Only in G-town

Did I ever mention how funky Germantown is? Right now, around the corner, a guy named Rick who is squatting on a house that is falling apart and most likely using it as a Crack House, is playing live Jazz on his porch, and it sounds great. I’ve met Rick a few times, and I got to tell you that he seems like a really nice guy. Everybody who has met him has said so too. Where else are you going to meet a drug dealer who everyone thinks is a nice guy? Where else can you hear this nice guy drug dealer play good live Jazz on his porch? Only in G-town baby. Only in G-town.

Peek Into The Soul

I was over someone’s house the other day, and I was looking at their music collection. I remarked that photo, movie, and music collections are a peek into someone’s soul. My friend added that the book collection is too. I’ve always loved looking at people’s photos. I remember a friend of mine asked me why I always wanted to look at his yearbook, and I think that is why. In his casual picture, he is doing a one armed handstand while doing a split. Anyone who knows him well knows how much that captures a certain part of his personality.

I don’t have many photos of myself, probably because I was never the real adventuresome type. With the exception of what my Mom called the “Wall of Charles”, all my grade school pictures, there aren’t many photos of us. We were never like those families who take pictures and send them as Christmas cards to their friends.

My music collection is ridiculously diverse. I have everything from Juan Luis Guerra to Miles Davis to Yanni to Beethoven to Parliament Funkadelic to Wu Tang Clan to Jimi Hendrix to old obscure Sondheim Original Cast Albums. You know what I hate? When you ask people what types of music they are into, and then they say “everything”, or they say “all different types”, and then you ask for specifics, and they look at you with this totally empty look on their faces, or they will pull the most well known brand names out of their ass, which they have obviously never listened to. You will ask them what Classical Music that they like. You either get a blank stare, or you will hear them answer “Beethoven’s Fifth”. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I am like an Orchestra snob, and I have never heard the entire Fifth Symphony. I have however heard the entire Pomp and Circumstance. Yes, there is more than just what they play at graduation. You know: da da da da da da, da da da da da, da, da da da da da, da da da da da, bum bum bum.

I have to plead total elitism when it comes to my DVD collection. I think that the most mainstream film that I have is Patton. My favorite writers/directors are Woody Allen, Jean Luc-Godard, Ingmar Bergman, Federico Fellini, David Mamet, and Aaron Sorkin. For the most part, I don’t watch any movies that aren’t playing at The Ritz or are on the IFC or Sundance Channels. Maybe it’s cause I want to see some real shit, some good dialogue and an actual story. The old Hollywood blockbusters did this very well. Now, it’s about how much gratuitous sex and violence that you can fit into an hour and 45 minutes. While that does have a time and a place, it just isn’t my cup of tea. At least not when every movie is like that.

By book collection is pretty sad. It consists of the Cannon of programming books like Advanced Programming in the Unix Environment, and at least 5 books by Wrox. Then there are the financial books like The Millionaire Next Door and Rich Dad Poor Dad. Oh, and of course you have to add in the whole Liberal politico books like Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them and Conscience of a Liberal.

So how else do we look into people’s souls? Well, when I’m talking to someone for the first time, I usually ask them what they do for a living. I so hate triteness. I really do. Thus, I think I need a new ice breaker, but this is such a good one, if you use it the right way. We often use it to put people into little socio-economic groups instead of using it as a springboard to see who someone really is. Like people assume that I am all about money, anti social, boring, and don’t know how to have fun because I am a Computer Guy. Some, of those things, I will admit, I did need to work on, but it had nothing to do with being a programmer. The truth of the matter is that you will never meet more frugal, outgoing, interesting, and fun people than most of the programmers that I know. You might have to get past a little wall, or a little outsider hazing, but once you do, you will never meet cooler people. The whole us verses them thing always gets in the way at first.

After I know people for a little while, I ask them about their spiritual journeys. You will get some very interesting stories. Then I ask them about how they dealt with the total hazing period known as the early 20’s, and you will defiantly get some insightful info with that question, probably because this time in our lives is almost universally sucky. The fun one is to ask married couples how they met and how he proposed. I think you can pretty much tell it all by that one.

Maybe next week I’ll have better signs, but now I’m pretty much playing it by ear. At the end of the day, it may not be the signs, but how we use them. If we use them as a beginning and not and end, then we are doing a good job. If we use them as a filter, then well, we are just pushing people out of our lives.

