal routine with him gnawing and then releasing. But, in my startled retreat I nearly pulled him off the sink and his claws dug deep into my wrist before he let go and fell to the floor. An inch long scratch at the base of my palm like an extention of my life-line began to redden as blood made its way to the surface. I cursed myself and C-Rex as I ran my wrist under some cold water. The cut wasn't deep, but just enough to ruin my shirt if my sleeve brushed against it. Not to mention it looked like a half-assed suicide attempt.

Good thing I just bought some new band-aids...

I reached in the medicine cabinet, pulled down the box, opened it and pulled out an individually wrapped bandage, all while thinking it'll be cool...they're clear...I won't have to explain away a band-aid at the base of my wrist...

I tore apart the wrapping, peeled away the backing and slapped the band-aid over the scratch.

Then I paused...

I looked, questioning in my mind to what I was seeing...

I looked at the box and read it again: BAND-AID Brand Adhesive Bandages...PERFECT BLEND Clear Bandages... "Breathable protection that blends with the skin...

So why wasn't it blending? Why do I have this dark patch on my wrist?

I read the side of the box: Available in 3 shades...Light, Medium, Deep

Now, not that I have a problem with this (other than the fact that I have a box of band-aids in my medicine cabinet that is anything BUT inconspicuous), I think, when Johnson & Johnson come out with a bandage that is specifically meant for African Americans, it should actually SAY something to that effect on the box! Sure, there's a picture on the front, but the top of the box says "CLEAR" The way the shelves were stocked, the top of the box was all you could see. It just seems to me that, after 55 years of having the flesh-colored strips on store shelves, introducing a new (and much darker) color should be packaged much better.

With Every A-hole, Some Sh*t Must Fall ...

I wasn't in a particularly good mood last night, so when I went to the Post for a couple of beers, my intention was just that: to sit back, watch some videos and have a couple of beers. Little did I know that my quiet time would be shattered by a drunken asshole named "T".

From what I understand, "T" is a professor of some kind or other. I've known of him for years, but we have never once held a conversation. Correction. Once, he came out of the bathroom and, forgetting where his barstool stood, sat down next to me and immediately threw himself into a conversation with slurred, unintelligible comments. Other than that one time, our interactions were nothing more than sharing the stale air of cigarette smoke that hung above the bar.

"T" is the type of guy who you've never actually seen sober. His eyelids always hang low giving the impression that he's ready to fall asleep at any second. Usually sitting by himself at the bar, he pounds back the martinis like shots until his head dips forward and you start taking bets around the bar on how soon his slackened body will topple to the ceramic tiled floor. Once in awhile, like Walter Mattheau's bit-part character in the 1974 movie "Earthquake", he would raise his head and shout out a series of random words that only form a sentence in his blurred mind. He's the type of guy who's so lost in his liquored up world that if you spoke to him or even looked at him for more than a few seconds, you're now his boyfriend and his run-on sentences are overshadowed only by his groping hands.

There's nothing wrong with sitting at the bar and getting drunk. There's nothing wrong with trying to pick someone up at the bar. The problem I have (and don't really bother myself with) are those who seem to walk into the bar drunk, drink for several more hours, fall asleep at the bar and still think you're better than others. And that's how "T" is.

Last night, I wasn't in a very talkative mood. I went to the Post, sat at the bar and nursed a couple of beers. The bar wasn't that crowded, with only a small handful of people scattered around the room with enough barstools between each to ensure that everyone had their own personal space. "D" was sitting next to me and, although we conversed, my responses were pretty much limited to simple answers or nods. "T", already three sheets to the wind, was sitting off to the left, talking/slurring/groping/making out with someone I didn't recognize. After about a half hour, the stranger left the bar and within a few minutes, "T" was talking/slurring/groping/making out with someone else. His activities didn't interest me but, being a constant observer, I watched with disgusted amusement out of the corner of my eye.

After awhile, the 2nd guy left, leaving "T" to talk/slur/grope/make out with his half-empty martini glass. As per the normal routine with him, every few minutes he would expel a few meaningless words or suddenly start laughing. Maybe the pink elephants sitting with him were entertaining him in a way no one else could relate.

