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!!!

A Home Improvement Warning ...

I don't how many of you shop at Home Depot, but this may be useful to
know. I am posting this to you to warn you of something that happened to
me, as I have become a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. This
happened to me at Home Depot and it could happen to you.
Here's how the scam works:

Two seriously good-looking 25-year-old hunks come over as you are
loading what you bought in the bed of your truck. I mean very VERY hot
muscular guys. They wash your windshield with a rag and Windex, with
their cocks almost hanging out of their tight cut off shorts. It is
impossible not to look.

When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask
you for a ride to another Home Depot. You agree and they get in the back
seat. On the way, they start having sex with each other. Then one of
them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while
the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen last Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday, again
on Saturday, and also yesterday. Maybe tomorrow too!

So please be careful!!

Generation Gap ...

As with many people my age, part of being raised as a child was having your mom or dad plop you down infront of the television and having your brain scrambled with images of makebelieve neighborhoods, corny esteem-building songs and oversized singing and talking animals.

With my father being a model railroading buff and myself having an over-the-top collection of Matchbox cars and Hot Wheels, one of my favorite shows was Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. The fascination wasn't in the lessons learned in the Land of Makebelieve or the short film clips inserted into Picture-Picture, but the opening and closing credits, when the camera would pan over the cardboard lawns and plastic houses of "The Neighborhood". I can remember sneaking into my father's workshop while he was at work, climbing up on a high stool, reaching into the cabinet above the extra freezer, and carefully pulling down the two large boxes of delicately assembled and painted houses stored inside. (Dad was/is a model railroader, but still, all these years later, has never completely finished a working display)

Anyway, I would empty the boxes onto the family room floor and construct my own neighborhood, using the funky geometric pattern in the 60's style carpeting as my street grid. It was fun playing God and ruling over this tiny town I've created, pushing my Matchbox cars along the streets and pulling up into driveways. Who was I going to visit today and what was I going to find happening in my "neighbor's" house? Oops! Mrs. Johnson didn't see the stop sign as she sped her Hot Wheels dune buggy through the intersection and--CRASH!--slammed right into Mr. Peters' oil truck and--

BOOM!!

...The whole neighborhood goes up in flames just in time for me to pack up and put away the houses before my dad got home from work and found me fooling around with his stuff.

I know...I know...dimented imagination.

But at least Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood got my imagination (as sick as it is) working.

Another show I was fascinated with (although I don't know why) was The New Zoo Review. As I said, I can't explain my fascination with this program, but I remember 3:00 every weekday afternoon, sitting infront of the television in my parents' bedroom and staring at Frederick, the Frog and Henrietta Hippo and the owl (can't remember his name). I can even remember the lyrics to the opening theme (algthough I won't write them here. You'll just think I'm wierd. Maybe I got glued to that show because I knew that "The Hood" was on afterward. I don't know, but I bring up "The Zoo" to explain the reason for this writing.

This morning (as with every morning), I'm sitting on the sofa, legs folded up next to me with C-Rex curled up in a tight ball behind my knees and softly snoring, coffee in one and and remote control in the other. I'm flipping through the channels and come across a familiar cast of characters. There's Henrietta Hippo, her tight floral print dress twirling around as she bounced across the soundstage. Her southern accent, strong and squeaky, I was suddenly reminded of Delta Burke and the way she ballooned up during her last year of Designing Women.

My God, I thought. Is this show still on? I watched in morbid curiosity, making sure the livingroom blinds were closed so no one would peak in and see what was on my television screen. My question was soon answered when Doug and Emmy-Jo, the only "humans" on the show appeared on screen and were dressed in the loud wardrobe you can only find if your turned back the clock 35 years (or walked into a vintage clothing store).

The episode that was airing had something to do with putting on a circus, and each character happily displayed their talents with the props they were given by the stage-hands. Emmy-Jo displayed her skills equestrian skills riding a sawhorse. I listened to the cheers from the rest of the cast and suddenly found myself bursting into uncontrolable laughter at what was being said on the screen. C-Rex was so startled, he jumped into the air, off the couch and darted into the kitchen.

It took a long time getting here, but this was where I was heading with the title of this post: "Generation Gap". The way a simple turn of phrase can be used more than three decades ago in a children's show is now a porn industry term. This is what I mean...

Cheers from the other characters as Emmy-Jo rode the sawhorse:

* "Look at her ride!"
* "Go Emmy-Jo!"
* "Show 'em how you ride bareback!"
Emmy-Jo whips off the small red cape she was wearing.
* "Oh yeah! Look at how she rides bareback!"
" "You're a great bareback rider!"
" "Look how pretty she looks bareback!"

