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...

Baby Picture ...

And here I thought my bitterness started much later in life. Sigh...

What Have I Done? ...

Have I unknowingly put my little C-Rex in jeopardy???

The Paparazzi at the Post ...

The shutterbugs were out in full force at the Post yesterday afternoon. This is M trying to escape from the barrage of flashes.

Bottoms Up ...

Personal to M...

This was the closest pic I could find that you were talking about last night during the Super Bowl...

Jewel of the Bile ...

M sent me this link from Gophila.com. It's a recent review from some out of towner who actually enjoyed spending some time at my local watering hole. Although I think the reviewer was trying to be a little P.C., so I've decided to include the translation within his posting (blue italics)...

The Post
A gay jewel in the dark

Hidden among parking garages on one of the darker sides of Rittenhouse Square, the Post is easy to miss (someone refuses to change the burned out light bulb over the door), but you shouldn't. This bar harkens back to a time where gay bars were hidden among the shadows, left to only those in the know (like the infamous "Elephant Graveyard"). When you open the Post's door, you'll feel as though you've been let onto a great secret (a secret so great, even the local utility companies don't know it's there).

Trolling around Chancellor Street will lead you to this pleasant dive, with warm, red walls decorated with homoerotic art (muscular ass pictures...can't really say anything bad here). The crowd veers older and tends to talk about the issues of the day around the horseshoe-shaped bar. The drinks are strong, the company is loyal and the mood is mellow (see Elephant Graveyard comment above).

All in all though, I gotta say, with as much criticism about The Post that I write on this blog, it's still one of my favorite places to hang out. I'm beyond that stage in my life where I want to go to a big dance club and have the house music beating into my head like an ape in an old Samsonite commercial, pay for expensive drinks and stand in a corner watching the assortment of cliques all tweaked out on crystal meth, gyrating on the dance floor. Even if I wanted to talk to one of these guys, the chances of keeping their attention focused on the conversation at hand are lower than Rosanne Barr's chances of being asked to sing another national anthem. I like the people who hang out at The Post and I like being able to hold a conversation with the person sitting next to me without having to lean in and scream into his ear with the hopes of him being able to decipher what I'm saying by being able to pick out a few key words.

Loyalty or Stupidity ...

I have oftentimes talked about my local watering hole in my rants here, but I'm beginning to question my sanity. It's an old run down place, large as far as neighborhood dives go. I've often stated, the people are fun and the drinks are strong. I've met some great people there and have developed some long lasting friendships.

But where does one draw the line between good friends and strong drinks and sitting in a place that would make the Board of Health go running into the night screaming, vowing never to return? Let me explain some of the things I'm talking about...

Let's first begin with the temperature. It's rare that you find yourself sitting in a bar in the middle of winter and suddenly find the need to run outside into the deep freeze in order to warm up. This place has its own climate. I don't know if it's the drafts that blow through, or the lack of insulation, or even the angry spirits of the many past owners who have passed on, but there are times when crystals begin forming on the rim of your glass . Thankfully, it's been a fairly mild winter so far this year, but that still doesn't account for the fact that you can literally feel the temperature drop after the sun goes down (and the place doesn't even have any windows). There have been some nights when you would walk through the front door and be amused at the sight of three or four patrons leaning in together over the bar. At first glance you would think they were in an intense whispered conversation, but then quickly realize they're all huddled over a tealight candle.

Then there are the ... ummmm ... non-paying customers. I'm talking about the hairy little four-legged rascals that became the inspiration for the world's largest themepark industry. You can always tell when one makes an appearance simply by watching the guy sitting across the bar from you. He'll be quietly sitting alone, hand lightly caressing a beer bottle, eyes casually reading the closed-captions on one of the television sets. Suddenly, he looks away, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He'll stare intently at a row of bottles and you'll watch as his eyes gradually follow something moving. Then one of two things happen, either a look of disgust registers on his face or a slight smile, as he tracks the mouse's progress. If it's a regular patron, he'll casually say something. If he's a newbie, he'll remain quiet. What's funny is that no one (new or regular) will leave the establishment. They'll continue to drink and turn back to whatever it was they were doing.

