The Legend of South Philadelphia’s Toughest Girl, Fifty Years Later

That’s as close as I ever got toMama. I wrote the letter and wentback to the house, but I nevertalked to Roseanne again.

I first heard about Mama fromHarold Haskins, an administratorat the University of Pennsylvania,who worked with youth gangs inPhiladelphia in the 1950s and1960s. I called him while research-ing the history of girl gangs inPhiladelphia. Haskins didn’tremember much about Mama, justthat she was a tough woman whofought men.

But when he said her name Ibecame obsessed. Mama’s story andpersonality, so clearly legendary,loomed above all the stories I hadcollected about bad girls whoweren’t really that bad.

Haskins sent me to talk to WalterPalmer, social work professor atPenn, who also works as a lawyerand runs a charter school.

Sitting in his office in a blacktrack suit, Palmer talked aboutstreet corner gangs in post-warPhiladelphia, like the Moroccansand the Rainbow Skinners, many ofthem now city employees. Palmershowed me photocopies of a bookhe compiled on the history of theBlack Bottom, a neighborhoodovertaken by the University of

Two teenage boys in jerseysstop roughhousing on their

porch to watch as I lock my bikeagainst the railing and climb thesteps to the old woman’s house. Iring the bell and knock on the glass.A minute later, a black woman in ahousedress opens the door andpeers through the steel bars.

“Are you Roseanne Hall?”“Yes.”I tell her I’m writing a story about

a woman called Mama Too Tight.“That’s my sister,” she says, sud-

denly awake and annoyed.Right now, Mama Too Tight

exists only in the form of embel-lished memories I have collectedfrom old-timers in SouthPhiladelphia. I don’t even know herfull name. I tell Roseanne that Iwant to record her sister’s real story.First name, life, family—more thanjust the fantastic recollections ofmen in barbershops.

The old woman glares at me fromthe shadows of the doorway.Mama’s children are grown now,she says. They shouldn’t have toread embarrassing stories about thepast in the paper. I protest. I talkabout preserving history.

“Write me a letter,” the oldwoman says. She closes the door.The boys pause again as I leaveWest Philadelphia.

N. BROAD ST., Phila—It is stillunclear why the Akron-born,Cleveland-repping, NBA rookiemega-star, LeBron James andOregon-based Nike Inc. chose thecity of Haterly Hate as the venue inwhich to unveil and celebrate thefirst fruit of their $90 million mar-keting mega union, the L23 AirZoom Generation.

“Actually,” a Nike spokesmanemailed me, clearly evading thequestion, “LeBron plays for theCavaliers and they’re playing theSixers so he kinda has to be in townfor the game. Our request forLeBron to play his away gameswherever we deemed most appro-priate for a shoe launch was mettersely by the NBA, unless ofcourse, we were to host said eventsin Guangzhou or Prague, therebybeing in line with their plans forworld domination.”

Pressed further by phone, “Oh,come on, why would we want to doanything in Cleveland?”

But so hungry was this corre-spondent for an opportunity to oglethe sartorial choices of B-list hip-hop celebrities that I stopped ask-ing questions and just went to theshoe unveiling at Sneaker Villa onN. Broad Street on the evening of18 December 2003. I begin jottingdown numbers: One wall-sizedposter of LeBron seated in a throneflanked by two sedated lions, 500pairs of L23 Air Zoom Generationslining the walls, approximately fif-teen uniformed Philadelphia policeofficers, twenty-five mostly gator-sporting security guards, $110 aticket, including a pair of shoes andlimited smoked salmon toasts, 110VIP customers granted access andthree heat lamps assembled outsidethe store. Zero autographs signed—due apparently to contractual obli-gations with Upper Deck. Twoplayers allowed on the EA Sports'NBA Live 2004 console beside thehors d’oeuvre table; one happened

BY MAUREEN TKACIK

THE HORSE’S HISTORYIN PHILADELPHIA

City to Demolish 3 Horsehouses;Riders Plead for More Time

100 HORSES FACING COUNTRY LIFE,QUADRUPLE RENT, OR QUICK DEATH

L A T E W I N T E R 2 0 0 $1.00 IN PHILA. $2.00 ELSEWHEREV O L U M E O N E , I S S U E N O F O U R T E E N

A General Interest Miscellaneous Newspaper The Periodic Journal of Urban Particulars

TOO BIG TO READ

ON THE SUBWAY.

BEHOLDEN TO

NO ONE.

NOSTRE MANES

SUNT INFANTES.

IT’S ALL HERE &

IT’S ALL TRUE.

∂∂

BY SONJA TRAUSS

BY ARIEL BEN-AMOS

Standing on the corner of Sixthand Chestnut on a windy summerday, that special fecund mixture ofmusk and manure wafting from theidling horses hits you square on thenose. Only out-of-towners shell outtwenty-five dollars for those shortjaunts in the jalopies that line thecobblestone thoroughfare. After all,what self-respecting Philadelphianwould risk looking like a dreadedtourist by clambering into those car-riages and clopping down the street?But despite the vague olfactoryreminder, we often forget that once,this city was dominated by horses.Once called Sassafras Street, RaceStreet got its name from the gallop-ing steeds of young ne’er-do-wells.The Walnut Street Theatre was oncea hippodrome, hosting more formalhorse races. And it takes little imagi-nation to picture the horses that until1800 raced around Center Square,the future home of City Hall.

Horses were long used by privateparties to pull carriages and wagons

ADVERTISE IN THE INDEPENDENTReach 10,000 readers with the Newspaper that GetsRead and Gets Kept. Call 215-351-0777 for details.

2: An Editorial on Mr. Bush & Letters.3: Opinion & News from City & World4: On Pittsburgh & Local Toilets Stalls5-8: Metronaut. The conclusion of ourfront pages, plus notes on the PIGEON, adispatch from MIAMI, and “Mister Kim,”an amusing comic by HAWK KRALL.9: Sport & Leisure. The Interview withJennifer Shahade concludes.10: Paper Tigers. A biography of thepoet WELDON KEES reviewed, and aprofile of the poet LINH DINH.11: Review of the new SISYPHUS

BANANA PEEL record.12-15: Arts & Letters with work by LISA

CONNELLY, GARY PANTER, KENNY

GRONO, MICHAEL AZRAEL-D., DAVID

HEATLEY, BOB GALLAGHER, SHELLEY

HICKLIN, ERNEST HILBERT, HIROSHIMA

LEMON, GEORGE TAUTKUS & DAN

MURPHY.16: LORD WHIMSY on Retrosexuality.17: Please subscribe to this newspaper.18: WILLIAM PYM on the art and fashion.19-23: Gen. Advertisements, ROCHFORD’sNew Society, the Forecast, and LUARDO

on the fashions of today.24: The Bureau of Puzzles & Games. ]

QUEEN VILLAGE HOUSE FOR SALE160 year-old QueenVillage Trinity resting on valueable

land for sale or rent. Call 215-351-1666 for details.

Snacking Before SundownProhibited By Prophet

But Nighttime Noshing OK

IS KOSHER, SAYS KORAN

BY MARK WALLACE

... had hair done. Went for interview to London Zoo. Would love to work there. Came home hadlovely duck. Went to see Expresso Bongo with Sue Harvey. JANUARY 22ND, 1960: Got up wentdown to shop to shop had my hair set up again. Had lunch. Mummy came with me for interviewsat Bedford College. She couldn’t come in. I scared stiff. Was rude to Daddy, he hit me and shout-ed. I was very upset. JANUARY 23RD, 1960: Did shopping bought bed. Got fish and chips for lunchin shop. Took library books back. Met Sue Harvey in library, went round shops with her ...

[ F I V E Y E A R D I A R Y ]∂

BROOKLYN, N.Y.—A man in the neighborhood discovered, oneSaturday, that he had too many things, and as his father and his father’sfather had done before him, he laid them out in the sun in front of hishome and began to sell them to passersby. Yes, he had a yard sale— andthe result? Five plainclothes officers of the New York City PoliceDepartment descended in a slow-motion daylight raid and issued hima summons. Our protagonist was left standing over a bed sheet spreadwith old shoes, music-boxes, coffee-mugs, ill-fitting sweaters, unreadbooks, unpleasant lamps, forks and spoons and knives, and a plethora ofthose products which make the American household a fire-hazard anda hub of consumer anxiety: electric shaving-cream warmers, food-processors and juice-machines, holding a flimsy ticket. His customerswent right back about their commerce, buying and bartering, and, inci-dentally, unanimously cursing the shoddy service of the NYPD.

There have been quite a few of these sorts of incidents in oldGotham lately, where a citizen of no particular offense is given anexpensive citation by some idle, quota-driven police officer for breakingan obscure line of civil code. A man was ticketed for sitting on a milk-crate, another for playing a game of dominoes on a folding table, and apregnant woman for resting on the top step of a subway station stair-case. Of course, this is all part of the famous revenue campaign thetycoon-mayor Mr. Bloomberg is waging against his citizenry. His is

RUMMAGING FOR OSAMABY HENRY WILLIAM BROWNEJOHNS

In lieu of a formal apology, President Bush might at least have tosseda “my bad” or two into his State of the Union for the excesses of 2003.

Instead, Mr. Bush gave us an early version of his reelection stump, usinghis classic one-two punch of optimism and anxiety. Listening to waveafter wave of congressional ovations, we might have been watching a sit-uational comedy with canned applause instead of laughter to let us knowwhen to cheer. Yes, to reassure anyone worried that the pages of ourConstitution serve nowadays only to line the White House birdcage, thepresident did assure that our founding document, properly amended,might have just enough juice left in it to protect America from thescourge of loving, monogamous, gay couples. Who is surprised thatBush would rather smear the queers than come to terms with his mis-takes? Meantime, our press core often seems better suited to covering aseventh-grade student council election. The media is not interested intruth or policy but only gossip—does Dean seem too angry to be presi-dent? Is Kerry too cold?—as if they were merely matchmakers setting upAmerica and her new man. The candidates themselves must be watch-ing the evening news with the spineless conformity of junior highschoolers scanning their entries in the new slam book, so promptly dothey reconfigure the vanilla contours of their soft personas with eachspike and dip of their respective popularities. Only one kid on the play-ground seems to know who he is—the bully. ] —MARK LOTTO

The Bully Pulpit

SIX ISSUES FOR FIVE DOLLARSSubscribe to THE INDEPENDENT. Includes pinbackbutton and subscriber card. See Page 17 for details.

CLOCKCLEANER TO PERFORM LIVETasteful Tunes Devised to Charm the Youth of Today.9 p.m. Tues., 3/16 @ Tritone, 1508 South St. Free. 21+

Jennifer Shahade just turned 23.She likes Björk, Sleater-Kinney andLe Tigre. She grew up in a row-house just off South Street, and nowlives in Brooklyn, N.Y. If you sawher arrive for an interview wearing avented blouse and a purple leatherjacket, you might think JenniferShahade was a regular girl, and notthe greatest female chess player everborn in the United States. Shahadeis a member of the U.S.Olympicteam, holds a 2360 ELO1 rating(she’s a master), and won the 2002U.S. Women’s Championship. Thisis the first time she has been inter-viewed for a Philadelphia publica-tion, but she speaks with the guard-ed intelligence of someone who isused to being interviewed. She hasappeared on the cover of Chess Lifeand wrote about Gary Kasparov’smatch with Deep Blue for the samepublication.

Lord Whimsy on Retrosexuality: Page 16

Mama Too Tight

BY ANGELA VALDEZ

[ t e r m s ]

SUPERLATIVEEMPHATIC

turn to VICTORIA, page 3 turn to HORSES, page 5

BREWERYTOWN, Phila.—Ifyou’ve ever seen an old black manriding a horse across the GirardAvenue Bridge, it might have beenEllis Ferrell, and the horse mighthave been Lil’ Kim, his chestnutmare. Ferrell, a 63-year-old retiredbus driver, runs his own stable, theBrewerytown Riding Club, a plain-looking one-story brick building onN. 31st Street. The club has a spareexercise yard for the horses behind achain-link fence, empty except for ahorse trailer, a barrel for burningwood in the winter, and two pick-ups. Until this summer, Ferrell paid$425 a month in rent, about a tenthwhat it would cost him to board hisherd of sixteen horses at one ofPhiladelphia’s seven licensed stables.

Instead of the traditional hayseed,Ferrell habitually chews on a plasticcoffee stirrer. He often wears a cow-boy hat around his horses, but willsubstitute a knit watch cap on cold-er days. He learned how to ride as akid growing up on a farm on theoutskirts of Tallahassee, Florida,before moving to Philadelphia withhis family. He bought his firsthorse, Kelly, shortly after landinghis first Philadelphia job. Standingoutside his idling red pickup onefreezing January morning, Ferrellsaid he likes doing everything him-self: “You think somebody would dothis if they didn’t love it? You gottacome here and clean the stalls. Yougotta hay ‘em and water ‘em andgroom ‘em. There’s a million dog-gone things you gotta do. The otherplaces, they don’t want you to dothat. They want to take care of yourhorses and buy the feed and the hayfor you. They’ll charge you $350 amonth. I can feed and house threehorses for that. This is a poor man’shobby we got down here.”

The lots around 32nd and Masterhave long been a haven for work-ing-class people who want to keepand ride horses in the city. The area

is one of a few places inPhiladelphia where horse ownershave converted abandoned factoriesand warehouses into makeshift sta-bles, putting empty and neglectedstructures back into practical use.Even though the Brewerytown sta-bles operate out in the open withponies in the streets, signs on thedoors, and neighborhood kids help-ing out in the summertime, most ofthem are of dubious legality. Threeof the four stables have paid rentbut have never been fully licensed.For twenty years, the city has tacitlyallowed the practice to continue.But where Ferrell sees a place topractice his beloved hobby, the citysees blight that must be clearedaway and built over. Now the stablesare set to be demolished in a matterof weeks to make way for new,mostly market-rate apartments.

By the end of February, the city isplanning to confiscate any horsesremaining in the three unlicensedstables. Ferrell and the other riderssay city officials (particularly FifthDistrict Councilman Darrell Clarkeand the Office of Housing andNeighborhood Preservation) havefailed to make good on promises torelocate their animals. The ridersare pleading with them for adequatetime to find new stables with rentthey can afford.

A few blocks past Girard, at thecorner of 29th and Master, thetightly packed rowhouses ofBrewerytown slope down towardsFairmount Avenue and the ArtMuseum. It’s a busy couple ofblocks with buses, take-out win-dows, and bodegas, a strip thatcould just as easily fit into Mantuaor Point Breeze. To the west, therowhouses quickly give way to thehulking gray walls of an old AcmeMarkets distribution center, vacantfor the past fifteen years. Here, the

CENTER CITY, Phila.—I amwaiting in line to try on a bra atVictoria’s Secret at 1721 ChestnutStreet. There is a woman whose jobis to keep the line in order. She is inlate middle age, stylishly slender,and dressed in a black suit with athree-quarter-length jacket. Hershort, reddish hair is moussed andfeathered into spiky tufts that jutout from her pale scalp, and aclownish line circles her jaw wherethe tan-colored makeup on her faceends and her neck begins.

She chats with the two girls at thefront of the line, both of whomcarry clear plastic tote bags over-flowing with the spoils of bargain-bin warfare. These girls were at thefront of the line when I joined theback of it, and the back continues tostretch out behind me. When one ofthe dressing rooms finally opens up,the attendant lets them in together.She announces that this is againstthe rules, but that she is granting aneasement due to the unusually longline. Really, hers is an attempt to allyherself with me and the other frus-trated women in line. And it’s work-ing. Now that I am a cool third inline, I can hear all of her stage whis-pers as she attempts to sop up thesteadily seeping hatred from every-one who has waited in this god-damn queue for nearly half an hourwhile all over the rest of the mallother people are getting and enjoy-ing the things they want.

The woman behind me wondersout loud whether someone has fall-en asleep inside the dressing room.The attendant commiserates: “Ihate this part of the store.”

“Me too,” mutters a scowlingbrunette. I smile at her and sheshares her gum with me as I thinkof a mean name for her and consid-

An Interview With Jennifer Shahade,U.S. Women’s Chess Champion

ON KASPAROV, KOURNIKOVA & DUCHAMP

turn to MAMA, page 6

Banks, Souks, Mosques & Malls Make a Medley of Old & NewIn the Modern Muslim World

Nike Speaks King’s English;Pays $90 Million RansomFor Cavalier’s Costly Kicks

THE FLATTERY OF FOOTMEN

Full Court of Sneaker VillagersHeed Jigga’s Jersey Jeremiad

Banish Throwbacks to Hamper

A Long Dressing Room WaitReduces Civilized WomenTo a Brutal State of Nature

WHAT’S SHEDOINGINTHERE?

turn to STABLES, page 5

Shahade is also something of achess activist. She has done thingslike play in a human chess gamestarting at different corners ofManhattan and stage a live exhibi-tion in a Chelsea art gallery, dress-ing in all black, including wig, tospar with her friend and rival IrinaKrush, dressed in white. And she’s apart-time teacher of chess to younggirls. Her book, tentatively titledChess Bitch: Women in the UltimateIntellectual Sport is due out next fall.She sets our interview at the VerbCafé near her Williamsburg apart-ment, which serves coffee shedescribes as “drugged-up.” Shespeaks playfully and provocativelyon chess as meditation, as art and asphilosophy, women in chess, manversus machine, how passion can bemore interesting than genius, andthe importance of sexy.Nathania Rubin: When did youstart playing?Jennifer Shahade: I played my firsttournament when I was 10 or 11,

1ELO ratings attempt to estimate the rel-ative strength of chess players based onpast performance. The system was invent-ed by Arpad Elo and adopted by theUnited States Chess Federation in 1960. turn to CHESS, page 9

Awesome is about to surpass cool as thepreferred superlative emphatic. Whataccounts for the rise of awesome? Thereare many theories. Here are five ofthem:

1. Awesome is usually an absurd over-statement of one’s approval, which callsthe approval itself into question, whichabsolves one from the consequences ofactually approving.

2. The rapidly improving quality andaffordability of popular consumer goodsand mass entertainments has given riseto a higher instance of genuine awe.That is to say, the world is already anremarkably awesome place, and it is get-ting even more awesome every day.

3. The aging youth hurls a rope-bridgeacross the chasm that has suddenlyyawned open between the present andthe past. Awesome is the sound the rope-bridge makes as it clatters down the sideof the canyon wall, into the river below.

4.The absence of actual awe has left behindlingering trace hopes that merely callingsomething awesome will make it so.

5. Awesome is a very easy and pleasurableword to say. ]

[ i n s i d e ]

THIS NEWSPAPERCONTAINS

MANAMA, Bahrain—It’s theheight of the holiday season andI’m hiding in the men’s room in theexecutive suite of a big steel-and-glass bank building, scarfing aSnickers bar and stealing sips ofbottled water while no one’s look-ing because I don’t want to offendanyone. The problem is, it’sRamadan and I’m in Manama, thecapital city of the island nation ofBahrain off the Saudi Arabian coastsouth of Kuwait, and by religiousbent and in some cases by law thesecretaries and executives Iencounter in the day-long series ofmeetings I've been stuck in for twoand a half weeks aren't able to offerme coffee or even a glass of water.Everyone is fasting from sun-up tosundown, suffering the ever moregnawing stomach burn and squirmof uncomfortability that comesfrom not eating or drinking all day.

So I’m locked in a men’s roomhuffing chocolate. It seems out-landish, but really it's a mild incon-venience, given the good fortune offinding myself on a magazineassignment in Bahrain. Althoughit's Ramadan everywhere else, atleast I can get room service when-ever I get back to my hotel.

While the Muslim holy month ofRamadan is more like Easter thanChristmas (or maybe more likeLent), it shares some characteristicswith both Christian and Jewishholidays. (All three religions arebased on the same text, after all.) Atthe end of the month there’s a greatthree-day party, called Eid Al-Fitr,when everyone dresses their housesin fairy lights, goes visiting, and sitsthrough an endless string of dinnerswith the relatives.

During Ramadan itself, as duringHanukkah, it’s sunset that deter-mines when the fun begins. Onlyinstead of lighting candles and giv-ing out gelt, Muslims make theinfinitely wiser move of gorgingthemselves on as much food as pos-

turn to RUMMAGE, page 2

4

turn to LEBRON, page 7 turn to BAHRAIN, page 8

BY NATHANIA RUBIN

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 2 WINTER 2004

something of a continuation of the warbegun by Mr. Giuliani, whose late canon-ization has obscured the memory of his ven-omous political inhumanity and the wickedcondescension he harbored toward his ownpublic.

The Bloomberg Police Department,however, has received greater scrutiny fortheir penny-ante dragnets. Some haveargued that the department officers coulddo the public greater good if they weresomehow folded into the War on Terror.Why should five armed men with badgeswaste their time busting yard sales whenthey could be on the lookout for men carry-ing almanacs, rifling through luggage, ordirecting a guided missile to the lair of someal-Qaeda fiend?

But really, there isn’t so much of a dis-tinction between the Ticket Blitz and theTerror War. Only in the present tundric cli-mate of civil liberties could Mr. Bloombergin fact conduct such a miserable campaign.The public has been systematically intimi-dated by two years of fear-mongering, andour leaders do not let a day pass withoutlobbing a few shells over your head—NewTerror Threat! Watch your Neighbor!Report Suspicious Activity! It is only tooeasy to scrape up fifty or a hundred dollarsfrom the civilian population once they havebeen cowed by the booming voice ofApocalypse. For they know one thing if onlyone thing: nobody would dare insult theintegrity of “America’s Heroes”—the police-men and firemen and politicians—so longas our numerous and mysterious enemiesremain bent on our destruction. Nothingwas so discussed in the wake of the 2001attacks as was our ‘perseverance,’ unless itwas instead our ‘courage and unity.’ Butnearly thirty months later, this reporter seesrather a lot of meekness and impotenceinstead, and a hierarchy of governmentstumbling upon itself in its rush to reap thelucrative benefits of a docile citizenry.Skeptics of a certain stripe might say this isthe Price of Freedom; but a savvy consumerworthy of the designation ‘American’ knowsthat he had first better be sure he is gettingwhat he is paying for. ]

from RUMMAGE, page 1

Mr. Bush Brings the Good News

The paper that never sleeps! The paper that answersthe phone!

The paper that writes you back!

Submit writing on this newspaper generally, or anything herein, or anything elsewhere.Send your letter for publication to letters@philadelphiaindependent.net or

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENT, Bureau of Letters, 1026 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Penna 19107

1026 Arch Street Philadelphia, Penna. 19107

editors@philadelphiaindependent.net (215) - 351 - 0777

MAT TAT H I AS SCH WA RT Z, Editor & Publisher

JAC OB W E I NS T E I N, Art Director

JONAT H A N SH A I N I N, Books Editor

C. THOMP S ON, News Editor

MOL LY RUS SA KOFF, Poetry Editor

ST EV E N S . USH IODA, Chairman, Bureau of Circulation & Advertising

RICH A R D CH A R L E S , LOR E N HU N T, AL L E N CR AW F OR D, MA R K LOT TO,

BE N JA M I N TI V E N & HE N RY W I L LI A M BROW N EJOH NS , Associate Editors

MA R K PR IC E, Design Assistant

AN N I E K A R N I , ABIGA I L BRU L EY, JU LI E GERS T E I N,

K AT H L E E N KOZ E N I EWSK I , JA E WON CH U NG, Readers

HE N RY FL O S S , Chairman, Bureau of Puzzles & Games

LA DY BI R D, Office Manager Emeritus

<><><><><><><><><><><>

,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

Established 2001

CIRCULATION INFORMATION

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENT is sold at the follow-ing locations, and we’re always looking for new ones.Boldface type denotes a new addition.

P H I L A D E L P H I A . Price: $1.00

AVRIL 50 – 3406 Sansom St.THE KELLY WRITERS HOUSE – 3805 Locust WalkJOE – 1100 Walnut St.THE INSTITUTE FOR CONTEMPORARY ART – 118 S.36th St.DIRTY FRANK’S – 13th & SpruceCAFÉ IZMIR – 629 Ninth St.PALM TREE MARKET – 717 N. SECOND ST.514 BOOKS – 514 Bainbridge St.AFTERWORDS – 218 S. 12th St.AKA MUSIC – 7 N. Second St.AMERICAN MORTALS – 729 Walnut St.BIG JAR BOOKS – 55 N. 2nd St.BOOK CORNER – 311 N. 20th St.BOOKHAVEN – 2202 Fairmount Ave.THE BOOK TRADER – 501 South St.CAFÉ LUTECIA – 2301 Lombard St.CAFÉ INTERMEZZO – 3131 Walnut St.DAVE’S FAMOUS DELI – 4th & BainbridgeESSENE – 719 S. Fourth StreetFIUME – 229 S. 45th St.GIANNA’S GRILLE – 507 S. Sixth St.GREASYWAITRESS VINTAGE – Third & BainbridgeHOPE ON 7TH – 701 Bainbridge St.HOUSE OF OUR OWN – 3920 Spruce St.INFUSION – 7133 Germantown Ave.LATTE LOUNGE – 816 N. 4th St.MARATHON GRILL – 2 Commerce SquareMARATHON GRILL – 1818 Market St.MARATHON GRILL – Suburban StationMARATHON GRILL – 1339 ChestnutMARATHON GRILL – 19th & SpruceMARATHON GRILL – 16th & SansomMINISTRY OF INFORMATION – 447 Poplar St.MOLLY’S BOOKSTORE – 1010 S. 9th St.N. 3RD – 801 N. 3rd St.PETIT 4 PASTRY STUDIO – 160 N. 3rd St.PHILADELPHIA JAVA CO. – 514 4th St.RAT PACK CAFÉ – 631 N. 3rd St.R.E.LOAD BAGGAGE – 142 N. 2nd St.RETROSPECT – 534 South St.ROBIN’S BOOKSTORE – 108 S. 13th St.ROBIN’S BOOKSTORE – 1837 Chestnut St.SALSOLITO – 602 South St.SAM’S PLACE – 405 S. 45th St.SHER’S BOOKSHOP – 706 N. 2nd St.SODAFINE / VAGABOND – 37 N. 3rd St.SPACE 1026 – 1026 Arch St.SPACEBOY MUSIC – 409 South St.THE BEAN CAFÉ – 615 South St.THE GLEANER’S CAFE – 941 S. 9th St.THE GREEN LINE CAFÉ – 4329 Baltimore Ave.THE KHYBER – 56 S. 2nd St.THE LAST DROP – 13th & PineTHE LAST WORD BOOKSHOP– 3925 Walnut St.THE MARVELOUS – 208 S. 40th St.THE STANDARD TAP – 2nd & PoplarTHE TACO HOUSE – 1218 Pine St.TIN MAN ALLEY – 608 N. 2nd St.WOODEN SHOE BOOKS – 508 S. 5th St.WORDS & WHIMSY – 1904 South St.& from our fleet of news-boxes

E L S E W H E R E . Price: $2.00

Doylestown: DOYLESTOWN BOOKSHOP – 16 S. Main Doylestown: SIREN RECORDS – 25 W. StateHatboro: ABBY’S BOOKCASE – 291 County Line RoadHatboro: MAIN STREET RECORDS – 11 S. York RoadNew Hope: FARLEY’S BOOKSHOP – 44 S. MainPittsburgh: THREE PENNY BOOKS – 1827 Murray Ave.Baltimore, MD: ATOMIC BOOKS – 1100 W. 36th Street Brooklyn, NY: CLOVIS PRESS – 229 Bedford Ave.Chicago, IL: QUIMBY’S BOOKSTORE – 1854 North Ave.Portland, OR: READING FRENZY – 921 S.W. Oak St.

HOW TO SUBMIT

THE DOOR IS OPEN BUT THE BAR IS HIGH.

FIRST, we take deadlines seriously. We expect the samefrom our contributors.

SECOND, please submit via email if possible.

GENERALLY: Go slowly. Pay attention. Be honest. Then,take a look at the top of Page One. “Philadelphia” meansthat we prefer writing that is from and/or about the city ofPhiladelphia (although we are also interested in rest of theworld, especially cities). “Independent” means you shouldspeak your own mind, not somebody else’s. Wherever pos-sible, research your subject until you can speak from a posi-tion of authority, and then use your familiarity with thefacts to say something new. “General Interest” means youneed to write in English that is both original and compre-hensible to a wide audience, with as few clichés and emptyjargon terms as possible. “Miscellaneous” means we have afairly omnivorous menu of beats we’re interested in, andwe’re always open to adding more hotel pans to the steam-ing buffet. “Periodic Journal” means that whatever youwrite needs to be worth reading twelve months from now.“Particulars” mean you should find and describe interestingcases in their full detail, rather than flattening them intoconformity with a prior hypothesis.

NEWS: How does one write a news report every sixtydays? We usually wrestle with this problem in-house, but ifyou’ve got experience, an idea, and a love for the facts, sendus a pitch.

ESSAYS, REPORTS, EXPERIMENTS & MISCELLANY: Writeup a short proposal containing one or more article ideas andemail it to writers@philadelphiaindependent.net, or mail itto the address on the left. If you are interested in a field ofparticulars, such as fire hydrants or locksmiths, you shouldfind one or two instances to write about rather thanattempting to summarize all of them at once.

FICTION: We welcome unsolicited fiction. Email fic-tion@philadelphiaindependent.net, or mail your submis-sion to the address on the left.

POETRY: We welcome unsolicited poetry. Email poet-ry@philadelphiaindependent.net or mail submissions toMolly’s Bookstore, Attn: TPI Poetry, 1010 S. 9th St.,Philadelphia, PA, 19147.

THE MICROSCOPE: This is the likeliest way to be pub-lished in THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENT: Find a book,a play, a publication, a band, a restaurant, a bodega, a park,a person, or anything else that’s in Philadelphia, that’s neverbefore been written about, ever, and that you’re excitedabout, and be the very first person to explain in print exact-ly what this thing is and what makes it so great, in 200 to1,000 words.

FINE ART: Send digital files at 300 dpi. You can burn aCD and mail it, or email us a TIFF or JPEG attachment. Ifthat didn’t make any sense, call us on the phone, make anappointment, and drop by with originals for us to scan.

THINGS WE LIKE: The analysis of civic and public sys-tems. Grand and earnest public proposals. New or forgot-ten histories. Verifiable facts that have never been writtendown before. Writing that doesn’t sound or feel like thewriting we’re already publishing. Anything from abroad.

IF YOU ARE ANGRY: Please be patient. We are perpetu-ally behind. If you’re mad, please write us an email and sayso. Even better, email us and tell us to hurry up before youget mad.

FINALLY, we do not give assignments to new writers. Ifyou do not have any ideas to propose to us, your first assign-ment is to come up with some. We are not able to give writ-ers money at this time. Contributors are entitled to a limit-ed amount free advertising space, which is cumulative andtransferable to others.

LE T TERS TO THE EDI TOR

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}FIF TEEN BOYFRIENDS ON THE EL

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}DEAR EDITOR:

One day, I decided that I needed to find myboyfriends on the El train.

I’m waiting for the Market-Frankford Lineat the Berks Stop, about 7:15 p.m. on a nightin late December. I am running ninety minuteslate to a downtown art opening. The Frankfordtrain pulls up and away. I watch a cutie boy ina yellow jacket and headphones bop alongtowards the overpass singing at the top of hislungs. “If I were a boy that would be me.” Iwatch him walk towards me. I smile and say,“Hi.” He passes the turnstile off the platform,turns around and asks if I had said somethingto him.

“Hi,” I say.“Come closer, I can’t hear you,” he says.

“Why don’t you turn down you head phones soyou can hear me.”

Then, so animated, he whips out hisTransPass, swipes his card, walks over to me onthe platform, and very sweetly asked if I likemusic. I said, “yes, I like music”, he said, “No,Musiq the artist.” I said, “Oh. Yeah. Yes I do.”

He does not look like El trade. He is beauti-ful with crystal sea eyes and fresh skin. Cleanlooking. I ask him where he is from. “I wasborn in France, an orphan, adopted to thestates at 12, left my adopted family at 15 andhave been living on my own, supporting myselfsince I was 15. I work downtown and go toband practice everyday. I love Musiq. Music ismy life. You?”

“I am from Philadelphia.”Then he takes out his phone and asks for my

number. I see my train coming around theYork/Dauphin bend and start reciting my dig-its very slowly. 2 … 6 … 7 … 9 … he kissesme! This kid takes my face and kisses off all ofmy lip gloss, and keeps kissing me until thetrain doors open. He is an angel, a prism on theDark Side of the Moon album cover. I was oncethe only person I knew who did things likethat. I rush the rest of my numbers off and justmake it onto the train.

Since this magical night I have found twomore boyfriends on the El train. The first wasat the 11th Street station. He wore all blackwith his hood up. He sat two seats behind meand I watched his reflection in the plexiglass infront of me. We made eye contact in the reflec-tion. I watched him take down his hood toreveal his chin length straight blonde hair. Theafternoon light connected to his plush-lookingface. He was perfect and had sweet lips andlooked like he was from Denmark. I wrote hima letter on a flyer I had in my bag. It read:

Your face is perfect.I like you.

–LizThat flyer had my email on it. I handed it to

him as I got off at Berks. He wrote me a fewdays later.

Dear Liz:There is so much to ask you I don’t nowere to begin but um … as you can seeIm thinkin about you. I mean you giveme this poast card thing (looks like itsfrom your work place) and then youwere gone and you left me wit a littlenote. I was wondering if you could e-mail me back at this e-mail address ora nother one witch is mgr—@netze-ro.net. Or it might be netscape.net.These both are my friends emails cuz Idont have one but yea please if youcould Liz or I think its ElizabethRyweiski but not to sure but if you tellme your name in full I’ll tell you minein full but for now my name is Alex!Alex wut? You’ll find out if I hear fromyou.With only wonders,Alex

Today on my way to 40th Street I stoodacross from a boy with big dark pink lips andblack eyes. The train was so loud, so I read hislips when he asked me, “Where are you going?”

“To meet a friend,” I mouthed.“Can I come?”“Maybe next time,” I mouthed and gave him

my flyer. Maybe he will email me next.LI Z RY W EL S KI

SOUTH KENSINGTON

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}SPEAK LOUDLY & CARRY A SMALL TOY

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}TO THE EDITOR:

A couple of years ago it was estimated thatthere were something like 120 million cell-phone users in the United States, 20 times thenumber in 1990. The cellphone was, nonethe-less, still new; and its users in public places, stilla minority, were a hated lot, hated, that is tosay, by those of us who didn’t own a cellphone.

They were everywhere, yammering away, inthe bus, on the train, at the station, in lobbiesand parks, in shops and galleries, and out onthe street, yes, yammering away. I once saw ayoung man with a cellphone pressed to his earon a sidewalk of New York, riding a unicycle.

Everywhere we were regaled by those unso-

When last we spoke, gentle readers,Saddam Hussein was still gleefully at

large, the Dow Jones Industrial Average wasstill lingering below 10,000 points, and yourholiday shopping was woefully incomplete.And then, like a quadruple paroxysm of hawk-ish holiday cheer, came the capture, Christmas,quintuple-digits, and a very Happy New Year.Mr. Bush retired to Crawford, Texas, where hemade a point of seeing and being seen by no-one; his work, we were to infer, was done.

But if you don’t remember having a happy,carefree holiday—as mandated by executiveorder—that is because you are an American cit-izen like the rest of us, subject to the GreatDisconnect, that very capitalized barrier thatexists between the daily reality of the Peopleand the adolescent fantasy-world governed byMr. Bush and his overstuffed club mates. Infact, this has been a terrifying season, and themisery and malaise transmitted across the landhave not dissipated a lick.

Airports, packed with reluctant holidaytravelers, were evacuated more frequently byrifle-toting SWAT teams than by air-trafficcontrollers. The new Saddam-less Iraq provedto be as lethal and unwelcoming as ever, as asteady stream of American coffins made theirway home to a continued absence of imperialacknowledgement. Many Americans borrowedmoney to demonstrate love for their loved ones,thus deepening the private debt of our popula-tion to record-setting levels, even as, at theclose of December, it became apparent that jobgrowth has stopped outright, and the much-vaunted “Recovery” was still stored away withWMDs, White House security leaks, and Mr.Bin Laden.

The Disconnect must be dissected, or elsethe simpletons among us will only grow dis-traught when they fail to feel as happy as thegovernment tells them they have reason to. Forstarters, let it be known that the Dow JonesIndustrial Average is meaningless to the dailyexistence of you and me and the paper boy, butit is reported to us, by the government and themedia, as if it were a thermometer with whichto measure our collective ends. The fact is thatthe Dow Jones reading 15,000 or five does notimpact whether or not you have a paycheck tolook forward to or health insurance to fall backon, say, when terrorists attack and your hyper-baric chamber bills are piling up. (The DowJones is nothing more than a lively chart com-piled by the gnomes in the basement of TheWall Street Journal offices, measuring the fatesand falls of thirty American companies, and nota realistic economic indicator. Not only is it apaltry representation of the mass of Americancommerce, but it is subject to editorial review.Until we elect the editors of the Journal on thefirst Tuesday in November, we ought not grantthem as much power over our morale as theexperts recommend.)

The Disconnect is equally apparent on theembattled banks of the Euphrates River. Thetrumpets blare when Mr. Hussein is finally cap-tured. Mission Accomplished, you might say.But a week later, more Americans are dead, oursexed-up helicopters can’t seem to stay in theair, a few more dozen Iraqi civilians are shotand trampled in food and water riots, and eventhe Pentagon admits that the shortest occupa-tion of Iraq will now extend well past Mr.Bush’s most optimistic term in office. But themilitary and its supporters largely stand behindthe President, because the Disconnect betweenthem, like the elephant in the parlor, is just toolarge and too horrible to believe. There was nota stir, you might recall, when Mr. Bush madehis “surprise” trip to Baghdad overThanksgiving, and amid all the well-publicizedsecrecy managed to have his picture snapped by

an Associated Press photographer, while hold-ing up a fake turkey on a platter. This editorial-ist remains startled by how many of the admin-istration’s most rabid and radical critics haven’teven heard about the prop turkey, even thoughthe story was broken not by some obscureMarxist fanzine, but by The Washington Post.Because we want to believe the best about peo-ple, the present disparity between our executiveand his legions is quite possibly too grievous formany of us to accept.

The military continues on as a bastion ofhappy, hawkish Bush-Republicanism, even asthe President slashes Veterans benefits, andreduces military medical care and benefits (GulfWar Syndrome patients, made ill in the serviceof W.’s dear old Pa, have been forced to rescindthe awards granted to them by the courts andnow receive no special consideration for theirmedical expenses). But if there were an elephantin here with us, we’d see it, wouldn’t we?

The Disconnect shows up all over, but mostbroadly, it shows up in Mr. Bush’s completeabsence of understanding, in regards to theimmense anger felt towards his person and hisadministration, for America and for the world.Mr. Clinton may have been reviled by his polit-ical enemies for his looseness, his laxity, andcertainly his confidence, but no president hasbeen the focus of such intense and widespreadloathing around the world, both for his policyand for his perceived inhumanity, as is Mr. Bushtoday. We must fairly take the reading of themood of the world, and of ourselves, both ofwhom have been deceived lately.

We must ask ourselves, honestly, are betteroff today than we were when Mr. Bush snappedup his office almost four years ago? Are we bet-ter off than we were even year ago, when webegan hearing boasts about how well our coun-try was doing? Are we safer? Are we happier?Are we healthier? Are we even richer? And isn’tthis last one—wealth and comfort—the funda-mental promise, the base temptation that madenearly half of the electorate throw their lot inwith Compassionate Conservatism?

And what of the world? Is it more secure? IsAfghanistan a stable, prosperous land? Have weeven fulfilled our promises there? Has theMiddle East become a more friendly place tovisit? Do five and a half billion people looktoward America with admiration, respect, andawe? Regardless of the conclusions we mightdraw when we ask ourselves these questions, wemust all recognize that we, Mr. Bush’s citizensand Americans, are the caretakers of our gov-ernment, and if we have any desire to mend thegaping, gory wound that separates us from ourleaders, then we must take responsibility for thepresidency and inject it with a dose of real life.

The candidate Mr. Dean said (and this is aquote, not an endorsement) that “the capture ofSaddam Hussein does not make us any safer.”This is true, but it only scratches the surface ofthe great Disconnect; it only hints at the milesof sky between our own daily lives and the com-fortable, oblivious existence of Mr. Bush in hiscastle in the clouds where the number of theDow means something more than that of yourbank account balance, where a full deck of cardsis more real than hundreds of soldiers’ coffins,and where a vast database of fingerprints andphotographs is less of a violation of human dig-nity than a hedge against the government’sresponsibility to say they are protecting it’sassets. If you feel like you are living in a paralleluniverse as you watch your governors smile andwave and tell you how well everything is going,you are there with all the rest of us, hearinggood news, and still feeling bad, and waiting forsomething to drop from the sky. ]

—HENRY WILLIAM BROWNEJOHNS

WINTER 2004

licited one-way chats—ceaseless greetings andinterminable idle prattles as well as businessnegotiations and point-by-point instructionsbut, most irritably, those details of personal life,medical, marital, and merely mundane. Onceon an Amtrak from Philadelphia to New Yorka woman in a business suit seated right behindme was continuously on the phone givinginstructions to each of her employees, and shewas talking in full volume as though she wasgiving orders in her own office. Another timeon the same stretch of the train ride, a man,selling a service, made at least a dozen differentcalls. A young woman on a bus late at nightwas giving her mother a minute-by-minutereport of the date she had just concluded. Timeand again I was startled by a friendly “hi,” onlyto find on turning around that someone wastalking into a cellphone. A woman in aStarbucks was yakking away an instruction tosomeone at home to get her supper started sothat it would be ready when she got home, andthe whole procedure was taking at least twentyminutes; when she hung up, a group of cus-tomers at a nearby table cheered at the top oftheir voice: “Thank you for sharing.” The prob-lem, as I formulated it, was privacy invadingpublic places. Cellphones that play a tuneinstead of just ringing like common telephonesare particularly obnoxious.

It was never hard to make fun of cellphoneyammerers. The best story was in theMetropolitan Diary of the New York Times (27November 2000). When a cellphone rang in acrowded bus a woman cried out without losinga beat: “If that’s for me, I’m not here.” Inanother story a woman in a stall, thinking shewas addressed to by the occupant nextdoor,started up a conversation with her but realizedher error when the latter shouted back at her:“Will you shut up. I’m on the phone.”

In the short satirical film, Yakkers, by afriend of mine, Bruce Weinstein, who wrote,produced, directed, and acted in it, he plays thecharacter with a video camera who aggressive-ly participates or intrudes in the cellphone con-versation or challenges its users in publicplaces, questioning their right to pollute publicair space.

Cellphone users speak notoriously loud.Bruce told me that this is because the cell-phone often lacks the mechanism that ampli-fies the speaker’s voice on this end and thusgive the illusion that she or he is not heard onthe other side unless the voice is raised. Mytheory is that vanity was a significant factor. Inthose early years cellphone users consideredthemselves privileged, and many raised theirvoice even if unconsciously in order to be heardby all around them so as to draw attentionproudly to their prized cellphones. And thoseof us irritated by their yakking became antago-nistic out of suppressed jealousy, although wewould, of course, deny such a sentiment. It isinteresting that cellphones spread most quick-ly among the urban youths, who normallyspeak loudly. It was also more quickly adoptedby low wage earners, and it is still resisted bythe better-to-do and better educated oldermiddle class snobs, probably academics mostof all. The pattern of propagation is not unlikethat we had seen for television first and colortelevision later. I count myself among the latterfaction. But my resistance is breaking down. Iwitnessed a young office worker talking on hiscellphone explaining that he is a bit late butwill be there in five minutes because he is justfive blocks away. That’s convenience.

By the time of this writing (March 2003), itlooks like cellphone owners are already amajority. There is no question that the cell-phone is addictive; its convenience surpassesthe bad image as a public nuisance. I predictthat in no time now the cellphone will be inevery pocket or purse if not fully engaged inthe palm of its owner. My sense is that as morepeople use the cellphone, there will be fewernon-users, and in consequence criticism willdissipate. How can anyone speak against itwhile making a good use of it herself or him-self? With more users, too, I suspect that theirvoice levels will inevitably subside.

Last November, the City Council of NewYork “introduced a bill to ban the use of cell-phones in places of public performance, and aresolution calling on the M.T.A. to prohibitcellphone use on buses and subways” (New YorkTimes, 28 November 2002). This, to put itbluntly, is stupid, or, to say the least, inefficient.It is, in fact, often on board a public transportwhen a cellphone comes particularly handy—as in a traffic jam, an unexpected delay, or, mostcritically, an emergency. The crux of the socialproblem attributed to cellphne use is not cell-phone use per se. It is talking loudly and indis-creetly; it is broadcasting private conversationsin public places. A company of people on thetrain, engaged in lively conversations, canmake a nuisance of themselves when they getboisterous no less than a yakker on a cellphone.It is a sense of courtesy and discretion thatholds back the rising decibel. Young people inpublic places are often unrestrained in theirloud and sometimes unruly behavior; theylearn to curb themselves as they mature. People

∂

∂

∂

∂

∂

NOTICE REGARDING THE PRICE OF THIS NEWSPAPER

We wish to keep THE PHILADELPHIA

INDEPENDENT priced as reasonably as possible so itcan reach as many people as possible. As cheap as pos-sible used to mean fifty cents per issue. Now it meansone dollar per issue. Those of you who have been with

us since Issue One will recall that the newspaper usedto be ten pages long. This issue is twenty-four pageslong. We are presently offering mail subscriptions ofsix issues for five dollars. We think it’s a good deal. Seeif you agree—turn to Page 17 for more information.

who speak loud cannot be restrained by a ban;they have to learn manners. Manners can betaught but they cannot be legislated.

There was a time when the boom box was apublic nuisance. That was controlled by a ban.But boom box fanatics were a well-defined set.Cellphone users will soon encompass the entirepopulation, rich and poor, young and old, pro-fessional and unemployed, polite and rude,men and women, immigrants and natives, andwhisperers and yakkers.

We learn to walk on the busy street withoutbumping into everyone in our way; we don’ttalk to everyone we encounter just because wefeel like it. We learn to distinguish the topics ofconversation that may be acceptable in the pri-vacy of one’s home but improper in politesocial gathering or in public places. We canlearn to use the cellphone discreetly. Otherwisewe’d find the whole urban milieu turn into ashouting contest.

