Tending to the Unfinished Business

Part Four in a Series.

(Na)4u

1080puhleez....

Top Ten Reasons to Keep Watching in Low-Def:

10.) It's still the best radio we've got.
9.) Grainy porn feels more real.
8.) Granny porn feels less real.
7.) It makes no difference when you only watch static.
6.) Do you really need to read the fine print?
5.) John Clayton looks a little less dangerous.
4.) Blacker blacks. Whiter whites. Less in-between.
3.) Pock marks, razor burn, and spittle. Nein.
2.) It's too heavy to steal.
1.) Want to find out who your real friends are? Host a Super Bowl party.

An Open Letter to Whofleck

Well, Whofleck, here we are.

Over the past three months I've tried to coax you out with flattery, to smoke you out with homage, and more recently to point you out with open ended questions.

All failed attempts. So, I will just call you out instead.

I did this all for you. I did this all because of you. I put myself out there because I admired the way in which you took the baton and fought your way through 100 posts with nothing but lane lines and Poop Snacks to see you through, and I was inspired.

I was there for every vein. I was there for every lifeguarding story. When I read the darkmind posts I thought "Yeah, this guy, this guy gets it, man..."

Yesterday was the final insult.

You sat by my side for three hours at the gateway to the Neververse where it all began, and yet not a word was spoken about the journey we both undertook.

Nearly 100 posts.

Not a single comment from the man whose path I followed in good faith.

Don't you dare disgrace this work by weighing in now.

That time has passed.

Phinal Phriday

Turkey Sandwich

Turkey
Bread
Mayonnaise

Spread mayonnaise on two slices of bread.

Place turkey between bread. Ensure mayonnaise'd side is facing inward.

Repeat for five days.

Suggested pairing: Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale

Happy Thanksgiving

Let's be honest; we all have it pretty damn good.

Cheap Applause

This is a Hold Up!

You may have heard about the recent outrage concerning the use of full-body scanners in airports. The "compromising" images are privately viewed yards away in a hooded, isolated booth - by an individual who is never seen nor in contact with the folks who pass through. Sensitive areas are blurred out. The process takes a few seconds. I am sure said individual is masturbating furiously and taking cell phone pictures of your grey and blurry form to sell online.

Those who refuse (or, officially, "opt out" of) a scan are subjected to a full-body pat down, which is performed (if you so choose) by a member of the same sex (?) and essentially involves the backs of the worker's hands moving up your thighs and never finding your tender loins. Another letdown.

Look, I'm a pretty pragmatic guy. I still see taking to the air as more of a privilege than a right. I mean, if you don't like the rules of being safely transported at 400 mph 30,000 feet above ground for $59 then forge a pair of your own wings and fly too close to the sun, OK? Also, I am a man who owns no curtains. I prance and flop about my home with nary a whit of concern about who may be huddled in the bushes just outside the window. Hell, at my age, any squinting pervert out there would bring a glorious shower of flattery and whimsy to my life. Modesty is not a priority for Pheewrap.

So while I am probably in the minority (shocker) my point is this: Search me. Scan me blur-free at high resolution with zoom, pat me down, bump my junk, slap my ass, I don't fucking care. It's all good. Just do what you need to do so I can get on that great big metal bird and kiss the sky. I know why you need to do it. I understand that it isn't because of anything I did that it has to be this way.

I simply accept it, and I suggest that the world fall in line behind me.

Road to Perdition

Impossible Odds

"Black man, black woman, black baby.
White man, white woman, white baby.
White man, black woman, black baby.
Black man, white woman, black baby."

Overheard in the Yard

Bosch: So, what do you think?


Titan: I think he's pretty fucking good, that's what I think.


Bosch: OK, but can you get behind him? Do you want to see him succeed?


Titan: It's day-to-day. Sometimes, I find myself getting there, but I really can't forget. I'll never forget...

Bosch: But the little one, the little fast one, he said that we aren't so different, you know?

Titan: Yeah, he said it. But we are different. He doesn't understand. Whatever. I'll watch tonight regardless.

Bosch: You're entitled to your feelings. Do you think he will have what it takes to beat the Giants?

