Peep, Peep, POP

Once upon a time, I ran a landscaping and construction company back in Avalon NJ. When I was a kid, all the foreigners who came to the area to work were Irish. At The South Jersey Shore, the Irish were everywhere. They mowed your lawns, cleaned the motels, cooked your breakfast, and were the waiters and waitresses at breakfast. As the Irish economy improved they stopped coming. Once the Soviet Union collapsed, the first big wave of Eastern Europeans started to arrive. Initially it was only Polish, Latvian and Estonian kids, then the Slavic countries started, followed by the Hungarians and Bulgarians. It was an interesting dynamic, and the majority of them spoke beautiful English.

The one summer the owner of the company hired a bunch of foreign kids towards the end of the summer once the college guys that pushed the mowers and ran the weedwackers started to go back to school. Discovering that they were hardworking and would work for seven bucks an hour cash, they became the majority of our workforce. The first year it was a bunch of Latvians, the second a whole crew of Bulgarians.

The Latvians never bathed or washed their clothes, so being jammed in a work truck with them was a bit of an issue, but they were fun guys. They didn't come back to the US after that first summer, so I hired a bunch of guys I knew and business went on as usual. Once the guys all went back to school, I still had 200+ lawns to mow every week, plus tree trimming, house painting, deck building, and cleanup jobs to do, so I was desperate for help. Snagging a guy from WAWA, I discovered a whole house full of Bulgarian dudes willing to work.

Evelin, Boris, Mischa, and Ludmil started working at the end of August 2001, and stayed with me until the beginning of October. As they all began drifting way, I would drive them to the airport to fly home. When the last of the guys were preparing to leave I agreed to drive Ludmil to NYC so that he could meet up with his roommates who were already there. Boris had bought a car while they were down the shore so he drove up with Mischa, with me bringing Ludmil a few days later.

I figured this was just an excuse for me to do some carousing in Manhattan so I very willingly drove him up to the city. Calling all my friends on the way up the Garden State Parkway who live in Manhattan, a few agree to meet up with me later in the evening in SOHO. I drop Ludmil at the flop house in the Bowery where the guys had found a room, park my truck on Sullivan Street where there is actually a supersecret block of free parking with no time limit, and venture out to enjoy a gorgeous fall day in NYC. The guys are staying at Bleecker and Bowery, so once I park, I walk up to the fleabag hotel, grab them and head out for lunch.

We venture down towards Chinatown, and stop at an awesome hole in the wall for a noodle bowl, where they actually give you your lunch in a china bowl, but you have to sit or stand on the curb and eat. We then go and do the touristy stuff for a few hours, meeting up with Pink Colleen, the fiance of my bud Jim The Cop. Colleen has a collection of wigs, which she insists on wearing out constantly. These ain't pretty wigs, these are Drag Queen wigs. Huge bouffants, Cher Hair circa 1972, Jane Fonda in Barbarella, you get the idea.

She had just gotten off work as a buyer and decided to meet us at the Cupping Room for a drink. I have a bunch of small town Bulgarians with me, and they are already a bit overwhelmed by the big city, when in she walks wearing a leopard print dress, sky high heels and a bright pink wig cut like Uma Thurman's hair in Pulp Fiction, demanding Champagne because she just got a promotion at work.

Because the bar is packed, we decide to walk over to Peep, a new Thai restaurant that had just opened on Prince Street in SOHO. Located in a REALLY narrow space, there is a long concrete bar with vases filled with mammoth floral displays, and an otherwise minimalist decor. I order a bottle of Piper for Colleen, Vodka for the guys, and a scotch and water for myself. We are on our second bottle of champagne, when Colleen can no longer say the name Ludmil, and starts calling him Oatmeal. Ordering a third bottle of Piper, and my 5th scotch, I decide to venture to the bathroom.

Walking through the all white bar to the mirrored dining room, I ask a passing server where the bathroom is located.