I don’t know as yet when I will get myself acellphone. But I am in no doubt that I willhave one eventually, sooner, I admit, than Iwould like to think at this time.

T. KAO RI KI TAO

SWARTHMORE, PENNA.18 MARCH 2003

TO THE EDITOR:Nine months since writing this essay, I capit-

ulated and got a cellphone, indeed much soon-er than I thought then. I have been using it fortwo weeks now and I am very happy with it.That I capitulated is not exactly correct; I yield-ed to the fact that having a cellphone is a mat-ter of courtesy. Being in transit a lot betweenPhiladelphia and New York and often out ofthe house at either end, it became imperative,out of courtesy to friends who kept missing meday and night, that I have a cellphone so thatthey can get in touch with me more easily. Theconvenience, of course, is mutual. I know I willnever be without one from now on.

I wouldn’t be surprised if cellphones eventu-ally obliterated house phones. Cellphone willthen redefine the term telephone as an equip-ment attached to one’s body rather than fixedin a house, individually owned rather thanshared by the family.

In the course of these nine months, too, cell-phone users have learned to lower their voicesaudibly. Annoying talkers are loud mouthswith or without cellphones. Many—morewomen than men, I have observed—talk asthey walk.

I have a long way yet to learn all the specialfunctions on the handset. I still haven’t learnedto walkie-talkie.

T. KAO RI KI TAO

SWARTHMORE, PENNA.25 DECEMBER 2003

Heading south on 19th Street, just pastLudlow Street, you’ll notice a sign bear-

ing the words “Ye OldeClean’ry.” The sign sug-gests that your shirtscould be hand-scrubbed by a team ofcolonial laundresses intin tubs of fire-heatedwater, when really theywill join shirts fromother modernPhiladelphia cleanersfor the standard off-site assembly-line steamtreatment at Kim's Cleaners a few blocks away.What, then, is one to make of the word ye?

It's like this. In today's English the soundsat the beginning of the words the and thick arerepresented in spelling by th. But MiddleEnglish had two separate letters for them:thorn and eth. Thorn and eth originally found

their way into English as runes, the Germanicalphabet used in the British Isles from the

Fourth to 17th cen-turies. (To give yousome context,Germanic people con-quered most of CelticBritain during 400-800, which resulted inthe creation of theEnglish language. Therunic alphabet was usedall over northern

Europe, Scandinavia and Iceland, but scholarsdon't agree on where it originated. A lot ofconquering and sacking went on back then;it's anybody's guess.)

Anyway, thorn and eth remained in theEnglish alphabet for a long time. In theMiddle Ages the Latin alphabet replaced therunes, but when scribes made the translitera-

tions they simply kept on using thorn and ethbecause the Latin alphabet had no equivalents.

Around 1450, Gutenberg showed up withhis printing press. He and all the other earlyprinters were from the Continent, and theyhad no written letter to represent the Englishth sound either, which is very rare in theworld's languages. So they substituted thethorns with the letter that looked most like it::y. Ye for the (as well as yt or yat for that)appeared in printed manuscripts up throughthe 18th century. But there was no confusionat the time: context told readers which ye wasbeing used.

Which brings us to the present. Duringthe second half of the 20th century, someshopkeeper somewhere realized that ye andolde could do the same things for an enterprisethat titles like "Baron" and "Countess” do forpeople—instantly manufacture a past and apedigree. The device has proved particularlypopular with suburban chimney sweeps,tobacconists, inns, and pubs, perhaps wantingto bring a quaint touch of the Dickens to thestrip malls of Delaware County. Consideringhow quickly ye’s origins have been forgotten,we humbly predict the Gallery will change itsname to Ye Olde Market Street Shoppes inthe year 2013. ]

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 3

Sometimes I hate water. It doesn’t tastelike anything and I don’t like drinking it.I hate it because it’s home to things I fear

like sharks, and in order to be a thrill seekingyoung person I am supposed to adore frolick-ing in it. I hate that in my vanity, along withOmega–3 fatty acids, I must consume copiousamounts to fight the toxins of pollution, smokeand heredity. I hate being obsessed with itswastage. I hate that I am too lazy to pourmyself a glass, and suffer through dinnersthirsty and bulging. I hate that the parasite-ridden, benzene-laced water of the developingworld comes just as often out of a bottle, as outof a tap. Not to mention the collegiatescrubbed-face hippiness of Nalgenes and theslim hipped superiority of Perrier. But most ofall I hate when barmaids refuse to give a thirstygirl water if you don’t want to pay for it. Is theright to it not one of the most basic as writtenin the Universal Declaration of HumanRights? Shouldn’t we be handing out water?Insisting that people drink more and eat less?Shouldn’t we be forcing water on kids insteadof cola, to prevent ugly people with ugly teeth?

But I have realized recently that we shouldbe paying more for water. Like anything cheap,people with the means, waste it. We should behoarding it, greedily. We should be leavingbuckets outside to collect water when it rains,as they do in India. And to keep it safe, weshould be like my mother, boiling, boiling andreboiling. We should drug into a stupor theobsessive-compulsive who insists on continu-ous hand washing. Only when we realize thetrue economic value of water, will there be anincentive to invest in products and technologythat support its efficient use. So far, this lessonis being learned only in the poorer parts of theworld whose citizens pay the most for water.While many cities in the developing worldsupposedly subsidize water in order to benefitthe poor, this often results in inadequate serv-ices (leaky pipes and sewage and rusting aremain causes of water loss), which leaves thepoor buying contaminated water from vendorsat rates sixty times more than their upper classcompatriots in Jakarta, eighty times more inKarachi and one hundred times more in bothPort-au-Prince. But in Scotland for example,consumers pay more for their water than theirneighbors in England, not because it is difficultto sanitize but because they have failed toreduce these inefficiencies in running costs andconservation. But I think the idea that water isfree, and its service is not, is outdated. Wateritself is no longer free, nor is it meaningless forthis reason.

Today’s wars may be about oil, but it is pre-dicted that the next century’s wars, or at leaststrategic alliances, will be over water. Asdemand outstrips supply, pollution continuesto contaminate rivers, lakes and streams, andwith much of the world’s fresh water resourcesfrozenin polar icecaps, access to water hasbecome a matter of fierce competition. Itinvolves not only governments and peoples,but also corporations who in the coming years,may be pitted against the masses as the benefi-ciaries of years of poor water management.Though it helps to be a conscientious domes-tic user, the major issues facing water occur ata larger level.

Farming: America’s farming system withits vast irrigation schemes, subsidized andgrossly underpriced water and its oversizewaste production, is one of the biggest abusersof water resources. The cattle industry alone,which produces waste from livestock, chemi-cals, fertilizers and pesticides is the primarysource of water pollution in the US. But eventhese companies are not invulnerable to waterconserving actions and the resultant economiceffects of water shortages. An average farmerin California during the 1993 droughts paid

In the final weeks of 2003, a pack of archi-tects, historians, and peeved preservation-ists picketed the Pennsylvania Academy

of Fine Arts (PAFA) at 118 N. Broad Street.Armed with leaflets and signs bearing the like-ness of the building’s architect, Frank Furness,shedding a tear, the protestors shouted “Don’tMESS with Fur-NESS!” as they demonstratedagainst the Academy’s proposed insertion of atunnel behind thebuilding’s main stair-well. PAFA assertsthat the tunnel’s con-struction is an impor-tant part of its bicen-tennial expansion; oth-ers cry sacrilege.

Built by Furness’sfirm in 1876, the eclec-tic Victorian monolithat Broad and Cherryhouses spectacular artstudios and a first-ratecollection. RobertVenturi, the famedPhiladelphia architectcalls it, “one of thegreatest buildings inAmerican history byone of the greatestarchitects in Americanhistory. And the monumental entrance inside isone of the greatest moments within that compo-sition as a whole.”

The oversized stairwell dominates theentrance, rising to a second floor arcade,sheathed in Moorish detail. Lovingly singledout in Venturi’s landmark book, Complexity andContradiction in Architecture, for its relation toBroad Street as a whole, the stairwell isdescribed by Furness biographer Michael J.Lewis as “actually depicting the romance ofweight compression and tension.”

The proposed tunnel would enter thebuilding from just behind these steps.Opponents claim that the tunnel would alterthe visitor’s entrance and cut off a walkwayunderneath the stairs. PAFA President DerekGillman, insist that the unification of twobuildings and the creation of two newentrances will merely be “a smaller scale equiv-alent to what the National Gallery inWashington has done.” Lewis counters that“the whole premise that you must burrow upthrough a civic space is a false premise, if thatis the only way you can bring in an entranceyou do not put an entrance in. Period. Youwalk across. We aren’t in the tundra here, wearen’t in the Sahara.”

Less than twoyears away from its2005 bicentennial,PAFA’s collection ismuch larger than its19th century home.Having outgrown itsspace after WorldWar II, PAFA haslong been planningto expand its exhibi-tion space and uniteits satellite class-rooms and officesunder one roof. AsPublic RelationsAssociate MichelleMacCaffery puts it,“The idea is to havean academy campuson the Avenue of theArts that joins theAvenue of the Artsand the Museum Mile." Having bought theGomery & Schwartz Building across the streetwith a $5 million gift from Dorrance H.Hamilton, PAFA is looking to create, asGillman put it, a “seamless connection”between the two buildings. After the originalplan, which called for a sky bridge, was reject-ed, the Academy decided to tunnel underneathCherry Street.

The tunnel will not only create a singlecampus but will also house the Academy’s lightsensitive “Great American Works on Paper”collection. This sealed environment will alsoprotect PAFA artwork from the weather dur-ing transport between buildings. However, it isnot so much the tunnel as its placement thathas prompted the uproar.

Gillman explains that two conditionsaffected the proposal. “The most importantone, [is that it needs to come] up into a publicspace. [You] don’t want to bring a tunnel intostudios … [and] the exact position, you have tojuggle between SEPTA duct work.” Projectdetractors insist that even considering theseprerequisites, there are other suitable options inthe Morris Gallery and the café. Gillmaninsists that using the Morris Gallery means“you are effectively taking out what was once astudio and is now a gallery.” Architectural his-torian George E. Thomas, who leads the pro-ject’s detractors, offers the café as an acceptablecompromise, since it has “already been wrecked

and lost all its historic character.” For theAcademy, using the café would mean removingthe entire space and would result, Gillmansays, in a tight and cramped entrance off of thecentral axis, thus losing the facility’s essential“connectivity.”

The clash here is not simply over the place-ment of a tunnel but over how to view theAcademy’s home. PAFA sees the tunnel’s

entrance from underthe stairway as anessential part of a $35million dollar project.Opponents view it asan inexcusable andavoidable change to animportant work of art.

The fight for thestairway is not only tokeep Furness’s visionintact but also a con-tinuation of a decadesold struggle for hisplace in the popularimagination ofPhiladelphia. Furnessbuilt the PAFA build-ing in 1876, in time forthe centennial celebra-tions that placedPhiladelphia at the

center of national attention. As Philadelphiarose to become an industrial capital ofAmerica, it was Furness who gave form to theexuberance of the era. His distinct and boldstyle was imprinted all over the major CenterCity institution, and spread out along the trainlines of the Pennsylvania Railroad. The expres-sive stonework of his urban work and the sub-urban homes with organically curved woodensupport structures were mimicked throughoutthe city. When contemporary critics spoke ofPhiladelphia architecture, they were referringto Frank Furness.

However, his career ended in disfavor anddecades later became subject to vitriolic hatredby the International Modernists. Too many ofhis buildings were razed in the name of urbanrenewal in the 1950s. Two out of his threedemolished Chestnut Street banks, all within ablock of one another, made way forIndependence National Park, while others, likehis mammoth Pennsylvania Railroad buildingacross from City Hall, were replaced with more“fashionable” buildings.

It was in the 1960s that Venturi and his futurewife Denise Scott Brown helped save anotherFurness masterpiece, the University of

Pennsylvania FineArts Library, fromdestruction. Havingcontributed to theprocess of restoringFurness’s reputation,Venturi remembersthe “great eurekamoment when I dis-covered ‘Ah’ this uglyVictorian architect isnot that bad at all,but a man of greatpower.” Venturiwould later renovatethe same library, fin-ishing the same yearthat George E.Thomas and MichaelJ. Lewis released acomprehensive cata-logue of the 19thcentury architect’swork. Coupled with

Lewis’s later release of Furness’s biography, thecatalogue seemed to confirm the architect’splace in history was finally fixed.

While the proposed tunnel, an attempt toshepherd the institution into its third century,is neither an inherent affront to Furness norcomparable to the razing of his buildings, itbrings up echoes of more than half a century ofthe same. Many of those who marched in frontof PAFA on December 17, 2003 have beenfighting for Furness for half their lives. Thisprotest is not simply about a stairwell, butabout Furness and his place in the modernmemory of Philadelphia. Thomas insists that if“we had left those Furness buildings [alone] wewould have the equivalent of Gaudi inBarcelona. If we put them back we would havea tourist site that would be world famous.”

The project’s detractors insist that they arenot trying to stand in the way of progress.However, as Thomas asserts, “If the academyannounced they were going to cut a hole in aBenjamin West painting … to put it over aradiator, we’d all go crazy … It is the samething … a spectacular work of art, it is arguablythe greatest space by the greatest Americanarchitect of the 19th century in our city, andyou don’t protest it?” ]

Ariel Ben-Amos is a senior at the Universityof Pennsylvania and is currently seeking employ-ment in the field of historic preservation. He canbe reached via email at arielba@sas.upenn.edu.

The Water Report PRESERVATION DEBATE AT PAFA

[ B Y ARIEL BEN-AMOS ]

∂

Architects Question Whether Proposed Changes to Frank Furness StaircaseWould Update a Historic Building, or Tamper with a Work of Art

about ten cents a ton for water used for agri-cultural irrigation, as compared with threecents a ton today. At the time, many farmers inCalifornia shifted from growing water-inten-sive crops to more efficient crops such as alfal-fa and grain. Some states, such as Michigan,issue permits that allow polluters to dumpharmful materials into the Great Lakes. Unlikesome other states, Michigan provides thesepermits free of charge, offering industry a carteblanche to pollute its waterways. Legislationshould be passed which charges polluters basedon the amount and type of pollutants dis-charged, thus providing an incentive for themto clean up.

Industry: In a recent ruling, courts in theSouth Indian state of Kerala courts, orderedCoca-Cola to stop drawing ground water for abottling plant, claiming that the 1.5 millionlitres of water Coca Cola extracted every daywas ruining the water cycle and depletingground water resources. This was after 1,000local families of Plachimada village staged a sitin for 608 days, claiming that the plant wasdrawing so much water that it was turningtheir rice paddies into a desert and killing theircoconut palms. The state government and localpolice forces have long supported the company(which faced much public condemnation thispast summer for the high degrees of cancerouspesticides found in twelve of its drink productssold in the country). Coke's recent placatorygesture of supplying a truckload of water eachday to the two worst affected villages hasn'timpressed the protestors, whose women havehad to walk a kilometer away to get water froma neighboring village. Those who are unable tomake the trek for water continue to depend onthe contaminated water that has now turnedbrackish and white. The villagers demand thatCoke pay for restoring the local supply, butCoke continues to deny that it is permanentlydamaging the area in any way. This is unfortu-nately typical of many parts of India, where thegovernment has yet to legislate effectively toconserve groundwater resources. Despite thelarge quantities of water drawn by companieslike Coke (who pay approximately $50 forwater access for a five month period) whichthey virtually steal from under the feet of com-munities, only to resell it in bottles to themwhen water is scarce. Meanwhile, there areplans in several states of India to force urbanand rural consumers to pay real (meaningridiculous) costs for drinking water.

Privatization: Water as a luxury. Nestle,the world's largest food company, and otherslike Vivendi have recognized the need forpotable drinking water in developing countriesas a potentially lucrative new market. Alreadythe global leader in bottled water, Nestle hasspun Pure Life as an affordable water brandaimed specifically at the poor and thirsty of thedeveloping world. If corporations are alreadycharging more for their bottled water than fortheir fizzy drinks, it is because they know thedemand for so called “pure water” is high allover the world. Never mind the allegationsmade by locals and human rights officialsacross the third world that bottled water is nopurer than the sewage-tainted water out ofrusty taps all over the third world. Bottledwater cannot be considered a viable alternativeto tap water, because it is not exempt of peri-odical contamination and is less energy effi-cient than tap water. Sixty percent of the bot-tled water sold is purified water, and 25 percentof the time it is just tap water that has beentreated, but much of the time it is not. In theUS [the U.S. Food and Drug Administration’s]bottled water quality standards are the same asthe [EPA’s] tap water standards,” BUT, the“bottled water is subject to less rigorous puritystandards and less frequent test for bacteria andchemical contaminants than those required for

tap water”. Local brands can pretend the waterthey bottle is as good as their partner’s abroadeven though they may not pay maximumattention to the quality of the water or hygieneconditions when bottling, nor to the addition-al pressure they put on water resources. Visitwww.corporatewatch.org.uk for more.

Land issues are water issues. Israel, likemuch of the Middle East, has slowly realizedthat that their imperiously governed biblicalhomeland is also a drought-stricken desert.Israel has suffered from a chronic water shortagefor years, and in an ideology where by every inchof land becomes contentious in the fight for thestate’s survival, the survival of the populationitself is threatened. Their continued and currentproblems with Syria center on the GolanHeights- the source of one third of Israel’s freshwater. Palestinians were shocked by the flagrantwastage of water by Israeli settlers filling theirpools in the West Bank in the midst of a watershortage faced by Arabs in neighboring com-munities. Israelis are equally shocked by thetruly awesome Palestinian population boom andsubsequent over-pumping of the mountainaquifer in Judea and Samaria. Hezbollah toohas resorted to siphoning off of water from theWazzani River to goad Israel towards anotherpredictably zealous act of disciplining.

Dams. Dams have taken away the homesof more that 60 million people. Throughoutthis process, dams have assisted the powerfuland wealthy to enclose the common land,water and forests of the politically weak.Nowhere is this more obvious than in India,where 40 percent of those displaced by damsare the adivasis (indigenous tribals). Damsallow for the wielding of power over water andthe people dependant on it, over the power togenerate electricity, store water and controlfloods. Technocrats, big business, the wealthyand the powerful exercise this power overnature and local communities. Undammedrivers provided an essential source of life forfish, forests, farms and the people, and thesevery systems are those through which the waterre-associates and replenishes itself. They arethe source of all life and the very basis of civi-lization. Often the regions to which water isdiverted are not suffering from any shortage atall, but are sites for pork barrel schemes direct-ed at providing kickbacks. Traditional indige-nous irrigation schemes, the survival of tribalcustoms and old growth forests, and worst ofall the pauperization of refugee tribals are lessimportant than the production of hydroelec-tricity, irrigation for farming and other goals ofthe dominant development ideology. Ofcourse, by following the right methods, manyof the negative effects of dams could be avoid-ed through the implementation of better poli-cies. As noted in The Economist magazinerecently, for the godly nations hoping to pre-vent thirst and bring light to millions (particu-larly those in China and India), dams are farmore expensive and inefficient in both a mon-etary and humanitarian sense, than cleaning uppolluted water and curbing demand by pricingwater more realistically. By ignoring the manyuses and values of undammed rivers, ideo-logues are justifying the expropriation of riversas commodities to be sold from user to user.

As Milo Minderbinder in Catch 22 (whobought his eggs in Malta, to resell them inSicily only to buy them back at a profit inIstanbul and to resell them yet again at a loss inPianosa) well knew, products travel halfwayaround the world accruing tax and profit andwaste and inefficiency but all in the name ofthe syndicate, a sure good in itself. ReadArundhati Roy’s work Infinite Justice, whichdespite the embarrassing title and Roy’s ownprozac nation rants, provides an interestinglook at big dam projects. ]

Lakshmi IndraSimhan lives in Japan.

Five Threats to the World’s Most Precious Substance

[ BY LAKSHMI INDRASIMHAN ]

∂

On a quiet block of N. Eighth Street,ten artists carved an art gallery out of

what was once a church. Nestled in thesame address as a design company and arecording studio, the Table Collective builtwalls, installed lighting, and patched a leakyroof to host monthly art shows and a hand-ful of performances. Without so much as asign on the front door or much more thanword of mouth promotion, they invitedartists and booked performers from as faraway as Denmark and Paris. On any givenweek, one could expect to see giant paint-ings on the wall and experimental musicperformances.

But their run at 948 N. 8th St. ended inlate Autumn when they learned that theowner had sold building and everyone hadto leave. “We knew going into the space thatthe building was up for sale,” said MichaelBarker, one of the collective’s members.“This helped us get the building cheap, butalso didn't let us have stability. We knewthat our space could be taken away at anytime.” Beginning with a group show called“We Like You,” the work they’ve shown“doesn't really fall into any category,” saidBarker, who himself has shown his photo-graphs and performed in his band AxHeron and the performance-based PIMAGroup at the Table. “I would like to thinkthat we are showing work and presentingmusic that is interesting and that you can'tsee anywhere else in the city.” In the finalmonth of the Table Space’s stay at 948 N.Eighth Street, an exhibit called “Mappingthe Subconscious” which featured rust-col-ored paintings by collective member ShaneEddy hung on the gallery’s walls. Futureshows and events—including the glass-blown prints of Amy Gant—are on holduntil a new space can be secured. Visitwww.thetablespace.com for more informa-tion on the group’s future plans. ]

TABLE SPACE GROUPSEEKS NEW SETTING

The PAFA building at 118 N. Broad St.

Above, the staircase as it is now. Below, architect’sconception of the proposed alterations.

er whether she is to blame for the wait. Thisscapegoating tides me over until the real culpritappears: an innocent-looking towhead in hermid-20s with drawn-on eyebrows.

What was she doing in there? Preening?Digging a tunnel? When she finally makes herexit, a venomous silence falls over the line, thetype of silence that is as gender-specific andubiquitous as a tampon. It is the silence thathappens after the woman who was just gettingcatted out by a group of other women is sud-denly standing there. There is an element ofshame in this silence, as you are confrontedwith the fact that the object of your contemptis still a person, despite your best attempts toreduce them to something less. Along with theshame comes a sympathetic recognition as yourecall situations where similar things have hap-pened to you, seemingly at random andthrough no fault of your own. This queasymoment of solidarity is soon overwhelmed bythe feeling of triumph in making someone elseas uncomfortable as you’d seriously been think-ing, in your irritation, they deserved to be.

“Are you buying anything?” the brunetteshouts, as soon as the towhead is past thegauntlet of slitted eyes.

“Yes,” the girl says, over her shoulder. ]

‘YE’ IS YE OLDE ‘THE’

[ BY KATIE HAEGELE ]

Ancient Barbarian Symbols Survive as Kitschy Shorthand for Gingerbread Past

from VICTORIA, page 1

THORN ETH

transportationSEP TA: THE 34 TROLLEY

∂

L ast year I lived in WzzzzzestPhiladelphia on 49th Street off of

Baltimore Ave. I took the 34 trolley at leasttwice a day on the weekdays, and severaltimes on the weekend. I didn’t really mindcommuting that much, I mean the incessantscreeching and shaking was uncomfortable,but I got used to it. Then, I learned of thefrequent diversions to the 40th street portal.The first time it happened, it was raininglike a monsoon, so I figured that diversionsonly happened in extreme emergencies. Youknow, when it’s in the best interest of thesafety of the passengers to ride a bus on thesurface, and then catch the trolley under-ground. I came to learn that there are a vari-ety of occasions that call for diversions.Sometimes you catch a bus on the surface,go to 40th street to ride the trolley. Or youcan ride the bus on the surface to then go to40th and Market to catch the El.Sometimes, after standing on the corner forforty minutes, you realize the bus isn’t goingto come at all, and that you should just startwalking. Further, monsoons don’t only hap-pen in monsoon-type emergencies. I’veexperienced them in balmy sunny weather.Why? Don’t expect the conductor to giveyou an answer. That’s just the way it is; we’reon diversion today. Surely someone, some-where knows why these horrible diversionshave to happen and it makes no sense to mewhatsoever why there can’t be a bettersystem. ] —JENNIFER KIM

How many famous writers have pickledthemselves in the drinking establish-ments they made famous? It’s been

said that Dylan Thomas shut down his liverafter eighteen drams of whiskey at the WhiteHorse Tavern in Greenwich Village. ErnestHemingway heroically pounded Daiquiris at ElFloridita in Havana, and Dorothy Parker heldcourt and many glasses of Johnny Walkerscotch, neat, at Tony Soma’s speakeasy in mid-town Manhattan. But did any of them have some-thing to say about the restrooms in which theyrelieved themselves? Where in their writing dowe hear about the empty toilet paper dis-pensers, the marble sinks, the urinals withgreatest backsplash, the forever-running toilets,women’s room graffiti, or the tile mosaics ofnude figures? You can tell a lot about a place byits restrooms and by how its customers usethem, so why not write about them?

“Bathrooms About Town” aims to fill thisgap in the existing literature by offering a cul-tural geography of the men’s and women’srooms in bars, pubs and cafes aroundPhiladelphia. We will compare and contrast thesights, sounds, and smells of a wide range ofwater closets in local watering holes, from thegilded faucets of the finest hotels to the dustyexhaust fans of the most humble neighborhoodbars. Certainly many Independent readers havestood, sat or knelt in these spaces during aheavy night of drinking and said to themselves,“this is quite a crapper, I wonder why no onehas written about it yet?”

We start at McGillin’s Olde Ale House(1310 Drury St, established circa 1860) inCenter City, which claims to hold (or holdsclaim to) the title of the oldest still-operating pub in Philadelphia. After afew pints of stout and some shots ofJameson on a Monday night, you stum-ble across a crowded barroom of SamKatz supporters and Eagles fans, and upa mountainous staircase, past wallsadorned with old Irish pub memorabil-ia, photos of revelers, and maps of theEmerald Isle. As you open the plaindoor that says “Men,” you might expectto enter an ancient chamber befitting anAle House—the kind of place known inIreland as “the bog,” with a worn wooden plankover a hole in the floor, or Victorian pub rest-room, the kind with black and white tiles every-where, dark wood stalls with chain-pull toilets,and a wall-length porcelain pissing trough withconstantly running water. Instead, you find thatthe Ale House atmosphere dissolves as you crossthe threshold into a plain, utilitarian space thatlooks just like a public high school restroomfrom the 1970s. Beige tile, beige metal stalls,two standard white porcelain sinks with plainmirrors, a row of three white porcelain urinals,all lit up by plain fluorescent lights. The place isfar removed from the din of the barroom, so youget to hear the full volume of the guy on the canwho downed one too many plates of McGillin’sfamous hot wings, who yells to his buddy at theurinal “Shake it once for good luck, shake itthree times, you’re playin’ with it.” He yells back,“Hey, Tommy, knock one out for me whileyou’re at it in there.”

What’s really odd and disorienting for araucous old pub is that there is absolutely nograffiti—not even some girl’s phone number ora carefully drawn image of a hairy scrotum. Theladies room is the same way—strictly business—although some of the vintage pub art hangs onthe walls to enhance the decor. A speed bumpcrosses the floor in front of the toilet, as if toslow women down as they rush in to relievetwo-pint bladders after downing three pints ofale. It’s more likely that this speed bump is real-ly just an old pipe that’s been tiled over.

The only thing out of place in the men’sroom is a big chunk of porcelain missing from

the bottom lip of one of the urinals—not suchan odd thing until you try and imagine how onEarth it happened. Some guy standing on itwhile receiving favors? Someone’s hard headhitting it in a brawl after the Army-Navy game?Maybe a combination of the two? For a whileafter September 11th, McGillin’s men’s roomproudly displayed the ultimate patriotic acces-sory—Osama Bin Laden urinal screens, thoselittle plastic discs that keep cigarette butts andgum out of the plumbing. But now even thoseare gone—perhaps pocketed as souvenirs by adiscerning collector. No condom dispensers,either, for Christ’s sake.

Next we make a pit stop at Johnny Brendas,(1201 Frankford Ave., established circa 1880,reopened under new ownership 2003) therecently re-invented neighborhood bar inFishtown. The place, and its restrooms, aredefined by selective surgery. The careful reten-tion of old patina—linoleum floors, fake wood

paneling, vinyl barstools, the red glow of barlights that makes any color pants look red—isbalanced with the precise addition of littlehalogen lamps over the bar, a serious barfoodkitchen that serves octopus and other delica-cies, and a jukebox with grooves ranging fromWhitesnake to Modest Mouse. Once you’veshot a few rounds of pool, listened to someCurtis Mayfield and sampled some pints ofYards, brewed right up the block, it’s time touse the facilities.

Escape the smoky haze and the crowd ofnewcomers mixed with long-time neighbor-hood folks, and open a balsa wood door marked“MEN” into a small yellowish bathroom. Thetheme of thoughtfully conserved authentic cor-ner bar style continues with fake wood panel-ing, worn linoleum floors and ultra-bright flu-orescent lights in a drop ceiling. The din of thecrowd creeps in loud and clear. An old stickerfor Imperial Termite and Pest Control speaksof a simpler time. The sink and two urinals arebasic older varieties. As you stand at the urinaland wait for inspiration, you find something toread posted in a frame right in front of you—not flyers for upcoming Cat Power shows—butnothing less than a full two pages of the latestissue of The Philadelphia Independent. A finechoice. The shyer your bladder, the more youcan read. The heavy door to the single stallswings both ways like you’re entering a wild-west saloon, and it doesn’t lock, but all that’s inthere is a new toilet and a little graffiti tag leftby “QUACK.”

The ladies room at Johnny Brendas is asimilarly somber affair. Tiles and walls the colorof rust draw the eye solemnly to the rust rubber

toilet plunger next to the bowl, an exactmatch behind a baby blue stall. Thetheme of institutional fluorescent lightscontinues, and contrasts with the sweetpowdery scent of an elderly woman’sperfume, like bootleg Shalimar, waftingfrom somewhere in the room. The shinynew paper towel holder has the key leftin the hole, trusting that no one willneed all of the paper towels at once.Sometimes they have plastic flowers inthere. Shiny new toilet and sink fixturesare an expression of the banter at the bar

on any given day—the banter of amateur car-penters, Home Depot customers, neighbor-hood revitalizers. These restrooms reflect thedifferent worlds that Johnny Brendas, andFishtown as a whole, are balancing—longtimeresidents sharing space with newcomers andvisitors. Not much graffiti here, either. Toonew, give it time.

Watch this space for the next installment ofToilets About Town. If you have any ideasabout unique watering hole restrooms aroundtown you’d like to see written about in futureissues, send your recommendations in to theEditor, via the mailing or electronic addressesfound on Page Two. Until then, a farewell Irishtoast:

Here's to a long life and a merry one.A quick death and an easy one.A pretty girl and an honest one.A cold beer—and another one! ]

David Harper lives in Fairmount

the most unusual institution in Pittsburgh, theMattress Factory has an impressive permanentcollection of works by artists such as JamesTurrell and Yayoi Kusama. The museum alsoexhibits work by national and internationalartists hosted by a residency program. Recentresidents have included members ofProvidence’s Fort Thunder. The MattressFactory is also a great place for parties, whichare especially fun in the summer, when theytake place in the garden outside.

Wood Street Gallery, located in the centerof downtown Pittsburgh, also exhibits interna-tional-caliber artists. Right around the cornerfrom Wood Street is the Skinny Building, asix-foot-wide building with three stories ofwindows that displays the work of local artists.

Back on the North Side of the city, within

∂

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 4 WINTER 2004

CURVED LINES IN THE STRAIGH T GRID

Ayear and a half ago, we left the comfygreen bosom of Pittsburgh for theconcrete symmetries of Philadelphia.

After having spent four happy college yearsthere, we remember Pittsburgh fondly, buthere in the most cosmopolitan ofPennsylvania’s cities we have encountered puz-zled curiosity, coastal condescension, and gen-eral misunderstanding about the singularurban outpost at the western end of the state.To make matters worse, Pittsburgh hasreceived quite a bit of bad press regarding itsfinancial miseries and dwindling population.So, having decided that it’s high time forPhiladelphians to know what we find so love-able about Pittsburgh, we propose that theytake a trip to spend at least a weekend in whatthey might mistakenly consider a strange andremote place. (A word to those who are won-dering why, if we love Pittsburgh so much, weleft: the city is very rainy and fairly small, andalthough that contributes to the dusky moodon a visit, it can wear on a long stay.)

As art students in Pittsburgh, much of ouractivity revolved around art and almost asmuch food. So we bring you this primer forexploring art in Pittsburgh from the museumsto the dingy corners artists have temporarilysecured for their activities. We also offer a fewdining recommendations, made with theassumption that you are as voracious andthrifty as we are.

Pittsburgh is home to a surprising numberof unique art institutions and quite a fewsmart, plucky young people intent on makingtheir mark and improving their city. It is a citywhere young men are learning to knit andwhere everyone sensibly wears a helmet whenbicycling. We hope that you will travel west-ward to Pittsburgh, armed with this newspa-per, a willingness to explore, and maybe anumbrella or two.

A note on Pittsburgh’s terrain and geogra-phy: contrary to a certain popular perception,Pittsburgh is not a smoldering wreck blanketedwith foul smoke. A visitor will be struck by itsleafy hills, cozy neighborhoods, and ornate steelbridges, views of which can unexpectedly andagreeably appear at any time. Charming vistasin Pittsburgh are not restricted to skyscraperworkers or high-rise dwellers; any rooftop,highway, park trail, or simple street cornermight offer a commanding view of some part ofPittsburgh. The views are especially striking atnight, when tiers of lights are reflected in thecity’s rivers. But beware of gazing too intently,at least if driving, since Pittsburgh can be terri-bly confusing for first-time visitors. WhereasPhiladelphia was planned according to a logicalrectangular grid imposed on a flat surface.Pittsburgh’s developers had to contend with awedge-shaped and bumpy land mass, whichcalls for a messy but fascinating system of sud-denly diverging streets, sharp corners, andbridges with no water in sight, and unreliablerelations with the cardinal directions. In otherwords, buy a good map.

———————The Carnegie Museum is the largest and

most traditional museum in Pittsburgh.Actually, it is two museums in one—one for artand another for natural history. This is a greatfeature if your traveling buddy gets more excit-ed about phosphorescent rock collections andmastodons than Rachel Whiteread and DavidSalle. Our favorite is the contemporary art col-lection, which is continually expanding andimproving. The collection features selectionsfrom the Carnegie International, an importantcontemporary art show held ever four to six years,featuring artists from around the world. Look forit in the next year or two and go see it. You willsee the same artists that you would if you visiteda Venice Biennale, without the nationalism,glamorous posturing, and stinky canals.

2. The Mattress Factory, located inPittsburgh’s North Side, is a world-class muse-um dedicated solely to installation art. Probably

On a Budget in Andy Warhol’s Hometown

PITTSBURGH: ARTS & EATS[ t ra vel ]

view of Pittsburgh’s deluxe new stadiums, isthe famous Andy Warhol Museum. TheWarhol is one of the largest and most compre-hensive single-artist museums in the world,with seven floors and more than 4,000 piecesfrom the collection of Pittsburgh’s famous son.Highlights include the army of celebrity silk-screen portraits, the amorphous multi-direc-tional couches, the Brillo Boxes, the collectionof Interview magazines, and a room full of sil-ver Mylar pillows floating in midair, waiting tobe tapped, swatted, avoided, and blown acrossthe room by visitors. This entire museum pro-vides great opportunities for memorable snap-shots with flattering, arty backdrops. Themuseum regularly screens Warhol films, hostslectures, and throws art parties and rock shows.

The best spot for viewing local art is atPenn Avenue, in the Lawrenceville neighbor-hood. Modern Formations and Garfield ArtWorks host music and art shows. Most of thebands are traveling, while the art is local. Theemphasis here is on independence and spon-taneity rather than slick presentation. Anothernew gallery, Fe, has opened in the same neigh-borhood. This gallery also features local art andhas unusual architectural details. Some of thebest work found in these galleries is by pho-tographers who give a romantic glow toPittsburgh’s particular landscapes. PennAvenue is also home to First Friday events,called Unblurred, which rallies galleries, cafes,bands, and night spots for artsy revelry.

Keep your eyes peeled for parties that com-bine art, video antics, and peppy electronicmusic by Hooligan Ship; music and art eventshosted by Pittsburgh’s numerous activist oranarchist organizations; art events that featuredinner parties; and screenings by Press Play.Press Play is a team of young video artists andcurators who decided that Pittsburgh needed aregular venue for video screenings. With thehelp of civic grants and the sponsorship of anactivist organization, Press Play hosts severalthemed screenings each season, often inspiredby holidays (“Fear and Trepidation,” completewith costumed guests, for Halloween; “Work,”featuring a documentary about female steel-workers in the 1980s, for May Day, etc.) PressPlay is slippery; they change venue with eachscreening, moving from galleries to playhousesto community centers. Video pieces are noblycurated from nationwide calls for entry, whichmeans that friends, school chums, Pittsburghartists, and the curators themselves receive nopriority. This refreshing rejection of nepotism,combined with sharp curatorial skills, ensuresthat Pittsburghers have access to a wide arrayof good new work from all over.

Food satisfies us just as well as art does, andwe hate to look at art on an empty stomachanyway. Here are our suggestions. PeoplesRestaurant is a good example of the fabulousIndian cuisine to be sampled in Pittsburgh. Gofor the buffet, stay for more buffet. Tram’sKitchen is another great choice, where you willbe served fresh Vietnamese food, most likelyby the owner himself. Vegetarians and veganswill be surprised by the large number ofoptions for a Vietnamese menu (don’t forget totry the spring rolls.) Thai Place Cafe, near theCarnegie, offers good Thai food, beverages andbeer. Our last dining suggestion is not for aparticular restaurant but for a street of restau-rants. Atwood Street is located in the heart ofthe University of Pittsburgh and althoughparking is difficult, finding an inexpensive,unique place to eat is easy. Spice Island TeaHouse, Road to Karakesh, India Garden andLa Fiesta are some of our favorites, all locatedwithin three blocks of Atwood Street.

We wish you happy travels, pleasant views,and full stomachs. We hope that you will returnto the East Coast sharing at least a portion ofour fondness for western Pennsylvania’s oftensoggy, but always beguiling, metropolis. ]

Michael Sullivan and Theresa Marchetta areartists living in West Philadelphia.

Carnegie Museum of Art412.622.31314400 Forbes Ave.Tuesday throughSaturday 10-5,Sunday 12-5$10 adults, $6 studentswww.cmoa.org

The Mattress Factory412.231.3169500 Sampsonia WayTuesday through Friday10-5, Saturday 10-7,Sunday 1-5$8 adults, $5 studentswww.mattress.org

Wood Street Galleries412.471.5605601 Wood StreetTuesday and Wednesday11-6, through Saturday 11-7Admission is free.www.pgharts.org/art/ woodstreet.cfm

The Skinny BuildingForbes Avenue andWood Streetwww.skinnybuilding.com

The Andy WarholMuseum412.237.8300117 Sandusky StreetTuesday through Sunday10-5, Friday 10-10$10 adults, $6 studentswww.warhol.org

Modern Formations412.362.02744919 Penn AvenueAdmission is free.www.modernforma-tions.com

Garfield Artworks412.802.70964931 Penn AveAdmission is free.www.garfieldartworks.com

Fe412.860.60284102 Butler StreetWednesday and Friday1-5, Saturday 12-4Admission is free.

Unblurredwww.pennavenuearts.org

Press Playpressplayvideo@yahoo.com

Peoples Restaurant412.661.31605174 Penn Ave$8 entrees

Tram’s Kitchen412.682.26884050 Penn Avenue$6-$10 entrees

Thai Place Restaurant412.687.8586809 Bellefonte Street$10-15 entrees

ADDRESSES, WEBSITES, AND OTHER

USEF UL PITTSBURGH INFORMATION:

For bus information, visit www.portauthority.org.

∂

∂

[ BY DAVID HARPER, WITH JENNIFER MCINTYRE & DEVALINA GUHA-ROY ]

∂

What follows is a clipping from the scrap-books of Charles K. Mills (1845-1931),

just one of many collections of the HistoricalSociety of Pennsylvania. Mills was a preemi-nent neurologist, University of Pennsylvaniaprofessor, member of the class of 1864 atCentral High, reformer of the city’s insane asy-lums, and local history buff. This is an editori-al that was printed in The McClellan HospitalBudget (a periodical that is to my knowledge nolonger in existence) when Charles was 19.Strangely, this editorial would have been a cri-tique of a group of which he was then a part.Perhaps Charles was poking fun at the com-plaints of his stodgy elders, or maybe he reallydid take issue with his precocious peers. Whatis clear, however, is that not much has changedabout Young America in Philadelphia.

[ BY KIM MASSARE ]

[ BY MICHAEL SULLIVAN AND THERESA MARCHETTA ]

But where are the mattresses?

A city under the sign of the number fifty-seven.

SUL

LIV

AN

& M

AR

CH

ET

TA

DE

VAL

INA

GU

HA

-RO

Y

Johnny Brenda kindly requests that youmind your manners and keep reading.

An interior wall at McGillin’s Olde Ale House.

THREE PRIVYTEERS INSPECT BRENDAS’ JOHNS & MCGILLIN’S OLDE PORCELAIN THRONES

Toilets About Town[ f i xt ures ]

Smart Set Skewered by19th Century Squirt

[ do cumenta r y ]

∂

THE INFANTPHENOMENON

Kim Massare works at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania (HSP) preserving and writing research aids forvarious collections. Her opinions and those of Charles K. Mills do not represent those of HSP.

YOUNG AMERICA

Young America is an interesting and pecu-liar species of the genus homo,—a greater curios-ity in his own way, if attentively studied, thanDu Chaillu’s gorillas, or Barnum’s celebrated“What is it?” Specimens of this wonderful bipedare to be seen anywhere,

“From Greenland’s icy mountains,To India’s coral strand;From California’s golden banks,To Jersey’s banks of sand;—“

but they are found in the greatest abundanceand perfection in the large cities of Uncle Sam’sdominion; where they may be seen in all the gra-dations—fishing in the gutters, skating on thepavements, waging brickbat wars, smoking inthe streets, “smiling” in the saloons, talking pol-itics on the corners, and so on, ad infinitum.

Like every notable object, Young Americahas his distinguishing characteristics—his pecu-liar habits, some of which we have indicated. Hedisplays undoubted ability in smoking, chewing,swearing, making puns, cracking jokes, and many

other arts of a like kind, in all of which hebecomes proficient at an early age. Here we mayremark that precocity is one of the most notice-able features of Young America. Before emergingfrom babyhood even, he is, in regular progression,a “wonderful prodigy,” an “infant phenomenon,”and a “remarkable child.”—As he advances on thestage, he becomes in due time, the “precociousyoungster,” the “smart youth,” etc.

The organ of respect is not, in general veryhighly developed in the subject of our sketch.He usually designates his paternal ancestor as,the “governor,” “my worthy senex,” or the “oldgentleman.” His loving mother is, in like man-ner, the “old lady,” the “venerable female,” etc.;and his acquaintances are known as “bricks,”“bummers,” and other similarly classical appella-tions. Verily, he is a curious phenomenon.

We might mention other peculiarities, andmany virtues, of a different order from those wehave named, as appertaining to Young America;but, as it is best not to dive too deep on firstentering the water, we will leave all furtherobservations for the future, hoping the readerwill not consider the present sketch a naughtybiography, or an autobiography either.—C.K.M.

From The McClellan Hospital Budget, Vol. 1, No. 4, October 1864

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 5

Inside the Western Wranglers stable. Members say losing their stable means the death of the club.

FOUND AND LOST

CITY TO DEMOLISH HORSE STABLESAFTER 20 YEARS IN BREWERYTOWN∂

full of goods. Then, in the 1840s, horsesassumed public duties, pulling omnibusesthrough the streets. The omnibus, a largewagon pulled by one or two horses, could seatupwards of eight people and would drive any-one who could pay the fare. As the city’s firstmass transit system, the omnibus democratizedtransportation. The streets were even engi-neered to make the horses’ lives easier, withgrooves in the pavement for wheels, which less-ened the load pulled by the industrious beasts.By 1858 horses were pulling the streetcar, theancestor of the trolley, down iron tracks and theFire Department instituted the lasting traditionof giving their horses vacations.

Horses needed more then a little vacationcome October 28, 1872, when the EpizooticHorse influenza swept the city. Passenger rail-ways were suspended for days on end, and menfilled in, pulling wagons and carts down thestreets. Despite their vulnerability to disease,horses were still indispensable in 1889, whenthe city instituted

Its first mounted police patrol, which last-ed halfway into the next century. The first elec-tric streetcar was introduced in 1892, andreplaced all of their horse-drawn public con-veyances within five years. Although ClarenceBiswell, President of the New Jersey

Automobile and Car Association correctly pre-dicted in 1910 that “the time is not far distantwhen the horse will be entirely replaced by theautomobile for both personal and businesstransportation,” the horse had not yet beenabandoned by Philadelphia.

As many as 10,000 people attended thePhiladelphia Horse Show when it first openedin Chestnut Hill in 1892. The PhiladelphiaHorse Show was, according to E. DigbyBaltzell’s Philadelphia Gentleman “an impor-tant event in the city’s sporting and fashion-able” circles. Wealthy Philadelphians, such asthe Wanamakers of clothier fame, raisedaward-winning breeds. Others, such as mer-chant Henry Hill, built private race courses,one of which became the Queen LaneReservoir.

While no longer slogging down EleventhStreet pulling omnibuses and streetcars, horsesstill race in the Pennsylvania Derby, at thePocono Downs, and the Philadelphia Tracks.Inner-city kids are riding them in the Work toRide Program at the Chamounix Stables inFairmount Park. Chances of seeing horses arehigh at Chestnut Hill’s Mermaid Inn andFairmount Park’s Valley Green, though pettingconditions are best at Fifth and Chestnut. Justtake a deep breath and ask the carriage drivernicely. ]

from STABLES, page 1

The Horse in the City

from HORSES, page 1

Ellis Ferrell in front of his Brewerytown Riding Club, where he keeps sixteen horses.

Two riders look after their animals at the Dream Team Stable.