They (and I do mean 'they') have become a family within a family, making nightly appearances, showing off their tricks as they high-wire it across the rows of compression tubes or scurrying along the edge of the wall towards another section of the bar. I've had mouse problems in my house before, so they don't really annoy me any longer (besides, my cat, C-Rex, is keeping them out now), but I do only drink bottled beer fresh out of the cooler just in case.

Last night, as so often happens, I stopped in after work for a beer (or four). The afternoon was thankfully mild and the climate within the darkened walls was bearably cool. The afternoon bartender was playing Will & Grace DVDs and M&O were sitting drinking their martinis, laughing it up as Will, Grace, Jack and Karen amused them and the other patrons with their (predictable) one-liners. I said my hellos to my friends, gracing all with my warm and bubbling fucking personality, and took a seat at the bar.

I don't know how the conversation had come up, but I was soon informed that the back bar wouldn't be opened that night--ooooh....Now I remember. O had gone off to the bathroom and when he came back he made mention to the fact that someone must not have paid the electric bill, since he had to pee by candlelight. I then noticed the big orange industrial extension cord dangling from the ceiling. It turns out that, most of the front bar was being lit by the power that goes to the back bar (or some strange shit). In any event, both bars couldn't be operational at the same time because if you turned the lights on in the back, the lights in the front would go off. I seem to remember something funny like that happening last year too...something about turning on an air conditioner in one area would turn off the television in another.

The place is falling apart right around our drunken feet. It's high time I find somewhere else to hang my hat... Maybe tonight I'll think long and hard about it...

...while I sit with a beer in the cold and watch Mickey run across the compression hose...

Extreme Makeover ...

In an attempt to create a new image for me in my new job, "O" has taken it upon himself to become my fasion consultant. He's shown tremendous excitement in this new venture, and I'm beginning to believe that he's taking this task as a more personal goal in making a flannel, t-shirt, jeans, and boot-wearing guy into something right out of the pages of GQ (or at least a Walmart Sunday supplement).

It started with the haircut...

For so many years, I had taken it upon myself to cut my own hair. I'm not one for the latest styles, so I never really thought twice about putting clippers to my head and just having done with it in a matter of a few minutes. But I had stopped cutting my hair a few months back and began letting it grow again. After about eight or nine years of having a buzz cut, I was shocked at how much grey had crept up on me in my thirties. I have seen some of O's styling triumphs and I know that he's good at what he does, so I decided to let him near me with a pair of scissors. I was pleasantly surprised at how my hair had turned out and even more surprised at the positive comments I received immediately afterward (right about now, O is probably screaming "See? I told you so!").

Next came the new clothes...

We took a trip to Lord & Taylor, where O directed me to the rows and rows of shirts. "Try this," He says, putting a shirt up to my chest. Before I can even imagine what it would look like on me, he pulls it away. "No good. Here, try this."

I groan as I pull out my credit card to pay for the shirts we've selected. O laughs, saying "What kind of a gay man are you?"

"The kind that hates to shop," is my reply.

"Well we're gonna have to change that. Stick with me!"

GROAN!

We move on to Banana Replubic. They're having an End of the Season, 70% off sale. My palms are sweating as we travel through the store towards the men's department. I pick a pair of pants to show him. He looks at the pants and then at me. "Ummm...no." He picks out a pair for me to try on. I head off towards the dressing room, but stop when I hear him call to me. He's holding up a shirt. "This'll go great with those pants."

"But I already bought some shirts"

"But not for those pants."

"But I haven't bought these pants."

"You will..."

GROAN!

"Go try 'em on. I'll get a clerk to check the price on the shirt."

I'm in the dressing room trying on the pants. I have to admit, they did fit well and I liked them alot. Maybe I'll just get the pants and be out of there real quick. But I hear the clerk approaching. He tells O the price.

Great price on the shirt.

From inside the dressing room, I let out a heavy, slightly louder than intended...

GROOOAAAAAN!...

"Is he okay in there?" The clerk asks.

"Shopping shock." O's reply.

I pay for the clothes and am suddenly in need of a drink.