Titan: (sighs) Jesus, I don't know. That squad has a whole different type of animal caged up in the pen...





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Everyday Icarus

For a while there, all I ever wanted to be able to do was dunk a basketball.

I wanted this so badly that in eighth grade, after I had shredded my knee in a CYO game and was going for weekly rehab at a local sports clinic, I actually asked the therapist to give me leg exercises that would help me dunk. He was kind not to laugh at me, a white, bespectacled 14-year-old with feathered bangs and pegged Bugle Boy trousers. He just suggested we focus on adding strength to the knee first.

The closest I ever came was dunking a mini basketball, which really wasn't much in the way of consolation. Have you ever tried to dribble one of those things?

My driveway at home was on a slight slope, so from one side I could come sooooooooo fucking close with a regulation ball. There was one rim out of six on a public court in Sea Isle City that was about three inches low; again, sooooooooo fucking close. That rim is long gone now.

In high school I could grab the rim with both hands and do pull-ups. That felt great until I watched the 5'10" cross-country star casually throw down a few dunks in his socks during open gym.

What the fuck.

I guess certain things are meant to stay just beyond our grasp.

Silly little things. Things like happiness. Or validation. Or understanding the world around you.

Or maybe just the sweet, solid thump of your forearm against the 10-foot rim as your hand throws the ball down into the cords - as nine guys and a two refs stand flat-footed in the paint, on the wing, and just beyond the arc, gazing up at you...

Phoodie Phriday

Baked Eggs

1 tbsp. unsalted butter
4 tbsp. cooked chopped spinach
4 eggs
1⁄2 tomato
2 tbsp. heavy cream
1 slice bacon, cooked and chopped
2 tbsp. grated parmesan
1⁄2 tsp. chopped fresh thyme
1⁄4 tsp. grated nutmeg
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Heat oven to broil and place a rack 10" from the heating element. Grease two 8-oz. gratin dishes with butter. To each dish, add 2 tbsp. spinach. Using your fingers, make 2 wells in each pile of spinach and crack 2 eggs into each dish.

2. Cut tomato into 4 wedges and nestle 2 wedges on opposite sides of each dish. Pour 1 tbsp. heavy cream into each dish. Add half of the bacon to each dish.

3. Sprinkle each dish with 1 tbsp. parmesan, 1⁄4 tsp. thyme, 1⁄8 tsp. nutmeg, and salt and pepper to taste. Transfer to oven rack and broil until the cheese is golden brown, the whites of the eggs are set, and the yolks are still slightly soft, about 5minutes.

Suggested pairing: Mimosas

Genevieve

She seemed sooooooo sweet until the 3:36 mark.

The Gang's All(most) Here

Haha! This game is easy!

PHEEWRAP TREEWRAP!

TUXEDO SUXEDO!

JAYBRO HEY,BRO!

PICKLE FICKLE!

SNACKS SLACKS!

WHOFLECK?

Toyz n the Hood

There may or may not be a bona fide set of ground rules governing hood ornaments, but if there was, I'd imagine the set would be fairly simple.

For example, no vehicle under a certain MSRP should come with a hood ornament.

No vehicle built for speed or nimble handling versus luxury should come with a hood ornament.

Ornaments should relate - at least in part - to the make or model name of the car whose hood they occupy.

Ornaments should be right at the front end of the hood. Not in the middle of the hood.

And so on....

So, with these simple (albeit unofficial) rules under our belts, can you please explain this?



A dodo? Really? On an Audi wagon? Six inches back off the edge of the hood?

And hanging two feet over the curb to boot. Who do you people think you are?

Fucking Greenville.

Success Assured

10 Steps Along the Path to Victory:

1.) Hop aboard the Craft Beer Express.
2.) Enjoy craft beers for six hours.
3.) Be pleasant and courteous.
4.) Appear generally well-groomed.
5.) Meet quirky new people.
6.) Express extreme interest in their choice of outerwear.
7.) Express extreme interest in their means of personal transportation.
8.) Offer to buy a beer at the next stop in exchange for a short ride.
9.) Mount up. Clutch stranger's waist. Arrive. Bestride. Pose. Revel. Document.
10.) Be sure to buy that beer at the next stop (critical).

