Canadians

Why is it that every Canadian I ever visually examine looks like a member of the Bare Naked Ladies?

Much to do aboot nothing....

Ms. Barrett

My fifth grade teacher used to yell, but only when I would return from going to the bathroom. She was tired of me relieving myself and not coming straight back into the room. I used to get a drink right after my pee. The next time I had to go to the bathroom I asked her if I could get a drink first, then go to the bathroom.

She wasnt too thrilled about that idea. She yelled at me again.

I thought it was a creative solution to a problem that troubled me;)

South Philly Frank or Hatred From the Collar Colored Blue

If you were lucky enough to know me when I was a wee lad, then you might have known that at one point in my life I had a temper that I could barely control. At times, I had been known to bash my head against the floor or a nearby wall – whichever was more convenient. I often whined and complained for the stupidest things and even turned red in the face if I wasn’t getting my way. Yes, I was a temperamental little bitch.

As I got older, I realized the error’s of my ways and learned to control my anger. I saved that anger up over the course of a year and let it all out on the football field. After college and my football days were behind me the rage had nearly completely disappeared. I had conquered my temper and became a gentle, pleasant man….

Until along come people like South Philly Frank.

I don’t know much about South Philly Frank, other than the color of his beaten up, rusted out, 1990-something Honda Civic. Black by the way. Well, black where it isn’t rusty.

The only other things I know about Frank is what I could discern while he stopped his car, got out, and got right up in my face. “I’ll knock your teeth out, FAGGOT,” were his first words.

See, moments ago, Frank decided he didn’t have to stop at the stop sign at the intersection where I was just entering the pedestrian walk way. And again, if you know me, you know I cant keep my mouth closed, “you are supposed to stop at stop signs, fuck-head.” His windows were open.

He slammed on the breaks.

Frank is a smaller man. I like to call his body type “squat.” The tip of his 45ish head nearly came up to my chin. He talked with a real tough voice, probably from hears of smoking Marlboro Reds. I can only imagine the black of his lungs were equal in color to the black liver spot in the middle of his left cheek. That spot was surrounded by orangy-yellow weathered and leathered skin, from too many years of sitting in his South Philly plot of cement that he calls a backyard. The wrinkles on his forehead were only equaled by those on his neck and hands.

His eyes were real squinty, most likely from having to keep them nearly closed while dodging flying saw dust, hot embers, or any other air-born particle flying through the air on account of his menial job. His lips thick and pursed as if he were a mobster from the fifties, slurping oysters out of the half-shell, otherwise Chaz Palminteri. His nose thick and very Italian.

He wore a bandanna, or maybe a do-rag, on his head, most likely to cover bald spots. He wore his napoleon complex on the sleeve of his very cheap and tattered budweiser t-shirt. A perfect example of the class of person with which this winner naturally belongs. The thin and fading article was most likely a t-shirt caught at a basketball game from one of those t-shirt cannons, ripped out of the hands of some tweenage girl complete with braids and freckles; a fond memory of the only time he actually won anything. His jean shorts were ripped and worn at the bottom. Im assuming his dress was indicative of his job and meager salary. As was his attitude.

A look of rage permeated his entire body as he made his way towards my person. As he made his way over to me, I pulled my ipod buds out of my ears and prepared myself. Excitement built throughout my body. After informing me that he was going to knock my teeth out, and making his assumption about my sexuality, I muttered, “you know, you are supposed to stop at a stop sign, and I had the right of way.”

His nostrils flared from thick to thin as he puffed his chest out as if he were an African painted bird, and the black spot on his cheek danced up and down hypnotically.

“Yeah, well I don’t stop. I don’t have to stop. Im special.”

Quickly thinking on my feet and in this mans face I stated, “what makes your more special, your fat, slovenly wife, or your fucked up kids?”

My body tensed up in anticipation of a flying fist coming at my head. Naturally I would have dodged it and knocked him square in the nose with an uppercut (that’s my patented fighting move, just ask those Drexel hockey players….), but it never came. As I looked around I saw his traveling partner lean over the drivers seat as he yelled, “come on Frank, lets go.”

“Next time I’ll knock your teeth out, FAGGOT.”

As he walked away I shouted, “Im sure you will Frank. Im shaking in my boots.”

I turned away, reached for the ipod buds and put them back into my ears, enveloping myself with the sweat sounds of an Armin van Buuren trance mix. I began to walk away, almost angry with myself that Frank didn’t take a swing at me.

Then I realized that I was on my way to work. My lovely job, located on the 10th floor of an office building at 15th and Walnut. Im a consultant after all.

And I imagined South Philly Frank on the way to his menial labor job. The same one that he has had since he dropped out of middle school. The same one he will have until he leaves this world, and his fat wife, and fucked up kids. The same one that probably makes him feel oh so special that he doesn’t have to stop at stop signs.

I laughed.

And laughed.

And shook my head in disbelief of what just happened.

So if you happen to be walking around South Street, in Philadelphia, and you see a smallish, orangy-yellowed skinned, angry Italian guy driving a beat up Honda Civic, make sure to tell him that the guy who he almost ran over laughs. And that guy laughs at him.

My Max My

Max is a young boy, or so he looks and acts. He has short black hair which he spikes up for added effect. The gel glistens in the sun as he walks down the street admiring the different colored chewing gum spots left on the cement. Max often travels this route, not merely for the gum, but mainly for the action. The contact lenses he wears changes his eye color from their customary brown to a light blue, which is far more attractive in his mind - and maybe for those others as well.