AL

LP

HO

TO

GR

AP

HS

BY

BE

NJA

MIN

TIV

EN

UN

LE

SSO

TH

ER

WIS

EN

OT

ED

LIN

DSE

YJO

NE

SL

IND

SEY

JON

ES

ings from the stables you rent or own …2. Do NOT sign any documents from thecity—save them and all other city docs sowe can review them with you.3. Do NOT put down your horses. Onestallion is now gone. Let him be the lastone taken!

The flyer went on, urging riders to come to ameeting at St. Augustine’s Church on Girard.The meeting was organized by the AfricanAmerican Business and Residents Association(AABRA). Forty people attended, bringingwith a long list of complaints about theWestrum project, alleging everything from lowwages to a lack of affordability to insufficientprior notice about a public zoning meeting.The talk of the stables gradually began toreflect all the more general anxieties residentsfelt about changes in their neighborhood—notenough jobs, high taxes, rising housing prices,but most of all, bad communication with theircity government, and a lack of any sense oftransparency or control. “To have to kill yourhorse because the city wants the land seemslike a terrible injustice,” said Al Alston, whosits on the steering community of the ninety-member organization. “This is about whatmakes it so unique to live in this community.”

The Neighborhood TransformationInitiative was designed to eliminatePhiladelphia blight—abandoned, derelict, anddangerous properties. Are the three stables(other than the licensed White House) blight-ed? The city agencies handling theBrewerytown redevelopment believe so. “Thestables are not licensed, nor would they qualifyfor a license because the space is not an appro-priate space for the care of the animals. It’s notup to standard,” Paul Moran, a spokesman forthe Philadelphia Department of Health said.Califano, from the city’s OHNP, said shuttingdown the Brewerytown stables (again, omit-ting the licensed White House) was in theinterests of the neighborhood and the animals.“The SPCA has been trying to shut downthese stables. They took away two horsesrecently.” Califano also accused the stables ofhaving inadequate drainage and ventilationsystems. “They are doing the best they can, buttheir best may not be the best for the horses,”she said, adding that the rest of theBrewerytown neighborhood considers them tobe a nuisance.

Leonard Knox, the Humane Society policeofficer in charge of monitoring the stables’conditions, confirmed that two horses hadrecently been taken from the Brewerytown sta-bles, bringing the total to five over twentyyears. Knox visits the stables twice a month.“The people from Housing, they should take alook at the stables before they make any com-ments,” he said. “Everybody down there is dif-ferent. Some are immaculate. Some need cor-rections.” When asked if there had been anyongoing attempt to shut the stables down,Knox said, “that’s wrong. We didn’t hear thosecomments before this [development plan].”

Alston, whose family owns several proper-ties and businesses in Brewerytown, was one ofthe central figures in the coalition that blockeda McDonald’s franchise from opening up at27th and Girard. He took issue with Califano’ssuggestion that Brewerytown doesn’t wanthorses in the neighborhood: “If the stablesleave, it will rob this area of part of its identity.We want them in this neighborhood. What weneed is to invest more money in these horses.These people are literally losing a way of life,something rare and precious in any urban envi-ronment. And the fact that most of these peo-ple are African-American isn’t lost on us. Ofcourse they don’t have anyone fighting forthem. They’re not wealthy. They can’t fight theCity. But this is not really about the horses.This is about the land.”

Ferrell also connects the stable issue tolarger changes taking place in Brewerytownand Strawberry Mansion. “I live onSusquehanna Avenue,” he said. “Ten yearsfrom now, I’ll be going through this same thingwith my house.”

With the city’s February 1 deadline quick-ly approaching, Ferrell said he was doing any-thing possible to buy a little more time. He’sregistered the Brewerytown Riding Club as anon-profit and is currently trying to find alawyer who can help him find his horses a newhome.

“They said they would relocate us. That’snot just giving us a list of other stalls andtelling us ‘take it or leave it.’ We’re happy tostart over, as long as it’s compatible to whatwe’re paying now. I’m trying to see if we can’tget a postponement until we can find some-thing, because we don’t have any place to put‘em. My friend, he had a stallion and he raisedit from a baby. Nobody wants to have stallionsin a barn, so he had to put it down. Nah, hedidn’t want nobody else to have this horse. Heraised that horse for three years … I have twostallions myself. I don’t know what I’m gonnado with mine. I bred and raised mine from ababy, too. They’re part of my family.” ]

Sonja Trauss lives in Poplar.

were leased out by landlords who owed$100,000 back taxes (the fourth stable, calledthe White House, is up-to-date on its taxes andfully licensed) according to Catherine Califano,deputy secretary for the City’s Office ofHousing and Neighborhood Preservation(OHNP). In late July, as a part of Mayor JohnStreet’s Neighborhood TransformationInitiative (NTI), the Redevelopment Authoritycondemned the land that the stables are lyingon through eminent domain, according to theOHNP. Near the end of July, Ferrell said, amessenger from the Redevelopment Authorityvisited the three unlicensed stables, informingproperties’ owners by letter that the city hadtaken their land and that they were to stop col-lecting rent. More than one hundred horses,were suddenly found themselves squatting onproperty owned by the RedevelopmentAuthority and faced eviction.

By November, almost every horse had leftthe Western Wranglers stable on 32nd Street,around the corner from the BrewerytownRiding Club. Beneath a cobwebbed roof andstalls made from found doors and wood scraps,a handful of the last Wranglers discussed whatwould happen to their horses and their club.“We’ll bring them back up to Morgantown, tothe auction,” said Scoe Johnson, 52, who runsa barbershop in Point Breeze and owns a horsenamed Romeo. “They’ll be bought by farmers,guys who have a lotta land, or maybe by richguys who have their own stables. They’ll beable to run around … and if not that, well …”Scoe shrugged and trailed off. The otherWranglers looked at the ground. Scoe went on,“No one wants their horse to die, like no onewants to see their child die … but it happens.”Kevin Mason, a thin man wearing a maroonshirt and spectacles, was also resigned to leav-ing, although he hadn’t yet made up his mindabout the future of his horses. “If you don’t ownsomething, what are you going to do? God willfind a place.”

All four stables lie in the middle of theBrewerytown Urban Renewal Area, a strip ofland on the neighborhood’s western edge cre-ated last year to help speed condemnation andnew construction. Attracted by the prospect ofa ten-year tax abatement, builder JohnWestrum’s Westrum Development Companyis planning to spend $9.5 million convertingthe abandoned Acme warehouse into 200 loft-style apartments, sixty-one of which will be setaside for low-to-moderate income families.Across the street, backhoes are busy levelingthe ground for seventy-two four-story brickduplexes. These will be priced at the “middle-market” level—around $150,000—nine timeswhat city records say the median Brewerytownhouse sold for in 2002. According to a zoningnotice, the houses will be surrounded by gatesup to eight feet high. Westrum likes the loca-tion because of its proximity to Center City,Fairmount Park, Kelly Drive, the Zoo, and theretail shops and restaurants on Girard.According to Westrum Vice President SethShapiro, “We look for large areas of underuti-lized property … We are developing the homesin Brewerytown on acres of vacant industrialground.” Shapiro had no comment on the fateof the cowboys. “That’s a city issue,” he said.

Since the properties were condemned, thecity’s Redevelopment Authority andCouncilman Darrell Clarke have offered tohelp find new homes for the Brewerytownhorses. The Office of Housing andNeighborhood Preservation has asked area sta-bles to hold all of their vacant spots in antici-pation of the arrival of the displaced horsesfrom Brewerytown. Deputy ManagingDirector Jim Donaghy said twenty-five newstalls are being built in Fairmount Park forpublic use. The monthly cost per horse will beabout $400. The Brewerytown riders will begiven first priority and three months of subsi-dized rent, after which time they’ll be on theirown.

But $400 a month is too expensive formany Brewerytown riders, who say they willeither sell their horses at auction inMorgantown or kill them rather than givethem up. Most everyone said they’d been rid-ing, “all my life,” between forty-one and seven-ty-four years. Ferrell said he’d have a hard timegetting a fair price for his horses at auction,because the buyers know he has no otheroption then to sell. He already tried selling onehorse at auction in Morgantown and wasoffered $25. The thought of giving his horsesaway for a song brings him nearly to tears. “Iraised those horses. I’m not giving them away.If I have to give them away, I’ll put them down.It may seem cruel, but those horses were sup-posed to be for my children. One was for mydaughter, one was for my granddaughter.”

In early January, two weeks away from thecity’s Feb. 1 deadline, a flyer from aBrewerytown community group circulatedamong the last few dozen hangers-on at theDream Team Stable, urging them to stay:

Please (unless and until required by a courtof law):1.Do NOT remove your horses or belong-

sidewalks are littered with bottles and car tires,and Brewerytown takes on the aspect of aghostly factory town. At 32nd Street, theneighborhood ends with the Amtrak tracks, anelectrical substation, and beyond that,Fairmount Park. Just before the tracks, thegrays of the asphalt and concrete open up intoa dirt lot, empty except for the weeds, a pile oftires, and a few horse trailers. Only the trailersand the faint smell of manure give any hintthat there are four stables nearby: Ferrell’sBrewerytown Riding Club, the Dream TeamStable, the Western Wranglers, and the WhiteHouse. The stables themselves are low-slung,ramshackle buildings, home, until this autumn,to more than one hundred horses.

Philadelphians have been keeping horses inabandoned warehouses, empty lots, rowhouse-shells, and their own backyards for at least halfa century. Before the Brewerytown stables,there was the Hole in the Wall, a warehousenear Glenwood and Cecil B. Moore. Beforethat, there was a spot in the Northeast calledBoulevard Stable Mates, where Ferrell remem-bers working with the local Boys and GirlsClub. “Horses are strange to kids. They want topet the horses. They want to know if they canride the horses. So we’d give ‘em rides, we’dsaddle up a pony and ride ‘em up and down thestreet. A whole lot of them want to come downand work in the stable, but when you get a lit-tle kid like this,” he held his hand about waist-high, “there’s nothing they can do. So I tellthem to come back when there’s something todo. And they come back, bring carrots, stuff tofeed the horses.”

Everyone seems to have a different storyabout the precise origins of Philadelphia’s do-it-yourself urban stables. Some trace the prac-tice back to the early 20th century, when mil-lions of southern blacks migrated northward tofind work in industrial centers likePhiladelphia, and many brought their livestockalong. Others point to the horse-drawn mailand bread delivery carriages, which were still inuse during the early 1960s. Still others identify

with the black cowboys of the western frontierwho fought against Native Americans in the19th century.

Brewerytown offers some unique advan-tages to the urban horse owner. One is conven-ience. Wayne, also known as Boo, who keepseight horses at the Dream Team Stable, said,“We ain’t got to go far. We come around thecorner, and it takes five, ten minutes to gethere, feed your horses and do what you gottado.” Another is cost. Sharon White, a securityguard who learned to ride as a steeplechaserider in the United Kingdom, pays $170 amonth to stable at the Western Wranglers’ sta-ble, around the corner from Dream Team.Keeping a horse at the Brewerytown stablestakes two to three hours a day. Most of thehorse owners arrive in the morning to shovelout their stalls, give their animals a fresh por-tion of feed or hay, and usually take them for ashort ride in the chain-linked corral by thetrain tracks. Most of the horses were boughtfor a few hundred dollars from auctions up anddown the East Coast. Hay goes for about $250a bale; feed costs $10 for a 100-pound bag.Once the stable rent is paid, it costs less than$40 a month to maintain a full-grown horse.Ferrell said a combination of cost and accept-ance has kept him in Brewerytown. “You thinkI can afford $300 a month for sixteen horses? Ican’t afford that … and the stables up there,they don’t want us. I’m just telling it like it is.I’m not a prejudiced person, but up there?There’s no black people up there. It’s all white.”

Until this year, Ferrell’s BrewerytownRiding Club existed in a state of hazy semi-legitimacy. Although Ferrell concedes that hisstable didn’t have the proper zoning or permitsfor keeping animals, he did pay rent and had hisanimals checked regularly by a Humane SocietyPolice Officer as required by state law. Havingkept his horses in Brewerytown under this sortof arrangement since the early 1980s, Ferrellexpected that the situation would continueindefinitely; if not explicitly sanctioned by thecity government, then at least tolerated. He waswrong. Of the four Brewerytown stables, three

∂

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 6 WINTER 2004

THE MACH INE SURVIVED THE MECHANIC

quiet about what brought him back. His sister,he said, would kill him for talking to me.

Like Richardson, Green only remembersMama’s brothers’ names: Bill, Flaggy, andBooty Hall. No one called their sister anythingbut Mama or Mommy.

The Halls were the type of family thatmoved in unison.

“Men and women in that family were out-spoken,” Green said. “They would fight at thedrop of a dime and helped each other, too, ifthey needed it. If you got in a fight with one ofthem, sooner or later you was gonna see thewhole family.”

Mama was tall and dark skinned, a “raw-boned type of woman.”

What does that mean, I ask. Skinny?“No,” Green laughed. “Raw-boned. No

extra weight. Able to move around fast.” Asmean as she could be, he said—I couldn’t coaxan example out of him—“she’d give you herright arm” if she loved you.

As for Mama’s gang, Green said she trav-eled light. “She had a bunch of girls that shehung with, never that many,” he said. “Herfamily was enough, really. She was a crew inherself. In those days you didn’t need a greatbig gang. It was all about how much heart youhad.”

Mama moved to Atlantic City in the 1970sto work in the casinos. “I’d rather not say whatshe was doing,” Green said. Even then, Mamahad a reputation for toughness. “The older shegot, the quieter she got. But she was never aquiet person. She was outspoken.”

I left Green to his business and continueddown to 12th Street near Kenilworth. I letmyself into the New Hope Temple BaptistChurch, and found the pastor mopping thebasement floor. Too young to rememberMama, he walked me down the street andintroduced me to a group of old men stationedon a stoop and stacks of milk crates.

The first response came from StanleyLewis, a glassy-eyed former longshoreman witha long scar on his left biceps. “She was a well-known girl in the neighborhood,” he said. “Shewas friendly. Friendly until you got on herwrong side.” Lewis sat fingering the wood grainon his cane, presiding over his stoop like a king.

Lewis said Mama was dark-skinned andthin, and average height.

The recollections triggered other memo-ries. Lewis said the tougher members of theneighborhood used to congregate in a bar on12th and Bainbridge streets called the GreenGate Inn, better known as Pearl Harbor. Thewomen bought cans of Red Devil lye (used forstraightening hair) and flung the noxious,burning powder in enemies’ faces.

Freddie Moody, a 61-year-old glass cutter,gave me a familiar string of statements aboutMama’s reputation.

“She was a rough, tough, woman,” he said.“She would whup the average woman’sbehind.” The words were coming out too fastfor me to write. “She wasn’t a woman of manywords. She’d get in a fight and,” he slashed theair with his hand, “swish, swish, swish. She’dput the mark of Zorro on you.” Moody saidMama “rained blows” on women, but cut menwith her knife.

No one knew just how she got her name.The men on the stoop shouted out to an

older black woman passing us on foot. With aglance, she asked what was up with the whitegirl with the notebook. I clearly looked out ofplace.

They told her and she scoffed. “I havenothing to say about that,” she said.

On the phone, I talked to a man namedCephas Burns, who works at the Youth StudyCenter—Philadelphia’s strangely-named juve-nile hall. Burns grew up in South Philadelphiaand played volleyball with Mama’s daughter.

Most of his knowledge sounded like therumors I’d already heard: “You would hearabout Mama Too Tight beating somebody up.”He adds one detail: “She was a booster, ashoplifter,” he said. Back then, one way oranother, you could get anything you wanted.

Burns’ recollections of the social geographyof South Philadelphia are more vivid. Heattended Bok High School. To survive theIrish and Italian gangs, black students took aroute called “the trail” that wound around thesafest blocks.

Burns wanted to help, so he went back tohis old neighborhood and found a man whowould know more. He gave me a cell phone

number. The man and I talked several times,but I heard he was having some legal troubles,and pretty soon the line went dead.

One afternoon on Ridge Avenue, I foundmyself talking with the proprietor of a secondhand store and his wife. I always meet interest-ing women on Ridge: a grandmother who livesin a full-size teepee she bought in a mail-ordercatalogue, a vagrant named Armstrong whodoes odd jobs and makes collages with politicalstatements like “No War!”, “We ♥ RealHEROES!”, and “No Trash Zone!”

I brought up Mama. A woman waitingoutside the laundromat, Shirley Ferron Bell,joined our conversation. “I always thought shewas a legend,” she said. Bell, now 70, went toWest Philadelphia High School, even thoughher family relocated to South Philadelphia.

Sometime around 1949, Bell and her girl-friends began hearing rumors that Mama wasterrorizing high schools across the city. “Thenone morning we got to school, my girlfriendsand I, and we heard that she was supposed tohit West Philadelphia High School that day.”

The rumor was specific. Mama and hercrew were going to swoop down on the school-yard, tackling and pinning girls and slicing offtheir hair. “The main thing was, if you had longhair, and if you were light skinned,” Bell said.“We heard that she had a gang. They wouldhold you, grab you, hold you while she cut yourhair off.”

The hallways buzzed with the news,spreading fear from girl to girl.

“Everybody was scared because this womanhad been going on about what she did to thegirls,” Bell said. “When you have this hearsayabout this person and she’s going around andyou’re wondering: Nobody had stopped this per-son from doing this? You get mob panic.”

One girl reported the threat to her father, afireman.

“A lot of our parents were professional peo-ple and I think that’s another reason why wewere targeted,” Bell said, “because we thoughtwe were better, you know, that kind of thing.”

Of course, Mama never showed up at WestPhiladelphia High.

cinemaASSORTED

∂

THE BADDEST NEWS (2003) 1 hr. 27 min. Ablack Green Beret has a white buddy who is killed dur-ing Operation Enduring Freedom. After the war, helooks up the white man’s father in rural Maryland buttakes a wrong turn at an intersection. (PG) ★★★★

THROUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS (1998) 1hr. 54 min. A documentary of a peeping tom, shotentirely with a Camcorder. John spends his eveningsprowling around the suburbs of Chicago, hoping forbrief glimpses of people eating dinners, watching TV,or sitting in front of their computers. He is particular-ly thrilled by anything seen through venetian blinds.

John denies that there is a sexual aspect to his obses-sion, but considers himself merely “a naturist,” akin toa bird watcher, or “someone who gathers randomimpressions,” a phrase he claims to have gotten fromDostoevsky. He also evokes Edgar Degas to dignify hisogling at women sitting on toilets. From all this, onemay assume that John is just a lonely creep yearningfor a tender handjob. What a surprise, then, to beintroduced to his gorgeous wife, Gloria, during the lastten minutes of the film. (R) ★★★★

THE CREW (1992) 8 hr. 0 min. It is true that theworld of work is never properly depicted in movies.People are often seen making love, torturing and killingeach other, but never enduring the tedium of work.Further, the occupations that show up most often in themovies are the relatively exciting ones, such as prosti-tuting, soldiering, and firefighting, but never the mind-numbing and unglamorous ones such as accounting orplumbing or collecting trash. If movies refuse toacknowledge the vast netherworld of work, which make

up the bulk of our dreary lives, then can they be said toreflect real life at all? The Crew sets out to rectify thissituation by following a housepainting crew for anentire 8 hour workday. We are introduced to a contrac-tor, Joe, and his five-man crew: Hank, Tony, Chuck, Jeffand Susan. (Yes, there is a woman on this crew. As Joeexplains, “She’s good at doing windows.” And Jeff is aJapanese-American. “He’s good at doing floors.”) Wesee them arriving in the morning, all groggy and hun-gover. We watch as they set up ladders and drop cloths.We observe Hank standing on a 40-foot ladder sandingcornices, Chuck scraping paint from a window, Tonypriming a door, Jeff filling holes in a bedroom, andSusan caulking a baseboard. We hear them banteringand telling racist, sexist, and homophobic jokes. Butmost of the time all we hear are inanities coming froma tinny radio. Bad songs and commercials and RushLimbaugh railing against “pencil necked geeks” andinciting us to go to war. At lunch, we join the crew asthey chow down on cheese steaks and potato chips. We

hear Chuck exclaims: “These potato chips are reallygood!” Then more of the same: scraping, sanding, prim-ing, calking and cleaning brushes. Also more jokes andmore talk radio. As this movie drags on, we keep check-ing our watch while trying not to fall asleep. Finally,after 7 hours and 30 minutes of this endless film, it’sclean up time! and we find ourselves just as relieved asthe rest of the crew. We learn that everyone exceptSusan is going to a strip bar, but we don’t get to followthem there. That’s another movie altogether. (PG)★★★

HOUSEPAINTERS (1997) 8 hr. 0 min. A bald rip offof The Crew, employing professional actors. Instead ofthe many dead spots of the original, we are now treat-ed to meaningful flashbacks, a bloody fistfight, and sev-eral shower scenes. The female of the crew is now atop-heavy bombshell who could never make it up a lad-der in real life. (R) ★ ] —LINH DINH

These reviews are from Dinh’s forthcoming book Blood andSoap (Seven Stories Press, 2004).

Pigeons are everywhere. There is proba-bly no city in the world withoutpigeons, and they all look alike, though

in close inspection, like the diversity of thefaces I see as I ride New York's subway, or inany busy city for that matter, they vary infi-nitely in plumage.

Pigeons are city dwellers. They collectwherever people gather and became urbanized.This is probably for the simple reason thaturban inhabitants provide them with foodcrumbs to which they are drawn and rely on forsurvival. They are good flyers, but they walkaround people, picking feed from the ground. Iknow people who despise pigeons as nuisanceand health hazards. But they are endearing tome. As a city person I feel close to them as fel-low citizens.

So, I like pigeons. I always did. As a child, Ialways had a cat or two in the house that I couldpet; and there were dogs on the streets I couldwatch. As a toddler, I could watch them close.They come near you, walk around you, and theyfeed on whatever food you scatter for them.They stay with you and always come back to youif they fly away, surprised or chased off. Likemost city kids I came to know pigeons, longbefore farm animals and animals in the zoo.

In Tokyo, where I grew up, as in other citiesin Japan, pigeons gathered in temple precincts.Long eaves provided places for them to perchand the surrounding woods to roost. Moreover,since eating while walking was considered ill-mannered in Japan, streets were stingy withprovisions for the birds. Large temples alwayshad visitors—pilgrims and tourists—whowould buy food from the stalls set up in theprecinct and picnicked on the benches,inevitably leaving goodies all over the area. Inless visited temples, like the one in our neigh-borhood, the temple sold peas for feedingpigeons. One of first songs I learned beforekindergarten was about pigeons.

Hato-poppo, hato-poppo, poppo poppo to tondekoi.

Oterano yanekara oritekoi.Mame-o yarukara mina tabeyo.Tabetemo sugu-ni kaerazuni, poppo poppo to

naite asobe.Poppo pigeons, poppo pigeons, coo, coo,

come fly down.Come on down from the temple roof.I'll give you peas, so eat them all.Don't go back afterwards, coo, coo, stay

and play with me.

Hato-poppo is a baby talk for pigeons, andpoppo was how the pegeon's cooing ono-matopoetically sounds to the Japanese ear.Only years later I learned that pigeons aremonogamous for life. I once wondered if theyever engage in extramarital affairs; I'm inclinedto believe not. Deception is more likely a pecu-liarly human disposition.

In Europe, too, pigeons gather in publicsquares and parks where people gather to sitand eat. In American cities pigeons are foundtoday all over the place because Americans,and now more Europeans, too, eat constantlyon the street and scatter abundant supply offood for them.

In my weekly commute between New Yorkand Swarthmore, I usually have forty to fiftyminutes between trains at Philadelphia's 30thStreet Station. I bring my bag lunch which Ieat in the huge concourse, where there arealways a handful of pigeons who manage to flyin and linger. They often come near my benchwaiting hopefully for some crumbs to fall offmy lap or from my hand, more often the latter.They walk gingerly and more awkwardly thanusual, because the marble floor is slippery. Theclaws skid now and then. I know exactly howthey feel. On my walk home after rain from theSwarthmore stop on SEPTA’s R3 line, thereare bluestone pavements. They are very slip-pery, and I walk just like those pigeons, verygingerly because, having osteoporosis, I cannotafford to take a fall.

At the station, more than anywhere else, Isee pigeons limping with a talon or the wholeclaw missing in one leg, seemingly chewed off orchopped off. Is the injury from fighting, an acci-dent on the track, or some disease and infec-tion, I wonder. They are pitiful. Somehow, theyadapt themselves to hopping even on one leg.

There are some on the elevated platforms,too, but fewer now as the station authoritiesput pins on the rafters to prevent pigeons fromperching. Here sparrows compete with pigeonsfor food. They are little but much more agileand aggressive and hop right into the midst ofpigeons, undaunted by their size; and theyoften succeed, flying away with a big morsel inthe beak.

It looks like pigeons don't know how to flywith food in their beaks, unless it is an olivebranch. ]

Ms.Kitao taught art history at Swarthmore Collegefrom 1966 until her retirement in 2001, specializing inRenaissance and Baroque Art. She was born in Tokyo.

When Girl Gangs Ruled South Street“MAMA WAS THE BOSS DOWN HERE ... SHE WAS RUGGED, MAN, RUGGED.”

∂

Ben Katchor’s Hotel & Farm

Pennsylvania’s expansion in the 1960s.It took a while to get to Mama. All Palmer

remembered was this: “She was a woman whowas very, very strong and very, very tough andwas known to fight men.”

He didn’t remember her name. He saidMama was just like a lot of women from toughPhiladelphia neighborhoods. “First of all theywere all loving, caring people,” Palmer said.“They were very strong and they were veryprotective. They’d fight at the drop of a dime.We always had women like that in the neigh-borhood—Baby Sis, Mimi Carson, the EppsSisters.”

After talking to Palmer, I went to DietzHats on South Street, which has since closedshop. These guys were great talkers. They oncesold me a pink gingham trilby with the pitchthat Missy Eliot wore one like it. In their shop,towers of hats and boxes climbed the walls.Co-owner Oscar Pierce always stands near thedoor, hollering at friends across the street orgossiping with stoppers by.

Oscar’s friend, a tall, graceful man namedClaude Gross, cackled when he heard Mama’sname. He rattled off his resume: therapist,drug counselor, SAT tutor, and basketballcoach He is above all a South Philadelphiadiehard. “What else do you need, baby?” hesaid, “I’m everything, I’m all that guy.”

He said, yes, Mama was a gang leader. Sheran Kater Street, an alley that runs intermit-tently between South and Bainbridge. “RanKater Street. Damn near South Philly. Hername was renowned all over Philadelphia.”

Back then, South Street was the commer-cial hub of black Philadelphia. “Till y’allmoved in,” Gross said, winking at me. “Or yourpeople moved in, took over. Till then it was alive street. Speakeasies, shopping on Sundays.Mama was the boss down here.”

I asked what she looked like.

“She was kinda big for a minute,” he said.“Then she got skinny. But she was live and shekept everything tight, if you really want toknow. She was rugged, man, rugged.”

The men standing around us cackled andnudged each other.

Gross sent me up the street, advising me toask in bars along South Street, west of Broad.

I stopped in front of Process Junior’s, a bar-bershop with a perennial crew of men sittingon chairs out front. Owner Amos Florence,also known as Process Junior, is reverentlyknown as the mayor of South Philadelphia.

I gave my spiel. Florence shook his head. Asmall, bespectacled man sitting next to himleaned forward and asked, “Where did you getthat history?”

The man was Barney Richardson.Catholic. Republican. Protector of SouthPhiladelphia history. Richardson, a 68-year-old former construction inspector, is suspiciousof researchers.

“I find that people from the higher educa-tional facilities come into the area and theycome in looking for information,” he said.“And what they do, they write something andthey don’t have any background.” Academics,he said, use psychology “to pick the mind.”

He kept going. I said nothing.“I know who you’re talking about,” he said.

“I knew her family. I knew where she lived. ButI wouldn’t give you the information becauseyou only have a notebook. The notebook is notgood enough.”

I stared down at my spiral pad, my taperecorder. I thought I looked pretty profession-al. But Richardson was challenging my legiti-macy. He assailed me for not having identifica-tion. When I offered to show him my schoolI.D., he said I should have presented it to himfirst thing.

I tried to back up, soothe him by taking hisside. I understand that academics do a lot of

cherry picking, I said. They come in, get thejuicy story, and leave. I swear that’s not mygame.

Somehow, without acknowledging aretreat, Richardson started talking about hischildhood in South Philadelphia. Young peo-ple used to have manners, even if they lolled onthe corner. They wouldn’t curse around womenand respected their elders.

“That’s the real history.”Richardson dropped a few crumbs of infor-

mation about Mama. He and Mama’s brother,Bill, were “the best of friends.” Mama (he callsher Mommy) lived on Kenilworth Streetbetween 12th and 13th, right across from theold Hawthorne pool.

“If you go down there, you’ll find a lot ofinformation,” he said. “You go and doresearch… when you come back, if I think youdid enough research where I can help you, thenI’ll help you. You feed me, I’ll feed you back.”

On my way, I stopped to talk with a dapperman in a black cap. This was 70-year-old BillGreen. “I knew her all my life,” he said ofMama. “I grew up right around the corner, onFitzwater Street.” Mama would be about 70 ifshe were alive today, he told me. She died fouror five years ago.

These tiny blocks of alleys, nestled in thesoutheast quadrant of Broad and South, havecrumbled to near nothingness. Their barrenbrown fields and shanty-shells abut signs ofrebirth just North and East: Whole Foodsbrownstones with bright new brick faces.

In the 1940s and 1950s, these blocks weredivided among black, Italian and Irish neigh-borhoods. Stepping off the wrong curb meantcrossing into enemy turf. “We knew ourground and everybody else knew their ground,”Green said. “This was always a serious neigh-borhood.” Green calls himself “one of the luckyones.” He found a job in the water departmentand moved to North Philadelphia. Green kept

On the PigeonEater of Crumbs, Prey for Felines, Citizen of the World

∂

from MAMA page 1

turn to MAMA, page 7

[ BY T. KAORI KITAO ]

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 7

MIAMI, Fl.—November 20, 2003 is awarm, clear day in Miami, Florida. InsideBayfront Amphitheater, thousands of uniondemonstrators are listening to labor leadersfrom across the western hemisphere denouncethe Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA),a trade agreement being negotiated—at theHotel Intercontinental a few short blocks away.The windows of the Hotel Intercontinentalglisten in the sun, protected from the crowdsby a perimeter fence and ranks of riot police.

At the amphitheater, some orators gesturescornfully toward the hotel. Outside theamphitheater, another group of protestorsstand toe to toe with police. Without warning,rubber bullets and tear gas canisters fly as thepolice line starts an advance. Ushers hurry 60-year-old union retirees through clouds of teargas toward their charter busses.

The proposed FTAA is an immense docu-ment, with sweeping provisions affectingeverything from agricultural subsidies to intel-lectual property. Corporations could sue ininternational tribunal any government thatintervened to soften the social impacts of a freeflow of investment. Trade delegations negoti-ate the FTAA over a growing outcry, most ofall from South American populations alreadysuffering rampant unemployment and inflationcaused by earlier free trade measures.

Increasingly, the governments of thesecountries are standing up to U.S. proposals.The strongest rebuke came recently fromVenezuelan President Hugo Chavez, whocalled the FTAA "a colonial project that seeksto impose itself over the constitution of everysovereign nation." Since civil society itself hasnot been invited to discuss these proposals,unions have turned out en masse to demon-

strate in Miami. The AFL-CIO's ExecutiveCouncil, fearing another NAFTA, urges "ahemispheric social and economic integrationprocess that includes responsibilities, not justrights, for companies."

Miami makes a strangely appropriate back-drop for the FTAA talks. The city's thin skin ofbeachfront hotels and banking industry sky-scrapers stretches around miles of run-downapartments, cramped bungalows, and boardedstorefronts. Immigrants from the Caribbean orCentral America fill these neighborhoods andwork as maids and security guards in the hotelsand skyscrapers, while Cubans from el exilio, theearly 1960s influx following the Cuban revolu-tion, play prominent roles in local politics andbusiness. Elites of this generation are rigidlyconservative, and comfortably perched amongstSouth Florida's older WASP power structure.

Our hemisphere's international debt propsup this sharply divided economy, with even amedium-sized Miami bank holding hundredsof millions of dollars in Central and SouthAmerican loans. The banks thrive on themulti-million dollar interest payments. But lit-tle of this largess trickles down to the janitorswho have emigrated to the United States fromthe debtor countries, some of whom are paid afew dollars an hour to mop the floors of thebanks’ skyscrapers. This possibility expresses asclearly as any public statement the intent ofthe FTAA to create a whole region of finan-cially dependent states with populations avail-able as cheap labor. Miami, which the Bureauof the Census consistently finds the poorestcity in the country, may provide a glimpse intoa future of free trade. Just as the trade talksseem fittingly located here, the activities ofprotestors seem out of place. In a small ware-

to be a Power 99 deejay emceeing the evening’sevents. “Yo Freeway, in the house.” Then, stillon the microphone, to his opponent: “Hey, yousuck at this game, man!”

Immediately I notice there is something,other than Hypnotq, that is missing from thisscene. Jerseys! I approach “Gordon,” a man ina gray velour tracksuit adorned with maroonNBA team logo patches, who says he is anagent-slash-talent manager-slash-barber. He isstanding next to the rapper Freeway, who ispart of Jay-Z’s Roc-A-Fella crew, so I figure hemust be somewhat informed. “You don’t reallysee that many jerseys anymore. Is it because ofthat Jay-Z thing?”

I still have a message on my voice mail herethat Margie Weinreb, a 53-year-old friend andhedge fund analyst, from Scarsdale, N.Y., whoscrutinizes daily updates of the Original Hip-hop Lyric Archive at www.Ohhla.com as theSovietologists must have once followedobscure crop data, left on my voice mail in lateOctober. Margie specializes in footwear andapparel securities.

“Moe, I had to cawl you because I just heardthis new Jay-Z song on Hot 97, and you knowme, I don’t know what any of this stuff means,but I think he said that he wasn’t going to bewearing any more jerseys, that he’s going to startwearing button-ups? Stop laughing at me Moe,I know you’re laughing at me, but listen, if youfind out, tell me and find out what kind of but-ton-ups he’s talking about. The album’s not outyet and I can’t find it anywhere on the Internetbut I figured you would know someone whowould know if you didn't know. Anyway, I thinkit’s ve-rry interesting. Cawl me.”

If other influential figures follow Jay-Z’ssuit in retiring their jersey collections, of courseit would be bad news for Reebok, which in2000 and 2001 agreed pay hundreds of mil-lions of dollars to be the exclusive licensedmanufacturers of NBA and NFL jerseys forthe next ten years. In his jersey-rocking days, ofcourse, Jay-Z preferred those of the throwback,limited-edition $400-plus variety produced byMitchell & Ness, but most of his followersmade do with the $80 to $120 types put out byReebok, and Reebok has profited handsomelyoff the trend for the past two years. Now every-one wants to know when to short the stockwith the ticker symbol RBK. It’s still around itsfifty-two week high. A screaming short atthese levels!! But the shorts have been scream-ing for what, a year now?

Reebok itself has a contract with Jay-Z tomanufacture his Gucci-inspired “S. Carter”sneakers, but just as they could not preventNike from sending him a sample pair ofLeBron’s signature shoes last month, nor couldthey prevent Mr. Hova from lifting up his jeansto model them before ESPN cameras at arecent Cavs game, and they certainly could notprevent Sean Carter from calling the top of thejersey cycle. Fashion is a fickle business.

“Actually, what he said was that he ‘don’twear jerseys, I’m 30-plus, give me a crisp pairof jeans, and a button-up,’” Gordon recites tome, enunciating the relevant lyrics slowly andmoving his fingers, piano key-like, up his chestto signify buttons. He agrees that this lyric,from the song “What More Can I Say,” hasbeen instrumental in dampening the jerseymania. Jason Lutz, the owner of the SneakerVilla chain and host of the party, agrees.

“Jay-Z is basically the Alan Greenspan ofhip-hop fashion. Everyone pretty much knowswhat’s coming, but when he says it, it like,solidifies the trend. Everyone knew we had had

a pretty great two and a half years with jerseysand it was ready to end, but he solidified it.”

Actually, there are quite a lot of LeBronJames 23 jerseys being sported tonight, mostlystrategically augmented XLs on leggy models,and ill-fitting, oddly tucked mediums on thecatering crew and dazed-looking, sometimescornrowed, Caucasian elementary schoolneighbors of the Lutz family, who live inReading. But the deejays and promoters andagents-slash-barbers—the influentials—of thiscrowd mostly appear to be wearing T-shirts,hoodies and button-ups colorfully and intri-cately hand-painted in what look to be …puffy paints. Further investigation yields thatindeed, Miskeen, the Philly-based graffiti col-lective (named after the Arabic word for “pau-per”) that is responsible for the creations, doemploy Tulip-brand 3D fabric paints nearlyidentical to the ones beloved by 8-year-oldDIY fashionistas across the country in 1986.

The men of Miskeen are introduced to meby AGUA, a protégé of famed Philadelphianative graffiti writer ESPO, whose work is likeVan Gogh’s in Japan (when I was there inJanuary, anyway) and LeBron James reported-ly is such a big fan that Nike found it withintheir hearts to allow him to wear—and shill—their T-shirts, despite the $90 million they arepaying him to wear their own attire exclusivelyfor the next seven years. Further investigationyields news that a hot boutique just offRittenhouse Square, Leehe Fai, has also tappedinto the latent hipster puffy-paint demandwith some glitter-Tulip-paint adorned“Naughty” and “Nice” T-shirts it originallyproduced for a holiday window display. AirForce Ones customized with puffy paints arebeing auctioned off for $300 and $400.

A fashion show ensues. Not everyone cansee. Lebron walks onstage, pretending to be justanother, taller, model decked out in puffy paintand Air Zoom Generation L23s. It’s around8:45 p.m.; we have been here for three hours;we are deliriously tired, I clap before realizingit’s King James. He gives Power 99 a lame radiointerview; kids are wild, if only because theyhave to go to the bathroom so badly.

It is then that I notice a familiar pinkBurberry scarf. Margie Weinreb.

“Moe! My god. How are you? I haven’tseen a single JER-sey tonight that wasn’t, youknow, a Lebrawwn jersey! Have you?! Verrr-yinteresting! Did you see Nike’s earnings today?They were good, but not as good as you-know-who inferred they would be! They beat expec-tations by seven cents but a lot of it was, youknow, the currency!! Stock was down in after-hours trading!! But we still made money off it!!And Footstar’s going eleven, and it’s verrr-yinteresting!! FootAction on 34th Street is hav-ing a party for this shoe tomorrow night, but Idon’t think Nike’s even shipping to them any-more!! Champs and Foot Locker are gettingtheir product these days! Verrr-y interesting!"

I ask Margie what she makes of theMiskeen T-shirts. “Oh, those are already in thevideos. I don’t know how they’d mass-producethem, though,” she says, a touch dismissively.

LeBron is supposed to show up later atClub Zero; we’re too weary to wait. Hundredsof people buy shoes with their vouchers.Margie waits around to have a word with Jasonabout what’s selling. He’s seen Nike’s springcollection. “It’s supposed to be huge, and in-cred-ible” she says, with a hint of skepticism.“We’ll see.” ]

Maureen Tkacik is a staff writer atPhiladelphia Magazine and a former reporter forthe Wall Street Journal.

His Majesty HustlesShoefuls of Air∂

house decorated with hand-lettered banners inEnglish and Spanish, activists engage in a tan-gle of simultaneous meetings, briefings, train-ings, and media makings. A group beingtrained as legal observers huddles in one cor-ner. Reporters for independent media uploadphotos and type fitfully on laptops.Puppetistas put finishing touches on puppetsfor street theater, working in a makeshift spacebetween the makeshift kitchen and themakeshift clinic.

The activists have arrived to find the entiredowntown shut down for the week. Policeblockade the warehouse on the evening ofNovember 20, and the Citizens TradeCampaign office the following day. Whenasked why he has stopped six protesters walk-ing on the sidewalk, a police officer replies,“Are you trying to escalate this? I'm just exer-cising my rights,” Leading up to the protests,the New York Times Magazine published anarticle wondering “How do activists do some-thing that doesn't end up merely highlightingtheir own powerlessness?” In Miami, however,a victory was already won in the months oforganizing and education beforehand.

Weeks before the talks began, U.S. negotia-tors signaled they would accept a scaled-downproposal along lines proposed by Brazil.Countries could pick and choose provisions fromthe agreement in a sort of "FTAA a la carte."South American countries that fought for thismajor concession could opt out of provisionspractically guaranteed to wreck their economies.

The article in the Times observed of anoth-er recent failed round of trade talks, "it wasn'tthat the protesters had created the predica-ment; it seemed more as if they had merelyentered one, assembled there and made someresounding noise." In the best cases, this"noise" opens space for public discourse anddissent. When negotiators quit a day early inMiami, no protestor stopped to celebrate thefaltering FTAA. Instead, they staged a rally atthe city jail demanding release of those arrest-ed the day before. Police helicopters hoveredoverhead, silhouettes in the Florida sunset. ]

Greg Will is a freelance cartographic analyst(read: unemployed). He recently moved toPhiladelphia from Richmond, Virginia.

“I have never heard of one person that sheactually cut their hair off,” Bell said. “When Igot older, I said, well, I decided it was justanother urban myth.”

“She’s lying,” said Barney Richardson.Halfway through our second interview,

I had brought up Bell’s story, hoping to triggermore of his memories. But Richardson gotangry. He accused Bell, whom he had nevermet, of fabricating a memory of hearingrumors about Mama. I was astonished.

This frustrating conversation had been along time coming. After talking to Bell, Burns,and the old men on Kenilworth, I had returnedto Richardson’s shop to see if he thought I’ddone enough research for him to help me more.I rang the buzzer on his storefront every day formore than a week. I left messages at the shopnext door and haunted the barbershop askingafter him. I finally caught sight of him one dayas he was walking back from Whole Foods.

He took me into his shop, past the frontroom crammed with old radios and cameras hebuys and sells on Ebay, and into the backkitchen. He filled an hour of tape with a lushpastiche of life in South Philadelphia. Herarely spoke of himself, instead describingmusic and dance halls, the Catholic church,and how things changed. When we got toMama, he couldn’t remember her name.

He told me Mama used to dance withother kids from the neighborhood in the club-house at Seger Playground at 10th andLombard. She ran the girls’ division of a gangled by a boy named Lenny Rhimes. Theirfights were petty. They’d “go around the cor-ner,” Richardson said, and deal with a slightmade on the school playground. Or they’d con-front a strange girl, maybe from another neigh-borhood, who showed up at a dance.

“They might have had reefer,” he said, “butthey didn’t sell it.”

I thought Bell’s story would bring out moredetail. When Richardson accused her of lying,I became incredulous. I argued with him, andwe both got a little angry.

He scolded that I shouldn’t trust peoplejust because they’re old and come from a cer-tain neighborhood.

“Nobody in this area can tell you anythingabout anything in this area except me,” he said.“Everybody else jumps on the bandwagon.”

This led Richardson to talk about how theArchdiocese of Philadelphia had stolen St.Peter Claver, a traditionally black CatholicChurch at 12th and Lombard, from its histor-ical parishioners. The church is one ofRichardson’s causes. He writes a lot of letterson the subject to the diocese. He said Mamaused to go to St. Peter Claver. Relaxed onceagain, Richardson offered me some cranberryjuice and promised to talk with me soon.

Richardson isn’t as haughty as he acts.Sure, he claims sole authority on the past. Butonly because he’s scared that you won’t checkwith him first. I stop by his place whenever I’mnear South Street. A couple of times, he’scalled me to see how things are going with thestory When I went to Oregon over the sum-mer, he had me bring him a jar of huckleberryjam.

What Richardson doesn’t understand isthat no one can be an expert on the past. We allremember things wrong. Some people remem-ber creatively. Used in conjunction with otherforms of evidence, memories can tell part of astory. But I would question any attempt to tellhistory solely through the sentimental recollec-tions of old codgers. Even if Mama’s sister hadagreed to talk to me, my story would still beincomplete, even wrong.

Memories aren’t useless, though. They laybare the lives of the people who covet them,and expose our dependence on the past.

A few weeks ago, I went through St. PeterClaver’s baptismal records. I called Richardsonwith the names I found—Cornelia Hall, bornFebruary 8, 1930, and Mabel Elizabeth Hall,born November 17, 1927—and he soundedimpressed that I was still on the case. He saidhe’d make a few calls and find Mama’s realname.

He called a few days later to say he hadn’tfound anything. ]

Angela Valdez lives in Philadelphia. She canbe reached via email at angiev925@aol.com.

SLUMLORDS OF THE HEMISPHEREA Dispatch from Miami’s Free Trade Talks

∂

[ BY GREG WILL ]

MUNCIPAL AU THORI T Y

from MAMA page 6

BANKERS RADIO TIMONEY FOR BACKUP

THOM LESSNER

from LEBRON page 1

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 8 WINTER 2004

WHERE NO HOUSE STANDS ALONE

restaurants. It's a mellow city with a happeningnightlife (this is where the Saudis come to cutloose, after all), but even during Ramadanthere's the impression that business is gettingdone.

Tonight the streets are alive. It's only a fewblocks from our parking spot behind the stockexchange building to the warren of narrowalleys that constitutes the old souq, but wewalk them in the company of dozens of otherArabs all headed in the same direction. I lopealong behind Najeeb from square to square,followed by Moniem and a melismatic sound-track of Arabic music. It's as crowded as anAmerican subway at rush hour and I have todip my shoulder between passers-by to keepup. I am the only white guy in sight, but no oneseems to notice.

We stop on a corner where a man is servingsomething Tang-like in little plastic cups, butwhen I try to pay the cousins laugh at me. Thecrowd is lighter here, but they are still comingand going in all directions as if headed to arock concert maybe, stopping to greet eachother in the street or not stopping but justsmiling and waving as they go past. At the endof the street I can see a building that's some-how grand and squat at the same time, its soar-ing face a brilliant aquamarine festooned withtall ornate Arabic writing in white and gold.Most of the people passing by are eitherwomen in black abaya or men in white dish-dasha, the heel-length robe that is the standardmen's uniform in the Arab Gulf (though bothMoniem and Najeeb wear American-styleclothes). A couple of girls go by in the longrobes and headscarves that leave only theirfaces revealed. Najeeb stares after them hun-grily and asks me if I think they look nice.

