Last Roll

Natural lighting by the freight elevator. This photo clearly shows that my stump legs barely reach the ground.


The uninspired and disapointing Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. Perhaps they misplaced the ornaments. We walked thirty blocks for this.


Smile Ed. The painting behind me is one from a 2004 series by Jackie Hoving , who has a studio across the hall. I want her to develop these patterns into soft goods.

Hung in the bare trees of Rittenhouse Square are grapefruit to basketball size balls wrapped with tiny colored lights. Beyond them is the zig-zag spire of the unfortunately proportioned late 80's Liberty Place, by Murphy/Jahn. It's difficult to hold the camera steady for a long night exposure when shivering.


If it's above forty degrees and not raining or snowing, I have the top down. A recent warm sunny day.

Towards Victory

Well lookie here.

The Farmboyz have made me aware that I've been nominated for "Best New Gay Blog", by some blog site or other. I've never really won anything before; 'cept for one time.

Sorta.

One Saturday while wandering the woods in the charge of my older brother, we had fished a frogs egg cluster out of the icy waters of the small pond on the farm at the end of our street. I carried them in a found paper coffee cup, back up the dirt road to our house and their new home in a galvanized bucket just inside the door to the sunporch. They thrived. Though we made no real efforts on their behalf other than changing out fresh pond water (at my Dad's suggestion), I was filled with the pride of successful husbandry when they hatched into a squiggling mass, just in time for The Wilcox Park Pet Show. On the eagerly anticipated day, we scooped the pollywogs into an empty economy size Jiff peanut butter jar, and excitedly clambered into the station wagon for the drive downtown. The picturesque grounds had been over run by clamoring crowds of wild eyed children running around with cardboard boxes of mewling kittens and cages of frantic hamsters, tripping over the leashes of yapping pure breds and mutts, and weary mothers in ignored efforts to ride herd. After registering me in the amphibians division, Mom turned us loose into the chaos.

Distracted by the general commotion and lured by the impossible glamour of watching local Cable Vision tape the turtle races, I missed the call to present my tiny black beauties. I was devastated. It should have been my moment of glory, and I reacted as any five year old cheated out of certain victory by cruel fate; I began to cry. Not just garden variety bawling would do in this case of egregious misfortune. Oh no. Sniffling grew into tears and wailing, then morphed into heaving red faced, apoplectic sobs. At first, Mom did her best to comfort me, (avoiding till later the assessment that it was my own damn fault) but I was inconsolable. Soon I curled into a tight ball of affliction on the cold hard ground, the peanut butter jar of my denied charges slippery from hot tears and snot hugged tight to my broken heart. Unable to understand the depths of my grief, the pollywogs wriggled away unconcerned. Mom wasn't doing as well. Frustrated and embarrassed by my display to begin with, now, as she vainly attempted to lift the dead weight of my tiny prostrate self up out of the pine needles and dirt, the videographer had moved in on the spectacle. She became increasingly frantic, imagining the resulting broadcast which when viewed by the pitying eyes of more competent mothers, would demonstrate her inability to manage her wild and disobedient children.

One of the judges stepped in to rescue Mom from the clucking tongued specter of the ladies of South County. He deftly scooped me up, plucked the jar from my tiny hands, and shook me into a standing position in one motion, which startled me enough to stop the tears. He considered me at one hand, the jar in the other, and Mom in the middle. He spoke more to Mom than to me or the pollywogs, reasoning that since my hatchlings were obviously swimming, he saw no reason I couldn't enter them in the just about to begin fish competition, and that we should get ourselves over there. Now. He escorted my grateful mother and me, wiping away evidence of the tantrum with my coat sleeve, over toward the expectant gathering of other hopefuls, all bearing vessels containing their own contenders. A precocious child, I was well aware from regular viewings of PBS' Hodge Podge Lodge(on which a Birkenstock wearing pony tailed woman in a granny frock lead us through the woods beyond her tiny green cabin, in search of salamanders, empty hornets nests, and beaver dams) that my pollywogs were amphibians, not fish; but I wasn't about to let biological fact get in the way of my rise to pet show glory. We stood and waited our inspection.