Max was left alone as a young child. His parents disappeared one after the other without explanation. He often fantasizes of their violent demise, either by train impact or a warehouse inferno. He grew up on his own, without school or friend to teach him right from wrong, good from bad. The ideals he had as a child stuck with him as he grew older.

Much older.

He did what he could to get by. Nothing really stuck. He often found himself at the receiving end of a powerful, yet confused man who had money to burn, an insatiable appetite for sexual debauchery and an unsuspecting family. Max loved the sex though, it took him away from everything else that was bad - living, eating and sleeping.

As he grew, he realized that his skin remained fair and his looks unblemished. Soon he turned to sex full-time. Max found that the younger he dressed and acted, the more action he could get. Max has never been tall, something he formerly regretted, but now something he cherished. His slight stature attracted the men who wanted to treat him like their own child.

Most of the men max fucks often believe that Max is a teen, although he is nearly twice that age. Although he is finally getting the parenting he so sorely missed. At least that is what he imagines....

It's a Bad Day

Im sorry to those out there having a bad day today. Fortunately I am not one of those people, however I think I found someone who is. Today when I left my office to go grab something to eat I noticed that there was a woman unlocking the woman's bathroom across the hallway. This by itself does not seem to be enough of an ingredient to make a bad day. And this thought it true.

However, when I got back from lunch the same lady was just leaving the same bathroom with an awkward look across her face.

Needless to say, I held my breath from the elevator to the front door of my office.

And thankfully, exhaustion and all, my day is going quite well.

And Now the World Will Never Be the Same; or, The Pause Button Doesnt Work

There really is no good way to pass on the following news: My hero has died. Kurt Vonnegut was a man. It's really plain and simple. And today he is a dead man. April 12 will now become a day of yearly day of mourning for me, a time to remember a truly great man who made a difference in my life.

Perhaps you knew that I hated to read. Despised it actually. Im sure of the reasons why I hated it, but I dont need to get into them now. The important thing is that I learned to love reading after being introduced to Kurt Vonnegut through his marvelous tale "Slaughterhouse 5." Im not going to go into details about the story - if you havent read it, shame on you - yet I will tell you that his descriptive prose and inventive storytelling kept me interested from the moment I cracked the binding to the last word on the last page: Pooteetweet.

The rest is history. I learned to love reading and then writting because of this man who I never even had the opportunity to meet. Ive become a more tolerant and understanding person because of his views on life - many of which I have adopted as my own. Sure Ive expanded those views and took them into different directions, but this isnt about me.

My general point is that in this world, where everything has been blended together - essentially forming the color brown - he was out there being himself, being different, being florescent pink, and loving it. And is there really any better way to live your life than creating your own rules and following them?

If there is one thing I wish people could take away from any Vonnegut story it would be this: Notice the oddities of life, and enjoy them.

And what else is there really to say? A great man has died today, and his point of view will be missed.

My Hero!

Perhaps some of you know that Jonathan Adler is one of my hero's, or perhaps you didnt. Maybe you dont even know who Jonathan Adler is (really, shame on you!)? Well, the short story is that he is a designer/decorator/all around excellent person, his long story can be read here: About Jonathan. He can currently be seen weekly on Top Design on Bravo, where he is a judge and all around wonderful dresser. (Is it wrong for me to think that he is at his most adorable when he kicks someone off the show by saying, "See ya later, decorator," and dont even get me started on his quirky, yet blissful facial expressions! Lord, I have a man-crush).

ANYWAY! He has a website, obviously, and on his website you can ask him questions about, well, anything:



A few weeks ago I sent in a question, wondering where he finds his obscurely glorious neck ties (I am obsessed with ties. I NEED more). And to my amazement, today he answered my question! I feel like a blushing little girl on her first day of school. My patten leather shoes are one on top of the other, my white knee high socks covered knees are buckled, my hands are crossed in front of the pleats in my plaid knee length dress and my head dips down to the collar of my overly starched, pressed, white short sleeve shirt;)

Here is my question, followed by his answer:



For those of you unable to read it, here is my question:

"Dear Jonathan, You are, by far, the most creative and inspired dresser on TV (I'm hoping that truthful flattery will get my question answered). I have a firm belief that you can't trust a man who doesn't know how to properly tie a tie. Obviously, I completely trust you! With that being said, where do you find those amazing ties that you wear? I'm quite jealous, and always looking to expand my collection."

And his answer:

" do like a good tie, Josh. I inherited most of my ties from my dad who had a fierce collection of knitted Rooster ties from the 70s. I love a good Rooster. As for the top-stitched ties that I often wear on Top Design, I bought them in Milan and I can't remember the name of the store but, the last time I was there, it was gone! Very very tragic. I wish I had bought about nineteen squillion of them top-stitched ties.

And, I probably shouldn't be trusted because I don't know how to properly tie a tie. I can do the boring old basic knot, of course, but the super phat double Windsor knot that I rock on Top Design was courtesy of the stylist for the show, Paris. Yes, the stylist is named Paris and I j'adore him but I'm irate that he never taught me how to tie that knot. I'm also mad at my husband, Simon, because he's supposed to be a fashion savant and he's English and used to work on Saville Row and he should know how to tie a bloody double Windsor but he doesn't. Bummer."

My hero knows of me!