Solemn Sides

Beans are hard.

Big Day Big Day Big Day

Swing Away, Merrill

"If I had eight hours to cut down a tree, I'd spend the first six hours sharpening my ax."

Phoodie Phriday

Excerpt from philly.com

Looking around nearly four years ago when I scrawled those words, it seemed clear that Philly was enjoying a surge in neighborhood bars whose focus was good beer. We'd reached a tipping point in which it was too late to go back to the same old lager.

The surge is only growing.

Surely, the old standbys are worth visiting and visiting again. But the city's beer scene has taken it up yet another notch, and it's about time you started nosing around.

Naturally, I've got a suggestion: Grab a ticket for tomorrow's Craft Beer Express.

It's an all-day bus tour that links 11 beer bars, about half of which are among the new breed. Buses stop at each of them every 25 minutes. You can grab a cold one and move on, or just hunker down for a couple of hours.

Tickets are just $10, available at any of the stops.

It's not just a great way to avoid DUIs. The express gives you a taste of the character of each joint, with different beer themes at each stop.

Here's the rundown:

Kraftwork (541 E. Girard Ave., Fishtown): Twenty beers from Belgian/Japanese/Italian/German beer importer B. United, with live music.

Johnny Brenda's (Frankford and Girard avenues, Fishtown): The Wet Hop Rodeo, with ales made with freshly picked hops.

Standard Tap (901 N. 2nd St., Northern Liberties): Imperial Pageant, with superstrong ales at the granddaddy of Philly's gastropubs.

The Institute (549 N. 12th St., Spring Garden): The Power of the Dark Side, with stouts and porters at what one local rag called "the best bar in the middle of nowhere."

Bishop's Collar (24th Street and Fairmount Avenue, Fairmount): A classic corner pub that always seems to pour something extraordinary, this time with envelope-pushing brews from Southern Tier of New York.

Kite & Key (1836 Callowhill St., Franklintown): Just behind the main branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia, it's an Almighty Afternoon of Allagash.

Jose Pistola's (263 S. 15th St., Center City): It gets loud here some nights, even louder with Big Bold Barleywine and live blues.

The Sidecar (22nd and Christian Street, Point Breeze): One of a handful of beer spots that have spiced up what they used to call Devil's Pocket, it'll pour the Bell Brewery Jazz Series, with music from the Sidecar Jazz Quartet.

The P.O.P.E. (1501 E. Passyunk Ave., South Philly): Breaking out the Randall 3.0 hop infuser at a day of ales from Dogfish Head.

Devil's Den (1148 S. 11th St., South Philly): Founders Nemesis, a one-off from the highly regarded Michigan brewery, makes an appearance along with a bunch of other brands from Northampton County's specialty suppler, Stockertown Beverage.

Brauhaus Schmitz (718 South St.): Chill-erasing doppelbocks take over the taps at this authentic German beer hall.

Suggested pairing: A solid base meal, plenty of water, and a gentle pace

Bad Idea

Desperate for material, Pheewrap recruits a friendly female Korean coworker to help rustle up ideas for today's post:

Pheewrap: Loo Yeong, do you have a minute?

Loo Yeong: Of coulse, Peelap. How ah you?

Pheewrap: Loo Yeong, I need your help.

Loo Yeong: Ohhhhhh?

Pheewrap: I belong to a special club, where each day we write. Sometimes we write poetry, sometimes observations, sometimes nonsense. But today, I can think of nothing. I need your help to inspire me.

Loo Yeong: Ohhhhhh?

Pheewrap: What inspires me?

Loo Yeong: I do not know if I undelstand question. What inspiles me? Ol you?

Me, Loo Yeong. What inspires me.

Ohhhhhhh. Um........... Stadium?

Stadium?

Yes. Stadium. And cooking all of the food that you rike.

OK. Can you think of anything else I can do to find inspiration?

Yes. Just rook up at the sky........

HiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiyyyYYYA!!!!

What Were You Listening to in Sixth Grade?

Somehow, it all came together recently. I am the unfortunate product of my early musical exposure.