At one point, "T" got up off his barstool and staggered towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came back and stood next to "D", who was seated next to me. The two of them were talking about something very random and I was now lightly joking with the bartender. I wasn't paying any attention to the conversation going on next to me until I heard the word "blogger".

"What's a blogger?" I heard "D" ask.

"Heeee'th a bloggerrrrr..." came a drunken response. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a waving, unfocused finger lazily waving in my direction. "I hate bloggerrrrzz..."

"What's a blogger?" "D" asked me, lightly tugging on my shirtsleeve.

"I write on-line." I answered simply. I wasn't about to get into a conversation with the drunken "T", even though I had no idea why on earth he brought the subject of blogging up in the first place. But as I was giving my simple answer, the drunk pushed my button...

"Bloggerrrrrrzz are lazzzzyyyyy..."

"Excuse me?" I leaned across the bar, my voice getting suddenly loud enough for all other conversation to end and all eyes turning my way.

"Shhhhhhh." "D" said. "Don't get upset."

I ignored the comment and leaned closer to the drunk. "You better fuckin' close your shit-filled mouth!" I quickly glanced at the bartender and almost laughed at his reaction; his hand infront of his mouth trying to hold back his own laughter.

"D" tried to justify the drunk's comment: "He didn't say anything about you. He was just stating his opinion."

"Bullshit! He pointed directly at me when he said that. He's a fucking drunk asshole and the whole bar knows it. I'm not gonna just sit here and have him call me lazy."

I guess "D" was just trying to put out a growing fire and I wasn't about to let things get carried away. I wasn't going to get myself kicked out of a bar that I've been hanging out in for years over a stupid drunk. But "T", the drunk, continued his slurred comments under his breath. The rest of the bar sat watching, possibly waiting for fists to start flying, but I wasn't going to let that happen. I let it be known that I wasn't going to put up with that horse's ass and the crap he spewed. I settled myself back down and ignored whatever slurred remarks was coming out of his mouth.

I didn't understand "D" however. Whether he just couldn't let it drop or if he wanted to stir up some trouble, he kept defending the drunk even after the drunk staggered back over to his stool. I just repeated that I wasn't going to just sit back and allow some drunk who doesn't even know me to offend me and tried to close the subject.

A little while later, "T" got up and came back around to our end of the bar. Trying to ignore what was being said, I picked up snip-its of their conversation:

"--you should apologize..."

"--not gonnnna appollllogizzzzze..."

"Just drop it." I said, not taking my eyes off the television.

The drunk walked behind me and place his hand briefly on my shoulder. I shook it off and took a swig of beer. Now standing on the other side of me, he leaned in and started talking/slurring in my ear, but still talking to "D" on the other side of me. I set my hand on his cheek and pushed him away. He staggered back into the wall.

"If you're talking to him, don't do it in my ear, you ass."

Without another word, he staggered down out of the bar.

After he left, "D" turned to me and asked: "Are you Irish?"

"An Irish temper has nothing to do with it. You can ask anyone in this bar at any time and they'll tell you that I have never raised my voice in here. I'm not gonna sit here and let the token bar asshole talk about me." I still couldn't understand why "D" wouldn't let it drop.

I finished my beer and said my good-byes, knowing full well that I was going to go home and lazily blog the actual story...

The Age-Old Question ...

How many gay men can you crowd around a laptop to watch "straight" college men having sex in order to win a truck?

The answer: Who cares? There are "straight" college men having sex in order to win a truck!

But it was interesting to find out when, last night, one of the Post's family members arrived with his laptop in tow to get some advice from another patron on how to use it more effectively. We warned him when he decided to take the dive into the world of computers that he would begin to fight the constant pull of the whirlpool current that would take him into the deepest depths of cyberporn (not to be confused with the constant pull when he finally reached those depths). He assured us that he was only going to use it for work. The more knowing ones just smiled and nodded. Who was he really trying to convince here? We knew it was only a matter of time before he would stumble upon some sweaty man-flesh images when we told him that he could google pretty much anything that popped into his head.