Booze Hound Rocking

I dropped by Fergie's Pub one night and went upstairs, cause a lot of nights they have very interesting bands playing. They had a band there, and they did what they called “Booze Hound Rocking”, which basically means that they were drunk off their asses while they played. They were quite good, or maybe I was just quite drunk as well. They did a lot of fun songs, like they did this song in French for some reason. To the best of my knowledge, none of the members even speak French. Then they did a song where the catch line was “why did you get a dog if you can’t afford to feed it”, an ode to all those wonderful drug addicted panhandlers in Center City who have a dog in tow. It’s fun to be around interesting people who don’t take themselves too seriously.

This experience just got me thinking about the whole Bar culture. Like what would it be like to be a waiter or a Bartender? When thinking about the service industry, I always think about a scene in Deconstructing Harry. Woody Allen’s character, Harry, just got done getting a blowjob from a prostitute. He asked her why she did that as her profession, and she said that it “beats waitressing”. To which Harry replied, “Every Hooker I’ve ever been with says that it beats waitressing. Waitressing must be the worst fucking job in the world.” I tend to agree that it must probably suck, but sometimes it looks like they have a lot of fun. I don’t think that it is a job for everyone.

One night I was out with a friend of mine, and I noted that the Bartender was pretty belligerent. He asked me to imagine what it would be like to deal with drunken assholes all night every night. He pointed across the Bar and said, “See that guy over there? I guarantee that he’s an asshole.” I have to say that he has a good point.

And then there are the different types of Bars. There are the Dive Bars where you can get “the special”, a shot of Jim Beam and a can of Pabst for 3 bucks, and then there are the Bars where everyone is prim, proper, and pretentious, and a Lager Costs 4 bucks. Now, hanging out with some of my Beer snob friends in Mt. Airy has made me sort of a beer snob as well. But sometimes, there is nothing like going to a Dive Bar with normal people, great music, and cheap beer.

Then there is this new trend in a lot of Bars of having those little puzzle machine things. My favorite game is the match game. For those who don’t know, you are given two photos, usually of half naked women, that are identical except for 5 places, and you have to point them out in a given amount of time. Usually the easiest things to find are in the hair, the fake cones, and the flowers that are usually in a corner somewhere. These are great places to just start chatting with new people. It is like the modern day Jukebox.

Ah, and who can forget the darts with what I call “Crazy Cricket”. I’ve played Cricket like 5 times, and I still don’t know how to play. Thank God for those dart machines that keep score. I was out with my friend the other night, and one of the Bars had real darts. REAL DARTS? Let’s do a formula: massive amounts of alcohol + drunken assholes + sharp and pointy projectiles = X. I can only imagine that X = “a total disaster” on some nights.

I only have one question. If you know your Bartender’s name, and they know yours, then does that make you an alcoholic?

Artistic Happy Hour

The other night I went out with some people from the local theater community. It was a Happy Hour put together by a friend of mine from a Theater I volunteer at. I have to say that it is great to have artistic friends. They are great and outgoing people, and the conversations are always interesting, even when the subject isn’t Art. There is that certain back and forth and tangents and play on ideas and words in the conversation that I just love. There is a certain spirit and aura of being around artistic people that is quite inebriating.

It’s great to have an outlet for your artistic side. I joke with many of my friends that I am glad that I got into the Arts after I declared my Major. I was always this artsy guy waiting to get out. It started my freshman year of High School when they made us go see a play, and I saw Miss Saigon and loved every minute of it. Then my junior year, I took an intensive English program, where “love classic literature or die” was the name of the game. I mean, isn’t it kind of sick for a 17 year old kid to name Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle as one of their favorite books?

The summer before my sophomore year in college, Les Miserables was in town. I saw that, and it sparked this world wind of love for Musical Theater. I went to New York every Wednesday and saw a Musical. Then the next year, almost simultaneously, I got into Drama, Independent and Foreign Films, Classical Music, and Avant-garde Jazz.

So I might actually be in a good position. I am in a career that I like where I can make a good living and actually afford to appreciate the Arts. But at the same time, I’m kind of jealous of some of my friends and acquaintances. I mean they are making their living as actors, directors, artistic directors, educational directors, general managers, lighting designers, set designers, and musicians. Sure, they are not eating at Le Bec-Fin every night, but they are living as artists, and they don’t have to completely whore out their artistic integrity for a paycheck.