Below, please find the album art. Yes, it's a near-naked whore straddling a giant pistol. Don't you fucking judge her.

Below that, the lyrical impression forged.

Mysogynist, misanthrope, miscreant...

I blame no one.

Instead, I credit L.A. GUNS.

MALARIA

Somewhere from another time
Asiatic death
Yellow fever bodies writhe
Sugar on my breath
Is this the final curtain
I don't believe what's happening
She hides behind a veil of tears
Plays upon my darkest fears yeah

She's Malaria

Swamp fever
Water black as mud
Strength fading
Demon hold
Hungry for my blood

So desperately I cling to life
Pain I know I must survive
Entity
I see the eyes I can't forget
Caught between this world and the next
Misery

She's Malaria

You Can't Post That!!

Over now on all fours as the gentle spread of newly muscled haunches accomodates placement of my choosing! And from the drawer emerges a willing and ready phallus to occupy the option I chose to temporarily forfeit! The gentle grasp upon my ponderous flesh purse massages the seed from its origins through its vessel and into the famished guts of the masked madonna. The cool clay surrounds us. The cool night emboldens us. The next few days will change everything......

When anger alone will not suffice:

Hitting Snooze

At 5:40 AM, I was jolted awake by a horrible, crushing, ripping noise.

I got up on one elbow as the fog lifted, and I started taking instant and completely automatic mental inventory: OK, I am at home, I am in bed, I am the only one here, the tree already fell on the house, I don't own a gun, I don't have a dog, I have no "enemies," it is Saturday, I don't feel any odd breezes or sense a sudden exposure to the outdoors...

The sound came again.

I jumped out of bed and stood at the window. Without the aid of corrective lenses, I am as good as blind. I squinted feebly outside looking for any telltale shifts in light or shade, but there was nothing. I could actually hear my pulse. Not my heartbeat, but a "pfsst pfsst pfsst" coming in perfect time with the throbbing in my neck. Oddly, I thought to myself that I might want to lay off the salt a bit.

I put my contacts in and returned to the window. I saw my neighbor walking down his driveway and a searchlight scanning the street as a police cruiser approached my house. I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and made my way out front. A car missing its front left quarter sat parked neatly by the curb. The missing quarter lay strewn across my lawn and the sidewalk. My neighbor was explaining what he had seen to the cop.

The car had come down the street at speed and hit the tree in front of my house. My neighbor was already up, and came outside to find the guy staggering away. "I hit the fucking tree," he said to my neighbor. "Are you OK, Do you want help?" my neighbor asked. "Gotta get out of here," the driver said. He left the car, made his way down the street, and my neighbor called the cops. Looking at the wreckage, it was apparent that the first noise I had heard was the impact, the second the sound of the driver extricating his car from the tree by throwing it in reverse and ripping off the better part of his car's front end.

The three of us turned as two additional cruisers stopped in front of a house at the end of the street and the cops got out with their flashlights. We heard a door being pounded in the distance, the kind of pound that instantly puts a lump in your throat. I went back inside as the cop taking the report pulled away and my neighbor returned to his house. A few minutes later, I saw the three cruisers head back up the street.

After getting a little more sleep, I went for a run. When I came back I started picking up the larger pieces of the wreckage off the lawn and putting them in the street alongside the car. I went inside. Suddenly, there was a knock at my door.

It was the driver, who had obviously gotten home and was allowed to remain there in spite of what had transpired. "Sorry about this," he said. "Were you the guy outside?" "No," I replied. "That was my neighbor." "Oh," the driver said. "Yeah, I had to get outta there. Sorry about this."

It was so obvious what had happened.

"You OK?" I asked. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just hit my head. I'm gonna clean this up right now. And, you know, if there's any damage..."

"I think that's really it, I said. "It's just the tree, there isn't really anything else."

"Yeah, well maybe if I need to fix the tree or something."

I stifled a laugh at the thought of asking him to glue the bark back onto the two-foot scar where his sedan had gouged the trunk.

"It's the township's tree anyway, I think." I said. "It could have been worse."

With nothing more to say, we shook hands, and I went back inside. He walked to the car and started cleaning up, putting the glass, rubber, and plastic chunks in the back right next to the baby seat.