Last night:

"Wow! I gotta show you this site! It's unbelievable! I googled 'straight college boys' and I couldn't believe what popped up!"

Aaaaaah....the beginning of the end... Up flips the monitor of the laptop and the soft blue/white glow illuminates that corner of the bar. I was just glad we were on solid ground, what with the way the men jumped out of their barstools and rushed to that side of the room. We would've rolled over faster than the Poseidon had we been on water.

After trying to capture a glimpse of the monitor over the huddled shoulders before me, I sat off to the side wishing someone had brought a camera with them.

Unfortunately, I didn't stick around too much longer...just long enough not make it sound like I wasn't rushing home to jump on-line. I did what every decent red-blooded gay man would do: casually said my good-byes, finished my beer and strolled out of the bar....all the while silently repeating the name of the website in my mind so I wouldn't forget it before I got home...

A Commentary ...

Yesterday morning, a C-5 cargo plane loaded with fuel for an overseas flight and carrying 17 servicemen crashed just short of the runway at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. After initial take-off, the pilots reported engine trouble and double-backed for an emergency landing. The plane, one of the largest in the world, fell from the sky just short of the runway, the cockpit and tail sections being ripped from the fuselage, and landed in an open field (luckily missing the peppering of housing developments and major highways that encircle the air force base).

This morning, I'm watching the news and two reports, both related in a roundabout way, got me thinking. Now, you may agree with me or you may disagree. I don't know and I really don't care. After all, isn't that what this blogging site is about, letting me post my thoughts and feelings? So, here it goes...

Although, with any plane crash, the NTSB is investigating the C-5 mishap, initial reports are believed to be a flock of birds were sucked into one, maybe two engines. There is a dump not too far from the air force base and birds have been a big problem for planes here for years; so much so that the military is actually in the process of moving the dump to another location. The NTSB and the military are also considering permenantly grounding the C-5 cargo plane and replacing it with the C-17, a smaller version.

Now, I'm not an engineer, so I'm not going to begin to speculate on the pros and cons of replacing one aircraft with another but, after watching the news coverage the last two days, I started to ask myself something.

Most plane crashes, whether it be military, private or passenger, happen either during take-off or landing. The result is often an explisive ball of fire that rips through the fuselage, giving passengers little time for escape. The C-5, carrying 51,000 gallons of fuel crashed in a field, split into three sections and even catapulted one of it's engines hundreds of feet away when it hit the ground. All this with little or no fire and with all 17 passengers suviving, most being able to walk away from the wreckage. Why no explosion with all that fuel stored in its massive wings? Because the plane was designed with the wings (and thus the fuel) above the fuselage. Even though at least one wing hit the ground hard enough to have an engine snap free, the fuel did not explode. This, along with the enormous size of the plane, helped to save the 17 crew members' lives.

Passenger planes, however, are designed with the passengers sitting on top of the fuel, with the wings extending out from the bottom of the plane. When a passenger plane crashlands, in most cases, it's the fuel tanks that touch the ground first, resulting an many many lost lives.

Now again, I'm not an engineer or scientist, just a simple blogger who tries to see things as easily as possible and, in my opinion, to use three words from the great Carlos Mencia...

(tap head) "Da-da-daaaaaaaaaa..."

The other story I heard on the news this morning (and this is something slightly more delicate and readers may be more up in arms over) is the soon to be released Hollywood big-budget film based on September 11th and, more directly, the passengers aboard Flight 93.

Although this isn't the first movie about these heros, it is definately the one that is making the biggest impact. Back in January, A&E aired its version of the flight and I found myself glued to the television with so many emotions surging through me. I was angry. I was frightened. I was saddened. The film's dialogue was taken directly, capturing every word, tone and emotion, from recordings and transripts. Ultimately, as the closing credits scrolled up the screen infront of me, all of the emotions I had felt watching the movie seemed to converge within in me, creating one growing sense of pride. Pride for those who gave up thier own lives to save countless lives on the ground.