It is weird, because being good can actually get you a weird sort of job security. It’s a lot easier for the guys behind the scenes because it is much more about the quality of the art than how big your tits are. I talked to a guy who is a freelance lighting designer, and he says that he books 2 years in advance. I think that it is kind of ironic, because I am a programmer, and I don’t even know if my job will exist in a month. He said that it was weird to know that on April 17 2008, he knows that he will be on a plane going somewhere for a week or two to design.

All I know is that it is great to learn the artistic process, whether it be by taking down a set, licking envelopes, or having drinks with your friends bantering about things from top to bottom and inside out. My friend once told me that John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme was structured like a Concerto, and I listened to it again and almost had an out of body experience. That kind of stuff is cool, having people who can help you in your development. Or maybe it is just cool to know that you are not the “only one”. There are people out there just like you who have the same eclectic interests. It makes you feel a part of the world and not separate from it looking down with righteous indignation. It makes you feel alive.

Blogospherical Cipher

I think that maybe it is time to do a little freestyle blogging. I’ve just been thinking about certain situations that happened in the past few weeks that aren’t really connected, but they are funny, if not just because they are absurd. So, without further ado, it’s my turn to step up in this blogospherical cipher.

I had to wear a suite the other day. Why do they put two buttons on those things if you are only supposed to button one of them? But I digress. I walked by a window where I could see myself. I’m not one who cares about appearance, but I like wearing suits from time to time. People treat you like a grownup, like you matter, like you are important. I must say that I was mighty pimped out. All I needed was Gold Fish shoes, and I would have been Flyguy from I'm Gonna Git You Sucka. All I can say is, “My bitch better have my money.”

I went and got a cup of coffee one day. I noticed that the smallest size is “tall”. The smallest size is tall? What kind of small penis marketing is this? So I picked up a medium, which is “grande”, and I put the change, along with a little more change in that nice little tip jar. What is up with this? If I pay 2 fucking bucks for colored water with caffeine in it, then can’t the good folks at these coffee shops afford to pay their Baristas Well? When it comes to tipping, the worst is the bathroom attendants. It’s like, dude, I can pick up my own paper towel. It would be one thing if I had a choice, but the paper towels are right in front of you, and I have to let you pick it up and give it to me. I have no choice in this matter. That just pissed me off, because I’m not being furnished with a service, and I have no choice in the matter. If you wipe my ass, then maybe we can talk about tips.

I was over my friend’s house for lunch the other day. We were passing around the food, and when it was his turn, he was just chatting on and on about something or the other, but not getting any food. I couldn’t help but think that he is like those people who hog the joint. Every circle has at least one. They aren’t going crazy smoking it or anything, but they are just sitting there, Bogarting it, messing up the rotation.

I love it when girls with nice breasts carry a bag where the strap goes right in between their cleavage. I can’t think of anything profound to say about this though, which sucks, cause now I just feel like a pig.

I love riding down Kelly Drive, especially when the sun sets. Seeing the sun shining off the sewage ridden water with the crew teams in full swing is definitely a site to see. If it weren’t for all those people on the path, the unsupervised kids who ride their bikes like assholes on purpose, or who are way to far away from their parents, who let them wonder aimlessly, the friends who walk together rite in the middle of the path in such a way that you can’t get between them or around them, or my favorite, those groups that see you coming at full speed and don’t even make an effort to get the fuck out the way. That and the gnats is enough to make you want to scream. If you want a scary experience, then go at night time. See all the people who sleep in their cars along the river. Anticipate getting jumped at key moments along the path. I guess this a day in the life.

When I look in the mirror I believe my own eyes

I’m sitting here, looking at my arms and legs. I’m amazed at how I can actually see my veins. That’s an interesting and fairly new phenomenon. Since I’ve been riding by Bike a lot the past few summers, I have lost weight, grown some leg muscles, and felt a lot Healthier. Now, when I look in the mirror, I actually like what I see. But I think it goes a little deeper than that these days. I can now look in the mirror and really like what I see, as in who I am.

See, before, I don’t think that I liked it, the whole looking in the mirror thing; the process of looking inside and seeing who you really are. I was always introspective, and I always wanted to better myself and was willing to look in the mirror, but I never liked what I saw. I only saw the worts, the zits, the uncombed hair, the un-brushed teeth, the non-exfoliated skin, the half eyebrows, and all that. I didn’t see my smile, my eyes, my cheeks, my smooth skin, and all that. I didn’t see who I really was.