"To the left of the Buddha is a small handle in the mirrored wall, the bathroom is inside" she replies. Walking further into the dining room, I find the Buddha in its alcove, squeeze between two tables, give the handle a turn, and walk into darkness. Going from the brightness of a well lit, all white and mirrored dining room into the darkened bathroom, I shut the door, and begin feeling for a light switch. As my eyes adjust, I realise there is ambient light in the room, so I lock the door, and head towards the toilet.

The ambient light is coming from 2 tvs, one above the sink and a second above the toilet, showing softcore porn. I think, ahhhh now I get the name, I wonder if this space was an old peep show in a past life. Gazing at the TV I realise that the wall is mirrored, and that I am gazing OUT into the dining room in the reflection. Spinning around I send a stream of piss across the wall and floor as I look at the dining room. Rapidly recovering, I shake, stuff and flush (and mop the floor due to my unintentional loss of aim) and begin to explore the bathroom. I watch the people in the dining room eat through the one way glass, discover that I can see the well lit buddha statue, move closer and realise that it is NOT one way glass, it is clear glass, and if anyone cared to look, they could directly watch a deuce being dropped. I am digging the bathroom hardcore, and am reluctant to leave yet, but I can see a line forming at the door, so out I go.

Taking my seat at the bar, I turn to Colleen, who in the time I have been gone has pulled a huge sprig of Bells Of Ireland from the bouquet on the bar and placed it in her hair like a feather, and say, "Go to the bathroom"

"I don't have to" she slurs.

"Just go to the bathroom." I tell her.

"Why?" she queries as she shuts one eye in an attempt to find me behind the flora flowing from the vase.

"I Vill go." says Ludmil/Oatmeal

"OK cool," I say, "Have Fun!"

Continuing to drink, we debate about food, I suggest we go out in the meatpacking district and the West Village, and lets have dinner at Viceroy on 8th Ave. Colleen suddenly realises that Ludmil has not come back yet. "Wheres Oatmeal?" she screeches "Is he still in the bathroom? How the fuck long is the line? Maybe I better get in it before we leave." Standing she weaves her way unsteadily in her high heels through the throngs in the bar, her flower sticking up like a big green flag in her hair.

Ludmil returns within minutes of her departure, with a huge grin on his face. "I very much liked the bathroom" he states. He is an architecture student in Bulgaria, so I expect some intelligent comment about form and function to flow from his mouth. Instead he says "I banged my penis on the glass and no one knew it. hahahahahahah"

While my intoxication level is low enough that I could still do a crossword puzzle, it is high enough that I say "What?!" Colleen picks this moment to plop back into her seat and state loudly and drunkenly, "Oh My God!! I love it, I could barely pee I was laughing so hard. This bathroom is HOT! I could have sat there all night and watched everyone." Turning to Oatmeal she says, "Now I know what took you so long." To which he replies. "I banged my penis on the glass and no one could see it."

Colleen thinks this is hysterical, laughing like a crazy person, she falls off her barstool as she attempts to swivel in his direction screaming,"SHUT the fuck UP! You did not."

Oatmeal responds with, "I did, then I took off all my clothes and rubbed myself on the glass. They did not know I was masturbating at them." Pantomiming himself grinding his naked body on the glass while standing in the middle of the of the bar is too much for Colleen. This causes her to erupt in a fit of laughter that has tears streaming down her face as she looks at Ludmil and slurs "God, I love New York, You guys ready to eat?"

Boris leaves to go back to the hotel and out with other friends from home, and Colleen, Oatmeal and I pour ourselves into a cab, still laughing like hyenas, we sail through the Village and Chelsea as I scream at the Taxi driver, "I told you to take Greenwich St jesus just drop us on Gansevoort" and into an unforgettable night in NYC that involved getting kicked out of the Lamplighter, hanging with Kevin Aviance, sitting next to Anderson Cooper at dinner, going to a strip joint, hitting Bungalow, APT and Suede, and having eggs at 430 AM at a diner in Times Square.

Who knew that a Bulgarian architecture student, an alcoholic redhead, and a suburban Philadelphia Irish Catholic broad in a pink wig could have this much fun on a Thursday in New York?