Moniem is otherwise occupied. "There arenot that many paintings," he tells me, lookingdisappointed, and it takes me a moment torealize he's referring not to art in a gallery but

to paintings like the one on the banner beingcarried toward us by two young men, of abearded Muslim preacher or prophet or maybeeven an ayatollah. “Maybe we see some music,”Moniem says. And as if on cue, a little cart likea laundromat wagon comes trundling aroundthe corner with a loudspeaker teetering on apole sticking out of it, powered by a car batteryand tended by two young men in black slacksand black button-down shirts, broadcastingthe words of the bearded, black-robed manwho leads them. A phalanx of clarinetists, alsoin black, follows along, joined here and thereby a trumpet or two, all tootling the samedirge-like Arabic melody, and between themand the imam's sermon—it's enough to drownout all the other noise on the street and focusmy attention completely on the scene.

The musicians march four abreast but thestreet is only eight or ten feet wide, andNajeeb's would-be girlfriends scamper down aside alley to get out of the way. Everyone elsestands to one side or another and as themarchers go past, I suddenly find myselfpressed into a doorway, transfixed by the musi-cians’ clamor and then by the long double col-umn of men who follow behind them. Theycome in a slow, leg-swinging pantomime of amarch, all dressed in black (some in what couldpass for business attire, some in jeans andAC/DC tour shirts), and all in their 20s and30s and 40s, neither too young nor too old, thesame solemn expression on each man's face.Each one carries a short bundle of chains fixedto a wooden handle, and as he rotates his torsothrough each step, he throws one arm over theopposite shoulder to deliver himself a ceremo-nial blow.

Once I get the hang of Moniem's English, Iunderstand that we're out on the night of theMuslim year that commemorates the martyr-dom of Imam Ali, who founded the Shiite sectof Islam in the Seventh century and who is

apparently buried in Iraq's holy city, Najaf. Themen performing the ceremonial self-flagella-tion known as latmiyaat are expressing thesect's 1,350-year-old grief—much asChristians commemorate Christ's death andresurrection at Easter (or did, until the vapidbunnies and painted eggs got the better ofthem).

The streets of Manama are a million milesaway from Manhattan and art galleries andinsipid wine-guzzling scenesters—thougheven crowded into the doorway with a strangereligious procession swirling through the nightstreets in front of me, I can't help feelingmomentarily like a five o'clock-shadowed BradPitt in the second act of a multi-million-dollarfilmed-on-location epic of love, loss and badline readings. When the procession passes, myco-stars and I wander on through the roughhodgepodge of three- and four-story white-washed buildings. Thin short alleys let ontosmall rectangles of open space where kids runaround and kick balls while the adults chat likefriendly neighbors on the sidelines of a Fourthof July parade. Where five streets meet andsomehow form a square, more than a hundredwomen dressed in black are seated on theground, listening to the story of Imam Ali’slife. A more vitriolic sermon emerges from amosque that appears suddenly, recessedbetween two buildings across the street from arow of storefronts. Amid the rapid-fire Arabic,one semi-familiar word surfaces from time totime: Amreeka. America. The security warningsreturn to my mind, but in this crowd I some-how feel more safe than threatened. This is nota place where Westerners might congregate,after all. "Don't worry," Moniem tells me. "It isGeorge Bush they do not like, not you."

Without my noticing, we've wandered backtoward the car. The crowds have thinned out abit, the procession has broken up. The breezecoming off the Manama waterfront, a blockaway, is downright cool. "What do you want todo now?" Moniem asks me. I hardly have ananswer. Najeeb breaks in: “Let's go to themall.”

Seef Mall, about a mile away, strikes me as—well, it's a mall. A vast multi-level indoor air-conditioned mall as up-to-date as any inAmerica, filled with name brands, screaming

sible, keeping almost Spanish hours, and doingas little as possible during the day before clos-ing up shop around 2 p.m. to head home andwait for the sun to set and the food fest tobegin again. The restaurants are closed all day,and it's illegal for even Westerners like myselfto eat, drink or smoke outside.

Far be it from me, a non-denominationalAmerican in a Muslim nation at a time ofunprecedented tension, another bombing nextdoor in Saudi Arabia, and scary-soundingsecurity warnings—stuff like “avoid placeswhere Westerners might congregate”—far be itfrom me to step on my hosts' highly inconven-ient religious practices by inconsideratelyindulging my hunger pangs in public. Hencethe clandestine chocolate bar.

When I get a call from Moniem, an enthusi-astic young stockbroker I've met at a Ramadansupper given by the stock exchange (theirChristmas party, more or less), I'm ambivalentabout going out. But it's only in New York thatI've ever been actually assaulted, and hey, howmany times am I going to be in Manama on aSaturday night? So at 9:30 I meet him in thelobby of my hotel and we pile into his cousinNajeeb's Suzuki Vitara and head downtown forwhat sounds to me like a gallery opening. "Wecan go see some paintings," Najeeb, a back-office accountant, tells me. And all I can thinkis how fitting it is, somehow, that I should findManhattan culture being imitated so far fromNew York.

It takes about two minutes to drive to down-town Manama from my hotel. It takes abouttwo minutes to drive pretty much anywhere inBahrain, an island about thirty miles long andonly ten across. Most of the country's 750,000citizens live in Manama, at the northeast tip,but a few towns are sprinkled further down thedusty island, as are a U.S. naval base, a lushlyirrigated golf course, and, weirdly, the MiddleEast's first Formula 1 racing circuit.

The city itself is a mix of Financial DistrictModern and two- and three-story ColonialStucco buildings of the kind found fromManila to Mozambique. Aspiring boulevardsemanate from honking traffic circles only tobog down in one-lane back streets that windaround mosques, souqs, tea shops and grill

children and teenage girls—much to Najeeb'sdistraction. At the Dairy Queen I have afalafel-burger and marvel at how far down thefast-food chain Bahrain reaches: there's DQand Burger King, but there's also Cinnabon,Bennigan's, Ponderosa Steakhouse, and even,weirdly, a Seattle's Best Coffee. I'm a bit shell-shocked by the transition from centuries-oldceremony to 21st century commerce, but it'ssoon clear we're here mostly for Najeeb's ben-efit. He ducks into a cosmetics store to flirtwith the girl at the register. He has a "girl-friend," whom he'll most likely marry, he tellsme, but she's still a teenager and he sees heronly about a half dozen times a year. He prefersthe idea of love American-style. Despite hisfrustration, the impression I have is that hegets to try his hand at it often enough.

It's getting late. The cousins suggest we takein a movie at the mall's 16-plex. "JohnnyDepp," Najeeb nods approvingly at a Pirates ofthe Caribbean poster. But the last thing I wantto do in Bahrain is sit through an Americanmovie.

Not that an American movie is at all out ofplace here. The Gulf has its share of Americanrestaurants, American products, Americanattitudes and ambition (while I am in Bahrain,Najeeb is head-hunted away to a new job afteronly two days at his old one) and Americaninstitutions like the mall, the gigaplex movietheater and the AC/DC T-shirt. Perhaps that'spart of the problem, but not everyone sees itthat way.

On the ride back to my hotel, BackstreetBoys blaring from the Vitara's speakers, Ithank the cousins for showing me a slice ofIslam I probably never would have found onmy own. This sparks a discussion of “living theMuslim way,” which Moniem and Najeebdescribe as a life in harmony with one's fel-lows—something they find lacking in the Arabworld. “Here is violence, discrimination, badfeeling between Shia and Sunni,” Najeeb says.Moniem agrees.

“Here we are not living the Muslim way,”Najeeb tells me. “Only in America do you findpeople living like true Muslims.” ]

Mark Wallace is a freelance writer in New Yorkand an editor of the fortnightly Gulf StatesNewsletter.

Persian Gulf Holiday∂

“IT IS GEORGE BUSH THEY DO NOT LIKE, NOT YOU.”

from BAHRAIN page 1

BarDAWSON’S PUB, MANAYUNK

∂

Dawson’s Pub (100 Dawson Street, at the cor-ner of Cresson) is a gem of a bar, hidden up

the hill and across the tracks from Manayunk’sMain Street. It's not exactly surprising that the barhasn't fallen victim to the upscaling of Manayunk'srestaurant scene: Dawson's is not exactly the easi-est place in the world to get to, a good thing fromthis guy's perspective. For the record, if you're com-ing from downtown Philadelphia, the best way toget there is to bear right and up the hill whereRidge Avenue and Main Street fork, hanging avery hard left onto Vassar Street, which abruptlyends and becomes Cresson. Dawson's sits directlyacross from the R6 tracks.

Dawson's front room is dimly lit but welcom-ing, aglow with the requisite Christmas lights. Thebar, which stretches about thirty feet before meet-ing the pool table, dominates the room. Atop adusty piano, an ancient PA system provides ampli-fication for bands that play in a small alcove in theevening. The beer refrigerator is stocked with animpressive array of expensive and not-so-expen-sive brands. A small kitchen produces surprisinglygood food at decent prices (I don't think anythingon the menu costs more than $8.00). The Caesarsalad I ate was large and lightly (although blandly)dressed. The hand-cut seasoned fries served withthat burger were spicy and had me ordering morebeer to wash them down with, and the chickenbreast was also well worth it. Dawson's frequentlyhas specials available as well.

But enough of the menu: the food isn't the rea-son I go to Dawson's, it's the hand-drawn local beer.If you haven't had hand-pumped beer, you are miss-ing out on one of life's pleasures. Rather than pres-surizing the beer with carbon dioxide, hand-pumped beers are allowed to condition in the keg.The result is a little less carbonation and a lot moreflavor. On any given night at Dawson's, you candrink three or four freshly-made offerings fromStoudt’s, Yards, and Victory. Hand-pumped beerisn't for everyone: it's thicker and stronger-tastingthan your typical draught beer. However, if you can'thandle the richness, Dawson's regular taps offerAnchor, Stoudt’s, and Yuengling among others.

If you're planning on going to Dawson's, youshould make your visit in the afternoon or go byautomobile, as SEPTA will leave you strandedafter 11:00 p.m., which is too bad, because if anybar is worth the trip to Manayunk, Dawson's is it.] —BRENDAN SKWIRE

crossroadsmusic

philadelphiacrossroads

root and branch

nada brahmathe world is sound

Philadelphia’s leadingcommunity-based venuefor traditional, ethnic,

international and relatednoncommercial music

48th Street and Baltimore Avenue in West Phillywww.crossroads.calvary-center.org • 215-729-1028

a program of the calvary center for culture and community

FROM LATIMER ST. TO THE U.S. OLYMPIC TEAM

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 9

Might Jennifer Shahade be Philadelphia’s Greatest Living Athlete?∂

the sexualization of women in chess. There areso few women playing, but one way that willoften promote the game is to show pictures ofpretty women playing chess. The most famousplayer in the world now, except for GarryKasparov, is this girl Alexandra Kosteniuk,who’s known as the Anna Kournikova of chess.

Rubin: Can you talk a little about the queen?Shahade: The queen used to be the weakestpiece on the board. In medieval chess, thequeen moved diagonally, one square at a time.And then when they increased the abilities ofthe queen—which was during the reign ofQueen Isabella—the game got faster. Before,one game would go on for hours, because nothaving the queen to checkmate is very difficult.And the pawn would only promote to a queen,but that wasn’t even a good thing. It was reallydifficult to checkmate. I think the queen is avery interesting piece in that way. The interest-ing thing is that the stronger you become, themore you realize that there are a lot of situa-tions in which you can sacrifice the queen, notfor a checkmate, but for a rook and a piece, orthree pieces. In those situations where you fig-ure out positions in which sacrificing thequeen is a good long term decision, it alwaysfeels really great, because one of the first thingsyou learn as a beginner is how strong the queenis, that it’s better than anything else.

So if you can make that transition then youkind of feel like a hero, because suddenly it’slike “yeah, you have a queen, but what can youdo with it?” So material imbalances are alwaysinteresting like that. They don’t happen thatoften because they require risks on both sides,but when they do happen, it’s always reallyexciting, it’s almost like you’re playing a differ-ent game, because the rules are suddenly dif-ferent. You don’t have anything to go on, soyou use whatever creativity you have at themoment. The queen used to not even be afemale. In the Arabic name the Queen wascalled a masculine name, meaning the helperof the king or the messenger. But then, whenthe game came to Europe the queen startedturning up with the feminine gender. This wasbefore her powers were changed.

Rubin: You and Irina Krush did an interestingthing at an art gallery. What was that like?Shahade: That was a lot of fun. I dressed in allblack, she dressed in all white and we playedthis match and it was just really fun, because Ipersonally loved the art that was on the walls—abstract art, very colorful canvases—a reallybeautiful space with open windows looking outon Chelsea. I was psyched that I was able topresent this match in a more artistic contextbecause I think that the visual spectacle ofchess is often not really considered, and I likethat we did that. Even without the costumes itis kind of a funny thing that you don’t reallythink about. When people who don’t reallyknow anything about chess come to a chesstournament, their first thought is always“What is this? Two people just sitting for sixhours, it’s so strange.” And the strangeness of itis brought to light when you have it in thatcontext.

Rubin: How do you feel about playing chessonline? Are you attached to the aesthetics ofthe pieces?Shahade: I don’t like playing chess online. Imean I do it sometimes. It’s good practice, butit’s not the same. The tactile elements are

extremely gratifying to me. I like that. I likehitting the clock, touching the pieces.

Rubin: Do you have a favorite player?Shahade: I like Judit Polgar because she’s awoman and she’s really aggressive and she winsbrilliantly, and I like Kasparov. I like Kasparovbecause he does so much for chess. He’s alwaysgiving interviews, writing autobiographies andhistories of chess, and meanwhile he’s playinggreat games.

Rubin: You covered Kasparov’s matches withDeep Blue for Chess Life. What are yourthoughts on those games?Shahade: I always hate for the computer to winbecause Kasparov plays so much better, somuch more aesthetically. The computer playsall these ugly moves. Kasparov tries to play theperfect move, whereas the computer’s just play-ing pretty good moves, but as long as Kasparovmakes one mistake, those pretty good movescould be enough. Striving for perfection is so

much more inspiring to me. The computer justlooks for the move that increases the numberof points that it has on its little box in the cor-ner, and sometimes that results in moves thatare very unaesthetic.

Rubin: And then there’s the whole psycholog-ical aspect of the game.Shahade: The more you use psychology, thebetter. The more you think about what youropponent’s thinking, what your opponentwants, that your opponent is also nervous—those are good things to think about. Becauseit’s true. That’s the way it is. You’re not the onlyone playing. There’s someone there with an egowho is also playing you.

Rubin: How stressful is playing?Shahade: It’s a crazy amount of stress, especial-ly because I get into time pressure. SometimesI feel like I’ve taken years off my life after agame. I’m like “What am I doing to myself?”because of the time pressure, because I escalatethings, because you know that you can make areally dumb move and lose the game in a sec-ond. And I think people are addicted to theintensity, like people who are drama queens in

relationships. It’s a drama thing. You just can’thelp yourself even though you know it’s not thebest way to go.

Rubin: Is your chess personality different fromyour real life personality?Shahade: For me, it’s pretty consistent. I likefireworks and intensity on the board and offthe board. I’m young and I’m living in NewYork. I mean, what else?

Rubin: Is there anything you want to say topeople who don’t play chess and are interestedin learning?Shahade: You don’t have to be smart. I should-n’t let out that secret, huh? I try to perpetuatethis myth of my intelligence. It helps to besmart, but really it’s like a language in a lot ofways. It’s more about immersion and just play-ing and liking it. If you have an attraction to it,then that probably means you’re good at it.

Rubin: Is there anything you think might sur-

prise people who aren’t yet interested in play-ing chess? Something worth finding in thegame?Shahade: One thing that makes chess so com-pelling is the delicate balance between tacticsand strategy, intuition and calculation, figur-ing things and realizing that you can’t figurethings out and that you have to rely on yourintuition. I think that that balance is reallyinteresting and can appeal to any level, espe-cially at the high level. There’s also an aesthet-ic sensibility, like a positional sense. All thisstrategic or positional thinking is kind of anaesthetic feeling. Like, I can’t say that myknight is better here than there, but I can kindof feel that it’s better. So I think that everyonethinks about chess as something for mathe-maticians because of the calculation, but Ithink that it’s also something that couldappeal to artists because of these aestheticconsiderations.

Rubin: Any thoughts on what it’s like to winand what it’s like to lose?Shahade: They’re very specific emotions. Youdon’t feel grief when you lose. It’s more likewrenching incompetence or something like

“How could I be so dumb?” And that’s alwaysa nice time to talk to someone who doesn’tknow what chess is. Winning is a very specificfeeling too. It’s almost like euphoria, but it’smore even-keeled than that. It’s just like a gen-eral kind of feeling good about yourself.

Rubin: Is there a phase of the game that’s yourfavorite?Shahade: I like middlegames. I’m probablybest at them, but I also like the simplicity ofendgames. Like, before I was talking aboutthat tension between the tactics and the strat-egy; in endgames it’s pure tactics because youactually know what’s going on. And I find thatcomforting sometimes. The opening is kind ofstressful because you know if you’re playing ata professional level someone might play anopening that you’re not comfortable with andthat’s actually a weakness in my playing. I’mtoo stressed out about the opening. In the backof your mind somewhere you’re worried thatyou’ll make the wrong move and you’ll justhave to suffer the whole game. I don’t think it’sanyone’s favorite stage, actually.

Rubin: Have you noticed any traits that arecommon to chess players?Shahade: The ability to concentrate. They’reusually pretty rational, logic-minded people.There are certain ways in which they’re intelli-gent. A lot of skepticism, too. Not a lot of newage or super-religious people in chess. A lot ofatheists, a lot of rational people. Maybebecause a lot of players are from the SovietUnion, and you might have to play on Saturdayor Sunday. Playing chess doesn’t seem to govery well with being super religious or spiritu-al, it seems like an existential pursuit, like “Idon’t know what to do with my life, I’m justgoing to enjoy this very beautiful and decadentgame.” There are exceptions. Duchamp was agreat chess player. He was fanatically interest-ed in it. He was obsessed with movement, andthought that the movement of the pieces in theminds of chess players was pure and beautiful.

Rubin: If you could change the way chess isintegrated into life and what the scene is like,what would you like to see happen?Shahade: I would like to see more women. Iwould like more diverse chess activities, likethe match that Irina and I played. To develop achess culture, we need to have people who areinterested in chess not just for the sake of beinggreat competitors, because that takes a hugeamount of time and effort. But there are otherways that it can be interesting, either as a spec-tacle, or for its psychological and philosophicalpotential. Chess used to have more of a tradi-tion in the artistic community, and I’d like tosee that come back. I’d like to see it on ESPN.I really think we’ve got ourselves quite the anti-intellectual culture right now. I like the idea ofencouraging a more intellectual culture. Chessis a model for that.

Rubin: What’s your strategy for teaching chessto young girls?Shahade: Well, it’s really hard. Say you havetwo or even four hours a week with a group ofkids. That’s not a lot of time if they’re reallygoing to get into chess. The most importantthing is to get them to feel those end-in-them-selves that I spoke of earlier. Just feeling shiversor pleasure from a certain position, where theysuddenly see a beautiful sacrifice. So if I can getthat glint in their eyes that’s a very important

but I didn’t really get serious about the gameuntil I was in high school.

Rubin: What made you start taking it seriously?Shahade: I didn’t really know what I wanted todo in elementary school and junior high. It’snot so easy for a girl when you’re in elementaryschool, no other girls are playing and you wantto do something where you can have fun withother girls. When I was in eighth grade, Iplayed really well in one tournament and I justgot excited all of a sudden. By the time I was inhigh school, I had my own motivations. I did-n’t care so much what other people thought.

Rubin: So winning had something to do withyour getting more seriously involved?Shahade: Oh, definitely. You’ve probably readabout my brother and my father. When I wasvery weak, they were already masters. So I waskind of intimidated and felt like the naturalcourse of the family would be for me to dosomething else, then I went to this tournamentand I was doing well, and it didn’t matter thatthey were so much stronger than me. In fact, itbecame kind of a good thing. My brother andfather were supportive of me when I started toget serious. So was my mom, who’s a professorat Drexel and also a games player, mostlybridge and poker.

Rubin: Is there any trend of play that youcould say is gender-specific?Shahade: A lot of people say that women aremore aggressive, which I think might be true,but I think that’s because women are playing ata slightly weaker standard at the very top. Thetop ten women in the world are about 2500ELO and the top ten men in the world areabout 2700 ELO. Judit Polgar is 2700, but theother top women are 2500. Players at 2500tend to be slightly more aggressive, whereas at2700 you’re a little bit more balanced and solid.Now, of course, many 2700 players are alsoextremely aggressive, but they know when tosay when.

Rubin: What did you write about in your book?Shahade: I try to expose certain things likewhat we were just talking about. For example,when people used to talk about playing chesslike a girl they meant to play passively, but sud-denly they saw that these women were actuallyplaying extremely aggressively. So instead, theyhave to find some way to devalue this. So nowit becomes “Oh, women are playing hysterical-ly.” I mean really, people say things like this.Like, “women play too aggressively. They’recrazy.” Whereas just ten years ago, or even inthe parks where people are unaware of the waythat women play, people will still say playinglike a girl is playing passively. It’s like, eitherway you lose. Really, my goal is to portray thestories, accomplishments, and thoughts ofwomen around the world who play chess in apositive light.

Rubin: What issues interest you most withinthe topic of women and chess?Shahade: The topics that interested me themost going into it were obsession and highlyfocused activities like chess, the overwhelmingresponse from both women and men being thereason that women aren’t good at chess isbecause they’re not as obsessive as men, andmaybe that’s a good thing. And maybe men arejust crazy to spend so much time on chess. Tobecome good at things, and to create whateverit is you want to create, like writing or music ora great chess game, you have to spend a lot oftime alone working on it. I don’t think it’s thatspecific to chess, actually. The one thing thatmight be slightly specific to it, which is why Ithink people malign it even more for women,is the uselessness of chess, the lack of utility.

Rubin: So does chess have a utility? Does itextend beyond the board?Shahade: Chess helps with things like commu-nication and concentration, but I guess whatI’m not sure about is whether it’s an end-in-itself. I mean it’s definitely pleasurable. Thereare certain moments when you’re playing, orwhen you’re analyzing, that you see certainvariations and then it’s just a very aestheticexperience. I feel like having passion for some-thing like chess—because chess was the firstthing I was really passionate for—is a goodmodel for being passionate about other things,like the kind of shivers that you feel when yousee a really beautiful combination or a well-played game, which do feel like ends-in-them-selves in the moment for sure. It kind ofreminds you of what you should feel like inother situations, in relationships, in looking atart, in being alive, and personally, I really liketo lose my sense of the past and the future. It’snice to live in the present and when you’replaying chess that often happens.

Rubin: So it’s like a meditation.Shahade: Yeah, exactly. And that’s good prac-tice for other things also. I’m also interested in

thing, because maybe they’ve never felt thatway about something before. Even if they don’tstay with chess forever, maybe they’ll be able torecognize that feeling in something else.

Rubin: You talk a lot about the aesthetic aspectof chess. Are you an artist? You are a writer.What role does writing play for you?Shahade: I love writing. One thing that I defi-nitely have in writing that maybe chess hashelped me with is the ability to recognize thosezone moments. Like when you’re really focusedand you’re just writing and like an hour lateryou’re like “Wow, I really got some work done,cool.” I recognize how to get there and how tokeep going. I don’t really identify as a chessplayer or a writer or an artist. It’s for other peo-ple to make that decision.

Rubin: I’m curious about those moments inchess relating to the moments in writing.Shahade: Oh, yeah. In moments in art appre-ciation, or in relationships or anything.

Rubin: So it almost taps you into a visceralacknowledgment of when you’re in the zone orwhen you’re onto something.Shahade: Exactly. I think it’s sexy. I don’t likeanything that’s not sexy. Sometimes, I’m read-ing something and I can’t figure out why Idon’t like it and then I realize that there’s nosex in it at all. And it’s not really sex, but a kindof passion. Sex is just a more controversial wayto put it.

Rubin: Maybe that’s why Garry Kasparovdoesn’t like those end game positions you weretalking about.Shahade: Maybe. Yeah. Garry Kasparov hasmore energy than anyone. Even in photos youcan tell he takes up so much space, so muchenergy—it’s like rays of light emanating. In mybook, I talk a lot about genius. I feel like there’san overestimation of genius, which is connect-ed with the idea that to be a chess champion,you have to have genius. I’m against the con-cept of genius. I’m not saying that genius does-n’t exist, but I’m really wary of overestimatingit, because I think by overestimating geniusyou kind of underestimate everybody’s abilityto excel at the things that they’re passionateabout.

When you say “that person’s a genius,” it’smythologizing, like “let’s just put this personup here and not try to understand what gotthem there.” I think it’s much more interestingto ask “what kind of passion does GarryKasparov have to have so much energy and putit all into this game and then also exude it out-ward,” rather than to say “yeah, well he’s kindof like a freak genius.” It disadvantages womentoo, overestimating genius. Historically,“genius” is etymologically a male word, aRoman god that watches over man and hiswork. If you think that genius is really impor-tant and that it overrides any circumstances,then if you unpack that a little bit, you’re alsosaying, “Well, why haven’t more women risenabove it? They must just not be geniuses.”Whereas really that’s kind of a mythology andthey weren’t given those opportunities. That’sanother reason I think women in China are sogood, because I think that that mythologydoesn’t figure in as prominently there.

Rubin: What purpose do you think the con-struction of the concept of genius serves?Shahade: Well, Julia Kristeva, a feminist theo-rist, wrote that we invented genius so as not todie of equality. There’s something very roman-tic about thinking that some people areendowed with these magical gifts. And I’m alsokind of excited by the mythology of it, but Ifind it even more exciting to think about it interms of passion and not in terms of genius. Ithink it’s a much more positive way of lookingat it.

Rubin: What is it about chess that makes itsuch a great outlet for passion? Is it tangled upin the violence and competition inherent inchess? Some people would look at chess andsay “That’s not sexy. It’s just people moving lit-tle things around.”Shahade: It’s a pretty self-contained thing, andyou’re pouring all your energy into it.

Rubin: Do you find that after a game is overyou can walk away from it very easily, or does ithaunt you? Especially if you’ve lost?Shahade: Oh it haunts, it haunts. That’s whyit’s really nice to have a lot of friends in and outof the chess world. If I’ve had a really terriblegame I just try to hang out with some non-chess players, because they won’t understand. Ican enter into another universe. No, it’s reallyhard. I’ve had some really bad times … it’s notlike a deep depression. It’s just like a lingeringannoyance, like a toothache.

Rubin: Do you find you’re underestimated forbeing a girl?Shahade: No, because most people will know

from CHESS page 1

In March, Shahade (right) played a demonstration match against Irina Krush (left), another top U.S. player, in the Viewing Room, an art gallery in Manhattan, New York.

Shahade executes the Double Palm Glare, a technique made famous by Gary Kasparov.

turn to CHESS, page 11

PHOTO: PAUL TRUONG

Q UARTER THE WORLD INTO FOUR SQ UARE PARTS, EACH OF EQ UAL SIZE. REP EAT. REP EAT. PLAY.

provincialism. He meant this in a literal sense,rather than the derogatory sense that I natu-rally attach to it. “About being provincial,” heexplained to me in a recent email, “I think thata writer should have an intimate relationshipwith a place, let it get under his skin, know itover time.” It’s interesting how words are fil-tered through our own experiences, how theytake on nuances. I tend to associate provincial-ism with a sort of snow globe image of theworld. This place, Philadelphia, is where Iexist. For me, it is both finite and infinite. Therest of the world is a story that I am told, afairy tale. Linh’s reading of the word is closerto the dictionary definition. “I am not advo-cating provincialism over cosmopolitanism,”he went on to tell me. “I'm only emphasizingthat a writer should know at least one placereally well.”

In 1999, Linh moved back to Viet Nam.He became part of the literati there, marriedand lived with his wife, Diem, in a seven-by-eleven foot room. His career as a writer gainedmomentum here in the states, but the govern-ment considered his work to be too decadentand reactionary to be distributed in Viet Nam.His first book, Fake House, was confiscated atthe post office when he went to pick up hisauthor’s copy. “In essence, the Vietnamese arenot allowing me to read a book I wrote,” hetold a friend. “I’m an author without a book!"He and Diem have since moved to Certaldo, asmall town in Italy. He continues to write pro-lifically and sends me poems so quickly after Iask him for them that I imagine he is con-stantly at his keyboard. It is his third country,third continent of residence. In “The Self-Portaitist of Signa,” he is:

leaning against the bar holding aPeroni, my fourth or fifth, and sur-

rounding me aremiddle-aged men in rumpled suits

downing shots ofamaro. The potato chips and peanuts are

actually free.

In his poem “Costa San Giorgio,” hereports that

The thin sky provides the onlyrelief from claustrophobia.

He also sends me found poems culledfrom internet chat rooms, ridiculous in theirloneliness. The world is infinite and micro-scopic. The world is a ridiculous and lonesomeplace.

Molly Russakoff is Poetry Editor at THE

INDEPENDENT.

Imet Linh Dinh at one of those marathonopen readings at the Painted Bride. Heread a poem that had the speaker looking

into a mirror. As the speaker shifts slightly, hisimage lags slightly behind. Fascinated, he playswith the phenomenon. His projected image isnot in synch with his actual self. This poemdidn’t survive posterity, ended up in the trashalong with most of his other old poems, but Ialways remembered the creepiness of theimage. In a recent poem, on describing awoman in a café sketching series of self por-traits, he comments:

Multiplied by an infinity of angles, thehuman face is really a kaleidoscope, an

infinity offaces, and it is truly a miracle we can

recognize eachother (or ourselves) at all.

Linh watches himself and the world withmorbid interest and incredulity, making noteson his observations, which become his poems.There is not a drop of sentimentality in Linh’swriting. I would almost call his stance clinical,but for his sharp sense of humor. His languageis impeccable. His vocabulary and usage is bril-liant. With fascinated detachment and greatcontrol, he depicts places and events, shiftingeasily between magnified reality and sharplyfocused surreality. His images are most oftenharsh and unsettling, even in their eloquence.

I was born astride a suckling pig.Inside this pig was a fancy mirrorWith instructions scratched into iton how to slaughter a suckling pig,

he writes in the poem “Nativity”. In “Academyof Fine Arts” he writes:

Seeing a dog walking around with itstail upturned, its asshole exposed, Ifeel infinitely superior. I am a man,after all, and

do not walk around with my assholeexposed. Even with my pants down,my asshole would not be exposed.

The poem “The Foxhole” begins:

“Oh, great,” she yells, “a fox hole!” andjumps right in. And just in time, too,because a shell immediately explodes afew

feet away, throwing a clump of dirt onher head. She is bunched up like amummy, but not too uncomfortable, awoman in

the flush of youth squatting in a ready-made fox hole.

He is highly attentive but not at all affection-ate. It’s what rattles you as you read his poemsand stories.

In an old account of his passage from hishomeland during the fall of Saigon, anotherthat ended up in the dustbin, he tells about hisharrowing stopover in China as they waited forthe go-ahead to continue on to the UnitedStates. There is an awful self-consciousness ofbeing dressed wrong, in fashions half-learnedfrom American soldiers, platform shoes withpants too short. It was obvious to him that heand the people he traveled with were suddenlyall wrong. It was embarrassing and infuriating.As his writing, which had always been sharp,became more honed and flawless, he was ableto identify this feeling in almost anything heturned his sights to. People are either ridicu-lous and ill-fitting or they are not worth men-tioning at all. Absurdities exist everywhere.Once we were hanging out at McGlinchey’sand he became enraged because someone atthe next table was wearing gold chains on topof a button down shirt.

“Look at him. He looks so fucking stupid.Why the fuck would he wear that shit?”

I laughed and told him to calm down.“Since when are you the arbiter of fashion?” Iasked. He always wore the bohemian uniform,

painted-up jeans and a serviceable shirt. Hishead was closely shaved. He squinted behindhis unrimmed glasses. He sat at the bars mostfrequented by artists, McGlinchey’s, Frank’s,Fergie’s, and drank cheap beer.

At a certain point, his intensity as a writerand artist was bolstered by a new interest inprofessionalism. How was he going to navigatehis way towards supporting himself withoutpainting houses or cleaning apartments? Heasked me to co-edit a literary and arts journal.Although we both had misgivings about thetitle, we called it the Drunken Boat in order toplacate the publisher, a bartender at his latestwatering hole. Theprimary mission ofthe project was topublish and pro-mote our own workand to connect withother writers on ourown terms. It wouldserve as a callingcard to gain usentry into the liter-ary world. We alsoferreted out otherpoets, publishedessays and foundwritings, and print-ed black and whitereproductions ofartists‚ images. Ayear into publica-tion, with six issuesunder our belts,Linh decided toabandon the projectin favor of movingforward with hisown work. I was disappointed, but it was soclearly his aesthetic driving the publication thatit would have been fruitless for me to continueit on my own.

At times I worried that he was teetering ontrue insanity, swinging between sleeplesseuphoria and a deep dark brood. He eitherlived “in the house of light” or “in the dump-ster.” I would show up for work in the morningand find him sitting on my doorstep. “Whattime do you open this place? I’ve been heresince five o’clock.” Then he would hand mepoems to read or tell me some revelation. Oncehe was all excited that he could suddenly readSpanish, as if a light had been shed on thepage. When he won the Pew Fellowship in1993, he became intensely involved in paintinglarge canvasses, which were not received well,and finally spent most of his time in bars drink-ing and stewing. He referred to the Pew as sub-

hard to guess what Kees, an admirer of AdlaiStevenson and Randolph Bourne, and a fre-quent seeker of grant money, would have madeof that.)

The combination of tragic despair and dryhumor in Kees’ poetry, presented with a mini-mum of rhetorical flourish, makes it the mostgenuine successor of Pound and Eliot’s earlywork, but even that doesn’t indicate its quality.Though somewhat more dramatic in languagethan is usual with Kees, “Small Prayer,” herequoted in its entirety, conveys his sensibility:

Change, move, dead clock, that thisfresh day

May break with dazzling light to thesesick eyes.

Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen,That time may find its sound again, and

cleanseWhat ever it is that a wound remembersAfter the healing ends.But even here Kees met with frustration.

Despite the respect he received from his fellowliterary friends—an extraordinarily wide-rang-ing group, from the Harper’s Bazaar crowd toPartisan Review to the proto-Beats—anddespite excellent reviews and good sales for avolume of poetry, The Fall of the Magicians, tothis day Kees’ only book issued by a major,non-academic trade publisher, went out ofprint in less than a year when Harcourt pur-chased Reynal & Hitchcock in 1947. (Indeed,before that happened, the book was chosen asthe first selection of the short-lived PoetryBook-of-the-Month Club—yes, such a thingonce existed.) But Harcourt turned down a fol-low-up collection and Kees spent seven ener-vating years looking for a publisher until hislast collection, partially underwritten by hisparents, was issued by a small West Coast pressa few months before his car was found.

Such a life is bound to drive any writer todesperation and Kees’ way of handling it was toput aside being a writer, apart from reviewing.He had befriended a group of painters whowere soon to gain national, then internationalnotice as the Abstract Expressionist group.Affiliating himself with the more mythopoeicamong them (William Baziotes, AdolphGottlieb and Robert Motherwell), Kees began

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 10 WINTER 2004

The one thing known about WeldonKees by almost anyone who’s heard ofhim, even those who have never read

one of his poems or stories or seen one of hispaintings, is that, early in the morning of July19, 1955, his 1954 Plymouth was found, keysstill in the ignition, in the sightseers’ parkinglot at the northern end of the Golden GateBridge. Next to it was a car belonging to asalesman who had taken the time to leave anote apologizing for his imminent plunge intothe waters of San Francisco Bay. There was nonote in Kees’ car.

During the previous few days, beset bydebts and a sense of mid-life stasis and depres-sion which his Dexedrine habit no longer alle-viated, the 41-year-old Kees had spoken alter-nately of suicide and of vanishing into Mexico;indeed, he’d been fascinated by the fate ofAmbrose Bierce since his schooldays. After thecar was found, the difference of opinion amonghis friends and family regarding what he’d cho-sen was about evenly split. How does JamesReidel, a Cincinnati poet and translator,answer the question in his new book, the firstbiography of Kees and the result of over twen-ty years’ research?

But first, some words about why Kees’ lifeand work are still of interest, almost fifty yearslater. Weldon Kees was born in 1914 inNebraska, the only child of fairly affluent par-

ents; his father co-owned a company that madevaried iron products, from window hinges toice skates. Kees learned from his parents animmaculate sense of dress. Every extant photo-graph (including the twenty-four reproducedin this book) finds him looking as if he hadstepped out of a magazine advertisement of theperiod, usually sporting clothes of an Englishcut, his hair and (after 1940) mustache alwaysprecisely groomed, with steady gaze and darkgood looks. (Had he been taller and blonder,he might have well have followed the path ofhis childhood friend Spangler Brugh, whobecame better known as actor Robert Taylor.)

John and Sarah Kees also encouraged theirson’s interest in literature and the arts. As achild, he acquired a puppet theater, foreshad-owing the interests that would dominate whatmay have been his last year.

Kees attended three colleges, graduatingfrom the University of Nebraska where hejoined the group around The Prairie Schooner,in those days the most advanced of the literarymagazines based in academia. In that maga-zine appeared the first of the forty stories hewrote between 1934 and 1942; during thattime as well he wrote four or five novels. Kees’fiction was so admired by editor Edward J.

O’Brien that he dedicated his final BestAmerican Stories collection to the young writer.However, until poet Dana Gioia assembledThe Ceremony & Other Stories in 1983, this partof his work received little attention.

Kees’ stories generally take place in aMidwestern setting and often describe somepetty cruelty or frustrating routine involvingwaitresses, librarians, store clerks, and theoccasional professor or bohemian. The toneand style of the stories is usually low-key anddistantly melancholy. At times the reader isreminded of the less demonstrative SherwoodAnderson, or of Ring Lardner’s darker side;elsewhere, the stories seem to anticipate the“minimalism” of Raymond Carver andFrederick Barthelme. (All Kees’ novels havebeen lost except Fall Quarter, a story of acade-mia which adds a certain black humor to themood of the stories; this book had the bad luckto start making the rounds of publishers theweek before Pearl Harbor, and it was not until1990 that a small press issued it.)

Having hit an impasse where the receptionof his fiction was concerned, Kees simply aban-doned it and concentrated his efforts on thepoems he had begun writing in 1937, aroundthe time of his marriage to Ann Swan, a col-lege classmate. (One drawback of Reidel’sbook is its sketchy depiction of Ann Kees,whose rather withdrawn and asocial personali-ty was combined with an evident intelligenceand a wit as understated, yet acute, as her hus-band’s. What there is about her in the biogra-phy seems to indicate that her advice and judg-ment had much to do with shaping Kees’ work,though her assistance is rarely documentedsince it was given in person rather than by let-ter as was the case with Kees’ other soundingboard, his friend Norris Getty.)

Most of Weldon Kees’ 135 poems, thework on which his reputation primarily rests,were issued in three collections in his lifetimeand first collected by Donald Justice in a limit-ed edition in 1960. These poems were admiredby Conrad Aiken, Malcolm Cowley, and AllenTate among his elders; Howard Nemerov andHayden Carruth, of his own generation;Joseph Brodsky, David Wojahn, and DavidLehman, in the generations succeeding his.(His picture graces the wall of Dana Gioia’soffice at the National Endowment for the Arts;

making his own watercolors and oils, and with-in a year he was exhibiting his work alongsidetheirs. Some of Kees’ work was sold; he solidi-fied his artistic affiliations during two summersin Provincetown; and for a moment it lookedas if he might enter the public eye alongsidesuch colleagues as Mark Rothko and JacksonPollock. But in 1950, just as Life magazine wasarranging for a group photo of these artists,Kees, seemingly fulfilling what TrumanCapote had told him two years before (“I cantell from the way you act you don’t want to bea success”), picked up stakes with his wife andleft for the West Coast.

They settled in San Francisco, sufferingthen as now from a sense of not receiving itsdue as a cultural center. In Provincetown, Keeshad in a short time become a dominant figurein the town’s summertime cultural life, puttingtogether exhibitions and staging panel discus-sions, and making himself the center of eventsin a way he never did in Manhattan, where hefunctioned as more of a wry observer at parties.During his first few years in the Bay Area, hereturned to work on his poetry and, adding catsand an upright piano to his home, furtherdeveloped his strong interest in ragtime and1920s-era jazz. He found work as a photogra-pher and researcher at the Langley PorterPsychiatric Clinic, where, working alongsideGregory Bateson and Jurgen Ruesch, he madefilms and collaborated on a book exploring“nonverbal communication”—the way inwhich people make a statement by decoratingrooms or wearing clothes.

But such work, though it had its fulfill-ments, was only moderately remunerative, andKees started to devote more and more of hisefforts to work that would generate quickincome, such as screenwriting and songwriting.With the sudden collapse of his marriage toAnn in July 1954 following her breakdown,Kees’ previous existence of quiet desperationtook on a more hectic tone as he consumedamphetamines continuously and spent twenty-hour days stretching himself out in dozens ofdirections—collaborating on radio shows (witha young Pauline Kael), theatrical reviews (withLawrence Ferlinghetti and a still-unknownPhyllis Diller), screenplays (with the fine, nowforgotten novelist Vincent McHugh), jazz and

sidized alcoholism. We began to grow apartduring this time and, with an air of superiority,I wondered what would happen to him, as I litout in favor of a domestic lifestyle that wouldlater erode beneath me.

Even as Linh became more respected inthe arts community, he grew more disaffected.It became gradually apparent to him that thesource of his discomfort was a matter of raceand racism. He felt alienated from both thepredominately white arts community and theimmigrant Vietnamese community. He wasnoticeably different than the other immigrants,his countrymen on Eighth Street, with their

tight pants, brightshirts, and layeredhaircuts. The pro-prietor of theVietnamese phar-macy where hebought a certainsalve for his hands,dried and raw fromthe chemicals inpaint, called him“the Professor,”because his intellectwas so apparent.(The poetEtheridge Knight,a friend and earlyadmirer of Linh’s,also called him “theProfessor.”) Hejokingly told peoplethat he had givenup his squattingrights. At the sametime, he becamemore ill at ease as

his drinking buddies from the PhiladelphiaCollege of Art, where he was a painting stu-dent, would eventually leak some offensive slurin a barstool conversation. I have always calledhim “Lynn,” being too self-conscious toattempt the Vietnamese pronunciation, thesoft ng at the back of the throat. Of the twocamps, I thought of him as one of us.In 1995, he returned to Vietnam for fiveweeks, his first time back since his escape whenhe was 11 years old. He described it as anexhausting experience. There were no bound-aries between people and events, none of theneat delineations we have here. In my smug-ness, I figured he had returned to the U.S. forgood, that he had gotten something out of hissystem. He seemed indigenous to my city. Iwanted him to stay.

In establishing an aesthetic framework forthe Drunken Boat, Linh often used the word

NEAT ROWS OF SP INES FOR EVERY WALL

A Name Lost in the FogA Poet’s Obscure Life and Mysterious Death

∂

BY ROBERT NEDELKOFF

VANISHED ACTTHE LIFE AND ART OF WELDON KEESBy James Reidel

Lincoln, Neb: University of Nebraska Press

2003

r e v i e w

obituaryHUGH KENNER∂

1923—2003

Hugh Kenner, the revered scholar, crit-ic, essayist, and all-around erudite

God of modernist theory, died late thisautumn in his Athens, Georgia home at theage of 80. Maybe you’re thinking: “Hughwho?” but trust me, if there’s a reason whywe still get to read difficult folks like Joyceand more importantly, Ezra Pound, it’smostly due to the indefatigable work ofscholars like Hugh Kenner. The guy lookedso damned crazy and smart. And he worked.There are nearly thirty books and about athousand essays to his name. A recent bibli-ography of his oeuvre totals to well over 400pages. From encyclopedias to Buster Keatonto geodesic math to the Internet, WallaceStevens and Samuel Beckett, Catholicismand cartoons—if the topic was weird, inter-esting, and had some chance of fixing thingsthat are wrong in the world, Kenner hadsomething to say about it. Essays withnames like “Bicycles for the Mind,” “TheHorses of Somewhere-Between,” “MoreDouble-Precision Trig Functions,” “Notestoward a Grammar of Disorder,” and “TheWord as Sentence.” Kenner is best knownfor his 1973 book, The Pound Era. Thebook’s 606 pages crack the code of perhapsthe most difficult modern poem ever—TheCantos—and Kenner actually goes to placesthat appear in the poem and photographsthem, to show you just how grounded inreality the seemingly nonsensical scatteringof images in the poem really are. A cursoryglance at the essay section of your localbookstore will show you the painfully smallamount of Kenner currently in print. Nowthat his good friend and fellow essayist andwriter Guy Davenport has finally gotten along-deserved best-of treatment in the formof Shoemaker & Hoard’s compilation, TheDeath of Picasso, I say now more than ever isthe time for Hugh Kenner to receive thesame. Here’s to you, Hugh. I’m sure there arelibraries in Heaven too. ] —ERIK BADER

Linh Dinh, Poet

[ BY MOLLY RUSSAKOFF ]

Dinh with with his wife, Diem, in Certaldo, Italy

∂

A Journey from Vietnam to Philadelphia to Italy

POUNDING OUT STANZAS & TOSSING BACK DRINKS

[ prof i le ]

turn to KEES, page 11

MA

RK

PR

ICE

CO

UR

TE

SYO

FL

INH

DIN

H

∂

It’s fun. Women don’t have a lot of positiveoutlets for competition. In sports, men’s sportsare so much more sponsored and popular, bothcasually and professionally. And chess is justanother expression of that and that’s unfortu-nate. Women and men are competitive, butmen are given more outlets to express it, andit’s more acceptable for men to express it.

Rubin: How receptive is the chess world tofeminism?Shahade: I definitely feel like I’m not preachingto the choir. If you’re in a college women’s liter-ature class, it’s so great, but at the same timethere’s this feeling like everyone’s with you.And it’s fun, I love that feeling, or even in thisneighborhood, you start talking about femi-nism or activism or how much you hate Bushand they’re with you and that’s good. But at thesame time, I also feel really excited to be in acommunity where people aren’t that convincedand try to make them see things my way.