I'm still chuckling and wiping a tear from my eye...

The Post Bar (A Photo Essay) ...

As a continuing thanks to M, here are some long awaited pictures of The Post Bar. With the way things are going there, these could very well be some of the last pictures ever to be taken of the place. But then again, as the regulars are well aware, cockroaches and The Post have many things in common: they can both be found in dark dingy alleyways among piles of garbage, they are both more active after the sun goes down, you can try to kill either and somehow, you can't seem to get rid of them 100%, and both are said to be able to survive a nuclear explosion.

From the looks of the place, you'd think that the building is being held together by by construction paper and edible paste, or at least the sticky remnants of years of failed and removed livers...and you're probably right! But as the rumoured demise of the establishment circulates over the squeezed lemon wedges submerged in heavily poured drinks, rest assured that the phoenix shall rise again, its wings shaking off the dusty mouse turds, its claws grasping a fresh package of plastic stirrers like the talons of the American bald eagle gripping an olive branch. It shall rise above the ashes of its former self and shed new life upon all who slouch over its chipped and scarred bartop. The bathrooms will be blessed with hot and cold running water and a toilet that glistens NOT from fresh pee droplets, but from actual cleanliness. The walls shall emit heat in the winter and coolness in the summer, not vice versa. The lights shall shine as lights are meant to shine, from fixtures in the ceiling and not from strings leftover from Christmases past, plugged into the last remaining working outlet somewhere in the back office. The multiple televisions shall all play the same channel with sound.

Hear the harmonic (or homonic) voices of the alcoholic angels rise to a crescendo, their chorus lifting our inner spirits as we lift our own spirits to our lips; a toast to all those, past and present, who have tried to topple the kingdom that is The Post!

Yes! The Phoenix shall rise again, as it has done so many times before!

Then again....maybe not...

In the meantime, enjoy the pics...

The sign on the quaint streetlamp announcing your arrival...

Chancellor Street...

Welcome to The Post...

The mural. The one good physical characteristic the bar has to offer...

The...ummmmm...gameroom. it's been rumoured that more than just a cue ball has been shot across that red velvet...

Even the great chefs on The Food Network know when Happy Hour at The Post is...

The ceiling. The motif: Nuveau Decrepid...

More to come later on. It takes me a while to post these pics on here...

Some Pictures ...

M recently gave me a disk with some pictures that I can finally post on here. Most are of the snowstorm last month and how we spent the afternoon playing (or rather drinking). I'll post those later. These are just a few random pics.





Rittenhouse Square...

Drowned Rat ...

I really should be doing something other than putting several posts on here today. In fact, I was just about to do something constructive and was just finishing up my coffee before I started when I witnessed something funny, so I figured I'd put up one last post before I begin.

A few months ago, M&O gave me (or rather C-Rex) a gift bag welcoming him into my home. In it was a book called "Do Cats Think" (a book originally published over twenty years ago, but still an intriguing read for cat owners), a water dish, a food dish, a floor mat to set said dishes upon, and lastly, a life-size stuffed rat.

The last item instantly became C-Rex's favorite thing to play with. At once, he embraced it with joy, having something to repeatedly stalk and "kill". It really amazed me at how much and how quickly natural instinct comes to a kitten. When I first pulled it out of the bag, I waved it excitedly over him and his eyes lit up at the sight of something else with four legs and a tail. I tossed it across the room and, like a cartoon character, his legs ran in place on the ceramic tiled floor in the kitchen before his footing finally grabbed hold and he sped out of the room and raced toward his prey. He leaped into the air and, in one smooth motion, crashed down upon the rat, snatching it between his paws. He flipped onto his back and clamped his teeth down upon the exposed neck of his victim. I watched in amused astonishment as he gnawed at the toy, grasped firmly in his grip, and proceeded to kick it repeatedly with his back legs.

He then tossed it to the side, flipping back onto his feet, and slowly walked away, glancing behind him every few steps to make sure the rat was still there. Suddenly, he dove behind the leg of the diningroom table, his head low, and stared intensely across the hardwood floor at his prey. I don't know if, in his mind, he saw the rat move or maybe heard a pained cry, but he darted out from behind the table leg, leaped through the air with the precision and grace of a figure skater going for the gold, and landed once again on the unsuspecting rodent, catching it between his teeth. I laughed out loud and C-Rex looked up at me as if to say: "Yeah. Laugh all you want, but at least I won't go hungry." At this point, I was just happy that there was something other than my ankle that would occupy his time.