Yesterday, me, O and M go to the Philadelphia Home Show at the Pennsylvania Convention Center. We walk through Lord & Taylor on our trek across town. I admitted that I needed a new pair of shoes and wanted to look and see what they had. When we arrived at the convention center, I didn't have new shoes. I did, however, have a new Kenneth Cole sport jacket and a DKNY sweater. We were early for the Home Show, so we continued shopping for shoes. I didn't find anything I liked, but did see a pair back at Lord & Taylor that I almost bought. I announced the need for a return trip after the Home Show.

I bought the shoes (a nice brown pair of Kenneth Cole's) and suddenly fealt that burning need for a drink again. M laughs at my buyer's remorse as we make our way through the men's cologne department.

"Ooooh..." M exclaims. "We need to find you a new scent."

"I don't wear cologne." I announce.

M looks at me, a curl growing on his upper lip, a disgusted look in his eyes. "We know..." he whispers.

GROOOOAAN!!

Brush With Death ...

I know it's been a long while since I've posted anything on here (December 21st being the last), but my new job has been kinda...well VERY...rough on me. I've jotted down some things on paper to write about, so you might be seeing little stories that seem out of date (like Christmas) in the near future. But this post was something that I needed to get down right away.

(...I'm also fighting a terrible hangover, so forgive any mistakes or running of the mouth/fingers...)

The weather had been unseasonably warm this month with temperatures hovering anywhere from 10-15 degrees above normal. That all changed Saturday night when a fierce cold front moved through, bringing with it icy winds that howled through the concrete and steel canyons of Center City. I was going to go out for a few drinks, but as I sat on my computer looking at porn--I mean reading some good wholesome...aaaah, what the hell--yes...porn, I listened to the winds racing down my street, bending the bare branches of the ginko tree, giving me fair warning to seriously think through my options: the warmth of home, infront of the television watching TV-Land's weekend marathon of All in the Family, or fighting the bone chilling winds as I trek the six blocks to the Post for a beer and a seat on a lumpy barstool. The decision was easy. And for those of you who know me and think they know the answer, let me just say this: I stayed in with Archie Bunker.

Anyway, by the time I awoke the next morning, the winds were still howling, but weren't nearly as biting as the night before. The temperature outside had dropped from 60 degrees Saturday afternoon to the low 30's twenty-four hours later. I had so many unfinished projects going on in my house (taking down Christmas decorations, laundry, cleaning, organizing, etc.) that I didn't really know where to begin, so I didn't do a damn thing. By two o'clock in the afternoon, I was very pissed at myself for not doing anything constructive and even more pissed that I smoked my last cigarette and I had to go outside into the frigid cold to get some. So, I threw on my heavy bright red Old Navy coat (which makes me look like a blister ready to pop, but keeps me warm) and headed off to the little Indian market a few blocks away.

The sun was bright, but didn't do a damn thing to warm you up and the wind whipped around the corners of the cross streets, hugging the storefronts, until reaching you, making your eyes tear up and blurring your vision.

I tucked my new pack of smokes in my coat pocket, shoved my hands deep inside with them and lowered my head within the confines of the fleece-lined collar. Staring down at the sidewalk, i quickly started walking home. A strong wind caught me off guard and I cursed it, thinking this short, two-block walk home was going to seem like a lifetime if I didn't speed things up a bit, so I started to run, crossing one intersection and hurrying through the cold shadow of the parking garage towards the next break of sunshine a block away.

My eyes staring down at the sidewalk, the only thing I can see were the shoes of the few people who passed me by heading in the opposite direction. I glanced up quickly, seeing how far I had advanced, and then looked back down again. I buried my head deeper into my coat as another wind swept down the sidewalk. I passed the entrance to the parking garage and judged that I only had about fifty feet or so left until I reached the welcoming patch of sunshine ahead. The last two landmarks to pass were the cashier's entrance to the garage (of which I was passing now) and the corner building, a beautiful two-story victorian structure currently abandoned, but still displaying signs in the storefront picture window, stating that it was once the home of the parking authority for that police district.