I don't remember the "other" fish, the other prizes, or the surely disgusted expression on my brother's face at the prospect that once again, somehow, I'd cry babied my way to victory. I only remember the P.A. system announcing my name as the owner of "The Littlest Fish" while a blue satin ribbon was taped to the lid of the peanut butter jar and the Cable Vision man recorded my triumph.

So vote for me!

Or I'll cry.

City Hall

click image to enlarge


City Hall is a mammoth Beaux Arts edifice at the center of the city where Market and Broad Streets cross. The City of Philadelphia hired a French firm to illuminate the central pavilions fronting Market. Precisely placed projectors beam a colorized image of the grey stone facade back onto it's effusively carved surfaces. From 5 PM to midnight, it glows like a black light poster.

Paint

Some of the contents of my paint cabinet.

Still Life

A wall in my studio.

Good Morning!

Several old posts disapeared from my blogger account
a few months ago. Just found 'em.
This is a rerun from September 2004



The only thing worse than hauling my ragged, hung over ass out of my OWN bed at 7am, is having to perform the same feat to extract myself from someone ELSE'S bed. Especially when it's in a city two hours from home and three hours away from a meeting with my boss. I'd made this situation for myself. I had a few too many rounds at beer blast and missed the last Chinese bus back to Philly. So why not have another drink? Right? The subsequent details were blurred. I was sure now of only one thing, it was going to be a long, long day.

I staggered off in search of the toilet, water, and my bearings. The steady traffic hum outside the windows, and the dronning throbb inside my head accompanied me on my stumble to the bathroom. I stood hanging over the porcelain, leaning one shoulder against the tiles, pissing and thinking. What was his name? I flushed, turned, and looked back into the corner bedroom flooded with deathray intensity raking light. My new friend lay nude on his back, eyes closed, sheets wadded up around his feet. Stocky little guy, brown legs and chest covered in short curly hair. Nice hands. Not a bad selection.

Name, Name, Name.

Alright, what did I have then? Fuzzy recollections of a comical cockiness, a Virginia or maybe North Carolina accent, fairly bright, and the repeated and completely un-ironic use of the word 'dude'. Hmmm. Okay, out into the apartment for some recon. An un-slept-in bed and signs of a female room mate were visible through the open door of the second bedroom. In the tiny living room, a satiny black baby grand piano took up most of the space. Two large oak and velvet gothic-y chairs, possibly repurposed alter furnishings, flanked a console. Nothing on it like bills or subscribed magazines with names and addresses, no personalized pads or stationary. Damn it. A tattered script without cover page under some playbills. Nothing. Then, the glare of morning light began to burn off some of the fog surrounding my dehydrated brain. Theater! I remembered something about playwrite or director. Wait. Of course, the vanity of show people! A quick scan of the walls and there they were; framed programs. Let's see... written by...starring... and finally, musical direction by:

J. Troy Hernando

Hah!

I found the kitchen and stood there in the sunlight. Even that early the sharply angled rays felt hot on my bare skin. I filled a glass from the tap and watched the traffic light change below, releasing the cars stopped on the unknown street. Downed that, and returned to the bedroom.

"Dude, sorry you have to get up so early," My host greeted me. His eyes were half open now, long lashes fanning liquid brown. His fingers were laced behind his neck.

"Yeah, it's rough, Troy" I replied, and hopped up on the mattress.

I'd figured that if I took a cab to Chinatown, I could linger for another 20 or 30 minutes and still catch the 8 AM orient express. Straddling his chest and easing my rising erection towards his soft smile, I added,

"You make your bed, Troy, you have to lie in it."

Matchbook Synopsis

Dairy of Anne Frank:

A bittersweet coming of age story told through the eyes of Anne Frank, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, who is forced along with her dairy master father, egg vendor mother, 4 H sausage competition blue ribbon winner sister, and the deposed husbandry department chair of the nearby agricultural college, to hide in secret rooms above the milking barn in a desperate struggle to survive the murderous vegan regime occupying their formerly idyllic farming community.

Juguetes de la Muerte

Click Image to Enlarge

A murder shrine near abandonded wharves in North Philadelphia.