Rubin: Women who play chess aren’t feminists?Shahade: No. It’s hard to be. It’s such a male-dominated world that I think a lot of peoplewith feminist beliefs get kind of grossed out.This didn’t happen to me, because I was not asfeminist in sensibility when I began my chesscareer in high school. Also, I loved chess. Iquickly found people within the chess worldwho were very nice. The overall atmosphere is

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 11

cabaret music.But such activity covered an acute isolation;

Ann Kees withdrew into an alcoholic seclusion,which only ended with her death twenty yearslater. Her husband’s subsequent relationshipswere abortive. (Reidel devotes considerablespace to examining the question of Kees’ sexu-ality, noting that such gay friends as JamesBroughton wondered just where his interestslay, but the evidence presented here indicatesthat Kees’ inclinations were heterosexual,though plagued by impotence.) None of hisefforts involving music or the cinema came tomuch. He constantly had to seek money fromhis elderly parents, whose empathy for his situ-ation was becoming as strained as their purse-strings. Small wonder, then, that he finallydecided that a choice had to be made. The lastbooks he was reading, that July of 1955, are per-tinent: Dostoyevsky’s The Devils, with its char-acter Kirolov positing suicides as the only freemen, and Unamuno’s Tragic Sense Of Life.

In the first years after the Plymouth wasfound, it seemed that Kees would be consignedto the oblivion he seemed to both fear and wel-come. However, the University of NebraskaPress reissued The Collected Poems of Weldon Keesin 1962 and has kept the book in print eversince; a new edition, with a cover photo thatthankfully does not make Kees resemble JosefMengele, as was the case with the previous edi-tion, has just been published. The same pressissued a Selected Short Stories last year; an anno-tated collection of Kees’ letters, first publishedin 1986, and an excellent companion to Reidel’sbiography, was reprinted in paperback last sum-mer. In the early 1990s a boomlet of interest inKees in England led to a BBC documentaryand a well-received Faber edition of CollectedPoems. Though it seems likely that Kees’ workis destined to remain appreciated by a minorityconsisting, for the most part, of those oldenough to understand the gravity and dignity ofhis best work, and keen enough to see themetaphysical wit that is its figure in the carpet(to use one of Kees’ favorite expressions), thatminority seems to be slowly increasing ratherthan diminishing, and Reidel’s well-researchedyet compactly written book will surely add tothat number. One of its best qualities, in fact(and one Kees would have appreciated) is thatfor all the care and effort the biographer hastaken, the book is not overwhelmed by data,and even the most tempting tangents Reidelcould have pursued are put aside. Even wherethe last great puzzle of Kees’ life is concerned,speculation is kept to a minimum.

And as for that puzzle: in his introductionReidel mentions the legions of stories fromthose (from Pete Hamill on down) who claimto have seen Weldon Kees, usually in Mexico,since July 1955, stories, almost to a person,from people who never knew Kees before hisdisappearances. “For me,” Reidel states, “thecase is closed and long has been.” And hiswhole book (as well as a recent interview)makes clear that he has decided that the over-whelming preponderance of evidence can onlylead to a conclusion that Kees decided toignore the possible damage to his wardrobeand stepped off the railing of the bridge...

As I said, almost to a person. Because inthe last pages, Reidel cites two stories. Thefirst, which closes his book, is the account of awoman who was a 7-year-old girl when hermother and stepfather often hosted Kees intheir home in the last year of his visible exis-tence. In 1962, that girl, by then 14 years old,was in Preservation Hall in New Orleans wait-ing for clarinetist George Lewis, always a Keesfavorite, to go on. She saw her parents’ oldfriend enter with a tall blonde. She turned toher father (who did not know the poet) andsaid, “Daddy, it’s Weldon Kees,” turned, andpointed—but the man and his companion hadvanished.

Well, Reidel has stated in an interviewsince the book’s publication that that anecdotewas there to provide a happy ending. But thatstill doesn’t explain how it is that the bookdescribes the critic Hugh Kenner, who metKees during the latter’s visits to his parents inSanta Barbara, running into the writer at thatcity’s public library a week or so after thePlymouth was found. (Kenner did not hear ofKees’ disappearance until the following month,and had no idea that his friend, who seemedpreoccupied with something and who chattedonly briefly, was supposed to be a missing per-son.) As Dr. Watson notes in one or another ofthose stories that the youthful Kees read backin Nebraska, “this singular case [...] is stillinvolved in some mystery.” The mystery may ormay not be cleared up, but Kees’ singularity iswell demonstrated by his small but painstak-ingly wrought and uncompromised work inpoetry, fiction, and painting. And Reidel’sbook is indispensable to an understanding ofhow it was achieved. ]

Robert Nedelkoff has contributed to Raygun,The Baffler, GQ, and McSweeney’s, and appearsin the two-disc DVD release of the documentaryStone Reader. He lives in Silver Spring, Maryland.

At first glance, you wouldn’t think PhilCarter is the only bassist in the worldever sued by Michael Jackson. Quiet

and unassuming, dressed all in black with longhair and a goatee, Phil looks more like a poetor a philosopher than an archenemy of the"King of Pop." And at first listen, you wouldnever imagine Phil Carter was one-fourth of apost-punk legend one critic described as “theloudest band he’d ever seen.” The openingtrack to Phil’s self-released album, SisyphusBanana Peel, is soft and thoughtful—a delicatehomage to the virtues of a quiet morning.

But fifteen minutes into the SisyphusBanana Peel release party, Phil’s fiercely calmrevolution takes shape: Armed with devotedfans and a loose collective of Philadelphiaartists and musicians, Phil Carter is redefining“Do It Yourself ” as a joyful uprising against thecorporate domination of rock.

Carter began his musical career with fivetumultuous years as the bassist for Das Damen.Raised on the Beatles and the Rolling Stones,but equally influenced by 1960s acid rock,1970s arena metal and 1980s post-punk, Philand three friends from NYU started playingsmall New York punk clubs as Das Damen in1985. The band quickly gained a reputation fortheir high-decibel stage shows, when clubowners on some midwestern tour dates literal-

ly pulled the plug when the volume went toohigh. Das Damen caught a break when SonicYouth's Thurston Moore checked out a showin late 1985, and impressed with their skill aswell as their volume signed the band to his"Ecstatic Peace" label and released their six-song EP, Jupiter's Eye.

In 1986 they were picked up by the grand-daddy of American punk, SST Records, andtoured Europe with Living Colour. Jupiter'sEye and its follow-up, Triskaidekaphobe, wereselling well, and Das Damen was drawingfavorable comparisons to Hüsker Dü and theirother SST label-mates.

“We were never trying to make money orget famous,” Carter said, “We just wanted ourmusic heard.”

Ready for an even bigger stage, DasDamen pushed their sound further whilerecording Marshmellow Conspiracy, their four-song EP, in 1988. On one song the group bor-rowed a clip off Magical Mystery Tour, rein-venting the track as a wild psychedelic epic.The unique interpretation of the Beatles’ stan-dard wasn't a publicity stunt or a statement:Das Damen was just staying true to the atti-tude of the time.

“80s post-punk was all about taking whatyou like and assembling it in a new context,’said Carter. “We took music that meant some-

thing to us and we found new meaning in thework. George Harrison would have liked it, Ithink”

Unfortunately for Das Damen, they alsochanged the song’s name. "Song for MichaelJackson to $ell" quickly caught the attention ofmusic industry attorneys, and Jackson—whoby that point had outbid Paul McCartney forthe rights to his own music—was not amused.The album and its masters were destroyed, andSST dropped Das Damen.

Although the group managed two morerecordings, the lawsuit had taken its toll. DasDamen lost their best chance withMarshmellow Conspiracy, and without a labelthe group couldn't make ends meet. DasDamen was done.

The band wasn't around a year later whengrunge hit, but the early-1990s fusion of loudguitars and youthful anger was undeniablyinfluenced by their work, and groups fromCibo Matto to Guided by Voices still mentionDas Damen's lasting influence in interviews.

Fifteen years later, Phil Carter is fronting asix-piece band, nearly screaming the vocals to“Driving Around” and playing rock for the firsttime in a decade. A master of fourteen instru-ments—from 16th century classical percussionto the upright bass—Phil has taught music andreleased two solo albums since leaving DasDamen.

“I was trying to reconcile my communityand talk to friends I hadn’t spoken to in years.We were trying to make beauty out of suffer-ing, really.” Recording in six different venues,(everywhere from a former telemarketingoffice in South Philly to the rectory FirstUnitarian Church, where Sisyphus keyboardistJohn Herrick plays the organ on Sundays)Carter spent eight months piecing the albumtogether, note by note.

The result: the low-fi Sisyphus Banana Peel,fourteen intricately produced and layeredtracks that blend styles as broad as classic andindie rock with textured djembe, organ andpiano. This easy-going, loose and mostly mid-tempo album is decidedly charming, veering instyle from track to track but always connectingback to its basic thesis: that there is beauty inthe everyday experience of our lives.

While moments on the album are reminis-cent of Carter's bombastic roots in Das

Damen, much of Sisyphus Banana Peel is play-ful and relaxing, spanning the sounds of rockfrom the 1960s to the present. Like Wilco’sYankee Hotel Foxtrot, each track on Sisyphusseems to inhabit its own world, tied together inspirit but not style. Some of the worlds arestrange, like “Lysistrata,” an organ-driveneight-minute anti-war epic, (The chorus:"Peace has such a lovely bottom") while otherworlds are sweet, like the beautiful SweetNothings, which features some of the album'sstrongest melodies.

Sisyphus is hard to categorize—and inmany ways that’s the point.

“What we hear in the world is just a frac-tion of the music that exists…is my albumindie? Yes, it’s independent. But indie doesn’tmean that anymore. There isn’t even a refer-ence in our culture to explain music that isn’tlabeled by genre and owned.”

Tossing aside an address book full of musicindustry contacts and pseudo-celebrities,Carter chose not to pursue record label atten-tion and to push Sisyphus Banana Peel as a self-produced grassroots effort. For a MagnetMagazine sampler CD, Carter chose Robin tostate his case. Amidst the bombast of Blink-182 sound-alikes, Robin stands out on thesampler for its soft melody and its harsh mes-sage…“How many times do we have to tellthem that cruelty is not strength?”

For the album’s release, Sisyphus BananaPeel ignored the bar scene in favor of an exu-berant community happening at the aptlynamed Underground Art Museum, a cav-ernous, sloping storefront at 521 S. FourthStreet, just off South Street. Carter painted theenormous windows with a flood of yellow,writing only the album title and building aplayful confusion among passers-by.

Through events like the release party,Carter is using Sisyphus Banana Peel as anorganizing tool. Featuring an installation ofstained glass, digital images and sculpture, therelease party was the first in a series of eventsplanned for “the Peel” in the coming months.

Carter also hopes that posting MP3 tracksfrom the album online will attract listeners.“Somehow I will continue to make music,” hesaid. “I just hope people see the possibility increating their own media.”

Granted, after spending years on the road

PHIL CARTER AFTER DAS DAMEN

[ BY BEN WYSKIDA ]

The Trials of Sisyphus Banana Peel

WIDE RECEP T ION

and seeing an album crushed in the glovedhand of the King of Pop, Carter’s new gig in amusty South Street basement must seem a longway from nearly punching out a Beastie Boy ina fight for rehearsal space. But Carter certainlydoesn’t mind, and Sisyphus Banana Peel seemsto tell us that none of that really matters any-way. “There are no concrete images” Carterwrites in Your Garden, “No blueprint of anyidea … No metaphors of magic … to explainwhy I’m happy.” ]

Ben Wyskida lives in Philadelphia. His workhas appeared in Fret Magazine, The BaltimoreSun, PopPolitics.com and The Mulberry TreePapers. Sisyphus Banana Peel is available onlineat SisyphusBananaPeel.com or at Spaceboy Music.Tracks are also available for free download atwww.philcarter.com.

musicRADIO ERIS

∂

E ris is a little known, under-appreciated god-dess—the goddess of discord. Eris inadver-

tantly started the Trojan War and is thus respon-sible for Homer's Iliad. The Philadelphia musicscene is also harboring a little known, underap-preciated conglomeration of gods and goddess-es—Radio Eris. Taking as a starting point thehysterical exuberance of the Velvets, Patti Smith,and Television, Radio Eris craft discordant love-liness from poetry and sound. Founded byshamanic poetess Lora Bloom and studio vision-ary Matt Stevenson, Radio Eris have releasedtwo mind-shattering compact discs, Loralai andBeautiful Losers. Their live shows are catharticand overpowering, a vibrant wall-of-sound incor-porating dance, improvisation, and spontaneousanarchy into a heady mix. Lora Bloom, foundingeditor of Philadelphia journal Siren's Silence andfreelance journalist, keeps things on edge withear-piercing wails, imaginative contortions, andgut-level diatribes. Matt Stevenson, keyboardvirtuoso, dishes out stuttering Cale-isms andEno-like washes of musical color. Dan Baker setsthe stage aflame with piercing garage-style bluenotes. Drum and bass provide the final link in thevolatile chain, searing themselves and the wholeband into a coherent whole. Radio Eris are in theprocess of recording their third album, and playout in Philly with heartening regularity. They arenot to be missed. ] —ADAM FIELED

who I am. People who don’t know memight underestimate me. But I don’t havetime to think about those people. That’swhy I’m a chess bitch, you know? I’m notreally bitchy. I wish I were a little bit more… I mean in the good ways. Like standingup for yourself, telling it like it is. I think Iwrite that way and I play chess that way,but with people I can be very non-bitchy,avoiding confrontation. In certain ways I’massertive, but I’m not as confrontationaloutside of chess as I am in chess.

Rubin: Why do you think it’s easier to beconfrontational within chess? Shahade: The rules are out there. Youropponent knows you’re trying to win fromthe start and they’re trying to win. Whereasit’s always kind of a surprise when someoneconfronts you about something face to face.

Rubin: Do you think it’s particularly hardfor women to be confrontational in life?Shahade: Yeah, and that’s where the wholereclaiming of the word “bitch” comes from.Right? Women who are strong and standup for themselves and try to make it to thetop and express themselves, instead of beingcalled strong and brilliant and innovative areoften called bitchy. So that’s the whole ideabehind bitch-empowerment.

Rubin: Do you think the overt competitivenessof chess could be useful for women to beempowered and admit their competitiveness.Shahade: Yeah, it’s overt competition betweenwomen and men. I say this, but at the sametime I haven’t completely resolved all theseissues, but I do know that a positive expressionof competition is a good thing. It’s not violent.

from KEES page 10

Das Damen circa 1985, Phil Carter is third from left.

JIM

TE

ST

A

from CHESS page 10 sometimes oppressive, but of course thereare many good people in the chess worldwho I count among my best friends.

Rubin: How did the writing of your bookcome about?Shahade: The publisher saw some of thestuff that I wrote in Chess Life and he saidthat I had to write a book. I was alreadystarting to collect some notes about womenin chess, because there are no good bookson women in chess and I could have usedone when I was younger.

Rubin: What books did you like when youwere younger?Shahade: Tactics books. There was onebook about the Polgar sisters that Idevoured. It wasn’t even that good. It was-n’t that long and it didn’t cover otherwomen chess players or feminist theorists.I wanted more. If there had been some-thing good I would have loved it.

Rubin: Any thoughts on Philadelphia?Shahade: I love Philadelphia. I really lovePhiladelphia. I love the downtown. I lovemy street. I love the sort of relaxed feel, yet

there’s still things going on all the time. I lovethe art museum. I love the drive. I think it’sbeautiful. It’s just like this really nice pace ofthings going on but not being totally crazy.Still, I love New York too. It’s different. InPhiladelphia I feel more like I’m at home. I feelthe most emotional allegiance to Philadelphiaa lot of the time. It’s just one of those thingswhen you meet people in New York who arealso from Philly you automatically have this“Oh, we have to talk about why we lovePhiladelphia for awhile now.”

Rubin: What do you think about what’s beenwritten about you so far?Shahade: I like having articles written aboutme. It’s gratifying and nice to have a platformto speak from, but at the same time I’m alwaysvery sensitive and you have no control. Onceyou say something, or once somebody takes aphoto of you, you have no control. I don’t thinkpeople have much inclination to write exposésabout female chess players because just the factof their being a female chess player is strangein itself. There’s no need to snark them, not yetat least. Maybe when there is, that will be whenchess has truly made it. When I see an articleabout how arrogant and bitchy I am, then I’llknow that just writing a story about a femalechess player is not a novelty. ]Nathania Rubin lives in New York City andwrites on chess for THE INDEPENDENT.

foodPETE’S FAMOUS PIZZA

∂

Nestled on this corner of 21st and Cherry standsa hidden treasure, a diner so cheap, so solidly

reliable, and so miraculously accommodating (youcan smoke!) that to discover it is to gloat. Pete'sserves up the best white pizza with broccoli you'relikely to find for under ten dollars. You can mosey inat midnight or enjoy phenomenal breakfast bargains(two eggs, toast, home fries, coffee: $2.67), all servedup by the friendliest diner matrons imaginable, thesort who will call you "honey" on your very first visit.Pete's Famous Pizza is easy on the stomach and onthe wallet. And no, Famous Pete bears no relation toLittle Pete. ] —ADAM FIELED

Shahade & Krush make nice.

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 12 WINTER 2004

NUBS OF YELLOW BEAK CRACK THE SILEN T WH I TE SHELL

[ f i c t i on ]

ELEVATION OF THE INTERIOR

[ B Y LI S A CO N N E LLY ]

sonal life. After he met Caitlin Matheson, aColumbia undergrad just back from a semesterin Tokyo, at a Kent Foundation luncheon in1985, he sent her a purple-tinged Japanese irisevery day until, thirty-seven flowers later, sheagreed to have dinner with him. One year later,she married him and moved into his apartmenton Fifth Avenue. A few weeks into their mar-riage, they went for a walk and saw the houseon East 93rd Street. Something about its unre-markable face, its quaintness, grabbed Caitlin,and she stopped in front of the stairs andstared.

“Oh, Robert,” she said breathily. “It’s themost beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Robertnodded, ascended the stairs, and rang thebuzzer. An old woman with a fantastic halo ofgray hair opened the door. “How much wouldyou like for your house?” asked Robert.

They moved in three months later.

THE FIRST FLOOR

The exterior of the Kents’ townhouse isremarkable only in its complete lack of remark-ableness. In the midst of townhouses withclean exteriors, freshly painted black-and-white doors, and gardens lined with pottedplants, the Kents’ offers only a worn stonestaircase, a brick wall covered with vines, and acourtyard piled high with bags of trash andrecycling. To the left of the door, mirroring thepeephole in the middle of the door, is a smalldoorbell, rimmed with rust.

Immediately inside the door, next to thepad of buttons that disable or enable the secu-

rity system, hangs a row of five bare hooks.They were intended for coats, hats, and mit-tens, but the Kents prefer to toss their clothingon the wooden bench below the hooks, or, ifthe Kent in question is 12-year-old Tommy, onthe floor. In turn, the items that might other-wise occupy the bench, like backpacks, shop-ping bags, and sporting gear, come to rest inany number of other places, with the couch,the piano bench, the coffee table—indeed, theentire living room—all plausible landing pads.The help has developed the delicate art of tidy-ing without moving such objects from wherev-er they alight, for a shin guard left, seeminglyhaphazardly, on an ottoman is a shin guardthat someone may expect to sweep off theottoman while hurrying to a game three dayshence. Of course, it may also happen that saidshin guard remains on the ottoman for twomonths. In that case, although Jenny, theKents’ personal assistant, will have already beensent to the store for a replacement, the shinguard stays where it is because the possibility ofits necessity can never be ruled out. Carolina,the housekeeper, once dusted around an empty

shoe box that had settled on the mantel abovethe fireplace for six months.

One might think that a blanket of soccergear ill befits a living room belonging to a fam-ily as prominent as the Kents, but actuallynothing could be more appropriate. The brightfloral couches, of a rich, thick weave andimported from France, are peppered withstains—green marker on one cushion, bluepaint on another, yellow Play-Doh on a pillow.The lamp on one oak end table sports a dent-ed shade; six months ago, 5-year-old Carsonkicked the table a little too hard while in thethroes of a temper tantrum. The piano, a babygrand, is spotless, but the keys in its lowestoctave stick. When she was 7 years old, Ashleyspilled a cup of hot chocolate onto its strings,and the Kents never bothered having it fixed.But it does not much matter. Ashley is now 9.She no longer has time for piano, what withher after-school gymnastics, violin, ballet, andart lessons; her weekend soccer and tee ballpractices; and her twice-weekly visits to aJungian analyst. The only one who still playsthe piano is Clarissa, the student at ManhattanSchool of Music—Mrs. Kent only entrusts herchildren to educated people— who fills in forthe other nannies on holidays. Clarissa has avaried repertoire, but she always plays straight-up blues on the Kents’ piano.

Spread out on the glass coffee table in frontof the couch is a hodgepodge collection ofbooks that suggests eclectic taste, progressivepolitics, and the presence of children: RobertMapplethorpe’s Pictures, Parenting from theInside Out: How a Deeper Self-UnderstandingCan Help You Raise Children Who Thrive,Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent, HaJin’s Waiting, Paul Auster’s City of Glass. Mrs.Kent, whom one must not forget is a graduateof Columbia College, is an avid reader. On therare mornings when Mr. Kent is at the founda-tion office, the kids are at school, Gladys, thecook, is off, Jenny is out on an errand, Carolinais cleaning one of the upper floors, and Mrs.Kent’s work is reasonably under control (shehas initialed the kids’ schedules, signed thepaychecks for the help, made sure the nanniesare out buying enrichment tools for the kidsand not messing around on her dollar) sheenjoys nothing more than to settle into a cor-ner of the couch with a book and a glass ofalmond milk.

Above the couch, sandwiched betweenJapanese silk prints, is a framed family por-trait—not one of the arrangements of stiff,posed bodies on muted backgrounds that dom-inate the genre (for the Kents have style) butan informal, casual shot, taken outside thehouse. In it, Mr. and Mrs. Kent sit together onthe bottom step, her head resting on his shoul-der, as they watch the kids play on the sidewalkin front of them. Tommy is giving Carson apiggyback ride, and Ashley is pulling on one ofthe little girl’s legs, so that both Tommy andCarson seem on the verge of falling over.Everybody is clad in light summer clothes andlaughing easily. Only the beads of sweat ontheir faces suggest that they have been runningaround in front of the photographer for a fullforty-five minutes.

The wall of the living room that faces thestreet is mostly consumed by one tall, impres-sive bay window. Mrs. Kent prefers to keep thethick tasseled curtains drawn—she doesn’t likepeople looking in—but sometimes when sheleaves for yoga or a lunch date one of the helpopens them and light floods in from the street.It is at those times that Ashley climbs into thewindow seat, draws her knees into her chest,fixes her gaze on the far side of the street, andsings a song from Annie, which one of the nan-nies gave her on DVD for her birthday.“Maybe far away/Or maybe real nearby/Hemay be pouring her coffee/She may bestraight’ning his tie.” She usually trails offbefore she finishes cycling through the versesand sits silently for several minutes, contem-plating, perhaps, life as an orphan.

The dining room opens onto the livingroom through a pair of French doors. In

the center of the room sits a sturdy, rectangularoak table with heavy legs surrounded bystraight-backed chairs. The creases of thetabletop, where wooden leaves used to beinserted when the Kents were young and givento entertaining, are now filled with ancient

BITING APEACH

The only way to paint a goodpicture of this is with reli-gious innuendos. You werebaptized all over again. Andit was not by some thing youcouldn’t see. This confec-tionary object became thebasis of your novel faith. Youhovered over furry terrestrialplanes and cross-countryhitchhiked to an oasis ofpetechiae. A belief systemwas stirring up inside you likea horde of wildebeests.Trudging onward, passed thenavel. Relentlessly driventoward the hardened stone.As the last of its juicy bitswormed down your cavern ofEsophagus, you led a pil-grimage, to find another justlike it.

—MICHAEL AZRAEL-D.

Nora says the pace of these calls isdeliberately calming. Slowly, a voicedescribes options, each designated by

a number (for touch-tone callers, others holdfor a live operator). The list of choices neverincludes the exact reason for the call. This toois deliberate. After three or four choices aremade, one is put on hold. One assumes thechoices are meant to narrow down the prob-lem, but they aren’t noted. Touch-tone callersare sent to the same live operator pool as thepulse and rotary dialers; they just arrive therecalmer then the others; soothed by the process.

I thought the bug, splayed out in syrupyclear muck with wings folded onto themselves,might scare off other bugs with similarschemes. I was not able to test this thought.Though I had to crane my neck to see it, thepresence of the corpse was too distracting. Iwas picking it off with a pink Kleenex whenthe phone rang again, informing me that Iwould soon be connected with a live operator.

“Good day. My name is Bill. Could I haveyour first name and serial number, please?”

“Hello, Bill. I have an ongoing problem,and it would...”

“Your serial number, sir.”“I’ve dealt almost exclusively with live

operator number thirty-seven, and if you couldjust connect me...”

“I can pull up your case history if you’ll justgive me your serial number.”

“That case history doesn’t take certainimportant details into account.”

“It’s exhaustive.”“I’m sure it is. Please connect me with thir-

ty-seven.”“Hold.”The Kleenex made the situation worse. It

just smeared the broken wings. I would havechanged my shirt if the phone hadn’t startedringing right away. I would just have to meetwith her wearing my scarecrow.

“Good day. My name is Nora. Could I haveyour first name and serial number, please?”

“It’s me.”“Oh. Did you get transferred to me again?”“Uh-huh.”

“They’re not supposed to do that.”“You’re the only one who understands.”“Don’t talk like ... Your serial number,

please.”“500-174-8829.”“Thank you. How can I help you today?”“How have you been?”“My dad’s back in the hospital.”“I’m sorry to hear that.”“He won’t listen to the doctors. They told

him to stop shooting skeet.”“But he’s retired.”“He’s stubborn. Retired and stubborn.”“You were in a dream.”“How can I help you today, sir?”

“Is your supervisor around? Is that it?”“Maybe.”“You were mixing butter and detergent.”“Is there even anything wrong with your

computer?”“Something about mosquitos.”“You’ve got bugs?”“The remains.”“It’s probably the same thing it’s been for

weeks. Did you rem out those lines in yourconfig dot sys like I told you to?

“It’s scary in my config dot sys.”“It’s supposed to be. They don’t want you

making flippant changes”“But.”Call waiting beeped as she spoke.“Stubborn.”

Nora isn’t irked by call waiting. Support opera-tors don’t feel the urgency of telephone com-munication the way regular people do. They’repaid to endure long pauses, waiting for systemsto reboot, applications to execute. Both partiesoften leave the phone without notice. Two par-ties, staring at monitors with silent lines. Themind slowing to the speed of the processor.

“I’ve got to get the other line.”Nora did not acknowledge this. The com-

puter screen was the only light in the room.The sheets on my bed curled at the corners,exposing the flower print mattress underneath.I pressed the flash button on the phone andanswered the other line.

“Hello.”“Hello sir I’m calling today in regards to your

situation a good many Americans are consumingnear-record amounts of technology sir and allsigns seem to say ‘this can only increase’ ... ”

“Hello?”“Hi.”“It’s you.”“Yes.”“I was hoping ... ”“ ... the marbles in the jar can I ask you sir

how much you currently pay for long distanceper month? Listen, I’m sorry about that. Aboutinterrupting.”

“I understand.”“I really shouldn’t have called.”“Was I branded?”“We don’t call it that. It’s just, well, we

seemed to connect. I wanted to talk moreabout the graveyard. I saw this special on thetelevision last night. They were talking aboutthis not-for-profit that refurbishes old com-puters for at-risk kids.”

“Is that a euphemism?”“I think. Anyway, they showed pictures of a

warehouse. Stacked on metal shelving were oldCPUs, disk drives, keyboards, all with that wornin khaki color. I thought of you when I saw it.”

The caller who interrupts another call doesnot know this. Nora’s presence one flash awayweighed on our conversation. Still water in the

AN EXCERPT FROM THE SHORT STORY

[ B Y K E N N Y G R O N O ]

THE CALL OF THOUSANDS NOSE BREATHING

[ f i c t i on ] washing machine. “It’s you.” With these wordsI made learning his name even more difficult.We went on to talk about his favorite fruit,about my print shop. We discussed people’sgrowing impatience with shopkeepers whoopen at odd hours, offering limited services anddusty inventories. Even the few people left whofelt obligated to use local vendors were voicingconcern. No distrust of big business was greatenough to overcome the allure of twenty-four-hour support lines and uniform chain storeorder. I had encountered this. My patrons werealmost exclusively elderly, and the printingneeds of the elderly are minimal at best. Nora’sshort sleeves riding up her arms as she mixes.Her upper arm soft and speckled with moles. Iwanted to rest my head on that arm. He toldme about the people who screamed at him forcalling. The caller never knows what they inter-rupt. His voice grew quieter the longer wespoke, his words drawn out and more natural.We could have been sitting on a bench, talkingin front of a bank as dusk wielded shadow toreveal new lines. Up from her shoulder, alongthe line of her exposed neck, the hair pulled upand held with a pencil. I could not see her face.As it did under my uncle’s bed, my breathseemed to collapse back onto me. My stomachclenched. I couldn’t be sure anymore that Icould see any of it. His words meant nothing, aslow murmur scoring my remembering. I clingto my dreams without exploration. To get tooclose has always threatened to ruin the solacethey provide. Had it even been Nora by thewashing machine? Would it have been thekitchen-girl a year ago? Would I have seen thekitchen-girl’s face? Do we create these night-time images? This eventide fill that incites mydays?

In the shop, the printing form is locked onthe bed. The type is set. Final. A wedge can beplaced in between letters, but these interrup-tions are planned. The page is predicted. Thetransition from sleeping to waking provides nosuch assurances. Nora stopped mixing andbegan to fade.

“I lost the account.”“How?”“Linear B.“”Pardon?”“The Myceneans committed what little

writing they had to clay tablets. It was transi-tory stuff, real estate, records, you know; noth-ing worth saving. The tablets were air-dried.This writing wasn’t meant to be saved.”

“What did this have to do with the womanfrom the bingo hall?”

“The buildings where they stored theLinear B tablets burned, firing the clay andsaving the writing for thousands of years. I toldher she was being too frivolous, to give morethought to the bingo posters before she askedme to commit them to paper.”

“Okay, then I’ll just go over your informa-tion for verification, and we’ll get those sentout to you right away.”

“One of the few artifacts we have fromtheir civilization, preserved by chance. Sixty-five percent of the tablets consist of personalnames. These things weren’t meant to besaved.” ]

Kenny Grono teaches physics at FranklinLearning Center, a public high school. He lives inNorth Philadelphia with his wife Bronwyn, hisdog Greta and cats Gleemer and Pooty.

In another incarnation, the Kents’ homemight have stood in the suburbs ofDenver, giving shelter to a successful

accountant, his stay-at-home wife, their fourtow-headed kids, and a border collie namedBuddy. There would have been a trampoline inthe backyard, two sports utility vehicles in thegarage, maybe a creek running through theproperty. The accountant and his wife mighthave had a few marital problems, and maybeone of the girls would have stuck her fingerdown her throat after every meal for a year ortwo, and one of the boys would have worn ablack trench coat and an ear cuff all throughhigh school, but they would have persevered,and the kids would have all gone to college, toplaces like Arizona State, maybe, and then set-tled in the suburbs of cities like Phoenix andSt. Louis and repeated it all over again. Cars,dog, kids, trampoline.

Yes, Denver, because the Kents’ home epit-omizes turn-of-the-millennium Americanstyle. It is simple, functional, and expansive—elegant without being showy, large withoutseeming vast. It could, on the strength of itsantique lamps, kid-friendly rooms filled withchildren’s artwork, family pictures, and refin-ished tables, pass for “modest.” It is a monu-ment to the art of practiced subtlety.

To exude subtlety in Denver, a boomingcity in the wealthiest country in the world, issometimes complicated, but in the end soccerpractices are still soccer practices, the family caris still the family car, and marriage is still mar-riage. To exude subtlety in the wealthiest coun-ty in the wealthiest country, however, on anurban resort isle where the average personmakes $88,000 a year, soccer practices arestaffed by professional coaches and attended bynannies, the family car is a black Lexus with afull-time driver, and marriage is a financialmerger announced in the society pages of TheNew York Times—to exude subtlety inManhattan—is another thing entirely. Andthen to be not just in Manhattan but on theUpper East Side, the glitziest neighborhood inall of the island, and to be not just on the UpperEast Side but between Park and Fifth Avenues,the glitziest streets in the neighborhood—well,subtlety becomes not so much a question ofartistry as one of brute determination.

But if there is one quality that runs throughthe Kent blood, it is determination. WhenAndrew P. Kent started a plastics company incentral New Jersey in the early 1950s with ameasly $2,000 to his name, it was nothing if notdetermination that sustained his efforts. Bornon a farm, the last of seven kids, Andrew knewthe value of hard work. For ten years, he invest-ed ten- and twelve-hour days in Kent Plastics.His wife, the lovely Enid Kent, kept the com-pany’s books, even when their three childrenwere infants. She would bring her son Robertto the factory with her and lay him in a plasticcradle next to her desk. Even he hardly slept,solemnly absorbing the intricacies of runningthe business he would one day inherit.

When skyrocketing sales of plastics madeAndrew one of the five wealthiest men in theUnited States, he did not rest on his laurels. Hehad become a man of the world, a savvy over-seas businessman, and his travels had instilledin him a strong interest in East Asia. In the late1960s, he established a foundation to providegrants to students and scholars interested instudying in Japan. He put one-third of his for-tune into the foundation, dividing the restamong trusts for his children, designed tomature at age thirty. Money is not for collect-ing, Andrew liked to say. It is for changing theworld.

When Robert assumed control of the KentFoundation in 1973, he quickly matched hisfather’s work ethic, adding grants for study inChina. When his trust matured in 1982, hetrumped his father by putting one-half of themoney (which by then totaled over a billiondollars) into the foundation, doubling itsendowment. And he became an influentialdonor to other educational organizations aswell. He set up a grant program at Yale, hisalma mater, that enabled students to receivefunding for social action projects—not com-munity service work, but gritty, inspiredactivism—and directly oversaw the grant work,keeping in close touch with the students andfrequently stopping by project sites.

Robert showed similar resolve in his per-

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 13

STEAL A BI T FROM EVERYBODY

crumbs. Spread out along one wall, at variousangles, is an array of overstuffed chairs in dif-fering degrees of disrepair; one, a red leatheraffair, has a large gash in its seat. Anchoringanother wall is a card table and two metal fold-ing chairs covered with splashes of brightlycolored paint, the site of Carson’s and Ashley’sart projects. Facing the table, set into the wall,is a forty-two-inch flat-screen television. Invarious spots throughout the room—on thedining table, on two of its chairs, on the flooragainst the wall—are piles of magazines andnewspapers: The New York Times, The Nation,The New York Review of Books, The New Yorker,and The Wall Street Journal (read for its busi-ness news rather than its editorial page, whichthe Kents find to be nothing short of reac-tionary). Adorning the walls is a series of por-traits of Japanese geishas. At first glance, thewomen appear similar, but on close inspectionone of them has a larger nose and much lighterhair than the rest. This woman is Mrs. Kent ona trip to Japan with Mr. Kent, taken shortlyafter their wedding. The costume was his idea.

The dining room is not so much a place ofassembly as it is one of traffic—an intersection,a pass-through point. Early each morning onthe days he is home—foundation and politicalwork frequently draws him away on trips—Mr.Kent sits at the table sipping a cup of coffeewhile he reads the day’s papers. As the kidswake up, they give their separate orders to theirnannies and are fed, sometimes together, butmore often in succession—Carson and herwaffles, then Ashley and her bagel with creamcheese and lox, then Tommy, who is always lastto rise, and his bacon and eggs. At midday,while the kids are at school, Mrs. Kent eats aleisurely lunch—a small filet of tuna or salmon,usually, placed atop a mountain of steamedleafy green vegetables. When she is eating, thatis. At the moment she is on a thirty-day fastand consuming only a drink made from lemonjuice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper.

As the kids drift in from school—in orderto best enable them to forge their own identi-ties, they have been placed in separateschools—they each eat a snack in the diningroom. A few hours later, they eat dinner there,this time together, their eyes collectively fixedon the television. Sometimes Mrs. Kent joinsthem, in which case the television is switchedoff and the children are asked what they didthat day. As they answer, she nods approvingly.“Oh, honey! You are just too adorable,” shesays, and, “You are Mommy’s little girl, aren’tyou?” Most of the time, however, she can’tmake it to the table. The two hours from fiveto seven are her aerobic exercise time, whichshe usually spends running on the treadmillupstairs. She eats (or drinks, when she is fast-ing), only after she finishes her workout, whenthe nannies are putting the kids to bed. Mr.Kent does not usually come home until afternine. Sometimes he eats out on business, andother times he has Gladys, the cook, make hima steak or a plate of pasta. Mr. Kent does notdiet. Always, however, he sits in the diningroom and has a martini, sometimes two, beforegoing upstairs. Some nights Mrs. Kent joinshim. More often than not, she stays in bed andreads.

Behind the dining room, overlooking thecourtyard and the kitchens and sunrooms oftownhouses on 82nd Street, is the Kents’kitchen. With its stainless steel refrigerator anddishwasher and electronic gas range and cur-tains, the kitchen is the newest and most com-plex room in the house. Only Gladys and a fewof the nannies hold the secrets of its mechani-cal operation. A few weeks ago, all of the helpcanceled on Mrs. Kent, and she had to let thedishes pile up in the sink because no one hadthought to tell her how to use the dishwasher.When it comes to matters of kitchen proce-dure, however, she is quite knowledgeable. Shehas Jenny impart the following rules to all newemployees:

1) Only olive oil, not butter, must beused for cooking.2) Only Teflon pans must be used forpreparing meals.3) Only bottled or filtered water, not tapwater, should be used for boiling andsteaming vegetables, making tea and cof-fee, and preparing soup bases.4) Hands absolutely must be washedbefore touching any food or removingdishes from the dishwasher.5) The microwave should not be usedunder any circumstances.Germs, fat, and radiation—if the kitchen is

a war zone, these are the enemy forces. On oneside of the room, separated from the majorappliances and the sink by a marble-toppedcenter island, is a small counter with twostools, the dining area for the help, who might,if seated closer to the food preparation area, tryto snack while preparing the Kents’ food oremptying the dishwasher. Above the counter isthe microwave, and on either side of it are cup-boards filled with the things the nannies feedTommy, Ashley, and Carson: fruit snacks,Goldfish, reduced-fat potato chips, pretzels,

ready-made frosting, cake mix, brownie mix,chocolate chip cookies, Jawbreakers, lollipops,and Oreos. On the other side of the room, theKents’ vast array of weaponry is spread out likea troop of foot soldiers: near the sink, a ten-dollar bottle of antibacterial soap; deep withina cupboard, surrounded by vitamins, a bottle oflaxatives; next to the range, a silver spray bottlefilled with olive oil; on the far counter, a bag oflow-carb, high-protein crackers; above every-thing, in the uppermost cupboards, roll uponroll of thick paper towels. As Mrs. Kent has totell Jenny to explain, it seems, to a newemployee every month, cloth towels retaingerms.

THE SECOND FLOOR

On the second floor are the girls’ rooms,bastions of pinkness different from the pinkrooms of other girls in the world, mostly due tothe sheer quantity of their pink items. Dolls,shirts, hairpieces, plastic ponies—everythinghas been purchased in duplicate, except in thecase of items given to both girls, which were, ofcourse, bought in fours. An item without aduplicate could be lost or broken, or it couldbecome one sister’s new favorite thing andgrow worn with loving. With two of every-thing, Ashley can change into an identical out-fit after sullying one ensemble, or Carson canset up her friend with the same backpack, samestuffed animal, and same hat when hosting aplay date. Most importantly, the backupobjects ensure a stable physical environment,which all the experts say is a fundamentalchildhood need. Children can attach them-selves to blankets, to stuffed animals, to justabout anything, and these attachments shouldbe nurtured, not discouraged, as they helpthem stake out unique identities for themselvesin the physical world. Carson keeps a wovencloth headband that once belonged to Karen,an old babysitter, in her pocket at all times. Itspair is stowed in a drawer with other, less sim-ple hairpieces. When it became clear thatCarson had grown fond of the thing, Mrs.Kent sent Karen to the store where she hadbought it (in Harlem) to pick up another.

Affixed to the walls at various pointsaround the room are mirrors—some full-length and simple, others small and ornate.Ashley mostly stays away from them, prefer-ring, as in the living room, to sit in the windowseat and gaze out the window. Carson, mean-while, who wants to be a movie star when shegrows up, can spend hours dancing in front ofher reflection. She has a closet filled withbejeweled, shiny dress-up clothes, and whenshe is wearing a sparkly gown her face becomesthat of a serious artist. She breaks her concen-tration only to pause in front of a full-lengthmirror from time to time, push out her stom-ach, and sigh, “I’m fat.”

In identical corners of the girls’ rooms areidentical dressing tables, pink wooden affairsfurnished with identical mother-of-pearlbrushes, combs, and mirrors (their duplicateshaving been prudently stowed in a closet byCindy, the live-in weekday nanny). These arewhere the nannies brush the girls’ hair, givethem their medicines (Carson takes Ritalin forattention deficit disorder, and Ashley takesWellbutrin for depression), and massage theirshoulders and necks before they go to bed—half-hour massages whenever possible, becausethese children are active, high-energy beings,and the stresses of school, lessons, and playdates can lodge themselves in their muscles.

Across from the dressing tables stand iden-tical pink canopy beds. After the massages, thenannies smooth back the sheets and help thegirls into bed. They read to them. Carson likesEloise, about a 6-year-old girl who lives withNanny, her nanny, at the Plaza. Eloise is fondof playing with her dog Weenie, splashingaround in the tub, and charging room serviceto her mother’s credit card. Her mother callson holidays from places like Madagascar.Ashley, meanwhile, is reading FrancesHodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess for the sec-ond time. Sara Crewe is now living in the atticof Miss Minchin’s school, having long agobeen expelled from her elegant living quarters,and waiting on her former classmates.

As they close the books, the nannies aretreated to bedtime confessions: You’re my sec-ond-favorite person in the whole world—well,wait, maybe third, and Cindy, the curtains looklike snakes; make them stop, and Please, please,please come to Christmas dinner with us! Mymommy’s not a good babysitter.

THE THIRD FLOOR

Tommy’s bedtime routine is less indulgent.He does not, for example, get his neck rubbed.As he enters adolescence, this type of care isless and less appropriate. More important,Mrs. Kent thinks, is that he be exposed to malerole models, with Mr. Kent gone on businessall the time and Tommy alone in a house full ofwomen. When Tommy started talking about

POLYCARP OF SMYRNA

[ f i c t i on ]

[ B Y B O B G A LL AG H E R ]

B ishop Polycarp presided over an earlyChristian community in the city of Asia

Minor then called Smyrna (now Izmir, a sea-port in West Turkey). Like many a sainted mar-tyr of that era, he refused to light incense at thestatue of Caesar, and so was billed to be publiclyexecuted at the local coliseum. They tried toburn him at the stake, but the Lord had some-thing more operatic in mind. There standsPolycarp atop the pitch-cured faggots, bound to

his pole, a curiously empty bliss beaming fromhis countenance. A centurion then puts historch to the kindling and it flares. But a kind ofcentrifugal wind emanates from Polycarp, andthe flames, though raging, do not reach him.With his spear the centurion then pierces themartyr’s side, as another had once done Jesus’.But when the blade comes out no bleeding fol-lows. Instead, the area around the woundtumesces into a strangely writhing bulge, which

then disgorges into the air a spew of iridescentdoves, assembling into the lozenge of a churn-ing aureole. There follows an outpouring ofblood so copious that it instantly douses theflames, their thwarted ardor like the hissings ofserpents. Polycarp’s head slumps, reposeful asbabe on breast, and then he dies. Damn! Whata religion! ]

Bob Gallagher is a juggler and member ofQuidditas, the medieval music group.

David Heatley lives in Jackson Heights, New York. His work can be viewed online at www.davidheatley.com.

turn to ELEVATION, page 14

and won’t for a few more—unless, of course,Tommy’s grades continue to fall and they haveto find another school for him—but she hasplenty to deal with as it is. Jenny helps withsetting up activities, coordinating lessons, anddrawing up schedules for the kids, and she alsohandles some of the many errands required to

keep a household running smoothly,but lately Mrs. Kent has had to spenda great deal of time reorganizing thestaff, a task with which Jenny, beingone its members, cannot help. Rosaasked for a weekend off last weekafter she had just been given three ofthem while the Kents were in theBahamas, and Gladys is growing lessand less quick on her feet as she ages,and Monique just isn’t able to providethe children with the enrichmentthey crave anymore, what with herEnglish being worse than Ashley’s.Last week Mrs. Kent caught her ask-ing Tommy what foyer meant.

As all of this has caused her con-siderable stress lately, Mrs. Kent hasalso had to spend some time callingaround to find the name of a rep-utable masseuse. While importantand ultimately relaxing, de-stressingtakes time, which means it can actu-ally end up adding to her stress level.On one wall of the study hangs anoversize whiteboard calendar—Mrs.Kent doesn’t use a Palm because itwould be too difficult to give it toJenny every time she makes anappointment—filled with color-coded reminders. The kids’ daily

schedules are done separately. Jenny typesthem up on the computer and posts copies inthe study, the dining room, and the kids’ bed-rooms each morning. This system works wellenough until changes have to be made, as theyinevitably do—play dates are canceled, soccerpractices delayed, violin lessons shortened.Mrs. Kent would like to post the schedules onthe Internet so that the kids could check themon their computers while at home and the

nannies could find them while outwith the kids by going online withtheir cell phones. But introducingthat system, of course, will be anotherheadache.