Brendan and the 3 Bears

For a while, I was working in one of those Uber cool neighborhood bars in a section of Philadelphia called Pennsport. To the non Philadelphians, this is South Philly. Call it any name you want, but this is Two Streeter and Reeder territory. This neighborhood is a rough and tumble working class Irish Catholic neighborhood that is quickly becoming gentrified. In fact the area around 4th and Dickinson is quite the little gay expatriate neighborhood. The rest is being renovated by greedy developers who know that people can't afford to live in Society Hill or Queen Village, so they have pushed the Urban Hipsters into this pocket of history below Washington Avenue.

All areas of the city have individual names delineating one section from another. My family is originally from various areas of Center City, with a few stops in West Philly in the 1850's-early 1900's, but for 275+ years my family lived Schuylkill to Delaware, Vine to Pine. My parents moved to a beautiful section of Philadelphia, bought a big old twin, and I basically grew up in Northwood, a subsection of Frankford, which is part of the North East, where the edge of St Martin of Tours Parish, and St Joachim's overlapped. (Again, this is another way that real Philadelphians figure out where you live)

I had a few buds from the Pennsport area when I was growing up, so 3rd and Emily, Wharton and Moyamensing, 2nd and Reed, Front and Titan were frequent stops for me once I got my drivers license. Of course other than calling it Two Street, it was as basic as, I am going to Eric's house, or over to Joey's to drink beer with the guys. I had the basic familiarity of the neighborhood when I answered the craigslist ad for bartenders and servers back in 2007, and walked into what had once been the old gravy boat known as La Vigna. It had been renovated and changed into a modern Philly corner taproom. I fell in love at first sight.

I got the job, and started a week later. The bar was a hit, the food incredible, the staff fun and knowledgable, and it had a great clientele. I knew a few of the people that would stop in from growing up with guys in the neighborhood, and some of the gays from my stint in my 20's bartending in gay bars. Eventually the bar settled into a fun rhythm and on Wednesdays I waitered, the bartender was the owner's Brother Brendan, and the same crew would sit at the bar.

The customer base was 25% gay, 30% locals, 35% hipsters and 10% other. On Wednesdays there seemed to be a larger outpouring of local gays into the bar, so the conversation was always interesting. Brother Brendan is one of those guys that you just like. Even when he is telling you to Fuck Off, you keep thinking, man this Kat is cool.

Brendan has the other Philly voice, not the deep mumbled drawling stereotype "Ay-yo Aydriuhn" of Sylvester Stallone, he has the more common Joe Pesci Staccato filled filled with Djiet's, Aye's, Yeo's, heh's and Etcha's. At least twenty times a night you would hear "Ay-Yo! Jimmie!" from behind the bar. We genuinely liked each other, and working was a fucking riot, since we both talk too damn much and neither of us use the filters god gave us. I only work with him one day a week, but we have a great time, and it is usually the highlight of my work week. We usually had a cool crowd of regulars, couples, singles, old friends and lots of people in the restaurant business that would wander in have a drink and hang for the evening.

One of our favorite regulars is JnJ. They are a long term gay couple roughly my age, and everyone on the staff thinks they rock. They love food, booze, have wicked senses of humor, and are goofy, smart and wonderful. Every Wednesday night the younger half of JnJ would come in to hang out with me, Brendan and Princess Crazy Pants.

Brendan overheard me ask Jay where his Husbear was. Which led to the following exchange.

"Huh, Aye Jimmie, WTF's a Husbear?"

"Thats John, since the guys are bears, I changed husband to husbear."

"Huh?" replies Brendan with a quizzical look on his face "UhKay, Bears? Wazzat mean?"

"Bears are the gay worlds version of regular guys. Some are fat, some are muscled, most are hairy, they are just kind of guys. There are Polar Bears, Black Bears, Daddy Bears, Grizzlies, Cubs, Wolves, Silver Foxes, Otters. There are all kinds of Classifications" I reply.

Now at this juncture the bar has five people, me, Brendan, Jay, a little lesbian bowling ball from the kitchen, Princess Crazy Pants (who grew up on a lesbian commune in Upstate New York) and Pro Soccer Player, who is sitting at the end of the bar thinking where the fuck am I, and why can't I watch ESPN in peace.