I usually pay no mind to noises around me (unless, of course, it's the squealing of brakes if I'm crossing an intersection), but there was something in the blood curdling scream of a female off to my right that sent a chill through my body that no icy winter wind could match. One command from that piercing scream made me obey without hesitation:

"STOOOOOOOOOOP!!!........

As if an invisible wall was suddenly before me, I stopped dead in my tracks, slightly off-balanced due to my hands being shoved deep in my pockets. I had no idea who had screamed or why, but I looked around and spotted a stocky black woman standing across the street, a look of terror on her face as she stared back at me, her arms infront of her as if trying to physically hold me back, one hand tightly gripped around her cell phone. I still had no idea what this was all about and why I stopped, but I watched as she brought the cell phone up to her ear and frantically speak to someone on the other end. The only words I could make out were: "get the police over here right away!"

Oh my God, I thought. Have I been mistaken for a robber or mugger or something? A sudden panic enveloped me as I watched the woman snap her phone shut and cross the street towards me. My first instinct was to run, but then I figured, unless there was a new law against not doing housework, then I had no reason to run. I nervously stood my ground, readying myself to go into defense mode, as the woman neared. The panic expression was still on her face, but I can also see a small hint of concern in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She asked as she reached me. She extended her hand and touched my arm.

I looked at her quizically, wondering who the fuck she thought I was. "Yeah," I replied.

"Jesus, you nearly killed yourself!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you see?"

My blank expression must've been answer enough for her and she pointed infront of me. At first, I didn't know what she was pointing at and I thought she was just abso-fucking-lutely nuts. But then my eyes started to focus on the object of her attention. It was hard to see because of the angle and height and because it nearly matched perfectly to the color of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the parking lot across the intersection.

What I suspect had happened at some point was this: Whether it was the winds that morning or the night before, or a vandal, the plate glass window on the corner Victorian building (either abandoned or housing the parking authority) had gotten broken. The break started in almost the exact center of the window and extended outwards towards the four corners, creating an "X" effect and dividing the pane into four almost equal pieces. The bottom piece (my guestimate would be a triangular section about 4 feet across at the base and rising about 3 feet to a point at the initial break) had broken free from the rest of the pane, but was still being supported in the window track.

Why it had taken so long for me to focus on what I was seeing was because, not only was the glass tinted a dark brown, making the broken edges almost black (thus blending into the wrought iron fence), but the top edge of it was also at perfect eye level, so I couldn't see a reflective surface of the glass, only the 1/4 inch thick line of the broken edge.

I thanked the lady for the....(for lack of better term)...heads up. At this point, it still hadn't dawned on me what had just happened, so I just stared at the hanging sheet of broken glass and listened to the woman say how close I had come to having my head taken off. Only a few words of her's registered in my mind...

"...running down right towards it..."

"...bloody mess..."

"...lose your head..."

The police arrived a few minutes later. They inspected the glass and carefully pushed it back up and inside the hole. I thanked the lady again and made my way home.

It wasn't until I was home, out of my coat and sitting infront of the television again that it dawned on me what actually just happened. If that woman hadn't been looking at me at that exact moment. She may still have been across the street on the phone (I later found out she was actually reporting the glass to 9-1-1), but if she had looked away for just a brief second, that might have been the end of my existence, taken out of this world in the style of a b-rated bloody horror movie. That sheet of glass was angled in such a way that, if I had run into it, it would've gashed me from my above my left jawline and diagonally up through my nose to above my right eye. If I had run into it hard enough, it might have actually scalped me.

The thought brought on the image of the photographer being decapitated in The Omen. It was a scene that had haunted me as a child. To actually realize that something very similar had nearly happened to me sent chills down my spine and turned my legs to jell-o. My heart began to race as the dawning of how close I had come began to surface.

I had come close to death a few times in my life. I've had a home invasion with an eight-inch blade pressed against my throat, I've missed car accidents where a last-minute decision of one sort or another had kept me from becoming another statistic. If I believed in destiny and our lives being already planned out, then I would believe there was still some reason why I'm still here. I just wish someone would clue me in from time to time.

The Silent Killer ...

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

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

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

And then it hits me...

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

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

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

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

"Did you fart?!?!"