But it wasn't until later that I began thinking more about the kitten's natural instinct kicking in. I was sitting on the couch watching television when I heard C-Rex take off running. This was a few days after M&O gave me...err...us the bag of goodies, so I was sure he was stalking the poor stuffed rat. A few minutes later, C-Rex walked past me, his tail straight up in the air as if about to raise a victorious flag, and the stuffed rat dangling from his mouth. Now, I noticed this a few times over the past couple of days but now, watching his proud display of conquer, something dawned on me. Every time he played with the rat and "killed" it, he picked it up by the throat; never by the tail, never by the back, never by the head. Always by the throat, his eye teeth sinking into the neck. Seeing that the cat was only three months old at the time, I found this incredibly fascinating. This domesticated animal, never seeing the outside world except through a pane of glass, knew instinctively how to kill.

A few months have now passed and, although I'm used to his running around the house, I'm amazed at how much enjoyment C-Rex gets out of repeatedly "killing" this rat. And every time, he picks it up by the throat and proudly walks off to another part of the house. He also likes to play fetch with it. I'll be sitting on the sofa and all of a sudden he jumps up onto the over-0stuffed arm, rat clenched between his teeth, and drops it at my hand. I'll pick it up and toss it onto the stairs. An eager murmur will escape C-Rex as he jumps from the sofa and catches the rat. Sometimes he brings it right back, ready to go after it again. Other times, he'll play with it on the steps, softly pawing at it, almost challenging it to make a run for it, before picking it up by the throat and bringing it back to me.

Now, I know the above is a long-winded story, but I felt that an in-depth background leading up to what made me write this post was needed and, quite frankly, this was something else about the cat's relationship with the rat I find very intriguing and, as I sit at my desk and look at the cover of the book M&O gave me ("Do Cats Think"), I come to realize that yes, yes they do think. I just find it a little unsettling that my cat tends to think like a serial killer...

As I said at the beginning, I was finishing my coffee and mentally preparing myself to get some of the endless chores around the house done, when something caught my eye.

Every once in awhile, I would come home from work or wake up in the morning and find the rat in the kitchen next to C-Rex's water dish. Often times the stuffed animal would be wet and I figured that the cat walks around the house with this thing dangling from his mouth so often that he completely forgot about it when he went to get a drink of water.

Boy, was I wrong...

As I sat there drinking my coffee, I watched C-Rex walk into the kitchen, the rat dangling from his mouth. He gingerly set the rat down on the rim of his water dish and then sat down next to it, never taking his eyes from the grey rodent. The rat's head hung out over the water, it's felt eyes staring blankly into space. C-Rex, stared down at it for a few more seconds before slowly raising his paw and softly placing it on the rat's face.

And then, slowly...Maniacally...deliberately, he pushed the rat's head under water, deep enough to cover the mouth and nose, but still able to keep his own paw dry. He held it there, never taking his eyes away.

Finally I said: "What do you think you're doing?"

He continued on.

"Hey!" I said, my tone alittle sharper.

Although his paw remained on top of the drowned rat, he slowly looked up at me and, maybe it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, but I can swear to this: his eyes appeared to be glazed over and unfocused, as if he were in some sort of trance and...he...he...he appeared to be...smiling.

My God, I've adopted Ted Bundy!!!

Being Single, It Completely Slipped My Mind ...

Happy Hallmark-Needs-To-Make-A-Few-Bucks-Between-Christmas-And-Easter Day...

Soft Paws ...

A client at my new job told me about this website to go to in lieu of having C-Rex declawed. M would kill me if I did that. To quote him: "Cut his balls off, sure. But please, please, please don't declaw him. That's so mean."

Anyway, my client told me about Soft Paws, a website that sells vinyl--for lack of a better description--Lee Press-on Nails for cats! If the whole idea isn't funny enough (although it is brilliant), you can get the nails in a variety of fashionable colors.

To think, C-Rex, named after one of the most ferocious dinosaurs to ever walk the planet (and appropriately named after witnessing him in his attack mode), will soon be sporting nails that would make a drag queen envious.

I'm getting a little too joy out of the idea though. Sure, I'll probably have to wear a protective steel mesh shark suit in order to get the nails on, but at least my furniture will be safe. I just hope this isn't leading me down the path where one day neighbors on the street will secretly refer to me as "the guy who likes to dress up his cat".

Roadside Assistance ...

I would've never given up my car if Triple-A had this kind of service...