THE FIFTH FLOOR

The Kents live on four floors. Butthere is one more: the basement, itmight be called, as it is situated partlybelow street level. It is damp anddark, and serves many of the samefunctions as other basements in fami-ly homes. There is a room for doinglaundry, with a washer, a dryer, and acrude plastic sink, and there is amplestorage space. The large room adja-cent to the laundry room is nearlyfilled with old and seldom-useditems: squash rackets, downhill skigear, a hamster cage and wheel, a free-standing tropical fish tank, an ancientexercise bike. There are also boxesfilled with clothes, some labeled“TOO SMALL,” others “OUT OFSTYLE,” and a few “TO GIVEAWAY.”

The difference between this roomand most other basements is thatsomeone lives here. Two people, infact. Amid the abandoned and forgot-ten items is a double bed (also, at onepoint, abandoned by the Kents) and asmall kitchenette. This is whereCindy sleeps on weeknights andMonique on weekends. Sometimestheir shifts overlap and they end upsharing the bed.

It didn’t used to be so bad, Cindysays. The window that looks out ontothe street used to be unobstructed, sothe room got some light. There usedto be some space next to the bed, so awoman could (unless summoned earlyby Mrs. Kent) stretch her joints in themorning. There used to be a wardrobe

where the nannies could hang their clothes. Itis still there, of course, but it has been filledwith last year’s Marc Jacobs collection.

Monique thinks some of it is a bit much.The rack lined with several rows of women’ssize eight Prada shoes, for instance. The boxes,labeled with the children’s names and the sub-head “KEEPSAKES,” containing every draw-ing, art project, and homework assignmentthey ever completed. The garbage bags full ofclothes intended to be given to charity—everyonce in a while, Cindy opens them and pullsout clothes for her own children, but otherwisethe bags have sat untouched for years. It won’tbe long, Monique muses, before she and Cindyno longer have a place to sleep. ]

Lisa Connelly lives in New York City.

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 14 WINTER 2004

girls last year, Mrs. Kent called up her domes-tic agency and told them to find her a manny.They sent over Chad, a 22-year-old aspiringBroadway actor, and he has been stopping byevery weekend since to take Tommy to kickaround the soccer ball or to go to the movies.

Tommy refused to talk to Chad orlet him in his room for a month.Then, in week five, he softened. Hemet some girls Chad hangs aroundwith, and they were kind of hot,although he didn’t think any of themwas Chad’s girlfriend. Plus Chadhadn’t made one call on his cell phonewhile he was with Tommy, and someof the nannies never get off theirphones. So now Chad spends his vis-its to the house in Tommy’s thirdfloor room with him, at a spot nearwhere the nannies used to groomhim, playing Xbox. Chad prefersrole-playing games, which Tommythinks makes him a “pussy,” to fightergames, but Tommy enjoys havingsomeone to play with or, if he sodecides, to watch him play. The Xboxis the centerpiece of his room, withpiles of DVDs and games spiralingout around it, some of them in neatface-up stacks (the work of Carolina)and other, more scratched discs inhelter-skelter clusters.

Covering Tommy’s walls areposters of Jay-Z and Nas, framed cov-ers of The Source, and a poster thatreads, in a font resembling a graffititag: “Hip-hop. U betta recognize.” Upagainst one wall, on an old oak desk, is aMacintosh G4 laptop with an external harddrive, printer/scanner, and an iPod. When thecomputer is open and sleeping, as Tommyalways leaves it, the screen is black save forthree white lines of dancing, ever-morphingtext. “I made it like that/I bought it likethat/I’m livin’ like that,” it reads—a quote fromKool Keith of the Ultramagnetic MCs,brought to Tommy’s attention by way of Nas’“Take It in Blood.” Along the otherwall is a trundle bed fitted with awhite down comforter and laden withstuffed animals.

When Tommy has what Mrs.Kent calls “downtime,” he likes towalk to the projects, which, he fre-quently reminds people, are not so faraway—just four blocks to the north.Unlike the Seventies, where some ofhis friends live, his neighborhood hasits rough spots. He once convincedChad to take him by his apartment on129th Street in Harlem—just a fewblocks from Sugar Hill, where hip-hop started. Before they got back inthe car and instructed Sergei, the driv-er, to take them back to 93rd Street,Tommy ducked into a store on 125thStreet and bought a doo-rag. Hismother won’t let him wear it, and hecan’t wear it at school, the only placewhere he is not supervised by his momor a nanny, either (he tried), so hekeeps it hanging on a nail he had Rosahelp him pound into a bed post.

Adjacent to Tommy’s room is theden, modeled, following Mrs. Kent’s1999 trip to India to study under akundalini yogi, after a Hindu temple.In the center of one wall is an altar ofsorts—sculptures of deities arrangedon a series of shelves rising up fromthe floor. Above them, sometimesconcealed by silk curtains reconstruct-ed from a sari, is a flat-screen televi-sion identical to the one in the diningroom. Strewn about the room are pinkand red and green silk cushions. Theone blight on this color scheme is ablue-and-yellow striped couch facingthe television; when Mrs. Kent’sattempts to make the kids sit on pil-lows on the floor while watching TVwere met with indignation, sheinstructed two of the nannies to carryup the couch from the basement. It isjust as well. Sometimes, when Mr. Kent comeshome really late and, he says, doesn’t want towake his wife, he falls asleep on it.

THE FOURTH FLOOR

The fourth, or top floor of the townhouseon East 93rd Street is divided into a spaciousmaster bedroom and bath and a smaller study.The bedroom is furnished with only a king-size bed, a treadmill, and a chair and dressingtable, but draped over the chair, spread out onthe bed, and stacked in boxes on the floor areenough items to fill several wardrobes. Thebedroom thus serves much the same functionas the living room, with the exception that thearticles here are impeccably organized. The

N O T A CO M P E T I T I O N

purses in one box are neatly lined up, the jew-elry in another is sealed in Ziploc bags labeledin permanent marker with a methodical, unfal-tering script, the ties hanging from the chairare clipped into a special hanger. If it were notfor their devotion to the house, one mightthink the Kents were preparing to move. The

only section of the room not covered withclothing is the one carved out by the treadmill.Mrs. Kent uses it almost every day, and unlikethe bed, clothes draped over it cannot be easilypushed aside.

The Kents don’t care, they say, for having ahome—as some of their friends in ParkAvenue penthouses do—that appears to haveno one living in it. They are down-to-earth,hard-working people. They run a foundation

and a family. Mr. Kent wears understated graysuits, and Mrs. Kent dresses in mostly casualclothes—all Marc Jacobs originals, true, butplain pieces: jeans, cotton shirts, sweaters. Sheis, after all, a full-time mom.

The study is where she performs her(mom-related) work. There is much to bedone, and the room reflects that. Lining onewall are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammedwith books, many of them works on child psy-chology, some general and others, like How toGet Your Child to Eat—But Not Too Much, morespecific. Mrs. Kent hasn’t had to worry aboutapplications for a few years now (Carson wasadmitted to the school that will educate her forpreschool through twelfth grade two years ago)

NOSTALGIA OF SPACE

After Nostalgia of Space, the 1939 painting by OscarDominguez

Believing in what was takenWithout gratitude or slightest grace in winter,He was caught on metalworkWisecracking downtown.

She went off, abruptly religious,To study flower arrangementAnd captivity beneath no sun.When she returned, hair flooded

With night on shoulders—Yet blue and cloud beyond door—She held a questionnaire equally wetAnd filled with abstract terror.

—ERNEST HILBERT

THE BIG GUY NUMBERMONDAY

walking to the corner store avoiding eye-contactwith the otherwomen who wear pumps and set behind deskssenior office clerk assistant to the general managing controller's secretary

"i'll take a pack a cigarettesa clark bar and the latest issueof cum batin' hussies please."

back to the office of the senior secretary officer general director to kafka's marketing,public wage-slaves and jerk-offs office

for assistance in english please press 1if you wish to personally talk to our computerplease press 2to have our computer talk directly to your computerplease press 3to hear the sound of a whore squeal please press 4for viacom's lesson on how to be rich and famous please press 5don't bother pressing *0we're on to that trick and we'll simply hang up on youto repeat these optionswhisk briskly until stiff peaks begin to formand remembera true gentleman never shows his teeth

smack a lady on the ass and call it love?didn't your mamma' teach you better than thatno one ever loved anyone for their brutal honesty

—SHELLEY HICKLIN

CINGULUM MEMBRIINFERIORIS

you came from destructionrestructured up by living cellswhy would you be anything but animal?

same mattersame surface-membrane coverings

why, anything but animal?

fibula and tibiaand semi-lunar cartilages

this sinus a passage into learning you

the anatomy is special, yesa blueprint of our dormant magickal abilitiesthat will awake by studying

we burn the same as forests fulleach one leaves one peace behind

if these were holy doingscould there co-existour scientific histories?of if we were cursedto this soil of growthwould your smile still make me smile?

i feel it wouldi feel it would

—MICHAEL AZRAEL-D.

from ELEVATION page 13

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 15

BY DAN MURPHY

THE WORKING PRINCIPLES BEHIND THE ADMIRING GAZE OF THE RETROSEXUAL(Fig.1): The RETROSEXUAL (a), seated in a comfortable yet proper manner, begins to quietly muster all the powers of contemplation, fancy and reverie at his or her command (b). Having attained the necessary level of concentration, the RETROSEXUAL peers into–and through–the artwork situated before his or her self (c) which acts as a lens by which the RETROSEXUAL may focus upon the spirit, context and pleasurable aspects of the work (d). It is only when all four factors are thus in complete alignment that the RETROSEXUAL may enter the work in a way that yields a torrent of ecstasy; and ultimately, illumination. The process described here is merely a basic model, and varies in complexity and repertoire with each individual. Likewise, the time necessary for the RETROSEXUAL ACT to take place can vary widely, depending on the

experience of the viewer and the nature of the work. The most sophisticated among the RETROSEXUALS often employ a method by which ecstasy might be prolonged for hours on end, engaging with and withdrawing from the work repeatedly. This method requires a great deal of personal discipline and stamina, often taking years to perfect. Most RETROSEXUALS are by nature promiscuous creatures, and as such will have been intimate with a large array of works, although there are exceptions. Most spend a few minutes to a few hours with one piece, but there are some ardent RETROSEXUALS who might spend years repeatedly visiting a particular work. Indeed, there have been tragic instances in which RETROSEXUALS have been so transfixed by a particular image that they have sacrificed their very youth sitting in rapture before the object of their desire. ]

ON RETROSEXUALITY or, the SENSUOUS RESONANCE left by TIME’S WAKE as it laps upon the SHORES of CIVILIZATION.

a.

c.

b.

FIG. 1

d.

ANY OF US HAVE FELT IT: the breathless exhilaration of seeing, for the very first time, a face that had

set countless hearts ablaze in a day gone by. Does the winsome gaze of Clara Bow or the smoldering charms of Kiki of Montparnasse bring a blush to your cheek? Could the sharp-featured Montesquiou or the windswept Lord Byron be the cause of your palpitations in the midnight hour? Or, perchance, does a composed, immaculate society dame painted deftly by Sargent send you into rapture? Might a fiery Spanish countess, daubed into the Ages by Goya, rouse your cravings? Or is it the myth and lore surrounding Sappho, Mata Hari or Nefertiti that compels your hindquarters to tighten? Perhaps it’s an artifact that has you transfixed, such as an anonymous French daguerreotype

that has captured forever the face of an angel or prince whose name you shall never know. Have you fought without success to banish these remote, inscrutable totems from your mind’s eye? Then you may be a RETROSEXUAL; or, a SPHINXOPHILE, as some have called them. You may exclaim,“My dear Whimsy–I fear for your very sanity! What new perversion have you laid before our feet?” You may thank me later. This is not a mere appetite of the flesh that I speak of: a RETROSEXUAL is one who has rendered the yearning for that which is beautiful yet elusive into an art form. It may be said that a RETROSEXUAL has had enough of the empty inclinations towards cheap gropery that passes for eroticism in our day. A RETROSEXUAL aches for the rarefied

pleasures found within the confines of gilded frames, marble pedestals and crumbling celluloid. To a RETROSEXUAL, the dust of Passing Time is nothing less than the Spice of Desire. The RETROSEXUAL seeks a state of endless courtship and flirtation without the unpleasantness and disillusionment of consummation; thus, the RETROSEXUAL has bid farewell to the days of ruined curls, smeared monocles and rumpled waistcoats. What remains is utter bliss, more akin to the sensuous than the sensual. A RETROSEXUAL is an individual who wishes to commune with beings of rare beauty who–like iridescent, prehistoric insects forever frozen in amber–have attained their eternal, ideal form. In a sense, such personages have become, through the blessings of Civilization, immortal.

One might speculate that deep within many RETROSEXUALS lies the vain hope that they may one day join the company of those for whom they have kept their ardent vigils. Indeed, it may be said that the life of a RETROSEXUAL is but a preparation for the moment when they too might attain the ideal state of aloof poise and exquisite stillness found in those works of art that they faithfully emulate. RETROSEXUALS see their mortal lives as a delicate, pungent blossom, which all too soon falls from the springtime bough, leaving in its place a glorious gem, glistening forever in a perpetual twilight. The RETROSEXUAL haunts museums, galleries and theaters, dressed in his or her finest attire before a portrait, sculpture, stage or theater screen–reverent and still–but with flared nostrils and flushed cheeks.

It is due to the potency of such visions that I, Whimsy, often bring a cane whilst visiting museums, for I know from experience that my legs shall require assistance afterwards–for I am often quivering to my very soul after spending an afternoon sipping the sweet Nectar of Illumination. Why, my earlobes become so reddened and swollen from viewing such an array of lux et voluptas that I require a veritable turban of ice compresses for several hours; yet utter content descends upon me at such moments, for I am as a fat black velvet bee laden with honey! I believe that museums should offer litter bearers for those of my disposition, so that one’s languid frame may be carried amongst the galleries–and hence, the centuries. Just imagine: as one’s perfumed head rests upon a silken pillow, blissfully immobile, one is finally

at liberty to swoon without fear of creasing one’s trousers. Some may dismiss the refined sensibility described in this essay as mere nostalgia, implying that one who harbors great affection for the Past is embattled against the Future. Balderdash! If we are not to fully avail ourselves of the treasures that have been bequeathed unto us by the Ages, then what, pray tell, is the point of Civilization–or the Future, for that matter? To those who have until now suppressed an appetite for engaging in such aesthetic frottage, I say this: embrace your lust for Civilization, her offspring and the gilded fruits she bears! For it is only through our intercourse with Civilization–that last, great bulwark against Time–that we might be remembered; and perhaps, one day, craved. ]

M

THE RETROSEXUAL ATLAS a continuum chart outlining the nature of RETROSEXUAL APPEAL.

METROSEXUALS: THE NEW DANDIES?A brief commentary.

(Fig. 1): The personages in the diagram above are categorized according to the nature of their Retrosexual appeal and their qualities as individuals. Barring a few exceptions, there are no clear delineations when determining the reasons why an individual may excite the imagination; and although much deliberation has been given to the positioning of each personage in the continuum, the results cannot help but to be subjective. The nature of said appeal with regards to historical and/or artistic figures seems to coincide with the two prevailing sensibilities of Retrosexuals: ROMANCE (aesthetes) and KINK (hedonists).

There also seems to be a direct correlation between KINK and the predominance of reds and scarlets in a Retrosexual’s wardrobe, as indicated by the CRIMSON LATITUDES (a). Likewise, we find a related phenomenon in the higher reaches of the ROMANCE regions, dubbed the PASTEL LATITUDES (b). An additional note: The HISTORICAL/ARTISTIC axis in this atlas is of special interest in that the pursuits of most Retrosexuals seem to reside somewhere on the continuum between these two poles; as a result, the majority of diagrams devised in the study of Retrosexuals reflect this fact. ]

ROMANCE

AR

TIS

TIC

HIST

OR

ICA

L

KINK

The Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Lorringhoven

Marie Taglioni

Helen of Troy

Kiki of Montparnasse

Loie Fuller

Douglas Fairbanks

Charles Baudelaire

Beau Brummel

Alexander the Great

Oscar Wilde

Genghis Khan

Marquis de Sade Calligula

Lady Godiva

Marlene Dietrich

Clara Bow

George Sand

Mona Lisa

Alexander Hamilton

Richard the Lionhearted

Lawrence of Arabia

Robert Comtede Montesquiou Napoleon Bonaparte

Rasputin

Botticelli’s Simonette Vespucci

Sappho

Boddacea

Vermeer’s Girl with Pearl Earring

Josephine Baker

Lord Alfred Douglass

Marcel Proust

Virgil

Atilla the Hun

Sargent’s Lady Agnew of Lochnaw

Joan of Arc

Elizabeth I

Andrew Jackson

Goya’s Naked Maja

Sargent’s Mme Gautreau

Louise Brooks

Greta GaroSarah Bernhart

Mata Hari

Isadora Duncan

Monet’s Olympia

Rudolph Valentino

Henry VIII

Josephine Bonaparte

Marie Antoinette

LancelotGuinevere

Cleopatra

Marc Anthony

Nefertiti

Dionysus

Serge Gainsbourg

Richard Nixon

Alfred Jarry

Crazy Horse

Edgar Allen Poe

Keith Moon

Winston Churchill

Samuel Pepys

Errol Flynn

Lord Admiral Nelson

Meriwether Lewis

Picasso

Matisse

Montezuma

Eleanor Roosevelt

Homer

Spartacus

Blackbeard

Bettie PageTheda Bara

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

Pope Innocent III

Lord Byron

William Blake

Tomás de Torquemada

Girolamo Savonarola

Machiavelli

Socrates

Don Quixote

Lord Cornbury

Mozart

Anais Nin

FIG. 1

Evita Peron

The Scarlet Pimpernel

Aubrey Beardsley

James Cook

Jean-Paul Sartre

Lord Byron

BeethovenEzra Pound

Salvador Dali

Michaelangelo

Andy Warhol

Count Eric Stenbock

Frida Kahlo

Alister Crowley

William S. Burroughs

A. C. Swinburnea.

b.

Maria Callas

HE VICEROY BUTTERFLY, a delicious morsel for any bird, mimics the appearance of the bitter-tasting Monarch so that it

might avoid becoming a meal. As an extension of Nature, Civilization, too, creates mimics. Let us consider the latest creature to arise from the plastic chrysalis of popular culture, the METROSEXUAL. It seems that cable television and the male style press of our day has recently taken up a new pastime: inventing new genders. Mark Simpson of Salon coined the term “metrosexual” some time ago, and the media has feverishly touted it about for the better part of this past year. The description of this kind of male upon first encounter sounds eerily familiar to those of us who have read historical accounts of dandies. To wit: “(…) a narcissist in love with not only himself, but also his urban lifestyle; a straight man who is in touch with his feminine side”; “(…) The typical metrosexual is a young man with money to spend, living in or within easy reach of a metropolis”; “(…) He might be officially gay, straight or bisexual, but this is utterly immaterial because he has clearly taken himself as his own love object and pleasure as his sexual preference.” It may be true that the metrosexual (which is not to be confused with the more scholarly COSMOPOLITAN SOPHISTICATE) might possess traits similar in nature to the DANDY, but is this new breed the most recent incarnation of dandyism? Upon closer scrutiny, the contrasts that exist betwixt metrosexuality and dandyism abound. For instance, a love of fine clothes is a time-honored dandyist trait, as the dandy is nothing if not a creature of refinement and nuance. But the metrosexual’s apparent preoccupation with donning name brands and labels—and the need to let others know that one’s coin purse can blot out the sun—is the very height of vulgarity. Moreover, the cherished dandyist traits of subtlety and individuality are virtually absent from the crass practice of mass-brand fetishization, and so it is contrary to the spirit of dandyism. As Quentin Crisp had eminently demonstrated throughout his life, taste, not one’s bank account, is what distinguishes one. Likewise, the metrosexual’s apparent preoccupation with our shrill celebrity culture is yet more cause for concern. A dandy looks upon such tiresome claptrap with detached amusement, and not with the frantic hysteria found on the entertainment gossip programs and vapid lifestyle magazines that now seem to pass for newspapers among those urbanites who invariably seem to hold degrees in the hallowed fields of marketing or communications. An over-familiarity with such things is a dead giveaway that one is likely in the midst of a metrosexual, not a dandy. When encountering a suspected metrosexual, one might confirm one’s diagnosis by changing the topic of conversation to one that is not directly related to popular culture–but by doing so, one may risk being confronted with a vacant look and the gossamer chorus of crickets breaking wind. In Iowa. The very notion of metrosexuality as dandyism’s successor ignores the fact that dandies have always been rare, singular creatures, and cannot be created by merely throwing this week’s trendy club frock on some poor unsuspecting slob. That pink-sequined puppy mill of metrosexuality, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, merely succeeds in

turning the straight and clueless into the gay and clueless. Granted, there is useful lifestyle advice peppered in between Carson Kressley’s inane attempts at wit, but the show’s ethos of imposing a monolithic fashionista mentality upon their prole Pygmalions is at best distasteful to dandies, since doing so often suppresses the idiosyncrasies of individuals instead of celebrating them. Dandies exist to inspire others to be utterly themselves; but Queer Eye, whilst occasionally getting it right, more often than not just seems to add to the problem by creating yet more insecure fashion victims. In this respect, metrosexuals have much more in common with dandyism’s confectionery predecessor, the FOP, whose influence in 18th Century Europe generated a swarm of fashionable idiots that were often mistaken for pastries. The Macaroni Club has indeed returned—except this time it’s Chef Boyardee! Metrosexuals and dandies may share a love of clothes, or an obsession with appearances, but dandyism is much more than this: it is a way of being in the world, through which the dandy brings enchantment into the mundane lives of those who encounter him. A dandy’s self-indulgence, unlike the suspect metrosexual, always has an end in mind, a point. Because he is a gentleman, and thus a man of substance, a true dandy can wear a rumpled suit and still have an air of panache and distinction about him; but the metrosexual would likely be lost without his Prada shoes or Diesel duds. Without a thorough understanding of the nature of dandyism, metrosexuals are merely playing with the revered tools of the dandy’s vocation without having earned the right to do so. Indeed, an argument could be made that metrosexuality is merely dandyism without all the pesky thinking. The zen of dandyism, for lack of a better word, is to embrace surface, but in a contemplative, self-aware manner. To achieve this paradoxical state, it is necessary to invest a great deal of time transcending the pursuit of depth. Dandies may trade in earthly pleasures, but are very strident in their inner lives, for an aura of such poise and perversity takes a great deal of discipline to project on a daily basis. Scratch the aesthete surface of a dandy, and one will find an ascetic. Dandies, despite their apparent aloofness, are keenly alive to everything around them, whilst most metrosexuals seem to possess the unfortunate demeanor of petulant, distracted teenagers with tragically short attention spans. I ask you, kind reader: would—could—a metrosexual spend a quiet evening alone, transfixed and enraptured as he watches the pale light of a full moon saturate an arrangement of translucent white lilies in an achingly diaphanous porcelain vase? Unless the subtle, refined traits associated with dandyism—wit, eloquence, courtesy, uniqueness, charm, gentility, et cetera—are soon found among the metrosexuals, then I fear we must not be swayed from viewing the metrosexual as anything other than a hollowed-out, middlebrow, mass-market, watered-down version of dandyism. Could this be the dawn of the McDandy? Thank goodness for a steadying glass of madeira at moments like these! Although the missionary wing of the metrosexual phenomenon might temporarily take the rough edges off the masses, it is of little use to the ancient brotherhood of dandies. Metrosexuals are to dandies what guys are to men. In other words, metrosexuality is credit; dandyism is cash. ]

T

“How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June…” – Ocsar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“He did not believe that happiness was to be found in a sensation experienced in the present moment, but rather in the recollection of a sensation, in the link between present and the past.” – Jean-Yves Tadie, Marcel Proust: A Biography

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 16 WINTER 2004

IF YOU ’RE ANXIOUS TO SH INE

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 17

MOLLY’SCafe and Bookstore

‘in the heart of the italian market’

1010 south 9th Street, Philadelphia PA19147telephone: 215.923.3367 email: mollysbooks@comcast.net

www.mollysbooks.com

Send this form with a check or money order payable to The Philadelphia Independent.If applicable, please attach names and addresses for your gift subscriptions. Mail to:

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENT BUREAU OF SUBSCRIPTIONS, 1026 ARCH STREETPHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA, 19107

SUBSCRIBETO TH IS NEWSPAP ER BY MAIL.

... for only $5.00.

Get 6 issues by mail ...

That ’s less than FOUR CENTS per enormous page.You will SAVE an ENTIRE DOLLAR.Yes, this is quite the SQUARE DEAL.

But wait. It gets EVEN SQUARER.

You may recall that this publication began its short life as an odd little booklet of flimsy, oversized pages, abooklet so curious about its own geographic surroundings that it boasted, flamboyantly and unreasonably,

that it was, in fact a fully-grown newspaper. Like a small puppy strutting around town in a lion’s pelt, this ledto some absurd scenes. Speeches were made from the tops of milk crates to stunned commuters on train plat-forms. Quarters were collected in cigar boxes, until the authorities intervened. Steel newsboxes were drivenabout in small minivans and chained to poles by the soft hands of children. In the darkest hours, tobacco andeven black coffee were prepared and consumed. Then it arrived, our very own newsprint baby, kicking andscreaming. The first issue showed some promise, but was highly amateurish in its composition and presenta-tion; ten uneven pages riddled with typographical errors and wet with the lather of adolescent manifestos. Wepromised that we would swallow the city whole, “to capture the doings and dreams of an entire city.” We prom-ised to make THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENT into our city’s last great newspaper. The fever that we felt thenstill consumes us now. We remain committed to keeping all of these promises.

But what has changed is the price of raw newsprint (it has increased), our page count (it has more than dou-bled), our taste for simple luxuries (a heated office and a minimum wage among them), and our ambitions

(a budget for giving fair compensation to our contributors). These have all in turn increased the audacity of ourdemands on you, the public. We now believe this newspaper to be worth an entire dollar. However, we do notwant you to interpret this as the usual ultimatum implied by a price. You have already given us that thing wewanted most in the first place—a loyal readership. Give us but another five dollars, and watch as our next sixissues make this one look as infantile as our very first effort must look to you now.

As a new subscriber,you will also receive ...

� SIX CUSTOM ENVELOPES

� A PINBACK BUTTON

� YOUR SUBSCRIBER CARD

� OUR THANKS

One for each issue. Envelopes bear the Flying P on brown paper bag.

Bearing the Pigeon and the Pen, two elements from our great Seal.

The Card confers no benefits upon the Bearer, but only serves to identify his or her elite status.

The satisfaction of the devoted patron is usually the most costly of allcommodities. In previous ages, it was known only to the nobly born.Even today, some ask that you give thousands of dollars to help a wor-thy thing survive. We ask for but five, but if you want to give a thousand,by all means.

My Name:

Address:

City / State / Zip Code:

Email:

THE FRANKLIN. $1,000 or more Two perpetual subscriptions (transferable to yourheirs) pin, card, custom poster, t-shirt, custommessenger bag, Twelve 3-issue gift subscriptionsfor all of your friends. Donor listing on Page Twobeside masthead.

THE FREEMASON. $200 Five-year subscription, pin, card, custom poster,t-shirt, six 3-issue gift subscriptions. Donor list-ing on Page Two beside masthead.

THE RIZZO. $50 Five-year subscription, pin, card, custom poster,t-shirt, two 3-issue gift subscriptions. Donor list-ing on Page Two beside masthead.

THE SQUARE DEAL. $5 Six issues in custom envelopes, pin & card.

YES. I LIKE THIS PAPER AND I WANT TO HELP...Please sign me up for ...

"When you ride a bicycle, you leave the oil to sleep under the shifting sands."

—DAWN CHOWDER

BICYCLES TO TRAVEL FAST, OR FAR, OR BOTHAVAILABLE AT

TROP H Y BIKESOLD CITY PHILADELPHIA.

311 MARKET STREET.OPEN 11-7 MON-FRI. 9-5 SAT-SUN. 215.625.7999

W W W . T R O P H Y B I K E S . C O Mtouring, single-speed and fixed-gear bicycles a specialty

we upgrade and repair all quality bikes

BOOKSTORE

0 Since 1971 0

Alternative & Scholarly Books

New, used & out-of-print0 0 0

0 0 0

Monday - Saturday: 10am - 7pm Sunday:Noon - 5pm

3920 Spruce Street Philadelphia, PA 19104(215) 222-1576

Our Own House of

∂

The Jew of New York“Katchor’s nineteenth-century carnival ofhucksters and Kabbalists and pilgrims is adelight: you feel that it is a work of singu-lar, surreal vision, and at the same timethat it must all be true.” — The New Yorker100 pages / 0-375-70097-8 / $15.00

Julius Knipl, Real EstatePhotographer:The Beauty Supply DistrictJulius Knipl attends an evening concert and unwittingly enters the world of wholesale empathizers and chiaroscuro brokers who makethe decisions critical to the production of aestheticpleasure in all of its forms — from the shape of anolive jar to the score of a string quartet.110 pages / 0-375-70098-6 / $16.95

Pantheon Booksat your local bookstore.

NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK!

Picture-story collections by

Ben Katchor

o r , v i s i t w w w . k a t c h o r . c o m

2

they aren’t destroying themselves any morethan normal people, and they know what theywant for their lives. They know themselves. I’mhaving visions. They have intense purpose andresolve, but this seems to involve not caringabout or doing anything. The clothes are tightand tailored to perfection, but they can dribbleextra fabric or be slashed idly at the shoulders,or be stained stiff with tar without rigor orcare. Some smoke cigarettes but it is not therule. They mostly believe in life, in runningabout and being outside, you know, jumping,swimming, riding bikes, and often being shirt-less. The fabrics are lush but understated,stretchy. From some angles these boys areclichés of punks: fragile and pubescent; semi-developed grotesques; about as deviant as sub-scribers to an outdated scene can be; so out asto be laughable. From other angles these boysappear to be strong, densely-faceted speci-mens, modern humans with their own brandnew brand of real beliefs, people to pay atten-tion to. This is all in the clothes, I promise you.In his teenage years Jackson Pollock rum-

maged through the dressing-up box, searchingfor his look. Art school presents the perfectopportunity to reinvent oneself in a new guise;this is as true today as it was eighty years agowhen Pollock, Rough Rider, rode into town.

The boy from suburban Los Angeles bare-ly qualified as a farmhand and never onceroped a steer, but by the time he got to theArtists’ League in New York he was wearingbig belt buckles and boots, telling everyone hecame from Cody, Wyoming, the birthplace hebarely remembered. He figured people wouldthink of Buffalo Bill Cody and instantlyunderstand his innate cowboy credentials. Hewas a juvenile dope of a teenager, like manybrilliant ones before and since. His teacher,Thomas Hart Benton, took a shine to him andall his silly bullshit regardless. Benton was verymuch of his time, an important artist of theminor Regionalist movement alongside JohnSteuart Curry and Grant Wood, he ofAmerican Gothic, the painting of the face-oncountry couple and their pitchfork. They werepainters of the real America with her constitu-tional values and unbreakable pioneer spirit,her frontier potential. I saw a classic Bentonmural at the Country Music Hall of Fame inNashville a few years ago, and had thought thathe made sentimental spun sugar, cheer-uppatriot fluff from a 1920s carnival. Coming, asit turns out, from a powerful political family,Benton had fanatical purpose and beliefs.Every player in his scenes knows his or herplace in America, which is a complete universeunto itself. Male workers sweat and musclesbulge to slithery near-comic surreal effect; theyget things done. Seemingly runaway and faint-ly nightmarish locomotives plough through thecountryside to as yet uncharted but of coursewonderful destinations. Women are attentive,Negroes cheerful, the young energetic, speak-ers captivating. Musicians, manly pied piperswith banjos, bubble over with song and infecteverything around them. Apparently, we aremoving ahead all the time towards our owndistinct destination, and our naturally provi-dent American existence dictates we’ll getthere if we do what we’re supposed to do. Thisis what the dry but occasionally brilliantAnglo-American pop culture critic MikeMarqusee brilliantly calls America’s “excep-tional destiny.” It’s yours, of course it’s yours,

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 18 WINTER 2004

It begins with the shock of seeing a wool-ly, mammoth Jackson Pollock in person.Holding hands in the Modern (which is

any Modern in any city: your city; this city)mother told the dazzled child about the splat-ters, that the man was a liberator of paint andbreaker of rules, a big indignant animal whowould not listen and would not apologize. Thisattitude spoke to the child. Having sensed theextremes of human power and freedom ofexpression in a new way, the child becameinterested in art and committed to JacksonPollock as a friend and mentor. Thus the artistopened door after door.Years later, the child, bythen a student, investi-gated his hero to furthercement their bond. Thebooks held shockingnews that did not add up:apparently, Pollock wasan alcoholic shit, hateful,violent and self-destruc-tive. No longer a stan-dard bearer for personalfreedom and expression,then, the man with thedirty trousers and pickup truck now epito-mized the artist as tortured soul and all-roundnutcase, angryman, baldie. Reconciling thissore boil of a man with the stubborn but play-ful naïf he once knew proved irritating andstrenuous for the student. Apathy was thesolution. Keen to bond with a new friend overa croissant, a typical chat took place. “What’sthe best Pollock painting then, AutumnRhythm or Blue Poles?” That was it. Discussionsbegan and ended there, with flippant steam,coffee talk. It is extremely unpleasant to betricked or confused by someone you have takenseriously. It’s hard to know how to feel. It sets

you back. For sensitive people like you and I(perhaps), a good first reaction is to be cool, bywhich I mean be as specious and contrary aspossible, never to reveal how hurt you are, ever,and move on to another topic. Hedi Slimane isan Italo-Tunisian man with a cute upturnednose and doe eyes who has been dressinghommes at the house of Dior for three years,following a good though creatively frustratingspell at Yves Saint Laurent. Slimane is 34 yearsold, half a generation younger and significant-ly sprier than the other young designers withmaster keys to the big houses on the Seine, and

though he is not yeta multi-platformmega-brand, a face,his slight existence ismaking wrinklesshow on Tom Fordand Marc Jacobs, thecurrent Paris pin-ups. The end of oneseason and thebeginning of thenext is an excitingtime, yeah? (We’vetalked about this

before). He is the man who inspired KarlLagerfeld to lose pounds in eleven months sohe could fit into his clothes. Nicole Kidmanwore a Slimane suit to an awards ceremony lastyear, and despite being a rotten person shelooked truly fab, and he doesn’t even makeclothes for women. Brad Pitt wore him to hiswedding. So, this is pretty fun stuff. I’d reallylike to talk about Slimane’s prowess as a pho-tographer. A few months ago the Germanpublisher Steidl released Berlin, the secondunderstated monograph of Slimane black andwhite 35mm snaps. I bought it in a porno-graphic bookstore in London’s gay Soho for a

fraction of the cover price; cheap, for it con-tained little choice stroke material, but I rec-ommend it to you at any cost regardless. In itSlimane’s Berliners, young, attractive punkboys, are shown without pretension in theirnatural habitat doing their natural thing, notdressed up and listening for a flashbulb pop.None of them are wearing Dior Homme;indeed many seem to have constructed theirclothes themselves, that is, if they are wearingclothes at all. It is not a look book. Thoughgritty, these photos have none of today’s NewYork City golden grime, Vice magazine andRyan McGinley-style hunger, and violent the-atricality. The subjects are not duking it out tolive more photogenic lives than each other andclamber up the neighborhood pile. Though attimes very muscular and gay-ish, there is noneof the addictive, practiced fetishism of RobertMapplethorpe. Slimane is not creating slicktrading cards for coke. Neither the photo-graphs nor the subjects are quite wired enough,quite fierce enough. Best of all there is none ofthe dreary Kraut homoeroticism as enjoyed byCollier Schorr with her overblown blue-eyedblonds and crew cuts. This woman’s kinder-garten literalism has somehow earned her asecond solo show at 303 Gallery in New Yorkthrough the end of February. Her last show,with its shiny apples and SS uniforms, was ashollow and unpleasant, aggressively so, as anyshow I can remember. Her latest has wrestlerboys in spandex, oh boy. Hedi Slimane’s pho-tographs of youth have a humbler agenda, well,actually, they have no agenda. They speak of abasic desire to show a people he admires asthey are lest they die out or be misquoted. Thisis documentary, dude, the real thing. And com-ing from a fashion designer working within amulti-billion dollar industry that appropriatesprole spirit and recasts it, brazenly, for luxury’ssake, well, it’s amazing. He’s amazing. HediSlimane is strong and he has integrity. He alsomakes clothes. In Philadelphia I don’t havemany opportunities to think about him buthere in Swinging-by-its-neck London I do, soI do, whenever I can. These days there is notmuch happening with style on the streets ofthe capital, but the strongholds of experimen-tation are still making an effort, so there's hopefor next season. Yesterday I communed withhis latest collection at the Pineal Eye, a won-

derful downstairs boutique frequented by gayJapanese and oiled Italians that once soldleather condoms and graffitied sweaters knit-ted by Eskimos. These days it proffers proba-bly the world’s most outré diamond-augment-ed Nikes for £650 a throw. The place is agallery more than a shop; everybody knows it,and the sexy middle-aged proprietors are smartenough to let it ride and never say so explicitly.No one ever buys anything there, it is a miraclehow they make the rent. Halfway down theonly rack hang ten of the season’s best HediSlimane pieces and wow, if should you be luckyenough to come across his work I hope you’llfeel what I feel, rather deeply, every time I holdit in my hands: a real, sort of forensic, sniffer-dog comprehension of a people and a mentali-ty. I touch fabric and I know Slimane’s boys,the boys from the photos. They are skinny andhipless; well the jeans and suits are narrow andbottomless. They may or may not be drugged,it doesn’t matter. The clothes are black andwhite, reductive. Whether they break the lawand take self-abusive risks is irrelevant because

THE INVENTION OF YOUTH

[ BY WILLIAM PYM ]

∂

[ essa y ]

On Hedi Slimane and Jackson Pollock

ALL I T NEEDS NOW IS A T I TLE AND A PRICE

Open 24 hours

on weekends

PLA

IN P

ARA

DE

at d

oc w

atso

ns. 2

16 s

outh

11t

h str

eet.

THU 2/5 • 7$Sex Worker's Art ShowThe Sex Workers' Art Show is an eye-popping myth-dispelling evening of performance art created by people who work in the sex industry.

THU 2/12 • FREE!Quest for SleepQuest for Sleep is a chronicle of the Superchunk's 2001 tour, featuring footage shot across Japan, Europe, and the U.S. by the members of the band themselves. It includes footage from throughout the band's fourteen-year career, including a very rare glimpse at their very first concert appearance ever.

FRI 12/13 • 7$Marc Spitz [author of We Got The Neutron Bomb, How Soon Is Never?]

The Dresden Dolls [Boston Cabaret Punk]

DJ Bethany Klein [of We Rule The School, Pop Quiz; spinning the Smiths & Morrissey]

THU 12/19 • FREE!Rock Lotto II Drawing [5$ to enter lotto]The concept is simple: contestants are matched up at random into groups of four and perform an original set of music 6-8 weeks later for prizes.

FRI 2/20 • 7$CordaleneThe Perfectionists

THU 2/26 • 7$One Star HotelHead of Femur [members of Bright Eyes, Sinister Luck Ensemble, Flying Luttenbachers]

The Impossible Shapes [members of Songs:Ohia, Secrety Canadian Records]

FRI 2/27 • 7$Beretta 76Jukebox ZerosUndergirl

enjoy reduced admission to plain parade events with our 1/2 OFF coupons – available at select shops around town. 2$ lagers and 2.50$ mixed drinks at all shows!

for more information visit our website – http://www.plainparade.org/

435 SPring Garden

Philadelphia Pa

Pollock channels his inner cowboy.

Photo from Slimane’s Berlin of a young man going out for the Luftwaffen.

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 19

just be you to your fullest and take whateveryou want and you will be fine.

I find the incessant throb of testosteroneprogress in Benton’s vulgar art to be painful andhard on the heart; it’s proper art, sure, andimportant, but I don’t like looking at it, at all. Iwill not fault his philosophy, though. Hethought any man could empower himself andachieve, that America (from the days of ThomasJefferson) was a place where a single humanbeing could have anything he wanted,where he wouldn’t need anybody else to getit. He considered this solitary opportunisma privilege, and it is, I think: a uniquelyAmerican privilege. Benton had failedrather in Europe as a modernist during thefirst decade of the century. He was bittertowards Cézanne, Stieglitz and the artistswho chose not to befriend him as a broth-er and had rejected his confused attemptsat abstraction. Upon his return, he voicedhis distaste for Europe and moaned thatAmerican art should lead the way, to stopplaying “weathercock to Europeanbreezes.” The gentle reflexivity and internaladjustments of early European abstraction(like Cézanne’s, say) did not mean much toa man who, with blunderbuss ways, hadtrampled from America’s ass to elbow andwas far from tired. To him, European menhad no sense of scale or their personal entitle-ment to it at its grandest. This idea, pittingAmerica the new against Europe the stale, is atthe core of American abstraction. “They standall alone in the wilderness—breast bared. This isan American idea.” So said Willem de Kooning,a smart Dutchman who found himself in NewYork with these savages in the 1950s. Americawas young and liberated by its total lack of tra-dition. Thomas Hart Benton and JacksonPollock were a perfect match. They both lovedthe USA and a man’s right to roam it, Bentonrelished the romantic role of tutor-raconteur,and Pollock needed help filling out his loneranger character. Oh and, critically, drinkies!Pollock already had the habits, inclination andability to become a career alcoholic, so Benton,an heroic and seasoned boozer, put him ontrack. Many evenings were lost to liquor and vit-riol as the two became firm friends. These latenights were important. Certainly Pollock wasinfluenced by people after Benton, notably John

Graham and André Masson with their brand ofart from the subconscious, mystical automatism.Plus scores of factors unrelated to Bentoncaused Jackson Pollock’s demise: Hans Namuthand Life Magazine; Lee Krasner’s presence andenduring intelligence beside him; expectationspiled upon him as a celebrity and savior that hadlittle to do with the art he made. I am not claim-ing that Pollock, the Pollock you know from thebig museum and saw at the movies, was a cre-

ation of Thomas Hart Benton. It’s just not true.I am compelled to write about their relationship,though, because Pollock’s most crippling life-long habits were born there. This old Americanself-empowerment and lack of respect for tradi-tional boundaries that Benton instilled, Pollockbelieved it, and it strengthened his arm. A pio-neer spirit knows no boundaries and Pollockenacted that on the canvas. The impudent, casu-al marks are intuitive and free, but they have anadult’s conviction and belief that makes themlast. He believed that he could win. Jackson theconqueror thought a canvas’ borders were likeany borders: up for grabs. By answering to noone but himself, Jackson Pollock created theirreconcilable many-sided character that I foundout about and gave up on. He was too tough todefer his questions and desires to someone orsomething else, something mysterious andunexplainable. He had to go find the answerhimself because that is what American cowboysdo. Hedi Slimane makes clothes for disobedient

Alex Kanevsky is one of Philadelphia’sfew fulltime painters. Best known forhis oil paintings, which resemble

blurred photographs, he also works in othermedia: currently he is preparing a show of dig-ital photography in New York.

According to a bourbon-drinking studentfrom the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts,“All the kids love Alex’s work. He’s really a mas-ter with his brush.” That said, the student con-tinued: “I think his technique is very simple.”

Such praise and criticism haveincreased in direct correlation with Alex’ssuccess. On Alex’s website, there areemails such as the following:

“Kanevsky isn't fully exploring muchbeyond the commercial applications of acraft. I am led to wonder how or why he hasbeen so whored and supported by the artestablishment.”

I arrived on a sunny autumn day.Alex’s studio, in an old schoolhouse on20th and Locust, has high ceilings andbig windows.

I asked how he got from mathematicsschool in Lithuania to this swank studiowith paint-splattered wood floors. Heleaned back in his chair.

“I got this Pew Grant in 1997 whichgives you lots of money, so I was able topaint for two years without doing any-thing else. When it was running out Iwent to my wife and said ‘Hey Hollis, Ireally feel like painting so I think I’m going tokeep on doing it. We might be poor for a while,you know, live on spaghetti.’

“Luckily, the paintings started selling.There’s a difference between winning grantsand selling work. It’s very nice to win grantsbut the problem with it is you have to apply forlots of grants and that’s almost a fulltime occu-pation. Paintings are objects. If you’re soinclined you can buy one and hang it over thesofa. So I can do that. I’d rather do that than

punks. Rather, his clothes illuminate and elevatedisobedient punks. By offering himself as theirpatron saint, a protector and friend, he allowsthem to remain as beautiful as they are. He isfull of difficult contradictions, I mean holding atank top that sincerely asks for one thousand ofyour dollars is fucking weird no matter whichway you slice it, but his art believes in havingsomeone to watch over you, to look after you.That’s not so complicated. I flipped along the

rack last week and found Slimane’sgreatest creation yet: a gold lamé bow tiein stiff steel-wool-like wool and neo-prene, rugged and elegant. It’s tacky anda joke, but the designer made somethingwith which his punks can spruce them-selves up and puff up their chests for allthe wonderful things they have done,even if that’s only jumping into a swim-ming pool or playing in a band. HediSlimane knows that there is strength inall other people, and some people needhelp recognizing the strength in them-selves. Jackson Pollock is a rubbish rolemodel because he doesn’t care about meor encourage me to care about anyoneelse. This is a style, with a history, but it’sof little use to an artist or anybody in2004. I need to tell you, dear readers,that I copped one phrase in this story

from Dave Hickey’s book of essays, The InvisibleDragon. They are easily his best and I am a fan,so I confess with pleasure. If you find anythinghidden in here that sounds like it relates to thecurrent political climate, please be my guest.Explicitly, I only know how to write about art.And thank you for your continuing correspon-dence. I am in the bad graces of PECO, PGW,AT&T Wireless, MCI Neighborhood, Verizon,netflix.com, Comcast, Vanity Fair and the FreeLibrary of Philadelphia, so it means a lot to mewhen I open the postbox and discover I am inyour good graces. You can still find me at 1221North Franklin Street apartment 3R,Philadelphia PA 19122, and I hope we’ll all staywarm and talk soon. ]

William Pym is a painter, and now a curatortoo, who lives in North Philadelphia. Writing asLouis D’Ascoyne Mazzini, his occasional pam-phlets on fashion in the art world are available atRivington Arms gallery in New York City. Ifyou’d like a copy, write him a letter and say so.

walk around and ask for money.”“You seem pretty fearless,” I said.“I just bullshit,” he answers. “I don’t have

tons of fear of failure because I don’t feel likeI’m on a mission to accomplish something. It’sjust a private little obsession. You know, somepeople build toy trains. It’s not based on thenotion of success or failure. It’s just somethingthat they want to do and that’s that same thingfor me with my painting. I just want to do it.So success for me pretty much is being able to

perpetuate this lifestyle so I can come hereevery morning and paint. As for success—likegetting a grant or show or a picture inHarper’s—that is a little scary.