"Jayzus," Brendan squawks, "Well WTF. Polar bears? WTF are you Jimmie?"

Jay shoots in with,"He is a Red Fox, duh. Well, you could be a Muscle Ginger Bear too, but I would say Red Fox."

"Uh huh, OK, well what am I?" Brendan wants to know.

"Oh you are an Otter, dude." I reply

"An Otter?! I don't wanna be an Otter, WTF makes me an Otter Jayzus, why Da Fuck do I have to be an Otter, Can't I be something more manly? WTF, Jimmie you get to be a Fox and I have to be an Otter? That sucks I wanna be a Fox. Or a Bear. Jayzus," Leaning back against the cash register, Brendan has a downtrodden look on his face. Suddenly remembering Pro Soccer Player is at the end of the bar,"Hey Buddy you ok downaire? Yous need a beer, you OK? Cool"

Laughing I say, "You know that Otters are the rarest and the hottest of the Bears right? Think about an Otter dude, Otters are slender, sleek, sexy and move fast You're hairy, slender, ripped, and hard to catch."

"Huh, cool, UhKay, so I am like the Stud Missile of the Bear Clan huh? Ay-YO Imman Otter!"

Laughing I gather up Jay to give him a lift home, say good night and out the door we go. The following Wednesday, we are all in the same spots at the bar, when Brendan Says,"Ay-Yo Jimmie, I was doin some research on the web, did you know that Bears have their own Porn?"

"Ummm, yeah I did, and exactly how did you know this fact?" I reply.

"I was on wikipedia, and there was this link, so I followed it. I was like, Whoa WTF! Thems some big dudes."

"Yeah, Bears are many a splendid thing. Well since you have gone this far, your research assignment for next week is to explain the difference between Plushies and Furries." I laughingly respond as I head out the door.

"Plushies? WTF Jimmie, Ay-YO, don't leave me hangin like dat! Yo Jimmie!"

"Hey you guys need a beer? You OK downnaire? Hey, any of yous know this? WTF is a Plushie?"

Eagle, I

My mother has the eyes of an eagle. She always did. She and the other broads down the shore could be on pitcher eleventyextrateen of the "special" Dacquiri they all drank the summer of 1980 and still see what us kids were doing three blocks away. With a narrowing of the eyes, my Mom knew where what and who, and usually didn't give a damn unless it involved bone protruding from skin.

With this eyesight my Mother has become the Stink Bug Stalker since moving to Rural PA. She has a cool ultra modern house with sixteen foot ceilings, soaring red brick walls, clerestory windows, and handmade tile floors from the Moravian Tile Works. There is a WHOLE lotta brown. She can be sitting in a dark room with only a light on to read by, at eleven PM, and see a stink bug moving 20 feet away on the brick wall. Meanwhile if the damn thing doesn't land on my father's head, it doesn't exist.

Every day, there is a "FRANK! Get the shot gun, there is a bunny in the yard heading towards the Kohlrabi." shouted from the kitchen in the general direction of my father. This is usually followed by a soft popping sound and my mother grabbing a shovel. My father is a great shot, and he always has been.

In recent years, he shoots at the mourning doves which bustle about on the feeders on the deck, the ground hogs which seem to be everywhere, rabbits eating everything in the garden, and a few aggressive raccoons. There is a new, fat raccoon who has taken up residence on the bird feeder. Initially my mother would bang on a sliding door to frighten him away. He is quite pretty, and my mother has named him Percival. Because he has been named (and my father had a pet Raccoon as a young teen when he first moved to the US) my dad can't shoot at Percy now.

While driving recently my parents were discussing what to do with Percival, when they came to a flooded out area, which is pretty common this time of year. Our area is quite swampy and has some beautiful fens between hills and in the deep valleys. As they approached the flooded out area, my mother exclaims" Ooooooh. What's that?"