The rest of the country during those fateful hours on that blue-skied morning, had witnessed the falling of the towers, the flames and smoke surrounding the Pentagon, and we all knew by this time that there was still at least one more plane unnacounted for, while all others were being grounded. The Capital and the White House were being evacated live on television as Americans across the country held their breath, waiting for cameras to capture a growing grey image in the cloudless sky, aiming itself at yet another target. The feeling that, collectively, we were all watching some movie unfold before our eyes, seemed surreal when reports started drifting in on the wires that a plane may have crashed somewhere in western Pennsylvania.

Initial reports stated that the terrorists had lost control, but it wasn't until a few days later that more information on that fourth plane, Flight 93, began slowly building a picture of what had happened. Family members of the passengers started talking about their last conversations and how the passengers, now well aware that the country was under attack, were planning to regain control of the plane and survive or not, not allow the terrorists to take another cheap shot at Americans on American soil. With a trolley cart as a battering ram and hot water as a weapon, with rumors of fighter jets closing in and air force pilots preparing to do the unthinkable in U.S. airspace, the passengers took charge.

It will always remain unanswered as to what actually took place in those last few seconds in the air over Pennsylvania. We will never know if the terrorists drove the plane into the ground in a last ditch effort or if the passengers did it to save America. But one thing's been proven. They didn't just sit on their asses. They fought back. They weren't ordered to fight, they decided. I am in no way putting down the military. I commend all those fighting in Iraq and Afganistan (although Iraq is...well... :-X ), but our true heros, in my opinion, are the men and women who were having a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee while enjoying a beautiful morning flight one minute and thwarting a terrorist plot the next. These are true heros.
These two words have been emblazened in our minds. High school text books have been republished to include the attacks on September 11th. Bumper stickers are permanently placed on cars throughout the country. Memorials of one kind or another are erected in town squares. And, on a more negative side, National Guardsmen are stationed in airports, restaurants beyond the security checkpoints no longer stock silverware, people are being asked not to photograph tall buildings and Muslims (American citizen or not) are still being looked at more cautiously. If you're in an internet chatroom and say something against the war in Iraq (again... :-x ), you're automatically labeled "Un-American" by people who chant/type "we will never forget".

Now Hollywood is showing trailers of its new movie about a group of true heros and people sitting in their seats watching the trailer are crying "Too soon!!" When will it not be 'too soon'? When the majority of the people who have lived it are long gone? I remember sitting in the theater watching Titanic. Sure, the love story was kinda cheesy, but I remember having to listen to laughter and rude comments from kids to how people on board reacted to and handled the situation of facing a cold and watery death. Even when Pearl Harbor, with Ben Afflack, was released, it was viewed to many as a high-explosion special effects mega-movie, with little regard to what they were actually watching, the lives of hundreds of American sailors...sailors who actually existed over 60 years ago...being killed on a beautiful December morning. I myself cried when the USS Oklahoma capsized and all of those sailors, some of whom had never even realized they were under attack, had all drowned. I cried because I knew it was real. I cried for those men. I cried for the families. I cried for the sailors who straddled the hull of the ship and tried desperately to break through to get at those trapped inside.

The Titanic has become more of a legend in folklore than an event, and Pearl Harbor will soon become something that happened "way back when". Hollywood, in creating this movie about Flight 93, isn't just out to make a buck. The producers have already stated that 100% of the proceeds in the first 3 days of release will go directly to the funds to build a memorial to Flight 93 in that little patch of farmland in Western Pennsylvania. It's already projected to be a blockbuster hit. That's alot of money to go towards the memorial. The producers didn't just wake up one morning and say "let's do this". They sat down with each and every family member of those aboard Flight 93 and asked them basically for their permission and guidance in making the film. Not one family member refused. They want these heros to be remembered. The rest of the country (at least those who will stand outside theaters in a couple months and picket) seem to want to remember (or rather "never forget") as long as there's nothing there infront of them to remind them.

There are some people who, as emotional as it will probably be, want to remember and want to witness how a small group of passengers managed to save the lives of others on a September morning.

I have two words for those who choose to put September 11th into that little black box tucked way in the deepest corner of your mind while you stand out infront of a movie theater and protest Hollywood for making a movie that deserves to be told...

STAY HOME!!!