For some reason, I didn’t really like who I was. A quote from Woody Allen in Annie Hall sums up how I felt, “Is it the old Groucho Marx joke that I'm - I just don't want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member?” Yeah, when people wanted me to be in their “club”, I would wonder when they were going to kick me out. I would be thinking, “Those fools, if only they knew what I was really like.” Or, my favorite would be not engaging people because I would think, “Why would they want to hang out with me?”

And at that point in my life, I couldn’t look people in the eyes. They would wander, or when I did, I felt so self-conscious and weirded out, that I quickly stopped. I felt exposed, naked, and ashamed. Look out for people who can’t look you in the eyes. There is something weird going on there.

Then, with the help of some very good friends, both old and new, I found a new life. I can now look people in the eyes. I now see in myself what should have been painfully obvious. I now see the beauty that many people have always seen in me. I can now, proudly, look in the mirror, and when I look in the mirror I believe my own eyes.

Start Now

So I remember a Tuesday night back in 1993. I was sitting there, just finishing an episode of “Full House”. I was 12, so spare me. Well, I remember searching something or the other bellow my bed. Meanwhile, I ketch a glimpse of my father chugging antacid like a frat boy downing cheap beer. Soon, I hear my Mom tell me to get ready, because she thinks that my Dad is having a heart attack.

So I go down stairs, and my father is in absolute pain, and falling in and out of consciousness. I sat with him until Fire Rescue arrived. We told each other that we loved each other, because we both knew that that could be the last time that we talked. Such moments seem to last forever. It seemed like a lifetime before Fire Rescue got there, and it seemed like they are doing a lot of dicking around once they arrived.

So they took my father to the now defunct MCP Hospital. When we arrived, they took us into a private waiting room. I didn’t know that they had those. I mean, they had a big screen TV and everything. It wasn’t like I was watching much. All I could do is sit there and cry.

So the doctors come in, and they say that my Dad coded, and they revived him. Usually, they would give patients medications to tie them over until they could do a more invasive procedure. But it turns out that my Dad coughed up blood into the tube that they stuck down his throat. So that was out.

So, they told us that they were going to do what is called and Emergency Angioplasty. So basically that procedure entails sticking a tube in someone’s groin which goes all the way up to the clogged part of the artery, where they stick a balloon in there, inflate it, and push the plaque aside. Of course, if your arteries don’t stretch enough, they could burst, at which point, they would have to cut open your chest to fix it.

So let’s review. I’m 12, it’s a school night, my father had a heart attack, his heart stopped, he coughed up blood into a tube that they stuck down his throat, and now they want to stick a tube in his groin and hopefully not have to cut open his chest. Needless to say, I was a little upset.

So my Mother, her friend, and I went up to a different waiting room, where I tried to get some sleep, but couldn’t. It turns out that we were in the wrong place, so we went to yet another waiting area. This was all after my Mom gave the people our Insurance info and signed all the consent forms without even reading them, because that is what you do in those circumstances. Later, more family arrived, and we made the best of the situation. It is weird how these hard times can really bring people together.

Later, there was an announcement over the loud speakers, “Page to the Cath Lab.” My Mom freaked out, and grabbed her friend’s arm for dear life. We thought that something went wrong, but the doctors soon came out and told us that everything was fine and that that was just an announcement that they were done.

So the worst was over, or so I thought. We actually got to go see my Dad that night, and I totally freaked out. He was hooked up too all kinds of IV’s and machines, and it was really scary. Especially since it never looked like that on TV. But I calmed down, and then we went home. I got about a few hours of sleep, before they called us in to tell us that they didn’t know if he was going to make it. It turns out that he just kept knocking off his Oxygen mask, which threw off the machines.

I guess you could say that that was a turning point in my life. I never would have gotten through it without the love and support of friends and family. But I realized that day that I better start appreciating my father, because he could be gone any day now. See, when you are 12, your Dad is like the guy who gives the bad news or gives the punishment. You don’t really appreciate him, because, well, you don’t know any better. Then, you realize that he could be gone at any minute, and then you start to shape up pretty quickly. And that goes for everyone who is important in your life.