Gazing to the right, there is a brown lump bobbing along, slowly working its way towards the edge of the flood on the grass. "Frank! I think we have a beaver!" Now my father has a scientific back story for everything, from how gneiss is formed, to how slogans came about. "Well, we do have beavers up here...Mwah mwah Mwaaah Mwa wah." As they sit watching the beaver laze about in the water, a second couple out for a stroll in the rain wander up.

Saying hello, how are you, and exchanging polite pleasantries, the newcomers say, "Can't get through huh? It's even worse up by Olde Philly Pike" "OH no!" replies my mom, "We are watching that beaver over there." "There is a beaver? Oooooh a beaver, honey. You know there was one up by the lake that the game commission chased away." The lady half of the couple states. "Ahhh" goes the male half of the couple, which to my father sounds like he has an accent, and causes a string of German words to come bubbling from his lips.

This is met with the great Blank Stare. My father goes glumly silent. My mother now exits the car and she and the lady begin moving closer. "Is it napping? It isn't moving very quickly." "I don't know,"says my mother, "Are they like otters in California? Can they sleep in the water?"

"Is it dead?" says the stranger lady,"I hope not, I wonder if someone shot it." "I hope they didn't poison it, you know that killed some of the goats from down the hill that way" replies my mother. "I didn't know that! We had them in our fruit trees a few years back. You know, they are QUITE hard to catch." the stranger lady comments.

"Look! it's moving!" the stranger man says. "Ooooh" go my mother and stranger lady. "Whats that?" stranger lady asks. "It has a stick!" my mother exclaims, "I can't believe we are this close!"

"Wait, what is that?" my mother asks. "I don't know" replies stranger lady. "Oh dear god," my mother suddenly says. "FRANK! Frank, get out here, just get out of the car. Frank just get over here." "Is that a log?" my mother asks. "Have we been watching a log this whole time?"

Yes, the beaver was a log. Thirty minutes of commentary, conversation, and standing in the rain, watching a napping log loll around in a flooded road. I can't wait to retire.

Some random art stuff

After posting a relatively Philosophical post, here is a cool link to check out. I have a myriad of interests in the art world, and the Philly Fringe Festival is definitely one of them. They are involved in an amazing mural program which needs some help so check it out HERE .

Readin' Ritin' and ..... Ritalin?

I have previously stated that I love words. I feel that there is a beauty in the written word, both as it is combined to tell a tale, and in the existence of the shape, negative space, and imagery of a letter or word. I have thousands of books and pieces of ephemera which I find it very hard to part with, and honestly I don't feel the need to divest myself of their company.

With that HUGE bookseller going out of business, I ventured to the mall to see what bargains I may be able to pick up. As I ambled around the store, I found books I was interested in reading, but not as many as I thought I would. It was a bit disappointing, but as a book lover I wandered, checked out the cd and dvd's, the art books, debated about buying this months artNews, Wallpaper, and a few other design magazines (50% off), but passed on those as well.

I begin checking out the journals, debating about whether I want to get a "pretty" object in which to keep my thoughts. I usually keep a very utilitarian black and white marble schoolbook or spiral bound steno notebook as a way of keeping notes, sketches, wine labels etc in check. They serve the purpose well, and are a comfortable shape and form. PLUS they are inexpensive, and I don't care it they get roughed up by getting thrown into the back of Subaru.

Looking at the sparse offerings, and thinking that with the printmaking degree, and bookmaking classes I have taken since undergraduate school, I should just start making my own again. I have a small collection of books that I have made over the years and never used. After art school I went on a kick where I would make my own paper, deckle my edges, print the cover page, make a separate piece of artwork to be the cover, sew the whole thing together, and then never write in it. It was like my own thoughts and sketches would soil the piece. But, as usual, I digress.

Sitting on the floor between the displays was a pseudo goth / punk chick. Dyed black hair with brassy blond highlights, a light dusting of freckles across her pixie-ish face, and a full length black leather duster, she is digging through the piles as well. She hands me a leather bound book and asks if I am looking for anything specific. I reply that no, I am just debating about whether or not I wants to keep my thoughts and drawings in a nice book.