Phoodie Phriday

Continue the journey. Continue our journey.



Suggested pairing: 12/28/10

PSA #2

Today's post has been cancelled due to the fact that you have apparently already seen the only thing you need to see today.

Please check back here tomorrow for Phoodie Phriday.

The Only Thing You Need To See Today

D-Cell Dynasty

I recently picked up a hardcover copy of The Boombox Project, a mildly hyped and reasonably priced tome that is part photo essay, part nostalgia act, and part social commentary.

I must admit, it is charming.

Shortly after any adolescent male truly discovers music, there is a fleeting period before the women appear in which the next obsession becomes the music player. Seeing as I straddled the era between the boombox heyday and the age of the bloated, obnoxious, and simply fucking awesome component stereo, there has always been a special place in my heart for these forbidden vessels of battery-quaffing urban badassery.

The most delightful aspect of the book is the gallery of lovingly photographed machines, each portrait spanning two full, glossy pages like weathered plastic centerfold models going full-frontal. These "spreads" reveal the sheer effort with which simple functions were glorified; each box was a self-advertised marvel offering new and splendid wonders. The words emblazoned on their casings read like soft-core porn for audiophiles:

"Soft Touch Mechanism."
"Hydraulic Eject."
"Feather Touch Controlled System."
"Personal Disco Component."
"Music Quick Jumping Selector."
"2 Motor Full Logic Control."

These words meant nothing. They described springs and buttons, but nobody wanted to believe that. Each box was a spaceship and a promise rolled into something you could carry: your music will never sound better than it could sound right here. Draperesque.

As far as music sharing was concerned, Apple was merely a fruit in 1983. The big fish were Grundig, Candle, Lasonic, Lloyd's, Prosonic, National. These were the outfits who made your music personal, portable, possible.

Anyway, I'm glad I picked it up.

Welcome to The Machine

There are lots and lots and lots of reasons to love Pat Burrell.

There are also lots and lots and lots of reasons to hate Pat Burrell.

I love Pat Burrell. Here for your reading pleasure is a lovely Pat Burrell story as told by one of my more impassioned Philadelphia sports fan brethren. We shall call him "Carvin Crine" in the spirit of anonymity.

Here is Carvin's account, written while choking down last night's World Series finale. Please, enjoy.

"Why the FUCK does the camera show Burrell on the top step of the SF dugout every 5 mins. I swear I am hating this guy more and more each time. He fucking blows but keeps getting his pretty face on TV all the time. Side Burrell story – some girls that I work with were talking one day when one of them tells a story about one of her ‘friends’ that fucked Pat the Bat. In the middle of the action he leans down to her and says, “can you believe you are fucking Pat Burrell???” And as she is reciting this story another girl from a different cube stands up and says, “Oh my God, that same exact thing happened to one of my ‘friends’!!!” Turns out they weren’t talking about the same girl. So, the two things that I took from this were – 1) it was obviously these girls that I work with that were banging Burrell, right? And 2) was that Pat the Bat’s MO every time he was laying pipe??? Interesting. I went home that night and tried it with my wife – “HONEY, CAN YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE FUCKING CARVIN CRINE?!?” But she didn’t find it too amusing… "

Pat Burrell.

Man? Or machine?

Does it even matter? Can't a legend be both?

The Reckoning II

What?

What are you looking at?

Listen, I'm down here all the time doing laundry, and you just look the other way. Don't tell me all of a sudden you've got something to say.

Whoa, alright, easy. You just sit there, every day, all day. Don't look at me as if I'm the lazy one.

What did you say? Fuck you! You can't even move unless I pick you up!

Fuck that! "That's the point?" Who the fuck do you think you are? What are you talking about, "every day until Thanksgiving?" What sort of bullshit is that?

What do you mean "it isn't up to you?" Who the fuck is it up to if it isn't me? I'm pretty sure I decide whether or not to lift you.

The DEUS? You are going to drag the goddamn DEUS into this?

Fine, you know what, whatever. I don't have to stand here and listen to this. You win, OK? Have it your way. Big fucking shot, right? You feel like a man now, big shot?

Little fucker.