“On one hand you have nice things thatcome with success. On the other hand, I’vebeen getting some nasty notes in my website.They’re really not about my paintings—orsome are—but it’s not exactly clear what they’reso incensed about, but it’s clear that they’re veryincensed about somebody like me who is doing

this basically pointless, stupid thing by paint-ing—they think it’s dark and meaningful orpolitically motivated, but basically I’m paintingthings like naked people or trees and fields andwhatever—that I can do that and be reasonablysuccessful doing it. I don’t see how it does anyharm to anybody that I’m sitting here all day inthe studio by myself painting.

“Success buys you time. Every time you sella few paintings, you tally it up and you thinkokay, that’s three more months. So being able

to do this makes you very happy. Mostly itgives you what’s known as impostor syn-drome. You look at it and you think this isjust too nice to be true and some day I willbe discovered for what I really am.

“Once I was able to paint every day Iwas able to see more clearly what exactlyI’m after and also got more self-confi-dence about doing things which otherpeople consider irrelevant. At art schoolI’d worry about being a painter and thinkI should be making videos or installationswith feathers and sticks. Now that I paintevery day I’m deep enough into it that thequestion of relevancy is completely irrele-vant. Whatever they might think, it’s rel-evant to me and quite obviously it’s rele-vant to many other people.

“That’s a choice you have—howfocused you are on the notion of successor success in school. Does it sell? Do yourfriends like it? Museums? Critics have

their own agendas. So do museums, whichhave very little to do with actual artwork. Youreally have to do it for itself. Then you have todrive yourself. That’s the next thing.

“I just do what I do, and very few peopleget a chance to do that. Still, afterwards paint-ings sell or they don’t and I really enjoy doingthis particular stuff. I’m just fortunate that peo-ple seem to like them. Or at least most ofthem. Some of them.” ]

Annie Cobb lives in Philadelphia.

Alex Kanevsky, PainterEnjoys Moderate Success, Brushes Off Accusations of Whoredom

∂

[ BY ANNIE COBB ]

STRICTLY BY THE NUMBERS

Alex Kanevsky: KB with Kimono, 2003.

From Slimane’s Berlin. The bicycle as hot-rod.

A Vacation Style Restaurant in Hot Northern Liberties

No Passport RequiredLive Music • New World Cuisine

Tapas Style Menu • Lots of Veggies8 Great Beers on Tap

Sunday Brunch 11am - 3pmDinner from 4pm Daily

931 North 3nd Street215-629-0500

––– Ample Street Parking –––Complimentary Mimosa or Champagne With Sunday Brunch ( With This Ad )

Menu on Philadelphia Weekly.com/CitySearch.com

C.S. Lewis. Burroughs. Tolkien.

THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE JUNKIE HOBBIT.

It’s a big world. It’s a Big Jar.

Big Jar Books55 N. 2nd Street.215 574 1650bigjar@dca.net

[ fa sh i on ]

THE SIX SPECIES OF SHABBY∂

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 20 WINTER 2004

WORTH I TS GOLD IN DIRT

Every fashionista knows thatPhiladelphia’s chilly spring can be asbitter as a feminist. But just because

it's harsh outside doesn’t mean you can’t lookgood. Inventive lads and lassies see cold weath-er as a challenge, an occasion to really pore overnew ways to look breathtaking. Layering yourclothes is still cute and a practical way to wearskirts in cold weather. It is also adorable to trav-el in clothes that are seasonally appropriate,then strip down to your bare danceables at thedestination. It takes a keen mind and a Love

Rules About How to Dress, Rules for You to Obey

THE SUPERINTENDENT THE BLUSHING HILTON THE PRINCESS CAMPAGNOLO WAWA’S MIDNIGHT SENTRY THE CLAN OF THE CAVEWOMAN THE ARTHUR SCHLESINGER JR.

ROBIN’S BOOKSTORE∂

108 S. 13TH STREET,PHILADELPHIA

215-735-9600,www.robinsbookstore .com

Books & Events for Independent Minds from Philadelphia’s Oldest

Independent Bookstore Free and open to Everyone

Boat sensibility to thaw winter’s last icy fingersfrom the puckered, rosy skin of the young peo-ple of today. The following fleet of fertile fash-ions will have you and Jack Frost frolicking in afield of clover before you can say “March hare.”

THE SUPERINTENDENT: Bind your pantsaround the waist with a broad band of leather.Fix it in place with a buckle. Now you haveyourself a simple belt. Next, hang all manner ofplumber’s clips, chains, carabiners and binderrings onto the loops. To each of these, attachyour house keys, bicycle keys, door knockers,

cowbells, bottle openers, and jackknives, just asone might decorate a Christmas tree. If you dothis right and use all the loops, it should almostlook as though you’re wearing a jangling chain-mail skirt over your jeans. Using the side loopsis pretty standard. The rear loop has a whiff ofthe bestial, like a little metal tail that jingleswhen you shake it. No fruity plastic or paperstuff, either—keep those CVS Extra CareCards and Essene frequent shopper coupons inthe wallet. This look says you’re the kind of manwho has the keys to opening a lot of doors.Including the door to that special lady’s heart.

THE BLUSHING HILTON: This is a sim-ple look. Dress like someone who’s beendebauching all day long. You’re out on thetown, but you’re thinking “blow jobs.” Leatherthong and pasties over the Gap sweater andDickies. Poorly conceal bruises and scratcheswith woolen mittens and scarves. When youarrive at your destination, reveal your bed

wounds. Nothing is sexier than broadcastingyour own promiscuity, and nothing says it bet-ter than a couple of well-placed hickies. Youlook awful, of course, but in a cute way. Whocares? You’ve been getting laid.

THE PRINCESS CAMPAGNOLO: Damn.You know those messenger kids look good. I’msmacking my lips thinking about tight yellowshirts and tighter 20 year-olds on fixed gears.It’s like a Mad Max Beyond Thunderdomefantasy—greasy white undershirt, torn ther-mal, hooded sweatshirt, polar fleece vest, 1990sface piercing, bike shorts and stink lines. It’swarm and Time Warp charming.

WAWA’S MIDNIGHT SENTRY: This issomewhat similar to the Bike Messenger, butinvolves really packing the clothes on and piss-ing yourself. Essentials include sweatpants overjeans, a snowsuit, layered shoes, parkas, achild’s ski mask and a Silver Thunder tall boy.Now go to the 700 Club. When you get there,

peel off the layers to reveal the fact that you arewearing nothing but a belly chain and havecrack in your armpits. This look is topped offvery nicely with a few molding blankets.

THE CLAN OF THE CAVEWOMAN:Adorn yourself with faux-animal pelts fash-ioned into an adult diaper, complimented witha pair of Chewbacca boots. Allow your hair togrow out. Armpit hair to the elbow that’s beenbrushed and swept over the nipples. Leg hairmeeting pubes meeting treasure trail. If you'vedone this one right, you might be mistaken forAnn Magnuson from the cover of thatBongwater LP.

THE ARTHUR SCHLESINGER JR: Man,woman, Jew, gentile, rich, poor, black, white,everyone, everyone has an interpretation of thelovely tousled (tousled, not rumpled) preppy.Borrow an androgynous prep-school blazerand oxford shirt from Mr. Ralph Lauren him-self, the original Max Fisher who cleaned up

his last name and tried to pass in the WASP’sargyle gardens. Take a couple puffs from thecrack pipe and a quick slum in the sticks withthe kids from Traffic to gently fray your tweeds.Add striped ties denoting service in a foreignarmy. Then, before the buzz wears off, enjoy aquick round of touch football with theKennedy clan. Top it all off with FarnsworthBentley’s baggy plaid golf pants, super deluxecricket club style. If you want to get a littlerisky, you might even want to try short safarikhaki pants, or adding a Brooks Brothers golfbag with a custom holster for your diamond-encrusted machete and a splash of CocoChanel’s new pepper mace. Now mug for thecameras. The final and most important rule:Every item must bear someone else’s mono-gram. Why be yourself when you can be some-one you’ve never met? ]

Rose Luardo is a woman about town. Sendyour own notes on fashion to rotarded@hotmail.com

[ BY ROSE LUARDO WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANDREW JEFFREY WRIGHT ]

LMCLincoln Mortgage Company

Lincoln Mortgage Corporation of Conshohocken is pleased to announce theopening of our New Jersey office. Brian Rochford, a mortgage veteran with

24 years of experience has been chosen to be branch manager. Call Brian with allyour residential mortgage needs.

SPECIAL OFFER: Free application fee for loans originated by Brian Rochford. Offer expires January 31, 2004.

LINCOLN MORTGAGE COMPANY

811 Church Rd • Cherry Hill, NJ 08002 • 856-773-0732 office

BRIAN ROCHFORD∂

∂

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 21

HERE WE ARE NOW, ENTERTAIN US

Winter has been a busy season for theNew Society. In early November Iattended the Police Athletic

League’s (PAL) fundraising auction event atDenim. Miss America 2003, Erika Harold,attended, as well as what seemed to be everyattractive woman in Philadelphia. Later thatweek, it was off to El Vez, Stephen Starr’s newdigs on South 13th Street; as usual, the servicewas above and beyond. Prior to El Vez, SocietyMentor Art Coyle, Society Deputy KevinCuster and I sauntered into Tiffany’s at theBellevue for a Philadelphia Magazine eventwith Jon Bon Jovi. This guy really does looklike a rock star, and he is certainly affable. I vol-unteered to be Bon Jovi’s new best pal … hetold me he’d get back to me on that. City ofHope, a national cancer center, hosted theFabulous Hairball at Egypt, on November 8.The event was the east coast’s largest hair-styling competition. I won for Best Hat.

One of the best events last month was theCommunity Coalition’s dinner cruise aboardthe Highlander, the Forbes’ yacht. This yacht is151 feet of pure luxury and world-class service,Society Photographer Kevin Custer and I hadno trouble getting comfortable. We joinedMoira Forbes Mumma, president of the coali-tion, along with 120 guests, a live band, and acrew of sixteen, for a dinner cruise up and downthe Delaware. Their next event is May 8, also onthe Highlander. The following night I attendedthe Foreign Policy Research Institute’s (FPRI)annual dinner at the Four Seasons. I was seatednext to an engaging Derek Gillman, Presidentof the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts(PAFA), Former U.S. Ambassador to Italy,Tom Foglietta, Channel 6’s delightful anchorMonica Malpass, and International VisitorsCouncil (IVC) President Nancy Gilboy. Guestspeaker was Ken Pollack, this clearly brilliantM.I.T PhD, spoke on life after SaddamHussein in the Middle East.

Christine Knapp and the Clean WaterOrganization hosted a fundraiser at theMoore College of Art, on November 14. Morethan one hundred people attended the event,which raised $13,000. Later that night it wasthe Society for the Preservation ofLandmarks’ Martini Madness party at theUnion League. Dave D’Angelo and theLandmarks hosted, with the music of LaurenHart. Lauren, daughter of legendaryPhiladelphia Flyers voice Gene Hart, singsbeautifully. The following week I attended theRosenbacchanal, the Rosenbach Museum andLibrary’s largest fundraiser of the year, on the2000 block of Delancey, a cocktail hour wasfollowed by progressive dinners at three privateresidences on Delancey St. Elizabeth Dalzell,my neighbor growing up in Haddonfield,organized this elegant event. On FridayNovember 21, Megan Mead and Philly Careshosted the Turkey Ball at the Loews Hotel.The legendary Johnny Pompadour providedthe music. Johnny makes the difference, as hisperformances consistently keep parties hop-ping, even Smokin’ Joe Frazier was a dancingfool. North, the South Street lounge owned byRich Podulka, held their first anniversary partyon November 20.

Society Deputy Terry O’Brien and Iattended two swanky club openings, Suede,near Second and Market, and Tragos on 19th.Both clubs are visually striking. Not to be obvi-ous, but Suede had a lot of suede. Both spotshave first-rate ownership groups, class actsfrom the restaurant industry. But hey guys,turn down the music. Conversation and net-working are otherwise impossible. Fergie’sTavern held their ninth anniversary party onDecember 1. Fergie Carey, the most enchanti-ng tavern owner in the city, got married overthe summer in an Irish castle to his beautifulnew wife, Christine. Has it really been thatlong since Fergie was serving drinks atMcGlinchey’s? Earlier that night, the Anti-Defamation League held their annual awardsprogram at the Kimmel Center, this year’shonoree was Sidney Kimmel. The highly eligi-ble Philadelphia 76ers President Billy Kingattended along with his boss Mr. Snyder. HeyBilly, how about throwing some of thoseinvites my way? Later that week I attended afundraiser for City Councilman MichaelNutter at Zanzibar Blue. The crowd was a truemicrocosm of the city, with all ages and racesrepresented. It would appear that Mr. Nutter isbuilding a broad coalition for a likely mayoralrun in 2007. You heard it here first.

The fun and pertinent GreaterPhiladelphia Tourism Marketing Corp. hosteda press party at Denim, in early December.Rachel Delano, Caroline Bean, their photog-rapher Kristen Ciappa, and the rest of the

GPTMC staff were some of the most person-able (and attractive) young professionals in thecity.

Army/Navy weekend served as the back-drop for several events on both sides of the river.On Friday night the Pennsylvania ConventionCenter hosted 1,000 guests including alumniand students of the Naval Academy and WestPoint, and the gorgeous women of the UnitedService Organization. On Saturday after thegame, the Battleship New Jersey hosted a frigidVIP party. In a time of crisis, it is reassuring thatour country is being served by such outstandingmen and women.

Maria Venuti Forrest and the youngfriends of the Philly Pops held their holidayparty at Buca di Beppo. The March of Dimesheld a Star Chefs event at the WyndhamFranklin Plaza, over 500 attended joined bythirty chefs, raising $50,000. Dina Melchiorreand the March of Dimes staff, along with thestaff of the Young Friends of the Philly Pops,are typical of the nonprofit community, young,single, professional, and relevant. NicoleMiller hosted an event benefiting MANNA attheir store in Manayunk. I always enjoy anevent that has three times as many women asmen. Especially when they are as lovely asthese women were. Amber Kealey and the staffof MANNA, co-hosted. Shana Vitoff hosted aChristmas party at her Society Hill DanceAcademy, at Head House Square. DancerDara Pretrusky tried to show me a step or two.It was hopeless.

Kathy Plaugher and the American CancerSociety (ACS) threw their annual black tie ballat the Westin, 300 attendees raised $205,000.Carmen Tomasetti’s CTO Orchestra providedthe music. Carmen started out with one smallband and now has thirteen outstanding dancebands varying in size. Shawn Murray’s TwentyTwo Gallery on South 22nd Street, showssculptures by Maria Nevelson throughFebruary 12. Maria’s grandmother is famedsculptor Louise Nevelson. Shawn’s grandfa-ther was renowned sports photographer BruceMurray; these Ruthian era pictures are onexhibit as well.

The Waterworks located behind the ArtMuseum was the site for a cocktail party to cele-brate the completion of their renovations. HostScotty Gembala honored Ed Grusheski,General Manger of the Philadelphia WaterDepartment (PWD), for his leadership of thisproject.

Community theater is alive and well in thecity. The Old Academy Players in East Falls isa charming theater seating about fifty. My visitincluded a performance of Charlie’s Aunt, anEnglish farce, followed by a cocktail party atScotty Gembala’s East Falls home. JaneStojak’s Triangle Theatre in NorthPhiladelphia put on a benefit performance ofWomen Who Walked Through Fire, in con-junction with the Breast Health Institute.These community theaters are local treasuresand should be supported.

I want to close by thanking the socialmedia in Philadelphia for welcoming me totheir club. Stu Bykofsky of the Daily News,Rebecca Kenton from Philadelphia Magazine,A.D. Amorosi from the City Paper and theInquirer, and Jessica Pressler from thePhiladelphia Weekly, as the new guy, I appre-ciate the consideration that these reportershave shown me.

Finally, I want to take a moment and wishStu Bykofsky well, as he is giving up his gossipcolumn to work on features for the DailyNews. Stu’s column, more than anything, iswhat got me interested in becoming a societywriter. I didn’t think Stu should have all thefun, so for years I used information gleanedfrom his column to network my way up thesocial ladder. I remember Society DeputyCuster and I crashed a Miss America VIPParty at the Ritz Carlton. We were inside aprivate reception with the 2002 contestantsand a select group of VIPs, sipping Belvederevodka and filling up on crab cakes. I spottedStu being denied entrance, as no reporters wereallowed. He looked none too pleased … espe-cially spotting me cavorting. I wasn’t sure howStu would take to me going legit, especiallyafter I misspelled his name in my very first col-umn. I am happy to report he has been anabsolute professional, going so far as to writedown tips for me on a napkin at an event lastmonth. Thanks, Stu.

I wish the best of luck to Dan Gross,Byko’s likely heir apparent.

So remember, drop me an email atRochyrolls@aol.com with any invites, com-ments, offers for dates, or anything else for thatmatter. ]

THE NEW SOCIETY[ so c i e t y ]

∂

[ BY BRIAN ROCHFORD ]

J.R. is from Arizona. He’s a 32-year-oldreal estate mogul, recently married, and the

proud owner of an eighteen-month-ld chim-panzee named Bob. J.R. calls around lunchtimeto tell me about his pride and joy: the Baby Polosweaters Bob wears when he goes out on thetown with J.R., the time he got into the pantryand tracked flour all over the kitchen, and howmuch he loves, of all things, bananas.

Conversations about bananas are my spe-cialty on the “G-rated” line, which takes 800-number callers that show up directly on thecaller’s phone bill. Penetration, fluid exchange,and anything else that could get you groundedor pregnant is against the rules during a G-ratedcall. To get around these provisos, we operate ina strict world of food metaphors: sausages,warm cherry pies, and my tittering naïf ’sfavorites, bananas and peaches. This soundsunutterably cheesy, and many callers, thinkingthey were calling a steamier chat line, hung upas soon as I began my rap about this juicy, fresh,fuzzy little peach that I just couldn’t stop play-ing with, or how I spent the long, lazy days ofsummer break dreaming of long, hard, smoothbananas. Many of these calls would go like this:

“Suck my cock, bitch!”“Yeah, I can fit a whole banana all the way

down my throat. I love it.”“No, you nasty little slut, my cock.”“Well, first I’m going to lick this banana all

over, from the base all the way to the stem.”“Fuck you!”Click. The click being the part the guy

hangs up. Others were better sports, and seemedto find the creative challenges of a G-rated callextra stimulating, or cute and funny, or appro-priate for their version of what an 18 year-oldtalks about on the phone with male admirers.Still, I always had a brief moment of panic whenI picked up a call and heard the prompt at thebeginning, instructing me to bust out the peach-es and bananas.

J.R., the chimp owner from Arizona, callson the G-rated line. Naturally, I assume thatBob’s banana not be just a banana.

“Oh yeah?” I tease. “And what about hisdaddy, is he into bananas?”

J.R. doesn’t even pause before answering,“They’re not my favorite, but I eat them some-times. I want Bob to feel like we’re buddies.”

“No, I mean the other kind of … banana,” Isay, confused.

“Well, sometimes we get him the miniaturekind. He doesn’t like those as much, though.”

“Does Bob play with his bananas before heeats them?” I persist, frowning down at myNaughty Neighbors magazine, almost jealous ofnineteen year-old “fiery natural redhead”Savannah who smiles weakly while being pho-tographed with a foot-long lilac dildo partiallyinserted into her ass.

“Sometimes he mashes them into the carpetif he’s not hungry.”

My Phone Sex Diary

Sometimes a Banana is Just a Banana. This Wasn’t One of Those Times.

∂

“What if I played with one of Bob’sbananas? Do you think he’d like that? Wouldyou like to watch me play with a banana?”

“Um, why?”“Oh, I don’t know. I’m into bananas. I like

the way they feel in my hands.”“Well, that’s cool, I guess.” J.R. rebuffs my

creative G-rated advances before launchinginto more exploits and adventures with his petchimp. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t believe that“Bob” was literally a “pet chimp,” or else I’dworry that I was inadvertently discussing oneof those taboo subjects that could get me fired.J.R. is convincing me, though, that he gen-uinely is either just the densest man alive, orelse getting off on something that I will never,ever understand, no matter how many politeeuphemisms I push on him. The second of thetwo even seems unlikely because it doesn’tsound like he’s masturbating. Not every man isa heavy-breather, dick-slapper, or weirdgrunter, although nine times out of ten there issome perceptible indication that I’m notmoaning and sighing from my little cubicle forthe fun of it. I give up on the sex part of theconversation and offer appropriately-timedgiggles instead as conversation moves to hisjob, his wife, and what he had for dinner lastnight. J.R. shoots the shit for over twenty min-utes, but when we hang up I feel rejected andtake out my aggression on the next caller, who,bless his sweet perverted heart, has the decen-cy to appreciate it.

J.R. turns into one of my regular callers. Atleast twice a week, I listen to what he did overthe weekend, what Bob wore, which of hisbachelor friends have upcoming weddings andwhich ones are still holding out, and later, howhis wife doesn’t really understand him, howmuch he is starting to hate his mother becauseshe likes his wife so much, and how his onlyfriend in the world is the faithful Bob (“Andhe’s not even a real person!”). He manages todiscuss this with the phone sex girl withoutsounding creepy or pathetic, which only makesit sadder. Fond as I am of old J.R., talking tohim is tedious and gets me in hot water withthe shift supervisor, who disapproves of callsthat don’t include sex. Then, one afternoon, inthe late stages of our professional relationship,J.R. finally gets it about the bananas that arenot really bananas. And we have completelyrun-of-the-mill, vanilla, missionary position,G-rated phone sex that feels not only realisti-cally tender but like some sort of achievementwe can both be proud of after all this buildup.The kind of phone sex you have with someoneyou’ve been waiting for for a long time. Hebreathes, “thank you, Bree,” before hanging upabruptly, like it’s all happening too fast for himto deal with and he can’t wait to run into thenext room and tell Bob all about it. ]

Bree Swann is writing a series of phone sexcase studies for THE INDEPENDENT.

[ BY BREE SWANN ]

CASE STUDY NO.1: PLEASING THE POLITE PRUDE

[ care e e r ]

S P O T T I N G S∂

[ BY CHARLIE V ]

Charlie V on left, Pat Smear on right Charlie V on left, Krist Novoselic on right

Kurt Cobain on left, Charlie V on rightCharlie V on left, Dave Grohl on right

DOLAN FAMILY REALTY215.423.8888

FISHTOWN, NORTHEN LIBERTIESOR PORT RICHMOND

A.J.THOMSON

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 22 WINTER 2004

WANTED: ADVERTISEMENTS, PROJECTS,PROSPECTUSES, MAPS, PLANS, SCHEMES, MAN-IFESTOS, CHARTERS, FLYERS, PLEAS, ASSOCIA-TIONS, THE FUTURE, &C: DEAR PHILADELPHIA: TheGeneral Advertisements section of the paper can make yourdreams come true. This is the place to announce what you’redoing, about to do, or hope to do, or are considering doing.An army 10,000 strong will gather behind you. Your in-boxwill overflow with offers of assistance from heads of E.U.countries. If you need it, ask for it. If you have it, offer it up.We are all broken, but maybe running the right GeneralAdvertisement can make us whole again. The GeneralAdvertisements are like the NASDAQ of yesteryear, a spe-cial place where any kid can walk in with a half-baked pieceof cockamamie (or a legitimate, fully-baked, sober andrational plan) and bluff his way to millions. Millions! Thisall was once a flyer. Post your flyer here. Take a breathe andsummon the thing into being by enunciating the words thatwill make it real. I urge you, I urge you strongly, to takeadvantage of this opportunity immediately. Send yourFREE GENERAL ADVERTISEMENT toads@philadelphiaindependent.net immediately to run in ourApril/May issue. There is no limit on length but we reservethe right to edit but only rarely do we exercise this right.We’re also taking ads for stuff for sale, rooms to let, shout-outs, love yous, hate yours, help wanted, etc. Thank you inadvance for your prompt attention to this matter. Use theclassified as a message in a bottle, cast into a gray paper sea;or an inky footprint on a gray paper moon. It matters not,as long as you send your free classifieds to ads@philadel-phiaindependent.net. Immediately. Now. Thank you foryour prompt attention to this matter. Sincerely yours,HENRY FLOSS, Auxiliary Classified Compiler &Comptroller.ANNOUNCEMENT: Dear Philadelphians, I have beenaway a long time, and am coming home soon. It has been avery tiring journey, and I really want to be able to relaxwhen I get home, and feel good about Philadelphia. So,could you all, just for a little while, not all be such a bunchof assholes. (Extended remix. ) Don’t demand my bikewhen I ride by you, dont tell me you’re out of fuel whenyou’re not, don’t brag to me about how tight your pants are,don’t ask to see my i.d., don try to sell me your zine, don’tbe from new jersey, and maybe you could just skip the wholemumming thing for just one season. —R.M.APARTMENTS FOR RENT: Northern Liberties Flats.A few hard-working folks just like you have been bustingtheir chops and maxing out their credit cards for the pasttwo and a half years to bring the building at 717 NorthSecond Street back from the dead. The Palm Tree Marketmoved into the first floor and soon you can move into oneof the apartments on the upper floors… lord knows we can’tafford to! Hardwood floors, Huge windows, Central Air.Dangerously close to the 700 Club. Visit www.northern-liberties.org for open-house info.APARTMENTS FOR RENT OR SALE: Vacant land tobuild your dreams! 2BR apt. in Northern Liberties,$990/mo. ; or 5BR House near Northern Liberties,$1500/mo. (rent) or $185,000 (sale); also 4BR House nearNorthern Liberties, $1200/mo. (rent) or $99,000 (sale)—see more info at www.geocities.com/gasheart or call 215-485-1015.APARTMENT FOR RENT: Available for the summer2004 (mid-May to mid-August)—Beautiful, sunny 1 BRapartment in University City Victorian house. Apartmentis furnished. Has hardwood floors, lots of light. Spaciousrooms include eat-in kitchen, bedroom, and very large liv-ing room. Free Laundry in the basement as well as extrastorage space. Located on a friendly, tree-lined street, 2blocks from SEPTA trolley and excellent restaurants. PennShuttle runs to this block. $700/month. Emailssecheck@hotmail.com or call 215-729-4770.ART WANTED: Wanted: Street Art. The God BlessGraffiti Coalition, Inc. needs your street art for a showbeing organized at the Massachusetts Museum ofContemporary Art. For more information go to:www.counterproductiveindustries.com/gbgc.jpg.ART WANTED: Call for entries. Fiber Artists:Philadelphia. An Exhibition of Texture & Technique, April4th—April 28th, 2004. Description and eligibility: April inPhiladelphia is becoming quite a 'hot' month for fiber art inmany area galleries and museums, featuring the works ofinternational, national and local fiber artists. This exhibit atDa Vinci Art Alliance aims to compliment the various city-wide exhibits and specifically feature what is happening inPhiladelphia's own studios and universities. Studio artists,teaching artists, student artists, professional artisans, andexquisite crafters... all intriqued by the varied textures andtechniques of the medium are encouraged to submit workfor this salon-style exhibition. Send SASE to K.Pannepacker 925 N. 30th Street Philadelphia, PA 19130.Deadline Feb. 2ndAUTOMOBILE WANTED: In search of Volvo dieselwagon or sedan. Good condition and strong engine pref-ered. Any year, any model. Please emailthelkg@hotmail.com or call 718-852-5207.AUTOMOBILE WANTED: Jeep Cherokee or van need-ed for less than $1,000. I Need a car to drive my teamsaround, pick up recycling, sleep in, etc. I don't care aboutlooks, but I do need a dependable vehicle. Call AJThomson 215-287-3492.AUTOMOBILE FOR SALE: Need a vehicle? A redvehicle? A red Mustang vehicle? A convertible? A 1993humdinger? One with power locks and windows and auto-matic transmission and a respectable 110,000 miles? Asharp bird, this car. Keeping it in Northern Delaware.Selling it for $3,300, or best offer. Call 215-627-6992. Askfor Chris.AUTOMOBILE FOR SALE: Reliable car for $1000. Ijust got a new car, but before that I drove this 1994 Saturnevery day for work. 4 doors, tan with black trim, 155Kmiles, a few dings, nothing major. Could probably use someTLC, but I drove it for 4 years with few problems. $1000.Contact ssecheck@hotmail.com.BAND: Clockcleaner. Email clockcleaneraudio @hot-mail.com.BICYCLE FOR SALE: Classic Schwinn Breeze For SaleBlue. Coater brakes & basket. Slightly rusty, in generallygood riding condition. Just needs a little attention. $25.00.Call Leigh 215-732-4745.BOOK FOR SALE: The Great American Hemp Industryby Jack Frazier. This is a reprint of one of the bibles of there-legalize hemp movement by one of its Founding Fathers.It covers the history so we can learn why there is this insanecorporate-promoted crusade against one of the most bene-ficial, or potentially beneficial plants on the planet. JackFrazier has re-printed the book because current situationsregarding the "war on drugs" and on pretty much all natu-ral plants demonstrate that the need still exists, urgently, foreducation on this topic. Jack lives, with admirable integri-ty, off-the-grid in West Virginia where he incessantly fightsmountaintop removal coal mining and other corporateattempts to scrape away any and all vestiges of nature andjustice. He can handle checks, but not credit cards or any-thing but snail-mail orders. One copy: $13.00 (S & H etc.included.) 2 to 4 copies: $9.00 ea. 5 or more: $7.00 ea. Sendto Jack Frazier / Solar Age Press / Box 610 /Peterstown, W. VA. 24963.BOOKSTORE. Quimby’s Bookstore. Specialists in theimportation, distribution, & sale of Unusual Publications,Aberrant Periodicals, Saucy Comic Booklets, and AssortedFancies as well as a Comprehensive Miscellany of theLatest Independent ‘Zines’ that all the kids have been talk-ing about. Guaranteed to satisfy the soul beaten flat by ourmainstream culture’s relentless insistence on dumb picturesand insulting syntax. 1854 W. North Ave., Chicago IL60622. 773/342-0910. Shop in womb-like security atwww.quimbys.com.BOOKS WANTED: Philadelphia Reading ConneXion

���

�����

�����

� ���

�������� ���

��� ��� ���� ��� ��� ��� ���� � �� ���������� � ������� ��������� ��� ��� ������

���� ���� �� ���� ��� ����� �� ��������������� ����� !"#�$#%��&'(���&&(�����)**#%��&'(���&&(���*+#�

��� ��������� �� �� ������

� ��&� ������& �,�� �� �&�%����&,�#��& ��� �'- �&� ���%- .���%�&' /�&���&0��&&�%� "�&� 1�%%�'�� �&� 2�%�� � 1�%�&�(3��� ,- ���'� 2�&�&(

���� ��� �� ������ ���� � ������

"�� 4�%%- 0��%�& �%�'� �%�5� "� � .���%���� 6%�&��& ��%,�%� ����% �. �&��%'%��&� ��%�%- 75�&�� ���������

���� �� ������� �� ��!�� "�����

1�& 8��,��� � � �&'#%��% �&� ��%.�%9�&���%� .%�9 :�# ;�%� <�-� #��%� �� ��%.�%9#�� �� '%��� <���� =& 6%���(

���# ����� ������ $�%����

����% �. ��� � ��� �#�� 0����& 4�&'���������� � � � �&� ��� ��� �( !&%������ ,-<��% � 6�%&��&(

���� ������" ���� � ���&�� ������ ���

'� ������

0��%%�# � �� ����% �. ��� � � ��� ���� ���� ��� �&� �������� ���� ��� ,����, ���� ,- 0�. 0�� �%�(

needs books for serendiptious, free distribution in publicplaces. Drop-off at Reception, 1919 Chestnut Street, refer-ence Apt. 1312. Please, no lots with more than 25 books!Only books that you'd like to have. The PhiladelphiaReading ConneXion is powered by @philabooks+philadel-phia, Philadelphia's on-line bookshop. Details at phi-labooks@yahoo.com.CARTOON

—Caroline PicardCHAIR FOR SALE: "The Leisurest"—Red leather psy-choanalysis couch/fainting chair in excellent condition forsale. Contact itskatemmkay@hotmail.com.CHESS PLAYERS WANTED: I got a clock and I got aboard. Seeking individuals to play chess against/with in theevenings during the week at public libaries, parks and else-where. Contact: killmarkprice@hotmail.comCOLLABORATORS WANTED: Needles Jones, dragimposter, is looking for collaborators / a pianist / and musi-cians who are without fear of offending/ those who want topush the envelope / and realize that above all else, nothingis sacred. contact needlesjones@hotmail.com.DISK JOCKEYS FOR HIRE: Liven up your parties withreal DJ's. Two hand cranked vintage victrolas and their tech-nicians are available for events in the greater Philadelphiaarea. No gig too weird. We play everything from Acuff toGaillard and back. Reply c/o 'Two Cranky Guys with Vinyl'c/o TPI, 1026 Arch Street, Phila. PA 19107.EVENT, 01-30-04: The second annual Wear Your Wig toWork Day January 30, 2004 (last Friday in January). Turnconvention on its head and bring fun into the workplace bygetting your wig off its stand and onto your head for the lastworkday of the month! Everyone, whether employed ornot, is encouraged to participate. This is also a gender-neu-tral and all-ages appropriate holiday. After-party at theTokio Ballroom, 122 Lombard St. 9:30 PM, $5— includesperformance by Milton and the Devil's Party. For moreinfo, contact mano_damno@yahoo.com.EVENT, 02-01-04: Snow Fairies (formely known as TheSnow Fairies) will play an all-ages show with True ifDestroyed and Amateur Party, Sunday, February 1st atPhiladelphia Ethical Society, 1906 Rittenhouse Square. Formore information visit: http://snowfairies.hearton-mysleeve.net/EVENT, 02-10-04; 02-24-04: The Walt Whitman ArtsCenter will be hosting "In Pursuit of Poetry—Open MicNite" every second and fourth Tuesday—with our nextreading being on Tuesday, January 27, 2004. The WhitmanCenter is located at Second & Cooper Streets, Camden,New Jersey. For more information please see our website:Waltwhitman@waltwhitmancenter.org or call 856-964-8300.EVENT, 02-13-04: Friday 9 P.M.—Midnight, join us for"Unlucky in Love", a bachelor auction and dance social forthe gay community. Change your bad luck to a littleValentine bliss. Bachelors are auctioned all evening, socome early! Fun, fortunetellers, dancing, and more. It willbe held at Pure, formerly the 2-4 Club, 1221 St. James St.,Philadelphia. $10 at door; must be 21+ to enter. Proceedsbenefit the Philadelphia Gay Men's Chorus. For moreinformation, contact www.pgmc.org or 215-731-9230.EVENT, 02-19-04: Thursday 9 P.M.ish Hard LiquorTheater presents "I Want Another V.D."Tritone, 1508South St. Another installation of Philly's most subversiveunderground trashy performance salon. Hosted by NeedlesJones and Psydde Delicious, with Lunch Money Thugs,The Thorazine Players, Sister Vulgara Mascara, LotSix,Tami and the Teacher, and special guests. Hard LiquorTheater ... on the Third Thursday of the month.EVENT, 02-07-04 & 03-06-04: Bad Reputation rocks theKhyber Upstairs Lounge: Feb. 7th, Mar. 6th, and every firstSaturday of the Month. Featuring DJs Chatty Cathy &Trishylicious. Special Guest DJ for February 7th: DJ SAT1600. March 6th will be our "WIG PARTY" (not to be con-fused with Whig Party!). Wear a wig that expresses yoursecret personality or alter-ego, and shake it down to hot rock,bumpin' hip-hop, punk, funk, new wave, electronic & allkinds of delicious grooves. 56 S. 2nd St. No cover. 21 & over.EVENT, 03-12-04 & 03-13-04: On Friday and Saturday at8 P.M. join the Philadelphia Gay Men's Chorus for theirbenefit concert, "The Sound of Philadelphia". Our ode tothe City of Brotherly Love features a special program withthe full chorus as well as cabaret-style individual and groupnumbers. Songs are about Philadelphia or by Philadelphiacomposers. This includes popular hits like "PhiladelphiaFreedom," "Monster Mash" and "The Streets ofPhiladelphia," as well as excerpts from the musical 1776.On Sat. only beginning at 7 P.M., PGMC will hold a silentauction. For more information, contact www.pgmc.org or215-731-9230.EVENT, 03-12-04 & 03-13-04: Cheap art. Picture aplethora of popular prints, paintings, posters, pottery, puz-zles and portraits for a pittance. Perhaps you envisiondumpster diving during dorm evacuation week, or maybe akindergarten craft fair to save our sinking school system, oreven the remainders of some Center City gallery after fire,flood and famine have reduced the value of its preciouswares to nearly nothing. But nay! One need not haunt suchinstitutions for affordable artifacts with which to lend char-acter to one's environs. One need only let oneself be seen atthe Cheap Art Bazaar, Philadelphia's forum for five-dollardeals and fifty-cent specials. Next one's March 12th &13th, 2004, from 7:00pm til 10:00pm at the Rotunda, 4012Walnut Street in West Philly. Simultaneously at the samevenue: Where in Philadelphia can one watch objects moveto and fro amidst obtuse narratives and a cacophony ofideas? How can one peruse an odd assortment of shoddyshadowplays, cardboard capers and occasional entangle-ments of mud-wrestling marionettes? What is the stuffscraped off the soles of the national puppetry scene thatmakes the babies cry and the critics revolt? Why, that wouldbe the Puppet Uprising, Philadelphia's fine quarterlycabaret of popular theatre and cheap art made by the peo-ple, for the people, by any means necessary. Free admissionfor persons and livestock of all ages. More info atwww.puppetuprising.orgEVENTS: 03-20-04: Tax Tips for Writers and OtherArtists. This is a half-day seminar presenting tax and finan-cial strategies that benefit writers and artists. Adam Kazan,CPA will be among the featured guests. Saturday, March20, 2004 (snow date: March 27, 2004) Time: 9:00 AM -1:00 PM. Place: CEC Meetinghouse Theater, 3500Lancaster Avenue, Philadelphia, PA. (near DrexelUniversity Campus in Powelton Village) Sponsored by:The National Writer's Union, Philadelphia Unit. Cost:$15.00 (non-members) and $10.00 (NWU members)Tapes of the seminar will be available for sale. NWU mem-

bers will their books and works available for purchase. LightRefreshments will be served. Contact: Sheryl P. Simons,Grievance Officer, NWU, Philadelphia. 215-382-8105 ortaxseminar2004@yahoo.com.EVENT, 03-20-04 & 03-21-04: PhillyClassic is the EastCoast Video Gamer's Event, March 20-21, 2004 @ TheValley Forge Convention Center. We celebrate good cleangaming fun on everything from Atari to Xbox. PC5 willfeature coin-op arcade games set on free play all weekend,classic home gaming stations, arcade and console tourna-ments, a huge marketplace with everything gamers dreamabout including home console systems from 1970-2004,games, accessories, memorabilia, and rarities. We also plan-to have our PC5 auction (a tradition!) and plenty of doorprizes and giveaways. And keep your eyes peeled for PC5exclusive game titles to be announced for the Atari 2600and other retro consoles. Kids 5-105 are welcome. Kidsunder 10 are free if accompanied by an adult [1 child peradult]. Tickets are $10, Vendor Tables are $85 with a $20rebate for interactive gaming displays. Visitwww.PhillyClassic.com for directions, advance tickets andmore information. 10 A.M. to 8 P.M. Sat. / 10 A.M. to 5P.M. Sun. Valley Forge Convention Center.EVENT, 04-30-04: Spoken Cure art party on April 30, thelast day of National poetry month. At the Rotunda 40thand Walnut, next to the big movie theater.EVENT, ONGOING: The Please Take MaterialsExchange and the Philadelphia Dumpster Divers Cordiallyinvite you to visit "Saving Philadelphia: The Art of TheDumpster Divers". The show runs through March 14th,2004, at The Sedgwick Cultural Center 7137 GermantownAvenue in Philadelphia, PA USA. There will be meet-the-artist events, and other presentations, on various datesthroughout the run of the show. For more information, visitwww.pleasetake.org or email msimons@pleasetake.org orby call 215-739-2583 or write 3721 Midvale Avenue,Philadelphia, PA, 19129-1743. For directions and a map goto www.sedgwickcenter.org/FEEDBACK FOR ARTISTS: Artists: Do you need anobjective view of your work? Are you getting your ideaacross? Are you painting or drawing your connection toyour subject matter? Call 215-357-2351 to make anappointment. Reasonable 1/2 hour or hourly fee.Individual or Group, bring a friend and split the cost. Bringthree pieces- date of completion does not matter. MichelleSoslau, MS Ed, MFA Painting. Northern Liberties.FREE BAND NAMES: Satanist-Awareness Training,Eastern Racist, Bible-Based Psychotherapy, CharismaticGroup, Northeast Kingdom, Damaged Disciples, NewMaccabees, Rock Church, Save the Seed, The WayInternational, Trance States, Quan Yin Method, LandlordMario, Presorted Flats, The Left Hand Grappling Skill,Immortal Descending to the World.FREE STICKERS: Serious Creature Music is offeringnifty free stickers. Send a self-addressed-stamped envelope(first class 37 cents) with your pick of three (3) stickers byitem name & number to: Free Sticker Offer, SeriousCreature Music, POB 30204, Philadelphia, PA 19103-8204. Stickers say: Security is a false god. Begin makingsacrifices to it and you are lost. (Bowles #12) /Start a revo-lution: Stop Hating Your Body (Body #116) /Sexy PeopleRecycle (with Recycling symbol) (Sexy Symbol #24)/Assume Nothing (Assume #12) /Recycling isn’t for every-body...only the sexy people (Sexy #24) /I Love Miss Piggy(Piggy #24) / Sloppy Artist Genius (Sloppy #54) /Paintwhat you like and die happy. (Miller #12) /Boys do Moi’sbidding (Boys $23).FREE TAPES: A cassette-only music service. This is not amix-tape service. All original compositions. All free.Friends? Enemies? Secret admirers and/or crushes? Sendthem a ballad to let them know. Announce your entrance instyle with a new theme song to blast from your boombox(batteries not included). Blast your political opponents witha scathing musical send-up. Annoy your neighbors with aSonic Boom of Noise and Aggression. Pump Up the Partywith one of our scientifically formulated party songs,Guaranteed* to move the Masses (the Secret is in theBeats). Anthems, instrumentals, and even spoken word.Whatever floats your boat. We will do Sea Chanties. Betterthan a Shared File, Cheaper than a RIAA lawsuit, we evencover your Favorite Radio Hits. Medleys also availableupon request. Send your commissions including anyinstructions (e.g. theme, lyrics, instrument requests, length,style, etc.) to The Occupational Athlete atoccupational_athlete@yahoo.com. Songs may take 1-2weeks from the date of request to arrive. Still totally free.For a “limited” time only. *guarantees may not apply in cer-tain locales.FURNITURE WANTED: Socially responsible coffee-house and juicebar opening this spring at 21st andFairmount. Looking for gently used furniture, fixtures, cafetables, floor lamps, countertops, bar stools, and other coolcoffeehouse stuff. Call Jill at 215/769.4895 or emailjill@mugshotscoffeehouse.com. Visit us on the web atwww.mugshotscoffeehouse.com.GRAPHIC DESIGNER FOR HIRE: Visual communi-cations specialist available! Graphic design for both tradi-tional print and new electronic mediums. Specializing innon-profit and entrepreneurial endeavours. Logos, Websites, Stationery, Newsletters, Posters, what-have-you.Interesting trades or barters considered. 215-727-1617:www.meltzerdesign.comHISTORY WANTED: Seeking people involved with thePhiladelphia School Board Demonstration of November17th, 1967. Book project initial research and possibleCommemoration Event planning ongoing for scheduledproduction of 2007, November, the 40th anniversary. Thedemonstration was undertaken for a number of reasons, keywas the need for better public schools and a stop to the seg-regated learning system in Philadelphia at that time, whichhas led to the present struggle against privatization of thePhiladelphia School System. Photos, personal commentsand experiences, leaflets, publications and other materialsregarding this should be forwarded to: November 17th2007 Planning / Du Bois Books / 4515 Baltimore Ave. /Philadelphia, PA / 19146 / email: onwardtosocialism-from1865@yahoo.com. Credit will be given for all informa-tion provided and especially any accounts of people whowere students and parents in this situation.ILLUSTRATOR WANTED: Looking for someone witha knack for comic book illustration. Curious entrepreneurshave questions and possible work for the right person.Contact us at jtbeckham1@hotmail.com.LETTERS WANTED: The Sourcebook of AmericanChatter is currently accepting submissions for the muchanticipated follow-up to it's "Fragments" issue. This time'round SAC is looking for letters of every type, including(but not limited to), love letters, business letters, lettersfrom summer camp, "goodbye cruel world" letters, letters topoliticians, form letters (emails count), fictional letters,heartbreakingly funny letters, letters to General ManuelNoriega (you get the idea). Everyone who submits will geta free ice cream cone! Ok, this is highly unlikely. But allparticipants will enjoy the fame and notoriety that only anaffiliation with the SAC can provide. Please email all sub-missions and/or inquires to sac@space1026.org. Hardcopies can be mailed to Sourcebook of American Chatter,Space 1026, 1026 Arch St. 2nd Floor, Philadelphia, PA19107. The submission deadline is very soon.