So the next time you see someone that you love, give them a big hug, and tell them that you love them. Hug them until they beg for air. Tell them what they mean to you. Because that moment could be your last together, so you need to start loving them the way that you should now, because there isn’t that much time. Not next week or tomorrow or even ten minutes from now; when finals are over, or that project at work is done, or when you get over your hangover from partying all week, or when you ketch up on sleep, or when you aren’t blogging like a maniac, or when you aren’t bullshitting on IM, or when you aren’t reading up on the new cool computer thing, or when you aren’t watching sports or vegging out to the newest trashy Reality TV show, or when there is space free on your ever so important and self aggrandizing calendar.

Start now, before it's too late.

White Guilt

So I’ve been thinking about the infamous Cosby comments lately. Frankly, I don’t know what the big deal is. I mean my liberal White friends have come up to me and said the same thing verbatim, “Aren’t you outraged at what Cosby said?” To which I say, "No." Here is where the secret comes in. What Cosby said is pretty much what every middle classed Black person has ever said behind closed doors for a long time.

So, should we as Black people embrace ignorance? I don’t think so. Should we embrace not getting ahead? No fucking way. So what the fuck is going on? Why are all these White people so appalled on behalf of my people?

I guess that’s where the whole “White guilt” comes in. I mean, basically, these are the same people who are totally against Charter Schools and Vouchers, but send there kids to 15 thousand dollar a year private schools. What the fuck is up with that?

New Right of Passage

So we have to do something about the Healthcare situation in this country. When people who generally do “do gooder” jobs get a “real job”, they rave about one thing. It isn’t more money, being able to buy a better car, or even not sweating every month when rent time comes around. It’s the Health Insurance. The first thing that they say is, “This rocks, cause now I can go to the Dentist.” The second thing is, “I guess now I have to find a Gyno.” This is pretty fucking sad. I mean it’s really bad when root canal and pelvic exams are an admired right of passage.

Come Home, My Friend

So I’ve been thinking about the lives of some of my friends lately, and they are all doing very well. They are dating, getting married, having children, making career moves, finding new hobbies, finding new friends, and generally exploring life to the fullest. As a good friend, which I only hope I am, it really fills my heart with joy to see this. I am one of my friends’ biggest cheerleaders, as they are mine. That, of course, is the way it is supposed to be. By being selfless and having them do the same, the ironic happens; the selfish needs of everyone are met by selfless acts. It all comes full circle.

See, that is the ideal world. That’s how it should be. That’s what we all should aspire to be. But then there is the ugly human side that creeps through. It starts with envy. You see your older friends moving and shaking, and you get jealous. You are thinking, why can’t I have that? But what you don’t realize is that not only is the grass greener on the other side of the street, but your grass is still growing. You only see the result, but you don’t realize that the things that you are going through now are what they went through too. You don’t see the blood sweat and tears that once marked their faces. After all, you didn’t realize that they had just washed it away, leaving their face smooth and shiny, with the aid of those lovely poofy exfoliation thingies.

Then you feel like you are in competition with their success in life. It is hard enough getting the time that you so selfishly want on a normal day. Now you have to deal with these new factors. You feel like you are in competition with the new date, the new spouse, the new kid, the new job, the new hobby, the new friend, and the new life. You begin to, in those rare but ugly times, resent these new things.

Now that’s an ugly place, but it is a human place. It may be something that is very rare, but it is still very real. You feel happy, but that happiness does not come without its side effects. I think that everything in life is like that. It’s that whole equal and opposite reaction thing. If you get drunk, you will, my friend, get a hangover. If you eat too much good food at the restaurant, you will get “the itus” and want to go home and fall asleep.

Every time I go to Santo Domingo, the hangover of this inebriating experience comes in the ride to the Airport. You are in the car, driving on El Malecon, the beautiful road alongside the rocky beach. You see the palm trees, the crystal blue water splashing up against the rocks, the sun shining through the clouds, the fortes, the Cathedrals, the restaurants with their wonderful food, and the clubs with their neon signs and enchanting music. You are sitting there, in the car, holding back the tears, thinking, “Why the fuck am I going home?”

That’s life man. You have to face reality and deal with things. You have to face the ugly side of your life. You have to look at the smog, the crime, the traffic, the ignorance, the dirt, and the all and all daily grind in all their glory. You have to come my friend.

I'm So Fucking Money

So lately, my sleeping pattern has been totally fucked. On a few of the last nights, when I am awake when most people are just getting up, I happened to ketch reruns of My So-Called Life. That was like the show back in the day. I don’t think that any show or movie has captured the teenage angst experience as true as it did.