"Are you a writer?" she asks, "I am a writer and artist," she continues. I reply with, "No I don't consider myself a writer, but I just started a blog. I am actually an artist, but I write a lot. I have kept notebooks for years with my ideas, doodles, sketch and painting ideas, and I always debate about keeping them in a nicer journal but I don't."

"I keep a book of my writings and art as well" she replies. "I am an artistic genius, I draw, write poetry, take photos and paint. Would you like to see my book? I have it out in my car and it will only take me a minute to get it." OH shit. I am stuck. It is a cold, windy, rainy Sunday so let's be real. What else do I have to do. I wander around as she gets her book, and then follow her to the now closed coffee shop in the store where I meet her father and her daughter.

Before I can allow her to take control of the situation I take the book and begin thumbing through the assortment of pages. It is a good beginning, but exceptionally basic. It is in the same vein as a HS junior's book of dreams. She IS good, but needs a LOT more training. There are the typical trite "Poor Me" intermixed with "Angry Young Woman who Thinks She is a Feminist" type of poetry, and a few "I am SOOOO Creative, You Will Never Understand Me" drawings and photographs typical of the self absorbed creative types who are unwilling to actually learn the skills needed to render an actual piece of art.

And then I look again. I begin to make some unusual connections. I say to her, " I like the presentation of the poems. I love the serendipitous combination of the advertisements from facebook, and how they have lined up to enhance the first line of the poems."

Blank Stare.

"Don't you see this? You are writing about lost love, and here in the corner is an ad for a dating site with a bull taking a shit and a circle with a strike through over top of it. And look down here, this is an ad with 'You can start over' as it's tagline. This combination is in it's own subtle way brilliant. It makes this a cohesive piece of art, and actually enhances the poetry." It was a very cool juxtaposition that really did make the poems seem more adult. It would have made a fascinating small book in the style of postsecret.

She gets a bit huffy and begins telling me about her drawings, which to be quite honest, suck. Her rendering skills are very basic, with some actual training she could be VERY good, but she can't see beyond the fact the she created the image. To her it is perfect. The image which is her favorite is a tree stump, morphing into a hand, dripping blood, with leaves "sprouting" from the palm. "It is a good beginning," I say,"but it would be better without the leaves, and you need to get some more training in how to render images, it's not bad, but it's not 'Great'. It is a good start for someone that is self taught. You should try and take a drawing class somewhere."

She launches into the typical defensive posturing of a cornered artist. I stop her by saying look, you are untrained, I am not attacking you, and I think that there are some meritorious pieces in here, but you need to grow, a LOT. I leave her with a few suggestions, which kind of shocked her. Her poems were half filled with ridiculous mispellings, but only half way. I suggested that if she is writing about things that are broken, continue the broken mispelled words through the whole piece. It made it much more interesting. I explained to her about Ulysses by James Joyce, and it's utter lack of punctuation and capital letters, and how it was, in fact, a giant run on sentence. It is considered a brilliant, complex work I tell her, and she has NEVER even heard of it.

She said that other people said she should learn how to spell, to which I replied, fuck them. You have a good beginning, they aren't brilliant, but you could do something that is really creative if you stopped thinking they were done, and were willing to learn more.

She is someone who dabbles, and thinks her dabbling is brilliant. She could, in the future be quite valid as an artist, were I a teacher, I would definitely mentor her, because there is a spark inside her, and she shows potential. I don't think she wants to hear it though. Which is a shame, because she COULD be quite good, but she can't recognise her own failures. Not everything is good, and you can't learn if you can't see the mistakes.

I think that dabbling is a good thing, but only if taken in the right context. I am a dabbler. I don't pretend to be brilliant. My dabbling allows me to make connections. I think that as I have aged, all my dabbling is getting me ready for something big. There is a building urgency in me to "DO Something", and I hope it will come to fruition soon. I don't think I will ever stop dabbling, since the world is a fascinating place, and I don't want to ever stop learning and "playing" as I tend to think of it.

So play on dear readers, but don't be afraid to take something to the next level!!