MISSING PERSON: Where is Lisa Kean? She was aschool teacher in Albany, NY and then in Connecticut. Shehad been married to a competitive table tennis competitorwho, I regret to say, died unexpectedly. Lisa was on her wayto visit but something must have come up. I believe she maystill have a sister in Albany, perhaps named Sharon. I beg ofanyone who has any idea of where Lisa Kean has gotten to,let me know "Where is Lisa Kean?" Please reply to Whereis Lisa Kean? c/o TPI, 1026 Arch Street, Phila. PA 19107.MISSING PERSON: Does anyone know the whereaboutsof Bob Black, graduate of some college down nearKentucky in the summer of 1984, picked up from theBerkeley CA ride board for a wild journey back to civiliza-tion from California with stops to pick up convicts and aVW clutch in the wastelands of Nevada? He'd been injuredeither surfing in the ocean or protesting at the Republicanconvention, may still bear scars. He was a fine human beinga talented driver and, seeing as I need a ride somewheresoon, I require his address. Does anyone here know wherehe is? Reply to “Where is Bob Black?”c/o TPI, 1026 ArchStreet, Phila. PA 19107.MUSICIANS WANTED: We, The Double FuckingWorld Championship Noise Collective seek new members-for our sunday afternoon sonic collaborations. We arerecruiting individuals with an ear for controlled emotionalnoise and epicly droning improv. A cloudy knowledge of the-ory and a warped sense of scale structure is beneficial but notrequired. Looking for players on Violins, broken voiceboxes,Horns, Percussion, tapeloops...and more. Do you have ideasor questions: contact us at 215 471 7987. We are stationed onthe Southwest Side safely tucked underground off the 49thblock. A mere moments stroll from the 34 trolly.MUSICIANS WANTED: Instrumentalists and/or vocalistssought to play [improvise] freely with a drummer/percussion-ist. Virtuosity, seriousness, influences, ability to read music ora vehicle is not required but will not necessarily be heldagainst you. There is no label interest and no touring, so abad attitude/sociopathic tendency, fancy hairdo, narcoticsaddiction, or large ego is unnecessary as well. Required:decent personal hygiene, a love of sound, a sense of humourand the desire to collaborate with no strings attached.Contact: bisoubisou@verizon.net or 267-973-6512.MUSCIAN WANTED: Gir l/Gal/Woman/FemalePIANIST/accompanist/arranger sought by tall, handsome,funny, romantic blues crooner/lounge stylee performer. I'vecreated a character to deliver my often tongue in cheekreinterpretations of unusual numbers from the 1920sthough today into a late 1940s nightclub feel, and am seek-ing a gal pianist with a big sense of humor, a sense of style,and a natural relationship with the keyboards, who wouldget a huge kick out of finding the humor in classic popsongs and punk rock, and bending them into a classic nigh-club style. Headed for the Fringe Fest AND the Oak Roomat The Algonquin. Contact Jack Robin, c/o Todd Kimmell,609 386 8786MUSICIANS WANTED: Open call for tall red hairedoboe and bassoon players, any gender, any age. Must havesense of humor and own bassoon or oboe. English hornplayers acceptable as well. respond to edospaceleaf@hot-mail.com or yell loudly around sunset on Saturday nightsnear the corner of Green Lane and Manayunk Avenue. E-mail is the more reliable method.OPERA CLUB: The Philadelpha Opera Enthusiasts Clubmeets last Saturday each month at a convenient CenterCity residence. Now in our 10th year of existence, we are apredominantly gay group who enjoy sharing our knowledgeand collections of music and memorabilia with anyoneexploring the joys of operatic fellowship, from beginners togeezers. We bring refreshments for a potluck break in theprogram, in which everyone (age is no barrier!) is encour-aged to participate. 6:30 until 11:00. For information onmembership, next meeting topics, etc. phone 215-224-6995 or email ralphh3@comcast.net.ORGAN WANTED. Preferably of the non-bodily variety,and preferably in the $250 or under range. Lazy-eyed (butstrong-spirited) keyboard player seeks cheap compact organor old synthesizer. Portability a plus. Also looking for dona-tions of broken or unwanted musical instruments/equip-ment. My apartment needs more useless junk. Prospectivebenefactors, please contact euthenics@hotmail.com.PERSONAL:

PERSONAL: Former Philadelphia resident hopes to exor-cise Philadelphia youth culture demons. Seeks formless vig-ilante to continue cold and silent campaign against same.Projects/ Papers include: Fruitless Florida: The life andwork of AJW; Arson in the Ladyfest bush; Hair in herEyes: Cult of the subpar sneerzine; White Girl"Fauxbonics" and the African Griotte. If compelled to suchthankless contempt, contact LazyFatwah@yahoo.com.PERSONAL: Larry, I'm so sorry about the walrus. I hadno idea. Eternally regretful, Murph.PERSONAL: Welcome home, Little Girl. I've missed you. ~Boo.PERSONAL: Your mail is like a firework, instantly every-where and gone eight seconds later. Your mail is like thebillboards; the longer I look at it the less it seems to be say-ing anything at all. I scoop up your slushy mail like sandfrom the riverbed and skim off anything that doesn’t sinkstraight to the bottom. Your mail from yesterday looks likelast year’s receipts, shoved into a file that will never beopened again. Your mail is like a sprinkler on my lawn, arc-ing and falling. Ptchoo ptchoo ptchoo ptchoo. Your mail gener-ates more mail, which doesn’t improve the situation. Yourmail isn’t even really written in words anymore. It’s just thecolor of the skim, the pattern on the wallpaper framing theframe of whatever it is that I am actually paying attention to.The only way I can read you is listening for the beat of thesilences. Slow down, machine gun. I only have fifty ears.Sometimes they all shut down.PERSONAL: Sell-Out Seeking Use. 42-year-old formerly“interesting” white male seeks situation. Job/Relationshipskills/qualifications include typing (55 wpm), editing, soulfulexpression, high tolerance for alcohol, various authentic-sound-ing European accents, commercial drivers license, and pointlessability to swim long distances. Able to relocate almost instan-taneously and continuously. hb_ward@yahoo.com.PERSONAL: Desperate lonely music nerd (24/m)seekscompanionship. An interest in Ted Leo, Miles Davis ANDPhish is a plus. Let's trade mixtapes, go for a bike ride andfall in love. Sebastian! 4811 Springfield Ave. Philadelphia,PA 19143 poetsgroove@yahoo.comPERSONAL: hunny bunny hunny bunny / hunnie bunniehunnie bunnie / lovee dovee lovee dovee love / love love lovelovy dovee lovie dovee love / love dove love dove love /

sticky stiffy sticky stiffy / lovee dovee / hunnie bunny honeybunnie / hun / wuvee lovee wuv / i love you too.PERSONAL: Send me your tired, your porn, your huddledbadgers learning to be freaked, your wrenched refutes fromthe teenage shirr, I lift my leg beside the golden dorm. Ifyou can read this, you're too damn close.PHONOGRAPHS WANTED: Seeking all manner ofphonograph record players and recorders: Victrolas,Edisons, Geminis, Technics and Fisher Prices; handcranked,belt-driven or direct-driven; acoustic or electric; portable,tabletop or perhaps cabinet-encased; monaural, hi-fidelityand stereo; manual, automatic and even spindle-drop; 8, 16,33, 45, 78 or any other RPMs. Machines may be in workingcondition or broken beyond any hope of possible repair.Contact morganfitzp@yahoo.com to make arrangements tohave these machines whisked away and employed for unusu-al and unique purposes in some other locale.POET SEEKS SPONSOR: There are thousands ofAmericans everyday who are looking for a safe place toinvest their money. Poets are the best source for removingnegative charge from your wealth, and raising the collectiveconscience of he planet. You can change your life FOREV-ER by sponsoring a poet today! CAConrad is one suchAmerican poet serious about making poetry a lifelongquest, ready and willing to refine your money! If you areinterested in sponsoring this poet, call 215-563-3075, orwrite CAConrad13@aol.com, you won't believe the differ-ence a poet will make!POLITICAL PARTY: The Green Party of Philadelphiameets every 4th Tuesday of the month at the EthicalSociety at 1906 South Rittenhouse Square. Seewww.gpop.org or call 215.243.7103 for more information.All are welcome!PROSPECTUS: Coming Spring 2004: Mama Kangaroos—The World's Only All Female Captain BeefheartRetrospective. Featuring 20 of Philly's finest female artistsperforming the music of the 1960s icon. It's gonna be f 'namazing. Details at genusrecords.com/kangaroos.html.RECYCLING: The Ridge Park Civic Association haspartnered with the Partnership Recycling Program to recy-cle on the 3rd Saturday of each month at the Ivy RidgeTrain Station (located on Umbria Street between FountainStreet and Parker Avenue) Convenient location for recy-cling. If you know of a student who needs community serv-ice, this is a good opportunity - please have them contactme at 215-483-0592 or brennanpt@aol.com in advance ofthe recycling date for scheduling purposes. Mark your cal-endars. 2004 Dates for Recycling are: Saturday - 2/21, 3/20,4/17 and 5/15/2004.SEAMSTER / SEAMSTRESS WANTED: Experiencedstitcher/sewing person needed! R.E.Load is looking for anindividual to assist in the design and production of oursupreme-quality messenger bags. Experience with industri-al sewing machines a plus, 2 years or more general sewing experience requiredas a minimum. super-low key, creativeenvironment with lots of fun and fringe benefits. we'll belooking for someone to start 20-40 hours weekly. set yourown schedule. email: roland@reloadbags.comSUBWAY TOKENS: I buy your NYC subway tokens for20 percent over face value. Call 215-351-0777.SWOONER FOR HIRE: Princes and princesses, guysand girls, men and women, grandmas and grandpas. Haveyou cheated your sweetheart of the unbelievable fabulous-ness that he or she is suposed to feel on say a birthday orValentine's Day? A creative professional can personalize themost wonderful day for your honey, for you. Call to sched-ule an evaluation or for rates. Dip into Aja's special sauce,sure to make your lover swoon. Aja Goldis. 215-680-3559Monday thru Friday, 10 A.M. to 7 P.M.TURNTABLE FOR SALE: Technics MKII 1200 infuzzy flight case. Good condition. $350 firm. Call 215-351-0777.VENUE: Are you a loner? a freak? a parent? a kid? alooser? a revolutionary? a mountebank? an upstanding cit-izen? They all come together at The Rotunda, where wepresent varied music, film, lectures, panels, exhibits, theaterperformances, and more. We work from the belief that thearts are a catalyst for social change. 99 percent of events arefree, and open to all ages. The Rotunda, 4014 WalnutStreet, Philadelphia, PA 19104. Events listed at:http://foundationarts.org/events.html, and 215-573-3234.VOLUNTEERS WANTED: Organizers forPhiladelphia’s 2nd Annual Black Women’s Arts Festival.Scheduled for Spring/Summer 2004. All interested parties(including straight white male feminists who are comfort-able taking orders from Divine Melanin-Enriched Divas)are invited to help plan and enjoy the event. ContactCassendre at: BWAFPhilly@hotmail.com 215-574-2129(Email preferred).VOLUNTEERS WANTED: Individuals with a sense oftechnical curiosity, dislike of authority, and dedication tolighting up the airwaves. The Prometheus Radio Project issearching for volunteers and interns. We're a group of for-mer pirates who now help to build hundreds of communityradio stations across the country and around the world.Help us sue the FCC, wire transmitters, organize protests,make photocopies, lick envelopes, update webpages. Asmany tofu hoagies as you can eat, as much passionate inter-national solidarity as you can handle. Emailhannahjs@prometheusradio.org if you want to apply, learnmore at http://www.prometheusradio.org. Effectivebuilders and organizers, needing you.VOLUNTEERS WANTED: Editors & Publishers. Anew women’s press is now being established. Immediateprojects: a magazine for and about women in GreaterPhiladelphia, and a literary anthology or chapbook seriesbased on the Women’s Writing & Spoken Word Series atRobin‘s Bookstore in center city. Women only, please.Contact Cassendre at: ARtivistPublications@hotmail.com215-574-2129 (Email preferred).VOLUNTEERS WANTED: Audiogliphix MagazineMusic & Culture Beyond looking for young energetic per-son to promote our events at different venues we have.Also if you arr the one, you will have your own streetteam. This postion is non paying, but the perks are it willlook impressive on a resume. Audiogliphix is known outsidethe philly area for its innovative coverage of independentmusic and culture. Please call the infoline at 215-602-8387and ask for Eddie.WATER DOMES: A very limited supply of "out-of-print"Water Domes designed for Enesco Imports by Philadelphiacartoonist, John Jonik, are available for Pre-Collector's-Item price of $35 a pop. Postage covered in USA. They arenot about snow or cuteness. These have a golfer trying, sofar, unsuccessfully, to whack his ball out of a sand trap. It'sthe sand that is the "snow" here. Shake it and the sand flies.So—they are not necessarilly a "seasonal" gift item.Check/MO to: John Jonik 2049 E. Dauphin St. PhilaPenna. 19125WEB DESIGN FOR HIRE: Need a website? For sites ofall sizes, call Multimedia Mike at 215-275-2934WEBSITE: The Atomic Missiles are real. Real Excellent. TheAtomic Missiles are from the sun. Real Awesome. Real #1. Youdon’t want to resist The Atomic Missiles. Always Excellent.Clones sent from the future to rock. You need the AtomicMissiles. Are loud. Be aware. www.atomicmissiles.com.WEBSITE: Please visit: www.iowapeace.com. Books for aBetter World, by Mike Palecek, former federal prisoner forpeace, congressional candidate, newspaper reporter. "... toinspire us all, because it looks beyond the false gods of our time,the ruthless political leaders, the timid intellectuals, the stars ofPeople magazine, and tells the story of the bravest people inAmerica." —Howard Zinn WEBSITE: Fingertips—An intelligent guide to high-qualityfree and legal music on the web. Visit www.fingertipsmusic.com.Enjoy good music. Spread the word.WORDS WANTED: Wanted words that rhyme with orangefor a desperate poet. Also wanted: Words that rhyme with sil-ver. Please email words to clmaroc@hotmail.com

GENERAL

ADVERTISEMENTS∂

Fair trade, specialty & organic coffees and teas

what's brewing @ joe:1/29- Network In Phila, coffee tasting,

6-7:30 p.m.ALL of February: Specialty Coffee Month:

daily promos2/6- Act Your Rage, open mic/social forum,

6:30-8:30 p.m.2/12- Gay Coffee House, benefitting Wm.

Way Comm. Center, 6-9 p.m.2/19-Philly Photo Night returns!, 7-9 p.m.

email: joecoffeebar@aol.com

joejoe110Walnut Street, #110Philadelphia, PA 19107

t: 215.592.7384f: 215.546.2272

THE SUNDAY SWAP MEET IS A BAT TLE GROUND

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTWINTER 2004 PAGE 23

SUNDAY MONDAY TUESDAY WEDNESDAY THURSDAY FRIDAY SATURDAY

SUNDAY MONDAY TUESDAY WEDNESDAY THURSDAY FRIDAY SATURDAY

FEBRUARY

MARCH

SPRING BRUSHES HER HAIR , FEEDS HER KI T TEN, AND PREPARES TO SALLY FORTH

53313

2254

312

2355

311

2456

310

2557

309

2658

308

2759

307

28PRANK: Point all the one-way

street signs toward the river, man.Then suck up a massive toke onyour way to Boulder, Colorado.

MUSIC: Bright Eyes, Jim James,and M. Ward @ the Trocadero,1003 Arch St. 7 p.m. All Ages,

$18

DISCUSSION: Justice Talking @the National Constitution Center,525 Arch St., 1 p.m. & 7:30 p.m.,

Free. Reservation Required.

EDUCATION: on Joseph Cornell

�see side bar

MUSIC: Head of Femur, One StarHotel at Doc Watson’s. 216 S. 11th

St., 9:30 p.m., 21+, $7.

MUSIC: Paul Green School ofRock Music @ Indre Studios, 1418S. Darien St. 8 p.m., All Ages, $10.

FRIVOLITY: Lord Whimsy’sSecond Annual Libertine’s Ball�see side bar

46320

1547

319

1648

318

1749

317

1850

316

1951

315

2052

314

21

39327

840

326

941

325

1042

324

1143

323

1244

322

1345

321

14

32334

133

333

234

332

335

331

436

330

537

329

638

328

7

60306

29

FILM: DUTV screens Love’s"The Forever Changes Concert" at

the Rotunda 4014 Walnut St.,2 p.m., All Ages, Free

FILM: Lost in Translation @ theBalcony, 1003 Arch St. 8 p.m.,

21+, $3

CIVICS: Last day for citygovernment hopefuls to circulate

and file nomination petitions.

MUSIC: The Gossip, Young People@ The Fire, 412 W. Girard Ave.

6 p.m., All Ages, $8

CHALLENGE: Make a barkeepat McGlinchey’s smile.

Level of Difficulty: 8/10

HOLIDAY: Northern HemisphereHoodie-Hoo Day�

see side bar

ART: Ray Caesar and JonathanWeiner at Tin Man Alley.

608 N. 2nd St., 6 p.m., All Ages,Free. Runs through March 28.

ART: “Jackpot” @ North Star Bar.

�see side bar

MUSIC: Atmosphere at theTrocadero. 1003 Arch St., 7p.m.,

All Ages, $15

MUSIC: Mastodon, Dysrythmia,Anthrophobia at North Star Bar.

27th and Poplar, 7 p.m.All Ages, $10

READING: Alice Walker @Central Library, 1901 Vine St.,

8 p.m. $6-12

FILM: Quest for Sleep (Superchunkdocumentary) at Doc Watson’s.

216 S. 11th St., 8 p.m. 21+, Free.

MUSIC: Phil Moore Brown, PlasticLittle, The Frequency, Mach 22 at

the Khyber. 56 S. Second St.,21+, $8

MUSIC: Damon & Naomi,Bridget Saint John, and Espers atthe Pontiac Grille. 304 South St.

9 p.m., 21+, $8

MUSIC: Snow Fairies, True ifDestroyed, Amateur Party at the

Ethical Society. 1906 RittenhouseSq. 7 p.m., All Ages, $5.

PET CARE: February is Pet OralHealth Care Month.No wisecracks, please.

MUSIC: DJ Choke Sex onWKDU 91.7 FM.

9:30 a.m. to 12 p.m.Every Tuesday.

MUSIC: Make A Rising

�see side bar

FILM: Without You I’m Nothing andParis is Burning at Slought

Foundation. 4017 Walnut St.,6:30 p.m., Free.

ART: New Money O.S.by Josh O.S. @ Space 1026

Arch St., 8 p.m., Free.

FASHION: Evolution: BlackHistory Month Fashion Show @

Drexel’s Main Auditorium,3141 Chestnut St., 7 p.m., Free.

READING: Robert Newman,author of The Fountain at the Center

of the World @ the Rotunda,4041 Walnut St.

81285

2182

284

2283

283

2384

282

2485

281

2586

280

2687

279

27FILM: A Time for Drunken Horses

@ the International House,3701Chestnut St., 8 p.m., All

Ages, $6

HYGEINE: Scrub hands clean,dowse with rubbing alcohol toeliminate germs. Twice daily,

50 cents, all ages.

LECTURE: On Freemasonry

�see side bar

FITNESS: Push-ups..

�see side bar

READING: Edwidge Danticat @Central Library, 1901 Vine St.,

7 p.m., Free.

TRANSPORT: Critical Mass

�see side bar

HANGOUT: Soul Sundays w/ DJSteve Farrell @ Tritone, 1508South St., 9 p.m., 21+, Free.

74292

1475

291

1576

290

1677

289

1778

288

1879

287

1980

286

20

67299

768

298

869

297

970

296

1071

295

1172

294

1273

293

13

61305

162

304

263

303

364

302

465

301

566

300

6

ADVENTURE: Construct a raftfrom innertubes and fishing wire.Travel north to Trenton. Return.

INTERNET: Visit these sites:mumblage.com, wordriot.org,philadelphiaindependent.net,mrbellersneighborhood.com,

marketeast.com

MUSIC: Clockcleaner @ Tritone,1508 South St. 9 p.m., 21 +, Free.

MUSIC: Version Sound Showcase@ Silk City Lounge, 439 SpringGarden St., 10 p.m., 21 +, $3.

ASSIGNMENT: Learn the dailyroutine of your neighbor’s pet. Takeextensive notes, catalog for future

reference.

BREAKFAST: It is said that a rus-tic individual can cook eggs on thehood of an automobile. Experiment

and report results to breakfast@philadelphiaindependent.net

ACTION: The World Still SaysNo to War

�see side bar

MUSIC: Cannibal Corpse,Exhumed @ the Trocadero, 1003Arch St., 7 p.m., All Ages, $16

READING: Killing the Buddha

�see side bar

CHORE: Discard all cracked,chipped, or otherwise damagesdishes. Germs are said to pro-

pogate in those cracks and slivers.

MUSIC: This Radiant Boy, theRosebuds @ the Khyber, 56 S. 2nd

St., 9 p.m., 21+, $8

READING: Karen Armstrong,The Spiral Staircase @ CentralLibrary, 1901 Vine St. 8 p.m.,

$6-12.

READING: Lamont Steptoe @the Walt Whitman Arts Center,2nd & Cooper, Camden. 8 p.m.,

$10

MUSIC: The Philadelphia GayMen’s Chorus at the Ethical Society,

1906 Rittenhouse Sq., 8 p.m.,All Ages, $20

88278

2889

277

2990

276

3091

275

31

EXTENDED FORECAST

As the boundary of failed ambitions to theeast and resigned contemplation to the westhovers nearby, a surge of hope is likely todevelop early in the month. This will gradu-ally cool down into deep lethargy as flurriesof layabouts blanket the higher elevationsand freeze on contact. Get plenty of sleet.

EXTENDED FORECAST

A tornado is a violent rotating column of airfroming a pendant, usually from a cumu-lonimbus cloud. It is the most destructive ofall atmospheric phenomena. It is unlikelythat you will come across one during themonth of March in Philadelphia, but nowyou are at least prepared with the facts.

EXTENDED HOROSCOPE

AQUARIUS: January 20 - February 17You’re lonely. Buy candy. Mail away all thecoupons that you find on the wrappers. Hoardthe prizes. And then destroy them. This willmake you noble. But don’t be aloof. Build anigloo with your friends. It’s time for you to getyour act together and finally get yours.

EXTENDED HOROSCOPE

PISCES: February 18 - March 19You’re boss mocks you on his blog. You’reunder attack. Do not take violent measures.Stay calm, Pisces! There is one solution. Buya large paper bag. Place on head. Start yourlife anew as “the bag guy.” The rest is up toyou, Pisces, the rest is up to you.

� MARCH �∂

02PARTY: More Cowbell Volume 3 w/ Rock TitsDJs @ Tritone, 1508 South St. 9 p.m., 21+, Free

THE COWBELL: Quite possibly the mostoften overlooked, and unfairly derided of all per-cussion instruments. It makes a funny sound, hasa ridiculous name, and denies the cathartic releaseof, say, a giant gong. Even so, the cowbell, whenused tastefully, can turn a pretty rock good songinto an anthem. Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fearthe Reaper?” Nothing without the cowbell.Mountain’s “Mississippi Queen?”: The cowbell’ssteady ring is the beat by which heshers every-where bang their collective head. The Runaways’version of “Rock & Roll?” Very sexy, indeed. Jointhe Rock Tits DJs for an evening devoted to thecowbell, complete with live cowbell players.

08READING: Peter Manseau and Jeff Sharlett,co-authors of Killing the Buddha: A Heretic’sBible, @ Philadelphia City Institute, 1905Locust St. 6:30 p.m., Free.

RELIGION TAKES a lot of forms in these UnitedStates. From the old lady peering through her win-dow to the camoflauged militia member to the sea-soned heavy metal fan, everyone has some thoughtson the subject. It is the religion expressed by every-day people in small ways, one could argue, thatdetermines the spiritual makeup of the nation.Killing the Buddha represents the work of twoengaged skeptics as they traveled the country insearch of religion as it is experienced by its end-user—the pious believer. They talked to gang mem-bers, strippers, and some people who chase aroundtornadoes. It all sounds a lot more exciting thanMidnight Mass and Sunday School, doesn’t it?

20ACTION: The World Still Says No to War

THIS GLOBAL DAY of action is the one yearanniversary of the beginning of the US militaryinvasion of Iraq. On March 18, 2003, objectorsaround the world clogged the streets and avenuesof major cities to protest this offensive offensive,and one year later we can expect a reminder thatthere is still opposition to the war against andoccupation of Iraq. Local actions are presentlybeing planned. You ought to plan one of your own.

23LECTURE: Margaret Jacob, “Freemasonry:Paradox Amid the Mysteries” @ PennHumanities Forum, 3619 Locust Walk. 5p.m., Free. Registration Required.

Tour of Masonic Temple, One N. Broad St.,2 and 3 p.m., $3. Reservations required byMarch 19.

AH, THE FREEMASONS. So mysterious, somisunderstood. Depending on whom you talk to,the freemasons are either evil puppeteers, benigninvisible hands, or a bunch of men who hang out inbeautiful buildings doing nothing in particular.Margaret Jacob, Historian at the University ofCalifornia at Los Angeles, is a recognized authorityon “freethinkers, freemasons, and other radicals andromantics.” Come see what she has to say on thesubject. Earlier in the day, the Masonic Temple atOne N. Broad Street will be open for special toursat 2 and 3 p.m.

24FITNESS: Push-ups, five sets of thirty reps.Your living room, 7 a.m.

When it comes to the topic of health, it’s alwaysAtkins-this, no-carbs-that, red meat all-the-time.With all of this attention on diet, we fear that rig-orous exercise is going out of fashion. HenryFloss always says, “A fit body is like a fit mind, itmust be worked, not put on sabbatical, periodi-cally humiliated rather than mollycoddled if it isto thrash and compute par excellence.” To that end,we impugn everyone to hit the floor at dawn andpush on up to the sky until your hands grownumb and your veins swollen.

26TRANSPORT: Critical Mass Bicycle Ride,beginson the west side of City Hall, 5.p.m.

TO THE NOVICE CYCLIST, navigating citystreets can seem like transversing a minefield laidwith indifferent, seemingly ignorant explosives.You’ve got to balance on two wheels, pedal likethe dickens, and, most importantly, dodge pot-holes, reckless automobiles, and errant pedestri-ans. It can be a dangerous enterprise on par withthe popular video game “Paperboy,” though with-out the high scores and catchy soundtrack. Listenup, novices: on the last Friday of every month,cyclists get together and ride through the streets,confidently pumping around town like some sortof irreverent army. Bring your own bicycle andjoin them.

NUTRITION: One serving ofFresh Asparagus @ any Kitchen

table. 6 p.m., market price

CIVICS: Last day to register tovote before the April 27 primary.

Visit www.seventy.org for more information.

READING: Shirley Kaufman @Kelly Writer’s House, 3805 Locust

Walk. 5 p.m., Free.

PARTY: “Panties on theDancefloor” @ the 700 Club, 700

N. 2nd St., 10 p.m., 21+, Free,Every Wednesday

TASK: Listen to all of your oldmix tapes, find your once-favorite

song, sing it loudly at work.

PARTY: “More Cowbell Vol. 3”

�see side bar

PANEL: Ecopoetics w/ JonathanSkinner, Tina Darragh, and MarcellaDurand at the Kelly Writer’s House.

3805 Locust Walk. 6 p.m., Free.

BOOK LAUNCH: Cities WithoutCitizens, edited by Eduardo

Cadava and Aaron Levy @ SloughtFoundation, 4017 Walnut St.,

6:30 p.m., Free.

MUSIC: Nate Wiley & theCrowdpleasers @ Bob and Barbara’s

Lounge, 1509 South St., 21+,every Friday and Saturday, Free

PARTY: Bad Reputation @ theKhyber’s upstairs lounge, 56 S. 2nd

St., 10 p.m., 21+, Free

FULL MOON:

-6th day-3rd hour-47th minute

NEW MOON:

-20th day -4th hour -18th minute

LAST QUARTER:

-13th day -8th hour-40th minute

FIRST QUARTER:

-27th day-22nd hour-24th minute

FULL MOON:

-6th day-18th hour-14th minute

NEW MOON:

-20th day -17th hour -41st minute

LAST QUARTER:

-13th day -16th hour-1st minute

FIRST QUARTER:

-28th day-17th hour-48th minute

Day 1 3 6 9 12 15 18 21 23 25 28

DAY: ACTIVITY

10, 26: Check Stapler. Reload as Needed27: Dust and Tidy Up.

6, 30: Don’t Take No Shortcuts 3,28: Plant Bulbs & Organize Files

19,20: Cogitate, Calculate, & Reckon8, 15: Attend to the Matter at Hand

11, 15: Host or Attend a Sleepover 7, 9: Befriend a Bird of Prey

22, 23: Spend Money You’ve Saved Up

DAY: ACTIVITY

4, 18: Crochet at the Window12, 13: Stockpile Ammo, Play for Keeps14, 15: Finish Something for Once 2, 16: Borrow & Gamble until What

You Borrowed is Gone14, 18: Quit or Acquire a Habit

19: Shatter Ten Glass Screens30: Practice. Practice Some More

3, 31: Make a Promise & Keep It

HEREWITH WE PROVIDE the following chart, based on the Moon signs, show-

ing the most favorable times for certain activities in the the third month of 2004.

DAY: ACTIVITY

11, 18: Read Old Magazines27: Buy Goldfish

19, 20: Construct Snow Fort or Igloo6, 23: Sunglasses, Headphones, Frown15,16: Steal Anything not Bolted Down9, 15: Sweep Foyer

12, 13: Clean Windows or Mirrors22: Lie to Yourself, & Believe It

2, 29: Sort Recycling

DAY: ACTIVITY

1, 23: Confront your Block Captain12, 13: Talk About Flying Kites

4, 5: Make Imaginary Friends7, 24: Basketball!

14, 18: Ditch Imaginary Friends 19: Watch Television by Yourself

22, 28: Go to the Airport, and Watch More Television by yourself

3, 6: Fly Kites, for Real, Finally

HEREWITH WE PROVIDE the following chart, based on the Moon signs, show-

ing the most favorable times for certain activities in the the third month of 2004.

SAINTS DAYS__________________

1. Saint David.—Patron Saint of Wales,died about A.D. 544. On this day natives ofWales wear leeks in their hats; it is by theirhistorians said in commemoration of a vic-tory gained over the Saxons, although thereis another version of the story by no meanscomplimentary to the beauty of the primi-tive inhabitants of the principality.

7. Saint Perpetua—was thrown into theamphitheatre at Carthage, A.D. 203, andtossed, but not quite killed by a wild cow;eventually she was put to death by theyoung gladiators.

SAINTS DAYS__________________

3. Saint Blaise.—Bishop of Sebaste, inArmenia, suffered martyrdom A. D. 316.He was cruelly tortured, his flesh beingdragged off by means of iron combs withcurved teeth, such as are used by wool-combers. In consequence of this he has beenregarded as the patron saint of wool-work-ers, and formerly his day was observed inBradford, Leeds and other centers of themanufactures in England as a holiday; pro-cessions were formed, and those who tookpart in them were termed Blazers—hencethe term, “As drunk as Blazers,” or blazes.

04MUSIC: The Last Wave, Kandy Whales,Golden Ball, & Make a Rising @ the Khyber, 56S. Second St. 9 p.m., 21+, $7.

MAKE A RISING, according to all reliable sourcesand authorities, is both the greatest and most under-rated collection of musicians in all of Philadelphia.Taking cues from Sun Ra, lo-fi rock, and circus music(one song in particular would make a fine soundtrackfor a sad clown), MAR creates trans-genre musicwith guitars, drums, saxophones, violins, keyboards,bells, and assorted noisemakers that should land themon the cover of some international glossy music pub-lication. Who knows? Maybe a small mention in ournewspaper will set them on that track.

08ART:“Jackpot” w/ Hiroshima Lemon, HawkKrall, Tim Gough, Matty Runks, MaxwellSebastian, Gina Triplett, and more @ the NorthStar Bar, 2639 Poplar St. 8 p.m., 21+, Free.

DOGS RUN IN PACKS. Fish scurry in schools.When a bunch of bears hang out it’s called asleuth. The animals certainly have their crews inorder, as does this talented gang of ace artists,who, having decided to hang their works on thewalls of the North Star in unison, are called, sim-ply Jackpot. What exactly do we mean when wesay “talented?” Hiroshima Lemon uses repetitionand fluid animal forms to blur daily life into asurreal dreamscape. Hawk Krall has an uncannyeye for observing and recording the filthiest ele-ments of the proletariat, grown fat on bread andcircus, warts and all, without ever lapsing intocaricature. Tim Gough operates under the sign ofa quixotic caped wrestler who defeats all foes witha halo of design force. Sailor Jerry would walk theplank in shame if he knew how shallow hisknowledge of tattoo-shop flash looked beside thelearned lines of Matty Runks. This show mighthave been better called “Triple Super Jackpot.”

20HOLIDAY: Northern Hemisphere Hoodie-HooDay. Everywhere. Noon.

THOMAS AND RUTH ROY are two individu-als who devote much of their spare time to creat-ing “unique, copyrighted holidays” and explainingthem (with over sixty to date). They hope to oneday compile these into a book, tentatively titled,Wellness…With a Grain of Salt. NorthernHemisphere Hoodie-Hoo Day requires its follow-ers to leave their homes and businesses at noon andyell, “Hoodie-hoo!” to bid a fond adieu to winterand welcome spring, just one short month awayfrom commencement. There is no indication as towhat special significance “hoodie-hoo” may have tothe Roy duo, so it therefore appears the Roys havecreated a postmodern holiday of sorts, in that youmay take what ever special meaning this phrase hasfor you and celebrate accordingly.

25ART: Robert Lehrman, “Joseph Cornell’sWorlds of Wonder: Voyaging across theDigital Divide” @ UPenn’s Institute ofContemporary Art, 5:30 p.m., Free.

JOSEPH CORNELL’S INTRICATE BOXES,constructed in his mother’s basement, have long fas-cinated both the serious art student and the casualadmirer since just about forever. Until recently, aclose inspection of Cornell’s assemblages of itemsfrom popular culture, scientific texts, and Victorianrubbish heaps required waiting around until someinstitution hosted a retrospective. Even then, onewould need to wait in line for hours just to be nudgedand jostled by field-tripping students and assortedmalcontents. Thanks to the digital age, we have allbeen spared that inconvenience. “The MagicalWorld’s of Joseph Cornell” boasts itself as the veryfirst interactive DVD-ROM that offers virtualinspection of the artist’s work. At no charge, theICA will be offering an actual screening of the virtu-al disc, which really retails for $150.

28FRIVOLITY: Lord Whimsy’s Second AnnualLibertine’s Ball @ the RUBA Hall, 414 GreenSt. 8 p.m., 21+, Free.

AN EVENING OF FRIVOLITY, excess, andbeauty open to all manner of dandies, rakes, fops,pantywaists, fools, swells, rascals, wastrels, volup-tuaries, lionnes, flaneurs, cads, wits, and social-climbing guttersnipes.

Lord Whimsy casts a teary eye upon the belea-guered inhabitants of our banal, colorless age andasks: Have you tired of playing the drab, second-rate version of yourself that is demanded of you bythe stifling mores of our day? Then join us for anevening that shall afford those who attend a chanceto summon all the suppressed beauty and vitality intheir possession! This is the long-awaited night onwhich everyone's souls shall bloom! Do not missthis chance to rise and show the world how beau-tiful you really are! (Men in hats doing jigs withchairs, and intergenerational commingling.)

� FEBRUARY �∂

High

Low

HEREWITH WE PROVIDE the following chart, basedon the predicted level of daily discontent experienced by thedenizens of Philadelphia in the second month of 2004.

A Word of Encouragement

I f anyone knows the displeasure of suckling at Mother Nature’sfrozen teat, surely it is I, Henry Floss, your beloved Chairman.

While honing my wit and polishing my tenacity in the gamingregions of the Ukraine, I developed a fail-proof method for keep-ing the body warm against the conspiring forces of cold and wind.It’s a system all of you apes could learn from. To stay warm, sim-ply quit killing your brain with beer, network television, and reli-gious services and begin exercising your mind, the most powerfuland therefore warmth-inducing organ contained within yourbody, by completing a vigorous syllabus of crossword puzzles,cryptograms, define-and-finds, and Chinese checker matches.Yours,

HENRY FLOSS, CHAIRMAN, BUREAU OF PUZZLES & GAMES

THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENTPAGE 24 WINTER 2004

Catering for all Occasions • Open-7-Days a Week236 South Street, Philadelphia Pap 215.925.3881 f 215.925.3882

www.lovashindiancuisine.com

AWARD WINNING CHEF/OWNER MOHAN PARMARWILL CATER TO YOUR TASTE

AUTHENTIC INDIAN FOOD

WIN A SUBSCRIPTION, A T-SHIRT, OR $5 AT BIG JAR BOOKSPrizes, Instructions, Details, Addresses, Red Herrings & Notes of Cheerful Caution

SMALL PROBLEMS THAT EVEN YOU CAN SOLVE

HOW TO SHOVEL THE WALKWAYWITHOUT LIFTING A FINGER

As Henry Floss waddles out into a frosty wintermorning, he slams door behind him (A), knockingicicles off roof (B). Alarmed by tremors of icicleimpact, the Pentagon launches surface-to-surfacemissile at Floss’ humble abode (C). Exhaust frommissile propels balloon (D) with pickled herringattached (E) down walkway. Emperor Penguintrapped in cardboard box is driven wild by scent ofherring (F) and runs towards the fish, pushing snowdown walkway. If device proves unsuccessful, simplyincrease number of penguins or herrings ]

H E N R Y F L O S S ’ M O N T H L Y I N V E N T I O N(Apologies and respects to Rube Goldberg)

∂

“DUPLICATE DISTRICTS”Mirrors of Perplexion Echo Twofold Names

[ BY JASON E. GIBBS ]

1. Cancer is one.5. Lowest part.9. Change shape by computer

animation.14. Company icon.15. Sea eagle.16. Wipe the chalkboard

clean.17. Orwell’s boarding school.18. Milk nozzle.19. Olympic prize.20. Australian city of "many

crows".23. Not well.24. Number which is its own

square root.25. Fijian straits between

Taveuni and Vanua Levu.28. Cookout.31. Rep. Opponent.33. Opposite of Max.34. Ferrigno and Diamond

Phillips.36. Atoll in the Tuamotu

archipelago.42. Tilted.44. Perceive.45. Ship spines.46. German city known for its

spas.49. Pocketed shoes, for short.50. Companion of neither.

51. Father and Holy Spiritcompanion.

53. Ice Cube and Eazy-E’sgroup.

54. Society Island 150 milesnorthwest of Tahiti.

59. Price site.61. Genetic info transmitter.62. City in southeast

Washington.67. New York fur merchant

John Jacob.70. Round droplet.71. 28 across suggestion.72. Parisian river.73. Viscount’s superior.74. Traditional knowledge.75. Got up.76. cm. per second per gr.

force.77. Stops.

1. Lower corner of a squaresail.

2. Roman Ecclesiastical court.3. Excited and eager.4. Small hand beaten drum.5. Intermediate place.6. Plane space.7. Obstacles.8. Words after "ready".9. Lamed follower.10. Metal-bearing rock.

11. CB or HAMM.12. Sacred hymn.13. Telephone greeting.21. Jack, Jill conjunction.22. Bullets for instance.26. Sty sound.27. Contemptuous contortion

of the face.28. Spill the beans.29. ____ Raton.30. "Because", Caesar said so.32. City near Phoenix.35. Extended opera solo.37. Actor Beatty for one.38. Thousands.39. Advertising light.40. Incandescence.41. Mountain in Thessaly.43. Handle.47. Forehead.48. Outstanding.52. "Oh hell" follower.54. Not woodwind.55. Beginning.56. 1:2 for example.57. Was tumultuous.58. Put to rest.60. End of a sloped roof.63. Abandoned.64. City on the Rhone.65. Manor overseer.66. Lincoln and Simpson

(diminutively).68. Lenon’s lady.69. Commie.

DOWN

for our Belov ed A gents o f the Bureau. . .

answers to last month’s noodle exercise

ENOUGH OF ROSE-BUD LIPS, AND EYES

LIKE HAREBELLS BATHED IN DEW,

OF CHEEK THAT WITH CARNATION VIES,

AND VEINS OF VIOLET HUE;

EARTH WANTS NOT BEAUTY THAT MAY SCORN

A LIKENING TO FRAIL FLOWERS;

YEA, TO THE STARS, IF THEY WERE BORN

FOR SEASONS AND FOR HOURS.

-WILLIAM WORDSWORTHACROSS

∂

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 9 10 11 12 13

14 15 16

17 18 19

20 21 22 23

23 24 25 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36 36 37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49

47 48 49 50 51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58 59 60

61 62 63 64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71

72 73 74

75 76 77

Though typically a season for sweaters and woolen trousers, winter still has a place for the T-shirt, partic-ularly one of a quality make emblazoned with an attractive seal. To the first completed Puzzle, we offer

a prize from our first-ever edition of T-shirts, one with THE PHILADELPHIA INDEPENDENT printed (in ink)through a special silk screen across its breathable fabric. While the winter chill still blows, we suggest wearingthis article as a bottom-most layer—perhaps beneath an unbuttoned flannel shirt—or storing it neatly untilthe globe revolves back into the time of hyacinths and kite-flying. Once again, the task before you is simple,maddeningly simple—the completion of a crossword puzzle. This time place names are involved, and you’llhear echoes if you are wont to puzzle out loud.

GRAND PRIZE: To the correct Puzzle with the earliest postmark, one T-shirt bearing the seal of The Philadelphia Independent, a six-issue Pal Subscription (including a pinback button, a heraldic and personalized Subscriber Card) and Top Secret Agent status in the Bureau.

2ndPRIZE: To the next six correct Puzzles, a five-dollar gift certificate from Big Jar Books at 55 N. Second St., a pinback button, and Secret Agent status in the Bureau.

TO EVERY SINGLE ENTRY: A pinback button and Special Agent status in the Bureau.Send your completed Puzzle to TPI / Attn: Bureau of Puzzles & Games / 1026 Arch Street / Philadelphia,PA / 19107 with your name, address, and telephone number written clearly on a 3x5-inch index card. And I’dbe quick about it if I wanted a stab at the Grand Prize.

To followers of the Bureau, I, Henry Floss, offer an exampleof what an Agent should be. He is a fellow strong in char-

acter and attention, a puzzler with an unparalleled attention toinstructions, detail, good manners, and, most remarkably, pen-manship. Our newest addition to the force, with his sharp noo-dle and steady hand, is certain to go far in the Bureau of Puzzles& Games. Some have even speculated that he is a worthy suc-cessor to me, should I ever find myself unable to perform myduties as chairman. Though a Bureau of Puzzles & Gamesdivorced from Henry Floss is not a likely scenario, Top SecretAgent Nate Puchalski is capable of serving you puzzlers betterthan any of the other dullards who poke around in the Bureau’sbusiness. For his speedy, impeccable, and distinguishably legiblecompletion of last months noodle exercise in its entirety, AgentPuchalski will receive, via post, his promised gift certificateredeemable at Big Jar Books, eternal Top Secret Agent status inthe Bureau, and the distinction of being the only puzzler to rec-ognize the influence of the New Wave of British Heavy Metalon Metallica.

AND NOW THE RESULTS:TOP SECRET AGENT: Nate Puchalski (Excellent penmanshipbut neglected to include 3x5 index card)SPECIAL AGENT: Claudette A. Johnson (A promising start butgave up halfway through the Acronymatron)SPECIAL JUNIOR AGENT: Michael Fahy (This veteran agent didnot even attempt formidable Acronymatron, which speaks tojust how hard it was)SPECIAL JUNIOR AGENT: Timothy Kelley (Entirely cowed bycomplexity of the Acronymatron, Mr. Kelley stuck with theCryptogram, which well deserves its reputation as the kiddiepool of Puzzles & Games)

1. Trilateral trade agreement from mid-1990s. [NAFTA]2. Superhighway: [WWW]3. The most frequently referenced item on one’s identification card.

[DOB]4. Local 98. [IBEW]5. Elephant cotillion; Lincoln’s dogs. [GOP]6. The man, his wife, his kids, his dog, his ranch, his cows; former office

manager. [LBJ]7. For American fine art instruction, this is the oldest of the old schools.

[PAFA]8. Offers the kinds of associate’s degrees; Paul Green is alumnus. [CCP]9. Motown Philly Exemplars (two answers). [ABC, BBD]10. Non-Olympic wrestler; not as mean as Leroy Brown. [ JYD]11. The Star of the Show; the hardest-working man in show business. [ JB]12 The guide for those in need of style; sends information via wires. [AP]13. Attention problems to the max. [ADHD]14. Formation of overseas musical groups; influenced Metallica; Saxon, for

example. [NWOBHM] 15. Notes on the treble staff; mnemonic device encourages good boys.

[EGBDF]16. Collegiate rabble-rousers got their asses kicked in Chicago. [SDS]17. A group of females who have borne children and oppose #21. [MADD]18. Once ran a pig for president and brought #27’s uncle to a halt. [YIP]19. Not to be found. Blame #6. [MIA]20. Numerals used to draw cash from kiosks. [PIN]21. Vehicular offense committed by drinkers [DUI]22. Check these settings when #2 goes down. [TCPIP] 23. The top of the totem pole, swimming in options. [CEO]24. What Would Jesus Do? Well, what? [WWJD]25. Arrested in Philadelphia at fast food eatery but claims to “like it raw.”

[ODB]26. Perpetual laggard tries to compensate with duotone tokens. [SEPTA]27. Fast companies rode on this rollercoaster. [NASDAQ]28. Breathing apparatus best used below sea level. [SCUBA]29. Mid 1980s breakthrough made is possible to hunt ducks in bad weath-

er. [NES]30. Founded by Ms. Friedan. [NOW]31. Sickness spread in bed (archaic). [VD]32. The biggest fear of many; seems closer than ever before. [WWIII]33. Pitcher’s stat; the lower the better. [ERA]34. Mario the Magnificent channel. [DUTV]35. Ivy League sound on the airwaves. [WPRB]36. Rank & file merged into one in 1955. [AFLCIO]37. Wobblies. [IWW]

∂

Fashions In Eyewear, Inc.Licensed Opticians

260 S. 10th St., Phila. • 215-922-2623

We’ve Moved!Come See Our Selection of Polo,

Max Mara, Ralph Lauren & Liz Claiborne frames!

Let’s get _ _ _ _ _____ .

Always good times.Happy Hour Mon-Fri 4-6 pm

Brunch Sat-Sun 11-3

637 NORTH THIRD STREETPHILADELPHIA

TEL: 215.627.6711FAX: 215.627.6167

WWW. THEABBAYE.COM