I remember rooting for Bryan Krakow. I mean, I pretty much was him in High School. I was the nice guy who had absolutely no balls and would let angelic looking, but not acting, women walk all over them. I mean this guy would do anything for Angela, and she pretty much shit on him most of the time. Those cutesy good girl chicks will break your heart every damned time. Believe you me.

I remember at the end of the series, there was pretty much this whole Cyrano De Bergerac theme. Bryan was writing letters to Angela, but on the behalf of Jordan Catalano. In the last episode, Angela finds out that it was Bryan who actually wrote the letters. Of course, Bryan could have totally kissed Angela, but he pussyed out. That pisses me off to this day.

I love things where the nice guy gets the hot girl in the end. That’s why I think I liked Swingers so much. I mean I identify with the main character a lot. He is this guy who totally lacked confidence, but once he found it, watch the fuck out, cause he’s coming for you. I’m just so glad that now I’m in that watch the fuck out part of my life, because the being timid thing is for the fucking birds.

I loved the bunny scene. It’s a scene where the guys are trying to give Mike confidence to go up and ask a girl for her number.

Trent: You know what you are? You're like a big bear with claws and with fangs...
Sue: ...big fucking teeth, man.
Trent: Yeah... big fuckin' teeth on ya'. And she's just like this little bunny, who's just kinda cowering in the corner.
Sue: Shivering.
Trent: Yeah, man just kinda... you know, you got these claws and you're staring at these claws and your thinking to yourself, and with these claws you're thinking, "How am I supposed to kill this bunny, how am I supposed to kill this bunny?"
Sue: And you're poking at it, you're poking at it...
Trent: Yeah, you're not hurting it. You're just kinda gently batting the bunny around, you know what I mean? And the bunny's scared Mike, the bunny's scared of you, shivering.
Sue: And you got these fucking claws and these fangs...
Trent: And you got these fucking claws and these fangs, man! And you're looking at your claws and you're looking at your fangs. And you're thinking to yourself, you don't know what to do, man. "I don't know how to kill the bunny." With *this* you don't know how to kill the bunny, do you know what I mean?
Sue: You're like a big bear, man.
Mike: So you're not just like fucking with me?
Trent: No I'm not fucking with you.
Sue: Honestly, man.

All I know is that before, I didn’t know it, but now I do. What I know is that I am so fucking money, and that’s a great place to be.

May Day

So yesterday was the annual May Day party thrown by one of my neighbors. The couple that throws it started it some 18 years ago when they got married, and now they throw it every year for their Anniversary. Leave it up to liberals to celebrate a thoroughly Communist holiday.

It is always a great party with great people, great food, and great booze. Every year, the host plays the bagpipes while the children dance around the Maypole. This year, there was one more bagpipe player who was actually a world-renowned Jazz bagpipe player, probably because he is the only one. Supposedly, he knew John Coltrane. I will tell you, if you haven’t seen Rufus Harley play the pipes, then well, you haven’t seen Shakespeare the way it is supposed to be performed my friend.

It is always a great party because the people are great. There is something cool about being around people from your community who knew you when you were a little ankle biter. And now, you’re a man, drinking with them and having adult conversations with them. Sometimes it feels great to grow up.

Freedom Square

So while I was coming home the other night, I passed by Freedom Square. This bastion of history, this site of glory, where the first protest against Slavery in America was held by the Quakers, is now nothing but a trashy shopping center. A shopping center? What the fuck? What genius thought up that idea? Hay, let’s take an area with a lot of history, and the potential to be a tourist hub and an outright beautiful area, and let’s turn it into shit.

Why not put a park there, or a nice Garden, or a brick layered open walkway, or something nice looking and historical? But no, when history is in the working class Black areas, we have to have really trashy looking waste of space shopping centers with stores that take away from our community and will not be around that long.

Then, of course, around there, next to the beautiful houses built over 200 years ago, some with Historical markers themselves, there are those Delis. You know the Delis that I am talking about. The ones with no assortment of cold cuts but the best assortment of Liquid Crack, charitably described as Malt Liquor.

What is it about our society that likes the quick cheap unsustainable buck verses a long lasting tranquility and success in a community? Can’t we build up our neighborhoods instead of tearing them down? Is it because of lack of resources? I’d say not. I think that it is lack of focus, and some people just need to get a new pair of glasses.